Page 65 of Counterpoint and Harmony

Running scared.

Learning to live without him.

That last one gives me pause, my breath catching in my chest. And I hurry to scribble down those sensations as well. I don’t know where or if they’ll fit into lyrics somewhere, but if I have every thought, every feeling, written down, it’ll be easier to work it in later when I have more distance.

Distance.

There’s another one. That might be a good title for a song, actually.

“We’re here, Miss James.”

Tony’s voice cuts through the noise in my head, and I blink at him in the rearview mirror for a second before what he says registers. We’re in the parking garage below my building.

“Oh. Of course. Thanks, Tony.”

He gives me a nod and climbs out of the car. As usual, I wait for him to open my door for me, giving him the chance to clear the area before I exit the car and take the elevator to my apartment, humming quietly the whole way up. My fingers itch for the keys of my piano, ready to start matching the lyric ideas I’ve written down to chord progressions and melodic snippets.

I don’t have the ability that Jonathan does to start with a melody or some words and fit them all together into musical perfection. My contributions are more like musical puzzle pieces. But I give them to The Professor, and he takes them and, with the help of his team of top liners and beat makers, fits them together into something amazing. It’s a good partnership. I get to contribute and sing about things I care about, but I still get hits to keep the label and my fans happy and coming back for more.

All thoughts of writing and composing screech to a halt when I see my mother waiting for me in my living room. I stop short at the sight of her, frozen in the doorway.

She rises from her place on the couch across from my baby grand, dressed impeccably as ever in a pale pink slim-fitting sheath dress and nude heels, her sandy blond hair styled perfectly in graceful waves, her makeup flawless. Her lips curve in what she intends to be a smile but looks more like a grimace. “Charlotte. You’re home.”

“What are you doing here?”

All pretense of smiling falls away, and she crosses her slim arms over her chest as she surveys me. She flicks her fingers at me. “What are you wearing?”

Without thinking, I look down at my outfit. Nothing fancy—dark skinny jeans, an oversized tee, ballet flats. My usual attire for going to the studio or working at home. But I realize I’m reacting the way I always have, that she’s put me on the defensive already, which is not where I want to be where my mother is concerned. “Clothes.” Even though it’s on the tip of my tongue to ask her the same question, I don’t. “Am I to take it that you dropped by to criticize my wardrobe?”

She sighs, her favorite put-upon vocalization. I fight against the urge to roll my eyes, instead keeping my gaze steady on her. It’s like with a wild animal. If I look away, appear to give in or submit in any way, she’ll go for the jugular.

Another sigh, and she waves her hand at me. “You haven’t lost your freshman fifteen either.”

That has me grinding my teeth together. Because the reality is that I’ve lost several pounds and slimmed down even more thanks to working out five days a week with a trainer. The difference is that I’m doing more strength training and building muscle. I’m not on a starvation diet or doing long cardio sessions interspersed with HIIT workouts like my mom had me doing to keep me in the smallest size I could manage without looking anorexic.

But there’s no point arguing with her. I refuse to defend myself. I’m healthy and happy with my body, and that matters to me far more than her opinion.

Lifting my chin, I cross my arms, my pen and notebook still clutched in one hand. “No. I haven’t.” We stand there staring at each other for several moments, the silence deafening.

Finally, I shake my head, moving past her to get to the piano. “Well, as fun as this is, I have work to do. I trust you’ll see yourself out since you feel free to come and go in my home as you please.”

Sitting down at the piano, I set my notebook on the music stand and lift the keyboard cover. For something to do more than out of necessity, I start playing a C major scale.

Mom’s hand smacks the lacquered wood of the piano, making me jump. “Don’t you turn your back on me,” she hisses, spittle flying out of her mouth.

I lift my hands from the keyboard slowly and turn to face her. With a deep breath, I force myself to keep my voice calm and controlled. “Mother. I have work to do. I am in the middle of writing an album.”

“What the hell are you doing wasting your time with writing? We had your career perfectly positioned. You had the best hit makers writing for you, shopping songs to you every time they wrote something they thought would do well, writing songs specificallyfor you.Do you know how many other girls would kill to be in your position?”

I scoff. “Please. Yeah, I’m sure there are tons of wannabe starlets dying for a chance, willing to do anything to get a record deal and a tour. But we both know that none of them know what this life is really like. And none of them would have anything resembling my life. Even the other artists I meet at the big festival concerts talk about taking breaks and time off. Because everyone knows that constant touring is grueling and if you don’t take time for yourself every once in a while, you don’t last. You can’t. You burn out and go crazy.”

“You need a continuity of hits. That’s what we’ve said from the beginning. There isn’t time for you to write your own album. Especially now with your insistence on taking a break, taking time to find out what you want.”

Slapping my own hand on the piano, I stand. “I don’t need time to find out what I want anymore. I already know.”

Crossing her arms again, she takes a step back. “Please. You think I don’t know? I saw those pictures of you and that boy. Again. I thought you cut ties with him after you left that little school you insisted on going to. That was the whole, ‘we were just friends’ press release back in December.” She lifts her fingers to make air quotes, her voice mocking. “And now, here you are again months later, making a spectacle of yourself. And for what? Some nobody?”

“He’s not a nobody,” I grit out.

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