35. Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Five
Lila
Three months after the coffee shop incident (yes, that one), my life looked squeaky clean online.
The photos were clean. Captions, too. Perfect little sound bites, clipped into vertical videos, played with just the right lighting and music.
My cheekbones caught the light like they’d been personally coached. My hair gleamed, my smile was the kind you rehearse in the bathroom mirror and hope nobody notices.
None of it was easy, no matter how many filters I threw at it.
I stood in a rented studio, jacket being stabbed with pins by a stylist who looked like she’d rather be anywhere else.
The photographer kept telling me to "think powerful" while I blinked through Sahara-level dryness under the lights.
Grant was in the corner talking deadlines with the editor, and the makeup artist dabbed powder under my eyes like she was on a personal mission to sponge away my exhaustion.
I did it anyway. At first, I felt a little jolt of pride—this was my work, my name, my inbox full of real offers.
When I picked the headlining run, I was buzzing.
But then the story started to twist into something the internet didn’t expect, and suddenly I was stuck somewhere between confused and frustrated, like I’d missed a plot twist in my own movie.
Lila Russell, solo.
Grant called it the beginning of something big. I called it absolutely terrifying, but with better lighting.
The tour announcement went out on a Tuesday at nine a.m. exactly, because Grant said algorithms loved optimism before lunch.
A graphic hit my socials. My name in large letters. Dates in smaller font under it. Cities I had dreamed about. Venues that didn't have Evan's name anywhere on the poster.
I stared at the screen in my hotel room, phone trembling in my hand, half-convinced the whole thing would disappear if I so much as blinked. Like a Cinderella spell, but with more Wi-Fi.
Then the numbers started to move.
Followers exploded. Comments went off like popcorn. Presale links spread faster than a rumor in a high school hallway. Fans shrieked in all caps (which I pretended to hate, but secretly loved for the adrenaline).
You deserve this. Finally. We're coming.
I cried in the bathroom, because Grant didn’t need to see the meltdown. Doubt tangled with relief in my chest. I splashed my face, fixed my hair, and walked out like I was born for this, even if my hands were still shaking.
The magazine covers followed fast, like the industry had been waiting for someone to say yes and give them a narrative that didn't require a man's shadow.
One music mag had never put an opener on their cover before.
Grant kept repeating it, louder each time, like maybe if he said it enough my brain would finally believe it.
Another was a glossy lifestyle thing that asked about my skincare routine, and I lied through my teeth, because the real answer was water, spite, and whatever half-dried makeup wipe I could dig out of my bag.
The interviews blurred together. I talked about writing, touring, the end credits placement, and how strange it felt to see my name roll over a movie screen.
I did not talk about Evan.
I didn't mention him in a headline-ready way. I didn't feed the shipper crowd or give them a romance to sell.
When asked about the "viral tension," I smiled politely and said, "I'm grateful people connect to the music."
It was the only sentence that never felt like a lie.
The day the first magazine cover hit stands, Grant tossed it onto the table in my dressing room, grinning like he had personally fought the printer.
"There," he said. "Look at you."
I looked.
My own face stared back at me, all sharp lines and direct eyes, styled within an inch of its life. The headline called me the voice you can’t ignore, which felt both flattering and slightly threatening.
Harper leaned into my doorway, eyes widening. "Okay. That's rude."
I blinked. "What?"
She pointed at the cover. "It's rude that you look that good."
I laughed, and something tight in my chest finally cracked. "You’re ridiculous."
Harper walked in and picked it up, scanning the text. "They wrote 'industry shift.' That's hilarious."
Grant's eyes flashed. "It's accurate."
Harper lifted a brow. "She's going to faint."
"I'm not going to faint."
Harper looked at Grant. "She's going to faint."
I didn’t faint. But when pride and disbelief started wrestling in my chest, I had to sit down before my heart pounded right out of my ribcage.
On the other side of the country, Evan's album went platinum.
I knew because I wasn't a monk. I knew because the internet loved a headline. I knew because his name still sat in the corners of my world like a shadow I refused to chase.
A notification popped up on my phone while I was chewing on catering chicken that tasted suspiciously like regret.
EVAN WALKER'S NEW ALBUM CERTIFIED PLATINUM
The photo showed him holding the plaque, grin wide, arm around his producer. Confetti somewhere behind him.
I stared at it. Longer than I wanted to admit.
He looked happy. He looked older, too. There was a new heaviness in his eyes, a seriousness tucked behind his smile that made my chest ache in a way that wasn’t quite jealousy, but close enough to sting.
Good, I thought. Then I thought it again, firmer. Good.
I meant it.
Another headline followed a week later.
EVAN WALKER TAPPED FOR FESTIVAL HEADLINER SLOT
Festival headliner. Of course he was. He belonged on that stage the way some people belonged in water. It wasn't fair. It was also real.
His talent had never been my enemy. My throat tightened anyway.
Because success doesn’t erase longing. Every new achievement brought a little pride, sure, but it also dragged the old ache out into the spotlight and handed it a microphone.
We didn't communicate. Not one text after that coffee shop, after the messy kiss that made strangers stare and then forget us in ten seconds.
No check-ins, no "I'm proud of you," no "I saw the cover," no "the presale sold out."
We had promised each other: spotlight, invite-only. He held it. So did I, even when my fingers itched.
We weren't ignoring each other. Ignoring was easy. This was harder. This was choosing not to reach before we knew what reaching meant.
Instead, we did the modern version of silence: noticing each other from a distance and pretending it meant nothing.
We noticed each other.
It started with a sunset.
From a hotel balcony in Phoenix, I posted a sunset: sky washed orange, city lights flickering on below. No caption—just a small lyric from my song. I was trying to keep my page centered on music, not feelings.
Ten minutes later, Evan posted a sunset too. Different city. Same tone. The same shade of orange fading into purple. No caption. Just the sky.
I stared at it like it had whispered my name and dared me to answer.
I told myself it was a coincidence.
Then it happened again.
A week later, I posted a photo of my boots on a loading dock, the edge of the stage visible, the sky turning dim behind it. Five minutes later, his story showed his boots on a different dock. Same angle. Same timing. Same quiet.
Fans noticed before I let myself admit it. The comments started to shift.
Twilight is back. They're doing it again. Same timing. Same sky.
The nickname returned, too, dragged from the earlier chaos of the tour, when fans had decided we were a tragic romance and labeled us with a word that made me roll my eyes even as it made my chest ache.
Twilight. Because we existed in the in-between, apparently. Because our moments happened at edges. Because the internet loved a theme and never knew when to leave a wounded animal alone.
I hated it. I also saved one of his sunset posts to my camera roll and pretended it was for lighting reference.
Twice, interviewers asked Evan about me. Twice, he redirected them to my music and left my name out of his mouth like it was something he'd been trusted to hold, not use.
Once, a host tried to joke that my tour was "the Evan Walker heartbreak spinoff," and Evan's face went so flat the clip became its own meme. He said, "Her tour is her tour. Talk about the songs." Then he changed the subject so smoothly the host looked like he'd been robbed in daylight.
I watched that clip three times. For research. Obviously.
Harper caught me once, sprawled on my dressing room couch, thumb hovering over Evan's story with the sound off.
She didn't say anything right away. She leaned on the doorframe and watched me watch.
I glanced up, caught, and immediately locked my phone.
Harper's mouth twitched. "Did the sky look good?"
I glared. "Go away."
She pushed off the frame and strolled in. "You're doing great."
"That's ominous."
"It's not." She plopped onto the chair by my mirror and kicked her boots onto the edge of the rug without asking. "Your presale in Chicago is insane."
"Yeah."
Harper studied me for a beat. "And you miss him."
I stared at her. "No."
She lifted a brow. "Okay."
"I'm not doing this."
"You don't have to do anything." Harper leaned forward. "You can feel it and still choose your lane."
My chest tightened. "That's what I'm doing."
"Good. Because your lane is huge now."
I swallowed.
Harper's gaze shifted with something too knowing. "He's holding the line."
I looked away. "I know."
"Which," she continued, too casually to be casual, "means if you ever invite him in, it won't be a grab. It'll be a step."
"Stop talking."
Harper smirked. "Fine. I'll talk about something else. Your PR team is in the hallway looking stressed."
My stomach dropped. "Why?"
Her smile turned mean. "Romantic statement."
Of course.