Chapter 14
ELLE
The bus slows, pulling onto the shoulder with a hiss of air brakes. Mike’s already opening the door, cold December air rushing in. “You don’t see this every day.”
Curiosity overrides exhaustion. I follow Casey down the steps. Snow crunches beneath my boots, the sound sharp and crystalline in winter silence—like walking on diamonds.
Indiana countryside stretches endless—white fields broken only by dark lines of fence posts and bare trees. The sky hangs low and gray, heavy with the promise of more snow yet to fall. Stillness wraps around us, so complete I can hear my own breathing.
“There.” Casey points across the field.
Deer. At least a dozen grazing near the fence, close enough to touch if we dared.
They move with impossible grace, heads dipping to nose through snow, ears twitching at every sound.
Each breath rises from their nostrils in small silver clouds, suspended for a heartbeat before dissolving into winter air.
The quality of silence out here—no traffic, no city hum, nothing but the whisper of wind through bare branches—makes everything feel sacred.
I suck in a breath, the cold burning my lungs, sharp and clean. The air tastes like winter itself—metallic and pure.
“Beautiful, right?” Casey’s voice drops to something approaching reverence.
“Overgrown dogs if you ask me,” Theo mutters.
Casey whips around, genuinely offended. “Dogs? Are you kidding me right now? These are majestic creatures of the wild.”
“Dogs with hooves and antlers.”
“You’re dead to me, Theo. Absolutely dead.”
I step closer to the fence lining the shoulder, resting my arms on the weathered wood. The scene before me could be a painting—timeless and untouched by the chaos we’ve left behind in Chicago.
Warmth surrounds me from behind. Phoenix’s arms slide around my waist, pulling me against his chest. His chin rests on my shoulder, breath warm against my cold cheek.
“Hi,” he murmurs.
The single word sends electricity racing down my spine.
“Hi,” I whisper back.
The largest deer—a buck with a massive rack of antlers—lifts his head and stares directly at us.
For a suspended moment, we’re caught in his gaze.
Wild and cautious, assessing the threat we pose.
Snow clings to his coat in delicate crystals, catching what little light filters through the overcast sky.
Majestic doesn’t begin to cover it. He’s ancient and powerful and completely unconcerned with our human existence.
He returns to foraging, apparently deciding we’re harmless.
The band around my ribs loosens. Maybe from the beauty of the scene—this frozen tableau of creatures existing outside human chaos.
Maybe from the conversation we had on the bus, the weight of Phoenix wanting to meet Melody tonight, the fragile hope building between us despite everything pulling us apart.
Or the fact that thirty minutes ago, I showed him photos of our daughter and a tear slipped down his cheek.
Phoenix’s hand finds mine where it rests on the fence rail.
His fingers thread through my own, tentative at first, becoming certain.
The gesture feels monumental—significant in a way that transcends simple hand-holding.
His palm warm against mine, solid and real in a world that’s felt increasingly surreal since Chicago.
Our breath mingles in small white puffs between us.
I squeeze in response.
We stand there, watching the deer move through their world with ancient rhythm.
Cold seeps through my coat, but I ignore it.
This moment suspends us outside of time, outside of complications and deadlines and terror of what comes next.
The world narrows to snow and silence and Phoenix’s warmth surrounding me.
His thumb traces lazy circles on my palm, each small movement sending electricity up my arm.
“We should get closer,” Casey whispers from somewhere behind us.
“Don’t spook them,” Theo warns.
“I’m not gonna spook them. Watch this.”
Casey moves to the fence a few yards down, pulling a carrot from his pocket. He leans over the weathered wood, arm extended, dangling it toward the nearest deer—a doe with liquid brown eyes barely three feet away.
“Why the fuck do you have a carrot in your pocket?” Theo asks.
Casey turns to him with a look that says the answer should be obvious. “Leftover snack.”
The deer sniffs the air. Takes a cautious step forward. Another. Snow compresses beneath her hooves with soft crunches that carry in the still air.
“Holy shit,” Phoenix breathes against my ear. “It’s working.”
The doe stretches her neck, lips delicate as she plucks the carrot from Casey’s fingers. He freezes, expression caught between terror and delight.
“Don’t move,” Theo mutters.
“Wasn’t planning on it.”
The doe crunches the carrot, noses toward Casey’s hand for more. He obliges, offering another, and soon two more deer have approached the fence, emboldened by their companion’s success.
“I’m a deer whisperer,” Casey announces. “This is my calling.”
“Your calling is playing bass,” Theo deadpans. “And you’re mediocre at best.”
“Harsh, man. Harsh.”
Laughter bubbles up from somewhere deep in my chest. Real laughter, the kind that shakes my shoulders.
Phoenix turns me in his arms. One hand cups my jaw, his thumb brushing my cheekbone. The touch sends electricity racing beneath my skin. His hand is warm against my face, a stark contrast to the winter air biting at my nose and cheeks.
The world narrows to the warmth of his palm, the intensity of his gaze.
He closes the distance.
His mouth finds mine, gentle at first. Tentative. A question more than demand. But when I lean into him, when my fingers curl into his jacket, pulling him closer, the kiss deepens.
Everything else falls away. Every hurt, every regret, every lonely night. He tastes like coffee and mint and memory, familiar and new at the same time. His mouth moves against mine with confidence, practiced but somehow still reverent.
When we finally break apart, we’re both breathing hard, our exhales creating small clouds that mingle between us. His forehead rests against mine, his eyes closed.
“I’m still in love with you.” The confession tears free before I can stop it. “I never stopped. Every time I see Melody, there you are. Every milestone she hits, every smile, every single moment—” The words crack. “You’re always there.”
Phoenix’s eyes open, blazing with something fierce and tender. “Elle—”
“Hey!” Casey’s shout carries across the small distance. “Theo, go grab more carrots from the bus!”
Phoenix and I turn toward the commotion. Casey’s surrounded by deer now, at least five crowded around the fence where he stands, all vying for his attention.
Theo emerges from the bus carrying a full bag of baby carrots.
“Wait—why do we have carrots on the bus?” Phoenix asks.
“It’s called being an adult,” Casey says with obvious annoyance. “Some of us care about our digestive health.”
***
The bus rumbles to life twenty minutes later, after Casey’s exhausted the carrot supply and Mike’s determined we’ve lingered long enough.
Heat blasts from the vents as we step inside, thawing my frozen cheeks, and I peel off my coat with tingling fingers.
Phoenix settles into the seat beside me—not across the aisle like before. Beside me.
Casey shoots us a knowing glance but mercifully keeps his mouth shut.
I pull my phone from my pocket, checking the time. 3:47 PM. Relief washes through me, sweet and immediate. Plenty of time to make it home before Melody’s bedtime. Plenty of time to salvage Christmas Eve, to read her The Very Hungry Caterpillar and tuck her in.
A phot from Jen of Melody helping to make cookies lights up the screen.
I smile, tilting the phone toward Phoenix so he can see the attached photo—Melody with flour on her nose, tongue sticking out in concentration as she places the sprinkles.
“God, she’s beautiful,” Phoenix murmurs.
My laptop sits on the kitchenette table where I left it earlier.
“I need to finish this article.” I gesture at the screen. “It’s due at midnight. Richard doesn’t care that it’s Christmas Eve.” The bitterness tastes familiar on my tongue.
“Then let’s do this properly.” He shifts in his seat, angling toward me.
I pull my notebook from my bag, flipping to a fresh page. “So. Let’s start with the band. How does it feel knowing this is the last tour before the hiatus?”
He shifts forward, elbows on the table, close enough that I catch cedar and leather.
“It feels surreal. We’ve been touring nonstop for three years.
The thought of actually sleeping in the same bed for more than two nights.
..” He trails off, something vulnerable flickering across his face.
“It’s terrifying and liberating at the same time. ”
I type, fingers flying across the keyboard. “What are you most looking forward to during the break?”
“Honestly? Meeting my daughter.” His gaze holds mine. “We can’t put that in print, can we?”
I shake my head because I hadn’t thought about it. Then an idea forms. “The world will find out anyway. Maybe this way we can control the narrative.”
“I’ll follow your lead… I’ll follow you anywhere, Elle.”
I let that settle between us for a beat.
“What about the next album?” I bring us back on track.
Phoenix’s foot finds mine under the table. A gentle press, deliberate and intimate. “The songs on the next album are about you. Most of them, actually. Have been for years.”
I stop typing. “Phoenix—”
“You asked what I’m working on. That’s your answer.” He holds my gaze, unflinching. “An entire album of songs I wrote about the woman I never stopped loving.”
The admission steals oxygen from the small space. I should redirect, ask about production timelines or label expectations.
His foot presses against mine again. “The way your mouth curves when you’re trying not to smile. The sound of your laugh. How you bite your lip when you’re concentrating.” His eyes drop to my mouth. “The fact that five years later, you still make my pulse race. With a heavy metal vibe obviously.”
Heat floods my cheeks.
“That quotable enough for you?”
“Not even close.” I laugh despite the warmth spreading through me. “But keep going.”
The article flows from there—something Richard can’t tear apart. The story of us, the story of how music brought us back together – our family. More than enough. I type furiously, weaving Phoenix’s quotes into narrative, polishing as I go. When I finally hit send, relief washes through me.
I lean against Phoenix’s shoulder without meaning to. He shifts, arm coming around me, and I let myself sink into the warmth. The bus rumbles beneath us, carrying us toward Nashville and whatever comes next.
His hand rubs slow circles on my shoulder, the gesture soothing. Exhaustion crashes over me in waves. The emotional whiplash of the last few days catches up at once. My eyes grow heavy, lids weighted with exhaustion I can’t fight anymore.
“Sleep,” Phoenix says quietly. “I’ve got you.”
The words wrap around me like a promise. I want to protest—should stay awake, watch the miles tick by, mentally prepare for seeing Melody tonight. But Phoenix’s warmth and the steady rumble of the bus conspire against me.
My eyes drift closed.
Voices pull me from sleep. I shift slightly, consciousness returning. I’m curled against Phoenix’s side, my head on his shoulder, his arm wrapped around me. My laptop sits closed on the table in front of us.
The bus isn’t moving.
Panic jolts through me like electricity.
I push upright, blinking against the harsh fluorescent lights of the bus interior. “What time is it?”
Phoenix’s hand settles on my lower spine. “Hey, you’re okay—”
“What time?” I grab my phone from the table.
7:52 PM.
No.
“We hit traffic,” Phoenix says carefully, like he’s trying to soothe a spooked animal. “About an hour ago. Semi rolled over on I-65 outside Louisville. They’ve got one lane open but it’s crawling.”
We’re not moving.
“How long?” The question comes out strangled, barely recognizable as my own voice.
“Not much longer.” Phoenix’s voice stays gentle.
We’re close. So close.
But not close enough.
I pull up my texts to Jen, fingers shaking as I type.
Elle: We hit traffic. Semi accident. Not gonna make it home before bedtime. I’m so sorry.
The response comes immediately.
Jen: She passed out an hour ago. I didn’t have the heart to tell you.
The words blur on the screen.
“Elle.” Phoenix’s voice cuts through the static in my head. “I’m sorry.”
“Not your fault a semi rolled over.” The response comes automatic, hollow. Words I’m supposed to say. I missed Christmas Eve with my daughter.
“Still.” His arm tightens around me, pulling me against his side. “You should’ve been home hours ago.”
“Should’ve been home days ago.” I lean into him because the alternative is shattering completely, and I can’t afford that. Not here. Not now.
The bus inches forward. Maybe ten feet. Then stops again. The brake lights ahead glow brighter, mocking each microscopic movement.
Casey clears his throat. “For what it’s worth, Elle, traffic sucks. Universe sucks. None of this is fair.”
“Profoundly unhelpful, Case,” Theo mutters. “He’s right, though.”
Their attempt at comfort lands somewhere between sweet and useless. They mean well. They have no idea what it costs—missing this night, breaking this promise.
Phoenix’s thumb traces slow circles on my hip, anchoring me when everything else feels like it’s slipping away. His other hand finds mine, threading our fingers together.
“We’ll get you there,” he says quietly. “Even if I have to carry you the last mile.”
The words should comfort me. Maybe they do, somewhere beneath the numbness.
But outside the window, brake lights stretch endlessly ahead, glowing red against the darkness like accusatory eyes. An inflatable Santa on the Pilot station roof waves cheerfully at the stalled traffic, oblivious to every broken promise beneath him.
And there’s nothing—absolutely nothing—I can do but sit here and watch it happen.