Chapter 29
Twenty-Nine
The sting of Stella not liking the casserole I specifically made for her bites. But I won’t be another person in her gallery of judgment and grief.
“What do you need?” I ask.
“I wouldn’t mind a little time to get my feet back under me.” Her voice is small when she speaks, and I want to remind her that we all struggle at times. She has nothing to be ashamed of. And she isn’t a source of pain for Rebecca and Scott. How can she think that?
Stella sighs. “I need to start creating, and I need to find a steady job. But I don’t want to worry my parents. Can we give this a little time and then together let them know that we were wrong and we’re better off as friends?”
Why does that statement feel like such a bee sting?
“You’re sure you want to keep this up?” I ask, because as convinced as she is, I’m certain I’m the only one getting anything out of this deal. And that doesn’t sit well with me.
“If you can put up with me.”
“I think I can handle it,” I say. “As long as it’s what you want.
” I’ve been alone a long time. I haven’t “put up” with anyone in years.
But something strange and compelling has me growing attached to Stella.
We’ve pretty much argued since the day she moved in.
And yet arguing with Stella might be the best time I’ve ever had.
“Why couldn’t you tell me this? That first day? ”
Her gaze drops. “It had been so long since we’d seen each other. And your cabin.”
I groan—she can’t do this for me.
“As much as you’re helping me, I knew you’d back out if you thought it was all for your cabin. I didn’t want you to lose this place.”
I run a hand through my hair. She’s right. I never would have married her had I thought she agreed to it all to get me this house. “This arrangement really is helping you? No more lies.” I have to ask again because I can’t quite believe that it is.
“I promise. You’ve given me a home, a workspace, and time. You kept my parents from fretting. You’ve—”
“Okay,” I say, interrupting her. I can’t sit here and listen to her praise me.
“Okay then, we’ll stay married. For now. Until your coach forgets all about your cabin,” she says.
“Until you’re back on your feet.”
She nods, then peers past me out the back porch to the big windows that display the white outdoors. “What should we do today?”
“Well, someone told me I wasn’t allowed outside today. No messing with our snowy canvas.”
Her mouth twists, drawing my attention there, making me contemplate the feel of those lips. “You don’t have to listen.”
“I can follow orders. At least when I want to.” I shrug, standing with my empty plate. “I bought a box of lights and some plastic tree ornaments. Want to help me out with that tree?”
Her lips part into a wide grin. “Yeah. I think I can do that.”
We’ve decorated, then sat by this tree all day and into the evening. I’ve said more to Stella Everly today than I have to anyone in the last nine years. She’s talked too. And at the risk of being haunted, I am more attracted than ever to Brice’s sister.
I can’t help it, Brice. Besides, the woman is no longer a kid.
“I don’t think your parents are the way they are because they lack faith in you,” I tell her.
She’s still wearing my jersey. The one that came in my Red Tail signing package.
The one that stays in my drawer and rarely sees the light of day.
It’s too big for her, but she looks good in number twenty-one. She shouldn’t wear anything else.
Stella stretches out her legs beneath our lit tree and leans back on her elbows. I’m glad I bought a thick rug to cover this section of the cabin’s hard floors. She peers up at the tree, and I’m waiting for a scoff, a rebuttal. I have an argument. Scott and Rebecca were always proud of their kids.
“They are the way that they are because their son left for a campus tour and never came home,” she says.
“It makes me crazy, but I can’t fault them for their worry or their pain.
I just really hate being the source of it.
” Her head tips to the side, a hundred different shades of blonde waves fall over her shoulder.
“I just want them to be happy and proud of me.”
“They are,” I say. It’s instinct.
“I’m not so sure about that.”
“But the fact is, you don’t know. So, worry about yourself. What do you want to do?” I ask.
“I want to make pottery.” She peers back at the tree. “You know that girl Rosalie?”
“Zev’s Rosalie?”
“I guess. She asked if I’d teach her grandmother to use a pottery wheel.” Stella smirks. “She offered to pay me.”
“Is that something you’d want to do?”
“I’ve never thought about it before.”
I let her sit with the thought. I don’t want to encourage her either way. Because I meant what I said. Scott and Rebecca can’t decide what’s going to make Stella happy. Neither can I. Only she can do that.
And vice versa—her parents’ happiness isn’t dependent on her.
I swallow and fight back the urge to plant myself right next to her. “You know who was proud of you?” I press my lips together.
She glances my way, waiting.
“Brice.”
Stella breathes out a disbelieving laugh.
“No, really. He took me into your room once and showed me all the things you’d been making. He said he didn’t know how you created the things you did out of a ball of clay and a spinning wheel.”
Stella sits up, legs crossed. Her brow furrows, and she’s studying me. “When?”
I shrug. “About a year after you got your wheel. You weren’t home, and he took me in to see your shelf of creations. Just a few months later, I asked you to make—”
“Your GOAT award.” She chuckles out the words. Stella wraps her arms around her knees, hugging them close. “I never knew he showed you my things.”
“He thought they were great. You were special to him.”
Her eyes water, and my skin crawls to stop the tears, to touch her.
I bite my inner cheek and jokingly add, “Which is probably why he also threatened my life if I got too close to you.”
She blinks, her long lashes flapping like Chinese fans. “I still can’t believe that.”
“Oh, yeah.” I can feel my face go warm, and I’m thankful for the dimness of the room and the glimmer from the lights on the tree.
But then she’s standing. “I need another Dawn soap shower,” she says with a small sniff. “Then I’m off to bed. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Yeah. Okay.”
I sit and stare at the decorated pine, at the glow the tree creates in my small living room. And I think about Stella.
I sit in the quiet. No music, no TV, just the still of the night until Stella’s shower turns on. I’m not alone anymore. That Brice-shaped hole in my chest is finally starting to fill.
For a long while, I listen to the patter of the shower. Then, I pull my phone from my pocket and find my last text thread with Lucca.
Me: Stella’s already a citizen.
Lucca: Then why does the girl need a green card?
Me: She doesn’t. It was a misunderstanding.
Lucca: So, does that mean I can ask her out?
Surprisingly, I don’t even want to slug Lucca for the comment. Nope, I smother a laugh and text back.
Me: Nope. We’re staying married. At least, for a while.
Lucca: I feel like I missed something.
Me: You did. I’ll tell you later. Just sending out an update.
Lucca: It could be worse, Graveyard. Your wife is hot.
Me: Don’t call my wife hot.
Lucca: I call it like it is. You know that.
I do. I know these guys better than I thought I did. And Stella and my coach might be right. Maybe I do need them.
Lucca: So, what’s the mission this time?
Me: No mission. Just letting you know you aren’t in danger of going to jail for me.
Lucca: There’s got to be a mission if you’re staying hitched.
Me: Nope.
Lucca: You like her?
My fingers hover over the keyboard. I’m not sure what to say to that.
Lucca: You do.
Lucca: Got it.
Lucca: You know, Superman owes me for basically his whole relationship with Franny, right?
Lucca: This might be my expertise. After soccer, of course.
Lucca: I got you.
Me: Whoa. Hold up. I’m not Superman.
I’ve never called Callum by his team nickname before. Ever.
It’s proof I’m going soft.
But not that soft—
Me: I don’t need help getting the girl. I’m married to the girl. Remember?
Lucca: But does she love you back? Because if not, you’re gonna need some help.
Lucca: Don’t worry. I got this. I’ll work it out.
Who said anything about love? I don’t need anyone’s help with anything. And I don’t have feelings for Stella.
My jaw clenches.
Yeah, that’s a lie.
I absolutely have feelings for Stella.
Me: There’s nothing to work out.
The hum of the shower turns off. The bathroom will be free soon, and I’m ready for bed.
Me: I’m done for the night.
Lucca: No worries, bro. We’ll work on this tomorrow.
“That’s not what I meant—” I groan out a sigh and stand, trudging into my bedroom. I change from my current sweats to clean sweats, then throw off my T-shirt.
I bend and reach, then jump in place. I extend one arm across my chest in a cross-body stretch. I attempt to work out all my nervous energy before tapping on the bathroom door to see if Stella’s finished. I plan to brush my teeth, take a melatonin, and forget Lucca’s nonsense.
I tap quietly on the door, and when silence answers back, I creak the thing open, giving Stella ample time to yell at me if she’s still inside.
Steam filters through the crack I’ve made, with no sounds inside.
I open the door wider, letting more of Stella’s shower steam seep into my bedroom.
The bathroom is empty, and the door to Stella’s bedroom is shut tight.
With the palm of my hand, I swipe the fogged-over mirror to better see myself, then slather toothpaste onto my toothbrush, when …
I pause my already quiet movement and listen.
There it is again—muffled, but something.
Barefoot, I creep to the door leading to Stella’s room and listen. I hear it again—a choked whimper.
She’s whimpering?
I flick off the bathroom light so as not to disturb Stell—in case I have officially lost my mind. Then, I push the door to her room until it’s just slightly ajar.
Another stifled sob.
Stella. She’s crying.
Peeking inside, I see her already in her queen-sized bed, curled in the middle of it. The room is dark, but I make out her form, and it shakes with the next onset of grief.
Stepping inside, I tiptoe over to the left side of her bed. “Stell?”
She gasps, her head whipping over to where I stand. As my eyes adjust to the dim light, I make out her red face, her tear-streaked cheeks, and her damp pillow. My heart plummets.
Instinct kicks in as I slip onto the bed, lying on top of her comforter and resting one arm over her side, which only starts a new bout of sobbing. “Hey,” I coo. “What’s wrong?”
She sniffs, her head down, her shoulders shaking. “I still stink,” she cries.
“No,” I lie, scooting closer to her.
“I do.” Stella hiccups, her chest reverberating with the spasm.
“I can hardly smell it.” And while the Dawn has helped tremendously, she definitely still smells of skunk.
Crap. We just promised not to lie to each other again.
I lock my arm around her back and pull her close to my chest, her head resting in the crook of my arm.
“It’s not that bad,” I say into her pungent hair.
I hold her like that until the crying stops. Until her breaths are even. Until Stella is fast asleep. I hold her until I’m not a liar and I can’t smell a thing.