LOTTIE

I should have never let Chloe talk me into this.

All I had to do was say no, but I've never been good at that. My team is much better at asserting my boundaries than I am; on the rare times I stood up for myself as a person, I nearly regretted it.

I can stand up for other people and causes I believe in. It's me who's the problem. I've tried unpacking it.

Why do I matter less to me than other people do? Why are they deserving of good things and personal space while I don't allow myself the same thing?

I can never come up with an answer. Not one that satisfies me, at least. Even when I stare at myself in the mirror and remind myself I would never speak to someone else the way I speak to myself or that I would never treat the bright-eyed version of me I was at the beginning of my career, it falls flat.

I find it's easier to navigate a world where you don't complain or make demands. The rare times I've done it, I've succeeded, but I beat myself up for days on end, even when I didn't have to.

I'm still reeling with guilt for being here, for being in Evermere basking in the sun when there's an album to be written and recorded. My brain doesn't care if I was on the verge of burnout; it's permanently in go go go mode.

Exposing Oakley for all the cheating and hell he put Esme through, culminating in him getting physically violent towards her and Matt, has been one of the greatest joys of my life.

I felt bad for essentially destroying his career when he was at his peak, but Luca sat me down and explained it would have come out anyway. Esme's publicist, Sadie, had been working overtime, digging for dirt on him, and she would have succeeded in pushing him off his pedestal with or without my help. I made it quicker. More violent.

To twist the knife further into his back, I took the song he wrote for Esme's movie, and threw it out. I wrote my own in record time. I made it better.

It's a career highlight, the critics say.

She slayed that bitchass to the ground, the stans say. She ended his career—as she should!

Revenge never tasted sweeter than this. I felt like I owed Esme, too, for not having done more while he and his fans were being horrible to her. I should have done more when I first heard about him recording that song, even if I didn't know he'd blackmailed the label executives to let him do it.

Even when I do things right, I fuck up. It's never enough. There's always a what if swimming freely in my head.

So, when Chloe essentially drags me to Leigh's house, I'm regretting being such a huge coward.

This is overstepping. Big time.

It's one thing to waltz into a record store without knowing her mom owns it. It's one thing to let her show me around town, and recommend to me the best cafés, bakeries, and ice cream parlors.

Manipulating her into letting me help with summer camp is different. Showing up for open mic night under the guise of helping her is different.

Marching into her house uninvited is a breach of privacy. It's someone's most sacred place. There's a reason vampires have to be invited in, and there's a reason people automatically expect me to be welcome everywhere.

"This isn't a good idea," I tell Chloe, sounding like a broken record at this point. She ushers me in, closing the front door behind her, and my heart is pounding so hard I don't even pay attention to my surroundings. "I shouldn't be here."

"You'll be fine. You two need to talk."

"I can message her on Instagram. I can wait for her to reach out; that way she can do it on her own terms, without feeling pressured—"

"Look, if I knew I was going to make you spiral this hard, I would have kept my mouth shut."

I press my lips together. Yes, I've been spiraling the whole way here. Yes, I'm freaking out about having been too forward with Leigh. Even though Chloe is just being protective of Leigh and shielding her from potential heartbreak, even though I've heard this countless times, it's hitting differently now.

Everyone always has to be warned of the emotional baggage I bring to a relationship—my past, realizing I was a lesbian and not bisexual during a long-term relationship, what happened when I was twenty-one immediately after the dissolution of that relationship, my fears, my anxieties—but it's not just that.

People aren't just dating Charlotte. They're dating Lottie, too. And it's too much. I get it. I'm dangerous. I'll ruin lives and break hearts.

I'm destined to watch everyone around me fall in love and get married and have kids, while all I have is my job. Even Matt Crain, unapproachable king, found the way to Esme's heart.

When will it be my turn?

Why can't it be me, too? Why do I always have to be the monster or the hurricane, ready to destroy everyone and everything in my path?

Leigh and I have just met. We're doing something beautiful together—for the art, for the music, for the kids. For her. I'm not here looking for a relationship or to tie myself down; sometimes, all I want is someone to talk to. A friend. And I can't even do that without being warned not to break their heart, like it's all I ever do.

"I know you're a good person," Chloe reassures me, "and I know you have good intentions. Leigh refused to tell me the reason you're here and that's fine. It's your personal business"—the characteristic warmth of gratitude explodes in my chest—"and I'm not going to pry. She's awfully protective of you."

"She's protecting the camp. I'm helping out, so it helps her to have my best interests in mind."

"Leigh is capable of caring about multiple things at once. She's protective of everything she cares about. I don't think this is just about the camp, but if it makes it easier to digest, then . . ." She shrugs. "Whatever happens, make sure your heart is in the right place, okay? She's not always as strong as she looks."

I stiffly nod.

She leads me towards the kitchen and serves me a mug of green tea, saying it'll calm my nerves, but I'm so nauseous that even bringing it to my lips is a struggle.

Leigh's mom is here. Her dad arrives shortly after and he, much like his wife, greets me with a wide grin. No hug, either because he's not that kind of greeter or because he wants to respect my personal space, but I don't mind.

I feel more welcome here than I have felt anywhere else in years. I'd move here if I could, for the quiet and the community feel, but I'd burn this place to the ground the moment the Internet found out.

They'd flock here during the whole year, not just during the summer, and Evermere isn't equipped to handle a large boost in population, even just visitors. They'd be treating me like an attraction, a monument they'll snap a few photos of and post online, and the magic would be gone.

"So you're the infamous Charlotte," Leigh's dad begins. "Carlota."

"Yep. That's me. It's lovely to meet you."

"Nonsense, nonsense. It's one thing to listen to Chloe talk about you all the time"—Chloe randomly falls victim to a coughing fit—"but then we also get Leigh doing it. Oh, I was just talking to Lottie on Instagram and Lottie said she's meeting me . . . like you two are school friends."

"It's cute," Mrs. Flores adds. "Leigh's been acting all giddy." I can't picture Leigh Flores acting giddy, but that's neither here nor there. "She wants to talk to you herself, but she's been up for hours looking at the numbers from last night and calling the rest of the staff and the suppliers. It's a good thing," she adds, before I can ask. "Last night was a success. You really helped."

"We're all so grateful that you've chosen to help our family, especially Leigh," Mr. Flores continues. "The past few years haven't been too kind to her. The camp, too. She loves that thing, but it has seen better days. We could tell she was devastated, even if she wouldn't admit to it. She'd go to war before admitting she was struggling and needed help. Then you showed up and didn't let her be stubborn enough to push you away."

"She might be stubborn, but I think I have her beat," I confess. "I didn't want it to look like I'm dumping money on her and then dipping. I want to help. I've worked with kids and music programs a lot in the past, and I think we can make it work."

I hope.

I'll also have to find time and emotional availability to do my job in the meantime.

"Whatever it is you're looking for here, we hope you find it." Mrs. Flores' hand gently squeezes mine, in a way very reminiscent of how my mom does it. I haven't spoken to my parents in weeks. "If there's anything we can do to make settling in easier for you, let us know."

It's a simple offer.

It's also so kind, kinder than most things I hear in LA, that my eyes fill with tears. I rush to blink them away, wiping a stubborn stray one from my cheek before they can notice it, but they're not paying attention to me and my melodrama anymore.

Standing in the doorway, holding the infamous Bambi, is Leigh.

"Lottie," she greets. No emotion. My heart splits in half. "Can we talk?"

☀︎༄.°

I follow Leigh to her bedroom with my heart in my throat. I'm scared of it spilling out of my mouth if I try to speak, so I stay quiet and try to make myself small.

It's no easy feat, as I'm five-nine, long limbed, and awkward, often forgetting how much space I take. How much space I'm allowed to take.

Leigh carefully sets Bambi down on the bed and joins her, crossing her legs over the duvet lotus style. She likes blue, I've noticed. She has the coastal aesthetic down to perfection, where everything is white and gray and blue serves as the accent color—the curtains, the decor, even frames and tiny flower pots.

It's very Leigh, but at the same time it's not. The decoration is minimal and the potted plants are succulents. Low maintenance. There are packed boxes tucked inside her open closet.

"I figured there was no point in unpacking since I'll be at the campsite most of the time," she reveals, following my stare. "This hasn't been my home for a few years, but it's my place. I'm usually here by myself, but Chloe has been spending a lot of time here. My parents will occasionally stop by. How lucky that you managed to get both of them in the same room at once."

"I wasn't planning on it. I ran into Chloe—well, she ran into me—and we grabbed something to eat for breakfast. Then she decided to drag me here."

"Any idea why?"

I hesitate. How truthful can I be? Do I risk laying it all out on her and breaking her trust in me by planting seeds of doubt? Or would that trust be broken by me hiding the truth, even just part of it?

"I asked her if you'd mentioned anything about last night," I confess. "I wanted it to sound like I was just talking about the event, if you thought it had gone well, if you'd had fun, and the numbers. But . . ." I take a deep breath. It's like swallowing sand. "She knew what I also wanted to know. I wanted to know what you had thought of . . . me."

Leigh blinks. "You?"

"Yeah. If I had done a good job. If I sounded good. If I played my part right and made it clear why I was there—the kids first, then you, then my music." I can't look her in the eye. This has never happened to me before. "I wanted to know if you'd been impressed. And if you'd told her about the peanuts."

"I'm saving the peanuts story for the inevitable memoir, of course." She slides out of bed, rolling her legs to the side. "Lottie, Lottie, Lottie." Her hands are on my shoulders now. She's wearing flip-flops, which makes the height difference more noticeable. "I think we both know the answer to all those questions."

"I don't. I keep thinking it was too much, too soon. Too much attention-seeking. I'm scared I let you down. People are used to this . . . sparkly and glamorous version of me; they don't know what to do when I strip down. Metaphorically and musically," I add. The flush on her cheeks doesn't go unnoticed. "Maybe you thought I came on too strong. Tried too hard, and it fell flat and forced."

She snaps her fingers in front of my face. "Let's wake up now. Do you know who you're talking about?"

"Me?"

"Yeah. Charlotte Fitzpatrick. You don't need some girl from Middle of Nowhere, Massachusetts to remind you of how absurdly talented you are. I don't care if you give me a fully produced show or if it's just you and a guitar or a piano. Hell, sing accapella. Point is: you don't owe me anything. You showed up like you promised you would, you charmed the audience, including the kids. Does it really matter what I think?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

Why? Why not?

I bite my lip. "I'm not sure I can answer that question without having you sign an NDA."

"So it's that kind of reason?"

There are so many things I want to say. None of them are smart. None of them are safe.

"I feel safe around you," I confess, wringing my hands around each other. Everything in my brain screams danger and retreat. "I know it's too sudden, I know I might be moving too fast, and, to be honest, this scares me too, but it's something I've never felt around anyone else before. Being around you makes it easier to breathe. I don't know if it's because you'll call me out without hesitation"—she scoffs, all smug—"or because trusting you is something I need to do to sort out my bullshit, but it's true. I'm sorry if this puts too much pressure on you. You don't need to be an echo chamber or a pseudo-therapist or anything of the sort; it's just nice to have someone I get to slowly be myself around."

Leigh shakes her head. Her hair, still damp from the shower, sprinkles me with droplets of water. "You say that like it's a chore."

"Isn't it? You didn't sign up for this. You don't need to listen to my famous person woes. Poor her, she doesn't feel like a real person, whatever will she do, alone in that huge house with all that money?" I dramatically roll my eyes. "I know these are silly problems to have. You have more important things to worry about. Somehow, you still find time for me. So yes, I care about what you think of me because I care about you. And you said you only care about meaningful stuff. I guess I just wanted to feel like I matter."

"You do."

"To the fans, yeah, and I'm an industry staple, so I can't just vanish and expect people not to notice—"

"You are also very dense, did you know that?"

"Huh?"

Her eyes, so dark I can't tell the iris and pupil apart, are the warmest I've ever seen. "Do you need me to spell it out for you because you're genuinely that oblivious to the effect you have on other people or is this an ego thing? Want me to scratch your ego between the ears? You can do it to Bambi."

At the mention of her name, Bambi jumps from the bed with a cat activation noise, a little mrrp, and approaches us cautiously. She bumps her head against Leigh's calf, then looks up at me.

She's watching me. Deciding whether I'm worthy of trust. This is the ultimate test.

I'm not good with pets. I don't have time for one, and I don't want to stress out a poor animal by constantly flying it around. Esme's cat, Skye, only likes her and Matt. Matt's cat, Stardust, likes everyone.

So, I'm nervous.

Then, Bambi rubs herself against my legs, purring softly.

Leigh smiles. A soft little thing that melts me on the spot. "The Bambi seal of approval. I think that covers everything I was going to say. You know what also matters to me? The more than two thousand dollars we made last night."

My heart soars. "Really?"

She nods. "Really. People loved it. They loved you." She takes a breath. "If you need to hear it, so did I. I think you were incredible on that stage. You always are, but there was something . . . different. I know your songs mean a lot to you and you love performing, so this shouldn't be any different. It felt like it to me. It felt like you were bringing the walls down. Just a little." She makes a pinching motion with her fingers. "It was nice."

"Good." I finally exhale. There's still an anchor tied around me. "I wanted you to like it."

"You don't need to work so hard to impress me."

"Maybe not. But I wanted to."

"No, I'm just saying . . . whatever you do, I'll be staring out in awe. You could be reading a phone book or burping out the alphabet." Her hand timidly tucks a lock of my hair behind my ear. Her knuckle brushes against my skin so gently I almost don't feel it, but it burns when she leaves. "You don't need my approval. Or anyone else's. But I'd be more than happy to be your hype woman if you need me. Happiness looks good on you."

Happiness isn't the only thing that would look good on me, but I can't tell her that. Not after Chloe's warning. Not when I know how destructive it can be for someone's name to be even remotely associated with mine.

"Dream team, huh?" I say.

Her hand lingers on my cheek for one second too long. Long enough for me to lean into it. "They won't even know what hit them."

☀︎༄.°

i'm so painfully single it's laughable