Wright that Got Away (Wright)

8

Campbell

There was one of many problems with telling Blaire about the new song. The first being that I didn’t have her number. The one that she’d had in high school no longer worked, and I had no interest in asking Hollin for her current one. I could just imagine how that conversation would go. The last thing I wanted was for other people to know anyway. So, that was out.

I also didn’t use social media. I had accounts that my publicist sometimes updated. She wanted me to post more, to be active, but it hurt the creative process. Pretty much everything online was utterly draining. Not that I could imagine sliding into Blaire’s DMs. That felt too casual, even for us.

The one thing I did have was her email. Mostly because it was readily available on her website. I felt ridiculous, sending her an email, but besides just showing up at her house, uninvited, or waiting until I saw her in person again, I thought this might be the easiest route.

I hardly checked my own emails since they were constantly inundated with fan mail. Even though I had a personal private address that only the record label was supposed to have, it didn’t keep people from figuring it out. But it was the best that I had. So, here I was…writing Blaire an actual fucking email and hoping it reached her.

To:

From:

* * *

Subject: Don’t hate me

* * *

Blaire,

* * *

I know you don’t want to talk to me but…

Nope. That wasn’t going to work.

To:

From:

* * *

Subject: A quick request

* * *

Blaire,

* * *

It’s Campbell. I…

Yeah, she would see my email address. She wasn’t stupid. Fuck.

To:

From:

* * *

Subject: I’m a fucking idiot.

* * *

Blaire,

* * *

I’m probably the last person on the planet you want to talk to. After all, I was the douche who broke your heart. But still, won’t you be so kind as to spare me a few minutes of your time because I’m a selfish asshole?

Fucking fuck fuck. Just what I wanted typed out and sent into the ether. One tip-off to any tabloid, and I’d be fucked. I needed to get it together. This wasn’t personal. I didn’t have to make it about what had happened before. It was just meeting up to discuss something. Business, not personal.

To:

From:

* * *

Subject: Meet up

* * *

Blaire,

* * *

Can we meet up sometime this week to talk? I want to run something by you. I’m free anytime this week.

* * *

Best,

Campbell

Best. Fuck. Was I really going to sign it best? I guess I was because what else could I put there? Fuck it. Good enough.

I pressed Send.

If she even looked at her emails, she wasn’t going to respond. She had made it perfectly clear last weekend that she wanted nothing to do with me. I’d actually fucking tried to stay away from her. I’d given her the space she so clearly wanted. It had just all unraveled. And with it had come back my creative process.

Now, it felt like a flood had been opened in my mind. I hadn’t written another song, but over the last couple days, there were at least snippets that I’d been able to jot down and not hate.

Sometimes, songs came to me fully formed, like “Invisible Girl” had, but most of the time, it was just a bunch of lines that became a bigger idea. I could feel all of these smaller catchy lines coalescing into something, and it was going to be great. When I found the key, it was going to shine.

And that was because of Blaire.

Not that I intended to tell her that exactly. If she hardly wanted to look at me, then she wasn’t going to want to know that one conversation with her had clicked something back into place inside me. I didn’t even know how I could explain it to anyone else, let alone her.

I swiped down to refresh my phone, not expecting anything, except more fan mail, and then there it was. A response.

I clicked on the email, momentarily stunned.

To:

From:

* * *

Subject: Re: Meet up

* * *

Campbell,

* * *

Sure. I could do this afternoon. What time is good for you?

* * *

Best,

Blaire

I blinked and blinked again. That was the most innocuous…almost-nice response I had ever thought I’d get from her. Should I have read condescension in every syllable? Was her sure more of a surrre? Did it matter?

She’d said yes. She’d meet me. I could tell her about the song.

A pit opened in my stomach. Well, fuck. Now, I had to tell her about the song. In abstract, it had seemed like a good idea. The right thing to do. And now, it felt daunting.

But I had to do it anyway.

To:

From:

* * *

Subject: Re: Meet up