I committed these moments to memory with the hope I might take them with me wherever I went next.
Soon, the only light left was from our low fire. The trees bent over us to form a canopy, and while it looked as if the clouds had passed, only a smattering of stars was visible beyond.
Food eaten and trash cleaned up, Dena opened the artistic half of the evening by reciting a few poems: a little Walt Whitman, a few lines from Thoreau. She closed as she usually did with Rumi, and while most poetry didn’t move me, Dena recited a line that jumped out at me:
“You are not a drop in the ocean. You are the entire ocean in a drop.”
I looked at Kacey sitting beside me. She is not merely an ocean. She is an entire universe.
Oscar called on Kacey to play for us.
“Rock star in the house,” he said to Holly.
“Really?” she said from her chair beside Theo’s, their hands linked.
“Former rock star,” Kacey said. “And I don’t think you can call yourself a ‘star’ if you quit the band eight nanoseconds before they get famous.”
She was right. I heard on the radio at the hot shop her old band was tearing up the charts and had added four more shows to their sold-out concert series.
“Which band?” Holly asked.
“Rapid Confession,” I said as Kacey was digging her guitar out of the tent.
Holly nearly spit out the beer from her longneck. “Are you kidding? I fucking love that band.”
Theo shot her an irritated look. Kacey just smiled as she shouldered her guitar strap.
“Why did you quit?” Holly asked.
“Not my scene.” Kacey sat on the ground in front of her chair, near my legs. The firelight made her face glow. “So,” she said, tuning her guitar. “Any requests?”
“Um, yeah, how about ‘Talk Me Down’?”
Kacey smiled thinly but kept her eyes on her guitar. “I don’t play that one anymore.”
I was nervous as hell for some reason. Aside from some loud—but intricate—electric guitar riffs on the radio, I’d never heard Kacey play. Or sing. My stupid heart pounded like I was the one in the spotlight, and my palms were so sweaty I had to wipe them on the front of my jeans.
“How about old school?” Dena said. “Tom Petty?”
Kacey nodded as she strummed a few notes. Then her fingers hit the five opening chords of “Free Fallin’.”
“Nice,” Dena murmured.
The chords repeated, then Kacey began to sing.
After two lines, I closed my eyes, blocking out everything except her voice. Pure and sweet, but a little gravelly too. Tough as hell tinged with vulnerable. She sang about a good girl who loved her mama, and a bad boy who broke her heart. Kacey’s hand strummed the strings harder as the verse ended, and she hit that chorus high note clear and hard, with a tapered edge at the end.
Before the next verse, Kacey smiled at Dena, murmuring, “Don’t leave me hanging…” Dena joined in, then we all did. Through the rest of “Free Fallin’” and into “I’m Yours” by Jason Mraz, “Brass in Pocket” by the Pretenders, and “Wonderwall” by Oasis.
Last, Kacey sang Snow Patrol’s “Chasing Cars” alone, her voice filling up the night. I leaned back in my chair, only the side of her face visible to me, lit up gold with firelight as her sweet, scratchy voice asked someone to lie with her and just forget the world.
The ache in my heart rose to my throat, and I felt something change in me. A shift. A reckless, selfish hope that maybe, if Kacey were still willing, I could lie with her this night and every night thereafter, for however many I had left to me.
The song ended. Followed by silence.
Holly sniffed and wiped her eyes. “You have a beautiful voice.”
Kacey smiled as the others murmured agreement. With a snap of his head, Theo came out of his reverie like a man who’d been under hypnosis. All of his walls shot back up. His face hardened, his brow furrowed and he took a long pull from his beer bottle.
Kacey’s eyes found mine, soft and serene in the firelight.
“All right, kiddies,” Oscar said, taking up a pitcher of water to douse the fire. “Time for bed.”
Goodnights were said, and we retreated into our tents. Kacey and I took turns waiting outside while the other changed into sleeping clothes. She put on leggings and an old men’s blue button down. The temperature had dropped to sixty degrees or so, and she shivered as she snuggled down into her sleeping bag.
I changed into flannel pants and a T-shirt, and slid into my bag. We lay in silence staring at the tent roof, a shard of silver starlight our only illumination.
“Holly was right,” I said. “Your voice is beautiful. You could have a solo career if you wanted it.”
She rolled on her side toward me. “If I wanted it…”