Chapter Twelve
Lead single: the first single released by a musician or band from a given album
Charlie
I’ve just collapsed on my brand new bed in my brand new apartment after spending the day moving in, when my phone in my pocket alerts me that I have a text. Rolling over, I pull it out and look at it, then almost drop it in shock.
Damian texted me.
Hi.
Just the one word. I suck in a breath and hold it, not sure how to respond. What to think. Why is he texting me? He made it clear last week that he still thinks I was just pretending, stringing him along to make a fool of him or something. Even though I’ve done everything in my power to protect him since my cover was blown. And I’ve only ever wanted the chance to explain. Which he’s never had the courtesy of giving me.
After everything we had together, he just shut down, shut me out, like none of it mattered. And he had the gall to suggest that I was the one who wasn’t really invested?
The little bubble with the three dots is going, so he’s typing something else. I tap my fingers on the side of my phone, waiting to see what else he says. The bubble goes away. Nothing. I wait. Then it comes back.
Finally, a new message appears.
I’ve typed and deleted like five different things. I don’t even know what to say to you, especially like this. I guess I just wanted you to know I’ve been thinking about you.
He’s been thinking about me? What does that mean? In what way? What? What?!?
I force myself to take a deep breath so I don’t send a stream of consciousness rant back, then type out a response.
You have?
There. Two simple words that adequately encompass my feelings and invite explanation.
I want to wait. See what he says back. If he says anything. But what if he doesn’t say anything? Instead, I get up and busy myself with arranging my clothes in my closet. I hired movers, and they did a great job, but it’s not the same as putting everything how I like it myself.
When my phone chimes with a new text message, I dash to the bed and grab it. I can’t help it.
Yes. And I feel like an asshole for the way I treated you last week. You haven’t done anything to deserve that. I’m sorry.
I blink at the screen and reread the message five times to make sure I’m actually seeing what I think I’m seeing. He’s sorry?
Sinking onto the bed, I contemplate his apology. I gave up on waiting for him to be willing to talk to me over a month ago. And then last week I had a sliver of blinding hope, only to have it shattered when he made it clear that he still didn’t want to hear what I had to say. And now he’s sorry and feels like an asshole?
My head is spinning.
What’s changed?
I want to ask, but I don’t, uncertain that my direct question will be met with a direct answer.
Thank you, I finally text back. This time I sit on the bed and wait, wondering if he’ll say anything else. But several minutes pass and nothing. Maybe he’s busy. Maybe he saw my response and read it without actually unlocking his phone. Two words are an easy thing to glance at. Maybe my two word responses make him think I still think he’s an asshole and don’t want to talk to him?
Do I want to talk to him?
Yes.
The answer echoes through me without thought. Yes, I do want to talk to him. I never wanted to stop talking to him. I wanted him to give me a chance to explain, to tell him all the things I planned on telling him when I was going to reveal my big secret after we got back from the wedding. Not have him believing lies and half-truths.
Maybe I can have that chance now.
His raw honesty gives me the courage to lay my own heart bare. I never did before, not when he wouldn’t answer my calls or texts. But if he’s initiating contact, maybe he’ll read what I have to say. Believe what I have to say.
I understand why you’re mad at me. I’d probably be pissed too if I were in your place. But I never meant for you to find out the way you did. I was going to tell you. I had planned to tell you after we got home from the wedding. I loved being just Charlie so much that I put off telling you, even though I knew I should. I didn’t want you to look at me differently or think of me as someone other than the girl you knew.
My thumb hovers over the little arrow for a moment, but I tap it, sending the message. And then I get up and go back in my closet. Unable to sit still and wait for a response.
But I get one before I even reach my closet door.
And then I did what you were afraid I’d do. I’m sorry.
My breath leaves me in a whoosh, something like relief settling over me like a warm blanket. He gets it.
Quickly, before I can overthink it, I type a response.
I’m sorry too. I should’ve told you sooner. When I knew I loved you, I should have told you everything. But I was scared. And I let that take over instead of doing what you deserved.
Even if all this amounts to is some kind of closure between us—because, let’s face it, the odds of us being able to make anything more than a tentative friendship work at this point are vanishingly small—it’s enough. Understanding. Apologies. The ability to move on. It’s enough.
At least that’s what I tell myself. Because hope has not been a good friend to me where relationships are concerned. Especially this one.
Damian texts me again the next day. And the one after that. Soon a week has passed, and we’ve texted every day. Nothing as heavy as that first day, which ended with him thanking me for my apology. Just little everyday things. Discussing music, his upcoming recital in April and the final round of the competition only six weeks away now at the end of March.
“You about ready?” Natalie, my new assistant pokes her head into my room, her hair pulled back into a tiny ponytail.
I give her a smile and nod. “Yeah, give me just a sec.” Picking up my phone, I quickly respond to Damian’s text wishing me luck. Thanks.
Standing, I smooth my hands down my navy pencil skirt that Natalie helped me pick out this morning for my meeting with the label execs. Since hiring a new manager and moving out of my parents’ condo, I’ve replaced my entire staff. New manager, new assistant, new PR person. Everything.
The navy skirt is paired with a cream colored sleeveless blouse, with a deep V that’s low enough to be sexy and allows me to add some flash to my otherwise businesslike outfit with a statement necklace—pink, naturally, now that I’m back to my signature colors.
I check my hair and makeup in the mirror. Subtle and put together, appropriate for a meeting where I want them to take me seriously. Pink lips, too, of course.
“You look great,” Natalie says, still waiting in the doorway. “And the demo is awesome. There’s no way they won’t go for it.”
With a deep breath, I nod and turn to her. “Thanks, Natalie. I appreciate the support.” She gives me a big grin, and we head out the door.
My new manager, Grace, and The Professor—whose real name is Dave—meet me at the label’s offices, and we head up to our appointment together. The receptionist leads us to a conference room where we’re left to wait around a long oval table surrounded by high-backed black leather office chairs, a closed laptop on one end. The chairs are comfy, and Natalie swivels back and forth next to me while we wait.
I want to do the same thing, my nerves making me want to fidget, but I force myself to remain still, my hands folded in my lap, the picture of calm confidence. I learned a long time ago that faking it was almost as good as feeling it. It looks the same to those on the outside, and only feels different to me.
After several minutes, Roger, the head of Reverb Records strolls into the room, his jacket buttoned over his small paunch, his face smiling the smarmy smile of someone used to working a room. He shakes everyone’s hands and introduces himself to Natalie and Grace before sitting down opposite The Professor. Setting his elbows on the table, he steeples his fingers in front of his face, and for a second I flash to the meeting with the Dean of Students when he told me I wasn’t welcome at Marycliff anymore.
But that was another time. Another man. Another life.
This man is going to listen to my demo and approve my pitch for my next album. The demo is fantastic. Everyone who’s heard it loves it, even the stripped down version I performed in Spokane two weeks ago. Imagine the reaction when it’s released as a lead single.
“I understand you have something you want me to listen to.”
Roger directs this statement at The Professor, but I answer. “We do. I’ve been working closely with The Professor, and I think we have the first lead single for my next album.”
Raising his eyebrows to his nonexistent hairline, Roger takes me in. “You contributed to the song?”
“I did.” I keep my voice steady, my eye contact direct but not aggressive.
Roger blows out a breath. “You understand that we’re unlikely to agree to let you write your own album. That’s not your brand. You’re not a singer-songwriter. You’re a performer, and a fantastic one. Stick to your strengths.”
My teeth grind together and my nails dig into the palms of my hands as I try to remain calm in the face of such blatant dismissal. “Performers evolve. Careers evolve. There are plenty of female powerhouses who contribute to the songs on their albums.”
“Mmm, true. But most of them started their careers that way.” Roger gestures at me. “You’re well established. Why fix something that isn’t broken?”
Because it doesn’t work for me, I want to say. But I don’t. That won’t get me anywhere with this man. Instead, I change tactics.
Turning my chair slightly toward the other end of the table, I nod toward The Professor. “We figured you’d say something like that, which is why we brought you a demo. Let you get a taste of what we’re putting together. So far it’s been well received.”
With a shrug, as though listening to my song makes no difference to him, but he’s willing to humor me, Roger takes the memory stick from The Professor and plugs it into the laptop next to him.
After clicking a few things, the song starts playing, a driving beat with long chords layered over the top as the intro before I start with the vocals.
Roger’s face morphs from blasé disinterest to curious to impressed throughout the three minutes of the song. When it’s over, he sits back in his chair, elbows on the armrests and fingers laced over his midsection.
“Well,” he says after studying me for a long moment. “That was much better than I expected.”
I unstick my tongue from the roof of my mouth. “Thank you. I’m happy with how it’s turned out. And, as I said, it’s been well received.”
His gaze sharpens. “Who’s heard it?”
I glance at The Professor before looking at Roger again. “Well, my assistant and manager, of course, as well as The Professor’s interns and the people that work with him. But I also gave a little impromptu performance when I was in Spokane, Washington a couple of weeks ago. The crowd there loved it, even with just me accompanying myself on the piano.”
The look in Roger’s eyes turns calculating. “People liked that? Just you and your piano?”
I nod, not quite sure where he’s going with that.
He sits forward and taps his fingers on the table. “I don’t think this is a ballad, so it doesn’t really work for that. Do you have a ballad? One you’re working on?”
I glance at The Professor again, and he answers this time. “Yes, she has some lyrics and chord progressions that would make a nice ballad. We could put a soft beat underneath it, something subtle that would just add to the acoustic feel.”
“Excellent.” Roger smacks the table with the palm of his hand, now enthusiastic about the idea. “Work that one up next. And send it to me as soon as it’s done.” He looks at me again. “I like this impromptu performance idea to get you back out there, create a groundswell around the next album before it’s even really started. That’s a brilliant idea.”
Even though that hadn’t been my plan at all when I performed in Spokane, I nod. “Thank you.”
His grin now is all shark. “Yes. This is an excellent plan. I was worried you’d bring me a bunch of sentimental crap that isn’t even fit for album filler, much less single material. I see I was wrong. I had no idea you’d been working on anything.”
“It’s not something I’ve discussed widely. But I knew I’d need help from the best if I wanted to make it happen. Which is why I reached out to The Professor.”
Roger nods. “I see your time in the industry hasn’t been wasted.” He stands and moves to shake our hands again, and this time we all stand too. “This is very exciting. Get to work. Start figuring out when and where you want to put on more of these impromptu performances. We can do a mini tour and send you where you have the most fans. Show up, pop you in a small venue, have these exclusive shows.” I can practically see the dollar signs in his eyes. “Once the album is finally released, people will buy it in droves.” He shakes my hand and squeezes my arm with his left hand. “Good job, Charlotte. Very good. I’m happy to continue working with you.”
I smile back. “Thank you for meeting with us today.”
“The pleasure was all mine, I assure you.” With one more glance at me, he shakes The Professor’s hand and leaves the room.
My breath leaves me in a whoosh as it hits me that he went for the idea of me writing my own album. With help, of course, but still. This album can reflect me, my feelings, my words, my music. And I’ll get to play the piano for my ballad. Which was more than I’d dared hope for.
The Professor reaches over and squeezes my shoulder, giving me a wide smile. “I told you not to worry, that he’d love it. I know what Roger likes. That man knows a hit when he hears one. I can count on one hand the number of times he’s been wrong about a single hitting the top ten in the last few years I’ve worked with him. This is going to be your best album yet.”
A grin spreads across my face. “Thank you. And yes. It definitely is.”