The Architect [Pipabeth AU]

t w o: they know

P I P E R

The thing about growing up in the spotlight is that you have no control over your life. People look at you differently. People form opinions about you before you open your mouth.

I have no control over what people say about me.

But what is having control? What is being in control? It sounds foreign to me, as somebody who so often flows with the wind.

In the Cherokee stories my dad told me when I was growing up, he described the spirits of the wind. Free flowing and carefree. Then he would touch my nose playfully and tell me those were the spirits that formed me. That seeped into my bones and wound around my being.

I pinched the bridge of my nose and sat on the floor of my room with a guitar in my lap. I leaned against my bed and strummed a couple of chords at random, hoping they'd take me somewhere else. Anywhere away from the echo in my ears.

The piercing pain behind my eyes grew sharper, and I stopped.

It was only seven o clock, but I was exhausted. I had been on a plane all night. That's the best time to fly. It draws less attention.

I stood a little shakily and propped my guitar in its stand. My room was clean other than several notebooks and journals full of lyrics scattered randomly. Binders of sheet music sat on my bedside table beside the photo of my dad and I. Beside the bottle of vodka.

I made my way to my bathroom and brushed my teeth. I'd taken a shower as soon as I'd gotten home. What was today? Monday?

The girl in the mirror had deep lines etched under her eyes from lack of sleep, but I loved it. I loved the late nights and the applause and singing. I loved the songwriting. It was like reading my diary to an immense crowd and feeling like they understood me.

The girl in the mirror had bright eyes despite the tiredness in her limbs. Something all the photographers and interviewers and directors and managers always noted was my eyes. Nobody could figure out which color they were.

My dad always told me I had my mother's eyes, but I'd never met her. She seemed like a long lost dream. My dad talked about her like she was a goddess despite the scars she left him with.

I picked up my phone from the counter and clicked on my dads contact. I dialed him.

Two rings.

"Hey Pipes," his voice was fresh, like a breeze through calm pine trees in the spring.

"Hey dad," mine was weak after singing all yesterday.

"Make it home?" He asked.

"Yeah," I replied.

"How were the paparazzi?" His tone was careful.

"Okay." They has swarmed me once I walked out of the talk show hosts building that I had sang at after my interview.

"I see," he replied. "Well, remember what I always tell you. Head down."

"But that doesn't make them go away." I interjected. "It just makes me look weak."

Three weeks ago, I had pretty much been forced into outting myself. Now the press were all over me. And not all of them were kind.

"You're not weak, Piper." My dads voice sounded sure. Defensive. Protective and angry. "You're strong for doing what you did. They're weak for responding like that. If they were in your shoes, they never could have done something so brave."

I felt tears brim in my eyes. "Thanks dad." It sounded hollow.

What would it do to my reputation? My career?

It was seeing everything you've built for so long falling for something you couldn't change. Something that shouldn't really matter.

My chest felt heavy. Of fear or hurt, I wasn't sure. I remembered having a panic attack after the pictures surfaced. The interviewers calling. The paparazzi on my doorstep. Security escorting me everywhere for two weeks, not being able to leave my house even to go to work. The songs I'd written of pain. The internet losing it's shit.

I felt exposed, like a deep, secret part of me had been ripped from my fingertips and displayed to the world.

"You're in a pivotal position," my manager had said. "You could make an impact here. You should speak out about it-"

"Or I feel like I'm drowning." I'd interrupted. "I feel like a loaded gun, a ticking time bomb."

Even now I felt like I couldn't breath.

All I could think were two simple words: they know.

My dad and I caught up. We talked for a few minutes before he hung up, and I collapsed on my bed.

My room felt empty. I hadn't unpacked my bags. I had bought a new house in the luscious hills of California, somewhere outside of the city surrounded by nothing much in particular. A few other celebrities owned mansions in the area. The closest lived a mile away.

The view out of my window was beautiful. The snack bars and theatre and indoor pool should be all I wanted.

I looked at the picture of my dad and I on my nightstand and closed my eyes. The air was heavy. Or maybe that was just the weight on my chest.

What was I more scared of? Being honest with them, or being honest with myself?

Had I been scared that the truth would come out? Or that the truth would be true?

It didn't feel like home.