Chapter Thirty-Six
Divisi: divided; in a section where several musicians typically play the same notes, they are split to play the simultaneously written notes among themselves
Charlie
Time.
Damian needs time.
That word, that phrase, echoes through my head the entire way back to my place in Los Angeles.
The strong sense of déjà vu won’t leave me alone. Us talking in a hotel room after getting outed in the media. Him asking for time. Me packing and leaving.
I packed before he asked for time this go-around, and I don’t think he’s mad at me, but otherwise it’s a repeat of Jonathan and Gabby’s wedding.
This time, however, I’m determined to give him what he asks for. So I don’t text him when I get home. I don’t call that night. Or the next. Or the one after that.
And he doesn’t call me.
If his request for time felt like an icy knife in the gut, the lack of contact is a burning ball of pain in my chest.
At first I continue going through my schedule like normal—working out with my trainer in the mornings five days a week, meeting with The Professor in the studio in the afternoon, working on new stuff to bring to him when I get home at night. Natalie is by my side most of the time, keeping me updated on chatter about me on social media.
Naturally, everyone is curious about Damian.
I contacted his parents and set up a small security detail for them at their house. They said Damian didn’t want me to do the same for the house he shares with Zeke and Jason. That’s the only thing I’ve heard from him since I left Boise. Second-hand information from his parents. Elisa said he’s been staying with them. When I found that out, I asked the security company to add extra people to their team.
Natalie also fills me in on their daily reports. The paparazzi haven’t been as relentless with him as they were with Gabby after Jonathan’s video went viral, launching him back into the spotlight. Probably because I’m not living in the same house. After the initial flurry of research and activity, they seem to be leaving him alone for the most part.
My building, on the other hand, has been mobbed. I’ve had to increase my own security, and I don’t know how I’m going to pull off any more pop-up shows with all this going on.
After a few days, though, the stress, the uncertainty, starts to take a toll. The Professor snaps his fingers, drawing my attention from where I’ve been staring into space at the wall of his studio.
“Where are you, Charlie? I just played a track for you to see if you think it’d go well with what you’re writing, and I don’t think you even heard it.”
I blink, coming back to myself and shaking my head. “I’m sorry. You’re right. I wasn’t …” I shake my head again and rub my eyes. “It’s been a rough few days. I’m having trouble focusing. Maybe we should just call it a day?”
His eyebrows climb his forehead behind his horn-rimmed glasses, almost meeting his thick gray hair. He glances at his computer monitor. “You’ve only been here for thirty minutes. You want to quit already? I thought we were going to plot the direction of the next song and lay down some vocals for the one we finished last week.”
I nod. “Yeah. I know.” With a sigh, I stare off into space again.
When The Professor speaks, his voice is gentle. “I saw your pictures. But I haven’t heard you speak about your young man. Is he …?”
Closing my eyes, I fight to keep the tears from leaking out. I haven’t cried about this. What’s there to cry about? We haven’t broken up. That’s impossible, since we haven’t really been together since I was at Marycliff.
But the sincere and caring way he can’t quite bring himself to finish his question has all the emotions I’ve been cramming down trying to leak out my eyes.
His hand pats my shoulder, causing me to open my eyes and meet his warm brown ones. “You’ll make it through whatever this is.” He sits back in his chair, making a large circular motion with his hand in my direction. “All of this. All these feelings. Put them in your next song. If you need to go home to do that, then yes, let’s call it a day. I have a new intern to meet with. We might actually be able to use him on some of your songs. He’s very good.”
Resisting the urge to wipe my eyes, I give the best smile I can muster and stand. “Thank you. I think, yeah, I’ll do that. Go home. Write. Pour it all into a new song. Or songs. We’ll see what happens.”
He gives me a genuine grin. “Great. I look forward to hearing what you come up with. The songs you write from deep emotion are the ones I love the most. That makes them the most likely to become hits, too.” He waggles his eyebrows, provoking a real smile from me, rather than the polite facsimile I gave him a moment ago.
Waving me off, he gives me an avuncular wink. “Go. Write. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
On the way back to my place I’m scribbling furiously in a notebook as Tony navigates LA traffic. I don’t even notice how long it takes. It could be anywhere from five minutes to an hour for all the attention I’m paying, lost in the place where words and music collide in my head, humming to myself while jotting down phrases that encapsulate the way I feel right now.
Lost in an ocean of uncertainty.
Running scared.
Learning to live without him.
That last one gives me pause, my breath catching in my chest. And I hurry to scribble down those sensations as well. I don’t know where or if they’ll fit into lyrics somewhere, but if I have every thought, every feeling, written down, it’ll be easier to work it in later when I have more distance.
Distance.
There’s another one. That might be a good title for a song, actually.
“We’re here, Miss James.”
Tony’s voice cuts through the noise in my head, and I blink at him in the rearview mirror for a second before what he says registers. We’re in the parking garage below my building.
“Oh. Of course. Thanks, Tony.”
He gives me a nod and climbs out of the car. As usual, I wait for him to open my door for me, giving him the chance to clear the area before I exit the car and take the elevator to my apartment, humming quietly the whole way up. My fingers itch for the keys of my piano, ready to start matching the lyric ideas I’ve written down to chord progressions and melodic snippets.
I don’t have the ability that Jonathan does to start with a melody or some words and fit them all together into musical perfection. My contributions are more like musical puzzle pieces. But I give them to The Professor, and he takes them and, with the help of his team of top liners and beat makers, fits them together into something amazing. It’s a good partnership. I get to contribute and sing about things I care about, but I still get hits to keep the label and my fans happy and coming back for more.
All thoughts of writing and composing screech to a halt when I see my mother waiting for me in my living room. I stop short at the sight of her, frozen in the doorway.
She rises from her place on the couch across from my baby grand, dressed impeccably as ever in a pale pink slim-fitting sheath dress and nude heels, her sandy blond hair styled perfectly in graceful waves, her makeup flawless. Her lips curve in what she intends to be a smile but looks more like a grimace. “Charlotte. You’re home.”
“What are you doing here?”
All pretense of smiling falls away, and she crosses her slim arms over her chest as she surveys me. She flicks her fingers at me. “What are you wearing?”
Without thinking, I look down at my outfit. Nothing fancy—dark skinny jeans, an oversized tee, ballet flats. My usual attire for going to the studio or working at home. But I realize I’m reacting the way I always have, that she’s put me on the defensive already, which is not where I want to be where my mother is concerned. “Clothes.” Even though it’s on the tip of my tongue to ask her the same question, I don’t. “Am I to take it that you dropped by to criticize my wardrobe?”
She sighs, her favorite put-upon vocalization. I fight against the urge to roll my eyes, instead keeping my gaze steady on her. It’s like with a wild animal. If I look away, appear to give in or submit in any way, she’ll go for the jugular.
Another sigh, and she waves her hand at me. “You haven’t lost your freshman fifteen either.”
That has me grinding my teeth together. Because the reality is that I’ve lost several pounds and slimmed down even more thanks to working out five days a week with a trainer. The difference is that I’m doing more strength training and building muscle. I’m not on a starvation diet or doing long cardio sessions interspersed with HIIT workouts like my mom had me doing to keep me in the smallest size I could manage without looking anorexic.
But there’s no point arguing with her. I refuse to defend myself. I’m healthy and happy with my body, and that matters to me far more than her opinion.
Lifting my chin, I cross my arms, my pen and notebook still clutched in one hand. “No. I haven’t.” We stand there staring at each other for several moments, the silence deafening.
Finally, I shake my head, moving past her to get to the piano. “Well, as fun as this is, I have work to do. I trust you’ll see yourself out since you feel free to come and go in my home as you please.”
Sitting down at the piano, I set my notebook on the music stand and lift the keyboard cover. For something to do more than out of necessity, I start playing a C major scale.
Mom’s hand smacks the lacquered wood of the piano, making me jump. “Don’t you turn your back on me,” she hisses, spittle flying out of her mouth.
I lift my hands from the keyboard slowly and turn to face her. With a deep breath, I force myself to keep my voice calm and controlled. “Mother. I have work to do. I am in the middle of writing an album.”
“What the hell are you doing wasting your time with writing? We had your career perfectly positioned. You had the best hit makers writing for you, shopping songs to you every time they wrote something they thought would do well, writing songs specifically for you. Do you know how many other girls would kill to be in your position?”
I scoff. “Please. Yeah, I’m sure there are tons of wannabe starlets dying for a chance, willing to do anything to get a record deal and a tour. But we both know that none of them know what this life is really like. And none of them would have anything resembling my life. Even the other artists I meet at the big festival concerts talk about taking breaks and time off. Because everyone knows that constant touring is grueling and if you don’t take time for yourself every once in a while, you don’t last. You can’t. You burn out and go crazy.”
“You need a continuity of hits. That’s what we’ve said from the beginning. There isn’t time for you to write your own album. Especially now with your insistence on taking a break, taking time to find out what you want.”
Slapping my own hand on the piano, I stand. “I don’t need time to find out what I want anymore. I already know.”
Crossing her arms again, she takes a step back. “Please. You think I don’t know? I saw those pictures of you and that boy. Again. I thought you cut ties with him after you left that little school you insisted on going to. That was the whole, ‘we were just friends’ press release back in December.” She lifts her fingers to make air quotes, her voice mocking. “And now, here you are again months later, making a spectacle of yourself. And for what? Some nobody?”
“He’s not a nobody,” I grit out.
She scoffs. “Yes, yes, everyone’s important. That’s the kind of trite truism we peddle to your fan club to make them feel like they matter. This boy isn’t going to do anything for your career.” Her face changes again from scornful to what she thinks is persuasive. “I’ve been talking to Delilah. She just signed Sebastian Kendric to rehab his reputation as a womanizer. It’d be perfect for you.” Her mouth twists into that grimace-smile again. “Especially since you’re insisting on writing for your next album. He’s got that whole singer-songwriter thing going. It’ll help your credibility and give his image a makeover at the same time. You should give Delilah a call.”
“Oh my God, Mom.” I look up at the ceiling, torn between disbelief and the feeling that I should’ve known she’d go here. “No. No no no.”
“Why not? You make it sound like such a chore. You get to spend some time with a hot guy and divert some of the attention from this other misstep.”
I level her with a glare. “And get called a whore again? Because that’s what will happen. Every time I’ve been photographed with a variety of guys in a short period of time—and don’t think I don’t know that’s where this will end up. We’ve been down this road before. And every time—every time—I get slut-shamed all over the gossip sites and social media.”
She gives me a dismissive shrug. “Those people are just jealous. And we both know that’s—”
“The price of fame,” I say with her. She gives me an irritated look.
“And you know what else, Mom?” I grit my teeth, not wanting to bring this up, but I don’t have a choice at this point. Maybe if I tell her all the sordid details, she’ll understand why I won’t do this anymore. Even if Damian weren’t in the picture, there’s no way in hell I’d be willing to help anyone rehab a womanizer’s reputation.
With a deep breath, I continue. “The ones who called me a whore? They weren’t exactly wrong. Because all those guys, especially the ones who I was using to boost my career, they all come with expectations. Sexual expectations. Sometimes I could get away with just a hand job or a blow job, but most of them want sex. I’m supposed to be their girlfriend, even if only for the cameras, so they want the full girlfriend experience. Doesn’t matter that they’ll go party and hookup with someone else the next night. No, I’m on their arm that night, and they want payment for services rendered.”
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.”