My Favorite Camren One-Shots

Full Circle

There was a light pink, whitewashed but still very light pink sign that was hung on the outer rung of the porch of a big white house on the side of a country road, where the streets went to gravel on every side and there were churches standing on two remaining bricks with congregations of 12 and 13 people each. There weren’t many families living nearby. Two or three down the road a ways, but they were irrelevant—that was the way of the south. Keep to yourself, mind your manners, and don’t get too close to what you don’t understand. Camila moved here years ago with her wife, and they’d lived here for quite a while. She’d learned the ways of these people, learned how to deal with what was not hers, learned how to deal with the stern, yet vaguely comforting faces of those who did not know who she was.

Lauren had insisted on moving out here for some privacy. It’s North Carolina, she said. It’s a farm state with not much to say for itself outside of city walls. We can be safe there.

They weren’t fugitives on the run from the Montreal government. They hadn’t lost twice their bank account totals because of a gambling addiction. They didn’t want a tropical paradise to frolic around daily.

All they wanted was a bit of peace.

They’d met in a big city where dreams came true for people who weren’t them. They were struggling artists with dreams too big for their heads. They had faith in each other where they lacked faith in themselves. They found love in a hopeless place, to put into literal terms. Camila was sitting on a LA curb with her guitar poised lightly on her right knee, her fingers strumming hopelessly along while a touchy soprano rose from her lips. Lauren walked by, but was stopped by the precision of the lyrics, a song her mother had sung to her as a small child. Camila’d heard this story enough times to know exactly how Lauren would tell it—from the sound coming behind her, it sounded like her mother. But no, it was Camila. And Camila ended up being her second best.

Lauren was a singer that relied on her voice and nothing else. She’d left home to pursue a career that her family deemed ridiculous and irresponsible. She didn’t get their blessing for the path she chose, nor the marriage she’d gain. Neither parent nor either of her siblings came to the small wedding. The two married short of three months after meeting, deciding it would be the right decision if that’s what life was supposed to come down to. Hell, maybe they’d get a duo contract or something. The next big it thing of the 21st century—the lesbian couple paired with two sets of lungs and a guitar straddled between them.

They got married in an inn off Highway 29, a preacher hired for less than minimum wage because they couldn’t afford much else. Lauren wore white, and Camila did too. They were happy that day, smiling in hope and glory of the years to come. They hoped for something good. They wanted each other, and they wanted success. Neither could tell you which was more important—their now wife, or their future music career.

Lauren got the big break she’d dreamed of, and Camila sat back and pretended to be happy, holding Lauren’s hand when she needed a hand to be held. A record was signed and she was singing in a new group with a few others. They traveled, and Camila didn’t go. Camila stayed home in their cramped city apartment, trying to figure out where she stood in so many places. Lauren was gone; she still sent Camila paychecks twice a month, hoping money would pay for her utter absence, but it didn’t help much. Camila just strung along, trying not to let the loneliness impact her as much as it did. She called her mom a few times a week. Never too long. Never too inclusive. Never too case sensitive. Always distant. Her mom resented the sham of a marriage Camila was held to by contract. She hated that Lauren paraded around her new group without mention of Camila. She hated how it tore Camila apart to think about Lauren at all.

In all truth, she didn’t mind Camila liking both women and men. She just hated that she’d liked Lauren enough to marry her.

Camila ended phone calls there, refusing to talk Lauren with her mother. It was none of her business, if her mind was right. But most of the time her mind wasn’t right.