Silence on the line.
“Everyone who was at the first New York show,” I clarify, even though I know they understood me the first time. “Theypaid to see a concert. They didn’t get one. I want to give them their money back.”
Marcus sighs—a long, exhausted exhale that tells me exactly how this conversation is going to go. “Charlie, that would bankrupt the tour. We’ve already canceled two more shows while you’re recovering.”
“I don’t care.”
“You should care,” he grumbles. “We’re talking about millions of dollars. Tens of millions actually. These are sold-out stadiums. The venue fees alone?—”
“Those people saved up for months to see me. Some of them probably couldn’t afford it in the first place.”
I picture the faces in the crowd, the ones who worked double shifts just to afford nosebleed seats. The college kids who chose my show over textbooks. The parents who surprised their daughters with birthday tickets. And what did they get? Me, crumpling to the floor mid-chorus, leaving a packed stadium in stunned silence.
“And they saw you,” Marcus adds. “After you left, they streamed the Vegas performance. Most of the crowd stayed. Everyone got a free drink ticket.”
“That’s not good enough. How is that fair? They deserve?—”
“Charlie. They knew the risk when they bought the tickets.” His voice has shifted into business mode, the one that makes me feel like a product instead of a person. “There’s a clause in every purchase agreement. No refunds, no exceptions. It protects us from exactly this kind of situation.”
“It doesn’t feel right.”
“It doesn’t have to feel right. It has to keep the tour alive.”
My mouth opens to protest, but the words die somewhere between my brain and my lips. Something hot and tight builds in my throat, and I press my fingernails into my palms until they leave half-moon indentations.
“Cancel it,” I say quietly. “I’m done.”
“Cancel what?” Marcus asks, his tone sharpening.
“The tour. All of the shows. I don’t want to postpone. I want to cancel.” I take a breath. “I need some time, Marcus. To focus on my mental health. To figure out what’s going on with me lately. I can’t just?—”
“Charlie,” he says, gentler now, which is somehow worse. “I had a call with the label this morning. A long one.”
I wait.
“This tour is the only thing keeping you relevant right now. Album sales are down. Streaming numbers are flat. The label invested heavily in this tour because they believe it’s the path back to the top.” He pauses. “If you pull out, they’re done.”
“Done?”
“Done investing in you. Done promoting you. Done, period.” Another pause. “They’ll drop you, Charlie.” His voice catches, and I hear him take a breath. “Look, I hate even saying this. I don’t want to be the one who—” He stops. Starts again. “The label sees you as…replaceable. God, that sounds awful. But they think it’s easier to manufacture some TikTok nobody than resurrect a has-been. Especially one that’s…struggling. I’m on your side here, I swear. I fought for you in that room. But I promised I’d always shoot straight with you, right? Even when it kills me to do it? This is the reality. If you walk away from this tour, you walk away from all of it.”
I press my palm flat against the duvet, grounding myself in the texture, the coolness of the fabric. Perhaps I should be crying, but my tear ducts have officially gone on strike—probably unionized while I was sleeping. Good for them.
“Okay,” I hear myself say. It’s strange—“okay” wasn’t the response in my mind. Somewhere between my brain and my vocal cords,fuck thisturned intookay. “Okay,” I repeat, just tohear how it sounds. “I’ll figure it out. Tell them I’ll be ready for Boston next week.”
“Are you sure?” Sage’s sweet voice massages the silence. “Canceling Boston won’t break the tour. We can get you another couple weeks?—”
“I’m sure.” I drag the back of my hand across dry cheeks. “I’m fine. Really. I’ll be ready. Just make sure we get an extra rehearsal in beforehand, okay? I want everyone there—dancers, singers, the whole crew. We’ll run it until my feet bleed.”
I meant it as a joke, but it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve left bloodstains inside those rhinestone-crusted boots.
We say our goodbyes. Sage tells me to stay off social media, and promises to handle the press. Marcus ensures me he’ll go back to the label and shove my comeback down their throats so hard they’ll choke on all my success. Then the line goes dead and I’m alone again in this enormous bed in this enormous room in this city that suddenly feels like a cage.
The thought of stepping back on stage makes my stomach twist into knots that would impress an Eagle Scout, but what choice do I have? The show must go on, as they say. Even when the performer has nothing left.
I think about calling Claire.
My phone is right there, her contact just a few taps away, and I know she’d answer. She always answers, even now, even when she’s supposed to be on strict bed rest with a pregnancy that her doctors keep calling “high risk” in voices that make everyone around her nervous.
