Page 63 of Hidden & Held

Knocking on her plain wood door—no paint or knocker installed on this side yet—I hear her call out from a small distance.

“Nessa, I’m telling you I’m fine. If you must check the tea for yourself, it’s open.”

I’m not Nessa, but I still take the invitation.

“Hey, it’s me,” I say through my nerves, hoping she doesn’t chase me out.

Phoenix looks up from her kitchen, crutches leaning beside her, still in her interview clothes. She sets her glass of water down on the countertop, glancing up at the ceiling in exasperation, phone beside her. She’d probably apologize for looking disheveled if I mentioned it. She has no idea that this version of her—the loose hair, tired eyes, and the crease between her brows—is the one I’ve fallen hardest for.

“What do you want, Jackson?” Her voice drips with exhaustion.

The living room is still littered with half-full cardboard boxes as I add another one to her peninsula.

“Beth, uh, from the office, stopped by with your … office items. Isabella, that’s the cleaning lady, packed them up,” I explain, hating that I’m bringing up work again.

“I know who Isabella is,” she states unblinking, “she was my favorite coworker. Not that it is a particularly competitive category these days.”

My stomach tightens at that. I should have been the one to hold that place. I force my guilt down. Not today, not about me.

I slide the box closer to her and Phoenix starts going through the contents. She’s not commenting on the items or the fact that years of dedication apparently comes down to one box. I see her eyes move over the notes; she leaves them untouched, shuffling papers over them. If she’s hoping I didn’t notice, she’s out of luck.

“Long day?” I ask, attempting not to pry.

Without looking up she responds, “My mom called.”

I’m quiet, knowing conversations with her mother are always difficult. Rarely argumentative, but taxing.

“She is trying to plan a visit here, around her schedule, of course, and is micromanaging my recovery from afar,” she exults.

Phoenix grabs the box to move it herself when I step in. “Here, let me get that⁠—”

“I got it,” she interrupts, as she simultaneously overcorrects on her crutches and the vase tumbles out of the box, catching the edge of the counter as it breaks into three pieces.

Eyes fixed on the broken vase on the floor, her shoulders cave in.

“Of course,” she all but whispers, not angry; tired. “Now another thing I have broken beyond repair.”

I’m already crouching down, picking up the pieces carefully, ensuring no sharp debris has gone anywhere else.

I straighten, shattered pieces in hand. “It’s not ruined.”

Her hand moves to her chest, appearing to force a swallow, and her jaw slackens on an unsteady breath.

“Sugar—”

Her phone buzzes on the counter.

“It’s my mom again.” She picks up her crutches. “I have to⁠—”

“Go.” I wave her off. “I’ll clean this up then head out.”

She looks at me for one long moment, mouth opening, then she shuts it quick. Her mask moves back into place.

“Hi, Mom.” A pause as she walks toward her sunroom bedroom. “Yes, I slept with my foot elevated.” I hear the door close behind her as I gather the pieces, carrying them with me, and head back to my side of the duplex. I have a tour of apologies to continue on with this evening. Starting with an old woman book club and ending with a cornhole tournament.

The book club meets in the back room of Pines and Pages, Cascadia’s only bookstore. The place smells like old paper, dust, and the cinnamon tea Beth always sneaks in despite the “No Outside Drinks” sign taped to the register. There are seven readers tonight, arranged in mismatched chairs around a low table with a spread of snacks that would convince even the non-readers to join.

The members are halfway through a debrief of something called When He Comes Back Wrong when I arrive late, still in my work clothes, and take the empty chair beside the window.