Page 3 of Broken Chords

Chapter Two

Diva:a famous female opera singer; a famous female singer of popular music

Charlie

My phone vibrates in my hand again after leaving Damian in the lobby of the music building. And once again, I decline the call, sending my mother to voicemail.

She left me alone for the first couple of weeks I was here, but she’s started calling daily. And now multiple times a day. I talked to her the first time she called, and it didn’t go well.

“When are you coming back?” she demanded when I answered.

“Maybe in four years?”

Things had gone downhill from there.

I shouldn’t be surprised. This was the reason I’d kept her in the dark about all my plans until everything was set. I dropped the bomb that I was enrolling in college and taking an indefinite break from touring and recording, leaving her spluttering in the living room of my childhood home.

She thought I needed time to cool off. I guess she’s decided I’ve had enough time.

Sliding into my car, I sigh as I see she’s left another voicemail. I play it on speaker as I drive back to the house I share with Lauren.

“Charlotte, you’ve made your point. You’ve been invited to perform at the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade, and we need to give them an answer soon. You also have invitations for New Year’s Rockin’ Eve and the Super Bowl. You need to call me back so we can discuss the terms of the contracts and what you’ll be performing. I know you want a break from touring, but surely some occasional appearances shouldn’t be a problem. This is urgent. Call me back as soon as you get this.”

The voicemail only lasts thirty seconds, leaving me the rest of the drive home to stew over her presumptuousness. It sounds like she’s already agreed to these performances without even talking to me, which before August, I wouldn’t have balked at. But now?

I made it clear that I was taking a break. No performances. No new albums. No collaborations. Nothing. I need time for myself, to explore music on my own, and decide if this career is something I even want anymore.

By the time I get home, I’m so worked up that I delete the voicemail and then empty my mailbox so there’s no evidence of it at all. Tapping the screen extra hard doesn’t give my righteous indignation any sort of satisfaction, and even though the thought of blocking my mom’s number briefly flits through my mind, I can’t bring myself to do it.

Which makes deleting her voicemail more symbolic than anything. She’ll just call back tomorrow if I don’t return her call tonight.

But right now I’m too worked up, pissed off at her for ruining an otherwise good night.

I got asked on a date. By the cute cello player who I could’ve sworn had a crush on Lauren. That day when she invited her friends over to introduce me around, his eyes followed her almost the whole time. I also noticed that she seemed oblivious to it.

So what if it’s not the type of date you see in rom-coms? He called it a date. Which makes it the first date with a guy who’s not using me to further his career. Or a guy my mom thinks would help my career.

My first real date. Ever.

Lauren looks up when I walk in from where she sits with a book in her lap on our super comfy cream couch. “Hey. How was practicing?”

I drop my keys on the accent table that stands by the door. “Good. I got a lot done.”

She closes her book and sets it on the couch next to her. “Is Dr. Gomez still griping about your technique?” She’s been making an effort to get to know me, asking me about classes and lessons since the semester started a few weeks ago.

“Yeah. But I’ve been assured that he always picks someone to be his worst student out of the new freshmen. I guess it’s me. He does say I have a good sense of musicality, though, so I might be able to salvage something.” I set my pile of music and papers on the coffee table and plop down into the matching overstuffed chair. Lauren thought I was ridiculous for splurging on the sofa, loveseat, and chair set, but I think it makes our house welcoming and homey. Since I’ve lived almost half my life in hotels and tour buses, I wanted nice, comfortable furniture. I also bought an expensive mattress and a gorgeous dresser that’s all clean lines and dark wood. I know it goes against the poor college student persona I’m supposed to portray to help me keep a low profile, but I figure we can tell people that my parents helped. Or I inherited a bunch of money from a dead aunt. Or something. That is, if anyone even asks.

Lauren’s friends seemed pleasantly surprised by our furniture and decor choices, but no one said anything. At least not to me. She can tell them whatever she wants, as long as it’s not the truth. And even though we don’t know each other all that well yet, I trust her not to out me.

“Are you struggling with something you’re working on?”

I lift my eyes to Lauren. She’s ready for bed—her face scrubbed free of makeup, her auburn hair pulled back in a messy bun, and wearing lounge pants and a tank top. “Not really. Why?”

She surveys me with her sharp hazel eyes. “You were staring at your music like you wanted to murder it.”

“Oh.” I let out a soft chuckle. “No. The music is fine. I mean, it’s more challenging than what I normally play, but I’m enjoying that part, even if Dr. Gomez thinks I have the technique of a fourth grader. He doesn’t call me a whore for not having proper wrist position or anything, so I can deal with that.”

Lauren’s head cocks to the side at that, and her mouth opens and closes like she doesn’t know how to respond to that. “Did someone call you a whore?”

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