a/n: hi ffn! i'm back and done with finals! just so you know, there are lowkey jane the virgin (S2) spoilers in this. with that said, please enjoy!
PART TWO
Blacksburg, Virginia
My set goes well. Really well.
Josh even flashes two animated thumbs-up in my direction when I skirt offstage. Holy shit, he mouths. Cam's words from earlier ring in my ears—"college town…should be a fun show"—and I smile wryly. The crowd is receptive and noisy and possibly high and definitely drunk. Derrick, Josh, and Dempsey are received warmly by an onslaught of manic shrieks when they step out of the wings.
On a post-show high, I spring downstairs into the green room, an unusual pep in my step. I consider staying and watching from sidestage, tempted by the energy of the crowd, but ultimately decide against it. Instead, I pull my hair into a knot on my head and slip into a loose pair of sweats, slinging my pack across one shoulder.
When we first started touring, I used to stay behind and watch Fatty Kidney and the Blessed Park perform after my set. I even memorized all the words to Please Pay for My Breakfast, an indisputable crowd-favorite, and caught myself humming it while brushing my teeth at night. But two weeks in, I realized how much I dreaded the suffocating, flush-against-sweating-strangers rush after a show. It's an undying buzz of slurred chatter and skin slick with sweat and the smell of cheap beer sinking into every pore and curling underneath my fingernails. Now I leave directly after opening, longing for the stillness and quiet of our tour bus.
The air outside is thick and warm. I pause, lifting my gaze to the crescent moon. Every muscle relaxes—the joints in my fingers, tense from clenching a microphone, and my eyes, worn from the flaring stage lights—and I can't remember the last time I felt so—
"Claire?"
What the fuck? I spin around anxiously, my heart lodged in my throat. My eyes dart back and forth across the expanse of a dark, empty intersection, before landing on a gangly outline in a leather jacket and dilapidated Converse.
I squint. "Cam?" Instead of slowing, my pulse picks up. He's leaning against the passenger door of his car, but peels himself off after I call his name. I'm glad it's dark enough to conceal my flush.
"Talk about a coincidence," he muses after issuing a sharp, prolonged whistle. "Don't tell me you're done for the night."
"Uh, yeah. Yeah, I am," I stammer, my hands instantly clammy. I wipe them off indiscriminately against the side of my sweats. "I always try to leave as soon as possible—I don't like the chaos and the frenzy of post-show crowds."
He doesn't answer; he only grunts thoughtfully, lips pressed together in a hard line, tight and thin. Cam eventually takes a casual step in my direction, and reflexively I jump back.
"Are you…okay?" His tone is gentle, but his pursed lips and knit eyebrows indicate that he's repressing a laugh.
"I'm fine," I snap, probably a little too defensively. "Anyone would feel jumpy after being barked at by a stranger."
"Well, technically I'm not a stranger."
"Well, technically I had a five-minute conversation with the back of your head. Pretty sure that makes you a stranger." I feel myself relax slightly—I'm good at this impassive teasing; it's how I treat Todd on a regular basis.
"Hey! I shared my Sour Patch Kids, too! Jeez, talk about belittling my acts of kindness…"
I can't suppress the giggle that rises in my throat. "Oh, well in that case—"
Suddenly, a squeal that is very 15-year-old-Claire-losing-her-shit-at-a-Justin-Bieber-concert-esque cuts me off. "Cindy! Can I have your autograph?"
A lock of pink hair springs into my line of sight. Blinking furiously, I recover whatever's left of my poise and force a smile. The girl has a long, thin face, soft brown eyes, and a silver hoop projecting from the center of her lower lip. Her beer sloshes over the rim in one hand, and she grips a black Sharpie in the other.
"Uh, yeah! Sure thing." I uncap her pen and take the plastic phone case she hands me a second later. "What's your name?"
"Catherine. With a C."
"Okay, there you go." We engage in awkward, fumbling exchange as she tries to balance her phone, her pen, and her beer in all her tipsy disarray. Eventually, she thinks to wedge her Sharpie behind her ear.
"Thanks Cindy! You were great," she gushes enthusiastically, what's left of her beer dribbling to the concrete. With a cheerful wave, Catherine pivots on the balls of her feet and dashes away.
Once she's out of earshot, Cam breaks the silence with a noisy snort. "Did she just…"
"Oh my god," I deadpan, meeting his gaze. "She thought my name was Cindy."
"Well…it's the thought that counts, right?"
He was right, it was—but that did little to soothe my battered ego. "I guess so." I pick at a nonexistent fleck of lint on my sweater just to have something to do with my hands. "So…what are you doing here, anyway?"
"Shit, is this Claire Lyons' private property? I'm so sorry for intruding."
"You know what I mean," I gripe with an overstated eye roll.
"I drive a cab for a living. Big crowds are, like, my version of hitting the motherlode."
I let that digest before something else piques my interest. "Wait—how do you know my last name?" I think back to our conversation in the cab, but can't really remember anything apart from my all-consuming stress about being late (and also the way the corners of his eyes—one bright green and the other deep blue—crinkled when he smiled at me through the rearview mirror).
"I may have Googled you," he shrugs unapologetically. "I didn't know you played at Bonnaroo! Also, you have over three thousand Twitter followers? That's pretty sick."
"Mm, stalker-like tendencies and a social climber. I'm getting nothing but red flags here, Cam," I tease, ignoring the flutter in my gut I feel after hearing he looked me up.
He laughs warmly. "Hey, listen, do you have plans tonight?"
Apart from talking to Todd, ordering a mushroom pizza, and streaming at least four episodes of Jane the Virgin? Probably not. I shake my head and watch as Cam presses his lips together uncertainly.
"Do you…would you maybe—I mean, you really don't have to—but if you wanted to, you could come back to my place?" He cups the back of his neck, his cheeks pink; for the first time since we've met, Cam seems nervous. I find it so endearing that my heart swells.
"I-I should probably get back to the tour bus. I don't want to intrude—"
"You wouldn't be, though," he protests, shoving both hands into the back pockets of his jeans. "We could eat. I mean, I can't really cook, but I have Sour Patch Kids and a takeout menu from Little Caesars."
"But what about driving? Like—don't you have work?"
"I work around my own schedule. Perks of driving a cab."
"So…I'm part of your schedule, then?"
"Yeah, I think I can pencil you in." He's teasing now, more relaxed, the ghost of a dimple grazing his left cheek.
"I suppose I can't say no to Little Caesars…" I muse as casually as possible, despite the fact that the hammering of my heartbeat is ringing in my ears.
Cam wrenches open the passenger door and gestures dramatically toward the seat, threadbare like old yarn, sprinkled with wrinkled candy wrappers.
"Let's go, Cindy."
xxx
Christiansburg, Virginia
Cam lives about an hour outside Blacksburg in a small town called Ferrum.
His car hums over the quiet, dimly lit local roads as our topic of conversation transitions from his longtime Sour Patch Kid addiction to his Febreze car vent clips (Hawaiian-Aloha-scented) to our favorite music.
I had him pegged as a Kendrick or King Mez kind of guy, so I'm surprised when he launches into a ten minute commendation of the Strokes' discography.
"Is This It is hyped up. Too indie for my tastes. But Comedown Machine is—is just flawless and brazen. It's hands down my favorite album of all time. I mean—c'mon, the guitar on 50/50 still gives me chills. Just…" He lifts his right hand before swinging it down, smacking the wheel fervently, "…effortless. And the disco grooves in Welcome to Japan, holy shit..."
Towards the end of his monologue I inadvertently drown him out, captivated by the expressive upturn of his lips. He gesticulates wildly, puncturing every point with a wave or a punch to his thigh. Every so often the car skids to a lurching standstill after he overlooks a yellow light, and he casts a sheepish half-smile in my direction before resuming. Cam—with his untidy dark hair and one blue eye and one green eye and tatty leather jacket and energetic pan-hands—is a sight for sore eyes.
"What do you like, then?"
When he shifts the spotlight onto me, I have to look at my fingers knotted in my lap in order to focus. "Uh, I like a whole lot. Stevie Nicks, Fleetwood Mac—"
"Rock n' roll nuns, yeah?"
I laugh at his reference, secretly pleased. "Exactly, yeah. But as far as what I write—well, it's more indie than anything."
"It's good."
"What is?"
"What you write. It's good."
My stomach clenches at the insinuation that he's listened to my music. Then I start to panic—what exactly has he looked up? Not my 2009 YouTube covers, God forbid. He must sense my discomfort—or he's just utterly oblivious—because he chirps after another stretch of silence, "I'll make you a mixtape tonight. Some Weezer, Electric Six…you'll be a grungy, alt-rock artist in no time, Cindy."
xxx
Ferrum, Virginia
We pull into a dark parking lot a little after 9. Cam lives in a modest apartment complex on the sixth floor with a goldfish named Steve. His place is homey, with two mustard yellow couches and an old-fashioned fire place and a sequence of low-hanging ceiling lamps. Everything smells vaguely of cereal, something that Cam apologizes profusely for the moment he thrusts his key into the lock.
In the vestibule, he pauses to kick off his shoes, so I do the same. He slowly runs a hand through his hair and looks around. "It's kinda messy," he acknowledges with a wince. "Didn't expect company when I left this morning."
"It's no problem," I say, and I mean it. Todd and I naturally err on the side of disorganization, but ever since Olivia's been sleeping over, our apartment has been almost unnervingly tidy.
Cam presses his hand into my lower back gently—which doesn't affect me whatsoever—and guides me into the kitchen. "Feel free to sit," he says, jerking his head toward the small wooden table, "I'll go order a pizza or something."
"Mm, mushroom please!" I holler over my shoulder.
I hear him place the call from his living room—one large mushroom pizza, breadsticks, and an extra side of garlic butter dipping sauce—before he shuffles back into the kitchen. He offers me a beer, snags one for himself, and collapses into the seat across from me.
"So…Claire Lyons," he begins with an openly curious expression, "What's it like being on tour?"
"Fun. Exciting. As far as tours go, though, it's pretty relaxed. We usually only tour once a week, and then the four of us head back to New York—them to Brooklyn and me to Westchester."
"Touring with three guys, huh? Must be fun." Something about his tone and the slight downturn of his lips leads me to believe that "fun" isn't the word he means at all.
"Yeah, they're great guys."
Cam seems displeased with my answer, and takes a generous swig of his drink before responding. "So, Josh, Derrick, and what's-his-face?"
"Dempsey."
"Right," he mumbles, tapping his thumb rhythmically against the rim of his beer. "Dumb name if you ask me."
"Cam—"
"What? I'm just saying…"
His tone is sour and his eyes are cast down at the table. It strikes me that he might me jealous. I would have thought it was sweet if, you know, I was even remotely interested. Which I wasn't. Still, I feel bizarrely compelled to reassure him.
"Dempsey snores. Loud. Drools, too." I pause, gauging his reaction. Cam lifts an eyebrow in a go-on type of way, and I bite back a smile. "Derrick is a total nut—I mean, he averages, like, six Red Bulls a day. Also, I'm pretty sure Josh hasn't showered in a week. Our bus reeks."
Cam grins, now in a considerably better mood, and grabs an open bag of Sour Patch Kids from the mantle behind him. "Alright, Cindy. Life story, go."
The next hour flies. We switch off on the exchange of basic facts as he picks the sugar granules off every wedge of candy and nurses his beer.
I skip over my college years, because I was hideously insecure and convinced that I was destined to study finance, but I do offer some tidbits about Todd, my affinity for smiling food, and how I spent four consecutive summers working at Olive Garden. I save any anecdotes about Olivia for a later date.
In return, Came explains that he's twenty-five, a broadcast journalism major interested in eventually covering college football, and a part-time recreational league soccer coach. He's been driving cabs for four months, his favorite TV show is The Office, and he likes long walks on the beach (his words, not mine). He also calls me Cindy a few more times, just for good measure, and my stomach predictably executes a series of perfect somersaults.
By the time our pizza arrives, we've demolished a bag and a half of Sour Patch Kids and I don't have much of an appetite. I suspect Cam doesn't either, because he halfheartedly picks at a chunk of mushroom for a good minute before he pops it into his mouth.
We fall into silence, the cycle of chewing and sipping interrupted only when Cam asks if I'd like to watch TV. Grateful for his interjection, I nod and follow him into the family room. We settle into the same couch—though I make sure to leave an appropriate foot of space between us—and Cam offers me the remote.
Tentatively, I take the reins and comb through Netflix until I find what I'm looking for. When I hit play, Cam lifts his eyebrows not-so-discretely.
"What?"
"Nothing! I just—I've never watched this before. It seems cheesy."
"Jane the Virgin is a cinematic blessing! Don't be so judge-y."
"Yeah, okay," he replies, noticeably unconvinced. "I guess we're about to find out."
Almost immediately, I realize that selecting an episode well into season 2 is probably not conducive to Cam falling in love with this show. The first minute of the episode introduces him to multiple, curtailed story arcs that even I have trouble digesting. Still, he takes it in stride, laughing when Jane pretends to be Angelique Harper's assistant and protesting when Lola, Rogelio's stalker ex-assistant, presses the blade of a knife against his temple.
He keeps his questions to a minimum, his gaze fixed raptly on the flat screen. When Lola divulges her (disturbing) plan to make love to Rogelio "in the light of the full moon," Cam cries out in disbelief, "Who the fuck is this creep?"
I hush him with a theatrical arm wave, but secretly I'm pleased that he's being such a good sport. Gradually, my focus on the episode wavers, my eyes flitting unremittingly and reflexively in his direction. I scrutinize his profile—his long, thin nose and his protruding upper lip—and the way his pinky finger—slightly crooked at the lower knuckle, with a clean, clipped fingernail—splays across his couch, almost invitingly.
After Petra gives birth to her twins and Jane joins Michael outside the hospital, I finally redirect my attention to the television. We watch as Michael drops to the ground on one knee to propose, and I feel my breath catch in my throat. I should've known—the characters were dropping hints throughout the episode—but I press the heel of my hand into the corner of my eye anyway, trapping a tear. Unfortunately, I wasn't as discrete as I had hoped, because I feel the couch dip as Cam shifts his weight to face me.
"Are you—Claire, are you crying?"
"No!" My strangled wail suggests otherwise, and suddenly Cam looks seriously alarmed.
"Shit, Claire, please don't cry—"
"I'm fine, I'm fine," I mumble between a series of teary hiccups. "This is happy crying, I promise. I'm Team Michael."
Cam exhales noisily and lifts his thumb, brushing it against my cheek and knocking a tear off its course. As if that stroke across my face wasn't enough to send me into cardiac arrest, Cam gently places an arm around my shoulder—effectively obliterating the scrupulous foot of space I had initially placed between us.
Against my better judgment, I wind my fingers into his shirt and duck my head into the crook of his neck.
"They're so sweet together," I submit in an attempt to steady my breathing.
"Jane and Michael?"
"Yeah. They're meant to be..."
"Mm."
"…None of this Rafael bullshit. He doesn't really know her like Michael does."
"Claire, I want to kiss you."
"They're just—wait, what?"
It's like he's knocked the wind out of me. A strangled squeak is all I can manage, clammy hands fisting the fabric of his shirt as firmly and voraciously as I would cling to a lifeline. I can't even pretend I don't want to kiss him—frankly, I want to kiss him more than I can handle. It's the beer, I remind myself frenetically, glossing over the fact that my beer—well within my line of sight on the kitchen table—is nearly full.
"Claire," he repeats, his breath hot on my cheek, "Can I kiss you?"
My gaze darts between his blue eye and green eye, back and forth, panicked and uncertain. Ultimately, I offer a minute nod, my pulse pounding in my ears.
When Cam traces our lips together, his nose slotting beside mine, my eyes fall shut. One hand settles against my jaw and the other cups the dip in my waist. He radiates warmth—in his leg hooked around mine, in the stroke of his tongue across my lower lip, in his overwhelming and intoxicating proximity.
Dizzy and shaken, I knot my fingers in his hair, anchoring myself to him. When he pulls me closer, I'm hyperaware of his eyelashes on my cheek. I part my lips and taste the sour sugar coating on his tongue.
But it's his hand—fingering the hem of my sweater before trying to ease it off my skin—that finally draws me back to reality. Quickly, I jerk my head to the left and smooth out my sweater, frenziedly trying to make sense of what just happened.
Cam scrambles to his feet, swallowing loudly as he draws his hand through his hair. "Shit, I—I didn't mean to—I thought we both—"
"No, it's not that. I do—I mean, wait. Listen, Cam, I'm not a hook-up person, but I don't have time for a relationship right now. Not that you'd even want that necessarily, I don't know—God. You're great and everything, really, but I—" The words pour from my mouth, smeared and slurred and frazzled. "I should get back."
Cam doesn't respond immediately. He simply chews on his lower lip—I avert my eyes pointedly—with both hands shoved into his pockets.
"Okay," he deadpans finally, "I'll drive you."
"What? No. It's fine, really, I can just call a cab."
He lifts an eyebrow in disbelief. "So you'll hook up with a cab driver, but you won't let him drive you home?"
"Cam—" I protest, mortified, feeling my skin flush.
"I'm serious, let me drive you. It's no problem, really."
"You've been drinking!"
"I had, like, half a beer over an hour ago. I'm fine."
I bite my lip. This shouldn't have happened. I was supposed to go back to the bus, slip into my quiet bunk, and watch Jane the Virgin alone.
"If it really bothers you that much, you can pay me." He intends it as a joke, but I can't find it in me to smile. Instead, I force myself to stand and fold my arms across my chest.
"Let's just go."
xxx
Blacksburg, Virginia
After six attempts at making conversation—and after being virtually shot down every single time—I think Cam finally gets the hint. Our commute is quiet and still. I face the window, my eyebrow pressed into the glass until it falls numb.
Cam drops me off behind the venue where our bus is parked. I unbuckle my seatbelt before he even tugs the keys from the ignition. I thank him hurriedly without meeting his gaze, wave half-heartedly, and walk away.
Short and sweet, the way it has to be.
I find our bus empty, apart from the driver who's reclined in the battered love seat. I figure the boys are out getting plastered at some college bar, and for once I'm grateful for their absence. My feet drag as I wind my way toward my bunk. Once inside, I snap the divider shut and I'm plunged into darkness. My head lolls into my hands, and I let out the primal grunt I didn't realize I was holding in
It would never work. We don't even live in the same state. I hardly know him. I have too much on my plate. And I am not overreacting.
"I don't have time to date," I garble furiously into my bare hands.
The only response I receive is the buzz of my cell phone, hidden somewhere in the folds of my comforter. When I find it, a familiar face flashes across the screen.
"Todd?"
"No, this is his receptionist. I can arrange a meeting if you'd—"
"Seriously, Todd, I'm not in the mood."
"Okay sourpuss, what's your problem?"
I fist the hair at the nape of my neck and exhale noisily. "Sorry, I just had the weirdest night. Forget it."
"Is this a bad time? I can—"
"No, now is perfect. What's up?"
"I, uh, was going to wait until she got home so we could tell you together, but fuck it."
"What are you talking about?"
And somehow, before he even has the chance to reply, I get a sinking feeling in my gut.
"I proposed to Olivia. We're engaged."
a/n: so that happened. i would love to hear your thoughts-if you drop me a review i will love you forever :)