"How did you find out, 'exactly'?" I make air quotes when I say the last word. He's not about to speak in riddles on my watch.

"From Ava."

I pitch forward and nearly tumble off my stool. Phoenix's arm shoots out to steady me at the same time as I grab hold of the counter.

"What?" I sputter.

There's no chance. None. Then again, that's also what I would have said about spending today with Phoenix if someone had asked me before last weekend, so this could be the upside down world.

"I was with Nash when he stopped in at Torin's house to drop off some gear," he continues. "Torin was FaceTiming with Ava when we got there and I heard her say you were coming to the show."

Thank God. I knew Ava wouldn't do me dirty like that and tip him off directly, but it's strange she didn't mention this. It's also strange that Torin hasn't said a word about being in contact with him, but then, he might have thought it would upset me. Phoenix has been a sensitive subject for years.

"One of them could have warned me."

"I was in another room. Torin didn't know I was there until after he hung up, or that I heard anything either of them said. I also didn't tell him I would be at the show."

"Nash must have known," I insist. "You said he invited you to the after party." Mostly, I want to know how close Phoenix and Torin are these days that Nash would invite him to the house without saying something about it to the actual person who lives there.

"I sent Nash a text ten minutes before I got to Nebula. There was less risk of him telling Torin that way, since they would both be busy getting ready for their set. That also meant there was less risk you would find out."

I narrow my eyes. "You wanted to see me but didn't want me to find out you'd be there?"

Phoenix shifts in his seat. He's either uncomfortable about being called out for his covert actions, or with how I'm glowering at him.

"I was afraid you would change your mind about going, or that Torin might stop me from getting in," he admits. "He's protective of you."

His tone of voice makes me suspect he's had a few exchanges with Torin that I'm not aware of. If I'm right, then I'm beyond curious about what went down between the two of them.

"What makes you say that?" I ask.

"He only gives me one or two-word answers when I ask about you and then changes the subject. I thought he was going to punch me the first time I brought up your name to him after we stopped dating, but I understand why."

This sounds as if he's asked Torin about me more than once. I had no idea. If he wanted insight into how I was doing, though, why didn't he reach out to me?

"You could have asked me what you wanted to know instead of trying to go through him," I point out. "You still had my number."

"It took a long time for me to get my shit together after what I did. Too long." He rubs a hand over his chin. "I honestly didn't think you would answer a call or text from me after all that time."

That's fair, I guess. Once I reached a place in my life where thinking about him wasn't a daily habit, I would have second-guessed picking up the phone or responding to a text.

"You aren't wrong," I concede. "There's still a lot that doesn't explain, though."

"I'll explain whatever you want to know. Should we head out to the beach and continue this there?"

He gets to his feet and grabs the bag from the counter without waiting for a reply. Is he stalling? It's difficult to judge, so I nod, slide off my stool, and leave the kitchen ahead of him. My interrogation will start the second we're on the beach, and he'd better make good on what he just said.

I stop walking when I get a view of the sky from a window that faces the front of the house. It was overcast during most of the drive over, but the clouds in the distance now are an ominous shade of dark gray.

"Those clouds don't look good," I say. "We might want to stay here until they clear out."

"Was it supposed to rain? I didn't check after leaving Vegas yesterday." Phoenix sounds baffled. I understand why. Rain in southern California is a rare event and hyped up by the news for a week before it happens.

"Maybe? I was wrapped up in writing this week and didn't pay attention to the forecast." I was preoccupied by thoughts of today, too, but I won't tell him this.

"Were you working on the novel that's based on a woman who went missing from around here?"

It's a casual question from him, but it sets off an alarm in my head. I haven't said anything publicly about what I'm currently working on, and neither has my agent. We always keep the details under wraps until the Publishers Marketplace announcement comes out.

"How do you know that? This book won't be announced for a while."

"Ava mentioned it to Torin when she told him you were coming to his show."

Ava is the closest thing I have to a sister, and I love her without question, but she and I should have a chat about how much she discloses to other people. She's also likely to lose her shit when she learns she was the reason for what happened in Vegas and where I am now, so that might be enough of a warning to filter what she says on its own.

"Are there any other details of my life she revealed that I should know about? Like where I'll be next Tuesday at two in the afternoon, or anything else I've said to her this year?"

He chuckles. "She's proud of you, that's all. We all are. You're such a talented writer."

Is he serious or trying to flatter me with an empty compliment he can't back up? I wrote when we were together, but I didn't let him read much of it back then, even when one of my manuscripts landed me my agent.

"You say that like you've read my books."

"I have. Come with me for a second."

He takes my hand and leads me to the living room. The handholding is unexpected, but I'll go along with it for now. We pass by an oversized ash gray sofa and stop in front of a floor-to-ceiling bookcase. When he reaches for one of the shelves, I spy the familiar hardcover spines of the novels I've published.

He pulls out the book that was my first bestseller. "I was blown away when I read this. My agent sent me the script for the film adaptation the other day, and I was happy it does it justice."

"So that's why I'm here. You want to ask me questions about the characters and get the inside track for your audition."

I'm teasing him, but he doesn't seem to be aware of this. His expression becomes more solemn than I've ever seen it, and he returns the book to its spot on the shelf like it's a hot potato.

"I swear on everything that thought didn't cross my mind. You're asking all the questions today."

It's the segue I've been waiting for, and I pounce on it. "Cool. Then I have one for you now."

My hand is still in his, which is why I'm able to detect the slightest tremor in his fingers. Is it because he's about to open up to me and doesn't know how I'll react? Does redeeming himself mean so much to him that he's nervous?

Raindrops patter against the roof and windows, which makes the final decision for us about staying here versus going to the beach. I guide him away from the bookcase to the sofa. When I sit, he does the same. I let go of his hand and settle back against the cushions.

"Question one. If you really still cared about me for all this time like you claimed last weekend, why did you walk out and never come back?"

His head bobs, as though he's processing the question and agreeing it's a good place to start. There's silence for a moment, and then he speaks.

"Because I wasn't ready for anything that was happening in my life then. I panicked and I self-destructed. That's the short version."

"I would like to hear the longer one."

His lips form a grim line, and he closes his eyes. Is he acting, or should I brace myself for what the longer version is? When his eyelids open again a few seconds later, he trains his gaze on me.

"Do you remember when I started drinking?" he asks. "Like when it stopped being social and became excessive?"

"I remember the general time, but not a specific day or event." It hasn't occurred to me before now that his behavior could have been traced to a single inciting incident.

"It was the night of the Summerlong premiere. You were radiant on the red carpet, laughing and at ease with everyone you talked to. I acted the part, but I'd never felt more like an imposter, and my anxiety was through the roof. The entertainment media was raving about the film and my acting, but I felt like a fraud. I thought someone would see it and expose me at any moment. It was fight or flight the entire night, and so I had a few drinks at the after party to try to relax. Then I had more when we got home. You helped me stumble to my bedroom at some point, and then I blacked out."

Memories of the night flash in front of my eyes. To me, he was celebrating the premiere and just got carried away. He was hungover as hell the next morning, and his mood was off, but he didn't say a word about anxiety or inner turmoil.

"I remember that night," I say. "I didn't know you were going through that."

"I didn't tell you. It was stupid to hide it, but I was convinced you would see me differently if you knew how insecure I was about the accolades and attention, and how I felt like I couldn't live up to the hype. Toxic masculinity at its finest, right? That night was only the start of it."

"Because then the bigger scripts started rolling in, and all the interviews, and the spotlight just got brighter," I recall. "Everything was so hectic all the time, but I was excited for you."

"You were incredible about all of it. You never complained about how long I was always on set, or how often I was away to film on location or to do late night talk shows, and I just got worse the whole time with returning texts and calling to see how you were. I hated myself for it when I was sober. You deserved better, and I wasn't giving it to you."

The disgust clouding Phoenix's eyes isn't something I believe he could fake, no matter how excellent of an actor he is.

"You were working. I expected you to be focused on what you needed to do, and I knew I would see you when you were home. I was working, too, and then spending my evenings and weekends writing. It was fine until you were drunk or on something more often than you weren't when we did have time together."

"That didn't take long to happen. The more attention and praise I got, and the more I neglected you, the more unworthy I felt of anything good. That led to drinking more. It was my messed up way to calm down. Then one night after a press junket in New York, one of my cast mates handed me a pill. He could tell I was on edge and said it would help. It did. I was on top of the world for a few hours and it silenced my self-doubt for a while. Coming down made me feel like shit, but the escape it gave me made me want to do it again. And then again. You know how things went after that. Most people in my circle enabled me. You were the only one who cared enough to try to get me to stop."

I chew the inside of my lip, remembering. I did try, even though it ended in arguments and tears every time. He denied having a problem. I often wondered if I raised the issue one too many times, and if he left because he didn't want to hear about it anymore.

"Did you leave because I wanted you to stop?"

He shakes his head. "No. I left because I was an out-of-control asshole who couldn't get a handle on anything."

"Is that the short version?"

A sad smile touches the corners of his mouth. "Yeah. There's a longer one."

"Could you tell it to me?"

Phoenix hesitates. He fiddles with the wristband of his watch and his chest heaves as he takes a long breath, then lets it out. The pause stretches on for so long, I wonder if he regrets promising to explain whatever I want to know, or if I'll regret wanting the details.

He clears his throat. "The day I walked out was the same day my agent gave me the news I'd landed a huge part in a major film. You were at work when I got the call. I'd stayed at your place the night before and was still there, in your kitchen, at peace for once and having a sober day. I was going to go ring shopping for you that afternoon. Once I hung up with my agent, though, the panic started. I opened your fridge and grabbed the first thing I saw, which were those horrible whiskey drinks. They didn't help. You came home and I melted down."

What happened when I came home is burned in my memory forever, but it's not what I'm focused on now.

"Ring shopping?" I repeat. "You mean a surprise, just for fun, sparkly cocktail ring or something, right?"

He won't look at me. When he leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees, and then puts his head in his hands, my heart constricts and it feels like the air is sucked out of the room. No, he doesn't mean a cocktail ring.

"I wanted to ask you to marry me, Del."