I open Instagram, which is somehow worse. Someone has created an account called @whereslevicole that posts daily updates on reported sightings. Yesterday, I was apparently spotted at a monastery in Tibet. The day before, a silent meditation retreat in New Zealand. Today’s post claims I’ve been seen “purchasing large quantities of herbal tea” in a small town in Vermont.
The comments are a journey.
Maybe he’s becoming atea influencer.
Wellness era incoming.
Honestly good for him. Big pharma is poison anyway.
That’s not Levi. That’s clearly a tall man in a hat.
The reality—that I’m in a small coastal town in North Carolina, writing songs about my high school girlfriend and watching my brother’s dog steal food—would probably disappoint them. Although the “journey of the heart” psychic might feel vindicated.
My phone buzzes. Diane. Again.
Diane: Levi. I need you to call me. Billboard is asking questions. Rolling Stone wants a comment. If you don’t give me SOMETHING to work with, I’m going to tell them you’ve joined a cult.
Me:Not a cult. Just taking some time.
Diane:When are you coming back?
Me:When I have something worth coming back with.
Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.
Diane:You have two months. Then we need to talk about your contract.
I set down my phone and look at my notebook instead. The pages aren’t blank anymore. That’s something.
She crashed into my life like chaos in a storm,Made me want to open doors I’d sworn I’d kept closed?—
It’s not finished. But it’s real. And for the first time in months, I actually want to keep writing.
My phone buzzes again.
Dean:Gym in an hour? Rex ate my protein bar while I was in the shower. Need to work off the rage.
Me:How does he keep doing that? You’re literally a trained rescue professional.
Dean:He’s smarter than me. I’ve accepted it. You coming or not?
I grab my keys.
Twin Waves Fitnessis the only gym in town, which means it’s perpetually crowded with everyone from high school athletes to retirees doing water aerobics in the small indoor pool. Dean’s been coming here since it opened, which means everyone knows him, which means everyone now knows me.
“Levi Cole,” says the woman at the front desk, rising from her chair with a warm smile. “I’m Brittany—I own this place. Big fan. Huge fan. My mom has all your albums.”
So much foranonymity.
“Nice to meet you, Brittany. Tell your mom I said thanks.”
She’s somewhere in her early forties, with the kind of toned arms that suggest she practices what she preaches. A schedule board behind her shows yoga classes, spin sessions, and personal training slots, most with her name next to them.
“Tell her thanks.”
“She’s actually here right now. In the spin class. Should I go get her?”
“That’s okay?—”
