Page 66 of Wild and Bright

Camden

“Oh my God, I actually love this!”

I suppress a smile as I pick the mandolin strings. I can’t help but notice how she emphasized the word “actually”, like I should be flattered she’d deign to praise my music. Her insistence that she hates folk rock has always amused me, because I know exactly what it means.

You won’t get anything from me, Cam. Not when you treat me like shit.

I applaud her for it, because I deserve it.

After I play the last few chords of the outro, I look down at her, and I’m inordinately pleased with the rapt expression on her face. If she’s going to like any song of mine, it ought to be that one, since it’s about her. Though if I’m being completely honest with myself… I suppose they all are in a way.

We’ve spent almost the entire evening in my studio, a place I’ve kept so private since I bought this house, even Hunter and Janie tend to stay out of it. Somehow, everything Lauren, Cadence, and I have done these past few hours felt as natural if it were a daily routine. I sat on the couch and played my guitar while they sang and danced. I was somehow able to keep up with Cadence’s requests, relying on my reflexes when I played songs I haven’t heard in well over a decade, like “Sunny Days” from Sesame Street. Cadence seemed almost inexhaustible, but when I switched to slower songs, she eventually plopped on the couch and fell asleep. I felt like a father as I held her in my arms and carried her to bed, and after I came back, Lauren didn’t want me to stop playing.

Even in the depths of my obsession when I was young—back when I had hope we could be something someday—I couldn’t have even imagined spending an evening like this. I have a family now, and the thought of losing it in four months makes me want to die.

I need to find a way to keep them.

I just wish I knew how to keep Lauren and my sanity at the same time.

“I seriously love that,” she says as I finish up a song. “It’s…achingly beautiful. Like it hurts right here.” She places her hand on the center of her chest. “It feels kind of like nostalgia. But not for the past. For right now.” She wrinkles her nose. “Do you know what I mean?”

I smile warmly. “I do. That’s why I love writing music. It gives me the power to manufacture that feeling.”

She shakes her head slowly. “Nothing usually makes me feel that way. And definitely not folk rock. I literally wish the banjo could be outlawed.” She points to my instrument. “But you made it sound beautiful.”

I’m somehow able to keep from laughing. “It’s a mandolin.”

“Really? It sounds like a banjo.”

I gesture with my head to the corner of the room. “That’s a banjo.”

She twists around for a moment, and when she turns back, her whole face is scrunched in disgust. “Oh God, they even look stupid. Like you should have a straw hanging out of your mouth when you play it.”

I gasp out a laugh. “It’s always the banjo with you. Ever since I started playing it in high school. We probably only use it in half of our songs, and yet it seems to be the number one reason you don’t like our music. I don’t know how one instrument can inspire so much hatred.”

“The banjo sounds stupid. And your voice is so pretty, so the banjo sounds so much stupider in comparison.” She smiles ruefully. “I’ll admit, I almost changed my mind when I watched that interview where you were talking about the history of folk and Americana music. It was all super interesting, and you even made the hillbilly banjo sound important. I thought maybe I wasn’t giving it a fair chance, but then as soon as you got it out and played a few chords, I was like, nope. It’s as bad as I remember.”

“That must have been the PBS interview.” My brow furrows. “You watched that? It was like two hours long. I don’t even think my parents watched it.”

Her face lights up. “Oh, I’ve watched so many of your interviews. I type in ‘Camden Hayes interviews’ and go down the list on YouTube.” Her lips spread into a toothy grin. “You’re such an asshole to the people who interview you. The PBS one was an exception. Normally, you give one-word answers, and these poor journalists are literally sweating, trying so hard to get you to talk.”

My stomach flips at the thought of her watching me from afar—like I watch her. I look away to hide the bashful smile rising to my mouth. “Yeah, well… I can’t help that I have terrible social skills, and those journalists are rarely musicians themselves. They’re always trying to get these wordy, eloquent answers, and the truth is that writing music isn’t an intellectual exercise. It’s almost purely instinct, which makes it so hard to talk about. And I don’t like talking to strangers as it is.”

“Well, you definitely don’t talk much in your interviews, even though technically the whole point is sitting down and talking. Oh my God, they’re hilarious.” Her big smile makes her eyes crease at the edges. “It’s so you. So Cam.”

She looks startled when I set my hand on hers. “Did you only watch them because they’re funny?”

Her smile softens, and my pulse speeds up as I wait for her answer.

“Of course not. I watched them for the same reason you watched my makeup tutorials.”

The tenderness in her eyes makes me lightheaded, even though she can’t remotely comprehend the full implication of her words. I watched her videos because I love her. Because I’ve loved her for as long as I can remember, and even when I tried my hardest to stay away, I couldn’t get by without a piece of her, however small.

I lean in to kiss her, but she pulls back. “I also watched them as research,” she says.

My stomach sinks at the flatness in her voice, such a contrast to the warmth of a moment ago.

Maybe this isn’t the time to tell her how I feel.

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