17. Come Over – Riggins
“Hey, Riggs,” she smiles when I walk in the next day.
It sounds stupid, but seeing her, hearing her, makes my entire day better, makes my steps lighter, my smile wider. It’s raining today and when I heard it on the roof of my childhood home, for a moment, I felt at peace. My hatred for the rain and the bad memories it usually brings wasn’t there this time, instead just an excitement to see Stella again, to keep making headway in fixing our broken relationship.
For the first time in years, I feel hopeful. Hopeful we can make this work, hopeful that I’ll get my star back.
I move to the corner booth that used to be the band and mine, everyone in town somehow knowing not to sit there and wait for her to come over. I get a weird joy each time I see the scuffed and stained table hasn’t changed, my mind able to sync each scratch and spill to a memory. In the furthest corner, hidden beneath a napkin dispenser, SH+RG is still carved.
It’s like our history still stands strong, a small comfort.
“How are you?” she asks as she moves over to my table with a glass of water and an orange juice, then puts her hands on her hips. I’ve been careful to come in later in the day, just like when we were younger, knowing the few times Rhonda Hart comes in is early in the morning to collect money. I’d like to avoid as much of the drama as I can before Stell and I are secure.
“Better than ever,” I say, reaching to grab her hand. A small smile tips her lips, and again, my heart flips in my chest. It’s just like those early days when she would blush at any flirting I’d do, and just like then, I have chords and melodies drifting through my mind. My hands itch to write them down, my soul yearning to lay under the stars with my girl and turn our story into art.
“You’re so weird,” she says with a roll of her eyes. “You’re normal?” I nod. “Got it, I’ll give the order to Frank.”
“And then you’ll sit with me for a bit?” I ask, sounding like a child wanting some attention, but that’s fine. She looks around the restaurant; there are a few tables toward the end of their meal, but it”s not too busy. Her lips are still tipped in an echo of a smile when she turns back to me.
“Yeah. I can do that,” she says.
There’s a lull in our conversation nearly an hour later, an empty plate pushed away from me as Stella still sits across the table. We’ve laughed and talked about everything under the sun, from stupid stories from tours to updates on Evie’s job as a music journalist. It’s just like it used to be, where time would barely exist for us.
It’s easy. It’s familiar. It’s perfect.
I should have known it wouldn’t last long, though.
“Why did you come home?” Stella asks out of the blue.
“What?”
“Why did you come home? Why did you come back to Ashford? I know you have a real house somewhere nice. Why come back to this town with so many memories?”
“Why do you think?” I ask instead of answering, trying to balance my answer accordingly.
“Honestly?”
“Always.” A beat passes as she picks at her nails before she looks me dead in the eye and answers.
“I think you came home because you need to write, and this is where you do it. I’m who you do it with. I think a part of you wanted to see if you could make it work, what we used to have, the writing relationship.” She shrugs, then looks at her nails again. “It sounds self-centered to say you came home for me, but it makes sense. You’re about to record a new album; it’s the only thing I can think of.”
There’s a long moment before I answer, trying to think of the best way to explain. She’s not completely right: I came back to clean out my parents” house, to put it on the market and close that chapter. But I’d be lying if I didn’t say that I’ve been stuck since the last album, no true idea on what to write.
The first album we released after Stella left was angry, so many songs about heartbreak, but also a lot about getting drunk and having a blast and the band. The second album after I got clean was full of self-realizations, songs about getting sober and not being as bullet proof as I once thought. It was about self hatred and self acceptance and loss.
But now the label is looking for our next album, and nothing has come when I put pen to paper. I’ll admit, a part of me thought being here again might give me some kind of inspiration, that being where it all started might help.
“I’m tired of being angry,” I say, my voice low. “I’m so tired of being angry and being sad, Stell. I spent years being so angry. At you, at my dad, at the world. I came back because I needed to remember why I started this and what I loved. I want to write about love and friends and being happy again. I haven’t been able to do that since I wrote with you.”
“Oh,” is all she says, and suddenly, I wonder if she wishes I had lied, telling her I came just for her. But where have little lies gotten us? A bunch of small lies always make the biggest mess.
“Stella, that’s not to say I didn’t come here wishing deep in my soul that I’d see you, that I’d cross paths and get to try and make things good with you. That’s what I want, Stell. That’s what I want most of all, to make things good with you.” I reach across the table to grab her hand and hold it, mostly reassurance for myself, but she slides it out of reach, continuing to stare at her nails. I sigh.
“We need to talk, Stella,” I say, my voice low and soft like she’s a scared cat.
“Riggins…” Back to Riggins. Fuck. Somehow, I made this worse. Somehow, I’ve convinced her to crawl back into her shell.
Well, I guess there’s no point in playing it safe anymore. I sit up straighter, reaching and grabbing the hand she’s staring at before she can pull away. When she looks up at me, I see the mix of emotions, the confusion and the panic and the fear there.
“We need to talk. We’re married, Stella. So much has happened between then and now. Fuck, so much happened then, and I have a feeling we both only remember or know half of it. We need to talk. We need to… Fuck, little star, I still love you.” Her head jerks back like she’s confused, like that shocks her, which is wild to me.
How the fuck does she not know I love her?
“I love you, Stella. I always have. And I miss you so fucking much. I have for five years. Longer, if we’re being honest, because I lost you long before then. I miss you in my bones. You are my person. A part of me is missing when you’re not near.” Her eyes start to wander, but her shoulders straighten, resolve in her face as she pulls her hand away.
“Riggins. It’s not that easy. It’s not that simple.”
“Why not?” I ask.
“What?”
“Who says it’s not that easy? Who is to say it isn’t as easy as deciding we both were young and stupid and stubborn—” she tries to cut in, but I steam roll over her, knowing I chose my words wrong but unable to change it now. “And we just need to talk. Who says it can’t be as easy as that?”
“I do,” she whispers. “I say it’s not that easy. You destroyed me once—” Frustration bubbles under my skin, and I speak without filtering.
“Then let me help fix you, Stella.” Her entire body goes stiff.
“What?” She says the single word stilted, something I don’t realize until after I fuck up. I should tread carefully, but I don’t.
“I destroyed you; let me help fix you.” There’s silence before she speaks, a surprise, in a way, because I think she believes she’s not broken, or at the very least, has convinced herself of it.
“There’s nothing to fix, Riggins. I’m fine.” Her jaw is set tight, but I don’t stop.
“You’re not you, at the very least, Stella.”
“You don’t know me anymore.” She stands, and my gut drops, but my anger wins, the stubbornness canceling out common sense.
“You keep telling yourself that, but it’s bullshit, and we both know it. You put on your armor, protect your heart because I broke it years ago, but this armor? It isn’t you. It’s exactly that: protection. From me, from the world, from yourself, from your mother. You became what she wanted because it was the safe option, but you lost yourself doing it.” I pause, looking her dead in the eye to make sure she hears my next words and understands how serious I am. “And I’m making it my job to bring you back.”
“You have to leave,” she whispers, her voice pained.
I went too far.
I needed to go too far, to knock some sense into her, to tell her I see through her bullshit, but I went too far all the same, and that wall is back up.
“I’ll head out, Stella, but I’ll be here. I’ll be here in this shit town we both always hated until you’re ready to talk to me. I’ll be here under the stars, waiting for you. And when you’re ready to talk to me, really talk, I’ll be here.”
And then I leave to give her the space she needs.
I give Stella time to collect her thoughts.
She told me over and over again she needs time, needs to think, to come to terms with things, and I bulldozed in, first by forcing her to be my friend again, then forging some kind of in-between because I miss her more than anything.
But she needs time.
When we argued at the diner, I knew she needed time. So I gave it to her. I left, told her to let me know when she was ready to talk, and I headed back to my dad’s house.
And waited.
And now it’s been nearly a week without any word from her. Instead of spending time with Stella like I want, I’m sitting with Reed, watching some old movie on the couch of my dad’s house, the same couch we had my entire childhood, stewing.
“Alright, it’s been long enough,” he says, finally pausing the movie.
“What the fuck man?” I ask, turning to him, ready to knock him out. My emotions are too close to the edge, my temper fire engine red, and this dumb fucking show is the only thing keeping me from absolutely losing my mind.
The sole distraction I have.
“What’s going on?”
“What’s going on is you just turned off my show.” He rolls his eyes like I’m a moron.
“Where’s Stella?” he asks, and now it’s my turn to roll my eyes.
“At her place, I assume. Or at the diner.”
“Yeah, and you’re here moping around like a dipshit. Why aren’t we there instead of watching this stupid fucking movie?”
I don’t answer, instead averting my eyes until I find a loose thread on the seam of the couch, tugging until it snaps then rolling it between my fingers into a little ball. “Riggins,” he says, his voice firm. He might be the goofiest of us all, but he’s got this dad vibe that always means business.
“We got into a fight,” I say, my words low.
“You got into a fight? When?”
“Thursday.”
“It’s Monday.”
“Yeah, and she hasn’t reached out.”
“She hasn’t reached out?” he asks like he doesn’t understand.
“Yeah. She needs space, and I’m giving it to her. When she’s ready, she’ll talk to me.” Reed opens and closes his mouth once, twice, three times before cocking his head to the side, like he’s trying to understand what he’s seeing or what I’m saying, maybe.
“Okay, okay. Back it up really quick. What did you fight about?”
I sigh but know he won’t let it go until I explain, so I do, telling him about going to the diner, about her thinking I’m only in town because I’m out of inspiration and my pushing her to talk. I tell him about calling her broken and how I fucked up once again. “So yeah,” I say. “She told me to leave, so I did. Now I’m just giving her time.” Reed has remained quiet this entire time, silent despite the subtle change to his face, but finally, he speaks.
“You’re giving her time?” He asks it like I’m an idiot.
“That’s what she needs.”
“She’s had seven years of time, Riggins. Seven years that you didn’t chase her.”
“Can’t chase someone who doesn’t want to be chased, Reed. She wanted nothing to do with me that whole time.” It’s then that Reed laughs, a sad noise that twists something in my gut. Something I very much do not like. It’s like he knows something I don’t, and he can’t believe I don’t know it.
“You’re so fucking stupid, Riggins. Really.” My jaw goes tight.
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean? She ran and never looked back.”
“Never looked back? God, man, all she’s done is look back. She’s been writing all that time, hasn’t she?” Cold creeps into my gut.
“What?”
“What do you mean, what?”
“I mean, what the fuck are you talking about?” His face loses a shade of color, and panic starts to brew in my veins. He shifts on the couch so he’s better facing me.
“She didn’t tell you?” he asks, but it’s less of a question and more of a shocked statement.
“Tell me what?”
“I don’t… I don’t think it’s mine to share, Riggins.”
“Reed, I swear to fucking god?—”
“She’s been writing. Songs. Hits, Riggins. She ghostwrites hits.” I feel it then, the tingling feeling of shock as it washes over me, a mix of panic and excitement and… “They’re all about you, of course.”
He says it like it’s a foregone conclusion, but it takes the air from my lungs and fills me with hope and dismay.
“No,” I whisper, shaking my head, but somehow, I know it’s the truth. It explains so much, like how she afforded that money pit of a house, how she wasn’t worried when she lost her job, and how she knew so much about the industry she’s had nothing to do with for seven years.
Or so I thought.
“I mean, I can”t confirm they’re about you, but….”
“Name,” I say, my voice not even sounding like my own.
“What?”
“What’s her name?” Reed looks to the side, his Adam”s apple bobbing as he swallows, avoiding looking at me, and I know, somehow, it’s going to cut me deep, whatever her name is. “What’s her fucking name, Reed?.
“Marie Stevens.”
Marie Stevens.
Marie was my mom’s middle name, Stevens her maiden name.
How had I never realized that? Sure, both are pretty nondescript names, but how did I not put them together?
“She couldn’t have forgotten you if she tried,” Reed says low, his face filled with compassion and a hint of pity.
Suddenly, the path is clearer. My plan completely shifted and altered. Reed is right; I can’t play this safe, and I can’t let her stew. I’ve been letting her stew for too long. She thinks I let her stew because I didn’t care, and right now, I’m just proving that point.
I need to do something big.
I need to scream from the rooftops about what she means to me, who we are. Who she is to me.
“Call Lee,” I say, grabbing my phone and opening a search tab, typing in Marie Stevens in the search bar. A long discography of songs shows up, songs she’s written, and speculation of who she is; none of them are correct. Some of the songs are familiar, songs that when I heard them on the radio or at awards shows, they hit me with a sense of longing and sadness I didn’t understand.
I should have known.
“What?” Reed asks.
“Call Lee. I need to get on a show,” I say, pulling up a music app and typing her fake name in there, my pulse racing.
I’m terrified to get to know the version of Stella I’ve never met, but it’s time. If she won’t tell me herself what happened over the years, I’ll let her music do it.