Chapter 21 #2
When she finishes, the applause is deafening. I see tears on faces in the front rows. I see people clutching each other, moved in ways they didn’t expect to be.
This. This is what I wanted. I needed something to get excited about again. I needed the people I inspire to inspire me right back.
Kenny’s hip-hop breakdown during “Burn It Down” gets the entire arena on their feet.
The energy shifts from emotional to electric, twenty thousand people bouncing as one, the floor literally shaking beneath my feet.
I abandon my mark and just dance with the crowd, laughing, pointing at fans who are going absolutely feral, feeding off their energy until I’m sure I could run a marathon.
Marcus—dancer Marcus—pulls off a gravity-defying backflip sequence that earns actual screams. Mia and Devon’s tango interlude is so sensual, people in the audience literally fan themselves. Every single dancer has their moment, their spotlight, their chance to show the world what they can do.
And somehow, impossibly, the show is better for it. I’m better for it. Freed from the pressure of carrying every second on my own shoulders, I can actually enjoy performing. I can connect with the audience instead of just surviving for them.
By the time we hit the final number, I’m drenched in sweat and my voice is starting to fray at the edges and I don’t care. I belt the last chorus with everything I have, the dancers moving around me in perfect synchronization, the crowd singing along so loud I can barely hear myself.
The spark is inside you. Believe in your own magic.
Taio’s note echoes in my head, and I scan the front rows until I find her—a teenage girl with bright purple hair, tears streaming down her face, screaming every word like they’re keeping her alive.
She’s wearing a homemade T-shirt with my face on it, but it’s not the polished promotional image.
It’s a candid shot—me at the piano in Miami, mid-song, eyes closed, completely lost in the music.
She made that. For me. Because that moment meant something to her.
I sing directly to her for the final verse, watching her face transform with the realization that I’m looking at her, seeing her, connecting with her across the chaos and the lights and the noise.
Her hands fly to her mouth. She turns to her friend, pointing, disbelieving.
When I wink at her, she literally crumples, knees giving out, caught by the people around her.
In her eyes, I see why I’m still on this stage after all these years.
Not the billboards or bank accounts or headlines that fade by morning—but this silent conversation between two strangers who might never meet again.
Her tears tell me she heard exactly what I needed someone to hear when I wrote those lyrics at 3 a.m., alone in my apartment with only a piano for company.
I want to be that girl again. Write new songs. Make new connections. Believe in something so much bigger than myself.
The song ends. The crowd explodes. Confetti cannons fire, showering the arena in glittering paper. I take my bow, chest heaving, ears ringing, heart so full I think it might burst.
“Thank you, Tampa!” I scream into the mic. “You’ve been absolutely incredible! I love you all!”
The cheers somehow get louder. I blow kisses to the audience, wave to the purple-haired girl who’s now openly sobbing into her friend’s shoulder, and make my way toward the wings. The dancers fall into formation behind me, all of us waving, all of us riding the high of a show that actually worked.
We did it. We actually did it.
The moment I’m out of sight of the crowd, Devon grabs me in a bear hug. “Holy shit, Charlie. Holy shit!”
“We did it!” I’m laughing and crying at the same time. “You guys were unbelievable. That was actually incredible.”
The other dancers swarm us, everyone hugging everyone, a sweaty joyful pile of exhausted artists.
“That was the best show we’ve ever done,” Devon says, pulling back to look at me with something like awe. “I’ve been touring for eight years. That was the best show I’ve ever been part of. Charlie, your vocals were stunning. You’re officially not allowed to dance anymore.”
“Thank fuck,” I respond through chuckles.
The adrenaline is still coursing through me, making everything feel slightly unreal, like I’m floating a few inches above my own body. I break away from the group hug, needing a moment to breathe, to process, to come down from the high.
And then I see him.
A figure waiting in the shadows just offstage. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Familiar silhouette backlit by the glow of work lights.
My heart leaps into my throat. He came. He said he couldn’t, but he came anyway. He surprised me—
I rush toward him, already smiling, already reaching—
“Charlie! There’s my girl!”
The voice is wrong. The arms that wrap around me are wrong. Everything is wrong.
It’s not Taio.
It’s Grayson.
I go rigid in his embrace, my brain struggling to catch up with reality.
Grayson. Of course it’s Grayson. He told me he was coming.
I knew he was coming. I just…forgot. In the chaos of rehearsals and the new choreography and Taio’s notes and the phone call, I forgot that my fake boyfriend was flying in to play his part. Or maybe I didn’t care.
“Amazing show, babe.” Grayson pulls back just enough to plant a kiss on my cheek—firm and performative, the kind of kiss designed to be photographed. “You were great up there.”
I force my face into something resembling a smile. “Thanks. I didn’t know you were coming backstage.”
“Surprised you.” He grins, all white teeth and practiced charm. “Marcus got me in. Thought it would make for good optics.”
Optics. Right.
Over Grayson’s shoulder, black camera lenses glint like hungry eyes.
Three, no, four photographers huddle in the wings, their equipment aimed at us like weapons.
Each flash captures another millisecond of this performance we’re calling a reunion, preserving our manufactured intimacy for tomorrow’s headlines.
I am so tired of being watched.
But I know how this works. So I do what I’ve always done—I perform.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” I say, loud enough for the microphones to pick up. I slip my hand into Grayson’s, interlacing our fingers like we’ve done it a thousand times.
“Wouldn’t miss it.” He squeezes my hand, and I wonder if he can feel how clammy my palm is, how much effort it’s taking to keep my smile in place. “Come on, let’s get out of here. I made dinner reservations.”
Dinner reservations? It’s well past ten and I am covered head to toe in body glitter.
We walk toward the exit together, hands clasped, picture-perfect couple. The backstage corridor stretches ahead of us, lined with production equipment and crew members who step aside to let us pass. Everyone’s watching. Everyone’s always watching.
I can see our images flickering on the jumbotron screens that flank the stage—the arena’s cameras tracking our exit, broadcasting it to the thousands of fans still in their seats, still buzzing from the show.
Grayson waves to the cameras with his free hand, that practiced celebrity wave—elbow, elbow, wrist, wrist—that I’ve never quite mastered. He’s good at this. Better than me, honestly. He makes it look effortless.
“Smile, babe,” he murmurs through his teeth. “You look like you’re being held hostage.”
I adjust my expression, pushing more warmth into my eyes. “Sorry. Just exhausted.”
“Let’s get out of here. Your stuff is already in the car. We can go right home.”
The photographers follow us all the way to the parking structure, cameras clicking like hungry insects. I keep my chin up, my smile bright, my grip on Grayson’s hand steady.
But as we step out of the arena and into the waiting SUV, the door closing behind us with a soft thunk, all I can think about is the guy who isn’t here. For the first time, it bothers me.
I don’t want to go out to dinner tonight. I need sweatpants, and junk-filled charcuterie boards with warm, cheesy dip. I need my fort, to make the world small. I need my person.
Grayson’s in the seat beside me, taking up space like he owns it, legs spread wide enough that his knee presses against mine. “So,” he says, scrolling through his phone before even making eye contact. “What’s up?”
“Not much. What’s up with you?” I don’t have the energy to inject enthusiasm into my voice.
“Oh, just hanging out with my girlfriend.” He glances at me sideways, a slow smirk spreading across his face. “Ready for dinner?”
No, Grayson. I’m not ready for you to orchestrate every detail of my life. Also, I’m still buzzing like I was recently electrocuted and I’d really like to go back home, grab a bag of gummy bears, and spend six hours trying to fall asleep.
“I’m not really hungry,” I tell him.
“There’s a dress code, I think.” It’s apparent he’s not listening to me but at least that’s consistent. The girlfriend bit is not. And it’s weird how handsy he’s being.
“Grayson, did you hear me? I’ve been performing for three hours straight. Rehearsals have been nonstop for six days now. I really want to go to bed. Rain check on a meal?”
His smile fades. “Why? You got someone at your place waiting for you or something?” He lifts his brows accusingly. How do I know he means Taio? What is that angry glint in his eyes?
“Yeah. My very comfy bed and sheets.”
He holds my stare long enough to make my stomach twist into a pretzel. Finally, he relaxes. “Fine. Breakfast, tomorrow?”
“Okay,” I agree. “That works. I’ll text you when I wake up.”
“I’ll just pop by. Send me the address.”
There it is again… What is that?
My phone buzzes from in my clutch. I pull it out, heart lurching.
Taio
Tweety. I’m speechless.
Proud of you. So proud.
“Who are you texting?” Grayson asks, reading the glee in my expression.
My gut, intuition, and better judgment all team up to form one clear instruction.
Do not let Grayson know what’s really going on with Taio.
He probably thinks he was a hookup gone awry.
From some primal place of protection comes this urge to keep Grayson in the dark how important Taio really is to me. “No one.”
I tuck my phone away and press my forehead against the window glass, letting the coolness seep into my skin.
Grayson’s voice becomes background noise—something about a hotshot director, on-set gossip, Oscar predictions.
My “mm-hmms” and “oh reallys” fall into a rhythm as automatic as my choreography.
The Charlie Show continues, even with an audience of one.
But in my mind, I’m with someone else. Far away. We’re having much better conversations. We’re falling in love.
When we pull up to the rental property, Grayson wastes no time leaning in for a kiss. I turn my head at the last second, letting his lips land on my cheek instead. He looks at me like I spit in his face.
His lips twist into something between a sneer and a pout. “Okay, then.”
“See you tomorrow, Grayson. Have a good night.”
I get out of the car like it’s on fire. I’m already calling Taio’s number as I rush up the walkway, the screen’s glow illuminating my face in the darkness. But I’m too late.
I call him once. Then twice.
But whatever has been keeping him away from me must have struck again.
He doesn’t answer.