Page 31 of Last Chorus

“What’s going on?” she asks, her gaze sliding to Clay’s back. He doesn’t turn around, likely because his balls are in his armpits and his face still resembles an eggplant.

My smile softening, I walk toward her. “Just thanking Clay for lunch. I have a flight to catch.”

The closer I get to her, the more her body reacts. I relish the small hitch in her breath, her subtly dilating pupils, and the ribbons of rose that sweep across her cheekbones.

For the first time today, her control over her expression falters. Vacuous neutrality vanishes. Bemusement shifts to wariness, which turns into a scowl of defiance. Her chin juts up, eyes flashing as I stop right in front of her.

There she is.

A sense of rightness warms my chest. I’m still the only one she can’t hide from. The only one who can read her music.

She knows it. I know it.

The whole fucking world knows it.

Giving in to impulse, I gently cup her head and place a soft kiss on her brow. She tenses. And when I drop my mouth to her ear, she stops breathing.

“410 Coves Lane, Madrone Island,” I murmur. “Anytime, for any reason. No expectations or strings attached. I will always be here for you, as a friend, no matter what.”

Releasing her, I allow myself a final glimpse of her face: searching eyes, flushed cheeks, lips parted in shock.

Then, against every instinct, I walk away.

PART THREE

chorus

chorus : the section of a song that encapsulates the lyrical message.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

evangeline

Turned out the lights

Lost all my lessons

Sunk into shadows

And now here I am

In the darkness

In the empty

Again

In the weeks since that excruciating lunch, things have been different between Clay and me.

Clay has been different.

I was on edge for days afterward as I waited for him to share all the flaws in my performance. For him to accuse me of smiling too often, talking too much or not enough, or not hiding my disgruntlement at eating a dry salad while the men had juicy steaks.

My biggest fear, though, was that he’d demand I tell him what Wilder said to me right before he left. I crafted a dozen potential responses. A dozen ways to deflect. But he’s only brought up lunch once, and that was an offhand comment about the success of our ploy.

Instead, from the moment we got in the car to drive home, he’s been kind. More than kind—he’s been warm and charming and engaged, just like he was when we first started dating. There have been no critiques of my body, clothes, or sleep habits. No coldness, indifference, or disdain.

When I come down with a horrible cold right before The Golden Globes, he shrugs it off and stays home, plying me with medicine, tissues, and soup. When I have a particularly painful period and spend all day in pajamas in front of the television, he doesn’t insinuate that I’m lazy. He brings me my favorite chocolate and a heating pad.