14. Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fourteen
Evan
We were halfway through a press junket I didn't want to be at.
I was still sweating from the show, riding the leftover high, still mentally at the edge of that stage. I stared into the crowd where Lila had looked back at me. For one stupid second, maybe she remembered us without hating me.
Or maybe I conjured all of it. That’s heartbreak’s cruel gift: it strips reality, warps memories, and then charges you rent for every new delusion.
The press room was too bright. The chairs were too close. Microphones looked like they wanted to crawl into my mouth and set up camp. Untouched water bottles sat to my right, labels turned outward, because apparently even hydration needed branding.
A publicist hovered near the wall, eyes sharp, smile fixed, ready to redirect if I said something inconvenient. I had a long history of saying inconvenient things. Management called it "authenticity" when it sold records and "a liability" when it didn't.
The interviewer, a glossy-haired host from an indie radio station, asked the usual fluff. Tour excitement, album release, favorite cities, what snack did we demand backstage.
Miles said, "Anything shaped like a dinosaur."
The host laughed as if he'd said something adorable rather than deeply embarrassing.
I gave the answers I'd rehearsed. I smiled on cue.
I locked my hands between my knees so no one saw how my fingers wanted to curl into fists.
Not from anger. Not only that. Because Lila was in the front row, crying.
Because I sang straight at her like a fool clutching a microphone and a prayer.
Now the whole room inside my chest aches with shards of glass and thunderous applause.
The host tilted her head toward me. "Evan, the live debut of 'Linger' tonight was incredible. The crowd reaction was huge."
"Thanks," I said.
Miles kicked the side of my shoe under the table, probably because my answer had the emotional warmth of a parking ticket. I ignored him.
The host smiled. "That song has really taken on a life of its own."
That was one way to put it. Another way: I had turned the worst night of my life into a public sing-along, and people were filming themselves crying to it in bathrooms.
"Yeah," I said. "It's been wild seeing people connect with it."
The publicist's shoulders relaxed. Good boy, Evan. Safe boy. Marketable heartbreak boy.
Then, because the universe loved an audience, the interviewer's phone buzzed on the table. She glanced down. Her face changed, not much, just enough, a little flare of interest, the predator scent of a question no publicist had approved.
"I'm sorry," she said, blinking at the screen. "But Evan, did you see this already?"
The publicist moved half a step forward. Too late.
The host turned the phone around.
It was a TikTok, of me, singing "Linger." Zoomed in right on Lila in the front row. Eyes glassy, mascara smudged, that bottom lip caught between her teeth the way she did when she was trying not to break in public.
The caption read: He wrote it about her. Don't even try to lie to me.
The audio played from the tiny speaker. My voice, rough and open.
If this is goodbye, then say it slow…
I stopped breathing like a normal person.
Lila looked wrecked. Not in the way fans looked wrecked when they cried over a lyric they could make belong to them. This was specific, private, ours. Or it had been.
The room went quiet, which meant everyone was listening harder than before.
The interviewer made a soft sound. "Wow. That's intimate."
Miles stopped fidgeting. The publicist's smile froze into something surgical.
The host turned back toward the mic. "So. Evan. Is 'Linger' about her?"
There it was. The door, wide open. All I had to do was walk through it.
Yes. Yes, it's about Lila Russell. I wrote it after she left me behind an amphitheater with a kiss still on my mouth. Yes, she was mine. No, not was. Is. Still. Always.
The words rose so fast I tasted them. For one reckless second, I wanted to say it: everything I’d been holding back.
I wanted to burn every careful rule she’d built around us.
I wanted to say her name into the microphone and let the whole internet choke on it.
I wanted her to know I was done being erased from my own heartbreak.
I wanted to make her as public as she had made my pain.
The thought was ugly. It was also honest.
Then I saw her face in the video again. Mascara streaked. She tried to hold herself together while strangers zoomed in on the places I knew how to hurt.
Underneath all the anger, the pride, and all the mean little sparks I kept pretending weren't there, I still loved her. I loved her enough not to hand them a knife with her name on it.
Or maybe fear was part of it too, a fear of what revealing the truth would do to both of us. Maybe I wanted to protect her. Maybe I didn’t want to face what would happen next. Maybe it was both.
The publicist stared at me from the wall. Miles went too still beside me. The host waited, eyes bright.
My hands clenched in my lap. I leaned toward the microphone.
"This song was written for her parents' movie," I said.
The publicist relaxed, I hated her for it, I hated myself more.
The host blinked once, disappointed but too polished to show it all. "So the emotional connection people are seeing between you and Lila is just because of the movie?"
Just. Great word. Very small. Very cruel.
I forced my mouth into something that probably looked like a smile if you didn't know me well. Lila would have known. That was the problem.
"People connect songs to their own stories," I said. "That's the point, right?"
Miles shifted beside me. The publicist's smile sharpened with relief.
The host nodded slowly. "Of course. But you two do know each other, right? She's part of the tour. And obviously, her parents' story inspired the film."
"Yeah," I said. "We know each other."
Know. Another neat little word, clean enough for press, small enough to hide a whole crime scene.
The interviewer waited for more. I didn't give it to her.
Because the answer was supposed to be easy.
Lila had trained me for it when we were together.
Don't say my name. Don't post me. Don't make it a thing.
Not yet. Later. After graduation. After the soundtrack.
After the world stopped being hungry. That was adorable.
The world never stopped. It only changed forks.
This song was written for her parents' movie. Safe answer, coward's answer, the answer she'd taught me to give.
A small silence followed, not long enough for listeners to notice, long enough for Miles to glance at me like he'd heard the part I didn't say.
The interviewer recovered. She asked about the tour schedule, favorite venues, whether we had any pre-show rituals. Miles said something about dinosaur snacks again. Everyone laughed. I smiled. The publicist looked thrilled.
The microphone sat in front of me, black and patient, still waiting for one honest thing.
I gave it nothing.