10. Part of Me – Stella
Dinner with the man my mother thinks would suit me goes exactly as I had anticipated: unbearably and miserably boring.
He picks me up at exactly five pm, knocking on my door like a true gentleman, but before I even get a hello out, his eyes are glued to my tits in the scoop neck dress I’m wearing, and they don’t leave the entire night. I’m not fully sure what that says about him either, considering calling my boobs B cups is being incredibly generous.
Parker takes me to the lone restaurant in Ashford my mother would approve of, where the waiters all wear ties, and there are candles on every table—the fake, battery-operated kind, which my mother deems plebeian, but in a town this size, you can only have your expectations so high.
The dinner goes about as well as one could expect, though fully devoid of any real conversation on my part or enjoyment, for that matter. He asks me about my job, to which I tell him what he already knew from my mother, and then he spends the next forty minutes telling me all about his job at an accounting firm, which sounds like the world”s most boring career in the world.
When he pays for the meal, I’m starting to plan how to get out of a goodnight kiss at my door without him taking it as an insult to report back to my mother when he looks up at me with a smile.
“Okay, now that this is done, how about we get a drink at The Atlas?” I feel my jaw clenching, trying to think of an excuse, but unfortunately, tomorrow I don”t have work in the morning. The last thing I need is my mom calling me on my fucking day off, giving me shit.
“Look, I know you got dragged into this same as me,” he says, catching me off guard. “We both need to give our mothers a good story about this date, and I could use beer. Then I’ll take you home, easy as that.”
“You got dragged into this too?”
“You’re gorgeous, Stella, but the whole town knows you’re not looking for anything close to serious, and I’m too young to settle down, you know? A man’s gotta sow his oats.” He gives me a shit-eating grin, and I fight the eye roll and gag because, in truth, he’s helping me out.
“Yeah…” I say instead.
“So let’s grab a drink next door. I think there’s music tonight. Then we have a full story for the pushy moms and can say we were having such a good time, that we extended things. That should buy us each a couple of weeks before they get on our case again.
For the first time all night, I give him a genuine smile. “Yeah. That would be cool.”
We walk into the bar next door and he’s right, music is in fact playing, a band on the small stage and instantly, it makes my chest tighten.
I avoid live music at all costs, and for a moment, faced with the opportunity to avoid my mother’s wrath for a bit longer, I forgot why.
It’s the way the crowd feels, the way the bass pounds in my belly. The way a room of strangers can suddenly feel like they all have a common goal, a common love.
I used to run toward that feeling, live for the sound of a room of people all singing the same words, all feeling the beat the same way. Now, I never feel more alone than at a show. It’s soul-crushing; the memories fly in and suffocate me, and the panic builds and brews. The recent reminder that is Riggins coming to see me doesn’t make it any better.
But I can’t let him continue to control me. It’s unfair to me, unfair to my soul that used to love music so much, used to find it healing. When I used to sink in my ocean, through the pretty teal and to the blue and feeling the creeping tentacles of the dark blue sneaking in through my airways, I could listen to music and fight it back.
Now it’s barely a balm, barely a relief at all to grab my guitar, to hum out songs and write down words.
It’s fucked that I’ve let Riggins have that power over me.
So even though I hesitate as we step through the door, I force myself to straighten my shoulders, take a deep, fortifying breath, and move through the crowd, following Parker to the bar where we wait to get the attention of the bartender, then I see him.
Beckett James, drummer for Atlas Oaks. My entire body strings tight when I see him, even though he doesn’t see me.
“You know, I’m kind of tired, maybe we should—” I start, but then the band playing crescendos into a deafening interlude and my words drown in the noise. Parker pays the bartender for our drinks, (a beer for each of us, even though I definitely did not give him an order for one) before we move away from Beckett, and my spine starts to ease.
There are four members of Atlas Oaks, and there’s a good chance only Beckett is here. The oldest in the band, he was legal and able to drink long before the rest, so this might just be a hangout of his.
No one else is here, I tell myself, and it’s a small comfort when I watch Beckett grab his drink and walk in the opposite direction of us.
Then I start to enjoy myself. I watch the band, who isn’t great but isn’t terrible, and take in the music, letting it fill my veins and cloud my head the way it used to, the way it hasn’t in a long while.
My shoulders are finally starting to drop, the anxiety leaving my system when it happens.
“And now, we have the honor of welcoming a local celebrity to the stage!” My shoulders go up to my fucking ears, and my back goes ramrod straight. “If you’re from around here, you definitely know of these guys, and even if you’re not, you still definitely know of them.”
“No, no, no, no, no,” I murmur under my breath, but it”s no use as I watch a familiar shape stand at the edge of the stage, more familiar shapes behind it.
“Welcome Atlas Oaks back to Ashford, you guys!” The crowd roars, the kind of noise that makes you know will leave permanent damage as Reed, Riggins, Beckett, and Wes walk on stage. Reed picks up his bass, Beckett sits behind the drums, and Wes and Riggins grab guitars, all three adjusting mics as they do.
“Hey, guys, it’s great to be home,” Riggins says, and something in me dies with the words. I can feel it.
Something I thought I had buried deep, something I thought I had cut out the addiction to Riggins from, it dies seeing this again.
I’ve spent seven years avoiding nearly every mention of them possible except for the few times my self-hatred won, and I’d spend a night in misery looking them up on the internet.
I do my best to avoid social media, where rumors and video clips run rampant. I rarely talk to old friends from high school because after I came back, all any of them wanted to ask was how tour went and how the guys were. I even avoid listening to the radio, where I might accidentally get ambushed by my past.
And then my mother sets me up on a date, and here I am, watching them live.
“Huge thanks to The Tailored Pigs for letting us steal a moment of your set. We haven’t played live in like, four months, and it’s killing us,” Reed says, and through the lump in my throat, I smile because at least nothing about him has changed.
Reed was once my best friend in the world after Riggins, my confidant in all things. And then I left.
“I want to leave,” I shout, trying to get Parker’s attention, but he’s as wrapped up in Atlas Oak as everyone else. I tug at his arm to try and get him to look at me, but his eyes stay on the stage while his arm wraps around my waist like we’re an item like I’m his.
Just when I thought this couldn’t get any worse…
“This is a song I wrote long, long ago with a girl from Ashford about being here and how it made us feel.”
The first chord start of the first song that got some recognition. It”s not a top 40 radio hit like some of their other songs, but it’s definitely the song that got them off the ground.
I remember writing it, laying in the grass late at night, watching the stars as Riggins strummed the guitar, playing its different chords and progressions while I hummed out tunes and tried different words. It took less than an hour before we had a song that encompassed our emotions for this town, the way we loved it to our bones, but how it held so many complicated memories.
When I left the band and came back to town, I remember this song being stuck in my head on a loop for days and the way it caused me physical pain. I remember putting headphones in and blasting other music—any other music—to try and drown it out, but nothing worked.
Nothing at all.
And now it’s everywhere around me, my words and Riggins’ chords and our history swirling and swirling until I can’t breathe, until my knees go weak.
Then, his eyes find mine in the room, and I realize Beckett must have snitched.
His hand moves on his guitar as the melody moves to deeper chords, as the anxiety of coming home creeps into his words, but his eyes stay on mine.
“I don’t feel it when you’re with me,” I remember whispering, telling him that when we were together, the anxiety stayed away.
“You’re the only thing keeping me here, little star,” he had responded.
The vice on my chest loosens as our eyes stay locked.
Air comes back into my lungs, and I can feel my feet again.
It should be the opposite. It should get worse when he’s staring into my soul like this, reading me like a book only he knows the language of, but instead, it’s the same effect he’s always had on me.
He finishes the song like that, then shifts into another older song, one much less anxiety-inducing about wanting to make it big and leave this town, a reminder that he did just that, maybe.
He always loved to stand on stage and watch me, to tell me stories through whatever songs were on the set list that night, and I wonder what he’s trying to tell me tonight.
“Alright, guys, that’s it. Thank you so much!” Reed says, and the band gets down, the old band coming back up, but when they start playing, it sounds worse, like the reminder of who Atlas Oaks is makes everyone else seem… less.
Or that could just be me.
But the sweet lull of live music has worn off, the anxiety of knowing Riggins is here taking its place and I turn to Parker.
“I want to leave,” I say straightforwardly, tugging on his arm so I know I have his attention.
It’s an understatement, of course. I need to leave if I want to make it out of here alive.
“What?” He cups his hand to his ear, and I move to my tiptoes, speaking louder so there’s no chance he can’t hear.
“I want to leave,” I say, and then the band cuts out, allowing for a conversation.
“Come on, Stell, we just got here,” he says like we’re old friends instead of new acquaintances.
“I need to leave,” I say, and there’s no way he doesn’t hear the panic in my voice. I need fresh air; I need space. The walls are closing in and I can’t take in a good breath of air.
“I don’t want to, Stella. A couple more songs,” he says, then turns his head to look at the stage, essentially cutting me off.
Well.
It seems my gut instinct that he’s a fucking twat was right.
I grab his arm and tug him toward the hall, which leads to an emergency exit and the kitchen. I stare at him, a look of irritation on his face.
“I need to leave, Parker. I’m not feeling well. Thank you for agreeing to tell our mothers a good lie, but I don’t think we actually have to stay that long,” I say, trying to keep things copasetic between us and, I think, failing miserably.
Just like my mom, he turns his personality in a moment, his body shifting so my back is to the wall, his body in front of mine.
I’ve never been a big person, and though Parker isn’t tall, he’s taller than me. If I thought I felt locked in before, that I needed air and space, I can multiply the feeling by a hundred now.
My eyes shift left and right, and I know no one will see us in this corner should things go from bad to worse.
“Parker, please. I don’t feel well.” The music has started again, deafening in the main room but slightly damped in this hallway.
“Come on, you know we can have some fun,” he says, and my stomach aches, nausea creeping through me, acid burning at the back of my throat.
“Get the fuck back, Parker,” I say, all semblance of friendliness gone from my voice.
“I looked you up, you know. You had a wild time with him. Now you’re here with me, and what? Nothing?” Fuck, fuck, fuck. The good ol’ boy is gone from his eyes, leaving what my brain interprets as a monster in its place.
“Get off me,” I say, my voice growing louder, but it’s like I didn’t say anything at all. “Parker, get off me.” My mind goes into how to get out of this mode. I could knee him in the balls, but his legs are closed, and if I fail, it might anger him more. I know there’s no strength behind my fist, but don’t they say something about adrenaline making you strong? Mothers can lift buses off of babies, and people can run through burning buildings.
Does that work when you’re scared out of your mind, pinned in a hallway at a bar no one will find you in?
“Do you really want me to tell your mother what a shit time I had here?” He threatens, an evil grin on his lips.
How long had this been his plan?
“Parker—” I start, but I don’t have to finish my sentence because he’s gone, and I’m no longer being held to the wall by his body, by his presence.
I look around, trying to figure out where he went, only to see?—
Riggins.
Riggins has him against the wall, held by the collar of his stupid fucking shirt, and his face is just inches from his.
“Who the fuck are you?” Parker asks, his ego still too big despite the fact that he is clearly at a disadvantage.
When we were kids, Riggins was lanky, all skin and bones, clothes hanging off him in a way I thought was cute, but as he got deeper into the scene, it was in a way I found concerning.
It seems getting sober changed a lot more than his ability to function as a human being. I have to assume he replaced some of his habits with working out. His shoulders have gotten toned and muscled, the sleeves of the tee he’s wearing stretching around broad biceps and tapering to a trim waist.
I refuse to wonder what the rest of him, covered by clothes, looks like and if it’s changed at all, too.
“Her fucking husband,” Riggins says in a low growl, and my entire body tightens, both with the clear aggression in his words and with what he’s saying.
“Fuck that, she’s not married. She’s been all over me all night, man. Not my fault the bitch doesn’t want yo—” Parker doesn’t have a chance to finish as he’s lifted in the air and pressed to the wall.
He’s kicking, but it doesn”t phase Riggs, who shifts his hand, pressing him against the wall, pulls his arm back, and slams it into the side of his head. Instantly, Parker’s body stops kicking. He’s not passed out, but the fight has gone out of him.
Riggins doesn’t care, his arm pulling back again and punching him in the nose, blood starting to drip.
“Riggins, stop!” I shout, “You’re going to fucking kill him!” But he either can’t hear me or doesn’t care, his arm moving back again and landing in his stomach. I look around for someone, anyone, but there’s no one near, no one paying attention.
“REED!” I shout, trying to find him. A few eyes shift in our direction, but no one steps to help. ”BECKETT! WES!” I just need one of them to knock some fucking sense into Riggins or, at the very least, pull him off before he sends Parker to the ER.
God, what a fucking headline that would be.
But no one comes.
We’re in a hallway out of the way, and no one is coming for us.
I have to do it myself.
“RIGGINS,” I shout. “RIGGINS STOP.”
He ignores me and Parkers eyes drift shut as he pulls his fist back once more about to slam it into his face for the third time and my gut tells me this will be the one that lands him in some kind of intensive care. I need to stop Riggins from ruining his career.
He saved me once. It’s the least I could do.
I turn to him, putting a hand on his shoulder, away from his cocked elbow, and tug. His body freezes as soon as my hand touches the cotton of his tee.
“Riggs, stop. Stop. I’m fine. You saved me, Riggs.”
Without him saying it, I know it’s the use of Riggs that has his fist dropping, has him letting Parker slump to the ground, has him stepping back.
“Fuck,” he says, and I bend, grabbing his wrist to look at his fingers, bruised and bloody.
“Goddammit, Riggs. You could have hurt your hand. We need ice.” I look down at Parker, who is slowly standing, a slow trickle of blood leaking from his nose.
“I’m going to fucking sue you,” he groans.
“No, you’re not, Parker,” I say calmly.
“The fuck I’m not, you?—”
“There is a camera pointed here, right there,” I say, pointing to a black dot. I’m 99% sure it’s a sprinkler system, but I’m hoping…
Parker’s eyes go wide or as wide as they can, considering one is swelling shut, and his hands go up in a placating move.
“Fuck, Stella, I didn’t mean?—”
The fuck you didn’t, you creep, I want to say, but I don’t.
“You tell my mother we had a good time, but we were not compatible. I’ll tell everyone you fell and smashed your face.” His jaw goes tight as he looks from me to Riggins, and when I let my gaze follow, I see Riggins’ face is steel, ready to continue what he started.
Parker sees it, too, because he sighs, then nods.
“You’re not my fuckin’ type anyway,” he mumbles, walking toward the exit. Riggins” body lurches for him, but I hold onto his arm tightly.
“Come on, big guy, let’s get you some ice, yeah? I’m sure they have a first-aid kit somewhere. Who the fuck knows where he’s been.”
Riggins looks to me, the urge to run after Parker clear, but he chooses me instead for some reason, nodding while I go to Anderson, the familiar owner of the Atlas, and ask for ice and a first aid kit.