Silence. A few exchanged glances.
“I know you know this. I know there have been…comments. Behind my back, during rehearsals, probably in group chats I’m not part of.” I hold up a hand before anyone can protest. “It’s okay. I’m not calling anyone out. I’m just…acknowledging reality.”
Devon pulls himself out of the pool, water streaming off his shoulders. “Charlie, we don’t?—”
“Let me finish. Please.” I wait until he nods, then continue. “The truth is, I don’t just struggle with dancing. I don’t like it. I never have. When I was a kid, I wanted to be a singer-songwriter. Full stop. But somewhere along the way, the industry decided that pop stars have to be triple threats—singing, dancing, acting—and I got swept up in trying to be all the things I’m not. All the things I don’t want to be.”
Mia has sat up on her lounge chair, her expression unreadable. Jasmine is nodding slowly, like pieces are clicking into place.
“I’ve spent years forcing myself through choreography that doesn’t suit me, and in the process, I’ve been holding all of you back.” I gesture at the group, at these incredible athletes who could be headlining their own shows. “You put your entire lives on hold to support my tour. Your careers, your families, your own opportunities—all of it, on pause, to make me look good on stage. And I haven’t been honoring that sacrifice.”
The pizza delivery guy chooses this moment to appear at the side gate, looking confused about whether he’s supposed to interrupt. I wave him over, and Marcus—again, dancer Marcus—and Devon gallantly jog over to help with the boxes.
“Anyway,” I continue, once the pizza is safely deposited on the patio table, “I want to change things. Before the next show, I want to completely rework the choreography.”
Now I have their full attention. Even the people who were still half floating in the pool have drifted to the edge, listening.
“I want to step back from the moves I can’t keep up with. I want to focus on what I’m actually good at—singing, live, mic on, no more lip-syncing, no more backup tracks doing the heavy lifting.” I meet their eyes, one by one. “And I want to give you all the space to actually shine. Solos. Features. Moments where the audience is watchingyou, not just using you as background decoration while I flail around pretending to know what I’m doing.”
Jasmine’s hand goes up, tentative. “You want us to have our own solos? On your tour?”
“It’s not just my tour. It’s our tour. Or at least, it should be.” I step closer to the group, my bare feet warm on the sunbakedstone. “I’ve been thinking about what I want this experience to be—not just for me, but for everyone involved. And I realized I’ve been so focused on my own survival that I forgot we’re supposed to be a team. The name Charlie Riley has to sell tickets, but the performance belongs to all of us.”
“That’s…” Devon drags a hand through his wet hair, looking genuinely thrown. “Charlie, this only exists because of you. You know that, right? It’s okay for the headliner to want the spotlight to themselves.”
“I’ve had all eyes on me for seven years. Where has it gotten me?” I shrug. “It’s time to try something different.”
Kenny, still floating on an inflatable flamingo, raises his hand. “Can I say something?”
“Of course.”
“When I got the call for this tour, I almost didn’t take it.” He paddles closer, his expression unusually serious for someone perched on a giant pink bird. “Not because of you. Because of the industry. I was tired of the glass ceilings. Tired of working my ass off in rehearsals just to be a blur behind some artist who didn’t even learn our names. But my agent said your team was different. That you actually talked to your dancers, remembered birthdays, gave us security budgets, checked in and congratulated us after shows.”
I blink. “I didn’t know anyone noticed that stuff.”
“We notice everything.” Mia stands up, wrapping a towel around her shoulders. “You’re the only artist I’ve worked with who asks how we’re doing. Like, actually asks, and waits for an answer. That matters.”
“It matters more than you know,” Jasmine adds quietly. “I’ve worked tours where the headliner literally didn’t know my name after six months. You knew my daughter’s name after the first week. You asked about her dance recital.”
My throat tightens. “Well, getting to play Poppy in an elementary school rendition ofTrollsis a big deal.”
“See?” Jasmine’s eyes are bright. “That’s what we’re talking about. You care. And now you’re asking us to step up and share the stage?” She shakes her head, smiling. “Charlie, we’d follow you into a burning building.”
“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” I manage, my voice wobbly.
“The point is,” Devon cuts in, ever the practical one, “we’re with you. But I want to make sure you understand what you’re proposing. Complete re-choreography in less than a week is ambitious. Some would say impossible.”
“Yup.” I meet his eyes steadily. “Total suicide mission.”
There’s a hum of agreement around the patio.
“Look, I’m not expecting perfection. I’m expecting effort. Creativity. Willingness to try something new and fail and try again.” I gesture around the pool. “This tour was supposed to be the biggest thing I’ve ever done. Instead, it’s been a disaster from the jump. But maybe we can turn it into something bigger and better than revenue. Something we look back on that actually means something. Not just to the fans, but to us.”
The silence stretches for a hot minute. I can feel my heart pounding, the vulnerability of what I’ve just said sitting exposed in the humid air.
Then Mia stands up from her lounge chair and starts clapping.
It’s slow at first—almost sarcastic, and for a horrible second I think she’s mocking me. But then Jasmine joins in, and Devon, and suddenly they’re all applauding, and the sound echoes off the water and the white walls of the villa until it’s basically a standing ovation.
