49. Summer
Summer
Two years later …
“That guy was cute! Why didn’t you take his number?” Addie asks as I climb into the blacked-out SUV. Paparazzi flashes and fans’ screams are cut off by the slam of the car door.
“Because he was a random off a street?”
She shrugs. “So?”
“He could have been a psychopath.”
She swats her hand in the air. “You’re so closed off. You need to loosen up.”
“I’m fine,” I say, shrugging on my coat.
“If you say I’m fine one more time, I’ll scream.” She throws her arms out wide. “You were fine in Tokyo. Fine in London. Fine in Paris. Fine in Sydney. Fine in every city on the planet.” She looks at me. “How long are you planning to be fine for?”
I lean my head against the seat and watch Edinburgh slide past the window. “However long I feel like.”
She huffs a laugh, rolling her eyes.
We drive in silence for a while, passing gray stone and gold lamplight, before she finally breaks it. “Hey.”
I turn my head. “Yeah?”
A soft, faraway smile ghosts her lips. “Remember when we were teenagers, this was the dream?” She shakes her head. “It was literally all we used to talk about. You and me, taking on the world.”
My own mouth twitches as I drag in a breath. “Crazy, huh?”
Her smile fades. She watches me carefully. “Is it still a dream?”
I look down at my lap. “Is it bad if I’m not so sure anymore?”
She reaches over and takes my hand. “Not at all.”
She doesn’t say anything else, and I love her for it. Some people rush to fill the void or give you their opinion, but Addie simply lets the question breathe, and that’s worth more than any answer she could have given me.
I give Addie’s fingers a squeeze.
Tomorrow, we fly back to New York to close out the tour.
Two years have passed.
I haven’t really heard from Chase.
A message on Easter weekend—Happy Easter, Hayes.
He left me a voicemail for my birthday in July.
I was in a hotel room in Singapore when my phone lit up with a voicemail notification.
The sight of his name still sends my heart racing.
He sounded the same. Calm, cool, and collected.
He said he hoped I was doing well and congratulated me on the album.
He said he thinks of me and that Dan is doing better.
Then he said five words that speared me—I’m proud of you, Hayes.
I’m not sure why those particular words struck a chord, but they filled every empty space I had.
And finally, a Happy Thanksgiving message that arrived while I was somewhere over the Atlantic, which I reread thirty-odd times.
Other than those small tokens, we haven’t spoken or had much to do with each other.
I wasn’t sure what to expect after I left Ocean Grove, but I knew I didn’t want radio silence.
I’m not sure I would survive the total absence of him, but I didn’t want to fall into the habit of reaching for him every time something was hard or beautiful or when I needed reassurance that I was on the right path. Only I can answer that.
Somewhere along the way, we found a middle ground, and I’ve wanted to hold it carefully.
It doesn’t feel like I’ve been gone for two years. It feels like I’m stuck in a disconnected, automatic routine. I’m moving through these spectacular, vibrant cities in a state of emotional numbness, a sense of detachment from my surroundings. I feel as if the privilege is wasted on me.
Being a celebrity looks glossy and glamorous on the outside, and for a long time, I believed the outside. But the reality is the exact opposite.
What you see on TV or social media is superficial—the layer curated for everyone else’s consumption. But once you peel that layer away, what lies underneath tells a very different story.
Five-star hotels all look the same after a while, and the cities bleed into each other until the only way I know where I am is by the language on the room service menu. The faces in the VIP area change every night, but the distance between me and them never does.
My newest album, Invisible Strings, released seven weeks after I left Ocean Grove. Tim and I worked day in and day out to put it together, and I’m proud of it.
It shot to number one in twelve countries.
Critics called it the best work of my career, comparing it to my debut. Finally, I was able to scroll through reviews without feeling like I was going to retch.
Tim has never been happier with me.
Rolling Stone called it “a cultural moment.”
Addie got a huge bonus.
And I’m bone tired. My limbs feel leaden.
I’ve given the world everything I have night after night for two years straight, and I can feel my well drying up.
I’m incredibly grateful, even through the exhaustion, but it’s more than that. I’m tired in a way that sleep doesn’t fix.
The rush onstage is still very real. It fizzes through me like sherbet. But it’s what’s left when the stage lights go out that gets to me. I’m left alone in another hotel room, ordering room service, wiping off my makeup, just to do it all over again the next night.
This can’t be what I do with the rest of my life.
How can someone be so in demand, surrounded by thousands of people every day, and still feel lonely? I’ve been asking myself that question for years, and I haven’t found an answer that satisfies me.
When my friends have gone home, and I wake up at dawn with no one beside me, I wonder if it’s all worth it. The glitz and the glam and the loneliness that lives within that nobody talks about because it doesn’t fit the narrative.
Writing songs has always given me purpose. It’s brought me hope and joy, and I don’t think that part will ever leave me. But performing those songs? Those moments, those feelings? Giving that away to strangers—despite how much my experience might resonate—leaves me empty.
I’m handing out pieces of myself I don’t know how to get back. I think I’ve confused giving everything with living fully.
I rub my hand over my chest—a way of regulating my nervous system and coming back to myself—and close my eyes. I whisper the same mantra to myself after every show.
I am whole.
I am enough.
I am worthy.
And I feel it again.
The pull.
It’s still there.