Page 21 of Last Chorus

Haphazardly stacked journals stare up at me, all different colors and sizes, all filled front to back with my teenage ramblings. My heart pounding, I pull a few out and set them on the desk. Then a few more. Before I can stop myself, I’ve removed them all to reveal what’s hidden at the bottom.

Memories drift around me like distant music as I stare at the black, sticker-covered memento box. My fingers tremble as I lift it.

An unsteady step backward brings me to the desk chair, the leather sighing as I drop my weight and settle the box on my knees. The lid is warped from sitting under the combined weight of the journals. I tug until it comes free, then toss it on the desk and look inside the box for the first time in close to a decade.

There are loose, lined pages folded in fours, covered in messy words. An assortment of ticket stubs. Paper napkins littered with bleeding ballpoint ink: doodles and notes and disjointed lyrics. Sycamore leaves in various stages of life preserved by thick, yellowing tape.Cheap guitar picks and curling band stickers. The very first Night Theory fliers, which Eddie and I printed on bright pink paper to annoy Wilder. A few of our demo CDs, the plastic casings cracked and the labels faded.

My eyes land on a palm-sized, dark green journal tucked against the side. The edges are worn, softened by countless hours spent in backpacks and purses and pockets.

I grab it without considering the consequences, opening the cover to read the first page.

This journal belongs to Wilder and Evangeline. If you aren’t us, fuck off.

You’re so dramatic.

I close it fast, my shuddering exhale fracturing the quiet. My fingers curl, clenching until the journal curves. When the binding crackles ominously, I throw it back in the box. Shoving the lid on, I waste no time loading it and all my journals back in the original box.

If I had packing tape, I’d reseal it. If I had a blowtorch, I’d burn them all.

Jerking to my feet, I walk around the room a few times. Consider and discard the idea of setting up my keyboard. Pause to open a guitar case, then close itwhen the sight of my custom Gibson acoustic makes my stomach bottom out. All while the pressure inside me builds and builds.

I resume pacing, back and forth from desk to door, faster and faster until I feel the claustrophobia that was missing when I entered the room. My thoughts churn with my legs, thrashing against their containment. Against walls I knew were there but for the first time can actuallyfeel.

God, it fucking hurts.

Thanks to opening that stupid box—thanks to last night and Wilder’s goddamn mouth, his unbelievable arrogance in telling me where I belonged—Iremember.The girl I was. The girl I wanted so badly to protect but ended up caging and muting instead, little by little, over the course of years.

In hindsight, it’s clear how my prison was crafted, another brick added every time I felt too much—too vulnerable or uncertain, hurt or angry or lonely. More bricks after each brief, disappointing attempt at a relationship. After lackluster sales reports, poor reviews from respected sources, a particularly vicious media cycle, a flood of critical comments online…

Every time I smiled when I wanted to scream. Said I was fine when I was flailing. Pushed forward when I wanted to rest. Avoided when I wanted to confront.

I built my mental cage to protect myself. Tosavemyself. But now I’m trapped inside. Cut off from the bonds that used to give my life depth and vibrancy—my friends, my family. I’m disconnected from my own voice. Frommusic.

There’s only darkness and silence inside me now.

I know Lily believes I rejected the Indigo contract because of Clay’s influence, but I did it out of desperation. Out of deep fear and shame for what I’ve been hiding from her.

The only person who knows I haven’t written new material in over a year is Clay, but my confession didn’t faze him. He said it doesn’t matter. That when I go solo, the best songwriters in the business will jump at the chance to write for me.

When I told him I’d rather give up music altogether than perform other people’s songs, he laughed and said I needed to grow up.“Stop thinking of yourself as an artist, Eva. You’re a business.”

More walls shift forward in the fog around my mind. Different dimensions of the same prison demanding acknowledgment.

I suddenly see it—who I’ve become. Who Lily and Rye see. My parents and brother, too.

But mostly, I see myself through Wilder’s eyes.

And I hate her.

CHAPTER NINE

wilder

Frank Clarke wipes a napkin roughly over his mouth, causing his bushy gray mustache and surrounding beard to expand like porcupine quills. With an exaggerated groan, he leans back in his chair and belches. Disgusted looks are thrown our way from the nearest table, but Frank just grins at me and winks.

I roll my eyes at his antics. I’d wanted to meet at the house I’m renting, but he’d breezily suggested lunch. After years of him pulling this exact shtick whenever we’re both in town, I didn’t bother trying to dissuade him. At least the restaurant he chose this time doesn’t have a dress code and didn’t require renting a plane.

The quaint, Santa Monica café may be casual, but in keeping with Frank’s tastes it’s highly exclusive. I hadn’t even bothered with calling for a reservation myself,knowing they’d think I was lying about who I was, and instead texted my PA to do the honors.

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