The Charm Offensive(35)

“Yes, of course. I just wanted to… talk.” Daphne clears her throat. “We haven’t had much time tonight, and I want to make sure you know how much I like you.”

“Oh.” Charlie visibly relaxes. “I like you, too, Daphne.”

She pushes her hair behind her ears. “I wanted to show you how much I like you,” she says, like she’s trying so hard to sound brave. She puts her hand on Charlie’s thigh, and Dev understands exactly what’s about to happen. He has a weird impulse to shout cut. To intervene. To rescue Charlie and Daphne both.

But then Daphne is pulling him into a passionate kiss, and Charlie doesn’t look like he needs to be rescued. He meets every ounce of Daphne’s fervor with his own. They’re moving too quickly; she slides her hand up to his groin; he pulls her on top of his lap. His hands are in her hair, around her waist, up the front of her pink dress.

“Finally”—Ryan exhales quietly—“these two are giving us something we can sell.”

Cut, Dev wants to scream. Someone call cut.

Four days ago, he told Charlie to listen to his heart, and here Charlie is, doing just that, and it’s good. It’s right. It’s the way things are supposed to be. Charlie is their prince, and Daphne is the perfect princess, and this is all how it’s supposed to go. So why does Dev feel like everything is terribly wrong?

Jules reaches over and gives Dev’s arm puppy scratches.

This is good.

“Wait, sorry… just…” Charlie ducks his head away from Daphne’s, hands on her waist, sliding her off his lap.

Daphne looks confused as she adjusts her clothes. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m sorry, but I…” Charlie clears his throat. He has lipstick in his chin dimple. “I was trying, but I don’t think I… I’m sorry, but—”

“But you what?” Daphne pushes impatiently. “You were trying to what, Charlie?”

Sweat coats Charlie’s hairline, and he turns to find Dev behind the cameras. Daphne turns to look at Dev, too, and it’s an obvious fourth-wall break, but no one calls cut. Daphne reaches up for Charlie’s face to pull his gaze back to her. “I’m trying, too,” she says. “Just talk to me. What’s wrong?”

“I can’t.” Charlie snaps, and he’s off the bench, lunging forward, lunging toward Dev. Confused, one of the cameras swings around as Charlie catapults into Dev’s arms, and then Charlie’s weight is propelling them both backward, toward a single-stall bathroom. They trip, half fall, and then Charlie’s slamming the bathroom door closed behind them, cutting them off from the cameras. Charlie tries to claw at his mic belt to turn it off, but his entire body is shaking. He turns to dry-heave into the sink.

Dev has seen Charlie build toward a dozen panic attacks, but he’s never seen him like this. Dev is paralyzed, with no idea how to help.

Outside the bathroom, someone pounds on the door, and Daphne’s voice floats through. “Charlie! Come out! Talk to me!”

Dev ignores the knocking, and Daphne, and Ryan screaming in his earpiece. All he can see is Charlie, shaking, choking, heaving. He finally springs into action. “Breathe,” he whispers as he puts a hand on Charlie’s back.

“Don’t touch me, Dev!” Charlie explodes in a voice Dev’s never heard before.

Dev pulls back as if Charlie burned him. “Okay. I’m sorry.”

Charlie drops his head. “Wait. No, I’m sorry.” He tears at his hair. “I’m so sorry, Dev. Shit, I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. We’re okay.” Dev puts one hand tentatively on Charlie’s shoulder, then another. “Tell me what you need.”

“I… I need… I need…”

“Take your deep breaths,” Dev says, quiet but firm, and they take three perfectly synchronized deep breaths together. “Tell me what you need, Charlie.”

“I need…”

He fumbles for words, and when he can’t seem to find any, he falls forward until his chest bumps against Dev’s. He doesn’t right himself. Instead, he grabs onto the back of Dev’s T-shirt with both hands, presses his forehead into Dev’s throat, telling Dev what he needs in the only way he can communicate right now. He needs to be hugged. Held.

Charlie is heavy, but Dev wants to be able to hold him up. That’s his job. To help Charlie. To support him through this in whatever way he can.

He wraps one arm around Charlie’s wide shoulders and with the other winds his fingers into Charlie’s hair, massaging his scalp until Charlie relaxes against him. Every bit of tension that leaves Charlie’s body somehow ends up in Dev’s, until he’s standing there rigid and stiff-limbed, muscles shaking from the effort, but it’s fine. He can bear it.

“I’m screwing everything up,” Charlie pants against Dev’s clavicle.

“Oh, love, you’re not screwing anything up,” he says, and he means for the oh, love to come out in the same patronizing, joking tone he used earlier, but the situation is too different, and the words feel too different. Charlie shifts in his arms so he’s looking up at Dev—gray eyes and freckles, too pretty and too close.

“I am screwing it up,” Charlie whispers. “Worse than you know.”