Page 35 of Last Chorus

“Great view,” she says.

My face spasms as I hold back a grin of triumph. “Yep. Pretty much the only thing I like about this city.”

“Hating L.A. is such a cliché. What’s not to love? We have sunshine and beaches. Oh, and don’t forget smoothies and avocados.”

The thick sarcasm in her voice has the unfortunate side effect of sending blood rushing to my cock. I quickly tuck my hands in my pockets to minimize the evidence, grateful I traded sweats for jeans this morning.

“I don’t actually hate it here,” I murmur. “I probably just resent that I can’t experience it. I wish I could hit up a taco truck and spend an afternoon at the beach.” I pause, wincing. “That probably sounds super whiny and ungrateful.”

Surprising me, she shakes her head. “No, I get it.” She hesitates, and I hold my breath until she continues. “Do you think if our dads weren’t our dads, we still would have felt the compulsion for all this? The career, the fame, this… life?”

Facing her, I lean a shoulder on the window frame. Casual, like this is no big deal. Just your average, deep-as-fuck conversation between lifelong friends.

Inside, I’m exploding.

“I think so,” I say carefully. “I’ve wanted to make music from the moment I first held a guitar, and I vividly remember you singing before you could even talk. That being said, it would have been a lot harder for me to make it to this level.”

She gives me a dubious look. “How so?”

“If certain doors hadn’t already been open because of my dad, I think we both know my personality would have been a major roadblock.”

The glimmer of humor in her eyes makes me glad I’m already leaning on something.

“You seem to do okay with the wholepeoplingthingnowadays.”

I grin at her. “Are you agreeing I was an asshole?”

Her gaze returns to the window, but her lips curl in the cutest little smile. “Maybe.”

My chuckle reaps an immediate reward: heranswering shiver of awareness. It’s a challenge not to entertain a fantasy of mapping her goosebumps with my tongue. Good thing I’m a pro at abstinence.

Pulling my gaze from her, I find a wave to focus on. “That compulsion you mentioned—I think everyone has it. We all want to be known and heard, validated and loved. As artists, we simply have a public, defined space to ask for that feedback. The key to staying happy, at least for me, is maintaining perspective. My music is a reflection of me, sure, but it’s also just one part of the whole.So I try to remember that no matter how loud a million strangers are, their feedback isn’t nearly as valuable as the voices of those who see all of me.”

Feeling Evangeline’s stare, I glance at her and immediately tense. She looks horrified.

“What is it? What did I say?”

To my shock, she laughs. “Nothing. That was really profound, is all.”

The stranglehold on my lungs releases, then re-clamps twice as hard when shefadesright in front of me. Her smile falls, shoulders curling inward. Her eyes turn distant right before she looks down.

When she speaks, her voice soundswrong.Timid and sad. “I’m happy you’re clean and sober, Wilder. I’m sorry I’ve been too cowardly to tell you that.” She makes a soft, derisive sound. “Let’s be honest, I’ve been toomuch of a coward to even acknowledge you for the last six years.”

My ability to speak is shredded, her name a puff of air she doesn’t hear. She hugs herself tighter, making herself even smaller, and closes her eyes.

“In the beginning, I avoided you because I was angry and my heart was broken. But even when I didn’t feel that way anymore, I kept avoiding you. Probably because deep down I knew your voice mattered more than most. And if I listened to you, I’d have to face shit I wasn’t ready to face.”

The cracks in my heart widen, and I can’t take it anymore. Closing the distance between us, I wrap my arms around her. She stiffens at first, but then a miracle happens. Her weight drops against me, forehead thudding on my chest. And while her arms stay between us, the extra space is a good thing—my stupid cock doesn’t care that this is an intense and tenuous moment.

“I’ll never judge you,” I whisper.

A tremor wracks her body. I hold her as close as I dare, rubbing circles on her back with one hand and cupping her head with the other.

“I’m jealous of you,” she mumbles. “You’ve got it all figured out while I… well, I don’t. Not even close. I don’t know what I’m doing anymore. Nothing makes sense. Nothing feels right.”

This feels right.

I keep the thought to myself and rest my chin on her soft hair. “I definitely don’t have it all figured out. Believe me, I’ve felt the same way you do more times than I can count. In my case, it’s usually expectations that trip me up, specifically the ones my younger self had. I get stuck comparing how I thought my life would look to how it really does, and I lose sight of what matters.”

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