He’s been sleeping on comfortable beds with premium sheets as opposed to the four-inch foam mattresses of a tour bus bunk. They’ve discovered some incredible talent in the last few weeks. Their time spent here has been more than productive. But Dylan can’t think of anything he’d rather do than get on a plane and fly back to the States. He can’t shake the feeling that he’s supposed to be somewhere else. With someone else.

Skylar, the talented artist who reminds Dylan of a young Janis Joplin, has two other labels interested in signing her. She asks Chase a question. Her manager, Eion, asks another. They’re both leaning forward, their beers untouched, listening to Chase’s pitch. He and Dylan loved how she handled the crowd. Even better that she has enough songs written to carry an album.

Chase has them under his spell. Dylan presented his spiel earlier. He’s confident this is a done deal.

Distracted, he opens his Facebook app. A new habit. He knows it’s rude, fiddling with his phone in the middle of negotiations. But he excused his actions earlier when he remarked that he’s been waiting for an urgent text from another artist. True, but that text came twenty minutes ago.

He refreshes Joy’s profile. She’s posted a new photo since he last looked, a selfie in Central Park. Her fresh smile lights up his screen and he feels a momentary tightness in his chest. His thumb traces her mouth, her delicate, soft mouth. The photo’s caption reads: I can’t believe I live here!

Dylan can’t believe it seems like forever since they parted.

She doesn’t seem to be missing him.

Can he blame her? He told her he didn’t want her to think of him.

Chase nudges his elbow, jerking his attention back to the table and the future of the young singer-songwriter sitting across from him.

“What do you think about this?” his cousin begins, primed to put the details of their label’s offer on the table.

Dylan rests his phone on the table, facedown, and smiles at Skylar. “You’re going to find it hard to say no.”

Later, after Chase takes their rental car back to the inn where they’re staying for the weekend, Dylan trolls the festival, aimless. He takes it all in. The darkness of night and free-flowing alcohol, people dancing with strangers, letting it all go. Music oozing from the speakers. The burned oregano smell of weed and hands slyly exchanging small pouches of white powder if you knew where to look and who to ask. A hypnotic and addictive combination that both Jack and Uncle Cal succumbed to on more than one occasion.