Behind the Strings by Courtney Giardina

was doing.
    “I’m hanging in there,” I said.
    I told him about the incident that happened with Jaycie earlier that day. He laughed about the spilled drink and applauded Jaycie for her being so crafty. Then he apologized again for all the trouble I’d been going through.
    “You don’t have to be sorry. This isn’t anybody’s fault.”
    “I know, and it will blow over, it always does.”
    Logan told me about the time he did a few tour dates with a big-name female artist. One morning they both woke up to find that they were engaged. At least, according to the tabloids they were. The story came out of nowhere. That there weren’t even any compromising pictures as there had been with us. It took about six weeks or so, but a high-profile separation overtook the story and soon it was all forgotten.
    We both laughed this time then changed the subject to life on the road. I have to admit a hint of envy came over me as I listened to Logan talk about all of his adventures. He worked hard every day on radio station tours and each night performing in a different city, but there were some days he got to relax, sightsee and take in his surroundings. He talked about visiting the Empire State Building, the Statue of Liberty, Baltimore’s Inner Harbor and tasting one of Philly’s authentic cheesesteaks for the first time.
    “I could totally go for some sushi right now, my stomach is growling,” I said.
    “Sushi? Really?” he asked.
    “What? I forgot to eat dinner, I’m hungry.”
    “Well, that doesn’t surprise me. Your stomach has always been nocturnal, but since when do you like sushi? You’ve always been a bland eater. No ketchup on your eggs. Nothing but red sauce on your pasta and certainly no raw fish rolled up in seaweed.”
    “Oh yes, those were the days. I’ve changed since then,” I said, placing my hand on my stomach. “Man, all that food talk has my stomach growling.”
    “Ha, maybe you haven’t changed all that much after all,” Logan said.
    He spent the rest of the conversation reminding me of the times I had tiptoed out of my house and woke him up with the patter of rocks at his second-story window in the middle of a Saturday night. We had seen our fair share of sunrises during our high school years thanks to my ravenous appetite.
    We may not have had much in our small town of Hamden growing up, but one place I sure missed now that I was settled here in Nashville was Louie’s Hot Dogs. The only place open past midnight within fifty miles or so. Everyone would flock there after nights at Sweetwater Bistro for one last hurrah before they headed home for the night. Not me, though; for some reason I always did the opposite. Logan would walk me home after his shows and I’d be asleep within minutes of my head hitting the pillow. A couple hours later, though, I’d wake up craving a chilidog and off I went. Chilidogs were literally the only non-bland food (as Logan would say) that I would eat growing up. The old me was not a fan of mixing foods together, but there was something about Louie’s that I couldn’t resist.
    Louie would pile on the extra chili for both of us and we’d carry them over to the park across the street. We’d walk out to the end of the dock and dangle our bare feet in the pond as we stuffed our faces with those chilidogs. Then we’d just sit there, my head on Logan’s shoulder. Sometimes we’d talk and other times we’d fall asleep until the glistening of the sun bounced off the water. Then we’d both sneak back home and I’d catch just a little more sleep until my mom came home and started the usual Sunday pancake breakfasts.
    “We need to find a Louie’s here in Nashville. My stomach just got a serious craving.”
    “Ha! Well, it’s not open late night, but there is a hot dog stand in East Nashville that has one heck of a chili cheese dog.”
    “We’re going next time you’re home.”
    “Well, that’s actually why I called,” Logan said.
    It seemed Logan would