He plays around for a few minutes, warming up his fingers and playing small chords of music. I know it won’t be long now before the singing starts, and I’ll be asked to join in. I usually don’t mind though. I love to sing. In fact, I’m pretty damn good at it. But tonight is about spending time with Oaklee, and I can’t do that if I’m standing next to my best friend and singing along to whatever country song he decides to play.
“Hey.” Oaklee slips her arm back around my waist, and I reflexively drape mine around her shoulders. My sister and her friend walk over to their cooler and then toward a group of women from town. “Wyatt plays guitar?” she asks, her eyes wide with anticipation.
“He does. Learned when he was a little shit of about seven. His grandpa played all sorts of instruments and taught him.”
“He even plays the piano, but don’t tell him I told you,” Cam adds.
“Why not?” she asks, turning her attention to my younger brother.
“Because he says it’s not cool enough,” I reply with a chuckle.
“I think it’s very cool,” Oaklee says. “Do you play an instrument?”
“Nope,” I answer. “You?”
“Oh, no. I thought about joining band in junior high like all my friends, but we couldn’t afford an instrument.”
“I’m sorry,” I find myself saying, feeling terrible for the little girl with a shitty homelife.
“Nothing for you to be sorry about,” she states with a shrug. “It is what it is.” She takes a deep breath before adding, “I’m sure my grandparents would have done what they could to rent me an instrument, but I could tell it wouldn’t have been easy. Their finances were already stretched pretty thin, with adding a third mouth to feed and care for. They did what they could, and I’ll always appreciate that.”
I reach down and take her hand, giving it a gentle squeeze.
“Cade, get your ass over here!” Wyatt hollers from the log he’s using as a bench.
“Ready for this?” I ask, glancing down at her.
“Ready for what?”
“Singing.”
Her eyes widen. “I don’t sing either.”
“Cade!”
I exhale and shake my head. “Well, unfortunately for me, I do. Come on, let’s go over with the rest of them.”
Leading her to the group, we walk around the perimeter of the circle until we’re behind Wyatt. “’Bout damn time,” he mutters. Then, he glances up at Oaklee and flashes a blinding smile. “Hey, Oaklee. Did you know our boy here can sing?”
“I’ve heard recently,” she replies, squeezing my hand now in support.
“Well, he sounds a little like George Strait, only he’s uglier.”
Everyone laughs at my expense, but I don’t give a shit. I could be the butt of every joke told for the rest of the night, and I’d still be having one of the best nights of my life. Having Oaklee here—showing and sharing with her my favorite spot—has been pretty damn remarkable.
Wyatt strums a chord, the song already taking shape. He starts singing “That Summer” by Garth Brooks, and a few hum along. Wanting to keep Oaklee close to the fire, I move behind her and rest my arms over her shoulders. She leans back, her head pressed into my chest. It feels so fucking good.
So right.
We sway to the music, both of us listening to the song, which quickly turns into a second, and then a third. They’re all ones I’ve heard before, but listening to my friend sing and play guitar never gets old.
Eventually, he glances back, and I know what’s coming. All eyes seem to be on Oaklee and me as I release my hold on her and move around to sit next to my friend. “All right, boys and girls, how about a little Kenny Chesney?”
He starts playing the opening chord to “She Thinks My Tractor’s Sexy,” and I belt out the words like I do any other time. Only this time, I feel Oaklee’s presence behind me, feel her eyes boring into my head.
By the time the song is about done, several of the guys are singing along and a couple of the ladies are dancing. In fact, I’m pretty sure I know who is dancing. It’s my sister and Sommer, twirling each other around as if they’re on the dance floor at a wedding reception.
We play and sing a few more songs before I get up and return to where Oaklee stands. She snakes her arms around my waist and yawns. “Ready to crash?” I ask, my heart thumping a little harder in my chest at the idea of getting her into my tent and in my arms.
