Page 5 of Rock Candy

“Yeah, but socializing with your team is kind of part of the deal,” she said, somehow questioning my comment in a way that felt both snarky and humble.

“Does it have to be? From the outside it seems like the talent sort of calls the shots. Is that not true?”

She shrugged, thinking before she answered. I was acutely aware of the sounds of her. The soft pattern of her breaths, the rub of denim that accompanied her gait, the clack of her shoes against the pavement. I heard it all, every note she made, like a lyrical melody floating above the instrumental harmony of distant surf and crickets.

“I guess that’s true,” she said. “But I love my team. I want to hang out with them and talk to them.” She turned, looking up at me as we strolled. “Wait, was that an actual question? Like are you asking for yourself?” Then her eyes flashed mischievously and she teased, “Are you hoping to be some kind of famous recluse?”

I laughed. “Is that thing? Can I aspire to rich and famous reclusiveness? I’ve never considered that possibility but that does sound ideal.”

“You don’t want to be famous?” she asked.

“It’s not for me,” I said softly, pushing my hands into my pockets. “Too many eyes.”

She quirked her head, inquisitive. “But you want to make music?”

I nodded.

“Hmmm,” she harrumphed, puzzled. “Don’t get me wrong. I like idealism, but I never met a musician who actively wanted to avoid fame but also was a songwriter/guitarist attending and performing at a music festival.”

“I’m here to try networking.” The words came out laden with my uncomfortable feelings, clunky and churlish.

“I take it you don’t like the idea.”

I sighed heavily. “I’m just not good at that kind of small talk. All the platitudes and brazen self-aggrandizing annoys me, but my manager got me a gig playing with a band that needed a guitarist last minute. She thought it would be good exposure, a chance to show off my chops. So, here I am.”

We strolled far enough that we were across the street from the beach. She shook her head before she balanced on the curb and looked up and down the street to ensure she was safe to cross, and then as she stepped into the road, she said, “Here you are talking to me like we’ve known each other always, but you call yourself a man who is not good at small talk.”

I snickered at the way she pushed back. She was forthright, which I adored. Her personality put me at ease. “That’s my issue,” I argued. “I can’t seem to speak the language of chitchat. I want to actually talk to people.” As I stepped onto the sand, I turned her way, offering her my hand so she didn’t slip transitioning from the cement to the beach. Her hand felt small wrapped in mine, and I liked the feeling of her guitar-callused fingertips scratching my skin. It felt like an understanding, like we saw the world in a similar way.

“Oh, I see, the ever so humble,I just can’t be shallow,” she teased.

“Something like that,” I grumbled, keeping my hold on her even though it wasn’t necessary anymore. We walked quietly for a moment before I said, “I get uncomfortable. I blurt out the truth of what I’m thinking and feeling and that makes other people uncomfortable.”

“For example?” she queried.

“Okay, so imagine I’m walking on the beach with an incredibly talented and breathtakingly sexy rock star…”

She rolled her eyes and cackled, “See, you’re already exaggerating.”

Feigning being offended, I scoffed, “I most certainly am not. You hush and let me make my point.”

“Okay, fine. Go on.”

Huffing a breath out my nose, I continued. “So, here I am on the beach with the sassy, savvy, sexy songwriter who for some reason or another has taken an interest in me, and I decide to tell her about my social anxiety, which is most likely not attractive.”

“Debatable,” she said softly, and then she stopped moving, looking down at her shoes. The beach was really dark, but my eyes had adjusted enough to the moonlight that I could see the way her brow furrowed.

“I think I want to take my shoes off,” she said. “Feel the sand in my toes.”

Instinctually, I responded by kneeling before her and unlacing her boots. When I got the laces loose, I looked up at her from my crouched position. Her face had gone soft. I took her hand, placing it on my shoulder so she wouldn’t lose her balance, and then I lifted her leg, pulling her foot free from her boot. Silently, I repeated the gesture on the other side.

“You are unusual,” she said once she was barefoot.

I tied her laces together and hung her boots on my shoulder before standing to say, “Yep, total weirdo.” She reached out and took my hand as we continued to walk the beach.

Eddy was fun.We talked easily. Mostly about my weird desire to have a career in music without being seen but also about the kind of nonsense that just makes you feel happy. We touched on our personal histories to our mutual detest for theme parks. I knew some of her story because she was seriously famous, but in the dark on the beach, Eddy held nothing back. She told me all about losing her mom when she was just a kid and not really knowing her dad. And in turn, I told her about growing up with loving parents who would never admit how disappointing it was that I struggled with anxiety. The truth flowed between us easily. And when we were not being honest, we were being silly. We spent at least an hour on a nostalgic musical tangent, singing bits and pieces from childhood commercial jingles and sitcom theme songs. I was into her in a big way. My eyes kept drifting to her lips, and I was starting to sound dumb because I kept losing track of our conversation as I wondered what they would taste like.

Eventually, we rolled up our pants and let the rush of the surf crash over our bare feet and ankles. We were standing deep enough in the surf that my feet were sinking into the sand. She stepped in front of me, turning around so we were facing each other, and I thought she was about to crouch down and splash me, but before she could I spoke.

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