28. Anyway – Riggins
There’s no warmth next to me when I wake up, and the irritation brews in my veins, despite the fact that I know I need to give her time. As I pad out to the kitchen, there’s a scrap of paper, half ripped like it was pulled from a notebook in a rush, words scribbled not on the lines, but wherever they fit.
Stella.
I stare at it, at the words, realizing her handwriting has barely changed in all these years; it’s still the same loops and curves and lines as all those years ago when I used to watch her pen make on any scrap of paper she could find.
It”s a comfort, in a way, to find the small things that haven’t changed.
R-
Back at my place, woke up early and need my meds.
She signed it with a star, the way she always used to. The star tattoo on my wrist, the one I woke up with in a Vegas hotel, burns with the knowledge it”s her star on my wrist. That my heart is on her.
Well, at least she left a note, I tell myself, despite the disappointment from waking without her only slightly eased.
I also have to keep reminding myself that this is absolutely not a sprint. It’s a marathon, and I have to pace myself if I want to make it to the end with her.
Putting the paper back on the counter, I head to the bathroom to brush my teeth and get ready for the day.
The bumpy road of her winding drive reminds me we should figure out a better solution before the winter because even with a plow, a dirt road is a bitch with freezing and melting snow.
When I come into view and see her on her porch, I can feel more than see her eyes tracking me as I pull up. She’s sitting on that front porch swing, a notepad in her lap that she swiftly shoves under the cushion like she doesn’t want me to know what she’s been doing. She doesn’t walk my way as I get closer, nor as I put the truck into park and step out or when I walk up the three steps I repaired for her. Instead, she stares, preparing, taking a sip from a big lavender-colored mug and gently placing it on the railing of the porch as I move until I’m right in front of her.
“What are you doing here, Riggins?” she asks and it doesn’t really bug me anymore, her calling me Riggins instead of Riggs. Partially because I still get Riggs whenit matters, but also because it reveals her mood, her confusion and a hint of irritation, so different from the version I remember of her.
Old Stella would walk on eggshells, always afraid to show me too much of her burning star, worried it wouldn’t be received well.
This version doesn’t care at all, letting any thoughts she has fly, turning whatever eggshell between her and me into dust.
I smile and then extend a hand to her, marveling when she takes it without arguing.
We’re finally getting somewhere.
I tug, pulling her up to me until her chest is against mine, one of my hands moving behind her neck and sliding up into her hair, the other wrapping around her waist. Without prodding, her head tips up, one arm moving to loop around my neck, the other resting on my chest, over my tattoo.
I press my lips to hers, our lips melting together the way they always did long ago, sliding and opening, an invitation on her part, an instance on mine as I slide my tongue into her mouth, tangling and tasting her sweet coffee.
I stop there, knowing I could kiss her forever, spend the next thirty years making up for lost time and then some. Nipping her lip, I break the kiss and rest my forehead against hers.
She’s panting from that small press of lips, and I can’t help but smile.
“If you’re not going to stay the night and kiss me in the morning, I have to come and get one,” I whisper and watch her brows furrow in confusion.
“You’re not mad?” I can feel my lips move, smiling wide.
Her being worried I’d be mad if she left is a good sign for my cause of winning her back, once and for all. A great sign, even. I can’t help it but move again, resting my lips to hers once more before answering.
“You left a note.”
“I know, but?—”
“You need time, Stella, I’ll give it to you,” I say. “I’ll even give you space, but don’t you mistake it for me stepping back or giving up. I’ll let you steer this ship, steer the pace, but I’m here, Stella. We’re here. I’m not letting you leave again. I’ll follow you around the world, but I’m not letting you go.” Her face goes soft, and I realize this is the time; this is when I need to tell her everything.
Because I’m starting to remember bits and pieces of that day, and I never forgot the way I felt about her.
“I love you, Stella. A lot has changed, but that hasn’t,” I say, my pulse pounding, but I can feel hers doing the same, synching with my heart inside my chest. I smile and show my hand. ”Until I’m compost, food for the worms, little star.”
I repeat the words I whispered in a Vegas hotel room before we got married seven years ago. Her eyes go wide, realizing what I just said. A moment passes before she closes her eyes, taking a deep breath.
“I need space. I need space, and I need time. A lot just happened. I need to… I need to mourn the shit with my mom. I need space. I promise this isn’t some ploy to get away from you. It”s not saying no, just that I need space.” She swallows, taking a deep, steadying breath. “When I’ve processed everything, we can talk. We’ll talk about… us. What to do next.”
I lean back, taking her in, reading her face. Something is off, something I can’t quite decode, and I can’t tell if it’s because she’s not telling the truth, her mask in place, or if it’s because there’s something more, a new tell I haven’t learned yet. But I also know pushing her won’t help at all. I take in a deep breath and let it out. “How long?” I ask finally.
“What?” Her brows furrow in surprise.
“I’ll give you space, but how long?”
”Riggins—“
“If you don’t give me a date, I’m coming to your house every day and checking on you.” I don’t mind giving her space, but I also know Stella better than I know myself. I need a date, or she’ll keep pushing me away.
“A week,” she says finally, an exhausted sigh leaving her lips.
“A week?”
“Yes. Give me a week to process.” I stand there, considering her offer and taking her in. Suddenly, I see it. She’s exhausted. All of this: me and her, dredging up the past, her mother—it’s a lot. Too much, I think.
“You’re tired,” I whisper, a hand reaching out, cupping her soft cheek, my thumb scraping over the skin there.
“I am,” she whispers.
“Okay, little star. Sleep. Take care of yourself for me. One week, I’m coming back. We’re going to our spot. Showing Gracie where we fell in love.” She rolls her lips between her teeth, and her eyes water. I’m pushing too hard. I know it. But I can’t seem to stop myself when I feel so fucking close.
“Riggins,” she says, and it sounds like a pained plea.
“A week, little star. I love you,” I whisper against her lips, leaning in and pressing hers to mine in a barely there touch. “Go inside, go back to sleep.”
Then I move down the stairs, to my truck and head back to my place, once more trying to force myself to try and remember that rainy day in Las Vegas.
It’s been two days of Stella brushing off my texts and calls. I’m over it. I gave her seven days before I reached out, and she asked me for more time.
I agreed. I thought she needed it after everything that happened with her mother, after the kiss in the field, after she slept in my bed. This is a lot of shit I’m throwing at her, a lot of confusing thoughts and feelings, and we’re raking up so much history that, for her, apparently, had settled beneath the silt of her new life.
She needed time to come to terms with the fact that I’m here, that I’m here for her, and I’m here to be hers again.
But the next time I text her, she tells me some new bullshit excuse for why I can’t see her, and I’m over it.
“I’m going over there,” I tell Wes, grabbing my keys.
“You really think that’s a good idea, man?”
“No fucking clue, but it’s what my gut is telling me to do, so I am.”
“Riggins…” he says, his eyes looking concerned, but I know the look in mine is determined.
“Once, long ago, I ignored that feeling in my gut, ignored how it would tell me something wasn’t right, that Stella needed me, needed something. It told me something wasn’t right, but I was so stubborn and so fucked up I ignored it. I’ve lived in misery for seven years because of it.” My friend looks at me, sighs, and shakes his head.
“Alright, man. Just don’t make us lose her again, yeah? She’s your wife, but she’s all of ours. You know that.”
I do, and I fucking love that she has that, even if she doesn’t realize it. Stella might have lost her mother, but she has a whole family waiting to welcome her back home as soon as she’s ready.
“Got it, man.
I walk up her steps, testing the floorboard I nailed down last time I was here, and find myself pleased that it doesn’t move nor make any noise. But I also noticed a spot where the siding is loose and needs to be replaced, and the gutters probably need to be cleaned and inspected.
The place is a shithole, if I’m being honest, but it’s so totally Stella.
She always loved this house. When we were kids, we’d drive around Ashford on one of the few days she could get away during the day, just wandering and looking at houses, planning our future together. I may have hated this town and the way everyone in it knew my life history, the way they’d look at me with clear pity in their eyes, but she loved it here regardless and always wanted to settle down in our hometown.
She always made me drive down this dead-end road on the outskirts of town, passing it at least three times before we were allowed to move on.
That’s the one, she would whisper, eyes wide and filled with hope and desire. “That’s the one I want.”
“It looks like a heap, Stell,” I’d say, smiling because I knew what her response would be.
“We’ll fix it together. It’ll be a little project for us.”
And it seems like at the end of it all, she did just that. She got her house, I’m assuming, with royalties from Atlas Oaks or maybe from her ghostwriting since her mother definitely doesn’t pay enough for her to buy this, and she fixed it up.
Mostly.
Kind of.
Shaking my head to knock myself out of the past and the regrets I feel like I swim through every day, I reach for the doorbell and press it before pushing my hands into my pockets, waiting for her.
Nothing.
I wait a full minute before trying again, then another few moments before I realize there’s a chance the bell doesn’t work, considering the house is ancient and that would require wiring. While Stella’s handy, I don’t think she’s mastered that in the years since I’ve seen her.
Pulling my phone from my pocket, I scroll and tap her name and lift it to my ear. I can hear it ringing in the house, so at the very least, the phone is in there, but after a handful of rings, I get her voicemail.
She’s ignoring me.
Or maybe… maybe there’s something wrong. That knot in my stomach tightens, remembering the dark bags under her eyes the last time I saw her, the exhaustion that I could almost touch in the air. Maybe she’s sick. Maybe she needs me.
I make my decision, the only one that makes sense. I reach for the doorknob, half praying it’s unlocked to make my life easier, half praying it’s locked because the thought of her being unprotected makes me sick. It’s a mix of panic and relief when I realize it’s not locked.
Turning the knob, my heart races with the worst-case scenarios. She lives alone in this big house; what if something bad happened? Maybe a carbon monoxide leak or a slip, and she hit her head. Maybe she was kidnapped, or— my anxiety that I’ve never been able to conquer jumps to a new level when I look around her house, stopping dead in my tracks.
The living room seems like a tomb, untouched but clean, but even from here, I can see the kitchen is a disaster. As I step into the house, closing the door quietly behind me and moving deeper, I get a better view of the large kitchen.
Cups and plates piled high in the sink, the cabinet underneath open, revealing the garbage piled high. The entire place clearly needs a vacuum or better yet, a deep clean. Maybe she’s sick?
I try calling her name.
“Stella? It’s Riggins. Came in to check on you.” I wait for a moment before I hear something in the hall to my right, a fumbling, a low curse, and then her voice.
“All good, Riggs,” she says.
God, I fucking love hearing her say my name like that, but even now, it’s barely a balm on my nerves. At least she’s alive, I guess.
“You should head out, though. I’m, uh. I’m sick,” she says. “Wouldn’t want you to catch it.”
She’s lying. My gut churns with nerves and worry as I step toward where she is. There’s laundry on the floor, a few men’s shirts scattered, and for a moment, I wonder if maybe she wants me to leave because a man is here, but when I pick it up, it’s an old tee of mine. She used to steal them to sleep in, fitting her small frame more like a nightgown than a tee.
I’d smile if I wasn’t nervous. Instead, I drop it and keep walking toward her.
“Coming in to check on you, Stell,” I say.
“Seriously, Riggs, there’s no need to; I—” Her words stop as I push open her bedroom door.
It’s a disaster, clothes sprawled around, more cups and mugs and plates on surfaces, Stella in the middle on a huge four poster bed that looks like something out of an old time movie rather than in the 21st century.
But it’s Stella who has my gut churning. Bags under her eyes, clothes askew. Her hair is a mess in a bun on top of her head, but even from here I can tell she hasn’t brushed it potentially since I last saw her.
What’s most concerning, though, is her eyes, where the light has turned off.
Something is wrong. Very wrong. I walk over to her slowly, like she’s a stray cat I might spook, who might go into hiding again if I move too quickly, and her shoulders fall, her head tipping down to look at her sheets.
“Stella…” I start
“I’m okay. Just.. having one of those weeks.”
“One of those weeks?” I repeat, then finally make it to her and reach out, grabbing her hand as I move to a squat, looking up at her. Her eyes are watering now, filled with emotions I don’t want to see there.
Sadness. Fear.
She’s afraid of what I’ll say about what I walked into.
“Stell,” I whisper.
“I’m fine, really. I’ll be good in a day or so, and we can have our talk.”
“Our talk?”
“That’s why you’re here. I’ve been ignoring your calls and texts, you want to get this chat over with. And we will, Riggs, promise. Just not…. Not now.”
“You think…. You think I’m here because I’m mad and want to have a talk.”
“Well, yeah, Riggins. But I’m not up for it, I’m sorry. I’m really tired, Riggins. You see I’m alive. You can go,”
“Stella, I—” I start, but she cuts me off again, leaving her back to me as she pulls back the covers and slides under, curling into a ball.
“Don’t worry about locking the door. No one comes this way, and I have an alarm system.” Yeah, that worked at keeping me out real fucking well, I think but don’t say.
I stare at her back for long minutes before I make my decision. I turn, close her bedroom door, and walk down the hall past the mess and the clutter. I look in her kitchen, checking the fridge, then the cabinets, before I get in my truck and drive off.