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“He was my neighbor growing up,” I say, not exactly lying.
“No way! Lucky!” Her eyes are dreamy and dazed, but as I open my mouth to ask if she wants the table instead, she speaks again. “He has a dog with him, asked for a bowl of water for her.”
“A dog?” I ask, turning to look at her.
“Yeah, super cute one. She wasn’t even on a leash. Seems a little strange but,” she shrugs.
It’s not strange to me because Gracie has always loved Riggs. He got her for me when she was a puppy, and I did everything to keep her alive and happy. When Riggs would come back to the bus or whatever hotel room we were staying in, she would run to him, never leaving his side. We could go on long walks in new places with new smells and new people to inspect, and if Riggs was with us, we wouldn’t need a leash to keep her with us.
“She’s a free spirit, little star,” I remember him saying. “Just like you; she always comes back to me.”
“Just like me,” I had said with a wide smile, a smile he had liked a lot because he kissed me so hard, I thought it was going to bruise.
This is his plan, I guess. Gracie being with him is intentional, just like how he showed up at my place. He knows I can’t resist seeing her again and, for whatever reason, he wants me to talk to him.
I do as he wants, grabbing a menu and walking out front to the three outdoor seating chairs. It’s still a little chilly out, but it’s the kind you know will warm up quickly as I walk to Riggins’ table and hand him the menu. I do a close-legged squat to get on Gracie’s level, brushing her fur back with my hand.
“How are you today?” I ask in a low, cooing voice.
“Now that you’re here, I’m great,” Riggs says, and when I look up at him, he doesn’t have the cocky grin I expect but soft eyes and a sincere face. Instead of replying, giving in to my instinct to argue, I continue petting Gracie. A minute or so later, I begrudgingly stand, grab the pad out of my apron, and stare at Riggins without a word.
He stares right back, but this time, his eyes dance with laughter, his lips ticking up, his dimple coming out.
I glare some more before he gives into the apparent humor and lets out a laugh.
“God, you know, for a moment, I thought you really had changed into the robot your mom always wanted, but this?” His hand gestures at me, indicating all that is me. “Proves you haven’t. Good to see, little star. I was worried there for a second.”
Goddammit.Only Riggins Greene could find my glaring at him and refusing to talk to him a good thing.
“What do you want, Riggins?”
“I want to talk. We have to talk, Stella.”
I roll my eyes and sigh. “I meant to eat. What do you want to eat?”
“You know my order,” he says, and a part of me warms at the fact that he still gets the same breakfast order all these years later.
I stare at him, battling with myself to pretend if I should lie and say I don’t know his order anymore, lie and tell him I blocked out everything that had to do with him, even if I still know he hates mornings but will get out of bed for breakfast every time. He drinks orange juice with his pancakes and wants the syrup on the side so he can dip them but the butter on top so they get all soft. “You’re literally defeating the purpose,” I once said.“They’re all soggy from the butter anyway, so why not just add the syrup? Then you don’t have to dip every single bite.”
“Because then I couldn’t watch you get all irrationally angry about it, little star.”
Is this what I’m destined to do until he gets tired of this game? Constant reminders of a history I long buried? Forever having what I once had thrown in my face until he gets bored?
Instead of saying any of that, I nod, don’t bother to write anything on the notepad, and turn on my heel for the kitchen.
When I bring out his food, I also bring the check, silently placing it on his table before turning, but I don’t get far.
He grabs my wrist, and I see the scars there, tiny cuts on his fingers from guitars, from youth, from stupidity. I have matching ones on my fingers, and they used to be a comfort, knowing at the very least, we always had that in common.
The scars and the love of music.
“We need to talk, Stella. Come to lunch with me. Or dinner. Something.” I shake my head.
“We don’t, Riggins. We really don’t have to talk. I’ll get papers to you—I should have done it forever ago, but?—”
“But you didn’t want to. You liked having that tie to me, that hint of hope I’d get my head out of my ass. I know you, Stella. There was never a person on this earth who knew me like you know me, but it goes both ways.” I shake my head, tugging my hand free, and lie again.
“No. I never did because I knew, like with every fucking moment in your life, you’d be stubborn and not just give me what I wanted, what I needed. You’d insist on seeing me and, Riggins, I closed that door years ago.”
