Page 20 of First Verse

I bark a laugh, then settle back for the short drive to Fremont.

I’m not unsympathetic toward Rye’s dilemma. He’s the center of Eva’s and my Venn diagram, the only place we overlap these days. This is the first time he’s felt the pressure of his position, the first time I’ve tested our bond against his loyalty to Eva.

Neither Rye nor I expected that sitting in the studio for months would spark a friendship completely separate from the drama of the past. His talents are incredible, and I would have been a fool to pass up having his input on the album over some beef that wasn’t even with him. I’m doubly glad I didn’t—not only is he as much of a perfectionist as I am when it comes to arranging music, I actually like the guy now.

Ten minutes later, Rye finds parking a block away from Side Stage, a black building covered in colorful, graffitied murals. It sits snugly against Tullamore Café, the beloved neighborhood landmark formerly owned by my mom and her cousin and now owned by my mom’s longtime friend, Allison Montgomery, and her wife. About four years ago, they bought the lot next door and tore down the ancient fabric store. They renovated the café and built the attached venue.

Welcoming light pours out of the cafe’s glass front, highlighting the short line in front of Side Stage’s box office.

Rye turns off the car, then shoots me an unreadable look. “I don’t even want to ask, but you didn’t have anything to do with this, right?”

I frown in confusion. “With what?”

“Getting her the gig.”

My brows jump. “Are you for real?”

“I know your parents are tight with the owners.”

“So are her parents.” When his suspicious expression doesn’t change, I groan. “No, dumbass. I had nothing to do with it. You think I want Evangeline to hate me more than she already does?”

He sighs. “She doesn’t hate you.”

“She does,” I say decisively.

He stares at me another moment, then shakes his head and exits the car. I follow, tugging the beanie down over my forehead.

Rye doesn’t understand what happened between Evangeline and me. Hell, I barely understand it myself. All I know is that she hates me. Sheneedsto hate me.

Three years of almost-silence, of seeing her from a distance at family functions, hearing her laugh, her voice, watching as the final vestiges of girlishness dissolved to reveal exactly how fucking gorgeous she’s always been… all of it has proven one immutable fact.

I’m still an addict.

Believing she hates me makes it easier to abstain. It works for me. Or it worked until last night, when I made the impulsive mistake of calling her after realizing she’d unblocked my number.

When I heard her voice, when we played that old game, my craving was triggered.

Now I’m fiending for her.

“You all right?” asks Rye.

I realize I’ve stopped walking and am staring blankly at the ground.

“I, uh…” I glance to the side to see we’ve stopped in front of Tullamore’s front doors. “I’m gonna get something to drink.”

Rye frowns and glances at his watch. “She goes on in five.”

I nod. “I’ll catch up in a minute.”

“You mean creep inside, keep to the shadows, and pretend you don’t know me?”

I roll my eyes. “Yes. I’ll leave before the set ends and Uber home.”

His frown deepens, but his love for Eva trumps his concern for my moody ass. “’Kay. See ya.”

He strolls toward the box office.

I pivot and walk into the bustling café, making it five steps before my name, wrapped in surprise, is called from behind gleaming espresso machines.

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