by N. N. Britt
“Rom-coms?” I glared at him suspiciously.
“Married life is like being behind the enemy line,” he explained.
Dude had a point.
By the time we made it back to Malik’s car, my skin was hotter than a hot plate. I could probably roast bacon on my back. Too bad the doctor said that bacon was a big no-no. You are what you eat, he’d constantly told me about the benefits of a healthy diet.
The morning sunlight streaming down the hillside was almost sadistic as we loaded into the Jeep. The dry air was heavy against my chest and in my lungs, like I was breathing sandpaper.
On the drive back to my place, Malik continued to lecture me about chivalry. He was a wealth of useful information. Forty minutes later when his Jeep pulled up to my house, I felt like a Harvard graduate with a degree in couple counseling. Malik Dixon was that good at all things women and dating. He knew exactly how to get them to like a man.
I found Yanneth in the kitchen, reorganizing my fridge. Bags of unpacked groceries occupied the counter. She was a nice, soft-spoken woman whom Javier had hired through an agency. Despite sharing the same language, we didn’t speak often. Yanneth mostly kept to herself when she came over, but once in a while, I struck up a casual conversation, which usually ended with either me showing her my guitars or her showing me photos of her kids. The older one was in college and the other two were still in high school.
“I’ve never asked you,” I said matter-of-factly as I crossed the kitchen. “Are you married?”
Yanneth stopped fumbling with the food and nodded. “Yes. Twenty-two years.” There was a lick of pride in her voice.
I let out a long whistle and allowed her words to sink in. Sleeping with someone in one bed for that long scared the fuck out of me. “Let’s say, hypothetically, if you weren’t married—”
Confused, she raised her brows.
“Hypothetically.” I paused and stared at the jagged mountain tops on the opposite side of the terrace doors. “If you were a single mother and a man asked you out... What would prevent you from going out with him?”
Yanneth’s face screwed up in concentration. She took a moment to think. “Dating when you have a child is different,” she said finally. “A child always comes first.”
“So you’d stop seeing men?”
“No.” She shook her head. “But I’d make sure the man I’m seeing understands that I’m a mother first and respects my child’s needs. I’d make sure the man is responsible and a good influence.”
“Hmm.” I had to think about what she’d said for a second. I didn’t know if it was just another glitch in my broken brain, but it took me a moment to process. “That’s very helpful, Yanneth. Thanks,” I muttered on my way out as my heart rate suddenly doubled.
“Good luck!” Her voice trailed after me as I jogged up the stairs.
Luck? I didn’t believe it liked me much. But responsible? That, I could be. Heck, anyone who ate grapefruits for breakfast and broccoli for dinner was as straight as an arrow. I hadn’t missed a single appointment with my therapist or any of my AA meetings either. I was a fucking robot, desperately clinging to the last drops of my sanity and my will to stay alive. This routine didn’t necessarily bring me pleasure, but it’d grown on me. Even if my mind still rebelled at times, my body had become accustomed to my new reality.
I was crippled and cracked, and the glue that held me together was my own desire.
Upstairs, I stood in the shower while the water streaming against my skin washed away all the hard-earned sweat. My mind catalogued every single word Camille and I had exchanged yesterday. Was I really losing it? Was my charm no longer working?
Was I getting old?
The last couple of years had been a blur. I hardly remembered the names of all the women I’d slept with. Truth was, at times, I didn’t even care to ask. I’d been too numb to think.
A flicker of something that felt a lot like—as they call it—a butterfly dance that reigned in my chest last night reminded me that not all parts of me were dead yet. And I wanted to experience it again. I needed that burst of color in my monotone world like I needed air.
Was this need the main reason behind my social media stalking action? I wasn’t sure. But later that day, I lay in my bed and scrolled through my Instagram feed for the first time in months.
We’d grown up in the streets, jamming in garages, hanging out in back yards, and smoking weed behind bleachers. Electronics had never been a thing in my neighborhood, and then one day, it’d just dropped on us. Myspace, Facebook, Instagram.
This is where your fans are, Dante, my publicist at the time had said. You need to be online.
So we’d done it. We’d gotten my public persona connected and hired a marketing guru to pretend to be me. Piece of cake.
And here I was—years later—trying to make sense of how to navigate a social networking app, because I was desperate to find out everything I could about a woman who’d said no to dinner with number one on Time’s Best Electric Guitar Players list in 2008, 2009, and 2011.
I felt like a creep as I typed a teenager’s name into the search bar and scrolled through the list of all the Allys. She was easy to spot—the only dark-haired icon in a sea of pinks, blues, and lattes.
What are you doing? the voice in my head said. You promised her mother.
“Fuck,” I muttered into the empty space, then returned to the search bar and typed in Camille Rockwell.
I wasn’t sure if I got the spelling right or if she had the same last name as her daughter. No one really used their real name on social media anymore. Everyone went by a cool nickname. Seeing a splash of red hair in my feed almost surprised me.
Camille Rockwell didn’t have an online alias.
Mom extraordinaire. Makes stuff happen at Dream Bride.
Oh, the irony! Camille Rockwell specialized in weddings.
Laughing at the absurdity of it all, I scrolled through her feed and studied her photos. She was like no one I’d ever been with before. Bright. Simple. Domestic. An open book. Smiling and posing leisurely for the camera in front of clothing racks with frilly white dresses, behind the wheel in her car, in front of the Disneyland sign with her hands wrapped around her daughter.
Camille Rockwell was an all or nothing kind of a woman who lived a real life.
My gut told me I didn’t have a chance with someone like her. I wasn’t even sure I wanted a chance. I just knew my ego’d been cracked and hurt like a motherfucker, and I needed to repair the damage.
I had no plan whatsoever. She was shiny and I wanted her. End of story.
I eased my Navigator into a spot in the lot across the street from the building with the numbers 6-7-0-0 and checked my GPS again. Yes, this was the right address and something told me Camille had played me. Hard.
Crowds of people milled around a row of cars shimmering in the morning sun. Sloppy homemade cardboard signs jerked in the air. Puffs of soap and hoses mingled among a sea of bodies.
I killed the engine and remained still for a while, scanning the pandemonium. A huge BENEFIT CAR WASH banner hanging above the entrance covered up the name of the business, but the GPS clearly indicated that on a regular day, this was an auto restoration shop.
What the hell am I doing here?
Friday night had been different. Yes, there’d been teenagers at the club along with their parents, but it’d been a night of music—something I was familiar with. Darkness had been my friend ever since I could remember. This—the screaming pack of soccer moms and their spawns in T-shirts with puppies and kittens in their natural habitat, the suburbs, was all new to me. I’d done my share of charity appearances in the past, but I’d been high during most of those because of a constant feeling of inadequacy. The same feeling spread through my chest right now—a dull, hollow sensation of not belonging here, in this a-little-too-perfect neighborhood with its a-little-too-perfect Sunday morning shenanigans.
Taking a deep breath, I popped one of the shallow compartments in the co
nsole open and grabbed a few lollipops. Now that cigarettes were in the past, cherry, strawberry, and mango bursts were my best friends. It was like going from driving a racecar to a Mini Cooper. Downgrading for the sake of my life. Pockets full, I slipped on my aviators and stepped outside. The heat enveloped me instantly from head to toe, hitting all my bones at once.
It wasn’t anything new or unusual. Thanks to Malik and our hikes, I’d gotten used to being sober in broad daylight, but the sheer volume of teenage cheer made me uncomfortable.
Slowly, I crossed the street and searched the crowd.
“Would you like a car wash?” a young girl in a bandana asked, shoving a piece of paper at me. “All the proceeds are going to benefit BrightSide Animal Shelter.” She smiled, revealing her colored braces.
“And who do I talk to, darlin’?” I asked.
“Mr. Moreland or his brother.” She spun and gestured toward two men standing on the opposite side of the lot. They looked to be in their fifties, with streaks of silver in their hair, and wore the same T-shirts the rest of the crowd did. One of them held a small pup in his hands.
The girl was gone almost as quickly as she’d appeared. Without looking at the flyer, I slipped it into the back pocket of my jeans and continued my walk through the buzzing lot.
A few heads turned, which was expected. It didn’t bother me that people wanted to stare or talk. It’d been my reality for over two decades. But it did make me feel odd, something I hadn’t felt before I’d gotten clean. It was almost like looking at the world without a prism and seeing it for the first time, seeing all these people and how simple and fun their lives were, seeing what I’d missed out on.
A car wash… Who would have thought?
“Hey, stranger!” a voice called out over the racket, and I turned to see who it was.
Camille’s friend—temporarily labeled My-ex-boyfriend-loves-your-solo-work, because his real name slipped my mind—tossed his hand in the air and gave me a wave. He looked much better than when we’d met on Friday night. Sober. Dressed in a pair of khakis and a white T-shirt with a photo of a pit bull spread across his chest.
“Need your car washed, Dante?” He tucked a stray lock of his wheat-colored hair behind his ear and grinned.
“Maybe.” I made my approach. “I’m sorry. I don’t remember your name.” Back in my booze and cocaine-filled days, I would’ve just brushed that fact under the rug and called him the first word that popped into my head, but I’d been trying to practice honesty.
My therapist had recommended it.
“Harper.” The guy whipped out his hand.
I shook it. “You feeling better, man?”
“Alive and kicking.” A grin.
Still somewhat disoriented, I glanced around the lot. A line of freshly washed vehicles were parked by the curb. Three more were being hosed down by kids in puppy tops that matched the one Harper was wearing. Spurs of water splashed all over, leaving white soapy rivulets on the cracked asphalt, and I heard the purr of an engine as another vehicle drove up.
“Camille’s in the back,” Harper explained. “She’s on lunch duty.”
“I guess I should go say hi.”
“I’ll see you later, yeah?”
“You definitely will.” I nodded with a smile and headed to the rear of the building.
The shop sat on a lot that bordered a small park. Behind it, in the alley that separated the business from the city property, sat several plastic tables and a pile of chairs. Pop music pulsed through the air.
I stopped for a second and scanned the crowd. Camille was too easy to spot. Her hair gathered on top of her head into a messy bun shone like midnight fire against the greens of the trees and the blues of the sky. She wore the same pit bull top everyone else did and a pair of loose jeans with rips across her knees that seemed a little too retro yet completely adorable. If I didn’t already know she had a teenage daughter, I never would’ve guessed she was a mother.
Slowing my pace to enjoy my anonymity for just a second more, I drank in the view. A woman in bright pink capris emerged from the back of the shop with a small dog. She neared the tables and the crowd collectively swooned. Camille stopped what she was doing and took the pup in her hands.
“Hey!” It was Ally’s voice that greeted me as she stepped away from the group of people surrounding her mother and raced over. Her hair was clipped back, and for once, I could actually see her entire face. True to form, she wore all black. The dog on the front of her tee was done by hand with some kind of paint. “You need your car washed or are you helping?”
“Well.” I paused to think about which answer would ultimately place me into a category where I’d get more time with Camille. It almost made me feel guilty—wanting the woman whose kid I’d apparently befriended. “Do you need an extra pair of hands?
“Always.”
I held up a fist and she bumped my knuckles with her small ones, grinning. The way her lips slowly curled at the corners one after the other reminded me of Camille’s smile. There was something sweet about that imperfection they both shared.
“You want to show me around?”
“Totally.” Ally jerked her chin. “We’ve got help!” she announced as I fell into step beside her.
Heads turned.
Try not act like an entitled asshole, I reminded myself while making my approach.
Then everyone introduced themselves. As always, I got to shake some hands, answer a few questions, and dodge a couple of sloppy advances from the most promiscuous in the group. It was just like any other event I’d attended, but evidently, no one here besides Ally knew who exactly I was. It felt nice being the regular guy instead of the guy who’d just gotten out of rehab. Obviously, sooner or later someone would figure me out, but for now, I was simply enjoying my anonymity.
“I didn’t think you’d show up.” Camille smiled, cradling the pup like a newborn.
“I had an opening in my schedule,” I joked, wondering what it would feel like to be a pet in her hands. “Who’s the little guy?”
“Oh, this is Rocky.” She rubbed his head and jutted her chin at Pink Capris. “Renn’s baby. He used to live in the shelter we’re raising money for.”
“He’s definitely a heartbreaker.”
“Have you met his brother yet?”
Totally clueless, I shook my head. “I don’t think so.”
“Zeus is Daddy’s boy.” Renn casually ran over our conversation. “This is actually my husband’s shop,” she said proudly. Her heavily shadowed hawk eyes roamed my face as if she were looking for dents in the bumper of a new car.
“If I get my hands on a classic, I’ll know where to take it.” I gave her my megawatt red carpet smile.
She visibly melted. Ah, women. They needed so little to get all flustered. Well, most women, I thought, watching Camille kiss the pup on the nose before she handed him back to Renn.
I rubbed my palms together and scanned my surroundings. “So what do you need help with, ladies?”
The crowd was finally thinning out. Ally had disappeared into the shop, and moments later, the music changed from pop to rock.
“Well, let’s see,” Renn drawled. “We need to set up the lunch area.”
“We got it, darlin’,” I told her, knocking Camille’s shoulder. “Right?”
Nodding, Camille pressed the edge of her palm to her forehead to hide her eyes from the sun and stared at the small stretch of lawn in front of us.
“Sweet. I’ll leave you two to it then.” Renn beamed, walking off.
Camille glanced up at me from under the cover of her hand while using the other one to motion at an opening between the trees scattered across the park. “I’m thinking in the shade.”
“Unless you want everyone here to turn into a kebab.”
“Nope.” She dropped her arms to her sides and squinted. Harsh sunlight streaming through patches of leaves cast flickering shadows over her cheekbones, highlighting her sharp, delicate bone structure. �
�That’s definitely not part of my plan. I just want to feed them.” She smiled.
“All right. Let’s get this going then.” I rolled up the sleeves of my shirt, ready to do whatever this woman told me.
“Wait here,” she ordered, heading inside and returning seconds later with a tube of sunblock. “You’ll need this.”
We spent the next thirty minutes making small talk and setting up the tables and chairs in the park in the stinging heat. The air was so heavy that breathing suddenly seemed like a chore. I lost count of how many bottles of water we’d emptied by the time everything was arranged the way Camille wanted.
Sweaty and spent, we stood beneath a canopy of tangled tree branches and stared at the results of our labor, a plastic table with heaps of plates and cups separating us.
“Is it safe to ask you to dinner now?” I asked, pinching the front of my damp shirt to peel it away from my skin.
Camille froze. A dry summer breeze whipped the untamed strands of her hair against her cheeks.
The distant rumble of the carwash filled the sudden silence and the lack of an immediate response ate at me. Nervous, I patted the pockets of my jeans and pulled out a slightly melted piece of candy, ignoring the sticky residue on my fingers.
“I have a daughter,” Camille finally said quietly, eyes intent.
“I’m aware.”
“I’m not looking for a casual fuck.”
Her directness only made me want her more. I couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment I’d decided that I had to have her no matter what. We’d met twice. I knew nothing about this woman except for the fact that she loved her kid and dogs, but there was something in the way she loved in general. Relentlessly. Without reservations.
“I’m not offering one.” I couldn’t help but smile at the mere idea of me and her fucking. “It’s just dinner.”
A blush crept up her cheeks, but she didn’t break eye contact.
“Exactly how many tables do you need me to move for you to agree?” I asked, leaning over, melting candy still in my hand.
She remained perfectly still. “I did some reading.”
“Really?”