Chapter Thirty-Six
Divisi:divided; in a section where several musicians typically play the same notes, they are split to play the simultaneously written notes among themselves
Charlie
Time.
Damian needs time.
That word, that phrase, echoes through my head the entire way back to my place in Los Angeles.
The strong sense of déjà vu won’t leave me alone. Us talking in a hotel room after getting outed in the media. Him asking for time. Me packing and leaving.
I packed before he asked for time this go-around, and I don’t think he’s mad at me, but otherwise it’s a repeat of Jonathan and Gabby’s wedding.
This time, however, I’m determined to give him what he asks for. So I don’t text him when I get home. I don’t call that night. Or the next. Or the one after that.
And he doesn’t call me.
If his request for time felt like an icy knife in the gut, the lack of contact is a burning ball of pain in my chest.
At first I continue going through my schedule like normal—working out with my trainer in the mornings five days a week, meeting with The Professor in the studio in the afternoon, working on new stuff to bring to him when I get home at night. Natalie is by my side most of the time, keeping me updated on chatter about me on social media.
Naturally, everyone is curious about Damian.
I contacted his parents and set up a small security detail for them at their house. They said Damian didn’t want me to do the same for the house he shares with Zeke and Jason. That’s the only thing I’ve heard from him since I left Boise. Second-hand information from his parents. Elisa said he’s been staying with them. When I found that out, I asked the security company to add extra people to their team.
Natalie also fills me in on their daily reports. The paparazzi haven’t been as relentless with him as they were with Gabby after Jonathan’s video went viral, launching him back into the spotlight. Probably because I’m not living in the same house. After the initial flurry of research and activity, they seem to be leaving him alone for the most part.
My building, on the other hand, has been mobbed. I’ve had to increase my own security, and I don’t know how I’m going to pull off any more pop-up shows with all this going on.
After a few days, though, the stress, the uncertainty, starts to take a toll. The Professor snaps his fingers, drawing my attention from where I’ve been staring into space at the wall of his studio.
“Where are you, Charlie? I just played a track for you to see if you think it’d go well with what you’re writing, and I don’t think you even heard it.”
I blink, coming back to myself and shaking my head. “I’m sorry. You’re right. I wasn’t …” I shake my head again and rub my eyes. “It’s been a rough few days. I’m having trouble focusing. Maybe we should just call it a day?”
His eyebrows climb his forehead behind his horn-rimmed glasses, almost meeting his thick gray hair. He glances at his computer monitor. “You’ve only been here for thirty minutes. You want to quit already? I thought we were going to plot the direction of the next song and lay down some vocals for the one we finished last week.”
I nod. “Yeah. I know.” With a sigh, I stare off into space again.
When The Professor speaks, his voice is gentle. “I saw your pictures. But I haven’t heard you speak about your young man. Is he …?”
Closing my eyes, I fight to keep the tears from leaking out. I haven’t cried about this. What’s there to cry about? We haven’t broken up. That’s impossible, since we haven’t really been together since I was at Marycliff.
But the sincere and caring way he can’t quite bring himself to finish his question has all the emotions I’ve been cramming down trying to leak out my eyes.
His hand pats my shoulder, causing me to open my eyes and meet his warm brown ones. “You’ll make it through whatever this is.” He sits back in his chair, making a large circular motion with his hand in my direction. “All of this. All these feelings. Put them in your next song. If you need to go home to do that, then yes, let’s call it a day. I have a new intern to meet with. We might actually be able to use him on some of your songs. He’s very good.”
Resisting the urge to wipe my eyes, I give the best smile I can muster and stand. “Thank you. I think, yeah, I’ll do that. Go home. Write. Pour it all into a new song. Or songs. We’ll see what happens.”
He gives me a genuine grin. “Great. I look forward to hearing what you come up with. The songs you write from deep emotion are the ones I love the most. That makes them the most likely to become hits, too.” He waggles his eyebrows, provoking a real smile from me, rather than the polite facsimile I gave him a moment ago.
Waving me off, he gives me an avuncular wink. “Go. Write. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
On the way back to my place I’m scribbling furiously in a notebook as Tony navigates LA traffic. I don’t even notice how long it takes. It could be anywhere from five minutes to an hour for all the attention I’m paying, lost in the place where words and music collide in my head, humming to myself while jotting down phrases that encapsulate the way I feel right now.
Lost in an ocean of uncertainty.