Being nervous around Camila isn't anything new. She toured with me a few years back and just knowing she was standing in the wings of the stage waiting to come out to perform with me made me sweat even more than I already was under those bright lights.
It's always amazed me how I could stand in front of a crowd of 95,000 people for weeks in a row, but somehow, the sole person in my peripheral vision was able to make my knees shake so bad I had to take a moment to myself and pull it together before she came dancing onto the stage next to me.
My knees are doing the same buckling thing they used to back then right now as I stand in the middle of the airport with two dozen red roses—her favorite—in one hand and my other one shoved so deep in my pocket to keep it from shaking while I wait here for her.
I've gotten really good at blending in with other people in public over the last five years. At the start of my career, people only recognized me here and there. Some would ask for a selfie or an autograph, and I loved when someone recognized me. Not that I don't now. I still love every one of my fans. Without them, none of this would be possible. But when all of this started, there was this rush that would start out in my stomach and snake itself up and into my chest. People recognized me, and they knew my lyrics. The words that meant more to me than anything else ever did. And they'd sing them to me, or speak them at me and I would get this big smile on my face that my parents would laugh about later on at dinner because I'd still be wearing it.
But now, it's like I can't even step out of my own apartment building without the paparazzi hovering in my face with their flashing cameras and notepads where they write down every word I say and then later post on their online tabloids. Though, with my black hood pulled up over my head and my sunglasses masking half of my face, no one will recognize me as they race past me to catch their flights. Except for Camila. She's always been able to pull me out of a crowd no matter what I'm wearing to mask myself amongst the general population. Maybe it's because she's used to doing the same. I don't even have to see her to know that when she gets off her plane she'll be in a velvet jumpsuit and some kind of ball cap pulled down far over her face so no one can see those big brown eyes of hers.
Everyone knows her eyes. It's impossible not to. They're a light shade of honey brown and her eyelashes are so long it's like they fan the rest of her face when she blinks. They're breathtaking, and I've known it since the minute I met her. I couldn't look away from them, or her, and when she finally let go of our eye-contact, I longed for the moment she decided to bring it back.
My phone vibrates in my pocket and I pull it out to a text from Camila saying her flight has landed. I send back a quick okay and prop myself against the pillar I'm leaning on. It'll only be a few minutes or so before she walks to baggage claim and waits for her suitcase to spin around the wheel.
A crowd of people emerge from the terminal she's set to come out of and I duck my head toward the ground so there's no chance anyone will figure out I'm here. The last thing I need today is someone recognizing me and ruining my surprise. The piercing sound of teenage girls shrieking will catch the attention of everyone else in the airport and I'll be swarmed before I can even get to her.
She walks out now. In a pair of velvet, navy blue sweatpants with the word Juicy stitched into the pocket on her left leg. On tour, she wore a similar black pair that had the same word written across her butt. She caught me looking multiple times and she'd just shake her head and wiggle her finger in the air at me, sucking her teeth during the process.
I wait until she's standing in front of the luggage machine to walk over to her. She's tapping her foot on the cement floor below her, impatiently. She's always been so impatient. I stand behind her, looking like another person waiting for their bag as a few people retrieve their own and quickly make their way toward another area of the airport.
"Camila."
She turns around, reaching for her sunglasses. "Shawn?"
A lump the size of a golf ball settles into my throat and I hold the flowers out to her, but instead of taking them she wraps her arms around my neck and pulls me to her until our bodies collide.
"I thought you would have sent a car for me." she says, low enough no one can hear her, but loud enough I can. That's one of the things I love about her. When she talks to me in public she has this soft, quiet voice that no one but me can hear. Being the lone receiver of whatever Camila Cabello has to say makes my insides turn over.
"I could have." I shrug in her arms. "But I wanted to be the first person to see you once you landed."
She drops her arms around my back and hugs me again. "I missed you."
"I know." I try not to pay too much attention to how perfectly my chin rests on her head. She's just the right amount of short for our bodies to fit like glue. "I missed you, too."