15. Paul Revere – Stella
I only make it three blocks away from my parents’ house before I breakdown crying and pull the phone out of my pocket.
A burner phone Riggins gave me because somehow, he saw it coming the way I purposely blinded myself to.
“Little star,” his voice says, rumbling through the line. The relief I feel from his words fills the small gap left in my gut.
“I—I—she—I—” I start, but I can’t get anything more out, can’t speak through my body-wracking sobs. Through the pain lancing through me, both physical and emotional.
“Where are you?” he asks, his words firm and instant.
“Corner of Balch and Alderbridge,” I somehow manage to say.
“Ten minutes. Do you have a jacket on?” I sniffle, once, twice, three times, taking a deep breath, I hear noise in the background—keys being grabbed, a door slamming, another opening then closing, his truck starting. It somehow calms me, despite my all consuming panic, the pain and anger flowing through me so I can speak slightly easier, air going into my lungs.
I don’t miss how he doesn’t rush me, doesn’t question a thing, just waits for me to speak as he makes his way to me.
“A hoodie and a jacket.”
“Okay, good, Stell. Good.” His voice is low and soothing, almost the crooning singing voice he uses on stage. It’s late September, and while most days are still pretty warm, at night, it starts to get cool like it is now.
“I love you,” he says.
“I love you too,” I whisper.
“It’s going to be okay.”
“I know,” I say, and suddenly, I do know that. I do know that everything will be okay. I’ll be okay, and we’ll be okay. I made the right decision.
“I’m gonna stay on the line, okay? But I’m driving, so you’re on speaker in the passenger seat.”
“Okay,” I say, my voice small and unlike me. Normally, I’d give him shit about talking to me while he’s driving or about how he really needs a new truck that has Bluetooth, but I don’t have it in me. Not at all.
It doesn’t take long before he’s here, and I hear his truck before I see it, but still, relief washes through me.
God, I feel sweet fucking relief at seeing him. I step up to the curb to get in, but before I can even open the door, he’s parking on the side of the road, stepping out, and jogging around the front of the truck, pulling me into his arms.
I lose it finally, sobbing into his tee shirt (he did not grab a jacket or sweatshirt before leaving, it seems) as I remember everything that just happened, the cruel, angry words my mother spit out, the way my father just watched, the way I begged her to understand.
The ultimatum.
“It’s okay, Stell. You’re going to be okay.” He sounds scared, and it’s probably because he’s never seen me like this, a mess, sobbing and miserable. I’ve made it my mission to be the happy one to Riggins, who has lived with grief and sadness enough as it is.
He’s never seen me cry, not when my mother told me my entire life that crying makes you weak, that crying is for babies, not strong women who want to do something with their lives.
“She—she—she—” I start, trying to get air into my lungs to explain.
“I can put the pieces together,” he coos into my hair. Feeling his warmth around me, his strength, smelling him, his voice rumbling against my crying face, I start to calm, the way I always do around Riggins.
I’ve always had an imbalance of some sort for as long as I can remember. I’d get sad for no reason, and it would last a bit before I’d feel good again. Once, my mother took me to the doctor, but when it wasn’t an easy, here, take this antibiotic, and she’ll be good in two weeks, my mother decided to ignore the diagnosis altogether.
But even when I feel the wave of my sadness creeping up, if I’m wrapped in him, I know I’ll be okay.
It’s always been that way. Just… more lately. More since he became mine.
That simple reminder has the last of my hiccups slowing.
“She kicked me out,” I whisper into his chest. “I told her we were together and I was going on tour with you. She told me I wasn’t welcome there anymore.”
I don’t know why my mother hates Riggs so much or why she hates his family so much, but the violence with how she spoke to me in the kitchen of our home was still a surprise.
“You’ll move in with me,” he whispers.
“You don’t have to—” I start, but he pulls back, his hands on my shoulders, his eyes locked on mine.
“Are you mine?”
“What?”
“Are you mine? We haven’t talked about what happened at the bonfire, but Stell, to me, you’re mine now.”
“Your…. Your girlfriend?” I ask, my pulse racing again but for a different reason now. It’s been two weeks since the bonfire, and while we’ve had small kisses and held hands and been some new version of us, we haven’t talked about what it meant, and we definitely haven’t done more, despite how much my entire soul wants to.
“You’re my everything, Stella. But yeah, for right now, we can call you my girlfriend.”
I can’t help it. Even though the rest of my life feels like it’s crumbling, I smile. I smile big.
Because after a lifetime of being head over heels in love with my best friend, he’s now my boyfriend.
When he sees my smile, Riggins returns it, pressing his lips to mine, kissing me, and making me feel like his as his hands bury into my hair.
It is as if everything in the world is going to be okay so long as we’re together.
“You’ll move in with me,” Riggins says hours later as we lay on a blanket in the grass in our clearing, watching the stars. We went to his apartment before we came here, where I spent a good hour stress cleaning, throwing beer bottles in the recycling from Riggins having the guys over the night before, checking his fridge to see what we had to work with for dinner, before finally, he forced me to stop with kisses on my neck.
It didn’t take long before we were making out on his couch for a good long while, learning each other with this new label but not going much further, even when I pushed for it.
It was blissful, his lips trailing down my neck, his lips making mine swell with the long, deep kisses.
I always wondered if making out would be awkward, bumbling, uncomfortable. But like everything with Riggs, it was anything but. It’s natural, like it’s what we were always supposed to be doing, like our bodies and our hands and our lips were made for this moment.
Unfortunately, when my hands started to creep around for more, he pulled away, pressed his forehead to mine, and smiled. “Let’s go write under the stars,” he whispered.
The one offer I’ll never turn down, which brings us here.
“What?”
“Tomorrow, we’ll go in when she’s not home, grab your stuff.”
“I don’t—” I start. “You don’t have to, Riggs. I’ll figure something out. I have royalty checks coming in now, thanks to you guys.” And I did, though I didn’t think they would be enough to fully support an apartment and feed and care for myself. Something tells me my mother won’t be allowing me to continue to work at the restaurant under these circumstances. I think she’s hoping I’ll find myself on the streets, homeless and desperate, then finally, after 19 years, break to her will.
“You’re mine. That means I take care of you,” he says, his head turning on the blanket to look at me, and the look there tells me not to argue at all, that I’ll lose whatever argument I’m gearing up for.
Instead, I let out a small smile and nod. “Okay, Riggs.” He smiles, too, and warmth fills me from my belly and out.
“There’s my girl,” he whispers, then presses his lips to mine.
It’s all going to be okay.
I can’t imagine it not when we’re laying under the stars like this when Riggs is this new version of mine, when he’s pressing soft, sweet kisses to my lips.
“I can’t wait to leave here,” I whisper into the night sky.
“Yeah? Where do you want to go?” I laugh.
“Anywhere but here, really. Far away from my mom.”
“From me?”
“What?”
“Far away from me?” he asks, his voice low. I turn my head to look at him and realize he’s already looking at me.
“Of course not. Where you are, I am, Riggs.”
We lay like that, under the stars, him holding my hand, sometimes kissing, for what might be hours before he speaks again.
“When we make it big, when we can live anywhere in the whole world, where do you want to live?”
“What?” I ask with a laugh.
“We’ll always have a house here, in Ashford, if only because this is our place. I want to take our kids here one day. Show them where we fell in love, where it all started. But we’ll have another, wherever you want.”
He’s planning a future.
Our future.
And under the stars like this, the way we’ve always been, the opportunities feel absolutely endless, like we could do and we could be anything we want so long as we speak it into the universe like this.
“Anywhere?”
“Anywhere,” he whispers, reaching down and twining his fingers with mine.
“I don’t know. I just know I want a dog. My mom never let me have one.” He turns his head and smiles at me.
“Okay, so we’ll have a dog and a big yard for the dog. Where’s this yard going to be?”
The fact that he never tells me I’m crazy or stupid or silly for my thoughts makes me feel warm and fuzzy all over. “Maine? You mentioned Maine in your postcard, the first one.” I turn my head to look at him, his face directed at the bright stars over head and see his lips tip up in a smile.
“You would have loved it there. The stars, god. You think they’re bright here? Out there it was like you could reach out and touch them.”
“We should go one day.”
“You say the word Stell, I’ll take you to Maine.” I don’t say the word, even though I want to go. I want to go everywhere with him.
But right now, I’m happy here in my favorite place with my favorite person, forgetting the rest of the world.
I lose track of time, my mind blank from anything but the man beside me and the all-consuming peace I feel, but eventually, I look at my watch, taking in the time.
1:32.
Fuck, how have we been out here this long? It’s then I realize Riggins hasn’t talked in a while, simply humming in agreement at random things I say, at stars I point out, thoughts I have. We’ve done very little writing tonight, which is rare, but I think Riggins knew I just needed the stars and the open space, and writing was a way to get me there. He always knew best what I needed.
“You’re quiet,” I say.
“I’m busy,” he says, concentrating on the stars.
“What are you doing?” I ask with a laugh. There’s a pause before he turns his head to me, a smile on his lips.
“Finding the brightest star other than the North Star. That one’s already taken.”
“What?” I ask with a laugh, and his head turns back to the night sky.
“That one,” he whispers, pointing to the sky. “That’s the one I’m naming after you. My little star gets the brightest star.” He moves, shifting so I’m now held by him, his arm wrapped around my shoulders, my head on his chest.
“You’re crazy,” I murmur.
“I’m okay with that.” We go back to watching the sky before I speak in quiet wonder.
“Look, a shooting star,” I whisper. “That one. That one could be me. Stella, the bright, shooting star,” I smile into his chest but feel his head shaking above mine.
“Never. That would mean you’re running from me. Getting further. I want you to stay put, so I can always find you when I need you.”
“No need, Riggins. I’ll always be right here, by your side.”
“Promise?” he asks, but the word sounds strange, strained even, worry and panic laced in it. Looking over at him, his eyes are serious, worried, though stuck on the night sky. I move so my body lays on top of his, my eyes looking into his, my hands framing his face that needs a shave.
“Yes. I promise.”
“When I fuck up, do you promise to stay by me?”
“Of course, Riggins. I love you.”
“I love you more,” he whispers against my lips.