Counterpoint and Harmony Page 5
Whereas I still feel like me. Just Charlie.
“I’m not really any different, you know. I’m the same person. I was never pretending.”
He looks at me again, blinks a few times, and clears his throat. “Really? You weren’t pretending to be a normal college student?”
I lift one shoulder and give him a sad half smile. “I like to think I was a normal college student. At least for a little while.”
Silence descends again, only this time it’s less awkward, less uncomfortable. At least for me.
Gabby clears her throat after a minute. “So, uh, it’s super fun being the third wheel here and all. But can we go somewhere? Back to the hotel or … I dunno. I’m tired of just driving in circles, though, and I don’t know how long you’re planning on hanging out with us, Damian. But I could drop you at the hotel and go find something to do, like go to a movie or something, so you guys can keep talking.”
Damian straightens, coming back to life. “Would you mind taking me back to campus? My car’s there, and I was about to go practice when … well, when I saw you and couldn’t walk away.” He glances at me, then meets Gabby’s eyes in the rearview mirror again. “I really need to practice, though.”
Turning away, I stare out the window, tilting my head back but trying not to make it obvious, hoping the tears will drain down my tear ducts instead of leaking down my face.
“Sure.” Gabby puts the car in drive and heads back to campus. No one says anything after that. I keep my face steadfastly turned toward the window, unable to bear looking at him after being soundly rejected.
Again.
I feel so stupid.
I thought I’d pushed him out of my mind enough that I was starting to get over him. Sure, the gamut of emotions I experienced with him fueled a lot of my songwriting experiments. Some of them even sound good. But I’d convinced myself that channeling my feelings wasn’t the same as being stuck in them still.
Now, seeing him again, having him chase after me …
Well, I thought maybe he’d had time to get over his hurt. At least enough to listen.
I’d hoped.
But no. He’s still as stuck as I am.
Even though he says he misses me, he still wants nothing to do with me. Not really.
“Stop here.” His voice cuts through the silence, and Gabby pulls over at a corner about a block away from the music building. “Thanks.” There’s a pause, and he takes a breath, but then the door opens and closes without another word from him.
Closing my eyes, I force myself to accept that he’s rejected me again. And I’m not going to let myself believe it’ll ever be any different. No matter how much I might wish it were.
Chapter Eleven
Calando: falling away or lowering, getting slower as well as quieter
Damian
I walk slowly back to the music building, my hands in my pockets, my long-sleeved shirt not warm enough against the wind at night. But I couldn’t handle being in that car for another minute, stewing in the silence while Charlie refused to even look at me. Gabby kept shooting me concerned looks in the rearview mirror, but I didn’t know what she wanted from me either.
Gabby and I were friends, or at least acquaintances, but she feels like a stranger now, off living a life I can’t even imagine.
Charlie too.
In some ways, she seems the same. Her voice, her eyes, her lips, her crooked, self-deprecating smile.
But she’s also Charlotte James. The Princess of Pop. Subject of media gossip and speculation.
Even if I wanted to believe her when she says she was never pretending—which, honestly, I kind of do—but even if that were true, we’re still doomed. How could anything between us ever work? I’m here for another year and a half, and she’s off … doing whatever it is that she does. I don’t even really know. She’s been keeping a low profile, for the most part. Even though headlines about her pop up every other day, most of them are speculation, not actual reporting.
No one really knows what she’s up to.
I suppose I could’ve found out, but …
I kick a rock off the sidewalk, hard, irritated with myself.
I’m too wrapped up in my own bullshit to even ask the most basic questions. And I accused her of being too busy to keep up with news of me.
I’m such an ass.
When I get back to the music building, most everyone is gone. Lauren and her parents are finishing cleaning up the remains of the reception with Glenda’s help. They all look up when I walk into the lobby.
“Hey, Damian.” Lauren’s voice is warm. “Missed my recital, huh?”
I shake my head and clear my throat. “No. I was here.” I pull the program out of my back pocket and hold it up. “See?”
She frowns, placing the stack of plates in her hand into a reusable grocery bag. Taking two steps toward me, her skirt swishing, she glances out the door into the night then back at me. Her eyes widen. “Did you see …?” She trails off and glances around, but the unspoken end to her question is clear.
I nod once. “Yeah.”
“Did you talk to her?” She lowers her voice and steps closer.
“Yeah. I went with them. In the car. We just drove around and … talked.” For lack of a better word. Although not much of any significance was said. It still feels momentous. Riding in the backseat of a car with Charlotte James.
My ex.
I almost grunt at the impact of those two little words. My roommates call her that. But I haven’t really thought of her that way. Until I was face to face with her tonight.
Lauren looks around, one hand fiddling with her earring, then she looks back at me. “Um, there’s still cake. If you want some.”
“No. Thanks. I’m good.” I don’t think I could eat anything right now. Anything I ingested would sit like a ball of lead in my stomach.
“Candy? Nuts? If you don’t eat them, we’ll just have to take them home.” This from Lauren’s mom.
I offer her what I hope is a smile. “No, thanks. I don’t need anything. I’m, um, I’m just going to go practice.”
As I start to turn away, Lauren’s hand grazes my arm. “If you need to talk …”
I shake my head. “Thanks, Lauren. I’m … I’ll be fine.” That’s what I’ve been telling myself for almost two months. Eventually it has to be true.
Right?
My focus is shit for the next week. I barely make any progress in the practice room, despite spending the same number of hours there. After seeing Charlie, talking to her, all my memories of her are fresh and raw, unable to be shoved aside. So every time I sit down to play, I remember playing with her in the piano majors’ practice room. Goofing off, playing silly simple songs just for fun. Like when we played Twinkle Twinkle Little Star as a round then tried playing other beginner tunes as rounds. Everything from Mary Had a Little Lamb to Happy Birthday. That one didn’t work so well.
Her laugh, her smile, flash in my mind as I play my scales, making my fingers slip, my bow pull at an angle instead of straight across the string. Worse, sliding my fingers up and down the strings during my concerto makes me remember sliding my fingers up and down her skin. The sounds she made as musical as the ones I pull from my cello.
By the time I have my lesson on Thursday, I’m playing worse than ever.
“What’s wrong with you today, Damian?” Dr. Weber, the cello professor, asks me after I flubbed the recap for the third time in a row. “I know you have this memorized. You played it perfectly on the recording for the competition. Is something going on?”
Sighing, I let my bow fall to my side, leaning my chest against my cello in defeat. “I’m just … tired.” That’s the best explanation I can come up with.
Dr. Weber gives me a speculative look. He knows about Charlie and me. Who doesn’t? But what he knows is more from the department gossip mill than from me sharing. We don’t really do that.
But that means he also knows that she had a little performance in
town at a small venue the day after Lauren’s recital. She put out a message on her social media platforms two hours beforehand and emailed her fan club to invite anyone in the area. She only charged thirty dollars to get in and donated the money to charity.
According to the news, it was packed. Standing room only. Security had to turn people away or risk the fire marshal shutting them down. Even then, Charlie had them open the doors and put speakers outside so people could gather in the parking lot and still hear.
I almost went. But I knew I’d hate it. Hate the crowd. Hate being so close to her without being able to speak to her, touch her, have her acknowledge that I was there. And there was no way I’d try to use my connection to Lauren to get me back to see her. Not after the way things went the night before.
She wouldn’t even look at me before I got out of the car.
No, she wouldn’t have wanted to see me. And again, it’s my own fault.
Dr. Weber doesn’t say anything about Charlie, though. “Let’s try the recap again. Start the last two bars of the development.”
With a nod, I set the bow on the string. Glancing at the music, I find the measure where he wants me to start, then close my eyes and play. I make it a little farther into the recap before faltering, but I still don’t play it like I know I can. Like I should be able to. My head just isn’t here.
Dr. Weber takes a deep breath through his nose and lets it out, then crosses his arms. He glances at the clock then back at me. “Why don’t we wrap it up for the day. Take the week to work through whatever’s going on. We’ll try again next week. Sound good?”
I nod, both relieved and annoyed that he’s cutting my lesson fifteen minutes short. But there’s no way I’m getting anything done today.
After packing up my cello, I carry it to a practice room, more out of habit than any actual intention of practicing. What’s the point? I haven’t had a good practice session all week. I sucked in orchestra rehearsal on Tuesday, faking my way through it and relying on my stand partner to make us look good. She’d given me weird looks when I messed up easy stuff but hadn’t said anything.
I have rehearsal this afternoon. I need to be able to play.
So I do the only thing I can think of to clear my head.
I pull out my phone and send a text to Charlie.
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.
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.