Charming Like Us (Like Us 7)

“I didn’t burn all of it,” I whisper, being truthful. “I kept some of the footage where Charlie wasn’t present.” I smile at him.

He understands. “You kept the footage of us.”

“Yeah.”

Oscar grins, but his lips falter. “You’re alright with ending this?”

I’ve learned a lot about Charlie and myself. I’ve met my limits on what I’m willing to do, and it’s right here. I can’t produce a show that’s centered around someone who’s self-destructive like him, who’s too apathetic about his life being seen.

I’m ending the pilot. Ending the idea of creating my own show around him.

“It’s not the one,” I tell Oscar. “And it already gave me what I wanted. Just not what I expected.”

He leans in and steals a kiss, one that melts us against each other, and we pull back as the curtains begin to rise. His hand stays in mine.

My chest rises, and I smile out at the performance of Romeo & Juliet. Barely watching, though. A strong sense of anticipation rolls through me. I can’t stop visualizing how we ended up here.

How I fell in love with Oscar Highland-Oliveira.

Like someone hit play on the video of our lives. We’re all over the fucking place. A big tortured slow-burn as I flirted my way into his heart and missed opportunity after opportunity to seize what I desired.

How we married in one drunken night.

How the annulment still lies on the metaphorical table between us.

In my head, it’s already burned in the trash with Charlie’s footage. There is no future where I’m not married to this man.

But I haven’t articulated this to Oscar, and my pulse speeds even when he peeks over at me in the ballet. I use one of those times to whisper, “I figured it out.”

His eyes rest on mine for longer.

“I’m pansexual,” I breathe, knowing this has been what I’ve felt. I’m sexually, romantically attracted to people, regardless of sex and gender. I’m at peace with choosing the label as my own, and I know because I said it to myself in the mirror.

And fuck did I feel happy.

His mouth curves upward, pride in his eyes. “I really love you.”

Emotion crashes into me. I didn’t expect Oscar to say that. I wipe the corner of my eye. Smiling more.

He wipes it for me, then quietly he pops an orange tin on his lap. One that Audrey Cobalt gave him when we arrived at the theatre.

He tries to contain a laugh.

Do I use that as a reason to lean closer? Of course I fucking do. I lean into Oscar, my lips rising when I see the cookies inside the tin.

“How sweet of her,” I smile brighter.

He contains another laugh. “She outdid herself this time.”

I pick up a glazed sugar cookie. Orange icing is piped to resemble a glass of orange juice, and she scrawled the words, Highveira, in neat pink.

Our ship name.

We have fans outside the famous ones. Hate has died down as love for me and Oscar grows louder, and no one is happier than my parents, my brother. Mama even wears Highveira T-shirts to work. She’s shown me proudly on FaceTime.

Oslie stans still exist, but there’s a stronger fanbase around my relationship now. All because of one video.

Just one changed everything.

Paparazzi caught footage of Oscar spinning around my baseball cap and kissing me. We were grinning, and I might’ve slapped his ass. People decided that one was “authentic”.

Fan sites popped up with headers and banners of orange juice. O & J—our initials.

“We have fans,” I tell him into a bite of cookie.

While his eyes sweep the theatre, he whispers, “Just don’t forget I’m still your number one fan, Highland.”

“Don’t forget I’m yours, Os.”

His hand slips into mine, mine into his. Our grins bigger, and we try to focus on Romeo & Juliet. All the Hales, Meadows, and Cobalts are here today, some strewn in other boxes. Some seated in the orchestra section. Leo Valavanis is out sick, and Beckett is filling in as Romeo for maybe the only time all season.

My parents are also here.

And my brother. Along with Oscar’s family. They’re shadowed in the darkened theatre. All in their own boxes, watching the ballet. Waiting for the end.

Yet, it’s not really the end for me.

The structure is all over the place, depending on the perspective. For some in the theatre, today is the rising action. For others, it’s the fall.

Maybe for people like Charlie, it’s eternally stuck at the beginning. And that’s the frustration of it all.

Act 1, Scene 2, the Capulet family hosts a ball. The stage is full of ballerinas and—

Thump!

One goes down.

The audience lets out a collective gasp. Oscar is hawk-eyed more on Charlie, and I realize he’s dropped the legs of his chair he’d been leaning back on. He’s bowed forward.

The young ballerina quickly rises to her feet. We’re close enough to see embarrassment shade her face. Hurrying, she continues the dance like nothing happened. She looks shorter than the girls next to her.