Page 18 of Last Chorus

He’s gone before I can gasp my next breath.

CHAPTER SEVEN

evangeline

New Year’s Day dawns bright and clear. Not unexpected. Whatisunexpected is the fact I missed dawn for the first time in months. I’d blame champagne for knocking me out, but I didn’t even finish my first glass.

For the last half hour, I’ve been sitting at the glass-top table on our terrace, nursing my second cup of coffee and picking at half of a tart grapefruit. Neither has dented my grogginess.

The kidney-shaped pool we never use glitters in the sunlight, smaller reflections dancing off damp blades of grass beyond. For once, there’s an actual bite in the air. Occasional currents of cold slide beneath my robe and coil around my bare legs.

I’m still too hot.

Fuzzy-headed and floaty.

A bird lifts from a nearby palm, its passage bringing a flash of memory. Inked wings moving on golden skin. A rough shake of my head sends the errant thought away.

Focusing on the pool, I fantasize about jumping in. The water can’t be more than fifty degrees, and my Pilates instructor is always talking about cold plunging and how beneficial it is. Would it feel invigorating or terrible? More importantly, would it wake me up?

My musings are derailed by the crisp, measured clicks of designer men’s shoes on tile. Smoothing my expression, I turn my head toward the house. Clay approaches me, his attention on the tablet in his hands. While I have yet to change out of my pajamas and robe, he’s dressed in his typical winter casual wear: pressed slacks and a lightweight cashmere sweater.

A greeting dies on my tongue when he lifts his head, revealing the scowl on his face.

I should have jumped in the pool.

“I’ll get dressed in a minute. Just finishing breakfast.”

Without saying a word, he sets the tablet on the table beside my plate with its listing grapefruit husk. I blink down at the screen, my pulse jumping when I see the side-by-side photographs at the top of an article from a popular magazine.

Suddenly, I’m more awake than I’ve been in months.

The photos are red carpet shots from the Billboard Music Awards a few months ago. One photo is of me. The other is of Wilder.

In reality, we didn’t cross paths that night, and I made sure to be using the restroom when Night Theory was onstage. But whoever picked and aligned these particular photos did a masterful job at manipulating perception. We look like a couple, both in all black, similar faux-serious expressions on our faces. Even our bodies are angled toward each other, giving a subtle impression of togetherness.

My already erratic heartbeat rattles as I read the headline.

Music’s Favorite Star-Crossed Lovers Spotted Together New Year’s Eve

I read the opening paragraphs, my stomach dropping further with every word. Multiple people apparently saw me go into a bedroom and Wilder slip inside after me. There’s no mention of Martin, who was in the room with me far longer than Wilder was, or the fact Clay found me just minutes after he left and we shared a public kiss at midnight. Because facts have no place in clickbait.

I open my mouth to say as much, but Clay snaps, “Keep reading.”

The back of my scalp tingling in trepidation, I continue scrolling and realize this isn’t some short fluff piece with no purpose but to generate website traffic to ads. The article is long, dense, and annoyingly well written.

First is the expected regurgitation of history: our fathers being best friends and founding members of Breaking Giants, how we grew up together and formed Night Theory in our teens. The moderate success of our first album and tour. Our electric stage chemistry and how I shocked fans when I suddenly left the band. That I didn’t leave because of creative differences like our label said but because of rising conflict with Wilder. How after a three-year estrangement, we had a brief, intense affair followed by an explosive breakup. Wilder went to treatment for drug abuse. I cut him out of my life.

The accuracy of it all is jarring but not really surprising. For better or worse, we’re both autobiographical songwriters and public figures. Anyone with access to the internet and time to kill could piece the same story together.

But then the article takes an unexpected turn, going from annoying to afuckmylifelevel of alarming.According to the author—someone named Angie Irving, though it’s likely a pseudonym—Wilder and I are still in love with each other. How does she know? Well, apparently every album we’ve written and released since our breakup is part of an ongoing love letter between us. Her theory is backed up with a shockingly thorough analysis of our individual discographies over the last six years.

It’s both complete bullshit and perfectly crafted to be convincing as hell.

Fuck. This is really bad.

I lower the tablet to the table, making sure it connects silently with the glass. My senses return slowly. I become aware of my cold fingers and toes. An itch on the back of my neck. Gusting breezes whispering through bushes and trees. Birdsong and the neighbor’s sprinklers. Water gurgling through the pool’s filtering system.

“I’ve already talked to Anita,” Clay says in a monotone. “A retraction isn’t likely, but I might slap the magazine with a suit anyway just to make their life miserable.”

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