26. Chapter Twenty-Six #2
The words hit harder than I expected. No drama, no metaphor. Just the truth, straight into the ribs.
I nodded once. Because the first thing out of my mouth wanted to be defense, and I was trying, desperately, not to be that man.
"Okay."
Her eyebrows pulled together. "You're not going to argue?"
"I want to."
"That's honest."
"I'm collecting gold stars."
"Don't."
"Sorry."
She looked exhausted for one second, not weak, not defeated, just tired from holding her shape while everyone else kept trying to name it.
My hand lifted halfway. Stopped. I let it fall.
"Can I come in?" I asked.
Her eyes dropped to my hand, then back up. "Evan."
"Tell me no, and I'm gone."
I meant it. That was the easy part. The harder part was wanting her to say anything else.
She stared at me so long I heard the crowd chant my name through the walls.
Not Evan. Walker! Walker! Walker! The machine calling its favorite ghost back to work.
Lila stepped back. Not far. Enough.
I entered carefully, not touching her as I passed. I shut the door behind me but didn't lock it. She noticed. Of course she noticed. Lila noticed everything except the parts of herself she didn't want to admit.
The dressing room was tiny. Couch, mirror, sad fruit tray, pretzels, a water bottle on its side. Her bag was open on the couch, in-ears half spilling out. The note I'd left wasn't on the mirror anymore.
Interesting.
I kept my hands visible and stayed near the door. She crossed her arms like she needed somewhere to put herself.
"Say what you came here to say."
My gaze flicked to the mirror. "Did you read it?"
"What?"
"The note."
"I threw it away."
"Sure."
"Don't change the subject. You used my song."
"I didn't mean it as a weapon."
"It was."
I took a slow breath. "Okay."
Her eyes searched mine. She had expected me to argue again. So had I, honestly.
"That's it?" she asked.
"No. That's me trying not to make it worse before I figure out how to make it better."
"There may not be better."
"I know."
"You don't know anything."
"I know I get jealous."
The words came out before I could dress them up. Lila went still.
"Of what?"
I looked at her. Really looked. The flushed face, the stubborn chin, the girl who could walk out under lights and turn terror into a hook people would hum on the drive home.
"The way you belong to yourself," I said. "The way you can walk out there and be yours. The way you keep your distance from me because you think it keeps you safe."
Her throat moved. She looked away too quickly.
"That's ridiculous."
"It's true."
"You have no idea how hard I'm fighting."
"Fighting what?"
Her eyes came back to mine, sharp and bright and too much.
"You."
There it was. The part of me that was still twenty-three and stupid enough to think want was proof nearly reached for her. I didn't.
The crowd roared through the walls. My name again, louder. She flinched at it. Small. I saw.
"I didn't come here to make you feel trapped," I said.
"You did."
I agreed.
"Tell me what you want right now."
"I want you to go back to your set."
"That's what you want, or what you think you should want?"
Her jaw tightened. "Stop."
I didn't. Because I was still flawed enough to press where I should have backed away, and honest enough to know it.
"Tell me no."
Her mouth opened. Nothing came out.
My whole body reacted to that silence, hope and want and bad judgment, every terrible thing.
"Lila."
Her name sounded wrecked. I knew because I heard it.
She took a shaky breath. "You're on stage tonight."
"I know."
"You're sweating."
A laugh slipped out of me, strained and helpless. "Yeah."
"Are you even thinking?"
"I'm thinking about how I haven't touched you."
Her eyes dropped to my hands. Still at my sides.
"Don't just say things," she said.
"I have been stopping for weeks. I have been trying to be decent. I have been trying to pretend I'm fine when I'm not."
"That's your job."
"My job is to sing," I said. "Not lie."
That one landed. I watched it move through her. Watched her fight it, hate it, tuck it somewhere she'd inspect later when she was alone and angry about the lighting.
The room felt too small, too hot, too full of the crowd and the past and the door I hadn't locked.
I lifted my hand slowly. Not touching. "Can I?"
Her eyes stayed on mine. "Yes," she said. "You can touch my face."
The permission almost undid me. Not because it was grand. Because it was specific. Because she knew exactly how much to give and how much to keep.
My fingers caressed her cheek. She held still, but her breath shifted. Her lashes flickered. Tiny betrayals. Old tells. Mine were probably worse.
Her skin was warm from the stage, soft under my thumb, real in a way the lights never let her be.
I came closer, slow enough for her to stop me. She didn't.
My forehead hovered near hers. "Can I kiss you?"
She swallowed. "Yes."
I kissed her, and for one second, the entire damn tour went quiet.
The kiss hit harder than I meant it to. Not because I pushed. Because wanting her had been packed behind my ribs for too long, shoved into songs and safe texts and stage stunts until it finally found one honest place to go.
My hand stayed on her cheek. The other stayed at my side for half a second because I needed to prove to myself I could be careful. Then her hands slid up my chest, fingers curling into my shirt, and my control took a very dramatic step toward the cliff.
I pulled back enough to breathe. "You okay?"
She nodded. "Yes."
I kissed her again, deeper this time. Her fingers tightened, a small sound escaping her, half breath and half swear, and it went through me so fast I almost forgot every promise I'd made to myself outside the door.
Almost.
I pulled back again. Her eyes were too bright, her mouth was red, mine probably looked no better.
"Evan."
I froze. "Tell me."
"If we keep doing this, I'm going to forget how to stop."
My body offered several deeply irresponsible suggestions. I ignored all of them with the grim focus of a man defusing a bomb while shirtless feelings ran around with scissors.
"Then tell me to stop."
She didn't.
I wanted to let that be enough. It wasn't. Not tonight, not with cameras outside and a crowd chanting my name and Lila still looking like she couldn't decide if I was a person or a doorway to losing herself.
I gently caught her wrist and lowered her hand from my shirt. Not removing it. Grounding us both.
"Look at me," I said.
She did. Every song I'd ever written suddenly felt like practice.
"I want you," I said. "I want you enough that I could make dumb choices. I'm asking what you want."
Her breath shook. "I want you too."
The words nearly took my knees out, and I was standing.
"Okay," I said.
I kissed her slower. Held the edge instead of falling off it. Her body moved closer, seeking contact, and I let my hand settle on her hip.
Paused. "Can I?"
"Yes."
My fingers tightened there, pulling her in just enough for both of us to feel how bad an idea this was. Her grip found my shoulders. I kissed her jaw, then the side of her neck, careful and not careful enough.
The stage thumped through the wall. A cheer rose, distant but not distant enough. Reality, rude little bastard, had returned with a clipboard.
I stilled against her neck. She felt it.
"You need to go," she whispered.
"I don't want to."
"I know." Her voice had gone thick. "But you do."
My hand stayed at her hip for one more beat than it should have. I let go.
"Come with me."
Her whole body changed. "Evan."
"Not onstage," I said quickly. "After. When I'm done."
She stared at me like the words were a trap with nice shoes.
"I can't."
"Why?"
"Because you turned my song into a headline." Her voice shook, and she hated that, I could tell. "Because you kissed me and my skin wants to forget every reason I'm angry. Because I don't trust myself around you."
That one cut.
"Do you trust me?" I asked.
She looked at me for too long. Not long enough.
"I trust you to want me."
My mouth twitched, but there was no humor in it. "That's not what I meant."
"I don't know what you mean half the time," she said. Anger flashed back into her face, safer than the fear underneath. "You speak in lyrics and stunts."
I nodded. Took that too.
"Okay. That's fair."
Another cheer rose from the stage, louder. I flinched because even a man committed to ruining his own life had limits.
A knock hit the door. Urgent.
"Evan," someone called from the hallway. "One minutes."
Lila stepped back. The loss of her warmth was immediate and stupidly brutal.
"You have to go," she said.
"Yeah."
Neither of us moved.
I leaned in and kissed her once more, quick and controlled and not enough, never enough. When I pulled back, her eyes were on mine, and for one second I almost said everything wrong. Stay. Come with me. Pick me. Let them watch.
Instead I said, "You were fire out there."
Her mouth tightened around something that might have been pain. "Go do your job."
I nodded and turned for the door. My hand touched the knob. Stopped.
I looked back. "I'm sorry."
Her eyes narrowed. "For what?"
"For making it public," I said. "For pretending it was only for you when part of me wanted the whole room to know you still heard me."
Silence. The kind that had edges.
"That's not an apology," she said.
"No." I held her gaze. "But it's the only honest one I have right now."
Another knock. "Evan."
The machine calling again. I opened the door and stepped into the hallway, then looked back one last time.
Her lips were swollen. Her eyes were wild. She looked furious and alive and nothing like someone disappearing.
"After," I said.
I didn't wait for her answer. Because I was a coward. Because I was late. Because if I waited, I might beg, and there were some ways of breaking I still refused to do with a crowd chanting my name twenty feet away.
I went back to the stage. The lights swallowed me. The crowd screamed. The mic was waiting.
I sang the next song like my mouth didn't still taste like her. Like my hands weren't shaking. Like I hadn't left the only honest thing in the building behind a dressing room door.