“Hi there folks, if you’re just tuning in, this is Joel Kay from KLAX 102.3. I’m here this morning with Felicity Wilde, lead singer of the band Wildwood. If you’ve turned on your radio even once in the past month, I’m sure you’ve heard their new single, Faded. It’s dominating the charts!” Joel winks at me across the sound booth. “Felicity, how are you?”

“A little tired, Joel — my coffee hasn’t quite kicked in yet!” I blast my best fake smile at him.

“Oh, big night out on the town last night?”

“No, we’ve just been so busy working on the new album, sleep hasn’t been high on the to-do list.”

“Makes sense!” Joel exclaims. “How are you liking LA so far?”

“Well, it’s a pretty big change from Nashville, but Ryder and I are really happy here.” My teeth clench on the lie.

“Speaking of Ryder — that’s Ryder Woods, for you folks who are just joining us — where is he this morning?”

“Unfortunately, he woke up with a bit of laryngitis. A few too many hours in the recording studio yesterday!” Not to mention the fact that, when I tried to wake him two hours ago, he was so hungover he could barely open his eyes to focus on me, let alone rally for an interview. Just the memory fills me with rage, but I keep the smile plastered on my face and carry on. There’s no other choice. “Nothing a little rest won’t cure.”

“All these long hours in the studio — does this mean we can expect an album soon?”

“Ah, Joel, you know I can’t tell you that!” I say, playing along with the ruse.

Of course, he knows every answer to these questions long before he asks them — courtesy of the press packet Francesca sent him last week, which included a list of approved topics, forbidden subject matter, and info about our band’s background. Every one of my lines has been carefully rehearsed, like following a script.

Keep it light.

Plug the album.

Share the story.

“What I can tell you is that it’ll be worth the wait,” I tease. “We’ve recorded eight tracks and the final two should be finished very soon!”

“That’s so exciting. Tell me, what are you most looking forward to about the release?”

“Much as I’d like to tell you it’s the fancy launch party Route 66 is throwing… I think it’ll just be having some downtime. We got to LA last month, but I feel like I haven’t even explored the city yet. There’s so much to do here!”

The rest of the interview proceeds without fanfare. Joel stick to the script so thoroughly, I could probably answer his questions in my sleep. When he puts on Faded and mutes our mics, I sit back and listen to the track, trying not to cry.

’Cause love don’t burn out, even though you’re gone

And hate don’t come just ‘cause you write it in a song…

Ryder’s voice blasts through the thick headphones covering my ears. I close my eyes to listen.

I used to think his voice was like a lazy Sunday morning. I was wrong. His voice is like sex. It’s the all nighter that leads to that slow dawn between the sheets. A toe-curling, nerve-fraying thrust of sound that drives into you so deep, you’re halfway gone before you realize what’s happened.

I could listen to him sing forever.

Sure it’s sad but it isn’t complicated…

You’re my only memory that never faded…

Feeling numb, I walk out of the interview, climb into the back of the town car Route 66 hired to drive me around, and cry my eyes out.

* * *

When I get back to the loft, Ryder is still in bed. I toss my bag to the floor with a bang loud enough to rouse him.

“Hey, baby,” he says, blinking sleep-glazed eyes at me. “Why are you dressed?”

I stare at him.

Realization clicks. He sits straight up, sending the sheets flying. “Shit! Fuck! The interview.” His face contorts into an apologetic mask. “Baby — I’m so sorry. So, so sorry. Linc kept me out way later than I wanted to be. It was past three by the time we got home. I know that’s no excuse for dropping the ball. I’m just— fuck, I’m so sorry, Felicity.”

He sounds so contrite — so much like the Ryder I remember, the Ryder I fell in love with — that some of my anger dissipates. Still, I stand with my arms crossed over my chest, watching him warily.

“Baby…”

“You know I get nervous during interviews,” I say after a long moment. I hate how small my voice sounds.

“I know. God, I’m such a dick.” He runs a hand through his hair, looking distraught. “I just lost track of time…”

“It’s okay.” I shrug lightly, trying to let go of the stiffness locking my joints in place. “I covered for you. Said you have laryngitis. So, if you’re out later, I’d recommend not yelling at the top of your lungs in front of anyone taking Snapchat videos.”

He stares at me, his blue-brown irises brimming with contrition. “Come here,” he pleads, his voice soft.

I take a few steps, but stay carefully out of his reach.

“Closer,” he begs.

One more step.

“Closer than that, baby.” He grins, looking so handsome in the mid-morning light, his bare skin bronze against the crisp white sheets.

I feel some of the ice inside my veins thaw as I edge one more step toward the bed. Before I can dodge him, he springs into motion — leaping off the mattress, hooking me around the waist, and tackling me to the pillows with a playful roar.

I laugh and beat at his shoulders. “Get off me, you barbarian!”

He tickles my sides, tugs up the bottom hem of my shirt, and blows a huge raspberry on my stomach.

I scream with laughter, tears gathering in my eyes.

“Stop!” I gasp. “I surrender! I surrender!”

He brings his face to mine, eyes red-rimmed but full of lazy warmth.

“Forgive me?” he asks, brushing our lips together.

“Always,” I murmur, craning up to kiss him harder, deeper, longer.

Wishing that word didn’t feel like such a lie.

* * *

By the time the launch party rolls around a few weeks later, the tense feeling simmering inside me has reached a boil. I’m constantly on edge and I’m not even sure why. Nothing is wrong, per se. And yet, I can’t stop flinching in preparation for whatever shoe is about to drop on my life, crushing me flat against the earth.

I’m in the bathroom getting ready to head to the beautiful rooftop venue Route 66 has leased out for the Wildwood launch party, putting the finishing touches on my makeup. Ryder graciously relinquished the master bathroom to me, getting ready in Aiden and Linc’s so I have room to maneuver.

I’ve never been to an event like this. I didn’t even attend my high school prom. I’m not sure what to expect, or whether I’m dressed appropriately, or what the heck I’m supposed to put in the tiny, matching clutch purse the woman at the store insisted I purchase when I bought my dress last week.

My nonexistent cellphone? Keys to the car I don’t have?

Carly would know.

If she were here, she’d do her spirit-guide routine, telling me exactly what to expect while somehow putting me completely at ease. I miss her so much, these days. Especially when I try to talk to Francesca who, while very nice, possesses a rather stiff, robotic quality that discourages bonding.

My hands shake so hard with nerves as I put my teardrop earring in, I end up dropping it. It falls with a tiny clatter and rolls beneath the vanity, out of reach. Heaving a heavy sigh, I hike my dress up so it doesn’t drag on the floor as I bend to retrieve it.

My fingers fumble around blindly for a moment before finally grazing something. Brow wrinkling, I pull out the unfamiliar black toiletry bag. It must be Ryder’s — the other boys share their own bathroom, on the other side of the loft. Thinking he must’ve dropped it, I set it on the edge of the vanity and bend back down to continue my search for the lost earring.

I promptly forget about the bag as I finish getting ready, swiping several layers of dark mascara on my eyes, contouring my cheeks with blush and bronzer. I’m not generally a fan of heavy makeup, but I figure this occasion calls for it. Francesca assures me the place will be crawling with press. Route 66 has been promoting the album like crazy in anticipation of the digital release tomorrow.

Makeup done, I examine myself in the full length mirror.

Not too shabby for a girl who grew up in a double-wide, I think, grinning at my reflection.

The blue dress is a knockout — a grown-up, designer version of one of my flowy sundresses. The sheer panels drape artistically from my shoulders in a faux-cape style, but the bodice is fitted and far more daring than anything I’m accustomed to wearing.

My hair is pulled back in a high-fashion ponytail that cascades halfway down my back, with two dark tendrils framing my face to add some definition. My irises look pure gold against the shimmery eyeshadow I’ve applied, especially in combination with the dark black mascara and eyeliner. My cheeks and brows are accentuated by the bronzer and blush; my mouth looks fuller than ever thanks to a generous coating of lipstick — bright red, of course, in honor of Gran’s signature shade.

The effect is a sharper, sleeker version of myself I’ve never seen before.

I look older. I look sexier.

I don’t necessarily look like myself.

“Damn,” a warm male voice says from behind me. “You’re absolutely stunning.”

I turn to find Ryder standing in the doorway. My breath catches. I’ve never seen him in a suit before and, I must say, it’s a great look on him. His jaw, clean-shaven for the first time in over a month, is so defined it could cut glass. His eyes are simmering with heat as they slide up and down my body, taking in the sight of me in return.

“You’re not so bad yourself,” I say, walking over to him and throwing my arms around his neck. “No tie?”

“Not really a tie guy, baby.” He lowers his head and brushes his mouth against mine. Soft. Sweet. “You just about ready?”

“Just have to pull on my heels and I’m good to go. Are the boys dressed?”

My question goes unanswered. Ryder’s body feels suddenly tense against mine. When I look up into his face, I’m stunned to see his expression is dark with anger and suspicion. It’s such a swift change from the warm look he was just wearing, I can hardly fathom what inspired it.

“Ryder, what’s wrong?”

“Have you been going through my stuff?”

“What?” I flinch back at the anger suffusing his tone. “What are you talking about?”

His eyes drop to my face. One blue, one brown, both unreadable. I’ve never seen him like this. He’s always been charming, almost boyish. Now… I swear, it’s like looking at a total stranger.

“I’m talking about my bag, Felicity.” He pushes past me and grabs the toiletry bag off the vanity, where I left it earlier. “This. What were you doing with this?”

“I found it under the sink,” I say, feeling my hackles start to rise. I can’t believe he’s yelling at me over some random toiletry bag. We’ve never even had a fight before. It makes no sense at all.

Swallowing hard, I try to stay calm. He’s probably stressed about the launch party. It’s been a crazy few weeks — nonstop interviews, meetings with Francesca leading up to the album release… Plus, Aiden and Linc dragged him out at least three times. They’ve all been looking a bit worse for wear, lately — bloodshot and bleary, stumbling around here like zombies. If I didn’t know better…

No.

I shut down that thought before it can fully enter my brain. This is nothing like what happened with my parents. I’d know if I were living with junkies again. I’d recognize the signs — I know them by heart.

You mean like hiding things? a small voice at the back of my mind submits for consideration. Like being secretive? Staying out all night? Reacting with an inappropriate amount of rage over little things that shouldn’t matter?

I gulp in air, suddenly feeling like I’m ten feet beneath the surface of a vast ocean of fear. My tone is surprisingly level when I speak, for all that my mind is racing in circles.

“I thought you must’ve dropped it, so I moved it onto the vanity. What’s the big deal?”

“The big deal? Jesus, Felicity, just because we live together doesn’t mean everything is fair game.” His hand curls around the bag so tight, his knuckles go white. His face is a mask of cold fury. Unrecognizable.

“What’s in the bag, Ryder?” I ask, taking a step toward him.

His jaw clenches. “Nothing.”

“Open it.”

“Drop this, Felicity.”

“I will. After you open it.”

“No.” His voice is flat. Emotionless. “This is ridiculous. You’re being ridiculous.”

Things are spinning out of my grip so fast, I don’t even have time to hold on. I feel like I’m clinging to my life — to my love — by the tips of my fingers.

“Ryder.” My voice cracks on his name. “Please.”

Something moves in his eyes. It looks like fear. He sets the bag down on the vanity behind him and takes a step toward me. “Felicity, baby, this isn’t the time for this. We have to go. We’re going to be late to the party.”

“I don’t care about the party!” I yell, eyes wide. “I care about the bag!”

I care about you.

“You’re making a big deal over nothing, getting yourself all worked up.” He sighs, like I’m being a tiresome child. “Look, we’ll talk about it later, okay?”

I stare at him for three long beats, counting them out in my head like bullets piercing a target.

“Okay,” I agree. “Let’s go.”

Relief moves through him as he steps toward me and starts ushering me out the door. I wait until we cross the threshold into the bedroom before I whirl out of his grip, double back, and slam the bathroom door in his face, clicking the lock closed before he can get it open again.

“Felicity!” he roars, pounding on the door. “What the fuck!”

I’m beyond hearing. Moving in slow motion, I walk over to the black leather bag sitting so innocuously on the edge of the sink. I feel like I’m trembling head to toe, but when my hand reaches out for the zipper, it’s remarkably steady. Like I’ve switched over to autopilot, disabling all the emotional aspects of my brain.

“FELICITY!”

I yank the zipper open in one smooth tug. And when my eyes lock on the contents inside…

I feel something inside me — something I thought was healed a long time ago — break all over again.