Chapter 20 - Stella #2
After dishes, the three of us crash out on the couch with a football game humming in the background.
Donovan stretches long, his bare feet propped on the coffee table, while my head rests in his lap.
He absently twirls a strand of my hair between his fingers, the slow rhythm soothing even against the muted roar of the crowd on TV.
Ansel and I each have a book in hand, pages rustling softly in the quiet.
She’s curled up in a ball at the far end, blanket slipping from her shoulders, nose buried so deep she doesn’t even notice when she bursts into laughter at a line.
The living room still smells faintly of soy sauce and fried food, but the hush that settles over us feels warm and steady, like the three of us fit here without trying.
The next morning, a low vibration hums against the nightstand on Donovan’s side of the bed. His side. Occasionally, it feels like he lives here now. I roll over—but the sheets are cold where his body should be. Odd. We usually linger in bed on Sundays.
I reach for his phone, the glass cool in my palm, just in case it’s his dad. But the screen lights up, bright in the dim room: Chelsea (Local #).
I freeze. My stomach plummets. Who the fuck is Chelsea?
I set the phone down like it burns and lean back against the cold headboard, my heart pounding so hard it feels like the whole bed should shake with it. He’s not cheating. Right? He wouldn’t.
The door creaks, and Donovan steps inside, sweat dripping down his temples, shirt clinging to his chest. His easy smile falters the second he sees me.
“Star? What’s wrong?”
“Who the fuck is Chelsea?”
“Chelsea? Did she call? Shit. I texted her last night to call me Monday morning, not today.” He crosses the room fast, using his shirt to wipe the sweat dripping down his face, movements sharp and urgent.
He snatches his phone from the nightstand and fumbles to unlock the screen, his calm words at odds with the panic in his hands.
“Oh, you texted her. To call you on Monday. Got it. I’m your weekend girlfriend, and Chelsea is your Monday-through-Thursday girlfriend. Perfect.”
The words taste like acid on my tongue as I jump off the bed and storm to the bathroom. The door slams behind me so hard the walls shake, knocking pictures off the nails and sending frames clattering to the floor.
“Stella, what the fuck is going on? You’re my only girlfriend. And we only see each other on weekends because that was your rule.”
I yank the bathroom door open so fast it smacks against the wall with a crack, making him flinch. My chest heaves, fury burning hot in my throat.
“So it’s my fault you need someone else to talk to during the week? I set boundaries when you accepted a job across the country without talking to me first—without even asking what I wanted. And now it’s on me that you can’t keep your dick in your pants?”
With shaking hands, I yank on the first pair of jeans I can find, snatch my jacket off the chair, and storm toward the front door, my footsteps thudding against the floor.
“Stella, where the fuck are you going?”
“To get coffee. With Ansel. Go have fun with your slut.”
I swing the door open.
“You see Ansel more than me. Maybe you should date her instead!”
The door slams behind me, a violent echo that rattles the frames on the wall. Cold air slices my cheeks the second I step outside, but it’s nothing compared to the fire ripping through my chest, hot and unrelenting.
I stomp across the wet parking lot, shoes smacking against the pavement, water splashing up my ankles. My hands shake as I dig for my keys, metal jingling in my grip. I don’t even know where I’m going. Just anywhere but here, anywhere that isn’t him.
My latte sits in the cup holder, cold and untouched. Mascara streaks down my face, My Happy Ending by Avril Lavigne blaring on repeat, every lyric slicing me open a little deeper. When I finally pull back into the packed apartment parking lot, Donovan’s car is gone.
I take the torturous steps up to our fourth-floor apartment, every muscle in my legs burning, breath ragged and uneven.
When I finally push through the door, Ansel takes one look at me before her arms wrap tight around me, pulling me in like she already knows.
No questions. No demands. Just the steady warmth of her holding me together while I fall apart.
We sit on the couch in silence, the only sound in the apartment the low murmur of a Maury rerun.
I couldn’t tell you whether the guys are the father or not—my eyes are fixed past the TV, on the city stretching wide and endless beyond the glass.
Hours blur together. The TV drones on, the voices blending into background noise, until eventually the weight of exhaustion pulls us both under.
The shrill text message ringtone startles me awake, slicing through the silence. I fumble for my phone on the coffee table, my heart kicking hard against my ribs when the screen lights up. Donovan.
Sir-O’s-Alot: Didn’t mean to start a war over a name. Hope the coffee was good.
God, I need to change that stupid contact name.
I hover over my screen.
Me: Who is Chelsea? Delete. Tell me it’s not true. Delete. If you’re seeing someone else, just leave me alone. Delete.
My thumb shakes as I drop the phone onto the cherrywood coffee table.
I yank my favorite fluffy pink bat blanket over me, burying my face in the softness.
The midday sun pours through the windows, too bright, too cheerful.
Floor-to-ceiling light, spilling across the hardwood.
Beyond the glass, the bay stretches wide, glittering in the distance—a view I usually love, but right now it just feels like a reminder of everything slipping away.