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As I carried her limp, exhausted body back to the truck, I had to fight the full-face grin eating at me. It’s not exactly appropriate to smile while you’re carrying your wife, who just had a full-out mental breakdown in the middle of an empty field.
“My dad’s place.”
“Riggins, no—“ she starts, hesitation that sends disappointment ripping through me even if it’s deserved, even if it’s valid.
“Not for anything, just need to make sure you’re okay. After everything that just happened…” I let my words trail off and I know she’s looking at me, but I don’t look to her as I turn away from the way to her house, where we were headed, and toward my childhood home.
“That’s really not necessary—” she starts again, but I move one hand off the wheel toward her, reaching for her hands and grabbing it without even looking and squeezing once. I lace her small fingers with mine without looking at her, tug her hand closer, and press my lips to her fingers.
“Please. After everything that happened with your mother, with us out there in the rain, I don’t want you to be alone.” I let a beat pass, making room for her to argue, but she doesn’t, so I add, “Plus if your mom tries to come to talk to you, we both know she won’t come to my house.” Her hand squeezes mine a bit, a half-hearted effort like the move was too hard for her, fully drained of energy and the will to be her.
“Yeah,” she says, and I take that as acceptance, and we drive in silence.
When we get there, she follows me in, taking in the house we spent so much of our childhood in, watching movies and playing games, me, Stella, and her sister Evie, on the days that Mrs. Hart wouldn’t let us play at their house.
“Not much has changed,” I say, peeling off the shirt that’s still near soaking, keeping my back to her as I grab a new shirt and slide it on before grabbing a pair of old sweats and a tee from the bottom drawer. “But it works in our favor. These are yours.” I toss the sweats to her. She lifts up the old, baggy grey sweat pants, Ashford High emblazoned down one leg, and for the first time all day, maybe longer, a smile cracks her lips.
“God, you still have these? I always wondered where they went.”
“I think you left them in my truck once, and, well, they’re yours again.” She puts them against her body, hips that have filled out in the best fucking way, but it’s clear they’ll still fit. I toss the tee her way. “Bathroom is… well, you know where it is. Bring me your clothes, and I can pop them in the dryer.” She doesn’t speak; she just looks at me, nods, and then walks away.
I change my pants to a pair of loose sweats, tossing my wet clothes into a pile and frantically trying to neaten up the bedroom.
It doesn’t take long for her to walk back toward me, a lump of wet clothes in her hands. Her hair is out of the ponytail she always wears, just barely passing her shoulders in wet strands that were clearly finger-brushed. My tee is way too big on her small frame, but I can still see the swells of her breasts and force my eyes not to linger on the way her nipples peak beneath the dark fabric, clearly not wearing her wet bra.
Then I take in the full image, Stell, my Stella, wet hair, wearing sweats and barefoot in my home. It’s familiar and new all the same, and it makes my heart ache.
I clear my throat, run my hand through my own wet hair, and smile.
“Pizza for dinner and a movie marathon?”
And then I get the second smile from her, letting my mind categorize and capture it before she nods.
Stella
It’s hours after pizza and too much time watching TV in his bedroom, long after he convinced me to sit in the bed next to him instead of sitting on the floor, long after I let myself pretend this was normal, that we were sixteen and eighteen and there wasn’t an ocean of trauma between us if only for a night.
Long after, my eyes started to blink longer, long after he insisted I lay down, resting my head on his chest, his arm wrapped around me protectively.
Long after, I quietly admitted, if only to myself, that I missed this, the steady rhythm of his heart under my ear, the way we could spend hours doing absolutely nothing so long as we were together.
I always had the feeling of home when I was with him.
It was always like this: even if my own family was a disaster, even when I never felt like I belonged there, I always belonged here. There were days when things felt so dark, when I felt those waters lapping at my ankles, ready to pull me down, but his arm could save me, keep my head above water.
In fact, I only fell under when I left him for good.
“What did she mean, saying you’re fucked in the head?” he asks, his voice low as if he could hear my thoughts. My gut churns with nerves. I was hoping he missed that jab, but even now, even after all these years, he never misses a thing.
I contemplate for a long time how to answer, if I should answer at all, but what does it even matter? What’s the worst that’s going to happen? He’s going to run away, think I’m crazy, and decide I’m more work than I’m worth?
“I have these bouts of depression every once in a while. The first time it happened, I couldn’t leave my bed for two weeks before my mother forced me to go to the doctor. Probably the one kindness she’s done to me. They helped me. Figure out what was going on, how to handle it, and what kind of meds would work best for me. It doesn’t happen too often now that we’ve got me on the right meds, but it still happens sometimes. She thinks it’s just… me being dramatic mostly. But when she wants to, she uses it as a weapon, another reason I’m fucked up in her mind, not worthy of her or her attention.” His hand never stops grazing up and down my back, caressing me, and I focus on it in order to stay out of my head, stay out of the thoughts that are swirling and sending me spiraling.
Time passes, and his hand keeps brushing up and down, a silent metronome as my mind starts to spiral into thoughts of Riggins thinking I’m insane or a lost cause or too much work, his silence clearly confirmation of that and I should just leave, but I don’t think Reed has brought my car yet and I?—
“Is it because of me?” he asks, breaking into my spiral of thoughts and letting me into his, where his mind is.
He thinks it’s his fault, and for some reason, I want to ease that worry. I’m a mess, but it’s not his fault.
