Page 85 of First Verse

“Your grandparents like me—or at least don’t hate me—and your mom hugged me when we left. Hunter and Josh were cool. It wasn’t all bad.” He pauses. “Your dad didn’t make a scene or anything.”

No, he waited until Wilder had graciously offered to clear the table and was alone in the kitchen before cornering him. Oblivious to the fact I’d followed him and heard everything.

I unclench my jaw. “What he said to you, accusing you of being high because you yawned a few times…” I drag my gaze from the stormy sky to his profile. His dark lashes are lowered halfway, his expression inscrutable. “I honestly don’t know how you stayed as calm as you did. I’m so sorry.”

He shrugs a shoulder. “What you told me on the drive over helped. I kept reminding myself that his reaction wasn’t about me but about shit from his past. His dad… my dad. I tried to put myself in his shoes.”

The nape of my neck prickles, the ennui in his voice clashing with his words. Despite the contact of our hands, he feels a million miles away.Is this a type of panic attack? A self-defense mechanism?

I clear my throat. “I hope you know I don’t expect you to follow through on what you told him. You absolutely do nothave to take a drug test to appease my father.”

He lifts my hand and places a soft kiss to my knuckles. His normally warm lips are cool. “I don’t want to be the reason for a rift in your family. I’ll take the test.” He releases my fingers and shudders; goosebumps pepper the side of his neck. “I’m going to lie down for a bit, okay?”

“Sure,” I whisper, but he’s already walking toward my bedroom, his gait lacking its usual grace. The door swings half-closed behind him. I listen to the sounds of him undressing, then the familiar creak of my bed frame as his weight settles.

I’m suddenly exhausted, too.Sad. Angry.Tugging a blanket off the back of the couch, I curl up on my side. My dry, burning eyes fall closed, only to open a second later when, in that single moment of darkness, I realized Wilder didn’t look me in the eye once since we left my parents.

Not once.

I sit up, shivering as the blanket falls to my lap. The living room is shadowed, the sky darker than it was minutes ago. Raindrops spatter against the deck. Several nightlights give off haloes against the walls, and I focus on their glow until the vise on my chest releases.

I drag in a loud, rasping breath.

“Evangeline?”

Wilder’s voice kickstarts my already racing heart. I twist on the couch to see him standing in the bedroom doorway. One hand braced on the doorframe, naked except for boxer briefs. His face is shadowed, his tall, muscled frame outlined by a light in the bedroom.

My father’s voice ricochets between us, eerie in its utter calm.

“Do you think I was born yesterday? You can’t even look me in the eye, can you?”

I’m brittle, bubbling taffy stretched between loyalties. I have no idea what lies at my breaking point.

“Can I hold you?”

His voice is soft. Wavering with emotion.

Snap.

I leap up and rush into his open arms. His skin is feverish as he trembles and holds me so tightly it hurts. I hold him even tighter. My nails drive into the muscles of his back like I can open him up. Crawl inside him and expose his depths.

Even if I’m terrified of what I’ll find.

CHAPTERTHIRTY-FIVE

wilder

After the close call at Evangeline’s parents’ house, I wrestle back some control over my using. Once again, music saves my ass; in this case, the two-week runway to the release of Night Theory’s sophomore album,Fatalism.

The stakes have never been higher for me—for any of us—and miraculously, that sense of purpose quiets my demons. I find a sweet spot where my general anxiety is manageable and my mind stays more or less sharp. No more nodding off or spiraling into withdrawals.

My free time shrinks even more, but whatever I have is spent with Evangeline. Even if it means I’m crawling into her bed at three in the morning and waking her up four hours later with my tongue. No matter what, I see her every night and prioritize texting her consistently during the day. As the world around me whips into a surreal frenzy, she keeps me rooted.

She doesn’t bring up the drug test, and I sure as hell don’t. I barely have time to think, much less dwell on how deeply I hate who I’ve become.

Every day is rigidly scheduled and sometimes lasts twelve hours or more. Our manager, Mack Martinez, and publicist, Shelly Reeves, rule our lives via a shared calendar that links to alerts on our phones. The only consistency day to day are time blocks for rehearsing, chef-prepared meals, and forty-five minutes labeledprivate time. Eddie is convinced the latter is their way of managing us down to when we shit and shower.

As restrictive as our schedules are, aside from the occasional joke, none of us complain. It won’t last forever, and we’ve been preparing for this for months. Years, really. We’re also mature enough to understand our skills as musicians can only get us so far. Having grown up in the shadow of Breaking Giants, I’m especially aware that none of this would be happening without the dedication and tireless efforts of the people around us.

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