Page 11 of Red Hot Harmony

I made a small gesture for Camille to go first.

“White wine,” she said.

“Water with lemon,” I added.

The waiter nodded to acknowledge the order.

“I’m so sorry.” Camille raised her hand, her features pinching. “I’ll have what he’s having. No wine.”

I understood what she was doing and I hated myself for being somewhat difficult company. It’d been easy at Frank’s engagement party. Alcohol wasn't allowed in his house. Ever. “I’ll have water. My date will have wine,” I said insistently to the waiter, whose expression was now one of deep confusion.

He nodded and left.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Camille murmured, reaching for my wrist across the table as if to stop me from something.

“Youdidn’t have to do that,” I countered, welcoming her touch.

“I’m not—” She stopped abruptly and tried to find better words, but there was an apparent struggle.

I simply decided to put her out of her misery and said, “Don’t worry about it.” Our fingers were now interlocked in the center of the table right next to a basket with folded towels. “You should have wine if you feel like it. I don’t want you to hold back on my account. I’m fine.”

She seemed to still be looking for words, so I took the opportunity and added, “In fact, if you want to get every item on the menu so we can sample them all, let’s do it.”

The corner of her mouth lifted, lips blossoming into an imperfectly cute smile. “We won’t be doing that.”

“The dress won’t hold?”

She laughed. “Definitely not.”

The waiter came back shortly after with our drinks and took our orders.

There was a lot of small talk in soft, low voices, nearly whispers. Things we’d probably told each other in the past. There were also things we hadn’t—like Camille’s prom and my first ever live show.

The memories came like waves, fierce and loud, cramming my head.

It was after the main course that she said, “Tell me about guitars.” Her chin was propped on the heel of her hand, fingers brushing her rosy cheek as she gave me her full attention.

“You seriously want me to believe you read every single piece of gossip about me that you could find online, but you didn’t read anything about my relationship with guitars?”

The waiter approached to clear the plates, but I waved him off.

“I didn’t say I didn’t do my due diligence. I may have read an interview...or five.” At that, she blushed. “But I’d like to hear it from you. Tell me something about guitars I won’t read in a magazine.”

The moment stretched out, became fragile. I took a deep breath and started from the beginning. “It was love at first sight...or first sound, I guess.”

My mind drifted back to my turbulent childhood, to the house of pain and hate, the streets filled with unwanted kids like me, the cigarettes smoked in the park, the feel of the old Strat, the very first contact my small, thin fingers made with the worn wood and the strings.

I told her about Nirvana, Metallica, and Guns N’ Roses dominating radio stations and flooding MTV. I told her about my own poor attempts to form a band at fifteen, which had been a failure. And I’d kept on failing until I met some solid people in high school and then Frank. I told her about the shock of money and fame, about Heidi and why I’d fucked her, and then I told her about my last moments before the overdose. “It felt like I was on fire—bones, skin, heart. Everything pulsed and hurt and then...just disappeared.” I shrugged and tossed the napkin that I’d been holding onto the table. “Have you ever had an anxiety attack?”

Camille nodded, the tension that lined her features morphing into dread. “I think so. Once. When Ally was three.”

“Okay, so…it feels exactly like that but a hundred times worse. You’re not in control of your body or mind.”

She continued to listen, the air between us changing again.

“When I woke up in the hospital, at first I couldn’t remember who I was or how I’d gotten there. It took me some time to put everything back together.” I laid my palms flat on the table, my fingers pushing my fork away. “These hands used to be able to play very complicated solos and now they won’t listen to me. They keep fucking up the riffs and chords I myself wrote years ago.” My gaze dropped to my plate as if looking at Camille right now while saying it out loud, while manifesting my fears, was too much. And perhaps it was. Perhaps keeping this constant terror of not being able to play the way I used to a secret was for the best.

“I’ve heard you play... When you practice with Ally,” Camille said and wrapped her hands around mine. “I don’t know anything about the technical side of things, but I do know that when you’re the one who’s holding a guitar, I can tell without being in the room with you.”

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