The Spotlight

Chapter 21

The guitar strings bite into the pads of my fingers as I press down on the frets, coaxing a melody from the worn acoustic that's seen me through countless lonely nights. The song taking shape beneath my hands isn't quite right yet—something about the bridge feels off, like trying to express a feeling I don't have words for. I scribble another line in my notebook, cross it out, try again.

I strum a G chord, then slide into an E minor that hangs in the air of my bedroom like a question. The words come reluctantly, as if they know they're exposing too much.

I wince and immediately scratch out the lines. Anyone who read that would know exactly what—who—I'm writing about.

Outside my open door, the X Factor house is mercifully quiet. Sundays are our only real down time, the one day when most contestants scatter to their rooms or call family or just exist without a camera tracking their every move. The pressure never truly dissipates—tomorrow we start rehearsals for week three—but at least today the air feels lighter, more relaxed.

I try another chord progression, something in a minor key that better suits my mood. Not sad exactly, but thoughtful. Cautious. My fingers stumble on the strings, hitting a discordant note that makes me cringe.

A soft knock on my door frame pulls me from my thoughts. I look up to find David leaning against the door, his dark hair still damp from the shower, wearing a simple white shirt and jeans. His eyes drop to the notebook on my bed.

"Writing anything good?" he asks, his voice gentle with interest.

I shift my position, angling the notebook away instinctively.

"Nothing good," I say with a dismissive shrug. "Just playing around with some ideas."

His eyebrows lift skeptically. "I highly doubt that," he says, stepping just inside the doorway but keeping a respectful distance. "I'd bet they are really good."

I close the notebook, sliding it under my pillow in a movement I hope appears casual rather than secretive. "What's up?" I ask, changing the subject.

David shifts his weight, his hand moving to the back of his neck in a gesture I've come to recognize as his tell when he's slightly nervous. The familiarity of it makes me feel a twinge of guilt. He's been nothing but nice to me, and I've been distracted at best, distant at worst.

"A few of us are heading into town to do some shopping," he says. "Just to get out of the house for a bit. I thought maybe you'd like to come?"

I hesitate, my mind calculating the variables. On one hand, I've been holed up in my room for hours and could use the fresh air. On the other, David's interest in me has become increasingly obvious, and I don't want to encourage something I can't reciprocate.

"Who else is going?" I ask, trying to keep my tone light.

"Kristin from Tulisa's team, and Henry and Patrick from Nicole's team," he answers.

Relief floods through me. Not just the two of us, then. Safe.

"Sure, sounds nice," I agree, setting my guitar aside. "I could use a break from these four walls."

David's face brightens with a cheerful smile. "Great! We'll meet you downstairs in five," he says, lingering for a second longer than necessary before disappearing down the hallway.

I exhale slowly once he's gone, rubbing my temples where a headache threatens. What am I doing? This thing with Gary—if you can even call two forbidden kisses and a handful of meaningful glances and texts a "thing"—is professionally reckless and personally confusing. Yet I can't seem to stop myself from wanting more of it.