5. Stella
FIVE
stella
The tightness in my chest, which had been easing for the past couple of days of driving, returned. How much of my past was I willing to share with this stranger in the middle of a coffee shop?
Was I going to tell the truth about what happened or create a false narrative to protect myself and my daughter? Max seemed trustworthy enough. But could I just dump all the bullshit we had been dealing with in his lap and expect him not to run or turn me into the authorities?
Taking a fortifying breath, I opted for a semi-watered-down version of the truth. I picked at my cuticles and opened my mouth to speak, but no words came out. I promptly closed my gaping mouth and placed my hands in my lap.
I must have looked ridiculous, a deer in the headlights, struggling to articulate my thoughts; my throat felt tight, my tongue thick and clumsy. The unspoken words hung heavy in the air. I didn’t know if I could do this.
“Uhm…” I started.
Sensing my rising anxiety, Max’s hand left Charlie’s back, his touch reassuring as it settled on my arm, a silent gesture of support. The gentle touch on my arm, a silent act of comfort, gave me the courage I needed to confide in him.
“Where do I start?” With a sigh, I leaned back in my chair, the wood creaking slightly beneath me, and crossed my arms firmly over my chest.
“Charlie and I have always been a team. It’s always been us against the world.” I was stalling, and I knew it. I knew it would hurt to go back to that dark place, but I needed to just rip this off, like a bandaid.
“My ex-boyfriend, Charlie’s father, isn’t a good man.
” I tensed just mentioning Dean. The memory felt like a faded photograph, its colors muted with the passage of time and lost innocence.
He had manipulated me into a version of myself I no longer knew.
He became the only constant in my life, forcing me to rely on him alone.
9 YEARS EARLIER - 18 YEARS OLD
Standing outside of Bonneville High School, I tapped my combat booted foot on the concrete. Dean was late, again. The constant checking of the time on my cell phone only served to amplify my feelings of frustration, a wave of irritation that built with each passing second.
It was twenty minutes past the time he promised me he’d be here. With a determined stomp, I stuffed my phone in my pocket and headed toward the closest bench, fully intending to wait there until his ass showed up.
Stella: Where r u?
Dean: omw, sry babe.
At least he hadn’t bothered with an excuse. I knew it was all bullshit. I’d been fed enough bullshit from Dean to smell it a mile away.
He had probably gotten caught up in his buddy Waylon’s garage smoking dope again and forgot to set an alarm to come get me. He was unreliable at best.
Dean was already out of school. He’d dropped out mid-way through his senior year to focus on his ‘music career’ - I was currently trudging my way through my senior year.
If you ask me, his music career was a crock of shit. He wasn’t even that good at playing the drums, yet his buddies all blew smoke up his ass, claiming he was going to be the next Travis Barker.
We’d started dating at the beginning of this school year. My friend Bethany was dating Waylon, who was the lead singer of Dean’s band, ‘Die Trying’, and I’d gone with her to one or two of their practices.
I instantly found myself drawn to Dean; He had that bad boy, rocker-esque, stick it to the man vibe about him.
He had shaggy black hair that he let swoop over one of his eyes, a tongue piercing, and a couple of inky black tattoos swirling up his arms. To this rebel girl with abandonment issues, he was a walking wet dream.
Before we knew it, we were inseparable, a bond formed in shared experiences and mutual understanding. Dean was adopted after spending years bouncing around in the foster care system. He knew what it was like being abandoned by those who were supposed to love you the most .
Bethany and I showed up to every single one of ‘Die Trying’s’ practices in Waylon’s garage. We thought we were hot shit getting to date guys in a band.
After a couple months of dating, Dean started making little suggestions about the way I dressed and did my hair. He begged me to buy a pair of Doc Marten boots, some fishnets, and exceptionally inappropriate length skirts. I complied, telling myself that it was for my benefit as well as his.
He turned me into his personal ‘emo’ Barbie doll.
At first, it was flattering. He always claimed he was trying to make us the ‘it’ couple.
The skirts and fishnets, he said, made me look sexy.
He’d follow that up with a comment here or there about what I ate or drank and how it would affect my body, sandwiching his jabs between compliments.
Eventually, Bethany and I had a falling out.
She claimed Dean was emotionally manipulating me.
She said she’d seen a huge change in the way I dressed and acted, and it wasn’t the Stella she’d become friends with.
She said that I’d been moodier and snappy, especially when it came to conversations about Dean.
I told her she was just jealous because Waylon didn’t think she was sexy or ask her to wear clothes that made her look more grown up. I didn’t need her meddling in my relationship when she couldn’t even handle her own.
She had called me delusional, screaming that I’d come running back when Dean broke my heart, and we hadn’t talked in weeks. Dean told me it was for the best and she was just jealous of the relationship we had because Waylon had been cheating on her throughout their relationship, anyway.
I believed him, my heart trusting his every word. I always believed him. Even if there was a little part of me that wondered if Bethany was right after all.
7 YEARS EARLIER - 20 YEARS OLD
Dean and I had officially been together for two years. He’d started working a construction job, and I’d been serving down at Granny’s Diner on the corner of First Street & Landmark Road. It wasn’t glamorous, but it paid the bills.
Shortly after graduating high school, we found ourselves in a small, single-room apartment, the sounds of the city a constant hum in the background. It sure wasn’t glamorous, but for two twenty-year-olds out on their own for the first time, it was perfect.
I could look past the occasional roach or leak if it meant I was with the boy I loved.
My parents disapproved of Dean and my relationship, but I knew in my heart we were soul mates.
They constantly voiced their disapproval, citing different ways he’d molded me to fit a vision that was so much unlike my true self.
It had almost always ended in an argument.
I didn’t understand how two people who’d spent the majority of my childhood letting me be raised by nannies could suddenly care about who I spent time with.
Every time we talked, the chasm grew wider and wider until I didn’t feel as if there was any way we could bridge that gap. After a while, I’d stopped calling home. I didn’t want their constant ridicule. I was an adult, I could make my own decisions.
Dean treated me like a princess. After a long day at work, he would come home and sit at the kitchen table with a beer, eager to hear about my day. He was everything I’d ever dreamed about in a partner, and I couldn’t wait for our life to truly begin.
Now, if I could just get him to take off his dusty work boots at the door instead of tracking mud and debris all over the place, that would be a plus.
We’d climb into bed each night, make love, and fall asleep to the sounds of the hustle and bustle of the town outside our window. We didn’t live in the best area, but it was all we could afford.
We often fell asleep planning how we envisioned our future. Dean promised me a house, his eyes shining with dreams of rock-star wealth, once the band made it big. I held onto that dream, even when things started to feel bleak.
3 YEARS EARLIER - 24 YEARS OLD
I stood in line outside the dingy club in St. Louis, rubbing my hands over my exposed arms to keep warm.
It was the middle of October, and the fall chill was setting into a winter briskness.
Goosebumps popped up across my skin as a cool breeze blew past. The thigh-high boots, sweater and short leather skirt I wore did little to staunch the cold.
I was in line to get in to see Dean and the rest of ‘Die Trying’ play their set tonight. I’d asked Dean why he hadn’t put me on the approved guest list and he’d patronized me, saying “that’s just not how it works babe” with a kiss on my cheek.
I was pretty sure the opening band can leave a list of approved guests, and you’d expect that the drummer’s long- term girlfriend would be an acceptable addition, but who was I to argue?
Each small, cutting remark, like that one, chipped away at my confidence, leaving me feeling stupid. They were starting to wear me down. But, after six years of being together, starting over with someone else seemed like a fresh form of torture, so I sucked it up.
I approached the bouncer at the front of the line and handed him my ID card. He scanned it lazily and waved me inside without a second glance.
Stepping into the club, the thick smell of stale beer, cigarettes, and sweat overwhelmed me. I never would have come to a dive bar like this had Dean not been playing tonight. I’d much rather curl up at home with a warm blanket and a good book.
I looked around, trying to spot him among the sizable crowd of people gathering in front of the stage. When I didn’t immediately see him, I walked up to the bar and flagged down a bartender. He gave me a brief nod, letting me know that he’d seen me and would be down my way in just a minute.