Chapter 15
PHOENIX
The bus rolls to a stop in front of a modest house on a quiet street, Christmas lights twinkling from neighboring porches. Elle’s home. Where my daughter sleeps.
My chest tightens.
Through the window, I spot a wreath on the front door and snowflake decals pressed against the glass.
The neighborhood wraps around us with that suburban peace I’ve avoided for years—manicured lawns, two-car garages, basketball hoops in driveways.
The kind of place where kids ride bikes until streetlights come on.
The kind of place I never imagined belonging.
“Well,” Casey announces from behind me, stretching his arms overhead. “This has been a hell of a road trip.”
Elle stands, gathering her laptop and bag. Her movements carry exhaustion in every gesture—the way her shoulders curve forward, as she checks her phone one more time.
“You guys staying?” I ask, though I already know the answer.
Theo shakes his head. “Hotel for us. We’ll catch a flight to LA tomorrow.”
Casey pulls Elle into a hug first, surprising both of us. “Don’t put anything embarrassing in that article, yeah? I’ve got an image to maintain.”
“Please.” Theo snorts, stepping in for his own hug. “What image? The one where you cried watching that dog movie last week?”
“That dog died saving the kid!” Casey protests. “Anyone with a soul would’ve cried.”
Despite everything, Elle laughs—soft and genuine. “Your secrets are safe with me.”
“Good.” Casey grins. “Because I’ve got way worse ones than that.”
The moment stretches, these two idiots offering Elle exactly what she needs—lightness when everything else feels heavy.
“Thank you,” Elle says quietly. “For giving me a ride home. For...” She gestures vaguely. “Everything.”
“Family takes care of family.” Theo squeezes her shoulder. “Even the ones who show up unexpected.”
Mike opens the bus door, and cool December air drifts in. Elle moves down the aisle first, and I follow. The street glows with holiday decor—inflatable Santas, light-up reindeer, one house with synchronized lights flashing to Christmas music.
Casey and Theo wave from the bus as we step onto the sidewalk, their silhouettes already heading flopping back onto the couch.
Snow falls in lazy spirals, a rarity for Nashville but somehow feels right in the moment. Snowflakes catch in Elle’s hair as we walk up the path together, boots crunching on the dusting of snow. She stares at her front door, keys gripped in her hand.
“You ready?” she asks.
“Yeah, fuck—” I catch myself as her head whips toward me, eyebrow raised. “I mean, yes.”
The door swings open before she can turn it.
“You’re here!” Jen, her warm brown eyes pull Elle into a fierce hug. “I was starting to worry.”
“Traffic was awful,” Elle mumbles against her shoulder. “I’m so sorry, Jen.”
She pulls back, holding Elle at arm’s length. Her gaze flicks to me, assessment sharp and immediate. “And you brought company.”
“This is Phoenix.” Elle steps aside, creating space between us that feels both necessary and wrong. “Phoenix, this is Jen—my best friend and lifesaver.”
“The rockstar.” Jen extends her hand, a knowing smile playing at her lips. “I’ve heard stories.”
I take her hand, unsure what Elle’s told her. “All terrible, I’m sure.”
“Only the interesting ones.” She releases my hand and turns back to Elle. “Sorry I wore her out. She can’t hang with the cool kids.” She grins, lightening the moment.
Elle’s face crumbles for a second before she catches herself. “I really tried.”
“I know you did.” Jen squeezes her arm. “She’ll understand. And tomorrow’s going to blow her mind.”
Jen gathers her coat and purse from the small bench near the door, movements efficient. She pauses in front of me, dropping her voice low enough that Elle can’t hear as she leans in.
“Welcome home, Dad.” The hug she gives me is brief but genuine, her words quiet against my shoulder before she pulls back.
The title settles in my chest, heavy and real.
Dad.
“Merry Christmas,” Jen calls over her shoulder as she heads for the door. “Try not to wake the princess. She needs her beauty sleep for Santa.”
The door clicks shut behind her, and suddenly it’s just Elle and me in the tiny foyer.
The scent of sugar cookies hangs in the air—sweet and unmistakably homemade—wrapping around me like evidence of the life I’ve missed.
Coats hang on hooks to my left. A small table holds a bowl of keys and what looks like preschool artwork—stick figures and lopsided hearts in crayon.
The silence settles, thick with everything ahead of us.
Elle drops her bag by the door and moves into the living room. I follow, taking in the space that’s been home to my daughter for four years.
The house is small—open concept with the living room flowing into a kitchen barely bigger than the bus.
But it’s warm. Personal. A couch covered in throw pillows faces a TV mounted on the wall.
Bookshelves overflow with what looks like a mix of journalism texts and children’s books.
Photos cover every available surface—Melody at various ages, Elle and Melody together, a few of Elle with Jen.
And in the corner, a Christmas tree.
Fully decorated. Lights twinkling, ornaments covering every branch from bottom to top, a star perched perfectly at the peak. Presents wrapped in cheerful paper sit beneath it, tags written in Elle’s familiar handwriting.
“Jen must have finished it with her.” Elle’s voice carries resignation. “We have a tradition. Hot chocolate and Christmas music while we decorate together.”
I move closer to her, drawn by the grief threading through her words. “Traditions I get to be part of from now on.”
Her eyes find mine, something fragile and hopeful flickering there.
“I need to check on her,” Elle says quietly.
She disappears down a short hallway, leaving me alone with the evidence of the life she’s built.
I move closer to the photos on the mantel.
Melody as a baby, chubby-cheeked and grinning.
Melody covered in what looks like spaghetti sauce.
Melody in a tiny graduation cap, preschool diploma clutched in her hands.
Elle returns, arms wrapped around herself. “She’s sleeping. Totally out.”
She moves to the couch, sinking into the cushions with visible exhaustion. I join her, and she kicks off her boots, tucking her feet under her.
I reach over, pulling her feet into my lap without asking. Her eyes widen, but she doesn’t pull away. My thumbs press into her arch, working at the tension.
“That feels so nice.”
My hands work up to her heel, finding the knots.
Elle’s head drops back against the couch, a soft sound escaping her throat that shoots straight through me.
I keep my focus on her feet, working methodically despite the way her body responds to my touch—the way her breathing deepens, the way tension melts from her shoulders.
The air between us charges with something that has nothing to do with the conversation we had hours ago. Her gaze drops to my mouth, lingering there long enough that my pulse kicks up.
“Elle.” Her name comes out rough, a warning and a plea.
Our mouths meet in the middle—not the frantic urgency from before, but something deeper. Slower. Her hand cups my jaw as I pull her closer, until she’s half in my lap.
This kiss tastes like coming home.
My fingers thread through her hair as her tongue slides against mine. She makes that sound again—soft and needy—and it takes every ounce of control I have to keep this from spiraling.
Because as much as I want her, as much as my body screams to take this further, Melody sleeps twenty feet away.
I break the kiss, resting my forehead against hers. Both of us breathing hard, hearts hammering against each other.
“We can’t,” I manage.
“I know.” Her fingers curl into my shirt anyway.
“But I can’t wait to fuck you on every surface of this house,” I murmur against her mouth.
Elle lets out a breathless laugh, and she pulls back enough to meet my eyes. Heat flares there—want and promise wrapped together.
“Promise?” she whispers.
She extracts herself from my lap, smoothing her shirt with shaking hands. “I should get you set up.”
She disappears into the hallway, returning with a pillow and blanket. “Bathroom’s down the hall on the left. There’s a spare toothbrush in the drawer if you need it.”
She lingers for a moment, eyes searching mine. Then she leans in, pressing a quick kiss to my cheek before pulling away. “Goodnight.”
“Goodnight.”
She disappears down the hallway, and I hear a door close softly.
I spread the blanket over the couch, arranging the pillow. The house settles into quietness—the hum of the refrigerator, the tick of a clock somewhere, the distant sound of traffic.
I should be exhausted. Should crash the second my head hits the pillow.
Instead, I lie awake, staring at the Christmas tree.
My daughter sleeps in the next room. The reality of it crashes over me in waves—overwhelming and terrifying and incredible all at once.
The tree lights blink in rhythmic patterns—red, green, gold, blue. Ornaments catch the glow, casting tiny rainbows across the ceiling.
I’ve spent years running from this. From Nashville. From commitment. From anything that might tie me down or make me responsible for someone else’s happiness.
And now, lying on Elle’s couch with my daughter sleeping twenty feet away, I can’t imagine wanting to be anywhere else.
The clock on the wall ticks toward Christmas morning, carrying us toward whatever comes next.
I close my eyes, but sleep doesn’t come.