Chapter 52 - Stella
Stella
The sun’s low enough that the water’s gone copper, ripples catching and scattering the light. Elaine’s already there, leaning against the hood of her car like she’s been waiting just long enough to make a point.
She doesn’t wave. She just watches me pull in, one brow lifting like she’s evaluating more than my punctuality.
“This is just another revenge meeting?” I ask as I step out.
Her mouth curves, not in denial, not in confirmation, just that slow smirk that makes my pulse misbehave.
“Guess you’ll find out,” she says, pushing off the car. “Come on. Walk with me.”
The narrow path winds along the shore, pine and warm earth rising in the air. I catch her watching me once or twice, but she doesn’t say a word.
“What’s at the end of this path?” I ask.
“You’ll see.” Her hair catches the last light like it’s been brushed with gold.
The lake laps beside us, and for a moment I forget why we’re here. Forget Donovan. Forget the plan. Just the crunch of gravel and her hand swinging loose at her side, close enough to brush against mine.
We round the last bend, opening onto a small clearing. A weathered picnic table waits half in shadow, half in light, the surface crowded with a takeout bag, two bottled teas, and a paper-wrapped loaf from the bakery.
“You brought… lunch?”
“Dinner,” she corrects, claiming the space. “Figured you wouldn’t have eaten.”
“Because you know my eating schedule now?”
“Because even back in high school, when you were sketching, nothing else existed for you.”
It’s casual, but there’s an edge, the kind that says she’s always been paying attention.
I drop onto one of the benches. She sits across from me, the table a deliberate distance between us.
“This isn’t just another revenge meeting,” I whisper.
“No. It’s not.”
The air stills. The lake hums behind us. She pushes a tea across the table, her fingers brushing mine. “Eat,” she says, part order, part kindness.
And I do.
We eat mostly in silence. She tears her half of the loaf into pieces, dipping them in olive oil like she’s done it a hundred times.
“You come here a lot?” I ask.
“In high school. It was quieter. Everyone else went to Honey the gold burned out of it. When I finally turn to leave, she doesn’t ask where I’m going. She just watches.
I drive home with the windows down, cool air pulling at my hair, her smile still stuck to me like lake water on skin. I check my phone at a red light.
There are two missed calls from Donovan and a message I swipe away without reading. He’s trying. I’m not interested in what he has to say.
By the time I pull into my driveway, the house feels too quiet. I head straight for the shower, washing off the scent of cedar and whatever the hell that look in her eyes was.
Three days later, Blythe and I are at Desert Drip, her hands resting on her cute baby bump. “You’ve been smiling,” she says, one hand absently smoothing her bump.
“It’s the caffeine.”
She snorts. “Right. Must be one hell of a roast.”
“Mhmm.” Her tone says she doesn’t buy it, but she lets it go, shifting the conversation to the baby shower. We sit and make plans for an hour.
Later that night in my office, sketching a new order, my phone buzzes.
Home Wrecker: Cedar Oak Lake. Midnight.
No explanation. No emoji. Just a place and a time—again.
I tell myself I’m not going, even as I set the phone down where I can see it. The pencil stays in my hand, but the sketch is already ruined.
And I don’t go.
Ansel bursts in the next afternoon, dropping a coffee on my desk like a grenade.
“You're glowing, Slay Muffin. Spill.” “I’m not.” She leans on my chair back, studying me for a beat before casually shifting gears.
“Theo’s been asking when we’ll come over for dinner. He claims he makes a mean carbonara.”
“I’ll believe it when I taste it,” I say, shaking my head.
She smirks. “Exactly what I told him.”
The next week, I find myself on Elaine’s porch with a sweating glass of iced tea, pretending I came to “check on our progress.” We talk about the plan for all of five minutes before we’re trading stories about the worst customers we’ve ever had.
She tells me about the time a parent threatened to sue because their kid didn’t get enough playing time, and she had to smooth it over as if it were a federal case. I laugh harder than I have in months.
When I leave, she doesn’t walk me to the car. She just leans back in her chair, watching me go.
Two nights before Donovan’s return, I can’t sleep. I pace the length of my bedroom, half-listening to the hum of the AC unit. I try to think of the plan. Instead, I picture the lake. Her laugh. The way she looked at me without looking away.
My phone buzzes.
Home Wrecker: Open your front door.
I frown, set my phone down, and head down the stairs. When I pull the door open, Elaine’s leaning against the frame, a little too casual to be accidental. One hand in her pocket, the other holding a bottle of red, like an apology wrapped in glass.
No warning, just her.
“You’re working too much,” she says, slipping past me without waiting for an invitation. “I’m fixing that.”
I close the door behind her. “What happened to calling first?”
“What happened to taking breaks?” she shoots back, dropping the wine on the counter. Her eyes flick to the half-finished sketch on my desk. “You’ll burn yourself out.”
“You didn’t bring food this time,” I say, and it’s not an accusation, but it feels like one.
Her mouth curves, slow and deliberate. “Told you I wouldn’t. You’ll have to figure out what to do with me instead.”
The words hang there, heavier than they should be. I break eye contact first and reach for two glasses, even though I should tell her to leave. She watches me the whole time, the faintest smirk tugging at her mouth like she’s already won something I don’t remember agreeing to play for.
I set the glasses on the counter. She follows, close enough that the edge of her jacket brushes my arm. The cork pops, a soft sound in the quiet of the house, and she pours us two glasses.
I hand her a glass, fingers grazing hers. It’s not intentional. It’s not accidental either.
She takes a sip without breaking eye contact. “Are you always this easy to get to?”
“Depends who’s knocking,” I say, leaning back against the counter. “And what they’re bringing.”
Her gaze flicks to the wine, then back to me. “So, if I’d brought food again, would you have actually eaten it?”
I don’t answer. Not because I don’t know, but because we both already know the answer.
We drink in silence for a moment. Outside, the street’s quiet. Inside, I’m hyperaware of the sound of her breathing, the way she leans one hip against the countertop.
She glances toward the sketches I left out. “What’s this one for?”
“Custom order,” I say. “The family wants cedar paneling, oak finish. Old money.”
Her lips curve again, softer this time. “You talk about caskets like some people talk about diamonds.”
I shrug. “Both cost a fortune; both last forever.”
She laughs, low and warm, and I feel it in my chest. Not the sound itself—but the fact that she’s standing here, drinking wine in my kitchen, laughing while leaning against the counter, and I’m letting her.
We drift to the living room without talking about it, wine glasses in hand, her shoulder brushing mine every few steps.
I tell myself it’s just the space between us, that my house isn’t that big.
She takes the couch instead of the chair.
I tell myself it’s nothing, even when her arm stretches along the back cushion, fingertips almost brushing my hair.
“You’re staring again,” she says, not looking at me.
“Yeah,” I admit.
She hums low, not quite approval, not quite defiance. When her eyes finally meet mine, they hold steady, deliberate, assessing, like she’s daring to see how far she can push before I draw the line.
Neither of us moves. The air between us feels thick; if I leaned forward an inch too far, we’d end up somewhere we couldn’t walk back from.
Her gaze dips to my mouth and back so quickly I almost convince myself I imagined it.
Then she breaks it, casually, like nothing’s shifted, picking up one of my sketchbooks from the table. She flips it open, skimming page after page, pausing now and then like she’s memorizing the lines.
“You put yourself into these,” she says, not asking. “More than you realize.”
Her voice is softer, but the weight of it lingers. I don’t answer. I’m too busy wondering why I don’t want her to leave. The air shifts. Heavier. Closer.
Her fingers linger on the back of the couch, and before I realize it, I’m leaning in. She mirrors me, slow but certain, until the space between us is no longer safe but trembling. Our mouths are a breath apart, close enough that I can feel the heat of her exhale mingle with mine.
The front door creaks open. Laughter filters down the hall—Blythe and Ansel.
We both jolt back at once, her glass clinking too loudly as she sets it on the table. I straighten against the cushion, heart racing, pretending the air between us isn’t still charged, pretending my lips don’t still feel the shape of something that never landed.
Ansel rounds the corner first, her eyes flicking between us. Blythe follows, quieting mid-sentence as her gaze catches the distance that still feels like no distance at all. Neither of them says a word, but the silence stretches long enough that it might as well be.
Elaine is the first to move, lifting her glass and taking a slow sip like nothing happened. Her expression is calm, practiced, almost bored—but her eyes don’t meet mine.
Ansel raises a brow but lets it go. Blythe gives me a look I can’t quite read.
Elaine sets her glass on the table with deliberate care, the sound too loud in the quiet room.
She stands, smoothing her skirt like it’s just another evening, just another visit.
Ansel is already halfway up the stairs, and Blythe disappears into the kitchen, but the air hasn’t reset—it clings, heavy, like everyone knows what almost happened.
At the door, Elaine pauses with her hand on the frame. She finally looks at me, her expression unreadable, practiced calm wrapped too tight.
“You’re staring again.”