Page 7 of Over the Edge

The worst part was he was right. I hate when men do that. Getting to know people has always come easily but letting them know me has never come as naturally. I’ve always been terrified of sharing the wrong thing, too much, being too much. Becoming Lyla has only made it worse.

But when it comes to meeting new people, I don’t think there’s such a thing as a boring person if you ask them the right questions. Usually, this gets me by for a while, especially with men. I’ll redirect to their fantasy football league that they describe with the zealous vigor of someone detailing the politics in their favorite fantasy novel or shift to something philosophical and abstract. Aliens are always a good topic—everyone has an opinion on aliens even if they don’t think they do. There’s the added benefit that nothing about my personal life comes up when talking about aliens.

Noah and my relationship had a fairly standard life cycle. You’d think with a graveyard of exes I’d have something to write about. But no matter how much I like people, I don’t love them.

The last person I loved, I left. My best friend. Quinn—the most important person in my life and I’m too much of a coward to tell her the truth.

There’s a screech of microphone feedback that comes from Avery’s side of the call that zips through my spine in a visceral, nails on a chalkboard way that flips my stomach.

“Fuck,” she grits out then a door opens and slams closed. “But seriously, I think you should consider it. A small town could be a good place for some inspiration. Have a whirlwind romance and then go back to the city. There’s a hard limit for when it has to end that will play off that anxious attachment style of yours.”

“Not the worst idea, but I’ll probably be one of five single people since this is a couples’ trip destination,” I say and take a moment to picture it.

If nothing else, it would be good album fodder. Track one would be loud and evocative of 2000s pop, the embodiment of a life in the city. Then two and three would slow down and be more stripped down, the travel and a meet-cute. It would sound bittersweet, falling in love and letting go.

The bones are there, but the execution…not so much. The ideas have never been an issue. Each of them gives me this rush of adrenaline, this push that makes me believe it’s finally working. And then when I sit at my piano or write the lyrics, it’s always flat, like a three-dimensional illusion you’re convinced you can grab but you’re only met with empty air and disappointment.

The best of my three albums was my second. I was riding the high of a relationship that was so easy to write down to the point that the deluxe edition had five extra songs. I couldn’t contain all the feelings I had for Oliver, the one and only man I ever saw a potential future with. Replicating that now would be a fool's errand. Though, now in hindsight, I was more in love with the idea of being in love with him than anything.

We were friends in college and fell into a relationship after we graduated. It was steady. We had everything in common before the break up and managed to stay close friends after. Three years later, I’m still not sure if I regret it. There are so many what ifs clinging to the back of my mind, cobwebs I can see but never quite reach. I think we needed to try and fail or we’d always wonderwhat if we just tried?

“Ahh, yes, because the rest of the general population agrees with me about the location.” There’s a muffled voice then Avery talks, her voice is quieter as if she’s holding the phone away fromher face. “Yeah, I’ll be there in a second.” She pauses and it gives me a moment to process my surroundings.

The air feels lighter here already. It’s likely some placebo-like expectation that comes from the lack of bodies bustling through the streets and the expanse of green leaves on the cusp of turning shades of gold and copper.

I’ve always preferred living in a city. Even when I lived in the suburbs as a kid I always came up with excuses to drive into Nashville. Then I moved to the city during college while attending Vanderbilt. The sounds of people make me feel less lonely, the constant swell of traffic and ambient conversation is better than any white noise machine. But this gentle landscape is one I could relax into for a while.

“Sorry, I have to go to meet with the choreographers about some last minute changes before my set because some of the dancers got food poisoning. You better not put that podcast back on the moment I hang up,” she warns. “And even if you don’t want me getting my hands all over your songs, maybe it’s time to consider talking to Drew.”

“I’ll think about it. Have fun shaking ass in front of thousands of people on questionable drugs. Love you.”

“Love you,” she says then hangs up.

It’s not the worst idea to ask my brother for help, but that’s easier said than done. I know he’s seeing a therapist and addressing his complicated relationship with music, but I don’t want to waltz in and disrupt any progress he’s made by dragging him into my secret life. It’s not like I could take it back. Secrets like mine are all or nothing.

It only takes a few more minutes to cross the county line. Instead of taking the turn off toward my rental, I continue down the main road. I know the moment I’m unpacked I’m supposed to get to work. Vincent is anxiously waiting for updates. Ipromised to call once I got settled. So naturally, I’m putting off getting settled as long as I can.

The speed limit slows to a crawl as I enter town. Squat redbrick shops are squished shoulder to shoulder lining a circular road that loops around a central grassy park with a gazebo at its heart. Sandwich board signs pepper the sidewalk, declaring specials and testing out bad but endearing puns to passersby. Pedestrians cross the streets without looking. Some are dressed in hiking gear setting off for the network of trails nearby, others look like they are ready to pose for a picnic stock photo.

I pull into the parking lot and turn off my car with a sigh of relief. Flipping down the sun visor, I examine my appearance in the mirror. I’m a fidgeter, without being able to get up and move for the last few hours my hands have been running through my hair causing my braid to puff up around the crown of my head. I free my thick, dark strands then run my fingers through the resulting waves.

A crisp breeze welcomes me as I crack open the door. The mild mid-September weather carries the promise of the turning season. Change is in the air and I hope it claims me along with the end of summer.

It’s a quick walk to the center of town toward the park. The gazebo is bigger than anything you’d find in a backyard, large enough that it could be used as a stage in a pinch. Along the edge closest to me, there’s a red painted wooden sign with carved, curling storybook letters,Welcome to Hartsfall: Embrace the feeling of falling.

I pull out my phone to take a picture to send to Avery, and just as I tap the camera icon on my phone, a man gets on one knee in the gazebo.

4

Evelyn

Gravel crunches under tires as I pull up the steep driveway. The house I’ve rented is excessive for one person to spend four weeks in. But the moment I saw the listing with its wraparound porch and swing, I was a goner.

The road, Austen Dr.—yes, as in Jane Austen—is lined with about ten houses that fit the similar mold of Victorian style homes with bay windows and cute picket fences. At the edge of each property trees tower high to give a layer of privacy.

Four weeks.

That’s how long I’ve been given to write thirteen songs good enough to convince the rest of the world and my label I’m worth keeping around. Reverb Records took a shot on me, letting me remain anonymous, and it’s mostly paid off. With the end of my contract looming, I’m doing my best to stay optimistic they’ll keep playing along with my little experiment.

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