Sing. Vivi Greene

off the glasses and wave them. “These? They’re not prescription.”

      We’re in the middle of an intersection, which, I now see, is a four-way stop. Another car, some kind of old-model Subaru, creeps up behind us, and the guy waves the driver on. Then he crouches between our cars, peering up at the underside of his truck, before glancing down at the puddle.

      “They’re actually just sunglasses,” I explain, now wiping my lenses on the front pocket of my overalls, as if that might help. “For the sun? I got them from a street vendor in Rome.”

      I hear myself still talking and want to climb under the smoking hood and stay there until he drives away or I melt, whichever happens fastest. Sunglasses? For the sun? It’s embarrassing to admit, but there are times when it’s easier to be recognized. Times like these, for example, when it would give me an excuse to stop talking, or at least start talking about something else.

      “You don’t say,” the guy grumbles from the other side of the hood. He stands and scratches his upper arm, revealing a hint of one tanned tricep. I feel my face going red, which is annoying—I’m not in the mood for muscles and blushing. I glance away from him and up at the bed of his truck. It’s stacked high with long wire crates, tangles of mesh nets, and a pile of oblong buoys. Tucked between two empty traps is a long yellow surfboard, its rounded nose jutting out over the tailgate.

      “You surf?” I ask as he stands, waving off the steam and lightly pressing on the bumper. “I mean, obviously. I took a lesson once. My friend wants to learn this summer. It’s on her summer bucket list. Not that she’s dying. She just … it’s something she wants to do.”

      The guy is still carefully inspecting the hood of my car, which has finally stopped smoking. There’s a gnarly looking dent in the bumper and a pattern of scratches near the front, and I’m reminded of Tess and the whole killing-me scenario, which, given the way this conversation is going, now seems like a welcome alternative.

      He holds out his hand and it takes me a minute to understand that he’s asking for my keys.

      “Are you a mechanic?” I ask. I realize there’s little chance he’s going to drive off with Tess’s car, and if he did, he wouldn’t get far, considering we’re on an island. But it still seems important to establish his credibility before handing over her keys to a complete stranger.

      He stares at me for a long moment, and I’m sure this is when it will happen. When he’ll finally recognize me. But I can tell by the look in his eyes—which, unfortunately, are a bright and almost breathtaking blue—that he has no clue who I am.

      “No, I’m not a mechanic,” he says, impatiently running a hand over the top of his cropped light hair. “Are you?”

      I drop the keys in his palm and watch as he climbs into the driver’s seat. “It’s not my car,” I call after him. “I mean, I didn’t steal it or anything. It’s my friend’s. It’s a hybrid. It’s sort of tricky to turn on. There’s this thing with a button?”

      Within seconds the car is whirring to a frenzied start. He glances over his shoulder before slowly backing up. There’s a nasty-sounding crunch as the car unsticks from the undercarriage of his truck, but he doesn’t flinch. He reverses all the way back toward the stop sign, then hops out and jogs back to me.

      “So what’s the bad news?” I ask as he pulls open his door and starts to climb in. “How much do I owe you?”

      “Me?” The guy smiles for the first time, and my insides turn to a familiar pool of wobbly goo. According to Tess, the year-round population on the island is around two thousand. What are the chances that on my first day, I literally run into the best-looking person here? “Well, it is a work vehicle,” he says, thoughtfully tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. “Not to mention my only transportation, so …”

      “Of course.” I nod solemnly.

      “I’d say about fifteen grand?” he ventures. “I mean, like I said, I’m no mechanic, but that seems a reasonable guess.”

      My heart clenches. Who racks up fifteen thousand dollars in damage driving on an island with four major roads and no stoplights? A boxy Jeep rolls through the intersection between us, and the driver and the guy share a wave. I duck behind my hand, imagining the next big headlines: Lily Ross in Grief-Fueled Fender Bender. Not exactly the “quiet escape” I had in mind.

      “Fine,” I huff, an embarrassed whisper. “I don’t have my phone on me, so you’ll have to give me your number or something …”

      The guy looks at me for a drawn-out beat. “I was kidding,” he says flatly. “Are you serious? Fifteen grand? This truck is older than I am. I’ll probably have to pay somebody to get rid of it eventually.”

      I blink at him, flushing from the neck up. Of course he wouldn’t expect me to pay thousands of dollars for a truck that looks like it’s held together mostly by duct tape. I can tell by the smug lift of his golden eyebrows that he thinks I’m an absolute buffoon.

      “Right,” I finally manage, clearing my throat. “Of course. So … we’re good, then?”

      He smirks. “Yeah, we’re good,” he says, closing the door between us. The truck sputters dramatically as he turns the key in the ignition. He checks his rearview mirror and slowly pulls away, pausing after a few feet to glance quickly over his shoulder. “Just don’t write a song about me or anything.”

      He puts on his blinker and lifts two fingers in a half wave at the mirror. I stand frozen in the intersection, a surprised smile inching across my lips, and watch as he takes the turn down another dirt road, traps and buoys and the yellow surfboard clattering in the bed behind him.

      

       84 Days Until Tour June 20th

      THE SATURDAY MORNING yoga class was Sammy’s idea. She had seen a flier on the community board in the supermarket, and dragged us out of bed for it. Tess wanted to stay home—she’s more inclined to beat out aggression in kickboxing than breathe it out at yoga—but after my little mishap with the Pree, she’s refusing to let anybody else drive. I bet Sammy twenty bucks that Tess wouldn’t last through the first sun salutation.

      “Let’s start with our hands on our hearts.” The teacher, Maya, is around our age. She has an easy smile and seems genuine, not pretentious like a lot of the teachers I’ve had in New York and LA

      The room is packed, a cozy attic space above the island’s only hardware store. Every so often I hear the electronic chime of the door below as it swings open, or the thud of the cash register slamming shut. I chose a spot near the wall, with Sammy to one side and an older woman in tie-dyed leggings to the other. Tess is as close as she can be to the exit.

      “Let your breath be your guide,” Maya says. She sits at the front of the class with her eyes closed, a thick beam of dusty sunlight caught in her long, braided hair. She is tall and toned, and dressed comfortably in a gray thermal shirt and worn, wide-legged pants.

      Every so often I sneak glances at Tess, who gradually stops pouting and at one point even seems to be enjoying herself. The class feels great—calming and slow—and I make a mental note to grab a schedule on the way out.

      In savasana, we lie on our backs. Maya sprays a lavender mist around our heads, and my limbs sink heavily into my mat. She asks us to set an intention for the rest of our day. I close my eyes and think about the people I’ve been watching in the mirror, the middle-aged women with frizzy hair and baggy T-shirts, a few rugged men lightheartedly grunting as they attempted to touch their toes. I wonder what their lives are like, if this is their Saturday-morning