Page 48 of Last Chorus

The undisguised needin his voice sends a wave of blistering heat beneath my skin. I’m seized by longing so intense it scalds, so bright it spears into the deepest shadows of my psyche.

For a single moment, I imagine it.Us.Then what lives in those shadows—complex knots of memory and pain—rears up in defense of itself.

“I can’t.” My voice is reedy, naked with fear. My heart whispers the rest:I won’t survive you twice.

Wilder tenses, his exhale harsh on my neck, then straightens and steps back. My body immediately protests the loss. Locking my knees, I transfer my pruned hands to the lip of the sink.

I don’t have the courage to face him, a weakness I’m grateful for when he says the same thing, in the same empty tone, that he did when I told him I wished he were dead.

“I hear you.”

I flinch. “I-I’m sorry.”

“Evangeline, no.” Dry amusement and self-deprecation tangle in the soft words. “As far as I’m concerned,you’re exempt from apologizing to me for anything, for all time. I shouldn’t have said that. And it doesn’t matter, anyway. It doesn’t change anything. I’m not going anywhere.” After a moment, he adds, “As your friend.”

“What if I hit you with a car? Should I apologize then?”

There’s a beat of silence, then his smiling reply, “Just say ‘oops’ or something.”

I bite my cheek to keep from laughing, knowing the sound won’t resemble anything sane. There’s also a chance I’ll sob, risking the delicate boundary just restored by inviting his physical comfort. And while my skin hums at the prospect, muscles deep within me clenching in agreement, I breathe through the sensations.

What I feel now merely confirms what I’ve always known. Nothing will ever diminish my desire for Wilder. Not pain, time, or distance. My ears will always long for his voice, my eyes for his face, my body for his.

He’s like the eczema on the back of my knees—even when it’s dormant for long periods, it’s still there, just waiting for the right conditions to flare up.

I reach for a nearby hand towel and start wiping up the small puddles around the sink.

“Is the hard part over?” I ask, attempting levity.

There’s a pause, then I hear the familiar, whisperyswishof his fingers dragging through his hair. And I know what he’s going to say before he says it.

“Not quite.”

“Then just say what you want to say. I have to get going soon.”

The water is gone, the sink clean. But I keep wiping, my movements rote but necessary, providing a tiny buffer between my body and mind.

“Your parents came to me as a last resort, probably because they knew I had nothing left to lose. What was the worst thing that could happen? You tell me you hate me, to fuck off? Been there, done that.”

His amused tone lessens the sting of his words, but I still stiffen.

“If it makes you more comfortable to believe I’m here because your parents guilted me, go right ahead. But it was only a matter of time before I showed up. You think I didn’t notice your light dimming over the last two years? You think I didn’t know why?I wish I’d come sooner.Ishouldhave. I should have let go of my stupid attachment to the idea that staying away from you was the only way I could make amends.”

I turn before I can stop myself. “This hero-complex shit is getting old. I don’t need you or anyone else to save me.”

His jaw works. “I’m not trying to save you,” he grindsout. “I’m trying to give you a weapon that will help you save yourself.”

I toss the towel down and cross my arms. “And what’s that?”

The forest of his eyes turns dark. “Clay has a history of preying on young, vulnerable women. Once they’re seduced, he begins slowly undermining their self-worth. Forcing them into smaller and smaller versions of themselves. Gaslighting them until eventually they start thinkingthey’rethe crazy ones. Sound familiar?”

I swallow thickly.

“Ask me how I know, Evangeline.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

evangeline

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