21. Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-One
Evan
Ishould've known the second the lights dimmed.
Not because the crowd shifted into that restless, hungry pre-show buzz.
Not because Finn walked onstage with the expression of a man who knew where a body was buried and had already picked out the shovel.
Not even because Lila stepped into the spotlight like a war general instead of a girl with a guitar.
I should've known because she didn't look nervous.
Lila always had one tiny tell before a set. She touched the edge of her guitar strap, once, twice, like she was checking the ground beneath her feet before she jumped.
Tonight, she didn't touch it.
She walked to the mic, adjusted the stand, and looked out at twenty thousand people like she had invited them there specifically to witness a crime.
My hand tightened around the neck of my guitar. Miles stood beside me in the wing, drumsticks tucked in his back pocket, chewing gum with the focus of a man trying not to comment. Which was smart, and rare for him.
Onstage, Lila leaned toward the mic. "This is a new one," she said.
The crowd screamed. Of course they did. They loved new, loved the thrill of feeling like they were present for something they could clip, caption, and claim before the night was over.
Then she played the first chord.
I didn't recognize it, not at first. The melody was sharp and clean, not sad in the way people expected of her. Meaner than that. Pretty enough to get close, then quick with the knife.
Then she opened her mouth.
"You always said I was the calm before your storm, but I think you liked it better when I broke, splintered myself just to soften your thunder while I kissed you like a secret I was scared the world would know."
The words hit before I understood them. Then I understood them.
They were hers. Entirely hers. Not a line I'd written, not a melody I'd touched, not a chorus stolen from old voice memos or late-night demos. This wasn't the unfinished song I had dragged into the light because I wanted her to feel it.
This was our autopsy, and I hadn't been invited to identify the body.
I stepped back into the shadow of the wing.
The crowd swayed, already hooked. They didn't know. That was the thing that made my skin prickle. They didn't know this wasn't just a song. They didn't know she was cutting me open in real time while they lifted their phones and screamed like she'd handed them a party favor.
This was our song, but I hadn't written a single word of it.
"You said love was louder than silence, but all I heard was your echo telling me I'd never be enough to keep you."
The audience softened on the verse, that collective hush performers lived for. I hated them for it, unfair and petty and true anyway. They were listening to her hurt and calling it beautiful.
Which was exactly what they had done to mine.
The thought landed ugly. I shoved it away.
For one vicious second, I wanted to ruin her back. Walk out there and play "Linger" like a weapon, smile through the bridge, make her watch me survive her, make the crowd scream so loud she'd know I could still turn my pain into something they wanted.
The thought passed. Shame stayed.
Because I'd already done that, hadn't I? Maybe not on purpose the first time, maybe not cleanly. But I had stood under lights with private things in my mouth and called it art. I'd played pieces of us and acted shocked when she bled.
Lila's fingers moved over the strings with brutal precision. She was steady. That almost hurt more.
"So here's your chorus: May it haunt you in your sleep. May the next girl hear my echo in every song you keep."
The crowd went feral. A wave of gasps and cheers lit up the room, and phone screens lit up the room. Somewhere backstage, someone muttered, "Holy shit."
Miles stopped chewing. I stood completely still.
My hands were clenched around my guitar so tight I felt the strings bite my palm. I loosened my grip before I snapped something expensive. Or myself.
She didn't look at me, not once. She didn't have to. Every lyric knew my address.
"You write love songs with someone else's name, but you'll choke on mine when the lights go down."
The lights shifted across her face, red then gold then white. She looked furious and beautiful and not even a little sorry.
Good for her. No. I didn't know anymore.
The bridge came quieter, which was cruel because it made everyone lean in.
"You called me yours in rooms with locked doors. I called that love until it hurt. Now I'm singing where they all can hear me. You don't get the only words."
There it was. The mirror, not subtle, not forgiving, and not wrong.
So this was what it felt like. To have someone take the part of you that still bled and make it sing for strangers.
My throat tightened around a laugh that had no humor in it. I deserved some of it. Not all. Enough. That was the problem with a good song. It didn't have to be fair to be true.
Finn appeared beside me somewhere before the last chorus. I didn't look at him.
"For the record," he said quietly, "I told her this was lyrical terrorism."
A harsh breath left me, might have been a laugh, might have been the last functional part of my pride leaving the building.
"You gonna be able to go out after that?" he asked.
I kept my eyes on Lila. She hit the chorus again, stronger this time.
The crowd sang part of it back already, stumbling over the words but trying.
By tomorrow, they'd know every line. By the end of the week, there would be edits.
The internet would put my face beside hers, mine every lyric for evidence, call it iconic, call it revenge, call it whatever got the most views.
I wondered if she'd hate that part. I wondered if she'd pretend not to.
"Do I have a choice?" I asked.
Finn tilted his head. "Not unless you want 'Evan Walker has backstage breakdown mid-tour' to trend."
"Catchy."
"Needs punctuation."
I looked at him then. He wasn't smiling. That was worse.
"I'm sorry," he said.
I didn't know which of us he was apologizing for. Maybe both.
Onstage, Lila hit the final chord like it owed her money. The sound rang out, sharp and final. Her hair clung to her face, damp with sweat. Her chest rose and fell fast. She looked out at the crowd as they roared for the wound she'd turned into a weapon.
She bowed. Then she walked offstage, straight toward the wing, toward me.
For one stupid second, I thought she might look. One glance, one flicker, one sign that she knew exactly what she'd done and cared enough to watch the damage land.
She walked right past me. Eyes ahead, chin high, like I didn't exist, like she hadn't just handed me my own heart, pressed a match to it, and let twelve thousand people cheer for the smoke.
"Places," someone called.
Of course. The machine never waited. Not for heartbreak, not for shame, not for whatever piece of me was still standing in the wing watching Lila disappear down the hallway.
Miles clapped a hand on my shoulder. "You good?"
"No."
He nodded. "Yeah. Didn't think so."
The stage manager pointed at me. Thirty seconds.
I stepped toward the stage. The guitar felt wrong in my hands, too heavy, too familiar, a weapon I kept pretending was only an instrument.
The crowd started chanting our name.
Arcadia. Arcadia. Arcadia.
I wiped my palm against my jeans. Then I stepped into the light with a smile that felt like glass.
The roar hit me in the chest. Usually, that sound fixed something. Not tonight. Tonight it felt like proof. They would cheer anything if you bled pretty enough.
I walked to the mic and looked out at all those faces.
For half a second, I almost played "Linger," not because it was on the setlist, but because I wanted to answer.
Because I wanted to drag her back into the song with me and make the room pick a side.
Because I was still angry enough to be stupid.
Then I saw the empty spot near the wing where she'd vanished.
I changed the first song. Not to "Linger," not to anything about her. Something loud and fast and mean enough to keep me upright without handing the crowd another piece of us.
Miles caught the switch three beats late but recovered because he was a menace and a professional. The crowd didn't know. They screamed anyway.
I played our set with hands that shook and a voice that cracked halfway through the ballad she used to mouth from the front row.
I didn't look toward the wing again.