Page 22 of Last Chorus

Normally I get a kick out of bringing the burly, aging biker into social spheres he wouldn’t otherwise be able to access. But the last hour has been a struggle. I’m bent out of shape about last night, exhausted and impatient. So while he’s decimated his food and talked nonstop, I’ve barely touched mine and most of my responses have been monosyllabic.

Frank slurps his Americano contentedly. I continue pushing food around my plate, ignoring curious stares from teenagers whose wealthy parents have dragged them out for New Year’s brunch.

After a few more minutes of torture, Frank finally sets his cup down and folds his hands over his belly. “Okay, champ. Why don’t you tell me what’s on your mind?”

I glance around one more time, reassuring myself that the closest tables are actually pretty far from us and no one is pointing a phone in our direction. I still speak softly and don’t use names as I tell him everything from Matt and Sophie’s impromptu visit to what happened last night.

Even without names, Frank knows exactly who I’m talking about, having been on the receiving end of my verbal vomit more times than I can count. Sober himselffor three decades, he’s been a drug and alcohol counselor almost as long.

I met him at Oasis, the desert treatment center where I spent three months and where he works as a group therapy facilitator. In my first week there, he took a liking to me. Apparently how deeply pathetic and ornery I was reminded him of himself at my age.

Our unlikely bond grew and was solidified when, a few days before leaving Oasis, I had a severe panic attack. Despite all the work I’d done, despite feeling mentally stable and even hopeful about the future, the impending leap back into my life—and all it signified—hit me like a train.

What sent me spiraling wasn’t the impending start of Night Theory’s delayed world tour; I was amped to play music again. Nor did I really care about what the press was saying about me. The problem was everything else. All the consequences of what I’d done to Evangeline, to my family, to my supportive but rightfully resentful bandmates, and the fact I’d have mere days to start repairing all my relationships before touring for months with temptations everywhere.

I was still shaking from the effects of the attack when Dr. Chastain called for Frank to join us in his office. I didn’t know what was happening until Frank appeared like a prison-tattooed Santa Claus and in his usual, gruffway said, “I haven’t been a roadie for forty years, but if you want some company on tour just say the word.”

And that was that. With Chastain’s support, Frank took a leave of absence from Oasis and came on the road with me for seven months. He’s been my sponsor ever since. By the end of that tour, I’m pretty sure my bandmates and our road crew liked him more than me. My family, too. Not really surprising in hindsight. I was legitimately fucking nuts for the first year of my sobriety, on a daily rollercoaster of emotional highs and lows.

Kind of like right now.

When I’ve finished unloading the chaos of the last week on him, Frank studies me in silence, his lips working against the scraggly ends of his mustache. The objectively nasty habit is his tell that he’s about to impart some wisdom I don’t want to hear.

“She’s not yours, Wilder.” When I stiffen, he lifts a hand. “Before you get your panties in a twist, I’m not saying you shouldn’t care or even that you shouldn’t try to help, butif you only want to help her because she might fall in love with you again… well, that’s selfish as shit, isn’t it?”

My abdominals clench against a blow that bypasses them and lands deep in my gut. Rubbing my hands over my face, I mumble, “What am I supposed to do?”

“The only thing I’m qualified to give you advice about is how to stay sober and not be a dick.”

I drop my hands to glare at him.

He heaves a sigh. “I won’t sugarcoat this for you.”

“I don’t want you to.”

He shifts in his seat, wrinkles deepening around his eyes. “Your friend seems to be in a tough spot. Between what the man last night told you and what you observed, there are a lot of markers pointing to psychological abuse.” He pauses for another round of mustache chewing. “Statistically, it takes an abuse victim seven times to leave their abuser for good. Do you know if she’s tried to leave him before?”

I shake my head, my stomach roiling. “I don’t. I guess I can ask…” I trail off, thinking about my phone call with Lily and Rye this morning. Their stunned silence after I told them what Martin said and what I saw with my own eyes.

They judged Evangeline harshly. Had all but written her off. And now they’re sitting with the knowledge that her withdrawal and hurtful behaviors might have been cries for help.

All I could do was tell them it wasn’t their fault. How were they supposed to know? Evangeline has always been a fortress, and they aren’t mind readers. It’s no one’s fault but Clay’s—and maybe mine.

Logically, I know I don’t have that kind of power. But I stillfeelresponsible. What if what I did to her made her more susceptible to Clay’s abuse somehow?

I’m haunted by the image of her when I walked into the room last night. How she sat so still, pale and rigid on the bed. Like a broken doll, her eyes lifeless.

Frank grunts, and I realize I’ve curled my fingers around a knife on the table. I release it so fast it spins and clanks against my plate.

“I want to hurt him,” I confess.

“I know, bud, but you won’t. Because you want to help her more.”

“How?” I demand. “How do I help her?”

He shakes his head sadly. “I know you want a straightforward answer, but I don’t have one other than don’tconfront her. Given your history, I can guarantee it won’t end well.”

“Agreed,” I grumble, thinking about what triggered her anger last night—my ill-conceived comment about how she didn’t belong in Los Angeles. I can only imagine her reaction if I told her she should leave her boyfriend because he’s an abusive piece of shit.

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