Chapter 10
TEN
LEVI
My phone has thirty-two unread messages.
Forty-three are from my manager, Diane, whose texts have progressed from professional concern to thinly veiled threats over the past week. The other four are from my publicist, Mark, who communicates exclusively in bullet points and anxiety.
I ignore all of them and open my favorite social media platform instead.
This is a mistake. I know it’s a mistake. I make it anyway.
@levicoleupdates: Day 12 of Levi Cole missing from public life. Current theories: 1) rehab (unlikely, he’s boring) 2) secret album recording (please) 3) witness protection (fun but improbable) 4) spiritual awakening in Bali (most popular theory)
@musicnewsdaily: Sources close to Levi Cole say the singer-songwriter has “stepped away to focus on personal growth.” Translation: nobody knows where he is.
@levicoletruth: I saw him at a juice cleanse retreat in Sedona last week. He was doing hot yoga and crying. Very healing energy.
I was not in Sedona. I have never done hot yoga. I don’t even like juice.
@entertainmenttonight: Levi Cole Disappearance: What We Know. The rock star hasn’t been seen publicly in nearly two weeks, sparking concern among fans and industry insiders alike.
I scroll further, morbidly curious.
@spiritualwarrior2024: Levi Cole is clearly on an ayahuasca journey in Peru. You can see it in his last Instagram post. The eyes know.
My last Instagram post was a picture of my coffee mug. The eyes know nothing.
@musicfan99: My cousin’s boyfriend’s sister works at a hotel in Iceland and she SWEARS she saw Levi Cole in the lobby looking “contemplative and possibly Nordic.”
I have never been to Iceland. I don’t even own a coat warm enough for Iceland.
@tmloversforever: unpopular opinion but maybe he just wants privacy?? not everything is a conspiracy???
@levicolestan47: That’s exactly what someone in witness protection would say
@celebritywatcher: brEAKING: Source claims Levi Cole has purchased land in Montana to start an alpaca farm. Developing...
I do not want an alpaca farm. I don’t even know what alpacas eat.
@crazycatlady: He’s either finding love or starting a very intense book club.
Okay, that one’s actually closer to the truth than any of them realize.
I open Instagram, which is somehow worse.
Someone has created an account called @whereslevicole that posts daily updates on reported sightings.
Yesterday, I was apparently spotted at a monastery in Tibet.
The day before, a silent meditation retreat in New Zealand.
Today’s post claims I’ve been seen “purchasing large quantities of herbal tea” in a small town in Vermont.
The comments are a journey.
Maybe he’s becoming a tea influencer.
Wellness era incoming.
Honestly good for him. Big pharma is poison anyway.
That’s not Levi. That’s clearly a tall man in a hat.
The reality—that I’m in a small coastal town in North Carolina, writing songs about my high school girlfriend and watching my brother’s dog steal food—would probably disappoint them. Although the “journey of the heart” psychic might feel vindicated.
My phone buzzes. Diane. Again.
Diane: Levi. I need you to call me. Billboard is asking questions. Rolling Stone wants a comment. If you don’t give me SOMETHING to work with, I’m going to tell them you’ve joined a cult.
Me: Not a cult. Just taking some time.
Diane: When are you coming back?
Me: When I have something worth coming back with.
Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.
Diane: You have two months. Then we need to talk about your contract.
I set down my phone and look at my notebook instead. The pages aren’t blank anymore. That’s something.
She crashed into my life like chaos in a storm, Made me want to open doors I’d sworn I’d kept closed—
It’s not finished. But it’s real. And for the first time in months, I actually want to keep writing.
My phone buzzes again.
Dean: Gym in an hour? Rex ate my protein bar while I was in the shower. Need to work off the rage.
Me: How does he keep doing that? You’re literally a trained rescue professional.
Dean: He’s smarter than me. I’ve accepted it. You coming or not?
I grab my keys.
Twin Waves Fitness is the only gym in town, which means it’s perpetually crowded with everyone from high school athletes to retirees doing water aerobics in the small indoor pool. Dean’s been coming here since it opened, which means everyone knows him, which means everyone now knows me.
“Levi Cole,” says the woman at the front desk, rising from her chair with a warm smile. “I’m Brittany—I own this place. Big fan. Huge fan. My mom has all your albums.”
So much for anonymity.
“Nice to meet you, Brittany. Tell your mom I said thanks.”
She’s somewhere in her early forties, with the kind of toned arms that suggest she practices what she preaches. A schedule board behind her shows yoga classes, spin sessions, and personal training slots, most with her name next to them.
“Tell her thanks.”
“She’s actually here right now. In the spin class. Should I go get her?”
“That’s okay—”
“She would love to meet you. She cried when she heard ‘Distance Between Us.’ Like, ugly cried. At her desk. During a work meeting.”
“That’s...very flattering.”
“Her boss sent her home early. She said it was worth it.”
Dean appears at my elbow, already in workout clothes. “Brittany. Stop terrorizing my brother.”
“I’m not terrorizing. I’m networking.” She grins, and there’s something scrappy about it—the smile of a woman who’s been through some stuff and come out the other side. “Besides, it’s good for business. Celebrity sightings boost membership inquiries by like thirty percent. I read a study.”
“Was it a real study?” Dean asks.
“It was an Instagram post, but it had graphs.” She leans forward conspiratorially toward me. “My mom would literally die if she met you. Actually die. I would become a motherless child at forty-two, and it would be your fault.”
“That’s...a lot of pressure.”
“She’s very dramatic. I get it from her. Also from my ex-husband, who thought buying a boat during our divorce proceedings was a reasonable financial decision.” She waves a hand. “Anyway. Different story. Not important.”
Before I can respond, a door bursts open and a sweaty woman in her late sixties emerges from what I assume is the spin studio. She’s wearing a headband that says SPIN TO WIN and her face is bright red.
“Brittany, that instructor is trying to kill us. I swear she gets some kind of sick pleasure from—” She stops dead. Her eyes go wide. “Oh my.”
“Mom—” Brittany starts.
“Am I dreaming? Delusional?”
“Mom, please don’t—”
“You’re Levi Cole.” The woman presses both hands to her chest like she’s checking for a heartbeat. “You’re Levi Cole, and I look like a tomato that got run over by a truck.”
“You look fine,” I lie.
“I’m SWEATING. I’m sweating in front of Levi Cole. Brittany, why didn’t you warn me?”
“I literally just found out he was coming—”
“I need a picture. I need seventeen pictures. Janet is going to lose her mind.” She’s already fumbling for her phone, which is tucked into her sports bra in a way that makes retrieval complicated.
“Janet said you’d never come to Twin Waves.
She said I was delusional. She said—hold on, it’s stuck—she said celebrities don’t go to small towns unless they’re filming a Hallmark movie. ”
“Mom, maybe let the man work out first—”
“This will only take a second. Smile!”
She finally extracts her phone and holds it up. The angle is approximately forty-five degrees from flattering. I smile anyway because Dean is making a face behind her that suggests he will never let me forget this moment.
“Beautiful. Perfect. Janet is going to eat her words.” She peers at the screen. “Oh, I look terrible. Let’s do another one.”
“Mom.”
“Just one more. Maybe without the headband.”
We take four more pictures. In the last one, she insists on doing a thumbs up, and somehow I end up doing one too, which means somewhere in Twin Waves there now exists photographic evidence of me looking like a complete dork.
“Thank you so much,” she gushes. “This is the best day of my life. Don’t tell my husband I said that. Or Brittany.”
“I’m right here,” Brittany says.
“You were born on a very rainy Tuesday, and I was in labor for twenty-six hours. This is better.” She pats my arm. “You’re taller than I expected. And your brother is very handsome. Good genes in your family.”
“I’m going to go work out now,” Dean says flatly.
“You do that, honey. Build those muscles.” She winks at me. “He’s single, you know. Well, not single. Engaged. To that lovely Jo woman. But if you have any single friends who like firefighters—”
“Mom, oh my word, we’re leaving.” Brittany physically steers her mother toward the locker room. “I’m so sorry. She’s like this with everyone famous. She once followed the guy who played a background extra in a Hallmark movie around Costco for twenty minutes.”
“He was very tall!” her mother calls back. “It might have been someone important!”
Brittany returns to the front desk, shaking her head but smiling.
“I apologize for her. And for pimping out your brother. She’s convinced everyone needs to be married because she’s been with my dad for forty-five years and doesn’t understand that some of us are happier without—” She stops, laughs.
“Sorry. Oversharing. Occupational hazard of running a gym. People tell me things while they’re stretching, and now I just assume everyone wants to hear my life story. ”
“It’s fine,” I say, and I mean it. There’s something likeable about her—the kind of open, honest energy that feels rare.
“I teach the six am yoga class if you ever want to try it,” she offers. “Very low-key. No chanting. I save the spiritual stuff for the evening sessions when people have already had wine.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
Dean steers me toward the weight room. “Sorry about that.”
“Don’t be. It was...memorable.”