18. Evangeline
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
evangeline
I wake in the morning to sparkling sunlight. The bed is empty, the space where Wilder slept cold. Before the thought that he left fully forms, I smell freshly brewed coffee and hear a soft melody being plucked on my acoustic guitar. A familiar melody: “Waves . ” It sounds different, though—lighter and more hopeful.
He’s here. He stayed.
After our talk, we were both so wiped we stumbled to bed and passed out. I remember little of the following hours, save for the pervasive warmth of his body wrapped around mine and a feeling of deep contentment.
The need to see him infuses my limbs with energy. Scrambling out of bed, I dart into the bathroom to pee and brush my teeth, then yank on yesterday’s leggings and force myself to walk at a reasonable pace into the living room.
Wilder looks up from the guitar in his lap, his fingers flattening against the strings. My stomach flutters as his gaze caresses me, a small smile deepening one dimple.
“You’re so beautiful.”
The sincerity in his voice makes my face warm. A deliriously happy smile spreads across my face.
“Good morning to you, too.”
Rising to his feet, he sets my guitar back on its stand. “Come here.”
Despite willingly obeying the command, he meets me halfway. Warm palms cup my face.
“Good morning,” he whispers before giving me a kiss so sweet and tender that I sigh. “I ordered bagels. Do you still like bagels?”
I don’t normally eat breakfast right when I wake up, but I’m so touched by the gesture that I nod eagerly. He releases me to stride into the kitchen, asking over his shoulder, “Everything with cream cheese?”
“Sounds good. Thanks.”
I follow and pour myself a cup of coffee, watching him askance as I do. He cuts a bagel and pops it in the toaster, then braces his hands on the counter and stares at the glowing grates like his focus will speed time. His fingers tap rhythmically on the tile, making the tendons on his tattooed forearms pulse. A wavy chunk of dark hair obscures one eye.
The longer I watch him—the longer he stares at the toaster, ignoring my focus—the more surreal this all becomes. Despite last night’s emotional closeness and the euphoria of mere seconds ago, I’m once again engulfed by the disquieting feeling of not really knowing him.
Can you know someone’s soul—their deepest, truest self—without knowing anything about their actual life? He thinks so. He believes he knows me. But do I know him ?
I thought I knew him once. I thought the bond we shared was unbreakable, and it wasn’t.
Who are you, Wilder?
Unable to stomach the silence or my spinning thoughts any longer, I clear my throat. “Did you sleep okay?”
His gaze snaps from the toaster to me. The stark relief in his eyes tells me this is as surreal for him as it is for me, which in turn calms my erratic pulse.
His lips curve. “I finally know why you always talked about missing your mattress. Best night’s sleep I’ve had in weeks.”
I laugh. “I’m glad.”
His smile fades from his face but stays in his eyes. When he continues staring at me, I shift on my feet.
“What?”
He shakes his head. “Nothing.”
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.”
He grins. “I bet they love you.”
I laugh and shake my head. “I’m actually one of the tougher teachers. Most new students don’t last more than a few months, but I do have a few who’ve been with me for a couple of years. Amalie and Jordan are pianists and already composing, and Micah is my guitar prodigy. You should hear him shred. It’ll blow your mind.”
“I’d love to hear him.” The look Wilder gives me makes my heart stutter. He tugs my hair again. “And you’re in school, too?”
“Yes. Mostly online.” I take a hurried gulp of cooling coffee, then voice a thought I haven’t even told Lily. “I’m not sure I’ll keep going after this semester, though. We have the meeting with Indigo on Monday and if we sign?—”
“ When you sign.”
“When we sign,” I amend with a smile, “so much will change. I guess it all depends on the contract, the size of the advance, timeline for an album, how fast they want us on tour…” I trail off.
“The advance is going to be a lot.” His voice is soft and careful. “Based on the fact Donovan himself showed up last night and salivated all over you two, I’m guessing mid six-figures.”
My jaw drops. “What? No way. We’re unknowns.”
“You’re not, though,” he says with another tug on my hair. “Before you think I’m talking about who you’re related to, let me put it to you this way—no matter how close Donovan and your dad are, he’s a businessman first. He wouldn’t sign you at all if he didn’t think you’d make him truckloads of money.”
“Yeah,” I say vacantly. “Logically, I know that.”
I don’t realize I’m chewing on my thumbnail until he gently pulls my hand from my face.
“Come back, baby.”
My eyes jerk to his. He holds my gaze in a way only he can, with a magic that makes the world stop. “You can’t change who your parents are or that some people will automatically attribute your success to nepotism. It’s a shadow we can’t escape. You have to learn to ignore the negative noise.”
“Is that what you do? Ignore it?”
He smirks. “My music speaks for itself. Anyone who says I don’t deserve what I’ve earned is just jealous.”
My laugh blends with a groan. “Still an egomaniac, I see.”
He chuckles, then sobers. “I know it’s going to be hard for you to hear this, but you and Lily aren’t run-of-the-mill talent. You’re the Holy Grail—young and attractive, with a unique and commercially viable sound. I’m confident in Night Theory’s staying power in the industry, but in a hundred years we’ll be forgotten. Glow, on the other hand, has the potential for immortality. Your sound might very well shape a new generation of artists.”
At my horrified expression, Wilder laughs and kisses my forehead. “So cute. I can’t wait to remind you of this moment twenty years from now when I’m putting up yet another shelf for your awards.”
Before I can even begin to process either of his predictions—my success, our longevity—he continues, “Back to what to expect after Monday. You’re right to think your life will change fast. The pressure will be on immediately and it’ll be intense as fuck. The landscape has changed even in the last few years, too. There’s so much more to do now. Social media is probably the most demanding and time-consuming, at least when you’re starting out. Then there’s a million small networking events, random shows, last-minute festival slots they maybe give you twenty-four hours’ notice for… and in the midst of it, recording an album, writing the next one, rehearsals, tour planning—” He stops suddenly, misinterpreting my blank expression. “Sorry. You already know all this.”
“I don’t, actually.” My skin prickles as I drain my mug, then slip off my chair to refill it. With my back to him, the next words are easier. “After leaving the band, I sort of disconnected from everything music and industry-related. I didn’t write songs for a year. Barely touched a guitar outside of giving lessons. For a while, I even thought I’d never go down this road again. Then I met Lily and it just… happened. My passion came back. I’m excited again. But I’m also freaked out because it feels overwhelming in a way it didn’t before.”
When he doesn’t say anything, I turn to find him staring at his lap with an expression I can’t read. Sensing my attention, he looks up.
“I’m glad you found Lily,” he says softly.
I study him, reading the tension around his eyes, and make myself address the elephant that has stomped into the room. “Are you? Glad that I’m making music with someone else?”
His chest rises sharply. “Yes. It would have been a tragedy if you gave up music.” He smiles, but a veil of sadness lingers in his eyes. “I guess everything happens for a reason.”
“Maybe,” I say mutedly. “It’s scary, though.”
“What is?”
A lump rises in my throat. I swallow it and avoid his eyes. “Doing it without you.”
His chair scrapes over the floor as he rises and comes to me. My mug is pulled gently from my hand and set on the counter. His arms enfold me, warm and solid. Midnight rainstorms. I lean against him, clinging shamelessly.
“You won’t have to do it without me,” he says into my hair. “I’m right here, and I’m not going anywhere. I’m sorry if I overwhelmed you. Next time tell me to shut up.”
I shake my head but don’t speak, afraid if I open my mouth all my fears will spill out. About the future. About him . About the darkness I can’t see but worry hovers outside the light of this moment.
Wilder lifts my face in his hands. Sunlight streaks through a nearby window, turning his eyes into my favorite kaleidoscope of green, gold, and brown.
“I couldn’t write, either,” he murmurs. “That’s why the album took so long. Eventually I stopped fighting myself and wrote for you again. You may not have been next to me, but you were inside me. Every note, every word. You’re still my muse, Fairy.”
Lightning streaks down my centerline. My breath hitches.
His eyes darken. “I’m going to kiss you now,” he rumbles, “and I’m not going to stop until we need another shower.”
I kiss him first.