Counterpoint and Harmony

by Jerica MacMillan

  I’m not sure what kind of reaction I expected, but it sure as hell isn’t the one I get.

  She flips her hair over her shoulder and gives me a condescending look. “Of course they do. Men like that have needs.”

  My mouth drops open in horror. My hands clutch at my stomach. I think I’m going to be sick.

  “You knew?” The words are barely more than a whisper. “You knew what was going on the whole time?”

  Her face now is sympathetic, but the kind that you offer to stupid people. Like you poor dear, how sad that you’re so dumb. “I assumed. I know how these things go. And to be fair, I didn’t allow you to be set up with anyone I thought would pressure you. I thought you liked all of them.”

  “Oh my God.” I drop my gaze, my entire picture of my whole life rearranging itself in my head. “I can’t … oh my God.” Spearing her with my eyes again, I funnel my rage into this new heartbreaking clarity. “You whored me out. For years. And I allowed it. Thinking it was important, believing you when you said that I needed to be seen with these guys, that my detractors were jealous, that if I didn’t do these things, there was an army of wannabe starlets waiting to take my place. Believing you that I had to be tiny and hungry all. The. Time. That it was the price I had to pay to have what I want.

  I straighten to my full height, letting my anger carry me forward. “I believed you. Because you were my mother. And the whole time you were really my pimp.”

  She shakes her head, still with that look of condescending sympathy. “Now, Charlie—”

  I hold up my hand, palm out. “No. I don’t care what you have to say right now. Because you’re wrong. So wrong. I haven’t been seen with anyone since the Grammy’s and my sales haven’t dropped. My pop-up shows are sold out. Every single one. My new songs—the ones that you mock and think are a waste of my time—everyone loves them. I haven’t had a single bad reaction to them. There are even reviewers starting to write about the pop-up shows when they can get into them. Have you read what they’ve been saying? Or have you been too busy trying to whore me out some more?”

  “Charlie, please.” She takes a step back as I advance again.

  “Let me tell you what they’ve said, in case you’ve only been worried about my weight and who I’m getting my pictures taken with. They’ve loved my shows. They love the stripped-down versions of my past hits, the intimate performances, the glimpses of new hits to come. They can’t wait to see what will be on this album, if I’ll have any surprises for them, what the tour to promote it will look like after this grass-roots introduction. I’m thriving. Without your meddling, without being your whore, without your control. I’m healthier and happier than I’ve ever been.

  “I still don’t know why you came here, but it’s time for you to leave. I have things to do. And I’m done wasting my time worrying about what you think or what you want, because it bears no resemblance to what I want. Go, Mom. Now.”

  “Charlie, you can’t be serious.” But her retreat belies her words. Her brain may be having trouble catching up to what’s happening right now, but her feet aren’t.

  I nod. “I can and I am. Leave now, or I’ll call Tony to escort you out. Don’t come to my apartment again, Mom.”

  She splutters as we reach the door. “You’re kicking me out?”

  “Yes. I’m kicking you out. I’ve already kicked you out of my career. Now I’m kicking you out of my apartment and my life. Don’t call me. Don’t come here. I’ve given you the opportunity to be a mother. A normal mother of a twenty-one-year-old, who supports from the sidelines instead of trying to manage it. Instead, you’ve tried to claw your way back into control of my life. I won’t have it. At all.”

  Reaching past her, I pull the door open. “Another thing you’re wrong about? My time off. I learned more than just some music theory. I learned how families are supposed to act, how parents are supposed to treat their adult children. And I learned that I don’t want people in my life who don’t support me. Goodbye, Mother.”

  She stumbles back out the door, her mouth slack and her eyes wide with shock. Without giving her a chance to recover her wits, I slam it shut, turning the deadbolt in case she tries to get back in. Good thing, because I hear the knob jiggle a second later, and then she starts knocking.

  Pulling out my phone, I shoot off a text to my security team to escort her from the premises and also to let the building know that her name is to be taken off the list of approved visitors.

  Even though I was supposed to write more songs for the album, there’s no chance of that happening now. High on the adrenaline flowing through my veins and bolstered by the new clarity talking to my mom just gave me, I know what I have to do about Damian.

  I hope he’s had enough time, because I’m done waiting. Either he wants to be with me or he doesn’t, and I need to know tonight.

  A plan forming, I pull up Lauren’s name and hit call. She picks up after the third ring. “Hey, Charlie. What’s up?”

  “I need your help.”

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Homophony: a musical texture with one voice for melody accompanied by chords

  Damian

  Exhaustion drags at me as I slide the key into the door of my house. I’ve been staying with my parents, but even there with the security detail that Charlie arranged, I can’t escape the relentless questions, the assumptions and accusations. Even professors have asked point-blank if I had her come as some kind of stunt to get more attention.

  And once again everyone is asking me if I can get them tickets to a show, get an autograph, get her to come back to Marycliff for any reason at all—to come to their recital, to put on a performance here, to just hang out and let them be seen with her, basically.

  My parents aren’t any better, though their questions are different. They know Charlie. They know me. They know I’m not a publicity seeker using her for her influence. But they won’t stop asking how I’m doing, how she’s doing, if we’ve spoken, what I plan on doing.

  I don’t have any answers to those questions. I’ve left my phone on except when I’m practicing or in class, despite the constant messages, notifications, and phone calls from reporters because I keep hoping Charlie will call. Or text. Or tag me on Facebook. Or tweet at me. Something. Instead, all I’ve gotten is radio silence.

  So escaping all of that, maybe turning off my phone for a while—because it’s not like Charlie’s going to call anyway—clearing my head and organizing my thoughts is just what I need. And why coming back here, to the house I share with Zeke and Jason, is like finding refuge.

  It was actually Jason who told me that I should come back. Even though he and Zeke were giving me shit as much as anyone when the story first broke, they picked up on the fact that it was pissing me off quicker than most. Probably because they know me better than anyone else here.

  Jason caught me at the end of Music History today and said, “Hey, man. Zeke and I both have plans tonight. I know you’ve been having a rough time. Go home. Hang out by yourself for a while. You’ll feel better.”

  Which was weird coming from him, but he’s right, so why argue?

  Pushing the door open, I flick on the light and freeze.

  Directly across from me, Charlie sits on the end of the couch. Her eyes meet mine, challenging and cool, her chin lifted like she’s waiting for … something.

  My throat works convulsively, because holy hell. A riot of emotions pour through me—shock, happiness, anger, lust … love. When I said I was hoping for something, this wasn’t what I was expecting.

  Neither of us say anything for a long moment, engaged in a surreal staring contest. The wind picking up and slamming the front door against the wall breaks the moment, making me realize that I never closed the door behind me.

  Clearing my throat, I tear my eyes from hers and close the door, keeping my hand pressed against it while I take a deep breath, trying to get control of my reaction to her. I don’t know why she’s here. For all I know, she’s pisse
d that I said I wanted some time to think about things and is here to break up with me for good. The fact that she hasn’t called or texted or sent smoke signals doesn’t seem to be a positive sign.

  The last time she showed up out of nowhere … she had Lauren bring me to her hotel room, and we ended up making out and falling asleep together in her bed. It was the next step toward reestablishing our relationship after we started talking again. Which ignites a tiny spark of hope in my chest, but I wrap it up, keeping it small, not letting it burst into flame. I can’t afford to get burned by the hot and fierce blaze of hope that turns to ash when it doesn’t have anything to keep it going.

  This time is already different. Then she framed it as a surprise she hoped I’d like. Now she’s staring me down, like she’s ready for a confrontation. Swallowing a sigh and closing my eyes, I carefully snuff out the spark of hope. There’s no way this is going to end in my favor.

  And I shouldn’t be surprised.

  I knew when I got involved with her again that there was no way it could work long-term. I guess it was fun while it lasted.

  Turning to face her, I’m surprised again to find her standing, her arms crossed, the challenge drained from her face, but her expression still carefully detached.

  The Charlotte James face.

  I clear my throat again, wanting to make sure it comes out right when I speak. Because even though breaking the silence first feels like giving in, the fact is that I’ve already surrendered. Fighting the inevitable is useless.

  “Hey, Charlie. How’s it going?”

  She blinks, rocking back on her heels. She’s dressed casually—skinny jeans, a T-shirt that I know is soft as a cloud, and purple ballet flats. It’s a lot like what she used to wear to classes. But I’m pretty sure everything is a designer brand. My fingers twitch at my sides, and I ball my hands into fists to keep myself from reaching for her. Having her here, in my space, makes me want to hold her. Kiss her. See if I can melt that closed expression from her face.

  The flicker of surprise at my greeting is quickly masked. “Hey, Damian. It’s …” She looks away, a tell that she’s in some kind of emotional turmoil.

  Unable to stop myself, I step closer and reach for her, my hand sliding up her bare arm. “Hey. What’s wrong?”

  When her eyes meet mine again, they’re filmed with tears, and she launches herself at my chest. My arms come around her automatically, and when I feel her clinging to me, I rub her back, tightening my hold. “Hey.” I drop a kiss on her head. “It’s alright, Charlie. You know you’re safe here.”

  Her shoulders shudder against me as she sucks in a breath. All too soon, she’s pushing away, carefully wiping under her eyes with her fingers, sniffing and taking a deep breath, regaining control.

  It’s amazing, really, the iron fist that she uses to keep her emotions in check. She steps out of my arms and gives me a small smile. “Sorry. That wasn’t … I didn’t mean to do that. You must think I’m crazy.”

  I shake my head. “You don’t need to apologize to me for being upset. And while having a girl waiting for you in your house might seem crazy to some people, I’m just glad you’re here.”

  “You are?” The naked vulnerability and hope in the question has me reaching for her again.

  “Of course I am. Why wouldn’t I be happy to see you?”

  Even though she lets me hold her again, this time she doesn’t relax into my embrace. “You said you wanted time. I was waiting for you to call, but …” She sniffs again. “And last time you asked for time you wouldn’t take my calls or answer my texts. I was trying to give you what you wanted. But I’m tired of waiting. And since I didn’t know if you would answer, I figured showing up was the best way to make sure you had to talk to me.”

  A bitter laugh escapes me, and I wrap my arms tighter around her, holding her against my chest. “I’m such a moron.”

  She pushes against my chest so she can tip her face back and look at me. “What do you mean?”

  I shake my head, marveling at my own stupidity. “I was waiting for you to call me. I’ve been a grumpy asshole for days because I hadn’t heard from you. And all this time, you were waiting for me. And it’s my fault. Because I told you I needed time.”

  She stares up at me, a range of emotions crossing her face. “What are you saying?”

  With a sigh, I move us to the couch, sitting first, and then guiding her down so that she’s sitting across my thighs, her back against the arm of the couch, my arms around her. “I’m saying that I don’t like not talking to you. Not seeing you. I don’t want time away from you. Ever.”

  She exhales all at once, like she’s been holding her breath. “You don’t?” Her eyes search my face, all signs of cool detachment gone. “But …”

  I shake my head, not letting her finish. “I’m sorry, Charlie. I’m so sorry. I should’ve called. When you didn’t text me after you got home from Boise, I thought you were mad at me. That you didn’t want to talk to me.”

  “I was just giving you what you said you needed.”

  My arms tighten around her. “I know. I get that now. Like I said, I’m an idiot.” I look up at the ceiling. “I was in shock. And I didn’t handle it well.”

  She lays her hand on my face, bringing my gaze to hers. “Here’s the thing. Photographers and the media like to document my life. Yeah, I try to stay out of their way and keep a low profile. Even more since we’ve started spending time together again. I didn’t want my crazy to bleed over into your normal.”

  A choked laugh makes its way past the tightness in my throat. “I think that ship sailed months ago.”

  One corner of her mouth lifts. “Yeah, well, you’ve only gotten a taste. Trust me.”

  The story about the photographers following her into the dressing room when she was a teenager flits through my mind, and I swallow. “Yeah. I know.”

  She takes a deep breath, and I brace myself for what I know must be coming next. She just said she doesn’t want her crazy bleeding over into my life. And it’s happened twice now. This is her ending things.

  So it takes a second for her actual words to register. “But I’m not willing to give you up just because of some photographers. I called Lauren and got your roommates’ phone numbers so I could come and convince you that you should give us a chance. A real chance. I don’t want to be friends with benefits or whatever we’ve been doing anymore. I still love you. I’m still in love with you. And I don’t see that changing, like, ever.”

  I blink at her, at the hopeful expression on her face, my mind racing, that metronome whirring once again. And I latch onto the only thing that made sense to me. “That’s why Jason told me to come home?”

  The hope dims, and she slumps, moving like she’s trying to slide off my lap as she nods. “Yeah. He said you hadn’t been staying here, but that he was pretty sure he could get you to come back without too much trouble or making it look weird. Zeke assured me that if you wouldn’t come willingly, they’d kidnap you and bring you here anyway.”

  I let out a soft chuckle, imagining Zeke saying that. My arms tighten around her, holding her in place.

  “Damian, let me go.” Her voice is soft, and her face is turned away from me.

  Leaning forward, I press a soft kiss to the base of her neck. She shivers under my lips. “Charlie, I’ve been captivated by you since that night I interrupted you playing chords in the practice room. And I fell in love with you sometime between goofing off with the Suzuki books and introducing you to my family. I’ve never stopped. I couldn’t even if I tried.”

  She turns, her eyes wide and about to overflow with tears. “What?”

  I pull her back against me, situating her on my lap again, and let out a sigh, relief unfurling in my chest that she relaxes against me. “You are always full of surprises, you know that?”

  “What do you mean?”

  I give her a crooked smile. “First, I think you’re just a slightly unconventional student, since you’re older tha
n most freshmen. But then I find out you compose.”

  “I don’t—”

  “Shh. This is my story now. And then it turns out you’re actually a popstar in disguise, and I think our whole relationship must’ve been a joke to you. But then you don’t ever do anything to reinforce that idea, trying to protect me, trying to give me what you think I want. Time. Space. Conversation. Affection. And at every turn I’ve fucked everything up.”

  “Damian—”

  I give her a look, and she lapses into silence. “I got so wrapped up in my own head, my own worries, that I didn’t even realize that I was leaving you out to dry, feeling lost and alone.” I tilt her chin up and place a soft kiss on her lips. “I’m sorry. Please forgive me.”

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Mixdown: the process near the end of the recording process in which all the recorded tracks are blended and placed onto the left and right channels of a standard stereo recording

  Charlie

  I stare into Damian’s dark eyes, full of regret and hope. “Okay,” I whisper. “I forgive you.”

  He lets out a slow breath and presses another kiss to my lips, this one longer, but still soft and gentle.

  When he pulls back, I lick my bottom lip, and his eyes track the movement, a flicker of lust igniting there. So I lean in and kiss him this time, letting my tongue slide along his lower lip.

  He lets out a groan, his arms tightening around me even more. I squirm, wanting to turn and straddle him instead of sitting sideways across his thighs.

  When he realizes I’m not trying to get away, he loosens his hold, allowing me to adjust my position. But he doesn’t allow me to kiss him again. With his hands cupping my head, he holds me in place, my own hands still resting on his cheeks.