Page 136 of Before You Fell

“Phoenix.”

“Willow.”

“Tell me.”

“No. It’s a surprise.”

I stare at him. “You hate surprises.”

“I hate other people’s surprises. Mine are fucking excellent.”

He drives through a quiet little town with old shopfronts and trees lining the main street. There is a bakery with a chalkboard sign out front, a hardware store with faded paint, a drugstore, a bookstore, and a handful of people moving at a pace that suggests nobody here has ever been photographed stumbling out of a club at two in the morning.

Warm light settles over the roofs and for a moment the whole place feels stolen from another life. From another time.

He pulls into a parking space near the end of the street and shuts off the engine.

I watch him. “What are we doing?”

“Come on.”

Without elaborating, he opens his door and climbs out. He walks around the front of the car and opens my door.

I stare up at him, still having no idea what the fuck we are doing here. But I don’t ask again. I just get out.

Phoenix falls into step beside me as we walk down the street, his hands buried in his pockets. A woman pushes a stroller toward us, talking softly to the baby until she notices him.

Even without the stage, the lights, or thousands of women screaming his name, Phoenix is still impossible to look away from. Too tall. Too beautiful. And too sure of the space he takes up.

The woman catches herself and flicks her gaze away, but not before it briefly lands on me.

Phoenix doesn’t seem to notice. Or perhaps he does notice and, for once, does not care.

He steers me toward a small café tucked between the bakery and an antique shop with dusty lamps crowded in the window.

I follow Phoenix into the café.

A bell rings as we step inside. There are old booths along one wall, small wooden tables by the windows, handwritten specials taped behind the counter, and a handful of people speaking in low voices over mugs and plates.

An older man with gray hair and a towel draped over one shoulder looks up from behind the counter. His eyes pass over Phoenix without recognition, instantly making him my favorite person in this town.

“Two?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Phoenix says, then catches himself. “Please.”

I smirk at him.

“What?” he says.

“You haven’t said please since my mom forced it out of you at the dinner table when we were kids.”

“I’m still capable of being polite, Wills.”

“Since when?”

“Don’t make it fucking weird.”

“Too late. I’m witnessing personal growth before coffee.”