Chapter 19- PHOENIX
I've given Maria more instructions in the last hour than I have in the past year.
Fresh sheets on the bed, the Egyptian cotton ones with the high thread count that Jade loved.
Every surface dusted and polished until it gleams. The refrigerator stocked with her favorites, the ones I memorized without her ever knowing I was paying attention.
Greek yogurt with honey. Fresh strawberries.
That expensive sparkling water she pretends she doesn't like but drinks whenever she thinks I'm not looking.
Maria watches me pace the kitchen while she arranges groceries, her expression carefully neutral in the way that tells me she has opinions she's too professional to voice.
"The flowers," I say, checking my phone for the third time in five minutes. "Did they arrive?"
"Yes, Mr. Crawford. I placed them in the living room and the master bedroom, as you requested."
I nod, but I'm already walking toward the living room to check for myself.
The peonies are perfect, soft pink blooms that reminded me of the blush that spreads across her cheeks when I say something that catches her off guard.
I bought enough to fill every room in the house, and now the whole place smells like a garden in spring.
It's too much. I know it's too much.
But I don't know how else to show her that I'm trying. That I heard what she said about control and suffocation and becoming my father. That I'm willing to do the work, whatever that looks like, to become the man she deserves.
I catch sight of myself in the hallway mirror and pause. The dark circles under my eyes have faded slightly, and there's color in my cheeks that wasn't there a few days ago. The haunted expression that's been staring back at me since she left has softened into something closer to hope.
Is this what it feels like to have something worth fighting for?
My phone buzzes. A text from my father.
I'm looking into the situation. We'll talk soon.
Cryptic as always. I don't know what "looking into it" means, whether he's already moved the body or simply gathering information before he acts. Part of me wants to call him, demand specifics, understand exactly what he's planning to do with the evidence I left buried in frozen ground.
But another part of me knows better than to ask questions I might not want answered.
The conversation we had yesterday keeps replaying in my mind.
Nicholas Crawford, my father, the man I've spent my whole life trying to impress and escape in equal measure, admitted to killing people.
Multiple people, from the sound of it. He dismissed my questions about his past, shut down the conversation before I could probe deeper, but the admission itself was enough to shift something fundamental in my understanding of who he is.
Whatever he's planning, it won't be free. Nothing with my father ever is. Every favor comes with strings attached, and sooner or later, he'll come to collect. The weight of that future debt settles heavy on my shoulders, an IOU written in blood that I'll be paying off for years.
I should be worried about that. I should be calculating the cost, planning my exit strategy, protecting myself the way he taught me to.
Instead, all I can think is that I'd do it again.
I'd make any deal, pay any price, sell whatever's left of my soul to keep Jade safe. If that means owing my father something I can never repay, so be it. She's worth it. She's worth everything.
"Mr. Crawford?" Maria appears in the doorway. "Is there anything else you need before I go?"
I glance around the room one more time. The flowers are arranged perfectly. The pillows on the sofa are fluffed. Soft music plays through the speakers, something acoustic and mellow that Jade had playing on her phone one morning while she made coffee.
"That's all, Maria. Thank you."
She nods and gathers her things, and I'm alone in the house that's felt like a mausoleum for a while now. But it doesn't feel empty anymore. It feels like it's waiting. Holding its breath for her return.
The hours crawl by. I shower and change into dark jeans and a gray sweater that she once said made my eyes look softer.
I check my phone every few minutes, tracking her flight as it crosses the country.
I stand at the window and watch the ocean, trying to calm the restless energy coursing through my veins.
I'm Phoenix Crawford. I don't get nervous. I don't second-guess myself. I see what I want and I take it, consequences be damned.
But Jade has changed the rules of the game. She's the one thing I can't simply take, the one prize I have to earn. And for the first time in my life, I'm not certain I deserve what I'm asking for.
Her flight lands at four. I could send a car for her. That's what I would normally do, what makes sense logistically, what a man in my position is expected to do.
Instead, I grab my keys and head for the garage.
The drive to LAX takes forever. Traffic on the 405 is brutal, a crawling nightmare of brake lights and impatient honking that would normally have me gripping the steering wheel with white knuckles.
Today I barely notice. My mind is too full of her.
The sound of her voice on the phone last night, breathy and desperate.
The way she said my name when she fell apart.
The promise she made to come back to me.
What if she changed her mind?
The thought surfaces unbidden, cold and sharp. What if she got on the plane this morning, looked out the window at Boston disappearing below her, and realized she was making a mistake? What if she's sitting in her seat right now, composing a text that will shatter everything?
I push the thought away, but it keeps creeping back.
The airport is chaos. I park in the short-term lot and make my way to the arrivals terminal, checking the flight board every few steps even though I already know exactly when she lands.
The smell of coffee and jet fuel fills my nostrils.
Announcements echo overhead. Families reunite around me, lovers embrace, children run into waiting arms.
I find a spot near the security exit and wait.
Four seventeen. The board says her flight has landed.
Four twenty-three. She should be deplaning now, walking through the jetway, gathering her carry-on.
Four thirty-one. Passengers start emerging from the security doors, a steady stream of tired travelers clutching phones and rolling suitcases.
I scan every face, my heart pounding harder with each passing second.
And then I see her.
She's wearing jeans and an oversized sweater, her dark hair pulled back in a messy ponytail. There are shadows under her eyes and her face is pale, and she's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
Our eyes meet across the crowded terminal.
For a moment, neither of us moves. The world narrows to just the two of us, everything else fading to background noise.
Then she drops her bag and runs.
I don't move. I can't. I just stand there and watch her close the distance between us and something cracks open in my chest that I don't have a word for.
When she launches herself into my arms I catch her and pull her against me and hold on with everything I have, her feet off the ground, her hands fisted in my sweater.
Her mouth finds mine before I can say a single thing.
People are staring. I don't care. I've been waiting for days for this and I would burn the terminal down before I'd let go of her now.
When she finally pulls back enough to breathe, I press my forehead to hers and close my eyes.
"Don't ever leave again," I manage, the words coming out rougher than I intend.
"Don't give me a reason to."
I pull back just enough to look at her face. She's been crying, or was — her cheeks are still damp — and there's something in her eyes that is different from when she left. Something that has come through the fire and held.
I grab her carry-on from wherever it landed and keep my arm around her like she might disappear if I let go.
"Let's go home," I say.
She leans into my side and nods, and I walk her toward the exit and make her a silent promise.
Whatever it takes. Whatever the cost.
I will never lose her again.