Page 15 of Last Chorus (A Perfect Song Duet #2)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

evangeline

Turned out the lights

Lost all my lessons

Sunk into shadows

And now here I am

In the darkness

In the empty

Again

I n the weeks since that excruciating lunch, things have been different between Clay and me.

Clay has been different.

I was on edge for days afterward as I waited for him to share all the flaws in my performance. For him to accuse me of smiling too often, talking too much or not enough, or not hiding my disgruntlement at eating a dry salad while the men had juicy steaks.

My biggest fear, though, was that he’d demand I tell him what Wilder said to me right before he left. I crafted a dozen potential responses. A dozen ways to deflect. But he’s only brought up lunch once, and that was an offhand comment about the success of our ploy.

Instead, from the moment we got in the car to drive home, he’s been kind. More than kind—he’s been warm and charming and engaged, just like he was when we first started dating. There have been no critiques of my body, clothes, or sleep habits. No coldness, indifference, or disdain.

When I come down with a horrible cold right before The Golden Globes, he shrugs it off and stays home, plying me with medicine, tissues, and soup.

When I have a particularly painful period and spend all day in pajamas in front of the television, he doesn’t insinuate that I’m lazy.

He brings me my favorite chocolate and a heating pad.

There have been other changes, too. He’s started coming home from work in time to have dinner with me. He hasn’t dragged me to parties or events. He doesn’t bring up Glow or my standing appointment with a Sony music executive.

I’m not proud of it, but I test the boundaries of our new peace a few times. But nothing ruffles him. Not when I tell him I’m tired of toast and want more breakfast options. Not when I go shopping and come home with a bunch of black clothes.

Even though part of me stays wary and waiting for the other shoe to drop, as weeks pass, I begin to relax. My sleep improves, which does wonders for my energy, stability, and clarity. Slowly, I step back into my life.

My parents are overjoyed when I begin calling them a few times a week.

Receptive to my unwillingness to talk about myself, they stick to safe topics like my brother’s newest girlfriend, the painting my mom is working on, and my dad’s new whittling hobby that will last, at best, another month or two.

One day, I impulsively send Rye a meme. He sends one back, and before I know it, we’re exchanging them daily.

Around the same time, I ask Lily for photos of Emma, which become routine video calls.

At first, my goddaughter doesn’t seem to know who I am—a fact that hurts more than it should since she’s literally a baby.

But it doesn’t take long for Lily to start sending me videos of Emma asking if “Aun-jelly” can sing to her.

I start playing guitar again, too. For a few minutes a day at first, then a few hours. My calluses reform. Soreness in my arms and back peaks and fades.

The more I play, the more I listen , the more I come to understand that music never left me. I was the one who turned my back on music. And with that realization, a floodgate opens.

I overflow lyrics and melodies.

Mixed with my relief is guilt over keeping the news from Clay. I tell myself it’s because I don’t want to jinx the return of my muse, but it’s really because I’m not writing solo pop songs.

I’m writing the next Glow album.

Telling him would be more than a test of our relationship—it would be a crucible. And although there are moments wherein I sense the crossroads ahead of me, I’m not ready to face it. Not yet. Not even as every song I write pulls down another wall inside me. Opens another door of memories.

I’m remembering myself, who I was before I became the very thing I was most afraid of—the endless, uncaring dark.

And if I’m remembering someone else at the same time? Seeing our past anew through a wide-angled lens? Finding comfort in his promise the last time I saw him?

There’s nothing I can do about it.

He is, after all, a part of me.

Tuesday evening, the week of the Grammys, begins like every other recent night. Clay comes home from work, spends forty-five minutes in the gym, then showers and joins me in the formal dining room with its too-large table and uncomfortably stiff chairs.

Over salmon with mushroom risotto—I hate mushrooms, but it’s Clay’s preferred Tuesday meal—he tells me about winning a copyright case in court today. I respond exactly as I’m supposed to, with effusive praise, while ignoring the dread and determination sitting side by side in my chest.

When Clay finishes eating, he signals to our chef, Paul, who moves forward to clear dishes from the table. I shift in my seat, uncomfortable as always with the power differential.

In his late sixties, Paul works tirelessly for us every morning and most evenings.

On Sundays, he’s here almost all day, prepping lunches for the week.

He does his best to make my restrictive menu flavorful, sneaks me chocolate chip muffins a few times a month, and chats with me whenever Clay isn’t home.

Lifting my plate, Paul eyes my untouched pile of risotto like it personally pains him.

Before he can ask to make me something else as he does every week, I smile warmly and shake my head.

It’s hard enough sitting here while he waits on us; no way am I making him work more than he already does. No matter how hungry I am.

“It was delicious Paul, thank you,” I murmur, and he gives me a soft smile. “Have you thought any more about a vacation? I bet Laurie would love a trip to see your grandkids.”

He glances furtively across the table. “I haven’t, no.” Before I can respond, he beats a hasty retreat.

“Inciting rebellion among the staff?”

Clay’s smile is teasing, but there’s a coolness in his eyes I haven’t witnessed for a few weeks. The sight is oddly comforting, like slipping back into a familiar, if painful, reality.

“Just making sure they’re happy,” I say flippantly, then continue before I lose my nerve. “I know it’s game night and the guys will be here soon, but can we talk about this weekend for a minute?”

His smile brightens. “Have you changed your mind about Friday night?”

“Ah, no. I haven’t.”

Goodbye smile.

“I’m disappointed to hear that. You already turned down the invitation to perform, but skipping the gala, too?” He shakes his head. “Terrible decision, not to mention lazy of your manager to allow it.”

I have no idea why, but I want to laugh. His tone is so autocratic it’s theatrical. Resisting a childish urge to mock it, I reply, “Regardless, I haven’t changed my mind.”

Clay lifts his wine glass, swirling the dark liquid before taking a sip. “This casual throwing away of free publicity… is it going to become a habit?”

My internal levity disappears. “I’ve worked myself to the bone for years. I’ve earned some rest. Mallory knows this.”

He sniffs. “Moving on. What did you want to talk about?”

Steeling myself, I forge ahead. “As I’ve already mentioned, Lily and Rye are renting a house at the beach this weekend. I’ve decided to spend Sunday with them and get ready there. You’re welcome to join us, or if you’d rather not, we’ll be ready for the limo at three.”

For five long seconds, he doesn’t say anything. While I can’t see his anger, I can feel it, clawing and crawling all over me. I sit still, my heart pounding in anticipation of an argument.

But then he smiles and shrugs. “That’s fine. Send me the address, and I’ll pick you guys up at three.”

I don’t relax .

Not when he tosses his napkin on the table and stands. Not when he drops a kiss on my head, squeezes my shoulder, and tells me he’s going to get ready for game night. Not even when he leaves the room.

As Paul returns to clear the silverware, I stare at the woodgrain surface of the table and ignore his worried glances. I wait to feel what I should feel. But there’s no sense of victory. No relief.

Instead, a memory slips into my mind. The voice of Wilder’s great-aunt, Katherine, speaking to five-year-old me after I fell and hurt myself playing outside.

“Did you know that when dams are built, they have to have outlets and spillways? No? Well, I want you to imagine a very bad storm, or even just lots and lots of rainy days. If there are no outlets for all that unexpected water, the reservoir behind the dam will overflow and flood the area. Eventually, the dam itself will crack under the pressure of everything it’s holding back. ”

I’d barely understood what she was saying, but I remember vividly how I’d felt. Pressurized and overfull. Poised on the cusp of violent expansion.

I feel the same way now.

But unlike back then, no tears come. There’s no spillway. No parents waiting to fuss over my skinned knees and face, no seven-year-old Wilder to tell me I’m going to have cool scars and make me laugh.

I’m alone at my breaking point.

“Eva?” asks a gentle voice. “Can I get you anything else?”

I blink up at Paul. “I’m fine, thank you.”

He hesitates, radiating fatherly concern, and I manage a smile. “You should take a vacation, Paul.”

He winks. “I will if you do.”

I laugh, and though it’s mostly for his sake, when he leaves the room, he goes unknowing of the gift he gave me with those few kind words.

A tiny spillway—a reminder I’m not alone. Or rather, that I don’t have to be.