Superfan (Brooklyn #3)(60)

I pass a door marked Serenity Pool, and another marked Revitalizing Waters. Finally, I locate a door marked Oxygen Room. I don’t know if I’m supposed to knock or not. After a moment’s hesitation, I turn the doorknob and gently poke my head into the room.

There sits Charla Harris on a chaise lounge, her short legs crossed at the ankles. Her eyes are closed, and she’s breathing very deeply, like someone in a yoga video.

“Hi,” I say, and it sounds too loud in all the silence.

“Close the door,” she says without opening her eyes. “You’re letting all the oxygen out.”

I step in and shut it behind me. “There’s oxygen everywhere, though. Are you sure this isn’t a scam?”

She ignores the comment and takes another deep breath.

“Usually in Hollywood, when you have to take off your clothes to see your manager, you can file a sexual harassment claim later,” I add, crossing to one of the lounge chairs.

“You are hilarious, darling. Let’s see if we can get you some standup comedy gigs after I earn you another ten million on your fucking album.” She still does not even open her eyes.

“Why didn’t we just have dinner?”

“Oxygen is more important than dinner. And all my dinners are booked through October, anyway.”

“All of them? Don’t you ever eat alone?”

“I would, but there’s always somebody who slept through her regularly scheduled appointment and therefore needs to have dinner.”

Touché.

Charla finally opens her eyes. “My goodness. Where did you say you went on vacation?”

“I went to a wedding.”

“Was it your own? Because you look twice as healthy as last time I saw you. And by ‘healthy’ I really mean sexually satisfied.”

“Well. The oxygen is clearly doing its magic.”

“Don’t sound ungrateful, darling. You’re the reason I’m so busy this week. I’ve been chasing down lawyers to help you get out from under Brett Ferris.”

“Don’t say his name. It depletes the oxygen.”

My tough manager actually cracks a smile, and I feel like I’ve won an Oscar. Pulling out my phone, I Google how much oxygen is in the air. “Twenty-one percent,” I tell her. “That’s how much oxygen is in the air already.”

“Doesn’t it say, ‘except in L.A.?’ Have you heard of smog? You are in a very goofy mood. You did meet a man on the beach, right? You had a fling.”

“There was a guy. Sure.” But how does she know? “You’re a little creepy, Charla. I say this with love.”

“It’s just years of experience. So you spent the weekend with a guy on a beach. Then you returned to L.A. where you remembered that your life is in flux. And you’re not sure why you came back.”

Get out of my brain. “Yeah, something like that. It was a pretty amazing time. I don’t know what to think about it, honestly. But this isn’t your issue.”

“Isn’t it?” Her expression softens. “You hire me to help you reach your goals, no matter what those are. So if you sit here and say—Charla, find me a couple million dollars so I can go off and have three kids with the guy from the beach—” She shrugs. “Then that would become my task.”

“That doesn’t sound like me. I’ve spent my whole life trying to make it in music. I can’t even imagine just walking away.”

“Maybe not. I just need you to understand that getting what you want out of life is all about making tough choices. You have to ask yourself, ‘What can’t I live without?’ Will it kill me to lose that second album? Do I need to make Brett pay? Or will it hurt worse if the guy from the beach gets away. Who is he, anyway? Wait, let me guess.” She squints at me. “I see…a hockey player.”

“Charla!” I realize I’m being punked. “Who told you?”

“Instagram. There’s a photo of you kissing him. The post was from a teenage girl. You took a photo with her, too.”

“Oh. You’re stalking me on social media?”

“Of course I am. Or rather my assistant is. So tell me about this hockey player.”

“I’m not sure what you need to know. He lives in Brooklyn.”

Charla rolls her eyes. “I don’t need to know anything. I just like gossip. Does he have a really muscular butt? What position does he play?”

“Goalie.”

“A puck eater. Interesting. They’re very bendy.” Charla Harris is full of surprises.

“I didn’t take you for the kind of woman who’s impressed by professional athletes.” I reach for my phone to show her the lock screen, which is now a selfie I took with Silas.

She whistles under her breath. “So this is a rather large problem, then.”

“You can’t tell just by looking at him.”

“The hell I can’t. He has kind eyes. That’s the kind of man that could make you stop and realign your priorities.”

I hear myself take a deep breath of air that might or might not have extra oxygen in it. I’d just spent forty minutes driving here to talk about writing new music. So why were we talking about Silas? “My priorities haven’t shifted. I want my second album released.”