CHAPTER 8
Who will carry the weight of knowing
The path overflowing with could-have-beens
Light eyes dark with angry sparks
When bitter farce claims victory
Regret so quiet
Amidst the screams
Fear clawing wild and free
Who will carry the weight of knowing
A mirrored girl’s longing
Now staring sadly at me
GENEVIEVE
Oliver doesn’t answer my texts after my mom leaves. I may have smoothed things over with her, but my stomach swirls in a constant stream of nausea at the thought that it came at his expense. I panicked in the moment. Everything he said was accurate, but standing there, staring down the monumental cliff of my life, I realized I’m just not strong enough to jump. It’s too high. Too far to fall. Maybe that means I’ll have to keep ignoring the girl in the mirror, but I’ve survived for twenty-two years as this ghost of myself. What’s a few more? Still, I don’t like that he’s not responding at all. I’d take a bitter screw you over this radio silence.
When I still don’t hear from him the next day, I try calling his cell, but my calls go straight to voicemail. Seated in the salon chair, waiting for my color to set, I keep staring at my phone as if sheer willpower alone will make it ring.
“I’m guessing you haven’t heard from him since he left,” Hadley says, eyeing the phone that’s been bouncing on my manic knee since I sat down.
“No. He’s not answering my texts or calls.” I bite my lip, replaying the scene with my mom for the hundredth time in the last twenty-four hours. In all the reruns, I stand up to her. I put my foot down and tell her I don’t want to go on a world tour. I don’t want to sing about hanging with my girls in a club when I don’t even have real girls to hang with. In the new scene, I take Oliver’s hand. I don’t let him leave. I tell him how amazing he is and how incredible our time together has been. I force my mother to leave and lead Oliver back upstairs to my bedroom. I strip him again, enjoy everything he is, inside and out, and we wake up this morning in each other’s arms. In this fantasy he’s at my house now, having a lazy morning while I get my hair done. He’ll be waiting for me when I get back. Maybe he’ll go with me to my interview, sit beside me in the studio. Every time I get nervous or need a spark, I’ll look over and there he’ll be with that addictive smile and warm, soothing gaze.
But then cold reality hits. That’s not what happened. In the heat of the moment, I chose easy. I chose familiar. I chose a sense of duty over what I wanted. I showed Oliver that he wasn’t worth the pain—and I lied. Because he is. He’s worth everything, and now my stomach is in knots, my heart is shattered, and my head is a storm of regret and panic. Without him I’m cold and colorless again.
I’m so sorry, Oliver. Please talk to me.
This last text makes it my ninth unanswered message. They sit in the text window like a blue tidal wave of rejection.
I wanted to choose you, my brain screams to him. But I didn’t. Like usual, I chose by not choosing. I let life choose for me. I let them control my fate and now I’ve probably lost the one thing that truly meant anything to me. The one person who saw me. Who put me first. So what’s next? Keep choosing by not choosing or finally suck it up and go after what I want?
“Can you reach out to our contact at the Trojans?” I ask suddenly. “You may have to check with Selena to see who she spoke to when she set everything up. See if you can track down Oliver and make sure he’s okay. He lives with Raffie Sanderson, so if we can get an address, even better.”
Hadley straightens in surprise and nods. “You got it, boss.” I know she reads the rest of the silent story, and I’m grateful she spares me a speech or critique. I messed up. But maybe that’s the kick I needed. He’s been fighting for me since the day we met. Maybe it’s finally time I fight for him.
The rest of the day is brutal. With Hadley’s help I make it through, but I need to rely on her as my brain more than usual. I’m back to zombie-mode, performing at every phase of my schedule with the stage presence of a stadium show. On the outside I’m Genevieve Fox, but inside I’m a caustic blend of warring identities. Only Oliver would be able to sift through the tornado and help me pull one out, but he’s not here thanks to me. Not surprisingly, the Trojans publicist wouldn’t give out information on Oliver’s location, not even to Genevieve Fox, but she promised to pass along the message. Points for false hope, I guess.
After dropping my stuff at the entrance to my house, I start toward the kitchen for a glass of wine. I’ve just turned the corner toward the kitchen when my gaze freezes on the door to my basement studio. Oliver’s voice comes filtering back, soft and matter-of-fact in that stirring accent.
“You should record them.”
As if it were that easy. I stare at the door. Happiness isn’t about easy.
“I’ll be down in my studio,” I call out to Hadley who is several steps behind me. I glance back just in time to catch the giant grin on her face.
One song in particular has been in my head since Oliver came into my life. I slide onto the bench of my baby grand piano and position my fingers on the keys, trying to work through the lyrics in my head. It never felt right as a sad anthem of a lonely girl. Maybe that’s because it was never supposed to.
