Page 208 of Charming Like Us

All the days we spent together in Philly, New York, California, France, Greenland, Austria. It’s charred to a crisp. That was the hardest part. Knowing that I was burning some of our memories.

But I couldn’t store the footage if I’m not filmingBorn into Fameanymore. It’s not safe to keep any video clips of Charlie when someone could get ahold of them. And that person might not have the same feelings or intentions as me.

“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 ofRomeo & 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 hitplayon 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.