Page 45 of Last Chorus

There’s a flash of something on Rye’s face. Something I’ve never seen there before, at least not directed at me. A mix of disappointment and resentment. My heart pangs.

“He’s fine.”

I manage a few more bites. Even oven-warmed, the French toast is hands down the best I’ve ever tasted. I have no idea whether it’s because I’m hungover or it’s actually that good, but I suspect the latter.

Setting down my fork, I reach for my coffee and courage. “I’m sorry, Rye. For what I put you through yesterday. And for… everything.”

Eyes on his mug, he shakes his head. “We’re not doing this right now,” he says tightly.

My stomach drops, my eyes instantly on fire. I blink fast. “O-okay. Sorry.”

I make to push back from the island, but Rye quickly turns toward me. His blue eyes are beseeching. “I’m not mad atyou, Eva. I’m mad at… all of it. Mostly, though, I’m mad at your—” His lips seal, but the wordboyfriendfloats between us.

Lily must have told him about our conversation. How when I tried to talk about Clay, I could barely form a sentence. I lower my eyes to my plate, my neck heating as I imagine them talking about me. Theirpity.

I try to stay calm, but it’s no use. An ugly trifecta of humiliation, emotional nakedness, and defensive anger swallows me. My spine stiffens, fingers curling until my nails bite my palms.

“I bet you both think I’m some hapless victim, huh? Poor Eva, too weak and clueless to know her boyfriend is a raging asshole. How long has this been going on?” I lift my gaze to Rye, whose freckles turn stark as he pales.

“Eva—”

I cut him off with a low, bitter laugh. “I should have known something was off with how you guys were acting. Like nothing has changed between us. Like I haven’t been ignoring your calls for months and didn’t completely fuck over Lily at the Indigo meeting.” Thinking back overthe last couple of months, I land on an explosive conversation with my dad when I told him I wasn’t visiting for Christmas. “My parents are behind this, aren’t they?”

They’ve never liked Clay. My dad especially. The first time I brought him to meet them was a disaster. When I confronted my dad afterward, he justified his borderline rudeness by telling me a bunch of old rumors about Clay’s father.

I was stunned and instantly defensive. Clay had swept me off my feet a few months prior, at a point in my life when I’d been battling listlessness and rapidly worsening depression. Suddenly I had a mature, confident, supportive man in my life. Someone who wasn’t threatened by my career or schedule, who had his own life in Los Angeles. We talked daily and saw each other once a month, spending long weekends together. He was the brightest spot in my dim world.

I accused my dad of condemning the son for the actions of the father, callously adding I would’ve thought he’d be the last person to do that.

Hindsight is a real bitch.

My dadwaswrong to judge Clay based on rumors of his father, but his concern was justified all the same. I just didn’t know it for another few months. By then, however, I’d already begun distancing myself from myfamily. Not seeing or calling them as often to avoid talking about my relationship.

The first few times I cried myself to sleep over something Clay said to me, I wanted to call my mom badly but talked myself out of it. She has PTSD from a relationship in her early twenties, and I convinced myself I’d only be triggering her trauma. My situation wasn’t nearly as bad—Clay was mean sometimes, and controlling, but he wasn’t physically abusive. Plus, if I told my mom, she’d tell my dad, and I didn’t want to deal with his militant, overprotective mode.

But what really kept my mouth shut was pride and its shadow, shame. I couldn’t bring myself to admit that despite being raised to recognize red flags, I’d missed them all.Again.And that my second serious relationship was somehow even more toxic than the first.

By the time Clay and I celebrated our one-year anniversary, I was already numb to the cycle. The slow build of tension. Scattered, tiny hurts escalating into a deeper betrayal. Confrontation and misery. Apologies and a period of repair and comfort, which invariably degraded as tension built again.

My oldest friend stares at me, eyes wide and searching like he can see the emotional sewage leaking out of me.

“It’s a simple question, Rye. Did my parents put you up to this?”

He swallows thickly. “They’re concerned. We all are.”

Something in his tone connects more dots in my mind. When I see the line that forms and understand what it means, the pain I feel is indescribable. A thousand savage cuts.

I jolt to my feet, my nerves on fire.

“They went tohim,” I choke out. “That’s why he showed up at the party on New Year’s Eve. It wasn’t a coincidence at all. It was manipulation. Wasn’t it?”

The answer comes from behind me.

“Yes.”

Before I can turn, Rye stands and snaps, “Your parents wouldn’t have gone to Wilder if you hadn’t turned into someone none of us recognize!”

I gasp, swaying against the edge of the island.

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