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“What are you doing here, Riggins?” she asks and it doesn’t really bug me anymore, her calling me Riggins instead of Riggs. Partially because I still getRiggswhenit matters, but also because it reveals her mood, her confusion and a hint of irritation, so different from the version I remember of her.
Old Stella would walk on eggshells, always afraid to show me too much of her burning star, worried it wouldn’t be received well.
This version doesn’t care at all, letting any thoughts she has fly, turning whatever eggshell between her and me into dust.
I smile and then extend a hand to her, marveling when she takes it without arguing.
We’re finally getting somewhere.
I tug, pulling her up to me until her chest is against mine, one of my hands moving behind her neck and sliding up into her hair, the other wrapping around her waist. Without prodding, her head tips up, one arm moving to loop around my neck, the other resting on my chest, over my tattoo.
I press my lips to hers, our lips melting together the way they always did long ago, sliding and opening, an invitation on her part, an instance on mine as I slide my tongue into her mouth, tangling and tasting her sweet coffee.
I stop there, knowing I could kiss her forever, spend the next thirty years making up for lost time and then some. Nipping her lip, I break the kiss and rest my forehead against hers.
She’s panting from that small press of lips, and I can’t help but smile.
“If you’re not going to stay the night and kiss me in the morning, I have to come and get one,” I whisper and watch her brows furrow in confusion.
“You’re not mad?” I can feel my lips move, smiling wide.
Her being worried I’d be mad if she left is a good sign for my cause of winning her back, once and for all. A great sign, even. I can’t help it but move again, resting my lips to hers once more before answering.
“You left a note.”
“I know, but?—”
“You need time, Stella, I’ll give it to you,” I say. “I’ll even give you space, but don’t you mistake it for me stepping back or giving up. I’ll let you steer this ship, steer the pace, but I’m here, Stella. We’re here. I’m not letting you leave again. I’ll follow you around the world, but I’m not letting you go.” Her face goes soft, and I realize this is the time; this is when I need to tell her everything.
Because I’m starting to remember bits and pieces of that day, and I never forgot the way I felt about her.
“I love you, Stella. A lot has changed, but that hasn’t,” I say, my pulse pounding, but I can feel hers doing the same, synching with my heart inside my chest. I smile and show my hand. ”Until I’m compost, food for the worms, little star.”
I repeat the words I whispered in a Vegas hotel room before we got married seven years ago. Her eyes go wide, realizing what I just said. A moment passes before she closes her eyes, taking a deep breath.
“I need space. I need space, and I need time. A lot just happened. I need to… I need to mourn the shit with my mom. I need space. I promise this isn’t some ploy to get away from you. It's not saying no, just that I need space.” She swallows, taking a deep, steadying breath. “When I’ve processed everything, we can talk. We’ll talk about… us. What to do next.”
I lean back, taking her in, reading her face. Something is off, something I can’t quite decode, and I can’t tell if it’s because she’s not telling the truth, her mask in place, or if it’s because there’s something more, a new tell I haven’t learned yet. But I also know pushing her won’t help at all. I take in a deep breath and let it out. “How long?” I ask finally.
“What?” Her brows furrow in surprise.
“I’ll give you space, but how long?”
”Riggins—“
“If you don’t give me a date, I’m coming to your house every day and checking on you.” I don’t mind giving her space, but I also know Stella better than I know myself. I need a date, or she’ll keep pushing me away.
“A week,” she says finally, an exhausted sigh leaving her lips.
“A week?”
“Yes. Give me a week to process.” I stand there, considering her offer and taking her in. Suddenly, I see it. She’s exhausted. All of this: me and her, dredging up the past, her mother—it’s a lot. Too much, I think.
“You’re tired,” I whisper, a hand reaching out, cupping her soft cheek, my thumb scraping over the skin there.
“I am,” she whispers.
“Okay, little star. Sleep. Take care of yourself for me. One week, I’m coming back. We’re going to our spot. Showing Gracie where we fell in love.” She rolls her lips between her teeth, and her eyes water. I’m pushing too hard. I know it. But I can’t seem to stop myself when I feel so fucking close.
