Brooke scrunches her face up at me. “You can’t let one bad relationship put you off men for good, El,” she says. “This guy seems to really like you.”
"Yeah," I sigh. "That's the problem. And I like him. Probably too much."
Shaking her head at me, she shrugs. “That’s not fair of you. It’s not fair to him, and it’s not fair to yourself.”
“I know, but—”
“He even gave you the idea to bring in the Boxley Brothers.”
"True, but they never called me back. I guess that's a sign."
“Bullshit,” Brooke yelps, her voice ringing through the empty cafe. “You make your own signs. Don’t be such a defeatist, Ellie.”
"Defeatist? Is that a word?"
"I don't know. But seriously, call them.”
"I'm not calling Mason. He said he'd call me over the weekend, and I never heard from him, so—"
“I meant the band, but okay. What’s the worst that could happen?” she asks.
She has a point. And typically, I wouldn't have a problem calling the band, but I won't be able to take one more thing screwing me over before this festival is done.
Brooke taps her nails on the counter and tilts her head at me, her expression impatient.
“Fine, you’re right. I’ll call. I’ll do it after work.”
“Now,” Brooke says, stuffing her acceptance email back in her purse. “No time like the present. Go for it.”
"Fine," I say, picking up my phone. Scrolling through social media where I sent them my last message, I find the Boxley Brother's page and tap their phone number. The anxiety-ridden part of me hopes the number rings through to voicemail so I can leave them a message. But on the third ring, a deep voice answers. Caught completely off-guard, I recognize Cole's voice, and I try to gather all of my thoughts. My heart pounds as I realize I have no idea why he has his own phone number up on their page, but I'm not questioning it now.
"Hey, this is Ellie Stone," I say. "I don't want to take up too much of your time, but I sent a message a few days ago about a festival—"
“Oh yeah, hey. You’re that girl organizing the festival in, uh, Oak Island, right?” he asks.
"Yes," I say with a huge grin. "Well, actually Southport. But we would be so honored if you guys would play for us. The gig doesn't pay much, but I've seen you a few times, and you guys are everything. Your set is amazing."
Stop fangirling, Ellie.
“When is the show?”
"Friday night," I grimace knowing that it's totally last-minute. "You would be going on around nine."
Cole breathes a deep sigh, and even as we speak, I can almost see him straightening his bullshit plaid bow-tie that he hates to wear.
"One set?"
“One set,” I promise.
He clears his throat and spits something. “Yeah. Yeah, why not?”
"Great," I stammer, all of my senses failing me at once.
"One thing, though."
“Yes?” I say, my mouth growing dryer by the second.
"This is something new for us. I can't promise you the rest of the brothers will be at the festival. But I'll be there with a set. We're working on something a little different this time around. Regardless, it'll be a show worth remembering."
“That sounds perfect,” I say at his elusive hints.
"Send us a message with all the details, okay? We need to know where to park the bus and where to unload our shit. Oh, and what time our sound check is, reservations for the stay, all that. By the way, I like your name. It's pretty kickass. Any relation to The Rolling Stones?"
"Oh, thank you so much." Laughing, I shake my head. "No, actually, but they're a great band, too."
He laughs in agreement.
"And Ellie?"
“Yes?”
"Since we're experimenting, no charge. It's all for the love of music," he says, hanging up on me.
Staring down at my phone, I can't believe that this call actually happened. Turning to Brooke, my eyes are wide and teary with excitement.
“Is that a yes?” she asks, her jaw about to drop.
Nodding, we both burst into a decaf-fueled scream.
"You have to go tell Mason," she shouts, reaching over the counter and pulling the tie on my apron causing it to fall from around me. "And more importantly, tell him how you feel! Tell him your truth. Let him in, Ellie."
I squeal at the excitement. Mason will undoubtedly be overjoyed on both accounts. “Can you be a barista for half an hour?”
Brooke takes the apron from me and slips it over her romper, tying it around her slender frame. “Is Hank due in any time soon?”
I shake my head. “Not until this afternoon.”
"Then hell yes I can! I quit one job today," she says with a devilish grin. "Let's see if I can get fired from a second."
Chapter Twenty-Five
Ellie
"Oh, that is just excellent news, my little music maven!" Charlie says over the phone as I race to my parked car a few blocks up from the cafe on Howe Street. I can practically hear his hands flapping through the air as he talks. "You're marvelous, chickadee. I knew you'd come through with the Braxley Brothers."
“It’s Boxley,” I correct him, trying to catch my breath.
"That's what I said, darling. Look, I've organized the volunteer meeting for this evening, too. Won't you be a dear and kick those kids into shape for me? I've got an important supper session tonight and won't be able to make it. But I'm leaving you in charge. You tell Don that, too. Don't want him bulldozing right over you. I'm off to the dry-cleaners for now. Have to pick up my outfit for the festival. Ta ta!"
Laughing at his last line, I don't even allow myself to wonder what in the world Charlie could be wearing Thursday that needs to be dry-cleaned. And annoyingly enough, what special supper session could Charlie have that's more important than a volunteer coordination meeting? I roll my eyes at the thought. That's group-rallying territory right there. Yet, I'm the one who'll have to spend three hours handing out volunteer T-shirts, assigning tasks to the seven different groups, and making sure all spaces for vendors, bands, and attendees are sectioned off correctly with spray paint, tape, and barriers.
Instead of dwelling on the shitstorm of a meeting it will undoubtedly be, I turn all of my attention toward scouting out Mason's house. I'd driven by The Anchor but couldn't find his car anywhere. Brooke pings me a possible street address via text that she claims to have accessed through a friend of Dennis', so I plug it into GPS on my phone. But when I drive there, the area doesn't seem right, so I switch courses.
At one point, Mason had mentioned having a view of the river from his front yard, so I head south toward the hilly street that winds up to the highest neighborhood in Southport. While continuing to prowl, I plan out exactly what I’ll say to Mason.
I’m sorry I was an asshole. Don’t ever leave me. Please let me be with you.
Or I was wrong. One-hundred-percent, absolutely, positively wrong. We belong together with our dorky jokes and our crazy obsession with music.
Or I love you. No, I fucking love you. Please don't leave me ever again.
After looping the neighborhood twice, I find Mason’s dark sedan parked outside a modest contemporary style house. Of course he has one of these fancier looking houses. But instead of dwelling on the fact, I decide that maybe I'll be an investigative journalist if coordinating music festivals doesn't work out for me.
I park on the side of the road in front of his house, not wanting to take up real estate in his driveway. Bounding up the steps of his front porch, I feel my heart pounding in my chest. After knocking a few times, I call through the door as if he'll hear me quicker. "Mason? Mason, are you in there?"
Opening the door after a minute, he looks at me blankly, almost confused to see me, then walks down the porch stairs. “What?”
"Hey," I say, trying to play it friendly, but his annoying indifference has already dampened my excitement as I follow him down to his car. "Ma
son, you were right. They're coming."
"Who is?" Grabbing three paper bags in his arms, he shuts the car door with his shoe and heads back up the stairs.
"The Boxley Brothers. You were right all along," I say, trailing him up the steps to his front door like some lost puppy.
"That's great. Congratulations, Ellie," he says, walking into his house, leaving the door open.
His complete lack of enthusiasm dents my soul. Egomaniacal little shit. “Aren’t you excited?” I call through the open door.
Not answering me, Mason unloads his groceries at the kitchen counter. I usually have manners and wait to be invited into a person's home before entering, but this little turd is playing dumb with me, and I don't have the patience to yield to his arrogance. "Hey," I say, letting myself in through the hallway, meeting him at the kitchen counter. "Aren't you excited about the Boxley Brothers?"
“Yeah, that’s great for you, Ellie.” Rinsing off a handful of apples, he places them on a towel by the sink to dry.
I stand there at a loss over his lackadaisical attitude, so I decide to try a different approach. “Do you want to come over tonight? I have a volunteer meeting but after—”
“Can’t,” he says, drying his hands off on a paper towel.
What little ego I had walking in here is immediately shattered. "Well, what are you doing?"
He continues to unbag his groceries. A loaf of garlic bread, a carton of eggs, a block of parmesan, and a six-pack of Heineken. It's not until he pulls out what I recognize to be a fifty dollar bottle of Pinot noir from one of the local vineyards that I realize he might be cooking dinner for someone tonight. "I have plans," he says.
At his composure, I start to back away from him. Coming here is beginning to feel like an absolute mistake. And I can't open up to him to tell him. I can't apologize and tell him everything I'd planned on the ride up here because he clearly doesn't want to hear it. I can sense that in him. He has plans. Shit, he's probably about to cook dinner for a new girl he's found. One who has a great career and isn't afraid to commit.
“Oh, okay. Well, I thought maybe we could talk sometime. Like you said the other day you’d call me,” I say, trying not to sound completely melancholy. “But you didn’t.”
What I don’t expect is for him to look me square in the eye as he says answers. “Sorry, Ellie. Been busy. Nothing personal, but not everything revolves around you and this festival, okay?”
Feeling a pinprick of oncoming tears sting my eyes, I nod. Reaching into my back pocket, I pull out two laminated press badges, one with Mason's name printed on it, the other titled with Guest. "You'll need these to get in," I say, hanging both passes on the closed pantry doorknob by their lanyards. "There's one for you and one anyone else from The Anchor to get in if they—"
"I probably won't make it," he says, his voice straight without any sign of a joke.
“What?”
“Plans have changed at the office.”
"Are you serious?" I clench my teeth and try to cut off the emotion welling up at the back of my throat. I don't know what's happened to my spirit, but I hold none of the raging fire I'd been filled with just a few short weeks ago.
"Ellie, you basically told me to fuck off the other day. You don't want a relationship. I get that. But I can't be friends with you. I don't have that in me. I can't look at you and see only a friend. And since you and I aren't ever going to work out, I don't need to chase after someone who isn't interested in me. I have more pride than that," he says with a clearing of his throat. He's so direct, so forward that I wonder if this is the same Mason I'd known all along. There is none of his coy, confident charm that I'm used to seeing. He's not flirting anymore.
“Mason, I just—”
Escorting me back to his front door that’s still wide open, he dips his head down to make sure I don’t miss a single one of his words. “Look, I’m happy for you. Really. You got your dream gig with your dream band as a crowd drawer. And you and I, we had a fun time together doing— whatever it is we did. It was a great run, Ellie. Truly. But I’m just too old to be playing games, so I’m out. I’ll see you around,” he says just before shutting the door.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Ellie
"I brought coffee," Brooke yells to me across the street. She's wearing a mini denim skirt with a sheer lace top, a black bandana tied around her wild red hair, and a pair of black ankle booties even though the temperature will be hitting the nineties today. "Like my festival attire?" Crossing Howe, the heel of her booties click against the pavement as she carries a compostable drink carrier from Dream Bean. "Hank says good luck. Iced Mocha Cappuccinos for everyone," she shouts in excitement.
"Thanks," I say, grabbing one of the three cloudy plastic cups. "How'd you pull that one off? Hank doesn't believe in iced coffee."
Brooke smirks and curtsies, digging the toe of her boot into the pavement. "I strong-armed him." She takes her own cup of iced coffee, leaving one to rest in the drink holder. "Dennis should be around here somewhere," she says, craning her neck around the park. She spots him walking up the street, already having parked the car. He's holding his own drink, so I furrow my brow.
“Who’s that one for?” I ask, nodding at the last iced coffee.
Brooke shrugs and feigns a polite smile. “No one in particular. Just in case.”
I can read her ambivalent response. It’s code for just in case Mason decides to show up.
Luckily, my schedule for the next forty-eight hours is so jam-packed that I'll barely have time to think about Mason, to obsess over how I ruined things with him. I blink away my embarrassing, desperate attempt at reconciliation when I showed up to his house uninvited two days ago.
So we won't have a write-up of the actual festival being run in The Anchor. So what?
So there won’t be any press coverage, the festival will be doomed, and no one will ever let me forget it.
"Shut up, Ellie," I whisper under my breath. I can't shake these negative thoughts from my mind. And if I'm being honest, what's bothering me isn't so much the lack of press at the festival. It's the fact that I don't want Mason to see me as a toxic person, this person who thinks only of themselves and doesn't let anyone in. Unfortunately, that's exactly what I'd demonstrated for him. I realize that I want to be better. For myself, but also for him. Because of him. But it's too late. Isn't that how most fatally flawed almost-relationships smolder out into nothing?
“Hey, El,” Dennis says, pulling me from my misery. When I look up, he’s holding a fist out to me in some sort of a friendly greeting.
I tap my first to his with a smile. "Nice backpack," I say as he spins around to showcase it for me. It's black with rainbow patches all over it, and he's not one bit embarrassed to be wearing it. "Pretty hipster of you. Security may ask you to search it, but at least it looks good."
Brooke rolls her eyes. “I told him not to bring it. It belonged to my sister, YEARS AGO,” she enunciates, shaking her head at him. “Anyway, nice shirt,” she says, waggling her eyebrows at my bright purple festival shirt, the shirts I’d handed out to all the volunteers at our last meeting. Aside from a few wanderers, the park is a sea of purple shirts right now.
“Thanks,” I laugh. “My super talented best friend designed it. She just got into SCAD, you know.”
Brooke giggles. “You don’t say. So, what’s on the agenda today?”
Though I know everything by heart, I grab my clipboard from the folding table beside me just to quiz myself. "Soundcheck for the bands is at ten. Vendors are starting to set up now. Your chummy ol' pal Charlie is coming by for a final and thorough inspection at noon which is also when they'll be roping off these few blocks," I say, pointing down Howe Street. "Security is setting up soon, and then we'll start letting people in the gates at one." I take a swig of iced coffee to quell my nerves. "The Quirks start us off at three, and then it's all systems go."
"What about the fireworks?"
"Those are tomorrow night over
the river at approximately 9:45."
"Damn," Dennis says. "You're really good at this, El."
“Thanks,” I say, looking into his eyes with a small smile.
For a second, I wonder if Dennis knows that John had called me drunk and fired up for no good reason the other week. Had he told Dennis that I'd blocked him or that I never returned any of his messages or phone calls? I'd made it a point of never telling Brooke John had called me in Raleigh while I was sleeping with Mason. It's not like I tried hiding it from her. I just didn't want the drama circulating back into my life. Plus, with everything going on with Mason, having spoken to John was the least of my worries.
The morning passes in a whirlwind. The only issue during soundcheck is easily remedied when Morris, our audio guy, rolls in an extra amp and replaces a single wire on the backend of things. Each band set to perform today shows up, and I greet them all with information packets full of beer and meal tickets, accommodation arrangements, gift certificates for each of the vendors, and free swag bags that I'd put together myself, all goodies gathered from the Brunswick and New Hanover counties.
After soundcheck, I trail the sidewalks of Howe Street making sure vendors are setting up and have everything they were promised. The street is filled with scents of fried food, beer, and freshly mown grass.
"Wow," Brooke says as she meets up with me after I check in with the two men who are running the snow cone cart. "It's a pick your poison type of situation here, and I don't hate it." She looks up and down the street that's still teeming with cars but will soon be closed to traffic. "Corn dogs, homemade ice cream, popcorn, burgers, barbeque, cupcakes. What do you want to eat?" she asks me.
Shaking my head, I’m not all that hungry.
“Come on, you’ve gotta eat something. The day is still young.”
“I’m not sure then,” I laugh. “Just grab whatever,” I say, handing her a few of my meal tickets from my pocket.
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