by Cara Dee
It’d be much easier if August weren’t so damn…him.
It was an uncharacteristically shy Camden we brought to the festival the following day. Decked out in a Spider-Man costume, he stayed close to August and refused to let go of his hand as we crossed the big parking area.
I had a feeling the boy would relax soon. He’d see this for what it was, a fun way to secretly bring their lifestyle into the vanilla world. People around us would just see a kid who was weirdly tall for whatever age they’d guess he was.
As August had said, it was none of their damn business.
Or, as I had said, in a part of the country where they needed signs to make sure people put on shirts and shoes, a Spider-Man costume was nothing.
It’d earned me a giggle from Camden and a mock glare from August.
“What is it with you Southerners and your tailgate parties?” I asked, finishing my smoke. Two families had parked their big trucks next to each other, and the men were working a grill while their wives and kids set up a picnic. “Where I’m from, it’s called loitering.”
August let out a laugh. “Yankees don’t know what the good life is about, that’s clear.”
“I agree, the Yankees are terrible.” I side-eyed him and his damned Yankees tee.
He just shook his head in amusement and brought out his and Camden’s tickets.
After we passed through the gates, I pointed to where he could pick up their goodie bags. I’d left mine in my truck yesterday, and I’d already gone through all the edible products. Best beef jerky I’d ever had, which was why it was on my list of things to get today. I was bringing that shit home with me. Pop loved jerky. There’d been some snack bars and toffee too. And a shitload of coupons.
“All right, first rule of food festivals,” August said. “We sample together—when there’s small, medium, and large to choose from, we go with small.”
Of course. I wasn’t new. It was the only way we’d be able to try as many dishes as possible.
It was also why we hadn’t had any breakfast yet.
Camden tugged on August’s arm, to which he bent down a little to hear what the boy was whispering.
August smirked faintly and straightened. “We’ll get to the stuffies, darlin’. I promise.”
I smiled to myself and pulled out the map from my back pocket. “Nearby, we got Texas Row, South of the Border, and Oktoberfest. Where do you wanna start?”
“Oktoberfest for breakfast sounds good,” August replied. “I love German food.”
I loved all food.
On the way to the aisle reserved for food from Germany—and Austria and Switzerland, I noticed—August slipped his hand into mine and threaded our fingers together. It caused the same reaction I’d felt last night. My stomach became a knotted mess and my chest felt tight, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Not one bit. It would just suck to leave this bubble in a few days.
The droves of people hadn’t arrived yet, so we were first in line to a vendor selling Bavarian delicacies, among other German dishes.
“Breakfast is on me,” August said. “That means I get to decide what we eat too.”
I wasn’t gonna argue with the chef about the last thing he’d said, and I could hand him this one, but all other meals today would be on me.
Mere minutes later, we brought our food to an unsteady bar table nearby, and my stomach growled with hunger. I’d seen the vendor’s menu but couldn’t identify what was what on the paper plates. But I knew August had gotten us a platter of bratwurst, knockwurst, frankfurter, leberkäse, and some sausages I’d forgotten the names of. Then two sides—soft pretzels and bread dumplings—and different types of mustard.
Last but not least, beer.
“Madonn’, I love being on vacation.” I stuck a toothpick into a piece of whateverwurst and dragged it through some mustard before shoveling it into my mouth. “Try this one, ciccio.” I held out the same type of sausage for August.
While he closed his mouth around the toothpick and hummed appreciatively, Camden shifted his mask higher and scrunched his nose as he sniffed the food.
He settled for nibbling on a soft pretzel.
“Goodness—this one, sweetheart.” August picked out another sample of sausage for me and handed it over with a piece of the bread dumpling. “Use the light mustard.”
I did as told and couldn’t stop the groan that escaped my mouth as the flavors exploded on my taste buds.
“It’s good, innit?” August grinned and took a swig of his beer. “I rather like your vacations too.”
“So fucking good.” I used a napkin to wipe my mouth. “If I worked in a restaurant, I’m not sure I could stop eating.”
August chuckled. “Even if you change the menu every season, it gets old after a while.”
Having experienced his cooking, I had doubts.
“Do you still work in any of your restaurants?” I asked.
“Not very often.” He slid me the next thing he wanted to try, a cheese-filled piece of sausage and some mustard-dipped pretzel. “I hit a wall about three years ago, and it’s been a slow recovery ever since. I’m lucky to able to move at whatever pace I’m comfortable with. I’m still only at fifty percent.”
I’d had no idea. I wouldn’t even have guessed it.
Camden reached up and stroked August’s cheek, and he turned and kissed the inside of Camden’s hand. It was a sweet exchange and shot a bout of longing into me, and it made me want to take care of August. I couldn’t help it. I was so goddamn drawn to him.
This explained Camden’s urge to hunt down someone who would complete their dynamic, though. He was very aware of his own limitations for the times he regressed, and he wanted his Daddy to have someone to lean on when Camden wasn’t able to be that person.
“But to be frank, I’m enjoyin’ my schedule now,” August went on. “I do my monthly videos to stay current online—and to keep Clara off my back—I still create all the menus with my head chefs, I agree to these dog and pony shows every now and then, and I keep busy with other side projects.”
“Daddy’s gonna write a book about seafood culture and traditions next year.” Camden chimed in.
“Oh yeah?” I took a swig of my beer and faced August, wanting to hear more.
He smiled a little and broke off a piece of pretzel. “Southern cookin’ may be where I started, but I love seafood. My fusion place in Seattle, MAT at the Sea, mixes Southern cuisine with northwestern seafood culture.”
I felt so clueless about these things. I needed to get out there in the world and experience other cultures.
“I’ll have to put that on my endless list of places to visit,” I said. “What does MAT stand for?”
“Meat and three,” he answered. “It’s a local term for supper, basically. You have your meat, and you have your three sides. It’s the concept of my restaurants. You pick the meat first and how you’d like it, and then there’s a whole menu of sides.”
The food lover in me highly approved. “That settles it. I ain’t leaving Nashville before I’ve been to your restaurant here.”
He grinned and stepped closer to kiss my cheek. “It’s a date, darlin’.”
We tried a booth that sold full English breakfast before Camden demanded we go see the stuffies. August had said the English weren’t known for good food, but I’d thought it was delicious. The beans in tomato sauce, the sausage, the eggs, the toast, and then I’d wrapped up the meal by sampling their scones too. It came with four types of preserves, which made me go back to buy some for Nonna.
“You’re a sweet grandson,” August said.
“The woman sends me off after Sunday dinner with leftovers that last throughout the week. Bringing home some souvenirs is the least I can do.” I’d selected a collection of sample jars for her. Strawberry, blackberry, lemon curd, and a few others. Pop better not steal ’em from her.
It was good to take a break by walking Camden over to the stuffed animals, though. I was so full, and I’d need an h
our or two before I could eat again.
“I see them!” Camden exclaimed. He pointed down the row we were in and started dragging August along. “We’re almost there.”
“Oof—easy, boy. Daddy’s too full to run.” August blew out a breath and slowed down.
Once we reached the tent in question, Camden had no issues letting go of August’s hand. He hurried into the tent and stared at the walls covered in stuffed animals, his head whipping from one wall to the next.
Each stuffed animal came with either a cone of homemade candy or a big lollipop.
It was heaven for Camden, and he was far from alone in there. A handful of children of all ages and their parents pointed and gazed at the toys.
August and I waited outside for the moment.
I planted a quick kiss on his neck. “I’m buying him one.”
He squeezed my hand. “Stop bein’ so damn sweet, Anthony. You’re already a little too good to be true.”
I grinned and scanned the tent for Camden. He was eyeing a shelf with long-eared bunnies. Then I spotted a sign that said some of the stuffed animals could be personalized, and I decided to go inside and help him out.
“How’s it goin’, tesorino?” It was today’s nickname for him. He’d approved with a big smile once I’d told him it meant little treasure.
“I think I want a bunny.” He pointed to one on the top shelf. It was light brown or beige. “How much is it? I brought the allowance Daddy gave me last Friday.”
“I’m paying,” I replied. “Did you see the sign over there? You can put your name on the bunny’s ear.”
It was just five bucks extra, and we’d pick it up in thirty minutes.
“Oh, I want that, please.” His tone turned pleading, and he grasped my arm as if he was getting ready to beg.
“Then it’s yours.” I dropped a kiss at the top of his head. “Let’s go talk to the saleslady.”
“Gah! Thank you, thank you, thank you!”
I chuckled and hugged him to me on the way to the register.
Yeah, leaving next Monday was gonna fucking suck.
It took a stuffed animal and some cotton candy for Camden to come alive, and we ended up spending the whole day at the festival. Whenever he felt bold, he peeked out from under his fabric mask and grinned at us.
We strolled up and down the rows and tried enough food that we knew we were gonna regret it eventually, but right now, life was fucking perfect.
I even got to show my famous chef my skills for picking the right place to have carnitas for dinner. It had to be the one vendor that displayed bottles of Mexican Coke in front of their register.
August knew very well that it was the right way to go, but he didn’t expect me to know.
I smirked around a mouthful of the juicy meat. “You’re talkin’ to a guido mick who grew up near a bodega that would go bankrupt if they didn’t sell Fanta and Mexican Coca-Cola. If there’s one thing I know, it’s good Mexican food. And Puerto Rican food—madonn’.” I kissed my fingertips. “It’s almost better than pizza.”
Almost.
He laughed softly. “I love how excited you get about food.”
I shrugged and smiled. I was a simple man.
“Anthony!” I heard Camden holler from somewhere. The sun had set, and the rows were packed with people, so it was difficult to see where he was. He appeared from the crowd a few seconds later with his mask pushed up to his forehead, out of breath and visibly excited. “I know where we’re gonna go next! There’s a seating area with a bar and stuff, and they’ve got live music!”
Sounded good to me. It’d be nice to get off my feet for a minute.
On the way over there, August stopped at a stand to buy candied almonds and a small bag of buttered popcorn.
“Daddy, we gots to go now!” Camden said, frustrated.
August lifted a brow and tossed a handful of nuts into his mouth. “Are we in a hurry?”
“Uh, yeah.” Camden nodded. “Maybe someone signed Anthony up for the open-mic thing.”
I did a double take at him. “Boy, you did what?”
“I said someone,” he grated. “Come on. Local radio is here, and you can tell everyone you’re playing at a big festival next weekend. It’s good PR.”
I…
“You’ve been hangin’ out with Clara too much.” August frowned.
“Camden, I didn’t bring any instruments,” I told him, at a loss. “I can’t play on a whim like that.”
Not that it would take me very long to come up with something.
“That’s okay! They have instruments you can borrow.” Camden grabbed my hand and tugged me along through the sea of people crowding the row, and I looked back to make sure August was following. “You’re a musician, aren’t you?” Camden threw over his shoulder. “I really, really, really want to hear you sing.”
I huffed a chuckle and shook my head.
Fine. No need to twist my arm—literally.
Bistro lights zigzagged over a dozen or so long picnic tables, which were filled to the last seat. People brought over food they’d bought, and wait staff rushed between the tables to take orders and serve beer. The bar wasn’t very big, and it wouldn’t take too many patrons to crowd it completely. Then at the back of the large deck was a stage lit up with red and blue spotlights.
A band was playing, but at a closer look, I deduced it was a solo guitarist with four musicians comping him.
He wasn’t very good. The band, however, was.
I wouldn’t expect anything else in Nashville. They bled good music around here.
“You’re supposed to talk to that lady over there!” Camden called over the din, pointing to someone near the stage.
I nodded once and handed over two bags for him, one of which had his bunny.
Camden smiled curiously. “You’re not nervous or mad?”
I dipped down to kiss his temple. “Music is easier than breathing.”
“I mean, you’re wrong, but I’m glad you think so. I can’t wait to see you!”
I laughed. “All right, see you soon.”
I left Camden between two tables seconds before August joined him, and I went over to talk to the woman in charge. I had to press a finger to my ear closest to the stage in order to hear what she said, and I got the gist. Open-mic setup, festival edition; if I had sheet music or a lead sheet, I was to deliver it to the accompanying band right away.
I didn’t have either of those on me, but I had both on my phone.
She said she could have her assistant run over to the office and print it out.
Then I signed a waiver where I solemnly swore to compensate their company if I broke the guitar I was gonna borrow.
“You’re on in twenty minutes—give or take,” she hollered over the music. “There’re two more musicians after him.” She nodded at the guy on stage. “If you have the legalities in order, go talk to Lance with 105.1 WNXF next to the bar. If you’re good enough, they’ll play it on the air.”
If I’m good enough.
“Got it.”
Ten minutes later, I found August and Camden at a table where they’d managed to steal a single spot closest to the stage. Camden was perched on August’s lap, and two beers and a soda were on the table in front of them.
“You’re actually gonna play for us?” August asked in surprise.
“Looks like it.” I squatted down at the head of the table, and I gave Camden’s knee a squeeze. “This one calls himself an evil genius for a reason, I guess.”
Camden grinned in triumph. “It’s better to ask for forgiveness than permission sometimes.”
I barked out a laugh.
August groaned and pressed his forehead to Camden’s neck. “It’s definitely not, boy.”
“It totally is!” Camden argued with his goofy grin. “Here, Daddy got you a gross beer.”
I accepted the bottle and took a long swig. It was anything but gross. Just like the rest of this day, it was perfect.
It
was a moment I wanted to capture and keep with me forever. Camden with his cute grins and his Spider-Man mask bunched up around his head like a beanie, August with his indulgent smiles and the affection in his eyes, the bistro lights above us, the music, the people around us, even our plastic bags on the floor at August’s feet.
“Are they gonna play you on the radio?” Camden asked.
“If I’m good enough.” I smirked. “They’ll listen to the first song—which I don’t have the rights to record or distribute anyway—and if they like it, they’ll stream the second song live.”
It reminded me to shoot Nicky a text. Lance had given me a business card that I’d taken a photo of, and I pulled out my phone to attach the photo in a message.
“Are they both covers?” August wondered.
I nodded. “First one’s called ‘No Excuses,’ and the second is ‘House of the Rising Sun.’”
“Oh, I do love Rising Sun,” he commented. “I’m looking forward to hearing your version.”
I smiled in response and typed out a quick text to my brother.
Looks like I’m about to plug our gig next weekend. If you don’t have anything better to do, go to the website listed on the card and listen. (Open-mic event at the festival.)
The men who were about to comp me were a chill bunch of locals who reminded me more of bikers than musicians. One on guitar, one on bass, one behind the drums, and me. Mac was the talker, and he said I was the fourth guy this weekend to play “House of the Rising Sun.”
I wasn’t surprised, given that it was public domain.
“I’d like to think my version will stand out,” I replied, shifting the shoulder strap of my borrowed guitar over my head.
“They all think that, buddy,” Mac chuckled gruffly.
I kept my mirth to myself and made sure the guitar was tuned. “All right, I’ll just ease into ‘Rising Sun’ right after ‘No Excuses.’”
“Copy that.” Mac and the others glanced at their lead sheets and got ready.
I took the stool at the front and half sat on it.
The woman I’d talked to earlier came up on the little platform and spoke into the mic. “Listen up, y’all! Next, we have Anthony Fender from New York. Give him a big round of applause and hope he lives up to his last name.”
