Bright white headlights wash through the entryway of my tiny bungalow, and a car horn bellows from the driveway. I want to yell out the front door and tell Brooke to quit with the noise already, that my neighbors will be straight-up pissed at all the racket. But I pull on my military jacket that, after a quick whiff, I realize still smells like beer from the concert. I hear Brooke lay on the horn again, so instead of running to grab a fresh hoodie or my leather jacket, I shove my phone and some cash into my back pocket and head out the door.

As I cross in front of the car that's idling in the gravel, Brooke leans over and pops the horn at me once more. I gasp, the sound scaring the absolute shit out of me in the dark. I give her the finger through the headlights as she sticks her tongue out at me to be facetious. At this point, with it being so late at night, I'm pretty sure my neighbors hate me.

“What’s up, El?” Dennis says from the driver’s seat as I slide in the backseat behind Brooke. Dennis is tall and built. He’s got James Dean hair that, for whatever reason, always leaves Brooke complaining. I dig it, though.

"Hey, Dennis. It's been a while." The Jeep smells like worn leather with a hint of motor oil, and I don't hate it.

"Ellie, put that beer in the floor?" Brooke asks, whipping her head back toward me. "It's been moving around since we hit the road."

"Careful, El. They're heavy," Dennis says.

With a huff, I slide the two thirty-packs of Pabst Blue Ribbon off the seat and into the floorboard behind the driver's seat. "Hipster beer tonight, huh?" I tease, not sure if either of them will actually get the joke.

Dennis laughs, but Brooke chimes in quickly. "Don't judge. Dennis loves it."

“Brooke said you’re trying to get in with the local newspaper?”

Dennis' question surprises me. I guess I didn't realize Brooke would've already told him. I’m not sure of how much detail I should give him since he's still friends with John, but screw it. "Sure am. Should be interesting, seeing as I may have made out with the guy who runs the thing." I smile at him through the rearview mirror.

He pulls us out of the driveway, his tires spewing my gravel. Dennis probably doesn't care about what I do in my free time or otherwise, but it makes Brooke happy that we have a pseudo-relationship, so I always try to put in an effort.

"So far it's just me coming up goose egg,” I say. “But I thought I could try the Wilmington paper, too. Someone's gotta have a spot for us, right?"

“Yeah, keep at it.” He nods at me in the mirror with all the sincerity in the world. “I can make a call if I need to, just let me know.”

“She’s not giving up,” Brooke tells him. Though if she knew I was planning to contact John for help, she’d never forgive me.

“Well, we’re really looking forward to the festival. The music sounds dope,” Dennis continues.

“Dope?” I can hear the roll of Brooke’s eyes in her question, but Dennis ignores her.

“When can I buy our tickets?”

"Oh," I tell him, studying the passing coastal cottages as we turn out of my neighborhood. "You guys don't need to buy tickets. Brooke, I thought I told you they gave me a few sets of weekend passes. Obviously you two are getting in free."

“Seriously?” Brooke asks, digging in her purse. She pulls out a tube of lip balm and presses it to her lips.

“Well, yeah. Perks of helping run the thing.”

“You mean perks of banging the festival director,” she says, emphasizing the words with a sassy sneer.

“Oh my God, Brooke. He’s not even remotely on the market.”

"Why not?"

I hear Dennis laugh as I roll down the back window. The night has turned chilly, and the air smells salty as we pass over the Oak Island Bridge. "Why do you think I'm always sleeping with everyone?"

Brooke chuckles. "Wishful thinking, I guess. All I'm saying is your well has been drying up ever since he-who-shall-not-be-named waltzed out of your life. I mean, you haven't even had a rebound bang. That's not normal. You should be rebound banging it out.” She turns to Dennis. “You agree with me, right, babe? She needs to get laid.”

I watch the silhouette of Dennis shrug underneath a passing golden lamplight. "Maybe she's doing her own thing. No a damn thing wrong with that."

The night air is cool and whips sand at our calves as we trudge up over the dunes. Dennis is carrying a pack of PBR under each arm behind Brooke and I. Over the dunes and toward the shore, we spot a campfire surrounded by a dozen or so people. The light is all disappeared from the horizon save for the fire and the bit of moonlight the reflects on the far-out calm of the ocean. I pull my jacket tight around me and huddle close to Brooke as we walk.

"Sorry about that comment," Brooke says in a hushed whisper. "I didn't tell Dennis everything about Mason. Just the basics. He knows better than to say anything to John. I made sure of that."

When we reach the group, I grab a beer to keep the buzz I have going from the wine. It's bitter and lukewarm, but it does the trick. I recognize only a few of Dennis' friends since I've hung out with them before, but there's a blonde-headed girl that looks familiar from coming into the cafe occasionally.

The rest of the crew are strangers that form something of a circle of skinny jeans and various untucked flannel shirts. Two guys sit in the sand playing guitars while three others chill on petrified driftwood passing around marshmallows and graham crackers. A guy in a backward trucker hat with a cigarette sticking out his mouth asks me for a light, so I hand him my lighter. A few of the girls are hanging off one another, dancing around a Bluetooth speaker, their harsh shadows cast on the sand from the flickering fire. Their moving mouths are wordless conversations I can't hear over the slow rumbling waves lapping up against the shore a few yards. Sipping my beer, I'm reminded of a Monsoon song that I start to hum.

“Drinking in the shadows, starving off the day, all the light’s a memory because nothing gold can stay.”

"There you go again," someone interrupts from my right.

Scowling in shock, I turn to the voice. But my grimace morphs into confusion when my eyes adjust to the dim light only to find Mason beside me. You have got to be kidding me.

Clearing my throat, I furrow my brow even harder. "What are you talking about?" The harsh tone I use is meant to send him fleeing, but he doesn't. He roots himself in the sand next to me and shoves his hands in his jean pockets.

“You whisper-sing,” Mason says plainly.

Taking a step away from him, I shake my head. "No, I don't. What are you doing here?"

"I work with Chris," he says and lifts his beer can in the direction of a tall, good-looking guy who is swapping stories with a man next to Dennis.

Before I can finish absorbing the scene, I take a huge sip of beer and, in my impatience, nearly miss my mouth causing the beer to dribble down me and onto my shirt. I spin away from Mason as soon as it happens and wipe my chin on my hand. I can hear him chuckling behind me now, and in the dark, I search my white shirt for any sign of a stain. Thank God I'm not still drinking wine from a mug.

As if he's read my mind, Mason speaks from behind me. "At least it wasn't red wine."

When I turn to face him, I'm ready to give him a piece of my honest-to-God mind. But as his eyes capture mine in the dark, they radiate a sort of sympathetic understanding in the firelight.

As if to reel me in further, he removes his glasses, cleaning them with the bottom of his shirt. Still studying his chocolate-candied eyes, they seem larger and more innocent now that they're removed from their glass prisons.

When he looks back up at me with a squinty smile, I can't remember what we were even arguing about, so I cross my arms over my chest. "It's Monsoon," I finally say, clearing my throat. The moment passed two minutes ago, but I need him to know who sings the song.

“I know,” he says, replacing his glasses on his nose. “Are they part of your lineup?”

With a roll of my eyes, I scoff. "Oh, so now you're interested in the festival?"

“Sure,” Mason says and takes another sip of his beer. I do the same, but I’m infuriated with his mocking, condescending tone, regardless of whether or not it’s the truth.

"Hey, El, come meet— oh, hey," Brooke lilts as she pounces on my side, a dark smile darting across her lips. "Boxley Bro T-shirt guy. AKA Mason. Am I right?" She extends an elegant hand to him, her fingernails still painted a flawless red.

"Come meet who?" I ask Brooke before this guy can say anything.

“Oh, forget it,” she purrs, offering Mason a charming smile. “I didn’t realize you were busy.”

"I'm not," I say, my tone ruthless. Heading toward the direction she came from, I leave her there. She can enjoy his happy, unapologetic ass all she wants. But not me. I look for Dennis in the sea of hipsters, intending to tack my two cents on to whatever conversation he's having right now. But catching up to me, Brooke grabs on to my jacket.

"What the hell, that was rude," she hisses when we're on the other side of the fire. We push past a group of people, and it's getting more crowded now, another handful of people having shown up to drink. Feeling the tension rise in my stomach, I start to feel anxious and jittery. I need a cigarette.

"I shouldn't even be here," I tell Brooke, my voice starting to fray. Bending down, I pull two beers out of the cooler, hand one to Brooke, and crack the other open.

“What do you mean?”

“I should be at home figuring out what the hell to do about this press release that Mason didn’t give me.”

Across the bonfire, I watch Mason throw his head back in laughter with some curly-headed brunette. A tinge of jealousy jabs at my heart. He looks so calm and confident, totally secure with his nerdy self, and I can't help but think of how different he and I are. Maybe the concert night was a fluke. We'd gotten along so well, connected in ways I'd never imagined. But after he left me hanging about the festival and was a total asshole about it, I feel like maybe that was the alcohol in us both that led us to the outskirts of that meadow. Biting my bottom lip, I feel my stomach grow heavy with the thought of that connection having upended itself. I mean, he understands the music, maybe he can just read me better than I thought. As the firelight dances on him, I decide it's okay if there's something about him that drives me into a sad but place— his self-assuredness, his understanding of music, his dark, soul-searching eyes. Maybe those qualities in him aren't meant for me, but at least they exist out in the wild.

"Do you want to go?" Brooke asks, pulling me from my thoughts. The corners of her mouth are turned down, and I can tell she's concerned.

Smiling at her, I know she'd take me home if I asked. "No. I mean, yes," I emphasize the word, "but I'll call for a ride. I'm just gonna go have a quick smoke," I say as I walk away from the crowd without waiting for her reply.

Making my way across the sand, it grows dark, the further I get from the fire. I stop at a white, bulky lifeguard stand and crouch down to sit at its base. It's much colder away from the glow of the bonfire, but I sit with my back against the whitewashed wood that blocks most of the wind from me. The night air smells like fresh seaweed, and I watch the moon reflecting on the glossy surface of the water. Taking three deep breaths, I close my eyes and try to center myself from the anger and upset I've been feeling lately. Pulling out my silver lighter and my last cigarette from my coat pocket, I hold the smoke between my lips as I flick the switch down, but the wind extinguishes my light four times in a row.

"Come on, you little turd." My hands start to shake which kills my coordination. Frustration building inside me, I groan. Can I not do anything to completion?

“Want some help?”

“Holy shit,” I yelp, nearly jumping out of my skin. “What is the matter with you?” I ask as Mason crouches down beside me. “Can’t you take a hint?”

"I can. But where's the fun in that?" To my surprise, he smiles. Taking my lighter from me, he cups a large, steady hand over the end of my cigarette and lights it on the first try.

I take a deep, relieved inhale, and blow the smoke in the other direction.

"I didn't take you for a smoker," he says and shifts himself into a sitting position beside me on the wooden base of the lifeguard stand.

“Only when I’m nervous,” I say. I drink the last of my beer and tap the ash off the end of my cigarette inside the can.

“What are you nervous about?”

I look at him, fully expecting to see a face of patronizing smugness, but am surprised to be met with a sincere, if not empathetic, concern. His eyes are almost black behind his glasses now, the absent firelight having robbed them of their richness, and I find myself wondering what color they really are. His lips part as he waits for me to answer him. The stubble on his angular jaw longs for me to rub my hand against it, and I imagine kissing him again. Subconsciously, I lean into him closer. "You," I say in a soft, plain voice. My guard is down, and I'm too tired and buzzed to try to put it back up tonight. When I speak again, my voice is still relaxed and nearly a whisper. "Why do I keep running into you? How is this possible?" Losing myself, I touch the pad of my thumb to his stubbled cheek. "I have never ever seen you before in my life and suddenly, you're everywhere."

He grins and cocks an eyebrow as he reaches up, takes my hand from his cheek, and slip my lighter into my palm. "The Baader-Meinhof phenomenon," he says easily. The crease in my brow must be tell of my confusion because he chuckles and launches into a deliberately slow explanation. So slow that I feel like he's trying to seduce me with his words. "It's an illusion in which an object, a name, or in your case, a person," he whispers, pointing at himself, "comes into your life and suddenly seems to appear to you at an improbable frequency."

Snapping out of his seduction, I shake my head and scoff. "English?"

"Maybe we've seen each other before around here and just haven't realized it. It's not a huge town. But because you and I met, face-to-face, heart-to-heart, at the concert, you know who I am. I've become familiar to you. Now when you see me, you recognize me which makes it feel like I'm infiltrating your life."

"Wow," I say under my breath, eyebrows raised. His explanation makes a ton of sense, but I'd never realized there was a science or something behind it.

“What’s wrong?” He puts his hand on top of mine, his warm palm pressing against my skin.

I clear my throat and try to hide my smile from him. "No offense, but you really are a nerd." Taking another pull of the cigarette, I exhale into the night air.

“And you really shouldn’t smoke,” he says, lifting his hand toward my mouth. Before I know what’s happening, Mason slowly pulls the cigarette from my lips and drops it into my empty beer can.

As pissed as I would normally be for the premature extinguish of my last cigarette, I’m not mad at him. In fact, I let him do it. I knew it was happening, as it was happening, and I didn’t stop him. What is wrong with me? I must be going soft.

He stares at me waiting for a flustered response, but I won't give him one. In fact, sitting here in front of him, I feel like I can't move. I'm heavy as a stone statue with a fluttery stomach as he continues to look at me, his eyes begging me to react. But I don't. In this silence with him, if I make any sort of movement, I will lose this moment forever. And right now, this interaction is different than it was earlier. Different than it was yesterday at his office. No hostility. No expectation. Just two strangers sitting seaside in the midst of a chorus of crashing waves. And then I feel an invisible force pushing me forward like I need to say something. Anything.

But I can't bring myself to move.

He runs a hand through his dark hair, takes another drink of his beer, and looks down at my arm, noticing my tattoo. He rubs a thumb on my forearm over the ink. “What is it?” he asks, his voice quiet. As if I’m supposed to know what he’s asking.

“A moon,” I whisper, the words falling in his lap. And that’s all I can say. Watching him in the dark, neither of us saying a single word, I'm suddenly in that meadow again. Feeling the depth of his voice on my neck, remembering the feel of my own hands in his hair, the angle at which my legs wrapped around his waist, the golden taste of his lips on mine.

When I finally open my mouth to speak, he leans into me, the wood of the lifeguard stand creaking underneath him. Laying a wide, warm hand on my cheek, he lowers his lips down, touching them to mine. "You don't have to say anything," he whispers.

His other hand finds my waist and pulls me closer. His lips are soft and taste sugary like marshmallow. And to my surprise, he kisses me slow with none of the desperate hunger from the night we met. This kiss feels safer, deliberate, and alarmingly ordinary. He seems to want this as much as I do. My heart pounds hard against my rib cage as he slips his fingertips underneath my windblown hair around the back of my neck. The sound of waves crashing around us turns this kiss into something sweet and exotic, and I want to sink into Mason and let him have me in whatever way he wants.

“Ellie!”

The approaching voice scaring me, I suddenly jerk away from Mason and knock the back of my head on a piece of dense wood above me causing me to grunt in pain.

Mason gasps in empathy as his fingers quickly find the spot underneath my hair. “You okay?”

I nod with a laugh. Looking back toward the fire, I see Brooke's slender frame and red hair silhouetted by the dancing flames. And for probably the first time in my life, I can't help but mentally categorize her as a freaking cock-block.

"Shit," I say, but Mason keeps his face close to mine, his nose pressed into my cheek, his hand wrapped in my hair at the base of my neck.

"Do you want to go back?" he asks. I can smell the subtlety of his cologne, and his arms feel powerful and protective around me. I don't want to leave him. And even though he did waste my last cigarette, I don't hate him for it which has to count for something.

"Ellie? Show yourself," Brooke calls again, closer this time. It's too dark for her to see us.

“Yeah,” I say to Brooke, hugging my jacket around me tighter.

Mason kisses me again, gently on the cheek this time before standing. Extending a hand toward me, he helps me up. He must feel me shiver as we walk toward Brooke because he puts an arm around me, pulling me closer to him.

Brooke notices this and gives me a sly smile that she doesn’t attempt to disguise. “What are you two doing?”

“Talking,” I quip, and Mason nods with raised eyebrows.

“Sure,” Brooke says. “Dennis is going to Matt’s Man Den," she air quotes, turning and

walking shoulder-to-shoulder with me. " I'm pretty tired. Are you still wanting to leave?" She glances in Mason's direction and lowers her voice. "Or do you have other plans?"

“Nope, sounds good,” I say with unnecessary volume.

"Great, let me just tell the boy bye," Brooke says and hurries off toward the group of guys, leaving me alone with Mason.

“You taking off?” he asks, eyeing my lips.

I nod. “Yeah, I think so,” I say, tucking a piece of hair behind my ear. “It’s been a long day, and—“

"—I'm sorry, Ellie. About yesterday at the office." He scratches his head and scrunches up his face. "And on the side of the road. My behavior was uncalled for, and I was trying to tell you yes."

“Yes?” I ask cautiously, not sure of where he’s taking this.

“Yes, we’ll run press for you. For the festival.”

My heart suddenly clenches, and I can't help but smile, the weight of the past few days finally lifting from me. "You'll do it?"

“Well,” he says. “We’re a little tight on reporters right now but—“

Shaking my thoughts away, I blurt something out. "I can write it," I challenge. "You wouldn't need to send anyone to cover it. You could just run what I write. I can do a piece on the lineup and a wrap up afterward and—"

“Don’t take this the wrong way, Ellie, but I can’t just run an article written by a random person,” he says, faltering on the word with a sigh.

His word stings. "Some random person?" The thought of the connection we shared over the Boxley Brothers that night now seems like something I'd made up in my post-John, chaotically buzzed mind. Shit. Maybe I was too drunk to realize that he's just another dude who enjoys a good concert once in a while. The thought alone drops a boulder down my stomach, and I scoff at him to make light of the situation. "You make out with me after the concert, and now I'm just some random person?"

“You made it very clear you wanted nothing to do with me when you left without giving me your number.”

"Well," I say, shaking my head in an almost-denial. "You don't know anything about me. I'm not just some random person off the street. I'm a writer."

Mason seems intrigued at my claim. "Oh. You're a writer? Anything I might have read?"

It’s not a lie, I do write. Poetic one-liners for Hop Hing, but still. Technically that is writing. But over my dead body am I telling him I write fortune cookies.

"No. I know this whole festival press thing has turned in to some insane joke between you and I. But you would be doing me a huge favor." I close my eyes and take a deep breath, the salty air filling my lungs, invigorating me. The fear of not following through on my word before the next volunteer meeting in T-43 hours finally sinks into me. "I told the festival director I'd have something in the paper. If I don't, I risk all of our vendors backing out. And worst comes to worst, the bands will bail, too. If they don't think anyone is coming, they won't even show up. No one wants to play to an empty park."

Mason shifts his weight, and I can read the contemplation in his furrowed brow.

"Please, Mason. I will owe you so much for this one favor. Think of how much it'll mean to everyone in town to have something so musically and culturally forward right at our fingertips. Plus, if the story gets picked up, we could even get some Wilmington traffic, and who knows where it could lead from there. Just let me write it. Then maybe next year we could—"

“There she is,” Mason interrupts. “There’s the girl from the concert.” He chews on the corner of his mouth while evaluating me with the same shade of fire in his eyes from the meadow.

"I can have you something by tomorrow," I say, quietly feeling him out. "If it's shit, you can just tell me, and I'll never bother you again."

Cocking his head to the side and pushing his glasses further up his nose, Mason gives me a knowing smile. “Not sure I’d want that.”

My heart pounds, but I stay silent as he considers my offer.

"Can you have me a 1,500-word piece by Monday morning at nine? If it's any good, we'll consider running it for the Wednesday paper."

I can't help but smile like a dumb five-year-old.

Taking me by the shoulders, he squares me up to him and pep-talks me like I'm batter-on-deck at a little league tee-ball game.

"So here's the deal. This is on a trial basis. I'm really going out on a limb for you here. Can you write me up that sample piece?"

"Of course," I grin, feeling like this is the most important piece of homework I've ever received in my life.

"And you’ll have it to me by Monday morning at nine?"

My smile fades as I nod at him, realizing that this may be harder than I imagine. How the hell am I supposed to write something report-like in thirty-six hours? I don't do well with deadlines as it is. Fortunes are one thing, but writing an actual paper? "Yes, I'll have it to you. Nine o'clock. Monday morning. Got it, Coach."

He chuckles at the name.

"By the way." Leaning in for a hug, he presses the side of his hot, scruffy face to my cheek, and I can smell the dark wood of his cologne again lingering at his neck. "You owe me one, Ellie," he whispers into my ear, his hot breath sending chills cascading down my spine. Releasing me, he turns and heads toward the other side of the fire.

My stomach twirls at his confidence. "Wait," I call out to him, pulling my phone from my pocket. "What's your number, Mason? In case I need your help," I reason.

Turning back to me, he smiles. "Good luck with the writing, Ellie." And as if he'd read my little league tee-ball thought a few seconds earlier, he winks. "You'll hit this one out of the park. I believe in you." In an endearing goofiness, he tosses a pretend ball in the air and whacks it with an imaginary bat, sending it soaring over my head.