Page 58 of Beneath Cherry Blossom Memories

“Fuck you, Eli,” he snarls and stuffs his finger into it.

A stop sign is coming, and cars are driving down the street. My eyes flick from the road to his finger and back to the road. Sweat lines my forehead, my heart is in my throat, rattling my tonsils. He scoops the biggest bump onto his index finger and chokes on a sob. He’s going to do it.

“Phoenix, stop!” I hit the button for his window, abandon the wheel, foot slamming on the gas and snatch the bag from his hand.

Some powder spills on his lap while I chuck it out. “Eli!” he screams, and we fly forward.

I haven’t done cocaine since.

Which isn’t some grand accomplishment because I replaced it with other stuff. I glance at him, my eyes wet as I remember the worst day of my life. He still has a scar right above his hairline from the accident. I’m a trainwreck—a liar. And as much as I wish I could, I can’t give him forever. Coming back was probably the worst thing I could ever do to him.

Missing Phoenix is selfish, but this past year without him turned me into a mindless, ravenous monster. No one could replace him as hard as I tried to make that happen. No one feels like him, and no one feels me like he can.

Can he feel me right now?

Does he sense how badly I want to be someone else? Literally anyone, as long as it’s the person who can give Phoenix that happily ever after he wants more than anything.

I wish that person were me.

We get back to his apartment, and it’s like walking into a funeral home.

There’s this dead energy enveloping both of us.

The death of our relationship, the death of any future, the death of hope, love, and sweet things. He chucks his keys on the counter, runs a hand through his hair, then mutters he’s taking a shower. I watch him disappear into the bathroom, and the door clicks shut.

So much of Kelly resides in this apartment, almost all-encompassing at first glance, but if you look hard enough, you’ll see Phoenix’s influence. It’s everywhere. He's had that pot over in the strainer since he first left his parents. That blanket on the couch that Helios is currently napping on is his. He’s got a weird way of organizing the silverware drawer. Spoons have to be on the left side.

I wander into his bedroom, taking in the made bed.

He likes thick comforters. It could be the middle of summer, and he’d sleep with it. One foot sticking out.

On his nightstand is a picture of his family. I pick it up, something like envy blossoming in my chest. It’s an old picture, Phoenix was probably fresh out of highschool. His hair was reaching his shoulders, the gauges in his ears were significantly smaller, and his thin arms lacked tattoos. God, he looks so happy here. Oliver is wedged to his side, both of them throwing up metal horns and damn near identical in appearance except for their eyes. No one has Phoenix’s eyes.

I set the picture down and glance at the suitcase I’ve been living out of.

It’d be easy to leave now while he’s in the shower, like some runaway bride. As much as I know it’s the right move, I find myself stripping instead. And then I’m in the bathroom, sliding back the shower curtain. I wrap my arms around him, pressing my cheek to the hair slathered on his back. He lets me hold him, the tension slowly leaving his body.

“I don’t want you to leave,” he whispers, cupping my hands on his stomach. “We can figure it out, sweetheart.”

My chest spasms. It’s a rare occasion when Phoenix calls me that. And I know it’s a persuasion tactic. Pet names mean you’re special. It means that you’re wanted. But he doesn’t want me, not really. He wants a romanticized version that doesn’t exist. I squeeze him tighter. We just aren’t those people. Slowly spinning in my arms, like I’ll spook or something, he faces me. His fingers card through my hair, eyes searching my face almost frantically.

“You have to let me in,” he rasps.

I kiss him instead.

He groans, indulging me for a few seconds, then pulls back. “Don’t do this.”

“You can’t fix me, Phoenix.”

“You aren’t even letting me try.”

I shake my head, fingers digging into his sides. “It’s not your job.”

He cups my cheek and presses his forehead to mine. “But I’d do it. I…I really think I could.”

“These past few days have been child’s play compared to what really happens.”

“Then show me.”

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