The gleaming acrylic keys were mocking me, glistening tantalizingly in the sunlight. Sighing heavily, I gazed around the room for inspiration. The thick wine-red rug, which cushioned the feet of my darling baby grand piano, swirled out to the dark hardwood planks, which swept to the towering cream walls dotted here and there with gold accents. It was a beautiful room, but it wasn’t what I needed.

“Anguish,” I said as I stood to pace the room. “Or elation? Revenge or mercy?”

It was pointless. I had nothing to pull from that I hadn’t pulled from before, no heartache which hadn’t been fully documented and expressed in my music, no crises of faith, no…nothing. I felt empty. Writer’s block was going to kill my chances at a Grammy.

“If there was ever a chance at all,” I murmured, gazing out over the open field outside the window.

Maybe I just didn’t have it. Maybe it was all a fluke. The albums, my sudden popularity; nothing more than beginner’s luck. Whatever I used to have was gone, that spark of originality. The piano no longer spoke to me, and my world had homogenized into a moneyed fantasy.

“I need something real,” I said, clenching my fists. “I need something gritty and difficult and painful, or wonderful and glorious.”

My phone chimed, and I glanced at it.

“Ugh. Not that difficult.”

I scowled at the notification. Another friend request from Bart Matthews, on a new profile.

I blocked him, just like I had blocked every one of his profiles. The guy was a creep. A persistent creep, which was a hundred times worse. I knew that he would be at my next performance, and the one after that, and the one after that, always at the front of the autograph line. I would have him removed. He would scream at me and try to grope me.

Even he had become monotonous and predictable. Besides, a song about an obsessed fan would just sound like a humble-brag, and would go over about as well as that one rap song. Which one was it?

“Utterly unmemorable,” I sighed. “My one struggle in life doesn’t even begin to scratch the surface of the human experience. I’m too old to pull from high-school stuff, and I used all of that anyway. That’s it, then. This is it. The end of my music career, killed by my own success.”

No, I decided. Killed by my utter acceptance of that success. Killed by my willingness to envelop myself in that success, to isolate myself from the world. I hadn’t intended to do that, but it had been so comfortable to rise above it all. A layer of money and fame between me and the daily grind of existence, between me and every man who thought they were entitled to my touch just because they wanted it.

“For the most part,” I said with a frown as another friend request came through. Barty Mattheson. “What a fantastic disguise. I am utterly bamboozled. You got me.”

Sarcasm was a defense against boredom more than a defense against him. I blocked him again. I could do this all day; it didn’t bother me any. Nothing bothered me anymore, except for the endless desert of un-bothered-ness which permeated every second of my existence.

Impulsively, I set the phone down and kicked off my shoes. It was a warm day, with emerald and jade grasses stretching out beneath the robin’s egg sky. I was here to experience Tennessee, right? Tennessee wasn’t inside this palatial house, it was out there.

I pushed through the French doors, crossed the wide Italian tiles through the Grecian pillars, ducked around the Roman fountain and slid my toes into the American earth.

Home vibrated through me, holding onto me with the desperation of a mother embracing her wayward child. I breathed it in; the scents of my childhood, the scents of home. There was a song like that, wasn’t there? An old, desperately sad song.

My feet started moving, propelling me through the grass. Let’s play airplane, Paisley! My sister’s voice from long ago echoed in my head. When was the last time I talked to her?

I lifted my arms. They were my wings, and my toes were the engine. Somewhere deep in my memory, I remembered the sound we used to make, that sputtering roar. It sounded louder when we were children, when we were still capable of imagining. Bittersweet nostalgia stirred my heart, choking me. When had I let that go? That childish wonder, that curiosity, that unshakable belief that if I just ran fast enough I could fly?

I squeezed my eyes shut and ran as fast as I could.

“I can fly,” I whispered. “I can fly.”

For a moment, I felt my feet lift off the ground, felt the wind beneath my arms, whipping through my hair. I was soaring over the rolling fields, over glittering Memphis, on and on through the sky. A sharp pebble caught me between my toes and I came down, hard.

“Mayday, mayday!” I shouted as I fell.

The sky spun above my dizzy head, puffy white clouds dancing for me. I laughed until I was breathless, lightheaded and electrified by the connection to the girl I used to be. This was it. This was the feeling I needed. That desperate nostalgia, the overwhelming relief. As I lay there, I suddenly knew exactly how to get it. Chords played in my head as I raced back into the house, sliding across the polished floor, making a beeline for my piano.

Eyes closed, I pressed the keys.

“Too low,” I muttered. I moved my hands and tried again. “Too high.”

I could hear it, I just couldn’t seem to match it. I played around with the chord in different keys and octaves until finally the piano reflected my mind.

“There you are, darling,” I sighed happily.

I played it again, and words began to form. Images, smells, memories floating through the music, swirling in my head, transforming into words. I had just opened my mouth to sing when my phone rang. Only a few people had that number, all of them important enough to halt even the most productive session.

I frowned at the number flashing on the screen. Local, unknown. Telemarketer?

“Hello?”

“Hello, Ms. Abbott. Thank you for taking my call. How are you this morning?”

“Um… I’m fine. I’m sorry, who are you?”

“My name is Tyler, Tyler Macintyre. I was given your number by a concerned party who was anxious to point out to me that you currently have no personal security. Is that right?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Someone in your position, living alone so close to a big city, is at a significant risk, Ms. Abbott. Hasn’t your manager warned you about the kinds of people who obsess over celebrities?”

“Oh,” I said, annoyed. “Jude put you up to this, didn’t he?”

“Well…” He trailed off ambiguously, telling me everything I needed to know.

“Tell Jude that I’m a big girl and I can take care of myself,” I said, wincing at the harshness in my own tone. “It’s not that I don’t appreciate his concern, or yours. But I’m fine. The house is alarmed, and I keep myself safe. Okay?”

“I understand entirely,” the man said soothingly. “Personal security can feel like a burden for a while, until you get used to it. I completely understand the need for space, especially when you’re trying to overcome a case of artist’s block.”

I whipped my head around, peering through the windows.

“Are you watching me or something?” I hissed.

He chuckled warmly. “Not at all. I saw your interview last night. It’s my job to be perceptive, Ms. Abbott.”

My face flushed. If he could tell, how many other people knew?

“Then maybe you should work in law enforcement,” I said icily. “Good day, Mr. Macintyre.”

I hung up, my hands trembling slightly. Upset by the call and furious at Jude for giving out my personal number—because how else had this Tyler guy gotten his hands on it?—I switched the phone to silent and tossed it aside. No more interruptions today.

Back at the piano, I threw myself into my work, building an entire story up from a few little chords, but a persistent worry interrupted my flow, snaking through the recesses of my mind. What if Jude and Tyler were right? Bart Matthews hadn’t exactly gotten less aggressive over time. My repeated dismissals only seemed to make him more determined. He was only one, but what if there were more like him? My hands stilled on the piano as the thought intensified.

“How long can I really last without security?” I wondered out loud. “The bigger my music gets, the more Barts there are going to be.”

I never thought I would have to worry about stuff like that. I’d always assumed that I would be one of those singers who put out an album or two and never really got anywhere. Somehow, I had hit the music scene at just the right time. My first album had given new life to ’90s sounds while the content was full of references to current events and opinions; it had blown up before I had even caught my breath.

My second album rode on the success of the first, and now I was at a plateau. If the third fell flat, I wouldn’t have to worry about it. But if I managed to make some magic and hit that sweet spot again, my brand would take off.

“So you have options,” I told myself reasonably. “You can bomb this album and fade into obscurity, and never have to worry about getting a personal security guard.”

I looked around me at all of the things I wouldn’t want to give up. Space, freedom, options. All of those intangible things which come hand-in-hand with a healthy bank account. If I was honest with myself, which I tried to be, I would miss the fame too. The rush of being on stage, of seeing my name trending online, of having millions of people dying to get my attention and to give me theirs.

The adoration was addicting. Too addicting. It was a barrier between myself and reality, one barrier of many.

“But I’m not helpless,” I told the empty room defiantly. “I don’t need a security guard right now.”

To prove it to myself, I laced up my running shoes and jogged out of the safety of my temporary sanctuary. Wide open dirt roads under generous skies, the beat of my steps building a rhythm for the distant cries of kill-deer, kill-deer. Hawks circled in the distance, dancing over the trees along the riverbank, swooping out of sight now and again to dive for prey.

The water soothed my soul. This river was home, in a way. The water came from Big Creek; the creek which ran past the home I grew up in. This river was wider, and windier, but the water was the same.

I breathed in the fresh humid scent and let the stress of the last few days roll off of me in great jolting waves. I could feel the cobwebs blow out of my brain in the breeze. Yes, I thought. This is exactly what I needed.

Prickles trickled down my spine, jolting me out of my reverie. Eyes on me?

I turned as I ran, pirouetting on the trail. It was empty in both directions, but the feeling remained. Rolling my shoulders and blowing out a breath, I turned around and shoved my earbuds into place. The guy on the phone had me paranoid, that’s all. I was going to have a stern talk with Jude the next time I saw him. Scaring me half to death wasn’t cool, regardless of his intentions.

The feeling followed me all the way home.