Chapter 46 - Donovan #2
My phone is in my hand again before I realize it—the hundredth time in the last half hour.
No texts. No calls. Radio silence from Stella.
I scrape a hand down my unshaven face, and I don’t know why I keep expecting something different.
The hurt in her eyes told me everything I needed to know—whatever we had, I burned it to the ground.
Pulled every thread until what we had was nothing but a pile of unraveled lies.
I open her social media. The week-old posts are gone. Her profile is gone. She’s blocked me everywhere.
I dial her number anyway. Straight to voicemail. The same message I’ve heard too many times. The voicemail box you are trying to reach is full.
“Fuck.” The word drags out of me, long and jagged. The bourbon bottle leaves my hand before I think, smashing against the wall. Amber tears streak down the paint—tears Stella didn’t shed.
I leave the mess where it is—the bourbon pooling on the floor, the shards of glass like shrapnel—and grab my keys. The hall outside smells faintly of someone else’s takeout, but it only makes the taste of whiskey in my mouth sharper.
The drive to Stella’s apartment—our home—feels longer than it should. Traffic’s a snarl, gridlocked even though it’s not rush hour. A thin, cold drizzle has started, the kind that slicks the asphalt and makes every idiot on the road slam their brakes.
My phone lights up: Coach Headstrom, straight to voicemail. I don’t have the capacity for him right now. They’ll manage without me for a few more days.
It rings again, and this time it’s Star—my pulse spikes. I yank the wheel, nosing toward the curb, fumbling for the answer button.
“Star, baby—I'm so fucking sorry—”
Her voice cuts through me like a blade. “Donovan, this isn’t a call for apologies. First, call Coach Headstrom back. He won’t leave me the hell alone, wondering where you are. Second…” A pause sharp enough to stop my breath. “I’ve filed divorce papers. I want my last name back.”
I pull back into traffic, the drizzle thickening into a steady cold rain that needles through the windshield. My knuckles ache around the steering wheel, but I don’t ease my grip. Every red light feels like a countdown. I don't want to reach zero.
When I finally turn onto our street, the scene hits like a punch to the ribs.
Ansel stands at the top of the stairs, rain plastering her hair to her head, hurling my belongings one by one toward the curb.
A jacket arcs through the air, landing in a spreading puddle.
My duffel bag bounces off the concrete with a wet slap.
For a second, I just sit there, watching from behind the glass like it’s not my life unraveling in real time. Like it’s some movie where the bastard at the center of it all deserves everything coming to him.
Ansel’s already coming for me before I’ve even closed the car door, stomping through the puddles, eyes lit like she’d set me on fire and roast marshmallows over the ashes.
“You think you’re a man? You’re not. You’re a weak, selfish bastard who couldn’t keep it in his pants long enough to remember the woman who’s done nothing but fight for you.”
She’s right in front of me now, rain dripping off her jaw, voice sharp enough to flay me.
“Do you know what she looked like when I found her? No, of course you don’t.
You weren’t there to watch her shake so hard she couldn’t even hold a glass of water.
You weren’t there when she couldn’t breathe because she’d just found out her husband was fucking the one person who’s made her life hell since grade school. ”
Another box slams into the puddle beside me, splashing my jeans. She doesn’t care. “I packed your shit because she shouldn’t have to come back here, to the reminder of you. She’s already cleaning up the rest of the mess you made just by existing in her life.”
Her eyes flick to the bourbon bottle in my passenger seat, and her lip curls.
“Go back to your little cave and drink yourself into oblivion, Donovan. Go back to Elaine; I am sure she is waiting patiently on her knees for you. But don’t you dare come near her.
Don’t you dare say her name. You’re done. ”
“You hurt her, and I swear to God, Donovan, I’ll make sure the only thing you’re remembered for is the way you destroyed a good woman.”
Ansel’s back in seconds, a flash of black coat and fury, and the last thing she throws isn’t a box or a bag—it's Stella’s ring. It arcs through the air and hits the puddle at my feet, the splash cold against my ankles. Mud clings to the gold as I pick it up.
I scoop it up with shaking hands, shove the rest of my things into the trunk, and drive without remembering the road.
Back at the apartment, I lock the door like that will keep anything out. But the monsters aren’t outside. They’re here. They’re mine.
I slide down the door until I’m on the floor, the cheap wood digging into my spine. The ring—delicate, too small for my hands—sits on my pinky, staring at me, mocking me. Tears hit harder than I expect, and I chase them with bourbon until the room tilts.