“I think it was pretty fair, but if you think you were at such a disadvantage, how about I offer something in return? To even things up, I’ll answer a few questions as well. Consider it my olive branch of peace.” I know the minute I proposition her, that I have her. She can’t resist having the upper hand, and I know her well enough to know she thinks by having the power to ask me questions, she is in control of the conversation. I need to offer her a major gesture. Jen is not the type of girl to win over with words; she’s a woman you capture with actions.

“Peace, huh?” she asks, finally giving me her attention as I bring her a plate of fish and roasted potatoes.

“Yup, I’ll give you two questions in exchange for a story,” I answer, as I push Henri away and Jen accepts the dinner I’ve made us. Sitting next to her on the log, I take it as a good sign when she doesn’t slide away from me. Instead, she does the exact opposite. She bumps my knee with her own, causing my eyes to slide to hers and a smile to spread across my face.

“Three questions,” she shoots at me in an attempt to negotiate.

“One,” I fire back, matching her confidence.

“Ugh, fine. Two questions for one story,” she concedes, rolling her eyes and finally taking a bite of her fish.

“How about I let you ask your questions first?” I offer. She nods and focuses her eyes on the crackling fire. While she works through the mental list of things to ask, I relax and dig into my dinner. I’m expecting questions about my music, or her favorite topic of conversation, groupies, or in my case, lack thereof. She doesn’t know much about me, and I doubt she’s cared enough to do any of her own research on my family, so I’m not too concerned about the impending inquisition headed my way.

Jen’s honey eyes, which almost glow in the firelight, move to my direction and pin me in place. Her curly hair is shiny and wild, begging for the touch of my fingers. She’s lacking makeup, but she looks more beautiful than anything I’ve ever seen. The sight of her has convinced me a smile is the best makeup a girl could ever have. I struggle to restrain myself from pulling her to me and showering her in the kisses I’ve been holding back since she signed on with the tour at the brewery. Seeing me squirm in the sight of her gorgeous, mangled mess brings a smile to her face and allows her to relax enough to sit back and enjoy her meal. We both know she’s bewitched me, and right now, I would gladly accept any spell on my heart she could throw at me.

Finally, she clears her throat, interrupting my intoxicating daydream. “Didn’t I tell you that you shouldn’t feed that dog human food?” she says, pointing her fork in the direction of my plate. Henri is licking the remaining fish and potatoes I abandoned in order to partake in my apparent daily staring quota.

“No, Hendrix. Bad dog,” I say through gritted teeth. The plate is pretty well licked clean, so I lay it on the ground next to me and turn my attention back to Jen, who finds the whole situation humorous. “My dog had manners before I introduced him to you,” I tell her. “You’ve somehow ruined my best friend.”

Her hand flies to her chest and she pretends to be offended, only to immediately laugh at me. “That dog was spoiled rotten way before I got here. If anything, I’ve reined in his only child syndrome.”

Henri whimpers and lies down near her feet. A bit of jealousy stirs within me. This girl has managed to not only steal my dog, but has me envious of him, which make me feel pathetic.

“All right, ask your damn questions so we can get this over with,” I snap.

“Oh my, are you sure you don’t have the only child syndrome? It looks like you’re struggling with some of those sharing skills.” She laughs, not taking my cue and continuing to jest at my discomfort before settling in to interrogate me. I squint my eyes at her and she finally surrenders.

“Fine. Question one,” she says, squaring her shoulders at me and composing herself into a serious expression. “Why music?”

“Really? That’s all you’ve got? Why do I want to be a musician? I figured you would come up with something better than that. You’re letting me off easy.” Every little boy has a relatively short list of future dream professions. That list usually includes the typical Halloween costumes: a firefighter, police officer, pro athlete; even my little brother wanted to grow up and be a dinosaur. Rock star almost always makes the top ten list, so this seems like a waste of a question.

I have two choices with this question. I could go with the in-depth answer as to why I really chose music as my outlet or I could take the easy road. I see no reason to divulge more than she’s asking for. So, the easy road it is.

“Doesn’t everyone like music? Rock stars are cool, and they usually do pretty well with the ladies.” I inject as much arrogance as possible into my answer hoping she buys it. This is certainly a believable and typical answer, just not exactly the reason why I find safety in music.

“You’re so full of shit,” she chuckles. “You and I both know you don’t play into the groupie game like Royce. To be honest, I think you couldn’t care less if you ever made the big time. You’re not a rock star,” she says, using air quotes. “You’re a man in love with music. I want to know the real reason why.”

Of course, she calls me on my shit of an answer. I hang my head, letting the warmth of the fire absorb into my skin for a minute while gathering the words for my response. I have never shared stories from my childhood. They aren’t pretty, for one. Two, hearing things like that makes people uncomfortable. The most important reason for me is the pity. I hate seeing the look on people’s faces when they find out the life I had. It makes me feel like that scared thirteen-year-old boy again and brings all of the shame rushing back. The last thing I want is to see that look on Jen’s face. I’ve worked my entire adult life at erasing that feeling of embarrassment, and one look from her could make it all wash back over me.

Taking a deep breath, I let the oxygen invade my lungs and hope the air will transform into courage and infiltrate my soul. Jen’s hand slides to mine which are clasped tightly in front of me and she gently begins to stroke my fingers.

“It’s okay if you don’t feel comfortable sharing with me,” she whispers. I can hear the hurt in her tone, and when I finally muster the guts to look her in the eyes, the disappointment is there, too. The sadness there makes my stomach twist into knots. Those eyes make me realize I would gladly bathe in an ocean of shame than ever make this woman feel unworthy of knowing me.

“No,” I quickly say, grabbing her hand when she begins to pull it away. “It’s just, to understand why I love music, you have to understand my past and that’s not something I’m used to sharing with people.”

She looks away from me, and I feel the loss of her intense stare. “I get it, Casen. It’s okay; it was a stupid bet anyways.”

Letting go of her hand, I reach for her smooth, rosy cheek and gently force her attention back to me. “Jen, I’m not afraid to tell you about myself,” I tell her with as much conviction as possible. “I’m afraid of what you’ll think of me after you know.” My voice tapers off with each word, but my hand remains on her cheek, my thumb rubbing delicately along her cheekbone.

“We all have a past, Casen,” she murmurs with a light smile. “I figure it’s what keeps us all on an even playing field in the present. If things haven’t worked themselves out or don’t seem fair, karma always has a way of collecting her debts in the future.”

I let her words hang in the air for a moment, allowing her simple life philosophy to sink in before I let my story spill out. “Okay,” I say with a nod. “You know I was raised by my grandmother in a trailer park in northern Colorado. You know we were poor. You don’t know how I ended up there, nor how music was what kept me from going down the same path as my parents.”