Page 66 of Last Chorus

The napkin drops. “Are you seriously hard right now?”

I bark a laugh; God, I’ve missed her. Therealher. The beautiful contrasts in her personality that only those closest to her ever see. Easily embarrassed yet crass. Deeply sensual but reserved. Sensitive and compassionate, but as stubborn as a bulldozer with cut brakes. Ambitious to the point she’s a workaholic, while simultaneously a homebody who’d rather take a bath and read a romance novel than endure an awards ceremony.

“I don’t know why you’re surprised.” I stand to collect our plates, shaking my head when she starts to rise. “Don’t even think about it. Do you want more coffee?”

“Yes, please.”

Her ass hits the chair—padded, but she still winces.It makesmewince. I drop off the plates in the sink and grab the carafe of coffee, then return to the table.

“You should take a bath. We can talk later. I have magnesium salts in my bathroom?—”

“Don’t,” she snaps. “Don’t fucking do that.”

The vehemence in her voice sends my heart rate into overdrive. I recover enough to refill her coffee, hoping she doesn’t notice the tremble in my wrist, then return to my seat.

Feeling like my skin is suddenly two sizes too small, I study her profile as she stares blankly out a nearby window. I clearly triggered her trauma, but I’m not sure why or how to fix it.

Then Martin’s words from New Year’s Eve come back to me.“Clay is really good at camouflaging control as care.”

Thinking back over what I said, my stomach sinks. I didn’t give her a choice. I gave her a command.

“You absolutely don’t have to take a bath if you don’t want to. If you want one later, the salts are under my sink.”

Evangeline draws a shaky breath. As she exhales, life returns to her eyes. She reaches for her coffee, wrapping her hands around it but not drinking.

“You didn’t deserve that. I know you’re not… that you don’t—” She cuts herself off, lips pressing tightly together.

“It’s okay,” I say, firm enough that her eyes lift to mine. “You never have to dilute yourself with me. Ever. If you’re not ready to talk about what you’ve gone through, that’s okay too. But I also won’t tiptoe around it. You reacted that way because I didn’t ask whatyouwanted, right?”

She blinks fast, fingers whitening around her mug. “I don’t know. Probably. It’s like my brain just shuts off. I’m suddenly so angry I could scream and have zero control of what comes out of my mouth.” Her eyes redden even as she smiles weakly. “Things got pretty tense with my dad because of me freaking out on him for no reason.”

“It’s not for no reason, Evangeline. You know that, and I’m sure he does too.”

She nods distractedly, gaze roaming over the living room. “Between my mom and Martin, I’ve had a crash course in PTSD. But even that’s hard to wrap my head around. Intellectually, I knowwhat I experienced is affecting me, but processing it in real time feels like trying to shape water.”

“Give yourself a break,” I murmur. “It’s only been two months.”

In a clear bid to change the subject, she points into the living room. “Why haven’t you hung anything there? It’s the main focal point of the space.”

I study her for another moment, then follow the lineof her finger to the glaringly empty spot above the fireplace.

My long-held commitment to not looking at the painting there broke last month. For days afterward, I stared at it obsessively and even slept on the couch one night so I could see it right upon waking. I finally confessed the unhealthy habit to Frank. He stayed on the phone with me as I pulled it off the wall and stored it in a closet.

As hard as it was to remove the art, I’m glad I did. Otherwise I’d have to explain why I have a painting hanging in my living room of two kids—obviously us—sitting with guitars under a sycamore tree.

“I’ve been meaning to,” I hedge. “Maybe you can pick something out. I have a few of River’s paintings that I haven’t decided where to hang.”

She looks startled. “No way. I mean, I’d love to check out River’s stuff, but you should choose what goes there. It’s your house.”

I capitulate with a nod, ignoring the rebellious urge to tell her that when I built this house, it wasn’t just for me. A bad idea on several levels, not the least being she’s not mentally or emotionally ready to hear it.

Her wandering gaze returns to me. “This place is amazing, by the way. The design, the flow, the windowplacements—everything. I love that it feels spacious, but it’s not giant, if that makes sense.”

“It does, yes. And thank you. I’m proud of it.”

“Did you and your dad really tear down the old house and build this by yourselves?”

Grinning, I shake my head. “My dad loves spreading that rumor, but no. I partnered with an architect for the design, then worked with a general contractor and subcontractors for the actual demo and remodel. I wasn’t about to let my dad touch electric or plumbing, no matter how confident he was in his YouTube education.”

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