I had no clue what he wanted to talk to her about, but if it got rid of the tension between them, I was all for it. I ushered everyone in and resisted the urge to watch Cammie and Grayson talk through the bistro’s window.
Jason slid his palm to my lower back as we wove through the restaurant.
“I think Grayson might be even more brooding than you are,” I joked, glancing over my shoulder at him.
He smirked at my assessment. “I’m not brooding. I’m quiet.”
I chuckled. “Same thing. When you’re hot and quiet, women think you’re brooding.”
His eyebrow perked up. “You think I’m hot?”
“Yup,” I answered confidently. “Like look at that toddler- she’s so hot.”
He laughed. “I think you’re confused about what that word means.”
A small archway opened up into the back room where the party planner was finishing up lighting the remaining candles. She’d completely transformed the room with multiple floral arrangements in the center of a white linen table. A small but decadent cake sat on the side table that also held a buffet of food perfect for a late brunch.
A framed photo of Cammie sat near the end of the table. She was sitting between our parents on the beach, her grin marked with missing teeth. She’d been dealt an interesting hand in life, having lost our parents at a much younger age than I did, but looking at her now, it was hard to believe she wasn’t always so responsible and put-together. Sure, she had a sharp mouth and sometimes she could really benefit from a filter, but I was so proud of the woman she’d become.
I’d just turned from looking at the photo when she walked beneath the archway to join us. Grayson wasn’t behind her.
I frowned. “Did you kill him?”
When my joke didn’t spark a laugh, I knew something was up. Her eyes were focused on the table before her, her thoughts seemed a million miles away.
“What did Grayson want?” I asked, rounding the table toward her. Had he hurt her feelings? She looked like she’d just been slapped.
“He wants me to come in for an interview at his firm.”
My mouth fell open. That was the absolute last thing I thought she was going to say.
“That’s great, Cammie!”
She nodded numbly. What the hell had he done? Given her a lobotomy?
“Isn’t that good?” I asked, bending down to meet her eyes.
She shook her head, not to say no, but as if to clear her thoughts. “Yes. Yeah, it’s good. Let’s eat,” she said, taking a deep breath and looking up to the buffet table.
Jason and I exchanged a glance, but he shrugged. Whatever was going on with her, she clearly didn’t want to discuss it right then, and I’d let her get away with it. It was her day.
Over plates brimming with delicious food, I recounted stories of baby Cammie and teenage Cammie — oddly, many of the story lines were similar. She was a willful person, no matter the age.
When it was time for dessert, a waitress came around and cleared our plates away. I took the opportunity to turn to Cammie while everyone was preoccupied.
“So when do you think your interview will be?” I asked quietly, ensuring our conversation was private.
She shrugged, playing with her fork. “He said he’d be out of town on a project for two weeks, but that his assistant would give me a call.”
“Will you end up going through with it?” I asked.
She dropped her fork and the metal clanked softly onto the ceramic plate. “Of course. I’d be stupid to turn down an interview with his firm.”
Her dark eyes slid to me and I saw so much emotion buried beneath her gaze.
“Well, I’m sure you’ll do great,” I assured her, squeezing her hand.
…
The days after Cammie’s graduation were packed with meetings, dress fittings, rehearsals, and appointments. My trainer had me working out twice a day (which I tried to argue was a form of capital punishment, but he wouldn’t hear of it). As soon as I’d finish one thing on the agenda, Summer would be waiting by the door, ready to whisk me away to my next task. Grammys week never got any easier, and being one of the performers only made matters worse. When I woke up two days before the award show with a giant pimple on my face, you would have thought World War III had just been declared.
“Dear GOD, someone just kill me now — I can’t walk the red carpet like this.”
Looking back, the pimple was probably the least of my worries, but it was physical, tangible, and so I focused on that and not that the fact that my life was crumbling around me. (<- See how dramatic I can be when my trainer forces me to work out twice a day and my nutritionist cuts my carbs in half?)