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“Yes, Willa Stone! Your long-term, on-again, off-again girlfriend?”
“Jesus, Stell, you thought that was real? It was all bullshit!” I say in irritation, but she just rolls her eyes at me.
“I’ve seen the photos and the clips, Riggins! As hard as I tried, that was my favorite kind of torture—late at night, when I started to miss you, I’d open my computer and search for you. Find the pictures and the articles about you. I’d spend hours learning all about how your life was without me. Looked pretty fucking great. So why don’t you go back to it, Riggins? Stop trying to dig up the past.”
I step forward, reaching for her, but she steps away, pain in her eyes.
“Stella, I—” I start, apologies at the tip of my tongue, but she shakes her head.
“No. No, Riggins.” She steps back, moving away until there is a good five feet between us. “You know, I didn’t write that first year after I left. I couldn’t. I tried so many times; I wanted to get the feeling out, put them in their little box, and walk away, but every time I touched them or tried to write, it hurt too bad; my mind was blank. I thought... I thought I was broken. I thought I was nothing without you.” Finally, a tear drops, and it breaks my heart knowing I did that. That I hurt her.
“The first song I wrote was a year after we got married. Two days after you didn’t show up at coffee five years ago.” My brows furrow in confusion, but she shakes her head when I open my mouth, continuing on. “Some tabloid reported that you were out with her, and I don’t know. It was like the confirmation that I needed to know we were really done once and for all–”
“We were never done, Stella,” I say, taking a step closer. “Never.” She shakes her head sadly.
“That night, I wrote the song you played today. Funny timing, you know? Since the reason I realized we can’t ever work was because of her?”
21 GIRL CRUSH - LITTLE BIG TOWN
THEN
STELLA
“And next,” the pretty blonde host of the entertainment news show says as I move through my room, cleaning up. “A hot new couple on the rise?”
I’ve taken to watching the shows like this while doing mindless tasks. It serves multiple purposes. It’s not music, which is important since most of my playlists end up shifting toward Atlas Oaks, and radio stations now have them in their top 40 lineups, making it hard to avoid.
But I also watch the show because ever since I left the band and Riggins last year, I’ve found myself searching their names regularly, trying to keep up on anything that might happen. I think part of me is always waiting for news that something happened, that Riggins’ drinking won him over once and for all and I’ll have to face the devastating prospect of living life without him, forever.
But at this moment, I wish I hadn’t started the habit at all.
“Riggins Greene and Willa Stone were seen walking through Central Park together, hand in hand,” My mind freezes, but unfortunately, my body doesn’t as I turn to look at the television behind me, the screen my worst nightmare.
Music Power Couple is scribbled in bold pink letters above the photo, one of Riggins’ hand holding Willa’s, the powerhouse singer-songwriter whom I’ve admired for years.
“The couple, both rising singer-songwriters, have been seen around the city a few times, though we can’t quite get a pinpoint on when these photos sent in anonymously were taken. We’re just happy to see Riggins looking happy after the tragic death of his father last week.” My stomach churns, and I feel like vomiting.
We had made plans to meet up after his father’s funeral, and for the first time in a long time, his eyes looked clear, his face filled with grief and sorrow, but not loose from liquor, and I thought maybe… finally, he’d found the light. Maybe my leaving had snapped him into looking deeper at himself; maybe he had changed, and we could make an honest try at this once again.
Because god, I miss Riggins. I miss him to my bones, to the pit of my stomach. I miss my best friend, my cowriter, my first and only love.
But he didn’t show. I sat at the cafe for hours waiting for him, like an idiot, believing this was it: our chance at a fresh start. Our shot to once and for all make things right. And when he didn’t show, I went home and cried until I couldn’t breathe, finally coming to terms with my new reality: Riggins and I were done.
I spent the night searching for discreet divorce attorneys, someone, anyone, who could write up the papers I needed without making a scene of it, narrowing my choices down to three.
When I woke this morning, I stared at that list, deciding it was something… tomorrow Stella could deal with. Or next week Stella. Or maybe next month, Stella.
Hell, we’ve already been married two years; what would it matter if it’s longer?
But now, now I’m staring at a screen grab of Riggins standing next to a gorgeous tall blonde, her looking up at him like he personally made the sun rise, his hand holding hers, dark sunglasses on his face as he looks ahead at wherever they’re headed, but in that protective way I’ve seen so many times before.
My blood freezes in my veins and the reporter shifts to some other hot topic, an actress getting caught saying something into a hot mic accidentally, but that photo is burned into my brain.
When was that taken?
Where was it taken?
I’m going to be sick, I think to myself as I move to my computer, typing in a few keywords in a search bar and waiting for the results.
