Page 51 of Last Chorus

The doorbell rings.

Clay stares at me another moment, then stalks fromthe room. The front door opens. I hear voices, the words muffled by the white noise in my ears.

Movement in my peripheral vision turns my head toward the nearest doorway. I blink in surprise at the sight of Paul, a hand towel twisting between his hands.

Features set in worried lines, he whispers, “Leave him, Eva,” then backs away as Clay’s footsteps pound toward me.

Another set of footsteps follows his. Lighter and faster. And suddenly, I remember how to swim.

“Eva, what the hell is?—”

“Shut the fuck up, Claybee,” trills Martin, skirting around him to plaster himself to my side. Arm around my waist, he pulls me up until my knees lock. “Get it? Claybee like baby, because you’re a whiny little bitch.”

I snort.

Clay flushes, his features twisting with rage. His mouth opens.

“By all means,” Martin says, lifting his phone to show he’s recording video. “Show the world exactly who you are.”

Air hisses through Clay’s teeth. He gives me a long look that should probably scare me but doesn’t. Then he spins on a heel and leaves.

Martin exhales noisily.

“Thank you,” I whisper.

“Honey, thankyou. I’ve wanted to call him that for years.” He palms the side of my face, his dark eyes glistening. “I’m so fucking proud of you. Let’s pack a bag and get out of here, okay? You and me and margaritas on the beach.”

I blink away tears and nod.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

wilder

TWO MONTHS LATER

Soft music floats amidst the voices and laughter at my dining room table, cutlery and glasses clinking in an irregular but melodious percussion line.

I never thought I’d be someone who hosts and enjoys dinner parties, but here we are.

“That was phenomenal, Wilder.”

I raise my water glass toward Jax’s wife. “Thank you, Shannon.” Then I give my bandmate a pointed look.

He rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. The student has surpassed the teacher. Great lasagna.”

“Pastitsio,” I say with a smirk.

“Just accept it, bro,” chides Eddie. “He’s been in another league for years. Do you even know what a béchamel sauce is?”

After a beat of silence, Eddie’s girlfriend, Holly, asks what we’re all thinking. “How doyouknow what a béchamel sauce is?”

Laughter rings out. After some good-natured grumbling, Eddie admits he has no idea how to make béchamel. He points at me. “Blame him. He made me watch cooking shows almost every night of our tour last year.”

I chuckle. “I made you, huh?”

He grins. “Okay, maybe I got sucked in by how cutthroat they are with all the challenges and shit.”

“Damn,” says Holly with an exaggerated sigh. “I was really hoping you were dropping a hint about cooking me dinner for our anniversary next month.”

---