3. Chapter Three
Chapter Three
Lila
The day I gave Uncle Grant the song, my hands shook. Not cute, delicate trembles either. The kind where every chord felt like it might slide sideways and expose me as a fraud with decent eyeliner.
I played it live for my parents in Grant's office, sitting in the chair across from his desk with my guitar balanced on my knee and my future apparently sweating through my shirt.
I'd rehearsed it more than a dozen times alone. I'd sung it into my bathroom mirror, into my phone, into the steering wheel at red lights like an absolute hazard to society. I'd told myself I was ready.
Then I started playing and saw my mom's eyes soften. The nerves came roaring back.
It felt less like performing and more like standing trial. Here was the evidence. Here was who I was. Here was what I could do. A love ballad written in the wreckage of one, offered up with a smile I had to force into place.
They loved it. They said it gave them chills. They said they were proud of me.
My mom actually clasped her hands under her chin, her whole face lit up with that unguarded joy she usually saved for the first bite of frosting. My dad leaned back in his chair, eyes half-lidded, listening the way he listened to stories, as if he were weighing the truth.
Grant leaned against his desk, arms crossed, doing that annoying manager thing where he tried to look neutral even though his face was clearly plotting.
For a moment, I believed them. I believed in the version of the world where talent met luck, and doors flew open because, yes, you were born into the right family, but you also worked your ass off once you got there.
I practically carved my Grammy acceptance speech into the frosting of my celebration cake, right next to CONGRATS, LILA! in pink icing.
So imagine my surprise when I found out, on TikTok of all godforsaken places, that Arcadia Drive got the soundtrack slot instead.
Arcadia. Freaking. Drive.
Their glossy new teaser was stitched together with fans crying, screaming, and spinning in slow motion in front of their screens.
People posted reaction videos with their hands shaking.
Captions made it seem like the song had descended from the heavens and cured their seasonal depression.
One girl had tears in her eyes and a tattoo of Evan's signature on her shoulder.
And there it was. Not my melody, not my lyrics. The place my song was supposed to live, filled by his voice.
The room went too hot. My phone felt heavier than it should have. I watched the teaser twice, then three times, as if repetition might change the ending, as if the next loop would reveal a punchline and a director yelling cut.
It didn't.
I planned to never forgive them. Not Grant, not the studio, not even my parents, even though they swore they didn't know.
Apparently they didn't have final say. The studio did.
And the studio went with the band "Hotter Than Hell," which is currently trending under #EvanWalkerDaddy, which made me want to throw my phone into a lake and then apologize to the fish.
My parents felt awful when I told them. My mom kept touching my shoulder as if she could physically undo it. My dad paced once around Grant's office, muttering under his breath about contracts, executives, and the way art gets eaten alive by marketing.
But I planned to stay mad at least until they bought me the guitar they'd already promised for graduation. I mean, what's the point of being a nepo baby if all I get out of it is trauma and cake?
We were still in Grant's office when he leaned back in his chair, eyes gleaming with his signature I'm-about-to-drop-a-bomb grin. The man lived for drama. If he could have theme music for his entrances, he would absolutely make someone else pay for the licensing.
"But I do have amazing news," Grant said.
My body betrayed me by hoping. "The studio changed their mind? They're using my song after all?"
"That would be like your mom actually picking me over your dad."
My mom leaned in with mock seriousness, hand pressed to her chest. "Lila, sweetheart, we have something to tell you. Grant's your real father."
"If that were true, I'd probably burn less in the sun," I said, motioning between his deep brown skin and my ghostly pale complexion.
"It would've been an iconic twist, though," Grant admitted.
My dad made a sound that could've been a laugh or a warning and kept sipping his coffee like he wasn't surrounded by idiots.
"So?" I crossed my arms, trying not to hope too hard. Hope had already embarrassed me today. I didn't need it doing an encore. "What's the real news?"
Grant couldn't hold it in anymore. "You're going on tour."
"I'm sorry, what?"
He kept talking, but for a second all I heard was the blood rushing in my ears.
Tour. The word hit like a door swinging open and smacking me in the face. My brain went white noise, then straight to flight. I was already reaching for my phone, already standing, already moving, because if I stayed still I might actually combust.
I hit FaceTime before the fear could catch up.
"WE'RE GOING ON TOUR!" I screamed into the camera, practically vibrating.
From the speaker came a scream so loud and high-pitched it could only be Finn.
Grant folded his arms, looking insufferably pleased with himself. "Yes, Uncle Grant pulled it off. The studio thinks it's great PR. Daughter of Oliver and Molly Russell touring with the soundtrack of the movie, opening for Arcadia Drive. Win-win."
The joy dropped out from under me.
Opening for Arcadia Drive. The words rearranged the room.
Grant's office corkboard had a tour lineup poster freshly pinned to it, the paper so new it still looked stiff, the ink too sharp. Evan's face sat centered on the design, backlit like some indie-rock deity with cheekbones and unresolved emotional damage.
My stomach twisted. A dream and a nightmare, wrapped in laminated credentials.
"What even is my life?" I whispered.
My mom's face changed first. She knew me too well. Not the Evan part, obviously. If she knew that, there would have been screaming, crying, and at least one stress cake. But she knew the shape of panic on me.
"Lila," she said carefully.
"Nope." I held up one finger. "No mom voice."
"That wasn't mom voice."
"That was absolutely mom voice."
My dad looked between us. "There are levels?"
"There are so many levels," Grant said. "I've been emotionally damaged by at least six."
"I'm fine," I said. Nobody believed me. Rude, honestly.
Grant's grin softened, which was worse. Drama Grant I could handle. Gentle Grant made me want to crawl into the nearest supply closet and form a long-term relationship with a mop.
"The studio really did like your song," he said. "This isn't a consolation prize."
"Feels shiny and consolation-y."
"It's an opportunity."
"That's manager language for 'please don't cry on my carpet.'"
"It's imported," he said. "So yes."
My dad set his coffee down. "You don't have to say yes because of us."
I looked at him. There it was again. The kindness that made everything harder.
My parents were not forcing me into anyone's shadow. They never had. That was the annoying part. My whole life, the shadow had been cast by everyone else. Fans. Media. Strangers with opinions and Wi-Fi.
And now a studio had taken the place where my song was supposed to go, filled it with Evan Walker's voice, and then handed me a tour slot like a bouquet tossed from a moving car.
"That Evan Walker is pretty hot, though," my mom said, deeply unhelpful.
I snapped my head toward her. "Ew. He's young enough to be your son."
She lifted a shoulder. "Too scared to call him daddy?"
"WHAT? Shut up." My face went nuclear. "He's not even my type."
My dad, sipping coffee in the corner again like he hadn't just witnessed emotional treason, raised an eyebrow. "Right. Perfection isn't your type. I'm straight, and even I think that boy is my type."
I stared at him. He stared back. Grant coughed into his fist, which badly disguised a laugh.
They didn't know. They weren't supposed to know.
Evan wasn't some sexy stranger lighting up their feeds.
He was the boy who had broken me in two, even if I was the one holding the hammer.
Hearing them fawn over him like he was just another celebrity thirst trap made something sharp scrape behind my ribs.
"Can we please stop talking about Evan Walker before I throw myself out a window?" I snapped. "What's the rest of the news?"
Grant's brows jumped. My mother's eyes narrowed by half a degree. My dad's coffee cup paused near his mouth.
Great. Subtle as a cymbal crash, Lila.
Grant recovered first because he was a professional chaos. "The rest of the news is simple. If you say yes, your band goes with you. Opening act. Selected dates. Big venues. Actual stage lights. Catering that may or may not include edible fruit."
Finn screamed again from my phone. I had forgotten he was still on FaceTime until his face filled the screen, upside down and blurry.
"Did he say catering?"
"Finn."
"Ask if there's hummus."
"I'm not asking about hummus."
"Tour hummus could make or break us as artists."
Harper's voice shouted from somewhere behind him. "Ask about the hotel situation!"
Grant leaned toward the phone. "Tell Harper there will be hotels."
Finn vanished from the frame. There was muffled yelling, then a thud.
My mom smiled. My dad watched me.
That was the problem with being loved by people who paid attention. They laughed at the jokes, but they heard the silence underneath.
"I need air," I said. I didn't wait for permission.
I escaped the emotional tsunami by ducking into something real. Something that didn't revolve around hashtags, contracts, and fate having a sick little chuckle in the corner.
I went to my music kids.