“What do you want?”
I want to annoy you because I can tell you don’t get enough of that in your regular life?“I came to get you for sunrise circle.” Realizing I was talking to the pillow, I transferred my attention to his face. He was all sleep-mussed, his hair half in last night’s bun, half around his shoulders.
He squinted against the bright light. “Seems like the sun’s already up.”
“Sunrise circle turns out not to be literal. Which you would know if you’d read the welcome package.”
Listen to me. What did I care if Teddy Knight read the welcome package? “You know what? I’ll just see you there.” I didn’t need Teddy making me late for day one anyway. I was a punctual person. I ran a tight ship, at the studio and in regular life.
I was about to step off Teddy’s porch when I heard a “Hey.”
I turned back. “What?”
“Do you have a keyboard in your cabin?”
“Yes.” I’d had some fun last night plunking out songs I remembered from my brief tour through piano lessons as a kid—I’d had to quit when we had to sell the piano—but the keyboard was wasted on me. This camp was, as Rory had reported, partially meant to be a retreat for the artists. The rest of them were staying for ten weeks. There were the two four-week camp sessions, but also a two-week interstitial period in which the artists were meant to do arty things without the distraction of campers. I was only staying for the first camp session. I had to get back to my real life.
That was fine, though, as I wasn’t an artist in the sense the others were. What would I even do over that interstitial period?
Too bad they didn’t want anyone to teach people how to write a business plan. I would kill at that.
“Do you want to switch cabins?” Teddy asked.
“Do you not have a keyboard? Sure, I’ll switch with you.” Teddy Knight might be a smug, entitled ass—with a very nice actual ass, my mental tape from last night reminded me—but I could hardly deny the musician among us the cabin with the keyboard.
“No, I have one.”
“Then why do you want to switch?”
“If you take this cabin, you’ll have the lake view.”
“Oh.” That was… nice? It was, right? I tried to imagine what ulterior motive he might have but came up with nothing. So I switched to trying to think what ulterior motive the shitty men of Tinder might have in this situation, but then I realized they—and Teddy—were not worth the mental energy. “I’m good, thanks. I’m only staying the one session. Anyway, I’m all unpacked and organized.”
He rolled his eyes as if to communicate that being unpacked and organized was somehow a character flaw. The dude probably had a manager and an army of handlers and personal assistants who told him when it was time to take a shit. The rest of us had to run our own lives, our own small businesses. So yeah: tight ship, no apologies.
We stared at each other for a few seconds. His intense, unstinting attention made me squirmy on the inside, but my years of dance training had taught me to keep my body perfectly still when the situation called for it.
I reminded myself that I didn’t owe him anything. I wasn’t trying to make him like me. So I just said, flatly, “See you.” I had sunrise circle to get to. I stag-leaped off his porch. Time for some kumbaya nature shit.
There was no one outside at the flagpole where sunrise circle was supposed to be held, so I headed for the dining hall, where I could see a door propped open. The hum of chitchat grew louder as I approached, but the moment I emerged into the large room filled with long, Hogwarts-style tables with benches, everyone fell silent.
Four sets of eyes swung toward me. One set I recognized: Danny. I knew the other three, too, as I’d done extensive googling of the other artists in residence. Well, all of them except Teddy, as I hadn’t realized he was coming until I received Marion’s email yesterday morning. It all made sense, though, now that I knew that the musician Teddy was filling in for was married to Imani Tran, the dancer I was filling in for.
“Hi.” I waved to the group. “I’m Gretchen Miller.”
A tall Asian woman I knew from my research to be the painter Maiv Khang grinned. I’d cruised an online version of a recent exhibition of hers at the Walker Art Center. Her paintings were amazing. Just seeing them on the screen had me in awe of her talent. “Hi, Gretchen. I think we’re all being so weird because we were talking about Teddy Knight, and we thought you were him.” She rolled her eyes self-deprecatingly. “You know, caught gossiping about the celebrity.”
Apparently even acclaimed artists were awestruck by rock stars.
“But is he really a ‘celebrity’?” Danny asked. “Would you recognize him on the street? I feel like the other guy is the famous face of Concrete Temple. What’s his name?”
“Scott Collier,” I supplied, ordering myself to keep my sneer internal.
“And that’s probably at least partly because he’s married to that model, Cinda Lewis,” Danny said.
Scott Collier wasmarried?
Of course he was.
