Page 1 of Wild and Bright

ONE

Camden

She cut her hair.

It’s a subtle change—short dark strands sweep from the crown of her head to her cheekbones—but it’s noticeably different from the video I watched before. The time stamp on that one said it was posted two days ago. This one was from this morning, so she must have gotten her hair cut sometime yesterday, maybe even at that salon on First Street she used to go to in high school.

It’s strange how a detail like that can make me feel close to her.

Stranger still that I welcome this warmth that washes over me every time I watch her stupid makeup tutorials on YouTube when I’ve been going out of my way these last five years to avoid seeing her in person.

This is just how it works with obsession. Nothing about it is rational. My preoccupation with Lauren Henderson should have waned the moment I left my small hometown of Coronado. By the time River of Sight got our first management deal, adjusting to tour life should have replaced her in my thoughts. Now that we’ve achieved the kind of success I never imagined we would, now that I have my pick of beautiful women, my childish crush on the girl next door should be a bitter-sweet memory, too silly and maudlin for even a love song.

She lifts a thin red tube out of the cardboard box and holds it close to the screen. “I’ve been eyeballing this mascara on Sephora for weeks,” she says. “But I’m poor, y’all, so if it’s not deeply discounted or $3.99 at Target, I just can’t do it. Thank you, Smashbox, for taking pity on a single mother.” I intake a sharp breath when she smiles. Her whole face changes—her big green eyes grow smaller and crinkle at the edges, and her wide mouth bares those white teeth with that one slightly overlapping canine on the right.

In an instant, it’s like I’m sitting in a room with her rather than in a cold concert venue thousands of miles away.

I want to stay here with her.

How is it possible that one person could have this much power over my senses? Even in the depths of my obsession as a teenager, when I was so delusional that I unconsciously saved my virginity for her, I knew she was wrong for me.

If I wanted a girlfriend at all, I’d need one who’s steady and predictable. Not wild, boisterous Lauren who got pregnant at eighteen years old. Not the girl who used to give lap dances at parties and let guys take shots between her tits. She’d make me so crazy that I could never write music. I’d never be truly at ease, because I couldn’t trust her.

Not after what she almost did with my brother minutes after taking my virginity.

I jerk up from my phone when our stage manager, Jeff, bursts into the room.

“Hunter,” he says to my brother. “Leo found you some hot twins—boy and girl. Do you want me to send them in, or do you need him to take a picture first?”

Hunter glances up from his guitar. His face is still bright red and his shirt is soaked with sweat even though it’s been almost twenty minutes since our performance ended. The sight of it makes me uneasy. He always sweats more right after a relapse. It’s another reminder of how close sobriety is to drunkenness—separated only by that first or last sip.

“Have him take a picture,” Hunter says, looking at his hands as he strums his guitar. He’s playing it mostly to give himself something to do, since his first urge after a show is to drink. I wish I found the sight of it comforting. “Tell him to make them kiss for it.”

“Gross,” Janie shouts from across the room, her gaze fixed on her cello as she runs a cloth over the wood.

“It’s all I got,” he shouts back to her. “Pussy and dick. Do you really want to take away the one thing I have?”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Self-pity is another staple of his sobriety, and even in jest, I can’t stand it. I can’t stand any reminders of how desperately he loves alcohol.

“It’s still disgusting,” Janie says. “And if anyone finds out that you do this creepy stuff, you’ll be cancelled.”

Jeff turns to me. “He’s also got this leggy brunette out there begging to meet you, Cam. Makeup influencer. Ten out of ten.”

It’s ridiculous that the words “leggy brunette” and “influencer” make my pulse speed up. Lauren might be perfect in my eyes, but Jeff wouldn’t think she’s a ten out of ten, and she would never be at a concert all the way in Boston begging one of our roadies to let her come backstage.

“No, I’m good.” I shoot him a stern look. “And I agree with Janie. You and Leo shouldn’t still be doing this shit for him. Let him find his own groupies.”

“Thanks, Mom,” Hunter says, and this time I don’t stop my eyes from rolling. Ever since his last relapse, he’s been snippy anytime I’ve been too high-handed or controlling, but that’s because he doesn’t know what it’s like to love an addict. He doesn’t know the agony of being constantly at the edge of a precipice, that any phone call from an unknown number or rehearsal he’s late for or text he doesn’t respond to could mean the end.

If he knew that feeling, he’d be more patient with me.

“Speaking of Mom,” I say, reaching across the couch and picking up an acoustic guitar, obviously placed here by a guitar maker who wants one of us to try it out. I start playing the chorus of “Old Man” by Neil Young, my fingers on autopilot. “She wants us at the house at noon now, so Brayden is rescheduling our flight to first thing tomorrow morning.”

“That actually works out better for me,” he says. “Lauren wants to talk to me about something, so that’ll give me time to go over there before dinner.”

My hand goes still mid strum, and I hate myself for it.

I ought to be accustomed to their relationship by now. She’s always been much closer to him than to me. They’re “besties”, as Lauren often says in her videos whenever she has the audacity to use his fame to boost her views on YouTube.

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