Chapter 12 – Willa
TWELVE
WILLA
The next morning, I woke with an unfamiliar exhaustion that ached in my bones.
I lay there for a moment, confused, before it all came back to me: not a wild night of drinking or partying, as one might expect from a pop star, but a night in a small town with women I had just barely met, adrenaline pumping through our veins as we vandalized a man’s house.
The man who grabbed my wrist when I tried to flee the scene of the crime and tugged me into his chest before looking down at me with a heated glare.
For the first time in years, Leo Sinclaire had looked at me with something other than the cool indifference he always showed me.
A shiver rolls through me as I remember how he looked at my lips, how he held me tight, how his body felt against mine.
Once I push past those memories, I stumble across the next, more important one: I started writing a song last night.
At that reminder, excitement courses through me, and I roll out of bed, eager to get on with my morning.
I speed through washing my face and brushing my teeth, and head to the kitchen for water and my green juice.
When I pour it into a glass, I stare at the goo for longer than usual, a grimace on my face.
Do what you want.
One thing I know I do not want is to drink this green sludge, and in a moment of impulsivity, I upend the glass over the sink and drain it.
A wave of excitement rushes through me, and I’m nearly giddy as I move through the pre-recorded online class on my computer before taking my shower and having a quick breakfast.
Then I sit down in front of my guitar and paper and take a deep, nervous breath before reading over what I jotted down the night before.
For a moment, I fear I’ll be back where I started, that what I wrote will have been shit, but instead I realize I’ve finally got something.
I spend the entire day adding and tweaking the lyrics and adding a bridge.
Joy fills me as the vision I’d already had for the album grows and takes shape, becoming almost tangible.
Each of my albums tells a cohesive story, so if this is the first track for the album—a night out with your friends and getting into trouble—then track two would be about meeting the person you’re about to date, about knowing from that very first glance you wanted to learn more about that person.
Halfway through the day, my clothing delivery arrives, and I excitedly put on one of the colorful sweatshirts and a pair of comfy lounge shorts before finishing the first song over leftovers from the night before.
I head to bed that night feeling more hopeful and inspired than I have in months.
The next morning, I wake up and start my routine, though today I don’t even bother cracking the seal on my green juice. By eight, I’ve worked out, showered, and eaten, and I’m sitting on my couch with my guitar in my lap, ready to start writing.
That’s when the panic drifts in once more.
I thought that since the previous song came so quickly, I was on a roll and the rest would finally start flowing in.
I was so horrendously wrong.
I sit down to work on the next song, one I decided would be about meeting someone and having a crush on them, that butterfly feeling in your chest that accompanies it.
I know the vibes, the general idea of the song.
I’ve written down words to spur anything on, but just like before I wrote “Good Trouble,” I get nothing.
Nothing comes to me.
At first, I think it’s a fluke. At first, I thought I might just need to rest and get some space between the first song and the next, but then the same thing happened on Friday.
And Saturday.
And Sunday.
On Monday, I head to Adam and Wren’s house, and he helps me refine “Good Trouble,” then records the track in a messy first draft.
That goes smoothly, and I think maybe it was just being alone that had me stuck, but on Tuesday, when I try to write the next song with Adam, I hit that same stupid wall.
I hate everything I write.
It’s all terrible.
By Thursday, I’m back to writing alone and crawling out of my skin, trying to find that thread of inspiration, when Nat calls. Eagerly, I answer, desperate for any kind of distraction.
“Hey, how’s it going?”
“We’re going out tomorrow,” she says with no fanfare, no pleasant small talk. My brows furrow in confusion as I stare at the blank wall before me.
“Out?”
“To The Mill.”
“The Mill?” I ask, feeling like a parrot as I echo her words.
She doesn’t seem to mind, patiently explaining. “It’s a bar in town, owned by Hallie’s brother.”
“Wow,” I say with a laugh. “Do you know everyone here? Is everyone related in some way?”
Nat lets out a melodic laugh. “I mean, kind of? It’s a small town; everyone knows everyone.”
I sit back on the couch, folding my legs beneath me. “It sounds fake. Like some kind of shitty made-for-TV movie.”
“Close enough,” she says, and even though I can’t see her, I can picture the shrug. “Anyway, are you in? We’re thinking seven, but we’ll go to the diner before, at, like, six to make sure we’re not drinking on an empty stomach.”
“I don’t know,” I say, biting my lip.
“Come on. What else are you going to do? You came here to have fun, right?”
She’s not completely right, since I came here to lay low, but considering how stuck I am, I don’t correct her. Instead, I think of how the last time I went out with her, I wrote a song and got inspired, and I would do just about anything for some inspiration right now.
“The girls will all be there. It’ll be a blast,” she says as if she can sense my hesitation.
For a split second, Leo’s warning not to get into trouble moves through my mind, but instead of driving me to the smart answer, it does the opposite.
“Okay, I’m in,” I say, a small smile on my lips.
“Really?” she asks, then squeals in excitement. “Oh my god, yes! I can’t wait! We’ll get ready at your place. We’ll be there at five. Gotta go call Hal, later!”
And before I can argue, the phone goes dead, as if she doesn’t want to give me any chance to reconsider.
Another thing I’ve always thought was a cinematic exaggeration was the non-stop laughter of a group of girlfriends getting ready for a girls’ night out. You know the kind...the giggles that start at the slightest little thing and never seem to stop? Turns out that’s real, too.
But the next night, when Nat, Hallie, and Wren all come over to get ready for a night out at a small-town dive bar, I experience it for the first time.
Sharing lipsticks and borrowing tops and laughing so much, I had to wave my hands at my face so as not to ruin the perfect face of makeup that Nat did for me.
It’s real, and it just played out at my place tonight.
“Will, are you ready?” Nat calls from my living room. “Jesse’s here.”
“Coming!” I shout, then stare in the mirror for another moment.
For the first time since I arrived here, I do my centering routine: close my eyes, take in five deep, calming breaths until the butterflies in my chest slow.
This time, though, I don’t remind myself that Gabe is here, because he’s not, and I don’t have to assure myself that I have my cool girl armor on, because I don’t.
But that knowledge doesn’t leave me more nervous: in fact, it makes me feel even better.
Instead of a fashion-forward, paparazzi-friendly outfit, I’m wearing a casual top I borrowed from Hallie, a pretty powder-blue one that looks amazing on me and complements my hair perfectly.
I’m not wearing my headache-inducing slick ponytail because Nat insisted on doing my hair and makeup.
Instead, my hair flows down my back in loose waves, and my makeup is light with a brighter blush than I would normally wear, something from Nat’s own collection.
I don’t have my contacts in, and instead of my signature neutral smoky eye, I’m wearing simple eyeliner and mascara.
When I open my eyes, I don’t see Willa Stone TM, ready to trick the world into thinking I have it all together, in the mirror.
Instead, I just see myself.
Instead, someone familiar and friendly stares back at me.
I smile at the woman in the mirror, then step away to head out with my friends.
Hallie insisted that Jesse drive me home tonight, so I could get crazy, and I didn’t have the heart to tell her that it probably wouldn’t happen.
Nat is planning to take a cab to her house, located not too far away from the bar, and Adam is meeting us at the Mill, so he’ll be taking Wren home, but we all pile into Hallie’s car with Jesse driving us to the diner.
We eat in utter chaos, Hallie and Jesse bantering nonstop, which Nat tells me in a hushed tone is their own personal version of foreplay.
Nat argues with Madden, who shows up a bit after us, and Wren eagerly fills me in on all about her and Adam’s summer plans over the loud chattering.
After dinner, we head to the Mill, which is in the center of town.
It’s dim, with dark, dark hardwood floors and beams throughout, and tables of various sizes and heights lining the sides of the room.
To the left is a bar with bottles lining the walls and half a dozen stools.
Music plays from a jukebox—an actual, real-life jukebox!
—in the corner, and it looks exactly what you would picture if you thought of a friendly local bar in a small town.
I love it the instant I step inside.