They’re kissing again, and I look away to give them privacy, even though we’re in a bar. Cam clears his throat. “It’s a wonder they’re only on baby number three. I walked in on them so much in college, I figured they would end up like one of those prolific Baptist families with fourteen kids in jean skirts all lined up in a row.”

Kevin smirks against his wife’s lips and straightens. “I’m not Baptist.”

Beth pats his butt and spins for the kitchen. “Thank God for that,” she throws over her shoulder. “Your babies are enormous.”

Kevin stares after her and Cameron chuckles low.

“What?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “Nothing. It’s just that I can practically hear his brain trying to figure out a way to sneak out of here and join her in the kitchen.”

Kevin’s lips spread in a smile and he snaps his suspenders. “You wouldn’t hop back here and cover for me, would you?” Just as quickly, his eyes widen as he looks over our shoulders and leans forward on one massive hand. “Never mind.”

We spin in our seats and Cameron grunts under his breath, knocking back the last of his drink. I follow suit, sipping mine until it gurgles against the ice, empty. I probably should have gone for a gin and tonic. As quickly as the thought comes, I shake it off. I don’t need the buffer. Not really.

“No matter what anyone says, only ginger ale from here on,” I remind Kevin. “Please.”

Cameron steps off his stool and I jump down alongside him, smoothing my dress. The cameras are here and so are Marcella and Lyle. Marcella makes a show of squealing my name and the entire bar turns, taking notice of the cameras and, undoubtedly, the reason for the cameras. Up to this point, we’ve flown pretty under the radar in northern Michigan. People know we’re around, and sure, we might be the most famous people in a town of zero celebrities, but generally people respect our privacy. With the exception of the odd dental hygienist or grocery store employee, I rarely hear my name in whispers.

Until tonight. Until the four walls of this space echo with our whispered names. Lyle, you fucker.

Cameron’s hand presses to the small of my back, warm and grounding. I take a deep, cleansing breath and prepare to act as if my heart depended on it.

17

CAMERON

DESPACITO

Fucking Lyle. Always playing the good guy on TV. Like a duck on a pond, pristine and collected on the surface, webbed fucking feet paddling like crazy and mucking up shit underneath.