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“No, you’re not, Parker,” I say calmly.
“The fuck I’m not, you?—”
“There is a camera pointed here, right there,” I say, pointing to a black dot. I’m 99% sure it’s a sprinkler system, but I’m hoping…
Parker’s eyes go wide or as wide as they can, considering one is swelling shut, and his hands go up in a placating move.
“Fuck, Stella, I didn’t mean?—”
The fuck you didn’t, you creep,I want to say, but I don’t.
“You tell my mother we had a good time, but we were not compatible. I’ll tell everyone you fell and smashed your face.” His jaw goes tight as he looks from me to Riggins, and when I let my gaze follow, I see Riggins’ face is steel, ready to continue what he started.
Parker sees it, too, because he sighs, then nods.
“You’re not my fuckin’ type anyway,” he mumbles, walking toward the exit. Riggins' body lurches for him, but I hold onto his arm tightly.
“Come on, big guy, let’s get you some ice, yeah? I’m sure they have a first-aid kit somewhere. Who the fuck knows where he’s been.”
Riggins looks to me, the urge to run after Parker clear, but he chooses me instead for some reason, nodding while I go to Anderson, the familiar owner of the Atlas, and ask for ice and a first aid kit.
11 SINK
THEN
STELLA
It’s been two weeks since my sister left for college and it’s the night before my 19th birthday, and I feel so utterly alone, lost in the world. It’s also been six months since I’ve seen Riggs in person, and Atlas Oaks is absolutely killing it on tour. I should be happy and excited for the future, but I’m not. Instead, I’m sad and lonely, and I feel like a part of me is wholly missing, with no way to get it back until he comes back.
This morning, my mother took my phone and all access to any kind of computer because she didn’t like the way I responded when she told me she didn’t like my outfit of jeans, shorts, and a tee. This means I can’t text or call Riggs, can’t check in with him on the road, and, most of all, can’t find out exactly when he’s coming home.
Tomorrow or the next day, his last text said,then we’ll write.
God. That’s what I want most of all. To sit under the stars with my best friend, to write songs, listen to him strum a guitar and loop melodies around the words I write. He’s been gone on tour since May, and it feels like I’ve been missing a limb.
He’s called me regularly since then, telling me about the wild parties they’ve gone to, the insane life of being a rockstar on the road, and the freedom he feels being away from Ashford. But, of course, he always closes with how much he misses me and can’t wait to lay under the stars again soon.
Pick me up, I wanted to say.Take me with you.
But I won’t say that. He’s out there having a fucking blast, partying and hanging with stars we only dreamed about as kids, and he doesn’t need his little sister-esque best friend paling around with him.
I may have been in love with Riggins Greene since I was five, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have common sense.
Clink.
The sound comes again and my heart pounds as I peer out of the window, looking for him.
And finally, he comes into view.
I think my heart might actually escape my body when I see him wave, when I see his smile go wide. I open my window and bend over the sill.
“What are you doing here?!” I ask in a whisper.
“Breaking you out, Stella girl. Come on.”
I don’t ask another question. I’ve never had to when Riggs is around. Instead, I grab my bag, sliding a pen and my notebook inside, then touch my toe to the rough bark of the tree next to my bedroom window, muscle memory clicking in as I move down it to the grass where he stands.
I don’t play it cool like I told myself I would. All those weeks and months without him, talking only in texts and clandestine phone calls so my mother wouldn’t find out, I spent them planning how to be cool and casual when I saw him again.
