30. Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty
Evan
Grant didn't text. He called. That was how I knew the universe had put on brass knuckles.
I stared at his name on my phone for two rings, sitting on the edge of my hotel bed with a guitar across my lap and Lila's voice memo still open on the screen. Not hers to me. Mine to her. The one I'd sent through Grant like a coward with an acoustic guitar and three grams of emotional restraint.
I had not gone to her room. I had not knocked. I had not sent twelve follow-up messages asking if she'd listened, if she hated me, if she understood what I meant, if she knew I'd meant every word and about six thousand I hadn't trusted myself to say.
I had done exactly what Grant told me to do. Stay away. Let her breathe. Stop making moves.
Trying to hold my own hand over a candle and pretending it was self-improvement. Spoiler: it just hurts.
I answered before the call went to voicemail. "Tell me she's okay."
Grant exhaled. "Good morning to you too."
"It's noon."
"It's morning in my soul, and your soul is on thin ice."
My fingers tightened around the guitar neck. "Grant."
"She's safe," he said. "She's in her room. She missed soundcheck, but she answered security. She ate something. She listened to the memo."
Everything in me went still. "She did?"
"Yes."
"And?"
"And I am not your spy."
I closed my eyes. Fair. Annoying. Tragically correct. Welcome to the highlight reel of my questionable decisions.
"She didn't block you again," he added.
My mouth twitched despite the tightness in my chest. "That the official update?"
"That's the generous update."
"I'll take it."
"Good. Now ruin your own day by listening carefully."
The guitar across my lap suddenly felt too heavy. "What happened?"
"The studio wants the duet version."
For one clean second, I didn't understand the sentence. Then I did.
"No."
"Very poetic. Unfortunately, not a plan."
I stood so fast the guitar slid off my lap and hit the carpet with a muted thump. "Grant, no."
"I know."
"She just got the end credits. Her track, her name. That was supposed to be hers."
"It still is."
"They're already trying to make it ours."
Grant went quiet for half a beat. That was when I knew he was angry too.
"They're calling it a separate deliverable," he said. "Soundtrack album. Promotional single. PR push."
I rubbed the back of my neck and paced to the window, only to freeze.
Down in the parking lot, fans clustered behind barricades, shivering in the daylight, clutching signs and hope.
Waiting for glimpses, for crumbs, for anything.
Always waiting. I wondered if they ever got tired, or if hope just kept you warm.
"They can't force her into a booth with me."
"Her lawyer says they can't force vocals out of her throat," Grant said. "But they can make it expensive, ugly, and very loud. They can also pull the end-credit placement while everyone argues. So no, it's not a gun to her head. It's a knife made of paperwork."
I laughed once, no humor in it. "Great. Love the arts."
"Your team has the same language in the amended package. Label wants it too. Studio is pushing because last night turned into free gasoline."
"Don't call it that."
"I'm not. They are."
I looked at the phone in my hand like it belonged to someone else. Some other man, some other idiot who had taken a song and a stage and his own panic and turned all three into a fuse.
"This is because of me," I said.
Grant didn't rush to correct me. I hated him a little for that.
"Partly," he said. "Not entirely. They wanted a version before this. Last night made them aggressive."
"I fed it."
"Yes."
The word landed clean, no cushion. I deserved that.
I wanted to call Lila. That was my first instinct. Call, text, explain, apologize, say I'd kill it, fix it, eat the contract, buy the studio, fake my death, whatever version of dramatic seemed useful for six seconds.
I opened her contact.
Grant said, "Do not."
I froze. "Are you watching me?"
"No. I know you."
My thumb hovered above her name. The screen showed our last thread, still empty after her block-and-unblock cycle of emotional arson. I could type. I could say something. I could make it worse. Again.
"Evan," Grant said. "She does not need you showing up in her phone as another thing to manage."
My thumb retreated like it had touched a hot stove. I hated how right he was, which only made him more right. Infuriating.
"What do I do?"
"You show up. You do the job. You keep your mouth shut unless it's about the take. You do not turn this into a confession booth."
"Funny choice of words."
"I'm not laughing."
No, he wasn't. Neither was I.
Grant continued, "There will be no behind-the-scenes footage. No photos. No statement about healing. I told them if anyone tries to make her pose with you, I'll start biting."
"You bite now?"
"No, but I can if I have too."
I pressed my hand to my eyes. "Is she coming?"
"Yes."
My chest hurt in a place I refused to give poetry. "Does she know I'll be there?"
"Yes."
"Does she want me there?"
"Don't ask questions you can't survive."
I dropped my hand. The guitar lay on the floor, one string humming faintly from the fall. I bent and picked it up.
For a second, all I could think about was Lila in some hotel room right now, getting a call from Grant, being told the industry had found another way to put us beside each other and call it opportunity.
Her original master. Her end-credit win.
Her name. And then, because the internet had foamed at the mouth, they wanted me in the frame too.
No wonder she thought I swallowed rooms.
"I'm going to fix the credit," I said.
Grant paused. "What?"
"If they want a duet, her name goes first."
"Evan."
"She wrote it. Her master is the reason they want the version. Her name goes first."
"That's a good instinct," Grant said. "Which terrifies me because your good instincts usually arrive carrying a flamethrower."
"I'm not asking her. I'm not deciding for her. I'm deciding what I'll tolerate in rooms where I'm standing."
Grant was quiet long enough that I checked the screen to make sure the call hadn't dropped.
"Okay," he said. "That might actually be growth."
"Don't sound so shocked."
"I am shocked. Deeply. Spiritually."
I almost smiled.
"But listen to me," Grant said. "You do not get to use that as a grand gesture. You do not look at her after, like, see, I did feminism, now kiss me."
"I wasn't going to."
"You thought about it."
"Briefly."
"Jesus Christ."
"Kidding."
"Were you?"
"No."
"Appreciate the honesty. Hate the content."
I sat back down on the bed and tucked the guitar into its case, gentle as if it might bite. For once, it didn't feel like a solution. Just a silent witness to my mess.
"What time?" I asked.
"Car leaves in thirty."
"Separate cars?"
"Yes."
Good. That was good. Disappointing, sure, because apparently my brain was still gunning for the lead role in Idiots Who Ruin Their Own Love Stories. But still. Good.
"Evan," Grant said before I could hang up.
"Yeah?"
"She is going to look tired. She is going to look guarded. Do not treat being near you as comfort."
That one hit hard because I wanted comfort. I wanted to be the place she came when everything got too loud, the door she opened, the hand she took, the song that steadied her. Once, maybe I had been close to that. Lately, I had been another alarm.
"I know," I said.
Grant's answer came back quieter. "Then act like it."
The studio was in an industrial strip, trying hard to look artistic rather than expensive. Clean brick, black-framed windows, a tiny coffee shop next door selling eight-dollar lattes to people who said "authentic" too often.
My SUV pulled in behind another black car. Lila was already there.
I saw her before she saw me. She stood near the side entrance with Grant, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands, hair tied back low.
No stage glitter, no armor except fabric and distance.
Her face looked pale in the winter light, but her chin was up.
Of course it was. Lila Russell could be falling apart and still look like she was about to argue with gravity.
I got out of the car and stopped too far away on purpose.
Her gaze flicked to me, held for half a second, then moved away.
Necessary.
The producer met us inside, all expensive sneakers, razor-sharp hair, and the kind of caffeinated enthusiasm that made me want to unplug the nearest soundboard just to see what would happen.
"Lila," he said, extending a hand. "So glad you could make it." His tone made it sound optional. Nothing about this was optional.
She shook his hand briefly. "Hi."
He turned to me. "And Evan. Man. Last night was insane."
Lila's shoulders tightened, tiny. I saw it.
"It was a show," I said, flat enough that his smile lost a tooth.
Grant's eyes cut to mine. A warning: not yet. Fine.
The producer clapped his hands. "Okay, tight window, brutal tour schedule, you know the drill." He herded us down a hallway lined with framed records and photos of artists looking smug about awards they probably hadn't dusted in years.
I kept two steps behind Lila. Not close enough for the producer to call it chemistry, not far enough to pretend I wasn't aware of every inch between us.
We stopped outside a control room. Through the glass I could see the mixing console, two chairs, and an engineer with headphones around his neck. He looked like a man who had already regretted several career choices today.
The producer opened the door. "This is the plan. Duet version for the soundtrack album. Minimal arrangement. Intimate. The vibe is raw."
Lila's jaw tightened. I watched the word hit her and hated the man for saying it like raw was a paint color.
He pointed toward the booth. "You'll have five hours. If we nail it sooner, you leave sooner. If not, you still leave when the clock says so because the tour comes first. We're not trying to wreck anyone's voice."
Lila nodded. I didn't.