Chapter One
Counterpoint: the art or technique of setting, writing, or playing a melody or melodies in conjunction with another according to fixed rules
Damian
Running my hands through my hair, I pull it back and wrap a rubber band around it at the base of my skull, put my glasses on, and brace myself to go into the living room.
I’ve been at my parents’ house since getting back from Jonathan and Gabby’s wedding. Being with them and my little sister has been comforting, but also wearing. I have to psych myself up to leave my room every time, braced for solicitous inquiries after how I’m holding up and concerned looks when they think I’m not paying attention. The alternative is going back to the house I share with Zeke and Jason. I might be alone more often there, but they’re both back in town since school starts next week, and I know they’d give me endless shit.
Because they’ve already given me shit via text. They, of course, assume I knew all along who Charlotte was. Is. And I can’t bear to admit that I was as duped as they were. Kept in the dark. Not entrusted with the truth of her identity.
The betrayal still burns.
But I refuse to dwell on it, so I push it down. Away. Shut it out.
It’s over now. She left on an earlier flight without a word. Though I can’t blame her, considering our last conversation.
Still. I showed up to the airport, bracing myself to see her, trying to figure out if I’d ask to change seats or let her do it. Or suck it up and sit next to her the whole way home. Because part of me wanted that more than anything. The opportunity to sit with her, touch her again, even if only the accidental brush of our arms on the shared armrest.
But I didn’t even get the opportunity to make a decision. No. Once again, she made the decision for both of us.
Dammit. The same thoughts have been running on an endless loop for weeks. I squeeze my eyes shut, pressing my fingertips into my closed eyelids behind the lenses of my black-framed glasses, forcing the tears away.
With a deep breath, I blink at myself a few times in the mirror, decide I look passable, and head out to the living room.
An announcer’s voice drifts down the hall from the TV. “Charlotte James is making headlines again.”
She haunts me. A persistent ghost, even though she’s not dead. But she might as well be, because the girl I knew never really existed.
My little sister Carla jerks her head up as I come into the living room. She hastily sits up, scrambling for the remote and mashing the power button, turning off the TV and all news of Charlie.
She looks at me, guilt written all over her face. “Sorry. It just came on, and I …” She swallows and looks away.
“It’s okay, Carla. I know you like watching those shows. She’s bound to come up. Maybe you should turn it back on. Give me the chance to get used to hearing her name again, because I’m sure that everyone will be asking me about it once the semester starts on Monday.”
She settles back into the corner of the couch, curling her legs up underneath her. She fiddles with the remote, standing it on end and letting her fingers slide down the edges, then flipping it over and repeating the motion. Her eyes are on her hand as she says with an air of deliberate casualness, “Yeah. My friends have been asking me about her already. Since those pictures of you two at Jonny B’s wedding came out. They won’t leave me alone about it.”
I sit on the opposite end of the couch, sparing her a glance, but focusing my attention on the blank TV. “What have you told them?”
“Not much. That you guys were dating. That’s all.”
A snort of disbelief escapes me. “Not according to her. According to Charlie—or, I’m sorry, Charlotte James—we were just friends. That’s what she’s said in every interview and statement she’s given since December.”
Carla shifts. “Yeah,” she says quietly. “That’s true.”
I wait for her to finish. “But?” I prompt when she says nothing, turning my head to look at her.
She’s still not looking at me. Shaking her head, she puts the remote down and runs her hand through her hair, her brows scrunched together. “But it doesn’t really add up. I saw you guys together. You weren’t just friends. Either of you. Your feelings for her weren’t all one sided. She felt the same way. I could tell.”
Swallowing hard, I give a reluctant nod. “Yeah. But so what? She still lied to me. And even if she’s lying to the press, it doesn’t make me feel any better. It makes me feel like some dirty little secret she doesn’t want people to know about.”
“Oh, Damian. I—”
She cuts herself off at the look I give her. Closing her mouth, she shrugs. “Fine, then. She’s a bitch, and good riddance. If people ask, just tell them you were good friends, like she said, and change the subject. Shut it down as quick as you can. Do that enough and people will get the hint that you don’t want to talk about it and leave you alone.”
I let out a grunt, her casual insult to Charlie twisting in my gut. I might be hurt and angry, but I don’t like people, not even my sister—who I know is just being defensive on my behalf—calling her a bitch. The other thing, about changing the subject and shutting down that line of questioning—that’s probably a good plan.
Standing, I stick my hands in my pockets. “Thanks for the advice, Carla. Maybe you should do the same with your friends. Tell them that yeah, you met Charlie. Throw out a detail. Then change the subject. Shut it all down.”
She gives me a half smile.
I tilt my head toward the TV. “Feel free to watch whatever you want. I’m going to go make something to eat and go practice.”
Because I can still do that. And that’s where I’ll bury myself all semester until this blows over.
No one can ask me questions if I’m locked in a practice room.