30. Chapter Thirty #2
Mom has already moved toward Phoenix. I turn to see him hugging Mom and when Mom pulls back, Phoenix steps forward, extending his hand to Dad.
Dad looks at it for one beat too long.
“Phoenix,” he says, taking it.
“Graham.”
Dad’s eyes linger on Phoenix a second longer than necessary. But Phoenix holds his gaze without flinching.
My parents enter and the apartment rearranges itself to accommodate all four of us.
Mom’s eyes move around the way mothers do when they are checking without seeming to. The clean mugs in the sink. My notebook open on the coffee table. Phoenix’s guitar leaning against the couch.
Dad stays close, quiet in that particular way of his, which means he’s paying attention to everything and saying nothing.
Mom settles at the counter beside me and turns so we face each other.
“How are you really?” she asks.
“Better,” I say. “A week out and I actually feel so much better.”
“You’re writing again?”
“Every day.”
“Good writing or just filling the page?”
“Good writing. Really good, I think.”
She reaches out and wraps her hand around mine. “Are you eating?”
“Phoenix sometimes cooks or orders takeout,” I say.
Plus, he feeds me his cock for dessert.
Mom nods, satisfied enough with the answer to let it go.
Behind Mom, Dad has not moved from his spot. With his arms folded over his chest, he watches Phoenix move to help as I reach for a mug from the cupboard. He watches Phoenix slide a plate of food in front of Mom and me.
Dad looks down at the floor before looking back up at Phoenix. He says nothing, but I catch it on his face. That small, reluctant shift of a man who came here with his mind already made up, only to find it harder to hold onto than he expected.
When Phoenix opens the fridge and takes out two beers, the room shifts before a word is spoken.
He holds out one beer to Dad.
Dad looks at it for a second before taking it.
They stand on opposite sides of the kitchen island, bottles in hand, and talk about nothing for a while. The apartment. The traffic. Easy territory that neither of them has to work too hard.
Soon, the conversation shifts when Dad asks about the next tour.
“UK next month,” Phoenix says. “Willow has her job back with the band. We sorted it out with the label.”
He glances at me briefly and Dad’s gaze follows.
“I want it back,” I say. “I love the work.”
Dad is quiet for a moment. “And what if it goes back to how it was?”
Phoenix cuts me off before I can answer. “Then Willow and I will work out what comes next. Together.”
“That’s vague,” Dad replies, lifting his beer to his lips for a sip.
“Yeah,” Phoenix says, meeting his eyes. “But it’s the truth she is not a footnote in this, Graham. She never should have been. I accept that and I’m aware of it. Wills does not come second to any of it. Not the tour, not the label, not me. You don’t have to worry about that. I promise you.”
Dad looks at him for a long moment and something shifts between them. Not forgiveness. Dad is no fool and Phoenix has not earned that kind of clean slate. But it’s the beginning of something.
Dad says nothing and takes a drink. Which, from my father, is as close to a truce as Phoenix is going to get today.
When I head to my room to find a sweater, Mom follows me in, and I know why she is really there.
She looks at me for a moment and I hate that I still want to be brave under her gaze.
“You look so much better, Willow,” she says.
“I am,” I say, pulling on my sweater.
“I know.” Her eyes soften, then grow careful. “Phoenix seems different.”
I glance toward the door as Phoenix’s low voice carries faintly from the kitchen. “He is.”
“But I need you to be careful, Willow.”
A year ago, I would have defended Phoenix. I would have told Mom she didn’t know what she was talking about. That’s how I know I have changed.
“I am careful, Mom,” I say.
She lets out a breath. “You’ve loved that boy since you were a little girl.”
“Mom, I’m aware of who Phoenix is.”
Her eyes search mine. “Willow.”
“I am stronger now,” I whisper. “I know the difference between who I was then and who I am now. Rehab gave me that much.”
She reaches up and touches my cheek. “I believe you, dear.”
We stand here for a moment, just the two of us, and then Phoenix’s voice drifts through the kitchen, talking to Dad about something. Mom’s mouth curves just slightly at the corners before she drops her hand and moves toward the door.
Phoenix orders takeout around seven.
We eat at the table, all four of us, with containers spread between plates, and the conversation flows more easily as the night settles in. Mom talks about her garden. Dad asks Phoenix about the UK tour.
After dinner, Phoenix finds the game on the TV and drops onto the couch. After a moment, without fanfare and without being asked, Dad settles into the chair beside him. They don’t talk much. They are just two men watching the same screen with beers in hand.
But it’s something that might, given enough time, become what it once was, when Phoenix was always at my childhood home, sprawled on our couch with his shoes off and a controller in his hand while Dad pretended not to enjoy having him there.
The night winds down slowly, the way good evenings do, with no one rushing toward the door.
Mom hugs me on the couch before she even reaches for her bag and Dad finishes the last of his drink.
At the door, Dad hugs me and says he will call tomorrow before he turns to Phoenix.
“Look after her,” Dad says.
“I am.”
Dad holds his stare for a second longer. “Make sure you keep doing it.”
“I will,” Phoenix says quietly.
Dad looks at him for a long moment, then nods once and follows Mom out.
The door closes.
I turn to face him. “That went well.”
“Your dad tolerated me.” His mouth curves. “I’ll take it.”
His eyes move over me and the easy humor in them gives way to something that has been waiting behind it all evening—dark, patient, and done waiting.
“They have been gone for thirty seconds,” I say.
“Twenty-eight.” He moves forward toward me. “And you have been walking around this apartment all night, knowing full well exactly what you said to me before you opened that fucking door.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” I tease.
“No underwear, Wills.” His voice drops low, eyes trailing down my body. “You told me no underwear, then made me sit across from your father at a table for four fucking hours with my cock aching. That was a very stupid thing to do to a man with a very good memory.”
“Maybe I forgot I said that.”
“Did you really forget, Wills?” His eyes drag down my body. “Because I didn’t forget a single fucking word. I’ve been thinking about it all night.”
He reaches out, pressing his hand to the front of my throat. My body responds before I can stop it.
I love it when his hand is there and he takes control. When he wraps his hand around my throat and fucks me like that, with his cock buried deep, and his eyes on mine making sure I feel every single second of it.
He feels my pulse jump beneath his palm and his smile turns filthy.
“Take your clothes off,” he says. “I have been patient all fucking night and now I want to make us both come.”