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“I don’t think so,” I say, and his body I didn’t realize had tensed eases, like four words took a weight off of him. “I think… I think it was always there, that darkness. You just… for a time, your light made it hide in the shadows.” He stays silent, letting that sink in and I’m mostly asleep when he finally speaks again, so asleep, I’m still not sure if it was a dream or not.
“I’m sorry I took your sun away, little star. I’ll never make that mistake again.”
I wake up in the middle of the night and feel rested despite the room being dark. It’s the kind of rest that goes bone deep into your soul, the kind you want to write down because you’re not sure you’ve ever slept that well and know you’ll definitely not do it again anytime soon.
And before I’m even fully awake, I know it’s because of the warm chest against my back, the heavy arm on my waist.
Riggins always liked to hold me. Even when he was asleep, his body craved touching mine, like a touchstone. I loved it because it always felt like he was holding me together, keeping all of my broken pieces together while I slept, keeping me safe.
Sometimes I wonder if that’s why the episodes come now, I wonder if part of it is because I don’t have someone at night, holding me together, making sure I don’t shatter.
That thought has my eyes opening. Gently, I extricate myself from under him, rolling a bit and putting a pillow under his arm the way he used to sleep when I wasn’t around.
When he tugs it in close, shifts a few times like his body knows something is different, I pause, but when he relaxes with a sigh, I do too.
I note Gracie is asleep on the dog bed in the living room when I walk out that way, and I rub my hand over her head. Her head and eyes are alert, but her body is unmoving.
“Go to bed, girl,” I whisper, and I shouldn’t be surprised when she licks my palm and then puts her head down, curling in on herself. She was always a smart dog, even as a puppy.
My shoes are by the door and I quickly and silently slide them on, grimacing at the fact they still feel wet. I grab my bag and as quietly as I can, head out the door where Reed brought my car at some point last night.
The exhaustion hits when I’m two traffic lights from my house, creeping into my veins like my well-rested state is tethered to Riggins.
One traffic light from home, I let out a loud yawn, masking the sob that tried to break from my chest.
I refuse to cry.
I can’t—I’ve done it too much this week as it is.
28 ANYWAY
NOW
RIGGINS
There’s no warmth next to me when I wake up, and the irritation brews in my veins, despite the fact that I know I need to give her time. As I pad out to the kitchen, there’s a scrap of paper, half ripped like it was pulled from a notebook in a rush, words scribbled not on the lines, but wherever they fit.
Stella.
I stare at it, at the words, realizing her handwriting has barely changed in all these years; it’s still the same loops and curves and lines as all those years ago when I used to watch her pen make on any scrap of paper she could find.
It's a comfort, in a way, to find the small things that haven’t changed.
R-
Back at my place, woke up early and need my meds.
She signed it with a star, the way she always used to. The star tattoo on my wrist, the one I woke up with in a Vegas hotel, burns with the knowledge it's her star on my wrist. That my heart is on her.
Well, at least she left a note, I tell myself, despite the disappointment from waking without her only slightly eased.
I also have to keep reminding myself that this is absolutely not a sprint. It’s a marathon, and I have to pace myself if I want to make it to the end with her.
Putting the paper back on the counter, I head to the bathroom to brush my teeth and get ready for the day.
The bumpy road of her winding drive reminds me we should figure out a better solution before the winter because even with a plow, a dirt road is a bitch with freezing and melting snow.
When I come into view and see her on her porch, I can feel more than see her eyes tracking me as I pull up. She’s sitting on that front porch swing, a notepad in her lap that she swiftly shoves under the cushion like she doesn’t want me to know what she’s been doing. She doesn’t walk my way as I get closer, nor as I put the truck into park and step out or when I walk up the three steps I repaired for her. Instead, she stares, preparing, taking a sip from a big lavender-colored mug and gently placing it on the railing of the porch as I move until I’m right in front of her.
