29. Chapter Twenty-Nine #3
I stepped back into my room, still holding his phone, and set the paper bag on the desk. I grabbed my own phone, opened my email app, and searched for the studio message.
There it was.
Official.
Real.
My fingers hovered over the reply button.
For one second, I wanted to forward it to Evan just to see his reaction. Just to watch him be proud.
That thought made my stomach twist again.
This is ours.
I typed.
Thank you for the offer. We’re excited and honored. Please send the contract for review.
My name was at the bottom because I was the one replying, but the credit line above it belonged to the whole band.
Lila Russell & Cursive Crush.
No Evan.
No shared credit with the person who had once made the song feel like a wound.
I hit send.
The moment after felt strange. Like stepping off a ledge and realizing there was ground.
I stared at my screen until it confirmed the message was sent. Then I set my phone down carefully, as if the win might shatter if I moved too fast.
In the doorway, Grant cleared his throat. "Done?"
I nodded. "Done."
Grant smiled, then held out his hand for his phone. I gave it back.
"That's your first clean win on this tour," he said. "Yours and the band's."
The words landed like a stamp on my chest.
I nodded. "Yeah."
Grant glanced down the hall. "Practical stuff. You should eat. You should rest your voice. You should decide if you're performing tonight."
My stomach tightened. "I don't know if I can."
"Then we build a plan."
"You can't plan my emotions."
"No. But we can plan your day so you don't get cornered."
The word cornered made my chest tighten. Grant noticed. He didn't comment.
"If you want space, security can escort you," he said. "If you want separate hallways, we coordinate. If you want to skip meet and greet, we claim illness. People will be mad. They'll survive."
I stared at the carpet. "What about Evan?"
"He's going to be mad either way," Grant said. "He'll survive too."
I swallowed, then looked up. "Did he… say anything?"
Grant's gaze held mine. "He asked if you were safe. He asked if you were leaving. He asked what he should do."
"What did you tell him?"
"I told him to stop making moves. I told him to let you breathe. I told him you're not a side character in his feelings."
My mouth went tight, a strange mix of gratitude and discomfort. "He listened."
"Yeah."
The hallway grew quiet for a beat. The distant hum of an elevator, the soft roll of a housekeeping cart.
Grant shifted. "I should go. I have to wrangle a band meeting before they say something dumb online."
A laugh escaped me. "Good luck."
"Text me if you need anything."
I nodded. "Thank you. For all of it."
His expression softened. "You don't owe me anything."
"I know," I said. "Still. Thank you."
Grant started to turn, then paused. "One more thing."
My stomach tightened. "What?"
He hesitated. "Evan recorded something for you."
I went still.
Grant lifted his hands slightly, palms out. "He asked me if he should send it. I told him I'm not your gatekeeper. I told him if he sends anything, it should be gentle, and it should be about you, not him."
My throat went dry. "Did he send it?"
Grant's phone buzzed in his hand, because the universe loved timing.
Grant glanced down, and his mouth twitched. "Yep."
He looked up at me. "Do you want me to delete it?"
The offer was absurd. Kind. Exactly what I needed.
I swallowed. "No."
Grant nodded once. "Okay."
He stepped away from my door, giving me privacy without leaving the hallway entirely. "I'll be down the hall. If you want me to come back, text."
I nodded and closed my door softly, then locked it out of instinct.
I leaned back against it for a beat, breathing.
My phone buzzed.
A voice memo from Evan.
My hand hovered over the screen, then pulled away.
My skin felt too hot. I set the phone on the bed and stared at it like it was a grenade.
I wanted to hear him. I didn't want to hear him. I wanted proof he cared. I didn't want him to have access to me.
I sat on the edge of the bed.
Pressed play.
For a second, there was only faint room noise. The soft scrape of fabric. A breath.
Then a guitar, quiet and careful, the strings picked so gently it sounded like he was trying not to wake someone.
The melody was familiar.
Too familiar.
It was one of my unreleased songs from years ago. A song I had played for him once in a cramped apartment, when my life was smaller, and my dreams were still a secret I carried in my pocket. I hadn't recorded it. I hadn't released it. I hadn't even named it properly.
It lived in my head and in the calluses on my fingers long before Cursive Crush gave it teeth.
Evan played it anyway. Not flashy. Not a performance. Softly, like he was handling something fragile.
If he had played it onstage, I would have hated him. Here, alone, it felt like he'd handed it back.
His voice didn't come in right away. He let the music sit there, a memory without words. I could hear his breathing. The faint click of something, maybe a ring against the body of the guitar, maybe a pick shifting in his hand.
Then he spoke.
"I found this in my notes," he said, not stage-smooth. "I don't know why it popped into my head. Maybe because I needed to remember what was true before we turned everything into noise."
My fingers clenched in the duvet.
He played the melody again, a little more sure, still gentle.
He didn't apologize. He didn't demand. He didn't talk about the internet. He didn't talk about last night.
He just played my song like it mattered.
My eyes stung. I blinked hard, but tears slipped anyway.
The guitar faded. A small pause. A breath.
Then Evan's voice again, quieter.
"You were great before me."
My chest tightened like it was trying to fold in on itself.
"You and the band didn't need me to make that song matter," he continued, each word careful. "I didn't make you. I just finally heard you."
The memo ended.
Silence filled the room, thick and buzzing.
I stared at my phone screen, tears still on my cheeks. My hands shook again, but this time it wasn't panic. It was something else. Grief and pride tangled together.
Because the line was true.
I was great before him. Cursive Crush was real before his name became a stadium chant in the same rooms I was trying to survive. I had written songs before his tour buses, his stage lights, his chaos. I had a voice before he ever looked at me and decided it was precious.
I wiped my face with the back of my hand, angry at myself for crying, angry at him for making me feel seen in a way that was both healing and dangerous.
My phone buzzed again. Another headline.
CURSIVE CRUSH DRAMA CONTINUES: WHERE IS LILA RUSSELL?
I stared at it for a long beat. Then locked my phone and set it aside.
The internet could keep screaming. The tour could keep moving. I had an email in my sent folder with Cursive Crush's name on it. I had a song in a movie end credits that would roll whether Evan Walker existed or not.
I pressed my palm to my chest and breathed until my body finally believed the room was quiet.
I didn’t know yet that the quiet would only last until noon.