Chapter 24
Charlie
Steam clings to the bathroom mirror, softening my reflection into something impressionistic.
I’ve been in here for forty-five minutes—longer than any shower requires, even one meant to wash away the frenzy of paparazzi flashbulbs and Grayson’s venom and the weight of a thousand cameras capturing my impulsive choice to blow up my reputation.
I’m stalling. I realize that.
I rub my hair with the towel until it’s just damp enough to curl at the edges.
I consider blow-drying it straight, then decide to let it be.
My reflection looks different. Softer. I uncap the lotion bottle, inhaling vanilla and sugar as I massage it into my arms with deliberate circles.
Each stroke stretches time, though there’s no real reason to delay what waits beyond the bathroom door.
Still, my hands are trembling.
It’s not fear, exactly. It’s something bigger. It’s like standing at the edge of a cliff, knowing you’re about to jump, trusting that the water below will catch you but still terrified of the fall.
I’m not about to have sex with some random guy.
I’m not about to check a box or get it over with or prove something to anyone.
I’m about to give myself—all of myself, the parts I’ve protected and hidden and saved—to Taio.
The man whose bookshelves overflow with dog-eared romance paperbacks and whose fingers can transform bedsheets into castles.
The man who stepped between me and a wall of flashing cameras, extended his palm toward mine, and proudly claimed me with no sense of self-preservation.
He stood with me when he could’ve stayed in the shadows.
I pause, lotion half absorbed into my forearm, and stare at my reflection through the dissipating steam. When did this happen? When did “I like you” become “I’m falling” become this quiet, certain knowledge that settles in my chest like a heartbeat?
I can trace it back to different moments: his handwritten notes appearing in my box when I needed them most; my triumph in Miami which felt shared between the two of us; or just hours ago, when his body became my shield against the enemy of flashing cameras and angry interrogations, his stance unwavering.
It was all of it. Every small moment building into something neither of us can ignore anymore.
I think about my mom.
She fell in love so many times. Not just with Spencer’s dad.
Not just with mine. I have vague memories from being little, watching her get ready for dates—the careful application of lipstick, the way she’d spritz perfume on her wrists and behind her ears, the nervous energy that made her seem younger somehow.
Spencer would stay home to watch me and wish our mother luck.
Maybe this was the one. She believed in love the way some people believe in religion.
Completely. Recklessly. Over and over again.
And none of them stayed. Each departure left a trail of shattered vows, tissues stained with mascara, and the hollow echo of another failed romance. She’d straighten her spine, reapply her lipstick, and somehow, after enough time passed, her eyes would start to sparkle with possibility again.
I used to think she was foolish. Now I wonder if she was brave.
How do you know if it’ll last?
That’s the question I’ve been asking myself since I realized what Taio means to me. How do you trust something so fragile and new? How do you give someone the power to destroy you and have faith that they won’t?
The truth? You can’t.
Standing here in this steamy bathroom, trembling on the edge of something terrifying and beautiful, I realize something: you can’t learn to swim by thinking about water. You can’t understand love by watching other people drown in it. At some point, you have to leap.
And looking back at my mother’s advice, all the little pieces, fragments of her lessons learned, stuffed into heart-shaped notes…
I see it now with blinding clarity. I missed the point.
She wasn’t telling me to wait for love. She was screaming at me to love myself first, with the desperate urgency of someone who learned it too late.
The truth burns through me: I’d pass this same raw, vital lesson to my own daughter with my dying breath.
To Claire’s daughter. To Remy and Eli. This is what’s been bleeding beneath my music all along.
I’ve been hemorrhaging inside not because strangers on the internet hated me, but because I couldn’t look at my own reflection and see something worth protecting.
That all changes now.
I take a breath. Then another.
Then I pull on a non-Tweety tank top over my bra—soft cotton, thin straps, shielding half of my ass. I wear a simple pair of underwear. Nothing fancy. Nothing performative. Just me.
I open the bathroom door.
The living room space has been transformed.
I somewhat meant it as a joke, but Taio has built a fort.
No, not a fort. This is a palace—a cathedral of blankets and pillows and string lights, stretching from the massive sectional couch to the fireplace, where flames crackle and dance behind glass.
He’s raided every closet and linen cabinet in the place, constructing walls of Egyptian cotton and supports made from chair cushions and decorative pillows.
Fairy lights, stolen from the patio, wind through the structure like captured stars, casting everything in a warm, golden glow.
It’s ridiculous. It’s magical. It’s exactly what I need for this moment. It’s nothing like I pictured for my first time. It’s better.
I stand in the entryway, hand pressed to my chest, feeling my heart expand in ways I didn’t know were possible. He did this for me. While I was in the bathroom overthinking everything, he was out here creating a sanctuary. A place where the outside world can’t touch us.
Taio crawls out from beneath the canopy of blankets, and when he sees me standing there, his expression reveals a kaleidoscope of emotions—his eyes widening with relief, then darkening with want, his smile both shy and certain all at once.
“There is admittedly room for improvement,” he says, like there’s anything in my eyes but visceral adoration.
“It’s a tall ask to improve upon perfection, don’t you think?” My voice comes out small, still processing. I take a step toward him, and another. Slow, reticent steps, but still…brave.
“Is this tacky? I’m trying to be sweet, but maybe you want sexy. The Magic Mike version of Taio?”
I nod at him seriously. “Oh, I always want the Magic Mike version of Taio, but just so you know, sweet is sexy. I’m nervous.” I point to the fort. “I really needed this. Thank you.”
“I promised I’d build you one everywhere we go.” He gestures to his creation with exaggerated pride. “You just let me know anytime the world feels too big, Charlie Riley. I’ll shrink it for you.”
A laugh-sob escapes me, releasing the knot that’s been sitting in my chest. “My hero.”
“Want to see the inside?” He holds aside a blanket flap like a doorman at a fancy hotel, and I duck through the opening into the heart of his creation.
Inside, it’s even more magical—layers of soft blankets covering the floor, pillows arranged into a nest, the firelight filtering through the fabric walls to paint everything in shades of amber and gold.
It’s like being inside a cocoon. Safe. Warm. In another world.
Taio ducks in behind me, and the fort seems to contract around us.
Not in a suffocating way—in the way a blanket wraps tighter when you need it most. I can hear his breathing, count his heartbeats, feel the heat radiating from him though we’re barely touching.
The inches between us feel charged, alive with possibility.
“Hi,” he says softly.
“Hi.”
The air in here becomes charged, humming, like the moment right before lightning strikes.
His shoulders are set at careful angles, maintaining those precious few inches of space even in our blanket refuge.
Every movement feels deliberate—his hands resting on his knees, his chest rising with measured breaths.
He’s waiting. Watching. The ball is in my court, and we both know it.
“Taio. Come closer.” I reach for his hand, pulling him to me. He exaggerates his movements as if I have the strength to yank this man anywhere. Yet, he slouches down and bumps his shoulder to mine playfully.
“Why are you nervous?” His free hand comes up to cup my face, thumb brushing my cheekbone. “Outside of the obvious, of course.”
“I’m worried you won’t like it. How can I make you happy when I don’t know what I’m doing?”
His fingers thread between mine like roots seeking soil, and I grip his hand so tightly my knuckles pale. “You don’t know what you do to me?”
“Not really.”
He brings the back of my hand to his lips. “Let me explain. I used to tear through a book a day before I met you, and now I’ve read almost nothing in weeks.”
“So I’m distracting?” I poke my tongue at him. “That’s all you got?”
“You made me want my own story. That’s everything, Charlie. The whole damn point. You gave me something no one else could. Freedom…from myself. So don’t be nervous about making me happy, because you’ve already found a way to help me feel whole.”
There is no appropriate response to that except a kiss.
I swing a leg over his lap, settling on top of him, and his hands hover at my knees, tentative.
It’s like he’s afraid to touch me and break the moment.
So I do the touching for both of us—palms on either side of his face, thumbs tracing the stubble at his jawline.
I kiss him slow and soft at first, then deeper, letting my fingers map the familiar geography of his cheekbones and ears, the warm silk of his neck, the scar that interrupts his left eyebrow.
He tastes like bubblegum toothpaste of all things, but before I can ask and accuse him of having a child’s hygiene regimen, he slips his hands around my waist, anchoring me in his gravity, and I lose the impulse to be funny.