Chapter 3 #2
I almost spread my legs for him and offered up my most sacred secret. Thank God I surprised him that night at his place and interrupted him in bed with another woman. She was one of at least three in his rotation. It woke me up to reality.
I never gave him grief about it. What was the point?
We weren’t official. We hadn’t made any promises.
And honestly, part of me was relieved because what if I’d gone through with it?
What if everything I’d been waiting for, everything my mom told me to wait for was…
this? A constantly baked, self-important dimwit of a man who thinks the phrase “that sucks” is empathy.
No. The grass has to be greener somewhere else. Disney and Hallmark have to be pulling story ideas from some sort of real experience, right?
Grayson and I should’ve had a clean break but then the photos surfaced.
Grayson and Charlie, America’s hottest new couple.
It was overinflated celebrity gossip nonsense, but suddenly my ticket sales exploded.
People who hadn’t thought about me in years were buying albums, streaming songs, following my every move.
It helped his career too—gave him a softer image, made him seem like boyfriend material instead of the Hollywood dickwad everyone suspected he was… because he is.
I made a deal with the devil. Or Sage did, anyway.
Our oh-so-loving relationship is mapped up in a stack of paperwork as thick as my fist. A PR relationship, carefully staged and managed, lasting until the end of my world tour.
We’d be seen together at events, post the occasional Instagram story, sell the fantasy of Barbie and Ken to a world desperate to believe in something perfect and beautiful.
It was a savvy business move, and I figured fake-loved would feel better than being real-alone.
Now I’m not so sure.
Me
Hey. How’s the press tour going?
I watch the three dots appear almost immediately. At least he’s responsive when it’s convenient for him.
Grayson
Crazy busy. Back-to-back interviews all day. Did a late-night appearance last night. You see it?
Me
No, I’m sorry. I was asleep. How did it go?
Grayson
Killed it. Had ’em eating out of the palm of my hand. The host asked about you actually. Played the concerned boyfriend card. You’re welcome.
Me
Thanks.
Grayson
No prob. Hey I gotta run, car’s here. Talk later?
Me
Sure.
He doesn’t ask how I’m doing. Doesn’t mention the collapse, the canceled shows, the fact that I’m alone in a hotel room trying not to drown. Just talk later, which we both know means talk never unless the cameras are watching.
I set the phone down and stare at the ceiling.
Maybe this is why I feel so hollow. I’ve been living my life through old memories of love—my mother’s paper hearts, the fantasy of what Grayson could have been—instead of making new ones.
I’m a full-fledged adult and I’ve never really been loved.
Not romantically. Not in a way that felt real and present and mine.
I’m starting to wonder if I ever will be.
When my phone rings again, I almost don’t answer. But then I see the name on the screen—Dad—and something in my chest loosens just a little.
“Hey, sweetheart.” Nate’s voice is warm, familiar, the auditory equivalent of a warm hug. “How are you holding up?”
“I’m okay.” The lie comes automatically. “Just resting.”
“Mmm.” He doesn’t sound convinced. “Spencer called me this morning. She wanted to fly out, but I told her to wait until you asked. Didn’t want to overwhelm you.”
“Thank you.” I mean it. I love my big sister, but the thought of her hovering right now, watching me with those worried eyes, makes me want to crawl under the covers and never come out.
“She FaceTimed me this morning. The boys made you a card,” Dad continues.
“Eli drew what I think is supposed to be you on stage, but it looks more like a yellow octopus. Remy scribbled blue in the corner because he knows it’s your favorite color.
He said it’s asshat art, but I think he meant abstract art. ”
Wrong. My favorite color is orange. But I laugh—a real laugh, the first one in days. “Tell them you showed me and that I love it.”
“I’ll do better than that. I’ll bring it when I see you.”
“Looking forward to it.” The momentary reprieve of talking to one of my favorite people in the world dissipates and the heavy sullenness returns.
He lets the silence breathe, waiting for me to offer something, but when I don’t he continues. “I’m calling with good news, by the way.”
“Oh yeah?” God, he better not bring up the stock market. No one cares when a billionaire gets even richer.
I can hear the smile in his voice. “We found your box, Charlie.”
I gasp like the message hit me with a physical force. I sit up straighter, my heart pounding deliciously hard. “What?”
“You left it in the dressing room in Vegas. First night of the tour. You must’ve forgot to pack it back up.”
Oh. Of course. I was so tired after that set I could barely stand. I grabbed my phone and nothing else.
“Who found it?” I ask, not that I really care. It’s found. That’s all that matters.
“Housekeeping, I believe. When they did the deep clean of the dressing room. They didn’t know what it was but they had the good sense to call my assistant. It’s already on the way to you. It’ll be there tonight. I wanted to surprise you but—”
“You suck at surprises.” I smile so big that my cheeks ache. I’ve been Nate’s daughter since I was eleven years old. Never once did I get a gift from Dad on my actual birthday. Always a few days early when he was bursting at the seams. He was way too excited to hand me the world.
“Yeah, well. I wanted to cheer you up, kid. You have me worried.”
“Dad…” My voice cracks. The salty-tear reservoirs have now replenished. But the fat droplets racing down my cheeks are from relief, pure and overwhelming. “I thought it was gone. I thought I’d lost her forever.”
“Charlie, your mom is in your heart. Not just scribbled across notes. You’ll never lose her.”
I know he gets it. Maybe it’s why we bonded so fast. Nate has trauma too from losing the most important person in his life. He understands what it means to have his heart turn cold. But he found a reason to come back alive—my sister, Spencer.
Where’s my reason? Who’s coming to save me?
I feel guilty asking these questions. I’m loved, so why don’t I feel it?
I’m successful, but why doesn’t success feel powerful?
I’m talking to my dad, but how come…the title feels a little different now?
I feel the guilt twist in my stomach like a knife because Nate is the best father I could have ever prayed for.
He chose me. He raised me. He loved me without condition or hesitation.
He was the only dad I knew until three months ago when I found out he wasn’t the only father who wanted me. Who loved me.
Now Nate shares the title “Dad” with a man named Liam who begged my mother to let him be part of my life. And she refused.
I think about the contents of that box. All those little love notes, all that encouragement and warmth. Written by a woman who looked me in the eyes my entire childhood and lied about where I came from.
“Charlie? You still there?”
“Yeah.” I wipe my face, pulling myself together. “Sorry. I’m just…thank you, Dad. Thank you so much.”
“I’m having it couriered, should arrive in a few hours. I wanted to check on you and bring it myself, but I’m still in Singapore with your grandfather—this development deal is taking longer than expected.”
“It’s okay. I understand.”
“I’ll be back by next week. Maybe in time for your next show? Do you want me there?”
“Of course I do,” I breathe out. “Right by me in the tents.”
“You got it, sweetheart. I’ll be there.”
We talk for a few more minutes—about the deal, about the boys, about Spencer’s new obsession with some true-crime show, and our shared annoyance that Claire made us wait so long to find out the gender of the baby. By the time we hang up, I feel almost human again. Almost.
I call down to the front desk.
“Hi, this is Charlie Riley in the penthouse. I’m expecting a messenger tonight with a package for me. It’s extremely important. Can you please send them straight up when they arrive? I don’t want it sitting at the desk or getting misplaced.”
“Of course, Ms. Riley. My shift is over in an hour but I’ll leave a note for my team. We’ll send them right up. Can we send up any refreshments or perhaps dinner for you? The steakhouse has a lovely filet on special tonight.”
“No, thank you. But I appreciate it.”
“Okay, well, please let us know if you change your mind. If there’s nothing here you’d like to eat, we’ll send someone out to retrieve whatever you please.”
After thanking her once more, I hang up and take a breath.
The box is coming. Mom’s voice is coming. And maybe—just maybe—I can figure out how to hold both truths at once. The love and the lie. The comfort and the betrayal.
Maybe I don’t have to choose.
Needing to stretch my legs, I venture to the living room. The grand piano sits in the corner, gleaming black beneath the soft overhead lights. It’s a Steinway—of course it is; Dad’s hotels don’t do anything halfway—and I’ve been staring at it for weeks now, working up the courage to sit down.
I haven’t played since before the collapse. Haven’t sung, either, except in my head, where the lyrics loop endlessly like a song stuck on repeat.
But my fingers are itching. And the silence in this room is becoming an unbearable weight on my chest.
So I walk over. I sit down. I lift the fallboard and rest my hands on the keys, feeling the cool ivory beneath my fingertips.
And I play.
I don’t feel like playing one of my songs.
Instead, I sing a cover I’ve loved for years.
“Stay,” performed by Rihanna and Mikky Ekko.
I can’t tell if this is a happy or sad song.
All I know is there’s something raw and aching, about holding on and needing someone and wanting to be saved by something bigger than yourself.
This is the kind of song that makes you feel like the artist reached into your chest and pulled out something you didn’t know was there.
My voice comes out husky and rough, wrecked from rehearsals, performances, crying, and dehydration.
But my fingers don’t falter. They know this song by heart.
They move across the keys with a fluency that feels almost separate from me, like my body remembers how to do this even when my mind has forgotten why.
The tears return somewhere around the second verse. They slide down my cheeks and drip onto my hands, onto the keys, and I don’t stop. I keep playing, keep singing, keep pouring out someone else’s heartbreak because I don’t know how to access my own.
That’s the thing, isn’t it? This song was written from something real. Raw emotion, lived experience, the kind of pain that leaves scars. The artist who wrote it knew what it felt like to need someone so badly it hollowed you out. To be the broken one. To need rescuing.
I’ve never felt that.
I’ve been sheltered my whole life—first by my mother’s illness, then by Spencer’s fierce protection, Dad’s money, then the bubble of pop stardom that keeps me safe and suffocated in equal measure.
I’ve never been in love. Never had my heart broken.
Never experienced the kind of devastating, soul-deep emotion that births songs like this one.
I’m a doll. Perfect on the outside, hollow on the inside. I can perform other people’s feelings flawlessly, but I’ve never really been alive.
The song ends, and I sit there with my hands on the keys, the final notes still hanging in the air.
I love singing. I’ve always loved singing. But playing in private rooms was never enough for me. I wanted to be seen. I wanted to stand on stages and feel the roar of the crowd and know that I mattered, that my voice meant something, that I wasn’t invisible.
I got exactly what I wanted.
And I’ve never felt more alone in my life.
But I can’t stand the silence, so I draw in a deep breath, and start from the top. I play it again, and again. And one more time.
Until the music drowns out the blaring nothingness in my mind.