Chapter Sixteen
Fermata: a pause of unspecified length on a note or rest
Charlie
Lauren’s eyebrows raise so far up her forehead that I think they might merge with her hairline. “We’ve already started saying the L word, have we?”
I keep my eyes on my phone as I put it to sleep and set it carefully on the table. “We have.”
She clucks her tongue. “Isn’t this quite the development. I take it that’s what precipitated last night’s … activities?”
“Ha.” I finally look her in the eyes. “Yes, actually. It is.”
Propping her chin on her hand, she examines my face. “And how do you feel about that?”
Her question is soft, curious, and I feel like I’m talking to a therapist. But I consider it anyway, staring into the middle distance over her shoulder and taking stock. After the rollercoaster of yesterday, last night, and this morning, it’s worth doing anyway.
I love Damian. I’m in love with Damian.
I’ve never said those words to anyone unrelated to me before. Not even friends, not that I’ve had many of those since I was a little kid. The last few years, I haven’t even been telling my parents I love them. Not often, anyway. And they haven’t been telling me they love me, either. All our conversations revolve around the next show, the next single, the next recording session. Which producer is shopping their next hit. Which diet I should try next. Which artist is looking to collaborate with me.
But with Damian, none of that matters. He loves me for me. He loves my larger curves and my dark hair and my non-sparkly wardrobe. Being in love with him feels …
“Good,” I pronounce slowly, like I’m saying something of great importance. “Damian’s sweet and considerate and … everything I didn’t know I was looking for.”
Lauren smiles. “I’m happy for you.”
My eyes focus on hers. “I’m happy for me too.”
She picks up her fork and takes another bite of her apple caramel French toast. I’m having the same thing. It’s decadent and delicious. “So what are you celebrating with Damian tonight?”
“Being happy.”
Her brown eyes meet mine again. “That is something to celebrate. Especially for you. Does he know …” She trails off, sticking a bite in her mouth and making a circular motion with her fork as she chews.
I shake my head, cutting a piece of my own French toast. “No. I don’t—” I shake my head and eat my bite, trying to put into words why I don’t intend to tell Damian anything about my other life. I’ve already started thinking of it as that—my other life. Not my real life. This is my real life. This feels real. For the first time in years, I feel grounded and centered and part of something. Not adrift and floating along, buffeted by the twin propellers of my mom and my manager.
“I don’t want him to look at me differently,” I finally say, my voice soft.
“Oh, Charlie,” she starts, but stops when I shake my head.
“Don’t even try to tell me that it won’t change anything. Because it will. Once I became … her, no one treated me the same. Here? With Damian? I can just be Charlie. If he knows, it’ll be ruined.”
Her face is serious, her eyes steady, as she looks at me, her hands still. “So you don’t plan on ever telling him? Does that mean you’re never going back? But what if …” She bites her lip, cutting herself off. “I just don’t see that being realistic forever.”
“Maybe not forever. But for now. When necessity dictates that I tell him, then I will. But I want to do it on my terms, in my own way, after I decide about what I want to happen after this. Everything is still up in the air.” I skewer her with a look. “And as terrible as it sounds, you and I both know that most relationships don’t last. So it may not ever be an issue.”
Lauren’s lips flatten into a thin line, but she doesn’t say anything for a long moment. “If that’s what you think is best.”
“It is.” My voice is steel. A tone I haven’t had to use since I’ve been here. Not with anyone here, anyway. Definitely not with Lauren. She’s been nothing but supportive of this whole crazy venture.
Her eyes drop to her plate, and she’s frozen for a moment. Then she takes another bite, and when she lifts her face to mine again, the look of displeasure at my decision is gone, replaced by her usual impish smile.
“I believe I told you a while ago that you’d have to tell me how he kisses.” She stabs her fork in my direction. “And you’ve been holding out on me. And you need to fill me in on other … details as well.”
I laugh, glad that she’s so willing and able to accept and deflect uncomfortable topics. And to offer her opinion or advice when appropriate, but doesn’t try to browbeat or bully. Unlike certain other people I know.
Once again, I marvel at the weight that’s lifted off my chest at telling off my mom today. I can breathe freely for the first time in years. My life, my decisions, are entirely up to me for the first time. Ever.