Chapter 7
PHOENIX
A child’s delighted shriek draws our attention to a group of kids engaged in an impromptu snowball fight near the edge of the square. Their joy proves infectious as they dart between trees, lobbing misshapen projectiles with more enthusiasm than accuracy.
“Remember our first winter together?” Memory surfaces without warning. “The open mic night at The Basement when snow started falling on our walk home?”
Elle’s laugh emerges—genuine, unguarded. “You insisted on singing ‘Let It Snow’ right there on the sidewalk at two in the morning.”
“And you joined for the harmony.”
“Only to make you stop.” Her eyes sparkle with the memory. “Mrs. Kaplan from the third floor threatened to call police.”
“Worth every decibel,” I declare without regret. “That impromptu duet solidified our musical chemistry.”
“Is that what we’re calling it now?” She shakes her head, but her smile remains. “I remember a very cold walk followed by hot chocolate with extra marshmallows.”
“And I remember pressing you against your apartment door with your leg wrapped around my waist,” I smirk.
Elle gives me a look. I’m crossing boundaries again, but I can’t help myself.
The words hang between us, warm with nostalgia and the deeper connection we once shared. Elle’s smile softens, the present momentarily yielding to shared history.
A fresh snowball sails past, missing us by inches. A red-faced boy calls out an apology before racing to rejoin his friends. My hands move of their own accord, packing snow between gloved fingers.
“Phoenix,” Elle warns, recognizing my intent instantly. “Don’t you dare.”
“Consider it research.” The snowball leaves my hand, hitting her shoulder with a soft puff of powder.
Her mouth drops open in theatrical outrage. “You did not—”
My second snowball catches her mid-sentence. For a heartbeat, she remains perfectly still—then dives for ammunition of her own.
Elle’s aim proves devastatingly accurate, as memory failed to warn me. Snow finds its way inside my collar, down my neck, even into my boots.
“Unfair advantage!” I call out, ducking behind a lamppost. “I’m lit up like a Christmas tree!”
“Should’ve thought of that before starting this war!” Her laughter rings clear across the snow.
She rushes toward me, another snowball ready for launch. I sidestep, but my boot catches on a hidden patch of ice. As gravity claims me, I instinctively reach for Elle, grabbing her jacket. Instead of stabilizing myself, I pull her down with me.
We land in a tangled heap, Elle sprawled across my chest, snow puffing around us like crystalline confetti. The impact knocks the breath from my lungs—or maybe it’s her weight pressed against me, familiar yet foreign.
Time suspends. Her face hovers inches from mine, cheeks flushed with cold and exertion, snowflakes caught in her eyelashes. My gaze drops to her lips, parted slightly in surprise. The air between us charges like static before lightning.
One slight movement. A fraction of distance to bridge.
Her breath hitches as she registers our proximity, the intimate tangle of our limbs in the snow. Something shifts in her eyes—desire, recognition, fear—emotions kaleidoscoping too rapidly to name.
The scent of her surrounds me—chocolate and vanilla and just simply Elle. My body responds instantly, heart hammering against my ribs where her chest presses against mine. Her gloved hands grip my shoulders, neither pushing away nor pulling closer, suspended in indecision.
If I kiss her, there’s no going back.
Then she rolls away, pushing herself to standing with deliberate movements. “You okay?” she asks, voice carefully steady as she brushes snow from her jeans.
“Bruised dignity.” I accept her extended hand to pull myself up, bells jingling pathetically with the movement. “Nothing fatal.”
The moment dissipates like breath in winter air, but the imprint of her body against mine lingers, a phantom melody playing beneath my skin.
“Truce?” I suggest, empty hands raised in surrender.
“Temporary cease-fire,” she counters with mock seriousness.
We stand breathing hard, cheeks flushed with exertion and cold. The night air shimmers with possibility, unspoken words heavy as snow-laden branches.
Music swells from the center of the square, pulling our attention. The local band has taken their position on a small stage, launching into “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree.” Couples begin gathering, forming an impromptu dance floor on the packed snow.
I extend my hand toward Elle. “Come on.”
She hesitates, wariness replacing the playfulness of moments ago. “Phoenix...”
“One dance.” My hand remains outstretched, the star on my chest flashing between us. “For old times’ sake.”
The internal debate plays across her face with transparent clarity. Finally, her gloved hand slides into mine. “One dance.”
I guide her to the fringe of the crowd, slipping into a pocket of space between the other dancers.
She keeps a polite distance, her body arranged in careful, practiced ease.
The band glides into “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas,” and the air softens, the mood warming like breath against winter glass.
For a weighted moment, we hover in uncertainty. Then Elle steps forward, closing the distance between us. My arms encircle her waist as her hands rest lightly on my shoulders, warmth radiating through layers of winter clothing.
“This feels familiar,” I murmur, despite the thunder of my pulse.
“Dangerous territory,” she responds, but makes no move to pull away.
We sway together as snow begins to fall, each flake drifting like a slow-motion star from the night sky.
They catch the colored lights strung around the square, scattering tiny prisms across the dark.
In an instant, the world shifts—holiday-movie perfect, impossibly magical, a scene too surreal to be real.
“It’s snowing again,” Elle whispers, her face tipped toward the sky as flakes drift down to meet her.
The quiet wonder in her voice pulls me back through years of memories—her awe in the face of small beauties was always something I treasured. Snowflakes settle in her dark hair and cling to her lashes, a constellation of tiny stars scattered across the night of her.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” she murmurs, still watching the sky.
“Yes it is.” My gaze never leaves her face, memorizing the curve of her smile, the flush on her cheeks, the snowflakes melting on her skin. “Beautiful.”
She turns, catching me staring. Our eyes lock for a suspended moment, understanding passing between us without words.
The familiarity of her in my arms—the way she still fits perfectly—strikes with bittersweet precision.
What we had, what we lost, what might still remain—all compressed into this single dance beneath falling snow.
“Phoenix,” she begins, then hesitates. Something significant balances on the edge of her next words, hovering unspoken between us.
Her phone rings, shattering the moment. Elle steps back immediately, fumbling in her pocket. The caller ID prompts a flash of emotion across her face—relief mingled with something like guilt.
“I need to take this,” she says, already moving away.
“Of course.”
She retreats several paces, turning her back as she answers. “Hey. Everything okay?”
Her voice drops too low to hear as she shields the conversation from me. The protective gesture strikes me as odd—what requires such privacy? It can’t be her boss at this hour. The secretiveness mirrors her earlier behavior on the bus, the hurried bathroom calls, the quick texts hidden from view.
I stand awkwardly on the edge of the dance floor, still wearing the ridiculous sweater with its flashing star. A few couples give me sympathetic looks as they sway past.
The call lasts barely a minute before Elle disconnects and returns to where I wait, her expression carefully composed.
“Everything okay?” I echo her question.
“Fine.” The response comes too quickly, too brightly. “Just checking in.”
The explanation rings hollow, but pressing seems unwise when our tentative connection remains so fragile. Instead, I offer a change of subject. “Ready to head back? Temperature’s dropping.”
Relief softens her features at the easy out. “Yes. My toes might never forgive me otherwise.”
We walk back toward the B&B in silence, but it’s different from the careful quiet of earlier. Something unspoken stretches between.
The ridiculous sweater continues its light show, the star flashing steadily in the darkness. Elle glances at it, and a small smile tugs at her lips despite whatever’s weighing on her mind.
“Still can’t believe you wore that,” she murmurs.
The admission comes easier than it should. “You wanted me to. That’s enough.”
She falls quiet, but her hand finds mine in the space between us. Just for a moment—fingers intertwining through our gloves, a brief connection before she pulls away again.
The B&B comes into view, warm light spilling from its windows onto the snow. We climb the porch steps, and Elle pauses at the door.
“Thank you,” she says quietly. “For tonight. For the festival. For being...”
“Ridiculous?”
A real smile breaks across her face. “For being you.”
Then she slips inside, leaving me standing on the porch in a light-up sweater, bells jingling softly in the winter silence.
One truth burns steady and undeniable: I still want her. Badly. Five years haven’t changed that. Distance hasn’t changed it. Whatever secrets she’s keeping won’t change it either.
The realization should terrify me. Instead, it feels like finally admitting something I’ve known since the moment I saw her backstage in Chicago.
Some things don’t fade, no matter how hard you run from them.