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Or maybe… maybe there’s something wrong. That knot in my stomach tightens, remembering the dark bags under her eyes the last time I saw her, the exhaustion that I could almost touch in the air. Maybe she’s sick. Maybe she needs me.
I make my decision, the only one that makes sense. I reach for the doorknob, half praying it’s unlocked to make my life easier, half praying it’s locked because the thought of her being unprotected makes me sick. It’s a mix of panic and relief when I realize it’s not locked.
Turning the knob, my heart races with the worst-case scenarios. She lives alone in this big house; what if something bad happened? Maybe a carbon monoxide leak or a slip, and she hit her head. Maybe she was kidnapped, or— my anxiety that I’ve never been able to conquer jumps to a new level when I look around her house, stopping dead in my tracks.
The living room seems like a tomb, untouched but clean, but even from here, I can see the kitchen is a disaster. As I step into the house, closing the door quietly behind me and moving deeper, I get a better view of the large kitchen.
Cups and plates piled high in the sink, the cabinet underneath open, revealing the garbage piled high. The entire place clearly needs a vacuum or better yet, a deep clean. Maybe she’s sick?
I try calling her name.
“Stella? It’s Riggins. Came in to check on you.” I wait for a moment before I hear something in the hall to my right, a fumbling, a low curse, and then her voice.
“All good, Riggs,” she says.
God, I fucking love hearing her say my name like that, but even now, it’s barely a balm on my nerves. At least she’s alive, I guess.
“You should head out, though. I’m, uh. I’m sick,” she says. “Wouldn’t want you to catch it.”
She’s lying. My gut churns with nerves and worry as I step toward where she is. There’s laundry on the floor, a few men’s shirts scattered, and for a moment, I wonder if maybe she wants me to leave because a man is here, but when I pick it up, it’s an old tee of mine. She used to steal them to sleep in, fitting her small frame more like a nightgown than a tee.
I’d smile if I wasn’t nervous. Instead, I drop it and keep walking toward her.
“Coming in to check on you, Stell,” I say.
“Seriously, Riggs, there’s no need to; I—” Her words stop as I push open her bedroom door.
It’s a disaster, clothes sprawled around, more cups and mugs and plates on surfaces, Stella in the middle on a huge four poster bed that looks like something out of an old time movie rather than in the 21st century.
But it’s Stella who has my gut churning. Bags under her eyes, clothes askew. Her hair is a mess in a bun on top of her head, but even from here I can tell she hasn’t brushed it potentially since I last saw her.
What’s most concerning, though, is her eyes, where the light has turned off.
Something is wrong. Very wrong. I walk over to her slowly, like she’s a stray cat I might spook, who might go into hiding again if I move too quickly, and her shoulders fall, her head tipping down to look at her sheets.
“Stella…” I start
“I’m okay. Just.. having one of those weeks.”
“One of those weeks?” I repeat, then finally make it to her and reach out, grabbing her hand as I move to a squat, looking up at her. Her eyes are watering now, filled with emotions I don’t want to see there.
Sadness. Fear.
She’s afraid of what I’ll say about what I walked into.
“Stell,” I whisper.
“I’m fine, really. I’ll be good in a day or so, and we can have our talk.”
“Our talk?”
“That’s why you’re here. I’ve been ignoring your calls and texts, you want to get this chat over with. And we will, Riggs, promise. Just not…. Not now.”
“You think…. You think I’m here because I’m mad and want to have a talk.”
“Well, yeah, Riggins. But I’m not up for it, I’m sorry. I’m really tired, Riggins. You see I’m alive. You can go,”
“Stella, I—” I start, but she cuts me off again, leaving her back to me as she pulls back the covers and slides under, curling into a ball.
