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Would it be a red flag to her if I bought another and surprised her with it? Would it bring up bad memories, remind her once again of what a fuck up I was? I am?
I shake my head at the thoughts, instead picking up the glass of orange juice I poured and taking a sip.
She hates orange juice, always has, but she’s been stocking it for me. Whether she’s doing it consciously or not, it’s another sign she’s slowly accepting that we are on our way to being something now.
“What are you doing here?” she asks as she walks into the kitchen, where I’m leaning against the countertops that need replacing. The entire kitchen is a country style that doesn’t fit my girl one bit, but we’ll get to it once we make the upstairs livable.
I set down the glass I’m pretty sure she bought at the thrift store in town. None of her plates, cups, or utensils are the same, yet they all match in a strange way, a skill she had even when we were living together, when we were living off the dregs of my minimal advance and then royalties that took forever to start trickling in.
She’d go into the thrift store in town and leave with an entire set of dishware. None matched, but they were all in the same color family or with the same decoration, so somehow, they worked together.
I reach an arm out as she moves to walk past me and stop her, tugging her close so her front is against mine, my body at ease now that the steady rhythm of her pulse is under my hand.
“Kiss,” I whisper, and her eyes go soft even though she fights it.
I used to do that every time she walked in the door, refusing to say a single word to her unless she gave me a kiss. Sometimes just to be a brat, she’d avoid me and give me the silent treatment back, not saying a word, the only clue that she wasn’t actually pissed at me being the way the corners of her lips would tip up.
Sometimes, it would go so far that I’d grab her, toss her onto our bed, and plant kisses everywhere but her lips until she was squirming and whining beneath me, finally reaching for my jaw and pressing a kiss to my lips.
Then, of course, I’d finish the job, but I’d do it whispering all of the sweet nothings and dirty promises I’d held at bay until then.
But it doesn’t have to go there this time, her chin tipping up, her arm moving behind my neck, pulling my face to hers and pressing a sweet, soft kiss to my lips.
It’s shit like this, the simpleness of a hello kiss and having her in my arms, of being here when she came back from running errands that I tend to miss most of all.
The casual, warm love of being with Stella.
“Hey,” she whispers against my lips with a dreamy look in her eye when the kiss breaks, and I know she feels it, too. The comfort of us, how easily we’ve already shifted back into it, into the way we always were and always were supposed to be.
There’s a fuck ton for us to work through before we can move forward, but for the first time since I found out what really happened in Las Vegas, I feel like there’s hope. A cloud has parted, letting the stars shine through in the dark night sky.
“Hey,” I whisper back, my lips brushing hers with the words. “How were your errands?” I asked as her head moves back a bit, so she can look at me.
“Fine. What are you doing here?” Her small hand reaches up and brushes my hair back. I have it in a small bun at the top of my head, but I’ve never mastered the ability to tie it up and get it all in the bun. Right now, I think I never want to learn. I want to always keep it this length just so she has to repeat that move over and over again.
“I was working on the floors upstairs, then I ran out to get stuff for dinner. I was gonna go back to working on the floors, but then I heard you pulling in.”
Her brows furrow. “You’re working on my floors?”
“Yeah, well, a bit. I ripped up the carpet. Got a guy coming early tomorrow to drop off a dumpster for all the shit. Some of the old floors underneath are salvageable, but most need removing and replacing.” She’s staring at me, her mouth open a bit, but I keep going, explaining my thought process. “Baseboards are shot, so I ripped those out, fixed anything that needed patching. Luckily, most of everything is in okay condition, just ugly. Eventually, we’ll need to replace the windows since they’re drafty and old, but they work for now. Next summer, most likely.”
I don’t add how I was thinking of having someone come next summer while we’re on tour to build an extension or maybe an additional house out on her land, a small recording studio for when the muse hits. If we’re going to be staying in Ashford forever, I need a way to record without having to go to the city regularly.
But even I, in my optimistic delusion, can see that would scare Stella off.
A long beat passes as she lets my words digest, and then finally, she asks, “Why?”
“What?”
“Why are you doing this?” A moment passes as I try to think of the honest way to answer, how to tell her what I’m thinking and feeling.
But I decide this is safe to admit.
“This was always your dream house, Stell. I told you when we were kids I’d fix it up for you. I haven’t always kept my word, but I’m trying to change that.” Her eyes glaze over, unshed tears shining, but she nods all the same like that’s the reasonable, acceptable answer, as if it’s not impacting her at all.
“Okay,” she says, continuing to nod, then putting her stuff down on the counter, moving her hands to her hair and pulling her hair into a ponytail at the top of head. For a moment I think about how funny we must look together, my bun and her ponytail, but it’s gone when she speaks again. “How can I help?”
“What?”
