Page 43 of Last Chorus (A Perfect Song Duet #2)

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

evangeline

THREE WEEKS LATER

M y pen scratches over a page in my journal, the words sloppy, almost illegible. But I don’t suppose it matters. I already know I’ll never read this one again.

I’m barely cognizant of what I’m writing, only the effort and necessity of it. My aching fingers. Shallow breaths. Sweaty palms. The unknown force that wakes me each morning and propels me into the office downstairs, where I spend an hour or more metaphorically bleeding onto a blank page.

Pausing to stretch a cramp from my hand, I look at the sticky notes lining the top of the desk. A new one appears every day, all of them various quotes in Wilder’s handwriting.

The newest reads:

“Forgive yourself for not knowing what you didn’t know before you learned it.”

-Maya Angelou

I’m trying.

Fuck, I’m really trying.

Talking to Kendra has helped, as have conversations with my mom, Rose, and Wilder.

Each of them has experience with where I find myself—at the intersection between anger, guilt, and self-forgiveness.

Between them and twice-weekly video calls with my new therapist, I’m learning how to navigate my jagged internal landscape.

I do my best to stay focused on the present and grounded in gratitude for my life.

For the opportunity to learn and heal and feel .

For Wilder, for the love and forgiveness of my family and friends.

For the Glow album Lily and I are recording, and for the magnanimity of Cory Donovan at Indigo Records, who accepted my stumbling, heartfelt apologies and didn’t hesitate to offer us a new contract.

And I’m deeply grateful for Poppy Cole, who reached out to me after a video I posted on social media went viral.

In it, I spoke candidly about Clay’s emotional abuse, my shame and struggles to recover from it, and my disgust for his actions.

I also said I hope his dick falls off and he never sees the sun again, but Anita made me cut that part out.

Poppy’s and my first conversation started off painfully awkward and ended with tears.

She shared that a week or so after I left Clay and disappeared, their paths crossed at a charity luncheon.

Over the years, she’d grown numb to seeing him at events, but this time he was baldly attempting to charm a seventeen-year-old singer just starting out in the industry.

Overcome with rage, she intervened. He later pulled her aside and threatened to release the videos of her at sixteen if she stepped out of line again.

The interaction sent her into a week-long depressive episode that ended with what she called, “the mother of all ‘fuck it’ moments.”

Turns out that Poppy, like Kendra, kept receipts.

Emails. Text messages. Voicemails. Photos.

All damning, all proving that not only did Clay manipulate her into thinking he was the ticket to success in the music industry, he coerced her into having sex not only with him but several others.

All when she was barely sixteen, newly emancipated from her parents and fresh off the bus from a small town in Colorado.

Through untamed sobs, I told her how sorry I was, that I was in awe of her, and that I hoped she knew how unbelievably brave she was. She broke down too, then said something that cemented her a place in my heart forever.

“In one way or another, I’ve been a victim my whole life.

Of people like my parents, of men like Clay, of a world that taught me that my worth was measured by how pleasing I was to others.

I’m done with all of it. No more contorting myself to fit into the tiny box they forced me into. I want to be free.”

We’ve talked almost daily since, and I’ve basically adopted her as my little sister. She’s visiting Seattle soon; I’m flying down to support her when she’s called to testify. Lily and I have also committed to partnering with her on her campaign aimed at empowering young women.

None of this has been easy, but every day I find a little more space in my heart for acceptance of the past and of myself.

Closing my journal, I scan the collection of sticky notes. My lips quirk at the randomness of Wilder’s small, daily gifts.

"Life is pain… Anyone who says differently is selling something.”

- The Princess Bride

“My ego is not my amigo.”

- Some dude in an AA meeting

“A hungry Fairy is a grumpy Fairy. Come eat breakfast.”

- Wilder

When I read the last one, my stomach growls. A glance at the clock startles me—it’s almost ten. Usually by now, I’d have heard Wilder singing in the kitchen, as he does whenever I lose track of time writing and breakfast is getting cold.

I tuck my journal and pen into their dedicated drawer, then poke my head into the hallway. Silence greets me, and a sniff confirms the absence of the French toast he promised to make for my birthday.

Rather than disappointment, giddiness fills me at the possibility he might still be asleep. He doesn’t sleep in often, and since my own sleep has drastically improved, I haven’t had as many opportunities for my favorite challenge: seeing if I can make him orgasm before he wakes up.

I take an eager step toward the stairs, then stop abruptly when a flash of bright yellow catches my eye. A few feet down the hallway, a sticky note is attached to the wall. There are no words, just an arrow pointing toward the kitchen.

With a rueful smile for the lost opportunity, I follow Wilder’s prompt. Given his caginess over the last week whenever I brought up ideas for celebrating my thirtieth, I should have known he already had something planned.

Sweet, sneaky man.

I find the next note attached to a tumbler of coffee, beside which sits one of the lemon-blueberry muffins we made yesterday.

Humming in delight, I take a bite as I peel off the note.

What is rough but smooth and also SUSPICIOUS?

Laughing softly, I grab the tumbler and head out the back door into the morning sunshine.

Despite my rising excitement, I walk slowly, enjoying the fresh air as I nibble on the muffin and sip delicious coffee. Each deep inhale brings a bouquet of scents I’ve come to associate with peace and happiness: salty air, pine, and petrichor mingling with the faint sweetness of lilacs and lilies.

I’m mid-swallow when I reach the small clearing and see who’s sitting on the sex stump. I promptly gasp, then choke, and end up bent over and coughing uncontrollably. Footsteps rush toward me and a broad hand pounds my back—a completely unhelpful and yet utterly reassuring gesture.

“Dad?” I wheeze, straightening and wiping my tearing eyes with the back of my hand. “What—what are you doing here? How did you get here?”

Pale eyes sparkling warmly, he hands me three bright red tulips. “Wilder opened the side gate for me. Happy birthday, pipsqueak.”

I snort at the ancient nickname. “Thanks. Is Mom here? Where’s Wilder? I’m so confused.”

He grins. “It’ll make sense eventually. Will you sit with me for a minute?”

Smiling uncertainly, I nod. He returns to the stump and I settle beside him, hoping my coughing fit is a sufficient explanation for my red cheeks. Privately, I vow to punish Wilder, as I have zero doubts he suggested this location to my dad just to mess with me .

Especially since the last time I was naked here was yesterday .

Oblivious to my inner freak-out, my dad says, “There’s something I wanted to talk to you about.”

At his serious tone, my tumbler stalls halfway to my mouth. I lower it back to my knee, belatedly registering his tense shoulders, fidgeting fingers, and tapping feet. All rare signs of nervousness from a man who normally drips easy confidence.

I clear my throat weakly. “Sure, Dad. I’m all ears.”

“This may sound random at first, but bear with me.” He takes a deep breath, his gaze lowering to the forest floor.

“I had a pretty great childhood. Lived in a good neighborhood. No abuse, no financial or food insecurity. No major trauma besides my dad splitting when I was eleven, which was honestly a good thing for all of us. Plus, your grandpa Bill came along a few years later and he was an amazing stepdad. And I’m sure this next information will come as a surprise, but I was also popular in high school. ”

I gasp dramatically. “No way!”

He chuckles. “I had a ton of friends, and don’t tell your mom, but I’ve always been a hit with the ladies.”

My laugh is mostly a groan. Growing up with a sex symbol for a father was both aggravating and hilarious.

It wasn’t uncommon for my friends to blush and stammer in his presence, thanks to easily accessible old photoshoots of him in his underwear.

Their moms weren’t much better and in a few cases, they were a lot worse. Talk about awkward.

My mom truly is a saint, though my dad does deserve some credit for making her feel secure. He’s never been shy—in fact, he can be downright obnoxious—about expressing his devotion to her in public.

“I met Julian and the guys right after graduation, and within two years, we were famous.” He pauses, the vestiges of humor fading from his face.

“Nothing was ever really hard for me. I wouldn’t say I was oblivious to pain or struggle—I had my fair share of disappointment, heartache, and the like.

But I was seriously lucky on a lot of levels.

And for the most part, I stayed that charmed, clueless kid until my early thirties. ”

He looks up at me, his expression anguished.

Fine hairs lift on my arms, my awareness narrowing to the pain in his eyes.

Though a breeze teases strands of my hair against my cheek, I can’t feel the tickle.

Nor do I register the wood beneath me, the white-knuckled grip I have on the tumbler and flower stems, or the air trapped in my lungs as I hold my breath.

“The thing is, Eva, I’d never experienced true grief until your mom and I lost your older sister to a miscarriage.

And I’d never felt real fear until the day I found out Sophie was pregnant with you.

From the moment you were born, I’ve been terrified of something happening to you.

When you were a baby, I’d watch you sleep to make sure you didn’t stop breathing, then pass out in the morning when your mom woke up.

As you grew up, the fear ebbed and flowed. Some ages were easier than others.”

I stare at him, completely blindsided but also…

not. He’s always been protective of Hunter and me, but especially me—to the point it became a running joke among my friends.

At varying times, I’ve appreciated and resented him for it.

But while I’ve always suspected the loss of my older sister had something to do with his status as a worrier, I had no idea the underlying fear was so extreme.

He continues hoarsely, “It got really bad after you moved out at eighteen. I’d wake up in the middle of the night freaking out that something was wrong.

More than once, your mom had to stop me from calling you or driving to your place to make sure you were okay.

She eventually bullied me into talking to a professional. ”

Despite the gravity of the moment, my lips quirk. “You mean she casually suggested it?”

His eyes crinkle as he nods in concession, but his expression swiftly sobers.

“I started seeing someone again a couple of years ago. They’ve helped a lot.

I’m not perfect yet, but I’m working on it.

All that is to say, I’m sorry for being a controlling, overbearing ass of a father.

I’m sorry for not being strong enough to fight the fear that told me I had to shelter you from a world that could hurt you, even if it cost me your trust. All you ever needed was my compassion and love, and I…

” His eyes redden, tears welling. “I failed to give you what could have actually protected you.”

The words drop inside me like boulders, the ensuing ripples spreading and illuminating my father in a new and profound way.

Moreover, I see myself and so many others inside him, our experiences different reflections on the same water.

And for an instant, I also glimpse something bigger than all of us.

I see love —the complexity and potency of it. The brilliant light it casts and the shadows that light naturally creates.

Trust. Tenderness. Peace.

Guilt. Worry. Fear.

I set down the tulips and my coffee, then grab my dad’s hands.

“You know what I remember about growing up with you as my dad? Nature walks, making forts, and epic scavenger hunts. The countless times you read me another book when I asked, even though it was past my bedtime, and all the funny voices you did for different characters. I remember your endless patience when teaching me how to swim, how to play guitar, how to drive. I remember how much we laughed—you made me laugh so, so much. Mostly, though, I remember feeling safe.”

Tears spill down his cheeks. Down mine, too. I squeeze his hands harder.

“You are and have always been exactly the father I need. I’ve never once doubted that you loved me.

Don’t you see? You did protect me, Dad. I’m here.

I’m okay—more than okay, actually. I’m happy .

And a huge part of why is that I finally found my way to something you taught me was possible.

The ultimate prize on your greatest scavenger hunt. ”

“What’s that, pipsqueak?”

Emotion overwhelms me. I don’t fight it, instead letting it emerge as a tear-soaked laugh.

“Joy, Dad. You showed me the way to joy.”