Chapter 8 : Hard to Explain

*Asher*

I pull into Country Corner just after nine at night. I’m exhausted, but I knew I couldn’t pass this up. A few days ago after returning home, I got a text from Camila. She invited me to come to the honky-tonk, and she had a special surprise for me.

She told me to come back today after practice. I’ve got a game in a few days, so I can’t stay long this time, but I can’t miss out on hearing her sing. Something about Camila hasn’t sat right with me in days, and I haven’t been honest with anyone about it, including Mark. I know it’s got something to do with her not wanting to sing on our date, but that’s all I’ve got.

I step out of my truck and wipe my forehead. I haven’t stopped sweating, even when practice ended hours ago. But I had no time to do more than rinse off in the showers after practice, before changing and jumping on the highway.

Mark had teased me the past few days, asking me how things had been with Camila. I changed the subject, asking how the rest of his mini vacation had gone. He’d launched into his stories about going out to parties and drinking way too much tequila. I was glad my friend had fun. And that I didn’t have to open up to him.

Besides, Camila’s big show is tomorrow, where she said all these big names in music would be attending. She told me she might get signed. I told her I’d try to make it.

As I lock the door and start for the bar entrance, I feel a shiver down my back, as if my apprehension is a foreshadowing of tonight. I don’t know what it could be, but I do my best to ignore it.

I open the door, expecting to see a room full of Camila’s adoring fans. But when the door swings open, I stop in my tracks. There is no one in the entire building. The bartenders are there, but no one else.

I open my mouth in confusion, shutting it after realizing I don’t know what’s going on.

“There he is!” Camila’s voice rings out. I turn to see her walking from backstage, wearing a short black skirt and pink top. Her hair is pulled into a ponytail, and it swishes back and forth as she comes to my side, kissing me on the cheek.

“Here I am,” I stammer out, unsure what else to say.

Camila links her arm with mine and starts to walk, so I follow her steps.

“I’ve been looking forward to this surprise for days!” She purrs. “I know you’ll just LOVE it.”

She takes me to the middle of the room, where a single chair sits in front of a table, a single red rose in a small vase, and a candle lit up. I lower my brows. “What’s all this, Camila?” Still, something feels off.

“I just felt so bad for snapping at you on our date last week. I wanted to make it up to you. You want to hear me sing, and I’m here to deliver!” She throws her free arm in the air. “So, I booked out the Country Corner for the two of us tonight!”

At her words, I choke on nothing, breaking into a fit of coughs. “You what?” I ask her, my voice strained.

She giggles. “I’m giving you your very own concert, duh! Ugh, you’re so lucky. I wish someone had done the same for me when I was starting. What an incredible opportunity!”

I turn around the room, taking in the cold, quiet, space. This…I don’t understand why, though.

“So, you just have a seat there, and give me a few minutes to prepare myself, okay?” Camila’s voice is laced with an expectant tone. It’s hard to explain. It’s like she wants me to compliment her. However, as I listen to her request, I still get this feeling that I’m missing something.

I nod, no words exiting my lips.

“Oh, and the boys will get you anything you want to eat or drink!” She cups her hands at the empty bar. “Jeff! Water and menu, now!”

I jump at her scream, but she smiles back down at me. “I’ll be right out for you to hear my amazing singing!”

She runs off, a childlike giddy feel to her exit. It didn’t fit with the woman who snapped at dinner, who screamed at the waitress, this bartender, any of it.

It’s only a few minutes later that Camila comes back out. She introduces herself as if I’m some stranger, and launches into a song she says she’s written.

None of it feels real. The lyrics she sings about losing someone close to her are poignant, but the passion that I saw that first night is stagnant. I don’t believe a word she sings, even if the vocal performance is just as great as before.

It feels stale, and I wonder if maybe I’ve misread everything because of how she sang the first time. Nothing about it is pulling me in. I love the song itself, but Camila? I’m not impressed, and the enthusiasm I’d had before has washed away.

Astonished, I stand up, determined to figure out why everything is off. I can sense it. You don’t grow up in a house with AJ and not pick up on footstep patterns, speech, and facial emotions that can make or break a lie and not learn a trick or two.

Camila stops singing and puts her hand above her eyes, squinting down at me. “Where are you going, Asher?”

“The bathroom. I’ll be right back.” I force myself to smile, politely stating, “Please, continue singing. I’ll be quick.”

Clearly resigned, Camila shrugs and starts back up where she left off, singing now to just the bartenders as I make my way to the large sign that says it’s the bathroom. I sigh, trying to think of some way I can leave the building without being detected. Coming here was a mistake. Camila’s voice may be pure, but nothing else about her matches that description.

I pass the backstage area and turn my head enough to see a gap in the curtains. I almost think nothing of it, but my heart drops to the floor when my brain tries to figure out what the hell I’m seeing.

The waitress, Ophelia, who was singing on the street, is backstage, sitting on a stool and singing into a microphone. She sings the same lyrics as Camila.

Her eyes are closed, her head rocking slowly back and forth to the rhythm of the beat. Why is she singing back here?

Before I can think of what I’m doing, I pull the curtain aside to reveal myself to Ophelia.

She jumps in horror, all the while continuing to sing. She doesn’t break her concentration on the song, but I can see the fear in her eyes. Her eyes dart to me, then look at the curtain between her and the front of the stage, before meeting mine again.

She shakes her head at me, still not stopping her performance.

That’s when I put it together.

That’s not Camila singing.

It’s been Ophelia, since the beginning.

Questions start to arise in my head. Why did Camila lie? Why did Ophelia lie? Why is Camila not using her own voice, but instead pretending to have Ophelia’s? And why on earth is Camila pretending that she has any talent at all? Clearly, if she’s stealing from Ophelia, then maybe her voice is something left to be desired.

But that doesn’t give me any real answers.

I try to take a step forward to stop this charade, but Ophelia puts her hand up, still not saying anything. Her eyes seem to plead with me. There’s something else going on here. By the look on her face, I can tell Ophelia is afraid of something.

The woman puts a finger to her lips, even though they continue moving. I can see the begging she isn’t saying, hinting that something much more complicated is at play. I don’t know what that is, but I know that the last thing I want to do is hurt this person.

I don’t speak, but instead, mouth, “Afterward, we talk. Or I tell her what I’ve seen.” I point to Camila, indicating that if Ophelia doesn’t choose to open up to me, things are going to get a lot worse. Her eyes are huge, reminding me of a young female deer, but she nods, silently thanking me.

I’m not going to tell Camila anything. This just adds to the wrong feelings I’ve had since our date. She’s not anything she says she is. All I see is a spoiled, entitled narcissist who believes she’s going somewhere.

The vanity should have been apparent enough for me to recognize it. But now I see that I was quite literally blinded by Ophelia’s voice when it came to putting the pieces together.

So as not to alert Camila, I rush into the bathroom and wait another minute before I exit. I return to my seat and act as if nothing transpired backstage between me and anyone else.

I pretend to enjoy the rest of the performance, two more songs sung to me before Camila bows for me. I clap, pretending that I’m overcome with all the emotions she must be expecting from me. In truth, I stopped watching Camila. I instead focused my attention on the curtain behind her, trying to imagine Ophelia backstage, being the true singer.

I saw how Ophelia was performing. Those words were never Camila’s. The song about loss is written by the waitress. Not the egotistical, self-centered woman bowing at me, her smile wide and unpleasant. It’s like alerts keep going off in my brain.

Camila has been using me for fame, for my name. I believe she might be a fan, but like many before her, she just cares about what I can offer to her, as opposed to actually giving a damn about the real me.

Walking down the few steps to the standing room floor, Camila sighs, bringing her seltzer down with her. She doesn’t seem to notice something’s gone amiss in my mind, but that’s what I’m aiming for.

“Ah!” Camila sighs, taking a long sip of her drink. “That was one of my best performances yet. You must be a good luck charm there, Mr. Quarterback.”

I smile, but it feels more like a grimace. “Must be.”

She puts her hand on my arm, which feels like icicle shards. “So, how about you and me, after we finish up here, head back to my apartment? I’d love to show you around the house that built all of this.”

I let the smile grow, knowing there’s nothing in the world I’d hate more than Camila trapping me in an apartment.

“That sounds great, Camila. But I’m so sorry.” I didn’t realize just how good of an actor I can be when it comes to lying. “I’ve got other plans tonight. I moved them so I could be here watching you.”

Her smile shrinks. I see her annoyance, the irritation impossible to hide. “Oh, really?” She bites.

“But tell you what. Invite me to the next performance you have, and I’ll be here.”

She lowers her eyebrows but nods her head instead of being flat-out rude. "I will do that. I hope you enjoy your plans.” Her teeth are gritted together, but I stand up, determined to leave before she has a chance to do anything else.

“Have a good night, Camila.”

I leave as quickly as I can, trying not to look as though I’m essentially running out of here.

Ophelia better give me some straight answers. I don’t want to be led astray by these two women again.