Page 27 of Last Chorus

By the time he pulls through the gate at my rental, I’ve read the article several times and cycled through an emotional spectrum ranging from joy to despair. I also texted with Jax and Rye and called my mom, who I shamelessly tasked with updating Evangeline’s parents.

When I walk inside the house, I finally call Shelley back with an answer about tomorrow. She isn’t thrilled but neither is she surprised.

No part of me is looking forward to sitting under the scrutiny of cameras while pretending I’m happy to share a meal with the woman I love and her abuser.

But for Evangeline, I’ll do it.

I’d do much worse for her.

A few minutes after I hang up with Shelley, she emails me two documents bearing the logo of her PR firm. Smalltalk Prompts and Socializing Tips for Introverts, and Body Language in the Public Eye.

The attached email is brief and almost makes me laugh.

No, these weren’t written with you in mind. Okay that’s a lie. They’re totally about you.

You’ll do great. Just be yourself.

Being myself tomorrow will mean leaving the restaurant in handcuffs. Since I’m not down to spend a night in jail—or more likely, the rest of my life—I guess that means I’ll have to be someone else.

I’ll have to lie. Again.

And hope someday Evangeline will understand why.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

evangeline

We’re going to be late.

Since Clay is never late unless he intends to be, it’s a power play. He wants Wilder to have to sit alone and wait for us. I have no idea what advantage he thinks it will bring, but either way it’s asinine.

Not that I’m in a hurry. But I also want to get this over with.

“You didn’t come to bed last night.”

They’re the first words he’s spoken to me since we left the house and the third sentence today. No concern evident in the tone, just reproach. Like I’m a defiant child who intentionally stayed up past bedtime.

I’m not the only one who picks up on the immediate tension in the car. Our driver, Phillip, glances at us in the rearview before turning on the radio to give us an illusion of privacy. The Escalade is spacious but not that spacious.

With an internal sigh, I turn from the window to face Clay. He doesn’t look at me, continuing to scroll through sports statistics on his phone. But he’s waiting.

“I lost track of time in my studio and crashed in the bedroom downstairs.”

I don’t care whether or not he believes me. It’s his fault I couldn’t sleep in the first place, since he agreed to this insanity on my behalf. There was no way I was going to be able to turn my head off last night, so I didn’t even try.

I ended up watching mindless television for hours to avoid thinking about this ridiculous PR stunt. About Wilder. About the flood of messages and voicemails on my phone since the article came out. From Lily and Rye, Martin, my parents, my brother. From my publicist, manager, and my PA, Sandra.

Most of all, though, I needed distraction from the disquiet I’ve felt since opening that box in my studio—the eerie feeling that maybe my insomnia isn’t actually an inability to sleep, but sleep of a different kind. One I can’t wake up from. One that has slowly taken me so far from myself I no longer know who I am.

Clay tilts his head at my answer but otherwise doesn’t respond. If I wasn’t adept at reading his micro-expressions, I’d believe he was relaxed right now. Ambivalent about going to lunch with Wilder. But there’s strain around his eyes and his left pinkie twitches intermittently against his phone.

He’s just as anxious as I am.

“This is pointless,” I mutter, tugging on the hem of my too-short dress. “I’m honestly shocked Anita suggested this.”

I’m likewise shocked Wilder agreed to it. Six years ago, he wasn’t a fan of Clay’s. I don’t quite remember why, only that he told me he didn’t like him on the night of Glow’s first showcase. Maybe something to do with his ex, Kendra, and the fact Clay is her stepbrother?

That whole evening is a blur in my memory. Mostly because it was so intense for Lily and me, but partly because it exists in a padlocked mental closet along with the majority of that month of my life.