Free Sing by Vivi Greene Page A

low, and now, after one little encounter, one glimmer of attention and interest, I’ve been fully recharged, my spirit shocked back to life.
    On the other hand, I feel pathetic. I’ve never thought of myself as having an addictive personality. But now, Iknow the truth. I’m a love addict, and I’ve fallen off the wagon.
    I roll over in bed and reach for my journal, flipping to the page where Noel wrote his number. I stare at the slope of the sevens, the quick, confident dashes between lines. What kind of ridiculous person gets butterflies looking at ten numbers scrawled in the margins of her notebook?
    An addict. That’s who.
    I slap the notebook shut and pull the blankets back over my head. It’s not too late, I tell myself, taking deep, controlled breaths. Just because he gave me his number doesn’t mean I have to use it. There’s still time to be strong.
    I should probably just stay in bed.
    â€œLadies and ladies,” Tess shouts from downstairs. “Your chariot awaits!” Tess has seemed to relish her self-appointed role as tour guide/activities director lately.
    I groan out of bed and shuffle toward the door. “Now what?” I peer sleepily down the stairs.
    Today, Tess is wearing a long-sleeved black shirt with a skull-and-crossbones printed across the chest, cargo pants, and hiking boots. She looks like a cross between a Girl Scout and the drummer in a heavy metal band. “We’re going for a walk. There are ticks. Wear layers.”
    â€œTicks?” Sammy calls out from her room. “No thanks.”
    â€œIt wasn’t a question,” Tess yells. “This summer of bonding was your idea, Samantha. Now get down here and bond.”
    I close my door and head into the bathroom, hoping a shower will turn things around. After, I stare at my phone, considering leaving it behind. But I know it’s not an option; Terry is finalizing tour dates and there are all kinds of details I’ll need to approve. He’ll have a panic attack if I’m not reachable all day long. There’s an anxious rumble in my stomach at the thought of the tour—we’ve been here almost two weeks and I still haven’t written a single song. I grab my journal, too. If I can just steal a few minutes this morning I might be able to get some lyrics down. It’s not a whole album, but it’d be something. Terry would be so relieved . . . and, truthfully, so would I.
    Sam’s door is still closed when I leave my room. I knock quietly and hear some shuffling and a soft thud. Finally she calls out: “Come in!”
    Sammy’s spread out on her bed, a paperback novel—the same one she’s been reading since we got here—propped open.
    â€œYou’re really not coming?” Sam’s room is tiny and toward the front of the house, the only one without a view of the ocean. When we got here it was assumedthat Tess would take the cozy room in the back that she’d slept in when she was a kid, and I got the master suite at the end of the hall. I haven’t spent much time in the room Sammy was left with, and I now realize that it’s actually more of a storage space, with a portable wardrobe and a frameless twin bed pushed up against one corner.
    â€œDo you mind if I hang out here?” Sammy looks at me apologetically. “I’m really into this book.”
    I lean over her shoulder. “What is it?”
    She flops it shut. “Just some sappy love story.” The cover shows a muscular man with Fabio hair embracing a woman in a flapper dress in front of an airplane hangar. “But it’s really well written.”
    I laugh and rest my hand on Sammy’s head. “I’m glad you like it.” Sammy’s never been much of a reader. In high school I used to help her write her papers; in exchange, she’d take me shopping and help me pick out what to wear to the open-mic nights I played in Madison.
    â€œWant