in young bands.
Paul pretended he hadn’t heard. He was angry at Cameron, who had explained Sean’s following them to the club with, It’s okay. I told him you and I aren’t really together.
He’d told her it was not okay to tell random people from Logan that they weren’t really together.
She wore jeans and a brown long-sleeved T-shirt, with her hair in braids. Paul didn’t know that she’d deliberately dressed down to emphasize to herself that she and Paul weren’t really dating, that they were friends and her presence here tonight was all part of the sham they’d developed.
A roadie walked past in a T-shirt showing their first CD, In the Name of Fear.
“Facebook,” Paul finally answered Sean. “I met Angus.” The bass player. “He sent me a CD, and now I’m a fan. Also, he came to see me play in Logan at the campaign party, before the election. We talked then, and I said I’d do sound for them at this gig and the one in Morgantown Wednesday.”
Cameron, aware that Paul wasn’t keen on Sean’s presence, asked him, “Want anything to drink?”
“Some orange juice. Something nonalcoholic. It should be on the house.”
“I’ll get it,” Sean offered. He looked down at Cameron from his towering six foot three. “And what can I get you?”
“The same, please.”
When Sean had gone, Paul said, “Why did you ask him?”
“I thought the band would appreciate more people coming.”
“Plenty of people are coming.” Sean had been allowed in early only because he was with Paul and Cameron.
“Well, you won’t be able to talk to me or dance with me,” Cameron pointed out. “Sean can.”
“No doubt.” He managed to mutter, “Thanks,” as Sean handed him a glass of orange juice, after giving Cameron’s to her.
The club began to fill, and when Crawl finally came on, Cameron was pleasantly surprised by the music, which showed both originality and the influence of many other groups she liked. She danced with Sean, not far from where Paul worked the soundboard, because it was farther from the speakers in front. Sean seemed to share her opinion on avoiding the speakers, and he also seemed disinterested in dancing with anyone else.
At the break, he escorted her outside, where they watched other people smoke. “I used to,” Sean admitted, watching the smokers enviously. He shook his head.
“It’s hard to quit, isn’t it?” Cameron asked.
“Miserable. But I was going through counseling, and that helped—a bit. Some of the things that come up just make you want to smoke more.”
Therapy! Cameron wanted to shout. This man had had therapy! No wonder she could talk so easily to Sean. He wasn’t all masculine barriers, all inaccessible emotions, all defensive silence.
He asked her about her job, and he told her about his and about his avocations, writing plays and poetry.
Cameron said she’d like to read some of his poetry sometime.
He said he’d like that. “I was reluctant to—you know—pursue it,” he said. “I thought you were in a relationship.”
Cameron thrust away the memory of sleeping with Paul that one night. “Well, I’m not. And you?”
He shook his head. “Divorced. After that was when I decided on some counseling.”
“That’s a very mature choice,” she told him and confessed that she’d gone the same road after a tough experience with a man with whom she’d lived.
Sean said, “So—is Paul going to drive you home?”
Cameron thought guiltily that it was because of Paul that she’d gotten into the gig free. “Yes,” she said definitely. “I actually am his date.”
He nodded. “I’ll be gone this week on some teacher training, but I’ll call you as soon as I’m back.”
PAUL FOUND her presence distracting. He had always liked the way Cameron danced, but it had never affected him so strongly, and he didn’t care to see how strongly Sean Devlin was affected, too. Paul remembered making love with her. What bothered him in retrospect, as—he admitted now—it had bothered him then, was that she preferred Graham Corbett.
Never doing that again, he thought. She was preoccupied still, probably still mooning over the radio personality. Yet as he watched her dancing to the music of Crawl, her expression distant but also, to him, vulnerable, his heart tore in all directions. How did he feel about her, say, hooking up with Sean Devlin? Becoming Sean’s girlfriend?
Frankly, Paul hated the idea. Sean was an all right guy and good-looking, anyone would admit that. But Cameron was his, Paul’s, best friend. Her falling in love and marrying someone like Sean—not a good idea at all.
He shouldn’t have invited her along. There was no reason. He’d just wanted to show her that no matter what, he still cared for her, still wanted to be around her. He’d wanted to prove that they remained friends.
Or something like that.
Did he want Cameron for his own girlfriend?
No. Of course not. Definitely not. He didn’t want a girlfriend. First you had a girlfriend, then you had someone who wanted to marry you. Perhaps someone who would want you to find a different job, a job that paid more. And someone who would insist on a certain way of being that would ultimately destroy the magic of life.
At least Cameron wasn’t in love with him.
That was good, he told himself. Best for her, best for him. Best all around.
After the final set, after the fans had screamed and stomped the floor and begged the band for one more, Cameron chatted with them while they moved equipment and Sean dogged her like a shadow. Paul saw the band liked her, even seemed to like Sean, and he felt left out, forgotten by Cameron. Later, he found her waiting in his car, reading a novel with his headlamp, which she had borrowed.
“Where did Sean go?”
“Home.” She didn’t look up.
“And how is Jane Eyre on the two thousandth reading?” he asked.
Her eyes remained fixed on the page. “If you had a modicum of education, you would know that Jane Eyre is the story of a self-centered older man, who dislikes children, deceiving a vulnerable woman twenty years his junior. After she learns that he is actually married and keeps his first wife, whom he claims is insane, locked in an attic, he continues to attempt seducing her and she continues to love him, and after he is blind and crippled and his wife dead under mysterious circumstances, the female protagonist returns to him. It’s a creepy story, and one reading, in school, was enough for me.”
Paul reached across the front seat, lifted the cover of her book slightly. A novel by someone named Emilie Loring. It was entitled My Dearest Love, and the woman on the front looked like Elizabeth Taylor. Familiar with Cameron’s
