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There’s even a photo of me holding his hand at his father’s funeral. Then there’s an article aboutme—Everything you need to know about Stella Hart, Atlas Oaks’ front man’s secret wife. Quotes from artists I’ve worked with, people in town who know me or think they do.
It all feels horribly invasive as if I no longer have control or privacy.
The room starts to shrink around me, dark blue waters lapping at my ankles as I lay all of them out on the counter. Some are painting me as a home-wrecker, sympathetic articles about Willa Stone, theheartbroken pop star.
The public doesn’t know about the fake relationship they sold too well.
I should have known this would happen. Even when we were together, when the press was just barely starting to get interested in Riggins and the band, the shit they’d publish was ridiculous, so far from reality that sometimes, we’d laugh about it.
But right now, as I carefully spread the photos and articles on my kitchen island, I can’t find any humor in it. Not when front and center is an article showing Riggins out partying, clearly wasted beyond recognition, the photo allegedly taken the night I left. While I was on a plane back to New Jersey, sobbing the whole way, he was out partying.
It looks strange right next to a photo of me in a white dress we bought on the strip, Riggins in his usual dark jeans and a tee, standing in front of an officiant at a little chapel in Vegas. How the press got that photo, I don’t know.Idon’t even have a copy of it.
All I can remember is how fucking hopeful I was at that moment and how it all came tumbling the next day. For the first time in a week, I wonder if I can do this. If I can handle the scrutiny of the media, the constant reminder of the hurdles we’ve jumped.
For the first time, reality hits me. I told him I was ready to try, but I didn’t think about the outside world when I made that jump. I didn’t think about the scrutiny I would face, that we would face, and if I was strong enough to withstand it.
Can I do this?
Can I handle this? My mental state is fragile as it is, so can I endure the constant reminders of the most painful days of my life?
For the first time since that day, I let my brain go back to that morning, dissecting where we went wrong, the moment Riggins broke my heart, and I let myself wonder if this fairytale we’ve been living in for a week can ever overcome that.
39 CATASTROPHIZE
THEN
STELLA
When I wake the next morning, I’m the happiest I’ve ever been. I’m a bit hungover, and for a moment, I think that splitting a bottle of champagne was probably not the best idea we’ve had, especially since I’ve been the one asking him to drink a bit less, but it was a special occasion.
We got married!
I shift a bit, doing a total body scan to see how I feel, and I’m pleased when the only real discomfort is a slight headache and an ache in my wrist. Last night, right after we got married, we went down to a tattoo shop, where I got my first tattoo. A small heart is on the wrist of my left hand, and the letter R is inside of the heart. Riggs got a star for Stella in the same place, a star I can just barely see from where he’s curled up on the bed.
He looks so fucking handsome, peacefully sleeping, his hair a mess, his face soft and boyish, and I start to tear up for a moment like the sap I am, thinking about how I get to wake up to him for the rest of my life.
All of my dreams are coming true.
We can now travel the world together, write songs, and be together. I can sit at the wings of the stage and watch him play and live out his dreams. I’ll write music for Atlas Oaks and other bands who have already started to reach out to me about ghostwriting. Eventually, we’ll start a family, and we’ll bring our kids on the road with us and have our home base in Ashford. We’ll take them to our spot in the woods and show them where we fell in love.
Love songs start twining through my mind, and I wonder how long we have until soundcheck if it’s enough time to get Riggs’ guitar and start playing around with a new song.
My giddiness must be contagious because slowly, I watch Riggs start to stir, and I reach up, brushing his hair back from his face. When his eyes open, his greens out of focus, I whisper, “Good morning, husband,” with what I know is a goofy smile.
He blinks again, one, twice, three times, then smiles a bit wonky.
“Husband, huh?” He asks, slowly sitting up and leaning against the headboard, pulling me in close.
“Well, yeah,” I say with a small laugh.
Riggs presses his lips to my hair. “One day, soon. Once tour is over,” he says.
And suddenly, my bright, golden morning has a rain cloud.
“What?” I asked, hoping I heard him wrong.
He speaks into my hair, oblivious to the panic coursing through me. “You know I can’t wait to marry you, but we’re going to do it right when it finally happens.” The world spins as he pulls back and sits up. I watch him stretch, but the confusion and nausea that hits me has nothing to do with the champagne. “What happened last night?” he asks, looking around the room. With the words, my gut drops to my feet.
