by Roxy Reid
12
Wade
Because you flinched. The week is drab and airless without Stella, and I think of calling her every morning when I see her empty desk. When I finish the last romcom on our list. When I show up late for a meeting for the first time since Stella started.
I think of calling her every second I’m at home, because the place is filled with her. Her choice in furniture, her favorite coffee mug, the takeout menus organized by some metric that only made sense to her. It used to be an empty house I lived in. Now it’s a home. Because of Stella.
I think of calling her, because I want her back so bad I ache with it, but every time I think of calling her I think of why she left.
Because you flinched.
And the thing is, nothing has changed. It’s still an affair I started with a woman when she was my assistant. It’s still a secret I’m keeping from Duke.
She had a deal breaker, and it broke us. I tell myself it’s not a big deal, she didn’t want me, it happens.
Late one night I crack and text her. Stella, can we please talk?
I wake up in the morning with a pale echo of hope, and for a second I can’t remember why, and then I remember: I texted Stella.
But she doesn’t text me back
Because I flinched.
For a moment I just stare at the ceiling, hating myself, hating the world.
I don’t want to get out of bed. But I do. Because that’s what you do when there’s a company full of people counting on you.
13
Stella
One of the lightbulbs burns out in my bathroom, and when I can’t reach to change it, I think of Wade rescuing me in the hardware aisle at the grocery store and start sobbing like a baby. The thing with losing your job and your—well, whatever Wade and I were—at the same time is that there’s no normal to cut the obsessive spirals your brain goes in. What I miss about him, what I should have done differently, what would happen if I went back to him and said it’s fine, I’ll be your secret, I’ll be anything you want, just hold me.
Stella, can we please talk? That text is burning a hole in my heart, and I feel like everything inside me is going to pour out at any minute.
Maybe that’s why I’ve been crying so much.
Or maybe it’s just that I’m about to start my period.
I snort through my tears, laughing at myself. Of course it’s hormones. My period should start … Well, should have started …
I stare at my reflection in horror. My period should have started two weeks ago.
Oh God. Oh God.
I grab the counter for balance.
I make myself breathe. No sense panicking yet. I’ve skipped periods before, when it was a tight month and I wasn’t eating or sleeping enough.
But I’ve definitely been eating enough. Wade’s got me hooked on deliciously seasoned vegetables and protein that isn’t peanut butter or hot dogs.
Still, there could be an explanation. No sense panicking until …
Well, until.
I grab my purse and head to the store.
First of all, pregnancy tests are ten bucks. I don’t know why I thought decades-old technology that involves awkwardly peeing on a stick during the worst moment of your life should be cheaper than that, but I did.
I set the test on my bathroom counter, and wash my hands. Then I pace as I wait for the results.
It’s the longest three minutes of my life.
And then the little line appears.
I’m pregnant.
I sit down on the floor, fighting a roaring in my ears.
I’m pregnant.
With Wade St. George’s kid.
No. This kid is mine. The thought is intense, visceral, and takes me by surprise. I’ve always wanted kids, but this isn’t a kid yet. It’s barely a fetus.
There’s a midwife in my alcoholics anonymous group. She says in some ancient cultures, the woman wasn’t “with child” until she felt the baby kick. I remembered because I liked the idea. That from the start, what makes us human is the urge to kick. To fight back. To move.
I don’t feel like kicking right now. I feel like curling up in a ball.
I wrap my arms around my knees and rock, thinking this is when the crying starts again, but I’m all cried out.
It’s probably shock, but I feel surprisingly clear headed. There are four options in front of me:
1. Tell Wade, and see if we can make it work together now that there’s a kid on the line.
We both want kids. We were both hovering on the edge of loving each other. Maybe this would … I shake my head, and reject the idea. If it doesn’t work, I can’t bear to have him breaking up with me in the delivery room. And if it does work, I don’t want to spend my whole life loving someone who only loves me because of my kid.
2. Tell Wade, and do the co-parenting thing as exes.
That’s the thing people do, right? Wade would probably be a great dad, once he remembered to come home from the office and the kid got old enough to eat takeout. But my arms tighten around my stomach. Because what happens if things go sour? What happens if we get in a fight, but instead of accusing me of sabotaging the company, he decides he wants sole custody? Normally courts pick the mom, because sexism, but in my case… Wade’s a billionaire, a respected pillar of the community, and just a good man. I’m a recovering alcoholic who hasn’t managed to keep a job with health insurance for more than a month. If this drum teacher thing doesn’t work out … I don’t want them to take my child.
3. Don’t keep it.
Abortion’s an option, and I have friends who have had abortions, and they know it was absolutely the right thing for them. Same for adoption. But I think the fact that I’m already thinking of it as my child nixes that option.
Which leaves my last option:
4. Keep the kid. Don’t tell Wade.
At least not at first. Wait until I’ve held the drum teacher job for a year, or two. Wait until I’ve lived in one city for a whole calendar year, for the first time in years. Wait until I’ve got external things I can point to in court that say I am a fit mother.
Instead of just this burning fire in my gut that says I can do this. I want this.
Yeah, I wanted kids and a husband. But I’m in my thirties, and I know my mom had trouble conceiving. And I know my parents don’t have what you’d call a happy marriage. So maybe the married part is overrated.
At the very least, there’s no guarantee it will happen for me. I can’t imagine wanting any man who isn’t Wade. And I know that will pass, but still.
I place a hand on my stomach. Some people don’t get to have a partner. And that loss seems overwhelming when I swim in it too long, because I want a partner. I want Wade.
The tears threaten to rise again, but I put my forehead on my knees, and breathe.
I might not get a partner, but I still get a family. I get Duke. I get this kid. And maybe, eventually, when I’m successful enough, and not in love with him, Wade.
My kid’s dad is Wade St. George.
My kid’s dad is a billionaire, and my kid doesn’t have health insurance until September, because I committed the sin of having a heart that breaks. I start laughing hysterically. God, this country is fucked up.
I laugh, and laugh, until something clears in my chest, and I can breathe again.
I grip the counter, and pull myself up. I look at myself in the mirror. “You can do this.”
I look down at my stomach. Well, I said I wanted to start a new life. “We can do this,” I say to the dream of a person growing inside me.
“There are free clinics to hold us over until September,” I tell that little dream. “Not many, because this is North Carolina, and funding and politics are a bitch. But I’ll get you prenatal care. Scans, vitamins, those little black and white pictures. The works. And then after that …” Their life stretches out before me, birthdays and school supplies and Christmases and college graduation. It’s terrifying and terrifyingly thri
lling and my heart aches with everything before me. Before us.
I take a deep breath. Roll back my shoulders. “After that, I’ll get you everything else.”
I look up at the burned out lightbulb, pick up my phone, and dial my super’s phone number. Because I’m done being rescued. I’m done being ignored.
And I’m not afraid to play the angry pregnant woman card.
“I’m going to get you everything in the world,” I say. “Starting with a damn lightbulb.”
14
Wade
After weeks of scrambling to undo the mess Stella made when she emailed Home Sweet Home the wrong contract, I’ve finally got it under control. Which means I get to move on to fixing the mess I made: offending Clara Covington.
Clara’s office is filled with movie posters of smug, smiling couples who have achieved eternal fictional bliss. I hold back the urge to give them the finger.
“Please sit,” Clara urges, indicating a round table at the center of her cozy office. Clara is a quick moving Asian woman with stylishly cut curly hair and cat-eye glasses. There’s a host of family photos spread around the office, interspersed with scripts and binders and a giant shelf of VHS tapes. She’s been deciding what movies get made at Home Sweet Home Entertainment for longer than I’ve been alive.
We settle at the table, which is definitely too small for me.
Clara looks faintly amused as she slides some papers covered with graphs and statistics toward me. “Here. I put this in your language. Since you have trouble telling ‘those movies’ apart.”
I clear my throat. “About that.”
She raises an eyebrow, and waits, expectantly.
I know this whole meeting is for me to apologize. Theoretically she’s explaining her process for choosing what movies they’ll stream, but that could be an email. Stella put this together so I could repair the relationship.
I feel this dull press in my chest every time I think of Stella. I try not to think about it. She cut ties with the ruthless efficiency of someone who’s spent last ten years traveling light. Every time I think of the long stretch of life ahead of me, empty of Stella, I feel like someone’s kicked me with steel toed boots.
Focus. You’re at a business meeting.
I look at Clara, who’s waiting patiently. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that the other day. What I meant to say was, I’m out of my depth, and I appreciate any guidance you have to offer. I have nothing but respect for your years and years of experience.”
“That’s what I like,” Clara says dryly. “A man who makes me feel youthful.”
Shit. I did it again.
I bury my head in my hands and fight back a groan. Am I going to have to watch twenty movies about older people now?
“Hey. That was a joke,” Clara says. “Are you okay?”
Of course it was a joke. Jesus, I’m falling apart.
I straighten. “My apologies. It’s been a long week. Well, a long couple of weeks.”
Her eyes sharpen, like she spots a story, so I clear my throat quickly. “You were saying something about speaking my language?”
“Of course. I’ve broken down our ratings, based on actors, tropes, location, holiday tie-in, etc. You can see what some of our biggest draws have been, historically speaking. I’ve built a proposal based on this, but we should be prepared for the fact that your streaming audience may be different than our television audience, in which case we may want to lead with our titles with more crossover appeal.”
Clara takes me through chart by chart, going over movie plot trends over the years. (I even get a smile of approval when I slip in some of my newly acquired romcom knowledge.) When she gets to the chart about billionaires in secret relationships, I feel my ears turn red. Stella will get a kick out of it when I tell her, and then I remember: I don’t get to tell Stella anything anymore.
Something must show in my face, because Clara pauses. “Of course, if there’s something you think your audience will want to avoid …”
“It’s not that, I just … that one made me think about someone I know. What’s the next chart?”
“This one’s coworkers dating. Obviously we do have to be careful we’re not romanticizing workplace sexual harassment. But when done right, it keeps the story tight and focused, and it ties in to a lot of people’s fantasies and experiences. Everyone’s had a crush on that cute person in the office. Of course most people don’t act on it …”
She keeps talking, but I’m lost in memories.
Stella acted on it. Charged straight in, brave as anything. And all she wanted was for me to be brave enough to tell Duke she mattered to me.
Memories I’ve been fighting off for weeks wash over me. Stella picking furniture, turning my house into a home. Stella calling me on my shit at work. Stella laughing and gasping in my bed. Stella in her tiny, bare apartment, where she can’t reach to change the lightbulbs.
Who’s going to change the lightbulbs if I’m not there? Who’s going to buy her Thai food? Who’s going to cheer her on in her new job?
She was the best part of my day, every day. Even when she was making my life inconvenient as all hell, just being around her … Fuck, it felt good.
Why did I let her leave again?
Because no one lets Stella do anything. If she wanted to leave, nothing I did could have stopped her.
But I didn’t even try to stop her. What if she didn’t one hundred percent want to leave? What if a part of her wanted a reason to stay? And instead of giving her one, I sat on my ass.
“Now, all of this data is great for showing what attracts people to a movie.” Clara says. “But I think what’s really telling are the repeat viewing numbers. This is where the tropes start being less predictive, because it doesn’t matter how many successful ingredients you have if you burn the crust.”
Clara smiles at me expectantly, and I blink, trying to catch up. “I’m sorry, I don’t think I follow?”
She leans over the table like a convert spreading the gospel. “It doesn’t matter how many fun things you throw in, if people don’t believe the love story. If they don’t at the end of the day, think this couple is going to make it.”
“But how do you convince people of that?” I ask. “We can’t even tell what’s going to make a couple last in real life. Most of us can’t even tell when it’s happening to us.”
“Easy. It’s unconditional love. At first, you’re interested in someone because of how they look, what they say, what they do, how they make you feel.”
I think of Stella in that damn pencil skirt, going toe to toe with me from day one, and nod.
“But at some point it’s not any one thing anymore. They can get a new haircut, lose their job, show you their weakness. Say something that would have been a deal breaker for you, in any other relationship. But it’s not a deal breaker here, because it’s not any of the surface things you love. It’s not how they make you feel. It’s who they fundamentally are. It’s just them.”
Clara leans back and taps the page. “Which is where the repeat viewing numbers are interesting. That’s where you start seeing which movies are flashes that will fade away, and which movies are damn good storytelling that will stand the test of time.”
She keeps talking while I sit there, stunned. My heart is racing.
From the beginning, Stella has blown through everything that should have been a deal breaker for me. She’s my employee. My friend’s sister. Zero interest in the tech world. A history of leaving.
And with each barrier she blew through, with every new side of her I saw, I fell harder, faster.
With Stella, there’s nothing that’s a deal breaker anymore. I know, because I’ve been doing the thing you do when you’re trying to get over someone: focus on the part of them that wasn’t quite right for you. When my high school girlfriend the vegetarian dumped me, I ate hamburgers for a week straight.
But that hasn’t been working with Stella. Every flaw I can think of with her, with us
, is irrelevant. Because it’s not a checklist. It’s not a collection of traits.
It’s just her.
Fuck. I’m in love.
Not falling, either. I am well and deeply mired in this shit.
I love Stella Harrington.
I love her so much my whole body feels bruised with missing her.
“Am I boring you?” Clara asks acerbically.
I know this is the part where I’m supposed to return my attention to the meeting. Focus on being charming. Win Clara back over as a business ally.
People like Clara Covington don’t give you two chances to apologize.
But I love Stella. And she doesn’t know it. And right now that’s the most important thing in the world.
“I’m sorry,” I say, bashing my knee on the tiny table as I stand up. “I need to go.”
“Are you serious?”
I grab my briefcase and back towards the door. “I just realized: I love her. And I need to get her back. Even if it means walking out of this meeting, even if it means walking out of a million meetings.”
“And it can’t wait thirty minutes?” Clara asks, exasperatedly.
Which is a perfectly reasonable question to ask.
But …
“No. It can’t. I fucked up, and she’s … she’s my unconditional.”
For a while we just stare at each other, but Clare’s face is unreadable.
I turn to go, knowing this is going to be fun to explain to my board, but not caring.
“Wait,” Clara says.
I turn back, exasperated. “Look, I know this is rude, I know I’m shooting myself in the foot, but I need to go—”
“You needed a business meeting and a spreadsheet to realize you were in love, so forgive me if I don’t trust your romantic instincts.” Clara drops a giant binder on the table.