I glance over my shoulder at her. Whatever she sees on my face makes her go pale.
“I haven’t been okay for two years, Francesca. Today won’t be the day I start.”
I don’t wait for her to respond as I walk out the door.
* * *
Face hiddenbehind a set of huge sunglasses, I tug the brim of my hat lower over my face as I walk along the boardwalk. The lights of the Santa Monica pier pulse neon-bright in the distance, the ferris wheel making slow rounds over the water as twilight slowly gives way to shadow. When it gets too dark to see, I tuck my sunglasses into my bag and hope to God no one recognizes me.
These very well could be my final hours of anonymity. I revel in them, knowing every second of freedom is numbered. As soon as Francesca arranges the tour — which she will, because that woman has never yet faced a challenge she couldn’t conquer — this life I’ve spent so long running from will start all over again. The press circuits and the interviews. The late nights and the screaming fans and the music.
Oh, god, the music.
I miss it like an amputated limb, like some vital organ that’s been removed from my body, leaving me incomplete and aching. It’s been ages since I’ve played. Ages since I’ve felt my fingers on the strings, since my mouth has formed those melodies I once wrote for him, sung the notes that used to swirl though every corner of my mind.
Stopping wasn’t a choice — it was a mechanism of survival. Because every time I’ve tried to sing lately, every time I’ve so much as strummed a chord, memories have crashed over me in a wave, threatening to drag me to the depths of despair. And so, for months, my guitar has been collecting dust in a closet, a leftover prop from a role I’m no longer fit to play.
I stroll the boardwalk for a long while before I head back to my hotel, taking in the sights. Last time I was here, I hated LA almost on principle, mostly because it wasn’t Nashville — too big, too bright. Packed to the brim with vain, materialistic people pursuing vain, materialistic careers. But tonight, as I wander in the dark, slipping through the lively crowds unnoticed, I recognize a side I didn’t last time. A side I either couldn’t see or didn’t want to see.
There’s a certain beauty here, in the madness. In the wild waves that crash along the beach, so different from the Atlantic’s rocky shores; in the slender-necked palm trees that line the path like eternal soldiers guarding the gates of Old Hollywood; in the constant streams of tourists and locals alike, buying food from shouting vendors, bustling in and out of storefronts, their arms laden with packages.
I drift along, breathing deep gulps of salty summer air. Just one more stranger in a sea of rollerbladers and speed walkers, moms with strollers and chirpy teens on cellphones. I can’t deny there’s an undeniablerushin this city, like nowhere else I’ve ever stepped foot. Not even my beloved Nashville.
After the quiet isolation of my cottage, it should be overwhelming. A shock to the system. But something inside me seems to stir awake as I walk, totally immersed in the vigor electrifying the very air around me. Something that’s been slumbering for a long, long time.
Maybe Francesca was right.
Maybe I really have changed.
My whole life, I’ve craved safety. Stability. After a childhood like mine… I thought it would be better to avoid being around anyone at all, to keep my walls so high no one could ever scale them. Because, to me, safety and solitude have always been co-dependent states.
And yet… for the past two years, I’ve been nothingbutalone. Nothingbutsafe in that new life of silent anonymity, living as Joy Winters.
Off the grid.
Unreachable, untouchable.
For the first time in my life, I’ve been accountable to no one but myself. I do not shudder in fear at the slamming of a door or feel my pulse race at the prospect of a little white pill and its mighty consequences.
Totally, completely safe.
And totally, completely alone.
It’s what I always wanted. What I spent years hoping for, living for, dreaming for.
So… why does it feel so empty?
Why have I spent so many nights sitting out on my porch with my head craned back to the stars, seeking out Scorpius in the summer skies? Why does my breath puff the chilled winter air as I stand in the dark, searching for Orion on those distant celestial horizons?
Their everlasting chase, orbits always at odds.
Never in the same sky at once.
My eyes are suddenly glassy as I turn down the street that will bring me back to my hotel.
Maybe I was wrong.
Maybe being totally safe, with only your own light to brighten the dark sky around you, is wholly overrated.