Whoever was following me sidles into the water beside me; it’s Rob, the guitar still in his hands. He settles the strap over my head, hanging the guitar on me. “Let yourself want it, Delta.” His voice is quiet, rough from a lifetime of whiskey and cigars and singing. “Take the dream back and let it grow. Go after it. Like I said, give me two weeks. A month, even. I know a guy who owns an apartment complex, so I can get you a deal on a nice place for cheap, and I know the managers of all the bars in Nashville, so I can get you a job slinging drinks on Music Row if you end up wanting to stay.

  “Record an EP with me . . . studio time is on me, okay? Because I believe in you. Your talent is something the world deserves to hear. Your boy deserves to know his mama can be more than a waitress at some shitty place barely more than a titty bar. I know you’re doin’ it for him. My mama did the same. Worked three jobs to feed me and my brothers and put a roof over our heads, and one of those jobs was dancin’ at a titty bar. She didn’t have your talent, though. You got the talent, and I’m givin’ you the opportunity, so just take it, okay?”

  I have a guitar in my hands, and I can’t help playing it. My fingers pick out a melody as tears run down my face, and I sing the lyrics softly, almost in a whisper, mainly for myself.

  * * *

  “Don’t look at me, baby boy

  I don’t want you to know

  I don’t want you to see

  Where I go

  Or what I do

  Just to buy that toy

  I don’t want you to know

  Baby, I don’t want you to know

  * * *

  I wait till you’re asleep

  And I kiss your cheek

  Tug the blankets up higher

  Tuck you in tighter

  It’s just another day, just another week

  Another night digging deep

  Another night wearing a whole lotta not much

  Working that late night rush

  Dealing with the late night crush

  Bending over too low

  Putting too much on show

  Letting all the drunks see

  Too much of me

  * * *

  Don’t look at me, baby boy

  I don’t want you to know

  I don’t want you to see

  So don’t look at me

  I hope you never know

  I hope you never see

  Where I go

  What I do, baby boy

  Just to buy that toy

  Don’t look at me

  Don’t look at me

  Because I don’t want you to know

  Baby, baby, baby, don’t look at me

  I don’t want you to know

  I don’t want you to see

  * * *

  I do it all for you

  You’re all I’ve got

  And I wanna give you everything

  I know it ain’t a lot

  But it’s all I can do

  And I do it all for you

  I do it all for you.”

  * * *

  It pours out of me, a song I wrote a few months ago, when I’d come home from work late, and Alex woke up crying, wanting me. I was still in my work outfit and I stank of booze and cigarettes and I’d been propositioned twice—and I’d nearly accepted one of them, simply because he’d offered enough that I’d have been able to make rent and buy Alex the new shoes he needed. I’d turned him down, because hooking and stripping were the two things I refused to do, no matter how desperate I got.

  It’s just me and Rob, standing in the surf. He wraps his arm around my waist, squeezing me in hug that’s part friend, part gruff uncle.

  “See? That there is country gold. It’s not the peppy nonsense drinking song, and it’s not a sappy breakup love song. It’s got meaning and it’s got depth, but it’s catchy.” He pats me on the shoulder. “Think about it, Delta. Think hard.”

  He walks away, out of the surf and back toward shore to wherever it is he’s been sleeping.

  I chase after him. “Rob, your guitar.”

  He pauses, smiling at me. “Keep it.”

  I sputter. “Rob, this guitar, it’s . . . it’s worth more than everything I own put together.”

  He laughs. “Honey, listen. That guitar is my baby. I bought Gloria new thirty-two years ago, and I’ve played a million gigs in a million bars with her. I wrote twelve number one country songs on her, and I’ve never gone a day without playing her.” He puts his hand over mine on the guitar. “Trust me when I say that what she’s worth money-wise ain’t even a speck of dust compared to what she’s worth to me in terms of memory.”

  I try to pull the strap over my head. “Exactly, which I can’t—”

  Rob won’t let me remove the strap. “Shut up a second, Delta,” he says, gently but firmly. “I ain’t askin’, okay? You’re takin’ that guitar, and you’re gonna write me six brand new songs on her so we can put out your first EP. You’re gonna be a goddamn star, and you’re gonna do it playing my Gloria.”

  “I can’t,” I breathe. “I can’t. It’s too much.”

  “You can, and you will.”

  Ava is beside me, pressing against my side, resting her head on my shoulder. “Delta. Honey. Don’t be stupid.”

  I choke out a sobbing laugh. “What? What do you mean?”

  “I mean take the guitar. Let’s you and me go get Alex from Mom and Dad, and take a trip to Nashville.”

  “What about—?” I have to start over. “What about Ft. Lauderdale? What about Christian?”

  She shrugs a shoulder. “I’m going to look for him. I have to. I just . . . I have to figure out how to go about it first. And in the meantime, I’ll be with you and Alex.”

  I strum the strings, listening to Gloria’s dulcet voice quavering across the surf. “One month,” I say. “Then I’m going back to Chicago.”

  “You’ll be on the radio giving interviews in a month, Delta,” Rob says. “No more Chicago for you.”

  I sniff. “Good, because I don’t have a job there, and the lease on my apartment is almost up.” Another sniff and another laugh. “I’m homeless and jobless anyway, so I have nothing to lose.”

  8

  Charleston, South Carolina ; three weeks later

  * * *

  I still got no ID, no passport, no money. Kinda wondering what the point is, anyway. I’ve spent the last few weeks with Dom and the boys on The Glory of Gloucester, trawling our way north to Charleston. It’s good work, hard work, keeps my mind off everything. Off Delta. I mean, not much can keep my mind off her for long, but I’m fucking trying.

  I work the nets from before dawn till after sundown. I always keep moving, keep working, keep busy. Don’t sleep much, because if I sleep, I dream of her. If I’m idle, I daydream of her. I hear her voice, singing those songs. See her fingers, picking the strings. Feel her skin against mine. Her lips on mine. Her breast in my hand, her voice murmuring my name. I wake up hard as a rock most mornings, dreaming of her. I’ve woken up messy, having dreamed of her, of our time together on the beach, in the predawn light.

  I’ve never been much for talking under the best of circumstances, unless I know you well and like you a lot. I got comfortable with Christian, and obviously Delta pulled something unique out of me, but with anyone else, I’m damn near mute. I’ll shoot the shit with Dom up on the bridge late at night, on the long watches, but keep to myself otherwise. He’s a lot like me, though, and we spend most of our time just sitting silent, sipping coffee, and watching the waves.

  He knows what’s eating me, I think, but he doesn’t ask. I work, and he gives me a berth and feeds me. It’s all I really need.

  Only now that we’re in Charleston for a bit, I’m going a little crazy. Or . . . a lot crazy. There’s not much to do on board the boat when we’re in port, which leaves me rattling around like a marble.

  Eventually, Dominic takes me to a dive bar near the shipyards and buys me a whiskey. We sit at the end of the bar and drink for a while, and I wait, knowing he has something to say.

  After the first glass, he taps the bar with a thick forefinger, shooting me a glance. “I been out there deep trawling for years. Only put into port for a few days here and there at the most. With Dane taking this apprenticeship, I’m thinking I might hang around Charleston for a while. Make sure he’s comfortable and likes the work before I head back out. Bully needs time to refit the engine and do some other repairs and upgrades anyway, and the rest of the crew can find temporary work easily enough. If necessary, I can always find new crew.”

  I sigh. “Spit it out, Dom.”

  He chuckles, tapping our glasses to indicate refills. After our glasses are topped off, he swirls the amber liquid in his glass, formulating his thoughts. “I don’t wanna leave you in a bad spot, Jonny. You’re a good man, and I consider you a friend.”

  “I’ll figure somethin’ out. Don’t worry about me.”

  “That ain’t how I operate.” He takes a sip, hissing a breath at the burn. “You’re damned miserable without her, Jonny. Might as well admit that much.”

  “Point being?”

  “No point, just sayin’.” He shrugs. “You’re different since we left Florida. Way I see it, only a woman stuck in your craw can do that.”

  I laugh and shake my head. “She’s not stuck in my craw, Dom. Forget about it, amigo, okay?”

  Dom just gazes steadily at me. “Your berth is next to mine, and those walls are thin, pal. I hear you at night.”

  I frown at him. “Hear me what?”

  “You talk in your sleep. Spanish mostly, but I’ve heard her name a time or two.” He’s not quite grinning when he says this.

  I scowl. “Bullshit.”

  “I ain’t above yankin’ your chain, Jonny, but this is different. You say her name in your sleep.”

  “I do not.” I breathe out a snarl and glance at him. “Jesus Cristo, do I really?”

  “You do. Hand on my heart, swear to God.” He puts his hand over his chest as he says this.

  “Mierda.” I lean back in the tall bar chair and toss a swallow of whiskey down. “I miss her, dammit.”

  “Right. So go back down and find her.”

  “She ain’t gonna be there no more. Went back to Chicago, probably.” I shake my head and shrug. “Nah, she’s gone, Dom.”

  “Eh, you’re just bein’ a pussy.”

  I eye Dominic, my gaze hard. “’Scuse me?”

  He crosses his burly arms over his chest, completely unintimidated. “I said, you’re just bein’ a pussy.”

  “How you figure?”

  “You’re scared. Yellow. Chicken . . . Pussy.” He grins at me. “Women’ll do that to us, though. Turn the biggest, toughest, wildest man into a dumbass and a pussy and a landlubber homebody.”

  “I ain’t no pussy.”

  He laughs. “Yeah, you are. If you weren’t, you’d be lookin’ for her. You wouldn’t be wastin’ your time on a rusty trawler with a bunch of ugly-ass bachelors and assholes if you weren’t a pussy.”

  “The Glory ain’t rusty. And you ain’t ugly.”

  He laughs even harder. “Buddy, you’re a pussy.”

  “I am not,” I snarl.

  “Then go look for her. Been three weeks and I think you’ve said a hundred words total. You work like a man possessed, and being a Latino, that means you’re doing the work of four guys, at least. You, in the mood you’re in? You could run the whole damn trawler by your damn self. Since we put into Charleston, you ain’t left the boat until I dragged your grumpy ass here. You’re avoiding the whole world, because somewhere in it is the woman you’re hung up on, and you’re too much of a pussy to put your heart out there and go after her.”

  “Fuck you.” I say it again in Spanish, “Andate a la cresta. Puta.”

  Dominic just chuckles. “Now, I don’t speak Spanish, but I’m fairly certain that wasn’t very nice.” He taps our glasses for another refill. “I also don’t think that was a denial.”

  I just sigh, and drink, and stare at the TV screen that is playing sports highlights. Somewhere, country music is playing on a local radio station.

  After a while, Dominic tosses some bills on the bar, throws back the rest of his whiskey, and stands, patting me on the shoulder. “You know I’m right. Some things you just can’t hide from, Jonny. You can run from the law, you can run from the IRS, you can run from crazy exes, shit, you can even run from your past. But you can’t run from fallin’ in love.”

  “You an expert, then?”

  Dominic laughed. “Yes, I am. You know why I live on a deep-sea trawler and never see land, never see anyone but the ugly assholes on my boat? Because I was a pussy. I ran from falling in love, and I succeeded. By the time I realized I’d fucked up, it was too late.”

  I growl, because that was a pretty good answer. “Whatever. Stupid gringo.”

  He laughs yet again, even harder, and adds another pair of twenties to the pile on the bar. “Have another drink or three on me, Jonny, and think about it some.”

  Dominic leaves then, his gait the permanent rolling swagger of a burly man who’s spent his whole life at sea. I mutter to myself in Spanish as I work on another glass of whiskey, cursing Dominic for being right, cursing Christian for disappearing and fucking everything up, cursing the hurricane, cursing myself, cursing Delta for being so damn tempting and tantalizing.

  Another drink, and more cursing.

  I switch to cheaper whiskey so I can drink longer. Stare at the TV and try to tune out the sappy country love songs playing in the background.

  The more sappy country love songs and longing country breakup songs I have to tune out, the more angry I feel. This doesn’t bode well. I get like this sometimes. I sit and drink way too much, and I let the deep, simmering sense of regret and unhappiness and loneliness that defines my life boil over, and it turns to anger, and I get into a stupid bar fight because I don’t know how to deal with it.

  My father left us when I was nine, which made me the man of the house at far too young of an age, with two sisters and a mother who was already working eighteen hours a day to make ends meet.

  I went to work on the docks and helped take care of my sister and her kids and my mom. The first hurricane hit when I was eleven, and our house was flattened. We lost everything, moved, had to start over. Then another hurricane two years later flattened everything again, and we had to start over a second time. And then, a year later, yet another hurricane blasted across our little island, and that one was the worst one. It hit early in the morning, just before dawn. I was at the docks unloading fishing boats and moving fish. It hit the area where my mother and sisters and nieces and nephews lived, and I couldn’t get to them. I tried, mierda, I tried. A stranger hauled me off the street and shoved me into a corner, pinned me down. I screamed through the whole damn storm, not because I was afraid, but because I knew what I’d find when I got home.

  Our house was flattened. With my sisters and my mother and my sister’s kids inside. They tried to hide, but there was nowhere to go, nowhere safe. I went mad, screaming, digging like someone possessed by a demon. I found them . . . too late.

  Too fucking late.

  That’s when I hopped on-board the first fishing boat leaving the island that would take me away. That was the beginning of my life at sea, running from the loss of my family. Running from the pain. Running from my own cowardice. Never letting myself get attached to anyone, never staying in any one spot for long, or on any one boat for long. I lost the only family I had, and the thought of losing anyone else scares me to fucking death. It’s defined my life in so many ways.

  The anger at my life is boiling over. I’ve lost count of the number of whiskeys I’ve had. I gave the money Dominic left to the bartender and told him to keep giving me whiskey till the money was gone.

  I don’t want to be in love with anyone. It’s stupid. I spent less than a week with Delta, and we only fucked a couple times.

  Don’t mean a damn thing. It was good sex, and I’m hung up on that. That’s all it is. Love isn’t real. I’ve fucked more women than I care to number, and none of them have ever stuck in my head like Delta. What is it about her? I don’t fuckin’ know. I don’t know. I can’t figure it out, and it’s pissing me off.

  The more I sit here, drinking and thinking, the more pissed off at the whole situation I’m getting.

  The bartender refills my whiskey. “There’s ten bucks left after this, bro.”

  I wave at him. “Keep it. I’m done.”

  He nods at me. “Thanks.”

  I nod sloppily and return my stare to the TV. The radio is still playing shitty annoying sappy country music, and I can’t tune it out.

  I’m thinking about trying to stumble back to the boat. I hit the head and drain my bladder, get a glass of water from the bartender and slam it, and two more after that. I make my way slowly to the door and the song ends, and the radio DJ comes on, probably in a pre-recorded segment.

  “Coming up next is a brand new song, and let me tell you, it’s a doozy. Her name is Delta Martin, and this song was released two days ago, and it’s already rocketing up all the charts. And actually, she’s not a newcomer to the country music scene. She’s the writer behind several hits from the early part of the millennium, with songs like ‘Another Bar, Another Mic,’ ‘You, Me, and the Night,’ and ‘Tall, Dark, and Handsome.’ I don’t really know where she’s been the last ten, fifteen years, but if her comeback is gonna ride on songs like this, then watch out, folks, because she’s on fire. This is Delta Martin, ‘When Your Heart’s Gone.’”

  At the sound of Delta’s name, I halt in place, hang my head, close my eyes, and grip the doorframe with one hand. I’m frozen, paralyzed.

  The song starts, just Delta playing the guitar. Just her and the guitar, nothing else, a slow, mournful melody. A slide steel joins in, adds a note of longing, and then a gentle, rolling drum beat adds urgency. And then I hear her voice, singing:

  * * *

  “You walked into my life, with your dark skin and brown eyes