Page 24 of Last Chorus

I crack a smile. “Fair enough.”

Part of me wishes I could go to Oasis with him. Back to the place and time when all I had to worry about was putting one foot in front of the other. Eating three meals at set times. Walking a dusty, rock-lined labyrinth at dawn and dusk. Swimming laps until my muscles burned. Learning about my anxiety, the root causes and triggers, and how to manage it sober.

In many ways, those three months were the hardest of my life. Dr. Chastain tore my head and guts apart before helping me put myself back together. But despite how painful it all was, there was a beautiful simplicity to the process.

Best of all, back then I still had hope. Naive, selfish hope that my broken heart was temporary. That when I got out, I’d make amends to Evangeline and in time she’d forgive me. Because surely our love was too big and perfect for her to walk away from.

Only it wasn’t.

I thought I’d learned that lesson when I returned to Seattle, when she said all that shit on her parents’ front lawn. When she took the pieces of my heart and stomped them to dust.

But apparently I’m hardheaded as fuck. Or a master of denial still clinging to a single remaining sliver of hope.

Still addicted to her and unable to let go.

“It’s going to be okay, Wilder.”

I nod, not meeting Frank’s eyes, and signal for the check.

CHAPTER TEN

wilder

Ifollow Frank to the front of the restaurant, where he pauses near the host station to chat with the woman there. I stop as well but don’t pay attention to their conversation, distracted by all the notifications on my phone that weren’t there an hour ago.

There are texts from pretty much everyone I know, but what spikes my blood pressure are the missed calls and voicemails. Two are from Night Theory’s manager—concerning because Mack is currently in Barbados with his longtime girlfriend and his last words to me were, “Have a nice break and don’t fucking call me unless someone dies.”

But far worse are the six missed calls and three voicemails from our publicist.

Shelley isn’t known to overreact.

My heart racing, I unlock my phone and open my text messages, bypassing my sisters and mom in favor of Jax.

His most recent message reads,

Anything you want to share with the class? Did she actually talk to u??

Attached is a link to an online article from a big gossip magazine. The preview shows side by side images of Evangeline and me from the BBMAs, along with a headline that makes my eyebrows jump. A flare of satisfaction warms my chest, smothered almost immediately by alarm when I think about Clay reacting to this.

Has he seen it? Has she seen it?

Given the calls from Shelley, my guess is yes and yes.

Fuck.

Before I can click on the link, a voice asks, “Mr. Ashburn?”

I look up at Frank and the woman, who wears a gold pin on her black button-down that says manager. Frank’s lips are folded inward, his eyes laughing. The woman, conversely, looks like she’s ten seconds from a mental breakdown.

“Yes?”

Before she can answer, the heavy front door opens and a familiar man slips inside. Sam is my usual driver-slash-security when I’m in the city. He’s ex-military, mid-forties, with biceps as big as my head. His normally placid expression is intact, whereas mine has no doubt shifted to horror after what I just glimpsed outside.

Hell in the form of a swarm of hungry, buzzing paps.

Double fuck.

“Good timing,” Sam drawls at me. “I was just coming in to discuss the situation. Car’s out front already, but there’s fifteen feet of exposure between the door and the curb.”