It's rare for me not to notice what's on the radio. In fact, I'm usually so disappointed with the music being played that I either ride in silence or pop in one of my classic cassette tapes I've been squirreling away since I was in middle school. Tapes are the only thing my ancient 1993 Volvo will play. Brooke tells me I need a new car, that driving one older than I am is dangerous for the environment, my safety, and most importantly, her image.

Today, however, I notice nothing about the music. I have a nagging caffeine hangover for stupidly agreeing to have a sample piece written and turned in to Mason by nine this morning. Since twilight last night, I've chugged three full glasses of sweet tea, a Dr. Pepper, and at least three mugs of black coffee. And don't think I didn't count. I needed all the help I could get to stay up and get this piece written. I didn't anticipate it taking so long, but that's the shitty thing about writing. It seems like right when I need the words to appear, they stay stuck in my mind. Irretrievable. I'd only finished up and been able to fall asleep at 4:12 this morning. So with only four whole hours of anxiety-ridden sleep, I am speeding along Main Street having woken up twenty minutes prior. Popping an Aspirin, I search for a parking space somewhere near The Anchor.

I finally find a spot one street over, and with four whole minutes to spare, I race to the glass doors, throw them open, and am greeted by the cold, unsmiling face of the same receptionist from last week. Freaking Bridget.

"Can I help you?" she asks, eyeing me like she's never seen me before even though she knows good and well she snubbed me on Friday.

"Hey there. I'm supposed to meet with Mason," I manage to say through several long pants. In my hand are the typed press release and a flash drive containing the word document.

Bridget nods at me calmly. "Mr. Matthews is out for the day."

"I'm sorry, but that's impossible. He told me to be here at nine this morning with this press release and—"

“I don’t know what to tell you,” she says with a smug, infuriating smile.

I groan and shove the paper and thumb drive into my canvas bag. "Well, where is he? He said he would be here," I say, starting to lose my cool.

"Ma'am, I'm not at liberty to tell you that," Bridget says, trying to suppress the joy that's plastered across her puffy, powdered face.

My heart sinks, and I feel my stomach start to knot itself with anger. I did not run myself down all night with next-to-no sleep just to be snubbed by Mason. As is, he's not even giving me a chance to submit the damn sample. Sighing, I look at his closed office door and nod.

Be the storm.

"That's fine," I say, my voice eerily sweet. "I'll just wait for him over here." Sauntering toward the chairs at the front of the office, I fully intend to plant my ass here until Mason returns. If it takes all day, Hank will have to understand.

"Oh. Well, you can't do that," Bridget says, the hilarity in her face now replaced with nervous righteousness. "He may be gone all day. I'll have to ask you to step outside."

"Sure." Humiliation setting in, I grit my teeth. Turning on my heel, I walk swiftly toward the glass doors. "Fine by me." I open the door and stand in the frame of it, letting the warm spring air sweep into the lobby of the Gazette. Not having any of it, I devise a mental plan. Taking a deep, satisfying breath, I shout out to a shocked and unassuming group of pedestrians. "EXTRA EXTRA, READ ALL ABOUT IT!" The people look like tourists. And if anything, this will serve as an entertaining narrative they can take home with them. "LOCAL PAPER STIFLES FREE SPEECH AND CREATIVE SPIRIT!"

"Stop that!" Bridget hisses from behind her desk.

But I keep going. At this rate, my sample is going unread, and I don't have a damn thing to lose. "MASON MATTHEWS IS A MAJOR LIAR AND A PRICK! THINK BEFORE YOU READ!"

"Fine, fine! Shut the doggone door!" Bridget says, finally picking herself up from her desk and rushing toward me, her thick heels clicking on the tiled ground. Turning toward her, I notice two patches of pink sitting high on her cheeks, my outburst having taken a toll on her.

“Where is he?”

The woman furrows her brow and crosses her arms over her chest. “I can’t tell you that.”

Fury takes hold of me, and when I start to open the door again, she shouts at me. "No, wait! Good grief, you have issues! Okay!"

“Where is he?” I ask, enunciating each word like it’s my last.

Bridget grunts with frustration and stamps a foot. "You know, for such a little girl you're awfully—"

Shaking my head at her, I put my hand on the glass door as a sort of threat.

“Zephyr Gallery, North Howe Street past Stuart,” she says through clenched teeth.

"Thank you." Floating down the stairs, I walk away with a self-congratulatory smile, but it fades as soon as I reach my car. There's a neon yellow piece of paper tucked under my windshield wiper. It flaps in the morning breeze like a tiny yellow bird. I yank it out as I get in the car and make a mental note to insist that Mason pay for my ticket.

Stuart Street is a seven-minute drive with Monday morning traffic, and I'm already late running late for my shift at the Dream Bean. I text Hank at a red light to tell him I'll be there within twenty minutes. I know he's grateful I'm helping him with the shift, but his patience will wear thin if I take too long.

"Come on!" I shout, leaning against the steering wheel as an old man in a Cadillac takes forever to make a left turn. Jacking the air conditioner to MAX, I need to cool my furious little ass down before I get there. After passing 9th Street, I worry I won’t be able to find the gallery. I've never even heard of it before. And then the thought hits me. Bridgit could've been bullshitting me. Lying about his location just so I'd leave. But as soon as I pass Stuart Street, I see a ritzy shop front with an arch of silver balloons and lime green streamers.

"Oh, God," I mutter as I double park my car beside a Mercedes-Benz Wagon. Off to the side of the archway, I spot Mason with a camera around his neck, snapping photos of a glamorously elegant woman with silvery blonde hair. She's wearing a tight-fitting and short navy dress and is holding a giant pair of scissors. A ribbon-cutting ceremony? Are you freaking kidding me?

Blood still boiling, I grab my neon parking ticket from earlier and get out of the car, slamming my door as loud as I can. It echoes down the street which draws a few stares from onlookers, but I don't care. Sticking the ticket underneath my windshield wiper, I reason that there's no use in being fined twice in one day. That'd be a record. Even for me.

"Hey!" I call as I approach the white-bricked facade of the art gallery. The entire building is nearly made up of all huge windows on the storefront. Mason doesn't hear me, so I repeat myself with more emphasis. "HEY!"

Turning toward me, Mason drops his eyes, his expression a mixture of shock and horror. I wonder what my own face looks like, but I guarantee it's not pleasant.

Marching over to him, I immediately start to feel underdressed. I'm wearing ripped jeans I threw on without even showering this morning and the remnants of last night's mascara. Not to mention, I had no time to run a brush through my wild hair. My black T-shirt is faded and torn on the sleeves, and my decent pair of Chuck Taylors are still full of sand from the beach Saturday night, so I’d slipped on a ratty pair. As I approach Mason who's rubbing elbows with this fancy woman, I become acutely aware of just how out-of-place I am right now.

"What is your problem?" I ask.

Mason opens his mouth, but words seem to fail him because he doesn’t say anything.

“I’m sorry, was I not being clear?” I say, my tone bordering on demeaning. “What’s your problem?”

"Mason, who is this girl?" the silvery blonde woman chirps. I look at her and notice that she's even more impressive close-up, her face smooth as a baby's butt. Precisely the type of woman one would expect to throw a silver archway and champagne type of opening for her art gallery.

“Sorry, Marcy,” Mason answers. “Miss Stone is an acquaintance and—”

"An acquaintance?" I interrupt, nodding my head. Fine. If he wants to play it this way, right as rain by me. "An acquaintance you said you'd meet at nine o'clock." I rip the paper out of my bag and shove it at him. "Do you know how hard I worked on this?"

"Miss, we're in the middle of my opening here. It’s once-in-a-lifetime, and you're causing a scene. Don't you think you can bother Mr. Matthews another time?" She gives Mason a coy smile which causes my internal temperature to spike.

"Are you kidding me?" I can feel the venom dripping from my words, and even as I realize how shitty I'm being, I can't bring myself to stop. "Is this real life right now, Mason?" The disastrous side of me is pleasantly surprised to see his eyes dart between the two of us, not knowing which one of us to appease. And for the short time I've been aware of his existence in the world, this is the first time I've seen him nervous.

"Do you mind giving me just a minute, Marcy?" Mason gives her an apologetic smile as the rich bitch flips her hair behind one shoulder with a graceful sweep.

With a wide, solid grip, Mason grabs my elbow, the same one John had taken so firmly

at the concert last week. Guiding me back toward the street, Mason pulls me, leading me by my arm, his voice strained and hushed as if I'm some villain child of his. "What are you doing here?"

Shaking out of his grip, I throw my arms over my chest. "You freaking flaked on me. Do you know how hard I worked on this?" I wave the stapled sheets of paper in his face to be facetious.

"Look, I can explain—"

"I don't want your explanation," I whisper angrily. "I want your eyes to read my words. To tell me I did a good enough job for you to run this."

"I can't right now, Ellie. Zephyr is covering our advertising budget for the next six months, so this is a pretty important opening."

Nodding, I scoff. It makes sense now. "Right. I forgot it's all about the money with you," I say with a considerable eye roll.

“It is all about money when you’re running a business, yes, Ellie,” Mason snaps causing me to flinch. “Honestly, I didn’t think you would even show this morning.”

"What makes you say that?" I ask, my voice softer, edging toward offended. I look over and see Marcy staring at us with her hands on her hips, impulsively tapping the point of her stilettoed foot against the smooth pavement.

"No offense, Ellie. But you're sort of unpredictable," he says, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

Instinctively, I pat my back pocket feeling for my cigarettes until I remember Mason disposed of my last one. That was right before he kissed me. For the second time. Asshole.

“You don’t know me at all,” I say defiantly.

“Yeah, you’ve reminded me,” Mason quips. “And whose fault is that?”

I stare at him until I find a piece of light in the browns of his eyes. My anger starts to dissolve as I try to decipher his weighty expression— creased brow, clenched jaw, his cheeks red with morning sun. He looks almost accusatory, which is ridiculous given that he was the one who stood me up.

"Can you just read it really quick?" I ask, holding the paper out to him again, this time more gentle.

He looks back toward Marcy who raises her perfect eyebrows and holds her hands out in a questioning gesture. "I'm in the middle of a—"

"Please?" I whisper hard, pulling away from him, my heart heavy with embarrassment for even showing up here. "You said you'd do this."

Mason stares at me in disbelief. “Seems like that was a mistake.” Snatching the papers from my hand, he begins to skim the piece as I stand on the sidewalk in front of him in anticipatory silence.

When I sat down to write last night, something felt different. Both the passion I'd felt from the music and the soul-permeating connection with Mason at the Boxley Brother show the other night had fueled the entire piece. I wrote the words wanting to bring that same fire and spirit to Stars Over Southport. This press release, though not perfect, will at least get people excited about the festival.

"Sorry," he says, not even finishing it. With a sigh, he holds the papers back out to me. "I can't publish this."

"What?" I say, my heart cracking open. I mean, I know I'm not the most exceptional writer, but not once had it crossed my mind that my words wouldn't be good enough for him.

“I can’t publish this,” he repeats, still holding the papers out to me but I don’t take them.

"What do you mean? There's nothing bad about it. It's emotional and informational and interest—."

"Exactly. Emotional is an accurate word for it. Way too emotion for The Anchor. Our readers would hate it."

"No," I say aloud, not really speaking to him. Shaking my head, I feel my stomach clench in upset. I could get sick here on the sidewalk. "No, your readers are bullshit," I say talking more to myself.

He grimaces with a chuckle. "You're not wrong. But take this line," Mason says, clearing his throat. "The bands featured play an eclectic range of soul-numbing pieces that engage every piece of the listener's humanity into a single set. It's not just a festival, but an experience and an opportunity to see yourself in others around you, to engage with your surroundings, and to find answers for questions you didn't realize were being asked."

The words he reads sound foreign to me. I blink at him.

“It’s too much,” he says, driving the point home.

I wonder whether or not Mason understands my inspiration for the segment, or if I even understood it while I was typing it. Despite everything, despite how much disdain I have for him in this moment, I know he gets it. Because that's what I felt as he sat there beside me in front of the Boxley Brothers.

"Fine." Grabbing the papers from his hand, I turn away heading for my double-parked car. As tears begin to rise in me, I sharply inhale to suppress the emotion. But as I grab the parking ticket from under my windshield wiper, I feel a steady hand on my shoulder.

“Don’t be upset,” Mason says, his face pulling down into a frown.

"I'm not," I lie, but the wavering tone of my voice is a sad, honest betrayal.

“You’re a good writer.”

Scoffing out of embarrassment, I shake my head. I had one freaking chance to land press for the festival, and I've blown it. Still trying to blink away my tears, I shrug. "I just thought you, of all people, would get it."

"I do," he says, reaching up to wipe an escaped tear from my cheek. "I promise, I get it."

"Well," I say, pulling away from him with a forced smile. "Sorry for ruining your fancy event with my emotional writing," I whisper, lilting over the words. Opening my car door, I turn to him for one last glimpse before I promise myself never to get involved with Mason Matthews again. "I won't bother you anymore."

When I climb into my car and lean over to pull the door shut, Mason steps toward me, blocking my car door from moving with his hip.

“I’ll write it,” he says quietly.

"What?" I feel my phone vibrate and realize it's nearly 9:30. Hank will fire me if I don't leave now.

"I'll do it. I can't publish what you wrote. But I'll do a release for you. I'll take care of it."

Looking up at him, I stare in blank confusion. "Why would you do that?"

“Because I’m sick of covering shit like this.” He jerks his head toward Marcy and her fancy balloon arch.

Still in disbelief, I lift my eyebrows. "If you could've done it, why ask me to write it at all?"

Mason runs a hand through his hair. "I don't know," he says. "I guess because it gave me a legit reason to see you again."

I continue to stare at him. I'm filled with the rage of him making me jump through hoops just because he wanted to see me again and the softness of how endearing that is.

"You still owe me a favor," Mason says pointing at me, his charming, self-assured smile returning. "Maybe two now."

I take a deep breath, regaining my composure, and press my hot cheek to my steering wheel. "What kind of favor?" I ask relieved, suspicious.

“Let me take you to dinner,” he says with all the sincerity in the world.

But after a stunt like this, is he serious? I search his eyes for some sign of banter, but his eyes are intense and warm, unnaturally wide today. "You're joking, right?"

"I'm not," he answers, straight-faced and pointed. "What do you say?"

"I say you've got to be kidding me," I stammer. "I'm forever grateful for the release and everything, but I'm not looking for anything like that. I mean, you and I. We're just friends and—"

Mason's laugh echoes down the sleepy street. "You kiss all your friends like that?" he asks.

"Uh, you kissed me if I remember correctly," I sneer, trying not to get too defensive. "And what if I do? That doesn't change things."

“You don’t.”

I blow a puff of air out and cross my arms over my chest. "You don't know me at all," I tell him for a second time this morning.

"And whose fault is that?" Mason smiles, his dimples becoming apparent. He glances back over his shoulder to where Marcy is standing, chatting with another woman and sipping champagne with a raised pinky.

"I need to get going. The fancy folk are waiting."

"So do I," I say, trying to pull the car door shut again. But Mason doesn't move.

"Press passes. You got any?" he asks.

"Yes. They're not ready yet, but I'll send some once everything's finalized. Only since you're serious about covering it."

"Good."

I don't know what he's lingering for, but it annoys me that he won't just spit out whatever it is he's trying to say.

Turning the key in the ignition, I start the car to give him the hint that I need to scoot or else risk Hank firing me for good.

"Wait a second, Ellie." He scrubs a hand over his jaw and lifts an eyebrow. Squatting down, he's suddenly eye level with me. "I think I'm going to need to call in that favor soon."