Sing. Vivi Greene

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       87 Days Until Tour June 17th

      THE FIRST FEW days on the island are a blissful blur of lazy mornings, long lunches, and epic sunsets on the beach. A side perk of tossing my phone out to sea has been that I’m not obsessively waiting for texts from Jed … though of course I can’t help but wonder if he’s trying to get in touch. I’ve borrowed Tess’s phone to check in with my parents, and after a few pathetic e-mails from Terry begging me to stay on top of my social media feeds, I’ve even posted the odd photo of my toes in the sand. But for the most part, I’ve managed to stay completely off the grid.

      Our rhythm has already slowed to a leisurely vacation pace, though Tess insisted, over our first breakfast of granola and yogurt on the porch, that we each jot down a list of summer goals:

      Tess wants to learn to surf. Yesterday morning, she rented a board from the surf shop in town and has spent the afternoon getting battered by wave after wave.

      Sammy wants to read more. She picked a romance novel from the living room shelves, but so far has mostly used it as a pillow on the beach.

      And I want to cook, the way I used to with Mom, before all I ate were catered meals and delivery. Something about it feels meditative, having to carefully follow so many steps. It’s as if by constructing all these meals, piece by piece, I might be able to construct a better version of myself—a stronger version, one that doesn’t shatter to pieces every time I end up on my own.

      But what’s constantly on my mind, what remains unspoken between us, is what’s really on my list: to write twelve new songs by the end of the summer, a new album to replace Forever, that’s better than Forever; an album I can tour with in the fall. To see myself, my music, in a different light.

      So far, it’s been slow going. Today I stared at the blank lines in my journal, scratching things out as quickly as I’d written them down. There’s still a restless energy whirring inside me, reverberations of city life. I feel like a top that hasn’t stopped spinning, as if my body hasn’t quite caught up with my head.

      And so it’s back to the kitchen.

      After we’ve officially overdosed on lobster rolls and clam chowder, I decide to attempt my first home-cooked dinner. Sammy and Tess hover in the kitchen, waiting for me to lose my cool. I don’t. I make honey mustard chicken and coconut rice and a salad. I even toast some bread with garlic butter. There’s an incident with a pan full of sizzling oil and a finicky smoke detector, but when the food is finally plated and largely resembles an actual, edible meal, I feel like a bona fide gourmand.

      “This is not terrible,” Tess says as we take our first bites at the round kitchen table.

      “Gee, thanks,” I deadpan, but I have to admit I’ve surprised myself. The last real meal I cooked was probably before I left home, when Mom made me help her in the kitchen on Thanksgiving. It’s nice to have accomplished something, even if it’s not songwriting. Anxious butterflies swarm my stomach—there are eighty-seven days until the tour, which sounds like a lot, but I can feel the hours ticking down already.

      “Who wants to go out?” Sammy asks, stacking the dirty dishes after we’ve finished.

      “Out?” Tess laughs. “Did you maybe get a little too much sun today? We’re on an island with three restaurants, one of which is also the post office. There is no out.”

      Sammy drops the plates in the sink with a clatter, and I notice the pink lines of a burn on her neck. I feel suddenly guilty for dragging her here, where her fair skin and freckles will be at constant risk of sun damage, and where there isn’t a decent cocktail menu within a fifty-mile radius.

      “There has to be something,” I insist on Sammy’s behalf. “What do people here do for fun?”

      Tess leans back against the wide bay window. “You’re looking at it,” she says.

      “No way,” Sammy says, turning off the faucet. “Get dressed. If there’s a jukebox in this town, I’ll find it.”

      Energized by the possibility of stimulation, I grab Tess by the hand and pull her from the cushioned bench, shooing her toward the shower. I almost make it to the top of the stairs before I remember my journal, which I stashed in Sammy’s bag after the beach.

      I race back downstairs and duck into the living room. The bag is slumped against the tattered ottoman, and as I pull it up by its leather handles, a magazine slides out and into my hands.

      My heart drops.

      There I am, in all of my clumsy glory, sprawled out on the shellacked floor of a midtown Starbucks. One arm shields my eyes but my mouth is locked in a pained grimace. In boxy white type the headline reads: Down on Her Luck: Lily’s Alone Again.

      I’m in such a trance that it takes me a few moments to register the other tabloids that have tumbled out of the bag at my feet. I glance down and am assaulted with the same photo from different angles. More oversize type, exclamation points: Bruised and Brokenhearted: Lily Heads to Rehab and Where in the World Is Lily Ross?

      “Shit.” I hear a voice over my shoulder. I stare at the jumbled collection of my own startled faces. Tess rushes into the room and sweeps the pile aside with one foot. Sammy stops short in the hallway behind her.

      “I’m so sorry,” Sammy says. “I was trying to clean out the shelves at the grocery store. They only had a few of each …”

      “I want to see them,” I say sternly.

      Sammy bends down to scoop them up but Tess puts a hand out to stop her. “No,” she says stubbornly. “You don’t. It’s СКАЧАТЬ