Page 42 of The Top of Admiration
All’s Well That Ends Well, William Shakespeare
Mom always said I was a free spirit, and I guess I was. I moved in with Cam after only three months, and we married after six months. We went on a huge trip to Vegas—Cordy, Damon, Jules, Seamus, Lucy, and her then-boyfriend Nate—and on the second night, Cam proposed. He hadn’t planned to, and my ring was originally just a cable tie closed really tightly, but it was heartfelt and I knew I loved him, so why not? I would never be a large-white-wedding person, so it was just perfect. Mom and Dad were not surprised and flew out to join us. Cam’s parents were … I won’t say surprised, but maybe a little cautious. They loved me and I loved them, but I suspect they wanted a big function, complete with millions of cousins that I’d never met and who Cam hadn’t seen in ten years. It was a happy event, and we had a huge party when we got home for all our friends and extended family.
We had two guinea pigs and a Jack Russell named Petunia. Petunia was a boy but he just looked like a Petunia, so that became his name. I was now painting more and more, with my pieces making it into our shows regularly. I was even doing private commissions now, including a portrait of Ian Bishop and his new wife. The old Mrs. Bishop was right. They were getting younger. When I delivered the new portrait, I left his son with the original one I’d created with the four of them. He seemed grateful and I was pleased that the ill-fated work had finally found a home.
“Why are there more toadstools?” Cam asked wearily, coming into the kitchen.
“Welcome home. And yes, my day has been wonderful,” I replied. What kind of greeting was that? Where was my usual kiss?”
“When I left this morning, we had four toadstool ornaments in the front garden. Now we have ten. At least, all I could count was ten.” He put his briefcase on the table and dutifully delivered his kiss.
“Four is off balance. It’s not a proper group number. Groups are either five or ten, and I thought five would look weird. So, I went and got more. Five on each side of the garden. You’re welcome.”
“Just … maybe no more. It looks great, and very balanced as it is. They’re really big, Little Bard.”
I shrugged. The garden wasn’t really coming along as I’d hoped and honestly, the extra toadstools still hadn’t created the effect that I wanted. Maybe some gnomes or flamingoes would do the trick—curate more of a community vibe. The little girl next door loved the garden, and I loved seeing her chat to the ornaments and play fairies in it. I was certain she’d love the splash of pink that flamingoes would provide.
I’d run into Cam R last week, who was apparently back in town visiting family. I hadn’t laid eyes on him in person since the ill-fated car rooftop proposal, so the last person I expected to see at the bank was Bad Cam. Two years, he had apparently loaded his guitar and ego into his beat-up sedan, swearing he was “so close” to breaking into the industry. Apparently, “so close” had a flexible definition.
“Miranda? Wow. You look … exactly the same,” he said, flashing the grin that used to make me forgive things I shouldn’t. His sunglasses were hooked into his shirt collar, andhis hair had that artfully unwashed look that I used to find endearing. Now, it just looked tired.
“Hey, Cam.” I smiled, genuinely, because he looked happy enough in that moment, and because I’d learned how to keep my pity from showing.
We stood in that weird middle ground between strangers and once-lovers-who-knew-everything. He broke the silence first. “So, I’ve been recording. Like, properly recording this time. Studio space in Houston. Got a producer who’s worked with some big names. We’re dropping something soon.”
“That’s great,” I said lightly, digging into my bag for my phone. I didn’t ask who the producer was. I didn’t need to; his tone had that defensive edge I remembered, the one that meant no one’s heard of this guy.
Bad Cam leaned in. “You know, people keep telling me I’ve got that John-Mayer-meets-Post-Malone vibe. You’d love the new sound. It’s, uh—raw, but intentional, you know?”
I nodded. “I can imagine. You always liked to keep it … organic.”
“How’s everything with you?” he asked after a beat. “Still painting? Still, uh … working at the gallery?”
“It’s going pretty well, yeah,” I replied, smiling faintly. “A few exhibitions. A couple of commissions. Keeps me busy.”
He blinked, visibly recalibrating. “Wow. That’s—yeah, that’s awesome. You always had, like, that artsy energy.”
I resisted the urge to laugh. There was a pause, just long enough for him to look around and see that no one recognized him. His guitar case leaned against the counter, scuffed and duct-taped.
“You still dating that guy? The one who …” he trailed off.
I tilted my head. “Yes. Other Cam. I married him.” Cam nodded slowly, pretending that was enough information. I laughed. “I guess he’s not Other Cam anymore!”
A strange, fragile silence lingered between us, the kind that only exists between people who once meant something to each other but aren’t quite brave enough to acknowledge it.
He smiled again, softer this time. “I always knew you’d do well. You had … follow-through.” It wasn’t an apology, but it almost was.
I reached out and touched his wrist, just briefly. “You’ll get there, Cam. Just … don’t forget to live life as you do it.” He laughed, a little too loudly. “Yeah, yeah. I’m vibing my way there.”
I smiled. “Bon voyage, then.”
Later that day, I checked his Insta for the first time since we’d broken up. I sighed.
??“Grinding. Big things coming. #studioflow #hustlelife”
Bad Cam would always be grinding.
Epilogue II: Cam — Ten years later
