Page 17 of First Verse

After dinner, Rye does the dishes, then rejoins me at the table, where I’m slouched and picking at my cuticles.

“You okay?” he asks softly.

I nod and offer a smile that makes him grimace—which makes me laugh, albeit weakly. “I’m okay. Really. I’m happy for them. For him.” Clearing my throat, I look away from the gentle understanding in his eyes. “You did good work on the track.”

“Thanks, Eva. That means a lot coming from you. I’m still in shock that my name will be on the list of producers for the LP.” He hesitates, his voice lowering. “It’s good. Beyond good.”

I nod a few times. “I look forward to hearing it.”

“You don’t have to wait. You can listen to the masters whenever you?—”

“No,” I say sharply, then blow out a breath as his face falls. “Sorry. I just mean I’ll wait like everyone else. When’s the release again?”

“Late April. Two more singles will land before then.”

I whistle softly. “I take it the label is backing a full-scale release campaign? The whole nine yards?”

His smile is wry. “What is nepotism for five hundred.”

I laugh.

Despite a nearly three-year delay in laying tracks for their sophomore album, Night Theory still has a recording contract with Indigo Records—the same company that signed Breaking Giants back in the day and has since become one of the most coveted pop and rock labels in the business.

“Good for them.”

Rye grins. “You almost sound like you mean that.”

“I do mean it.” I pause, then concede, “It’s bittersweet, I guess.”

Mostly bitter.

As much as I don’t regret leaving the band, and as much as I believe in Wilder’s music and think his talent deserves the biggest platform possible, I still mourn the loss of what we shared. The loss ofhim.My childhood friend. My songwriting partner. The temperamental, driven, passionate person who made my world brighter. Sharper. More colorful. Who challenged me, inspired me, and ultimately betrayed everything I thought we were.

What we are now is… nothing.

I haven’t seen Wilder in over six months, since our families’ joint, end-of-summer barbecue last year. Our brief interaction followed a three-year pattern of avoiding and ignoring each other at gatherings.

The only difference last time was that Wilder brought a guest. A pretty brunette named Kendra, who ended up awkwardly introducing herself to me after Wilder walked past me with a muttered, “Hey.”

According to my mom, Kendra is still around. Wilder’s parents are happy for him. Everyone is happy for him.

Sensing my withdrawal, Rye scoots his chair back and stands.

“I’m gonna head out and let you get a good night’s sleep. Excited about the show tomorrow?”

My smile is almost genuine. “Definitely.”

After what happened with Wilder, I didn’t write music for close to a year. I drifted for a while, living off my savings and the modest royalty payments from Night Theory’s first album. Eventually, a tough love conversation with my dad snapped me out of my fugue. I found a part-time job at a music academy teaching piano and guitar to kids and enrolled at a local college.

I met Lily Aoki in my second semester during a music theory course. Our personalities are as different as night and day, but creatively we’re a perfect match. We’ve been making music for a couple years, but in the last year we’ve gotten serious. Our talents are a marriage of mediums: I’m analog—notepads, keyboard, guitar—and she’s digital, mixing and producing each song in ways I never imagined. We don’t need anyone else with us onstage, either, because she does it all with her fancy laptop and DJ equipment.

We’ve performed a few dozen times at open mics around the city, but tomorrow night is our first legitimate show. We got a call last week from a booking agent at a small but respected venue in Fremont. He’d heard us at an open mic the weekend before and grabbed our flyer. When the original openers for tomorrow canceled, our flyer happened to be sitting at the top of the pile on his desk. He decided that despite our relatively unknown status, we were the right sound and worth the risk.

And the best part of it is he has absolutely no idea who I am—or rather, who my father is.

“It’s going to be epic,” Rye says, squeezing my shoulder before grabbing the container of leftovers.

I follow him to the front door, where I wrap my arms around his middle and take a deep breath of his comforting, mossy scent.

---