Page 20 of Last Chorus (A Perfect Song Duet #2)

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

evangeline

F our ibuprofen and washing my hair three times in the world’s longest, hottest shower bring me most of the way back to the land of the living. Fresh clothes and minty breath do the rest. I’m still hungover, my eyes aching and limbs weak, but at least I’m clean.

Dressed in a pair of stretchy black leggings and a baggy, faded T-shirt from Glow’s first tour, I venture out of the bedroom.

I make my way through the quiet house to the kitchen, where I find Rye sipping coffee.

When he sees me, he stands and gestures to a stool at the island, then moves to the oven.

I sit, murmuring thanks as he sets a warm plate of thick, browned brioche slices in front of me and slides three small bowls my way. Powdered sugar, maple syrup, and fresh blueberries and raspberries. Despite lingering queasiness, my stomach growls.

I pop a berry in my mouth. “Where is everyone?”

“My mom took Emma down to the beach for a bit, and Lily’s showering. Coffee?”

“God, yes. Thank you.”

He pours me a cup, topping it with half and half before sliding it my way. I take an eager gulp as he hops back onto his stool.

“And where’s… the chef?”

Rye’s smile doesn’t reach his exhausted eyes. “He went to see some friends.”

I glance at the clock on the oven. “Before nine on a Monday?”

He takes a sip of his coffee, avoiding my eyes. “Wilder went to a meeting, Eva. The sober kind. He should be back soon.”

Realizing I’m drowning my plate in syrup, I hastily set the bowl down. “Oh. Well, it was nice of him to cook breakfast.” We both wince at my too-cheerful tone. Thankfully, he doesn’t comment.

I distractedly cut into my French toast. Did Wilder go to a meeting because of me? I hadn’t considered that dealing with me drunk might have been triggering for him.

Of course it was, idiot .

My appetite fades, but I make myself take a bite.

“Holy shit,” I mumble.

Rye snorts. “Right?”

I chew and swallow. “Are you guys still going to Disney today?”

“As much as it pains me to say it, yes. Leaving in thirty if you want to join.”

“I’d rather stab myself.”

He smirks. “Wilder said the same thing.”

I swallow another mouthful. “Did he seem okay? When he left?”

There’s a flash of something on Rye’s face. Something I’ve never seen there before, at least not directed at me. A mix of disappointment and resentment. My heart pangs.

“He’s fine.”

I manage a few more bites. Even oven-warmed, the French toast is hands down the best I’ve ever tasted. I have no idea whether it’s because I’m hungover or it’s actually that good, but I suspect the latter.

Setting down my fork, I reach for my coffee and courage. “I’m sorry, Rye. For what I put you through yesterday. And for… everything.”

Eyes on his mug, he shakes his head. “We’re not doing this right now,” he says tightly .

My stomach drops, my eyes instantly on fire. I blink fast. “O-okay. Sorry.”

I make to push back from the island, but Rye quickly turns toward me. His blue eyes are beseeching. “I’m not mad at you , Eva. I’m mad at… all of it. Mostly, though, I’m mad at your—” His lips seal, but the word boyfriend floats between us.

Lily must have told him about our conversation. How when I tried to talk about Clay, I could barely form a sentence. I lower my eyes to my plate, my neck heating as I imagine them talking about me. Their pity .

I try to stay calm, but it’s no use. An ugly trifecta of humiliation, emotional nakedness, and defensive anger swallows me. My spine stiffens, fingers curling until my nails bite my palms.

“I bet you both think I’m some hapless victim, huh? Poor Eva, too weak and clueless to know her boyfriend is a raging asshole. How long has this been going on?” I lift my gaze to Rye, whose freckles turn stark as he pales.

“Eva—”

I cut him off with a low, bitter laugh. “I should have known something was off with how you guys were acting. Like nothing has changed between us. Like I haven’t been ignoring your calls for months and didn’t completely fuck over Lily at the Indigo meeting.

” Thinking back over the last couple of months, I land on an explosive conversation with my dad when I told him I wasn’t visiting for Christmas.

“My parents are behind this, aren’t they? ”

They’ve never liked Clay. My dad especially. The first time I brought him to meet them was a disaster. When I confronted my dad afterward, he justified his borderline rudeness by telling me a bunch of old rumors about Clay’s father.

I was stunned and instantly defensive. Clay had swept me off my feet a few months prior, at a point in my life when I’d been battling listlessness and rapidly worsening depression.

Suddenly I had a mature, confident, supportive man in my life.

Someone who wasn’t threatened by my career or schedule, who had his own life in Los Angeles.

We talked daily and saw each other once a month, spending long weekends together.

He was the brightest spot in my dim world.

I accused my dad of condemning the son for the actions of the father, callously adding I would’ve thought he’d be the last person to do that.

Hindsight is a real bitch.

My dad was wrong to judge Clay based on rumors of his father, but his concern was justified all the same. I just didn’t know it for another few months. By then, however, I’d already begun distancing myself from my family. Not seeing or calling them as often to avoid talking about my relationship.

The first few times I cried myself to sleep over something Clay said to me, I wanted to call my mom badly but talked myself out of it.

She has PTSD from a relationship in her early twenties, and I convinced myself I’d only be triggering her trauma.

My situation wasn’t nearly as bad—Clay was mean sometimes, and controlling, but he wasn’t physically abusive.

Plus, if I told my mom, she’d tell my dad, and I didn’t want to deal with his militant, overprotective mode.

But what really kept my mouth shut was pride and its shadow, shame. I couldn’t bring myself to admit that despite being raised to recognize red flags, I’d missed them all. Again. And that my second serious relationship was somehow even more toxic than the first.

By the time Clay and I celebrated our one-year anniversary, I was already numb to the cycle. The slow build of tension. Scattered, tiny hurts escalating into a deeper betrayal. Confrontation and misery. Apologies and a period of repair and comfort, which invariably degraded as tension built again.

My oldest friend stares at me, eyes wide and searching like he can see the emotional sewage leaking out of me .

“It’s a simple question, Rye. Did my parents put you up to this?”

He swallows thickly. “They’re concerned. We all are.”

Something in his tone connects more dots in my mind. When I see the line that forms and understand what it means, the pain I feel is indescribable. A thousand savage cuts.

I jolt to my feet, my nerves on fire.

“They went to him ,” I choke out. “That’s why he showed up at the party on New Year’s Eve. It wasn’t a coincidence at all. It was manipulation. Wasn’t it?”

The answer comes from behind me.

“Yes.”

Before I can turn, Rye stands and snaps, “Your parents wouldn’t have gone to Wilder if you hadn’t turned into someone none of us recognize!”

I gasp, swaying against the edge of the island.

Wilder says quellingly, “Enough.”

“I’m sorry, Eva.” Rye’s voice is muted, his following steps swift as he leaves the room.

Then it’s just us. Wilder and me. But there’s none of the sparkling warmth I felt yesterday or this morning. No connection or comfort in his presence. No childhood bond or tentative new friendship.

I’m still alone.