“You’ll get it right. Don’t worry about it,” I say, as the waitress brings us our steaks.
“I know. It’s just frustrating.” She starts to cut her steak, knife in one hand, fork in the other.
“It took me a little while to get ‘Laugh, I Nearly Died’ down,” I say and bite a huge chunk of steak off the end of my fork. I chew a little bit and then say, with my mouth still full, “My next must-learn song is ‘Ain’t No Sunshine’ by Bill Withers. I’ve always wanted to learn that song, and I think it’s about time I retire the Stones.
She seems surprised. She points her fork at me and swallows and says, “Oooh! Nice choice!”
“You know that song?” I’m a little surprised too, considering she wasn’t much of a classic rock or blues buff when we met.
She nods and takes a quick bite of mashed potatoes. “I love that song. My dad had it on a playlist he liked to listen to when he drove out of state on business. That Withers guy can sing.”
I let out a ripple of laughter.
“What’s so funny?” she asks, looking at me confused.
“You sounded so country just now.” I take a swig of my beer and laugh a little more, shaking my head.
“What? Sayin’ I sounded like a hick?” Her eyes are all wide, but her smile couldn’t be any more obvious.
“More like a country bumpkin. That Withers guy can sang! Oooh-weee!” I mock her, throwing my head back.
She laughs with me, though trying her damndest to hide her red face. “Well, I’m definitely with you on that,” she says, taking a swig of her own beer. She sets the glass back down on the table and adds, with narrowed eyes, “The song choice, not the country bumpkin thing.”
“Of course,” I say with a grin and finish up my steak.
The first steak we ever had together was just like she promised, a few days after I got out of the hospital after my surgery. And like that day and every steak she’s had since, she only manages to eat half. Just means more for me. When I see her give off signs of being so stuffed she’s getting nauseous, I reach across the table and slide her plate toward me.
She keeps glancing at her phone, and at one point she starts texting a reply to someone.
“Natalie on you again about coming home?”
“Yeah, she’s relentless.” She puts the phone away in her purse.
Camryn is a horrible liar. Horrible. She couldn’t lie to save her life, and right now, the way she keeps gazing off at the log-cabin-style wall, she’s definitely lying. I pick my teeth clean with a toothpick and study her.
“Are you ready to go?” I ask.
She smiles weakly at me, obviously hiding something, and then I notice the screen on her phone illuminate inside her purse. She checks the text message and suddenly she’s more eager to leave. Her smile gets bigger, and she stands up quickly from the table.
“Wait, I have to pay.” I wave the waitress over to us, and Camryn sits back down in the booth impatiently.
“Why so in a hurry all of a sudden?” I tease her as the waitress places the bill on the table, but before she walks away I pull my credit card from my wallet.
“No reason,” Camryn says.
I just grin. “OK,” I say and lean back against the seat, stretching my arms over the top and making myself comfortable. It’s a ploy. The more comfortable that I look the more impatient she becomes.
Minutes later the waitress returns with my credit card and the receipt. I jot down her tip on the store receipt and very slowly get up, put on my coat, stretch my arms high in the air above me, fake-yawn—
“Dammit, will you hurry up!”
I knew she couldn’t stand it much longer. I laugh, grab her by the hand, and leave the restaurant.
When we make it back to the hotel, Camryn stops in the lobby, “You go ahead. I’ll be up in a second.”
It’s obvious she’s up to something, but it being my birthday I just play along with her game, kiss her cheek, and hop inside the elevator. But once I’m inside the room, I’m the one getting impatient.
I don’t have to wait long before she’s entering the room holding a new guitar.
I stand up the second I see it. “Wow…”
Her smile is sweet and tender, bashful even. It’s as though a tiny part of her is worried I won’t like it.
I walk straight over to her.
“Happy Birthday, Andrew,” she says, holding it out for me.
I place one hand around the neck, the other at the body and I admire it with the biggest smile. Sleek. Beautiful. Perfect. As I turn it around in my hands to check out the backside, I notice a line of silver cursive writing along the back of the neck that reads:
He drew iron tears down Pluto’s cheek,
and made Hell grant what Love did seek.
A line from one of several stories told of Orpheus and Eurydice. I honestly don’t know what to say.
“Do you like it?”
I look up at her. “I love it. It’s perfect.”
She looks away from my eyes with a blush in her face. “Well, I don’t know anything about guitars. I hope it’s not a sucky brand or anything like that. The guy at the guitar shop helped me pick it out. Then I had to wait a few days to have the script put on it, which I never thought would happen because of this and that and—”
“Camryn,” I say, stopping her nervous rambling. “I’ve never had a better birthday gift.” I close the empty space between us and kiss her lips softly.
Camryn
22
Somewhere on Interstate 75—May