Chapter 4
PHOENIX
The tour bus rumbles to life beneath my feet as Chicago’s skyline shrinks in the rearview.
Far from the luxury coaches we usually tour in, this last-minute salvation smells faintly of its previous occupants and creaks with each turn, but it beats being stranded.
Snowflakes dance against the streaked windows, thickening with each passing mile.
My fingers tap an unconscious rhythm against my thigh—not the practiced precision of a guitar riff but the erratic beat of a heart rediscovering its purpose.
Elle sits beside me, close enough that the scent of her perfume—vanilla and amber—triggers a cascade of memories.
Same scent she wore when we first met at that underground Nashville venue.
Same scent that lingered on my shirts long after she borrowed them.
Same scent I caught myself searching for in crowded rooms for months after I left.
“You really think we’ll make it through this storm?” Her voice carries that professional edge she’s maintained since our reunion, but beneath it runs a current of genuine concern. Her gaze remains fixed on the window where Chicago’s streets have disappeared under a blanket of white.
“Theo checked the radar. The worst of it stays north.” I lean slightly toward her, testing the boundaries of our newfound proximity. “Once we’re south of Indianapolis, we should outrun it completely.”
“Since when did guitarists become meteorologists?” The corner of her mouth twitches upward—the first genuine almost-smile I’ve seen since she walked into the green room.
“Since waiting out storms became part of the job description.” My response earns a soft exhale that might almost qualify as laughter. Progress.
From the back of the bus, Casey’s voice carries forward. “Anyone up for Cards Against Humanity? Perfect way to break the ice with our journalist friend.”
Elle’s posture changes. The warmth vanishes, replaced by the cool professionalism I’ve come to recognize as her armor.
“Let her breathe, Casey.” Theo’s deep voice rumbles from where he sprawls across one of the aisle, reading glasses perched on his nose as he scrolls through something on his tablet. “She’s got an interview to conduct.”
“Right.” Casey flops dramatically next to me on the couch. “The interview. Forgot about that convenient excuse.”
Elle shifts in her seat, notebook appearing from her bag with impressive speed. “Actually, this would be the perfect time to start, if you’re ready.”
Her eyes meet mine, determination warring with something deeper, something she tries to hide behind her carefully constructed composure.
The woman I knew years ago lived in her expressions—every thought, every emotion played across her features like notes on sheet music.
Now her face reveals only what she allows.
“What if we postpone the official questions for a bit?” I suggest, lowering my voice so only she can hear. “Get reacquainted first. Off the record.”
She hesitates, pen hovering above pristine paper. “That’s not how interviews work.”
“Since when have we ever done things the conventional way?” The words escape before I can filter them, too intimate, too familiar. A reference to our past that hangs between us.
The bus hits a patch of rough road, jostling us slightly. Elle’s notebook slides from her lap. We both reach for it, fingers brushing for the briefest moment. The contact sends electricity racing up my arm, a jolt more powerful than a stadium’s worth of amps.
She recovers first, snatching the notebook back and clutching it like a shield. I twist one of my silver rings, the metal warm from my skin, watching her retreat behind professionalism.
“Fine. Ten minutes. Off the record.”
“Twenty,” I counter, falling into our old pattern of negotiation with surprising ease.
“Fifteen, and that’s generous, considering I’m on deadline.” The professional facade cracks just enough for me to glimpse the Elle I remember—stubborn, principled, unwilling to give ground without a fight.
“Done.”
Casey makes a whipping sound. Theo chuckles without looking up from his tablet.
“Shut it, Matthews,” I kick out a foot at him.
“Don’t mind me. Just enjoying the show.” He grins, the sound of cards shuffling replacing his commentary.
Elle’s fingers tap against her notebook, her nail digging small crescents into the leather cover.
“So,” she begins, pulling me from my spiraling thoughts. “How’s LA treating you?”
“It’s loud. Bright. Never sleeps.” I shrug. “Perfect distraction.”
“From what?”
My eyes find hers, holding her gaze longer than polite conversation allows. “You know from what.”
“Off the record doesn’t mean you get to cross boundaries,” she warns.
“I just want a chance to explain.”
The muscle in her jaw tightens—a tell I remember from our past arguments, when she’s holding back words that would cut too deep. She closes her notebook with a deliberate click, the sound sharp in the quiet space between us.
“I can’t do this right now.” Her voice shifts into that measured tone that creates more distance than physical space ever could. “I need to focus on the article.”
Before I can respond, she’s gathering her notebook and pen.
“I should organize my notes and check in with my editor.” She rises, scanning the cramped confines of the bus with visible frustration.
Elle takes three determined steps before reality hits her. Her shoulders drop as she does a slow, theatrical turn, taking in the laughably small space of the tour bus. The kitchenette, the seating area, the bunks—all within a fifteen-foot radius of where I sit.
“Seriously?” she mutters, throwing her hands up in exasperation. For a moment, the professional veneer slips.
“Problem?” I can’t help the slight upturn of my lips.
She narrows her eyes at me, jaw tight. “Not everything revolves around you, Phoenix.”
With an exaggerated huff that blows a strand of copper hair from her forehead, she flops onto the tiny bench in the kitchenette area, making more noise than her slight frame should be capable of. The dramatic display would be comical if it weren’t for the genuine frustration radiating from her.
Casey and Theo have gone suspiciously quiet.
Elle arranges her laptop and notes into a makeshift workstation, the message clear as soundcheck feedback: approach at your own risk.
A familiar hollowness opens beneath my ribs. The same emptiness I carried for months after leaving Nashville. After leaving her. I spin a silver ring around my finger, the repetitive motion doing nothing to fill the void.
Casey appears beside me, dropping into Elle’s vacated seat. “Smooth, real smooth.”
“Shut up.”
I glare at them. “Don’t you have groupies to text or something?”
“And miss this trainwreck? Not a chance.” Casey grins, settling in like he’s at a movie premiere.
I risk another glance toward Elle, her copper head bent over her work, the rigid line of her shoulders broadcasting her determination to ignore my existence.
The silence between us feels solid as a concrete wall, but I’ve never been good at respecting boundaries—especially ones that keep me from something I want.
Snow falls in earnest, fat flakes splatting into the windows as we leave the city behind. The highway stretches before us, a gray ribbon disappearing into a curtain of white.
“Mike says we’re making good time,” Casey announces, dropping into the seat across from mine. “Should hit Nashville by evening, weather permitting.” His eyes dart meaningfully toward Elle, still ensconced in her makeshift office. “Though some of us might not be in a hurry.”
“Give it a rest.”
His grin widens. “What? Just making conversation.” The exaggerated innocence in his voice would earn him a guitar pick to the forehead if we were onstage. “Though I gotta say, when you said we were taking the bus, I didn’t realize it came with entertainment.”
“Find someone else to torment.”
“But you’re so much fun.” He leans closer, voice dropping. “Seriously, though. If you’re planning what I think you’re planning, tread carefully. The past doesn’t always want to be revisited.”
The weight of his words sinks deeper than his teasing ever could. Eighteen hundred and twenty-five days of trying to convince myself I made the right choice.
“I’m not planning anything,” I lie, the words hollow even to my own ears.
“Right. And I’m joining a boy band.” Casey’s expression softens into something rare—genuine concern without the protective layer of humor. He claps my shoulder before rising. “Just... go easy.”
His retreat leaves a vacuum that pulls my attention toward Elle, still unaware of our exchange.
The morning light catches in her copper hair, transforming ordinary bus fluorescents into something almost ethereal.
My fingers itch with the phantom memory of her hair slipping through them—silk against callused skin.
The irony isn’t lost on me. Years of carefully maintained distance obliterated by a snowstorm and a highway stretching toward a past I never fully escaped.
I rise before I can talk myself out of it, crossing the narrow aisle to where she sits. Her head remains bent over her laptop, but the slight stiffening of her shoulders betrays her awareness of my approach.
“Interview time?” I ask, aiming for casual and missing by a mile.
She glances up, wariness and resignation mingling in her expression. “That is why I’m here.”
“Mind if I sit?” I gesture to the bench across from her tiny table.
She hesitates, then nods, closing her laptop with deliberate care. Then she pulls out her notebook, pages already crowded with notes I’d trade my favorite guitar to read.
“So,” she begins, composure firmly in place. “Let’s talk about the tour. Fifteen sold-out arenas in twelve weeks is impressive.”
“Is this how we’re going to do this?” The question escapes before I can filter it. “Pretend we’re strangers?”
Her pen pauses against paper, knuckles whitening slightly. “We’re not strangers. I’m a journalist. You’re a musician. This is an interview.”
“Elle—”
“This is my job, Phoenix.” The edge in her voice could cut glass. “My career. Not a reunion tour.”
The distance she places between us with those words stretches wider than the time we’ve spent apart. I swallow against the tightness in my throat, nodding once.
“Alright. The tour. What do you want to know?”
The relief that flashes across her face stings more than her anger would have.
For the next hour, we dance the careful choreography of professional distance—question, answer, follow-up, all wrapped in the polite fiction that we don’t know the taste of each other’s skin or the sound of each other’s heartbeats.
But beneath the surface, currents pull. My gaze lingers when she looks down at her notes. Her fingers trace the edge of her notebook when I mention Nashville. The careful space between our knees beneath the narrow table shrinks by increments neither of us acknowledges.
“Now that the tour’s wrapped, what’s next for you during the hiatus?” she asks, pen poised above paper.
“Depends on what happens after we get to Nashville.” My eyes find hers, holding.
Her jaw tightens. She gives me a look that could freeze fire.
“Solo projects?” she asks, voice clipped as she redirects. “Any plans to work on new music?”
“Maybe.” I lean back slightly, relenting. “First time in three years I’ll actually have time to write without a tour schedule hanging over me.”
“And creatively?” The question carries an edge, like she’s daring me to steer personal again. “What direction are you thinking?”
Something shifts in her expression when I don’t take the bait—a softening around the edges, a crack in her defenses.
“Some things can’t be planned,” I add, quieter now. My thumb finds the edge of a silver ring, spinning it slowly. “You used to understand that better than anyone.”
For a heartbeat, I glimpse the Elle I knew—the one who would lie beside me for hours as I worked through chord progressions, offering insights no producer ever could. The one who knew exactly which strings to pluck to draw out sounds I never knew I could make.
“That was a long time ago.” Her voice lacks the sharp edge from earlier, replaced by something more dangerous—wistfulness.
“Not so long.”
Her phone buzzes. She glances at the screen, color draining from her face so quickly I nearly reach for her.
“I need to take this,” she says, already rising, the sudden urgency in her movements setting off warning bells. “Excuse me.”
She retreats to the tiny bathroom at the rear of the bus, phone clutched in her hand like a lifeline. The door closes firmly behind her, leaving me with the ghost of her perfume and questions I’m not sure I want answered.
Casey appears at my side, eyebrows raised.
The bathroom door remains closed, her voice a muffled murmur too faint to make out words. Whatever conversation she’s having, it’s important enough to interrupt our interview—important enough to retreat to the only private space on the bus.
“Wonder who she’s talking to,” Casey muses, following my gaze.
“None of our business,” Theo reminds him, ever the voice of reason.
“Speak for yourself. I live for other people’s business.” Casey grins, but there’s a note of genuine curiosity beneath the joke. “Boyfriend, maybe?”
The possibility settles in my stomach like a stone, though I have no right to the jealousy. Of course there’s someone else. Someone who appreciates what I was too blind to see. Someone who stayed when I walked away.
“Like I said,” I force my voice to remain neutral, “none of our business.”
The snow continues to fall outside, white flakes swirling in patterns as complex and beautiful as the woman was just sitting across from me.
The miles stretch ahead, carrying us toward Nashville and whatever waits at the end of this road.
But I can’t shake the sense that we’re hurtling toward something neither of us is prepared to face.
Whatever happens when we reach Nashville, nothing will ever be the same.