Chapter 13 #2
First birthday. A smash cake demolished with gleeful enthusiasm. Frosting in her hair, on her cheeks, covering tiny hands that reach toward the camera like she’s trying to share her conquest.
“She didn’t understand the concept at first,” Elle says, laughter threading through her words.
“Just stared at it like ‘what am I supposed to do with this?’ Then Jen dipped her finger in the frosting and put it in Melody’s mouth.
After that?” She shakes her head. “Total destruction. She finger-painted with buttercream for twenty minutes straight.”
Each photo represents a moment I’ll never reclaim. A memory that exists for Elle but not for me.
“Keep going,” Elle says quietly. She moves closer to me on the bed, our shoulders nearly touching. Close enough that I can feel her warmth through my shirt.
Swipe. Melody at two, caught mid-run in a park I don’t recognize. Her copper curls—exactly like Elle’s—fly behind her as she chases something out of frame. A butterfly, maybe. Or pure joy.
“That’s Shelby Park, just down the street from our house” Elle says softly. “She’d just discovered she could run. Spent the entire afternoon running in circles, laughing like it was the greatest thing she’d ever experienced.”
A smile tugs at my mouth despite everything.
Swipe. Three years old, building a snowman. Arms steady her as she reaches up to place a carrot nose. Her tongue pokes out in concentration, the gesture achingly familiar.
“We drove up to Gatlinburg just so she could see the snow. She was so determined to do it herself,” Elle continues, a smile in her voice.
“But she couldn’t reach high enough. Threw an absolute fit when I tried to help.
Finally, I had to crouch down and pretend I was a a stepping stool so she could place the carrot. ”
“Stubborn,” I murmur.
“Wonder where she gets that.” Elle’s shoulder bumps mine gently.
I scroll back to the beginning. The hospital photo. Elle’s face exhausted, hair plastered to her forehead, hospital gown wrinkled. But her smile—God, her smile as she holds that tiny bundle.
“You were alone.” The realization hits like a freight train. “When she was born. You were alone.”
“My mom flew in.” Elle’s voice goes soft. “Got there two hours after delivery.”
“But during—” I can’t finish. The image forms anyway—Elle in a hospital room, in pain, scared, going through labor without anyone holding her hand. Without me.
Elle’s quiet for a moment. “The nurse held my hand. Her name was Patricia. She had four kids of her own and told me terrible jokes during contractions to distract me.”
“What kind of jokes?”
“Why did the baby strawberry cry?” Elle pauses. “Because her mom was in a jam.”
Despite everything—the hurt, the anger, the overwhelming weight of four lost years—a laugh escapes me. Short. Surprised. Real.
Elle’s mouth curves. “Patricia had about fifty of those. All terrible. But it helped.”
The moment settles between us, something fragile and warm threading through the pain.
“She loves music.” Elle’s voice barely rises above a whisper. “Hums all the time. Makes up little songs about everything—her stuffed animals, what she’s eating, the clouds outside.”
My throat closes. “Creative.”
“She has this thing where she taps out rhythms on everything. Tables, walls, her legs. Drives Jen crazy during quiet time.”
A laugh escapes me, broken and wet. “I used to do that. Mom threatened to duct tape my hands to my sides.”
The memory surfaces unbidden—Elle and me on her apartment couch, my guitar across my lap. Late night, winter cold seeping through the windows. She’d asked what I wanted for the future, beyond music.
“A family someday,” I’d said. “Couple of kids. Teach them guitar, take them to shows.” I’d pulled her closer. “You’d be an amazing mom.”
She’d laughed, curled into my side. “We’d have musical babies. Little rockstars with your talent and my common sense.”
“We’ll name the first one Melody,” I’d declared, already half in love with a child that didn’t exist.
She’d kissed me then, soft and sweet. “Melody. I like that.”
The memory feels like a knife between my ribs. She remembered. Kept the promise I’d forgotten I made.
“Has there been anyone –” I almost can’t say the words, can’t imagine another man holding my daughters hand, tucking her in at night.
Elle shakes her head, hand catching mine with a gentle squeeze and I have my answer.
“What does she know about me?” The question comes out rough. Uncertain.
Elle’s quiet for a moment, her thumb still tracing patterns on my hand. “She’s four, Phoenix. She’s only just now realizing the other kids have dads and she doesn’t.”
The words sting. My daughter noticing what she doesn’t have. Noticing the me-shaped absence.
“And right before I left for Chicago”—Elle’s voice wavers—”she asked me to tell Santa to bring her daddy for Christmas.”
Silence.
My breath catches and holds. Something heavy settles in my chest, pressing down until I can’t breathe around it. I force it back, swallow hard, push it down where it can’t break me.
Her shoulder touches mine. Solid. Steady.
Elle doesn’t speak. Doesn’t offer platitudes or reassurance.
She just leans against me, her temple resting against my shoulder, her hand finding mine in the space between us while we look at a photo of our beautiful daughter and suddenly getting to Nashville becomes the most important thing.
Her fingers thread through mine and squeeze once.
I turn to press my forehead against her hair. Breathe in vanilla and the faint scent of hotel shampoo. I cocus on the warmth of her beside me, anchoring me when everything else feels like it’s breaking apart.
We stay like that. I don’t know for how long.
When I can breathe again without my chest feeling like it’s caving in, she shifts. Picks up the phone. Doesn’t pull away.
“She looks happy.” The words scrape past the tightness in my throat.
“She is.” Pride threads through Elle’s response. “She’s smart and funny and happy.”
“She has your dimple.” Elle reaches out, her finger touching the corner of my mouth where it forms. “And your eyes. Sometimes she’ll look at me with this expression, and it’s like you’re staring back at me.”
I need to know everything. Every detail. “What makes her laugh? What scares her? Does she like storms or hide under blankets?”
Elle’s hand covers mine on the phone. The contact sends electricity arcing between us.
“Phoenix?” Elle’s free hand touches my face, drawing my gaze to hers.
“I need you to understand something. Melody doesn’t know disappointment yet.
Not really. Her world is safe and full of love and people who show up.
” Her eyes hold mine with an intensity that makes my chest ache.
“If you commit to this and then disappear when it gets hard or inconvenient—when the label demands another tour or the schedule gets complicated—you won’t just hurt me.
You’ll teach our daughter that she’s not worth staying for. ”
The mama bear emerges, all claws and protective fury wrapped in quiet words. I knew the minute I saw her photo on Elle’s phone, recognized what was mine, that I wouldn’t ever be able to walk away. Elle has every right to be worried and I’ll spend every day proving her fears wrong.
“I won’t do that to her.”
“You don’t know what you’re promising.” Elle’s voice hardens.
“You don’t know what it’s like when she’s sick at 3 AM and won’t stop crying.
Or when she has a tantrum in the grocery store.
Or when she wants the same bedtime story seventeen nights in a row.
Being a parent isn’t photos and Christmas wishes.
It’s showing up on random Tuesdays when you’re exhausted and she needs you anyway. ”
“Then teach me.” The words tear from somewhere deep. “What does she eat for breakfast? What’s her bedtime routine? Does she sleep with a nightlight? What’s her favorite book?” Desperation bleeds into my voice. “I don’t know any of it, but I want to. I need to.”
Elle opens her mouth, but I’m not done.
“And yeah, I don’t know what the demands of my career will be. I can’t promise I’ll be there for every single Tuesday.” I hold her gaze. “But I want this more than anything.”
“Phoenix—”
“It’s not fair to assume that just because I’m on tour, it means I don’t love you both or want to be there.” The frustration I’ve been holding back breaks free. “Being gone doesn’t mean not caring. It means we work harder to make it work.”
Her expression shifts—surprise, maybe. Like she expected me to just accept her conditions without pushing back.
Elle’s quiet for a long moment, her eyes searching mine.
“I need you to understand that Melody won’t care about the reasons you’re gone,” she finally says, her voice softer now. “She’ll just know you’re not there.”
“I know.” The truth of it settles heavy.
“But maybe she’ll also learn that loving someone doesn’t mean giving up who you are.
That you can chase your dreams and still show up for the people you love.
” I squeeze her hand. “Isn’t that better than teaching her that love means sacrifice and resentment? ”
Elle’s expression softens. Her thumb traces a slow pattern on the back of my hand—the same gesture from moments ago, but it feels different now. Less about comfort, more about connection.
“You’ve thought about this,” she says quietly. Not a question.
“I’ve had five years to think about what I threw away.” I meet her eyes. “And about four hours to think about what I want to build.”
She clears her throat. “Pancakes. She likes pancakes with way too much syrup. Bedtime is eight-thirty, but she negotiates for fifteen more minutes every single night.” A soft smile crosses her face.
“She sleeps with a nightlight shaped like a crescent moon. And her favorite book is about a caterpillar who eats everything.”
The details fill something hollow inside me.
“Thunderstorms scare her. She’ll climb into my bed and press against me until it passes.” Elle’s thumb still traces patterns on my hand. “She likes it when I sing to her. Can’t carry a tune to save my life, but she doesn’t care.”
I can picture it—Elle and Melody curled together during a storm, Elle’s off-key lullabies making our daughter feel safe.
Our daughter.
“I want to meet her.” The words come out quiet but certain. “Tonight. When we get to Nashville.”
Elle’s hand stills on mine. “Phoenix, it’s Christmas Eve—”
“That’s perfect.” My throat tightens.
Elle’s quiet for a long moment, her gaze searching mine. Looking for doubt, maybe. For signs this is impulse rather than commitment.
“We’d need to prepare her,” she finally says. “I can’t just spring this on her. And we’d need to take it slow—”
“However you think is best.” I squeeze her hand. “You know her. You know what she needs. I’ll follow your lead.”
We’re suspended in this moment, the calm between revelations. Tonight we’ll reach Nashville. Tonight I’ll face the reality of fatherhood. Tomorrow the complexity sets in.
Right now we have this fragile peace. This tentative agreement that Melody comes first.
“Thank you,” I say. “For showing me the photos. For...” I gesture vaguely. “Not shutting me out completely.”
Elle touches my cheek. “We’re really doing this.”
Not a question. A statement of something bigger than either of us.
“Yeah.” I stand, pulling her with me. “We are.”
The space between us charges with everything unspoken—fear, hope, the weight of four years and the promise of a future we’re building from broken pieces.
My hand lifts, hesitates, then settles on her arm. The contact feels significant. Intentional.
Her gaze drops to my mouth for a fraction of a second before she catches herself.
“Phoenix—”
A fist pounds against the bedroom door, making us both jump.
“You guys gotta come see this!” Casey’s voice comes muffled through the wood.
Elle opens the bedroom door. Casey stands in the corridor, phone in hand, eyes bright with whatever discovery demands our immediate attention.