Page 26 of Songs of Summer

Suddenly she felt infinitely disappointed.

She crumpled onto the musty bed in her hotel room, curling up into as small a ball as possible—uber-aware of every point where her body touched the seedy bedding. If she were to abandon her plan, by tomorrow night she could be back home in her own bed. She was certain that was the best decision. There was nothing for her here.

Maggie dozed off, then woke up in a sweat and looked at her phone.

Jason was still in class, but she was desperate to hear his voice, so she called his cell anyway.

His nerdy message, which usually made her cringe a bit—It’s Jason, you know what to do—now tugged at her heart, reopening the watershed. Everything she was feeling, including the fact that she never wanted to leave his side again, spilled out into his voicemail. She knew it would break him to hear her like that, but she felt better after saying it all out loud.

She washed up in the sink in the hallway, threw on jeans and a coat of lip gloss, and hit the town in search of a comfortable seat at a bar for dinner. Hearing the unmistakable sound of Miles Davis escaping from a restaurant a few blocks away, the Salty Pelican, she ventured in.

The bar was empty, aside from a weatherworn bartender and a cute guy around her age with a subtle hipster aesthetic. He looked like he could be one of those dudes chilling on a hammock in an Airbnb ad. She sat two seats away from him on a barstool.

“Nice tune, Chase,” the Airbnb model with good taste in music remarked to the bartender. And even though she was intent on leaving the island the next day, no matter how much of a waste of money the trip had turned out to be, Maggiemarveled at the fact that her birth mother may have sat in this exact bar and flirted with this exact bartender, though she hoped she had better taste in men than this guy. It was a mean thing to say, or even to think, but he reeked of has-been.

She ordered a much-needed vodka soda and busied herself perusing the menu. She had eaten little all day. Her stomach had been acting up, and today’s scene had put a whole new spin on the phraseinherited trauma.

“Do I know you?” the bartender asked. “You look very familiar.”

“I’ve never been here before,” Maggie assured him.

He set down her vodka soda and continued to stare at her quizzically.

Airbnb boy clearly interpreted it as lust, but Maggie didn’t get that sense at all.

“A little young even for you, Chase,” he declared, adding, “Watch out for this old horndog,” in Maggie’s direction. She laughed at the implausibility, but flashed her faux engagement ring, just in case.

“I’m engaged,” she said, exaggerating the truth just a little. Engaged to be engaged didn’t sound like as much of a roadblock.

“Congratulations,” said the Airbnb model, reaching out his hand in introduction. “I’m Matt.”

“Maggie May Wheeler,” she said while shaking back.

“So did your parents like the Faces or the Beatles?” he asked.

Both wrote songs featuring Maggie May.

Maggie laughed, “Faces, and I’m impressed. Most people say Rod Stewart, not his old band.”

The bartender was still hovering. It was strange to Maggie, but he seemed harmless enough. Matt kindly included him in the conversation since it was clear he wasn’t going anywhere.

“ ‘Maggie May’ came out in ’72 and Stewart went solo in ’75,” he informed the bartender before turning his attention back to Maggie. “I’m a reporter forRolling Stone.”

“Whoa—that is so badass. I sellRolling Stoneat my store, Maggie May Records. It’s in a small town in the Midwest.”

The bartender piped in with “Just a small-town girl, living in a lonely world.”

They both laughed, more at him than with him. But it was OK because he clearly didn’t catch on. Maggie felt badly about it anyway and pulled out the standard ordering question.

“What’s good here?”

“I’m a big fan of the chicken fingers,” the bartender replied. “But don’t go by me. I’ve never grown up.”

Matt laughed. “I didn’t know you were so self-aware, Chase. I’ll have the fish tacos,” adding for Maggie’s benefit, “They’re arguably the best on the island.”

“Make it two then, please.” She smiled, handing back the menu.

“Blackened or fried?”

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