The past week has been healing in a way that I almost thought was impossible toward the end of the tour. The insanity of night after night after night of parties was more than I could stand.

Sure, it sounds good to party all night, sleep all day, and get paid for playing music. And it is—mostly. The music is what I love, not the parties and constantly being on. That’s just not me. I am grateful for the opportunities. The success. But I’m tired.

I’ve found peace in getting up early in the mornings and claiming a quiet little bench in Central Park to just play. Never would’ve guessed that my quiet time, my recharge, could happen in the city that doesn’t sleep.

There are people all around, thousands walking past this bench—my bench—every day. And I know for a fact that there’s a bench on the other side of the shrubs behind me. Pretty sure someone has been enjoying a free concert most mornings. I’ve heard her singing with me, humming really. Shaking my head and smiling, I wait for her to try to find just the right pitch. It doesn’t work. She’s a little off-key, just the tiniest bit flat.

Like Gracyn.

I settle in, picking at the strings of my acoustic, the guitar I’ve had forever. The one I use to write music with. The one I swear even now has some sand from Florida rattling around in the body. It feels like a lifetime ago, and maybe it was. The six months spent there were some I would gladly forget, except for a handful of memories that still have me fucking confused and, like a dream hinting at reality, questioning whether it really happened.

Getting discovered was nothing like I’d thought it would be. There was no slick guy in a suit, whipping out his business card, no big aha moment. It was just another gig in yet another shitty little beach bar for an audience that was more interested in getting trashed and hooking up than they were in us.

Absolutely nothing set that night apart. We played fine, killed it really, but not a single soul seemed to notice the difference between us and the piped-in music that replaced us at the end of our set. No one noticed at all—except a couple of guys at a table in the back of the bar.

After our shit was packed up and Kane had his entertainment for the night, those guys at the back table bought Nate, Ian, and me a round of drinks and invited us to hang out at their table. Turns out, it was a couple of the guys from Lightning Strikes. That kick-ass band out of Kansas City made it big a couple of years ago, and the singer and lead guitarist were just chillin’ in Florida with their wives.

Everything I’d ever heard about Myles Donovan was that the guitar genius was the asshole of that band. But, when he slapped my back and handed me their label’s contact information, he was anything but an asshole. He was my fucking savior.

“Really? We tried to contact these guys and got nothing.” I drained my beer and set the empty bottle on the table. “They didn’t even bother telling us to fuck off.” I huffed out a laugh and looked at their lead singer, Kade Evans.

Myles was wrapped around his wife, the PDA bordered on uncomfortable in public.

Kade flicked a bottle cap at him and turned to me. “Yeah, man, it’s not easy, but you guys are good. Really good. I think your next call to them will go completely different. I sent him some video from tonight. They aren’t gonna want to miss out on you.”

There was only one person I wanted to share that information with, and as I grabbed my phone it hit me again, how fucking stupid I was. Gracyn was wiped from my fucking life. Nothing left of her, but a handful of selfies and an epic case of blue balls.

I know how I look. I see it in the eyes of every soccer mom in the park and every buttoned-up suit on the street. The hair, the ripped jeans, the ink. Their judgment fills the air. The judgment that sits right alongside the desire. Like I’m not quite a person, just a commodity. Gracyn is one of the only people I’ve met who saw something more in me. At least, I thought she did.

A quiet conversation drifts from that bench behind me, a one-sided conversation that leaves no doubt in my mind that the chick parked there has been enjoying listening to me for the past couple of mornings. There’s something in her voice, in her inflection, that screams Gracyn. Or maybe it’s that she’s on my mind yet again. She made it perfectly clear that she was only interested in a fling, something quick and temporary, and yet here I am, still fucking caught up in her.

Lyrics start coming together, forming in my mind.

One kiss, and I was done.

I wish you wanted more than fun …

I pluck at the strings, lost in the memories and the sound of that voice floating over my shoulder. A conversation that could be about me but is obviously not about me.

She’s going to get up and go soon. It’s getting to be time. How pathetic that I’ve gotten into a groove with this woman I’ve never met, not even seen. I shift, hoping that today is the day—that, just this one time, I’ll catch a glimpse of her as she leaves the park. It’s stupid. Without a doubt, I’ll be disappointed, but I look for Gracyn everywhere.

One time,

You were mine,

Only once in my life.

It’s time to move on.

Will I ever move on?

A flash of movement, a hint at the owner of the voice, my audience. The shape of her as she pauses, light and shadow filtering through the branches. So close and still miles away. She looks—

“Jesus, get a job.” A balding guy in a shitty suit blocks my view.

I lean forward, trying to look past him. Desperate not to miss this chance—

One chance to show

Everything you need to know …

The lyrics, my muse. Close but so fucking far, and she’s slipping farther away from me by the second. By the year.

One apology.

A rush out the door.

Did you ever want me, want me?

“It’s not like you’re going to ‘make it big,’ playing guitar in the park.” Air quotes. He air-quotes that shit like he’s got all the inside knowledge.

“Thanks, man. I’ll try to keep that in mind.” Much as I want to tell him that it’s too fucking late, that I have been discovered, that his teenage daughter is most likely stalking the band’s Instagram and is probably one of the countless chicks sending Kane boob pics, I tamp that shit down. I want to keep my chill, not cause a scene, but this asshole keeps digging.

“You know, be a responsible adult and not bum off the government, begging in the park. For what? So you can get drunk on a bottle of cheap vodka?”

He’s still going, but I’m done. Done listening to his litany of shit. I tuck my guitar in its case and sling it across my shoulder. Dude is standing there, still fucking lecturing me.

“You married? You got kids?” I ask even though I know I shouldn’t let him get to me.

The wedding band on his hand and the tired, used-up look on his face give it all away. I hand him a signed CD from our current tour. The one with our fucking faces all over the label.

“Maybe your wife or your daughter will appreciate the fact that I don’t have a real job.” Hard as I try, I can’t hold back the, “Fucker,” as I stride away, hoping to catch a glimpse of the purple scarf I saw through the branches.

But, of course, I have no idea which way she went. And it doesn’t even matter. It’s not her, not Gracyn.