Chapter 9
PHOENIX
Elle climbs the stairs with her spine rigid, shoulders squared in borrowed strength. I absorb every detail—the curve of her neck, the fall of her hair, the stubborn tilt of her chin. Each one etches itself into me, a fleeting frame I cling to like it might slip away forever.
“Smooth move, geniuses.” The words escape before I can stop them, sharp with frustration as the door to Elle’s room clicks shut.
“Shit.” Casey winces, stomping melting snow from his boots onto the antique runner. “That was bad timing.”
“We should’ve stayed at the bar,” Theo says, voice carrying from the living room.
“Nothing was happening,” I lie, grabbing a mug from the tray Martha left by the fire—not because I want the hot chocolate, but because my hands need something to do. The ceramic warms under my palms, my rings pressing cool against it, the contrast grounding me more than the drink ever could.
Casey follows, his breath laced with whiskey. “Nothing, huh? So you two were—what? Discussing interview questions by firelight while staring at each other’s mouths?”
“Drop it.”
“Come on.” Casey hops onto the counter, legs swinging childlike against the cabinets. “Whatever we walked in on wasn’t professional curiosity. Those sparks could’ve started a second fire.”
My throat constricts. Casey has no idea what I actually confessed tonight—how finally saying it out loud after all these years felt like cracking open a cage I’d been living in.
“You’re drunk.”
“Tipsy,” he corrects with a finger raised. “And observant. Different skills entirely.”
“Where’s Mike? Did you abandon him at the tavern?”
Theo chuckles. “Martha showed him to his room already. You missed him challenging the local dart champion.”
“How’d he do?”
“Mike should stick with driving,” Casey says around a yawn. “Ready to head up? Martha said we’re in the room at the end of the hallway.”
We trudge upstairs, Casey spinning Mike’s dart humiliation into an increasingly colorful disaster. The staircase protests beneath our weight, each wooden step groaning with age and character.
Our room greets us with disappointing dimensions—two narrow twin beds with faded quilts, a dilapidated armchair wedged against peeling wallpaper, and hand-sewn curtains framing frosted windows.
A weathered dresser stands sentinel beneath an antique mirror, its surface mottled with age spots like old brass.
“Dibs on the shower,” Casey announces, beelining toward the en suite.
My hand catches his shoulder, halting his progress. “No chance. Your post-bar hygiene routine violates the Geneva Convention.” I sidestep him into the small bathroom, shutting the door on his theatrical protests.
Water cascades over my shoulders, steam billowing around me.
Physical tension dissolves while the emotional kind remains, knotted tight beneath my skin.
Memories of Elle circle relentlessly—the vulnerability in her eyes before Casey and Theo burst in, the slight parting of her lips as I leaned closer.
The mirror clouds as I brush my teeth. Through patches of clarity, a stranger stares back—older than twenty-eight, with lines around my eyes mapping five years of sleepless nights and relentless touring.
My fingertips trace these changes, measuring the distance between who I was with Elle and who I’ve become without her.
Emerging from the bathroom with a towel around my waist, I discover unexpected silence.
Casey sprawls across the bed nearest the window, fully dressed save for his boots, mouth slack in slumber.
On the opposite bed, Theo lies face-down, arm dangling toward the floor, glasses precariously balanced on the bridge of his nose.
“Fifteen minutes.” Disbelief coats my words. “The shower took fifteen minutes.”
Neither stirs. The whiskey from the tavern claimed them both, transforming my bandmates into unconscious obstacles. Casey clutches his phone even in sleep, while Theo’s breathing deepens into the first hints of what promises to become thunderous snoring.
“Unbelievable.” I throw on a pair of sweatpants, irritation mounting with each passing second.
The vacant armchair offers false hope—a Victorian monstrosity with protruding springs and horsehair stuffing visible through worn upholstery.
My experimental seat confirms suspicions as ancient wood groans beneath my weight, a coiled spring pressing sharp against my vertebrae.
“Not an option.” Rising, I survey the limited floor space—a narrow strip of hardwood between beds, worn smooth by decades of footsteps, dust bunnies lurking. I swipe a spare blanket from Theo’s bed and arrange it on the floor, converting my duffel into a makeshift pillow.
The hardwood meets my spine with unwavering firmness, every vertebra aligning with unforgiving precision against the aged planks. Cold radiates through the thin blanket, seeping into muscle and bone. A shift of position produces a symphony of creaks from ancient floorboards.
Theo’s breathing transforms from gentle rhythm to gathering storm, escalating in volume with each exhale. Casey mumbles unintelligibly, rolls over, and joins the nocturnal concert. Their combined snoring vibrates through the floorboards, rattling my last nerve.
The chair deserves another chance. I fold my legs awkwardly across one arm, propping my head against the worn upholstery. Three minutes reward me with a neck cramp promising permanent damage.
Fuck.
Floor attempt number two. This time I grab Theo’s discarded jacket for added cushioning. The snoring intensifies—a perverse response to my desperate maneuvering.
“Enough.” Blanket and pillow in hand, I abandon the cacophony. The living room couch beckons from downstairs, promising relative silence if not comfort. My sock-clad feet navigate the darkened hallway, guided by dying firelight and memory.
The living room welcomes me in hushed anticipation, illuminated by glowing embers.
Antique furniture creates shadowed silhouettes against burnished wood paneling, while hand-woven rugs add unexpected softness underfoot.
A grandfather clock in the corner measures midnight with resonant chimes, competing with the winter wind moaning beyond frosted panes.
Moonlight filters through lace curtains, casting silver patterns across the pine floorboards.
The couch—an antique settee with curved arms and faded damask upholstery—provides unexpected comfort as I sink into its embrace.
The cushions exhale the scent of lavender sachets and cedar, while a knitted afghan adds softness beneath my blanket.
The century-old house communicates in its own language—subtle creaks and sighs as wooden beams accommodate winter cold. Pine logs in the hearth collapse into ruby embers, sending occasional sparks dancing up the chimney throat.
Sleep pulls me under, consciousness drifting like an outgoing tide—until the creak of wooden stairs under unexpected weight snaps me awake.
Elle stands frozen at the bottom step, wrapped in a thick cardigan, surprise etching her features.
Hair tumbles loose around her shoulders, firelight illuminating auburn highlights against chestnut waves.
Her cardigan shifts as she moves, the thin shirt beneath doing nothing to hide the tight peaks of her nipples, stark against the fabric. I should look away but I can’t.
“Sorry.” Her whisper barely carries across the room. “Couldn’t sleep. I came down for water.”
“Theo snores.” I push upright, blanket sliding to my waist. “Like industrial machinery with failing parts.”
The corner of her mouth quirks upward. “Tour bus must be a nightmare.”
Her fingers worry the hem of her cardigan—a nervous habit I remember from late nights spent with her over term papers. The motion draws my gaze to her wrists, where delicate bones move beneath pale skin like something fragile and familiar.
“I should go.” She pivots toward the stairs, wooden treads creaking beneath her weight.
“Stay.” The word escapes unbidden, carried on an exhale. “Please.”
Indecision flickers across her face, firelight dancing over features at once familiar and altered by time. Shadows catch the graceful line of her jaw, the soft hollow beneath her cheekbones—quiet marks of the years that have shaped the woman she’s become.
She remains at the base of the stairs, cardigan pulled tight around her frame now. The distance between us holds weight—measured in years and everything we still have left to say.
“We need to talk.” My voice emerges rougher than intended.
“About?” Her question carries challenge beneath artificial casualness.
“What nearly happened before Casey and Theo crashed in.”
Her fingers tighten in the cardigan’s fabric, knuckles straining beneath skin. “Nothing nearly happened.”
“Lying doesn’t suit you.” No accusation, merely observation.
Moonlight illuminates her eyes, dark pools reflecting dying embers. In their depths, the Elle I once knew surfaces—stubborn, passionate, constitutionally incapable of retreat.
“Fine.” A single syllable of surrender. “You’re right.”
Her admission quivers in the air between us, fragile and volatile. She approaches, steps measured across the antique carpet, until mere inches separate us. Proximity reveals the rapid pulse at the hollow of her throat, the slight tremble in her fingers against the cardigan’s edge.
“What are we doing, Phoenix?” Vulnerability threads through her question.
The words hang between us, demanding answer yet defying response. I watch her in the firelight and feel that old ache return—not painful, but familiar. A recognition that settles deep in my chest, quiet and undeniable.
I stand slowly, eliminating final distance while allowing retreat if she desires it.
She remains steadfast.
Our gazes lock, attraction crackling between us with undeniable force. Everything missed, wanted, regretted stands before me, moonlight and ember-glow painting her in silver and gold.