Page 88 of Wild and Bright

I rustle around in bed, spreading my arms and legs out, trying to relish in the ability to do it. Lauren used to hog every inch of the bed when we slept together. Her long arms and legs would spread far and wide like a starfish. So many times, I’d wake up nearly falling off the bed.

I miss her already. I miss the warmth of her body next to mine, the sweet scent of shampoo lingering on her hair when it brushes my face, and the little sounds she makes when she’s sleeping.

I frown when my hand brushes something hard and sharp under the blankets. I grab hold of it and lift it in front of my face. Even with the black-out shades pulled down, I can make out those dangling beads. When I rub the rounded glass with the pad of my thumb, my chest seizes. One of her dangling earrings. She probably left it in my bed the last time we had sex and slept with our limbs entangled.

I must be drunk, because I can’t stop myself from pressing it against my lips.

TWENTY-EIGHT

Camden

Two questions come to mind:

Will this rehearsal ever end? And is it possible to die from missing someone?

She’s been gone two days, and already this ache in my chest has grown so tight I’m finding it hard to control my breathing while I sing. No matter what chords I play, every song is like a requiem to my ears, both subdued and achingly melancholy.

When I glance down at my fingers on the mandolin strings, I see her face in a flash. Her thick, dark brows drawn together. Her big green eyes fixed on my face.

“I literally wish the banjo could be outlawed.”

When my voice cracks, I flinch. How could something so silly make me so profoundly sad? A sadness that’s settled in my bones, as if I were born to feel it. As if I were destined to have her and lose her. Hunter’s head snaps in my direction, and I look away to get a grip on myself.

Just get through the outro, and then you can walk out of here.

When the song is finally over, I exhale heavily. I glance around the studio to find Hunter’s eyes locked on mine. His brows are drawn together. “You doing okay?” he asks.

I sigh. “No.”

He nods faintly because he already knows what a wreck I am. Normally, it would be Janie asking me what’s wrong, but Hunter’s taken on a new role these past few days. After he flew in Sunday night and had a long coffee date with Dave, he’s barely left me out of his sight. It feels strange because I used to watch him like it was my job after a relapse. It’s a relief to have our roles reversed.

“I think you should call her.”

“I’ve called her at least a hundred times. She finally sent me a text that said we’ll talk about custody soon, and that was it.” When a thought occurs to me, my head jerks up. “Did she say something to you?”

“No.” His tone is hesitant, wary, as if he knows I’m hanging on by a thread and doesn’t want me to snap. “But she’s very forgiving. I’ve fucked up a lot over the years, and she’s never held a grudge.”

I grunt. “I think it’s a little easier to forgive an addict. I was dead sober when I accused her of taking my alcoholic brother out for drinks, and then…” I release a humorless chuckle. “Then I kicked her out of my house.”

His lips part, but before he gets a chance to speak, my phone rings, and the sound of it vibrates in my bones. The mandolin thuds as I plop it onto the floor, and I sense both Hunter and Janie’s surprise without even seeing their faces. I never handle my instruments this roughly. I rush to the corner couch and grab my phone, feeling nearly drunk from relief when I see the name.

Helen Henderson.

It’s either Lauren calling from Helen’s phone, or Helen calling about Lauren. The latter is less appealing, but I’ll take it.

“Hi, Cam,” Helen says after I pick up, and my stomach sinks only a little.

“What’s up, Helen?” My tone is bright and welcoming, as if it’s perfectly natural for her to call me. As if this isn’t probably the first time since high school that I’ve spoken to her on the phone, but the hope in my heart must be sharpening my social skills.

“I know this is sort of awkward getting a call from me.” She laughs lightly, and I don’t even feel like rolling my eyes. I’d suffer through a lifetime of her flirtation if she tells me Lauren’s been as much of a wreck as I have been these past few days.

“And I wouldn’t do it,” she says, “if I wasn’t worried about Lauren.”

I hate the smile that rises to my lips. I shouldn’t be happy that Lauren’s in pain, especially when I’m the one who caused it.

But goddamn, these last few days have been hell, and I ache to know that she feels it like I do, that she loves me as much as I love her.

“We were in a horrible fight on Sunday,” Helen says. “And I haven’t seen her since.”

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