Counterpoint and Harmony (Songs and Sonatas Book 5)

by Jerica MacMillan

  My eyes widen, and I shake my head at his implication. “Like when we’d hang out and do homework and have dinner and talk. That’s all. I didn’t bring you here as some kind of ploy for sex. I know …” I swallow hard. “I know we’re not like that anymore. I just … I miss hanging out with you.” The confession comes out as little more than a whisper. “I don’t have all that many friends. And I’m trying to do a better job of keeping the ones that I have. Life gets lonely doing what I do.”

  His face finally softens at that, the line of his shoulders relaxing, and he takes a step closer. Then another. Until he’s standing next to me. “So, what? You just decided to hop on a plane and get a hotel room so we can talk?”

  I shrug, turning and heading for the couch, disappointed that my surprise isn’t going over as well as I’d hoped. “Well, it’s my plane, so it’s pretty easy to hop on it whenever I want. And the hotel room’s not that big of a deal either.” I wave a hand airily as I sit in one of the chairs, leaving Damian to choose where he likes on the couch.

  When I glance up at him, he’s still standing at the end of the little hallway, blinking at me again. Then he shakes his head slowly as he steps around the couch and takes a seat on the end farthest from me.

  “What?”

  He looks at me again, studying me, leaning forward so that his elbows are propped on his knees and his hands hang down. “It’s just … when we talk, I feel like you’re still the same girl I met in August, y’know? The one who’d rewrite the accompaniment to Suzuki songs and always wanted to go out for pancakes. And even though I know in some part of my brain that you’re this mega star who everyone wants to be or be with, it’s easy for me to pretend none of that exists. That you’re still just Charlie, and now you happen to live far away. Like maybe you transferred schools or something. But when you say things like that …” He shakes his head again, looking down at his hands. “When you talk about your private plane and getting a suite at the nicest hotel in town, it’s hard to ignore how different our lives are.”

  When he lifts his eyes to me again, his gaze is piercing. I open and close my mouth, trying to formulate an answer, a defense, something. But no words come. I don’t know what to say, and I’m not used to being so discombobulated. I almost always have an answer for everything everyone asks me. And while he didn’t ask a question, the implication that I should respond is clear.

  Finally, after searching the walls and the ceiling for inspiration, I meet his eyes again and spread my hands, my heart pounding in my ears. “What do you want me to say? Do you want me to continue hiding the rest of my life from you? From what I recall, that didn’t go over well the first time.”

  “No.” His answer is immediate, and his face darkens. “No, I don’t want you to go back to lying to me.”

  “I never—”

  He holds up his hand to cut me off. “Lies of omission are the same. You didn’t tell me. You withheld vital information when I showed you all my cards. Always. I never withheld anything from you.”

  Swallowing down my defense, I nod. “Yes. And I’ve apologized for that. Repeatedly. I thought we’d moved past that.”

  He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, then nods, turning so his back is against the arm of the couch, his knee bent in front of him and his arm hooked around the cushions. “Yeah. We have. It’s just …” He looks around, like he doesn’t know what else to say.

  “Look,” I butt in. “I’m sorry. Maybe this was a bad idea. I just thought it would be fun. You said you missed me, so I concocted this plan and roped Lauren into picking you up and bringing you here. I would’ve come and gotten you myself, but that’d risk people finding out I’m here. And they’d connect me to you again, which would mean you could end up in the tabloids too.” With a deep breath, I lean closer to him. “Between you and me, I’m pretty sure the Dean is getting tired of the university police having to keep paparazzi off campus.”

  He tilts his head and gives me a quizzical look. “Why do you say that?”

  “Oh, well, I’d actually planned on continuing, at least finishing the year. But Dean Andersen made it clear that I wasn’t welcome.”

  “That’s why he kicked you out? For someone else selling pictures of you to the gossip sites?” His outrage is genuine and gratifying.

  I give him a small smile and tilt my head from side to side. “Not exactly. I don’t think he could legally do that. But he said my presence would endanger the other students, and that he trusted I’d make the right decision.”

  This does nothing to calm Damian’s fury. “Are you kidding me? And you just let him bully you like that?”

  Again I turn my hands palms up and spread my fingers. “What should I have done? Made life miserable for the entire department, half the school? Professors were already getting calls looking for interviews. They already had your picture. That’s why I told them we were just friends. If I came back, they would’ve tried to make what we had into something tawdry and disgusting. You likely would’ve been painted as an opportunist trying to follow in Gabby’s footsteps, and I would once again be the whore of the music industry.”

  Damian splutters, his face turning red and his fists clenching again. “What? I can’t—I don’t—”

  Acting on impulse, I get up and sit on the couch next to him, placing my hand on his arm. “I know. I know you don’t want that. Any of that. If there were any doubt in my mind—which there never was—your reaction to this, to me, tonight would’ve proven it. Opportunists who are only out to ride my coattails or get what they can out of me don’t get upset when they find out I have my own plane or that booking a suite last minute at a nice hotel isn’t a big deal. They get dollar signs in their eyes and try to ingratiate themselves so they can see how long they can make the ride last. See what they can get from it.”

  His jaw is still clenched, but the tension in his arm is slowly relaxing.

  “I didn’t tell you about all this before because I was enjoying being normal. Or at least pretending to be. It wasn’t because I didn’t trust you. I knew you wouldn’t try to get something from me. That was never a question in my mind. I just didn’t want you to look at me like I was a stranger.”

  He turns his hand palm up and moves so he’s holding my hand, giving it a squeeze. “And then I did exactly what you were afraid I’d do.”

  I sigh. “Who could blame you? That was probably the worst way for you to find out. That wasn’t what I wanted. I’d already planned out how I was going to tell you. I figured it would be a surprise, but I hoped that after having time to process, you’d adjust and we’d just continue being happy.”

  “You’ve said that before. That you were going to tell me. That you’d planned it out. What were you going to do? What would you have said if you’d gotten to tell me yourself?”

  I settle back on the couch, pulling my leg up under me. “You really want to know?”

  He nods solemnly, never releasing my hand. Which is more than I’d dared hope for. But then, Damian always was one for affectionate touches.

  “I was going to ask you to stay with me after we got back from the wedding. And I was going to make you dinner, and then tell you my story. From the beginning. All the gory details and all the fun. About how I started playing the piano in Kindergarten and taking dance lessons, and how my mom would have me put on little shows for her friends. I thought it was normal at first, just her supporting me. I loved performing, even as a kid. And everyone said how cute I was, and I loved the praise, the applause, the thrill of making people happy with my music and dance.”

  He smiles, giving my hand a squeeze. “Yeah. I used to put on performances for my family as a kid too.”

  I look into his eyes and smile back, then move my gaze back to our joined hands. “Yeah. I think lots of kids do that. Anyway, my mom saw how people reacted to me, and got it into her head that I should try for a career as a performer. She took me to lots of auditions for all kinds of things, commercials, community theater, talent
shows, whatever. And she’d start inviting the people who ran those things to cocktail parties and Christmas parties, and I’d always perform. Since I’d always done it before, I didn’t get what the big deal was, but she’d make me rehearse way more, with her supervision, and she’d tell me what to wear and do my hair and even put on some makeup. Nothing crazy, since I was still in elementary school, but a little lip gloss, some glitter on my cheeks, things like that.”

  Stealing another glance at him, he just blinks at me from behind his glasses, but his lips are pressed in a firm line, like he disapproves of my mother doing that to me. With a deep breath, I continue. “During one of those parties, someone told her that Disney was having an open casting call. That was when things really took off. The casting directors liked me, but my acting was atrocious.” Damian arches an eyebrow, his disbelief clear.

  I nod. “I swear. It was terrible. I’d offer to show you tapes, but they’re all at my parents’ house, and well …” I trail off, swallowing hard.

  His other hand wraps around my wrist, and he gives my hand another squeeze. “You told me that you’d fired your mom. I take it things haven’t gotten any better with her?”

  Shaking my head, I take a shuddery breath. Even though I know it was the right thing to do, it’s still hard. She’s my mom. “Anyway. As I was saying, I was terrible on screen, so they mostly gave me bit parts and then started having me make those music videos they’d show in commercial breaks. Remember those?” At his nod, I continue. “They put out a little album for me, but it didn’t do much. My mom was still putting on those parties, and that’s how she met my old manager. Madalyn. She and my mom worked together for a while, but after a couple of years, my mom decided to take a step back.” I force a laugh. “Not that she actually did, she just gave herself a different title. She was still involved with everything.” I level a look at Damian. For a second my breath catches, because he’s gazing at me like I’m the most fascinating creature in the world, the way he always used to. I forgot what it was like to be the focus of that level of intensity. But I make myself continue, knowing I need to tell him this. That he wants to hear it. That I need to say it.

  “And I mean everything. Shows, costumes, song choices, the works. I was only fourteen or so, but I was starting to have my own opinions. That wasn’t allowed, though. Every time I tried to exert any amount of independence, she orchestrated things so that I’d give up and fall back in line.”

  “Like what?” His voice is a low murmur, inviting confidence.

  I look around, trying to pick something easy to explain. “Well, about a year after my mom hired Madalyn, I decided I wanted more control over my wardrobe. Not costumes for my shows or anything, just my normal everyday clothes, y’know?”

  “That seems reasonable. I think my mom stopped picking out my clothes when I was two or three. She’d veto something if she didn’t think it was appropriate for some reason, but it was still up to me to pick something that would work.”

  I nod. “Yeah. Before everything started, I got to pick my own clothes too. I mean, for special occasions, she’d often buy a specific outfit for me, but otherwise I could wear what I wanted. But once people started recognizing me, she hired a stylist, and together, they crafted my wardrobe.”

  “So what happened?”

  “Right. When I was about fifteen or so Brash joined me on tour for a while. Remember them?”

  He smirks. “Yeah.” Then his eyes widen slightly. “Wait, that’s how you know Jonny B—Jonathan?”

  “Yeah. And his brothers too.”

  “And that’s how you met Gabby.”

  “And Gabby introduced me to Lauren when I decided to take a break and go to college. They helped me prepare my entrance audition and keep things secret from my mom until it was a done deal. Then all I had to do was announce my decision and leave.”

  “Wow.” His eyes drift away, and he’s staring into the middle distance over the coffee table, like he’s reordering what he knows to line up with this new piece of information.

  I let him sit and process all that for a moment. When his eyes come back to mine, they’re searching. “So Gabby, Lauren, they all knew before you even came here.”

  I nod in confirmation, even though it was a statement and not a question.

  “And you weren’t running around telling everyone while laughing at me behind my back for being so dense and not figuring it out.”

  “Oh, Damian, no.” My free hand goes to his face, cupping his cheek. “No. Never. Is that what you thought? Really?”

  His eyes slide away from mine, and he lifts one shoulder. “I didn’t really know what to think. After … after you left me in the room at the wedding, all kinds of things went through my mind. At first it seemed like everyone knew except me, and I felt like a fool. And then when I got back to school, it seemed like everyone was surprised, and thought I’d pulled one over on them. They all assumed I knew.” His eyes come back to mine, pain etched in their depths. “And I felt like a fool all over again. For not knowing. For believing that you loved me at the time, but then keeping something like that from me.”

  Two tears track down my cheeks, the devastation in his voice more than I can bear. “Oh, Damian.” The words aren’t even audible this time, because I can’t force my voice past the blockage in my throat.

  He closes his eyes, turning his face into my hand. “I know. You’ve explained why. More times than you should have to. I’m not asking for another apology. I …” His breath fans hot over my wrist, and he opens his eyes again. “I can’t say I understand, exactly, and it still hurts that you didn’t tell me all of this a long time ago. But it makes sense if I take my feelings out of the equation.”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t consider your feelings,” I whisper.

  He nods, then pulls my hand down from his face, his jaw clenching as he composes himself. But he doesn’t release my other hand, instead twining our fingers together, both my hands now in his lap. “But keep going. What happened when you decided you wanted to pick out your own clothes?”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Con sordino: with a mute

  Damian

  She lets out a low chuckle. “Right. Brash joining the tour was kind of the catalyst. They got to have input into everything, and when they weren’t on stage, they got to wear whatever they wanted. So I wanted to too. I bugged my mom for weeks before she finally gave in and let me go shopping.”

  “That seems like a good thing.”

  “I know, right? But it was awful. They set it all up as this big thing. And someone alerted the media, too. I’m not sure if it was my mom, someone else on my staff, or if someone just recognized me at the mall and spread the word.” Her eyes cut to me, icy and clear, and the detached way she’s telling me all this makes it so much worse. Like it’s totally normal to her that someone who works for her, or even her own mother, would deliberately have her harassed by paparazzi. I can’t even imagine.

  “Anyway,” her eyes go back to our hands in my lap, which is where she’s looked most of the time she’s been talking, “there were photographers everywhere, following me around from store to store. My stylist was with us, of course, because I still had to get approval on whatever I picked out.” I snort, and she glances at me for just a second, a tiny smile on her face. “Right? So I’m in the middle of changing into something when a camera pops over the top of the dressing room door and the flash starts going off again and again.”

  I jerk in surprise. “Oh my God! What did you do?” I knew this was going somewhere awful, but I never would have guessed that.

  “I screamed at the top of my lungs and held the shirt over my chest.” She pulls her hands out of mine to demonstrate. “All I’d taken off was the shirt, so all you could see in the picture was my terrified expression, my bra straps, and a little bit of cleavage.” Her brows scrunch together as she examines my face. “Don’t you remember that picture?”

  I shake my head slowly, my hands clenched into fists in m
y lap. “I can’t say that I do.”

  “Seriously?” She pulls her head back, eyes wide with disbelief. “That picture was everywhere. People still like to pull it up every once in a while when they want to write a slam piece. It’s an old fave that makes the rotation at least once a year.”

  Taking a deep breath, my nostrils flare, but I can’t help it. Rage surges through me. How dare they? How could her mother, the people who worked for her, any of them—how could they let that happen?

  Her hand settles gently on my arm, drawing my attention. “Hey,” she says softly. “It’s okay. It’s part of the gig. You get used to it after a while.” She gives me a crooked smile.

  “Do you? Really?” I watch her closely as her smile fades and she drops her eyes.

  “Kinda, yeah. It still sucks, and it hurts when someone does a hatchet job on me and it goes viral, but when you put yourself out there for public consumption, there are always going to be haters.” She meets my eyes again. “Even in classical music, there are bad reviews, and people have opinions and think some performer is overhyped. Right?”

  A reluctant smile crosses my face. “Yeah. True.”

  “And,” she continues, “you have juries and all that to make you feel like shit every semester for at least four years. Not to mention the constant rejection of contests and auditions, unless you’re the best of the best, right?”

  “Yeah. It’s not the same as a photographer following you into a dressing room and snapping pics, though.”

  “No. That’s true.” She releases my arm, and I want to grab her hand and put it back where it was.

  I don’t, though. Despite holding her hands for the last several minutes, we don’t have that kind of relationship. Not anymore. So I push aside my disappointment that she’s no longer touching me and settle against the arm rest, draping one arm over the back of the couch again. “So did they just let the guy keeping taking pictures like a pervert or what?”