Page 8 of Last Chorus (A Perfect Song Duet #2)

CHAPTER SIX

evangeline

C urling further into an unfamiliar blanket on a stranger’s bed, I bring my fists against my breastbone and press toward the ache beneath.

I don’t actually hate Wilder.

I wish I could.

Maybe if he were still a drug addict, leaving the wreckage of his selfishness scattered in his wake, it would be easier.

But since I’d never wish a relapse on him, I’m left instead in the itching intersection between a grudge I can’t let go of and a maudlin longing that time has reshaped but not erased.

At least the years have granted me some clarity. Enough that I know it’s not him I miss so much as the person I was before I fell in love with him. Seeing him just reminds me of that loss .

But as with everything tied to Wilder, even my clarity on the matter isn’t simple. It has depth and weight. A history full of tangled shadows and glimmers of inescapable light.

No matter how much I might want to at times, I can’t pull up the roots he planted inside me when we were young.

They’re too deep. He’ll always be the boy I worshipped as a child.

The teenager who read my poetry, picked up a guitar, and changed the course of our lives.

The unique, complex man who opened my world with equal parts conflict and communion.

He’ll always be a part of me.

I can’t not be happy he got the help he needed and turned his life around. That his career took off and his music has garnered both success and acclaim. That he’s sober, stable, and by all accounts thriving.

But feeling happy for him from afar, buffered by the life I’ve built for myself, is one thing. Being close enough to see the freckles in his eyes is, as tonight proved, drastically different.

It took years for the high, piercing note of my heartbreak to fade. For me to let go of Wilder, of who I thought I was to him—who I thought we were to each other—and move forward with my life.

But I did. I fucking did.

Didn’t I ?

My erratic thoughts clash and reform, providing a new, unwelcome dimension to my acceptance that Wilder will always be a part of me. Because if that’s true, then parts of me were displaced as he grew. I’ll never be able to heal the gaping cavities his roots dug inside me.

He’ll always be my weakness.

My forever wound.

A small, pained moan shocks my ears. My gaze flies around the room for a good five seconds before I realize the sound came from me. When I do, I make another one—a hoarse laugh.

I’m officially losing it.

I have no idea how long it’s been since Martin left to find Clay. There are no clocks in the room and my phone was left at home. Is it close to midnight yet? Why hasn’t Clay come?

Please get me out of here.

Despite my desperate desire, when I finally hear the soft creak of the doorknob, it’s not relief I feel but panic at the thought of Clay seeing me like this. Heady adrenaline shoots through my veins. I wrench upright, throwing my legs off the bed and tossing the blanket to the side.

My stomach swoops as the door swings inward, then drops like a lead weight when it isn’t Clay who steps inside but a stranger paradoxically more familiar than my own reflection.

Wilder gives me a slight, close-lipped smile and shuts the door behind him. “Hey.”

Speechless, I watch him sidestep a few paces before sliding to the floor.

He braces his arms on his bent knees, drops his head back to the wall, and closes his eyes.

The thick tendons in his forearms jump beneath black-and-gray tattoos as his long, elegant fingers move restlessly, playing a song only he hears.

Less than five feet of carpeted floor separate our toes.

“I fucking hate parties,” he mutters.

I blink hard, half-expecting him to disappear, but instead he becomes more real. Excruciatingly so . Airbrushed memories of him collide with reality and tear something deep in my chest.

At twenty-five, he was almost ethereally beautiful.

Now he’s… devastating. Somehow both rougher and more refined.

Potently masculine, mature, and healthy .

Smile lines crease the skin around his eyes, the shadows of his dimples now permanent fixtures, the slope of his clean-shaven jaw even sharper.

His body has changed, too, still lean but more densely muscled, his light olive skin radiant.

Movement brings my gaze to his throat. As he swallows, the wings of a gorgeously detailed moth ripple in mimicry of flight. He shifts against the wall, sighing, and a hint of his midnight-rainstorm scent reaches me. Seductive and threatening. A siren’s haunting call.

I want to light him on fire.

I want to suck him in like water and drown.

He’s thirty-one years old.

It’s unbelievable, suddenly. So wild a notion that I choke on the urge to giggle, the pressure of holding it in nearly unbearable.

“W-what are you doing?” I finally ask. My voice is ragged. Breathy and dismayed.

Dark lashes parting, his gaze lowers to my face. His expression is inscrutable, but there’s a glimmer in his eyes. One that sends more adrenaline into my system.

“Taking a break from all the drunk, annoying people outside. What are you doing?”

The casual familiarity in his voice pulls the plug on my thoughts. They pour away in a torrent, leaving a buzzing silence behind.

Wilder’s lips curve to one side, deepening the adjacent dimple. “Better close your mouth before you catch a fly.” His eyes flicker down. “Legs, too.”

I snap my knees together, simultaneously grabbing the discarded blanket and bringing it over my lap. Embarrassment sears my face and chest—another shock, nearly nauseating in its intensity.

I can’t remember the last time I blushed.

“Get out,” I whisper.

Head tilting, he cups a hand behind his ear. “What was that?”

My teeth clench. “Get. Out.”

He stretches his legs, crossing them at the ankle, and folds his arms over his chest. “Nah, I’m good here.” He smiles slightly. “How’s life these days?”

I can’t speak.

Can’t think.

Air rasps in and out of my lungs. My arms tremble uncontrollably.

“Did you know Emma is cutting molars?” he continues, eyebrows arched inquisitively like I’m not having a fucking aneurism five feet away. “She’s the coolest. I still can’t believe she calls me Why-Why. Such a trip.”

My breath stills. “She does?”

“Yeah.” His eyes turn so soft and warm, I have to look away. “Gotta say, though, I kind of miss her calling me Poop.”

A strangled sound leaves me. “Poop?”

He hums in confirmation. “No idea how that one started.” I arch a brow and he chuckles. “Fine, there was an incident. I might have had an adverse reaction that Emma thought was hilarious. In my defense, it was my first experience with explosive baby diarrhea.”

I grimace. “Gross.”

“The grossest. But at least she decided on calling me Poop instead of picking one of the other words I used in the moment. Lily would have freaked if she started calling me Fuck.”

I bite my cheek. “She’s definitely militant about the no-profanity rule.”

At the thought of Lily, my flash of humor dies. My relationship with her, Rye, and Emma has changed over the last year, most drastically in the last six months. I want so badly to fix what’s broken, but I don’t know how. Not without making a sacrifice I’m not sure I’ll survive.

Wilder’s stare is heavy and probing. I look down to hide my expression, but it’s too late.

“You don’t belong here. This city is a vampire sucking you dry. Come home.”

Anger roars through me, the welcome firestorm burning away my melancholy.

“You have no idea where I belong. You think you have the right to say that? Why? Because I followed you around as a kid or because we fucked for a few weeks a million years ago? Get over yourself, Wilder. You’re a footnote in my life. ”

His jaw hardens, arms falling to his sides as he sits up and leans forward.

For a moment, I think he’s going to spew equal vitriol back at me.

I want him to—want him to say something as awful as what just came out of my mouth so I don’t have to acknowledge the stinging precursor of guilt.

So I can hate him again, if only for a moment.

What he says instead, in a dangerously soft voice, is worse.

“Lie to yourself all you want. I’ll always know you. You’re inside me forever, just like I’m inside you. And you belong where you always have, with your feet in the dirt between water and giant trees, moonlight shining in your hair.”

The absurd words shatter like glass inside me. Tiny, bleeding wounds open all over my heart.

My belated scoff sounds alarmingly close to a sob. “I don’t know what your angle is, but let’s get one thing straight—you’re deluded if you think I’ll ever fall into your bed again.”

He laughs.

The motherfucker laughs .

Then he stands up, stretching his arms over his head and bending from side to side like we’re in a goddamn yoga class.

The hem of his T-shirt rides up, exposing a few inches of skin above his belt.

I tear my eyes away, but not fast enough to prevent the sight from burning itself into my brain.

Two sharp, shadowed valleys of muscle arrowing toward his groin.

Tattoos I’ve never seen before. That trail of coarse, dark hair I wish I didn’t remember the feel of grazing my belly.

When he stops flaunting his stupid, ripped body, I shift my glare back to his face. He wears a knowing smirk that makes me want to kick him in the nuts.

“You thought I was flirting with you?” Tsking , he shakes his head, eyes bright with laughter like the joke’s on me. “You’ve never even seen me flirt. In any case, I think we can agree that ship has sailed.”

My jaw drops.

His devilish grin widens. “It was good chatting with you. Happy New Year.” He opens the door, then glances back at me. “See you around, Evangeline.”

He’s gone before I can gasp my next breath.