Page 18 of First Verse

“Like hugging a tree trunk,” I mumble into his flannel.

He chuckles and gives me a squeeze that forces the air from my lungs. “Like hugging a fairy—” We both freeze. “Fuck. Sorry, Ev.”

“All good,” I say brightly, stepping back and opening the door for him. “I’m sorry about Anna. You really didn’t have to… you know.”

“Trust me, it was about to happen anyway.” Winking, he adds, “You know I won’t suffer alone for long.”

I groan and shove him. “Get out of here.”

Laughing manically, he saunters down the brick path to the curb. I wait until he’s in his car before closing and locking my door. After cleaning the kitchen, I retreat to my bedroom, strip off my clothes, and pull on my heavy terry robe. Then I grab my phone and head for my hot tub.

The night is cold and clear. I don’t bother turning on the string lights, the glow from the living room bright enough to buffer me from the dark. With a grunt, I pull up half of the cover and let it flop onto the other side. My robe hits the deck and two seconds later, I’m submerged in steaming, liquid bliss.

Dropping my head back, I watch the fog from my breath merge with the steam rising from the water. The urge to cry comes and goes like a tide, like the melody that trickles in and out of my mind.

There’s a second chance to be what you said you’d be. Come home to me, come home to me.

When I realize I’m humming the words, I sit up and rub my face roughly. “Stop it,” I admonish myself.

Ejecting the song from my thoughts, I focus on what’s important: the show tomorrow. I mentally run through the timeline of the day—everything from when I’ll wake up to my usual voice-prep routine to what time we need to be at the venue and what I’m wearing—then review the song list Lily and I decided on.

Like she can hear me thinking, my nearby phone lights up with a text from her.

Just got off work. Do you want company? We can make fake accounts and spam Night Theory’s posts

A begrudging smile tugs my mouth to one side. She knows enough details about my complicated history with Wilder to loathe him on my behalf.

Nah, I’m good. Thx tho.

Here’s an idea

Unblock Wimpy’s number and tell him the song sucks

My laugh is small but genuine.

Not happening. I’m soaking now and going to sleep in a few. See you tomorrow. Get some sleep!

Will do. Love you girl. Nite

I start to put my phone down, but a sudden impulse makes me swipe to my contacts and scroll to the bottom. To his name. I press it. Another swipe brings me to two little words.

Unblock Caller.

My thumb hovers, then descends. Before I can stop myself, I text him.

Congrats, Wilder. It’s a great song

It shows as delivered. I stare at the screen far too long before deciding I’m the biggest fool to ever live.

“Stupid,” I whisper.

I step out of the hot tub, so angry with myself I don’t even feel the cold. I towel off my legs and pull on my robe, then haul the cover back over the water and head inside. When the slider sticks a bit, I have the insane urge to smash my fist into the glass. Finally, it closes. I lock it and stalk toward the kitchen, where I chug a glass of water.

Wilder isn’t going to text me back. I’ve given him the cold shoulder for years. He’s given it right back. Whatever bond we had is gone. It’s also close to eleven on a Friday night. He’s probably partying with friends. With his super awesome girlfriend.

My phone rings in the pocket of my robe, startling a yelp out of me. It takes three tries to pull it out, my fingers fumbling and numb.

Staring at the name on the screen, I read it over and over, seeing but not believing. Right before it goes to voicemail, I answer with a weak, “Hello?”

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