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On Sunday, he comes in after the morning rush, sitting outside with Gracie. I go out with water for her after Amelia seats him. I trip on the uneven sidewalk as I walk out with a dog bowl, spilling the water to the concrete.
“Still clumsy, I see,” Riggins says with a smile, and I roll my eyes but don’t respond. Instead, I grab the full glass of water Amelia brought him and pour it into Gracie’s bowl, holding eye contact with him the whole time. He laughs and holds up his hands like he’s waving a white flag. I pet Gracie a few times, then reach into my pocket, where her nose nudes a treat.
“Can I give her this?” I ask, feeling strange since this was once my dog. He nods, and I hand it to her, watching her munch on it.
“Remember that time on tour when you found that little dog bakery and bought a bunch of treats for Gracie?” The memory is one I haven’t touched in a while, hidden amongst the other good memories I refuse to break out, covered in dust but precious all the same.
A small smile breaks on my lips despite my need to act indifferent, and I hug Gracie, burying my face into her fur. It’s probably a health code violation, hugging a dog on the clock, but I’ll worry about that later.
“Reed came in the bus, high as can be, and thought they were cookies. Picked one up and ate it.” I can’t hold back my small laugh now, moving back and looking at Riggins.
“He ate the whole thing and then told me I needed to work on the recipe,” I say with a small snort of a laugh. “We didn’t let him forget that one for weeks.” I laugh some more, but Riggins isn’t laughing. Instead, he’s staring at me with a small, sad smile on his lips, taking me in.
“There she is,” he says so low, the words filled with wonder. “There’s my little star. Buried deep under that mask,” I roll my eyes, but it doesn’t dull his smile. “Gotta keep trying to break through,” he says, as if to himself.
I stand, rolling my shoulder back and forcing myself to drop the smile.
“I’ll put your order in,” I say and his smile goes wider, but he lets me go all the same.
I serve him in silence, relieved when he doesn’t try to pull more memories I’ve hidden away out of my archives, and when I come to clean up his dishes, it’s the same as every other day.
A twenty and a photo of Gracie sitting in front of all the guys.In Riggs’ messy scrawl it says,
Gracie and the band on her first world tour
All my love, Riggins.
Just like he’s been every afternoon since he came to my house, Riggins sits outside the diner on Monday, Gracie settling beneath the table with him and turns his head to the windows, looking for me. Amelia doesn’t see him yet, but I don’t even bother to play the game of making him wait.
Instead, I walk past the hostess stand and snap a menu he doesn’t need before pushing open the door, the bells jingling as I do.
“Morning, Stell,” he says with a wide grin, not the shit-eating kind, not the kind that tells me he knows he’s succeeding at getting under my skin, but a different one.
One I used to see a lot when we were kids, when he threw rocks at my window, the one he'd give me when he passed me in a hallway or would answer a video call. It always made me feel like he was undeniably happy to see me, so much so that he couldn’t bother to play it cool, couldn’t bother not to let a huge smile creep across his face, making his dimple pop out.
“It’s not morning,” I say, my jaw set. Last night I sat up late, sitting on my little front porch, annoyed that I’ve let him get under my skin. I don’t hear from the man for five years, not a single peep, and suddenly I can’t go a single day without him bugging me.
“It’s morning for rockstars,” he says with that cocky smile.
“Got it. Your normal?” I ask, not bothering to pull out my pad. His brows furrow, and he nods, but there’s clear confusion there. He expects me to argue or give him shit, but I don’t.
I’m tired.
I’m tired in so many ways, only one of them being I’m tired of arguing with him. I’m tired of pushing him away. I’m tired of falling behind on expectations and I’m tired of living alone and in my safe bubble with no friends. I’m just tired.
It’s probably why I did what I did this morning. It’s probably why I walk out just a minute or so later with a small plate.
I drop it on the table without saying anything about it, just putting it next to his water and starting to move away.
I don’t know why I did it, why I went to the bakery down the corner after the morning rush and picked up the box of donuts I asked Patricia at the Ashford Baker to set aside for me. Why I put them all in the back room minus the French crueler, putting that on a plate and hiding it until Riggins showed.
And I definitely don’t know why I didn’t talk myself out of giving it to him this afternoon.
Mostly, though, I don’t know what I expected when I gave it to him. Because when his hand reaches out, grabbing my wrist and tugging so I can’t walk back into the diner and ignore him some more, it’s not unexpected.
“Did I forget something?” I ask, avoiding his eyes.
“French crueler,” he asks, words low and full of meaning. Much more meaning than those two words require or are worthy of.
