Page 23 of Last Chorus

God, the irony. It fuckingstabs.

I was her abusive boyfriend once. Lying to her. Manipulating her to keep her at my side.

Dark emotion coils and tightens around my heart. Isee it in my mind as a thick, black-scaled snake. Old and tired but still powerful. Selfish. Covetous and borderline amoral.

I’m not a perfect person just because I’m sober. Far from it. Last night I did something I swore I’d never do again—I lied to Evangeline. I told her I wasn’t interested in her anymore, pretended that the idea of me seducing her was laughable.

In the moment, I hadn’t wanted her to see me as one more person who wanted something from her. But I do want something. I wanteverything.

A handful of times, most recently when I heard she was dating Clay and freaked out, Frank has asked me to consider the possibility that my feelings might collapse in person. That they’re not actually real. That maybe I’ve been holding onto the idea of us all these years to avoid facing vulnerability with someone else.

He isn’t the only one who’s suggested it. My parents have voiced similar concerns. Jax, Eddie, and Zander have as well. And it’s been implied in one way or another by every person I’ve been romantically involved with over the years—usually accompanied by anger—when they invariably realize I’ll never fall in love with them.

But after last night, I know they’re all wrong. Ten seconds in the same room with Evangeline was all ittook. No matter how much she’s changed, how much I’ve changed, my feelings haven’t. I felt the same old fire in my gut, my bones, my cock. In my fingers, itching to touch her. My tongue, burning to taste her.

I still want her. Allof her. Her secrets and truths. Every thought and word, sigh and gasp. Every smile and frown and tear. If anything, my obsession ismorenow. Clearer. Purer. Unsullied by my inner conflict of the past. By my addiction, my self-hatred, my demons.

And she still wants me, too. She’d no doubt deny it, but I saw the proof. The goosebumps on her arms. The fevered intensity in her eyes as they roamed my body. Her expanding pupils. The thumping pulse in her neck. The blush that billowed like a rosy cloud over her chest and face.

Our bodies and souls still sing for each other.

Like Frank is privy to my thoughts, he says softly, “Be careful, Wilder. These situations are delicate and volatile. They’re not dissimilar to the progression of active addiction in the sense there needs to be a rock bottom situation of some kind. Something that activates an urge to seek help. The only thing you can do is the same thing I’d counsel loved ones of an addict to do. Don’t enable but don’t judge or shame. Maintain healthy boundaries while providing a safe space for them to come when they’re ready for change.”

My mind latches onto two words:safe space. I want to be that for her so fucking badly. Can I? Is there a way to become again what I once was, before all the pain and hurt? Her confidant… her friend?

Frank drops his fist against the table. Not hard enough to alert other diners but still hard enough to jolt me from my thoughts. My gaze flies to his face. Twitching mustache. Knowing eyes.

“Stop scheming,” he says gruffly.

The admonishment lands like an anvil. Annoyed by how easily he pinned me, I quip, “Yeah, yeah. The only person I have control over is myself. Can’t help anyone if I take my oxygen mask off. Stay on my side of the street, et cetera.”

Frank only huffs in amusement, stroking his beard with thick fingers before draping his arms on the table and leaning forward. His expression turns grave.

“Your friend didn’t choose this, not like we chose drugs and alcohol. You get me?”

I nod weakly. “She’s a victim.”

“That’s right.” The sudden worry on his face makes my heart beat faster, and I know what he’s going to say before he says it. “It’s been a long time. Your feelings may not have changed, but…”

My mind fills in the blanks.

…but her feelings might have.

…but you’re setting yourself up for heartbreak.

…but you’re risking a relapse if this spirals.

…but she isn’t yours.

I drop my gaze, unable to hold his. “I hear you.”

Frank clears his throat. “I hate to bail on you like this, but I’ve gotta get back to Oasis.” He shakes his head in mingled exasperation and fondness. “For fuck’s sake, next time let me know right out of the gate that you need a serious one-on-one. I wouldn’t have dragged you out to lunch or yapped so much.”

I crack a smile. “Fair enough.”

Part of me wishes I could go to Oasis with him. Back to the place and time when all I had to worry about was putting one foot in front of the other. Eating three meals at set times. Walking a dusty, rock-lined labyrinth at dawn and dusk. Swimming laps until my muscles burned. Learning about my anxiety, the root causes and triggers, and how to manage it sober.

In many ways, those three months were the hardest of my life. Dr. Chastain tore my head and guts apart before helping me put myself back together. But despite how painful it all was, there was a beautiful simplicity to the process.

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