A trill of excitement zips through my belly. Campfire tonight. With Christian.
As we straighten our supplies and wash out our brushes, my gaze falls on the B.A.B., and I think of the alterations I have in mind.
“Hey, Cassie? Mind if I take this back to my tent? I’d like to study it. You know, see if I can copy some of the harder ones.”
“Sure!” Cassie says, rather chipper. She pulls out her lip balm and applies several heavy coats, studying me while she does it. Then, to my utter astonishment, she holds out the tube to me. “Want some?”
I can’t believe it. She’s offering me her precious lip balm. I don’t know what that means. Maybe she respects my artistic ability. Maybe she got hit over the head with a turkey leg. Maybe somewhere pigs have sprouted wings. Whatever the case may be, in Cassie language, this is a big deal, and I can’t refuse now.
So I take the lip balm, put on a liberal coat, and thank her with a big smile before we head off to our respective tents. As I walk, the lip balm starts to tingle, tickling my lips in a fun, pleasant way. It’s minty, creamy, and really luxurious, and I make a mental note to myself to cough up some extra moola to spring for this stuff at the mall next time. After all, I’m making some great tips now, I can afford to splurge a little, and wouldn’t it be great to kiss Christian with this on? If I make him tingle half as much as he’s done to me the last few days, he’ll ask me to the Revel for sure, and then we can kiss like that on the dance floor.
I imagine Kyle in the corner, miserably watching the whole spectacle and lamenting that he ever broke up with me, and I almost float back to my tent.
Part of me was nervous that the second bonfire wouldn’t be as magical as the first, that seeing it all again would make it feel ordinary.
How naive of me.
As Suze and I make our way through the woods, my stomach tight with anxiousness, the stars that dot the twilit sky nearly take my breath away. It’s like they know tonight is special, and decided to mark the occasion by sparkling twice as brightly as ever before. I even make Suze stop and stare at them with me, and she points out a few constellations that mean a lot to her: the Little Dipper, because her father once told her that the little one was hers and the big one was his, and her zodiac sign, Aquarius.
The campfire seems even more magical, and it has everything to do with the feeling around it. Last time, at my welcoming party, the crowd was loud and raucous. Tonight the mood is infinitely more mellow. People are in small groups, chatting quietly, and there’s no hard liquor in sight (save for Quagmire and Ramón, who are sitting on a log together close to the fire and sharing a bottle of what looks to be gin). People have cups of warm mead and the acrobats are being generous with the wine that one of them had shipped in from France.
“Classy,” I say to Suze, and she agrees.
The classiest of all is the music. The minstrels aren’t playing tonight, so there’s none of the chuckle-worthy arrangements of classic rock and pop songs on their lutes and sackbuts. Instead, Christian is sitting on a log by the crackling fire, a guitar tucked under his arm.
Of course he plays guitar, I muse. Of course he does. He’s gorgeous and muscular and charming, so why would God have stopped there? Might as well throw in some musical talent just for good measure, so that no woman alive would be able to resist. I feel my mouth curve into a sappy, ridiculous smile.
“Go get him,” Suze urges, though I’m not sure it’s because she really wants me to be with Christian as much as it’s that Grant has just made an entrance, and she’s ready to get cozy with him by the fire.
We wish each other luck and part, and I head straight toward Christian. He’s surrounded by people, but it’s no matter. With a slight jerk of his head, Christian indicates that he wants me to sit next to him, and Richard gives up his seat, no questions asked. I whisper my thanks to Richard as he settles on the ground next to my feet and I sit down next to my knight.
Christian looks my way for only a moment, a smile touching his lips briefly before he turns his concentration back to the song. I don’t know much about music; it always seems like such a foreign art form to me, though I’m jealous of people who understand it and can move others to tears with the sound of their voice or their instrument. It’s the kind of thing I’d love to do with paint, to express that much emotion, but I’ve come to believe that musicians trump artists in this regard. There’s just something about the dips and crescendos of music that speak directly to the soul, as if the notes enter the ear and go right to the heart, that can’t be matched by merely gazing at a painting. There have been many paintings that have moved me, but music has a way of making itself at home inside you.
When he strums the last chord and lets it ring, a few people across from us clap, and all I really want is to tell them to go away so I can have Christian all to myself.
“Your hands are empty,” Christian remarks. To the disappointment of everyone around us, and me as well, he sets the guitar aside. “How about I get you a drink?”
I nod, and he stands, making his way toward the acrobats. Without him next to me, I can feel how much I was taking his body heat for granted, and it occurs to me that we were sitting close enough that I felt his warmth. I’d sat down and pressed myself against him, naturally. Like that’s where I was supposed to be.
I hold out my hands and warm them with the fire’s heat, then rub my arms. I’ll have to remember a sweatshirt next time, or at least sleeves. But I certainly hadn’t chosen to wear my lacy tank top for my own well-being.
Then Christian’s beside me again, handing me a cup of red wine, and it has a hint of berry in it. It’s good. Too good. So I sip it. There’s no way I’m going to get tipsy again and feel the wrath of a hangover all day long tomorrow.
“So, are the bonfires usually more like this?” I ask.
“Like what?”
“Mellow.”
Christian smiles into his cup and takes a drink. “You could say that. Last week we sort of wanted to throw you in, you know? Hit you up with all the crazy at once to see how you handled it.”
“I threw up in the woods and felt sick all the next day.”
Christian laughs. “We overdid it a bit, I guess.”
We sip for a moment in silence, watching the flames bend and sway. Then I take a deep breath and ask, “Did you have to go home yesterday?”
Christian turns to me, eyes narrowing, and something dark passes in his expression. “Yeah, I did. Who told you that?”
“Sage,” I say, hoping I sound casual enough to combat his sudden seriousness.
“Oh.” Christian leans back, stretching out his long legs. “Yeah. Family stuff. It was stupid.”
“Everything okay?”
He jerks one shoulder, his mouth turning down. “Okay as it’s ever going to be, I think.”
He doesn’t say any more, and he really doesn’t seem as if he wants to talk about it, so I don’t press him for more information. After a moment he hands me his cup and takes up his guitar again, this time starting in on a song I’m very familiar with, a song that sets my teeth on edge.
I used to like this song. Kyle once found a box of CDs in his attic, old stuff his parents listened to when they were in college. The box was a treasure trove of grunge and post-grunge, alternative, and even folky stuff. Kyle and I would listen to those CDs as we cruised around town, congratulating ourselves for being so cool for knowing these bands from a bygone era. This song, in particular, was a favorite of ours, and this is the first time I’ve heard it without Kyle sitting beside me, driving along and singing along, our voices nowhere close to the tune. Now that I’m listening, I can’t stand it—not the melancholy guitar, not the pretty chords, and especially not the words.
But it’s clear I’m the only one around the campfire who feels that way, and some of the acrobat girls start singing along with Christian’s guitar, giggling when they mess up the lyrics.
I excuse myself with a pat on Christian’s shoulder and a mumbled explanation of “Bathro
om,” but I don’t go to the bathroom. I step out beyond the firelight and stare at the stars again, impressing myself when I find the Little Dipper like Suze taught me, and Orion’s belt.
I sit at the foot of a tree, not caring that I’m getting my jeans dirty, and just enjoy the solitude. I can still hear them singing but I’m far enough away that it’s a pleasant accompaniment to the night, not a method of torture designed only for my ears. Alone like this, without anything to impede it like hectic work schedules, the steady steps of the horses, fidgety children, and the voices of my new friends, thoughts fill my head. Thoughts of Kyle that I can’t stop.
On a night like this, we’d be down at the beach, or maybe just driving. It never seemed to matter what Kyle and I were doing, we always had fun. He had this way of making me laugh, mostly at his own expense, and we could talk for hours, passing the time going seamlessly from one subject to the next. He would always surprise me with trivia about some obscure thing I’d never heard of, or he’d fascinate me with his ideas and his thoughts about the deeper questions of life. Kyle somehow always made me feel like I was the only thing in the world he could see, and even though I knew I was lucky to have a boyfriend who made me feel that way, he always insisted he was the lucky one.
I miss that. I miss our nights at the beach, or on the coast, or driving. I miss hanging out with our friends, the whole big group of us, having fun and getting into shenanigans. I miss his kisses and his sweet words and promises. But most of all I miss that connection we had, the same kind of connection that maybe he has with Lacey now, and I’m scared I won’t ever have it again.
Someone in the distance says Christian’s name and it yanks me out of my thoughts. It’s jarring to go from these sweet memories to the present reality, and once I get my bearings there’s an immediate sense of guilt and anger at myself. I’ve been out here thinking of Kyle when a gorgeous boy is playing guitar by firelight—a gorgeous boy who might be a new start.
I need to get back to the campfire and lock this thing down with Christian, and get over Kyle and his stupid off-key singing and the stupid way he’d kiss me until I forgot my own name.
Determined, I push myself up from the ground and brush away the dirt. When I reach the campfire, though, the crowd seems to have dispersed. The acrobat girls are gone, and so is Christian, guitar and all. I do a full circle around the clearing, searching for him through the trees, but he’s nowhere to be seen. Vanished into the night, and no one I speak to has seen him. When I stumble on Grant and Suze making out against a tree, I apologize profusely, staring down at my shoes in embarrassment.
“Looking for Christian?” Grant guesses, smirking at my sudden shyness, and I nod. “I think he had to take a phone call.”
“Oh,” I say, disappointed. “His family?”
“Don’t know,” Grant says. He slides his arm back around Suze’s waist, and she looks mighty proud of herself. “I was otherwise engaged when I saw him pass.”
“Of course,” I say, and allow myself a laugh. “Thanks, guys.”
I walk away quickly, steering myself back toward the fire. There are more people in the clearing than before now. It’s Will, and he’s brought his crew. One of them is Davis, and he notices me approaching first.
“Hey, puke girl,” he says to me.
“Hey, pee boy,” I say back.
Will looks between us, eyebrows raised, a you-two-are-so-weird expression on his face, but then he must read something on my face because he ducks close to me, whispering into my ear, “All right?”
“Yeah. It’s been a weird night,” I whisper back.
Will nods as if he understands. “Well, you know the cure for that, right?”
I squint at him, unsure of what he’s getting at, and that’s when he holds up his hands to reveal a bag of giant marshmallows and a tree branch sharpened to a point on one end.
“Toasted marshmallows?”
“Yes. Or s’mores. We have graham crackers. And chocolate. At least we did.” Will clears his throat and directs a loud voice to the other side of the fire, where Davis has parked himself next to a box of chocolate bars. “If Davis hasn’t eaten them all by now.”
A muffled, “Shuddup, Indy,” comes from the direction of Davis, which sounds distinctly like it might have been said around a mouthful of chocolate.
Will turns back to me, his expression a perfect balance of amusement and irritation. “Seriously. Nothing can cheer you up like a toasted marshmallow. I’ll make you one. I have a patented, foolproof Fuller family method.”
I let myself smile. “Oh? And what’s the patented, foolproof Fuller family method?”
“Light it on fire and then wave it around like a lunatic until it stops burning, of course.”
“Mmmm, I love that charcoal flavor,” Davis chips in.
“Nice and smoky.” Will smiles at me, and then dips his hand into the bag, retrieving a marshmallow. He harpoons it on his stick.
“I don’t know if the Fuller family method will work for me. I don’t like the burnt ones,” I tell Will, and raise my nose in the air. “I like mine toasted, golden brown all over.”
Will narrows his eyes at me and shakes his head like he’s absolutely disgusted. “Marshmallow snob.”
“Cretin.”
At that, Will unceremoniously lowers his marshmallow into the fire and waits until it catches. Then, true to his word, he whips it out and waves it back and forth frantically, cursing at it, until the fire goes out.
He blows on it, glances at me with triumph, and bites into it. The charred black sugar crunches and the gooey, melted insides drip down his chin. I watch, amused, as he tries to wipe the goo off his skin, then licks his fingers.
“See?” he says, as if all the chaos of the last few minutes totally proved his method. “I win.”
“You have marshmallow on your nose,” I say, and Davis guffaws behind us, his own marshmallow totally aflame.
Will wipes at his nose where, sure enough, a bit of sticky marshmallow has landed. “Fine,” he says, pride obviously wounded. “Show me how to make the perfect marshmallow, O Wise Marshmallow Guru.”
I stick my nose even higher into the air and take his stick and a marshmallow. I step toward the fire, lowering my marshmallow so that it’s just over the flames. It takes a while, but then, perfection always takes time. I turn my stick like a rotisserie, toasting each side until the whole thing is a warm, golden brown, no charring in sight. I point my stick at Will, offering him the marshmallow, and he pulls it off the end and sniffs it suspiciously before popping the entire thing in his mouth. His eyes go wide, and he emits a sound that seems to be pure pleasure.
“My God,” he says to Davis around the fluff in his mouth. “The woman is a genius.”
“Give me that,” Davis says, and snatches the marshmallows from Will, eager to try my method out for himself.
My method lasts all of ten minutes before the boys get impatient and start burning the marshmallows to a crisp again, although they still hold that my method produces higher quality marshmallows. Soon we have a crowd around us and we break into the chocolate and graham crackers. We lose ourselves in sugary, s’more heaven until the air is far too chilly and our stomachs are regretting our gluttony. Christian hasn’t reappeared, but I ignore the itch of irritation under my skin about it and focus on having a good time without him. It’s only when people start making excuses to leave, taking a final s’more for the road, that I realize how tired and full I feel, and I just want to lie down and sleep until the breakfast bell in the morning.
I plunk down on a fallen tree. “So full. Need to sleep.”
“Aye,” Will replies. He’s sitting at the foot of a tree and he leans back, rubbing his aching stomach. “Shouldn’t have had that last one.”
“I shouldn’t have had the last four,” I say, and he chuckles tiredly at that. “I’ll see you at breakfast? Thanks for the marshmallows.”
Will exhales loudly and stands, stretching. “I’ll walk you back.”
“You don’t have to,” I say, feeling a little pathetic. It should have been Christian offering, and now I’m just the poor loser who is going to wander through the woods alone.
“I’m walking with you. A gentleman would not leave a lady alone in the woods.”
A gentleman indeed. Where was Christian’s concern for my well-being? He’s left me in the woods twice now. Aren’t knights supposed to be chivalrous?
“Thanks,” I tell Will. I smile at him and accept his arm when he offers it. We walk in silence, save for the occasional groan when a dip in the path or a protruding tree root jostles our stomachs. Will walks close as if he’s afraid I might fall (and okay, maybe he’s right about that), and twice his arms fly out, trying to catch me as I stumble.
“I’m sorry,” I mumble to him. “Tired. And drunk on sugar.”
Will laughs. “Worse than mead.”
When we near the tent, though, Will reaches out and grabs my arm, halting us. “What?” I ask.
He jerks his head toward my tent and I listen, fully expecting to hear the rustling of some wild animal or the like.
Well, it does sound a little like a wild animal. Two wild animals. It’s very clear that Suze and Grant are having a fantastic time in my tent.
I clamp my hands over my mouth to keep from laughing, although Will doesn’t bother. He motions for me to follow him, and we make our way back to the other side of camp, giggling and laughing like children all the way. We stop in front of another ring of tents, and that’s when Will turns to me with a wicked gleam in his eye.
“Oh, Sir Grant, you brawny hunk of a man,” Will says, his voice pitched high in a falsetto that doesn’t sound like Suze at all, but is hilarious nonetheless. “Take me now!”
I drop my voice down low and gruff in my own impersonation of Grant. “Say please, you sassy wench!”
“Please, sir, please!” Will answers in falsetto, and I lose it, laughing so hard that there’s no way I can continue our bit. Will’s right there with me, and we both plop ourselves down on the ground, since laughter has rendered us unable to walk.
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