My cell phone buzzes from the counter of the cafe as I wipe down the glass of the refrigerated drink case up front. I sigh. My week has been a blur, a pre-festival haze of confusion that I can’t quite keep straight. My phone has been constantly ringing off the hook with people needing me to field questions from Charlie and the rest of the gang at the drop of a dime. The bands are all seeking unnecessary third and fourth confirmations of hotel and transportation arrangements, vendors are emailing and calling with last-minute requests for their booths, and, of course, John.

Of course.

I'd blocked his number right before Mason's sister found me in the middle of the backyard after four in the morning last week. But earlier today, I had acquired six missed calls from a different Wilmington number on my phone. It wasn't until I listened to yet another rambling, drunken voicemail that I realized it was John calling me from a different number. As I move on to wipe down the sweet tea shelf, my first thought is that John must've resorted to day-drinking. My second thought? I may not be good enough for Mason. But I’m better than this.

Marching back over to my vibrating phone, I drop the rag into the sink, and with a swift tap of my phone screen, I block John’s second number. It feels good to take a stand for myself, and I breathe a huge sigh of relief when my phone finally falls silent for the first time in a few days.

The only people I haven't heard from are the Boxley Brothers and Mason— the only two calls I've actually been hoping for. I texted Mason last week after I'd gotten some sleep and asked if we could meet up to talk. But he told me he was busy, that he'd call me over the weekend. Now Tuesday morning, still not having heard from him, I'm worried that I screwed things up for good. I know I was a bitch on Thursday, but my side of the argument is understandable, right? I am way too different to fit in with his life.

The bell on the front door rings. Looking up, I'm not expecting a crowd since Tuesday mornings aren't usually busy past nine, so I'm pleasantly surprised to see Brooke crossing the wide-planked floor wearing some sort of a short linen romper. She's waving a white piece of paper in the air like a white flag, and her grin is so wide, something almost feels wrong.

“I got in!” she shrieks, handing me the piece of paper. It’s a printed email, and I start to read it, but barely get past the word ‘Congratulations’ before Brooke is talking my ear off.

“These people loved my portfolio. They say I have ‘real talent for design and a creative eye for the unique and unexpected’. Isn’t that amazing?”

Laughing, I give her a hard time. "That's wonderful, Brooke. I am so happy for you. I knew you'd get in though. Did you print this just so you could wave it in my face?"

"They said my design has a real flair for the dramatic, too," she says, not hearing me.

"Oh, really?" I laugh. I begin making her usual latte, except decaf today because any more energy, and she'll start draining me of my own.

"Sorry, I'm just incredibly happy. I feel like the genie in that golden lamp in Aladdin. How he finally gets free after years." She spreads her arms wide and hops toward the counter. "I'm outta here," she sings in imitation.

“Are you not working today?”

"Are you kidding me? I quit as soon as I got the email. No more ‘sugar tits' and ‘sweet ass' for this girl."

I laugh and push Brooke’s mug across the counter.

“So how was Raleigh?” she asks, running a hand through her curls.

“Tell me more about SCAD,” I say without missing a beat.

"It was that bad?"

“No. I mean, the show was great. And Mason gave me a good idea to replace Monsoon with the Boxley Brothers, but we left things in a weird place and—”

“Code for you slept together, right?” she asks, and I pause a second too long. “I knew it! How was it? He looks like one of those strong, silent types that reads a lot but is a total freak in the sack.”

“Oh my God, shut up,” I say, feeling my cheeks go red.

"So what happened?" She sips from her latte.

"It was—" I shrug and shake my head. "It was entirely great. The whole day with him was perfect. And I accidentally told him I loved him, I think?"

Brooke gasps, throwing an echo down the shop. "No!"

Nodding, I study the counter suddenly embarrassed. "I don't think he heard me though, because it was during everything. And he was like— grunting."

Giggling, Brooke shakes her head. "God, Ellie."

"But after he fell asleep, I kept thinking about how bad things could turn out if we were to take it to any other level than casual. Mason and I are not made from the same fabric."

“Cloth,” Brooke says.

“What?”

“The saying is you’re not cut from the same cloth.”

"Whatever. Must be a SCAD thing. Anyway, I just— I mean, it would work out fine, probably, at least short-term. But long-term, there's too much pain there. Too many things that can go wrong in a relationship."

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."