Page 10 of Last Chorus (A Perfect Song Duet #2)

CHAPTER EIGHT

evangeline

I have no questions left

No air to feed my breath

Emptiness the price I pay

For the love you took away

A fter my shower, I throw on old sweatpants and a T-shirt without thinking. Halfway across the bedroom, I come to my senses and change into a gray athleisure set Clay gave me for Christmas. I’m not a fan of the style, but at least the fabric is soft.

In the hallway, I hear his voice coming from his office at the opposite end of the house. Lighthearted, charming tone. Infectious laugh. It’s the voice he uses to seduce clients… and women.

It certainly worked on me.

The thought causes a flare of uncomfortable, sticky heat beneath my skin. My teeth clench.

I need to calm down before I face him again, and there’s only one room in the house that’s truly mine. Walking lightly so he doesn’t hear my steps, I quickly head downstairs.

The bulk of the lower level is a lounge with game tables, a bar, and a widescreen TV that Clay and his friends use for their bi-weekly poker nights.

Down a hallway to the left is a movie room, complete with theater seating, as well as our home gym, a guest suite, laundry, and a full bath.

But tucked off a smaller hallway to my right is my studio.

Formerly a storage room, Clay had the space remodeled before I moved in. I think I’ve been in it a grand total of four times in six months, a fact he likes to weaponize whenever he perceives me as ungrateful.

I slip inside the room and flip on the lights, dimming them immediately when the brightness makes me wince. The door thumps closed behind me. I swiftly lock it, and my lungs expand with a deep breath. Possibly my first of the day.

The space is pretty bare-bones. Soundproofing panels.

Low-pile carpet. Some basic recording equipment, none of which is plugged in.

A desk, laptop, standing mic, audio interface, speakers, a mixer.

My keyboard, still packed away in its giant case.

Three guitars, two acoustic and one electric, likewise collecting dust.

The back wall is lined with boxes I haven’t unpacked and don’t care to. Bubble-wrapped, framed album art, articles, and accolades. All of Glow’s awards, including a dozen Grammys.

In the living room upstairs, Clay has empty glass shelves ready to display the gold gramophones. He bugs me about unpacking them once or twice a month but hasn’t demanded it yet. I’m dreading the moment. I would have left them in storage in Seattle if he hadn’t personally packed them.

I can never tell him why I don’t display them. Why I don’t even like looking at them.

Because of Wilder.

“I can’t wait to remind you of this moment twenty years from now when I’m putting up yet another shelf for your awards.”

The memory makes me flinch and focus elsewhere.

Unfortunately, what my eyes land on next are three boxes stacked beside the desk.

They’re older, the cardboard wrinkled, the tape peeling.

They were definitely supposed to end up in storage, but I’d forgotten to mark them with the right label before the movers came.

Without permission, my feet carry me to them. I finger the tape on the top box, then peel it off.

Haphazardly stacked journals stare up at me, all different colors and sizes, all filled front to back with my teenage ramblings. My heart pounding, I pull a few out and set them on the desk. Then a few more. Before I can stop myself, I’ve removed them all to reveal what’s hidden at the bottom.

Memories drift around me like distant music as I stare at the black, sticker-covered memento box. My fingers tremble as I lift it.

An unsteady step backward brings me to the desk chair, the leather sighing as I drop my weight and settle the box on my knees.

The lid is warped from sitting under the combined weight of the journals.

I tug until it comes free, then toss it on the desk and look inside the box for the first time in close to a decade.

There are loose, lined pages folded in fours, covered in messy words.

An assortment of ticket stubs. Paper napkins littered with bleeding ballpoint ink: doodles and notes and disjointed lyrics.

Sycamore leaves in various stages of life preserved by thick, yellowing tape.

Cheap guitar picks and curling band stickers.

The very first Night Theory fliers, which Eddie and I printed on bright pink paper to annoy Wilder.

A few of our demo CDs, the plastic casings cracked and the labels faded.

My eyes land on a palm-sized, dark green journal tucked against the side. The edges are worn, softened by countless hours spent in backpacks and purses and pockets.

I grab it without considering the consequences, opening the cover to read the first page.

This journal belongs to Wilder and Evangeline. If you aren’t us, fuck off.

You’re so dramatic.

I close it fast, my shuddering exhale fracturing the quiet. My fingers curl, clenching until the journal curves. When the binding crackles ominously, I throw it back in the box. Shoving the lid on, I waste no time loading it and all my journals back in the original box.

If I had packing tape, I’d reseal it. If I had a blowtorch, I’d burn them all.

Jerking to my feet, I walk around the room a few times. Consider and discard the idea of setting up my keyboard. Pause to open a guitar case, then close it when the sight of my custom Gibson acoustic makes my stomach bottom out. All while the pressure inside me builds and builds.

I resume pacing, back and forth from desk to door, faster and faster until I feel the claustrophobia that was missing when I entered the room. My thoughts churn with my legs, thrashing against their containment. Against walls I knew were there but for the first time can actually feel .

God, it fucking hurts.

Thanks to opening that stupid box—thanks to last night and Wilder’s goddamn mouth, his unbelievable arrogance in telling me where I belonged—I remember . The girl I was. The girl I wanted so badly to protect but ended up caging and muting instead, little by little, over the course of years.

In hindsight, it’s clear how my prison was crafted, another brick added every time I felt too much—too vulnerable or uncertain, hurt or angry or lonely.

More bricks after each brief, disappointing attempt at a relationship.

After lackluster sales reports, poor reviews from respected sources, a particularly vicious media cycle, a flood of critical comments online…

Every time I smiled when I wanted to scream. Said I was fine when I was flailing. Pushed forward when I wanted to rest. Avoided when I wanted to confront .

I built my mental cage to protect myself. To save myself. But now I’m trapped inside. Cut off from the bonds that used to give my life depth and vibrancy—my friends, my family. I’m disconnected from my own voice. From music .

There’s only darkness and silence inside me now.

I know Lily believes I rejected the Indigo contract because of Clay’s influence, but I did it out of desperation. Out of deep fear and shame for what I’ve been hiding from her.

The only person who knows I haven’t written new material in over a year is Clay, but my confession didn’t faze him. He said it doesn’t matter. That when I go solo, the best songwriters in the business will jump at the chance to write for me.

When I told him I’d rather give up music altogether than perform other people’s songs, he laughed and said I needed to grow up. “Stop thinking of yourself as an artist, Eva. You’re a business.”

More walls shift forward in the fog around my mind. Different dimensions of the same prison demanding acknowledgment.

I suddenly see it—who I’ve become. Who Lily and Rye see. My parents and brother, too.

But mostly, I see myself through Wilder’s eyes.

And I hate her.