Page 69 of Last Chorus

I grimace, my entire body clenching with regret for what I said—howI said it—last night.

“Just like my relapse, what I did wasnotyour fault. I’ll put you on the phone with my sponsor right now and he’ll tell you the same thing. I was newly sober and barely coherent. I knew fuck-all about how to handle my emotions and was too self-centered to see the situation from your perspective.”

She sniffs loudly, then uses her sleeve to wipe her nose. “Tell me. Please?”

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

“I found an old stash, a half-full bottle my parents had missed when they searched my bedroom. I took…” I swallow a few times to coax the words past the resistance in my throat. “I took all of them.”

“What the fuck?” She lifts trembling fingers to her mouth.

“It was almost one a.m., but my parents showed up not five minutes later. An ambulance arrived a few minutes after that.”

“What? How?”

Blinking back tears, I smile slightly. “It doesn’t make sense, does it? It’s almost like someone knew what I was going to do before I did it.”

She gasps, understanding instantly. “Katherine.”

I release a strangled laugh. “Yep. She called my mom, waking her up, and told her I was going to die ifshe didn’t get an ambulance to me. And my mom believed her. My dad, too.”

Evangeline’s face crumples. Then she folds over her knees and makes the worst sound I’ve ever heard, a jagged wail like I just ripped her heart out. In seconds, I’m around the coffee table and pulling her into my arms.

“I’m sorry,” I say into her hair. “I’m so sorry. It wasn’t your fault. You’ve never once been responsible for my choices.”

She fists my shirt, her forehead rolling against my chest.

“I can’t believe you almostdied. I can’t—it’s too much.”

Closing my burning eyes, I allow myself to feel and accept her shock, anger, and pain.

“I’m never going back there, Fairy. I won’t make you any promises, but only because actions speak louder than words. I’m going to show you the same way I show myself. One day at a time.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

evangeline

Idig my fingers into Wilder’s waist, flooded with a confusing mess of anger and imagined grief. I want to punch him repeatedly, then handcuff him to me for the rest of his life.

“How do you know?” I ask against his chest. It’s not a fair question, but I can’t help my need to hear his answer.

A warm palm cups the back of my neck. “A lot of reasons, but mostly because I’m selfish. I’m not willing to give up the life I’ve built or the person I am today. Shockingly enough, I kind of like the guy.”

Dragging in a steadying breath, I sit up and wipe my wet cheeks. “He’s pretty cool, I guess. Makes great music and a mean Eggs Benedict. He does have a weird obsession with sexual puns, though.”

Wilder grins. One dimple deeper than the other. Eyes a bright forest, with those unbelievably charming crinkles at the corners.

Although I’m well aware of how much he’s matured in the last seven years, it suddenly hits me how different hefeels. He’s still himself—unquestionably the boy I grew up with—but gone is the undercurrent of volatility I remember. Missing, too, is that old feeling that I’ll never really know him. Because he’s not hiding parts of himself anymore. He faced his demons. Drew all those disparate, dark elements of himself inward and used them to repair his cracks.

“What’s that look for?” he murmurs, eyes scanning mine.

“You’re like Kintsugi,” I blurt.

His brows jump. “The Japanese art?” When I nod, he gives me a questioning smile. “What made you think of that?”

My face warms. “I don’t know. You seem so different. At peace with the past and yourself.”

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