Chapter 2
Two Years Later
The second floor of the Blackbird Café is my own personal heaven, with its lush sofas, elegant decorations, and the best coffee in town.
Reagan sips her iced latte, then flicks an ice cube at me, but it misses and instead hits my cup hard enough to send it spiraling toward me.
It spins, grazing the edge of my laptop, and we both yelp, but I catch it just in time.
The barista looks over at us, not at all unfamiliar with our shenanigans.
Reagan is already laughing, legs curled up under her in a way that would horrify all the skirt-wearing law clerks at my firm. “You’re lucky you’re quick.”
“If you stopped flicking things at me and just acted normal, we wouldn’t have to worry about that,” I say lightly, grinning.
I love her mess, and I love this world that turned out to be so much bigger and softer than the one I ran from.
“I’ll buy next time, to make up for it,” she grins.
“You never buy,” I say. “Because you hate to tip.”
“Well, I am turning over a new leaf,” she shrugs. “Aren’t you supposed to be working? Stop chatting to me, it’s distracting.”
I snort. I am supposed to be working, which is why my email is open, maximized, stacked up with five different reminders.
I got a job at a law office when I moved here, and I’m still not entirely sure it is the career path I want to go down.
Is it me? I don’t know. But it is something good, it earns me money, and it keeps me busy.
Three things I needed most when I decided to turn my back on the life, I was so certain I wanted forever.
“Uh, Vi, I don’t want to alarm you but...”
My head snaps up at Reagan’s tone, and I see her eyes are on her screen, before darting up to me as she slowly turns it in my direction.
Travis Phoenix in serious condition after saving the lives of three people in a burning building.
I stare so hard at the line of text it begins to dissolve into black pixels.
For two years, I have trained myself to ignore anything that reminds me of home, or the people who once lived in my bones like infection.
But this is different. Everything around me drowns out, like a low buzz.
All I can hear is the wild hammering of my pulse.
My hands clamp so tight around my glass that my fingers ache.
I don’t breathe. The weight of those words—his name, all stitched to the phrase “serious condition”—drains the world of color, leaving only static, sharp and cold.
There’s a photo under the headline, a massive building in flames, people everywhere.
I force myself to drop my gaze, trying to steady my breath.
Of course, he would do something heroic.
He would be beautiful and reckless and breakable all at once.
The boy I knew, oh, he would save a puppy from a burning building even if it cost him his own life.
Reagan is looking at me with her whole face pulled into concern, mouth tensed, and I know she is trying to stop herself from asking a million questions.
This is the part where I am supposed to make a joke, or at least a sound, but the inside of my head is just a jumble of memories roaring to the surface.
When was the last time I even spoke his name?
I remember the last time I saw him, as I was being taken away in that ambulance two years ago.
On his knees, his face twisted with pain. An image I struggle to forget.
I left everything behind.
I didn’t tell anyone where I went, I changed my number, I turned my back and moved on.
I haven’t spoken to Travis, or to Chief, at all.
My mother keeps Chief updated, I know she does, but she never told him where we moved, either.
Sure, he could have found us if he wanted to, but I think he knew I needed this. He knew the damage they caused.
Travis tried, for months he tried. He called my mother every day, begging her to let him talk to me.
Eventually, she told him that he just needed to let me go, she was sorry, and then she changed her number.
I never heard from him again. Of course, I see his face as I scroll social media, or in a news article, but I always force my fingers to keep on moving. No matter what.
I don’t even use a social media platform under my own name anymore.
I literally left it all behind.
A table three feet away erupts with laughter, and I flinch. I realize I’m staring at the edge of the table, not hearing a goddamn thing outside of the roaring inside my chest.
“I need to go,” I say. It comes out rougher than I intend, and Reagan’s eyes widen like I just threw my coffee in her face. I wave my hand and try for a smile, but the muscles in my cheeks are stuck. “I just, I need some air.”
“Vi...”
“I’m okay, really. I just...I need to go.”
I shove my laptop into my bag, my hands clumsy.
I leave Reagan with one more assurance that I’m fine, and tumble down the stairs, two steps at a time, not caring who notices if I slip.
Outside, the air is so hot it shocks my body, making my hair stick to my skin.
I walk, ignoring the burn behind my eyes, hoping it fades before I reach the car.
But the headline follows. Travis Phoenix. Serious Condition.
My heart scrapes the inside of my chest. I keep going, and going, and going, as if one more block, one more mile, and I’ll finally outrun the parts of me that still belong to him.
“Mom,” I say, voice trembling as I rush through the front door to my apartment, slamming the door behind me. “Did you see the news? Travis is in hospital. It’s bad.”
She freezes, shirt halfway into her suitcase. She has been visiting for the last week and is leaving tomorrow to go home. After Gran passed, she purchased a house a few hours away, but often comes into the city to stay with me.
Her breath catches as she straightens. “What happened?”
I sink onto the edge of the bed. “There was a fire, he went in to save some people. I don’t know if he was burned, or what has happened, all I saw was that he is in critical condition.”
“Oh honey,” she says, sitting down beside me. “Can we find out more information? I can call your dad?”
I nod, turning to her. “Would you do that?”
She nods and pulls her phone from her back pocket, hands already shaking, tapping Chief’s number with a look on her face that makes me feel bad for asking.
The line rings once, twice, and I can see her swallowing repeatedly.
I am quite certain in her mind, she is praying it will go to voicemail, but on the third ring, a voice picks up, sandpapered and cautious, like it’s never forgotten how familiar they once were.
“Mandy,” he rasps. Not Amanda. Never Amanda.
She exhales, tries to find her footing. “It’s me.” The words are too raw. She takes a moment to find her composure. “I saw the news about Travis. Is he...” She lets the question hang, and I hold my breath, scared that the next words might be ones I really don’t want to hear.
Chief is quiet for a long, long time. “He’s alive. They found him on the second floor. Smoke inhalation, but that wasn’t what caused the problem. The floor collapsed. He went through it. Internal injuries, bleeding. He’s in surgery now.”
“Oh, no.”
“Is she there, Mandy?”
I know he’s talking about me.
I hold my breath, meeting my mom’s gaze. I shake my head.
I can’t.
I just can’t.
“Not right now, but she took it hard.”
Chief is silent again. “Tell her she should come home, they said depending on the injuries, it could be serious enough to pose a risk to his life. The past is one thing, but if he ever mattered, she should see him.”
Then, just like that, he’s gone.
Mom turns to me, her eyes welling with unshed tears. “He’s right, honey. If...”
“If he dies,” I finish for her, my voice tight.
She nods. “You should go.”
“I don’t know,” I hesitate, “I don’t know if I can face them all.”
She takes my hand. “I understand, I do, but you’ve buried it too long. It’s time for you to face this.”
Tears fill my eyes. “I don’t know if I am strong enough.”
She cups my chin. “You’re stronger than you know. This is your chance. Go home, see Travis—even if it’s just to say goodbye. Face your father. Close this chapter. You will never truly be whole until you do.”
“I know you’re right, but I am terrified.”
She pulls me into a hug. “You are a fighter, my girl. You’ll do it because you’re better than all of us combined.”
I swallow hard. “Okay.”
She nods, standing. “Call your work, take some time off. If they won’t give it to you, then you quit. Your job is replaceable. Travis is not. Take Reagan. Go home. Figure it out from there...”
“She might not be able to come,” I say, hesitant.
I’m wrong.
Twenty minutes later, Reagan is busting through my front door with a suitcase dragging behind her.
She won’t take any chance to miss a road trip, and she just quit her job so right now, she’s as free as a bird.
I own my apartment; after Gran died, Mom made sure I had something I could own, so I can just lock it up for now and leave it.
I called my boss; she was happy for me to take a month and then let her know what I want to do.
It’s all falling into place, a little too easily.
I try not to see that as any kind of sign.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Reagan asks, leaning against the doorframe.
I exhale. “No. But I will never forgive myself if something happens to him and I don’t go...”
She slides a hand onto mine. “We’ll do it, for Travis.”
I nod. “For all of it.”
Within an hour, we are in the car, my hands curled around the wheel, staring at the closed garage. Mom has left, and now it’s just Reagan and me, ready to face something I honestly thought I wouldn’t have to face again.
“We got this,” Reagan claps her hands together, as I pull out of the driveway.
Ahead, the road home stretches out—uncertain, frightening, but necessary.