Page 176 of Before You Fell

I move toward the door and turn back to see him adjusting his cock in his jeans, looking furious about it.

His eyes meet mine and he gives me a small nod to let me know he’s ready.

I open the door.

“There she is,” Mom says, and her voice does that thing it has been doing since the hospital, that particular softness that sits just beneath normal and gives everything away.

She hugs me first. Both arms, pulling me in, her hands gliding over my back the way they did when I was small and sick.

When she pulls back, her eyes sweep my face, searching, the way she has been searching since everything fell apart.

“You look so much better, dear,” she says in a soft voice.

“I feel better.”

Her mouth trembles, but she smiles anyway. “Good.”

Dad stands behind her. His eyes have already shifted past me to Phoenix, who is standing a few feet behind me.

I step into Dad’s arms and hug him. He hugs me back harder than I expect. His arms are tight around my shoulders and his chin briefly drops to the top of my head.

“You look well, sweetheart,” he says. “Really well.”

I pull back and see it on his face. The relief he would never say out loud in a million years, but he can’t keep it out of his eyes.

Mom has already moved toward Phoenix. I turn to see him hugging Mom and when Mom pulls back, Phoenix steps forward, extending his hand to Dad.

Dad looks at it for one beat too long.

“Phoenix,” he says, taking it.

“Graham.”

Dad’s eyes linger on Phoenix a second longer than necessary. But Phoenix holds his gaze without flinching.

My parents enter and the apartment rearranges itself to accommodate all four of us.

Mom’s eyes move around the way mothers do when they are checking without seeming to. The clean mugs in the sink. My notebook open on the coffee table. Phoenix’s guitar leaning against the couch.

Dad stays close, quiet in that particular way of his, which means he’s paying attention to everything and saying nothing.

Mom settles at the counter beside me and turns so we face each other.

“How are you really?” she asks.

“Better,” I say. “A week out and I actually feel so much better.”

“You’re writing again?”

“Every day.”

“Good writing or just filling the page?”

“Good writing. Really good, I think.”

She reaches out and wraps her hand around mine. “Are you eating?”

“Phoenix sometimes cooks or orders takeout,” I say.