Everywhere: Book 3 of the Nowhere Trilogy

11. I'm Not the Only One

You say I'm crazy, 'cause you don't think I know what you've done. - Sam Smith

6:12 p.m. Friday, November 19, 2021

Adjusting his towel more tightly around his waist, Harry attempts to use the fluffy Egyptian cotton as a shield against the look on her face.

"You're upset with me," he announces. Secretly he hopes she brings up the Hélène thing so he doesn't have to.

"You summoned me here, your highness. What is your request?" Her tone of voice is quiet, regal, and her back is as straight as a guitar's neck. Shit. This is worse than he thought it would be. This can't be because she's jealous of Hélène, right? After all, he hasn't bedded Hélène in over two years. Bedded. What an old-fashioned term for what he and Hélène did! Mostly because a bed wasn't even essential for their relationship.

Taken aback, he staggers a step or two. "Chele? What's going on?"

Once when he was traveling through Iceland, he had visited The Volcano House, a museum dedicated to the rumbling masses of molten lava where the red, angry liquid simmers below the earth's crust until it can no longer be contained. That's when it erupts. As does Chele in this moment.

"'What's going on'? Are you trying to get me fired? I was in the middle of interviewing your fans so that I could write this piece for tomorrow, and your lackey appears and snaps his fingers, and it's like I'm being escorted in handcuffs to the guillotine. If my boss finds out I know you, I'm out of a job, which would totally suck because I would be back in Nowhere faster than you can nod to a servant and make a cup of tea appear. In case you've forgotten, I am not your employee. I would never work for you in a million years. You do not get to treat me like I'm some servant of yours." She's risen during her diatribe, pacing in his dressing room, her arms flailing in all directions as she punctuates her point with multiple jabs in his direction.

"Chele...." he begins, but she twirls back to him, anger evident in her voice now.

"Look, it's fine if you've....fu....scre...slept with every woman on the tour, but I do not need them flaunting it in my face." She advances on him, her finger wagging like a puppy's tail. "It's perfectly fine for you to have a robust sex life, and I will not make you feel guilty for it because you deserve to....couple with every woman you want. But could you please send me a scorecard? Maybe a yearbook? That way, when I meet someone new on this tour, I am at least forewarned and don't run smack into the truth of your....bedroom adventures without warning." Grabbing her bag and slinging it over her shoulder, she steps to the dressing room door, reaching for the handle.

In five giant steps, Harry is at the door, his left hand keeping it closed while his right struggles to hold up his towel. "Chele. Let me explain."

She inhales deeply, looking at him, her eyes wide, crazy. Shaking her head, she rests it against the closed door. He watches as a few tears slip from underneath, and his heart breaks just a little bit more. Fuck. They never should have left Nowhere. Here in the real world, life is so much more complicated.

"Harry..." she begins and then clears her throat. "You don't need to explain anything. I'm sorry I attacked you." Silence stretches between them because Harry doesn't know what to say. He's afraid if he touches her, she'll shatter into a million pieces at his feet. Finally, she turns her head to face him, her forehead still resting against the dressing room door. Her whisper is so quiet he has to lean forward to hear it. "Hélène made it clear that you haven't slept with her recently, although I don't know why not. She's adorable. The way she stated your history threw me for a loop is all. Of course you have people from your past and present with whom you've had relations."