Page 52 of First Verse

“Relationship with you,” he supplies, eyes steady on mine. “Yes, I want it. I’ve been obsessed with you for years, but I was a fucking coward. I’m not saying I deserve your forgiveness or even that I want you to forget what a shithead I was. But I hope you’ll give me a chance to be the man I know some part of you believes I can be.”

My chest tightens; my eyes sting. Fear and hope seesaw.

“What is it?” he asks softly. “I’m a big boy. Just say it.”

The words finally pour out of me. “You were pretty close—about my dad’s reaction. But he also said you’re an addict. And my mom said your parents suspect you’ve been using opiates since you started having panic attacks at nineteen. Is it true?”

His body stills, expression going eerily blank. My heart pounds like a drum. Tea sloshes in my mug as a tremor moves through my body. It’s warm in the house, but I’m suddenly freezing.

“Were you high two months ago, Wilder? When we had sex the first time? Are you… are you on drugs right now?”

A bit of life, ofhurt,returns to his face. “You really can’t tell if I’m high?”

I study his clear eyes. “I don’t think you are,” I begin hesitantly, “but honestly? I don’t trust my own ability to tell. I also know my dad wouldn’t have said that without reason. And your parents…” I shake my head helplessly.

He makes a rough noise, his gaze falling to his lap. “No wonder you’re freaked out.” He sighs heavily. “It’s my fault. I don’t return their calls enough and ignore most invites to the house. It makes sense that they’d think I’m fucked up. I’ve been so focused on the band for the last two years, I didn’t realize they were so worried.”

His gaze lifts to me. “It’s not an excuse, but I don’t have the kind of relationship with my parents that you have with yours. You know it’s always been hard for me to open up to people. Even them. You’re the only—” He cuts himself off with a grimace. “To answer your question: no, I wasn’t high when we hooked up last month. I’m not high right now. Have I used drugs? Obviously you know the answer to that. But I’m not a fucking junkie.”

The beginnings of relief tingle in my body. “And the panic attacks?”

His eyelashes flicker; discomfort radiates from the tense line of his shoulders. “I get them. Have since I was little. They became intense in my late teens. I don’t have them too often anymore, but I still get anxious. Usually in social situations or around strangers. The only place I’m truly comfortable is onstage.” He pauses. “And with you.”

More hope rises in me, carried on a wave of sympathy and affection. He’s being honest. Opening up to me. It feels precious, like a new beginning.

My voice softens. “Do the guys know?”

He shrugs a shoulder. “They know I have limits on how long I can handle fan meets and press stuff. They’re used to my weirdness by now.”

“I don’t think it’s weird to have boundaries to protect your peace.”

His lips quirk. “You’re giving me too much credit. Most days, I’m winging it and hoping for the best.”

Flashes of memory pass through my mind, years and years’ worth, building a picture of Wilder I never fully saw until this moment. How he always stayed on the edges of gatherings, outside the raucous mingling of our families. Disappearing often to sit alone with headphones on. His dislike of casual touch. Shadows under haunted eyes. How he did shots right when we stepped offstage before we were swarmed. His lyrics, which have always shown a mind that experiences the world differently than me—than most.

My heart fractures at the thought of his long, silent struggle.

I shake my head slowly. “I wish I’d known. I wish you’d told me. I could have supported you better. Maybe what happened three years ago?—”

“No,” he interjects gently. “Nothing that went down is on you. You were right to cut me out of your life.”

I almost contradict him but pause and acknowledge that who he was—the things he did and said—still hurt. Not like they once did, but regardless, even if I understand him better now, how he treated me back then wasn’t my fault.

Wilder leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His head hangs down for a few moments. When he looks up, the raw, glassy-eyed expression on his face steals the air from my chest.

“Can I be real with you?”

“Of course.”

He holds up his hands; the strong, graceful fingers visibly tremble. “My heart is going a mile a minute right now. I’m fighting the urge to bolt. It’s not you—I don’twantto feel like this. But talking about this, letting you finally see how fucked up my head was, still is…” His voice drops to a whisper. “Please, please don’t regret me.”

My mug meets the coffee table and then I’m climbing into his lap and wrapping my arms around him. A shuddering breath leaves him before his arms squeeze me in return. His head drops to my shoulder, warm breath showering my collarbone.

My heart is a furnace inside me, its fiery glare dissolving the stains of our past.

There is only now and a future so bright it stings.

“Never,” I swear.

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