Chapter Twelve
As the sun sets over the lake, and the nightly bonfire starts to crackle and pop, the campers trickle down to the beach, many still clutching their stomachs, ashen-faced from a day spent mostly on the toilet.
Gabby passes out a few bottles of wine, hoping to rouse the scene into something camera-worthy. I take one, reluctantly, unsure if my guts are ready for it. I look around for someone to drink with, and I see Isa and Sue-Ellen sitting by the fire pit, looking awfully cozy.
I’m not normally one to play the Helpless Girl card, but sometimes, I’m grateful to have it in my arsenal. Like right now, when I need an excuse to break up this little tête-a-tête. I sidle up to the log where they’re sitting. “Isa?” I croon. “Could you help me with this bottle of wine?”
He takes the bottle and pops the screw top off effortlessly, then he hands it to me and turns his attention back to Sue-Ellen.
Oh. So that’s how it’s going to be.
Harmony and Val are sitting on a log opposite, sharing a blanket that they have wrapped over their shoulders. I head over to them.
“Anyone want some wine?” I say, proffering the bottle.
Harmony shakes her head. “I’m not ready.”
“I’ll have some,” says Val. “I’m feeling better after eating a little.”
“Me too,” I say, pouring us both a glass.
“That was so nice of Kei to feed everyone,” Harmony says. “Plain rice has never tasted so good.”
“He’s a sweetie,” Val agrees.
I smack at a mosquito on my arm. “Does anyone have any bug spray? I’m getting eaten.”
“It’s the worst time of day for bugs,” says Harmony, waving her hand in the air. “Dawn and dusk. Maybe ask Trina?”
Valeria shakes her head. “She’s in bed.”
“Why can’t we all be in bed?” Harmony grumbles. She has a point. Everyone is still looking despondent after such a rough afternoon. Damian and Garrett are half-heartedly tossing a football, but the rest of us are just biding our time until the producers give us permission to pack it in.
Tyler emerges from the woods holding a guitar. “What’s up, campers? How’s everyone feeling?”
“Oh, hell no, this is not the time for a singalong,” Sue-Ellen says, echoing my thoughts exactly.
Tyler chuckles. “I’m just trying to brighten up the mood. The vibes are kinda sad around here.”
“Yeah, well, we’ve been shitting ourselves all day,” Garrett says. A few people laugh, but he’s not smiling.
Tyler raises his hands in resignation. “I hear you, I get it. I just thought that, Kei, since you’re feeling alright, and you’re a musician, maybe you’d wanna play us a song or two?”
Kei shakes his head. “Thanks, man, but I don’t think so.”
“Letter K, let’s go!” Damian says, nudging him. “Play us a tune.”
“Yeah, let’s hear it,” Sue-Ellen pipes up.
“There’ll be millions of people watching,” Tyler says. “Make your name, bro.” He hands the guitar to Kei.
Kei holds the guitar at arm’s length, as if it might burn him.
Don’t do it, I silently plead. There is nothing more cringey than the guy who breaks out the guitar at the party.
But Kei sighs, and nods, pulling the guitar into him.
He tinkers with it a bit, tuning it to his liking, and then he nods to himself.
“Okay,” he says, his fingers picking the strings in a mournful melody. “Okay.” He closes his eyes, and I wait for my internal Ick meter to start pinging, but there is something so humble, almost innocent, about Kei with a guitar that I can’t find fault with it.
He starts to sing. His voice is low and pure, lapping at the lyrics in gentle surges.
I recognize the song right away—“Suzanne” by Leonard Cohen.
I haven’t heard it since I was a kid. My dad loved Leonard Cohen.
He saw him once, eating a smoked-meat sandwich in a busy deli in their shared hometown of Montreal.
He was so proud of that, like the proximity had somehow drawn him into the singer’s orbit, linking them in some indelible way.
He used to put the Leonard Cohen vinyl on the record player in our living room. He’d make a show of coaxing Mom away from the dishes or the laundry so she could dance with him. She’d pretend to be put out by the interruption, but her protests were never convincing.
I swallow back the thickness in my throat. It wasn’t always bad between them.
Kei finishes the song, and there is a moment of stillness before everyone erupts into enthusiastic applause.
I hear Damian whooping, and Valeria asking Kei if he wrote the song, and Sue-Ellen saying “Not gonna lie, that was kinda hot.” But I can’t speak because of this huge lump in my throat.
Maybe it’s remembering how my dad would hold my mom so close to him, moving in sync together.
How he would sing the beautiful words into her ear, her eyes closed and a satisfied smile on her lips, a rare moment of peace and connection between them.
Or maybe it’s the wine, or the smoke from the fire, or all the intensity of the past couple of days. But sitting here, watching Kei sing, the campfire flickering between us, I feel something stir inside me. I feel raw, vulnerable.
I feel like I might crack right open.