Sing by Vivi Greene

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 Istarted 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.

13
    70 Days Until Tour
    July 4th
    â€œYOUR GUITAR WILL still be there when we get back.”
    Tess pulls the Pree up to a rambling Victorian home at the end of Main Street as Sammy reaches into the backseat for the picnic basket. “Come on,” she urges. “You love parades.”
    I follow them out of the car and up onto the wide front porch of Latham’s grandparents’ house. The railings are draped in patriotic bunting and a giant flag hangs over the doorway. Sammy’s right: I do love parades, and it’s been a while since I’ve been able to watch one as a nameless face in the crowd. But when Tess announced that Latham had invited us to watch the island’s Fourthof July celebration from the privacy of his family’s balcony, I was anxious more than anything else.
    I still haven’t told either Tess or Sammy that I’ve been spending time with Noel. I hate sneaking around, but I’m not ready. Things with Noel are so easy, a stress-free escape. And exploring the island with him has been just the creative spark that I’ve needed. I don’t want to risk losing that by making it public, even—or maybe especially—among my closest friends.
    It’s been a week since that night at the quarry, and the songs have been pouring out. The first one, “Anchors,” led to the next, “At Sea,” a narrative ballad about the floating cabin couple. I imagined their love story, from start to finish—their small-town courtship and Saturday-morning routines.
    Then came one about a group of boys and girls I watched fishing off the jetty behind our house. They were young, maybe ten or