29. Chapter Twenty-Nine #2
"And Lila," he added, quieter, "if Evan tries to talk to you, you don't have to. You can tell security you want space."
I swallowed. "He hasn't tried."
"Good. Let it stay that way for now."
We hung up.
I sat in the quiet for a long beat, phone heavy in my hand.
The show still existed tonight. The schedule didn't care that my heart had become a glitter cannon full of shrapnel.
I put my phone down and walked to the mini fridge. It held two tiny waters and a soda. I grabbed the water, twisted the cap, and drank until my throat stopped screaming.
Then I forced myself to eat a granola bar from my bag. It tasted like cardboard and survival.
My phone buzzed again.
Grant: I'm outside your door. I'm not coming in. I brought food. No pressure. Just open the door and take it when you're ready.
I stared at the message, then at the door.
My stomach did a strange flip that was half gratitude, half shame.
Grant was the one constant on this tour.
He was my parents’ best friend, the man who had somehow known me since braces and bad bangs and still agreed to manage my career anyway.
He never pushed. He didn't treat me like a project.
He showed up with practical solutions and a steady voice, which was probably why my parents trusted him with me in the first place.
I walked to the door and looked through the peephole.
Grant stood in the hallway with a paper bag in one hand, his other hand in his jacket pocket. His shoulders were slightly hunched, like he didn't want to look like he was guarding my door. He looked tired. He also looked stubborn enough to stand there for hours if needed.
I unlocked the door and opened it just enough to reach through.
Grant's eyes lifted. His expression softened immediately. "Hey."
"Hey."
He held out the bag without stepping closer. "Breakfast. Sandwich. Chips. That's it. No weird fruit tray."
A laugh tried to appear. It came out more like a breath. "Thank you."
He nodded once. His gaze flicked over my face, checking for damage. He didn't comment. "You good?"
"I'm alive."
"That counts." He shifted his weight. "Can I say one thing?"
I held the bag tighter. "Okay."
"You don't have to talk to him today," Grant said. "You don't have to perform fine. You can just exist."
My throat tightened. "I didn't show for soundcheck."
"I know. I covered it."
"How?"
"Told production you had a voice thing. They don't love it, but they also don't love lawsuits. The stage manager is mad. She'll live."
I swallowed. "Thank you."
Grant's mouth twitched. "I can be annoying for you. I'm good at it."
"Are they going to fire me?"
"No," he said. "No one is firing you. It's one missed soundcheck. This isn't the military."
"It feels like it."
"It's touring," he said. "The military with worse snacks."
That pulled a tiny smile out of me. He saw it and wisely did not act triumphant.
"You said maybe," he continued. "About leaving."
I stiffened.
"I told Evan."
My chest went hot. "That wasn't your choice."
"I know," he said. "And you can be mad. I'll take it."
Anger was easy. It was also exhausting.
"Why?"
"Because if he found out on Twitter, he would've turned into a missile with cheekbones. Nobody needs that. And because my job is to keep this from becoming a bigger mess than it already is."
Unfortunately, accurate.
"Did he come here?" I asked.
Grant shook his head. "No."
"He didn't try?"
"He wanted to. He took two steps toward your door. Then he stopped."
My stomach flipped.
Grant watched my face carefully. "His first instinct was panic. His second was restraint. He did not chase you into your room."
The exact phrasing landed hard, as if the universe wanted to make sure I understood the difference.
"He listened," Grant added. "He stayed away."
I swallowed. "Good."
Grant nodded. "Good."
Silence stretched between us. The hallway smelled faintly of cleaner and someone's cologne. The hotel was awake now, tour people moving, housekeeping carts rolling.
Grant cleared his throat. "I have something else. It's not about him."
My spine straightened slightly. "Okay."
He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. "I got a call. Actually, I got an email first, then a call because they're dramatic."
"Who?"
Grant's mouth curved. "The studio."
I went still.
The movie. The soundtrack. That song.
I had written "Rewrite Me" in my bedroom years ago, hunched over a cheap keyboard, headphones on, telling myself it didn't matter if anyone heard it as long as I did.
Cursive Crush had turned it into something bigger later, something with drums under the ache and Harper's guitar cutting through the chorus like it had teeth.
Grant had told me weeks ago the studio wanted something from us, and then everything with Evan had swallowed it, and I'd filed it under later.
Later was apparently standing in the hallway holding a breakfast sandwich.
Grant lifted his phone. "Before you spiral, I'm going to explain this cleanly."
I stared at the screen. Couldn't read it yet. My whole body had become one held note.
"The studio originally planned to use Evan's version for marketing. Big name. Big push. That was the strategy."
"Okay."
"But now," Grant continued, "they want the original Cursive Crush master for the end credits. They listened to your track. Your voice is the emotional gut punch, and the band makes the whole thing land. They want it."
I blinked. "What?"
He nodded once. "They want Lila Russell and Cursive Crush. Credited as the artists. Your song. Your band. Your moment."
My hands started shaking. The paper bag rustled against my arm.
"The contract is yours," Grant said. "No featuring Evan. No shadow."
A sound came out of me that wasn't a laugh or a sob, something between disbelief and relief.
"I…"
"Yeah," Grant said.
I stared at him, trying to make my brain accept it. "Why?"
"Because you're good," he said. "Because Cursive Crush is good. Because your voice hits people, and because that arrangement makes the scene feel like the floor drops out. They want the emotional finish, not the marketing hook."
"They're sure?"
Grant tipped his phone closer. "Read it."
I took the phone carefully, like it might vanish if I held it wrong. The email header was official and crisp.
Subject: End Credits Licensing Offer, Original Master Recording
I read the first line. Then the second. My eyes blurred halfway down.
We are pleased to confirm that the end credits will feature "Rewrite Me" performed by Lila Russell & Cursive Crush.
Performed by Lila Russell & Cursive Crush.
Not Evan Walker.
Not Evan Walker featuring me.
Not some glossy version polished until the hurt disappeared.
Us.
My breath snagged, sharp and inconvenient. I pressed my thumb to the edge of the screen, grounding myself.
"It's official," Grant said. "They want you and the band."
"I didn't even tell them about the duet last night."
"This decision was in motion before last night," Grant said. "They listened to the original master weeks ago. They picked it because it hit them. Not because of a stunt."
The word stunt made my stomach twist, but Grant didn't push it. He kept the focus where it belonged.
On me.
On the band.
On the work.
My eyes stayed on the email. Credit line. Payment. Contract terms. My brain snagged on the part that mattered most.
Artist credit: Lila Russell & Cursive Crush.
"This is ours," I said.
Grant nodded. "Yep."
I stared at the screen again, then forced myself to breathe. "What do I do?"
"You reply and say yes. Your lawyer reviews. I'll loop in Harper and Finn for the band approvals. They'll send paperwork. It's yours."
My hands shook harder. I tried to smile, but it came out crooked. "I missed soundcheck."
"So?"
"I stormed offstage."
"So?"
"How can this happen on the same day?"
Grant's mouth tilted. "Tour math. The universe loves chaos."
A laugh escaped me, real this time. Then it turned into a shaky breath. "I don't know what to do with this."
"You let it be yours," he said. "And theirs. Without handing any of it to Evan."
The pride was there, bright and clean. Under it was a strange ache.
Because this win, this moment, should have been uncomplicated. It should have been champagne and screaming into a pillow. It should have been a screenshot sent to my mom and Sam and anyone who had ever watched Cursive Crush play sad little songs in coffee shops for tips and stale muffins.
Instead, it landed in the middle of a mess with Evan.
I looked down at the email, blinking hard.
Grant watched me for a beat. "Do you want me to step away so you can process?"
I shook my head quickly. "No. Stay. Just… two minutes."
He nodded and leaned against the hallway wall, giving me space without leaving.
I stared at the screen again.
Your song. Your band. Your moment.
And yet, my first instinct had been to check if the studio's choice was connected to Evan's stunt.
Even now, when the win belonged to me and Cursive Crush, my brain tried to loop him into it.
I had been so determined not to be defined by Evan that I was still letting him shape me in the opposite direction. Every decision lately had been a reaction. Stay away from Evan. Prove I didn't need Evan. Pretend I didn't want Evan. Refuse any help that might look like Evan.
I had built a whole identity around pushing against him.
And pushing still meant he was the center of the force.
The realization came quietly. Mean little ninja.
Grant glanced over. "You okay?"
I nodded, still staring at the email. "I think I've been doing it wrong."
Grant's expression didn't shift into pity. He just waited.
"I've been so focused on not being his," I said, "that I forgot I can be mine without making him the enemy."
Grant's eyes softened. "That's a hard one."
"It's stupid."
"It's not."
I swallowed and forced myself to focus on the email again, on the part where my name was printed beside the band instead of under Evan's shadow.
"I need to reply."
Grant nodded. "Do it. I'll wait."