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in.
    But all I feel is free.

5
    87 Days Until Tour
    June 17th
    THE FIRST FEW days on the island are a blissful blur of lazy mornings, long lunches, and epic sunsets on the beach. A side perk of tossing my phone out to sea has been that I’m not obsessively waiting for texts from Jed . . . though of course I can’t help but wonder if he’s trying to get in touch. I’ve borrowed Tess’s phone to check in with my parents, and after a few pathetic e-mails from Terry begging me to stay on top of my social media feeds, I’ve even posted the odd photo of my toes in the sand. But for the most part, I’ve managed to stay completely off the grid.
    Our rhythm has already slowed to a leisurely vacation pace, though Tess insisted, over our first breakfast ofgranola and yogurt on the porch, that we each jot down a list of summer goals:
    Tess wants to learn to surf. Yesterday morning, she rented a board from the surf shop in town and has spent the afternoon getting battered by wave after wave.
    Sammy wants to read more. She picked a romance novel from the living room shelves, but so far has mostly used it as a pillow on the beach.
    And I want to cook, the way I used to with Mom, before all I ate were catered meals and delivery. Something about it feels meditative, having to carefully follow so many steps. It’s as if by constructing all these meals, piece by piece, I might be able to construct a better version of myself—a stronger version, one that doesn’t shatter to pieces every time I end up on my own.
    But what’s constantly on my mind, what remains unspoken between us, is what’s really on my list: to write twelve new songs by the end of the summer, a new album to replace Forever , that’s better than Forever ; an album I can tour with in the fall. To see myself, my music, in a different light.
    So far, it’s been slow going. Today I stared at the blank lines in my journal, scratching things out as quickly as I’d written them down. There’s still a restless energy whirring inside me, reverberations of city life. I feel likea top that hasn’t stopped spinning, as if my body hasn’t quite caught up with my head.
    And so it’s back to the kitchen.
    After we’ve officially overdosed on lobster rolls and clam chowder, I decide to attempt my first home-cooked dinner. Sammy and Tess hover in the kitchen, waiting for me to lose my cool. I don’t. I make honey mustard chicken and coconut rice and a salad. I even toast some bread with garlic butter. There’s an incident with a pan full of sizzling oil and a finicky smoke detector, but when the food is finally plated and largely resembles an actual, edible meal , I feel like a bona fide gourmand.
    â€œThis is not terrible,” Tess says as we take our first bites at the round kitchen table.
    â€œGee, thanks,” I deadpan, but I have to admit I’ve surprised myself. The last real meal I cooked was probably before I left home, when Mom made me help her in the kitchen on Thanksgiving. It’s nice to have accomplished something, even if it’s not songwriting. Anxious butterflies swarm my stomach—there are eighty-seven days until the tour, which sounds like a lot, but I can feel the hours ticking down already.
    â€œWho wants to go out?” Sammy asks, stacking the dirty dishes after we’ve finished.
    â€œOut?” Tess laughs. “Did you maybe get a little too much sun today? We’re on an island with threerestaurants, one of which is also the post office. There is no out. ”
    Sammy drops the plates in the sink with a clatter, and I notice the pink lines of a burn on her neck. I feel suddenly guilty for dragging her here, where her fair skin and freckles will be at constant risk of sun damage, and where there isn’t a decent cocktail menu within a fifty-mile radius.
    â€œThere has to be something,” I insist on Sammy’s behalf. “What do people here