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My mind is so numb and I’m so exhausted from my emotions, I don’t even feel anything anymore. I’m one of those shells lying on the beach that just whistles hollowly when the wind blows, all sandblasted and shiny from the lazy ocean lapping at it.
I push the blanket off of me, rise from the couch, and march across the room.
And straight to the hardwood flooring area of the garage.
In front of the mirror, a ghost of whatever I was a week ago stands there in clothes he’s worn for two days straight. The poor guy probably smells bad. Actually, I’m sure of it. He looks tired and dejected and sad.
I face the mirror boldly, despite all of that.
Then I toss my phone onto a nearby workout bench, tap its face to make my music play, and I start to work.
If it won’t be a smashing partner piece with Bobby, then it’ll be the best knockout solo Spruce has ever seen.
Five, six, seven, eight …
I pop an elbow in the air, kick a foot, twist my body, and move with the jagged rhythm. Whenever I expect to clasp my partner’s hand, I just turn it into a stylish maneuver with my fists.
But in seconds, the music has me picturing his face.
All the times he’d laugh when I grabbed him by the hips and yanked him against me at one point in the song.
Every stank-face he would give the mirror at another part of the music when the beat kicks in.
Then I stop dancing and am just staring blankly at myself, the music still playing.
I need a new song, I realize. This whole thing is Bobby. It’s all just Bobby, Bobby, Bobby.
The door from the garage to the house opens suddenly.
I look up at it, startled.
Camille’s face emerges. Her pretty eyes meet mine, glowing from the subtle purple eye shadow she’s wearing. She’s in a pair of super-short denim cut-offs and a loose, purple Nirvana tank. A sideways black cap squishes down her short dark hair.
She quirks an eyebrow at me. “Seriously, do you guys ever lock your doors here? Literally anyone could just walk right in.”
I stare at her. “Camille …?”
She saunters over to the mirror, gives her hat an adjustment, then peers down at my phone, which still blasts the music. Then she looks up at me. “Is this your song for your dance thing?”
“Was.” I cast my eyes down to it as well.
“It’s a good song.” She starts bobbing her head to it.
I look at her. “What’re you doin’ here, Camille?”
“Your brother’s hubby Billy called me an hour or two ago. He said you might need my help. Something about you losing your partner without any notice right before the big dance.” She eyes me. “Sounds familiar, doesn’t it?”
I drop my gaze to the floor.
“It’s prom all over again,” murmurs Camille, sauntering closer to the mirror to inspect something on her shirt—a bit of fuzz or a loose thread.
Even her walking is graceful, like she’s crossing some grand stage, toes pointed, legs moving like she’s made of air, even if it’s just the hardwood dancing area of my garage she’s walking on.
Camille peers back at me over her shoulder. “Of course, you can continue doing what I suspect you’re busy doing—turning your big piece into a solo act—or … if you’re willing … I can be your partner instead.”
I consider her offer with heavy, dry eyes, even if every inch of my brain aches and doesn’t feel capable of such consideration.
My chest is still as crushed in as it was before.
My spirit is broken.
“Alright,” I decide flatly, soullessly, uncaring. “I’ll go through the piece with you.”
Camille crosses her arms, then nods at me and offers a soft, understanding smile. “I’m a quick learner.”
Then begins a two-hour session of rehearsing at whatever-o’clock on a don’t-even-know-what-day-of-the-week-it-is night.
I don’t know what Billy told her. Does she know Bobby and I had a falling out? Does she know how shitty I’ve felt the past few weeks? Does she know anything at all, or everything?
It doesn’t matter. Camille Randall is mercifully asking me zero questions about it.
She doesn’t even shoot me any skeptical looks, like my mama does every morning at breakfast.
She doesn’t ask me if I’m okay.
Hell, she doesn’t even try to hug me, or squeeze my shoulder reassuringly, or give me a wink of encouragement.
In just a matter of hours rehearsing with Camille, I feel more comfortable and at home than I’ve felt in weeks. I won’t say I’m laughing and cracking jokes and feeling confident, but at least I don’t feel scrutinized and interrogated and prodded at. In fact, I feel downright secondary to the piece Camille and I are working on.
Even after we’ve had enough, Camille simply helps herself to some water from a pitcher in the kitchen, then tells me she’ll be back tomorrow, and with a casual wave, she’s off.
