Page 11 of Sweet Oblivion

“I gotta go,” I said, not wanting to discuss the topic further.

“You sure you’re good there?” Cam asked, concern darkening his gaze.

The guy was twenty-nine, and he seemed much older in my mind because he worried so much about me. The groupie thing and losing his house a couple of years ago had made him “rethink his priorities,” he’d told me. He’d said being a good person—and a good friend to me, apparently—sat at the top of his list now.

“I’m cool.”

Cam remained tense.

I cleared my throat, not liking the emotions building in me. “I’ll record that melody and send it to you. But I don’t play the harp—”

“Yet,” Cam said, chuckling.

My cheeks burned. “I don’t play the harp,” I insisted. “So, you’ll have to get someone else to fine-tune that bit.”

“Of course.” He nodded. “It’s not like I expect you to write my songs. You know you’re a lot more to me than anything you can do, right, son?”

“Yeah, sure,” I said. I strummed the guitar.

“But I do appreciate what you did tonight.”

“It felt good.”

“Why haven’t you been composing music?”

That was a loaded question. I just…didn’t. Maybe couldn’t was a better response. The only flickers of lyrics or snippets of songs that came at all came when I was texting with Aya or talking with Cam.

I didn’t want to tell him that, so I shrugged.

He sighed. “I’ll be back in town at the end of the week. How about I pick you up? We can head to the studio. Sound good?”

My eyes widened. “Really? Yeah. I’d like that.”

Cam smiled. “I already told Asher about you. He’s stoked.”

“Cool,” I gushed.

I set my guitar in its stand and brushed the hair out of my eyes. “I mean…that’s nifty.”

Cam smirked as he shook his head. “Well, you can meet him sometime if you want. I’m sure he’d like that. You’re close in age to his son.”

At my gulp, Cam guffawed.

I clicked off before I could embarrass myself any more.

I messed around with the melody a little after that, mainly because I had nothing better to do. Aya hadn’t answered my texts for the last couple of days. Much as I hated to admit it, I was mad. Mad and…hurt.

Aya’s messages had helped me navigate my parents’ boozy, mainly silent holidays, as well as their long absences. I’d sent her tons of pictures from that last tour I did with my dad and Lev, and she’d asked lots of questions about the music industry and performing, clearly fascinated by the lifestyle.

That’s so different than my life here, she’d written at one point. I mean, I get the nomadic lifestyle. Mum and I usually move every year or so.

I hadn’t thought about that part of her life—the constant need to make new friends, to start over in a new place. When I asked her about it, she told me she’d stopped trying for deep relationships.

You have me, I wrote. I’ll always be here for you.

Until you get too famous, Superstar. Then you’ll be the one touring, living the life of a nomad.

That had made me smile, and Dad had told me next time Quantum toured—later this coming summer—he’d let me play with him, let me tell the world I’d written the music and lyrics.

---