The next few days pass in a blur of rehearsals. Things have thawed slightly with the band since our frigid first day, and we’re sounding better each time we run through the set list — not quite up to our former snuff, but getting there. Even Francesca looked pleased when we called it quits last night.

I escaped into the elevator with her, rather than risk getting trapped with Ryder again. It’s impossible to avoid him entirely, but so far I’ve managed to make it back to my apartment at the end of each rehearsal without another heated confrontation. During the hours we’re together in the studio, I maintain a safe distance — never stepping too close or letting our conversations deepen past the shallowest smalltalk.

You were sharp on the third verse.

Let’s run through the lyrics one more time.

Can you hand me my water bottle?

For his part, Ryder doesn’t say much of anything. Not verbally, at least. But his eyes — on the rare occasions I allow our gazes to tangle together — say so much, it sends a shiver down my spine. I get the inexplicable sensation that he’s… waiting. Biding his time.

For what remains a mystery to me.

Rather than drive myself crazy wondering, every day I put all my focus on the music, filling my head with notes and melodies until it’s brimming over, until there’s no room at all leftover for thoughts of the man singing by my side. Every night, when I can’t sleep, I scribble new snippets in my notebook, half-lyrics and song hooks. Anything to keep myself distracted.

So far, it’s been working quite nicely.

Today presents a new challenge, though — our interview with Eileen Dillan, queen of daytime television. It’s my first public interview since arriving back in LA. Heck, it’s practically my first time out of the Route 66 studio since I stepped foot on this coast. Francesca assures me the paparazzi are chomping at the bit for a photograph of me and will be eagerly documenting my every move.

Brassy blonde or not, she warned, with a pointed look at my hair. They’ll be swarming the studio in droves. Prepare yourself.

Thus, I’ve spent my morning at KLINE, a posh new salon on Rodeo Drive. The lavender-haired owner, Harper Kline, is one of the most in-demand stylists in Hollywood these days, with a client list of huge stars. Everyone from Katharine Firestone to Nicole Kidman has been spotted leaving the exclusive hair and makeup studio since she opened last year.

Usually, there’s a six month waiting list to even get a regular appointment, let alone retain her services for a full morning of private pampering. But Francesca wouldn’t be Francesca without her unfailing ability to pull strings — which is how I now find myself staring at my reflection in the upscale salon, admiring Harper’s handiwork with wide eyes. I must admit, she’s worth every exorbitant penny Route 66 is shelling out to cover her daily rate. With my trademark dark locks restored, I finally look like myself again.

Actually… an enhanced version of myself.

Felicity 2.0

Chic mahogany layers cascade around my shoulders in glossy waves. The long, piecey bangs across my forehead are undeniably sophisticated. And there’s something almost sultry about the way she’s done my makeup. My golden eyes glow in the blue-toned overhead lighting.

“Pretty good, right?” Harper winks.

“Better than good.” I agree, still staring at myself.

“God, I wish all my clients had hair like yours. My life would be so much easier.” Harper runs her hands over my freshly-styled strands, smoothing any remaining flyaways. She smiles when our eyes meet in the mirror. “You could rock the right shade of blonde, don’t get me wrong, but the platinum shade you had when you came in this morning was too severe for your complexion — this deep brown-black flatters your features better. See?” She passes me a hand mirror and spins me around so I can examine my hair from the back. “I added a few lowlights for depth, plus some highlights to frame your face. The bangs are perfect — sleek, sexy. Much more grown up than your look two years ago, but still undeniably you.” She grins in triumph. “They’re going to eat you up, girl.”

“Thanks, Harper.”

She turns me back around to face the mirror. “I kept the makeup simple — dewy cheeks, glossy pink lips, glowing gold shadow to make your eyes pop. A fresh face to go with your fresh start.” Her eyes meet mine. “You like it?”

“It’s great. Really. I love the new hair color, and the makeup is perfect.”

She leans closer, her eyes narrowed. “Now, if you’d just smile…”

I make a half-hearted attempt, but it looks more like a grimace than a grin. “Sorry, I’m just…” I trail off.

“Nervous about your big interview? Don’t be. Everyone loves your music and they’re simply dying to know what you’ve been up to since you stepped out of the spotlight.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” I mutter.

She waves away my words. “You’re Felicity Wilde — one half of America’s favorite celebrity couple. They’ll be so excited to know you and Ryder are finally going out on tour, you’ll hardly have to say a word. Plus, Eileen Dillan has been doing this for so long, she’s a pro. She’ll keep the interview on track if you freeze up — which you won’t.”

“Thanks, Harper.” I crack a grin at her. “Are they paying you extra for talking me off the ledge, or is it a perk you toss in for free?”

She snorts lightly. “You know, that’s a great idea actually. I should get my medical license and become LA’s premiere psychiatrist-hairstylist combo. Think of the convenience — I sort out your hair and your head all in one quick session! Delve into your emotional roots while touching up the outgrown ones by your part! ”

“You’d make a killing.”

“Especially in this town.”

We both chuckle.

After a moment, her eyes get serious. “You know, Felicity… all jokes aside, if you ever need someone to talk to… I’m here. I realize you don’t know me all that well, that I’m just this stranger who’s been poking and prodding you for the past few hours… and perhaps I’m overstepping. Normally, I wouldn’t say a thing. But I see that look in your eyes and I recognize it so clearly.” She tucks a purple tendril of hair behind her ear, eyes filling with a grief that mirrors my own. “I’ve been where you are. And I know firsthand that coming back to this life, reclaiming the person you used to be… That’s the hardest thing in the world. Even harder than the thing that made you run in the first place.”

I suck in a breath. Our conversation, to this point, has been light and fun, centered around current events, our favorite movies, and the best places to eat in LA. Her sudden bolt of intuition is a startling sea change.

I swallow hard and hold her stare. “How did you know—”

“In my experience, a woman only makes a drastic hair decision like going blonde after an epic heartbreak or a monumental loss.” Her head tilts, contemplating me. “Which are you?”

A blue box in a bedside drawer.

An oak box in the ground by the sea.

A white box in the cold-packed earth.

“Both,” I whisper, voice cracking. “I’m both.”

She nods, as though she understands all too well. “For what it’s worth — it gets easier. That feeling, like you’re drowning, like you can’t get enough air… it goes away, even if the grief doesn’t. One day, you wake up and you’re breathing again, without even realizing it.”

Our gazes hold in the mirror — two women who know next to nothing about each other, somehow sharing a moment of perfect understanding. I wonder fleetingly what she’s been through, what loss she suffered that swims so brightly in her eyes, but I don’t ask. It’s enough just to know there’s someone else out there who’s made it through the other side of grief and found herself again.

Horrifyingly, I find myself fighting back tears.

It’s been so long since I had anyone in my corner, so long since I had a friend to confide in. I nearly break down when I realize how crushingly lonely I’ve become. How starved I’ve been for a shoulder to cry on, after spending two years propping myself up time and time again.

I should be used to it by now.

I should be stronger than this.

After all, I spent my whole childhood relying only on myself. But once you let down your walls, once you get used to having people in your corner… it’s hard to go back to that life of stoic solitude.

I miss Carly.

I miss Issac.

I miss the customers at The Nightingale.

I miss star-filled nights in Nashville.

I miss him.

“Thank you, Harper,” I murmur eventually, my voice thicker than normal. “For… everything.”

“Just doing my part to keep you from melting down and ruining the makeup job,” she says with a lightness that doesn’t match the look in her eyes. Her hands give my shoulders a quick, reassuring squeeze. “Your interview starts in an hour. Is your driver still outside?”

I sigh. “Yes, Route 66 ordered him to chauffeur me around for the foreseeable future. Apparently, the paparazzi have gone mad — they’ve been gathered outside Eileen’s film stage since word leaked about the Wildwood interview.”

Ghosts stir in Harper’s eyes and I wonder again about what put them there. “Felicity? Just… Be careful, okay? They’ll do anything to get their story. Anything. No matter who they destroy in the process.”

“I’ll be careful, Harper. I promise.”

Stage 1 at AXC studios, the permanent filming location of The Eileen Show, is a constant flurry of activity — PAs rushing around with clipboards and headsets, cameramen and lighting technicians making last minute adjustments before they start rolling. Sitting in the wings backstage, I watch the madness unfolding and try not to succumb to the panicked feeling I always get before interviews.

All eyes on me. The center of attention.

It makes me want to crawl under the closest rock and hide.

You’re Felicity Wilde, I remind myself, attempting to slow my ragged breaths. No one can touch you. Not anymore.

My eyes slide to the empty chair beside mine. Twenty minutes till showtime, and still no sign of Ryder. Beyond the stage I can hear the studio audience filing in, finding their seats as the show-runner leads them through a list of things they should expect during filming. From here, it sounds more like rules for a roller coaster than a talk show.

Stay in your seat at all times.

Keep track of your personal belongings.

Please, no flash photography or video of any kind.

It’s hard to believe I’ll be out there in front of them in a matter of minutes — my first televised appearance since I fell off the face of the earth. I try to remember all the pointers Francesca gave me, the game plan we spent last night going over in my apartment. Things got rather heated, at one point, when she suggested Ryder and I fake a relationship in front of the cameras to sell more tickets. When I flat-out refused, she basically threatened to sue me again. At least, until I pointed out that my contractual obligations begin and end with the tour. Twenty-five shows — nothing more, nothing less.

Frankly, Francesca, any press events I agree to do are a courtesy. If you continue to push the issue, I’ll walk off Eileen’s set so fast, it’ll make your head spin.

After that, she stuck to her repertoire of basic tips.

Don’t fidget.

No touching your hair.

Avoid over-hydrating.

Cross your legs.

I’m sure there was more advice, but it’s flown right out of my head now that I’m sitting here. I try not to think about all the people out there in the audience. My breaths are coming faster and faster as the clock counts down.

Seventeen minutes.

Fifteen.

Ten.

Tomorrow, when the world wakes up to watch the most beloved morning talk-show in America, my anonymity will officially be over. By primetime, the interview will be playing on a loop across every social media platform and major news network.

WILDWOOD REUNITES FOR NATION-WIDE TOUR!

This is just the first in a series of sit-downs Francesca has planned for the next two weeks, before the tour departs. The first time I’ll have to smile for the cameras and pretend everything between Ryder and me is picture-perfect. That, in spite of our tumultuous past, we’ve managed to forge a friendship of mutual respect and understanding.

I’d laugh at the absurdity, but I can’t summon even an ounce of amusement.

Five minutes before showtime, Eileen appears in the wings looking glamorous in a white wrap dress, her mocha skin shimmering under the low backstage lights. When she spots me, her teeth flash in a welcoming, ultra-white smile.

“Felicity Wilde, as I live and breathe!” Her arms come around me in a warm embrace. “Two years is too long, honey!”

“It’s good to see you again, Eileen.” I try to focus as I return her embrace, but the world feels somewhat muted. The roar of my pulse between my ears is unrelenting.

She launches into basic pre-show pleasantries, asking about the upcoming tour and Ryder’s whereabouts. I nod and smile as the walls start to cave in.

I should’ve just let Route 66 sue me.

Take the money. I’ll keep my privacy.

I’m descending into full-on panic when a hand slides onto the small of my back — warm, sturdy, achingly familiar.

“I’m right here, Eileen,” a deep voice rasps from my side.

“Ryder! Just in time. We’re about to get started.” She turns toward the stage, which was designed to look like a chic living room with its white sofa and accompanying armchairs. “You’ve done this before, so I won’t bore you with the details — I’ll do my intro, then a brief segment about the band before I call you both out to the couch. We’ll do some questions, talk about the tour, and then you’ll sing. Sound good?”

We both nod like bobble heads as she whirls away, ensconced immediately in the crush of assistants and crew members. A second later, she steps out into view of the audience. Their applause is loud enough to drown out the music blasting from the speakers overhead.

Ryder’s hand is still on my back.

He should’ve pulled away by now.

I should’ve shrugged him off by now.

Yet neither of us moves an inch. We are a point of perfect stillness in the sea of chaos. Not looking at each other. Barely even breathing. I can feel the imprint of his hand as though it’s wrapped around my heart, each point of contact burning into me like a brand.

“Hey.”

My eyes slide over to his. I blink, hard, when I see how good he looks with a fresh haircut and his jaw clean-shaven, dressed in a crisp blue button-down shirt that brings out the aqua mote in the warm brown of his right eye.

“Breathe,” he says simply, like he knows I’m about to fall apart.

“I’m breathing just fine.”

He shoots me a dubious look that tells me he’s not buying it. To everyone milling about, I might appear cool and composed… but Ryder knows me too well. He’s always been able to see straight through me.

“Felicity…” His expression is unreadable. “Do you remember the first time we ever sang together?”

Taken off guard, I respond without thinking. “Of course. At the nursing home, when we visited Gran.”

“I made you sing in front of everyone.”

“Johnny and June,” I murmur.

His eyes flash with warmth. “Right. Johnny and June.”

“I was so pissed at you for tricking me into singing.”

“I know you were. But… do you remember what I said, right before we started? When you were nervous and wanted to walk out?”

My head tilts. “You called me chickenshit, I believe.”

“I meant the part that came after that. The nice part.”

I can’t subdue the smile that twists my mouth at the memory. “You said… the worst thing that can happen is I freeze. I choke. But even if I did… you’d be right there with me.” My throat tightens. “You said, you aren’t doing this alone.”

“I meant it then, and I mean it now.” His fingers flex against my back. “I’m with you. Always.”

I try to speak, but nothing comes out. All I can manage is a breathless nod as we stand there in the semi-dark wings, waiting for our cue.

We watch Eileen greet the crowd from the white chairs centerstage, listen to the thundering cheers as she mentions our names. A man with a headset starts ushering us frantically forward. I take a few steps and Ryder’s hand falls away from my back. The panic starts to swell again… until he pauses, one step out of view of the audience, and extends his hand out toward mine.

“Together?” he asks lowly.

I don’t let myself think. I just reach out, twine my fingers with his, and hang on for dear life.

“Together.”