Sing (14 page)

46 Days Until Tour

July 28th

“FEEL YOUR FEET,
firmly centered and rooted to the earth.”

Tess, Sammy, and I stand in mountain pose on the back deck while Maya faces us, her back to the ocean, her long, thick braid tucked in front of one shoulder. I squeeze my eyes shut but they flicker back open, my body restless and jittery.

“You should feel balanced and at peace.”

I snort, louder than I mean to, and Tess nudges me sharply in the back.

“Sorry,” I say, my hands flopping out of prayer position. “But I have never been less balanced or at peace in my life.”

Maya's eyes flutter open. “Maybe we should do this later?”

I smile at her gratefully but Tess huffs. “No,” she says. “If Bird wants to keep agonizing over her Great Summer of Indecision, she can do it alone. We are doing yoga.”

Sammy shoots me an apologetic shrug and I sulk away to the porch swing. Tess's words are harsh, but not undeserved. I've spent all morning chasing my friends around the house, rehashing everything that's happened in the last two days: dinner with Noel's family, Jed's surprise appearance, our morning together, the tickets to Bali, Noel's visit last night. They listened patiently as I went back and forth for hours, wondering if I should stay on the island or leave with Jed, hemming and hawing over whether I should give him another chance.

They listened, they asked questions, but they refused to give advice. As I weighed the pros and cons, filled Maya in on the backstory, and struggled to untangle my feelings, I could tell by their silence that they weren't thrilled to watch me stumble my way through yet another romantic mini drama. When Maya suggested yoga after breakfast, we all agreed that I needed a distraction, but I now realize it's going to take more than sun salutations and mindful breathing to help me make up my mind.

“I'm going for a walk,” I tell the three of them as they folded into down dog. Sammy lifts one hand to wave,
careful not to lose her balance, and Maya offers me an upside-down smile.

I follow the path toward the water and sit at the edge of the long wooden staircase, then close my eyes and listen to the steady rushing of the waves. I have always prided myself on my ability to make decisions quickly, definitively. It's a matter of survival, really; when there are seven hundred decisions to make every day, I usually don't have the time or the energy to think for too long about a single one.

But here, I have all the time in the world. I almost wish there were more distractions, more of a context—however fast-paced and frenzied it may be—to push me in one direction or another.

There are three weeks left until I start rehearsals in New York for the tour. I had planned on spending them here, with my friends. With Noel. I don't feel at all ready to leave yet. Things with Noel have just started to feel real. I'm not sure what will happen when I leave—it hurts too much to think about—but I can't imagine cutting our time together even shorter to fly across the globe to be with somebody else.

But Jed isn't
somebody else
. And he's said all the right things. He isn't asking for a decision; he's asking for a chance, a chance to see if what we had is still there. If we really are supposed to have our version of
happily ever after
, after all.

I drop my head into my hands and tug at the roots of my hair. When it comes to schedules and events, decisions about my brand, even my music, I know what I want without question. But when it comes to love, it's like I'm still that gawky, goofy freshman girl, waiting to screw things up, wishing somebody else would just tell me what to do and how to do it.

“It can't be that bad.”

I lift my head to see Maya standing behind me on the path. She holds two glasses of iced tea and passes one to me. “I thought all this communing with nature might be making you thirsty.”

I take the glass, beads of condensation dampening my palm, and scoot toward the railing. “Want to sit?” I ask.

Maya settles beside me and stares out at the ocean. There's something about her—maybe it's her steady breathing, or the slow, deliberate way that she moves—that makes her comforting to be around. I can see why Tess likes her so much.

“This is my favorite time of day,” she says after a while. “Just before the sun gets really hot. It's like there's an energy everywhere. You can feel things changing, but nothing's happened yet.”

I look at the shifting grasses of the marsh, the rustling shrubs, the tidal pools shimmering in the brightening sun. She's right. All around us, the world is tuning up, a
giant orchestra waiting for the leading drop of an unseen conductor's baton.

“It must be nice to know a place so well,” I say.

“It is,” Maya says. “I've traveled a lot, lived in a bunch of different places, but I've never found one that seemed to speak my language the way that this one does. I know that probably sounds hippie-dippie . . .”

I laugh. “Totally hippie-dippie.”

Maya smiles and we look out at the endless ocean together, a comfortable quiet hovering between us.

“Did you always know you wanted to stay on the island?” I ask.

“No,” she says. “I'm still figuring it out. That's one of the things I like best about this place. Nothing happens in the winter, so pretty much everyone gets away, at least for a little while. It's a good balance. You put yourself out there, you see what's going on, and then you come back to check in. It's sort of like breathing. You get used to the rhythm of taking off and coming home.”

“I don't know,” I say, turning the cool glass around in my hands. “I do a lot of taking off. I don't think I'll ever get used to it.”

Maya looks at me. Her eyes are a soft amber color. “Maybe it's the coming home part you need to work on,” she says. “Whatever that means for you.”

“I wish I knew.” I sigh and look down the long
wooden staircase, the rickety beams leaning against the ancient boulders and steep cliffs. A cloud of tiny black insects zips past and Maya shoos them with one hand.

“I don't know what to do,” I say softly. “I know it's ridiculous. I came out here to get away from this kind of thing. Bouncing from one relationship to the next. Getting wrapped up in all this drama. And now I'm right back where I started.”

“That's not true,” she says. “You may not have found all the answers yet, but I think you know more than you're letting on.”

“I do?”

Maya looks at me with a warm smile. “You know what to do,” she says. “You're just waiting for it to be easier.”

I look at her. “When does that happen?”

Maya smiles. She stares at the ice cubes in her glass, before clinking it lightly against mine. “It doesn't.”

Jed's sedan is parked at the end of a short line of cars at the harbor, waiting to get off the island. I rap gently on the darkened window and pull the door open, climbing into the seat beside him.

“Hey,” he says, stashing his phone in the center console and turning down the volume on the radio.
“I was starting to think you weren't going to show.” I stare through the windshield as the ferry pushes into the harbor, both decks crammed with squinting day-trippers; luggage carts; eager, panting dogs. “Where are your bags?”

I stare at my hands in my lap. “I'm sorry,” I say softly.

“You're not coming,” he says, almost a question, like he's halfway convinced it's a joke.

I take a long, deep breath. “I can't. It doesn't feel right.”

“What does that mean?” he asks coolly. Jed has limited patience for what he calls
touchy-feely talk
. Like me, he's been trained to act quickly and decisively. He makes a plan; he sticks to it. It's not that he intentionally doesn't follow his heart; he just doesn't spend a lot of time consulting it.

“It means that I've worked really hard to get here,” I say patiently.

“Where?” He looks around dramatically at the parking lot, the minivans overloaded with beach gear, the work trucks jammed with fishing poles and tools. “Here?”

I squeeze the sides of my bare knees between my hands, the fraying ends of my cutoffs tickling my wrists. “I was feeling stuck, like I was writing the same songs over and over again. And now I'm not. I have to honor that. I have to believe that I'm here for a reason.”

“Is this about that guy?” It's the first time Jed's mentioned Noel since they met in the driveway. I thought for sure he'd want to know more about him, but he hasn't even asked his name. “The guy from the other night?”

I shift uncomfortably on the leather seat. “He's part of it,” I admit. “But it's more than that. I like who I am here. I haven't felt this way about a place since I was a kid.”

Jed raises an eyebrow at me. “What about who you are everywhere else? What's going to happen when you go back on tour?” he asks. “He's going to come with you?”

“I don't know,” I say softly. “Maybe it's time for me to put down some roots and . . . I don't know, take a real break.”

“A break?” Jed asks. “You mean, from touring?”

“Maybe,” I say. “Every relationship I've been in has ended because of my career, or somebody else's. Everything I've done, every thought that's come into my head has had something to do with work. It's been nice to turn that off. If I can't be happy and make music at the same time, what's the point?”

Jed looks at me like I've suddenly sprouted extra body parts. “The point?” He reaches across the car and puts a hand on my shoulder, like I'm falling and he's trying to hold me up. He leans in so that I have no choice but to look at him. “The point is you don't get to choose, Lily.
Your voice, your songs . . . that's who you are. You can hole up at the end of the earth for as long as you want, but you're still going to have this gift. If you can't find a way to live with that
and
someone else, I don't care who it is . . . you're never going to be happy.”

46 Days Until Tour

July 28th

IT'S LATE WHEN K2
drops me off and I half expect/half hope to find Noel's shack empty. But one window is lit up by the lamp on his desk, and I can see his hunched-over silhouette through the old blue-and-white-striped sheet he's rigged up as a curtain.

Since Jed left this afternoon, I haven't been able to get his words out of my head.
You're never going to be happy.
What if he's right? No matter how much I try to make things work with Noel, no matter how much I love being here on this island, could I ever truly be happy without making my music, seeing my fans, singing my songs on tour? I can't just pretend that's not a part of me anymore. The songs I've written since I've been here . . . I'm prouder
of them than I am of anything else I've done. It wouldn't feel right not to share them just because I've decided to be
happy.
And what about the songs I write next? Even if staying here with Noel is what my heart wants most, it doesn't mean I can—or should—do it.

But I don't want to leave him. The idea of moving on without him hits me like a swift kick to the stomach. When I think about losing him, I can't breathe.

I knock twice on the door before pushing it open. “Noel?” Moths swarm the naked lightbulb that hangs over the patio and I shut the door again before they flutter in behind me.

Noel is at his desk in plaid flannel pants and a T-shirt. His hair is wet and tousled and a towel is in a damp heap on the dusty wood floor. “Hey,” he greets me, startled. He shoves his chair back, and steps forward like he wants to hug me, but then stops awkwardly, as if he isn't sure if it's still allowed. Instead, he tucks his hands in his pockets, biting the inside of his cheek.

I've never been in his little house before. The space is crowded, with hardly any room between each piece of mismatched furniture: the square kitchen table that doubles as a desk, a squat chest of drawers, the lofted bed pushed against the windowless back wall.

He looks around uncertainly. “Sorry. There isn't really any place to sit. I mean, there's the chair, but it's not really
comfortable. It used to have a cushion but it smelled like moldy cheese, so I took it to the dump,” he explains, the sides of his neck flushing pink. “I don't know why I just told you that.”

I laugh and take a step forward, so that it's almost impossible for our bodies not to touch. I put my hands on his shoulders and kiss him. I feel his arms folding around my back, pulling me in closer. We stay like that for what feels like an eternity, balanced against each other. I feel my body going slack, like it could melt into his. I don't ever want to pull away.

Noel leans back ever so slightly, our noses still centimeters apart. “Does this mean you've made up your mind?”

I run my hands down the smooth contours of his strong arms and quickly kiss him again. “It means that I'm jumping,” I say. “I love you, too, Noel Bradley.”

Noel links his arms around my waist and pulls me tightly to him. His grip is so strong that my feet leave the ground. When he puts me back down, I rest my head on his shoulder. Something on his desk catches my eye: an open notepad beside a pile of stubby charcoal pencils. There's a half-finished sketch of a boat—his boat, shadowed and full of breathtaking detail.

“Did you do this?” I ask, leaning in to get a closer look.

“What?” Noel asks. “Oh. Yeah. I needed something
to take my mind off . . . everything,” he explains shyly.

“It's incredible,” I say. “You drew this on your own? I mean, it's not from a picture?”

Noel smiles and taps the side of his head. “Just what's in here. I've probably spent more time on that boat than anywhere else on the planet,” he says with a shrug. “I know it pretty well.”

I flip through the notebook and find a series of equally impressive drawings—a tower of rusty lobster crates, a surfboard angled against a tree—each one more precise than the last.

Eventually, I look up from the drawings, at him, ideas suddenly flooding my brain. “Come with me,” I say all at once, like it's the only option.

“What?” Noel laughs lightly, closing the notebook and stuffing the pencils inside an old mason jar. “Come with you where?”

“Everywhere,” I say. “I don't want to leave you. And I don't want to leave the island. But I have to go. I'll always have to go. Touring is . . . it's why I do this. At least for now . . . being onstage, seeing my fans, it's everything to me.”

Noel sinks down onto the chair, a conflicted look passing over his face. I reach out and grab one of his hands. “It's
almost
everything,” I say. “What we have is so amazing. And I don't want it to end when the summer
does. I want you there with me. It will be totally nuts—weeks of rehearsals, living out of suitcases, flying every other night—but I'll have some days off, and it will just feel . . . right, knowing that you're always nearby.”

Noel blinks slowly, like he's suddenly exhausted. I curl into his lap, looping my arm around his neck. “And when we're not together, you can do this.” I nod at the notebook on the table. “Or whatever you want! I know how much you love it here—and I love it, too—but the island isn't going anywhere. Come with me.”

I feel myself starting to slip down his legs and Noel hauls me closer. He glances out through the window, toward the main house, where the pale blue flicker of the television glows from the living room.

“I don't know,” he says softly. “I don't know if I can leave them.”

My eyes float up to Sidney's bedroom window. I imagine her wedged between two computers, hard at work beneath a web of thumbtacks and postcards, dreaming of who she'll someday be.

“I know,” I say, tucking an errant strand of silky hair behind Noel's ear. “But promise me you'll think about it.”

Noel nods vaguely and I lean in to give him another kiss. “And I promise not to distract you,” I say between fluttery kisses. “Too much.”