Page 84 of Bombshells
“Yeah,” he grunts.
All my blood stops circulating.
“Camps, I never see you with a woman,” Drake points out.
“And you never will,” he says. “Sylvie tells me this week that she is seeing someone.”
Holy shit. My soda glass suddenly becomes fascinating to me. I don’t even dare look up.
“Oh hell,” Drake says, his voice hushed. “That was fast. Why did she tell you, anyway?”
“I see her at the coffee shop, and she’s laughing at something on her phone. And I ask why. She was not expecting me, I think. I catch her off guard.”
Drake leans forward. “So who is this guy?”
“She did not say.”
I practically sag with relief, even though I can’t be sure that Sylvie meant me.
“Is it, like, serious?” Drake asks.
“No,” Campeau says abruptly. “I asked, and she said no. Not at all.”
“Huh.” Drake looks thoughtful. “Sorry, man. You don’t look happy about this.”
“No, well…” He gazes into the distance. “The thing is? She looked so happy. Like this text was better than a dozen roses. And I only want Sylvie to be happy. I am just surprised.”
“You want me to find out who it is?” Drake asks. “I could ask around, you know? If you’re worried.”
“No.” He holds up a hand. “That’s, like a stalker.” When I look up to check his expression, it’s worried. “I just hope he’s a good man, you know? Not some oversexed boy. She deserves the best.”
I am wildly uncomfortable now. I am surprised by Sylvie’s confession to Campeau. And I’m surprised by how strangely he’s taking it—blowing up a game, picking a fight, and then telling us that it doesn’t really matter. When it sure looks like it does.
And I’m also dying of curiosity. Whose text was Sylvie reading, anyway?
What if it was mine?
I wander a safe distance away and check my texts. There is nothing from her. And now it’s past midnight in New York, so even if I were going to indulge my curiosity, I can’t.
I only want her to be happy, he’d said. Either it’s true, or he’s very dedicated in his martyrdom.
“Play us another one, Bayer!” Crikey shouts. And I look around for my guitar, because my public needs me.
Twenty-Seven
Tough Act to Follow
December
SYLVIE
“How did you make my hair smooth like that?” I ask Keyanna, the hair and makeup person who—in the space of five minutes—has turned me from a jock into some kind of glamour queen.
“It’s this,” she says, holding up a pricey-looking bottle of something called hair finisher. “I’ll text you the label. And I just used a round brush.” She shrugs.
“Round?”
Keyanna holds up the kind of brush where the bristles go all the way around the handle. “You own one of these, right?”
