40. Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty
Lila
Six months later, the buses were mine.
That was the first thing I noticed every day when I stepped into the venue lot.
My name was printed on the side of the biggest bus. My name was clipped to the lanyards that got people backstage. My name sat at the top of the call sheet, and nobody acted surprised anymore.
It still surprised me. It made me pause, breathe, and remember exactly who I was before people tried to frame me as an accessory.
I stood at the Nashville loading dock, clutching my coffee like a crutch, hoodie zipped over my soundcheck tee, hair losing its war with a clip.
A runner zipped by with an armload of merch, and a stagehand rolled a road case past me with the kind of swagger you only earn after ten years and zero sleep.
Harper leaned against a stack of speaker covers, drumsticks tucked into the back pocket of her jeans, headset on because she had somehow become drummer, creative director, and unofficial emotional bouncer.
Power suited her.
Finn walked up beside me with a folded paper schedule, expression calm. "We're on time. Your lighting team is early."
I glanced at him. "Who are you and what did you do with the real Finn?"
His mouth twitched. "I'm thriving in your competent era."
Harper pulled her headset off one ear. "Don't jinx it."
I took a sip of coffee. Scalding, perfect, absolutely non-negotiable. My body still ran on tour logic: mornings were a fever dream, nights were a marathon, and sleep was something I bargained for like a desperate contestant on a reality show.
I glanced across the lot. Fans were already clustering at the barricades, hours before doors, clutching signs, phones, and glittery posters with my lyrics spelled out in sparkly ink.
One security guy waved from the gate. I raised my coffee in a salute, because what else do you do when your name is in glitter?
This was what I always wanted. An honest career. Full credit. A stage that didn't require me to become smaller.
"Your mom texted," Finn said, too casual.
My hand tightened around the coffee cup. "What did she say?"
Finn held up his phone and showed me the message without reading it out loud.
A selfie of my mom in a robe, hair wild, holding up a magazine with my face on it. Underneath, a single sentence.
You look real. I wish I'd known you could feel real while loved.
My next breath tripped over itself and landed somewhere in my throat.
Harper watched my face. "Bad?"
I shook my head. "No. Good."
Her expression changed. "Okay."
I stared at the message for a beat longer, then handed Finn his phone back. "I'll call her after soundcheck."
Finn nodded. "She'll cry."
My mouth twitched. "So will I."
Harper shoved her headset back on. "Cry later. We have a show."
I laughed, a little shaky, and felt the knot in my chest loosen. "Yes, boss."
Harper's face went flat. "You're welcome."
We moved toward the stage entrance as the venue woke up around us. Crew members crossed paths, radios crackling with clipped words and confirmations. Someone shouted about a missing mic stand. Someone else shouted back that they found it.
The chaos felt familiar now. A rhythm I could ride.
Soundcheck started with my band running through the first chorus of my opener, the one that hit fast and made the crowd scream before I even said hello. I stood center stage with my in-ears in, guitar strap across my shoulder, and sang into the empty seats like they were full.
I had learned to treat emptiness with the same respect I gave a packed house. It trained my body. It trained my voice. It kept me honest.
"Kick drum is hot," Harper called from behind the kit, one stick pointed toward the sound booth like a tiny threat.
I nodded and adjusted my mic position, then ran the verse again. The sound engineer made a face, pushed a slider, and gave a thumbs-up.
Grant stood near the front row, watching. There were no frantic whispers anymore. No surprise at how well I carried a room. He looked calm, which was both comforting and mildly suspicious.
The song ended. I pulled my in-ears out slightly. "How's it feel?"
Grant grinned. "Expensive."
I rolled my eyes. "That's not feedback."
"It's a compliment," Harper muttered.
Finn stepped closer. "Press is coming after the show. Joint slot."
My stomach dipped. "With both of us?"
Finn nodded. "You already approved it."
"I know."
Harper pulled her headset off again, eyes narrowing. "Who's it with?"
Finn checked the paper. "Entertainment Weekly. Their streaming segment. They want the full-circle angle."
Harper's jaw tightened. "Of course they do."
My pulse pretended to be steady, even though my stomach was tying itself in knots. "We're good."
Harper stared at me. "Are you?"
My mouth twitched. "Yes."
Finn's expression stayed calm. "Then act like it. Boring answers. Clear boundaries."
"I know the script."
Harper's eyes sharpened. "What script?"
"The one where I'm honest, and nobody gets to twist it."
Harper's mouth curved, almost proud. "Good."
Soundcheck rolled on. I ran through one more chorus, then hopped off stage. My voice felt ready, my hands steady, my brain laser-focused on the show, the lighting cues, and the fact that Nashville crowds never did quiet.
Ever.
I ducked into my dressing room, swapped into my first look, and plopped into the chair while my stylist worked her magic.
Finn sat in the corner with his laptop open, answering emails with the speed of someone who had decided stress was optional. Harper paced near the door, headset dangling around her neck, checking her phone.
I watched Harper for a second. "You're nervous."
Her eyes snapped up. "I'm fine."
Finn didn't look up. "She's lying."
Harper glared at him. "You're annoying."
His mouth twitched. "Thank you."
My stylist finished and stepped back. "You look incredible."
I smiled. "Thanks."
She left. The door clicked shut.
Harper's expression changed, the humor fading. "He's here."
My pulse jumped, then steadied. "I know."
Harper blinked. "You do?"
"I got the text from his publicist. It's handled."
Her mouth tightened. "I hate surprises."
"You love surprises if you're the one doing them."
Her eyes narrowed. "That's different."
Finn looked up, amused. "He's opening one night. It's a controlled surprise. Lila approved it two weeks ago."
Harper stared at Finn. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"You would've tried to control it."
"I would've tried to make it safe."
I met her stare. "It is safe."
Harper's gaze stayed sharp and protective. "Consent check."
I didn't roll my eyes. I never did with that question.
"Yes. Clear yes. My idea too."
Harper held my gaze for a beat, then nodded. "Okay."
I exhaled. "Okay."
The surprise opener was a risk for the internet, since it loved drama. It loved power games. It loved narratives where a man opening for a woman was either humiliating or romantic.
I refused both storylines.
Evan had offered over the phone two weeks ago.
If you want it, I'll do it. If you don't, I won't.
I had stared at the wall for a long moment, then said yes.
Because I wanted the world to see the truth the way we lived it. He was my partner. Not my plus-one. Not my secret. Not my shadow. Not anything less than a choice.
Doors opened.
The venue filled.
Crowd noise rose from a hum into a roar that vibrated under my ribs. I stood backstage with my guitar in hand, listening to the audience chant my name in waves.
My name.
Finn stood near the curtain with a calm smile, then nodded toward the stage entrance. "He's up."
My heart kicked once.
I moved to the side, just out of view, where I could see the stage without being seen. Harper stood at her kit now, headset gone, sticks in hand, eyes locked on the stage manager's cue.
The house lights dimmed.
A cheer rose, then another. Fans screamed when the first chord hit.
Evan walked onto my stage.
He wore a simple black tee and dark jeans. No dramatic look. No attempt to turn it into his show. His guitar hung across his chest. He moved with ease because the stage was still his native language.
He also moved with restraint because tonight wasn't about taking over.
The crowd reacted exactly as crowds do when they get something unexpected. They screamed. They shouted his name. They shouted mine. Someone yelled, "Twilight!" and my mouth twitched despite myself.
Evan stepped to the mic and waited until the noise settled enough for him to speak.
"Hey," he said. "Thank you for having me."
The crowd cheered.
Evan scanned the room, then smiled slightly. "This is Lila's night."
The crowd screamed louder.
My chest tightened.
He lifted a hand. "Seriously. I'm here because she asked me to be."
The sound shifted. The frenzy turned into something sharper, closer to shock.
Fans loved the sentence asked me to be, because it placed power exactly where it belonged.
Evan continued. "So don't make this weird."
I laughed silently backstage.
Harper glanced over, one brow lifting.
I held up a finger: he's doing it right.
Her mouth twitched with grudging approval.
Evan played a short set. Not his biggest hits. Not the songs that would pull the spotlight away. He chose songs that fit my crowd, songs that felt like a bridge. One slower track that let him fill the room without forcing anyone to compare. One upbeat track that made the crowd jump.
He didn't mention the past. Didn't mention heartbreak. Didn't perform confession.
He performed respect.
When he finished, he stepped back from the mic and held up his hands in a small gesture. "I'm going to get out of the way before Harper tackles me."
The crowd laughed.
My eyebrows shot up. "Did he just say Harper?"
Harper's head snapped toward me, appalled. "He did not."
Finn's mouth twitched. "He absolutely did."
Harper muttered, "I will kill him," but she was smiling.
Evan nodded to the crowd once more, then looked toward the side-stage area where I stood hidden. He didn't wave. Didn't call me out. He just gave me a small, private nod.