by Roxy Reid
“Charlie. What happened today?”
Her hands still on her bags, “What do you mean?”
“You said ‘after today.’ What happened today?”
At first she doesn’t answer. Finally, she turns back to me. Her arms are wrapped around herself, and she looks vulnerable, holding herself together like that. Like maybe there have been more times in the last ten years when she had to save herself than I thought.
“I just … uh … I got some bad news,” her voice cracks, and she shrugs. “I mean not bad news exactly, because I knew it was coming. I just thought I had more time.”
Charlie’s eyes shine, like she’s about to cry, and I’m beside her in an instant, wrapping my arms around her. She clutches my shirt and buries her head in my chest, taking shaky breaths.
Here’s the thing. I was there when Charlie got rejected from her first choice college. I was there when her mom had a cancer scare. I was there when she lost her virginity. I was her first real relationship, and I’ll never forget the look on her face when told her I didn’t love her anymore and broke up with her.
But I’ve never seen her cry, until now, and it slices right through every instinct of self-protection I have. I don’t care if she’s ashamed of me. I don’t care if she breaks my heart again. I just need her to be ok.
“Can you tell me what it is?” I ask.
Charlie shakes her head into my shirt.
“Can you at least tell me how I can help? Do you need time off? Money?” I rub her back. “Anything I can give, you have it.”
For some reason, that’s the thing that breaks her, and she starts crying in earnest.
Shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.
“Please, Charlie,” I beg. “Tell me what I can do.”
She gulps in a breath, “Can you just … hold me like this? I need to be weak for a while.”
“Sure, honey. Sure,” I hold her tight to me, until her breathing evens and her shoulders stop quaking.
I reach down and tilt her chin up, so she’s looking at me. “But you know you’re not weak, right? You’re one of the toughest people I know. It’s not weak to need support every now and then.”
Charlie closes her eyes. “There’s a difference between tough and strong,” she says quietly.
“I don’t think I understand the difference.”
“Tough is when no one can break you,” Charlie steps out of my arms. “Strong is when you’re brave enough to break yourself. If there’s someone … something worth breaking over.”
Charlie shakes her head, “UGH. I’m being so melodramatic. Do we have any leftovers?”
She heads over to the fridge, clearly ready to be done with the conversation.
I want to respect her space. But I’ve also been on this earth for twenty-eight years, and I know enough to know this conversation isn’t really over.
So I admire her ass while she squats to check out the bottom shelf, giving her time to think. Because I’m evolved like that.
Charlie finds a carton of leftover Chinese take-out and a fork, “Want anything?”
“I’ll take a beer.”
Charlie passes it to me, then settles against the fridge, digging into her General Tso’s chicken.
“I thought you said Chinese food outside of San Francisco was inedible,” I say.
Charlie gives a tired laugh, “It’s been a rough day. I need comfort food. Even if it’s shitty comfort food.”
Now’s my chance. I take a sip of my beer, and ask the question I don’t want to ask, “So it was just the bad news? It wasn’t … anything else?”
Charlie looks up from her takeout container like she’s been caught, “Well … it did catch me off guard when you kissed me in front of your employees, who are my coworkers, without talking to me about it first.”
I wince, “Oh God, I’m sorry. I didn’t even think about the work thing. It’s just temporary, so I didn’t think …”
Charlie sets her food down on the counter, “Ouch. Well, glad we’re on the same page about this being temporary.”
“Of course it’s temporary,” I say, frowning. “The tour’s going to end, and after that—”
“—we won’t see each other again.”
“—I’m not going to hire someone I’m dating.”
We blink, and stare at each other.
“You think we’re dating?” Charlie asks, cautious.
“You think we’re not?” I ask, hurt. We spend every waking minute with each other. Every sleeping one too. I told her about my writer’s block, which I’ve barely told anyone about. Just Charlie and my brother Jim, and Zane, although I didn’t tell him everything.
Then again, Charlie can’t even tell me what this horrible news is, so maybe we’re not that close after all.
“I thought we were just …” Charlie gestures helplessly, trying to find the words.
“Fucking,” I supply viciously.
“No! I just … I thought we were having a fling. You know, for the rest of the tour.”
I feel like I’ve been punched. “A fling,” I say, the disbelief heavy in my voice.
I mean sure, objectively, this looks like a fling. But, come on. This is Charlie. We have history.
“I mean, maybe with someone else, I’d think this was dating,” Charlie says, in a painfully inverted parallel of my own thoughts. “But this is you.”
“Right,” I say.
Because what else do I say to that? When a woman says if anyone else did what you’re doing, she’d assume you cared about her, and were interested in her, and maybe saw a future with her? But because it’s you, she can’t possibly imagine that.
I’m suddenly feeling too exposed, and I’m in a foul mood, so I grab my guitar and settle on the couch on the other side of the room, my back to Charlie. I start playing something, anything, to make it sound like I don’t care that this is how she sees me.
It’s just my luck that my fingers start playing some melancholy shit.
“Finn,” Charlie says, coming toward me. Pleading with me not to be mad.
“It’s fine, Charlie,” I bite out. “We were on different pages. It’s not a big deal. It was just a week.”
A week that felt like a world, but what-fucking-ever. I shake my fingers out and try for something with a little more edge to it.
Charlie sits delicately down next to me. I can feel her warmth, but I resist the pull to look at her.
“Finn,” she says.
I play louder.
“FINN!” Charlie yanks my chin so I have to look at her. She’s not nearly as gentle as I was with her.
“I didn’t think you wanted to date me because we already know you don’t love me, and I don’t see that changing. You didn’t love me when I was young and sweet and willing to give up the world for you, and now I’m older and jaded and I don’t know if I’m willing to give up anything for you.”
I did love you. I loved you so fucking much.
But it’s not fair to say that. So instead I say, “I don’t want you to give up anything for me.”
She closes her eyes, like she’s praying for strength.
Finally, she looks me square in the eyes and says, with a sure, steady voice, “Do you think it’s possible that you could love me again?”
“Do you want me to?” I ask.
We stare at each other, neither of us wanting to be the one to break.
Tough, not strong.
But she’s asking for a much bigger break than she knows. Because I’m realizing that not only did I love Charlie then, I don’t think I ever stopped. I think there’s a reason none of my other relationships have stuck, and I think it’s because none of them were with Charlie De Luca.
But how do I say that, when she didn’t even think we were dating? How do I say I love you when she only wants me for a fling?
Abruptly, Charlie erupts off the couch, throwing her hands in the air, “Fine yes, fuck me because I’m being a fucking idiot, and I’m going to regret saying th
is, but yes. I want it to be maybe a tiny bit possible that you could love me again. Because apparently, when it comes to you, I’m dying to make the same mistake twice.”
I lunge for her, backing her into a wall, and kiss her with all of my might.
She’s grabbing my hair, clawing my back, while I cage her in, pressing my hands into the wall, because I don’t trust myself with something as delicate as her skin right now.
I kiss her fiercely, trying to express all the things that will scare her away if I say them out loud. I love you, Charlie. I love you, and it’s terrifying me because I’ve fucked this up so bad. Please give me a second chance. Please.
I nudge her thighs apart with my leg, and she moans into my mouth.
I feel better when I’m close to you. That’s what Charlie said. And she said it when she thought all I wanted was a fling. So maybe I haven’t fucked this up as badly as I think.
The thought calms me down enough that I trust myself to touch her.
I break the kiss and cup her face, “I’ll never hurt you, Charlie. Not again. I promise. I know you have no reason to believe me—”
“—I believe you,” Charlie says, wrapping her arms around my neck. “That’s the hell of it. I believe you.”
Her words are like a shot of euphoria. I pick Charlie up and carry her to our bed. Painful hope stabs my chest, and it’s the best feeling in the world.
12
Charlie
I stare at my phone, then back up at the ceiling. 9:55 a.m.
I have to call Shaun in five minutes.
Finn’s sleeping like a rock beside me. His arm is flung out so that it rests across my waist. I’ve been lying awake for the last two hours trying to figure out what to do. And every time I shift to get a little more distance from the man I’m supposed to betray, he frowns in his sleep and rolls over until he’s touching me again.
I try to swallow past the tightness in my throat. I can’t betray him. I just can’t.
Whether or not Finn ever loves me, I’m beginning to suspect I love him again. And maybe … maybe that’s not the stupidest thing in the world. He looked so shattered when he realized I thought we were only having a fling.
No matter what comes out of this, I can’t live with myself if I hurt him.
I slide out from under his arm and pad out to the living room, clad only in his shirt, clutching my phone to my chest.
I can’t betray Finn, but I might have one last play left. Finn said he’d do anything to help me. Now if I can only convince Shaun to go for it.
I take a deep breath and call Shaun.
“Yes?” Shaun barks.
Shit. He’s not in a good mood.
I straighten my spine. Finn played our song in front of a stadium of people. I can stand up to Shaun Coleman.
“It’s Charlie. I’ve got a new angle for the story,” I pace toward the windows, keeping my voice down so as not to wake up Finn.
“Oh? Is he really on drugs? That’s great news, Charlie.”
“What? No. There’s no scandal surrounding Finn Ryan.”
“Never send an ex-girlfriend to do a reporter’s work,” Shaun mutters.
“Shaun. Listen to me. I have looked into this man. I’ve looked really fucking close. You know what this story, and this paycheck, would mean to a photographer starting off.”
He’s silent.
“I’m telling you there’s nothing to find,” I say.
Shaun sighs heavily, “Fine. Well, shit. See if you can at least get some photos of him drunk, or with a girl, or something. Even that will help beef up the whole ‘no songs for the album’ thing.”
I tap on the glass, nervously, “That’s the thing, Shaun. He’s writing again. And fast. He played a new song for the crowd last night, and they loved it. He’ll have the whole album written before you go to print. You don’t have a story.”
“WHAT?! What the hell, De Luca? This is my cover story for next month’s issue. I had it on good authority he hadn’t written a damn thing. Hell, he even reached out to Zane Wright—”
That’s when the other shoe drops. It’s not someone from the tour who’s the source. It’s Zane. That utter slimeball.
“Look, there’s still a way to salvage this,” I say. “You run a good story about him. One of those glowing profiles you like to do of up and coming indie artists. I’ve got some gorgeous photos of him. And I know I could get him to do an interview about the songs for his next album. They’re really, really good. You’d be the first to have the scoop.”
“What do I look like, a P.R. campaign? I’ll just run the empty album story, but move it off the cover. If we make it a smaller story, people won’t notice how little we have. Maybe I can get quotes from some of those jerks he’s fired over the years. Make him look like a short-tempered wack job. That’d be something.”
I’m losing Shaun. I’m losing him, and he’s going to run a story that hurts Finn, with or without my help.
I press my palm to the glass, trying to think.
It feels like a lifetime since I stood at a different window in New York and tried to convince Shaun I was tough enough to take Finn Ryan down.
“What if I can get him to talk about the writer’s block?” I ask desperately. “‘Finn Ryan Opens Up’? Pair it with some really sexy shirtless photos? You’d sell magazines.”
“Maybe if it was a nude photo shoot,” Shaun says gloomily. “You think Finn Ryan would get naked for you?”
I hold back a hysterical laugh, thinking of all the times I’ve seen Finn naked in the past week.
Finn will absolutely not go for a nude photo shoot, but I might be able to talk him into posing shirtless if I do something black and white, artsy and edgy. And if I don’t get the photos to Shaun until the last minute, right before they go to print, he’ll have no choice but to use them.
I run a hand through my hair. “Sure. Sure I can get him to pose nude. It shouldn’t be a problem …” I say, turning around, and the words dry in my mouth.
Finn’s standing there. And he’s furious. He’s only wearing his boxers, so I can see that literally every muscle in his body is tense. He stalks toward me.
Thousands of years of evolutionary survival instincts kick in, and I dodge behind the couch, keeping it between him and me.
He’s over the couch in one lethal, graceful leap.
“Who are you talking to, Charlie?” he growls.
“Finn, please—”
Finn snatches the phone, “You’re talking to False Prophet? What the hell?” He throws the phone down on the couch. “Did last night mean anything to you? Or were you just lying to me?”
“Last night?” Shaun’s voice drifts up from the phone between us. “Charlie, what is he talking about?”
I hang up the phone before Shaun can overhear anything else, but I have a sinking feeling he has the juicy angle he needed.
Undercover Photographer Sent to Expose Finn Ryan Gets Seduced By Rockstar.
Across from me, Finn’s breathing like he just ran a mile, his face a wreck of hurt and anger.
Finally, he asks, “Has this all been some sort of grand plan to get back at me for dumping you ten years ago?”
“No! No. Well, it may have started out that way, but it’s different now. You heard me trying to get out of it.” I go to Finn, needing to touch him, to ground us both, but he shakes me off.
“You weren’t trying all that hard. Nude photos. Promising I’ll talk about not having the songs written. What the hell?”
“Finn, I—”
“I trusted you,” he says, and there’s no rebuttal big enough in the world for that. He storms over to the window and stares out, his back to me, “How long has this been going on?”
I close my eyes, because I know this is going to be the nail that seals the coffin, “Since I sent in the application to shoot for you.”
He swears, viciously.
When he turns to face me, it’s not fury I see in his face. It’s defeat. And that’s a thousa
nd times worse. “That’s why you wouldn’t tell me why you applied. You’ve been lying from the beginning.”
“Yes, I’ve been lying, but only about this, I swear! Everything else between us is real.”
“Maybe your half. I built my half on someone who doesn’t exist.”
I stumble back. I hadn’t realized how badly I wanted this thing between us to still work out until he makes it clear that this will never, ever work.
Finally, he says, “If it was real for you, why didn’t you tell me? The instant you started to … care?”
“It was twenty thousand dollars, Finn. I know that’s nothing to you, but it’s something to me,” I feel like crying, because it seems so ridiculous now. But I’m not going to give Finn the satisfaction of crying when he’s looking at me with so much scorn.
“Twenty thousand dollars. That’s your price, huh?” He strides over to his suitcase and yanks out his checkbook.
“Finn, please …”
“This damn pen isn’t working. Fuck. Do you have a pen?”
I cross my arms, “I don’t know what you’re doing Finn, but stop. Stop and listen to me.”
Finn finds a hotel pen and writes something in his checkbook, but he’s so angry that when he goes to rip out the check, it tears in half.
He writes the check again, and holds it out to me with cold fury, “There you go. Forty thousand. Don’t publish a single one of those photos, or I’ll sue you for everything you have.”
“I’m not taking your money!”
Finn must realize from the mulish set of my jaw that I mean it, because he stalks over to my camera bags and shoves the check in one of them. Then he shoves the camera bags into my arms. “Get out.”
“I’m not dressed!”
Finn disappears into the bedroom and returns with my clothes and shoes, which he piles on top of the camera bags in my arms.
“There. Now, get out!” He yanks the door open and gestures for me to leave.
“You literally expect me to walk out into the hallway barefoot, wearing nothing but your t-shirt,” I say.
“Don’t give me the martyr crap. You have your own damn room.”
I take a deep breath. He’s right. I have my own room. We both need time to calm down. I’ll give him space, and then we can talk it over in San Francisco tonight.
