Page 42 of Sweet Oblivion

Steve cursed low.

“I pulled her out, and the way she looked at me…” No other event in my life had made me feel that way since. I cleared my throat. “But it was more than that. We…I don’t know. I didn’t even know her when we started corresponding. Not really. Just a vague sense of a little girl I’d met on vacation. But we connected. I know her. She gets me. It’s like…it’s like our lives have run parallel to each other from that moment.”

“Seems kind of deep for a girlfriend.”

I snorted, hoping I wasn’t blushing, though my face felt too hot not to be. “You know Aya’s not my girlfriend. It’s not like that.”

This time Steve snorted.

“She understands about drowning,” I tried to explain. “Lev drowned. Her dad is a shit bag, and so is mine. She’s losing control of her life—mine’s been out of control since Lev…”

Steve’s hand came down on my shoulder, and he squeezed. “I get it,” he said, his voice soft. “She’s more than a girlfriend.”

I nodded, but I also struggled to swallow. Because I’d realized something as I spoke. Aya was more than a girlfriend could ever be. She looked over at me, making sure I was here, making sure I was okay.

That’s why I’d connected with her so seamlessly. That’s why I felt best in her presence.

She was my other half.

15

Aya

I’d thought Quantum put on an amazing show. But now, after watching Cam and his band power through three days of performances in a sold-out venue, one of the country’s largest stadiums, I understood greatness. I waited in the wings, breath bated, along with the tens of thousands of people packed into the stadium as Cam stood—clad in his typical attire of a black button-up, faded but crisp jeans, and motorcycle boots—in front of his mic.

He stood there…waiting, waiting, waiting. The collective tension rose. And then, when it reached fever pitch, Cam leaned closer to the mic and began to croon “Sweet Baby Home”—the song he and Nash had collaborated on. The lyrics were filled with need and anguish for a woman thousands of miles from the soldier. It made my chest ache each time I heard it, but hearing it live—Cam’s strong, deep voice low, sultry, and a cappella—made the hairs on my arms and the back of my neck stand on end. All the air rushed from my lungs as he eased into the chorus.

Lights flashed as he and his band began to play, the first strum of the guitar and beat of the snare a relief from the building tension. I sagged against Nash, who practically vibrated with energy. When he turned, his eyes were huge as they met mine.

“That was unreal,” he yelled as the crowd burst into applause.

He turned back to face the stage, which was now lit with a variety of lights. They cast shadows over Nash’s features as Cam waved him onto the stage. Tonight, it was time. Cam had kept his promise.

“This is Nash Porter. He co-wrote this song with me,” Cam told the crowd. “I wanted y’all to meet him cuz he’s a superstar.”

Cam winked, and Nash rocked back on his heels, flashing his gaze toward me. I giggled even as my heart cracked a little. That had been my private joke with Nash, but now others would call him that. Still, it was worth it to watch him light up so brightly as he stepped out into the glow of the stage. He belonged there.

Nash accepted the guitar a roadie offered him and stepped up to the microphone. “Hey, Nashville. Like your name.”

The crowd screamed its approval.

“Y’all wanna see what this guy can do?” Cam asked. He began to play a complicated series of licks, which Nash matched with a smirk. That told me they’d done this before.

Cam began to sing and dipped his head toward the mic. Nash harmonized, and my jaw dropped. Steve’s typical implacable expression shifted to one of awe as Nash balanced and emphasized Cam’s voice, the two of them feeding off each other. By the end, the crowd’s screams were so loud, I covered my ears.

Nash took his bow, waving and smiling as the raucous cheers continued. He walked toward me, grin bigger than the Cheshire cat, and swung me into his arms and then around.

“You were amazing,” I said, clasping his cheeks. “Really, Superstar.”

His smile turned shy. “I like it better when you say that.”

He set me on my feet, and I rose up on my tiptoes to kiss him. I looked into his eyes, not even caring that Steve was probably staring at us. “And I’m so glad I was here to see you perform, Nash Porter. My superstar.”

He beamed as he wrapped an arm around my waist and tugged me back against his chest. I was cocooned—warm, protected. Loved.

He might not admit it, but Nash cared about me, about my approval. Too bad I had to leave. I bit my lip, wondering if I’d made a mistake. My mother had left the final decision in my hands, surprising me.

“You live once, Aya. I don’t want you to have regrets,” she’d told me when I spoke with her earlier.

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