Page 74 of One Last Verse

My mother knew all about being in a relationship with an alcoholic. Sadly, she’d never succeeded, which made me wonder whether loving someone was enough.

I left her place very late, exhausted and unsure what to do next. In my apartment in Burbank, Ashton was sprawled on the couch, asleep. An empty pizza box and Red Bull cans sat on the coffee table. The TV was still on. My brother had started to turn into a younger and prettier version of Levi.

I tiptoed into my bedroom, shed my clothes, and crawled under the blankets. After hours of brutal metal and ugly crying, silence felt nice. Comforting even. I dug deep into my brain and tried to fish out happy memories of Frank and me, moments when he made me smile, moments he was sweet and charming, but all I could see was his face vexed with anger and the void he’d become.

I loathed that my worry for him was stronger than my hate and that it pushed me into calling Roman.

“He’s asleep, Ms. Evans.”

“Is his shoulder okay?”

“Hard to say right now. I’m taking him to get an X-ray tomorrow. Doctor’s orders.”

“Keep me posted?”

“Sure. Ms. Evans?” He paused. “I’m glad you called.”

“The last thing I want is for his name to be dragged through the mud while Marshall Burns is getting all the attention.”

“I know you probably won’t believe me, but he appreciates it. He’ll regret most of what he said tonight when he sleeps it off. Don’t take it personally.”

“Good night, Roman.”

“Good night, Ms. Evans.”

It was the doorbell that roused me the next morning. Or afternoon, to be more exact, because the digital clock on the phone read twelve thirty.

Outside my apartment stood a delivery person with flowers. I knew they were from Frank. Phone calls and messages began a couple of hours later, probably when he finally sobered up. I ignored every single one. I wasn’t ready to talk to him yet.

I needed space and I needed to rethink my priorities.

Then I had to discuss the duet fiasco with Maria and Linda, which was the hardest conversation I’d had in years. The man had singlehandedly ruined months of collective work, and now we were left to pick up the pieces.

“What the fuck happened to Frank yesterday?” was the first thing Ashton asked when he got home from school.

Leaning against the kitchen counter with my arms crossed on my chest, I was watching the plastic container with a premade entrée revolving inside the microwave. My appetite was absent, but my brain needed something other than coffee. Frank drama aside,Dreamcatchersrequired my undivided attention. Levi and I were in talks with several venues, and now that my boyfriend’s involvement was up in the air, things promised to get more complicated.

No one would care about a girl from Northern California if a big name wasn’t attached to the project. Linda would have to try really hard to keep us afloat.

“I don’t want to talk about him right now,” I told Ashton.

He scratched the back of his neck and dipped his head to check what was inside the microwave. “Trouble in paradise, huh?”

“You can have it if you’re hungry.” I motioned at the container and returned to my room.

The apartment felt too small for the two of us. I couldn’t tell whether it was because I was used to the luxury lifestyle of Frank’s Malibu mansion or because Ashton had turned my place into a man cave. Everything looked strange. Every detail stuck out. As if my place wasn’t mine anymore. Even the gigantic teddy bear no longer made me smile.

I’d never taken Frank for a big texter, but apparently, the man knew exactly how badly he’d fucked up yesterday. He was showering me with messages nonstop. I had to set my phone to silent. By the time evening rolled around, TMZ had gotten wind of what had happened at Gary’s studio. According to “a source close to the singer,” Frankie Blade decided not to record the duet for reasons that were yet to be explained. I didn’t know how this information had become public knowledge.

Still wired from yesterday’s fight and all my disappointments, I was sitting in front of my computer and sorting through emails when an unfamiliar number flashed across the screen of my phone. I answered. It was force of habit. It could have been film-related.

“Hello. Is this Cassandra Evans?” the male voice asked.

“Yes.” My gut told me that picking up this call was bad judgment on my part.

“This is Brad Finley fromEntertainment Weekly. Do you have a comment about your relationship with Frankie Blade?”

A rush of anxiety raced through me. I hung up without saying a word and noted a new message from Levi that had just come in.

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