I clicked on his text’s accompanying photo: a picture of barely clothed New Yorkers sprawling all over Sheep Meadow’s green lawn—enjoying the first warm day of the year. I spotted Summer in the corner of the photo, flipping the camera off. While I was on tour, Summer had invited Garrett to come to one of her client’s fashion shows, and apparently, they shut down the after-party together, getting happy-drunk and sharing a cab ride home. And then they started going for coffee. And now my two best friends were sitting in Central Park annoying the hell out of each other in a loving way. I smiled big, comforted by the idea of them becoming friends. I took in the photo, reminded of the first time I saw Garrett running through that patch of grass.
I didn’t see Garrett for three weeks after my twenty-fourth birthday. I couldn’t drag my body through the front door of a TJ’s on our Monday nights, as the humiliation and unspoken awkwardness from our almost-kiss and the fact that he’d gotten back with his girlfriend within the hour played like a horror movie in my mind. I was furious with both myself and him, but I recognized he didn’t do anything wrong. He thought I was turning him down, and so he turned to the next best thing. Three weeks after that mess, he texted me a picture of a bunch of his friends with Solo cups on blankets, sunbathing in Sheep Meadow. Come hang, we’ll be here all day! his text read. He was the bigger person—the person willing to blow past the awkwardness for our friendship. Mortification left my body, I grabbed a light jean jacket, and ran out the door. I walked over to the red plaid blanket from the photo, searching for Garrett, when I got a tap on my shoulder. “You must be Maggie!” said this blond, bubbly, wide-eyed angel. It was Quinn, his on-again girlfriend. With her four words, my heart thudded against my rib cage: I was officially in the Friend Zone. I wasn’t a threat to his girlfriend—I was someone Garrett told his girlfriend about. I had two choices: embrace my role as the next best thing, or walk away. As my heart sank, I saw Garrett running yards ahead, shirtless, jumping in the air to catch a Frisbee like a golden retriever. He turned around and locked eyes with me, grinning from ear to ear as he swooped the sweaty hair out of his face. My body lit up at his smile, and I decided a life without Garrett would ache more than a life spent wanting more from him. Since that moment, I’d met three women who hugged me just as tightly as Quinn, squealing a “You must be Maggie!” in my direction. With each introduction, the pain lessened.
I grinned at the photo of Sheep Meadow, and I curled my body up to the bus’s window, snapping a picture outside of the sun setting on West Virginia farmland.
I’ll be back next week! Keep Central Park warm for me, I wrote, attaching the picture.
I was officially in remission from Garrett Scholl, and my entire body was better for it. Wanting something you can’t have is an all-consuming ache, and if you’re not careful, it can darken your insides. It had been a couple years since my last pine—since I closed my eyes and fantasized about standing next to him in a courthouse or pushing out his blue-eyed babies. I was also incredibly busy, which helped with rumination. Nothing is worse for heartache than idle time.
I was opening for the Violet Bride—a beloved indie band with a small but loyal following. I had made friends with a booking manager in New York City, Josh Wheeler, who knew to call me whenever opening acts backed out anywhere around the tri-state area. It meant playing at midsize venues and selling my demo with the bigger band’s merch—which was incredible exposure and much less horrible pay than I was used to. So, when the Violet Bride’s opening band announced they were breaking up—one month before they were set to leave on their North American tour—Josh sent my YouTube channel their way. I brought my guitar to their lead singer’s apartment at two in the morning, belted six songs for the three-person band, and they responded by telling me to clear my schedule from February to April.
“Can I bug you?” I heard a voice ask.
I sat up in the bunk and pulled back the curtain, smiling as Drew Reddy slyly lifted his eyebrow. I patted the empty space next to my crossed legs, and he hopped up, pulling the curtain closed and putting his scruff on my neck.
I met Drew the first night of the tour at the historic Aladdin Theater in Portland. My set started out the way most unknown opening acts do—noisy chatter and laughter competed with my voice. But by my last song, I noticed a hush had fallen across the room. The sold-out crowd of 620 people was transfixed, staring up at me in silence so I could be loud. I floated offstage to a chorus of deafening cheers, my skin on fire and my insides vibrating from the rush of captivating my largest audience.
Seconds later, Drew found me backstage at my sexiest—my sweaty forehead pressed against a giant box fan, the neckline of my off-the-shoulder dress tugged below my bra. Just a girl, standing in front a fan, asking it to cool her post-show adrenaline boob sweat.
“You were something out there,” said a faded Southern accent.
I quickly pulled my dress’s neckline above my chest and turned to find myself staring directly into a wide 85mm lens. The shutter clicked, and the photographer glanced up from his camera, his playful expression widening my eyes. He looked like the kind of guy who built log cabins with his bare hands—a beanie, flannel, and blue jeans.
“Drew,” he said, outstretching his hand to mine. “I’m joining you guys for the rest of the tour.” He pointed to his chest. “The photographer.”
“Maggie Vine. The opening act,” I announced.
“Yeah, no shit.”
I grinned, cheeks reddening.
“What?” he asked, amused.
“It’s just…I’m not used to someone knowing who I am before we’ve been introduced.”
“Get used to it, Vine.”
The sound of my last name on his lips made my face burn even hotter.
Later that night on the tour bus, after I beat him in a game of Bullshit and gloated shamelessly with a victory dance, he stared into my eyes for five seconds and announced, “You’re trouble.”