Counterpoint and Harmony

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Coda

  Book Club

  About Jerica MacMillan

  Other Titles on Amazon

  Summer Fling Sneak Peek!

  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.

  Chapter Two

  Accidental: a sign indicating a momentary departure from the key signature by raising or lowering a note

  Charlie

  “Thank you for coming in,” Dean Andersen says as I take a seat in one of the burgundy leather chairs in front of his imposing mahogany desk.

  I nod, pressing my lips together in a tight smile. “Of course. I’m glad you asked me to come in, actually. I thought it would be a good idea to review the school’s
policies and procedures for dealing with unwanted media attention. Part of the reason I chose Marycliff is because of how you handled the situation when Jonathan Brasher’s identity as Jonny B was revealed, and he became the target of paparazzi both at his home and on campus.”

  Dean Andersen sits back, resting his elbows on the armrests of his chair and steepling his fingers in front of his mouth. He surveys me for a long moment before letting out a breath. “Yes. We do need to talk about that. As you may or may not know, at the time, Jonathan Brasher was not actively seeking a return to fame. The viral video of him singing was released without his consent. Indeed, my understanding is that he was unaware he was being recorded at all.”

  “Yes.” I make an effort to keep my voice firm, neutral, devoid of curiosity or judgment. “Jonathan and I have been friends for years. He told me about the circumstances surrounding the viral video. And his decision to capitalize on his inadvertent return to the public eye.”

  “Yes, of course.” The dean sits forward again, resting his elbows on his desk and removing his glasses. He looks older without them, the bags under his brown eyes more obvious, the lack of accessory allowing the eye to return to the iron gray mustache sprinkled with white.

  I reach up and adjust my own glasses. They’re no longer necessary. Everyone knows who I am now. Pictures of me wearing these glasses with headlines about Charlotte James have been in every celebrity gossip outlet in the country. Probably in other countries too. I stopped paying attention after a while. But they’re like a security blanket. A barrier. A defense against the world. It’s false, but it’s all I have, here, alone in Spokane.

  My mother has been calling me, urging me to return to LA. But at this point I’m still trying to salvage my life as much as I can. Still hoping that Damian will at least talk to me. Hoping that even if he won’t take my calls or return my texts, maybe if I can see him between classes or after rehearsals that I can convince him to speak with me. Get a coffee. At least try being friends again, let him get to know me again, start over.

  Maybe it’s wishful thinking, but right now that’s all I’ve got.

  Dean Andersen is talking again. While my thoughts have drifted, I’ve been staring blankly at his mustache. But his mouth is moving, and now he’s put his glasses back on.

  “We have to think of the other students, you see. How will the media attention you’re receiving affect them? And the professors? I’ve had calls from dozens of magazines and TV shows asking us to confirm your attendance. The head of the music department has also alerted me that his executive assistant is fielding similar calls, as is the department receptionist.”

  I straighten my spine, sitting up straighter in the chair, bracing myself for the onslaught of words. Each one feeling like a personal attack. Oblivious to my change in posture, he continues.

  “While you were able to keep a low profile, we were happy to have you here. You performed well in your classes last semester, and by all accounts your professors reported that you were a joy to have in class. But …”

  I let the silence hang, unwilling to fill in the blanks for him. Meeting his gaze, unbending. His meaning is clear, though. I’m no longer welcome here.

  He sighs. “Marycliff University cannot guarantee your privacy and freedom from harassment here. Our police department still maintains that paparazzi are not allowed on campus, but over the break we’ve had to enforce that rule more times than we did while either Jonathan Brasher or his new wife were here. Our resources are being overly taxed, and the semester hasn’t even started yet. While you’ve done nothing to violate any of the policies of the university, I trust that you’ll make the right choice to guarantee everyone’s continued safety and security.” He raises his eyebrows, giving me a meaningful look.

  Ah, so that’s the purpose of this meeting. Not to determine how best to proceed together. Not to reassure me of my place here. Not even to kick me out, though it’s clear that would make his life easier.

  No, the purpose of this meeting is to convince me that I need to drop out for the good of everyone. The university doesn’t have the resources to keep out the influx of photographers.

  “I understand you’ve made friends here. Think about how your staying will affect them? Affect their ability to get the education they’ve worked hard for?”

  What about me? I want to scream. But I press my lips together, holding the words inside. What about the education I’ve worked hard for? Don’t I deserve more than a semester’s worth?

  Despite being willing and able to pay full price for my tuition and fees, not needing a scholarship or financial aid of any kind, it seems that my money is no good here. My celebrity is closing a door instead of opening one.

  I could fight. I could insist. I could probably make a generous donation to the university, hire private security, and force the issue. Give them a million reasons to let me stay.

  But suddenly I’m tired. And I just want to go home.

  With a firm nod, I stand. “I understand your meaning, Dean Andersen. I’ll let you know my decision before classes start on Monday.”

  He opens his mouth, inhaling as though he’s going to say something. But in the end, he only stands and offers his hand. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry things turned out like this.”

  Placing my hand in his for a weak handshake, I give him another nod. I don’t trust myself to speak right now. Afraid any words will come out choked with tears. That unexpected parting shot of sympathy chokes me up, even if he’s more sorry to see my money go than me.

  Head held high, I turn and leave, my body running on autopilot to get me through the door and closing it behind me with a soft click.

  What am I going to do now?

  Chapter Three

  Altered tone: a note in a scale modified by an accidental, i.e. a sharp or flat

  Charlie

  A key scrapes in the lock, and I sit up straight on the couch, picking stray bits of popcorn off my T-shirt and putting them back in the bowl. It’s kind of a lost cause. I look like a complete slob. My hair is shaggy, my roots growing out, and I haven’t showered yet today, so it’s sticking up all over the place.

  As the door opens, I sit up, revealing a few more pieces of popcorn in the crack between the cushions.

  “Hey!” Lauren’s voice is cheerful and surprised. “I didn’t realize you’d be here. Since I saw all those articles, I kinda thought you’d be back in LA. Did you at least stay down there for Christmas?”

  I shake my head, but she doesn’t see me as she drags her rolling suitcase inside then turns back for a duffle bag, her violin case, and a backpack.

  “Wow. You’re not a light packer, are you?”

  She laughs, but it dies when she faces me, her brows puckering with concern as she closes the door behind her. “Not when I’m gone for a month, no. Plus, I picked up some stuff on my cross-country trip, so I have a few extra things.”

  “Oh, right. You went somewhere with Brendan? How was that?”

  She gets a faraway look in her brown eyes, then looks down to fiddle with the keys in her hand, which causes her auburn hair to fall in a curtain blocking her face. When she looks up again, the look in her eyes is gone, and a fake smile has her mouth turning up. “It was good. I got to go ice skating in Rockefeller Center in New York, which was the whole point. So, y’know, the trip was a success.” She waves a hand airily and turns to toss her keys in the bowl on the table beside the door. “Anyway,” she continues, her face still turned away. “You didn’t answer my question. Did you go back to LA to spend Christmas with your family?”

  “No. I didn’t.”

  The crease between her brows is back, and she looks around like she’s thinking. “The pictures of you and Damian came out right after the wedding. I remember, because we were on the road, and I saw them in a tabloid at a gas station in the middle of nowhere.” She crosses her arms over her chest, her frown deepening as she looks me over. “And then a few days later I read something where you said y
ou guys were just friends, which we both know isn’t true. Did you decide on that story together? Did you spend Christmas with his family, then? Please tell me that’s what you did.”

  Swallowing, I shake my head. “No.” I clear my throat, forcing strength I don’t feel into my voice. “No. Damian found out about Charlotte James in the worst possible way. He …” I swallow again, forcing myself to continue. “He told me he needed time to think, but since he hasn’t returned any of my calls or texts since the wedding, I’m assuming that our relationship has ended.”

  Lauren makes a sound of distress, but I continue, offering up information in a way so unlike me that my voice almost catches in my throat.

  “I put out that we went as friends to protect Damian from media scrutiny and the inherent violations of his and his family’s privacy. The paparazzi were camped out here for a while after the story broke, but since I’ve done nothing of interest and all my statements and interviews are brokered through my PR firm, they haven’t bothered me for the last week or so.” I let a small half smile come to my face. “Plus, I kept an eye on them out the front window. Calling the police on them any time they so much as jaywalked or impeded traffic made staying even more unpleasant for them. The city gets crankier the more citations they have to give out.”

  Lauren cracks a smile at that and sits down on the coffee table. “So you spent Christmas alone?” At my nod, her face crumples. “Charlie! Why didn’t you call me? You could’ve come spent Christmas with my family. It actually would’ve been a nice distraction.” She mutters the last sentence, but before I can dig into that, she smacks her hands on her legs and stands. “Never mind that. I’m sorry, though. It sounds like you had a really crappy break.”

  “Yeah.” My voice is hoarse, and tears swim in my eyes. I quickly blink and dash them away, fighting back the urge to cry. I give Lauren a bright smile, my go-to cover for strong emotion. “But you’re back now, so that’s one on the positive side. And I got to hang out and do nothing for the last few weeks. It wasn’t all bad. No one bossing me around. No homework. Just me and the electric piano in my room. I actually got a lot of work done.”