My cursor blinks on the bright screen of my blank word document on my laptop. The empty page is mocking me as I sit cross-legged in the dark in front of the only piece of furniture John left in our living room two months ago— the loveseat. How honestly fitting.

"Come on, Ellie." I begin typing a sentence that's supposed to mean something to me, but I quickly delete it. Having experienced that embarrassing turmoil with Mason yesterday, I'm pretty sure I never want to see that asshole again. Humiliating is the only word to describe it. The experience alone has made me want to purge my thoughts of Mason, as well as every other man, by writing my thoughts out stream-of-consciousness style so I can toss it in a fire pit and be done with the lot of them. I want to forget about all of them. Especially Mason.

Besides the fact that I wasn't able to secure press, I also am preparing myself for Charlie and the rest of the crew to think me a disappointment. In fact, I can hear Charlie now. You had one job, darling.

Once again, I stare at the white page, fingers lingering over the keys before standing up and padding into the kitchen. I empty the last of the red wine into a coffee mug and throw the bottle in the recycling bin. Looking through the empty refrigerator, I'm not even hungry, but I grab a carton of leftover chow mein noodles. I can't remember how long it's been in there, at least two days now? Upon smelling it, I lose what appetite I do have and toss it in the trash. Through the open living room, I can see my laptop screen glowing in the pitch black darkness of the house. I'd learned to keep the shutters drawn during the day to keep out the hot afternoon sun since running the air conditioner in the spring and summer gets expensive on a meager Dream Bean wage.

When had it gotten so late anyway? I look at my phone to see it's only 7:49 and lament the oncoming night. Walking back into the living room with my mug of wine, I blindly fumble for the light switch. The barren room is cast into harsh, unforgiving light making the house seem even emptier than it had before, and I immediately flip the light switch back down. It's better to live in the darkness around here.

Standing against the wall, a quick thought rushes me. Maybe I could try the Wilmington News-Gazette. They occasionally cover events in neighboring towns, so I'm sure if it's a slow news week for them, they'd be down for the idea.

"Yeah, Ellie," I say, pumping myself up. I settle myself back in front of my laptop in the dark, mug of wine at my side. My newfound inspiration might be coming from a place of slight inebriation, but hey, that's okay— I'm desperate for a solution. I pop onto the Wilmington site and head straight for the contact page bypassing all of the visual noise. Running through the list of staff, I notice a name I feel like I've heard before. Derek Landers.

And then it hits me. Derek Landers is a friend of John's. I'd heard John talk about him when we were together. He works on the advertising side of things. Could that not be more perfect? Clicking Derek's name, there's no phone number listed for him, and I suddenly realize I don't have time to wait around for him to receive an email. Email correspondence will likely be a turtle's pace, and I need confirmation by Monday night's meeting. There's only one way for me to get to the source.

I slide my cell phone over in front of me. Taking another sip of wine, I tap over to John's voicemail and listen to it once more, this time on speakerphone. The wave of his words echoing, weaving in and out of this empty living room puts a chill down my spine, and I start to get a sick feeling in my stomach. The irony of it isn't lost on me. But it has to be done. There's no way I can show up to the meeting Monday night without having secured press for this festival. I gather all of my nerves, and right as I'm about to tap the Wilmington number John had called me from yesterday, my cell phone begins to ring causing me to freeze in fear.

Letting out a tense breath, I see that it’s only Brooke. “Thank God,” I say, my desperate train of thought sorely interrupted by the cell phone screen. It’s displaying a ridiculous picture of Brooke and I wearing pink and blue cotton candy beards from the Brunswick County Fair a few summers ago. John had always hated the photo and was very vocal about it. Me? I love it. Because that’s exactly who Brooke and I are.

Sliding the screen over, I answer. “Hey, what’s up?”

“You never told me how it went!”

Laughing, I scoff. She knows damn well I told her. “Yeah, I did. It’s not my fault if you didn’t read the text.”

She makes a sassy noise. “Um, sorry. But sending me ‘done and done’ is not telling me how it went. What’d they actually say?”

As if she can see me, I shrug. "Well, first of all, it wasn't a 'they' situation. He told me no."

"What do you mean?" Brooke says, chewing on something on the other end of the line. "I told you to go in with conviction."

“I might’ve gone in with a little too much conviction.”

“Geez, Ellie. What’d you do?”

Brushing her accusation off, I shake my head. "Nothing. It's just… something crazy happened."

"Crazy? Crazy how? Quit using loose terms, and tell me!"

“You remember that guy? The one from the concert?”

“The one who sat beside you and gave us shirts? Yeah, of course.” She snickers.” Oh my God… did he call you? Please tell me you invited him to the festival. Would that not be perfect?”

Suddenly overheated, I chirp in agreement.

“El, this could be it. You need to get laid. As your best friend, I do hereby definitely approve of hot nerdy concert guy.”

"What? No, Brooke. It's not like that. He didn't call me. It's worse. He was there.”

Brooke gasps either out of concern or for dramatic effect. "You're kidding me! Like what, he's stalking you?" She laughs. "Your track record for attracting the creepers in life is unbelievable. You know, you ought to monetize that skill set somehow. Maybe Hop Hing will hire you for something el—"

"No," I groan. "He works there. He's a freaking editor."

She doesn't say anything for a second, and I read her silence as confusion. "I thought he was from Wilmington. That's what you told me on the way home. After you tiptoed through the damn tulips with him at the show."

"Please don't remind me," I say in a panicked tone. Lying back on the chilly wooden floor, I press my free palm to the ground to keep the room from threatening to spin on me.

“Wow. That makes a lot more sense then.”

“What does?” I want to scream that nothing about the past few days has made even an ounce of sense, but my dramatics could be the Cabernet talking.

"He's just holding it over your head. Probably for ditching him the other night. And I don't honestly blame him. I've already given you hell for not exchanging numbers. He's just really driving the nail into the coffin with this."

“You think? I asked him, but he said it wasn’t that.”

“Of course he’s not gonna admit to it, Ellie. He’s a man! Men don’t like being honest about stuff like that. Their feelings aren’t supposed to get in the way of their lives, so when they do— welcome to denial. Party of one— Mason.”

I can hear her animation through the phone, and the thought of her sitting there painting her nails or with an aloe face mask on doing voices makes me laugh. "I don't know. I don't think so," I say. "Even if I had given him my number, he seemed to not really be captured by the idea of the festival in general."

"Whatever," Brooke says, moving on from the situation. "What are you doing?"

Sitting back up, I stare at my laptop screen that's still glowing with the light of the Wilmington Gazette. And there's Derek's name, which reminds me that I was about half a second away from calling John before Brooke butted in on me. I immediately close the webpage.

“Nothing,” I say.

"Dennis and his friends are going to this beach party tonight by the lighthouse. Will you come? I don't want to be the only femme there that I know."

"I don't know," I say, chewing on the inside of my cheek. "I'm opening in the morning, and I could use a day of not being hungover at work."

“Oh, please. You’re only twenty-three once.”

Though she can’t see me, I furrow my brow.

"No, wait. Technically speaking, we're twenty-three years old for 365 days since it's a whole year, right?" she muses.

I expertly use her moment of fluff to add in my real reason for wanting to stay home. "Besides, I was thinking about calling John back. To tell him to lose my number." I add this last part quickly in hopes that Brooke will let me off easy. She doesn't need to know that I'll be using him for a favor. Though with her warped mind, she'd probably enjoy the idea.

“The hell you will. The only thing calling John will do," she says, lilting over his name with a vengeance, "is break your heart. For a second time. Do you want that? You want him to have that power?"

“No.”

“Great. We’ll pick you up at nine. Make yourself look presentable. Dennis says some of his hipster friends will be there. Totally your type,” Brooke purrs with a laugh.

"Yeah," I say, giving her attitude.

"And Ellie?" She sighs as if she knows that I'm about to disappoint her. "Don't do it." She enunciates each word as if to burn them into my brain. "Toodles!"

After hanging up, I groan and toss my phone as far away from me as I can onto the loveseat. I need to stay away from it so I won't be tempted to call John for that favor. And if the party will help keep my mind off of both John and Mason, it won't be so awful.

When I finish showering, I wrap myself in a big towel and walk into the adjoining bedroom. It's so strange how quiet a house can feel when you're used to living with someone. Especially someone who always had to make himself known.

But with an empty house, suddenly there's no one to talk to, no sounds besides your own, and nothing but the constant, oppressive state of loneliness to keep you company. The thought makes me think of John again as I pull on a pair of dark jean shorts and a white, flowy tank top that Brooke will approve for the occasion. I wrap my hair in the towel and walk back to the living room searching for my cigarettes in the dark.

With cigarettes and wine mug in tow, I head back into the dark hallway toward the bathroom. Something brushes against my ankle causing me to scream, the carton flying from my hand as I flail into the wall looking for a light switch. When I finally find it, I see that it's only Moxie, the long-haired calico cat I found abandoned a few years ago. Against John’s wishes, I took her in, cleaned her up, and decided to keep her. She looks up at me with wide green eyes and meows.

"Son of a bitch, Mox." My heart still pounding, I search for what's left of my scattered cigarettes. Moxie starts to bat one down the hallway, and I chase after her, the wine in my cup nearly sloshing onto my white top. "Don't scare me like that, you little turd." I'm annoyed but grateful for her company. She curls up beside me on the bathroom counter as I perch to do my makeup. I finish the wine and absentmindedly tap the ash from the end of my cigarette into the mug as I throw on some eyeliner and concealer to appease Brooke.

Finishing up, I slide off the counter. My phone says it's nearly nine, and I know Brooke will be on time. Heading back into the living room with Moxie still circling my ankles, I consider grabbing this Derek guy's email. At the very least, I can reach out to him and see if, by the grace of all music gods, he replies before Monday. But when I open my laptop, I veer off onto a fresh webpage and type something else into the search bar.

“Cole Boxley Songbird interview video”

Scanning through the listed videos, I click on the one of him being interviewed by the Charlotte morning news. Cole is sitting there with his hands in his lap, smiling but obviously forcing it.

“Now, Cole,” a sympathetic woman in a tweed skirt-suit sitting across from him says. “Understandably, this has been a difficult year for you. Your wife being the wonderful woman she was, her life was cut too short in a tragic accident.”

Cole grits his teeth and nods.

Eyeing him with a small smile, she continues. “I won’t ask you to recount that for us. But was writing the first album you released after that, Fireside Drive, was all of that process therapeutic for you?”

"Parts of it, yes." Looking uncomfortable, he scratches the back of his head. "I don't know if I'd say it's all been therapeutic. Because there's a lot of pain there, too. Every time I sing, it's," he exhales looking like he wants to scream. "It's almost like I can feel her out there in the crowd watching us play."

The woman bobs her head like she understands even though she couldn't possibly. "Now your late-wife, her name was Birdie. Certainly, it's no coincidence that the first single off your Fireside Drive album is titled Songbird. But is there more to it than that?"

My throat goes dry, and I cringe watching Cole who is obviously in agony. His pain is unmistakable, and he doesn't seem ready to open up about it, but the depth of which the woman keeps pressing him for more makes it awkward to watch.

"She loved birds. All kinds of them. She loved to take pictures of them," Cole says after recounting the part of his story that Mason had told me the other night after the concert. "So when that bird came to my windowsill the morning of the festival, I knew it was a sign. I knew what I had to do."

The woman grins. “Wow. Something of an omen. You mentioned Birdie was interested in photography then?”

"Yes. Music was my thing. Photography was hers." Cole laughs and shakes his head. "She actually brought her camera on our first date. Made me lug it around when she wasn't using it. Years later, for an anniversary gift I think it was, she framed a photo she'd taken from that same date and wrapped it up for me."

"I don't know if I've heard that before." The woman grins like she should be privy to such stories. "Where was your first date?"

Squinting, he looks off to the side of the cameras. “We met one afternoon for coffee and walked down to this little park nearby that she said she loved.”

“That sounds really nice. A great start to a life-changing relationship, it sounds. And what was the photo she took that she ended up giving you for your anniversary? What was that of?”

After a few seconds of silence, Cole Boxley nods and folds his hands in his lap. “A beautiful, yellow canary.”