Page 25 of Counterpoint and Harmony

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 my 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?”

She chuckles and shakes her head. “No. Once I started screaming, they hustled him off. Not before he got plenty of pictures though.” She covers her face with her hands. “God, TNZ ran with those photos for months. Every time my name came up for any reason, they’d show those again and again. It was some big joke to them. They’re the ones who still like to drag them out every so often. A few other places do too, but they’re the worst.”

I grunt, not sure what to say, not wanting her to stop telling me her story. So many things that she’s said before make more sense now. About her mom. About why she would shut down every time I asked about her family or her life before coming to Marycliff. Some part of me still worries that if I say too much or push too hard, she’ll shut me out like she always used to.

But her story spills out of her. All of it. The grueling lifestyle. Constant travel. Constant performances. The hundreds of fans she’d meet before and after every show, keeping a smile on her face through all of it and never letting on how exhausted she was, even if she’d only slept a few hours. The constant dieting, the high intensity workouts multiple times a day when she wasn’t on the road or in the air. Even sometimes when she was. The loneliness.

How she’d beg for a break and get a few days, a week, never enough time to actually recover and feel refreshed. How her mom would bully her into working again before she was ready, agreeing to shows or interviews or meetings with producers to record a new single. Adding performances and tour stops without asking.

“There are great parts, too,” she says when she sees me clenching my jaw after telling me about her mom’s iron-fisted control over her diet, forcing her into juice fasts before photo shoots, starving her before awards shows.

“Oh yeah?” I manage. “What are those?”

She cocks her head to the side, adjusting her position on the couch, and now her thigh is pressing against my leg from knee to shin. “Even though meeting so many fans at once on tour does get tiring, it’s cool to meet people who are so excited about me. They tell me their aspirations, how I inspire them, or how one of my songs got them through a tough time.”

“Yeah, okay. I can see how that would be cool.” She grins at me, her leg still pressed against mine. I’m hyper aware of her, of her movements, of any part of her that’s touching any part of me, thrilling at her closeness while at the same time wondering if coming here was the worst mistake I’ve made in a long time.

I’m supposed to be trying to get over her, after all. But I can’t resist her. Having her in my life again, in any capacity, is better than not having her at all. At the very least, now that I’ve established contact, I can’t bring myself to break it off again.

“It is. And performing is amazing.”

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