LEIGH

Drinks with the staff are a godsend.

I've been saying this about so many things lately the expression starts to lose meaning and impact, but this feels like the first moment I'm able to breathe and unwind.

It's been an eventful first day. It's the busiest I've been with summer camp in a while, beating my regular counselor days, and I blame it on the number of kids we're looking after this year. It's summer camp, not a mass babysitting gig, but I have to admit defeat and acknowledge I was way in over my head.

Thank goodness for my staff and the volunteers. The people who have known me the longest—some of them have been doing this for much longer than I have, some worked for my mom—can easily tell when I get overwhelmed. Instead of listening to my weak and unconvincing comments about how I could totally handle it, they stepped in. Smooth. Easy.

It's a lesson in not underestimating other people and in not overestimating myself and my limits. I was humbled.

And Lottie. Though she hasn't done much, just her presence alone has served as a huge mood booster, both for the staff and the kids alike. They flocked to her like moths to a flame, and she welcomed them with open arms. Like she's been doing this forever.

I knew she was good with kids. It's different seeing it in pictures and videos and then watching it happen right in front of you.

She's kind. She's patient. She's supportive. She's everything I could have asked for and more.

I had to remove myself from the scene before I got emotional. It might be day one, and she can easily burn herself out and give up, but I'm choosing to trust her and her word. I know she's busy, I know she's supposed to be here to relax even if she, like me, can't sit still, and I know she has her agenda.

I know all of this. I also know she could easily fake her interest and involvement just to smooth talk me into giving her a tour of the recording studio.

She could, but she won't. I wouldn't let myself be swayed, but I also know that it's not the type of person she is. I'm learning it now, the ins and outs of Lottie Fitzpatrick, and it warms my heart to realize she gets to be a regular human being here.

As far as possible, of course. The kids don't really care about what goes behind the scenes with her and are just ecstatic about having her here. I trust her to handle that part.

But when the kids are gone, and she has an opportunity to take off the mask, I see her inner conflict. When she looks at me after dinner is done, exhaustion weighing on her shoulders, I feel it.

I feel how badly she wants to just let go and let herself be just Charlotte. I want to tell her it's okay to do it, especially around me, and she has nothing to prove. I expect nothing from her—no superstar behavior, no excellence.

I want her to know she's not a caged animal. Not here. Not to me.

"Hey," I greet, joining her. Her eyes are red, like she's either been rubbing them, smoking, or crying. I don't think she smokes, but I'm not prepared to deal with that last possibility. "You okay?"

She nods unconvincingly. "Yeah. It's just been a lot. I had a meeting with my label and my manager this afternoon."

"I assume it didn't go well."

"Far from it. My manager is fully on my side and he thinks I'm being overworked, but the execs kept hiding behind saccharine tones while reminding me of my contract. The album has to come out this year. They don't want it to be rushed."

"But your tour just ended. When would you have found the time to write and record an album?"

Lottie shrugs. "People have done it before. A lot of people write when they're on the road. Hell, I've done it. But it was a different time. I was a different person. My methods were different."

"Your body is different. I don't mean it in a bad way," I rush to add, "because your body is really nice. Super nice. You know. For a body. You're in shape. You're very beautiful." A traitorous smile stretches her lips. "I mean you might have more stamina now to keep going during longer shows, but once the rush of adrenaline wears off, you crash. It's like a kid having a sugar crash."

"Yeah. I know. I know all of that. I think they do too, but they don't see it that way. They think they've been accommodating enough—letting me come here, that break I took a few years ago after . . ." She gulps. I don't press her for more details. Knowing what I know about her, whatever it was must have driven her to her breaking point. "They think I'm in debt. The contract is fine, and my lawyers went over it countless times before I signed it, so I knew what I was doing. I knew what I had to do. But I couldn't have seen it coming, could I?"

"No. Of course not. If they're holding this over your head like you're doing something wrong by wanting to take care of yourself, it's the capitalist machine at work. You're a product they want to sell."

"You sounded just like Chloe."

"Where do you think she got the map from? I taught her everything she knows. Here, let me get you something to drink."

My brain fully shuts down.

I take her hand, the same way I'd do with anyone else in her circumstances, but she's not a regular person. We don't have a normal relationship. We couldn't ever.

She doesn't protest. If anything, she all but skips behind me as I drag her to the bar—all five-nine in Converse shoes—and waits as I jump over the bar.

Literally. I jump onto the counter to sit on it, then swing my folded legs around until my back is turned to her.

I'm ridiculous.

"Nice moves," she comments. "Do you do this often?"

"What? Bartending?"

She gestures around the back of the kitchen, where we set up the bar. It's a reserved area, so no kids will stumble upon it. "All of this. Jumping on counters. Bartending. Offering girls a drink."

I chuckle, tossing a rag over my shoulder. "I did some bartending while I was in college. When I wasn't here for the summer, I was working at bars. I'm still paying off my loans, but the extra money has helped. A teacher's salary is nothing to write home about."

"Ah. I'm sorry."

"Not your fault. Unless you can somehow revamp the entire superior education system . . . it is what it is. It's an unfortunate reality for a lot of people. Chloe has a full ride scholarship, so that's good." I press my palms against the counter, leaning forward. "So, what can I get you?"

"Oh, um . . . is there a menu?"

"No. I can do most cocktails, and there's beer and cheap ass rosé, but if it's something fancy I don't know, I'll have to look it up, and you'll have to trust me."

"I trust you."

I'm glad it's dark and my hair is long and thick. It saves me the embarrassment of knowing she saw me blush.

"Pick your poison."

"I'll take a gin and tonic. Extra lemon."

"Coming right up."

"You didn't answer all my questions."

"Didn't I?"

"No." She picks up the salt shaker and spins it around with her index finger. Note to self: don't look at her when she's doing it because you will be reminded of her fingers in your mouth. "I asked if you also get girls a drink often."

"I believe the word you used was offer."

"And do you?"

"Sometimes. Sometimes they ask. Sometimes they beg." I open a bottle of Bombay. It shakes in my hand. "Why do you ask?"

"No reason. Just out of curiosity. I'm trying to get to know you."

"If you want to know if I'm single, all you have to do is ask."

I don't know what kind of brave poltergeist has possessed me, but it seems like I can't keep my mouth shut nowadays. I catch myself saying things like this, often around her, and then wonder why everyone assumes we're flirting.

Oh, shit.

Are we flirting?

"Are you?" Lottie asks.

"Huh?"

"Single."

"Ah. Yes. Criminally so."

I want to ask. I shouldn't. I really, really shouldn't.

But if we have been flirting and if, God help me, it's going to keep happening, I have to ask. I don't want to be the other woman.

It's bad enough being the other woman unknowingly. It's worse when you know what your role is and what you're doing. The sapphic dating scene makes it worse because word gets around and it feels like everyone knows everyone.

And this is a superstar. World famous superstar. It's dangerous territory, no matter how careful we are. Even if she's single and we have fun, it would be a ticking time bomb. Our days would always be numbered.

I bite the bullet as I hand her the gin and tonic. Extra lemon. "You?"

"Me?"

"Is Charlotte Fitzpatrick single?"

She crooks her head to the side, examining me. One of her curls falls in front of her eyes.

Then, she shakes her head, chuckling. "Leigh. Do you really think I'd be sitting here, throwing myself at you, if I weren't?"

☀︎༄.°

Two drinks in, and I already feel like I'm going to die.

They don't have much alcohol in them, as we're waking up early tomorrow morning, and I refuse to show up still drunk or so hungover I can barely function. I'm still alert and in control of myself, my body, and my . . . wishes. My stupid desires.

Mostly, I've been drinking to distract myself. I prepare everyone's drinks, as tradition decides, and it gives me a convenient excuse not to think about Lottie, what she said, and the implications.

I'll flirt with gorgeous women like it's my job (God, I wish that were my job). I'll get them drinks. I'm normally good at knowing when someone is flirting with me.

I knew what she was doing. I selfishly and idiotically wished that that was what she was doing. Now that I got exactly what I wanted, I'm at a loss. I'm a deer trapped in the middle of the road between a Lexus and a bus.

She's been sitting with Bea for most of the night, both of them armed with their little dotted notebooks and pretty pens. I'm not surprised. They're similar enough to get along and different enough to where they can challenge each other. They're both writers. I figured they'd get along.

With Lottie occupied, I do my best to ignore every snarky jab launched my way.

They mostly come from Olly, who can't read a room to save his life. He's nice and relatively harmless, albeit annoying, but his inability to take a hint might be dangerous.

"You look jealous, you know," he tells me.

"I'm not," I grumble, wiping an empty glass harder than I should. If anything breaks, I have to pay for it. "Mind your business, Olly. Seriously."

"You're staring. You're kind of making it everyone's business and everyone's problem."

"You meddling in my personal life is my problem right now. I'm staring because Bea is my employee and Lottie is—" What is Lottie? My acquaintance? My business partner? My friend? My mutual flirtationship I'm criminally attracted to and really wish I weren't because it complicates everything? "Point is, I'm not jealous. Lottie is working. Besides"—I carefully pour myself a shot of tequila, as the burning in my throat will be infinitesimally easier to deal with than this conversation—"there's no reason for me to be jealous. Nothing's going on."

"If you say so."

"I do say so."

"Right." I down the shot, tilting my head back. A droplet trails down my chin. "Can you pour me one of those?"

I shove the bottle into his hands. "Pour it yourself. Since you love being all up in my business."

"Leigh, that made no sense."

"Your fucking face makes no sense, yet here you are."

I glance at Lottie and Bea. Just in case. Out of innocent curiosity. For no reason, really. I'm just making sure they're okay.

They're sitting on plastic chairs that are the most uncomfortable things known to man. My back hurts just by looking at them, and I've been standing up for hours.

They don't talk often and work with timers, showing each other what they've written every time one goes off. After the third round of this, Lottie flashes Bea a smile so dazzling it could power up the entirety of Cape Cod.

The pit in my stomach widens. Louisa, who joined me at some point, rubs circles on my back in what she thinks is a comforting manner.

I don't need to be comforted. Nothing is going on.

Nothing should be going on. I should be happy for Lottie if she's writing after she was willing to be honest and vulnerable with me about her writer's block. I'm glad Bea is apparently managing to help her.

I write too. I'm not the next Nobel Prize and I won't be winning any other awards for it, but I can write. I dabbled in creative writing and poetry and have written songs before.

I could have offered to help. Maybe I should have. Maybe Lottie was silently asking me to do it, hoping I'd read between the lines; if that's the case, then I've been a lot denser than I thought.

"They're just writing," Louisa reassures me. "I overheard them talking earlier; Lottie asked her to join her in a writing session. She feels stuck. She thought having a different perspective could help."

"It's fine," I say. "I'm okay. It's just been a long day, that's all. I don't want Lottie to feel like . . . like she owes us something for letting her be here. Bea won't harass her for writing credits."

"I don't think she feels that way. I think she connected with someone with similar interests and took a chance. Whether anything comes out of this or not, whether she offers Bea writing credits, whether Bea accepts them . . . we don't know what will happen. If you're worried, talk to them. I think you might be overthinking this just a little"—I scoff—"but if it helps you sleep at night, get it out of your system. Just do yourself a favor and don't act like you're not bothered by it because you clearly are."

Okay. Fine. Maybe I am bothered.

I don't know why. All I know is that I shouldn't be; I hold no claim over Lottie, a free spirit in every meaning of the word, and, if she wants to write with Bea, she can. If she wants to bond with my staff, she can. I told her I'd introduce her to everyone, and I demanded they made her feel welcome.

Everyone has been acting exactly according to plan. I don't know why I'm feeling the sharp, bitter stab of jealousy. There's nothing between me and Lottie besides the mutual flirtationship. Whatever that means.

It ends when summer ends. It has an expiration date. Why does it matter? Why does it feel like I'm being choked?

"You don't look so hot."

"Huh?" My head snaps to the side. Like magic, Lottie is standing in front of me, spinning a ring around her slender finger. I really need to stop staring at her hands. Or her mouth. Or her legs. Or her chest. Or her face. I need to stop gawking, period. "Charlotte."

"Leigh." She dips an imaginary fedora. "You okay?"

"You just called me ugly."

"No, I didn't. It's an expression."

"Oh. So you think I'm hot."

She raises an eyebrow. "Is this a trick question?"

"If this is how you guys flirt . . ." Louisa comments, raising her hands by her shoulders. "I'll leave you to it."

Lottie looks mortified.

For the sake of my ego, I decide to convince myself it's because yet another person has caught on to how we've been behaving around each other and not because she's regretting being seen with me.

Once Louisa leaves and the lights dim, Lottie leans forward across the counter. She sets her elbows on the cold surface, fingers laced together, and her necklace dangles from side to side.

It's taunting. It's daring me to look.

"I'm going to need you to breathe and drink some water," she declares. "Can you do that for me real quick?"

I exhale through my mouth. "Yeah. Yeah, I can do that." I fill an empty glass with cold water and swallow it all in one big gulp. "There. I'm hydrated."

"You're a work in progress." She flips her hair back, moving it away from her face. "I wrote today. I don't know if it's good, but I'd like to run it by you tomorrow whenever you're free, if it's possible."

"Me?"

"Yeah. You'd give me an honest opinion."

"You think I'll tell you if it's the worst thing you've ever written." She nods. I don't think she's capable of writing an awful song; I think she can write something that isn't for me, but it still wouldn't be bad. "Okay. Yeah. I can do that. I write sometimes. Songs."

"Do you?" It's my turn to nod. My stomach lurches. "Would you like to write with me? No strings attached?"

Everything between us has to have no strings attached. It's smarter. It's safer.

"I'm nowhere near your level. Or Bea's."

"She was just helping me write. Body doubling. I used to do that all the time back home. It's just business. Work."

"Like you and me. Business partners."

"Not at all like you and me." She places her index and middle fingers under my chin, tilting my head up. When our eyes meet, hers are so warm and inviting I nearly melt on the spot. "It was just writing."

I huff. "God, I know. I'm being insufferable. I'm sorry. I promise this isn't regular me. I'm not a raging lesbian."

"You're raging and you're a lesbian."

"But both at once?" She shoots me a deadpan look. "Okay, yeah, maybe I am. It's not my fault that people piss me off and that I love women. I think everyone should love women. Women are fantastic." I inhale. "Women. You know?"

"Okay, Saoirse Ronan."

"Huh?"

"Little Women?"

"Ooooh, yeah. Yeah, for sure."

Her face falls. "Haven't you watched it?"

"I read it." I swallow a burp. I'll die before I burp in front of her. "Back in high school. For fun. I read for fun. I love reading. Chloe does too, but she reads fae smut. I personally don't get the appeal, but to each their own. What about you? Do you read? I see the three of you carrying your Kindles everywhere. I thought you had a little book club, or something."

Lottie chuckles. "I do. I don't have much time to read when I'm on tour, but I discovered audiobooks. Instead of blasting music, sometimes I'll listen to one. I like that book club idea, actually. I'll pitch it to them."

"Good. You do that. I think I'm gonna rest."

"How about I walk you to your room? I'm headed there."

"Like you know the way."

"I'll manage." She offers me her arm. "Shall we?"

☀︎༄.°

everyone say thank you chappell roan