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There are so many responses she could give me, so many things I thought she might say when I confessed this. I've had the conversation with her a hundred times over and over in my head, then a hundred times more since I came back to Ashford and saw her.
You were stupid.
I hate you.
You should’ve tried harder.
And then on days when I’m feeling more hopeful, I’ve contemplated options likeit wasn’t your faultorwe were so youngorit’s okay.
But I never accounted for this.
“What was the wake-up call?”
“What?”
“Your wake-up call. It wasn’t when I left.”
“When my dad died,” I whisper into the quiet. A bird chirps overhead, and Gracie's tags jingle as she looks to the sky to find the source.
“I know,” she whispers. I know she knows, of course. She sat beside me and held my hand even though we hadn’t talked in two years.
“Then I hit rock bottom,” I say, another fact we both know too well. “The guys threatened to end everything if I didn’t get better. They would be done with me. I think they knew if I kept going, there'd be no band anyway, so they helped me, encouraged me.” I smile, remembering. “The first tour, a year after rehab, everyone was fully sober. It was the most boring tour of all time.”
The reviews from that tour were also atrocious.Riggins’ sobriety took the joy from his performance,one magazine said. “They were scared if I saw them partying, having a good time, I’d spiral too. Before the second leg, I had to talk to them, tell them I’d be fine, that being in the same room while they drank or smoked wouldn’t send me down that path again.” I shrug, remembering their disbelief
“It took a bit for them to believe me and longer for them to stop worrying I’d fall back in, but we got there.”
“Wow,” she whispers, her eyes wide because she knows how the tours were, how the after parties were, or at least how they were getting. Drugs and drinking and women and chaos everywhere. Every day, I thank whoever kept me from going even deeper, whoever up there stopped me from touching anything more than weed and liquor.
My mom, probably. I always liked the idea of that one, of my mother, watching over me, probably hurt and disappointed, but trying to save me all the same.
“I’m proud of you,” she says, breaking into my thoughts, the words quiet and unsure. “For doing it. Getting out. For living your dream but also for valuing your life. That was what I always wanted for you.”
More silence passes before I make my confession. I’m not sure if she’ll like it, but I will make it all the same.
“I did it for you, I think.” Her head snaps up, and this time, I don’t avoid her eyes. “The hope of it, of this. Of being able to talk with you again one day, for you not to look at me with pity and shame in your eyes, to sit in this spot once more.”
“Riggins…” she says, the word trailing off.
“I know things will never be the same. I don’t… I don’t want them to be. But I want you, Stella. In my life. I want you.” A bird sings overhead, but I keep staring at Stella and putting it all on the table. “And not as friends.” Silence spans again, but I don’t break it, leaving her to process my words and her feelings. Eventually, she speaks.
“I don’t know if I can give you me,” she says in a low, scared whisper.
“That’s okay,” I tell her. “We can take it day by day. It’s less scary that way. I learned that in AA. You take it day by day, figure out what you can handle, and don't worry about the day after, the next week, the next month, or the next year. A year of sobriety sounds fucking impossible when you’re deep in there, but a day? An hour? That’s doable. That’s what we have to do. Take it day by day,” I tell her, hoping she understands, that she’d be willing to do that with me. She stares at me, deep and assessing for long minutes before she nods. My chest lifts, warmth taking over with the hope.
“When I’m having an episode, that’s what I tell myself. An hour. A day. I can handle being sad or numb for a day. An hour. If I tell myself it might last seven days, a week, a month at my worst, that’s impossible. Unimaginable. But I can handle an hour.”
I don’t say anything, waiting to see if she wants to expand or if that’s enough sharing for now, and when she looks to the sky, bright blue and filled with puffy white clouds, my body relaxes, thinking that’s it for now.
“I’m scared,” she whispers.
“I know,” I say. “I am, too. But what’s the point of swimming to the surface if you’re not going to fight to see the sun?” She sits perfectly still, and I wonder for a moment if I pushed too hard. But still, I wait, and my patience is rewarded.
“I’ll fight, Riggs,” she whispers finally.
It’s then I know we’ll be okay. Because if Stella is willing to fight, I’m never giving up. Never.
“Beckett’s birthday is Friday,” I say when the silence stretches long and winding. It may have been minutes or even hours, but time always passed that way when we were together. Easy and slow as we let ourselves get lost in thoughts and inspiration and words and melodies.
