Page 13 of Last Chorus

When I reach my absolute limit of socializing, my smile a grimace and my ears buzzing faintly, I retreat tothe shadows at the edge of the patio where a waist-high fence separates the home’s backyard from a terraced hillside. In the distance, downtown L.A. shines like a gold-dusted circuit board.

I look up at the sky, clear but disturbingly starless, like even the air here holds dreams just outside of reach.

She doesn’t belong here.

“Wilder?” asks a tentative male voice. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”

I turn, a polite refusal ready, but choke the words back when I see who it is. “Sure.”

Martin Page approaches the fence a few feet away from me. He doesn’t say anything right away, just stares outward much as I’d been doing. Tucking my hands in my pockets, I wait, braced for him to tell me off on Eva’s behalf.

“I don’t know if you remember me, but we’ve met in passing a few times.”

The thread of nervousness in his tone makes me blink and swiftly reassess. “I remember you, Martin. Good to see you.”

His head turns, eyes scanning mine, and he gives a little laugh. “It’s so weird. I feel like I know you, but this is the first time we’ve had a conversation.”

For a second, I think he means Evangeline talked about me over the years, but then he continues, “Whenmy little sister was first getting clean, about three years ago, I went with her as support to a sobriety convention in Seattle. You were one of the main speakers.”

All I can manage is a weak, “Ah.”

I remember that convention well. How I’d wanted to refuse the invitation, but my sponsor convinced me—or rather, bullied me—into doing the forty-five-minute talk. I’d been nervous as hell leading up to it, the task of sharing my story with a ballroom full of recovering addicts seeming infinitely harder than performing for thousands.

In some ways, it had been. But there’s also nothing quite like having hundreds of people from all walks of life nodding and laughing in solidarity as you talk about the most fucked-up time of your life. More than any therapy or one-on-one conversation, the experience convinced me that I’m not alone—or even remotely unique—in my struggles with addiction. And there’s massive relief in knowing that.

Afterward, I was glad I’d done it, but I’ve also never accepted another invitation to speak at a large event. As much as I’ve grown to appreciate the sense of belonging I feel when I’m with other sober people, I’m still not much for group activities or crowds. Without a guitar in my hands, that is.

“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” Martinsays. “I know it’s all anonymous for a reason. I swear I’ve never told anyone about seeing you or shared what you talked about.”

I smile wryly. “It’s all good. My sobriety is an open secret, anyway. But I do appreciate the discretion. How’s your sister doing?”

His face lights up. “Amazing. Still clean.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

Martin glances toward the house. “So, uh, there’s another reason I wanted to talk to you.”

My pulse kicks inside my throat. “You want to dress me, don’t you?”

His laugh is a tad shrill. “Talk about a dream come true. But no—I can’t because… well, you know.”

I nod slowly. “Because of Eva.”

He gives a wincing smile and a nod. “She’s actually who I wanted to talk about. I realize this is insanely presumptuous, so feel free to tell me to fuck off.”

“Not gonna do that,” I murmur.

Whatever he sees on my face seems to encourage him, but then his gaze darts anxiously toward the house again. It belatedly occurs to me that he’s worried we’ll be seen together, that it will get back to her.

Where we’re standing is pretty dark and a good fifteen feet from the closest person. It’s also past eleven and from the increasing sounds of revelry,everyone’s pretty trashed. But I still shift a few steps back until Martin’s shorter, slighter frame is blocked by mine.

When he realizes what I’ve done, he looks embarrassed but also relieved. “Thanks. If she finds out I’m talking to you, she’ll never speak to me again.”

I should be used to hearing confirmations of her continued enmity, but I’m not. Every one is a fresh blow to my chest.

Before I can think better of it, I ask, “She still hates me that much, huh?”

“I don’t think it’s you she hates,” he says with a sigh.

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