Page 131 of Before You Fell

“She suggested my parents,” Willow continues. “But Mom would worry every time I made coffee and Dad would probably install himself outside my bedroom door with a baseball bat and a blood-pressure problem.”

“That sounds accurate.”

“It does. And I love them both so much. I do. But I cannot have their fear breathing down my neck every second. I already feel enough like I'm a walking family trauma project.”

My heart slams once against my ribs as I wait for the rest.

Ask me. Come on, Wills. Ask me to stay with you.

I stare at the whiskey bottle because if staying is something a man can learn, I am about to become the most stubborn bastard in the fucking classroom.

Willow inhales. “I was wondering if you could stay with me for a while after I get out.”

My heart drives its tiny fist into the air.

“If you don’t want to,” she starts, rushing now, embarrassed, already building an exit for herself before I can disappoint her, “or if you can’t because of the tour, I understand. I just thought—”

“I’ll do it.”

The line goes quiet.

“I’ll do it,” I say again. “I’ll be there.”

“Phoenix.”

“I said I’ll be there, Wills.”

“You have one minute remaining,” says that same automated voice.

I glare at nothing. I fucking hate that voice, the way it keeps putting a number on how long I get to have her for.

“Tell me when you’re leaving and I’ll come get you.” I shift into a different position on the floor. “The tour has another two weeks, but if you need me before then, the label can go choke on its contracts. I’ll be there.”

“Phoenix,” she says again, softer this time.

“I mean it, Wills.”

The silence that follows is different, yet something within it settles. For the first time in weeks, I can breathe without feeling as if my ribs are full of broken glass.

“Thank you,” she says quietly.

I want to tell her I would crawl there if she asked. I want to tell her I am sorry again and that I have been trying, even though it’s ugly and inconsistent. But I’m trying.

I want to tell her that hearing her voice did what whiskey, weed, applause, and every willing woman in the world never could. It made the noise stop.

I say none of it because the call is ending, and I don’t want to waste the last seconds with her comforting the man who already took too much from her.

“Did you write anything today?” I ask instead.

“A few lines.”

The recorded voice cuts back in. “Fifteen seconds remaining.”

“Willow,” I say too fast, because suddenly fifteen seconds feels shorter than a breath.

“Bye, Phoenix.”

The line clicks dead.