"Oh, that is just excellent news, my little music maven!" Charlie says over the phone as I race to my parked car a few blocks up from the cafe on Howe Street. I can practically hear his hands flapping through the air as he talks. "You're marvelous, chickadee. I knew you'd come through with the Braxley Brothers."

“It’s Boxley,” I correct him, trying to catch my breath.

"That's what I said, darling. Look, I've organized the volunteer meeting for this evening, too. Won't you be a dear and kick those kids into shape for me? I've got an important supper session tonight and won't be able to make it. But I'm leaving you in charge. You tell Don that, too. Don't want him bulldozing right over you. I'm off to the dry-cleaners for now. Have to pick up my outfit for the festival. Ta ta!"

Laughing at his last line, I don't even allow myself to wonder what in the world Charlie could be wearing Thursday that needs to be dry-cleaned. And annoyingly enough, what special supper session could Charlie have that's more important than a volunteer coordination meeting? I roll my eyes at the thought. That's group-rallying territory right there. Yet, I'm the one who'll have to spend three hours handing out volunteer T-shirts, assigning tasks to the seven different groups, and making sure all spaces for vendors, bands, and attendees are sectioned off correctly with spray paint, tape, and barriers.

Instead of dwelling on the shitstorm of a meeting it will undoubtedly be, I turn all of my attention toward scouting out Mason's house. I'd driven by The Anchor but couldn't find his car anywhere. Brooke pings me a possible street address via text that she claims to have accessed through a friend of Dennis', so I plug it into GPS on my phone. But when I drive there, the area doesn't seem right, so I switch courses.

At one point, Mason had mentioned having a view of the river from his front yard, so I head south toward the hilly street that winds up to the highest neighborhood in Southport. While continuing to prowl, I plan out exactly what I’ll say to Mason.

I’m sorry I was an asshole. Don’t ever leave me. Please let me be with you.

Or I was wrong. One-hundred-percent, absolutely, positively wrong. We belong together with our dorky jokes and our crazy obsession with music.

Or I love you. No, I fucking love you. Please don't leave me ever again.

After looping the neighborhood twice, I find Mason’s dark sedan parked outside a modest contemporary style house. Of course he has one of these fancier looking houses. But instead of dwelling on the fact, I decide that maybe I'll be an investigative journalist if coordinating music festivals doesn't work out for me.

I park on the side of the road in front of his house, not wanting to take up real estate in his driveway. Bounding up the steps of his front porch, I feel my heart pounding in my chest. After knocking a few times, I call through the door as if he'll hear me quicker. "Mason? Mason, are you in there?"

Opening the door after a minute, he looks at me blankly, almost confused to see me, then walks down the porch stairs. “What?”

"Hey," I say, trying to play it friendly, but his annoying indifference has already dampened my excitement as I follow him down to his car. "Mason, you were right. They're coming."

"Who is?" Grabbing three paper bags in his arms, he shuts the car door with his shoe and heads back up the stairs.

"The Boxley Brothers. You were right all along," I say, trailing him up the steps to his front door like some lost puppy.

"That's great. Congratulations, Ellie," he says, walking into his house, leaving the door open.

His complete lack of enthusiasm dents my soul. Egomaniacal little shit. “Aren’t you excited?” I call through the open door.

Not answering me, Mason unloads his groceries at the kitchen counter. I usually have manners and wait to be invited into a person's home before entering, but this little turd is playing dumb with me, and I don't have the patience to yield to his arrogance. "Hey," I say, letting myself in through the hallway, meeting him at the kitchen counter. "Aren't you excited about the Boxley Brothers?"

“Yeah, that’s great for you, Ellie.” Rinsing off a handful of apples, he places them on a towel by the sink to dry.

I stand there at a loss over his lackadaisical attitude, so I decide to try a different approach. “Do you want to come over tonight? I have a volunteer meeting but after—”

“Can’t,” he says, drying his hands off on a paper towel.

What little ego I had walking in here is immediately shattered. "Well, what are you doing?"

He continues to unbag his groceries. A loaf of garlic bread, a carton of eggs, a block of parmesan, and a six-pack of Heineken. It's not until he pulls out what I recognize to be a fifty dollar bottle of Pinot noir from one of the local vineyards that I realize he might be cooking dinner for someone tonight. "I have plans," he says.

At his composure, I start to back away from him. Coming here is beginning to feel like an absolute mistake. And I can't open up to him to tell him. I can't apologize and tell him everything I'd planned on the ride up here because he clearly doesn't want to hear it. I can sense that in him. He has plans. Shit, he's probably about to cook dinner for a new girl he's found. One who has a great career and isn't afraid to commit.

“Oh, okay. Well, I thought maybe we could talk sometime. Like you said the other day you’d call me,” I say, trying not to sound completely melancholy. “But you didn’t.”

What I don’t expect is for him to look me square in the eye as he says answers. “Sorry, Ellie. Been busy. Nothing personal, but not everything revolves around you and this festival, okay?”

Feeling a pinprick of oncoming tears sting my eyes, I nod. Reaching into my back pocket, I pull out two laminated press badges, one with Mason's name printed on it, the other titled with Guest. "You'll need these to get in," I say, hanging both passes on the closed pantry doorknob by their lanyards. "There's one for you and one anyone else from The Anchor to get in if they—"

"I probably won't make it," he says, his voice straight without any sign of a joke.

“What?”

“Plans have changed at the office.”

"Are you serious?" I clench my teeth and try to cut off the emotion welling up at the back of my throat. I don't know what's happened to my spirit, but I hold none of the raging fire I'd been filled with just a few short weeks ago.

"Ellie, you basically told me to fuck off the other day. You don't want a relationship. I get that. But I can't be friends with you. I don't have that in me. I can't look at you and see only a friend. And since you and I aren't ever going to work out, I don't need to chase after someone who isn't interested in me. I have more pride than that," he says with a clearing of his throat. He's so direct, so forward that I wonder if this is the same Mason I'd known all along. There is none of his coy, confident charm that I'm used to seeing. He's not flirting anymore.

“Mason, I just—”

Escorting me back to his front door that’s still wide open, he dips his head down to make sure I don’t miss a single one of his words. “Look, I’m happy for you. Really. You got your dream gig with your dream band as a crowd drawer. And you and I, we had a fun time together doing— whatever it is we did. It was a great run, Ellie. Truly. But I’m just too old to be playing games, so I’m out. I’ll see you around,” he says just before shutting the door.