Page 1 of Last Chorus

CHAPTER ONE

wilder

SIX AND A HALF YEARS LATER

WILDER 31 | EVA 29

The doorbell’s soft, bell-like tone echoes through the house. Even expecting it, my chest tightens and my pulse accelerates. I lower my mug of tea to the counter and close my eyes.

A normal stress response.

Breathe.

Focus on physical anchors.

My lungs push against the pressure around them as I inhale, hold the breath, then blow itout in a rush through my mouth. As I continue the exercise, I tap firmly beneath my collarbone until my nervous system calms and my heart rate slows.

Even with over six years of practice under my belt, I’m still amazed when the simple technique works. Gratitude fills me for the freedom I have now that I’m able to manage my anxiety.

The doorbell rings again.

“Coming,” I mutter.

I leave the kitchen and walk down the hallway toward my visitors. The click and hum of the central heating and the creak of floorboards under my bare feet are familiar, grounding sounds. Late December, mid-morning sunlight cuts through trees on the property, diffusing through double-paned glass on my right and making the wood and white walls glow. After weeks of gray, it’s a welcome sight.

As I pass the two platinum albums hanging in frames on the hallway wall, I breathe deeply again and remind myself that everything is okay, that I can handle this. That I’ve handleda lotwithout a drink or a drug, like writing and recording five albums back-to-back. Months upon months on the road. Sold out stadium crowds and festival fields around the world. Screaming, crying fans who have no concept of personal boundaries. Live interviews under glaring lights. And the mostpersonally challenging career requirement: industry events and award shows where seeingheris unavoidable.

But the real proof I can handle anything sits in my chest: a broken heart that still, somehow, keeps on beating. That I’ve learned to accept, even embrace, as the ultimate proof that nothing,nothing,has the power to send me back into the darkness.

My fingers trail lightly across the leaves of a potted fern beside the front door, and I use the physical sensation to focus my mind on the present. One more breath, then I flip the deadbolt and pull open the door. Frigid air swirls around me and I relish the shock of it.

The couple standing on my porch regard me with starkly different expressions. Matt Sullivan is frowning deeply, hands stuffed in his pockets, shoulders high and tense beneath his coat. His wife, on the other hand, beams at me with a smile so familiar I have to make myself return it.

“Hi, Wilder,” Sophie says warmly. “Thanks so much for letting us come by.”

“Of course. How was the ferry?”

“Just fine,” she answers as Matt grumbles, “Fucking crowded.”

I glance at him—he doesn’t meet my eye—before standing back. “Come on in.”

Once they’re inside, I close the door and lock it, then wait as they remove their coats and hang them on hooks in the foyer. As I study their body language, it occurs to me with faint amusement that of the three of us, I’m the calmest.

Sophie turns first, clearing her throat as she smooths flyaway, dark blonde hairs from her face. “How was your Christmas?”

Since she’s best friends with my mom and they talk daily, it’s obvious she’s attempting to fill the awkward silence. I don’t know exactly why they’re here, but whatever the reason, it’s becoming apparent that it’s not a good one. My jaw clenches against the urge to ask the question that’s haunted me since my mom called two days ago with their request.

“It was great,” I answer, my voice steady despite clanging nerves. “With River living in London and the twins down in San Diego, it’d been a while since we were all under the same roof. How was yours?”

“Just fine, thank you.” Her smile falters as she glances at Matt, who’s still frowning as he stares at the floor. She nudges his arm and he finally looks at me.

What I see in his light blue eyes has me struggling not to take a step back. The familiar resentment I was expecting is nowhere to be found. He looks sad and lost.

My stomach drops.

“Thanks for seeing us,” he says mutedly.

I nod, then shift back on my heels and pivot, suddenly knowing I need to be sitting down when they reveal what brought them to my door. “Come on back. Can I get you guys anything? Coffee? Water? Tea?”

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