25. Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Five
Lila
Istepped off the tour bus with my backpack digging into one shoulder and my hair doing that thing where it pretended it had never met humidity.
The morning air hit cold enough to wake up my skin.
It also woke up my phone. Two new notifications from Grant, one text from my mom, fourteen from people I hadn't talked to since high school, all suddenly concerned about my soul because a blurry clip of me leaving a hotel near Evan Walker had found its way onto the internet.
I didn't open any of them.
A security guard in a black windbreaker gave me a quick nod and a bored scan, the same expression he used for crew passes and overconfident fans who tried to flirt their way past a barricade. I flashed my laminate and walked inside.
My pass said, Artist. My chest said Try not to die.
Backstage was already busy in that loud specific way that meant nothing had actually started.
Cables snaked across the concrete. Someone rolled a road case by with a label that said DRUMS in thick black marker, as if the case might forget who it was when it grew up.
A crew member in a headset called out something about a missing XLR, and someone else yelled back a location I couldn't catch over the echo.
Tour life was chaos with a schedule. Chaos that would still, somehow, be my fault if I was five minutes late.
I followed the familiar path toward the greenroom, past the dressing room hallway, past a door that was always propped open because the lock didn't work, past the wall that had become a collage of Sharpie signatures from every band that had ever sweated here.
The stage manager, a woman with a clipboard and a stare that could pin you to the floor, looked me up and down as I approached. "Lila," she said, not asking. "Soundcheck in twenty. You got your in-ears?"
"I have them. They are currently in my bag, which is attached to my body. I cannot lose them unless I lose a limb."
She didn't smile. That was fine. I had learned that the stage manager's laughter was a myth, possibly invented by exhausted lighting techs for morale.
"And your track?"
"On my laptop. Backed up to a drive. Backed up to the cloud. Backed up to the part of my brain that won't let me sleep."
She checked something off. "Good. Be on stage at ten."
"Ten," I repeated.
She looked past me, eyes narrowing slightly. "And if the headliner shows up early, keep your hands to yourself."
I froze. "Sorry?"
Her gaze stayed steady. "Crowd's already building outside. People are hungry for a story. Don't feed them."
A laugh tried to climb out of my throat and got stuck. "I don't know what you think is happening."
"I think you're on a tour with an idiot who believes feelings are a guitar solo. I think you're talented. I think you're tired. I think you don't want to be the reason the internet gets new content."
My cheeks warmed. Traitors.
"Noted," I said.
She nodded, satisfied, and moved on, already barking at someone else.
I stood there for a beat, staring after her clipboard as if it held secrets about my life. It didn't. It held times, set lists, and reminders that a venue's Wi-Fi password was usually something humiliating.
Keep your hands to yourself. It wasn't that I planned to do anything. It was that my body didn't always listen when Evan was close. My body was a traitor with good taste.
I took a breath and walked toward my dressing room. The door had my name on a strip of paper taped crookedly at eye level.
LILA RUSSELL
Inside was the standard touring-room setup. A couch that had seen better decades. A mirror ringed with lights that made me look either glamorous or haunted depending on the angle. A small table with a fruit tray that had two sad grapes, one bruised apple, and a pile of pretzels.
There was also a handwritten note on the mirror.
Don't hide today. You deserve the stage.
My fingers went still around the strap of my bag.
Because I knew his handwriting. I knew it from set lists scribbled on napkins, notes left on hotel pads, lyric fragments written across receipts at two in the morning because Evan could put his heart in a chorus faster than he could say one honest sentence out loud.
I peeled the note off the mirror, folded it, and tucked it into my pocket before I could think better of it. I didn't need it. That didn't change the way my fingers held it too carefully.
I dropped my bag on the couch, pulled out my in-ears, and set up my laptop on the table. My hands moved through the routine on autopilot, the same muscle memory that kept me from falling apart in front of strangers. Open session, check track, check backup, check mic, check pulse.
My phone buzzed again. I ignored it. I didn't need the internet telling me who I was. I already had enough people auditioning for that job.
Ten minutes later, I headed toward the stage.
The hallway narrowed near the wings, walls covered in chipped black paint and posters from old shows. I could hear the band warming up, the muffled thump of a kick drum, the quick run of a guitar scale, the clipped callouts between crew.
I stepped through the curtain and onto the stage.
Empty venues had their own kind of pressure. No screaming fans, no camera flashes. Just rows of seats staring back at you, waiting to decide if you belonged. The lights were half-on, the house dim, the stage bright enough to show every scuff on the floor.
I walked to my mark and set my laptop on a stand. A crew member clipped my mic. I checked my in-ears, the sound snapping into crisp focus.
"Can we get Lila vocal?" someone called through the monitor system.
I adjusted my mic stand. "Yep."
"Give me a line."
I leaned in. "Check one, check two."
My voice bounced back at me from the speakers, slightly delayed. "Delay on her. Feels off."
"Copy. Fixing."
I rolled my shoulders and loosened my jaw. The stage was quiet for a second, the band's low chatter shifting off to the side. I glanced out at the empty seats and tried to imagine them full. My name on signs. My lyrics in mouths that didn't know my middle name.
I tried to imagine it without him.
A soft riff slid across the stage from stage left. Familiar, casual, a melody that lived in my bones whether I wanted it to or not.
I turned.
Evan Walker stood near the edge of the stage with a guitar slung low, hoodie up, coffee in one hand. He looked half-awake and fully dangerous, which was his default. His hair was messy, his jaw shadowed, his eyes sharp when they landed on me.
He strummed again, the riff slower. Teasing.
My body did something stupid. I hated it.
He tipped his coffee cup at me. "Morning."
"Soundcheck isn't for you."
He lifted his brows. "I'm aware."
"Then why are you here?"
He took a sip, eyes still on mine over the rim. "I heard you were on stage."
"That's how soundcheck works. People come on stage."
"Some people," he corrected. "You."
I stared at him. It didn't matter how many nights we spent separated by thin walls of hotel rooms, didn't matter how many times we pretended to be fine around crew. He could still look at me and make my brain forget the part where I had dignity.
"You shouldn't be here," I said.
"Stage manager told me the same thing."
"Smart woman."
"She told me she'd personally remove my fingers if I made her job harder."
"That tracks."
He walked closer, boots thudding lightly on the stage floor. He didn't cross the line where my personal space started. He respected it. That was part of the problem. Evan's respect always made me more aware of the places he wasn't touching.
"Are you okay?" he asked.
"Define okay."
"You've been quiet."
"I'm busy. I'm doing my job."
"I know," he said. "You do it well."
I wanted to bite something. My tongue, his ego, the guitar pick between his fingers.
"Why are you really here?" I asked.
He glanced toward the wings, then back to me. "I wanted to hear you."
"You can hear me tonight."
"I'll be on stage tonight," he said. "Different thing."
I lifted my chin. "You have a whole crowd obsessed with your every breath. You don't need mine."
His eyes narrowed a touch. "That isn't what I need."
The words hung there.
"Evan."
He looked at my mouth when he said my name back. "Lila."
The tech's voice came through my in-ears. "Delay fixed. Give me that line again."
Bless that tech. Bless every headset in this building.
I leaned into my mic, never taking my eyes off Evan. "Check one."
My voice hit my ears clean, no lag. I nodded once.
"Good. Give me a verse."
My track started, a soft swell under my voice. I sang a section of my opener, something steady, something that anchored me. The empty seats couldn't judge. The stage couldn't gossip.
Except it wasn't just me and the sound. Because Evan stood there watching. His gaze didn't drift; he didn't look bored; he didn't look past me to the crew. He watched me as if I mattered in a way that had nothing to do with charts or streaming numbers.
I finished the verse and pulled back from the mic.
"Levels good. One more line on the chorus."
I nodded and sang it.
When I finished, the stage fell quiet except for a faint hum from the monitors. Evan's fingers moved on his guitar, a quiet chord. He didn't play over me. He played under, in the space between.
"Stop," I said before I could think better of it.
He froze, fingers hovering. "Sorry."
I hated that the apology came easily. I hated that it felt sincere.
"That song," I said, "doesn't belong here."
His mouth set. "It belongs wherever you are."
"You don't get to decide that."
"I'm not trying to."
"You are," I snapped. "You show up with that face, and those eyes, and you act like it's harmless."
"It is harmless."
"Then why does it feel like you're trying to pull me apart?"
The words came out sharper than I meant. He didn't flinch.
"Because you won't let me come closer," he said.
"Because I can't."
He stepped forward again, slow and careful. "Tell me why."