Page 67 of Counterpoint and Harmony

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Homophony:a musical texture with one voice for melody accompanied by chords

Damian

Exhaustion drags at me as I slide the key into the door of my house. I’ve been staying with my parents, but even there with the security detail that Charlie arranged, I can’t escape the relentless questions, the assumptions and accusations. Even professors have asked point-blank if I had her come as some kind of stunt to get more attention.

And once again everyone is asking me if I can get them tickets to a show, get an autograph, get her to come back to Marycliff for any reason at all—to come to their recital, to put on a performance here, to just hang out and let them be seen with her, basically.

My parents aren’t any better, though their questions are different. They know Charlie. They know me. They know I’m not a publicity seeker using her for her influence. But they won’t stop asking how I’m doing, how she’s doing, if we’ve spoken, what I plan on doing.

I don’t have any answers to those questions. I’ve left my phone on except when I’m practicing or in class, despite the constant messages, notifications, and phone calls from reporters because I keep hoping Charlie will call. Or text. Or tag me on Facebook. Or tweet at me.Something.Instead, all I’ve gotten is radio silence.

So escaping all of that, maybe turning off my phone for a while—because it’s not like Charlie’s going to call anyway—clearing my head and organizing my thoughts is just what I need. And why coming back here, to the house I share with Zeke and Jason, is like finding refuge.

It was actually Jason who told me that I should come back. Even though he and Zeke were giving me shit as much as anyone when the story first broke, they picked up on the fact that it was pissing me off quicker than most. Probably because they know me better than anyone else here.

Jason caught me at the end of Music History today and said, “Hey, man. Zeke and I both have plans tonight. I know you’ve been having a rough time. Go home. Hang out by yourself for a while. You’ll feel better.”

Which was weird coming from him, but he’s right, so why argue?

Pushing the door open, I flick on the light and freeze.

Directly across from me, Charlie sits on the end of the couch. Her eyes meet mine, challenging and cool, her chin lifted like she’s waiting for … something.

My throat works convulsively, because holy hell. A riot of emotions pour through me—shock, happiness, anger, lust … love. When I said I was hoping for something, this wasn’t what I was expecting.

Neither of us say anything for a long moment, engaged in a surreal staring contest. The wind picking up and slamming the front door against the wall breaks the moment, making me realize that I never closed the door behind me.

Clearing my throat, I tear my eyes from hers and close the door, keeping my hand pressed against it while I take a deep breath, trying to get control of my reaction to her. I don’t know why she’s here. For all I know, she’s pissed that I said I wanted some time to think about things and is here to break up with me for good. The fact that she hasn’t called or texted or sent smoke signals doesn’t seem to be a positive sign.

The last time she showed up out of nowhere … she had Lauren bring me to her hotel room, and we ended up making out and falling asleep together in her bed. It was the next step toward reestablishing our relationship after we started talking again. Which ignites a tiny spark of hope in my chest, but I wrap it up, keeping it small, not letting it burst into flame. I can’t afford to get burned by the hot and fierce blaze of hope that turns to ash when it doesn’t have anything to keep it going.

This time is already different. Then she framed it as a surprise she hoped I’d like. Now she’s staring me down, like she’s ready for a confrontation. Swallowing a sigh and closing my eyes, I carefully snuff out the spark of hope. There’s no way this is going to end in my favor.

And I shouldn’t be surprised.

I knew when I got involved with her again that there was no way it could work long-term. I guess it was fun while it lasted.

Turning to face her, I’m surprised again to find her standing, her arms crossed, the challenge drained from her face, but her expression still carefully detached.

The Charlotte James face.

I clear my throat again, wanting to make sure it comes out right when I speak. Because even though breaking the silence first feels like giving in, the fact is that I’ve already surrendered. Fighting the inevitable is useless.

“Hey, Charlie. How’s it going?”

She blinks, rocking back on her heels. She’s dressed casually—skinny jeans, a T-shirt that I know is soft as a cloud, and purple ballet flats. It’s a lot like what she used to wear to classes. But I’m pretty sure everything is a designer brand. My fingers twitch at my sides, and I ball my hands into fists to keep myself from reaching for her. Having her here, in my space, makes me want to hold her. Kiss her. See if I can melt that closed expression from her face.

The flicker of surprise at my greeting is quickly masked. “Hey, Damian. It’s …” She looks away, a tell that she’s in some kind of emotional turmoil.

Unable to stop myself, I step closer and reach for her, my hand sliding up her bare arm. “Hey. What’s wrong?”

When her eyes meet mine again, they’re filmed with tears, and she launches herself at my chest. My arms come around her automatically, and when I feel her clinging to me, I rub her back, tightening my hold. “Hey.” I drop a kiss on her head. “It’s alright, Charlie. You know you’re safe here.”

Her shoulders shudder against me as she sucks in a breath. All too soon, she’s pushing away, carefully wiping under her eyes with her fingers, sniffing and taking a deep breath, regaining control.

It’s amazing, really, the iron fist that she uses to keep her emotions in check. She steps out of my arms and gives me a small smile. “Sorry. That wasn’t … I didn’t mean to do that. You must think I’m crazy.”

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