Chapter 9 Julian #2
He nods and goes back to the couch where he reaches for the remote and turns on the television with the view of the stage. His profile in the soft light of the dressing room is a study in patience, waiting for the scraps of attention I parcel out like precious resources.
I straighten my cuffs, inhale slowly, letting my thoughts of Portia fall away and step fully into myself.
The version that survives. The one who performs. My fingers flex instinctively, warming up for the keys that await me.
The ritual of preparation grounds me, even as anxiety thrums beneath my skin.
My set passes in fragments. The piano steadies me the way it always does, fingers moving with practiced precision, the music grounding me even as my thoughts drift toward what’s waiting backstage.
I don’t look for Malik. I know he’s there but I don’t look toward the wings anymore.
I refuse to acknowledge him. The stage lights create a welcome barrier between me and the audience, allowing me to sink into the familiar sanctuary of music, where nothing exists but notes and rhythm and the perfect mathematical precision of sound.
When my portion of the set ends, I don’t linger.
I move quickly, ducking back through the curtains and straight to my dressing room.
The backstage area buzzes with technicians and crew, but I keep my eyes forward, avoiding unnecessary interaction.
Each step takes me closer to the confrontation I’ve been dreading.
Portia is standing, eyes glued to the monitor, leaning against the counter when I arrive. His posture is attentive, absorbed in watching what’s happening onstage, Malik’s performance, no doubt.
“Hey, baby,” he says gently. “You were incredible.” His words are genuine, filled with an admiration that makes me uncomfortable simply because I know I don’t fully reciprocate what he feels.
I nod, reaching for his hand, needing the physical reminder that I’m here, that I’m real.
I pull him into me, wrapping my arms around his body.
I want to lose myself in him, but how fair am I being now that I know what I know.
His warmth against me is a temporary shelter from the storm I can feel building outside these walls.
I wish I could take him and leave the venue entirely.
Just disappear into the Chicago night, find some anonymous hotel room where we could pretend the rest of the world doesn’t exist. I wouldn’t dare, because I know what’s coming.
My parents will expect to see me. There’s no slipping out quietly tonight, no vanishing act.
So instead, I pace. The walls seem too close, the air too thick.
Malik’s set bleeds through the speakers as he moves from song to song, each note an unwanted reminder of proximity.
His voice fills the room, that distinctive timbre that once meant safety and now signals danger.
The irony doesn’t escape me, trapped in my dressing room while his music surrounds me, inescapable.
I know his setlist and I know how it ends.
When the opening notes of Apology filter through the speakers, my body goes still. Even with Portia’s hand in mine as I join him on the couch, I’m stiff waiting for the words. The familiar introduction sends a current of tension through my spine, making each muscle tighten in anticipation.
I took what wasn’t mine to take
I wore your silence like a crown
I learned too late that love can break
When one man rises and one stays down.
My jaw tightens, he couldn’t be more obvious. The words land like perfectly aimed darts, each one finding its mark with devastating accuracy. His confession laid bare for thousands to witness, while I sit here in silent fury.
I won’t ask you to forgive
I won’t ask you to forget
I’ll stand here bleeding if it means
You know I carry the regret
This is my apology baby
I laugh once, sharp and humorless. Portia side eyes me but doesn’t question my outburst, turning his head back to the screen. The bitter sound escapes before I can contain it, a crack in the carefully maintained facade.
Of course he turned what happened between us into a song. Of course, he thinks remorse sounds better with a melody. His public penance, served up with a rhythm section and that voice that makes everyone forgive him. Everyone but me.
The applause is thunderous when it ends. He even plays an encore, one of his crowd pleasers. I can picture him perfectly, basking in adoration, sweat glistening on his skin, saxophone hanging from his neck. The image burns behind my eyelids.
Before I can make my way to the door and meet my parents in the hallway like I planned.
There’s a knock at my door and I look back at Portia, eyes wide with fear.
I’ll admit it here and now, but he just smiles encouragingly at me.
That smile, so genuine, so undeserved, makes my chest ache with a complicated mixture of gratitude and shame.
The knock comes again, firmer this time.
More insistent. The sound reverberates through the small room, making my pulse quicken.
I open it knowing my mother will call out my name next and I don’t want to draw too much attention our way.
Better to control this confrontation than have it forced upon me in an even more public manner.
The hallway is chaos, crew and security and movement in every direction, but it parts when my mother steps forward. The crowd seems to instinctively make space for her commanding presence.
She’s dressed immaculately in her designer winter coat.
Her posture is perfect, like the queen she presents herself to be.
Not a hair out of place, her makeup flawless, her jewelry subtle but expensive.
My father beside her, composed and assessing, his gaze taking inventory of my appearance, measuring it against his expectations.
Cy hovering just behind them, eyes wide, in a grey pinstripe suit I know my mother forced him to wear.
His expression holds a silent apology, a wordless communication between brothers.
Then Malik is there, exiting the stage with a swarm of people beside him.
His black button down is open, exposing bare chest slick with sweat.
His saxophone strap still looped around his neck like an afterthought.
He is talking to his assistant unaware of my family.
His presence is magnetic, drawing attention effortlessly, the exact opposite of my careful restraint.
My mother’s gaze flicks in his direction.
I’m sure she is wondering why I haven’t acknowledged them yet.
She sees him then turns her attention back to me.
Then she frowns, looking over my shoulder and I know, I know this is not going to end well.
She’s spotted Portia and I’m damn sure she’s already weighed and measured him.
Her eyes narrow almost imperceptibly as she takes him in.
I know what she sees, the soft curves of his body, the makeup, the feminine presentation.
The blouse, the glitter, and the confidence.
His name will be a dead giveaway. The judgment in her expression is subtle but unmistakable to me, who has spent a lifetime learning to read the nuances of her disapproval.
“Julian,” she says smoothly. “We didn’t know you’d have company.” The emphasis on the last word carries volumes of meaning, none of it accepting.
I open my mouth—
“Well, if it isn’t my favorite family. The Reeds.
Wow, Cyaire all grown up.” He shouts from a few steps away from us.
He takes in the scene, shaking my dad’s hand and patting Cy on the back.
His easy charm activated automatically with the social grace that always made him beloved by everyone.
“Oh,” Malik says easily, stepping forward. “This is Portia. He works on our team.”
Something inside me snaps. I don’t know why this moment is my last straw, but it is. The presumption, the casual lie, the way he steps in to manage my life, it’s too much. Years of careful restraint fracture at once.
“Don’t.”
The word cuts clean through the hallway. Sharp and final. The conversations around us falter, attention shifting toward the unexpected tension.
Malik freezes. “Julian—” His expression shifts, confusion and concern replacing his easy smile.
“No.” I turn on him fully now, fury breaking containment. “You do not get to speak for me.” Each word is precise, deliberately controlled despite the rage bubbling beneath them.
My mother inhales sharply, “Julian Miles Reed!” The full name, her warning system, deployed since my childhood. Her eyes dart around, acutely aware of the attention we’re drawing.
Cy steps forward. “Jules—” His voice is gentle, placating, trying to defuse what he can already see exploding.
“I’m a grown-assed man the last time I checked.
I can have whoever I want in my dressing room.
I don’t need approval or judgment,” I snap.
“You think you get to step in and manage me?” I say looking directly at Malik.
I can feel Portia’s hand wrap around my bicep, squeezing it in warning.
His touch is gentle but urgent, trying to pull me back from the edge I’m rapidly approaching.
“I was just trying to help—” Malik’s eyes widen, hands raised slightly in surrender. For once, his usual confidence seems shaken.
“Stay out of it!” I shout. The words echo down the corridor, bouncing off walls and returning to me like accusations.
I don’t need to look around to know the phones are already out. Whispers ripple outward. The unmistakable sound of camera shutters clicking fills the sudden silence. This moment, my loss of control being documented from every angle, ready to be dissected by strangers online.
My mother’s gaze sharpens, taking in everything at once.
The calculating look that measures the potential damage to our carefully cultivated image.
My father frowns, his lips turned down in disapproval.
The silent judgment more damning than any words could be.
Cyaire’s eyes are wide, pleading with me to calm down.
His tall frame seems to sag slightly, as if physically feeling the weight of what’s happening.
I know, I know that whatever happens next will not stay contained in this hallway. It will spread outward, beyond these walls, beyond my control. The carefully constructed boundaries between my public and private selves are collapsing, and I can’t stop it.
This isn’t survivable. I’m fucking tired of just hanging on. I’m tired of barely breathing. The exhaustion of constant vigilance, of perpetual performance, crashes over me like a wave, leaving nothing but raw truth in its wake.
This is the moment where everything converges, and it’s about to explode. Years of careful silence, of measured steps, of calculated distance, all of it rendered meaningless in this hallway with too many witnesses and not enough escape routes.