15. On The Grind #2
Her grin widened. "Come on, Cam. You can tell me." She leaned in like we were swapping secrets at a sleepover. What, were we going to start braiding each other's hair or something?
Skye raised an eyebrow. "Did y'all get into it? And I mean into it. Hair, nails, the whole thing?"
The question hit wrong. Too direct, too hungry. "Why would you think that?"
"Y'all both get all…" She gestured vaguely. "Intense. Like it's more than music business beef, you know?"
I felt a prickle of unease. Why was she pushing this? "There's nothing to tell."
I'm trying not to be weird about it, but I just don't want to talk about Romi with my ex. Especially when said ex is friends with her opps. Icky all around.
Skye's expression shifted, something clicking into place behind her eyes. "Interesting. You're more protective of her than I'd expect for someone you can't stand."
"This the part where I remind you none of this is your business, right? Consider yourself reminded."
"What about that feature request everyone's talking about? Is it true she turned you down?"
I narrowed my eyes at her. That detail hadn't been public, and I didn't remember telling her about it, either. "Funny how a thing nobody said out loud is suddenly 'everyone's talking about.' Where'd you hear that?"
"Please. Somebody brought it up, I shut it down. Said there's no way you'd ask, and even if you did, we all know the Queen doesn't share a mic." A shrug. "Defending your honor, basically."
The water break ended before I could figure out why that felt like a lie.
I ducked into the bathroom to do a quick splash-and-pat, swapped my crop for a clean tank, and tried to calm my face in the mirror. My hair was a sweaty mess. I finger-brushed it as best I could, winced at my reflection, and decided it was fine. Maybe not good, but fine.
Walking back toward Studio B, I couldn't shake Skye's questions. Why had she been fishing so hard about Romi? And where the hell had she heard about the feature request? The whole conversation felt off, like she was mining for something specific.
In the hall, things had picked up more. Two grips wheeled past with a rolling PA that looked big enough it could flatten a Mini Cooper.
Still turning it over in my head, I cut toward the craft services table for water, dodging a team of hair and makeup girls shepherding a talent through with a battery of curling irons and four crates of product.
My throat was dry from the practice and the air itself, which seemed to be ninety percent recycled ego.
I drained half the bottle, leaned back, and let the cold radiate through my chest.
Lost in thought about Skye's weird behavior, I didn't see her coming around the corner. We nearly collided—would have if she hadn't stopped short.
Romi. Not a mirage, not a ghost, but the real deal, standing two feet away.
She wore a white tank and black leggings, her braids pulled back and twisted into a high bun.
No makeup, she looked younger. Softer. Like another chick on the block that would've gotten me all hemmed up real quick.
It took me way off my guard, left me looking dumb. Blinked like a whole fool.
I almost yielded the aisle, pretending we'd never connected. But I knew that would come off as being rude on purpose. So I did the one thing more foolish than running: I said, "Hey."
It was a soft "hey," totally casual, but I heard the warble in my voice and bit back a cringe. Romi pivoted enough to be polite and replied, "Hey."
Silence crashed in. The whole hallway held its breath.
She didn't stop moving. Romi slowed, met my eyes long enough to be civil, then turned away.
I tried again. "Uh—look, I don't want to make this weird."
She stopped, exhaled. "I don't either."
Another sharp pause. She glanced over her shoulder, then back at me. "I saw the rehearsal schedule. Looks like we're both in the group call."
My stomach sank. There was so much I almost said.
The Billboard interview, what she'd called me, the only real threat.
The balcony. Whether she'd even read my last message before she blocked me out of her life like I was nothing.
It was all right there, crowding up behind my teeth. None of it made it past them.
"Yeah, well."
"We don't have to do this, Cam," she continued.
Her meaning was clear: the manufactured beef, the public spectacle. I wanted to say, Sure, let's be professionals. Yet I also wanted to punch through the wall she'd raised right in front of my face again.
"I know," I managed. "It's just…you know. Everyone's watching, and—"
She cut me off, clipped but not mean. "That's their job. Ours is to get it right."
I nodded and immediately undermined myself. "If you want, I can stay out of your way during rehearsals—"
She interrupted again, voice softer now. "There you go again, making it awkward as fuck. You don't have to do all that, Cam. It's not like I own the studio."
It was so normal, so simple, it threw me. I blinked. "Okay. Cool."
She nodded back. "Cool."
A door banged down the hall, and my choreographer popped out, waving me on. I stole one last look. She was already melting into the hall, phone in hand, thumb flying. Then she was gone.
I returned to the studio gripping the water bottle so tight it crumpled.
The mirrors were full of bodies and the energy was dialed up.
The burn of embarrassment heated my cheeks along with other shit I couldn't name.
I'd meant those bars when I wrote them, I didn't anymore, and there was no version of that I could say without sounding like I was just covering my ass.
Yet here I was, straight up prowling around her like a lovesick wolf, waiting for table scraps. Crashing all the way out because she said "hey" and kept moving. This wasn't me. I don't chase nobody, especially not someone who blocked me without a second thought.
With anybody else this was the part where it turned into a war.
Somebody swung, somebody got swung on harder, and at least then you knew where you stood.
Hell, that was us two weeks ago, arguing on a rooftop.
Now she was just handing me calm and space I didn't know what the fuck to do with.
Why was I this pressed to explain myself? Why did I need her to believe me?
And why—out of everyone—did her opinion matter most? Maybe I was making this bigger than it was. Maybe it was all guilt, or ego, or just me not wanting her to hate me. But the empty space she left gnawed at me anyway, and I hated that I couldn't shake it.
Skye caught my eye from across the mat. I gave her a thumbs-up. A whole lie.