Page 22 of Last Chorus (A Perfect Song Duet #2)

CHAPTER TWENTY

evangeline

Been breathing underwater

Waiting on a slaughter

Shaping sand like it was clay

Hoping it would stay

Forgot how to be honest

(even though I promised)

Forgot how to be strong

(somewhere I don’t belong)

But I remember now

W ilder’s driver, a giant and kind-faced man named Sam, takes me home an hour later. Besides asking me if I’d like air conditioning, he leaves me alone with my thoughts.

The world outside the tinted windows is a blur of faded greens, grays, and browns.

I watch it streak past, feeling surprisingly serene.

Or I could be numb. Overloaded and shutting down.

But regardless, I feel lighter. As though despite not speaking a word of my own experience, hearing Kendra’s history with Clay somehow unburdened me .

“He was twenty-three when he seduced Kendra, who’d just turned sixteen.

He played the perfect prince and made her fall in love with him.

Then it started. Insults wrapped in justifications about how much he cared, withholding affection like food until she starved.

Manipulating her emotions until she felt crazy, then turning her reactions around on her as proof that she was the problem.

“He dumped her the day she turned eighteen, then continued toying with her off and on for the next five years whenever he was single. She was so fucked up over the whole thing, by the time I met her she was hooked on speed and painkillers. When we dated—if you can even call it that—she was just starting to face the abuse. ”

As Wilder spoke, each word precise and ringing with truth, it was like a crooked painting was being slowly straightened and brought into focus.

On some level, I must have always known Clay was lying about him being responsible for Kendra’s drug use. About him being the reason she disappeared and shunned her family.

“It’s a game to him, one his father taught him how to play.

Kendra even overheard them laughing about it once.

Conrad was congratulating Clay for doing to her what he’d done to her mother.

Clay joked that it had been too easy. He said he was going to stick to women over twenty-five from then on because a ‘fully developed brain’ would be more of a challenge.

“All he cares about is power and control. In Clay’s mind, you’re the ultimate catch. Someone strong enough to provide a long-term challenge while also giving him access to circles of higher influence.

“These are Kendra’s words, by the way. I’m merely the messenger. She suspected he’d be drawn to you years ago based on your potential alone. It’s why she brought him to your showcase—something she deeply regrets and hopes to apologize for someday.

“He hunted you, Evangeline, probably from that first night. Watched and waited for the right time to lead you into his carefully laid trap. And if you need even more confirmation, hear it from his own mouth.”

He played the recording he made of Clay at lunch last month. When it stopped, I calmly asked him to play it again. I didn’t cry or shout or deny. Instead, the oddest thing happened.

My entire body relaxed.

Wilder noticed. With a small, soft smile, he said, “It’s cathartic, isn’t it? When you finally realize you’re not crazy.”

He told me he felt the same way the first time his sponsor, Frank, shared the story of his own youth, struggles with addiction, and eventual recovery. On the outside, his and Wilder’s life experiences were starkly different. But their emotional experiences growing up were eerily similar.

I may never have warm and fuzzy feelings toward Kendra, but Wilder was right. I feel a kinship with her now. Her experience validated mine. Because of her, I know I’m not crazy.

I’m glad she’s safe now. Sober and healing far away from those responsible for her abuse.

I’m even glad she and Wilder reconnected and were able to resolve the toxicity of their shared past to become friends—a sentiment I’ll never admit has far more to do with Kendra being happily married to a woman than my emotional maturity.

As we progress up a long driveway bordered by skinny palm trees, the last of my fluttering thoughts fade away.

There’s no confusion left.

Only resolution.

The car stops. I thank Sam and step out. He tips an imaginary hat to me, then does a U-turn and heads back down the drive. I watch him go, allowing myself a moment to think about how his next journey will be taking Wilder to the airport.

When the car turns onto the street, disappearing behind a hedge, I face the house.

The sun-warmed concrete soothes my bare, aching feet as I walk toward the front door. The air smells of freshly mowed grass; beneath it, the dry earthiness of the desert and a touch of alkaline from the smog layer.

I’m not surprised when the door opens before I reach it. Given the event yesterday, I knew Clay would be working from home. And given what happened in the limo and last night, I knew he’d have his eye on the exterior cameras .

He doesn’t say anything as he holds the door open for me to pass. I walk across the foyer into the living room I’ve never liked, with its dark walls, overpriced art, and empty glass shelves framing the television.

Not bothering to sit, I turn and lean on the back of one of the boxy leather couches.

“We need to talk.”

Clay stops a few feet away. Murky eyes take me in from messy hair to bare feet. There’s a flicker of disapproval, but that’s it.

There was a time I thought his ability to appear supernaturally calm was a defense mechanism leftover from an emotionally neglectful childhood.

But that was me trying to humanize him. The skill is merely another weapon in his arsenal, one he exchanges as needed for anger, humor, disappointment, affection, et cetera.

I’m not sure he has real feelings.

Wilder’s face flashes in my mind. His mood-ring eyes with their shifting greens, golds, and browns. The way even his micro-expressions are easy for me to decipher. How even when he looks perfectly calm or happy, I’ve always been able to tell when he’s actually sad, or overstimulated, or annoyed?—

“I don’t have all day, Eva. Go ahead and talk.”

I inhale slowly, then meet Clay’s frosty stare. “I’m moving out. ”

His features rearrange into a facade of exhaustion. “I was hoping for an apology, but I can’t say I’m surprised. You’re clearly hungover and emotional right now. I’ll set up a massage and an aromatherapy treatment.”

“I’m only here to pack a few things. I’ll arrange for a moving company to come this week.”

His aggravated groan sets my teeth on edge.

“Jesus Christ, do we have to go through this again? Let’s just skip the part where you throw a fit and issue empty threats.

If you want some space, fine. I’m due for a golfing trip to Palm Springs, anyway.

I’ll leave tomorrow and come back Friday. How’s that sound?”

I almost laugh. What comes out instead is, “The night we ran into each other two years ago, did you really not remember me from the first time we met?”

His brow furrows. “What?”

“We met at Glow’s first showcase.”

“Why are we talking about this again? I told you I vaguely recall being there but not meeting you.”

I tilt my head to the side. “I don’t remember much of that night, either. But I have the strangest memory—funny, really—of you telling me that you only dated women with fully developed frontal lobes. That if I was single at twenty-five, I should call you.”

Apprehension flickers in his eyes, along with a touch of what looks like fear. If I didn’t know better .

I’m no longer relieved, resolute, or even resigned.

I’m a category five hurricane of disgust and rage.

The impulse to scream at him is so powerful I have to bite my cheek.

I want to expose him. Tell him I heard the recording, that I know what he did to Kendra.

I want to make him crack, unravel, and admit it all.

But he won’t.

There will be no restitution. No consolation prize for my awakening. Only a truth so bitter it burns.

I let this happen to me.

Clay takes a step forward, his face a mask of concern, hands lifted like I’m a wild animal.

I feel like one.

“Eva,” he says in a placating tone. “We’ve been through this before. You’re not leaving me. Think about it. Think about everything I do for you. Who else is going to put up with your moods? I’m the only one who understands what you need. I take care of you, remember?”

A wave of lethargy hits me.

I feel myself sinking, water closing over my head. I’m powerless to fight it, incapable of swimming a second longer.

The doorbell rings.

Clay stares at me another moment, then stalks from the room. The front door opens. I hear voices, the words muffled by the white noise in my ears.

Movement in my peripheral vision turns my head toward the nearest doorway. I blink in surprise at the sight of Paul, a hand towel twisting between his hands.

Features set in worried lines, he whispers, “Leave him, Eva,” then backs away as Clay’s footsteps pound toward me.

Another set of footsteps follows his. Lighter and faster. And suddenly, I remember how to swim.

“Eva, what the hell is?—”

“Shut the fuck up, Claybee,” trills Martin, skirting around him to plaster himself to my side. Arm around my waist, he pulls me up until my knees lock. “Get it? Claybee like baby, because you’re a whiny little bitch.”

I snort.

Clay flushes, his features twisting with rage. His mouth opens.

“By all means,” Martin says, lifting his phone to show he’s recording video. “Show the world exactly who you are.”

Air hisses through Clay’s teeth. He gives me a long look that should probably scare me but doesn’t. Then he spins on a heel and leaves.

Martin exhales noisily.

“Thank you,” I whisper .

“Honey, thank you . I’ve wanted to call him that for years.” He palms the side of my face, his dark eyes glistening. “I’m so fucking proud of you. Let’s pack a bag and get out of here, okay? You and me and margaritas on the beach.”

I blink away tears and nod.