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Three more water bottles.
I open each, smelling the same Vodka smell. I feel sick to my stomach, then move to the trash, finding more water bottles. Two smell like nothing, but one…. One empty bottle smells like vodka.
Evie was right.
“I’m coming home,” I say, my voice cracking as I fight tears once more. I start moving things, tucking my clothes into my bag and Riggings’ things into his. I’ll have to stop by the bus to get the rest of my stuff anyway, so I’ll drop his off when I do. I hope no one is there to stop me or ask me to stay.
Because I need to get away.
He can call me later and talk, but I need space.
And my sister.
40 BUSYHEAD
NOW
STELLA
His truck steers down my drive as the sun starts to dip, headlights on and bumping in the dark. I’m on my porch swing, and I tuck the notebook under the seat just like I did all those weeks ago.
I feel just as conflicted about him being here as I did then, too.
I’ve been sitting here for over two hours, but I haven’t written a line. Instead, I’ve been stuck in my head, trying to come to terms with the tabloid articles that were delivered to me, the knowledge that he was out partying the night I left, conflicting with the bliss that it has been being back with him for the past two weeks.
I won’t deny I love Riggins Greene. I can’t deny that he will always have a part of my soul, a part that I'll never get back. I’ll always have a part of my soul that aches to be with him, but sitting out here, I can’t decide if I can be with him. If I can deal with the constant pressure and speculation that he’s seeing someone else, the rumor mill that tries to sell papers at the expense of real people. I know he would never do that to me, but the pressure of the constant rumors could easily grind me down to dust.
I loved being a songwriter with a pen name because it gave me a layer of disconnect from the destructive world of the music industry. But now that barrier is gone, and if I keep things up with Riggs, things will only get worse.
Do I want that? Can I endure that?
Even with just the two hours that I’ve felt the invisible pressure of the press since I opened those articles, I felt the waters rising at my feet. Am I strong enough for this? Does he not deserve better?
And finally, with the news that he was out partying the day I left, I’m finding myself back to my original concern: I left and Riggins never looked back. Not a call or a text or a knock at my door.
When his dad died, we made plans to get coffee and finally talk, but he never showed up.
So why now? Why is he finally now choosing to come back into my life? The scared, fragile part I’ve been trying to quiet for weeks whispers,what’s stopping him from disappearing again?
He steps out of the truck, Gracie jumping out after him, and I wonder just how many bruises a heart can take before it becomes permanently damaged.
“Hey, little star,” he says casually as he walks up the stairs, stepping close, a wide, happy smile on his lips.
It kills me.
It kills me because I want this—it’s all I’ve ever wanted, really, but I don’t know if I can. I have enough issues with balancing reality and the mixed-up version my brain makes of it. Will adding another layer of concern and confusion make it that much worse? Will I be able to function with the threat of tabloids hanging over me?
Without my permission, my mind moves to all those times when we were young, and Riggins would come back to me drunk, a carefree smile on his face. I’d hide away my frustration and concern, nervous to let him know how I was feeling.
I’m not that girl anymore, though.
His brown furrows when I don’t respond, when my face stays tight, when I don’t stand and kiss him like I have every other night he’s come home to me and I’ve been on the swing.
“What…” he says, pausing. “What’s wrong?”
“What did you do the night I left?”
“What?”
