Chapter Nine. After All #2
As they walked along the paved path, she answered every one of his questions.
For an entire hour, they basked in the sunshine, reviewing the menu and watching the waves roll in.
But after wrapping up dessert options, Danny led her onto the sand, Reggie scampering ahead.
About halfway to the water, Danny dropped to the ground.
“Okay,” he said. “We earned the beach, but it’s time to write.”
She sat beside him, welcoming an excited Reggie onto her lap. “Right now? I don’t have anything to write with.”
“I thought you’d say that.” He pulled a small journal and a pack of pens from his pocket. “When you went into Belly Rub with Reggie, I went into Brush Stroke and got you these.”
With wide eyes, she accepted the gift. She couldn’t believe he’d bought these for her. That he cared enough about her writing to spend money on it.
“I won’t sit here,” he added, tossing a tennis ball and watching Reggie run after it. “I’ll let you be.” He nudged her with his shoulder. “You got this.”
“I don’t know, Danny. I feel like I abandoned that part of me a long time ago.” She stared at the supplies, her throat tight. “Like … I buried those dreams, and it would be irresponsible to dig up the body.”
“You don’t mean that.”
She picked at the journal’s plastic wrapping, fiddling with the material but not willing to break the seal. “What if I can’t do it? What if I suck? What if—”
“Milly.” When she stopped her verbal vomit, he took the journal from her and ripped the plastic off, stuffing the trash in his pocket. “Why does it matter if you’re any good?”
“Because if I’m not then…”
He returned the journal and leaned back on his elbows. “You’re allowed to write for fun. It doesn’t have to be your next career venture. Not everything in life is about making money.”
“Yeah.” She bit her lip, unsure how to approach the delicate subject. “But … it’s easy to say that when you don’t have the debt I do.”
He shut his eyes, angling his face towards the sun.
It covered his skin in a warm layer of orange, making him glow.
“I know, Cam. I’m lucky and I’m so grateful for my parents and Uncle Beau.
But … you’re allowed to write because you like to.
And it’s okay if it’s bad, or silly, or dirty. Write whatever the fuck you want.”
“Dirty?” She laughed.
He blushed, despite being the one to bring it up. “I dunno. Whatever makes you happy.” He spread out, stretching like a starfish. “Tell you what. Write two pages of anything. And if you do, I’ll play guitar for you.”
It was an appealing offer, and so she replied, “You’ve got a deal.”
Danny left with Reggie, promising to return in a little bit.
With their departure, she was alone, sitting cross-legged on an empty stretch of beach.
She traced the journal with shaky fingertips.
The cover was linen-like, a soft coral that screamed summer.
The pens were equally as beautiful, a set of muted pastels she would’ve picked out on her own.
After a few minutes of internal panic, she cracked open the journal and retrieved the darkest of the pens. But under the sunshine, she drew a blank, only able to scribble the date.
That was a start, right?
As she stared at the blank pages, feeling overwhelmed and a little lost, she got the urge to journal for the first time in nearly a decade. She’d journaled frequently as a teenager, needing an outlet to run through school drama and family angst.
Her dream of writing professionally was always rooted in fiction but …
All that mattered was starting. Breaking the seal. She didn’t need to write the next Great American Novel while sitting in the sand. She only needed to express herself. Share her feelings.
And so, with newfound resolve, she pressed pen to paper and wrote.
Cam didn’t know how much time had passed, but when Danny returned, she had seven pages written and a cramped hand from the exertion.
He sat beside her, a beaten-up acoustic guitar in one hand and a canvas tote in the other.
He unloaded each item from the bag—a beach blanket, two bottled beverages, and a trio of food containers—but didn’t say anything.
Not while she had the pen in her hand, and the journal on her lap. Only when she closed the journal did he smile at her, dark hair falling into his eyes.
“Did you write?” he asked. When she nodded, unable to hide her grin, he matched her excitement and handed her an opened bottle.
“Then let’s toast. To Camille Luna, future New York Times bestseller.
” After she clinked his bottle, he sipped from it and winked at her. “Don’t forget me when you’re famous.”
“Famous?” She laughed. “Unlikely.”
“I disagree. When your books are in every airport, and you’re winning like … Pulitzer Prizes, and you’re producing your film adaptations … Fame will catch up fast.”
“Pulitzer Prizes and film adaptations? You’ve got high hopes for me.”
“Of course I do. I’ll be your biggest supporter.”
“I didn’t think you liked reading.”
“I don’t,” he said, and she found his brutal honesty endearing. “But anything you write? I’ll read every word.”
She smiled up at him, ignoring her heated cheeks. But a sip of her drink—root beer—flushed her face even further. Because even though she hadn’t voiced her ambivalence towards beer, he’d remembered.
“That means a lot to me,” she whispered.
“It’s what friends do.”
She held up the journal, flicking through the pages for him to see. “I wrote seven pages. I can barely feel my hand but … I did it. Seven whole pages.”
“Seven.” He whistled, grabbing the guitar. “Then I gotta play for you. Even though I feel like I’m breaking some cardinal rule about playing guitar for a girl.”
“Are you going to sing for me?” she teased, despite knowing the answer.
“You know I can’t hold a tune to save my life.”
“Then no rule breaking. If anything, this is like an elementary schooler demonstrating their musical talents with a recorder.”
He shook his head, laughing. “Damn. Brutal and I haven’t even played yet.”
As he fiddled with the strings, Cam opened the containers of food and grabbed a handful of Cape Cod chips.
Within minutes, Danny flashed his signature smile and began to play.
Her focus jumped between his fingers strumming and how his eyes softened as he relaxed into the music.
Despite the incoming waves accompanying the track, she recognized the song.
The tears were immediate.
He was playing “Blackbird” by the Beatles. It was one of her father’s favorites, one of the classic songs he recycled during their car rides together. It reminded her of home, of growing up, of pushing through the tough times. It was a chronic repeater on her Life Is Hard playlist.
A memory flashed of senior year, when she sat on the quad, earbuds in, sobbing through a rejection from the perfect job. Danny had sat beside her, taken one of her earbuds, and joined her music session until she was ready to talk.
Cam wiped her tears, from the memory, from the song. She was entranced until the last note. When he finished, he asked, “What do you think? It was pretty hard to learn.”
“Danny, that was amazing.”
But he shrugged off her praise. “I’m glad you liked it. I’m also glad I beat a fourth-grade instrumental music concert.”
Feeling like crying again, she deflected with humor. “You’re giving Hendrix and Santana a run for their money.”
“That’s high praise,” he teased. “I’d be happy, but you’re crying.”
“A potato chip is stuck in my throat.” When he laughed and dug into the watermelon container, she added, “Can you play anything else?”
“I know one more song.”
“Which one?”
As he chewed the fruit, he smirked, like his secret was as juicy as the melon. “I’m not telling you. You’ll laugh.”
“What if I guess?”
“Then I’d be obligated to share.”
“Is it ‘Landslide’?”
“No.”
“Another Beatles song?”
“No.”
“Nirvana? Oh, it’s definitely ‘Smells Like Teen Spirit,’ right?”
“Nope.”
“Danny … don’t tell me it’s ‘Wonderwall’?”
He dropped his head, laughing. “Look, it was easy to learn, and it’s Xavier’s go-to whenever he performs. Not to mention … I backpacked for six months after graduation. What do you think I heard at every hostel?”
“Oh my god.” She laughed so hard her cheeks hurt. “This is amazing. You have to play for me.”
He lay beside her. “Keep writing and I will.”
They remained on the sand, watching the tide roll in until the sun went down.