Page 1 of Last Chorus (A Perfect Song Duet #2)

CHAPTER ONE

wilder

SIX AND A HALF YEARS LATER

T he doorbell’s soft, bell-like tone echoes through the house. Even expecting it, my chest tightens and my pulse accelerates. I lower my mug of tea to the counter and close my eyes.

A normal stress response.

Breathe.

Focus on physical anchors.

My lungs push against the pressure around them as I inhale, hold the breath, then blow it out in a rush through my mouth. As I continue the exercise, I tap firmly beneath my collarbone until my nervous system calms and my heart rate slows.

Even with over six years of practice under my belt, I’m still amazed when the simple technique works. Gratitude fills me for the freedom I have now that I’m able to manage my anxiety.

The doorbell rings again.

“Coming,” I mutter.

I leave the kitchen and walk down the hallway toward my visitors.

The click and hum of the central heating and the creak of floorboards under my bare feet are familiar, grounding sounds.

Late December, mid-morning sunlight cuts through trees on the property, diffusing through double-paned glass on my right and making the wood and white walls glow.

After weeks of gray, it’s a welcome sight.

As I pass the two platinum albums hanging in frames on the hallway wall, I breathe deeply again and remind myself that everything is okay, that I can handle this.

That I’ve handled a lot without a drink or a drug, like writing and recording five albums back-to-back.

Months upon months on the road. Sold out stadium crowds and festival fields around the world.

Screaming, crying fans who have no concept of personal boundaries.

Live interviews under glaring lights. And the most personally challenging career requirement: industry events and award shows where seeing her is unavoidable.

But the real proof I can handle anything sits in my chest: a broken heart that still, somehow, keeps on beating. That I’ve learned to accept, even embrace, as the ultimate proof that nothing, nothing , has the power to send me back into the darkness.

My fingers trail lightly across the leaves of a potted fern beside the front door, and I use the physical sensation to focus my mind on the present. One more breath, then I flip the deadbolt and pull open the door. Frigid air swirls around me and I relish the shock of it.

The couple standing on my porch regard me with starkly different expressions. Matt Sullivan is frowning deeply, hands stuffed in his pockets, shoulders high and tense beneath his coat. His wife, on the other hand, beams at me with a smile so familiar I have to make myself return it.

“Hi, Wilder,” Sophie says warmly. “Thanks so much for letting us come by.”

“Of course. How was the ferry?”

“Just fine,” she answers as Matt grumbles, “Fucking crowded.”

I glance at him—he doesn’t meet my eye—before standing back. “Come on in. ”

Once they’re inside, I close the door and lock it, then wait as they remove their coats and hang them on hooks in the foyer. As I study their body language, it occurs to me with faint amusement that of the three of us, I’m the calmest.

Sophie turns first, clearing her throat as she smooths flyaway, dark blonde hairs from her face. “How was your Christmas?”

Since she’s best friends with my mom and they talk daily, it’s obvious she’s attempting to fill the awkward silence.

I don’t know exactly why they’re here, but whatever the reason, it’s becoming apparent that it’s not a good one.

My jaw clenches against the urge to ask the question that’s haunted me since my mom called two days ago with their request.

“It was great,” I answer, my voice steady despite clanging nerves. “With River living in London and the twins down in San Diego, it’d been a while since we were all under the same roof. How was yours?”

“Just fine, thank you.” Her smile falters as she glances at Matt, who’s still frowning as he stares at the floor. She nudges his arm and he finally looks at me.

What I see in his light blue eyes has me struggling not to take a step back. The familiar resentment I was expecting is nowhere to be found. He looks sad and lost.

My stomach drops .

“Thanks for seeing us,” he says mutedly.

I nod, then shift back on my heels and pivot, suddenly knowing I need to be sitting down when they reveal what brought them to my door. “Come on back. Can I get you guys anything? Coffee? Water? Tea?”

“We’re fine, thanks,” Sophie replies.

They follow me silently down the hallway, but as we enter the heart of the house, Sophie gasps. “This is absolutely stunning, Wilder.”

The open-concept living space is dominated by huge windows along the back wall that showcase a private beach and water beyond.

The view is framed by the assorted pines and deciduous trees that crowd the six-acre property.

One particular tree snags my gaze like it always does.

It stands alone, thick trunk supporting a multitude of long, crooked branches, pale and bare for the winter.

A sycamore.

Sophie turns to me with a bright smile. “Rose showed me before and after pictures, but they didn’t do this place justice. You guys did an amazing job.”

A smile comes more easily this time. “Thank you. I’m pretty proud of it.”

With my touring schedule, it took close to three years to finish the remodeling since my dad and I were committed to doing most of the cosmetic work ourselves.

I’m more proud of this house than I am of my career success.

It’s my sanctuary, the first place where I’ve felt completely at home since I was a child.

More than that, though, it’s a physical embodiment and affirmation of the effort I put into rebuilding my life on a solid foundation.

Matt walks past us, his gaze trailing over the arched ceilings, sunroom-inspired dining space, modern kitchen, and adjacent living room.

He doesn’t say anything as he veers toward a couch and sits.

Posture rigid, he stares blankly at the waterline.

Sophie trails after him, perching at his side and taking one of his hands in hers.

My skin buzzes as I follow and settle on the opposite couch. It takes conscious effort not to mirror Matt’s tension. I keep my arms relaxed, my hands folded loosely over my stomach.

No amount of breathing is going to help my heart rate at this point, so I do what’s sometimes necessary and simply sit with the discomfort.

To my surprise, it isn’t Sophie who breaks the silence.

“You’re probably wondering what we’re doing here.” Matt laughs shortly, dragging a hand through his pale hair. Her hair.

Since he’s cutting to the point, so do I. “I am, yes. ”

His throat moves. “I owe you an apology.”

I wasn’t aware I was fidgeting until his words sink in and every muscle in my body stills.

Sophie gives him an encouraging nod, and he continues, “I’ve said some really fucked-up things to you over the years. Things you didn’t deserve.”

Is this why they’re here? The notion relaxes a knot inside me. Maybe this isn’t what I was afraid of, after all.

Smiling slightly, I tell him, “Nah. I definitely deserved them.”

Matt studies my face, then smirks. “You definitely did.”

Expression aghast, Sophie smacks his shoulder. Matt chuckles. Surprising everyone, including myself, I join him.

Sophie glances between us, mystified. “I think what my husband is trying—and failing—to say is that we’re extremely proud of you and the man you’ve become.”

A surge of embarrassment makes my voice gruff. “Thanks, Sophie.”

“That’s what I said, isn’t it?” Matt jokes before sobering. He pins me with a stare. “In all seriousness, I am sorry for the things I said. You needed support back then, but I was too caught up in my head to give it. I’ll always regret that. I’m grateful you made it through, Wilder. ”

The gravity of the moment settles on my shoulders—not the heavy, clawed feeling of the past, but a light, comforting shroud. Goosebumps roll gently down my arms, and an old, internal scar fades.

“I appreciate that,” I murmur.

Sophie squeezes Matt’s hand, her eyes glassy as they shift to me. Her chin trembles, then firms. “For what it’s worth, we know you didn’t mean to hurt our daughter.”

I’ve barely processed her statement when Matt adds, “We know you loved her very much.”

Surprise forces air from my lungs too fast, leaving me dizzy. I lift my gaze to the ceiling, seeking an anchor, and see a knot on one of the beams. In the lumpy, imperfect circle, I find a modicum of calm. And in that calm is an instinct I can no longer ignore.

Lowering my gaze to Evangeline’s parents, I ask the question that’s become a nonstop irritant the last two days.

“She’s not okay, is she?”

Sophie’s expression crumples. Matt’s hardens defensively, his pale eyes impossibly bright. “No, she’s not,” he answers.

A thousand questions crowd my mind— what, why, how —but what comes out is, “I’m assuming you’ve talked to Rye and Lily?”

They nod, and Sophie says softly, “They’ve tried. We’ve tried. But she’s…” She trails off, a vacancy in her eyes I’m all too familiar with. Matt puts his arm around her and she leans into his side.

“No one can get through to her,” Matt informs me. “Even knowing what fame can do to people, it’s surreal. She’s like a different person.”

I think of the last time I saw Evangeline, in a media clip last week. She was walking into a restaurant in Los Angeles with her boyfriend. In the five seconds I managed to watch the video, I’d been focused on how much I wanted to rip his fake-tanned hand off her back.

Now I force myself to confront the image of her . Too thin. Too much makeup. High heels. Fake nails on the hand lifted toward the flashing cameras. Winning, superstar smile. Long hair tamed into perfect waves. A designer mini-dress in some bland color.

“I want my daughter back,” whispers Sophie.

The crack in my heart widens, more debris falling silently into the abyss of Evangeline’s absence.

Matt’s agonized eyes hold mine. “We need your help. She needs your help.”

Potent emotion floods me—twisted, irrepressible hope at the prospect of being close to Evangeline again. Despite knowing the hope is false, it feels too fucking real. I need to recenter myself in reality. Remind myself and them of the truth I have to live with every day .

“I want to help,” I say as gently as I can. “Of course I do. But let’s be realistic here. I’m the last person on the planet she’d listen to. There’s an album that won five Grammys detailing exactly how she feels about me.”

Matt’s eyes narrow, flashing with determination and stubbornness. I see so much of Evangeline in his expression that for two seconds, I can’t fucking breathe.

“So that’s it? You’re giving up on her?”

Sophie’s head lifts, anxious eyes flying from Matt to me.

I tense. “I’m respecting her wishes—the ones she screamed at me outside your house when I came home from treatment? I’m sure you remember.” I pause, reining in the emotion that bled into my voice. “It’s been years. We’ve both moved on with our lives.”

Matt scoffs. “Don’t give me that bullshit. You still love her.” I flinch, and he goes in for the kill. “If you don’t, explain why you don’t publicly date anyone, ever. Why you still write songs about her. Why that ”—his arm swings toward the painting over the fireplace—“is on the wall.”

I don’t follow the line of his finger. I haven’t looked directly at the painting since it was hung up on the day the house was finished.

I shift in my seat, my skin crawling. “I honestly don’t know what you’re asking me to do. ”

“I think you do,” he challenges.

Standing, he draws Sophie to her feet. I rise, too, frustration punching through my veneer of calm.

“She won’t talk to me. I fucking tried, Matt.”

The aggression leaves his face as he sighs.

“I know you did. But that was then and this is now.” He pauses.

“When she does answer our calls, it’s like talking to a stranger who body-snatched our kid.

But there’s one word—just one—that gets an authentic reaction from her.

Even if it guarantees she hangs up on us. ”

I frown, but he doesn’t make me wait.

“Your name.”

They turn toward the hallway.

“What the hell? How is that a good thing?”

Matt stops and looks back. I recoil when I see tears in his eyes. “It means she’s still in there somewhere. You’re still in there somewhere. You might be the only one who can bring her back.”

He strides down the hallway while Sophie lingers. “I’m sorry, Wilder.” She glances at Matt’s dwindling form and sighs. “We’re both a little out of our minds. Just tell me you’ll think about it? Maybe try reaching out to her again?”

She looks so heartbroken, I can’t help but nod. “I’ll try. ”

“Thank you.” She smiles softly before following Matt.

By the time my leaden feet reach the foyer, their car is headed down the driveway.

I drop my forehead to the door and breathe.

Just breathe.