I nod and look away. “I totally get that.”

  “It’s not that I don’t want to, Delta.”

  I smile at him, trying to seem reassuring, which is hard because the welter of emotions running through me certainly contains a strong note of disappointment. “I understand. Absolutely.”

  He’s still so close to me, his body and mine touching all along one side. His face is near enough to mine that a tilt and a slight lean, and we could kiss.

  Not that he’s going to do that.

  I’m not either, obviously.

  Kissing him? That’d be . . . ooh boy, that would certainly be a step in the direction of Stage Five Clinger territory, which as previously established, would be phenomenally stupid.

  So, yeah, duh. Not kissing him.

  And he’s not kissing me, because he’s not looking for a clinger. Shit, he may not even be looking for a hook-up, you know? I mean, maybe he’s the type who would have let me jerk him off, but because it was happening and not because he’d been looking for it, or had any intention of reciprocating, much less letting things progress into actual sex.

  His eyes are flitting back and forth, searching mine. And his head is tilting. And he’s leaning.

  He’s leaning.

  What?

  No, no, no—No! If he kisses me, I’m gonna freak out.

  Holy shit, he’s kissing me.

  Is this real? I think it is. He’s leaning in, his body is angling toward mine, and his lips are sliding softly against mine, and now his hand is cupping the side of my face, and I feel my eyes closing and I feel his mouth on mine, and I let myself indulge in this. Remind myself, mentally, that this doesn’t mean anything. He’s kissing me carefully, delving slowly into it. Which is even more confusing. Because if this had been one of those hard and urgent I just can’t help myself kind of blindingly passionate kisses, I would have just chalked it up to hormones and the intensity of the moment or something, but this kiss is . . . it’s intentional.

  My heart is pounding, and my hands are shaking as I feel myself falling into the kiss. I can’t not kiss him back. God, I want this. I want him to be kissing me intentionally, and I want it to devolve into something more, because I just want him. All of him, as much as I can get. I’m anticipating being hurt, so I may as well get as much pleasure as I can out of things before that happens. Right?

  But holy shit, his kiss is intoxicating. So slow. Warm. Gentle, but insistent. His mouth is firm, and damp. He’s leading this kiss, his hand is on my cheek and jaw and the back of my neck, and he’s leaning into me, and all I can do it kiss him back.

  I’m breathless.

  An ache begins, throbbing low in my core as his kiss intensifies and the heat rises between us, and I’m losing myself in it. I let myself just . . . enjoy it. I want him to lay me back in the sand, but I’m not going to push it. I bury a hand in his hair, and I feel his tongue trace my upper lip, and then his other hand, once bracing his weight in the sand, wraps around my lower back and pulls me closer. My breasts smash against his chest, and I hear a soft whimpering moan, and I realize it’s me making that sound.

  It was a breathy, needy, erotic moan; do I really sound like that? I’m not sure I’ve ever made that noise before.

  And the tingles. God, the tingles. It’s gone beyond mere tingling, now, though. It’s . . . a hum. A vibration, deep inside me, from the soul outward.

  He breaks the kiss, finally, and I’m left gasping, and my lips are tingling, and I still have my hand in his silky black hair.

  “Jonny, I—” I refuse to let go. I want more. “I’m even more confused, now.”

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  “You said you weren’t in the right place for . . .” I shrug, wave a hand. “That.”

  “I know. But I just . . . I had to kiss you.” He shakes his head, as if at a loss for words. “I don’t know. I just had to kiss you.”

  I’m shaking all over. My core is throbbing. The kiss was . . . it was fucking intense, and I’m turned on now, and I don’t think he’s going to take it beyond that.

  I’m upset, and I’m not sure why.

  I’m frustrated, and I’m confused. He’s giving me all kinds of mixed signals. I don’t know what he wants, if he wants me, or if he doesn’t. The man is . . . opaque as a person. I cannot read him. Right now, he’s frowning slightly and his chest is rising and falling heavily as if that kiss left him as off-balance as it did me, but he’s not kissing me, and he didn’t try to further it, didn’t touch me, didn’t seem to be inviting anything more than just the kiss.

  What are we, fourteen, when kisses are just kisses, and not a gateway into sex?

  No one I’ve ever met an adult who just kisses someone except maybe on the first date, and they sure as hell wouldn’t kiss like that.

  So . . . what the hell?

  Also, I’m turned on, as in my sex drive is going haywire, and I fucking want Jonny, I want him to touch me, I want to feel his cock in my hand again, and I want to finish what I started. I want to make him come, and I want to feel his hands on me, or his mouth on me, and I want to come, and I want to fuck him. I’m so goddamn horny it’s stupid, and I don’t trust myself.

  I’m sitting here on the beach in the middle of the night, trembling all over. I’m so worked up and turned on, and this man is just staring at me, one hand on my lower back, the other still on my face, and I’m gripping his hair at the back of his head like we’re still kissing, but we’re not, we’re just staring into each other’s eyes and somehow just completely failing to be able to read each other.

  If I don’t get out of here, I’m going to do something stupid, like grab his dick and suck him off, and then, despite my earlier claim to not need or expect reciprocation, I’m going to shove his hand or his mouth between my thighs and make it abundantly clear I want him to give me an orgasm.

  So, instead of doing any of that, I abruptly stand up. “I—I have to . . .” I turn away. Shaking, thighs quaking, frustration boiling through me, and need unraveling inside me. “I have to go. I have to go.”

  And I run.

  I’ve done a lot of running in my life. When emotions come into play, when things start turning into something that might mean something, I run. When life hands me a situation I don’t know to deal with, I deal with it by running. When it became clear music wasn’t happening in Nashville, I ran. When I found out I was pregnant, I took Tom’s money and I ran.

  This is the first time, though, I’ve run away before sleeping with a man; usually, the running happens after. This is me running preemptively.

  This time, though, I literally run. Which, I don’t really do, like ever. I do yoga, I lift weights, I do spin classes . . . I do not run. My tits are too big, for one thing. And I just hate it, for another. But this time . . . I run. I jog along the sand, my tits punching me in the face with each step, since I’m wearing that stupid push-up bra I wear at work since it gets me better tips. But the bra is a piece of shit and doesn’t do shit for support, so I’m flopping and bouncing like a Baywatch slow-mo shoot gone wrong. I run, because if I don’t, I’m going to give in and go Stage Five Clinger on Jonny, because he’s amazing and sexy and compassionate and deep and mysterious, and I’ve never met a man like him, one who moves my soul and my libido.

  He obviously doesn’t want me, and I’m not going to embarrass myself any more than I have already. I could end up doing something desperate and idiotic, and if I want to retain any of my dignity, I have to get away from Jonny Nuñez.

  I run down the beach, not sure where I’m going, just . . . away.

  A glow down the beach lures me, the flickering orange of a bonfire. There’s music—a guitar, someone expertly using upturned buckets as drums, and it sounds like someone is playing a cello. It’s beautiful, impromptu, improvised music. It’s been so long since I played or sang around anyone else. I let the music pull me in and take me over, and I let the music breathe through my soul.

  I’ve been Mommy for so long, I’ve been just surviving for so long . . .

  But this . . . this draws me in.

  I approach, slowing to a walk. It’s a massive bonfire, the flames flickering ten or twelve feet in the air, and there are about twenty or thirty people sitting around it, in pairs or in groups, talking, laughing. The musicians are all sitting together in a shallow semi-circle, well away from the fire, almost in the shadows, their backs to the sea. Informal, just a group of like-minded individuals making the most of the moment. The guitarist is a fit older man, early to mid sixties, with long salt-and-pepper hair tied back, and a graying black beard. He’s wearing a loud Hawaiian shirt and board shorts. He’s not exactly good-looking, but not unattractive, either. The cellist is a woman in her late twenties, reddish-blonde hair, pretty but plain. The percussionist is a young white man in his late teens or very early twenties, blond hair in long dreadlocks, a scraggly beard, wearing jeans cut raggedly just below the knee, no shirt, heavily tattooed. They are each phenomenal musicians, but together, they’re . . . just amazing. The melody they’re playing is a familiar one that I cannot quite place, mournful, haunting.

  I hesitate on the outskirts of the ring of light, listening. Letting the music seep into my soul.

  God, I miss music.

  When I was young, music was literally everything to me. I believed in myself. I practiced obsessively. I wrote hundreds of songs. I did open mic nights all over Florida as a teenager, honing my craft by developing my guitar skills, my singing, and my song writing. I moved to Nashville within weeks of turning eighteen and busted my ass making ends meet while trying to make it as a singer-songwriter. I did everything I could to make it as a musician—including blowing a record producer once, which I’m not proud of, but hey, it was when I was beginning to realize a music career wasn’t going to happen for me, and it was a last ditch, desperate attempt to keep the dream alive.

  I had fucking talent, too. I really did. But sometimes, talent, looks, and skill just aren’t enough. Sometimes, life just . . . bites you in the ass.

  Then I had Alex, and I’ve been devoting myself into raising him, keeping him clothed and educated and fed and safe, and I haven’t had time to do anything except dick around with my guitar, alone, late at night, more out of boredom and loneliness and nostalgia than anything else.

  But standing here on the beach with so much sadness inside me percolating and simmering from the days of caring for wounded people, from hearing someone weep at night because a loved one was found dead, and from watching people sort through the rubble of a community’s collective lives . . . yet the music is a salve.

  I just stand on the edge of the light and close my eyes and listen, soaking it up.

  The song ends, and there’s a moment of discussion, and then the guitarist starts in on “Jolene” by Dolly Parton. And I’m immediately thrown back twenty years to when I was a fresh young talent brand new to Nashville and full of dreams, taking on enormous songs like “Jolene” in the honky-tonks on Lower Broadway. God, I used to fucking slay this song.

  I feel my fingers moving on my thigh, mimicking the chords.

  The drummer picks up the beat, and they jam for a minute, the drummer and the guitarist, drawing out the intro. The cellist just listens for a while; I think she knows the song, but she’s figuring out how to join in. There she goes—she’s doing the violin part. Her playing lends the song a deeper sorrow and longing and gravitas.

  The guitarist starts singing the verses, and his voice is rough and gravelly, but in tune and compelling. I can’t help but sing along. I try to keep quiet, knowing I’ve not been invited into this moment, but unable to help myself from joining in.

  The guitarist hears me first, his gaze sweeping the darkness until it finds me, and he smiles encouragingly and jerks his head to indicate I should join in. So I do. I sit crosslegged between the guitarist and the cellist, and I find the harmony. It all comes rushing back, a torrent of memory. The music has me in its grip, and I sing that song with everything I’ve got.

  There’s scattered applause when the music ends, and the guitarist smiles at me. “Well, damn, girl,” he says, in a slow southern drawl. “You’ve got a mighty fine voice.”

  I smile and shrug. “Thanks.”

  He introduces himself as Rob, the cellist is Elaine, and the drummer is Corey, and I offer them my first name, and receive a flurry of other names from the others around us, and suddenly everyone seems so genuine and friendly and welcoming, and my heart is thrilling and filling and swelling.

  Rob flicks a finger at my hands, clutched in front of me. “Saw your hands as you were singing, looks like you know how to play.”

  I shrug again. “I used to play. Still do, a little bit.”

  He hands me his guitar. “Take it away, sugar.”

  I take the guitar, and it settles into place perfectly. I stroke the strings, find a chord, and strum. God, the voice of this instrument is . . . it’s like honey. I note the maker’s name on the headstock: Martin. Shit, no wonder this guitar sounds so good. It’s very old, impeccably maintained, and probably worth a fortune.

  I search inside myself for something to play, but nothing comes to mind, and I know myself well enough to know the only way I’ll find the right song is to let it emerge on its own. So I let my fingers do the talking. A chord, another, some idle strumming, learning the personality of this incredible guitar.

  Soon enough, the melody to “The Sound of Silence” by Simon & Garfunkel emerges. My dad was big on the classics from when he was younger: Simon and Garfunkel, Dolly Parton, James Taylor, Cat Stevens, Carly Simon, that kind of thing. It was what we grew up on, because it was what he’d listen to all day every day. He’d be out in the garage, tinkering with his old Camaro, and he’d have a tape on, and I’d sit and listen to the music and watch him tinker. Ava never understood why I’d sit out there for so long, on that old stool by Dad’s cluttered workbench, watching him tinker and listening to the music. But I just loved it. I loved the music, the smell of the grease and the heat in the old garage, and the way Dad would sing along under his breath. Ava was always more interested in reading the latest book or magazine and going to the mall with her friends. Me? I just liked listening to music with Dad. Later, those songs I grew up listening to became my go-to cover songs, because I knew them all backward and forward. They were what I learned to play the guitar on, and when I did my first open mic night, it was “Cat’s in the Cradle” by Harry Chapin. When I booked my first paying gig, I started with a James Taylor song and ended with a Carly Simon song, and did everything I could think of in the hour and a half in between. I was booked for a return gig the next week based on that performance. Even after I had a full set list of my own original material, I’d still throw in covers of the songs I cut my teeth on.

  Which is why Simon and Garfunkel is what comes out when I start playing. It’s a comfort song, that one. Dad’s favorite song. The first song I ever learned to play. I’m back in Florida, feeling the sea breeze in my hair, and I have a guitar in my hands and a song in my heart and, for a moment, at least, I feel a measure of something like happiness.

  Corey and Elaine fill in their parts, and I let Simon and Garfunkel flow out of me. Rob harmonizes with me, and I’m transported, flown away to that place in my soul where music lives. My talent is rusty from disuse, but this is wetting it, feeding it, greasing it until the cogs churn effortlessly again.

  The song ends, but Elaine keeps playing, shifting into something else, her own melody, maybe. Corey adds a slow beat, and I listen for a moment, but my hands know what to do, even if my head doesn’t. I play with them, add a simple, repeating refrain. Rob leans backward against the wall of the boardwalk and comes back with a mandolin, and then layers in his own contribution. We just play, then, the four of us. It’s a simple song we’re playing, but it’s lovely and delicate and somehow joyful. Hopeful, in a time of hardship. I look around at the people by the fire, and there are bandages and casts and bruises, sorrow and worry lines, fear, sadness, anger. And our music, it’s a moment of light in the darkness.

  I see Jonny, at the edge of the light, arms crossed over his chest, watching me play.

  I lose track of time after that. Jonny just watches, and more people filter in and some leave, and there’s someone with a little camera, recording us. We play for hours, Rob with his mandolin and me with Rob’s gorgeous Martin, Elaine with her cello, and Corey with his bucket drums. We play The Counting Crows, Michael Jackson, Crosby Stills and Nash, Jonny Cash, Alan Jackson, The Black Keys, The White Stripes, and if one of us doesn’t know a song, we improvise. People sing along, and some dance, and others make out, and there’s a sense of camaraderie between us all, born in the ruins of the hurricane and brought to life by the music, the shared moment of enjoyment when all else is so dark and painful.

  Eventually, Corey says he’s beat and has to sleep, and Elaine just blinks sleepily and wanders away with her cello and bow, and now it’s just me and Rob.

  I hand Rob his guitar back. “Thanks for letting me play. She’s a beautiful instrument.”

  Rob takes it and strokes the strings. “She sure is, ain’t she? Ol’ Gloria and me, we’ve been makin’ music together more’n thirty years, now.” He nods at me. “You’re a fine hand with the six-string, Delta, and you got a voice like an angel. Pleasure to jam with you, sweetheart.”

  I smile self-consciously at his compliment. “Thanks, Rob. Did me a world of good to play and sing again. Been a while.”

  “I think there’s talk of another fire tomorrow,” Rob says. “Swing on by and we’ll jam again. I know Gloria will be lookin’ forward to it, and so will I.” He eyes the shadows, and sees Jonny. “Looks like a fella’s waitin’ for you.”

  I stand up. “I’d love to play with Gloria again,” I say. “Thanks again.”

  “It was my pleasure, and I do mean that. Hope we see you tomorrow night.”

  I stroll away from the fire, past Jonny without slowing down or acknowledging him, because I don’t know what to say or how to act around him. He catches up in a few easy strides and walks beside me in silence. I walk straight past his little nest, ignoring him still.