LOTTIE

I don't like that I own a private jet.

It might be registered under my name but, for all intents and purposes, I'm borrowing it from my label. They deem me important enough to deserve one and problematically recognizable to require it, as my presence at an airport would undoubtedly cause chaos.

It's private. It's convenient. I don't have to sit through baggage claim and security. It also feels excessive, setting me apart from everyone else who has somewhere to be, and I'm never looking forward to the jet use conversations.

It's through force of habit that I try to disguise myself as much as possible when I duck into a private terminal where my jet awaits. I know it by heart and have a favorite seat, to the point where the pillow already has an indent in the shape of my body.

In a vacuum, I could get used to this. The commodity, the quality of the food and the drinks, how easy it is for my entourage to travel along with me in safety.

If this thing falls and we all die, no one tells the story.

My carbon footprint and flying anxiety aside, the nearly six-hour flight to Massachusetts is calm, courtesy of the prescription Ambien I popped before takeoff.

The sleepy town of Evermere stretches out in front me, looking straight out of a postcard. For good measure, I purchase three at a small souvenir store in the airport, along with a handful of fridge magnets. Matt will have to forgive me if they're not his style, but I don't think he'll be too picky.

(There are three things Matt Crain cares about: Esme, his cat, and macarons.)

I've never been to Cape Cod. My idea of a vacation might be a beach, but I prefer the French Riviera, even Greece or Italy. This version of a coastal town is quieter, even on the cusp of summer, and I watch the roads and the buildings in silence.

Everything is blue here, I've noticed.

Shades of it, so many of them—stone, cornflower, even periwinkle—with sprinkles of white, purple, and teal. It looks inviting, peaceful, not like the grays and yellows from Los Angeles or even the very-in-your-face bright tones from San Francisco.

The rows of townhouses remind me of San Francisco a bit. I miss San Francisco, but I don't miss how chaotic it can be.

As the rented SUV turns off the main road and winds toward a tucked away path, leading up to the secluded waterfront houses we've rented for the summer, I try to breathe. My window is open and I inhale, the seabreeze rushing in.

It's cool, sharp. I understand why people are drawn to this place as the smell of seaweed and sunscreen envelops me. There's something sweet, too, like baked goods, and my mouth waters just thinking about visiting a bakery or an ice cream parlor.

Evermere is not as popular or fancy as Côte d'Azur and Portia even called it quaint, but there's some comfort in a tiny, picturesque place. Everyone we've talked to has been nice, sometimes polite and accommodating to a fault, and I didn't realize how badly I needed a place like this until I landed.

It's so quiet next to Los Angeles it feels like someone muted the world. There are no screaming crowds, no pushy paparazzi or cameras shoved in my face. The brightest light is the sun, still not too warm to be bothersome.

Luca surveys the area once we hop off the car, like he's expecting someone to be hiding in a bush. After all my incidents with stalkers, I can't blame him, but I doubt this will be an issue here. Although people have been welcoming and I saw a flicker of recognition pass across their eyes after they looked at me for long enough, they're not invasive.

"This is a cute little place," Daphne comments, stuffing her iPad inside its bag. Her pencil is tucked between her ear and her head. "I think you're the most exciting thing to happen to it since . . . ever, probably. Shout out to Matt. How did he even find out about this place, anyway?"

"I don't know," I confess, looking around me as I take it all in. I couldn't be further away from Los Angeles, Dorothy in Cape Cod.

The two cottages—one pale blue, the other light teal, both chipped in a charming way—stand side by side, overlooking the beach on a steady-looking cliff. The big porches are my favorite part so far and I can already picture myself sitting there at sunrise and sunset, curled up on a chair with a cup of tea. It's just me, the ocean, and the music.

As Daphne takes photos of our surroundings and Luca turns into a German Shepherd, I walk away towards the stone staircase leading down to the beach. A sturdy wooden fence encircles the property, perfectly rustic. I'm all but skipping across the gravel path, my boots crunching softly over seashell shards.

Everywhere I look, I see the ocean and the sand. In the distance, a lone lighthouse stands tall, red and white, and the sea is calm during the low tide.

For once, I allow myself to be still. Here, I don't have to be special.

☀︎༄.° 

My house, which I'll be sharing with Daphne, is modest and endearing, looking lived-in yet cared for, not abandoned. The view of the ocean from the back porch takes my breath away, reminding me of everything I've taken for granted—including giving myself permission to enjoy these things without being in a rush. My bones feel at ease.

The first thing I do is kick off my boots and skitter across the wooden floors. My Los Angeles apartment is so artificial compared to this place with how little time I spend there; here, even the fluffy rugs and the white lace curtains, swaying with the wind, make me feel rejuvenated. The air in the house is coated in salt and sand, not suffocating.

"No hidden microphones or cameras?" I ask Luca, as he steps into the foyer.

"You're good," he confirms. "I checked my house, too."

"It sounds like people think you lead quite an interesting life, Luca," Daphne jokes. When Luca turns to her, deadpan, she lets out a nervous laugh. "Sorry. Kidding. Obviously I don't want you to be in danger, or anything. I know you take your job very seriously and we're all here for Lottie."

Daphne is great at what she does, super dedicated, but her mouth operates faster than her brain.

"We can rest for a bit," Luca continues. "I can go grocery shopping or we can have them delivered. Whichever you'd prefer."

"You're not my delivery boy."

"I'm also not your personal chef, but we all know we'd be surviving on takeout and frozen meals if we were to rely on your culinary skills while we're here." He crosses his arms, flexing his biceps. Daphne, the poor thing, tries so hard not to gawk. "It's a nice day out."

"We can go. Could always do some sightseeing, get acquainted with the town."

"I can look up an itinerary," Daphne offers. "It's a relatively popular tourist spot; surely there are online reviews."

Luca nods. "You do that."

"Yes, sir!"

Daphne runs off upstairs, her sandals clicking against the floorboards, and the room falls silent. I know Luca well enough to know he has already planned out the itinerary, so all of this was a ruse to get Daphne out of the room.

He sits next to me on the couch. My notebook lies on the coffee table, still blank, as I wait for divine intervention.

"This is supposed to be a mental health break, too," he reminds me. There's nothing critical in his tone; at most, he almost sounds concerned. "You can relax for a bit."

"Can I?"

"You've been on the move non-stop for years. It wasn't just the tour. When's the last time you did something for yourself?'

I can only rest when I feel like I've earned it. The fact that I'm so burnt out I can't even sleep or allow myself to recharge because I haven't been doing anything objectively productive is a red flag. I'm self-aware enough to know this.

This doesn't feel like resting. It feels like I've pressed pause in the film reel of my life, left the stage for a brief interlude. Real life, my career—neither of those things will wait forever for me to get my shit together.

"It's been a long time," I admit. "I don't know how to want things for myself. Coming here was the first time I felt like . . . like I have a voice worth listening to when I'm not performing."

Luca's fingers press against the inside of my wrist. "You deserve time for yourself, Lot. Time spent healing and resting isn't time wasted. You said it yourself; without this, you can't work anyway. Punishing yourself for being human is a battle you can't win."

☀︎༄.° 

People recognize me when we go shopping for groceries, but they don't bother me too much.

It's disorienting, knowing these people know who I am and call me by my name even though we've never met yet are still able to understand I don't want to be swarmed. It's a strange yet blissful change, this quasi-anonymous quality of my presence here.

Downtown Evermere is small, as expected. We drive past a diner with a flickering neon sign welcoming us, my stomach growling so loud it sounds like a thunderstorm, but my elected small business is a bakery. I nibble at my almond croissant, the sweet, decadent filling swirling down my throat, and decide to walk.

Even the bookstores smell sweet and salty at the same time—like cinnamon and sea foam all mixed together. I haven't packed many books, preferring to read on my Kindle, but it's been ages since I was last able to sit down and focus on a book for more than five minutes at a time. I still make a mental note to visit them.

The business that catches my eye is a record shop, tucked neatly next to a general store. I glance back at Daphne and Luca, the latter dripping with sweat and complaining about the groceries we left in the car, and they follow me inside.

The shop is quiet and bright from the sunlight, with a soft melody playing in the background. I run my fingers across the vinyl sleeves, examining the stock like I brought my vinyl player and would have any way of playing these.

Fleetwood Mac. Joni Mitchell. The Chicks. A few months ago, this simple act would fill me with inspiration and determination, making me wish one day I could become one of the greats.

I'm not the strongest vocalist. I've taken voice lessons for years and work my hardest to improve, so I know I can carry a tune and find my pitch. My strength is my songwriting, my way with words, which makes my current predicament so much more heart wrenching.

Who am I without stories to tell?

"You're a sight for sore eyes," a voice behind me comments. I instantly freeze, spinning around on my heel, and my eyes look for Luca. Instead, I find a girl, not much younger than I am, wearing a faded David Bowie t-shirt. "Oh, shit, I didn't mean to startle you. I saw you come in and nearly had a heart attack."

"Oh," I blurt out.

I'm always so good at writing songs. You'd expect me to be more eloquent and to know how to talk to people.

"I work here, but you can probably tell by the name tag. Obviously." The name tag pinned to her t-shirt reads Chloe. She tucks a lock of dark hair behind her ear after it escapes from her loose ponytail, which is something I should've done. It's not hot enough to make me collapse, but it's still early June and humid, so my curls have all but exploded into a mane. "I don't own the place. Wish I did. My aunt does. I work here during the summer."

"Cool place. Your aunt should be proud." Chloe beams at me. It warms me up inside. "Do you live here?"

"Nah. I'm just here for the summer." She wipes her palms on her jean shorts. "I'm sorry. I'm, like, super starstruck right now. I love you. I love your music."

I freeze.

It's a compliment, someone being genuine, but all I hear are sirens. Does Chloe, essentially a stranger, like like me? How can you love someone you don't actually know?

Even worse, what if she's one of those fans doing and saying terrible things in my name? Is she speculating on my relationships and my personal life? Does she want something from me? Is all she's looking for a sound bite, an exclusive piece of information she can use against me?

Noticing my hesitation, her eyes widen. "Oh, fuck, sorry, I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. No one of your caliber ever comes to Evermere. I've been a fan since Radiance; Consequences is my favorite song." My first album and a deep cut. If she's telling the truth, she's an OG. "I wanted to see you live in Boston during the tour, but . . . you know. College student budget, Ticketmaster . . ."

"Oh. Thanks, Chloe. Means a lot."

She beams at me. "Of course! It means a lot that you're here. Is there anything you're interested in?"

"Sorry?"

"The records."

Seriously, sometimes it feels like I've never spoken to another human being before.

"I'm just looking, but thanks." She nods, swinging back and forth on her heels, and looks back over her shoulder, like she's expecting something—or someone. Paranoia prickles at the back of my neck. "Listen, I—"

"You know what, I'm just gonna do it. Leigh will be pissed, but she'll kill me if I let this slide."

She runs off towards the counter and returns with a flier she all but shoves into my free hand. I stare down at the handwritten message.

OPEN MIC NIGHT — FRIDAY AT BREEZE RECORDS

All instruments & voices welcome!

Sign-ups at 6 pm.

All profits go into funding the Evermere Summer Camp.

"That's us," Chloe continues. "Breeze Records. It's a bit on the nose, but it's been the family business since forever, and no one ever bothered to change it. It's catchy. You should come. It's a charity thing."

I flip the flier over. On the back, it says to contact someone named Leigh Flores for more information, along with their phone number. "For the summer camp?"

"Yeah. It also belongs to my aunt, but she lets Leigh handle the whole thing. She's my cousin. This tall"—she raises a hand to show Leigh is just a bit shorter than me—"is probably scowling, will kick your ass at beer pong. She loves it, loves music, loves the kids. It's just . . . well, this isn't the most popular place in Cape Cod. Funds are tight and she's a music teacher, so . . ."

"That's sad. The camp looks cool."

It does. There's a photograph on the back of the flier featuring two rows of campers, none of them older than fifteen or sixteen.

Front and center, stands a girl my age, with dark hair cascading down her back in gentle waves. Her grin, frozen in time, is more blinding than the sun, a sign of heartfelt happiness, and my stomach tightens. I haven't felt that way in a long time—I don't know what my purpose is.

"That's Leigh," Chloe tells me. "She refuses to admit she needs help, but I can tell it's taking a toll on her and the rest of the staff. People used to flock here back in the day when the camp was at its peak popularity, but there are other alternatives now. Kids would rather rot at their computers all day."

"I can show up for open mic night, for sure. I've never done one of those. You'll get your own mini tour."

Chloe's face lights up and she throws her arms around me, sending me stumbling backward. Like the guard dog he is—sometimes he's more of a goose—Luca immediately jumps into action, stomping his way towards us.

I raise a hand to tell him I'm okay—just a bit suffocated from the sudden bear hug—but there's something in my heart that doesn't feel right.

I have all this money, more than I need or know what to do with, and I'm settling for a charity open mic night? Come on, now.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you!" Chloe blabbers, stepping back. "Oh, Leigh is going to be so—"

"Actually, Leigh knows exactly what she's going to say."

We both startle, turning to face the new voice that has joined us. Sure enough, there stands Leigh Flores in the flesh, wearing a bright orange hoodie and denim shorts, and, somehow, I'm not surprised that she's scowling.

(I am surprised, however, by the hurricane in my stomach, triggered by her arrival.)

My brain turns into mush. I lick my lips, clear my dry throat.

"Hey," I greet. "I'm—"

"Lottie Fitzpatrick," she completes, sounding wholeheartedly unimpressed. "I know who you are. I just don't know what the fuck you're doing in my town."

☀︎༄.° 

when she's warm and welcoming <3

we're getting leigh's pov next chapter *rubs hands together* what are we expecting?