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“What, no time to chat?”
“Unfortunately, no, I have places to be,” I say.Like making up with your daughter, getting everything back to where it was always supposed to be, I want to say but don’t since she never liked my dating her daughter. She didn’t even like me being in her daughter’s stratosphere, but I think that’s more because she spent her entire time making those girls everything she never was, everything she wanted to be.
Rhonda Hart was born and raised in Ashford, but she always wished she was somewhere glamorous, like New York City. I always wondered how Hank, the girls’ dad, convinced her to stay here and how she never got to live the big life she aspired to. Either way, I think once that dream became unattainable, she looked to her daughters to live that life for her.
Her daughters who happily haven’t let Ashford, except for the few months Stella left with us. But that wasn’t the way she wanted Stella to live, so it was null and void, really.
“Are those for Stella?” she asks, irritation and anger in her words as her chin tips toward the flowers. While she was never pleasant with me, the anger and hatred in her eyes is new. Different.
“I’ll talk to you later, Mrs. Hart,” I say, trying to move around her. Where the fuck is Stacy, who normally works the self-checkout, eager to talk to anyone and everyone?
“I just thought you should know she’s moved on,” she says casually.
I should ignore her.
I should keep walking, leave the store and sit in my car outside the coffee shop until it’s time to meet with Stella. Or call Reed, dump all of my thoughts and feelings on him so I don’t explode with the nerves of talking to Stella.
Instead, I turn and look at the woman who would be gorgeous if it wasn’t for the envy that stains her face.
“What?” I ask, my words much less stable than I would have hoped.
“She’s moved on, Riggins. What did you expect her to wait here for you while you were off gallivanting with your little band?”
I force myself to take in a deep breath, to not jump to whatever conclusions she is trying to push me toward. That’s what she wants, after all. She’s always wanted the most distance between me and her daughter. I might not be the poor, white trash kid of a blue-collar contractor anymore, but I’ll never be the type of man she wants her daughter to be with. I’ll never have the “right” kind of money or influence for Rhonda Hart.
“It’s great to see you, Mrs. Hart, but I do have things to do.” I move to leave, but she moves to block me from leaving.
“Don’t believe me?” she asks snidely. “I have proof, of course.” She reaches for her phone and taps the screen a few times before looking back up at me, gauging my interest.
I should leave.
God, I know it. I should leave.
“She’s dating Tripp,” she says, and I take a moment for my mind to place the name but once I do, my jaw grinds.
The asshole who pinned her to a tree when she was 19, expecting more from her than she was willing to give. The son of one of Rhonda’s bitchy friends,
Rhonda takes a step closer, a catlike smile on her lips, and turns the phone to me. “See?”
I do.
Stella’s head is tipped back, her mouth open in a laugh, her hair trailing down her back as she does. Her arms are around his neck, dancing I assume, based on the bodies and couples around them, and he’s looking at her with… awe on his face.
I know the look well—I used to have the same anytime I saw Stella, anytime I looked her way. Awe that she was with me, that she choseme. Awe that she was so incredibly talented, at her ability to string together words and melodies in a way that could evoke emotions you didn’t want to share with the world. Awe in her kindness and her beauty and her grace.
And he’s looking at her, holding her, with that look on his face.
The phone is gone and Rhonda swipes a few times, then shows me the screen again. Stella in a knee-length blue dress, her hair hanging in long wavy sheets, his arm on her waist.
It’s clear to anyone looking that they’re together.
My words croak when I speak.
“When were these taken?” I ask, begging some god I don’t know I believe in that it was six months, or eight months ago. Fuck, even if it was right after she left, I’d be okay with it. Just not?—
“Two weeks ago at his mother’s wedding.” I feel nauseous. My fingers hold onto the bouquet of flowers loosely, barely grasping them.
“I set them up, of course. Finally, she let me choose a nice, suitable man for her.” She takes her phone again and looks at it, exaggerated joy and peace on her face. “Doesn’t she just look so happy? A mother does always know best.”
