7. Wilder
CHAPTER SEVEN
wilder
C rossing the sidewalk, I yank open the passenger door of Rye’s SUV and hop inside. When he just sits there, gripping the steering wheel so hard it looks like he’s trying to shape it into a square, I slap the dash. He jolts and turns to me with panicked eyes.
“What’s wrong with you?”
“She’s going to kill me.”
I scoff and finish buckling my seatbelt. “Come on. She won’t even know I’m there.”
“What about your parents? My parents? Her parents? Half the crowd is going to be people we’re related to or friends of people we’re related to. Plus, have you seen your Instagram account today? You have ninety thousand followers. Oh, and one of your videos went viral last night. God only knows why—you’re eating a fucking burrito. But you seriously think no one will recognize you?”
I grimace at the potential truth of what he’s saying. “I’ll keep my hood up and stick to the back of the club.”
“It’s not a big club!”
Rye tugs at his earlobe, a lifelong tell that he’s perilously close to a meltdown. They were epic when he was a toddler. I have no interest in seeing one from a two-hundred-and-twenty-pound former high school linebacker.
I make my voice calm and even—not difficult given the pill I took thirty minutes ago. “Like I already told you, I’m not trying to fuck up her night. I know she doesn’t want me there. If I have to listen from the freaking bathroom, I will.”
Rye nods a few times, relaxing marginally. Reaching into the backseat, he produces a beanie and tosses it in my lap. “Wear this. And don’t look directly at her. I know it’s been a while, but I doubt her Wilder-radar is broken.”
Warmth spreads through me at the words, but I shake it off. Probably the Oxy kicking in, which I’m now regretting swallowing. I’ll need to be careful to avoid my dad, who will take one look at my pinned pupils and lose his shit. But I wasn’t thinking about seeing him—I was thinking about staying calm in a crowded room. Mostly, though, I was thinking about seeing Evangeline and dulling my reaction to her.
“Thanks for doing this,” I murmur as I put on the beanie, pulling my sweatshirt hood over it.
Rye grunts and finally puts the car in gear. “I used to tell Eva all the time she needed to learn how to say no to you. I should take my own advice.”
There’s a pinch in my chest, but I ignore it and punch his bicep. It’s like hitting a brick. “It’s going to be fine, man. Trust me.”
“I trust you as much as gas station sushi,” he mutters.
I bark a laugh, then settle back for the short drive to Fremont.
I’m not unsympathetic toward Rye’s dilemma. He’s the center of Eva’s and my Venn diagram, the only place we overlap these days. This is the first time he’s felt the pressure of his position, the first time I’ve tested our bond against his loyalty to Eva.
Neither Rye nor I expected that sitting in the studio for months would spark a friendship completely separate from the drama of the past. His talents are incredible, and I would have been a fool to pass up having his input on the album over some beef that wasn’t even with him. I’m doubly glad I didn’t—not only is he as much of a perfectionist as I am when it comes to arranging music, I actually like the guy now.
Ten minutes later, Rye finds parking a block away from Side Stage, a black building covered in colorful, graffitied murals. It sits snugly against Tullamore Café, the beloved neighborhood landmark formerly owned by my mom and her cousin and now owned by my mom’s longtime friend, Allison Montgomery, and her wife. About four years ago, they bought the lot next door and tore down the ancient fabric store. They renovated the café and built the attached venue.
Welcoming light pours out of the cafe’s glass front, highlighting the short line in front of Side Stage’s box office.
Rye turns off the car, then shoots me an unreadable look. “I don’t even want to ask, but you didn’t have anything to do with this, right?”
I frown in confusion. “With what?”
“Getting her the gig.”
My brows jump. “Are you for real?”
“I know your parents are tight with the owners.”
“So are her parents.” When his suspicious expression doesn’t change, I groan. “No, dumbass. I had nothing to do with it. You think I want Evangeline to hate me more than she already does?”
He sighs. “She doesn’t hate you.”
“She does,” I say decisively.
He stares at me another moment, then shakes his head and exits the car. I follow, tugging the beanie down over my forehead.
Rye doesn’t understand what happened between Evangeline and me. Hell, I barely understand it myself. All I know is that she hates me. She needs to hate me.
Three years of almost-silence, of seeing her from a distance at family functions, hearing her laugh, her voice, watching as the final vestiges of girlishness dissolved to reveal exactly how fucking gorgeous she’s always been… all of it has proven one immutable fact.
I’m still an addict.
Believing she hates me makes it easier to abstain. It works for me. Or it worked until last night, when I made the impulsive mistake of calling her after realizing she’d unblocked my number.
When I heard her voice, when we played that old game, my craving was triggered.
Now I’m fiending for her.
“You all right?” asks Rye.
I realize I’ve stopped walking and am staring blankly at the ground.
“I, uh…” I glance to the side to see we’ve stopped in front of Tullamore’s front doors. “I’m gonna get something to drink.”
Rye frowns and glances at his watch. “She goes on in five.”
I nod. “I’ll catch up in a minute.”
“You mean creep inside, keep to the shadows, and pretend you don’t know me?”
I roll my eyes. “Yes. I’ll leave before the set ends and Uber home.”
His frown deepens, but his love for Eva trumps his concern for my moody ass. “’Kay. See ya.”
He strolls toward the box office.
I pivot and walk into the bustling café, making it five steps before my name, wrapped in surprise, is called from behind gleaming espresso machines.
Allison hustles around the counter, her familiar smile bringing one to my face.
“Hey, Auntie A,” I say as she wraps her arms around my waist. She earned honorary aunt status when I was three and I’ve never considered calling her anything else.
“It’s so good to see you, Wild,” she says, grinning up at me. “It’s been way too long. I don’t remember you being this tall.”
My smile turns smug. “Officially taller than my old man now, much to his annoyance.”
She laughs. “I bet. Congrats on the single, by the way. Katie told me she heard it on the radio six times at work yesterday. Well deserved—it’s incredible.” Her smile softens, as does her voice as she leans closer. “Are you ready for what’s coming your way?”
She looks meaningfully to the side, and I follow her gaze to a group of teenage girls at a nearby table who are staring at me and whispering. A quick glance around the café shows me they aren’t the only ones.
I stomp my first instinct—which is to throw up in my mouth and run out the door—and instead give the table of girls a cocky grin. They turn bright red and dissolve into hysterical giggles.
When I look back at Allison, she squints at me like I’ve been body-snatched. “That was disturbing.”
I agree with her. I’m disturbed every time I have to act like Wilder Ashburn, lead singer of Night Theory, instead of Wilder Ashburn, an introvert who’d rather stab himself than socialize.
From the corner of my eye, I see the girls stand, phones in hand.
Oh, fuck.
A steel band cranks tight around my chest. Soft ringing fills my ears.
I should have taken two pills.
“Come on,” says Allison, grabbing my arm and tugging me past tables, most of the occupants of which follow me with their eyes.
I’m naked beneath the piercing stares of strangers. My jaw aches with how hard my teeth are clenched. Every sound is too loud, every light too bright. I’m freezing and burning up, my stomach churning, sweat popping from my pores.
Allison squeezes my arm harder. “Hang on, almost there.”
I keep my gaze pinned on her curly hair, peppered throughout with glistening silver strands. We enter a back hallway, passing a few people in Tullamore-branded shirts, who give me probing looks. Finally, she opens a door and pulls me into what looks like a staff lounge. Thankfully, it’s empty and quiet.
“Sit,” she says, pointing to a padded bench beside the door.
I drop onto the bench and hang my head. Slowly, my stomach settles and the ringing in my ears fades.
“Just like your dad,” Allison murmurs.
I force myself to straighten. “I’m fine.”
Her eyes narrow as she hands me a sealed water bottle. “Sure you are. Drink that, then I’ll walk you next door through the staff entrance. You’ll come out backstage.”
I swallow half the bottle before shaking my head. “I have to go in the front.”
The shrewd look in her eyes makes me feel like I’m five years old again and trying to convince her there’s no mud in the mud pies I just made.
“Eva’s onstage by now. As long as you don’t make your presence known, she won’t see you.” She pauses, head tilting. “Have you heard her music?”
“A little,” I admit. “A shitty recording.”
Rye played the sample a few months ago for Eddie—who has no problem occasionally pumping him for information about Eva—and I happened to be in the same room. I’ve wanted to hear more since that first taste, the urge masochistic but undeniable.
“Then you’re in for a treat.” Allison glances at the clock on the wall. “All right, kiddo, let’s go.”
I haul myself to my feet and take an experimental inhale, relaxing when my lungs fill without pain. “Thanks for saving my ass back there, Auntie.”
“Anytime.” She scans my face. “Anxiety isn’t something to be ashamed of, but it does need to be managed. Especially with the trajectory you’re on.”
Hearing her unspoken warnings and concerns—the same ones I get from my parents—I offer a disarming smile. I know better than to ask her to keep this from my mom, so I give her something else to tell her.
“Thanks, but this was a one-off. I don’t usually venture out solo like this. And I have solid support from my bandmates.”
“And Kendra, right?” she asks mildly.
My nod comes a second too late. I wince internally as Allison’s gaze sharpens.
“Yep. She’s great. Super supportive.”
It’s true. Sort of.
The door opens and a guy in a Tullamore shirt walks in, halting at the sight of me. His eyes widen and veer to Allison. “Oh, sorry?—”
“It’s fine,” Allison says. “We were just leaving. Have a good break.”
I give the man a nod, avoiding eye contact, and follow Allison out of the room. She leads me farther down the main hallway, around a corner, and through another door. This hallway is dimmed, the distinctive sound of live music apparent from the behind the door at the end. The popping bass makes the walls vibrate.
I can’t hear her voice. But I feel it.
“Head up the stairs and turn left.”
“Thanks,” I say distractedly.
“Good luck, Wilder.”
By the time I turn to ask her what she means, she’s gone.
When I walk through the door, though, and Evangeline’s voice wraps around me like thick silk, dancing with immaculate control atop a wicked beat, I begin to understand.
Then I see her and suddenly know exactly what Allison meant.
But it’s too late for luck.
I’m fucked.
At Side Stage last Friday, Eva Marie and Lily Aoki of Glow walked onstage with little fanfare. When they walked off thirty minutes later, they took my old, jaded heart with them.
Glow is a breath of fresh air. So fresh that for the first time in years, I’m scratching my head trying to apply genre conventions. Are they Electropop? Indie? New or Dark Wave? Post-punk? They’re all of the above and so much more, and they deliver it with the kind of symbiosis and crowd responsiveness I rarely see live anymore. Just who are these young women?
Eva Marie is the daughter of Matt Sullivan of Breaking Giants, and you may also remember her as a former founding member of local Alt-Rock favorites, Night Theory. She met Tacoma native Lily Aoki two years ago in PacNorth’s Interdisciplinary Music Arts program. The rest is history… or rather, the beginning of Glow.
Frontwoman and lead songwriter Eva brings a stunning trifecta of lyrical prowess, electrifying stage presence, and a voice so rich and versatile it’ll make you believe in miracles. If that’s not enough, she’s also a multi-instrumentalist. Over the course of eight songs, she transitioned effortlessly between electric guitar and keyboard and even brought the club to a standstill with a violin solo. And she wasn’t the only talent on stage making this old man gasp.
Lily Aoki is an alchemist of a DJ, her style reminiscent of early trip-hop greats and yet categorically her own. Her complex arrangements are disarmingly direct, with the unmistakable, shiver-inducing instincts of an orchestral conductor on a new music frontier. Paired with Eva Marie? It’s a match made in music heaven.
I know what you’re thinking. If Glow is so great, why haven’t we heard of them? Well, despite support from famous faces in the crowd during their set, the duo has been climbing the ladder of success the hard way and not skipping any rungs. They’ve been on the open mic circuit for over a year, getting comfortable and earning their stripes.
In the opinion of this humble critic, we won’t see them as an opening act much longer. Catching their set was the happiest accident in the last decade of my career.
Take note—Glow is here and they’re about to light up the city.
ALEX ILOKA