Page 63 of Last Chorus

Sick, twisted release.

“I loved you so much, but you didn’t feel it. How could you not feel it? How could you forget me like that? We were supposed to be more. We were supposed to be everything.”

“Wilder, please. Oh God. No, no…”

She can’t help it any more than I can.

Her body sings for mine.

She weeps through her third orgasm. My release slams into me between one breath and the next.

Shattering me.

When I come back together, I have even fewer pieces than before.

But it’s enough.

“I know it’s not your fault,” I whisper, nuzzling her ear as she cries silently beneath me. “I forgive you, and I forgive myself. For all of it. And I’ll be your friend always. I’ll give you this, too—whatever you want for as long as you need. But please, Evangeline, please don’t ask for what’s left of my heart unless you plan to keep it forever.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

evangeline

I didn’t mean to fall here

Bringing all my broken pieces

But I just couldn’t help it?—

You’re the only consequence I want

When Wilder told me his studio used to be a guesthouse, I was expecting something small, maybe a thousand square feet. Cabin-sized. What I wasn’t expecting was a whole-ass, two-story house hidden behind trees about a minute’s walk down a path from the main house.

Granted, in terms of size for theneighborhood, it’s a shack. But it’s also twice the size of my first home, the little bungalow I still miss.

Downstairs is almost entirely studio space, a wide-open floor plan with a modest kitchen toward the back and half-bath tucked under stairs. The second story boasts two small bedrooms, a bathroom, and a closet stacked with linens.

The studio is a literal dream. Bright and airy, it has the same cozy vibe as the main house. There’s a lounging area with a fireplace and inviting couches and armchairs. Rugs are strewn liberally over the hardwood floors. The walls showcase professional concert photographs, framed posters from Night Theory’s tours, and floating shelves with all their awards.

It’s clear the whole band spends time here. Pristine guitars hang along one wall: multiple acoustic and electric, as well as Jax’s favorite Fender bass. There’s a drum set for Eddie, a standing keyboard for Zander, and a massive workstation with multiple screens, extensive audio interfaces, and top-of-the-line studio monitors. Literally everything you could possibly need for recording, editing, and mixing. There’s even a partially enclosed vocal booth with panels to tame sound reflections.

For me, though, the unquestionable centerpiece of the studio is the grand piano, a stunning, nine-foot-longvintage Steinway. I’ve been sitting at it for close to twenty minutes, my fingers ghosting over silky keys as I listen to phantom notes of memory.

I saw this exact piano nearly every weekend of my life growing up. It sat in the front room of the Ashburn home, a gift from Julian to Rose shortly after Wilder’s birth. It’s the piano he learned to play on. The piano I spent hours lying beneath as a child, dozing and dreaming and listening to him tinker through his first compositions. I still remember the first time he let me play it, the pride I felt when he realized how good I was.

A messy stack of sheet music sits on the shelf, the topmost page half-covered in penciled notes. I finally give in to temptation and read the first few lines. My fingers ache to descend and hear the melody aloud.

Lost in imagined music, I don’t think anything of a draft of cool air against my back.

“My mom gave it to me as a housewarming gift.”

I spin on the bench to find Wilder standing near the open front door. His soft smile doesn’t entirely capture his eyes. In them, I easily read what he’s feeling: surprise, wariness, and cautious hope.

I’m sure when he woke up, he thought I’d run. He was so exhausted last night, I doubt he even remembers falling asleep still inside me. He barely stirred when I slipped out of bed to use the bathroom or when Icovered him in blankets. And he definitely doesn’t know I lay awake beside him all night, watching him sleep like a total creep.

“Lucky you. I love this piano.”

He nods toward it. “Go on. You know you want to.”

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