Chapter 12
Stella
Bzzz. Bzzz. Bzzz. Bzzz.
What the hell is that noise?
“Ansel, babe, get up. It’s three in the afternoon. We literally drunk-slept all day.” I whine, trying to yank my legs free from under her head.
“Ssshhh. Stella, don’t yell at me.” She slides off, closing her eyes, curling up on the arm of the couch.
After our heart-to-heart about Donovan last night, we downed several shots of tequila and had a no-pants dance party in the living room.
The last thing I remember is belting Just a Girl by No Doubt around 4:30 a.m.
Who needs to go out when you can bring the party home, minus the extra people?
I grab my phone. The screen lights up. Four new messages from Sir O’s-a-Lot.
What the fuck is a Sir O’s-a-Lot? Ohhhhh, right. After Ansel's therapist talk, I gave her all the juicy play-by-plays.
That’s right. My best friend knows about me coming all over Donovan’s face while riding his fingers and tongue on his trunk.
Guess in our drunken fun, we thought it would be hilarious to change his contact name. I giggle and open up the text thread from him.
Sir O’s-a-Lot: Hey Stella, I’m so sorry it took me so long to respond.
Sir O’s-a-Lot: Turns out, a ball to the face and a phone don’t mix.
Sir O’s-a-Lot: I just got a new one. I tried emailing you; I hope you saw it.
Sir O’s-a-Lot: I miss you so much. I wish I was kissing you right now.
See, Stella, you were spiraling for absolutely nothing, just a broken phone.
Me: I hope your handsome face is okay ?? to make it feel better.
With a smile on my face, I force myself off the couch and into the shower. Maybe it will help get rid of the massive hangover headache I have.
He didn’t forget about me, he tried sending me a freaking email so I would know what happened.
Ansel was right. My gloom and doom feeling was simply a result of being overwhelmed by everything that had happened.
The rest of the weekend passed quickly. Donovan and I spent most of it texting or video chatting.
It felt nice talking to him again, remembering that he was my best friend before my boyfriend. We bantered back and forth. It was comforting to see how much we’d both grown in the two years since high school.
The school week hits, and I wake up at 5:45 a.m. for a quick but intense yoga session in my living room.
I make Ansel and myself our usual breakfast: a slice of avocado toast and a small serving of vanilla Greek yogurt topped with fresh berries, drizzled with a little of my favorite Arizona-sourced honey.
After a quick shower, I stand in front of my closet, unsure what to wear.
For someone with so many clothes, I always have a hard time finding something that feels right.
I finally decide on a pair of light denim flare-leg jeans, a light purple Henley shirt tucked in, and grab my favorite black cardigan. I throw on my favorite pair of Vans and head out to grab my bag and keys before leaving for the day.
My apartment isn’t far from school, so as long as the weather permits, I throw on my headphones and listen to my latest audiobook while enjoying the fresh Vignina air.
I make it to class with ten minutes to spare. Pulling out my sketchbook, I begin sketching. The memory of me sprawled across the trunk last week blooms back into detail.
I am lost in thought, concentrating on capturing the way Donovan’s hand rested between my legs. So deeply focused, I didn’t notice my professor approach my seat.
He cleared his throat. “Stella, how were your two weeks away in Arizona?”
Slamming the cover of my sketchbook shut, I felt like I’d just been caught with my hand in the cookie jar.
“Oh, good morning, Professor Lowen. It was remarkable. Thank you again for allowing me to travel back and forth to complete this project,” I said, smiling awkwardly.
“I spoke with Mr. Lightheart. He had nothing but great things to say, praising you as a major asset and expressing the students' excitement for performing Sweeney Todd. That was… a bold choice for a high school musical.”
“Yes, it is bold. But if it gets the students to participate, then bold is the right choice,” I replied. Professor Lowen murmured in agreement as he descended the stairs to his lectern.
I spent the next ninety minutes taking notes on set and prop design—not my first choice, but following the guidance of my academic advisor.
She helped me map out my roadmap to success, as she so poetically put it, and together we decided that set and prop design would be perfect preparation for the casket business.
I don’t want to take it over, but even I know it’s inevitable.
If I have to inherit it, I might as well be good at making things look beautiful before they’re buried.
Between learning design principles, materials, and techniques, creating scale models, fabrication, and studying the history of various periods and movements, I will significantly expand my knowledge.
Help shape me into someone who can make better decisions, such as designing caskets and sourcing ethical materials.
Class is wrapping up, so I put my belongings into my bag and head out the door toward the local bakery to meet Ansel for our every-Monday chocolate croissant and coffee date.
Ansel is already sitting outside at our favorite table, the one that provides just the right amount of shade, but still allows us to gossip and watch people as they pass by. Today is gorgeously overcast, and the temperature is perfect.
“So how are things with Sir O’s-a-lot going? Have you asked about your relationship status?” She giggles like a little schoolgirl at her name for Donovan.
“Ansel, things have been wonderful. We talk and text all day long, and video chat before bed. I feel like I’m back in high school, and we can’t get enough of each other.
You know, the whole ‘you hang up first, no, you hang up first.’” She dramatically rolls her eyes and giggles while making gagging noises.
“Oh, shut it, Ansel. Revenge is a dish best served cold. Just wait until you fall in love!” I throw the last bite of my croissant at her, hitting her in the chest, and it falls down her lap, under the table.
“How dare you, Stella Lenore Carrington! That is croissant abuse punishable by the death penalty.” Ansel fakes a Southern belle accent while fanning herself off.
We pick up our trash and toss it. With our coffee in hand, we start walking towards the apartment. Our yapping doesn’t stop. She is telling me about her classes and how she might take a summer class or two to graduate a little early.
As we pass Velvet Nails, the salon around the corner from the house, Ansel perks up.
“Hey, we should go get mani-pedis this weekend.” I grin into my coffee.
“That actually sounds perfect. A little pampering never hurts anyone.” She bites back a smile, almost shy.
“Could we go Friday evening? I have a date with Colin on Saturday, and pretty nails would make me feel downright dangerous.”
“Ooh, Ansel and Colin sitting in a tree, K.I.S.S.I.N.—umph.” I nearly fall backward as I knock into a girl walking into said nail salon.
“Oh my gosh, I am so sorry! I should not walk backward and actually pay attention to what I am doing!” I say in a panic. “Please tell me you’re okay.”
Her eyes flick up, but don’t hold mine. “Yes, ma’am, I’m okay.” She hugs her bag closer and slips inside without another glance. Ansel and I giggle in embarrassment as we finish our walk to the apartment.
When Tuesday evening comes, Donovan and I are video chatting while a baseball movie plays. It’s not really my thing, but it’s his favorite, and I love watching the way his eyes light up every time he gets pulled into it.
He tries to explain different aspects of baseball, discussing curveballs and stolen bases, even replaying a scene to demonstrate how the pitcher grips the ball. I just nod along, pretending to understand.
“Uh-huh, very impressive,” I say, fighting a smile. “So basically it’s just men playing with their balls?”
Donovan chokes on a laugh, shaking his head. “You’re impossible.”
“But adorable,” I shoot back, grinning when he rolls his eyes.
The credits are rolling on the movie, and Donovan says, “Star, I hate to do this, but I have a super early and busy day tomorrow. I need to head to bed.”
“Oh, yeah, no problem, I should go to bed too,” I say to him with disappointment lacing my voice. “Goodnight, baby girl. I love you, and I will see you soon.”
After the call ends, I plug my phone into the charger and roll onto my side, pulling the body pillow against me. I wrap my arms around it, hook a leg over it, and cling to it like it might ease the ache of missing Donovan.