Page 19 of Broken Chords
Chapter Eight
A tempo:the performer should return to the previous tempo, such as after an accelerando or ritardando
Charlie
I’m practically drooling when the waitress sets a pile of pancakes in front of me, mounded high with strawberries, blueberries, and raspberries, all topped with a giant swirl of whipped cream.
Damian smiles at me from across the table of the corner booth at a local diner that serves breakfast all day as the waitress sets his more modest meal of a ham and cheese omelette with a strawberry crepe on the side.
His smile pulls wider when I take my first bite and let out a muffled, “Holy shit, that’s good.”
“Is that going to satisfy your craving?”
I tilt my head to the side as I chew. “For now. I might make you bring me here a lot, though.” I used to love getting this as a kid. But since Disney and fame and becoming Charlotte James, I wasn’t allowed this kind of decadence. It’ll take more than once to satisfy this craving. And this place isgood.“These are way better than the ones at IHOP. I wonder why Lauren didn’t bring me here.”
He gives a little shrug, cutting off a bite of his omelette. “She might not know about it. She didn’t grow up here, and neither did Gabby, her last roommate. It’s kind of a local treasure.”
“That makes sense.”
He chuckles at the way I keep talking with my mouth full, but I can’t help myself. I didn’t eat much for dinner, and it was hours ago. I’m starving, and this is delicious. But I also want to talk to Damian. Our talk in the recital hall cleared up a few things, but it also spawned more questions.
Questions that deserve to be asked with an empty mouth.
After I swallow, I focus my attention on my pancakes, carefully cutting the next bite, and dropping my question like it’s no big deal. “So, you mentioned that you don’t do casual. Does that mean you’re a virgin?”
Damian coughs, choking on his food. He stares at me as he reaches for his water glass, the bronze skin of his face taking on a rosy hue. But he shakes his head. “No. I’m not.”
“Oh.” I’m not sure what the follow up to that should be. So I nod like a bobblehead doll, staring at my pancakes, and shove another bite in my mouth. I could eat these every day and never get tired of them.
“I had a girlfriend in high school.” Damian’s voice pulls my eyes back to him. “We started dating our junior year and stayed together until college. She’s a violinist. We were going to go to college together, but …” His eyes drop to his plate, and I know what he’s going to say next.
“But your mom got sick, and you stayed here. I take it she wanted to go wherever you’d planned on?”
He nods. “She went to the Peabody Conservatory in Baltimore.”
“Was that where you were going to go?”
“Maybe. I never got as far as auditioning anywhere else, though. Mom was sick. I needed to stay here.”
Silence descends as we regard each other. I’m not sure where to go from here.
He reaches for his glass again. “I take it your number is more than one?”
Heat races from my chest to the top of my head. “I’m not—it’s not—”
Damian holds up his hands. “I’m not judging. But you opened up the topic. It’s natural for me to be curious too.”
With a deep breath, I try to slow my racing heart from my first reaction of embarrassment and shame at his question. Having had my picture taken with a variety of men over the years, slut shaming is par for the course. But it never gets easier to stomach. In fact, I think it gets worse the longer I have to deal with it, the longer I have to choke it down and give my media smile and pretend like it doesn’t bother me. Because guys who are pictured with a line of ever-changing starlets, models, and beautiful young women are congratulated, both in person and in the media. But women who do the same thing? Who are seen to have a new boyfriend with any amount of frequency? Well, they’re just sluts and whores who can’t keep their legs closed. Look at how low-cut her top is. She’s so trashy. She needs to get some class.
And of course, if you don’t wear a low-cut dress to an event, you’re frumpy and a fashion nightmare.
There’s no winning.
“Charlie?”
I blink, realizing I’ve gotten lost in my thoughts. I shake my head. “Sorry.” Taking a deep breath, I hold it in for a beat before expelling it slowly through my lips. “Yeah. More than one.” I cover my anxiety at talking about this by cutting another bite of pancakes. Damian’s face is open curiosity, not judgment. I believe him when he says he’s not judging. With my brain, at least. But it’s harder to convince my internalized reaction that I don’t have to be on guard with him. Except to carefully answer questions about my past so that I don’t spill the beans.
“My mom liked to set me up with different guys, hoping I’d hit it off with someone. And in my world, guys tend to have certain … expectations if you go on very many dates in a row.”
