Chapter 21
Charlie
I must’ve paced a mile by now. My legs are tired, I’m a little breathless, and I’m burning precious energy I should be saving for the stage.
Tampa’s dressing room outshines Miami’s in every way—mirrors that don’t distort, lights that flatter instead of interrogate, a pristine couch unmarked by mascara-streaked breakdowns. I should feel at ease here, but my reflection stares back with wide eyes as I check my watch again.
Thirty minutes left.
I’ve done this so many times I should feel prepared.
But tonight is different. Risky. The stakes have never been this high.
We’re attempting choreography we’ve only run through a handful of times.
My dancers have solos that could launch or sink them.
And my voice—my actual, unprocessed voice—will have nowhere to hide.
And in attendance? The critics, waiting to declare Miami a lucky accident.
I pause, fixing my sights on the giant mirror above the counter still riddled with the glam team’s supplies.
My hands are shaking as I reach for the familiar wooden box on my vanity—it’s time to participate in the familiar pre-show ritual.
My mother’s words and warning, responsible for fueling all of my confidence, and eliminating my self-doubt.
It’s such a heavy burden for paper to hold.
I flip open the lid and freeze.
There are new notes inside. Folded white paper, crisp and fresh, tucked among the faded hearts like they’ve always belonged there.
You don’t need these notes to carry you. The spark is inside you. Believe in your own magic.
Like a frenzied shark, I attack the next square note.
Win or lose, we still feast on tuna tonight.
—Black Cat
I laugh despite myself, the sound wet and wobbly. When did Taio find time to do this?
The third note is just a single line:
You don’t need to earn their love. You already have it. We’re all just here to watch you shine.
The fourth:
Black Cat says break a leg. I told him that’s a weird thing to say to someone you supposedly love, but he insisted.
And the fifth, tucked at the very bottom:
I’m right here with you. You’re never alone.
—Your Taio
Your Taio.
I clutch the notes to my sternum, each inhale a battle against the knot forming beneath my collarbone. Taio must have planted these little paper lifelines before his flight, slipping them into my sacred box when my back was turned, certain they’d find me at my most vulnerable moment.
God, this man. He’s the stuff of fairy tales.
I grab my phone and call him before I can talk myself out of it.
He answers on the second ring. “Hey, you. Shouldn’t you be getting ready?”
“I found your notes.”
A pause. Then, softer: “Yeah?”
“They’re perfect. You’re perfect. I just—” My voice cracks embarrassingly. “Thank you.”
“You don’t have to thank me. I just wanted you to know I’m thinking about you.” He sounds tired. More than tired—exhausted in a bone-deep way that makes me want to fly to New York and wrap myself around him until he remembers how to rest. “I’m so sorry I’m not there.”
“It’s okay. Tell me what’s happening with your dad.”
“Charlie, you have a huge performance. In minutes. Let’s stay focused.”
I collapse into the plush velvet chair in front of the mirror, my reflection wavering as I settle. The pacing stops, but my knee immediately picks up the rhythm, bouncing against the underside of the vanity with a soft thud-thud-thud that matches my racing pulse.
“No, definitely distract me right now. What’s going on with the lawyers?”
He sighs. “They’ve got me going through boxes of financial records.
Years of transactions. They need me to identify which ones Wright’s testimony specifically covered, because apparently I’m the only one who can explain where the money went on our end.
I’ve been highlighting bank statements for days now.
” Another sigh, heavier this time. “It’s taking so much longer than expected.
My dad keeps finding reasons for me to stay for ‘one more meeting’ or ‘one more review session.’ I don’t know what’s legitimate and what’s him just… wanting me here.”
“He’s nervous.”
“So nervous. And desperate. If this appeal doesn’t go through, I don’t think he’s going to recover.” I hear the frustration in his voice, the guilt. “I wanted to be there tonight, Charlie. You have no idea how much.”
“Hey.” I keep my tone firm but gentle. “It’s okay. You need to get this sorted out. I understand. And I have backup security—”
“That’s not why I’m sad to miss it.” His voice drops. “I wanted to support you. I want to be close.”
My heart does something complicated in my chest. “I know. But you’ll be in Atlanta next week, right? It’s two back-to-back nights.”
“I’ll be there. I swear it.”
“Good. Now tell me to have a killer show so I can go have a killer show.”
“Have a killer show, Tweety.” I can hear him smiling. “I’ll be watching the hashtags. Make them lose their minds.”
“That’s the plan.”
“And, Charlie?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you for calling.” He stops. Clears his throat. “Thank you for thinking about me.”
My pulse stutters. “I’m always thinking about you, Taio Wilkes. See you on the other side, babe.”
There’s a pause, then: “Did you just call me ‘babe’?”
I bite my lip, wincing at my own boldness. “Sorry—was that weird? I was just trying it on for size…”
A warm chuckle vibrates through the phone, his voice dropping to a register I’ve never heard before. “I’ve never been babe before,” he says softly. “I like it.”
I don’t care if he can hear my sigh of relief.
The scales between us still feel uneven.
There’s me, obsessing over his texts at three in the morning, analyzing every inflection in his voice.
Then there’s him, caring in that steady, measured way that normal, experienced people do.
I catch myself sometimes, reel back the spiral of thoughts that threatens to consume me.
But maybe that’s what happens when you fall for someone for the first time.
Maybe it’s supposed to feel like…well, falling. Totally out of control.
“Well, okay, babe. I’ll call you after,” I manage. “With a full report.”
“I’ll be waiting.”
The call ends, and I remain still, clutching the phone against my chest alongside his notes. My stomach still twists with that familiar serpent of stage fright, but beneath the cold knot of fear, a small flame of comfort has kindled—steady, warm, refusing to be extinguished.
I’m not alone. Even when he’s not here, I’m not alone.
A knock on the door. “Showtime, Charlie!”
I tuck Taio’s notes carefully back into the box, right on top where I can see them. Then I check my reflection one last time—sparkly bodysuit, hair teased to perfection, makeup that could best a hurricane…and then I head for the wings guided by the stadium’s security team.
Time to give them a show.
The roar of the crowd hits me like a physical force.
Tens of thousands of people packed into the Tampa arena, a sea of waving phone lights and homemade signs bobbing above upstretched arms. The screaming hits me in waves—piercing shrieks that make my eardrums vibrate, then deeper roars that I feel in my chest cavity.
The energy is electric, crackling through the air like lightning about to strike, leaving the taste of metal on my tongue.
I can feel it in my bones, that familiar pre-show tremor that starts in my knees and radiates outward, making my fingertips tingle and my stomach clench no matter how many times I do this.
Devon appears at my elbow, already bouncing on his feet. Sweat glistens on his forehead—he’s been warming up the dancers, running through the new formations one last time. “You ready?”
“No.”
“Perfect. Neither are we.” He grins. “Let’s do this anyway.”
The opening notes of “Hypnotic” thunder through the speakers, bass so deep I feel it in my ribs, and I take a breath, and step into the light.
The first thirty seconds are terrifying.
At first I feel like an out-of-place marionette, not sure what strings to pull.
I’m doing a lot less on stage. Without the intricate dance sequences I usually hide behind, I feel exposed.
Naked, almost. Like the audience can see every flaw, every insecurity, every reason I don’t deserve to be on this stage.
My earpiece crackles with the stage manager’s voice, calling cues, none of them belonging to me. The lights are blinding. The crowd is a faceless mass of noise and heat. I start to drift away.
And then something shifts.
My vocals go silent as they are scheduled to, and Devon and Mia execute their first partner sequence—a lift that ends with Mia spinning through the air like she’s defying gravity—and the crowd loses their minds.
I hear the gasp ripple through the arena, the surge of cheers that follows, and suddenly I’m not the center of attention anymore.
I’m part of something bigger. Part of a team.
The weight on my shoulders lightens. I find my mark and start singing.
Really singing. I toggle between hyperfocusing on perfect pitch and letting myself get lost in the artful riffs.
My voice is strong and confident. I can put my breath behind every single note because I’m no longer flailing across the stage. I’m actually proud of this performance.
It’s the most alive I’ve felt on stage in years.
The crowd surges with me, rising and falling like a tide. Thousands of voices blend into mine until I can’t tell where my sound ends and theirs begins—a vast, living organism with one heartbeat, one breath.
The set unfolds like a dream. Song after song, the dancers take their moments.
During “Gravity,” Jasmine performs a contemporary solo that tells the story of the song better than my lyrics ever could—all reaching arms and controlled falls and the kind of raw emotion that makes people forget to breathe.
I watch from my platform at the back of the stage, voice steady on the mic, heart full to bursting.