27. Please – Riggins
“Where are you bringing me?” she whispers into the quiet of the cab of my truck, shivering despite the heat cranked high. We’re both absolutely drenched, and the rain continues to fall.
Normally, it would just be yet another reminder of her, of what we once had, but right now, my jaw burns from where her cold hand pressed on my skin, my lips on fire from where hers touched mine.
It wasn’t the first time we’ve kissed since I’ve been back, but I know, down to my core, it was different. Something new, something changed. Like she came to a realization, whether she wanted to or not.
A part of us had healed.
And finally finally, she admitted she still loves me.
As I carried her limp, exhausted body back to the truck, I had to fight the full-face grin eating at me. It’s not exactly appropriate to smile while you’re carrying your wife, who just had a full-out mental breakdown in the middle of an empty field.
“My dad’s place.”
“Riggins, no—“ she starts, hesitation that sends disappointment ripping through me even if it’s deserved, even if it’s valid.
“Not for anything, just need to make sure you’re okay. After everything that just happened…” I let my words trail off and I know she’s looking at me, but I don’t look to her as I turn away from the way to her house, where we were headed, and toward my childhood home.
“That’s really not necessary—” she starts again, but I move one hand off the wheel toward her, reaching for her hands and grabbing it without even looking and squeezing once. I lace her small fingers with mine without looking at her, tug her hand closer, and press my lips to her fingers.
“Please. After everything that happened with your mother, with us out there in the rain, I don’t want you to be alone.” I let a beat pass, making room for her to argue, but she doesn’t, so I add, “Plus if your mom tries to come to talk to you, we both know she won’t come to my house.” Her hand squeezes mine a bit, a half-hearted effort like the move was too hard for her, fully drained of energy and the will to be her.
“Yeah,” she says, and I take that as acceptance, and we drive in silence.
When we get there, she follows me in, taking in the house we spent so much of our childhood in, watching movies and playing games, me, Stella, and her sister Evie, on the days that Mrs. Hart wouldn’t let us play at their house.
“Not much has changed,” I say, peeling off the shirt that’s still near soaking, keeping my back to her as I grab a new shirt and slide it on before grabbing a pair of old sweats and a tee from the bottom drawer. “But it works in our favor. These are yours.” I toss the sweats to her. She lifts up the old, baggy grey sweat pants, Ashford High emblazoned down one leg, and for the first time all day, maybe longer, a smile cracks her lips.
“God, you still have these? I always wondered where they went.”
“I think you left them in my truck once, and, well, they’re yours again.” She puts them against her body, hips that have filled out in the best fucking way, but it’s clear they’ll still fit. I toss the tee her way. “Bathroom is… well, you know where it is. Bring me your clothes, and I can pop them in the dryer.” She doesn’t speak; she just looks at me, nods, and then walks away.
I change my pants to a pair of loose sweats, tossing my wet clothes into a pile and frantically trying to neaten up the bedroom.
It doesn’t take long for her to walk back toward me, a lump of wet clothes in her hands. Her hair is out of the ponytail she always wears, just barely passing her shoulders in wet strands that were clearly finger-brushed. My tee is way too big on her small frame, but I can still see the swells of her breasts and force my eyes not to linger on the way her nipples peak beneath the dark fabric, clearly not wearing her wet bra.
Then I take in the full image, Stell, my Stella, wet hair, wearing sweats and barefoot in my home. It’s familiar and new all the same, and it makes my heart ache.
I clear my throat, run my hand through my own wet hair, and smile.
“Pizza for dinner and a movie marathon?”
And then I get the second smile from her, letting my mind categorize and capture it before she nods.
Stella
It’s hours after pizza and too much time watching TV in his bedroom, long after he convinced me to sit in the bed next to him instead of sitting on the floor, long after I let myself pretend this was normal, that we were sixteen and eighteen and there wasn’t an ocean of trauma between us if only for a night.
Long after, my eyes started to blink longer, long after he insisted I lay down, resting my head on his chest, his arm wrapped around me protectively.
Long after, I quietly admitted, if only to myself, that I missed this, the steady rhythm of his heart under my ear, the way we could spend hours doing absolutely nothing so long as we were together.
I always had the feeling of home when I was with him.
It was always like this: even if my own family was a disaster, even when I never felt like I belonged there, I always belonged here. There were days when things felt so dark, when I felt those waters lapping at my ankles, ready to pull me down, but his arm could save me, keep my head above water.
In fact, I only fell under when I left him for good.
“What did she mean, saying you’re fucked in the head?” he asks, his voice low as if he could hear my thoughts. My gut churns with nerves. I was hoping he missed that jab, but even now, even after all these years, he never misses a thing.
I contemplate for a long time how to answer, if I should answer at all, but what does it even matter? What’s the worst that’s going to happen? He’s going to run away, think I’m crazy, and decide I’m more work than I’m worth?
“I have these bouts of depression every once in a while. The first time it happened, I couldn’t leave my bed for two weeks before my mother forced me to go to the doctor. Probably the one kindness she’s done to me. They helped me. Figure out what was going on, how to handle it, and what kind of meds would work best for me. It doesn’t happen too often now that we’ve got me on the right meds, but it still happens sometimes. She thinks it’s just… me being dramatic mostly. But when she wants to, she uses it as a weapon, another reason I’m fucked up in her mind, not worthy of her or her attention.” His hand never stops grazing up and down my back, caressing me, and I focus on it in order to stay out of my head, stay out of the thoughts that are swirling and sending me spiraling.
Time passes, and his hand keeps brushing up and down, a silent metronome as my mind starts to spiral into thoughts of Riggins thinking I’m insane or a lost cause or too much work, his silence clearly confirmation of that and I should just leave, but I don’t think Reed has brought my car yet and I?—
“Is it because of me?” he asks, breaking into my spiral of thoughts and letting me into his, where his mind is.
He thinks it’s his fault, and for some reason, I want to ease that worry. I’m a mess, but it’s not his fault.
“I don’t think so,” I say, and his body I didn’t realize had tensed eases, like four words took a weight off of him. “I think… I think it was always there, that darkness. You just… for a time, your light made it hide in the shadows.” He stays silent, letting that sink in and I’m mostly asleep when he finally speaks again, so asleep, I’m still not sure if it was a dream or not.
“I’m sorry I took your sun away, little star. I’ll never make that mistake again.”
I wake up in the middle of the night and feel rested despite the room being dark. It’s the kind of rest that goes bone deep into your soul, the kind you want to write down because you’re not sure you’ve ever slept that well and know you’ll definitely not do it again anytime soon.
And before I’m even fully awake, I know it’s because of the warm chest against my back, the heavy arm on my waist.
Riggins always liked to hold me. Even when he was asleep, his body craved touching mine, like a touchstone. I loved it because it always felt like he was holding me together, keeping all of my broken pieces together while I slept, keeping me safe.
Sometimes I wonder if that’s why the episodes come now, I wonder if part of it is because I don’t have someone at night, holding me together, making sure I don’t shatter.
That thought has my eyes opening. Gently, I extricate myself from under him, rolling a bit and putting a pillow under his arm the way he used to sleep when I wasn’t around.
When he tugs it in close, shifts a few times like his body knows something is different, I pause, but when he relaxes with a sigh, I do too.
I note Gracie is asleep on the dog bed in the living room when I walk out that way, and I rub my hand over her head. Her head and eyes are alert, but her body is unmoving.
“Go to bed, girl,” I whisper, and I shouldn’t be surprised when she licks my palm and then puts her head down, curling in on herself. She was always a smart dog, even as a puppy.
My shoes are by the door and I quickly and silently slide them on, grimacing at the fact they still feel wet. I grab my bag and as quietly as I can, head out the door where Reed brought my car at some point last night.
The exhaustion hits when I’m two traffic lights from my house, creeping into my veins like my well-rested state is tethered to Riggins.
One traffic light from home, I let out a loud yawn, masking the sob that tried to break from my chest.
I refuse to cry.
I can’t—I’ve done it too much this week as it is.