Sing. Vivi Greene

shrugs. “At the bar the other night. Some guys she used to play with when she was little. They seemed nice. I thought she told you.” She walks briskly toward the trash.

      “No, she didn’t tell me,” I say, hurrying to catch up. “I’m pretty sure I’d remember hearing about a post-yoga fishing date. Nice try.”

      Sammy smiles sheepishly. “Tess thought you wouldn’t go unless we bribed you with snacks,” she says, tossing the rest of my muffin into the compost bin.

      I can’t help but laugh. They may not understand every aspect of what I do, the impossible balance of life and career—but they know me. We walk outside and I stop short in front of the big window. “I haven’t showered,” I say, catching sight of my reflection. My hair is flat and sweaty, the straps of my halter are twisted in the back. “I’m supposed to wear this?”

      “You’re the one who wants to be normal,” Tess says, linking her arm in mine as she drags me toward the car.

      “Hop in,” she orders. “I’m driving.”

      

       84 Days Until Tour June 20th

      THE HARBOR IS busy, bustling with fishermen in orange pants and suspenders loading and unloading gear and traps from a line of bobbing boats. We park in a half-empty lot, and as we get out of the car, a brisk ocean breeze whips my hair from my face.

      I shiver. “I wish I’d known you made plans,” I mutter, rubbing the sides of my bare arms. “I would have worn something warmer.”