It doesn’t take long for the sheriff to arrive, especially considering the size of Orcas Island and just how far out of town we are, but when I factor in how little they probably have on their plate out here, it all starts to make sense.

I’m watching from the windows of my cabin, peering up over the sill as I stare down the hill towards Grant’s place.

Mr. Sheriff pulls right up next to the bright yellow sports car, climbing out of his ride and then taking in this exotic vehicle as though it’s some strange craft from another planet. Eventually, he makes his way over to Grant’s cabin door, but thanks to the crashing drums that have been emanating non-stop from within since I left, the sheriff ends up having the exact same problem that I did. Nobody can hear him knocking.

Eventually, the man ends up taking a stroll around the house, finally catching someone’s attention through a nearby window. He returns back to the front door, which opens to reveal Grant once more in all of his shirtless, tatted up glory.

“Why does he have to be such an asshole,” I find myself mumbling aloud.

I watch as the two men talk, their faces slowly going from stern to good-natured.

“No, no, no!” I stammer to myself, watching as the guys begin to joke with one another, laughing together at some mysterious punch line.

Suddenly, Grant points up towards my window, offering a wave and abruptly causing me to duck out of sight.

When I finally muster up the courage to peek back over the sill, both of the men are gone, but the sheriff’s patrol car is still parked out front. Second’s later, there’s a loud, authoritative knock at my door.

I walk over, opening it up to find the sheriff standing before me. He’s got a wide brimmed hat and silver hair that pushes out from under it every so slightly, as well as a large, brilliant white moustache. The guy looks like everything a big city girl like me would imagine in a lawman from these parts.

“Riley Green?” he questions.

I nod. “That’s me. I’m the one who called.”

“I’m Sheriff Thomson. Grant’s gonna quiet down over there now,” the man assures me. “I told him to take a break for the day, but most days he’s aloud to make noise from noon until sundown. Maybe not so damn loud, though. If he pumps the volume up like that again, you just give me a call, alright?”

I smile, thankful for this resolution that appears to be the basic comprise I’d asked for in the first place.

“Thank you, Sheriff,” I offer with a smile.

“Have a good rest of your day, ma’am,” he tells me, tilting his hat before turning around and heading back down towards his car.

Now that things have settled a bit, I immediately turn my attention back to the task at hand, the entire reason that I took this cross-country trip in the first place. I collapse into the big comfy sofa and set my laptop on my knees, opening up a new document and staring down at the beautiful white page before me. There’s something absolutely majestic about its perfectly blank surface, an endless field of empty pixels just waiting for me to dance my clever words across it.

Of course, there’s also something quite intimidating about this. What if I start writing and end up hating every sentence that comes out? What if this entire trip has been for nothing, and I’m just as uninspired as I was back home?

When I first arrived here at the cabin, there was the spark of something powerful dancing around within me, I was excited to write and express myself, thrilled just to be sitting here with my word processor and a cup of tea.

Now, the anxiety is sneaking back.

I recognize almost immediately that nothing is gonna get done with this kind of mind frame. My interactions with Grant, Jessica and Amber have been less than pleasant, and that feeling has started to erode away at whatever inspiration I’d been building up over the course of today’s travel.

On top of that, I haven’t even had lunch yet.

I glance at the nearby wall clock, a hanging wooden piece that looks as though it was salvaged from the cabin of some ancient pirate ship. It’s already two in the afternoon, well past my typical noon meal and probably adding to the subtle discomfort that’s been making its way through every aspect of my thoughts.

I consider cracking open some of the food that I’d brought to the island, but instead quickly realize that if I’m actually gonna reboot my brain, I need to leave the house for a while. A nice late lunch back in town might be exactly what I need to cool off.

Without hesitation, I grab my coat and head for the door, hopeful that this little trip will turn things around for me.

 

Arriving back in town, I find myself with few food options to choose from, which is actually kind of nice. In Brooklyn, there’s a different kind of cuisine on every corner, with so much variety that it can often be overwhelming. Sometimes, the most frustrating part about eating out is deciding where to go while you stand around getting hungrier and hungry.

I stare up at the two signs before me. To my left is Captain’s Cove, and to my right is the Honeysuckle Café; the only two places serving food over the off-season, apparently.

Excited to try out some of the local seafood, I make my way towards Captain’s Cove, heading down a small alley between two buildings and eventually finding myself at a tan, nondescript doorway. I push through.

Almost immediately, my senses are overwhelmed by warmth and flavor, the scent of sizzling fish wafting over me in the most glorious of ways.

Back home, a place like this would find grease floating through the air, creating a sickening film across your skin that only got thicker the longer you hung around for. Instead, I’m treated to a pleasant freshness, with bountiful spices mulled into a delicious seafood aroma.

“Have a seat anywhere,” an older woman calls over.

The view from this restaurant is incredible, with floor to ceiling windows that stretch from one end of the room to the other and put the cove before us on glorious display. I take a seat in the corner so that I can see everything, my eyes lingering on the coastline as it snakes off in the distance.

“You’re new around here,” the waitress offers, dropping off a menu and bringing me a tall glass of water.

“Just arrived this morning,” I inform her.

“Oh yeah? Where from?” the woman continues, making pleasant conversation.

I can tell from her demeanor that my waitress is genuinely interested in what I have to say, something that I’m not at all used to.

“New York,” I offer. “Brooklyn.”

The waitress nods. “Ah. There’s been a lot of you big city folks stopping by lately. We’ve got a new regular from London.”

My breath catches in my throat. I consider whether or not I should say anything or hold my tongue, not wanting to bring any negativity into this sweet woman’s perfectly joyful existence.

Unfortunately, I just can’t help myself.

“We’ve met,” I finally say, practically spitting the words out. “He’s a dick.”

The waitress chuckles and nods. “Sounds about right. Not a lot of folks around here care for the guy.”

“And you?” I continue.

The woman considers my question for a moment, apparently weighing several different responses in her head. “He’s pretty rough around the edges,” she finally offers, “and I certainly don’t like the ladies he brings around.”

Suddenly, the waitress stops herself.

“I mean, not all of them,” she clarifies gently.

I shake my head. “I’m not one of his… girlfriends. Don’t worry.”

“Well, alright,” the waitress confirms with a nod. “Either way, he’s actually I very sweet man when you get to know him. Tips very well.”
“I find that hard to believe,” I blurt, losing control of my internal filter completely. “That asshole doesn’t have a giving bone in his body.”

The waitress smiles but says nothing in return. It takes a moment, but eventually her expression begins to crack, faltering under the pressure of some great internal weight. It suddenly looks as though she’s about to cry.

“He gives quite a bit, actually,” the woman informs me, trying to keep it together. “He always tipped well, but when he found out my daughter was sick…” the woman trails off, then finally collects herself. “He tips very well.”

“I’m sorry,” I stammer, completely taken off guard by this unexpected show of emotion. The story itself is surprising, too. It’s hard to believe that we’re actually talking about the same person.

Immediately, the woman switches back into her happy and helpful waitress mode, wiping away a tear and then waving off my concerns. “It’s fine, it’s fine,” she assures me. “What can I get you to eat?”

“How about the salmon?” I suggest.

“Good choice,” the woman replies, taking my menu back and then heading off towards the kitchen to put in my order.

I stare out the window again, trying to picture the self-righteous asshole I’d encountered earlier actually going out of his way for someone else. As a writer, I’m well aware that none of us are actually the one-dimension cutouts we sometimes appear to be at first glance, but it’s still hard come to terms with the divide between Grant’s deeply flawed character traits and his apparent incredible generosity.

Of course, whatever amount of money he’s given to the waitress is probably just pocket change to him, I remind myself. Bad Blue Medicine had some massive hits, still getting spins on the radio and popping up in commercials to this day.

Eventually, my meal arrives and I spend the next hour or so taking bites while staring out at the incredible scenery before me. I’m in no rush, intentionally hoping to slow my life down to a crawl. I want to savor this, allowing my body a chance to fully process the events of the day.

The whole time I consume my lunch, not a single other patron comes in the visit the restaurant.

When I finally finish, I stand and thank my waitress for my incredible meal. I tip her generously, not quite as much as Grant, I’m sure, but enough for her to know that I care.

Heading out to the car, I’m simmering with excitement once more, ready to head home and hit the keyboard running. Unfortunately, this feeling doesn’t last long.

The second I see my car, a startled gasp erupts from my lips. I can’t believe what I’m looking at, shocked that someone would actually take things this far.

The vehicle is sitting noticeably lower to the ground, all four of its tires completely slashed open and deflated into puddles of grey rubber.

“What the fuck,” I stammer, my knees nearly giving out below me. I grab onto the nearby wall to steady myself, struggling to catch my breath.

After taking a moment to calm down, I slowly walk around the entire perimeter of my vehicle to observe the damage.

The tires are unrepairable, completely shredded in some spots and well beyond any kind of patch. I have a single spare in the trunk, but that’s not going to do me any good. Thankfully, I paid for insurance on the rental, but who knows how long a fix is going to take.

Even more importantly, is there a working auto mechanic on the island?

Not knowing where else to turn, I head back into the restaurant, immediately greeted by my waitress once more.

“Did you forget something?” the woman questions.

I shake my head, trying to remain as calm as possible. “Is there are place that can repair tires around here?” I ask. “Four of them.”
“All four tires?” the woman repeats back in confused alarm. “What did you run over?”

I shake my head. “Nothing, I can think of something that I should’ve run over, though.”

“There’s one auto shop on the island,” the waitress explains. “Derek runs it, but he’s on the mainland today. Won’t be back until tomorrow morning.”

I let out a long sigh. “Any taxis around here?”

The woman shakes her head. “I’m sorry.”

Not being one to just let life run me over without putting up a fight, I immediately spring into action. “Now I’m guessing that if I call this auto shop it’s gonna take me straight to voicemail, correct?” I question.

The waitress nods. “Nobody’s there.”

“Can you call Derek’s personal number and have him repair my tires first thing in the morning?” I ask. “I’ve got insurance, he can charge whatever he wants.”

The woman nods, then strolls over to the nearby hostess counter and grabs a pen and a paper. “Just write down your address and I’ll have him drive it over to you after he’s finished.”

I do ask I’m told, jotting down my information before handing the paper back and then thanking the waitress for her help. Once finished, I turn around and start heading back towards the door of the restaurant.

“Where are you headed now?” the woman calls out from behind me.

“I’m walking home,” I inform her.

The second that I begin my trek my mind goes into lockdown, completely blocking out just how cold it is and how many miles I’ll have to go. I don’t think about the fact that by the time I get home the sun will be setting and I’ll probably have to head right to bed in severe exhaustion. I also don’t think about the fact that I’m going to get very, very thirsty and have no idea if there’s any place to stop for drinkable water along the way.

Instead, I give myself permission to start imagining things, to let the seeds of a story start to bloom within my mind. I’m here to break out of my monotonous routine, and this certainly fits the bill.

For the first time in quite a while, I can actually feel the characters bubbling up within me. This morning I was feeling inspired to write, but the writing itself lacked focus. Now, however, I’m getting a sense of who I want my protagonist to be, what her motivations are and how she travels through the world around her.

It feels incredible.

A few cars pass me by as I’m walking down the road, and I make halfhearted attempts to hitchhike that go entirely ignored.

About two hours into my walk, however, one of the cars slows down.

“Where you headed?” calls the familiar voice of Jessica from her yellow sports car. “You shouldn’t be out here walking in those fancy, expensive shoes.”

“Yeah, they’re too cute,” Amber yells, piling it on.

I stop dead in my tracks, nearly boiling over in anger. I have no evidence that either of these girls, nor Grant himself, had anything to do with my tire slashing, but there aren’t many other people on the island, and certainly none that I’ve got a conflict with.

I turn towards the car and open my mouth, ready to launch into a scathing diatribe, but before the words have a chance to tumble out, Jessica hits the gas hard. The next thing I know, the girls are rocketing off down the road, their roaring engine drowning out the sound of my shouts as they disappear around the corner and off into the distance.

Soon enough, the only thing left of them is the thunderous sound of their motor echoing fainting through the trees, getting quieter and quieter with every passing second. Eventually, it fades completely, leaving me with nothing more than my own thoughts and the soft sound of the breeze through the trees above.

During the rest of my walk, any creative clarity has been completely dismantled. Instead, all that I can focus on now is my seething frustration.              

The trek is so long that, by the time I arrive back at my cabin, I’ve calmed down enough to decline marching right up to that stupid yellow car and busting out every window. I’m tempted though; very, very tempted.

Instead, I head to my front door and start digging through my coat pocket in search of the key, but stop when I hear something faintly drifting up from the beach. It’s music; soft, pleasant music.

If I’m to be perfectly honest, a little acoustic guitar during a sunset as beautiful as this one would usually be cause for celebration, but at this point I’m just too frazzled to handle it.

The sheriff said no more music today, and the first thing I hear when arriving back home for the night is even more music.

This is just too much to handle.

I allow myself to go full New Yorker.

The next thing I know, I’m marching down the grassy hill towards the water below, a powerful confidence in my step that seems almost superhuman. It’s as though I’m hovering above myself, watching the scene unfold from somewhere outside my own body. I’ve completely given up the reins that once held me back, dismissing any sense of mercy for these forces that continue to assault my senses.

I reach the bottom of the hill, finding a quaint set of cement stairs the leads down to the beach and directly connects to the dock. Beyond, this wooden structure stretches out into the deep blue water, an incredible sight as the sun begins its decent below the horizon line. In any other situation, I’d stop to take it all in, but at this point I’ve got other things on my mind; mainly, the silhouetted man sitting peacefully at the end of the dock while he strums his guitar, gazing off into the sunset.

Grant’s attention is so consumed by the incredible wash of oranges and purples painting the sky before him, that he doesn’t even seem to notice me approaching from the rear.

He does notice, however, when I silently grab the guitar from from his hands, and with one powerful toss, throw it as far as I can out into the water. The instrument lands with a splash, floating for a moment and then slowly filling with water until it begins its gradual decent towards the ocean floor.

Grant stands up without a word and turns to face me, still completely shirtless despite the cold chill in the air. We stare at one another in silence for a good while, taking each other in.

“That was a really expensive guitar,” Grant finally says, flatly.

“I’m sure you can afford a new one,” I remind him.

The frustratingly attractive man thinks about this for a moment. “You’re right,” he finally tells me, then strolls past on the narrow dock, nearly knocking me out of the way.

“Hey! Where are you going?” I question.

Grant doesn’t answer, but turns when he arrives at his massive boat and then climbs aboard. I follow closely behind, losing track of the musician for a moment until he suddenly emerges from the cabin with yet another beautifully crafted acoustic guitar.

The muscular man walks over and takes a seat in one of the many white leather couches that line the back of the boat, quickly picking up right where he left off. He begins to strum softly, turning to gaze out across the ocean at the fading sun.

“You promised there would be no more music today,” I remind him.

“No more loud music,” Grant clarifies.

“That’s not what I heard,” I counter.

Grant shrugs. “That’s what I told Sheriff Thomson,” he informs me. “You can call him if you’d like.”

I stand in silence, suddenly feeling utterly defeated. Grant’s song continues to dance across the water, echoing back towards us from every direction around the cove. To be honest, it’s a beautiful piece of music, and now that my anger has subsided a bit I can finally admit this to myself.

“You like it?” Grant asks, apparently picking up on something.

I nod.

Grant smiles and then stands up, strolling over to the boat’s steering wheel and control panel. I can’t help watching the man’s powerful muscles pulse as he moves, a perfectly sculpted piece of masculine biology.

Grant reaches the controls and casually presses a button. “Better record it then,” he tells me.

The musician strolls back over and takes his seat once more, starting in with his acoustic strums from the very beginning of the arrangement.

“What was that all about?” I finally ask, my curiosity getting the best of me.

“What was what?” Grant questions, stopping for a moment.

“You just pressed that button,” I remind him.

Grant laughs. “Oh yeah. That’s to start recording. I rigged up the back of the boat with microphones, that way if I’m out on the water when I get inspired, I can just press a button and jot the idea down. There’s no phone service on the water, so it all gets sent back up to the cabin through satellites.”

“Why not just use a handheld recorder like normal people?” I question. “Or just record it on your phone and then send it to yourself when you get back?”

Grant considers this and then shrugs. “Don’t know. My way just seemed cooler,” he offers through a thick British drawl. “It’s got Bluetooth, too. Can I see your phone?”

I shake my head.

“Okay, just pull it out and connect then,” he continues.

Reluctantly, I take my phone out of my pocket, immediately noticing the signal network emanating from Grant’s yacht.

“Password is medicine,” he says. “Play something.”

I connect with no problem and then press play on the first song in my library I can think of, a soft indie folk track that aligns with the beautiful sunset above us.

Suddenly, earsplitting sound erupts from the boat, so loud that it nearly knocks me over backwards. I immediately fumble with my phone, struggling to turn it off as the heavy vibration of bass reverberates through my body.

Finally, I press the stop button, plunging us back into peaceful silence as the overwhelming wave of sound continues to echo out across the water, eventually disappearing in the distance.

“Nice, right?” Grant questions.

“It’s a little loud,” I inform him.

The rock and roller shrugs.

My eyes wander across the gorgeous yacht. “Just how rich are you?” I finally ask.

“Pretty rich,” Grant informs me.

I take a deep breath. “You know, not all of us are wealthy enough to just buy a full set of new tires. You’re lucky that was a rental and I’ve got insurance.”
Grant narrows his eyes. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Ask Jessica,” I retort.

Suddenly, the hulking man’s demeanor changes completely, consumed by a genuine concern. The shift is so drastic that I’d almost hard to believe, but it’s also too blatant to ignore. “Are you alright? What happened?”

“Jessica and Amber slashed every tire on my car. I had to walk back from town,” I inform him.

Grant furrows his brow. “Are you sure it was them?”

I take a deep breath, frustrated by the question that I knew would eventually come. “No,” I finally admit.

“Well, I’m sorry someone did that to you,” Grant continues. “I really am. I can talk to them anyway, just to see what I can find out. If they actually did that, then I’ll send them packing.”

The guy is just too damn charming to hate, and in this moment I completely feel myself losing grip on my anger. The emotion is slipping away from me, no matter how desperately I struggle to maintain my connection to it.

“It’s okay,” I finally say. “I mean, it’s not okay, but… I’ll live. I’m sorry I threw your guitar in the water, but at least you’ve got another one.”

“This one’s not worth fifteen thousand dollars,” Grant replies with a chuckle, “but at least it works.”

My heart skips a beat when I hear this, struggling to determine whether or not the rock and roller is just messing with me. “Are you serious?” I finally ask.

Grant nods. “Yeah that one was from the sixties. It’s a collectors item.”

“Oh my god,” I blurt. “I’m so, so sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it,” the man offers, legitimately not upset.

“I wish I could repay you,” I stammer. “I just… I don’t have that kind of money.”
“You could let me take you out on a date,” Grant retorts.

I’m completely taken off guard by this comment, and although my first instinct is to be excited by the prospect of a night out with this breathtakingly handsome British musician, I’m also well aware of his type. Grant may have his moments of sweetness, but he was a complete prick to me earlier in the day and I’m not quite ready to let go of that yet. This guy is bad news any way you slice it, and I’ve got a book to write.

“No thanks,” I tell him, then turn around without another word and start heading back up to the house.

Behind me, I can hear Grant’s haunting acoustic guitar song begin yet again, a beautiful piece of music that is somehow clawing its way out from the soul of this rugged and damaged man.