3. Stella
STELLA
Two days.
Two freaking days.
Ever wonder how much a girl can curse herself in two days? Then you’ve obviously missed the past two days in my apartment, when no matter what I’m doing, it’s not enough to distract me from how I totally screwed up.
I didn’t get his name. I didn’t get his number. I literally have no idea who rescued me in that alley or how I’m supposed to go back to living my normal life when I know he’s out there in the world somewhere.
The man kissed me until I was sure my panties completely melted, and I didn’t get his number. I let him leave without asking for a single piece of information that would let me find him again.
And I’ve been furious at myself for two full days over it.
I’ve been angry painting, which is not usually a very good idea, but it seems like my anger at myself is actually useful if I channel it into my art.
I finally found the shade of green I was looking for...
and now, all I have to do is paint the canvas instead of stabbing it with the brush, which is essentially what I keep doing when I let my thoughts wander. And they keep wandering.
Socks has started giving me a look that tells me he’s concerned about my well-being. That makes two of us.
The third morning, I stand at the window and look down at the street without really seeing it because I’ve officially turned into the nosy lady who watches everyone else’s business.
In my hand is a cup of coffee, instant, the kind that tastes like it was brewed in a tire.
Caffeine is caffeine, though, so I sip it and pretend it’s not an affront to my taste buds.
The glass is cool against my forehead. Outside, a dog walker goes by with too many dogs.
All of the leashes are tangled. It’s basically my worst nightmare.
There’s a woman carrying a baby on her hip and a grocery bag in the other hand. Normal morning. Normal street.
And then my eyes land on the car.
Black SUV. Tinted windows. It’s parked across the street and one building down, right under the busted streetlight.
And this isn’t the first time I’ve seen it.
It was there yesterday when I went to get the mail.
It was there the night before, when I couldn’t sleep and stood at the same window at two a.m., watching the empty street because for some reason, an empty street at two a.m. actually makes me feel less alone.
On the list of weird things about me, it barely cracks the top ten.
A thought starts to form. It can’t be. Can it? No, I’m being stupid. It’s wishful thinking. What happened here the other day didn’t mean anything to him, so why would he suddenly show up here? Not just show up, but sit outside and basically stake out my building?
Maybe I need to believe it’s him, because otherwise, this is very weird.
If it is him, I have some work to do. That means changing into a T-shirt that doesn’t have paint on it, brushing out my hair and pulling it back in a bun, then sliding into my sneakers.
Socks watches me, probably judging—and he’s probably right.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I warn him, shaking a finger.
“Nobody who relies on me to stay alive gets to look at me that way.”
He only twitches an ear.
This is probably a terrible idea. I know this, not that it stops me from checking the weather app on my phone to be sure. Current wind: six mph. It’s like Mother Nature herself is giving me the green light.
I head out before I can talk myself out of it, marching down the stairs and outside, fists swinging at my sides as I approach the SUV. It’s still sitting there, still off, and the sound of my knuckles against the window makes me jump a little. It’s pretty aggressive.
The window rolls down. There he is.
And just like that, the noise in my head goes silent all over again. I mean, literally, all it takes is the sight of him, and I’m calm and surprisingly brave.
Brave enough to ask, “Why are you parked out here?” Before I can think of anything nicer to say.
Like maybe I could’ve led off with telling him how glad I am to see him, or I could confess how much I’ve wished I had a way to get in touch with him.
Maybe even tell him how the sight of him floods me with the sort of happiness I’ve only ever felt a few times in my entire life.
And even that is kind of shadowy, like half memories that may or may not even be real and could very well be entirely made up.
His expression doesn’t change, which is only mildly irritating.
He’s sitting with one wrist draped over the steering wheel, and in the morning light, I see the little things I missed before now.
His tattoo is more intricate than I thought, for one thing.
Did it hurt, having his scalp tattooed like that?
There’s a thin scar through his left eyebrow.
Another thin scar runs along the left side of his jaw, visible to me now.
Maybe he wasn’t just randomly making threats when he told Mr. Mullet he would gouge his eyes out.
“Hello to you, too,” he murmurs, and there’s enough amusement in his voice to ease the sudden tightness in my chest.
“You’ve been parked out here for two days,” I point out.
“Yeah.” He doesn’t even lift a shoulder. Like all of this is normal.
“But why?”
Something moves behind those unreadable dark eyes. Is he going to give me some excuse? I doubt any excuse would be believable anyway.
He doesn’t bother. He only says, “I’ve been thinking about you and wanted to make sure you were okay.”
That should freak me out. I should be officially scared out of my wits.
Right? I mean, I’m afraid of virtually everything else in life.
I don’t even love standing here in the street, when there aren’t any cars approaching.
You just never know when somebody’s going to decide to do their best Speed Racer impression.
But when I search for any grain of fear, I come up empty. Somehow, this feels like the most natural, normal thing in the world. This considerably fearsome man, sitting outside my building for days just to make sure I’m all right.
“I’m okay,” I tell him, folding my arms. Not because I’m angry. More because I’m trying to hold myself together when all of this is so confusing. “And actually... I’m really glad it’s you in this car and not someone I would have to be scared of.”
“I congratulate you, coming down here and marching over the way you did.” One corner of his mouth twitches ever so slightly, but I might have made that up in my head because his mouth settles into its normal, thin line once again.
“What is your name?” I blurt out. When his eyebrows lift a little, I explain, “I’ve been cursing myself out for two solid days because I didn’t even get your name.”
“It’s Tristan.”
Okay, not the name I would’ve guessed. A guy like him should be named Steel or Blade or Axle or something. Someone who looks dangerous and probably is. “I’m Stella,” I reply, though I wouldn’t be surprised if he already knew. He would only have to look up my address, do a little digging online.
“Hello, Stella.” I like the way his eyes are gleaming, like he’s having fun with all of this. I am, too, come to think of it. That’s unusual for me. So much about this is unusual.
“Well, Tristan, I went through all the trouble of putting on a clean shirt and brushing my hair and whatnot. The very least you can do is take me to lunch.”
Stella, who are you? I have no idea how to answer my own question. Is this who I am when the noise in my head goes silent? Like there’s enough room for me to actually exist when I’m not wrestling with anxiety.
There’s a second where he only blinks at me, and it makes my heart sink because this is it.
I went too far. And this, ladies and gentlemen, is why I keep to myself and only have friends online.
When you’re online, you can give some thought to what you’re going to say before you send a message.
It’s much less likely you’ll blurt something stupid out and then wind up feeling like a smacked ass, roughly the way I feel right now.
“Get in,” he replies with a growl in his voice that goes straight to my lady bits and makes them tingle in all kinds of interesting ways.
I can tell myself all I want that I’m getting into the car because I wouldn’t want to find out what happens when he gets turned down... but that would be a lie.
It’s a Mexican place. Small, wedged between a laundromat and a nail salon. The door is heavy, and when it swings shut behind us, it cuts the street noise to nothing. Right away, the aroma of cumin and roasted chili wraps itself around me, and I close my eyes, breathing deep.
“This is what you want out of an authentic restaurant,” Tristan murmurs as we head for a booth with a red vinyl seat.
“What is?” I ask.
“You want a place that doesn’t look like much.” When I lift an eyebrow, he adds, “That’s always where you’ll find the best food. Some hole in the wall where they haven’t bothered updating the decor because they’re so busy cranking out great food.”
Makes sense.
A waiter brings chips and salsa that smells like charred tomato. My mouth is watering before I’ve even reached for one.
Then our waters reach the table, and my hand freezes in midair because oh my God.
Straws. One in each glass. Paper ones, already starting to soften in the water. My fingers go cold. I swear, I can already feel that straw stabbing the inside of my mouth.
Tristan follows my gaze and frowns. I don’t have to say anything. Without a word, he reaches over, pulls both straws out of both glasses, and sets them on the far edge of the table under a napkin, like he’s hiding them.
Just like that. No comment. No face.
Before I think about it, I’m up, out of my side of the booth, and sliding in next to him. He takes up most of the bench, but I squeeze myself into the space left for me with my shoulder against his arm.