6. Evangeline
CHAPTER SIX
evangeline
EVA 23 | WILDER 25
M y front door opens, letting in a draft of cold, damp air before it closes again. Anna’s voice filters to my ears along with Rye’s deeper tones. I can’t hear what they’re whispering over the sounds of Slow Pulp from my Bluetooth speaker, but I have a pretty good idea.
“Hey, guys,” I call over my shoulder. I catch a glimpse of Anna’s wide eyes and Rye’s grimace before I turn back to the counter and focus on chopping cucumbers for a salad.
They finally make it to the kitchen. Rye drops a kiss on my head before heading to the fridge for a beer. Anna gives me a side hug, enveloping me in a cloud of perfume and stale marijuana smoke.
“Smells good in here,” Rye says with forced cheer. “I love your lasagna almost as much as my mom’s.”
“Thanks. I made enough for you to take home and freeze.”
“Hell yeah. You’re a goddess.”
“She is,” Anna agrees. She grabs a cucumber slice off my cutting board and takes a bite, then grins at me. “An immortal goddess now.”
“Anna,” warns Rye.
She waves a dismissive hand in his direction, still grinning at me with manic, glazed eyes. “So, Eva? Have you listened to the song?”
I lower my knife before I stab her with it. “Yes, I’ve heard it.”
Fifteen different people have sent it to me since it dropped online this morning, and that’s not including family members. The only person to not contact me about it is Wilder himself. Probably because he knows as well as I do that the song doesn’t mean anything. Maybe I inspired the lyrics, but I’m not naive enough to think they’re about me specifically. That would be ridiculous.
Plus, his number is blocked in my phone.
Behind her, Rye mouths, “I’m sorry.”
Still firmly in the bubble of my personal space, Anna bounces on her heels and screeches. The high-pitched sound makes me wince.
“And? Do you love it? You have to love it. It’s unreal. So freaking good.” She spins around, almost slapping me in the face with her hair-sprayed beach waves. “Where’s your phone? Let’s put it on.”
I share another look with Rye. This time I let him see exactly how much I like his newest girlfriend, which is not at all.
“Anna, give it a rest,” he says in a tired voice that tells me their four-month relationship is on its last legs.
She pretends she doesn’t hear him—or she can’t be bothered to read the room—because she grabs my phone off the counter.
“What’s your passcode? Oh wait, I remember it.” Her fingers fly over the screen, and I drown in regret for letting her borrow my phone last week to call hers when she couldn’t find it in her purse.
The Slow Pulp song ends abruptly, and a second later, a dreamy, piano-driven intro begins. Moody and airy with a fuzzy bassline, it makes me think of salty ocean spray and moonlight.
Just like it’s supposed to.
Sea glass and churning foam
Her eyes call me home
Now I’m trapped in her snare
But she isn’t here
She’s nowhere
Heterochromia
Heterochromia
Wilder’s voice has changed in the last three years. I can tell he’s worked on it with a professional. His range has expanded; his pitch is perfect. Now his baritone is so smooth it melts in my ears, with a raspy edge he uses to a spine-tingling effect on certain notes.
The track itself is arranged beautifully. The piano, the synth, the guitar and drums that build and culminate in the bridge, where they pound like a furious heartbeat.
There’s a second chance
To be what you said you’d be
Come home to me
Come home to me
Another lovely transition leads to the last chorus and a fading outro. The final note of piano hangs delicately in the air until Anna shatters it with another screech. She throws herself dramatically against the kitchen table, rattling plates.
“I’m literally dead. Can you believe how beautiful that was? You’re so lucky. I’d shit myself if someone as fuck-hot as Wilder Ashburn wrote a song about me.”
Rye drops his head to his chest.
I pick up my knife and massacre more cucumbers.
* * *
Rye and I eat alone.
We talk about our families, our jobs, and my show at a local venue tomorrow night. Rye is a natural chatterbox and carries us from one topic to the next with barely a pause. But the skin around his eyes is tight, his smile not its usual wattage.
A cord of tension hangs in the air, poised to choke us with all the topics we’re avoiding. Like how after Anna made me listen to the song, Rye discreetly ordered her an Uber, then took her outside and dumped her.
And we definitely don’t talk about the fact the song, “Waves,” has racked up over a hundred thousand streams already, its instant popularity due to a two-month-long social media strategy. The kind that points to deep pockets, with professional behind the scenes videos of the four-man band, aesthetic track teases, and photoshoots with famous photographers.
After dinner, Rye does the dishes, then rejoins me at the table, where I’m slouched and picking at my cuticles.
“You okay?” he asks softly.
I nod and offer a smile that makes him grimace—which makes me laugh, albeit weakly. “I’m okay. Really. I’m happy for them. For him.” Clearing my throat, I look away from the gentle understanding in his eyes. “You did good work on the track.”
“Thanks, Eva. That means a lot coming from you. I’m still in shock that my name will be on the list of producers for the LP.” He hesitates, his voice lowering. “It’s good. Beyond good.”
I nod a few times. “I look forward to hearing it.”
“You don’t have to wait. You can listen to the masters whenever you?—”
“No,” I say sharply, then blow out a breath as his face falls. “Sorry. I just mean I’ll wait like everyone else. When’s the release again?”
“Late April. Two more singles will land before then.”
I whistle softly. “I take it the label is backing a full-scale release campaign? The whole nine yards?”
His smile is wry. “What is nepotism for five hundred.”
I laugh.
Despite a nearly three-year delay in laying tracks for their sophomore album, Night Theory still has a recording contract with Indigo Records—the same company that signed Breaking Giants back in the day and has since become one of the most coveted pop and rock labels in the business.
“Good for them.”
Rye grins. “You almost sound like you mean that.”
“I do mean it.” I pause, then concede, “It’s bittersweet, I guess.”
Mostly bitter.
As much as I don’t regret leaving the band, and as much as I believe in Wilder’s music and think his talent deserves the biggest platform possible, I still mourn the loss of what we shared. The loss of him . My childhood friend. My songwriting partner. The temperamental, driven, passionate person who made my world brighter. Sharper. More colorful. Who challenged me, inspired me, and ultimately betrayed everything I thought we were.
What we are now is… nothing.
I haven’t seen Wilder in over six months, since our families’ joint, end-of-summer barbecue last year. Our brief interaction followed a three-year pattern of avoiding and ignoring each other at gatherings.
The only difference last time was that Wilder brought a guest. A pretty brunette named Kendra, who ended up awkwardly introducing herself to me after Wilder walked past me with a muttered, “Hey.”
According to my mom, Kendra is still around. Wilder’s parents are happy for him. Everyone is happy for him.
Sensing my withdrawal, Rye scoots his chair back and stands.
“I’m gonna head out and let you get a good night’s sleep. Excited about the show tomorrow?”
My smile is almost genuine. “Definitely.”
After what happened with Wilder, I didn’t write music for close to a year. I drifted for a while, living off my savings and the modest royalty payments from Night Theory’s first album. Eventually, a tough love conversation with my dad snapped me out of my fugue. I found a part-time job at a music academy teaching piano and guitar to kids and enrolled at a local college.
I met Lily Aoki in my second semester during a music theory course. Our personalities are as different as night and day, but creatively we’re a perfect match. We’ve been making music for a couple years, but in the last year we’ve gotten serious. Our talents are a marriage of mediums: I’m analog—notepads, keyboard, guitar—and she’s digital, mixing and producing each song in ways I never imagined. We don’t need anyone else with us onstage, either, because she does it all with her fancy laptop and DJ equipment.
We’ve performed a few dozen times at open mics around the city, but tomorrow night is our first legitimate show. We got a call last week from a booking agent at a small but respected venue in Fremont. He’d heard us at an open mic the weekend before and grabbed our flyer. When the original openers for tomorrow canceled, our flyer happened to be sitting at the top of the pile on his desk. He decided that despite our relatively unknown status, we were the right sound and worth the risk.
And the best part of it is he has absolutely no idea who I am—or rather, who my father is.
“It’s going to be epic,” Rye says, squeezing my shoulder before grabbing the container of leftovers.
I follow him to the front door, where I wrap my arms around his middle and take a deep breath of his comforting, mossy scent.
“Like hugging a tree trunk,” I mumble into his flannel.
He chuckles and gives me a squeeze that forces the air from my lungs. “Like hugging a fairy—” We both freeze. “Fuck. Sorry, Ev.”
“All good,” I say brightly, stepping back and opening the door for him. “I’m sorry about Anna. You really didn’t have to… you know.”
“Trust me, it was about to happen anyway.” Winking, he adds, “You know I won’t suffer alone for long.”
I groan and shove him. “Get out of here.”
Laughing manically, he saunters down the brick path to the curb. I wait until he’s in his car before closing and locking my door. After cleaning the kitchen, I retreat to my bedroom, strip off my clothes, and pull on my heavy terry robe. Then I grab my phone and head for my hot tub.
The night is cold and clear. I don’t bother turning on the string lights, the glow from the living room bright enough to buffer me from the dark. With a grunt, I pull up half of the cover and let it flop onto the other side. My robe hits the deck and two seconds later, I’m submerged in steaming, liquid bliss.
Dropping my head back, I watch the fog from my breath merge with the steam rising from the water. The urge to cry comes and goes like a tide, like the melody that trickles in and out of my mind.
There’s a second chance to be what you said you’d be. Come home to me, come home to me.
When I realize I’m humming the words, I sit up and rub my face roughly. “Stop it,” I admonish myself.
Ejecting the song from my thoughts, I focus on what’s important: the show tomorrow. I mentally run through the timeline of the day—everything from when I’ll wake up to my usual voice-prep routine to what time we need to be at the venue and what I’m wearing—then review the song list Lily and I decided on.
Like she can hear me thinking, my nearby phone lights up with a text from her.
Just got off work. Do you want company? We can make fake accounts and spam Night Theory’s posts
A begrudging smile tugs my mouth to one side. She knows enough details about my complicated history with Wilder to loathe him on my behalf.
Nah, I’m good. Thx tho.
Here’s an idea
Unblock Wimpy’s number and tell him the song sucks
My laugh is small but genuine.
Not happening. I’m soaking now and going to sleep in a few. See you tomorrow. Get some sleep!
Will do. Love you girl. Nite
I start to put my phone down, but a sudden impulse makes me swipe to my contacts and scroll to the bottom. To his name. I press it. Another swipe brings me to two little words.
Unblock Caller.
My thumb hovers, then descends. Before I can stop myself, I text him.
Congrats, Wilder. It’s a great song
It shows as delivered. I stare at the screen far too long before deciding I’m the biggest fool to ever live.
“Stupid,” I whisper.
I step out of the hot tub, so angry with myself I don’t even feel the cold. I towel off my legs and pull on my robe, then haul the cover back over the water and head inside. When the slider sticks a bit, I have the insane urge to smash my fist into the glass. Finally, it closes. I lock it and stalk toward the kitchen, where I chug a glass of water.
Wilder isn’t going to text me back. I’ve given him the cold shoulder for years. He’s given it right back. Whatever bond we had is gone. It’s also close to eleven on a Friday night. He’s probably partying with friends. With his super awesome girlfriend.
My phone rings in the pocket of my robe, startling a yelp out of me. It takes three tries to pull it out, my fingers fumbling and numb.
Staring at the name on the screen, I read it over and over, seeing but not believing. Right before it goes to voicemail, I answer with a weak, “Hello?”
“You hate the song, don’t you?”
His voice is warm and deep and dark. Both achingly familiar and shocking. An uncomfortable, spinning feeling consumes me—a blurring carousel of longing, resentment, and nostalgia.
“No.” I clear my throat. “No, not at all. It’s phenomenal.”
“Liar,” he whispers.
Against all common sense, my lips quirk. How many times have we spoken this script? Hundreds.
“Finished art is arrested progress,” I tell him. “Time to let it go.”
He says his line. “I don’t know how.”
And I finish it. “Write another song.”
He’s silent for one second. Two.
“Do you hate me, Fairy?”
My heart races. My face tingles. I drag my knuckles over my cheek, finding it hot to the touch.
“Yes.”
“Good,” he says, then hangs up.