Chapter 5
ELLE
I emerge from the cramped bathroom at the back of the bus, phone still warm in my palm after a hushed conversation with Jen. My pulse hammers against my ribs.
The main cabin greets me with unexpected chaos.
Cards scatter across the narrow table where Phoenix and I conducted our interview moments ago.
Casey deals with theatrical flair while Theo arranges his hand with methodical precision.
Phoenix studies his cards with the same focus he brings to guitar solos.
My interview. Gone.
I need this story—need the professional credibility, the paycheck, the proof I can still do my job. But every question I ask Phoenix pulls us closer to dangerous territory, to memories that threaten the careful distance I’ve maintained.
“Elle!” Casey spots me first, his bleached curls bouncing as he waves me over. “Perfect timing. Gin rummy, Texas Hold’em, or Go Fish? We’re democratically undecided.”
“I thought we were doing an interview,” I say sharper than intended.
I sink into the seat across from Phoenix, notebook still clutched in my hand like a shield. The professional opportunity slipping away should bother me more. Instead, the reprieve from his probing questions loosens the knot between my shoulder blades.
“You want an interview?” Casey grins, mischief dancing in his eyes. “I’ve got a story for you. Better than whatever boring answers Phoenix was gonna give about creative process and musical inspiration.”
Phoenix groans. “Please don’t.”
“Oh, I’m absolutely doing this.” Casey leans forward, gesture already dramatic. “So this one time, in Berlin, Phoenix decides he can speak German. Mind you, he knows exactly three phrases—’beer please,’ ‘where’s the bathroom,’ and ‘your mother wears army boots.’”
Despite the anxiety gnawing at my insides, a reluctant smile tugs at my lips.
“In his defense,” Theo adds, “the promoter spoke perfect English. Phoenix was showing off.”
Casey nods enthusiastically. “Exactly! So he walks up to this terrifying giant of a man and says what he thinks means ‘your venue is amazing’ but actually translates to—”
Phoenix interrupts, the tips of his ears reddening in a way I remember too well. “I sent flowers and a very expensive bottle of schnapps.”
“The restraining order was lifted eventually,” Casey finishes with a wink in my direction. “Turns out insulting someone’s lineage, hygiene, and moral character in one mangled sentence is frowned upon.”
Laughter ripples through the bus, momentarily lightening the atmosphere. Casey appoints himself official morale officer, filling the next hour with increasingly outrageous tour stories while Theo quietly deals hands of gin rummy to anyone willing to play.
The bus rumbles beneath us, wipers fighting the thickening snow. My phone buzzes with another text from Jen—a photo of Melody with flour-dusted cheeks and a proud smile, cookie cutters scattered around her.
Jen: Christmas science experiment successful! She wants to know if Santa will like snowflake cookies best.
My heart contracts. The image blurs slightly as pressure builds behind my eyes.
“Your turn,” Theo says, pushing a small pile of cards toward me.
“Sorry.” I force myself back to the present, discarding a nine of clubs.
Phoenix watches me from across the narrow aisle, his attention a tangible pressure against my skin. Since our interview collapsed into charged silence earlier, he’s maintained careful distance, but his gaze returns to me with magnetic regularity.
“What’s your greatest fear?” Casey asks suddenly, directing the question at no one in particular.
Theo raises an eyebrow. “Getting philosophical for bus entertainment.”
“Just making conversation.” Casey shrugs, but his eyes dart between Phoenix and me with undisguised curiosity.
“Heights,” Theo offers after a moment. “Can’t stand them.”
Casey snorts. “Says the man who scales speaker towers for fun.”
“Controlled environments,” Theo clarifies. “Different thing entirely.”
The question hangs in the air, waiting. My greatest fear sits beside me on this bus, growing with each mile marker we pass—the inevitable collision of my past and present, Phoenix discovering Melody, the aftermath I can’t predict or control.
“Elle?” Casey prompts. “What keeps a music journalist up at night?”
“Missing deadlines,” I answer automatically. “And bad WiFi.”
Casey laughs, but Phoenix’s gaze intensifies, seeing through the evasion with unsettling precision. He remembers how I answered this question—truthfully, vulnerably, in late-night confessions.
Being forgotten. Being less than extraordinary. Disappearing into ordinary life without leaving a mark.
How those fears transformed after he left. After Melody. Now ordinary life—stable, predictable, safe—has become the treasure I guard most fiercely.
“What about you, Phoenix?” Casey turns the question on him, apparently determined to provoke something beyond our careful distance.
Phoenix doesn’t hesitate. “Regret.”
The single word drops between us like a stone, rippling through the careful neutrality I’ve maintained. His eyes lock with mine, the simple answer carrying undercurrents only I can decode.
Before anyone can push further, the engine stutters. The dashboard lights flicker, and the bus loses speed, lurching slightly.
“Dammit,” Mike mutters from the driver’s seat, eyes flicking between the road and the warning lights now illuminating the dash. “Come on, not now.” He hits the steering wheel with his palm.
The engine coughs, a harsh grinding noise rising through the floor.
“What’s happening?” Casey calls, gathering scattered cards as the bus begins slowing dramatically.
“Engine’s struggling,” Mike answers, scanning the road ahead through the thickening snow. “We’re losing power.”
Phoenix moves toward the front of the bus. “How bad is it?”
“Bad enough.” Mike points ahead where the lights of a small town glow faintly through the whiteout conditions. “That’s Millfield up ahead. We need to get there before this bus gives up completely.”
The engine protests again, the bus shuddering as Mike nurses it forward, speed dropping to a crawl. A sign emerges from the swirling snow: “Welcome to Millfield, Indiana - Population 2,483.”
“Think we can make it into town?” Phoenix asks, his knuckles white as he grips the back of Mike’s seat.
Mike nods grimly. “If we’re lucky. If not, we’re walking in a blizzard.”
Anxiety coils tighter in my chest. Nashville slips further away with each labored mile, Melody’s face swimming in my vision every time I close my eyes.
We creep through the town’s entrance, the bus losing more power with each passing minute. The main street lies ahead, decorated with Christmas lights and wreaths that glow cheerfully through the snowfall.
“There,” Mike says with visible relief, pointing toward a lit building with a sign reading “Pat’s Auto Service.” He maneuvers the struggling vehicle into the lot as the engine gives a final, defeated sputter and dies.
“Made it,” he sighs, trying the ignition without success. “Barely.”
“What’s wrong with it?” Phoenix asks.
Mike shrugs, already pulling on his gloves. “Won’t know ‘til someone looks at it.”
Ten minutes later, we huddle inside Pat’s Auto Service as a heavyset man in oil-stained coveralls examines the engine. Pat himself, according to the embroidery on his jacket, finally emerges with a grim expression.
“Radiator hose burst and you’ve overheated pretty badly,” he confirms, wiping his hands on a shop rag. “Coolant’s everywhere under the hood. Plus this extreme cold’s done a number on your diesel. It’s starting to gel in the lines.”
“Can you fix it?” Phoenix asks.
Pat scratches his beard. “Got the hoses to replace, no problem. But I need to flush the system, replace the coolant, and treat the diesel fuel so it doesn’t keep gelling. It’s gonna take time.”
“How much time?” The question emerges hollow.
“Can’t finish tonight,” Pat says apologetically. “Parts are easy, but the labor’s gonna take hours. Plus I need to let the engine cool before I can really get in there. You folks need a place to stay. Martha runs the Millfield Bed & Breakfast two blocks over. Tell her Pat sent you.”
Twenty minutes later, we trudge through the thickening snow to a cheerful Victorian house with a wooden sign swinging in the wind: “Millfield Bed & Breakfast.” A wreath of evergreens and red berries adorns the door, which opens before we can knock.
“Pat called ahead,” explains the gray-haired woman who introduces herself as Martha. “Said you folks are stranded. Come in before you freeze solid.”
The interior embraces us with blessed warmth and the scent of cinnamon and pine. In any other circumstance, the cozy space with its crackling fireplace and tasteful Christmas decorations would seem welcoming.
My gaze sweeps the room. The mantle catches my attention—evergreen garland draped across dark wood, pillar candles in hurricane glass, and there, centered between the candles, a wooden Nutcracker jewelry box. The delicate ballerina perched on top, frozen mid-pirouette in her pink tutu.
The air leaves my lungs.
Melody has three of them. Started collecting after I took her to see The Nutcracker last Christmas.
She lines them up on her dresser, winds each one carefully before bed, and watches the tiny ballerinas spin while the music plays.
Her favorite—the one with the silver crown—sits beside her pillow every night.
“I’ve only got three rooms available,” Martha continues, leading us toward a reception desk fashioned from an antique writing table. “Two singles, one double.”
“I’ll take one of the singles,” I say immediately, voice rougher than intended.
Martha smiles kindly. “Of course, dear. The rest of you gentlemen can sort yourselves out.”
While the others handle room arrangements, I step aside to call Jen, moving toward a window seat where the cellular signal seems strongest.
“Hey,” Jen answers immediately. “Everything okay?”