I don't hear from Mason for several days. Come to think of it, I've been ignoring all signs of communication on my phone except from Brooke. She's hard at work on her SCAD portfolio, texting me every few hours with pictures of her progress and asking if specific colors look right in her sketches. I offer my limited opinion, but really, I don't know any better. John seems to have fallen off the earth altogether because I receive no more phone calls from him, thank God. In fact, I welcome his silence. And everyone else in my life can wait to hear back from me until I find a new band to join Stars Over Southport. Since Charlie dropped the news on me Tuesday night, I've fielded calls from Call Me June and Questionable Jargon, both groups saying they might pull out too if another, more impressive act doesn't jump on board. Needless to say, my Friday morning is incredibly stressful without the added anxiety of opening the Dream Bean on my own.

"Excuse me, Miss. I ordered a double non-fat, half-caf, low foam. This is decaf, high foam, and I'm pretty sure I taste a touch of cinnamon."

Recognizing the man as the Philosophy professor at the local community college down the street, I stupidly blink at him as he peers at me over round, horn-rimmed glasses. I try very hard not to picture him lecturing his class on Friedrich Nietzsche's nihilism while sipping his non-fat, half-caf, low foam double latte from his mighty podium at the front of the lecture hall because life is meaningless. Ironically, not so meaningless that he can't just suffer the messed-up latte.

"My apologies, sir. I'll bring it right over," I say, taking his latte from him. Observing the drink, I notice it was low foam enough for him to have already drunk half of it.

Dumping it down the drain, I start the second latte and glance over toward the overstuffed corkboard where the bright lime green Southport Music Festival flyer is hanging. Has anyone even noticed it? Would they recognize the bands or vendors enough to come? I push the thought from my head. The anxiety over the latest stress of the festival has driven away my sleep and hunger. Not only that, but it's exacerbated my cigarette craving. Mason would hate me if he knew, but I've been trying to cut back for him. Scratch that. For myself. Because of him. That makes me sound less desperate.

As I'm delicately swirling the foam to add our signature heart on top of the latte, the phone on the back wall begins to ring. After delivering the correct latte to Nietzsche, I answer the phone and wedge it under my ear against my shoulder as I rinse the coffee cup out and place it in the dishwasher.

"Dream Bean, this is Ellie."

"Hey, why aren't you answering your phone?"

The voice is one I recognize, but with a foggy brain so early this morning, I can't quite pinpoint it. "I'm sorry?" I ask, pulling the phone away from my ear and glancing at the number on the caller I.D. Terror sets in, and I pray it isn't a Wilmington area code.

"What time are you done with work?"

"Mason?" I ask, still not entirely placing the voice.

"Yeah, it's me. You haven't answered your phone all week." His voice sinks into a playful growl. "If you're trying to get out of the trip, you're going to have to work a little harder. You're still coming, right?"

I look across the counter to where my phone is lying face down next to the cash register. And though I'd brought it with me, I've been avoiding reading all unknown texts since Tuesday. I feel my tone grow irritable, but I have no idea what he means. "I'm sorry, coming where?"

Mason clears his throat, and I think this might be the first time I've heard him disappointed. "The Sweet Tennessee concert. For Beth? You said you'd come with me to Raleigh."

"Shit, Mason." Not remembering, I suddenly panic. Yes, I remember the tickets. I think he'd purchased them while we were sitting riverfront in Wilmington. But I had no freaking clue he included me in those concert plans. He could've at least asked instead of just assuming. His sister doesn't know me like that. It'd be weird for me to show up to her birthday concert. "That's today?" I ask, trying to buy myself an excuse out of the trip. "I thought that wasn't for another few weeks." Pressing on my temple, I think back to the riverwalk. His expertly planned apps by the water. I was preoccupied at the time, worried that John was somehow following us and would start drama for all the worry Brooke had put in me. But as I retrace my mental steps, I only very vaguely remember Mason asking me about the plans. Had I seriously agreed to go with him?

Shit.

"Yeah, it's today. I have three tickets. You said you'd come. You actually sounded excited about it," Mason says, a hint of defeat ringing through his voice.

"Oh, I am excited. But I'm working," I say, the words sounding stupid and full of judgment. "Well," I shoot off at the mouth, trying to change the subject entirely. "Why did you call here, anyway?"

"You're being very mysterious, Ellie. I thought I would've at least heard from you about the press release by now. Had to resort to calling you at work since you wouldn't answer any of my texts."

Oh, my God. The newspaper came out yesterday, and I've been so consumed with finding a replacement band that it never even registered. Ever since Mason promised to write the piece, the press had slipped my mind entirely. It wasn't even a blip on my radar.

"We've been getting calls, Ellie. Non-stop. About your event."

"Wow, really? That's wonderful," I say, hurrying to Hank's closed office in the back of the shop. Opening the door, I spot a pile of newspapers and grab it, quickly leafing through the papers until I find yesterday's segment.

"You were right about this. There's a huge interest in our online media, as well. People are hitting social media hard."

My heart swells as I finally locate the article titled Stars Over Southport, A First For Local Music. "Hang on," I tell Mason, pulling the phone away from my ear. Speed-reading, I glance over his written words. My piece would have been no good in the paper, but his is amazing. He described the bands with more emotional but objective detail in 800 words than I could have done in 8,000. Realizing his genius, I need to find a way to thank him. Picking the phone back up, I grin at him and hope he can hear it. "You did such a great job on the piece, Mason." I try not to swoon about it, but my stomach feels like butterflies are dancing in it. "Thank you so, so much. You have no idea. This piece will mean the world to Charlie."

Annoyance edging out his voice, Mason responds. "Just to Charlie?" Clearing his throat, he hesitates, and I can tell he wants to say something. When he speaks again, his voice is much softer and holds no emotion. "Ellie, do you even want to come tonight?"

A weird emotion building in my chest, I scoff at the absurdity. "Yes. That's a dumb question, Mason. Of course I do." And for the first time with Mason, I'm surprised at how much I actually mean this. Meeting his family, attending his sister's party, going to the Sweet Tennessee show together with Beth. Those all feel like items to check off on the girlfriend list, and for the first time, I wonder if Mason considers me as such. I don't know that I mind it. In fact, the thought of me being his actual girlfriend as opposed to his fake one excites me. "Hey, I'm sorry I've been a little distracted lately. Things have just been crazy."

"Good crazy or bad crazy?" Mason asks, sounding more like himself after a deep breath.

"I'll explain everything when you pick me up after my shift."