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“Honestly?”
“Always.” A beat passes as she picks at her nails before she looks me dead in the eye and answers.
“I think you came home because you need to write, and this is where you do it. I’m who you do it with. I think a part of you wanted to see if you could make it work, what we used to have, the writing relationship.” She shrugs, then looks at her nails again. “It sounds self-centered to say you came home for me, but it makes sense. You’re about to record a new album; it’s the only thing I can think of.”
There’s a long moment before I answer, trying to think of the best way to explain. She’s not completely right: I came back to clean out my parents' house, to put it on the market and close that chapter. But I’d be lying if I didn’t say that I’ve been stuck since the last album, no true idea on what to write.
The first album we released after Stella left was angry, so many songs about heartbreak, but also a lot about getting drunk and having a blast and the band. The second album after I got clean was full of self-realizations, songs about getting sober and not being as bullet proof as I once thought. It was about self hatred and self acceptance and loss.
But now the label is looking for our next album, and nothing has come when I put pen to paper. I’ll admit, a part of me thought being here again might give me some kind of inspiration, that being where it all started might help.
“I’m tired of being angry,” I say, my voice low. “I’m so tired of being angry and being sad, Stell. I spent years being so angry. At you, at my dad, at the world. I came back because I needed to remember why I started this and what I loved. I want to write about love and friends and being happy again. I haven’t been able to do that since I wrote with you.”
“Oh,” is all she says, and suddenly, I wonder if she wishes I had lied, telling her I came just for her. But where have little lies gotten us? A bunch of small lies always make the biggest mess.
“Stella, that’s not to say I didn’t come here wishing deep in my soul that I’d see you, that I’d cross paths and get to try and make things good with you. That’s what I want, Stell. That’s what I want most of all, to make things good with you.” I reach across the table to grab her hand and hold it, mostly reassurance for myself, but she slides it out of reach, continuing to stare at her nails. I sigh.
“We need to talk, Stella,” I say, my voice low and soft like she’s a scared cat.
“Riggins…” Back to Riggins. Fuck. Somehow, I made this worse. Somehow, I’ve convinced her to crawl back into her shell.
Well, I guess there’s no point in playing it safe anymore. I sit up straighter, reaching and grabbing the hand she’s staring at before she can pull away. When she looks up at me, I see the mix of emotions, the confusion and the panic and the fear there.
“We need to talk. We’re married, Stella. So much has happened between then and now. Fuck, so much happened then, and I have a feeling we both only remember or know half of it. We need to talk. We need to… Fuck, little star, I still love you.” Her head jerks back like she’s confused, like that shocks her, which is wild to me.
How the fuck does she not know I love her?
“I love you, Stella. I always have. And I miss you so fucking much. I have for five years. Longer, if we’re being honest, because I lost you long before then. I miss you in my bones. You are my person. A part of me is missing when you’re not near.” Her eyes start to wander, but her shoulders straighten, resolve in her face as she pulls her hand away.
“Riggins. It’s not that easy. It’s not that simple.”
“Why not?” I ask.
“What?”
“Who says it’s not that easy? Who is to say it isn’t as easy as deciding we both were young and stupid and stubborn—” she tries to cut in, but I steam roll over her, knowing I chose my words wrong but unable to change it now. “And we just need to talk. Who says it can’t be as easy as that?”
“I do,” she whispers. “I say it’s not that easy. You destroyed me once—” Frustration bubbles under my skin, and I speak without filtering.
“Then let me help fix you, Stella.” Her entire body goes stiff.
“What?” She says the single word stilted, something I don’t realize until after I fuck up. I should tread carefully, but I don’t.
“I destroyed you; let me help fix you.” There’s silence before she speaks, a surprise, in a way, because I think she believes she’s not broken, or at the very least, has convinced herself of it.
“There’s nothing to fix, Riggins. I’m fine.” Her jaw is set tight, but I don’t stop.
“You’re not you, at the very least, Stella.”
“You don’t know me anymore.” She stands, and my gut drops, but my anger wins, the stubbornness canceling out common sense.
“You keep telling yourself that, but it’s bullshit, and we both know it. You put on your armor, protect your heart because I broke it years ago, but this armor? It isn’t you. It’s exactly that: protection. From me, from the world, from yourself, from your mother. You became what she wanted because it was the safe option, but you lost yourself doing it.” I pause, looking her dead in the eye to make sure she hears my next words and understands how serious I am. “And I’m making it my job to bring you back.”
“You have to leave,” she whispers, her voice pained.
I went too far.
I needed to go too far, to knock some sense into her, to tell her I see through her bullshit, but I went too far all the same, and that wall is back up.
