Page 11 of Last Chorus

It’s been years since I’ve seen Wilder in such close proximity, my exposure intentionally limited to glimpses at fifty feet during award shows or the occasional, accidental sight of him on social media or in a magazine.

I want to look away,need to,but I can’t. I can’t evenblink. The sight of him has frozen every inch of me, skin to marrow.

Clearly his stance on conformity, and fashion in general, hasn’t changed. He still dresses like he’s twenty-five. I wish I could say the forever-casual look isn’t attractive anymore, that it makes him appear immature or slovenly. But it doesn’t. In a sea of sparkling silverfish, he stands out like a tiger shark. Unapologetically unpolished. Magnetic, sensual, and irreverent.

Worn jeans hug his lean hips and long legs above combat boots. A faded black T-shirt showcases the sculpted contours of his chest and arms, the latter’s surface almost fully obscured by tattoos. Unruly dark waves frame his face, enhancing his striking features. I’m grateful I can’t see his eyes—until I see the woman he’s looking down at, who’s suctioned to his arm like a frilly pink octopus.

Poppy.

My jaw grinds and a spark of pain erupts behind my right eye. Through a veil of static, I register snippets of conversations taking place around me.

“…even hotter in person.”

“…definitely my hall pass.”

“She doesn’t look so good…”

“…clearly not over him.”

“…you blame her? He’s a god in flesh.”

I finally drag my eyes from Wilder to see people staring at me. Alotof people, with expressions ranging from pity to pleasure.

“Let’s go inside,” Martin says urgently.

When I nod, he stands and pulls me to my feet, then guides me away from the couch. I barely feel the throbs of protest in my ankles. I’m a marionette, relying on his arm around my waist to keep me upright and moving. People scatter from our path as we make our way toward the house. Thankfully, there’s another entrance closer to us, so we don’t have to walk pasthim.

Then, like a different puppeteer takes control of my body, my head snaps to the left. From twenty feet away, dappled-forest eyes bore into mine.

I hate you.

And like he heard my silent scream, Wilder nods.

I know.

PART TWO

pre-chorus

pre-chorus: the section of a song that builds anticipation for the chorus.

CHAPTER FIVE

wilder

Ten reasons to forget you

Twenty lies that were true

A hundred ways out

A thousand through

Even if I could (really should)

Won’t ever walk away from you

Iscan the faces around me, ignoring the rising chatter and focus of L.A.’s rich and bored. Let them stare and gossip. I don’t care about them.

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