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STELLA
Though my hands shake and my stomach feels like it might lose the little I’ve eaten today, I walk to the parking lot behind the diner with my back straight, my chin up. I had a lapse in front of the store, but I refuse to let anyone else see me like that, to see her break me.
Not until I’m home alone and can lose it by myself, where I can process everything that’s somehow happened. My eyes scan the lot, finding my car easily, and I move toward it, but Riggs’ hand on my elbow tugs me, pulling me away from my car.
“Come on, Stell, this way,”
“What? My car’s right there.”
“I know, but I’m driving you home.“ I sigh and stop walking, turning to face him.
“I’m fine, Riggins, really. This was a long time coming, but not a surprise.” I pause, then tip my head. ”The slap was a surprise, but maybe it shouldn’t have been. I’m fine.“
“You’re shaking like a leaf, Stella.”
“I’m fine.” I insist.
“Humor me,” he says, crossing his arms on his chest, mimicking me.
“Why do you care so much? Why are you doing this, Riggins? Really. You keep swooping in and saving me, but for what? Why?”
“Because you’re mine. You’re my wife.”
I sigh, the sound deep in my chest. “Honey, I appreciate it, really, I do, but I’m fine. Seriously.” He stops moving altogether, and I look at him. “What?”
“Honey,” he says, staring at me with awe and wonder. “You called me honey.” I stare at him, taking in his face, the new lines and creases in his face and trying to match them with the mental image my brain conjures when I think of him, the sixteen, eighteen, twenty-one year old version my mind has committed to memory.
I remember all of the times I called him honey.
I also remember all the times he held me while I cried, all the times he hid me from prying eyes when I did, always embarrassed to do it in front of people. I remember all the times he protected me and saved me and decided arguing wasn’t worth the effort.
I’ll cave.
I always do when it comes to Riggins.
“Fine,” I whisper. “You can drive me home.”
Riggins opens the passenger side door, and he watches me climb in before he reaches across me, pulling the seatbelt and buckling me like a small child.
“I can buckle myself, you know.”
“Humor me,” he says again, then slams the door.
As he walks around the front, a few fat raindrops fall onto his windshield.
“It’s starting to rain,” he grumbles as he gets into the car, pushing his damp hair back, starting the car, and backing out. “Fucking hate the rain,” he says a minute later to himself.
When we turn off on Main Street, I finally speak.“What’s wrong with rain?” I watch him make a left at the red light on Main and Alderbridge, driving out of downtown toward my house. The scenery quickly turns from businesses to green fields bordered by trees.
“I hate the rain,” he repeats.
“What? Why? Since when?”
I shouldn’t ask.
I know that.
