Page 54 of First Verse

The toaster pops, burnt bagel slices leaping. We both jump, then share a short, awkward laugh. With a little plastic knife, Wilder slathers cream cheese on each side. I bite my tongue when he uses far more than I normally like, then snort at the thought.

He gives me a questioning look.

“Sorry, I just—” I wave aimlessly, struggling to keep nervous laughter at bay. “You’re making me a bagel. It’s weird, right? This is weird.”

His lips quirk before he gives in to a wry smile. “Yeah. But I like it. I like this. Us.”

“Me too.”

His smile heats, making my toes curl. “Come eat.” He brings the plate to the table and pulls out two chairs. I sit and look at the bagel—more cream cheese than bread—and take a gulp of coffee.

“Will you eat half?” I ask as he settles next to me.

There must be something in my voice because Wilder glances at the bagel and grimaces. “Hold on.” He jumps up, grabs the knife, and starts scraping off the pillowy excess. Some plops onto the table. The remaining bagel is black with a thin white glaze.

His shoulders tense. “Shit. I’m sorry. I can make another one.”

Before he can move away, I grab his hand. He freezes, the fingers beneath mine vibrating. My ribs contract, pinching my heart.

Growing up, he might have shown me more of himself than he did others, but he never showed me this. The man beneath the mask. I wonder if he was ashamed of this part of himself. Or maybe he was afraid I wouldn’t accept him, that it would change us, and that fear became a self-fulfilling prophecy.

Oh, Wilder…

“Please sit,” I say softly.

He drops into the chair with none of his usual grace, gaze flickering but avoiding my face.

“The bagel was a really sweet thought, but I’m more of a coffee-only person first thing in the morning.”

His eyes find mine, glittering with what I now recognize as anxiety. The desire to help him—to fix this for him—overwhelms me. Questions rise: is this an all-day, every-day battle, or is this a side effect of our conversation last night? Does he really believe therapy can’t help? Are there supplements that would benefit him? Is he eating right?

Then my mom’s voice jumps into my mind. “You’re not responsible for anyone else’s mental health.”

The reminder halts the questions but doesn’t alleviate the spiky, weighted feeling inside me. The same one I lived with constantly from that fateful summer when he changed until I left the band. An intuition that no matter how hard I try to reach for him, he’ll always orbit just outside my reach.

One day, I tell myself, you’ve had less than one day with him.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles. “I’m already fucking this up.”

The tangled threads of my thoughts unwind. He’s trying, and that means more to me than he’ll ever know.

“The only thing you fucked up is the bagel and my vagina last night.”

His eyes widen, a startled, raspy laugh tickling my ears. When his shoulders and expression relax, warm satisfaction spreads through me.

He grabs a strand of my hair, curling it around his fingers. “Can I ask you something, Fairy?”

“Of course.”

He gives the strand a gentle tug, the sensation echoing between my legs. Only the serious expression on his face keeps me from squirming.

“Will you tell me about yourself? About your life the last three years? Everything I know is second-hand from Rye or my parents.”

The warmth inside me intensifies. “What do you want to know?”

“Everything. You’re working, right? At a music academy?”

“Yep. Weekday afternoons. I teach guitar and piano to kids.”