21. Girl Crush - Little Big Town – Stella
“And next,” the pretty blonde host of the entertainment news show says as I move through my room, cleaning up. “A hot new couple on the rise?”
I’ve taken to watching the shows like this while doing mindless tasks. It serves multiple purposes. It’s not music, which is important since most of my playlists end up shifting toward Atlas Oaks, and radio stations now have them in their top 40 lineups, making it hard to avoid.
But I also watch the show because ever since I left the band and Riggins last year, I’ve found myself searching their names regularly, trying to keep up on anything that might happen. I think part of me is always waiting for news that something happened, that Riggins’ drinking won him over once and for all and I’ll have to face the devastating prospect of living life without him, forever.
But at this moment, I wish I hadn’t started the habit at all.
“Riggins Greene and Willa Stone were seen walking through Central Park together, hand in hand,” My mind freezes, but unfortunately, my body doesn’t as I turn to look at the television behind me, the screen my worst nightmare.
Music Power Couple is scribbled in bold pink letters above the photo, one of Riggins’ hand holding Willa’s, the powerhouse singer-songwriter whom I’ve admired for years.
“The couple, both rising singer-songwriters, have been seen around the city a few times, though we can’t quite get a pinpoint on when these photos sent in anonymously were taken. We’re just happy to see Riggins looking happy after the tragic death of his father last week.” My stomach churns, and I feel like vomiting.
We had made plans to meet up after his father’s funeral, and for the first time in a long time, his eyes looked clear, his face filled with grief and sorrow, but not loose from liquor, and I thought maybe… finally, he’d found the light. Maybe my leaving had snapped him into looking deeper at himself; maybe he had changed, and we could make an honest try at this once again.
Because god, I miss Riggins. I miss him to my bones, to the pit of my stomach. I miss my best friend, my cowriter, my first and only love.
But he didn’t show. I sat at the cafe for hours waiting for him, like an idiot, believing this was it: our chance at a fresh start. Our shot to once and for all make things right. And when he didn’t show, I went home and cried until I couldn’t breathe, finally coming to terms with my new reality: Riggins and I were done.
I spent the night searching for discreet divorce attorneys, someone, anyone, who could write up the papers I needed without making a scene of it, narrowing my choices down to three.
When I woke this morning, I stared at that list, deciding it was something… tomorrow Stella could deal with. Or next week Stella. Or maybe next month, Stella.
Hell, we’ve already been married two years; what would it matter if it’s longer?
But now, now I’m staring at a screen grab of Riggins standing next to a gorgeous tall blonde, her looking up at him like he personally made the sun rise, his hand holding hers, dark sunglasses on his face as he looks ahead at wherever they’re headed, but in that protective way I’ve seen so many times before.
My blood freezes in my veins and the reporter shifts to some other hot topic, an actress getting caught saying something into a hot mic accidentally, but that photo is burned into my brain.
When was that taken?
Where was it taken?
I’m going to be sick, I think to myself as I move to my computer, typing in a few keywords in a search bar and waiting for the results.
Riggins with a pop star, my brain screams, and even though I try to fight it, my gut knows.
My gut knows that when I click on the first result, I’ll see that, even though they can’t confirm the exact day or time, the photo submitted was allegedly taken on Thursday. This means while I was waiting in the coffee shop where we agreed to finally talk about what happened two years ago, where I had planned to confess about Las Vegas and the wedding, he was out gallivanting with a famous pop star, living his best life.
Forgetting about me.
I start to spiral.
For the first time, at the very least, I can feel the spiral happening. I can feel the dark blue waters creeping up on my ankles, lapping at my shins, but this time, I let it.
The numbness is better than this churning, this envy.
Envy.
How fucked is that?
My fingers start to move on the keyboard without my mind’s permission, searching for more photos of Willa, seeing a gorgeous woman, everything I will never and could never be. Gorgeous lush curves where I have none. Long blonde hair, the same shade my mother always told me I should get at a hair salon, while Riggins told me he loved my dark locks. A voice that wins awards, lyrics she writes about love and loss and life, more eloquent than anything I ever have been able to put on paper.
Can I even blame Riggins for choosing her over me? For choosing to spend a sunny day with this beautiful woman rather than dissecting the issues of our failed relationship in his hometown?
Fuck, I would choose her too. I think I have a crush on her, too.
Not just because she’s beautiful and talented and everything I’ll never be, but because she has him.
Instead of getting sick, completely dissociating, and curling up in my bed to cry when this all-encompassing pain crashes over me, I do something I haven”t done since I left the tour.
I reach for a pen, paper, and my guitar, and I write.
And write.
And write.
And when I’m done, I pass out on the couch, sleeping until noon, those dark blue waters keeping me sound asleep.
When I finally wake up, I finally do what I’ve been putting off for too long.
I call the lawyer.