Sing (7 page)

I start back up the trail. “Come on,” I call back to her. “I want to see this famous view.” I keep moving, my heart pounding in my chest, my phone buzzing in my pocket, holding my breath until I hear the familiar shuffle of Tess's boots scurrying behind me.

77 Days Until Tour

June 27th

“ARE THOSE THE
shoes you're wearing?”

It's late, almost ten o'clock, and Noel meets me behind the house at the top of the rickety beach staircase. I'm wearing my favorite lace-up ankle boots, and one heel is caught between the slats of the wooden deck.

“You said it wasn't a long walk,” I whisper. We're hidden from the house by a wall of tall shrubs, but I remember how far voices carry in the ocean breeze.

“It's not long,” Noel says, grinning. “But it is . . . you know . . . in nature.” He points toward a small opening in the trees, the beginning of a path I haven't seen before. “This way.”

It was my idea to meet at night. Noel suggested
lunch, or another ride on his boat, but there was the issue of potentially being photographed with a new guy so soon after the breakup. And more important, I didn't want to hear about it from Tess and Sammy. They'd say all the things I already knew: it's too soon, I always do this, I need more time by myself. But while I need to write new music, I'm also here to unwind. To have fun. And spending time with Noel—texting him, thinking about him—is the first time I've felt relaxed since I got here.

“Almost there,” Noel encourages from a few paces ahead. His phone lights the trail between us, and he glances back often to make sure I'm all right.

Noel had said he wanted to show me something, but now, tiptoeing over rocks in heels in the dark, I wish I'd at least told Ray where I was going. I can just imagine a new crop of headlines:

Lily Ross Left for Dead by Strange Man in the Woods

Quest for Love Kills Starry-Eyed Singer

I'm about to ask if we should turn back when the trail stops abruptly and the trees open onto a clearing at the edge of a cliff.

“What do you think?” Noel asks, holding an arm out over an enormous, bean-shaped pond. It's ringed by tidy formations of tall, feathery trees, and the moon shimmers on the smooth black water. It's breathtaking,
in a surreal sort of way, like we've stumbled into the pages of a picture book.

“Not bad, huh?” Noel asks, leading me down another steep path to a jutting lower ledge.

“What is this place?”

“It's the quarry,” Noel says. “My favorite swimming hole on the island.” I look quickly down at my high-waisted shirtdress: wardrobe strike two. “We don't have to go in,” he assures me. “I just wanted you to see it.”

He wipes dirt and pine needles from the surface of a square ledge of granite and gestures for me to sit. “I come out here sometimes to look at the stars,” he says, gesturing to the sky, which is totally clear, the constellations lit up like billboards.

“It's beautiful.”

Noel disappears behind a cluster of trees, pine needles rustling as he tromps through the underbrush. Eventually he reappears with an armful of knotted sticks. He drops them with a clatter into a sunken spot at the edge of the woods. It's a fire pit, dug into the ground and charred from years of use.

“Need some help?” I ask. I quickly untie the laces of my boots and leave them on the ledge behind me.

“Careful,” he says, glancing with concern at my bare feet. “I can do it.”

“I know you can,” I say, following him with deliberate
steps into the thick brush. I let Noel do the heavy lifting but find some smaller twigs and branches and toss them into the pile. Once we've gathered enough kindling, Noel pulls a book of matches from his pocket and lights one.

Soon, the fire is roaring. We sit together on a fallen log, staring at the flames in silence, lost in the rhythm of popping sparks and crackles. “I could probably do this for hours and be happy,” I say, the skin on my legs and my cheeks slowly warming. “It's hypnotic.”

“Better than TV,” Noel agrees. “We used to go camping every summer. My mom built the best fires. They were more like installation pieces. You almost felt bad watching them fall apart.”

“My mom can't even light my birthday candles,” I say. “She's not exactly outdoorsy.” I feel a sharp pang of homesickness—not for New York but for Madison, where my parents are. I'd give anything to be driving around with Dad, singing along to his favorites: the Beatles, the Rolling Stones. Or wrapped up in one of Mom's killer hugs, smelling her gardenia perfume.

“This place is sort of like a bubble,” I say, looking out over the still water. “The island, I mean. It's so easy to forget that the outside world exists.”

“I think that's what people like about it,” Noel says. “In the seventies it was this haven for famous artists. I
guess they liked that nobody knew or cared who they were.”

It feels so true, even if I'm not entirely incognito here. I remember the way Noel looked at me the first time we met, standing between our mangled cars: like I could have been anyone. “You knew who I was when I hit you,” I tease him. “Even if you did a good job faking it.”

Noel fans away a cloud of gray smoke. “I think I was in shock,” he says. “And I guess it's in my DNA. It's a real live-and-let-live approach here, especially when it comes to
celebrities
.”

I cringe. “I hate that word.”

“Why?” Noel asks with a smile. “You're the best of the best. That's worth celebrating.”

“I guess so.” My eyes blur as I stare into the flames. “Though it doesn't feel like I'm the best at anything, lately.”

“Writer's block?” Noel asks.

“How'd you guess?”

“Lots of people come here for inspiration,” he says, poking at the fire with a stick. “Don't give up yet.”

He tends the fire with quick, confident movements. There's something in the way he holds his head and shoulders, the way he carefully selects his words, that makes it almost impossible not to trust him.

He drops the stick into the fire and leans back,
rubbing his hands together. His fingers are big and calloused, but his nails look like they've been scrubbed clean. Around his wrist is a thick rope bracelet that looks like it was once white but is now gray, the seams loose and fraying.

He catches me staring. “Sidney,” he says, twisting the bracelet around his wrist. “My sister. She made them for Christmas a few years back. We all have one.”

“Do you have other siblings?” I ask.

“Just me and Sid,” he says. “And my dad.”

“What about your mom?” I ask without thinking. There's a heavy pause and I feel my pulse quicken. It's the first time I've talked like this to anyone in years. There's a strange, assumed familiarity that happens when you chat with other people in the business. Before Jed even opened his mouth I knew all about his upbringing in California. I knew his parents were famous session musicians and that he had an older brother in rehab. Getting to know someone through conversation, from the very beginning, feels startlingly intimate.

“She's not really around,” Noel says quietly before quickly adding: “She's not dead. She left a few years ago. She's a painter. Used to teach at the high school. Everyone loved her. But she always felt like she should be doing more. Seeing more. She traveled a lot before we were born.”

I turn to look at him, the orange of the fire jumping in his clear blue eyes. “So she just . . . left?”

Noel shrugs. “Pretty much. It was hard for Sid. My dad is out most nights on the boat. It wasn't good for her to spend so much time alone.”

“So that's why you came back. To help out?”

Noel pokes at the fire with a stick. “It didn't make sense to be away.” It looks like he wants to say more, and I get the feeling that this is a theme. Like just beneath the surface of every silence is a whole conversation, fighting to be let out.

“Do you ever miss it?” I ask.

Noel tosses the stick into the fire and fidgets with the sleeves of his shirt. “Miss what?”

“School? Life off the island?”

Noel looks down at his feet, shuffling them against a bed of pine needles.

“I'm sorry,” I say abruptly. “I ask too many questions.”

He twists his rope bracelet lightly against the hard knobs of his wrist, still not looking up. “It's okay.”

“I wasn't always like this,” I confess. “I had to be trained. If I didn't ask questions, I was going to have to answer them. Backstage. At appearances. So I learned to investigate. Most people like talking about themselves.”

Noel smiles shyly. “Guess I'm not most people.”

“Quiet is okay, too,” I say.

“I'm not always quiet,” he responds. “Just when I'm nervous.”

I remember him behind the wheel of his boat, or crouching under the smoking debris of his truck. “I wouldn't have pegged you for the nervous type.”

“I'm not,” he says, flipping his palms over his lap and letting out an exasperated sigh like a little kid, frustrated by a half-finished puzzle. “Not usually.”

I put my hand over his, weaving my narrow fingers inside his strong ones. His skin is softer than I thought it would be, and warm from the fire. He looks at me, almost timidly, as if he's asking permission, his eyes searching mine, and before I know it I'm leaning in and kissing him softly on the lips. I don't even think about it—if I did, I'd surely realize it's a mistake—but instinct takes over. Noel doesn't pull back or move closer, just kisses me back gently.

“Sorry,” I say, abruptly pulling away. “Was that okay?”

Noel smirks. “You really do ask too many questions.” He pushes a stray hair back behind my ear and kisses me again, this time harder, like he means it. Like it's what he's been trying to say all night.

76 Days Until Tour

June 28th

SUNDAY, 2:35 A.M.

        
Me:
Are you awake?

        
Noel:
No.

        
…

        
Noel:
Haha.

        
Me:
I can't sleep.

        
Noel:
Me neither.

        
…

        
…

        
Noel:
How's your ankle? That was a nasty fall.

        
Me:
I didn't fall! I was skipping.

        
Noel:
Looked pretty swollen.

        
Me:
That's just the way my ankles look.

        
Noel:
Lily Ross has cankles!

        
Me:
Don't tell.

        
Noel:
It will be our secret.

        
…

        
Noel:
I had fun.

        
Me:
Me too.

        
…

        
…

        
Noel:
I have to go out on the boat tomorrow night.

        
Me:
All night?

        
Noel:
Pretty much. It's my dad's night off.

        
Me:
Can I come?

        
Noel:
It's pretty rugged.

        
Me:
I can handle it.

        
Noel:
Promise not to judge my music?

        
Me:
Promise.

        
…

        
Me:
Unless you listen to those rappers that dress up like clowns.

        
Noel:
That's a thing?

        
Me:
Good answer.

The next day crawls by, each hour like a lifetime. Tess and Sammy and I sit by the beach and go for long walks.
Sammy picks up fancy salads from the vegan organic takeout place but I can barely eat a bite. All I can do is think about Noel, the way his eyes glowed in the fire, the way his fingers felt wrapped up in mine. I don't think about my music or my tour at all.

Addict.

That night, after Tess falls asleep in front of a documentary about graffiti artists and Sammy goes up to her room, I sneak out the back door again. Noel and I arranged a meeting spot at a dock farther down the beach. When I get there, I see his boat bobbing in the dark. Noel leans against a wooden post beside it, the sleeves of his sweater pushed up to his elbows.

The water is still and quiet and there's a chill in the air. This time I'm dressed for the occasion in a big knit sweater, jeans, and Converse slip-ons, but the wind whips my hair into a wild mess as soon as we're out on the open water. If anything, this trip is teaching me that I can't micromanage my appearance when the elements are involved.

I help Noel haul in the traps for a while, but when I get tired I sit on the bench, watching as he works. His movements are slow and almost graceful, like he's doing his own sort of yoga in the dark. He's so focused that I try not to interrupt him. At first, the quiet is unsettling. It's hard for me sit with my thoughts for so long without
having anybody to bounce them back at me. But I force myself to listen, to feel the spray of salt on my hands and forehead, to watch the horizon for signs of morning.

After about an hour, I give up.

“Can I ask you something?”

Noel smirks as he steers the boat around a passage of half-sunken rocks. “Not talking is killing you, isn't it?”

“What do you mean? I'm so Zen I've practically reached enlightenment. Soon I'll be nothing more than a glowing ball of light.”

Noel kills the motor as we pull up alongside yet another buoy. “Go ahead,” he says. “But I have to warn you, my life is about as interesting as that pile of rocks back there.”

“I love rocks.”

Noel chuckles. “Ask away.”

I watch the muscles on the back of his arms tense and release as he struggles with the rope in the water. “Do you ever think about leaving again?” I ask.

Noel reaches up and attaches the rope to a pulley overhead. “Sometimes,” he says, tugging down on the rope to test it. “I liked school. I think about going back.”

“Where were you?” I ask.

“Boston,” he says. “Mass Art. I wanted to get into graphic design.”

I try to imagine him on a computer or doing anything that requires working indoors. “You're kidding,” I say. “Art school?”

“Yeah.” He shrugs and sits down beside me. “Why? I don't strike you as the artsy type?”

“No, not that,” I say, hoping I haven't offended him. “I just had no idea.”

“I've always liked to draw,” he says self-consciously.

“Like your mom,” I say, and quickly wish that I hadn't. His posture shifts, he sits taller, his shoulders close off like he's hiding something he doesn't want me to see.

“No,” he says softly. “Not really. She was—she's a painter. I was just messing around. Stupid stuff. Anyway, I don't do it anymore.”

“Why not?”

He scratches the side of his jaw roughly, squinting up at the moon. “Haven't really felt like it,” he says. “I don't have a lot of free time. And when I do, there are things I'd rather be doing.”

He smiles at me as he says this, and I feel him opening back up. I nuzzle beside him, my head resting in the gentle crook of his shoulder.

“Oh yeah?” I tease. “Like what?”

“Oh, I don't know,” he says, shifting on the bench so the sides of our legs are touching. “Lots of things.”

He wraps one arm behind my neck and we sit back
against the boat, gazing out across the water. The sky is streaked with orange and pink along the horizon, the sun pushing up against a low layer of heavy clouds.

“Like this?” I ask, my chin jutting out toward the magnificent predawn sky. I reach up and lace my fingers into his, pulling his arm tighter around my shoulder.

“Like this.” He smiles and we wait for the show to begin.

Noel drops me at the dock before motoring toward the harbor to unload. I know I should go home and sleep. Sammy and Tess will be up soon, and there's no way they'll let me hide in my room all day without asking questions. But my skin is buzzing and my mind is clear in a way it hasn't been in ages.

Instead of walking back to the house, I head toward the quarry. The sky is still in that sleepy place between dark and daylight, and the birds are just starting to stir. I notice things happening around me that I've never thought to notice before. Usually my brain is on overdrive, struggling to keep up with schedules, sessions, planning for whatever is on deck. Next week, next month, next year; the future is as much a part of my everyday existence as the present. But here I feel like I'm exactly where I should be, like everything that
matters is happening right now.

I sit at the edge of the quarry and shiver in the early morning cold, wishing Noel were here to keep me warm, to build me a fire. I smile, remembering the way his arm felt, solid and strong behind my shoulder. But it's more than that. Being around him is so easy because I don't have to be Lily Ross the business. I can just be myself. I haven't had that in any of my other relationships ever, not even with Sebastian, who I met when I was first starting out. Noel is different from the others—he probably doesn't know how to style himself for a red carpet event—but it's a kind of different that makes me feel more like myself than I have in a long, long time.

There's a quiet shushing, the trees bending in a gust of wind, and I close my eyes. This place feels essential; it's everything you need, no more and no less. It's peaceful mornings, strong coffee, and a good book. It's work that gets your hands dirty and an outdoor shower under the stars. It's stars, by the thousands, freed from the competition of man-made glow. I could get used to living here, I think.

My eyes snap open, and before I even have to chase it, the melody is back, the one I lost the other morning. I begin to hum and feel an echo vibrating in the air all around me, like a chorus.

Suddenly, the words are there, too. It's the song I
started on the beach, about waking up and not remembering where you are and why. Only now, there's something almost sweet about forgetting. There's something in starting a new day, with no attachments, nothing pulling you back into the past or rushing you into the future. A yellow-white glow bursts through the trees and I think about the rising sun: strong, hopeful, ready for anything.

The lyrics pour out all at once, just the way they used to when I was a kid, singing into the blue-and-white tiles of my parents' bathroom walls.

The sun is up, a brand-new day

A different world when I'm away.

A tiny house out in the sea

A floating peace, a piece of me.

The sun forgets, there is no past

Today, tomorrow, built to last.

A boat that never leaves the shore

The anchor I've been searching for.

Traps are tangled, set below.

Build a fire, watch it glow.

The things I'll know, the words we'll say.

Anchor's down, I'm here to stay.