16. Hollow – Stella
My head pounds when I wake the next morning, the weight of disappointment and sadness heavy on my shoulders as I head downstairs.
Turn the coffee on.
Start my toast.
Grab my meds and down them with water.
It’s the same every morning, a routine I’ve perfected, never changing out of superstition, I think. If I keep my days the same, if nothing changes, there’s less possibility for something to throw me off and send me spiraling.
But I’m already headed there. I feel it in my bones, the creeping, exhausting dark blue lapping at my hips. Soon, it will be at my throat, and I’ll be unable to move or accomplish much more than the essentials.
Seven years ago, I came home and conceded to my mother, becoming whatever she asked me to be to please her, but it was never enough. Now I’m starting to wonder if it will ever be enough if I’ll ever be enough.
Even when she’s ground me down to dust, will I ever fit into that impossible mold she made for me?
I shake my head, trying to dislodge the thought. Instead of stressing about it, I move to my room to dress in an Ashford Diner tee and a pair of shorts, pulling my hair into a ponytail and forcing myself to add some mascara and a swipe of blush. My mom might be threatening to fire me, but for today, at least, I still have work to do.
And hey, maybe if I look like a functioning member of society, I’ll become one.
Wishful thinking.
The morning drags, my mind lost in memories and thoughts and worries, but when the bell above the door rings at nine am and my eyes move there, I can’t do anything but smile.
Smile wide.
It’s like how it was when I was young when I was 17 and working here on weekends when I didn’t have some kind of practice or school, and the guys would all trudge in for breakfast, Riggins at the lead.
Before he’s even fully through the door, his eyes scan the diner before they meet mine, his eyes going warm, the smile taking over his face.
He’s happy to see me. Overjoyed, even.
God.
God.
A part of me knows the splash of elation I feel from him being here is dangerous. I should temper it with reality and past experiences, but I can’t. I just can’t.
Not when the entire band comes in for breakfast, just like they used to back when they were all exhausted from a long night, occasionally hungover and half awake.
Not when he walks up to me, slugs an arm around my shoulder, and says, “Gotta booth for us, little star?”
Not when they sit and start ribbing each other playfully in the same loving way they did years ago, including me, anytime I walk over to them as if nothing has changed at all.
And surely not when every time I look up, Riggins’ eyes are locked on me, following me throughout the restaurant, winking every time he catches me staring back.
Each time, I can’t fight the small smile on my lips. By the time they leave, the waters that were lapping at my ankles this morning recede, if only for a few hours.
This continues three days in a row, with the guys coming into the diner, led by Riggins, a few hours after the morning rush ends, hanging for an hour or two, just goofing around and laughing. Sometimes, they pull me into their conversations, and sometimes, I sit with them for a bit, but each time, it feels like a piece of me is healing, like a part of me is coming back.
A part I missed dearly, a part I thought was gone forever.
When I see him sitting outside, I know the routine has shifted. Walking out with a bowl, I’m excited to see Riggins outside by himself, Gracie at his feet, and bend to pet Gracie on the head.
“Happy Monday,” he says.
“Happy Monday. No crew today?” I ask. His smile widens, and he shakes his head.
“Nah. It’s nice out, I thought I’d bring Gracie. Plus, Reed takes up too much of your attention.” I don’t let my mind dig too deep into that one; instead, I stand and place my hands on my hips.
“What can I get you?” I ask, not even bothering to grab my pad. What’s the point in pretending anymore?
He doesn’t answer, simply asking a question of his own. “Is it busy in there?” he asks, tilting his head toward the diner but not looking away from me. I’ve realized that when I’m near, he never shifts his eyes from mine, almost like he’s afraid if he does, I’ll disappear. Something about it doesn’t sit right with me, and guilt ravages me with the realization.
“No,” I say with a shake of my head, both to answer his question and to shake away the emotions I don’t want to be feeling. He pauses a beat like he’s trying to steady his nerves, and nods.
“Sit with me,” he says, his eyes soft and with just a hint of pleading.
“What?”
“Sit with me. Just...” There’s nervous hesitation that I absolutely hate on him, on Riggs, the most confident man I ever knew. He doesn’t get nervous asking a simple question. “Just sit with me. For a few minutes.” He pauses, but I don’t speak, continuing to stare at me for a few moments before biting his lip, the way he used to when we were kids when he was suddenly nervous or ashamed of something, like when someone would bring up his father after his mom passed or rib him for not having the coolest, hippest shoes. “Unless you can’t, then that’s cool. I get it if you have to do work.”
My mind rakes over the things I have to do this afternoon, anything I haven’t done yet, and realize all of my normal tasks are done, except for things I really can’t do until the diner is closed. Thursdays tend to be pretty slow, and now that Riggins has been coming in, I try and keep my hands and mind busy while I wait to see if he’ll actually show.
I find I’m not raking my mind for excuses, either, but for permission to do what I want.
When was the last time you did something for you, Stell?
The words my sister spoke ring in my mind. For the first time, I ask myself them. When was the last time I did something for me? For me alone, not for my mom or for work or for Evie or even years ago, for Riggs? When was the last time I did what I wanted without worrying about what others would say, how it would be interpreted, how people would react?
I’m not sure.
And with those words vibrating through me, I do something Riggs clearly doesn’t expect.
I pull out a chair across from him, sit down, and tug my phone out of my pocket, sending Amelia a text telling her I’m taking a short break and to let me know if she needs me inside. She replies almost instantly with a chaotic line of letters and exclamation points that make me smile, followed by a take as long as you need! before I slip my phone into my pocket.
“Deal. How’s it feel being home?” I ask, leaning back in the chair, my hand dipping down to brush the hair of Gracie, who has moved to be close to me.
Riggins’ smile goes wide, and he begins to answer, telling me about how he’s been finally clearing out his parents’ house, visiting all his old spots, and hanging out with the guys.
I fill him in on what I’ve been up to, skirting around some of the subjects I’m not comfortable enough to mention yet, like my mental health and the songwriting I’ve been doing, before we start to move onto random topics. I marvel at how easy it feels, even after all these years.
Our conversations fall into a comfortable lull in ten minutes or so, Riggins halfway through his pancakes Amelia brought out as I pet Gracie’s head that she’s rested in my lap absentmindedly.
“I missed this most of all,” he says, a soft look in his eyes.
“What?” I ask, confused.
“This. You and me, laughing about things, just talking. Being us. I miss my best friend, Stell.” I can’t help it; the words are spilling out without my mind”s approval.
“Me too, Riggs,” I say with a small smile. I have to fight not to be a sad one.
He stares at me for a moment, categorizing and dissecting the look, I’m sure before we move back to talking about little things, things with no real meaning or impact.
And for a short, blissful moment, I wonder if we could have this again, at the very least. This friendship and camaraderie I’ve missed.
I wonder if I could have my best friend back.
“I should go soon,” he says eventually, breaking into my thoughts. “ I have an AA meeting at four, and I have to bring Gracie back before I drive over to Stafford.” It surprises me, both the mention of him going to Alcoholics Anonymous and how casually he says it.
“AA?” I ask stupidly. “I mean, I know what it is, I just didn’t think…” My voice trails off, and I’m sure my cheeks burn with embarrassment, but his smile widens.
“Yeah. Been going for a while. Five years sober.” He doesn’t explain more, but I can do the math. Five years ago, at his father”s funeral, where I came and held his hand, was the last time I saw him.
“Well, don’t let me keep you,” I say, leaning over to press a kiss on Gracie’s soft head before standing.
“You’re not keeping me at all, Stell. I’d do absolutely anything in this world to spend more time with you like this, just hanging out. It feels… it feels normal. It feels like how it used to be, the way it was always supposed to be.”
He says exactly the way I’ve been thinking, but something about him saying it aloud makes it hurt more like he’s confirming that we don’t have that anymore.
It always tells me he might miss it just as much as I do.
But where does that leave us?
Where could it leave us?
My mind refuses to start to calculate the equations of possibility and what could be.
“See you tomorrow?” I ask, walking towards the door. He smiles wide.
“Tomorrow, little star.”
When I come back to clean up Riggs’ table, I find another photo, a more recent one.
Gracie, 5 years old.
All my love, Riggs.