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“We’ll be back. A lot,” he says, pulling me into his arms, pressing his lips to my hair before walking me to his truck, tucking me in, and closing the door before getting in and driving us home.
“When do you have to go to the city?” I ask, staring out the window as we pass from New York State into New Jersey, a bright green Welcome to New Jersey, the Garden State! sign greeting us.
“Day after tomorrow,” he says. I nod. “Gracie will stay with you. Want my girls together.” It warms me, those words. His hand reaches out, his fingers tangling with mine before he speaks his next words. “We’ll have to talk to her, eventually, you know.” I swallow, knowing exactly what he’s talking about.
My mother.
My mother sent Riggins’ letters back to him and never told me about them.
She cornered him at the grocery store and told him I was dating someone I was very much not dating, and she knew it and tipped him toward self-destructive behaviors.
And she answered when he called at his darkest moments and told him I was done with him.
I remember sitting at the coffee shop the day after his father’s funeral, waiting for him to come, for us to finally talk. I remember feeling guilty that I stole that opportunity from him, the opportunity for him to explain, to get closure, or maybe to mend things. I remember the excitement I kept trying to douse every time I let my mind drift too far, letting myself think about us being together again.
I remember waiting for thirty minutes and checking my phone, checking the time. I remember the eyes on me as I sat there, alone, and how they felt pity even though there was no chance they knew who I was waiting for or if I was waiting at all.
Most of all, though, I remember going to my parents’ house where Evie was living to talk to her and finding my mother instead.
She consoled me when I broke down and told her about Riggs not showing up for coffee that day, where she acted like it was his loss. I remember thinking it was a moment for us, a small white flag she was waving. It was the final catalyst to trying to be whatever she wanted me to be. The small moment of motherly love I never had, something I kept chasing until recently.
Except it was all a manipulation. It was all pretend, another layer on the bullshit my mother contrives to keep people under her thumb, performing and acting the way she sees suitable.
I deserve closure. I might be done with her, but I need to know why. Why did she work so hard to keep us apart? Why has she seemingly hated me since the day I was brought into his earth? What great reason did she have to make me miserable?
“Hmm hmm,” I say instead of sharing all of those thoughts, thoughts that we’ve already rehashed under the stars. Silence fills the car once again.
“I’m happy she did it,” he says long after.
“What?” I look at him, and he has his eyes on the road
“I’m happy she did it, fucked with us,”
“I don’t?—”
“I’m glad she did it. I was trying to get clean, but I kept failing. Losing you is what pushed me to get sober. I’m not sure I would have gotten clean without it. And look at you: look what you became. You’re beautiful. You’re successful. You’ve done it all on your own. You told me you felt like you lost yourself when you were on tour. I know you. You’re beautiful, and you’re kind, and all you wanted to ever do was make everyone else happy. Would you have been this version of yourself if we stayed together? I would have continued to dull your light until you went out. So I’m happy, Stell. I’m happy it happened.”
I sit there in shock, confused and unsure, as his words start to process.
But he’s right. It makes sense. I wouldn’t have found my own footing in the music world without him, and I would have always felt like I was in his shadow. My mother stepping in was fucked up, but it did me some good, I suppose.
“I guess,” I say, my voice low. He squeezes my hand.
“Can’t see stars without darkness, Stella. I don’t regret anything that happened, not when I got my star back in the end.”
50 HURT SOMEBODY
NOW
STELLA
It feels strange to knock at the door of my parents' house, the house in which I lived in the final years of my childhood, knowing I probably won’t be coming here ever again.
I just need closure.
“You are not welcome here,” my mother says when she opens the door in lieu of a greeting, looking at Riggins.
“That’s fine, we won’t be here long,” I say, stepping in without her permission. Her face pinches in irritation, and I don’t know how I didn’t realize how ugly she was until just now. She used to be pretty, gorgeous, even, but that all left long ago, the more bitter and cold she got.
