Page 30 of Phoenix
“The glasses, Phoenix, you remember the glasses which were twice the size they needed to be? The same ones I didn’t actually require? Not to mention, I nearly died of heat exhaustion after you made me dress up like a nun each day!”
“It wasn’t that bad—"
“Phoenix! Get back in there and stop acting like a complete idiot, which I know is a hardship for you, but something you need to try anyway.”
“Brat!” I huff.
“Jerk!”
Chapter 12
Jessie
When Phoenix finally returns to the table, with his sister in tow, he looks calmer, but also a little guilty. As soon as he sits down beside me, he takes hold of my hand and places it against his thigh. I look at him, questioning his motives, but he simply stares, as if silently telling me to deal with the fact that he’s showing his affection because he’s giving it with or without my permission. I sense he knows I need it on some level, even if I’m not fully aware of the fact. I still cannot explain what it is that is passing between him and me; I have shied away from human touch for all these years until now, until him.
We finish our drinks and eventually say our goodbyes to his sister and her husband, with my hand being held by his the entire time. He looks determined but awkward, as though this is a strange thing for him to accept too. We both have hidden wounds, sad stories of loss, and a fear of letting our vulnerabilities come to the surface. Though, having his hand wrapped firmly around mine feels like a declaration of something, of trust, of a willingness to let someone in. I feel comforted by it, and yet, I’m not sure if I’m ready to fully accept it yet.
I feel conflicted, both desperate to grab hold of what he’s offering me, but also terrified of losing control. What if he turns out to be just like Stanley? A myth. Something I cannot have because he doesn’t really exist. What if he is not the savior I think he is? A trained killer. A boy who is as damaged as I am.
When I am sitting behind him once again, flying down the dusty roads on the back of his bike, I take a moment to appreciate the wind rushing against my skin. I can see the appeal of Phoenix’s chosen method of therapy, especially after what he had endured on that terrible night as a child. Being free in the wide open, with you being at the controls, deciding your path, it must be the only time when the Phoenix manages to escape the flames.
His back feels firm and solid, like a wall that could hold back an entire army. I take a moment to close my eyes and to trust, even if just a little bit. I feel vulnerable but then I think back to when he took hold of my hand and held it tightly against his thigh. So, I take a deep breath and take a chance to lean my head against his back; the world doesn’t end. A small vibration from within tells me he’s either said something or made a noise from his throat – I’ve surprised him. I surprise myself too, for I don’t dare to move away from his warm back until I feel the bike beginning to slow down. We must be nearly back.
However, when I open my eyes, we’re not at the bar. We’re at a cemetery. I don’t voice my initial fears, instead, I grip hold of the seat beneath me and refuse to take off my helmet. This bike, while I have no walls to hide behind, is my new source of safety, a tangible thing to keep me away from the monsters of the world. Phoenix tries to take hold of my arm and pull, but I whip it back before he can put any force behind it. When he calls my name, I begin shaking my head, refusing to listen. Before I even realize what is happening, he whips off the helmet and shoves it on the seat in front of me.
“Jess!” he snaps, sounding somewhere between concerned and stern, but all I can do is keep shaking my head with my eyes remaining tightly shut. This is where he’s going to do it, where he’ll make good on his contract. Perhaps whoever it is has offered him more money, or perhaps he’s going to hand me over so they can do it themselves.
“Jess, we’re not here for you!” he shouts again, and once those words have sunk in, I relent by opening one eye to see if he is being sincere. I want to believe he is, but he’s lied to me before. Why would he bring me to a cemetery of all places?
“It’s the first Sunday of the month,” he says by way of an explanation that still doesn’t make any sense to me. “Lou and I always come here on the first Sunday of every month. Being my annoying little sister who is still in her honeymoon phase, let’s-hump-like-rabbits phase of her marriage, she came earlier. Jess, we’re just here to pay my respects to my parents.”
The way his whole body slumps when he says those words has me feeling awkward and a little ashamed for doubting his intentions and reacting the way I did. He knows I don’t trust him the way he’s beginning to trust me, and this realization is painful; I can see it in his eyes.
“Warren, I’m sorry—"
He silences me with his hand, shaking his head as he does so. Much like I cannot accept affection or trust so easily, he cannot accept someone’s empathy.
“It’s fine, Jess, no one would expect you to believe anyone right now, except maybe Jake,” he says with a hint of something that sounds strangely like disappointment. “Least of all a hardened killer like me, right?”
We look away from one another, feeling awkward and at a loss as to what to say or do. So, instead, I reach out my hands for him to take hold of, to help me dismount the bike and walk alongside him. After a moment of looking at them, then into my eyes, he eventually reaches under my arms and lifts me clean off the bike and onto the burnt grass beneath us. I fall against his chest with my palms braced against his leather jacket and my heart pounding as he unintentionally lets his gaze drop to my parted lips. A moment passes between us, one that brings back memories of lying beneath his body when he took away my virginity. For a while, I think he might bring his lips to mine to take what he wants from me; it’s obvious from the way his breath has quickened and his tongue darts out to wet his own.
“You’re not the only one who is scared all the time, Jess,” he whispers, “scared to be alone because no one sees the pain inside of you.”
“What is your pain, Warren?” I whisper back.
“Many things,” he replies, “you’re about to meet two of them.”
With those words, he releases my body but keeps hold of my hand to lead me over to where I assume his parents were laid to rest. The closer we get, the harder he grips hold of my hand. I understand the feelings he’s going through; I lost my parents too.
The walk through the cemetery is strange; the weather is almost too warm for meandering through the dead. Coming from a wetter, greyer climate, I’m used to graveyards that are reminiscent of a Victorian English novel. One that’s set in a harsh winter that creates the mood of all the sadness that’s about to play out. But here, with the sun still shining brightly and the earth dry beneath our feet, it feels wrong. I keep my observation to myself; I can already sense Phoenix’s anxiety from the way he’s squeezing my hand and keeping me close.
As we come to a stop in front of two headstones bearing his surname, I take a moment to study the engravings of their names - Mia Flynn, beloved mother, and wife, taken too soon, and Diesel Flynn, loving father, and husband, all in capitals. The stonework has been cared for, treated, and kept clear of the vegetation that is growing all around the surrounding graves. Fresh flowers have already been laid, pink roses for his mother, and wildflowers for his father. When I finally find the courage to look at Phoenix, I notice him staring into space, his eyes fixated on their names.
“Would you like some time alone with them?” I ask quietly, unsure of what else to say to bring him any kind of comfort. He simply squeezes my hand even tighter while shaking his head. We stand like this for a while, with me feeling lost, and him…devastated. He still feels this way about their passing all these years later, which is heartbreaking. We’re both caught in a child’s body, craving what we once had before it was all so cruelly stolen.
“We had no other family, you know,” he says all of a sudden, but still with his eyes on his parents, “well, apart from my mother’s foster-sister, Jake’s mom. She died when he was still so very young, not long before my mother was killed.”
“Your family has suffered with a lot of heartache, Phoenix,” I say softly, “it explains a lot about you.”