Page 24 of Counterpoint and Harmony

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?”

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