What they don’t tell you abouthaving it allis that youcanhave it all, but you have to choose what version ofallyou want: you can’t have it all in all aspects of your life. You can have a career or a love life. You can have fame, or you can have comfort. You can have peace and quiet or adventure and success.
The world tells us the lie of having it all so that we keep going, of how to keep striving when life gets hard. But the people at the top, the ones who are the most successful, will all tell youthe same thing—at some point, you have to choose. You have to choose what you want most of all and how to be okay with everything else falling behind.
That was the day I chose my career. I chose performing and my fans and success over finding that foreign, mythical, all-consuming love that songs were written about.
And up until recently, I never, ever regretted that decision.
But here, in this small town, surrounded by people who seem to actually have it all—the career, the love life, the family, the friends, I wonder if all this time, maybe I had it wrong.
NINE
WILLA
On my first full day in my new place in Holly Ridge, I wake up early on instinct and go about my usual routine, determined to get myself back on track. Now that I have peace and a new setting, I just need to fall into my routine, and I’ll be able to write.
At least, that’s what I convinced myself of the night before.
Like clockwork, I wake up, get dressed, drink a glass of water, then my green juice, do a virtual Pilates class, shower, and have breakfast. Finally, I sit, ready to write, with my guitar in my lap. I’m hopeful, determined to believe that if I just fall into old patterns, it will happen. On instinct, my fingers start to move, humming to an old Atlas Oaks song, and my chest feels lighter, my day brighter. As my fingers move gently over the strings aimlessly, I wonder when the last time I did this was…just playing for no real reason. I used to do it all the time, just sit and play random songs, my own and other artists, just for the fun of it.
That is, until the guilt barrels in, reminding me that Ishouldbe writing, not goofing around. Ineedto be crafting my next bigalbum. Ineedto make it bigger and better and flashier, to pull out all the stops, and it always starts with the tune and the lyrics.
Reaching for the pad of paper, I pull it closer and start writing down emotions and thoughts about falling in love, hoping it will spark something. I shift in my seat, my top cutting into my side, and realize maybe that’s my problem. Maybe I need to change into comfier clothes, something loose and comfortable and familiar in order to tap into my muse. Eager for any excuse, I set my guitar aside and walk away, my chest lightening with each step I take away from my work, something I ignore fervently. When I step into my new room and open the small closet, I look around, seeing taupes, browns, creams, and blacks. My tour and red carpet outfits are often filled with color, denoting whatever each album vibe is going to be, but my “streetwear,” as my stylist calls it, is mostly neutrals, meant to complement my hair and skin, apparently, so my entire closet is perfectly curated cool girl outfits chosen to become inspiration for everyone.
My fingers freeze over the fabrics, guilt rearing up as I take in the extravagant wardrobe. All of which, in this moment, I realize I don’t even really like.
They aren’tme, Just Willa. They’reWilla Stone TM, the brand.
And even though the brand is what sells it, the brand isn’t whowritesthe music. My mind drifts, stumbling on another idea: I wonder if my clothes are contributing to my writer’s block. Nothing I wear lines up with the muse I’m working with—there’s no color, no softness, no comfort.
That’s an easy change to make.
Decision made, I dig through to the back of my closet, finding a far too familiar oversized navy blue sweatshirt. Leo’s sweatshirt. I should have thrown it out a dozen times over, and I don’t quite know why I chose to pack it up when I came to Holly Ridge, but I did. Forcing myself not to overthink that decisiontoo much, I grab the sweatshirt off a hanger, followed by a pair of comfy bike shorts, and change.
After, I catch sight of myself as I head back into the living room, and decide I need another change—my eyes. Quickly, I take out the blue contacts I put in as part of my normal routine. I don’t need them to see, so there’s no point in having them in right now. Finally, I undo the tight ponytail I’d put in out of habit, brushing out the gel I’d used to slick it back before sitting down at my computer.
Then I go shopping at a popular athleticwear company.
When my cart is filled with pinks and purples and blues of all shades, all the colors I envision for this next album, I hit next-day delivery and sit back with a smile.
I’m still avoiding my music hours later, instead searching online for some kind of craft or hobby to pick up and placing random orders, when there’s a knock on the front door. My back straightens, my chest tightening as I look around, panicked.
Who is at my door? No one even really knows I’m here, after all.
What if it’s a paparazzi or some rabid fan who found me here?
Maybe I really should have brought a bodyguard, or at least had Jaime install some kind of security system, or?—
The pounding knock comes again, but this time, a voice accompanies it. “Willa! Open up, it’s Hallie! We brought dinner!” The nerves melt away as I stand and tentatively walk to the door. When I open it, Hallie and Nat are smiling at me.
“What are you guys doing here?” I ask with a laugh, stepping aside as the women walk in, Hallie holding a stack of pizzaboxes, two white paper bags on top. Nat is carrying a bunch of bags, and I stare at them in awe as they move through, straight to the kitchen
“Girls’ night,” Nat says.
“Poker night is happening at my house, and the testosterone was suffocating me, so I called up Nat, and we decided we’d come here and hang out. Plus, we had a bunch of stuff to bring here, decorations and whatnot,” Hallie says, lifting one of the bags. When I step closer, I realize it’s filled with home goods—a throw blanket, some art prints, and a bunch of knick-knacks.
“Decorations?”
“This place is empty and boring. You came here to write—I can’t imagine you find it very inspiring,” Hallie says with a shrug.
