“No, no, no.” Oscar grabs his wrist. “You need to relax. Charlie.”
“I have a water bottle in here.” I hurriedly unzip my backpack and rifle through camera equipment. Found it.
“Yeah, that’s good.” Oscar takes the PuraFons bottle from me. “Just sit down and have some water.”
Charlie runs two hands through his hair, not reaching for the water. Panicked eyes return to his bodyguard. “You’ve got to get me out of here, Oscar.”
“We’re working on it,” Oscar says.
Tears brim. “Please.” He chokes on a breath. “I can’t be trapped here.”
“It’s just an elevator.” Oscar stands in front of him and places a hand on his shoulder. “You’re having a bad trip. It’s amplifying your anxiety. Just take a deeper breath.”
Charlie inhales deeply but never exhales. He holds in oxygen for an agonizing long minute.
“Breathe out, bro,” Oscar says.
He gasps air. Silent tears slide down his cheek. His eyes flit from me to Oscar and back to me. “What does love feel like?”
My breath heavies, my eyes veering to Oscar. His gaze already glued to me.
Love?
All I know is my love for Oscar carries me like the water. A feeling of invincibility. The patience as the ocean laps underneath my body. The anticipation as the perfect wave rolls near. The cool excitement and power as I stand up. As I ride those impossible swells, and once I’m in the barrel, all the doubts and fears wash away. Leaving a bright burst of indescribable bliss.
That is his love to me.
But I struggle to articulate that to Charlie. “It’s…hard to describe.”
He swipes tear tracks off his cheeks. “I sometimes think that maybe it’ll stop one day. This feeling inside me…frustration…all the fucking time.” He blinks into more tears. “But it never really goes away, and…it has to be drowned out by something stronger. Either…pain or love.”
I frown. “Is that why you let people hurt you?”
He blinks again, his tears welling and eyes growing bloodshot. “I need to talk to my dad.” He rubs at his arms and shakes his limbs like he wants to crawl out of his skin. “Oscar—”
“I’ve got it.” Oscar’s dialing a number on his cell.
After filming Charlie for so long, I’ve realized he calls his dad any time he’s feeling off. Like someone would call a therapist.
It’s almost a daily phone call.
Oscar passes Charlie the phone. “Dad?” Charlie says, his voice controlled. “Can you just talk to me for a second?” He slides down the wall and tucks his head between his knees.
I touch my camera that’s still around my neck. It’s been rolling this whole time, and that fact knots my stomach.
“Hey.” Oscar sidles next to me and his eyes skim my camera too.
After about a month of filming, I know this footage today is gold. It’s a producer’s dream to have their subject in such a vulnerable position. To confess something so personal. And yet, would Charlie have ever told me this without being under the influence? Without being trapped in an elevator?
I don’t think so.
Ethically, morally, I feel stuck at a crossroads.
Before I make a decision, I have more questions, and they’re not for Charlie. “Did you know?” I whisper to Oscar. “That that’s the reason he lets people hurt him?”
Oscar nods. “If intelligence is a ladder,” he tells me softly, “Charlie’s trapped at the top. And it’s a frustrating place to be.”
A tortured genius. It feels like a hook for Born into Fame, and I hate it. I hate that I know it might sell. I hate even thinking about it here. I don’t want to exploit Charlie. He’s currently crying on the ground, high out of his mind, talking to his dad.
The elevator jerks.
Charlie’s head pops out of his knees. “Oscar?”
“We’re getting out of here,” Oscar tells him.
36
OSCAR OLIVEIRA
“He’s asleep.” I close our bedroom door in the suite. Charlie’s safe and sound in his bed. His room is just across the living area. It’s one of those times I’m glad we’re staying in a ridiculously expensive hotel with giant multi-bedroom accommodations.
If he was staying in a normal hotel room, for my own conscience, I’d be standing outside his door in the hallway all night.
Luckily, I can relax here. Especially with Jack around.
My husband—if he even still wants to be that. He’s got a hip against the window, drapes drawn back, like he’s been watching the city streets, but right now, his eyes are on me.
I can’t believe we haven’t spoken about our marriage in over fifteen hours. It feels massively like my fault. If he drunkenly married any other guy, they’d have hashed it out immediately. Not put it on pause for a trip to fucking Austria.
I’m stiff against the door, air and silence separating us. Now that we’re alone together it’s almost like I can’t find the words. I finish tying a rolled banana around my forehead and I say, “I wouldn’t blame you, if you want to get an annulment, Highland.”
His face cracks. “What?”
Pressure mounts on my chest. “I don’t want you to feel pressured to stay in a marriage with me because of some drunken decision. So if you want to get an annulment, it won’t change anything between us. I promise you that. We’ll just go back to how it was.” I keep pushing the figurative window open for him in case he needs to escape this situation.
Jump back out.
Being with me isn’t easy, and I don’t want to trap him here after a drunken, stupid night. I loved that stupid night.
His expression is frozen in a perpetual wince. “I don’t understand…do you want an annulment?”
No.
No hesitation. I want to stay married to Jack Highland, but I can’t say those words. I run a hand through my thick curly hair. “Would it be alright if I didn’t answer that?” I ask him. “Because if I say one way or the other, I’m going to feel like you’re making a decision based on mine.”
He looks me over. “But you have decided?”
I nod once.
He holds
