by L. Philips
“I always get a little chilled at the beach. The constant breeze and all,” he says, noticing me noticing him.
“Me too,” I say. In the small bag at my feet I’ve packed a cardigan for myself, this one made to look like a vintage high school varsity sweater. Mine’s deep green and charcoal gray, but that’s neither here nor there. “I usually see you in all black.”
He looks amused. “I sometimes wear white. And gray. I do own a navy suit somewhere. And my boarding school blazer was maroon. Maroon,” he repeats disgustedly.
I hold back a laugh. “Depends on the shade. With your hair color it could either be perfect or a disaster.”
“All disaster. Believe me.” He walks toward me and picks up my bag and guitar case. I follow him through the house to the kitchen. Tess isn’t there, but I could swear the whole house smells like her expensive perfume.
“There’s one thing we have to do before we go,” Cameron says. He sets my belongings by the door to the garage and gestures to a small stack of papers on the kitchen counter.
“Contract?”
He nods. “Of course, if you’d like a few days to look over it, or have a lawyer go over it with—”
“No,” I say quickly. I pick up the documents and scan them for a few seconds. “You gave me fifty percent input?”
“Fifty percent of creative and logistical input, fifty percent rights to whatever we create together and whatever we do with those creations.”
I’d like to just sign it. To have no doubt that his words are true, and that every sentence of the document is correct and fair. To place in him the trust that I think, and hope, I can. But my dad might as well be in the room with me, telling me to read over every word and be damn sure before I put my signature on it.
Cameron reads my mind. “Read over it. I’ll load up the car.”
He disappears through the door to the garage and I sit down at a stool and read over the contract slowly, line by line. Though there are some words I don’t quite understand, and some legalese that might as well be a Russian spy code, the numbers are right there in bullet points. Half. I get half of everything. My opinion will count just as much as his.
As long as his father allows it to be.
I pick up a pen and sign my name, my rounded cursive right next to Richard Cameron Pierce Jr.’s angular script.
Cameron enters the kitchen again, looking at me in question. I hold out the contract to him.
He blows out a breath, relieved. “Didn’t see any issues?”
“No. Let’s just hope your dad goes for it.”
“There’s so much he’ll have to like before we even get to that point,” Cameron says. “Most of all my demo. Are you ready to go?”
“Yeah,” I say, and for some reason, ask him the same.
He looks at me curiously, then slowly breathes in. “I think so. Two days of songwriting. It might be exhausting.”
“It will be,” I say, inwardly wondering how we’ll fare. Not just with the emotional toll, but with the shaky ground between us, and the slowly burning fire beneath it all. One way or another, it could all go up in flames. “But it might be incredible too.”
Something flickers in Cameron’s eyes, and he shrugs it away. “Best get started then.”
Then we pile into his Land Rover and start off north, along State Route 1, up the coast.
Cameron
It’s signed. If nothing else comes out of this trip, the contract is signed. We are officially partners. We’re Elton and Bernie. We’re John and Paul. We’re Simon and Garfunkel 2.0.
No, we’re Cameron and Nate, the first. And for a person who has never been a first ever, who has always been just a junior—an extension of someone else, part of a legacy—that’s a pretty big deal.
“Favorite food?” Nate asks me. He’s been asking me things like this since we left my driveway, and that’s just fine with me. I’m too excited/nervous/terrified to think of conversation myself. He’s taken off his shoes and socks and has his bare feet up on the dash, which ordinarily would make me threaten someone within an inch of their life, but with him it’s oddly okay. Also, he has cute feet. And yes, I’m aware that it’s a really weird thing to say about someone. A steady mix of the Jacket Zippers, Liquid, and a few other bands I know he likes streams out of my speakers, but low enough so that we don’t have to raise our voices.
“Like, type or item?”
“Both.”
“I’m so boring,” I say in defense before I answer. “I like burgers and steaks. Red meat is hard to come by in my household. But I can always, always go for some Thai.”
“Thai is good,” Nate agrees. “For me it’s Italian. Bring on the carbs. Especially when Victor’s mom is cooking. She makes enough for ten families, so I always eat for at least two. I’m just doing my part.”
“You’re totally just being a team player,” I say. Then ask, “Favorite drink?”
“Alcoholic or no?”
“Both,” I say back, smiling at using the same challenge against him.
“Really don’t know about the alcoholic drink. The only times I’ve had anything were all parties where someone had a keg or we broke into a parent’s stash. We weren’t exactly mixing cocktails.” He chuckles at that and shifts so that he’s sitting even lower in his seat. “As far as nonalcoholic, I make this thing at work when Tonya’s not looking. It’s more dessert than drink, I guess, but I love it. It’s like a root beer float, only I use the orange Mr. Freezy mix instead of root beer. It’s like a Creamsicle. You know what I’m talking about?”
“Oh yeah. Tess and I got this nanny when we were maybe four years old. Her name was Priscilla. Her mom had been a huge Elvis fan. Anyway. She used to sneak us down to the Santa Monica Pier when my parents were both too busy to notice, and let us ride the Ferris wheel in Pacific Park. Every time, she’d buy us Creamsicles.”
Nate looks over at me, smiling warmly, and I can almost see the thoughts turning over and over in his brain, like laundry in a dryer.
“So you had a nanny?”
“Priscilla stayed with us for a long time. Until I went off to boarding school.”
“And when was that?”
“High school.”
“You had a nanny until high school?” I can hear the laughter in his voice.
I take my eyes off the road for a second to give him a wry look. “She became more like a cook, tutor, and chauffeur during the last few years. We had to have someone take us to practices or lessons or whatnot.”
“What kind of lessons?”
“I took Latin and French.”
“Wow,” he says, completely sincerely. “I take Spanish, but I’m totally lost on anything beyond hola. So where was boarding school?”
“New Hampshire,” I say.
“What’s that like?”
“Boarding school?” He nods. “I don’t know, really,” I say with a shrug. “I can only compare it to middle school, which is rough for anyone. But I liked that we were away from our parents, and I guess it was probably more like college because you were expected to be responsible for yourself and the work was really challenging. But it was a lot of fun. You can’t live with a whole bunch of people your own age and not get into trouble. It’s simple physics. Or biology or something.”
“Sounds like maybe science wasn’t your school’s strong point.”
We both laugh at that. Travis Blake’s guitar sings out a melancholy solo in the background in counterpoint.
“So you should be in college, but you’re not.”
“Yeah,” I say, concentrating inordinately hard on the road. The Land Rover purrs all around us. “We’ve always had a deal with Richard, Tess and I. That we’d basically shadow him for a year at Paradise before we go to college and choose a major.”
“So you know what you’re getting into with the business?
”
I pause. “No. I think it’s so that he could know whether we’d be any good at it or not. And if we weren’t, he wouldn’t have to waste his money on a business degree.”
Nate’s quiet at that. I can feel his eyes on me, prying, and I let him. We’re going to have to share some uncomfortable stuff, like Tess said, if we’re going to write honest music together. Failures, disappointments, and heartaches. And not all of them are romantic.
“What made you change your mind?” he asks. Confused, I look over at him. “You told me that night at the Crown that music wasn’t an option.”
I smile to myself. “Tess convinced me it was an option. And maybe that I have some talent.”
“You do, and thank goodness for Tess,” Nate says, and I laugh. His voice is quiet at the next question. “But if we don’t get a record deal, and you had to take over the business, where would you go to school?”
“My high school is kind of a feeder for Dartmouth, so it wouldn’t be a stretch to get into. But I don’t know. Maybe Columbia. I like the idea of living in New York.”
“Ivy Leagues.”
“Yeah, I guess,” I say. “But honestly I’d rather just go straight into business with Paradise. I can’t imagine there’s much that Dartmouth could teach me that apprenticing with my father couldn’t. How about you? You have a year left, right?”
“Yeah, I’ll be a senior this year.” Nate wiggles his (considerably adorable) toes on the dashboard. “If this doesn’t work out, I suppose I’ll keep auditioning. I’ll find something, even if it’s just studio work. But I kinda share your opinion, that college can’t teach me the things I need to know. Travis certainly would agree. He didn’t even see a point in finishing high school.”
“Really? When did he tell you this?”
He shrugs. “It was the same conversation where he told me not to run from the paparazzi anymore.”
“Well, he’s right about that. And there’s no running from them anyway. Trust me. They’ll find you.”
“And if they can’t, they can just contact Tess’s fans. Those people are better than the CIA,” Nate says, and I look over at him, eyes wide. “What? Too soon?”
Relieved, I touch my forehead to the steering wheel for just a second and crack up. “I guess I’m glad you can joke about it.”
Nate’s smile is smug. “How many people can say they’ve been on the cover of Us Weekly? I suppose a lot of people would thank you.”
“A lot,” I say, casting him a sly glance, “but not all.”
“Nah. Some people go running off with the circus to avoid it.”
“As circuses go, yours was pretty stellar.”
“You have no idea. Liquid is magic onstage every night,” Nate says dreamily. “It didn’t matter if it was a huge concert hall or a dive bar. A thousand people or ten. They played the hell out of everything, every night.”
“Any tips for touring? I mean, maybe we’ll be doing that soon.”
Nate’s smile is huge. He turns his head toward me, not taking his eyes off me, even if I can’t look back. “That would be amazing. Well, first of all, it pays to kiss up to the sound and lighting techs. . . .”
And Nate’s off and away, talking about his touring experiences with Liquid, and the conversation doesn’t stop until we pull up to the Pierce family beach house and we step out of the car, and the sound of the ocean and the smell of the sweet, salty air makes us both stop, pause, and take it all in.
A whole weekend. Together. Writing. How could it be anything but amazing?
Nate
“You look disappointed,” Cameron says to me as I stare at his beach house.
“Not disappointed,” I say. “Just shocked that it doesn’t have, like, eighteen thousand rooms and a bowling alley or something. And where are the gates? And the guard? Geez, you guys are slumming it.”
“And you’re getting entirely too comfortable with me.”
I let out one short, surprised laugh. “And getting entirely too comfortable with the lifestyles of the rich and famous. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything by it. I was just picturing something as palatial as your home.”
Cameron, thank God, doesn’t look a bit insulted. “I’m not offended. Just amused. I don’t own a helicopter either. Does that disappoint you?”
I scrunch my nose up. “A little.”
“We can always use Paradise’s company jet, though.”
“Well, that makes up for it.”
Cameron’s laugh is so full and thundering, it makes the ocean waves sound small in comparison. “And you’re right. It doesn’t look like much from the driveway, but that’s only because you haven’t seen it from the beach yet. Come on inside. I’ll give you the tour. We can unpack later.”
The home we enter is nearly the exact opposite in style from Cameron’s house in Beverly Hills. Though his home there was grand, ornate, and almost antique feeling, everything in the beach house screams modern. The style here has roots in midcentury, but clearly the overall aesthetic is simplicity. No frills, no decoration for decoration’s sake, just all straight lines with a few soft curves sprinkled in. Basic geometry, the barest of patterns. Squares and rectangles from couches and tables, curves from mirrors and chair backs and the spiral staircase going up to the second floor. There are light-colored woods and stainless-steel accents, but everything else is white. It’s clean. Airy. Open. And all of that is complemented by the fact that the whole back half of the house seems to be made of glass. It’s like whoever designed the place chose the beach breeze as the theme, and made the house itself feel that weightless.
I walk through what I suppose is a living room, since it has a gigantic white leather sectional and a coffee table, and make my way to the back, pressing my nose up against the glass like a child window-shopping at a toy store. Down below, the waves crash onto the shore, which builds to dunes, linked to the house by a boardwalk. There’s a small infinity pool below, and from this angle it looks like the water has to be falling right onto the dunes themselves. I can also see the overhang of the roof a story above, and realize that there are decks on the top floor, too.
“Is everything glass?”
Cameron nods. “The bedrooms are upstairs; the entire wall facing the beach is windows. It’s the most relaxing thing in the world to watch, listen, let the salty air in as you sleep.” He joins me by the window. “Downstairs is a game room and basically the pool house. Nothing too fancy.”
Nothing too fancy.
I look out again, this time up and down the beach. “Seems pretty private.”
He glances out the window, taking my meaning. The closest houses I see are far in the distance. Close enough to walk, but not much help in an emergency.
“Nobody will hear you scream when I harvest your organs for the black market.”
“I think you underestimate my screams.”
Cameron laughs, then leans toward me, whispering conspiratorially, even though we’re the only people present. “It means we can be as loud as we want when we practice, you know.”
“So you won’t have to whisper-sing anymore,” I say, glad to hear it. I’ve wanted, no needed, to hear Cameron’s voice in full power. “And we could write on the beach.”
“Exactly what I was thinking. Hungry?”
I nod.
“Okay. I’ll get our stuff, then get cooking. Had groceries sent ahead.”
“If you’re cooking, I’ll grab our stuff.” I pause. “Is one of the rooms yours? I mean, is there one you like to stay in?”
He shakes his head. “I like them all, so you choose whichever one you want.”
It takes me a few trips to get everything. We each brought a bag, but also, I brought my laptop with my recording software on it, a guitar, and an amp, because you just never know, and, as it turns out, Cameron is as overly prepared as I am. From what I can gather fro
m the various types of cases, he’s brought a few microphones and the stands for them, as well as his own laptop. Between us, we have a home studio.
He’s right. The rooms upstairs are basically the same: luxurious, plush, and huge. I choose two that share a wall, and try not to overthink it. It makes sense to be close together. Both rooms have a view of the ocean, and the same gigantic floor-to-ceiling windows of the floor below them. I only kind of unpack, throwing my toiletry bag into the (also gigantic) bathroom and the clothes I brought into a drawer. By then, something is smelling wonderfully buttery downstairs.
I head down the curvy steps. Thanks to the openness of the house, I can see Cameron working below. Something is sizzling pleasantly in a pan, a pat of butter melting, and he’s slightly bent as he chops the ends off asparagus stalks. I stop midstaircase and gawk.
I mean, I thought he was sexy singing, or dancing, or shirtless after a dip in the pool. But cooking? If he can even remotely kiss, I am a goner.
Shaking the thought from my head, I slip into the kitchen and take a seat opposite him at the counter, on a pristinely white barstool.
“So you cook,” I say, watching him toss the asparagus onto a baking sheet and sprinkle it with a healthy dose of grated Parmesan cheese and a glob of creamy sauce, which my nose tells me might be horseradish.
He mixes it all right on the sheet and, when cheese and sauce are distributed to his liking, plops it inside the oven. “I cook. Surprised?”
“Very. You don’t strike me as the cooking type.”
“On account of my good looks and devastating charm?”
I pull a pinch of Parmesan cheese out of the bag and drop it in my mouth. “On account of having a person who’s paid to do it for you.”
“Michelle,” Cameron says. He bats my hand away as I reach for more cheese and seals it before hiding it in the fridge. “No more. You’ll spoil your dinner. And Michelle taught me to cook. She’s very good. And very patient.”
“Why did you learn?”
He shrugs. “Boredom. Curiosity. Pizza fatigue.” He grins slyly. “Plus it really impresses a date.”
