40. Busyhead – Stella
His truck steers down my drive as the sun starts to dip, headlights on and bumping in the dark. I’m on my porch swing, and I tuck the notebook under the seat just like I did all those weeks ago.
I feel just as conflicted about him being here as I did then, too.
I’ve been sitting here for over two hours, but I haven’t written a line. Instead, I’ve been stuck in my head, trying to come to terms with the tabloid articles that were delivered to me, the knowledge that he was out partying the night I left, conflicting with the bliss that it has been being back with him for the past two weeks.
I won’t deny I love Riggins Greene. I can’t deny that he will always have a part of my soul, a part that I”ll never get back. I’ll always have a part of my soul that aches to be with him, but sitting out here, I can’t decide if I can be with him. If I can deal with the constant pressure and speculation that he’s seeing someone else, the rumor mill that tries to sell papers at the expense of real people. I know he would never do that to me, but the pressure of the constant rumors could easily grind me down to dust.
I loved being a songwriter with a pen name because it gave me a layer of disconnect from the destructive world of the music industry. But now that barrier is gone, and if I keep things up with Riggs, things will only get worse.
Do I want that? Can I endure that?
Even with just the two hours that I’ve felt the invisible pressure of the press since I opened those articles, I felt the waters rising at my feet. Am I strong enough for this? Does he not deserve better?
And finally, with the news that he was out partying the day I left, I’m finding myself back to my original concern: I left and Riggins never looked back. Not a call or a text or a knock at my door.
When his dad died, we made plans to get coffee and finally talk, but he never showed up.
So why now? Why is he finally now choosing to come back into my life? The scared, fragile part I’ve been trying to quiet for weeks whispers, what’s stopping him from disappearing again?
He steps out of the truck, Gracie jumping out after him, and I wonder just how many bruises a heart can take before it becomes permanently damaged.
“Hey, little star,” he says casually as he walks up the stairs, stepping close, a wide, happy smile on his lips.
It kills me.
It kills me because I want this—it’s all I’ve ever wanted, really, but I don’t know if I can. I have enough issues with balancing reality and the mixed-up version my brain makes of it. Will adding another layer of concern and confusion make it that much worse? Will I be able to function with the threat of tabloids hanging over me?
Without my permission, my mind moves to all those times when we were young, and Riggins would come back to me drunk, a carefree smile on his face. I’d hide away my frustration and concern, nervous to let him know how I was feeling.
I’m not that girl anymore, though.
His brown furrows when I don’t respond, when my face stays tight, when I don’t stand and kiss him like I have every other night he’s come home to me and I’ve been on the swing.
“What…” he says, pausing. “What’s wrong?”
“What did you do the night I left?”
“What?”
“The night I left. I cried for three weeks in my sister’s apartment. What did you do?”
His face goes blank, confirmation I wish I didn’t have.
“Stella, that’s not fair.” He’s right, of course. It’s not. He had an addiction, something he’s worked hard to overcome and something that he feels immense guilt over.
I take a deep breath before saying my next words.
“This is our future, Riggins. People bringing up every fuck up, every rough spot in our relationship forever.” His brow furrows, and to his credit, he looks genuinely confused, as if he can’t fit the piece into the puzzle of what could be wrong with me.
“What?” he asks, stepping closer.
“Don’t,” I say, shaking my head. “Please, please stay there. I need… I need to keep my head clear.” Something shifts in his face, and his arms crossing his chest.
I know in my gut I’m being a bit irrational, that this is all just picking at old wounds, but wouldn’t it be easier to know now this isn’t going to work? That I can’t handle it before we get in too deep.
But I also know in the depths of my soul I can’t endure losing him the way I did before. Maybe if I take the power, if I make the decision myself, it will be easier…
“What’s going on, Stella?”
“Someone slipped these into my mailbox. It’s tabloids from this week.”
Again, to Riggins’ credit, when he pulls out the news article, he stares at it for a quick moment before rolling his eyes and shaking his head. He sighs and looks relieved.
“This is all bullshit rag magazines. This is just my life, Stella. Tabloids and magazines speculating about every aspect of my life. When I don’t give them shit, they start to piece together old photos, make it look like something new and exciting, and put questions and thoughts into people’s heads. You’re gonna have to get over it. This is who I am. Who we are gonna be.”
My mind tries to put together the idea of me just being okay with people repeatedly speculating that my….husband is cheating on me, the way that could fuck with me, the way I could start to believe it. If I have the backbone to handle this, this life.
“This is the reality of us being together,” he says, like that is an inevitability, us being together. He’s so sure in this, in us, but suddenly, I’m not.
I can’t imagine a world where I’m fine with people speculating about him, about us. A world where it doesn’t phase me, a world where it doesn’t eventually grate on my already wavering mental health. Maybe all of my concerns back then, the drinking, the partying, the lifestyle, maybe it was an excuse for me to leave before it became too much for me.
I love Riggins, but what if all those years ago, we didn’t work because we never would work. If it was all meant to be? Hell, I didn’t see him for years, and he wasn’t hurting for it; I never even fucking tried to reach out that first year after I left.
“What if I can’t handle it?” I ask, my inner fears breaking through.
“What?”
“What if I can’t handle this, this life? The speculation, the tabloids.” I admit the thoughts I’ve been stewing in for the past few hours, my deepest fears. Because even if it’s all fake, even if it’s just some PR fantasy like he said, it’s still going to eat at me. The lies are eventually going to dig under my skin until I start to believe them. “I’m already so fragile. You’ve seen what happens when I break when I start to drown.”
“And I told you I’ll be your lifeboat.”
“But what if you’re the anchor pulling me down.” His face goes blank, and I feel like I’m letting him down, but maybe this is for the best.
It’s better to cut this before we’re too deep, before it hurts too much before I get to the point once again where I can’t breathe without him.
I barely survived it last time.
I don’t know if I can survive that kind of hit a second time.
“What if I can’t do it? What happens then?”
“We figure it out then, Stella.” Somehow, I think he knows where I’m going with this.
“I don’t know if I can take that kind of risk.” The words tumble out low and pained, and I stare at my hands as I speak them aloud. They’re somehow still dotted with paint from the other day, from painting the room upstairs with him and what happened later.
How have I come so far in just a few days, from that high of being with him, being us, about talking about a fucking family and a future to here?
To ending things with the love of my life?
“Why the fuck not, Stella? That’s how relationships work. You try to make it work, and if something isn’t working, you fix it. You don’t go into expecting to have problems.”
“Except I’m not going into this blind this time, Riggins. Neither of us are. You broke me, Riggins. You broke me in a way that I try and convince myself every single day that I’m better. That I’ll be okay again, knowing full well it’s full of bullshit. But us? You and me? We won’t work long term. We can’t. This should have never happened.”
I look up at him again, feeling the tears well and feeling silly and childish for my next words. “I was drowning once before, Riggins, and you got to go live out your dreams while I suffocated. You forgot that I even existed. I was no one to you the day I left.”
His face goes dark and confused.
“You’re not allowed to be mad at me for living my life, Stella! You left me! You left me, and I fell apart.”
“I left you, yes, but you never came after me. I spent years doing everything for you, giving up everything because I loved you more than anything, and I left, and you just… accepted it. You never even tried, Riggins. That’s what hurt the most. Not once. Not a call, not a text. You never tried to come to me.” Silence fills the porch, and it”s almost tangible.
“What are you talking about, Stella?”