Page 108 of Before You Fell

My eyelids flutter before they close again.

For a brief period, I’m disoriented. My senses pick up things before I understand them. A soft, steady beep. The sharp odour of disinfectant. Someone holding my hand.

I pry my eyes open, closing them immediately as the light stabs straight through them.

Jesus. Waking up is like someone switched on a fucking spotlight only for me.

I try again, blinking until the room steadies and shapes crawl out of the blur.

Phoenix.

He is the first thing I see.

For a second, I’m confused. Why would Phoenix be here? Why would he be holding my hand, sitting too close, bent forward with his head down and his fingers wrapped around mine as if letting go might cost him everything?

His skin is warm on mine, rough in familiar places, callused by guitar strings. His hair is a mess, falling across his forehead. His jaw is covered in stubble and his shirt is wrinkled.

He looks exhausted. No. Scared. Nothing like the arrogant asshole I left behind.

He exhales the kind of breath you take when the world has been crushing your chest, then he lifts his head and our eyes meet.

For one strange, stupid second, I think I’m dreaming him, because this version of Phoenix doesn’t make sense.

Phoenix Stone doesn’t sit at hospital beds looking broken. He breaks things and acts offended when they bleed.

Then his mouth parts, and I realize it is not a dream.

“Wills,” he says, shifting in the chair.

His voice rearranges the room. Suddenly, everything snaps into focus, as if my mind had been too busy surviving him to register anyone else.

Mom is there.

Dad too.

“Oh, baby,” Mom whispers.

Her voice cracks and the sound slips beneath my ribs before I can block it.

Dad moves to the end of the bed, but I cannot take my eyes off Phoenix.

Because for one fucked-up second, he is the boy I remember who once told me he would be shit without me and looked at me as if I had hung every star he planned to chase. And he is also the man who took pieces of me with greedy hands. Both of them are here. Both of them are holding my hand.

His thumb moves over my knuckles.

My thoughts crawl back, slow and clumsy. Then my stomach flips and shame floods in so fast the room tilts.

The party returns in broken, flickering pieces. A glass in my hand. The pill I took from Sienna. A bathroom mirror that would not stay still. Me losing my balance. Cold tile against my cheek. Someone screaming for help while the only names left in my head were Mom, Dad, and Phoenix.

Phoenix leans closer and his hand holds mine a little harder. “Willow?”

I pull away. The movement is small, but it costs me. His fingers slip from mine and something flashes across his face before he can bury it.

Good. Let him feel it. He doesn’t get to sit here holding my hand after what he did.

My mouth opens, but nothing comes. My lips are dry and sore. My whole body feels wrong in a way I don’t want anyone to see.

“How long have I been here?” I ask.