14. Mean! - Madeline the Person – Stella
Hammering wakes me up the next morning. After Riggins drove me home and walked me to my door after I had a huge lapse in judgment and kissed him, I took the world’s quickest shower to scrub off the existence of Parker, then I took two melatonin and passed out. To her credit, my mother agreed I could have an extra day off this week since I was going on the date she insisted on, meaning I was able to turn my alarm off and sleep in.
Strangely enough, I had the best sleep I’ve had in months, passing right out even though I should’ve stayed up way too late overthinking that kiss, and not waking up once during the night like I normally do.
But now there is a low banging noise coming from outside my house, and I have no idea why.
I roll out of my bed and shuffle to the living room, seeing a familiar truck in the drive from the front window. Sliding my feet into a pair of sandals, I open the front door, not even bothering to check through the peephole.
“What are you doing?” I ask, staring at Riggins in a tight tee and a pair of jeans, holding a hammer in his hands.
“Oh, good, you’re up,” he says.
“What are you doing here?”
“Fixing your porch, obviously.”
“I don’t understand,” I say, brows coming together.
“You’ve got a few loose boards, and that railing is a death trap,” he says, tipping his head toward the railing of my wrap-around porch that is, in fact, a death trap. He puts the hammer down, straightens, and walks up the steps, moving until there’s barely a foot between us. His hand moves out, touching the sleeve of the shirt I slept in, a giant oversized thing that’s so worn and comfy, it’s nearly see-through.
“Nice shirt,” he says, his voice gravelly and low. I don’t have to look down to know I’m wearing one of his old shirts from the very first tour they did, one I stole not long after becoming “us” and never gave back.
“It’s old and comfy,” I say in a whisper, looking up into his eyes.
“Hmm,” Riggins says, then his hand moves, wrapping my waist the way he did last night and tugging me close to him until we’re chest to chest. I have no bra under the shirt, not that I even really need it, but the warmth of him, the smell of him that’s so familiar, sweat and musk and woods, it has my traitorous nipples stiffening under my shirt.
I shake my head at him, my hand moving to his chest but not pushing away.
I’m weak when it comes to Riggins Greene. I always have been.
“Friends. We agreed on friends, Riggins,” I remind him in a whisper, even though I don’t feel the warning as deeply as I should. His lips tip up in a smile, the dimple I used to spend my days making silly jokes just to see coming out.
“I lied,” he says. I give him a glare, my hand starting to push on his chest, but his arm grips my waist tighter, his face going a bit serious. “Friends don’t kiss like you kissed me last night, Stella.”
“That was a mistake,” I say. I expect him to be annoyed, to argue with me, but instead a full, boyish smile breaks over his face.
“Well, then, I guess my new goal is to make sure you keep making mistakes, isn’t it?”
“This isn’t who I am anymore, Riggins.”
“Then I can’t wait to get to know the new version of you, Stella. Make her my best friend, too.” He tips his head down, passing his lips to my forehead before letting go and stepping back. “But the next kiss, it’ll be you kissing me, too. I’m not fucking this up any more than I have already.”
I don’t ask what that means because I don’t think I’ll like the answer. Instead, I shake my head and step back, crossing my arms on my chest to hide any pesky nipples showing.
“You have to leave, Riggins,” I say firmly, attempting a glare. He just keeps smiling at me and shakes his head.
“No.”
“No?”
“No, I’m not leaving. I’m doing shit. I’m fixing this deck you’re gonna break your neck on, then I’m working on this railing that’s gonna fall in three minutes.”
I glare at him. “I can handle it.”
“You haven’t. You’ve lived here how long?”
The answer is just under four years, so he has a fair point. I won’t tell him that, though.
“Well, I’m suddenly very motivated to do it,” I say, and even I can hear the urgency in my words. This is too much. He is too much. I feel like the entire foundation of my world is shifting, and I’m not able to keep my steady footing.
I need that steady footing.
Something in my words stops him, and he takes me in again, hands in his pockets, looking top to toe the way he used to, taking me in and categorizing, deciding if I was okay,
I’m not, of course.
In so many ways, I’m not okay.
And he knows. Somehow, he can see it the way he always could, seeing through my reassurances and lies and knowing what I need.
“I’ll be done out here in forty or so. I can’t, in good faith, leave this death trap. It’s too dangerous at night and you live too far out for someone to come happen by you and help you. God forbid, if there was an emergency.” I open my mouth to argue but he raises a hand and somehow I know there’s no use in arguing.
I sigh.
“I’ll leave if you agree to talk to me. Soon. My place, yours, don’t care, but Stell, we need to fucking talk. I have a lot to say to you, whether you want to hear it or not, whether it changes anything or not. Twelve steps and all,” he says, and in the same way he could always read me, I read him, knowing it’s an excuse he’s using.
In the same way, he let my lie go, I let his go. He’s not wrong. At the end of the day, we do need to talk. Maybe closure will be good for me; the ability to slam that door behind me for good might be healing.
At the very least, it will probably have him stop coming to me, interrupting this new life I’ve created.
“Fine,” I say. The single word makes his lips continue tipping until it’s a full-blown grin that makes my stomach do somersaults.
“Really?”
God, he looks so fucking hopeful. He looks relieved, content, and at ease, something I hadn”t seen since long before I left him. I should tell him it’s just for closure, that I’m only agreeing to have some grand talk in order to finally end this, but I don’t. I let it go and nod.
“Yeah. I have stuff to do inside,” I lie. “Do you want coffee?”
He smiles wide before nodding. “Still black and one sugar,” he says, and something about that, knowing it hasn’t changed, his coffee order, the coffee order I used to make fun of him because he was 18 and ordering the most old man coffee on the planet.
Still, I back up into my house, start the coffee, take my meds, and start the toast like I do every day.
But this morning I pull down two cups.
“What the fuck is wrong with you, Stella Jane?”
It’s not even an hour after I handed Riggins his coffee when I answer my phone, and I regret doing so without checking the screen or at least heading into another room rather than standing in the center of the living room with the front door wide open, where I’ve been pretending to putter around and clean. Secretly, I’ve been sneaking a peek at Riggins as he works on my steps and railing, watching muscles flex beneath his tight tee in a way I should absolutely not be interested in.
“Wha—” I say into the phone, brushing the hair from my face that fell out of my ponytail. Checking the clock across in the kitchen, it’s barely eight am.
Why is my mother calling me just after seven on my day off?
She doesn’t leave me wondering very long.
“Parker is at his mother’s kitchen table with a black eye, saying you’re fucking married.” There are a lot of things I could say in response to her exclamation, but I, of course, pick the stupidest of my options.
“Why is he at his mother’s at eight in the morning?”
“What?”
“It’s eight in the morning on a Friday. Why is he at his mother’s already?” I ask.
“Jesus, Stella, what does it matter?”
“I just think it’s weird, running to your mommy when you’re thirty because you got your ass kicked.” In my peripheral vision, Riggins’ head pops up, looking in my direction and stopping whatever he was doing.
“He lives with his mother, Stella. What does it matter?”
“Oh, that explains a lot, I suppose.” I walk over to the loveseat and sit on the arm, thinking about how I should’ve guessed the 30-year-old man still lived with his mother.
“How about you stop talking about poor Parker and start explaining yourself, Stella. I am so embarrassed. I set my friend’s son up with my daughter, thinking they might be a good couple, thinking nothing of it. I should have fucking known you’d fuck this up.”
There was a time that would hurt.
Before I went on tour, when I was just a literal child, unsure as to why my mother couldn’t stand me to the degree she does, yes, it would have very much.
When I came home from tour, after the repeated, I told you so’s, absolutely. Then it hurt even more when I tried to fit the mold she made for me, the one she wanted me to be, and she still wasn’t happy with me.
And then I became numb.
The blue waters creeped up past my ankles and never fully receded. Instead, I just lived life trying to stay in the sun instead of sinking under. Her musings of disappointment, of, why can’t you be more like your sister, or if you had gone to college… didn’t hurt anymore because I stopped caring.
Most days, I’m simply surviving, and when you’re simply surviving, people’s poor opinions of you start to matter less and less.
“Poor Parker took me to a bar, got drunk, then pinned me in a dark hallway when I told him I wanted to leave, telling me I owed him something. A something he did not have the time to elaborate on when a kind Samaritan helped me out.”
There’s a pause, and for a split second, I think I’ll get something from her. An apology or worry or concern or… something.
I should have known better.
“You went on a date with him, Stella. What did you expect?”
Okay, there it is.
That one. That one hurt. I put my head down, staring at my shoes and ignoring the presence that has filled the doorway, blocking the light.
“I expected a human to respect my wishes and my personal space, at the very least.” I roll my lips together, fighting back my true responses, knowing they’ll just make things worse. “I went on that date as a courtesy to you, not because we were a match made in heaven. It was a blind date, Mother.”
“I set you up because you’re nearing 30, still single, and throwing your life away.” I take a deep, deep breath, trying to regulate my emotions the way my psychiatrist always tells me to, but any sense of calm is thrown out the window when she changes to a more treacherous subject.
“And why is that boy calling you his wife, Stella Jane?”
In the moment, Riggins yelling that in a crowded bar, protecting me and my honor felt good. Great, even.
But now I hate that he did it, hate that he outed us like that.
I’ve spent seven years holding on tight to that secret. Something I kept close to my chest, the last flimsy thread tying me to my past life, to Riggins. It always felt as if no one else knew, I didn’t have to force a divorce, didn’t need to finalize the ending of this part of my life. But with my secret out…
“Stella Jane…” she says in my silence, and I sigh, finally letting this secret out.
“Because technically, I am his wife.”
The silence is scathing, burning up the line with her fury.
“What the fuck do you mean by that?”
I sigh. There’s no point in continuing to lie. If she wanted to, she could get the information, I’m sure. I’m surprised no one had dug it up before then, that no one had dug into Riggins’ life and found he had a wife, a marriage formed in the dead of night in a little chapel in Vegas, but done all the same.
“I mean, when I was 20, I married Riggins Greene in Vegas. It was never dissolved.”
Again, the silence.
But as expected, it doesn’t last long.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” she bellows, making me flinch.
“Mom—” I start, though I’m unsure of what I’d say.
“I said, are you fucking kidding me?”
“Mom, it’s not—” I can’t finish because, as she tends to do, she cuts me off.
“It’s not what?! Not a big deal? Not important? God, Stella. I told you then, I told you getting wrapped up with him was going to ruin your fucking life. Now look at you. You can’t even get a good boy to date you. And even if I could convince Parker to go on another date with you, you’re damaged goods! No wonder you’re sad all the time. You threw your life away!”
“I’m genuinely not sure what would make you think I’d go on another date with Parker, but okay, Mom. And I’m also unsure of how getting married, a marriage that, I’ll remind you, you had no clue about until minutes ago, has ruined my life.” She scoffs, and although I opened the door, I wish I could slam it shut, knowing what’s coming for me.
“What have you done with your life, Stella? You work at a fucking diner. You’re a loser. You have no friends, no husband, no kids. No prospects. No fucking clue how you bought that shithole of a house, but it’s just another decision in a mile-long list that you should have fucking listened to me about. But no. You don’t; you throw it all away.”
The waters rise, leaving me squeaking out a word.
“Mom—” She cuts me off again.
“Get a divorce, Stella.”
It stings, even though it shouldn’t.
I know I should.
I know that. It’s no longer the secret it once was so there’s no need to hold on to it. I could dissolve the marriage simply, move on with my life.
But…
“Mother—”
“I don’t want to see your face unless you have those papers, Stella. Making a fool of me, tying yourself to that loser. Do you know how this looks to the town? To my friends?”
“That I’m married to an incredibly successful rockstar? No, Mom I have no idea. Probably pretty good.” I snap.
“You’re married to a fucking drunk, just like his father,” she says. For some reason, that is what finally angers me. My mother making judgments and assumptions about people she doesn’t know, never taking the chance to get to know them because she thinks she is better than them.
“He’s not a drunk,” I say, defending him, but she isn’t listening anymore.
“I’m done with this. Get the papers, Stella. By Friday, I want you to get that divorce rolling, or we’re done.”
“We’re done?” I ask, my stomach churning. But I know what she’s about to say. It’s the threat that always looms, hanging over my head.
“If you don’t get a divorce moving, you’ll be fired at the restaurant. You will no longer be invited to family dinners. Your father and I will be done with you. And if I get my way, Everest will be done with you.”
Everest will be done with you.
I know she could easily turn my father, who never wants to rock the boat, despite how much he loves Evie and me, without much effort, but Everest? Could she convince my twin to stop talking to me?
It’s not improbable; my sister, who has never been able to stand up to our mother, is even more eager than me to please her.
“You can’t just cut me off?—”
“If you don’t do what I’m telling you, I will. I should have done it long ago when you started up this bullshit about being depressed as if you have a fucking thing in your privileged little life worthy of making you fucking depressed.”
The ache in my chest builds.
“Get this sorted, Stella, get your fucking life together the way I’ve been telling you?—”
Suddenly, the phone is gone, and a large body looms over me. Suddenly, Riggs’ voice fills the room.
“I can tell whatever you’re telling Stell is fucked because she looks like someone just punched her in the gut,” he says, and my mother’s voice rises an octave, arguing. “No, no. We’re not doing this. Stella is an adult. She can do what she wants, talk to who she wants, and date who she wants. I know you see your daughters as nothing more than a chance to redo the life you’re unhappy with, but it ends now. I’m back, Rhonda, I’m back, and I’m not some dumb fucking kid who’s going to sit back and watch you tear her apart again.”
Again, my mother’s voice starts up, but all I can focus on is Riggins, who shakes his head like he’s disappointed.
“She’ll call you back if and when she’s ready to, Rhonda. Until then, maybe worry about the shit the town says about you and how you treat your daughter rather than worrying about how her relationships will impact your social standing.”
And then he pulls the phone from his ear and hits end.
“You can’t do that!” I say finally, staring at him as he taps on my phone screen a few times, turning on Do Not Disturb, I think. He looks up at me with a small smirk, the dimple out.
“I just did. I’m tired of you living in fear of her. It’s been too long.”
“Who the fuck are you?” I snap, my sadness melting into irritation. I’m glad. Anger is much simpler to manage, easier to control, and morph into what I need it to be.
He tosses my phone on the couch before grabbing my hand, tugging me close, and wrapping me in his arms. I stand there stunned, my mind reeling, my body in a state of pure panic.
“I’m yours. I’m yours, and I’m back, and I’m here to protect you,” he says to the top of my head.
The anger morphs again with the warmth of his body, turning back into that sadness and fear, but now also a bit of nostalgia and longing for something I once had.
“You did back then, you always protected me from her.” I sniff, thinking of that, of those times when I knew no matter what, I would have someone in my corner and how much I didn’t realize I missed not having that.
“You were always better than her, Stella. She knows it, too. That’s why she is the way she is,” he murmurs, words I feel more than hear as my face is buried in his chest. I fight the tears creeping up, pulling at my throat.
“She told me she’ll cut me off from Evie,” I whisper. “She still lives with them, you know. She still is…. Evie,” I say, and to anyone else, that might not make sense, but to Riggins, who grew up with us and knows how deeply her sense of worth is entwined with our mother’s approval, he knows that threat would scare me to my core.
“She’s jealous of you, Stella. That’s all,” he whispers, his fingers tugging me until I look up at him. “You know that, right?”
I roll my eyes. “What does she have to be jealous of?”
“That you’re beautiful. That people adore you. That you’re so fucking talented, the entire world knows your work. That you’re in this town not because you’re stuck, but by choice. That you’re you, Stell. Everyone should be jealous of you. Just look at you.” I roll my eyes, but he keeps staring stoically at me.
He lifts a hand when he sees the single tear I’ve let fall. I hate it, that tear shows weakness, shows how much she impacts me. He wipes it with a thumb, but keeps staring at me.
“You were always worth more than whatever she thought of you, Stella. The only one who couldn’t see it was you.” He looks at me a moment longer. “Still hate people watching you cry?” My brow furrows.
“What?”
“Do you still hate letting people see you cry?” I sniffle, then nod. I wonder if he’s thinking of the time I finally did let him see me cry, of the moment he broke through my walls.
Of the last time he saved me from her.
But he must see my hesitance more because he nods, a small look of sadness crossing his face like he realizes he doesn’t have that privilege anymore, that he isn’t my safe space anymore.
“Alright. I’ve got maybe five minutes until I can get out of here. Let you be alone.”
A part of me wants to argue, to tell him to stay, to beg him to wrap me in his arms and let me sob there, but instead, the smart part of me nods, steps back, and wipes my eyes.
He stands there for a moment, then, true to his words, nods, turns, and goes back out the open front door. I hold it together for the five minutes he’s outside, and the two additional minutes he spends cleaning up.
I don’t cry until his truck is rumbling down the driveway.
And even though it’s a great question, I never wonder why I don’t just file those divorce papers to stay on my mother’s good side.
But hours later, the world answers when I walk out my front door to get the mail, eyes swollen, long after the sun has gone down and nearly trip over a bouquet of sunflowers. The note inside just says,
All my love, R.