Chapter 4
FOUR
LEVI
Monday morning, I’m back at Twin Waves Brewing Co. like a man who hasn’t learned his lesson.
The notebook in front of me is still blank. The guitar case leaning against my chair is still closed. The coffee Michelle brought me twenty minutes ago is still untouched and getting cold.
I’ve written exactly three words this morning: She was standing—
Standing where? Doing what? Why do I care?
I scratch them out and start again.
The way she—
Nope. Delete. Scratch. Gone.
When I saw her—
I throw the pen down and scrub my hands over my face. This is pathetic. I’ve written chart-topping albums. I’ve performed in front of sixty thousand people. I’ve been nominated for Grammys.
And I can’t write a single sentence because my brain won’t stop replaying Friday night.
The way Delilah laughed at the “Steve the seagull” story.
The way she spilled beer on her sweater and tried to play it off.
The way she looked at me on that porch, backlit by the sunset, asking questions I didn’t know how to answer.
“How’s it going over here?”
Michelle appears at my table, wiping her hands on her apron, her expression somewhere between amused and sympathetic.
“Still staring at a blank page, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Writer’s block?”
“Something like that.”
“You talk to Scott yet?”
“About what?”
“About the block. The muse thing.” She crosses her arms. “I told you he went through the same thing. He might actually have useful advice instead of you just sitting here staring at paper like it personally offended you.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“You’ve been avoiding.” She raises an eyebrow. She walks away before I can respond, which is probably for the best.
I pull the notebook back toward me and stare at the blank page. The right inspiration. Easy for her to say. My inspiration is currently running a flower shop and probably hoping I fall into the ocean.
The bell above the door chimes, and I look up automatically—then immediately look back down when I see it’s not Delilah.
Get it together, Cole.
It’s a woman with auburn hair and tired eyes, holding the hand of a little girl with bright red hair in two braids.
The coffee shop is busier than usual—first day of spring break, and the tourists are already flooding in for the season.
The woman—Hazel, I think Jo said her name was—looks like she’s been up since dawn and is already regretting every life choice that led her to this moment.
She makes a beeline for a corner booth where an older woman is already sitting.
The red-haired kid trails behind, looking supremely bored in the way only children trying to act older can manage.
I go back to my notebook.
She was—
“So. Creative block, huh?”
I look up. The red-haired kid has materialized across from me, sliding into the booth like she owns the place. She’s maybe eight, wearing a shirt with a cartoon cat on it that says “Whatever” in sparkly letters.
“Excuse me?”
“Creative block.” She shrugs, examining her nails the way I’ve seen teenagers do in movies. “That’s like, a whole mood.”
“I’m sorry, do I know you?”
“I’m Ellen.” She says it like this should explain everything. “My mom is over there with Great-Grandma Hensley. They’re gonna talk forever about boring stuff.” She gestures vaguely toward the corner booth. “So I figured I’d come give you some advice.”
“Advice.”
“About your muse situation.”
I set down my pen. “My muse situation.”
“Dude, you keep repeating everything I say. That’s lowkey weird.” Ellen tilts her head, studying me with an intensity that’s slightly unnerving. “You’re the rock star, right? Dean’s brother? My sister Kira has your album. She thinks you’re mid, but whatever.”
“Mid?”
“Like, average. Not bad, not great. Mid.” She waves a hand dismissively. “I told her your early stuff was better. More raw, you know? More real.”
I don’t know whether to be offended or impressed. “You’re what, seven?”
“Eight. And age is just a number.” She rolls her eyes exactly like a teenager would. “Wisdom is eternal.”
“Where did you hear that?”
“Birthday card. But it’s still true.”
I find myself fighting a smile. “Okay, Ellen. What’s your advice about my muse situation?”
She leans forward conspiratorially. “So like, my great-grandma? She’s basically a love expert.
She’s been matching people up in this town since forever.
And she says—” Ellen drops her voice to a dramatic whisper, “—that love is the ultimate muse. Like, all the best songs are about love. All the best books too. My mom’s book club only reads romance, and those authors are super prolific. ”
“Prolific?”
“It means they write a lot. I learned it from Kira.” Ellen looks pleased with herself for approximately two seconds before shrugging it off. “Anyway. Have you tried falling in love?”
“It’s not really that simple.”
“Why not?”
“Because—” I stop. Because the woman I love left me twice without explaining why. Because seeing her again has turned my brain to static. Because I’m pretty sure I never actually fell out of love with her in the first place, which is its own kind of pathetic. “It’s complicated.”
“Grown-ups always say that.” Ellen slumps back against the booth. “Kira says ‘it’s complicated’ is just code for ‘I don’t want to deal with my feelings.’”
“Kira sounds very wise.”
“She’s sixteen. She thinks she knows everything.” Ellen picks at the edge of the table. “But sometimes she’s right. Don’t tell her I said that.”
“Your secret’s safe with me.”
“Cool.” She perks up slightly. “So anyway, my advice? Find someone who makes you feel stuff. Like, real stuff. Not fake stuff. And then write about it. That’s what Great-Grandma says. She says all the best love stories come from people who were brave enough to feel things.”
“That’s actually pretty solid advice.”
“I know, right?” Ellen grins, then immediately rearranges her face back into studied boredom. “I mean. Whatever. It’s not like I care.”
The bell above the door chimes again.
Every nerve in my body fires at once.
Delilah walks in, wearing a green sweater and jeans, her hair loose around her shoulders. She’s looking at her phone, not watching where she’s going, and she doesn’t see me.
“Dude.” Ellen’s voice cuts through my haze. “You’re totally staring.”
“I’m not staring.”
“You’re, like, mega staring. Your whole face changed.” She studies me with renewed interest. “Who is that?”
“No one.”
“That’s obviously not no one. You look like someone just punched you in the heart.”
“That’s not a thing.”
“It’s totally a thing. Kira says it all the time about the guys in her K-dramas.”
I watch as Delilah orders at the counter. Michelle says something that makes her laugh, and the sound hits me right in the chest.
“I’m gonna go talk to her,” Ellen announces, starting to slide out of the booth.
“No.” I grab my pen like it’s a lifeline. “Please don’t.”
“Why? She seems nice. Miss Delilah comes to book club sometimes. She’s the flower lady.”
“I know who she is.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“It’s—”
“Complicated?” Ellen rolls her eyes. “Told you. Code for feelings.”
Delilah turns from the counter with her coffee, finally looking up from her phone. Her eyes scan the room, casual and unhurried—
Until her gaze lands on me.
I see the exact moment she registers my presence. Her step falters. Her grip tightens on her cup.
And then she does something I don’t expect. Instead of bolting for the door, she squares her shoulders and walks toward me.
“Hey,” she says. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”
“I didn’t know you’d be here either.”
Ellen watches this exchange with undisguised fascination.
“This is Ellen,” I hear myself say. “She was giving me advice about my muse situation.”
“Oh yeah?” Delilah’s lips twitch.
“It’s a whole thing,” Ellen says sagely. “He’s creatively blocked. I told him he needs to fall in love.”
“Did you?”
“It’s solid advice.” Ellen shrugs. “Ask anyone.”
I start to stand, because this conversation is heading somewhere dangerous and I need to redirect it. “Let me get you a chair—”
What happens next unfolds in slow motion.
I push back from the table. My chair scrapes against the floor. Delilah steps forward at the same moment, probably thinking she’ll just slide into the booth across from me.
We collide.
Her coffee goes everywhere.
I mean everywhere. My shirt. The table. The bench seat. A splash hits my notebook, and I lunge to save it, which only makes things worse because now I’m pressed against Delilah, who’s stumbling backward, and her cup is still somehow emptying its contents in a seemingly endless stream of hot liquid.
“Oh my.” Delilah’s face is the color of a tomato. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t—your guitar, is your guitar okay?”
I grab the case and pull it to safety. “It’s fine. It’s fine.”
“Your notebook—”
“It’s okay, nothing important—”
“Your shirt is soaked, oh my goodness—”
We both reach for the napkin dispenser at the same time. Our hands collide. We freeze.
She’s close enough that I can smell her shampoo. Something floral. Of course it’s floral. She works with flowers all day.
“Sorry,” she breathes.
“It’s fine,” I say, except my voice comes out rough.
We stare at each other for one beat. Two.
“You always did have perfect timing,” I mutter, pulling napkins from the dispenser and dabbing at my shirt.
The words are out before I can stop them. I don’t even fully mean them—or maybe I do, but not about the coffee.
Delilah goes very still.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing.” I keep my eyes on my shirt. “Forget it.”
“No, say it. You clearly have something—”
“Yikes.” Ellen appears beside us, shaking her head slowly like a disappointed teenager. “That was rough, dude.”
We both turn to look at her.
“What?” She shrugs. “It was. You guys are super bad at this.”
“Ellen.” Hazel materializes behind her daughter, looking frazzled. “What are you—oh.” She takes in the scene. Me, soaked in coffee. Delilah, mortified. The table, a disaster zone. “Oh dear.”