37. Chapter Thirty-Seven #2
"Evan Walker," River called, bright enough for half the carpet to hear. "Come here. Photo. Now."
Evan's jaw tightened.
Grant's hand flexed at his side. "River."
"What?" River said. "This is a premiere. People take photos at premieres. I'm healing the arts."
"You are creating paperwork," Grant said.
"All great art does."
Evan took a slow breath and stepped forward. Not because River ordered him to — I could see that in the careful control of his face. He moved because his gaze flicked to me first, because I didn't pull away, because I stayed.
Close now, the space between us changed again. The freeze moment turned into proximity.
River placed himself between us for half a second, then shifted back so the three of us lined up with him in the center, one arm offered to me, the other thrown with dangerous familiarity behind Evan's shoulders without actually touching him.
"Okay," River announced, loud and delighted. "Movie star, rock star, soundtrack queen. Very balanced. Nobody panic."
"Too late," Grant muttered.
A photographer laughed and lifted his camera.
River leaned toward me, somehow still audible. "Pretend this is normal. It will confuse them."
My eyes widened. "River."
"What? You look phenomenal. He looks like a haunted leather jacket in a suit. I look contractually obligated. This is cinema."
Evan's mouth twitched. "Do you ever stop talking?"
River turned his head toward him. "No, and that question is ableist against theater kids."
Despite everything, I almost laughed.
Evan looked at me then, not River, not the cameras.
Are you okay?
My throat tightened. I nodded once, almost imperceptible.
Cameras snapped. A reporter's mic swung closer, catching River's laugh.
River clapped his hands once. "Great. Love it. Moving on before someone asks me about the prop ring."
His publicist made a noise that suggested someone already had.
River slipped away as fast as he had arrived, vanishing into the carpet chaos with a grin and leaving Evan and me standing side by side in the aftermath.
Our teams surged in immediately, trying to pull us apart, to restore the planned flow.
The carpet had other plans.
A producer with a headset appeared, eyes wide. "Network is asking for a joint interview. If you don't want it, we move on. But if you do, we can control the setup now instead of letting everyone shout questions all night."
Grant stiffened. "Your call. Not theirs."
Evan's publicist opened her mouth, then shut it when Evan glanced her way.
He didn't speak over anyone. Didn't decide. Didn't rescue me. Didn't turn our silence into another moment he could manage better than I could.
He kept his eyes on my face and waited.
Invite only. Spotlight.
I inhaled. I could feel the cameras watching, waiting for me to flinch.
"If we walk, they'll make it about romance anyway," I said.
Grant's mouth tightened. "Yes."
My mind snapped back to the sentence I had written. Honesty and credit. Control the messaging.
I lifted my chin. "We do it."
Grant stared at me. "Lila."
"We do it," I repeated. "On our terms."
Evan's gaze sharpened slightly with respect. He gave a small nod.
His publicist started to speak. Evan turned his head slightly and said one sentence.
"Let her lead."
The publicist blinked, then swallowed her protest.
The producer sighed with visible relief and waved us toward a joint interview spot where two hosts stood in front of a branded backdrop, microphones already raised, smiles too bright.
As we walked, I became acutely aware of space.
Evan stayed close enough that the cameras could frame us, far enough that he wasn't touching me. His shoulder aligned with mine. His pace matched mine. He didn't crowd. He didn't steer.
It was maddening. It was also exactly what I had asked for.
We stepped into position.
The hosts lit up like they had won the lottery and found a second lottery inside.
"Oh my god," the female host said, voice pitched for the cameras. "Okay. This is happening."
The male host grinned. "We have Lila Russell and Evan Walker here together at the premiere of Wedding Crasher."
I held my smile. Evan's expression stayed calm.
The female host leaned in, eyes sparkling. "Lila, how does it feel to be here with your song in the film, especially when this movie is based on your parents?"
This question, at least, belonged to me.
"It feels unreal," I said. "My dad wrote something really personal, and the cast turned it into something beautiful. Having my music be part of that is more emotional than I expected."
The male host nodded. "And Evan, how does it feel to be here supporting the soundtrack moment everyone is already talking about?"
Evan's smile stayed small. "I'm happy the song is getting the attention it deserves."
The female host laughed, then aimed for blood. "Okay, we have to ask. There's been so much talk. Are you two… good?"
My stomach tightened.
Evan didn't answer. He didn't even shift. He kept his gaze forward, letting the question hang where it belonged, in the host's mouth.
I spoke before the silence could become a trap. "I'm here for the film and the music."
The host tried again. "But you're here together."
"We're standing at the same premiere," I said.
Evan's mouth twitched, almost amused, but he didn't add anything that would pull focus.
The male host leaned in, lowering his voice like he was sharing gossip with millions of viewers. "Fans are calling you Twilight again."
Grant stiffened behind the camera line. Harper would have made a gagging noise.
I kept my tone even. "Fans are creative."
Evan nodded once, neutral, offering nothing.
The female host pressed harder. "Okay, but, like, is the tension real or is it PR?"
I refused to say the phrase PR out loud. It would turn into a clip.
"My career story stands on its own," I said.
Evan's gaze flicked to me, quick, then back forward.
The male host smiled as if he wanted to pat my head. "Sure, sure, but romance sells."
My smile sharpened. "Music sells too."
Behind the camera, Grant's face did not move, but I knew him well enough now to recognize the microscopic proud little manager goblin living in his eyes.
The female host laughed, then gestured toward the theater doors. "Okay, last question. There's this big question online about the film, about the end credits song, about everything. Reporter over there wants to jump in."
A different reporter stepped forward, mic raised, eyes eager. She looked younger than the hosts, sharper too, like she cared about the art and also knew exactly how to get a headline.
"Lila," the reporter said, "people are saying the movie is art imitating life. Is it?"
The question landed hard. There it was. The push.
My fingers tightened on my clutch.
I thought of my dad writing Molly and Oliver's story into a script.
I thought of my mother watching pieces of her life projected twenty feet tall.
I thought of River Hale turning my father into a leading man with reckless charm and better lighting.
I thought of the PR lead begging for a romantic statement.
I thought of the magazine cover. The viral edits.
The way the world kept trying to make my story a side plot.
I also thought of the coffee shop. Prove it to myself first. Spotlight. Invite only.
I lifted my chin and let the answer come from the center.
"No," I said. "This film belongs to my parents. My life is finally imitating what I always wanted it to be. Honest."
The reporter blinked, caught off guard by the cleanness of it.
A beat of silence hit.
Then the hosts reacted with delighted surprise, because honesty sounded good on camera when it didn't implicate them.
Evan didn't jump in. He didn't tack on romance. He didn't steer my answer into his territory.
He waited half a second, then added one line, centering the work the way he had promised.
"Her song is the heart of the credits," Evan said. "That's all I want people talking about tonight."
The words landed like a boundary drawn in public.
The reporter nodded, satisfied. The hosts looked momentarily unsure how to pivot back to gossip without looking shallow.
Then River Hale materialized at the edge of the interview setup like an expensive bad decision.
"I would also like people to talk about my pants," he said into absolutely no one's microphone and somehow every microphone at once. "These are custom."
His publicist appeared behind him. "River."
"What? This is fashion journalism."
The hosts burst out laughing. The tension broke clean down the middle.
Grant looked to the ceiling, possibly asking it for strength.
River winked at me and disappeared again into the carpet traffic, leaving chaos, laughter, and at least six headlines in his wake.
The female host recovered first, still laughing. "River Hale, everyone."
"He's a lot," I said before I could stop myself.
Evan's mouth curved. "That's generous."
The male host laughed, then shifted into safer questions about the film, the soundtrack, the director. I answered cleanly. Evan answered briefly.
Neither of us gave the internet what it wanted.
A publicist stepped in, smiling, and ended the interview. "Thank you so much. We have to keep moving."
The producer waved us toward the next interview station.
Grant leaned in. "We're done. We're going inside."
Evan's publicist mirrored the move. "Evan, we need to get you to your seat."
The two teams began to split us again, restoring the plan.
My pulse still hammered. My body buzzed from adrenaline and restraint.
As we started to separate, Evan's gaze found mine again.
He didn't reach for me. Didn't touch my arm. Didn't break the rule.
He just said, quiet enough that no microphone caught it, "You did great."
My chest tightened. I managed a small nod. "You too."
His expression shifted for a beat.
Then our teams pulled us in opposite directions, funneling us toward the theater doors.
I walked into the building with flashbulbs still popping behind me, noise still spilling through the entrance.
Inside, everything dropped a notch. Still crowded, but less feral. Fans couldn't reach. Cameras were fewer. People spoke in measured tones, the way they did in rooms with power.
Harper waited near the hallway leading to the auditorium, leaning against the wall like she owned it. Finn stood beside her, hands in his pockets, eyes scanning.
Harper's gaze flicked over me. "You survived."
I let out a breath. "Barely."
Finn's mouth twitched. "You sounded steady."
"I was terrified."
Harper nodded. "Good. Terrified and honest is a strong combo."
From somewhere behind us, River Hale's voice carried over the lobby.
"I am not giving the ring back. It understands me."
A woman, probably his publicist, snapped, "River, for the love of God."
Harper looked toward the noise. "Is that the guy playing your dad?"
"Unfortunately."
Finn's eyebrows rose. "He seems stable."
"He once gave an interview and called romantic tension 'emotional arson,'" I said.
Harper's mouth twitched. "Okay, I like him."
"He is a walking lawsuit."
"Those can still be fun."
I glanced back toward the entrance, where Evan had disappeared into a different corridor.
I didn't chase him. I didn't need to.
Tonight, the line had shifted. Public and private were changing shape.
I pressed my fingers around my clutch, feeling the bite of the metal edge again, grounding myself.
Honest. Full credit. On our terms.