Page 15 of First Verse

Until yesterday, I had no idea she wanted to leave Night Theory. No idea she wasn’t fully invested in our future as giants in the industry. Because our nine-year musical partnership was about me, not her. Not us.

Shedoesdeserve more than I can give her. Even if I don’t know how to think of her as anything but mine.Even if I want to kill Eddie for kissing her, and the thought of some other man touching her body, of her wantinghim to, makes me see red.

Maybe I don’t know Evangeline like I thought I did, but she knows me in a way no one else does—not even my mom. I’ve already given her more of myself than anyone else; giving her the rest terrifies me. Maybe that means I’m a coward. Or maybe I’m simply obeying instinct, a cellular wisdom that transcends logic. It would explain why I’ve kept her at arm’s length all these years. Why I haven’t let myself know her. Really, really know her.

Because falling in love with Evangeline Sullivan will destroy me.

Sitting up, I look around at the poster-strewn walls that have heard hundreds of our songs and harmonies. Arguments, shouts of excitement, and belly-aching laughs. Tears sting my eyes, which finally drop to the nightstand and the black notebook my mom gave me.

My breath stills as a new emotion rises, faint but growing more defined every second.

Despite the betrayal still burning inside me at Evangeline’s choice, despite feeling abandoned and fractured and bereft at the thought of her leaving the band—leavingme—I suddenly feel something else, too.

Something a lot like hope. A lot like freedom.

She doesn’t need me.

Which means maybe I was wrong.

Maybe I don’t need her, either.

PARTTWO

verse

verse: lyrical or instrumental section of a song used to advance the plot

CHAPTERSIX

evangeline

EVA 23 | WILDER 25

My front door opens, letting in a draft of cold, damp air before it closes again. Anna’s voice filters to my ears along with Rye’s deeper tones. I can’t hear what they’re whispering over the sounds of Slow Pulp from my Bluetooth speaker, but I have a pretty good idea.

“Hey, guys,” I call over my shoulder. I catch a glimpse of Anna’s wide eyes and Rye’s grimace before I turn back to the counter and focus on chopping cucumbers for a salad.

They finally make it to the kitchen. Rye drops a kiss on my head before heading to the fridge for a beer. Anna gives me a side hug, enveloping me in a cloud of perfume and stale marijuana smoke.

“Smells good in here,” Rye says with forced cheer. “I love your lasagna almost as much as my mom’s.”

“Thanks. I made enough for you to take home and freeze.”

“Hell yeah. You’re a goddess.”

“She is,” Anna agrees. She grabs a cucumber slice off my cutting board and takes a bite, then grins at me. “An immortal goddess now.”

“Anna,” warns Rye.

She waves a dismissive hand in his direction, still grinning at me with manic, glazed eyes. “So, Eva? Have you listened to the song?”

I lower my knife before I stab her with it. “Yes, I’ve heard it.”

Fifteen different people have sent it to me since it dropped online this morning, and that’s not including family members. The only person to notcontact me about it is Wilder himself. Probably because he knows as well as I do that the song doesn’t mean anything. Maybe I inspired the lyrics, but I’m not naive enough to think they’re about me specifically. That would be ridiculous.

Plus, his number is blocked in my phone.

Behind her, Rye mouths, “I’m sorry.”

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