Sing by Vivi Greene Page B

thing about getting people to like me. It sounds ridiculous now, but it’s never gone away. Maybe it’s part of the reason I’ve been so successful—my fans can tell I need them as much as they need me.
    I head to the back and kneel down beside Noel, rolling up my sleeves. The plastic bin is full to the brim with stinky fish guts and broken pieces of crab shells. I observe him quietly for a moment, then pick up one of the long needles and dig my hands into the slippery mess.
    â€œMackerel?” I ask, holding up a small, silvery fish.
    Noel looks down at me, over his shoulder. His eyes are even lighter than I remember, almost transparent blue, and the skin around them is soft and freckled. He blinks in surprise. “Yeah. You fish?”
    â€œI used to,” I say, piercing the fish with the sharp end of the giant needle and laying it into the trap behind us. “With my grandpa. Ice fishing, too.”
    I feel Noel staring as I skewer a few more pieces.
    â€œLily’s full of surprises,” Tess interjects. “You shouldsee her during hunting season. She’s a beast with a twenty-two.”
    I roll my eyes as J.T. looks up from the traps. “Really?” he asks, grinning.
    â€œNo, not really,” I say, baiting more fish. “That’s just what I need. I can see the headlines now: Lily Ross: Armed and Dangerous. ”
    Noel laughs, a genuine chuckle, and I feel the quick thrill of success. “All right,” he says, pushing up to his feet. “Drop ’em in and let’s keep moving.”
    Latham and J.T. fill the now-empty pot with fresh bait and lower it back into the water, while Noel starts the engine and steers us to the next buoy, a few hundred yards away. We keep on like this for most of the afternoon. The guys make a game out of scaring Sammy with flailing lobsters, and J.T. shows Tess how to pull in the pots. Whenever we get low, I help Noel with the bait. He doesn’t say much, but eventually he seems to relax. I wonder if he’s like my grandpa, not really himself unless he’s on the water.
    After the sixth stop, Noel steers us back toward land. I catch his eye from my spot on the bench and he nods me over.
    â€œWant to drive?” he asks, not looking at me.
    â€œMe?”
    â€œSure.” He shifts over a bit and releases the shinywheel. “As long as you promise not to T-bone anything. Think you can handle that?”
    â€œI can try,” I say with a laugh. He pulls the engine into gear and we jolt forward, a spray of wake kicking up alongside us. We bump over choppy swells and I squint into the sun. All around us is ocean, an endless, mirrored canvas, and suddenly I’m nine years old on a summer afternoon, with nothing to do and no one to please.

9
    81 Days Until Tour
    June 23rd
    I’M SECONDS AWAY from drifting off to sleep when my phone buzzes on the bedside table. It’s probably Terry, I think, with more bad publicity news, or an addition to the fall tour schedule I’ll have to stress about. Maybe a label guy, wondering when to expect the new music. Or my mom, who still likes to check in and say good night.
    Whatever it is, it can wait until morning.
    Thirty seconds later: another buzz. I sigh and flip the screen over, the blue glow illuminating the dark of my small room.
    Two texts from Jed: Hi , and then, You there?
    A quick burst of adrenaline shoots through my veins.I’d finally managed to stop obsessing over the last time he called. Since he didn’t leave a message, I’d convinced myself that it was an accident. A pocket dial, or an awkward slip of his thumb.
    But now there’s proof. He finally wants to talk.
    It’s been eleven days. Eleven days since my life collapsed, my world turned totally upside down. It feels like yesterday and a lifetime ago, all at once.
    I swipe the screen awake. My thumbs hover over the keypad. Do I answer? Right after the breakup, it would have been