27. Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Lila
The hallway outside Evan's dressing room had the kind of fluorescent lighting that made even saints look guilty.
I stood under it anyway, palms damp, hair still pinned back from the stage, my adrenaline refusing to decide whether it wanted to be pride or panic. My in-ears were looped around my fingers because I hadn't remembered to put them away. Mic tape was still stuck to the inside of my wrist.
The door at the end of the hall thudded again. Bass, screams, the show still happening. Evan's show. The thing he was supposed to be giving the crowd while my mouth still felt marked by his.
Crew moved around me with practiced focus. A tech jogged past carrying a spare cable. Someone in security said my name into a headset, short and sharp, then glanced at me like they were checking I hadn't been kidnapped by my own feelings.
I kept my face blank. Tour life taught you how to do that. Smile for photos, laugh at the right jokes, step around drama as if it were just another road case in the hallway.
Tonight it was harder. Because I could still hear the crowd chanting from the last time Evan pulled me onstage.
Because my phone had turned into a vibrating brick from notifications I refused to open.
Because I could still see the way he looked at me in my dressing room, the way he asked to kiss me, the way he stopped when I told him we should.
He had left with one loaded word. After. Then he had vanished back into the machine.
I had sat on my couch for five minutes, breathing through the buzz in my skin, telling myself I was in control.
The universe had laughed, obviously.
A door down the hall swung open. Miles came out, towel around his neck, moving fast. "Two minutes!" he called, then disappeared again.
Two minutes for what, exactly? My stomach tightened.
A crew member in a headset stopped beside me. "Lila, you're on in the next block."
"I know." My voice came out steadier than my hands.
He nodded, already moving on. The show ran on times and cues and a level of competence that did not care about romantic implosions.
The wall shook with another cheer. Evan's voice cut through the concrete, amplified and smooth, that stage version of him that made crowds feel touched.
It should have made me roll my eyes. It used to.
Tonight it made me angry. Because he could be that on command, then turn around and be raw in my dressing room.
He could keep switching masks, and somehow it was still his face underneath.
Meanwhile, I was standing in a hallway trying to decide if I wanted to punch him or climb him. Unhelpful. Extremely on brand, but unhelpful.
I pressed my thumb into the edge of my in-ears until the plastic dug into my skin.
Don't hide today. You deserve the stage.
I hated that his note had been right. I hated that he knew how to hook into the part of me that wanted to be seen.
Another cheer rose. The band kicked into a transition. The lights on the other side of the wall shifted, the kind of sweep you could feel through your bones.
I forced one breath, then another. I could do this. I could walk out there, sing my part, leave, and act professionally. I could pretend my body wasn't still wired from the kiss. I could pretend my heart wasn't still stupid. I could pretend the internet wasn't waiting with a knife and a caption.
The door to the side-stage corridor swung open.
Evan stepped into the hallway.
He didn't have his guitar or his hoodie. He had a damp black T-shirt clinging to his chest and sweat darkening his hair at the temples. His face was flushed from the stage lights. His eyes were still bright with that post-song high, the kind that made him reckless.
He spotted me instantly.
His gaze locked on mine, and the rest of the hall stopped existing.
He crossed the distance in a few fast strides and stopped too close, not touching, somehow in my space anyway. The bass from the stage thumped behind him. The crowd's roar muffled into a constant ocean.
"Come here," he said.
I stared at him. "Are you out of your mind?"
He didn't smile. That was how I knew it was bad.
He hooked two fingers lightly under my elbow and guided me toward a narrow gap between road cases and a concrete support pillar. Not a private room, not even a real hiding place, the kind of corner you used to change a battery pack without getting tripped.
I should have pulled free. I should have made a scene. I should have done anything that kept me from going where he wanted.
My body, traitorous little disaster, moved with him.
He stopped with his back near the wall, blocking the line of sight from the hallway. His hand dropped from my elbow immediately, palms open at his sides. Clear. Deliberate. Consent, even when he was furious.
"What?" I said. "Your fans miss you."
His eyes flashed. "Don't do that."
"Do what?"
"Act like this is a joke."
I laughed once, nothing about it funny. "You're the one who thinks it's cute to turn my life into a set piece."
"That's what you think I'm doing?"
"That's what you did," I snapped. "You hijacked my song, you pulled me onstage, you kissed me in my dressing room and then walked out there and turned it back on."
His shoulders lifted with a sharp inhale. "You wanted me to go back."
"Yes," I shot back. "Because it's your job."
His eyes held mine, hot and unblinking. "And what am I?"
"What?"
"What is this?"
My anger rose because it was easier than answering. "This is you making a mess."
He made a sound that was half laugh, half choke. "I'm tired of this, Lila."
The tone hit harder than the words. Less anger, more collapse.
"I'm tired of chasing after you and you pushing me away again and again," he said. "What did I do wrong? How did I mess this up so badly? Am I the wrong person?"
"Evan."
He didn't stop. Maybe he couldn't.
"I spend every night wishing you were in my bed," he said. "Every spare second thinking about you. I can't breathe when you're gone."
My mouth went dry. My body did that stupid thing where it wanted to lean in, close the gap, fix it with skin and softness. My brain grabbed the steering wheel.
"You sure don't show it."
Hurt flashed across his face before anger took over. "Why?"
"Because you can stand here and say all that," I snapped, "then go onstage and act untouchable. You make me look like a rumor."
His hands curled at his sides, then relaxed again, like he was forcing himself not to reach for me.
"Do you know how easy it would be to be exactly what you're afraid I am?" he said. "They throw themselves at me every night. I don't want them. I want you, and you keep acting like that's this horrible thing. Having a man who's faithful and loves you."
The words hit because I had seen them. Hands reaching for him at barricades, bodies pressed forward, signs with his name, girls in tiny dresses walking into VIP with security and coming out with someone's hoodie. I had watched Evan pretend it was all noise. Now he threw it at me like a threat.
"You should," I said before I could stop myself. "Sleep with whoever. I don't care."
His face went still. "That's bullshit. You do care."
I opened my mouth to deny it.
He stepped closer, not touching, stare pinning me in place. "You don't get to love me only when it's convenient."
The words landed heavy, vibrating through my ribs. They bounced off the concrete and the music and the part of me that wanted to pretend love wasn't involved.
"I don't love you when it's convenient," I said.
His laugh was sharp. "Really."
"Yes." My voice rose. "I don't love you at all. I don't love you, I don't need you, I don't."
The lie fell apart in my mouth.
His eyes cut into me. "You can't even finish it."
I swallowed hard. "I don't get to have feelings on your schedule."
He flinched, then snapped right back. "My schedule?" His voice sharpened. "You think this is about my schedule? It's you. You show up when it suits you. You disappear when it gets hard. You let me touch you, then act like it meant nothing."
"I acted like it meant nothing?"
His gaze flicked to my mouth, then back, as if the memory of the kiss was sitting between us like a third person.
"I walked out of your dressing room, and my hands were shaking," he said. "I went back onstage and smiled because that's what I do. And you sat in there and decided you were fine."
"I didn't decide anything," I snapped. "I was trying to breathe."
"So was I."
The crowd roared again, louder now. The show didn't care about our feelings. It would roll right over them with a lighting cue and a drum fill.
"You're supposed to be out there," I said. "You can't do this right now."
"I can. I am."
"You're going to get yourself in trouble."
His mouth twisted. "You worried about me?"
"I'm worried about the tour."
His eyes went flat. "Right. The tour."
The sting hit, but I pushed past it. Understanding him would make me softer, and softness was how I ended up with my lips swollen and my life in pieces.
"I didn't ask you to stop being a rock star," I said. "I didn't ask you to stay sober and faithful and whatever else you're trying to hold over my head."
His expression darkened. "I'm not holding it over your head."
"Yes, you are. You're using it as proof. Look at me, I'm so good, so devoted. Love me back."
His shoulders jerked like I had hit him. "I'm not asking you to perform love."
"You're asking me to make you feel better," I snapped. "You want me to soothe you so you can go back out there and be fine."
His eyes narrowed. "No."
"Then what? What do you want from me?"
The silence stretched for one beat, thick with the hum of the venue. Sweat rolled down his neck and disappeared into his shirt collar. His fingers twitched at his sides as if he wanted to grab my hips and keep me from running.
He didn't.
"I want you to stop punishing me for wanting you."
My voice caught on something sharp. "I'm not punishing you."
"Then what is this?"