Instead of reaching for her, I reach for the mugs, still half-filled with chilled coffee, and take them to the kitchen. It’s well past midnight and even though Greg can handle the morning routine, I know the alarm will go off in a few hours and I’ll feel compelled to go the couple blocks up the street to check on things. I always do.
I make my way back through the house, turning lights off as I go, and stop to watch her. It’s hard to believe she’s turned from the knobby kneed kid she was to the beautiful creature now lying on my couch. What haunts me is the way my heart wants to burst in her presence.
Stella lets a sleepy sigh slip between her lips as her breathing evens out a little more. Her head drops back to rest more comfortably on the pillow at the end of the couch and I hear the faint whimper a floor away.
By the time I’m to the top of the stairs, the sobbing has started.
“Hey, Bub, what’s the matter? Bad dream?”
Britton clings to me as I seat myself on the edge of his bed and he climbs into my lap without so much as a word. Within a few minutes he’s sound asleep again and I’m left smoothing the damp hair from his forehead. I place another kiss to his crown and breathe in the scent of watermelon shampoo.
I whisper “goodnight” while sliding him back into his bed and wrap his arms around the stuffed teddy bear he’s had since birth — the only thing that remains of his mother other than a handful of photos.
***
“Britt, stop staring at her. Come on, your eggs are getting cold,” I say walking back toward the kitchen. He doesn’t budge. “Britton. Kitchen. Now.”
The sternness in my voice gets his attention. I have no idea how long he’d been standing there watching Stella sleep, but if I hadn’t walked in when I did I have a feeling he would have crawled up on the couch and snuggled right down with her. It’s been a long time since he had a woman’s attention other than my mom, so when he gets it undivided he soaks it up like a sponge. Apparently that goes for women who are sound asleep, as well.
“Daddy, who is she?” he asks as he climbs into his place at the breakfast nook. I don’t miss the incredulity in his little voice. Britt’s never seen me with a woman. I don’t have lady friends. I don’t do the dating thing anymore. I haven’t dated since I found out a weekend fling during a friend’s wedding extravaganza left me bearing the title “Father.”
Dating was even more out of the question when Britt’s mother walked into my parent’s kitchen one morning five years ago with the baby, his diaper bag and a suitcase with all of his clothes shoved inside and said, “He’s yours. I never wanted to be a mom.”
She’d consulted an attorney, given up her rights and left town.
Three weeks old and abandoned by his own mother.
My son had no idea what it was like to have a woman’s unconditional love other than what he’d gotten from Grandma Kathryn. His maternal grandparents probably don’t even know he exists. I never met them, either. The entire relationship with his mom was because we’d created him.
I got the best part of the deal, though. I got him.
“That is Stella. We were best friends when I was your age and she came to visit last night,” I smile at him. “Eat your eggs. We have to go check on Greg and make sure he didn’t burn down the kitchen.”
“But, why is she sleeping on our couch?”
“She fell asleep while we were talking. It’s not a big deal, buddy. Eat your eggs.” I’ll tell my son it isn’t a big deal, but it kind of is.
I hardly slept last night knowing Stella was just a couple rooms away.
Stella
Chapter Ten
I woke up with the feeling someone was standing over me but kept my eyes closed. I wasn’t in my bed. This couldn’t be good.
Then I heard Brian’s voice and the sound of feet moving away from me.
When I finally feel brave enough to open my eyes, I’m met with the sunlight streaming in through a large bay window and eyes as blue as the Caribbean.
“What the ... ?” I sit up straight, knowing I sound a little manic. There’s a miniature version of Brian sitting on the coffee table drinking a juice box, staring at me, wondering about me, who I am and why I’m here. I can see it in his eyes.
Why am I here? I wonder, too. Then I remember the night before — court, wine, cupcakes, the walk that still somehow mysteriously led me to this house.
“Britt! What did I tell you about staring at her? Leave her alone and get your shoes on,” Brian says walking into the living room. As Britt stands from his perch on the coffee table, Brian quickly replaces him. The likeness is eerie, at best. They’re identical, despite their age difference and the stubble lining Brian’s jaw. I just stare at him as he hands me a mug of fresh coffee.
I take it, but I’m on autopilot.
“Let me explain,” he says.
Autopilot breaks down and a smile, a real smile, cracks the shock on my face because I’m fairly certain I know what he’s going to tell me. “Explain what, Bri?”
“I might have failed to mention during our visit last night that there was a creepy little dude sound asleep upstairs. Might have.” A smile as wide as the one on my face releases the tension at his eyes. “This is my son, Britton — Britt. He’s five.”
That smile would have been enough to make my knees knock if I weren’t still curled up on the couch, clutching my coffee like a lifeline and snuggled into the warmth of his sweatshirt.
Brian’s a dad. How did I miss that? Oh, shit. If he’s a dad, that means there’s a mom somewhere.
“He’s cute. He looks just like you did when we were that age. Is his mom going to be mad I slept over?” I’m used to asking difficult questions subtly, even though I haven’t really been good at it lately because of the drama and preoccupation with my personal life. That’s not to say my reporter instincts don’t kick in when I need them most, like right now.
Brian lets out a strained laugh and I can tell this isn’t a subject he really wants to talk about. Not right now at least.
“His mom isn’t in the picture. It’s just been me and Britt since he was a few weeks old,” he says, and pride washes across his face as he leans to the side, looking over my shoulder to check on the little boy. “Have you got your shoes on, yet? Greg’s probably wondering where we are.”
“You have to work today?”
“I work every day of the week,” he says with a sly grin.
“Isn’t that illegal? They can’t make you work seven days a week every week. Sounds like a story. I mean, I know the coffeehouse is new, but if your boss has you working that much, I doubt the labor board would be too pleased.” I take a long sip of my coffee. There we go. The little bit of caffeine in my system has fully awakened the reporter lurking inside. He’s grinning at me, though. I’m missing something.
“Oh yeah, my boss ... he’s a real hard ass,” he laughs. “Someone hasn’t been doing her job, though. You didn’t check the DBA for the newest business in town, did you?”
I open my mouth to answer him as my phone starts playing “Rhythm of Love” by the Plain White T’s. Where the hell is my phone?
“Shit,” I say standing up and heading toward the sound. I find my jeans from the night before — dry and folded — on the bathroom counter. Seven missed calls. All from my sister. My phone starts singing to me again from the top of the pile.
“Steph! I’m fine. I promise.” I just don’t even bother with normal greetings. She’s not really a “hello” kind of person.
“Where are you? Oh my God, Stella, I woke up on your living room floor and you weren’t here but your car is here. I kind of freaked out.” Slightly dramatic for not even eight in the morning, but I get it. I would have done the same to her.
“I went for a walk,” I say to her. It’s not a lie, I tell myself. I really did go for a walk. “I’m going to call Caryn and see if she wants to go for coffee. Why don’t you get ready and meet me at the Jumping Bean in like half an hour? Drive my car. I didn’t b
ring my keys with me.”
I finish the call, change out of Brian’s sweats and into my jeans and shirt from the night before. My sweater is still damp and hanging over the curtain rod for the shower. I wonder if I can make it to the coffeehouse without freezing to death first, but realize we’re still in Western New York. It might be 40 degrees outside right now and 70 by noon. Turning to leave the bathroom, I shove my phone in the back pocket of my jeans and grab the SU hoodie from the counter.
Brian
Chapter Eleven
Stella comes walking out of the bathroom looking like she belongs here. Her auburn hair is a crumpled mess around her shoulders after wearing it up all night. The shadows under her eyes are less noticeable.
It’s taking all my energy to stay rooted in this spot by the front door. If I move at all, I know I’ll walk in her direction, grab her, and never let her go again.
My heart clenches as my son leaves my side and runs to her, placing his hand in hers.
“Will you walk to work with us this morning?” Britt asks her, staring up into her hazel eyes.
This is what innocence looks like. And it’s beautiful.
I want to freeze this moment because right now I’m seeing my past and my future collide.
“Sure, little man. I could use some coffee anyway. Want to sit with me and share a scone while I wait for my friends?”
Their conversation is so smooth and natural, and it hits me ... I’m raising a ladies man. Shaking my head and smiling, I open the front door and usher them out into the day.
***
“So, she slept over?”
“Yes.”
“And no moves were made?”
“No. Greg, are you kidding me? Her divorce was final yesterday,” I say gruffly. “Besides, I want to take her to dinner before I make any sort of move. The more important part of all this is Britt. I’ve never had a parade of women come through our home, and I’m not going to start now. Stella was my best friend when I was a kid and that’s kind of where I want to start again.”
Lies! All lies. What I wouldn’t do to drag her back to my bed and make her understand how much one man can truly love and worship her. I don’t want to just be her friend — I want to be her everything.
But “friends” is where it’s going to remain until it evolves into something else on its own.
“You got this?” I ask Greg as a few more customers come through the door. Uncrossing my arms, I push off from the counter I’m leaning against. “I need to check on Britt.”
Saturday and Sunday are the only days Britt is at the café with me, but this is the first time he’s sat out in the gallery with someone other than me. He had a little time to sit with just Stella and I watched as he showed her his coloring books and talked to her about his favorite books. It amazes me how easy she makes things after all this time. Introducing the two of them wasn’t something I had even thought about, but then again he’s part of every part of my life so I’ve never put much thought into how people would react to my having a child. Even when we were living in Tennessee with my parents it was always me and Britt.
The only time it wasn’t us was when Greg and I moved north to start the business in the spring. It was hard not having him with me all the time, but also made it easier to get our house established and the coffeehouse up and running before bringing him home.
The time he spent with just my parents was good for him, too. He was able to finish up the year in pre-K and had the summer to run wild and free before joining me in August to settle in before starting kindergarten at the beginning of September.
I walk out through the kitchen and see my guy in action. He and Stella have been joined by two more women, one I recognize as Caryn but I’m at a loss for who the other one is since her back is to me. One thing is clear though ... they’re all wrapped around Britt’s finger already.
Coming up behind the chairs, I fold my hands around the top of Stella’s seat.
“Hey, Daddy! Stella’s coloring with me, isn’t that cool?”
“Yeah, buddy, that’s awesome. Is she staying inside the lines?” I say, joking, and the three women at the table laugh at the silliness of it all.
I want to be part of this camaraderie. I want to take a few minutes to remember I’m not so busy. I pull a chair up from a nearby table and sit at a corner between Britt and Stella, but not before I notice the third woman gives Stella a look like she needs to introduce us.
But I already kind of recognize her. They both look so much like their mom it would be hard to miss the resemblance.
“Hi, I’m Brian,” I say, holding my hand out for Stephanie to shake. “You probably don’t remember me.”
She takes my hand and shakes it gently, staring at me with a confused look on her face, as though she’s heard that line before. And then she’s looking from Britt to me to Stella.
“How do you know me?” she asks, realizing Stella isn’t paying attention to us — she’s coloring a picture with my son and ignoring the rest of the world.
I chuckle and say, “I moved into the house next door to you and Stella shortly before you were born. We only lived here for about four years, though, so you were still really little when we moved to Tennessee.”
“That explains the accent. Yours and his.”
“Well, I picked it up after we moved, but his ... Britt’s is thick enough at times even I have trouble understanding him.”
The boy has a drawl on him that will definitely attract the ladies if he doesn’t lose it after being in New York for a while. It’s obviously already being put to good use. I haven’t even been acknowledged by Caryn and Stella is content with Britt’s story telling. I could be satisfied if the rest of my day consisted of this right here.
Damn, my heart. This is almost too much to bear.
“So, tell me about the coffeehouse. Caryn said she was working on a story about it, but can’t seem to get the owner to call her,” Steph says, stirring her drink. “Seems to me, if your boss wanted to tell the community you guys are here, they would call her.”
Have I not told any of them? I know I’ve been kind of cryptic about it, but I figured Greg would have told Caryn my name at least. They’ve had plenty of time to talk what with her coming in daily for her caffeine fix. I’ve seen her here every morning.
Realizing Britt and I are the only ones at the table, possibly in the entire coffeehouse right now, who know I own the business, I smile a real smile. I could have a lot of fun with this.
“Yeah, I should really kick his butt in gear and have him call her,” I say turning to look at Caryn. “Can I get your cell number for that story you want to do?”
Caryn and Stella glance up at me as I pull my phone from the back pocket of my jeans, holding it just below the table in my lap, and wait for her to tell me the digits, then dial as she rattles them off to me. I hit send and wait to hear Caryn’s phone start ringing.
She excuses herself from the table and heads for the door, going outside where it’s less noisy and the clatter of cups and plates and Saturday morning chatter is just background music.
Stella and Steph exchange a glance, then both look at me.
“Probably a work call. We can’t get away from them,” Stella says explaining Caryn’s quick departure while Steph gets up and moves over by Britt, picking up a crayon to give a Tyrannosaurus rex some color.
Once Caryn is at the door, I lift the phone to my ear and wait for the, “This is Caryn,” as she gives her best professional greeting.
“Uh, hi. I’m calling about the coffeehouse you were interested in doing a story about.” Stella’s head whips up to look me dead in the eyes, like everything in the world just shifted slightly to the right and she was knocked off kilter. “If you’re available Monday morning, stop in and we can talk then.”
I finish my call telling Caryn to just have Greg get me from the back when she gets here, but don’t tell her my name, then press the lock button on my phone and slip it into my rear pocket
just as she comes wandering back through the door, a grin on her face.
“So weird that you were just asking Brian about the owner of this place, Steph. He called me. Like, just now. I’ve got to come in Monday for the story,” she says.
“That’s great. Can I put it on the budget for Tuesday or do you need a few days to get a wrap on the story?” Stella asks, stealing a glance in my direction but not letting on she might know my secret that really isn’t a secret at all. It is something only Stella and I are privy to, though, and that alone — knowing I have that connection with her again so soon — makes it wildly intimate.
Stella
Chapter Twelve
It's half past midnight and I can't stop thinking about him. I've done nothing but toss and turn, flailing about in my bed like a damn fish stranded on the shoreline.
I don’t like this feeling.
Aren't I supposed to be mourning the loss of my marriage still? I've slowly gotten over the shock, the divorce papers giving me some closure, but I still spent a few nights cutting up any clothes Keith left behind and made sure to burn anything I knew he liked enough to come back for in the months after he walked out. Sometimes in life you have to have the satisfaction of taking back that kind of power. I needed to take back something — anything — that he'd taken in all our years together. He knew me better than anyone else, but the look on his face when I told him I'd torched his best suit because he failed to grab it from my side of the closet was priceless.
More than priceless; it reminded me I had a backbone.
I'm not the Stella he grew up with — the girl he always made a point of making sound like a martyr — no, at some point between us taking our vows and him breaking those sacred promises, I had changed as much as he had.
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