Page 83 of Last Chorus

My smile hurts, but it’s a stretching pain, like blood circulating to sleeping muscles. Weightless like imaginary barriers falling one by one. Freeing like water rushing forth, finally on its destined path.

I follow the light.

An hour later,curled against Wilder on a couch with his fingers in my hair, the final barrier inside me silently crashes down.

My words are fumbling at first. Serrated sentences and stutters. Like spitting rocks from my lungs. But as I go on, they begin to flow. Not easily or smoothly, but unstoppable. Downhill river rapids.

I purge it all. How I buried my pain seven years ago instead of facing it, numbed myself from the inside out until I forgot who I was. How much of my mid-twenties is a blur of brittle effort and flagging self-esteem. Planes, buses, hotels. Stadiums and stages. Roars and flashing lights. The voices of the many becoming louder and louder as I closed myself off to the voice of my own heart.

My pride, turning ever more toxic. My growing fears and personal failures. My insides and outsides becoming as mismatched as my eyes. How my music—the only pure thing left inside me—faded away and took my last flicker of identity with it.

The numbness. Emptiness. The silence and the dark.

I can’t look at him when I tell him about Clay, but I feel his subtle flinch when I admit what a relief it was at first. How I was in a downward spiral and Clay’s control felt like landing on solid ground.

“Maybe that’s where my anger comes from.”

Wilder brushes my hair back from the side of my face. “What do you mean?”

“I did this to myself,” I murmur. “I ignored all the warning signs, dismissed the concerns of my closest friends, my parents… As angry as I am at Clay, I’m ten times angrier at myself. So maybe when I lash out, I’m really lashing out at myself for being so fucking weak.”

He tugs my chin until I lift my eyes to his. “I’m no expert, but I think those are probably normal feelings given what you’ve been through. But you’re not weak—far from it. It’s not your fault Clay took advantage of you. He’s an experienced manipulator. How the hell were you supposed to know?”

“Logically, I know that. But I can’t help feeling like it’s my fault.”

He nods, sighing. “I’m intimately familiar with guilt, so I get it. Imagine how many times I’ve wondered if you ending up with Clay ismyfault.”

I stiffen. “What? How can you even say that?”

His eyes squeeze shut. “The night you first met him, at your showcase, I should have told you what he did to Kendra. If I had, maybe?—”

I palm his face, silencing him. He opens agonized eyes. “No. I prohibit you from feeling guilty.”

Some of his misery fades, a smile lifting one corner of his mouth. “Youprohibitme?”

“Yes. Besides, you didwarn me about Clay. I was the one who didn’t listen—or didn’t let myself remember.” Iblink against the sting of tears, my voice dropping to a whisper. “Deep down, I knew he was a bad person. Maybe I felt like I deserved him. Or I was punishing myself. I don’t know.”

He makes a soft, sad sound and draws me against his chest. I listen to his heartbeat, slow and steady beneath my ear, and pull his scent into my lungs. Glowing warmth spreads through me, burning away the taint of my memories. In their absence, the truth resonates. Katherine’s words, my salvation.

He will not falter—he will not dim.

“You saved me, Wilder. Even though I turned my back on you, you still came for me when I needed you most. I couldn’t hear music anymore, but I heard you.Your voice led me out of the darkness, just like it did when I got lost on that camping trip. So yes, you’re prohibited from feeling guilty about the choices I made in the past.”

A tremble moves through his arms. He sighs into my hair, and there’s a smile in his next words. “Maybe we should stick together from now on. Seems safer.”

“I think that’s a good idea.” Gratitude and hope shine painfully bright inside me. “I talked to my mom today—she’s going to help me find a therapist. I… I’m sorry for what I’ve put you through the last two weeks. All my mood swings. I know I’ve been a lot.”

He shifts against me, lifting me off his chest so we’re face-to-face. Warm hands cup my cheeks. His eyes are almost unnaturally radiant in the dimly lit room, shimmering brown and gold flecks on a rich emerald canvas.

“I’m so proud of you for asking for help.” His tongue runs subtly along his teeth. “But I want to redden your ass for that bullshit about mood swings.”

My face heats beneath his hands. Fighting the flames of arousal, I shake my head. “It’s not bullshit. I literally screamed at you yesterday for putting my underwear in the dryer, then locked myself in the bathroom and cried for an hour.”

His brows jump. “So what? Shit, you should have seen me in my first year of sobriety—actually, I’m glad you didn’t.” The brief flash of humor in his eyes fades. “With what you’re processing right now, emotional anarchy is a given. You think I care that you pop off on me sometimes? You think I can’t take it? Fairy, I’d face a thousand times worse for the privilege of sharing the same air as you.”

That air thins, leaving me breathless. “Then maybe you’re as crazy as I am.”

A thumb slides across my hot cheek. “Call yourself crazy again and I’ll punish your ass with more than my hand.”

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