29. Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Lila
My alarm went off at six thirty like it had not personally witnessed me detonating my life twelve hours ago.
I stared at my phone on the nightstand until the screen dimmed. Then it lit up again. Another notification, then another.
I rolled onto my back and pressed the heel of my hand into my eyes until I saw spots. The hotel room smelled faintly of dry shampoo and the microwaved popcorn I'd eaten at one in the morning because my body had refused sleep and demanded salt instead.
Somewhere down the hall, a door slammed. A laugh followed, muffled by carpet and drywall.
Tour life never stopped moving. It just moved around you when you couldn't keep up.
My phone buzzed again.
I flipped it over so the screen faced the mattress.
The bass from last night was still in my bones. The lights were still behind my eyes. The moment Evan's hand grabbed my wrist in that hallway and then let go instantly, like his own desperation had startled him, kept replaying.
So did the way he said it.
You don't get to love me only when it's convenient.
I didn't know what was worse. That the line landed. Or that part of me wanted to scream back that it had never been convenient.
I sat up slowly, as if any sudden motion might break what was left of my composure. My throat ached, raw from singing and yelling. My lips were still tender from the kiss I'd let happen because I wanted it, because my body had been starving for him while my pride pretended to be full.
I swung my feet to the carpet and stared at the small schedule card on the desk. It was printed in clean black font, clipped to a plastic holder like a warning.
Soundcheck: 10:00 a.m. Lobby call: 1:30 p.m. Meet and greet: 3:00 p.m. Show: 8:00 p.m.
I stared at soundcheck the longest.
Then I stood, walked to the bathroom, and turned on the sink. The faucet sputtered before running cold. I splashed water on my face until my skin went numb.
It still didn't make me feel awake in the right way.
In the mirror, I looked like someone who had cried and then tried to bully her own eyes into behaving. My hair was piled into a messy knot. Mascara had smudged under one eye in a faint bruise. I looked like a girl who stormed off a stage mid-performance.
My stomach twisted at the memory. The crowd's confusion. The camera phones tracking me. The stage manager's furious face as she redirected me off the line so I didn't get trampled by the machine.
Evan's voice continuing onstage without me.
That part was a clean little knife.
He could keep going. He could make a show happen. He could make my exit look dramatic, then smooth it over with a grin and a chorus.
I hated him for that. I hated myself more for loving it when he was capable.
I went back into the room and stood in the middle of it, breathing. The air conditioner hummed. A thin line of winter light leaked between the curtains.
My phone buzzed again.
I picked it up before I could talk myself out of it.
Thirty-seven unread texts.
Grant. A number I didn't recognize. A group chat with two other openers I had muted weeks ago because the only things they talked about were eyeliner brands and who in the band was hooking up with whom.
Then the headlines, shoved to the top of my screen by apps that apparently believed my nervous system needed more content.
CURSIVE CRUSH DRAMA ERUPTS ONSTAGE
LILA RUSSELL STORMS OFF MID-DUET, TOUR IN JEOPARDY?
EVAN WALKER "LINGERS" ON MYSTERY GIRL, INSIDERS SAY
I stared at them until my chest went tight. My thumb hovered over the first link, then pulled away as if the words could bite.
I opened my texts instead.
Grant: Are you okay? Call me.
Grant: Lila. Please answer.
Grant again: Soundcheck in two. Where are you?
Grant again: Don't do this alone.
Unknown Number: This is venue security. Confirm you're in your room.
That one made my stomach drop. I reread it twice.
They were worried I'd disappeared.
I typed back before my brain could change it's mind.
I'm in my room. Safe.
The reply came almost instantly.
Copy. Stay put. We'll keep the hallway clear.
I stared at the screen.
Even security was in on my implosion now. Fantastic. Love that for my brand.
I set my phone down and walked to the curtains. My fingers hesitated before I pulled them open a few inches.
Outside, the parking lot was already busy. A bus idled. Crew moved in dark jackets. A few fans stood near the barricade, bundled up, holding phones and coffee cups.
Even in daylight, they were waiting.
Soundcheck.
If I went, I would have to walk into a venue where my name had been shouted like a plot point last night. I would have to stand on a stage with empty seats and pretend my knees didn't want to fold. I would have to see Evan.
I had promised myself last night that I wouldn't open the door when he knocked.
I hadn't.
I also hadn't slept, eaten anything besides popcorn, and I didn't bother to responded to Grant's texts.
The idea of facing anyone made my skin feel too tight.
So I did the only thing I could do without falling apart in public.
I stayed.
I left the curtains cracked and sat on the edge of the bed with my hands in my lap, staring at the schedule card again as if it might change out of pity.
At nine fifty-nine, my phone buzzed.
A call from Grant.
I watched it ring.
I didn't answer.
I couldn't handle his voice, calm and steady and too kind. Grant had a way of sounding like he believed you were capable even when you were actively proving otherwise.
The call stopped. A text appeared.
Okay. I'm not coming up unless you ask. Just answer one thing. Are you considering leaving early?
My fingers hovered over the keyboard.
Yes. No. I don't know. All three were true in different ways.
I typed back the smallest option because it required the least vulnerability.
Maybe.
Three dots appeared almost immediately.
Thank you for answering. I'm going to handle the rest. Stay in your room. Drink water. Eat something that isn't air. I'll update you.
I blinked hard and set the phone down again.
Soundcheck came and went without me.
I didn't hear it from the room, but I felt its absence anyway. The day had a shape. Soundcheck was one of its bones. Without it, the whole thing felt off balance.
At eleven thirty, my phone buzzed again.
Grant.
I let it ring twice before answering because that tiny delay made me feel like I had control.
"Hi," I said.
A pause, then: "There you are."
His tone was gentle in a way that meant he was choosing not to be furious yet.
"I'm here."
"Are you hurt?"
"No."
"Are you sick?"
"No."
"Okay," he said, exhaling. "Then talk to me."
I swallowed. My throat hurt with every word. "I don't want to be seen today."
"You're on tour," he said, soft but firm. "Being seen is the job."
"I know."
A pause. "Did you leave the venue last night?"
"No. I went to my room. I locked the door."
"Good." Relief slipped through before he smoothed it down. "Do you want to leave the tour early?"
Direct. No sugarcoating.
I stared at the wall. My fingers twisted in the duvet. "I don't know."
"That's an answer," he said. "It means you're overwhelmed."
A laugh scraped out of me. "Yeah."
"Lila," he said, turning serious, "this is what I need from you. Do you still want to be here?"
I closed my eyes.
I wanted the stage. I wanted the songs. I wanted the moment where my voice filled a room, and it was mine.
I didn't want Evan.
That was a Lie.
I didn't want to be defined by Evan.
"I want to sing," I whispered.
"Then we problem-solve around that," he said. "I can move you to a different hotel floor. I can keep you out of shared hallways. I can talk to production about spacing."
"Production can't rewire my brain."
"No," he said. "They can't."
Silence stretched. In the background, I heard the faint clink of a coffee mug and a door shutting. Grant was probably in his own hotel room, pacing, doing the same math I was doing.
"You missed soundcheck," he said.
"I know."
"I was worried."
"I know."
"And Evan," he said carefully, "was…"
I tensed. "What?"
"Concerned."
I snorted. "He's fine."
"Lila," he said. "Do not turn this into self-punishment."
"That's rich."
He ignored it. "Evan found out you were considering leaving."
My chest tightened. "I didn't tell Evan anything."
"I know. He didn't ask you. He didn't come to your room."
I went still.
He didn't chase me into my room. The words in my head sounded like a stage direction and a prayer.
I hated that it mattered. I hated that part of me had been braced for the knock that never came.
Grant continued, "His first instinct was to go up there. I told him it would make things worse. He did the smart thing for once and listened."
I swallowed hard.
Evan listened. He listened to Grant about me. He didn't bulldoze his way into my space. He didn't force a conversation. He didn't demand closure on his timeline.
Bare minimum. Still, it hit.
"I don't care," I lied.
Grant made a sound that was almost a sigh. "Okay. Here's what's happening, and you need to hear it without spiraling. The internet is chewing on last night. TMZ picked it up. It's running as Cursive Crush Drama, and it's already spreading."
"Cool."
"It's not cool," he said. "But it's survivable if you do not feed it. This means no mysterious stories with black screens and sad songs."
"I don't do that."
"I know. That's why I'm telling you to keep doing what you do. Stay quiet."
My mouth went dry. "Are they saying the tour won't finish?"
"Yes. They're speculating. Asking if you're getting kicked off. Asking if Evan's canceling dates. Asking if you're together."
"I hate them."
"I know. And you don't owe them anything. But you owe yourself a decision. If you want to finish the tour, we finish the tour. If you need to step away, we do it carefully."
"I can't decide today."
"Then don't," he said. "Do today. Drink water. Eat. Rest your voice. I'll cover the rest."
I stared at the wall again, throat burning. "Okay."