Tension

by R. L. Griffin

  “Who would do the interview?” Stella cocked her head to the side.

  “I would,” he said, looking up at her face. “I’d conduct the interview and help the reporter with the piece.”

  “All you have to do is ask me, George. I’ll tell you whatever you need.”

  He stood up and walked over to where a big stack of papers was precariously stacked on the side table and leaning against the arm of the couch. She tilted her head to the side again in question, then took off her workout clothes and moved to George’s room to throw them in the hamper.

  “I’ll have to do research about what happened in Montana!” he called from the study.

  “Did you know that pubic hair turns grey?” Stella yelled back from his room.

  Chapter Nine

  Saint Patrick

  Stella reversed out of George’s driveway slowly, trying not to run over any of the people blocking her way with cameras. Anger boiled and sent bolts of rage through her brain. She took a deep breath and counted to thirteen. Turning left, she went the back way to her old house. Millie had been pestering her since she got back from the beach to get together, harassing her a few times a week since she bailed at the bar. She’d agreed to have lunch with her at her old house; she couldn’t go anywhere right now without paparazzi knowing about it. Stella sighed. She didn’t want to see Patrick, but Millie had begged and Stella felt like she owed Millie for helping her with all the media requests for interviews and information. She hoped there wouldn’t be a repeat performance of his visit to Montana.

  A few days after she awoke in the hospital, George had to go back to Virginia to take care of business at Finnegan’s. He was planning on coming back the following Monday and staying through Wednesday, since those were the least busy days at Finnegan’s. Stella’s parents were staying in a hotel near the hospital and barely left her side. They did manage to leave the room to give them some privacy before he caught his flight.

  “Thanks for staying with me, George.” Stella put her fingertips to his and then interlaced their hands. “What’s the problem at Finnegan’s?”

  “No problem, I’ve just been going back and forth so that I can be there during the busiest days at the bar. It seems like the bar can run itself for a few days a week, but longer than that and the natives get restless.”

  “Y’all busy?” Stella was trying to steer him away from their usual conversation about her; she felt guilty.

  “Well, this really hot FBI attorney used to drink there all the time and started making out with the bartender. Then she got shot, became a hero, and now everyone wants to sit at the barstool where she once sat.” He ran his hand through his deep brown hair. It was shaggier than normal; he hadn’t had time to get it cut in awhile.

  “This is all so stupid, but at least you’ll be making more money...” Stella brought his hand to her lips.

  “Get better and fast, I can’t wait to see what’s under that hospital robe.” George laughed and pulled the covers down.

  “As soon as the doctors clear me, I’m coming straight to your house.” She smiled.

  “It seems like it may be a couple of weeks before they let you go, right?”

  “That’s what it’s looking like. At least.” Stella looked at all the flowers that lined the walls. She had gotten all sorts of things delivered to her room after the hospital had given a statement regarding her recovery. “I just want to get out of here. I feel like an invalid. Staying in a room all day and night, not being able to get up or even go to the bathroom by myself may make me finally lose my mind.”

  “That’s all it took?” George shook his head and laughed. “Let me get this straight. I mean, you thought your fiancé was dead for four years only to find out he was just undercover and that didn’t do it. You get shot on your first assignment and that didn’t do it, either. The media is having a field day with you—whatever. But not being able to pee by yourself—that’s the last straw?” George pulled a chair close to her bed and sat down. “We’ll get through this. As a matter of fact, I kind of like the fact you have to rely on me for help. It makes me feel needed. Usually, you don’t need me at all.”

  “Oh, but I do, just in a different way.” Stella looked at him with need in her eyes. He leaned toward her face and she grabbed his with both hands. She kissed him, slowly and intensely.

  “I’m not going anywhere,” he whispered in her ear.

  “I know.” She nodded and stroked his cheek. “I love you.”

  “You too, Love. I’ll text you when I land. Feel better.” He kissed her forehead and then walked to the door. He glanced back at her one more time, held his hand up in a half wave, and then he was gone.

  Her eyes were closed when she heard someone come in the room. She could tell it wasn’t either of her parents by carefulness of the footsteps. Cautiously, she opened her eyes. Fuck. Her eyes closed automatically.

  “I saw that,” Patrick said. He walked to her bed with the same lazy gait as always; full of confidence. His black hair was military short and his blue eyes as cold as ever.

  She was silent.

  “Look, El,” Patrick started and sat in the same chair George had vacated. “I’m so sorry. About everything, I’ll keep apologizing to you until I die. I swear, I’d do anything if I could make this all go away.”

  Silently, she looked into his blue eyes. Patrick looked like he’d aged a good bit in the last month; the crinkles around his eyes were more pronounced and he looked tired. He was wearing a cream cable-knit sweater; he sort of looked like a model.

  “I need to know,” he implored.

  “You need what?” The words exploded out of her mouth with venom. “What is it that you think YOU need that I can give you, Patrick? Forgiveness? Acceptance? Answers? I can’t give you any of that. YOU lied to me. YOU LIED TO ME! FOR FOUR FUCKING YEARS YOU LIED!”

  “I know.” He put his forehead on the edge of her bed. “I just...”

  It was all Stella could do not to shove his face off her bed. “You held me while I cried, had nonstop nightmares, and stayed drunk, all over my ‘dead fiancé’. You let me lie on his grave and cry. You let me get a tattoo that’s a huge joke. YOU DID THAT TO ME!” Her voice choked as she tried to get it all out.

  Stella’s mother rushed in, startled by the commotion. “What’s wrong, Stella?” She stopped abruptly. “Oh, Patrick. I didn’t know you were coming today.”

  “Hi, Miranda, could you give us a minute?” Patrick looked up from examining his hands.

  Stella shook her head. “No.”

  “Please, El,” Patrick pleaded. His eyes betrayed his steely façade and shone with his unshed tears.

  “I... I’ll just be right outside, Stella.” Her mother backed out of the room, not meeting Stella’s eyes.

  “Mom, no—” Stella protested, but her mother had already disappeared.

  “El, please. Just listen,” he said, speaking softly. “You know I love you and I didn’t mean to hurt you. I thought I was doing the best thing for you. I couldn’t figure out what to do. What would be better for you, the reality of what he did or that he passed away? I honestly thought it would be easier for you to think he was dead and start over. Nobody knew when he was coming back or anything… He called me every week to see how you were. After a while, I thought I should just tell you, but then I knew I’d lose you. I was selfish, Stella. I love you, too. You’re my best friend and he put me in the worst possible position.” Patrick took her hand with both of his hands and wouldn’t let go. “El, please tell me he didn’t have anything to do with this.”

  She tried her hardest to pull her arm out of his hands and gasped when she felt a stitch give way in her chest. Patrick immediately let go of her arm.

  “Shit,” Patrick said and ran to get a nurse.

  A nurse rushed in with Patrick at her heels. “Oh, Stella. You’ll be fine, just a little popped stitch. You’re tougher than that,” the nurse joked as tears slid down Stella’s face; it wasn’t the pain of the stitch
that caused her tears.

  Patrick stood at the end of the bed with his head down. The nurse walked out of the room and Patrick looked up into her tear-filled green eyes. They simply looked at each other, neither saying a word.

  Patrick turned and walked toward the door. “I’m sorry. All I do is hurt you,” he said softly and walked out, slamming the door behind him.

  Stella pulled into the driveway of her old house and sat in her car taking deep breaths, trying not to puke. She could do this; Millie was her best friend. Billy and Patrick were her old roommates; regardless of what she felt now, she’d once considered them her closest friends. Stella was trying to make amends. She felt horrible after Millie left George’s the way she did and Millie had been calling, texting, and emailing her asking her to come by every day since. Stella finally relented, thinking she owed Millie a second chance, and here she was.

  She grabbed her handbag and walked to the front door, taking deep, reassuring breaths the whole way. It opened just as she started up the stairs. Millie stood in bare feet and a blue sundress, her hair pulled back in a messy bun and a huge smile on her face. Her smile alone made Stella glad she’d agreed to come today.

  “Hey,” Stella said as she walked past Millie into the house.

  “Hey,” Millie offered and followed Stella into the den. “You’re trending on Twitter again.”

  Stella snorted. “The video of me running again?”

  “No, your see-through shirt.” Millie answered.

  “Awesome,” Stella retorted. Millie headed into the kitchen to finalize the food preparation.

  Billy was sitting on the couch, controller in hand, playing a video game.

  “Glad to see nothing’s changed around here,” Stella said sarcastically, ruffling Billy’s hair. Billy paused his game, stood up, and pulled Stella into his arms. His bear hug was long and a little tight, but Stella relished the feeling of his arms. She’d missed him. His messy blond hair, tortoiseshell glasses, dry wit and easy manner were missing in her world right now. “Hey,” she said into his chest.

  “I’ve missed you, El.” Billy’s chin moved on the top of her head.

  Stella separated from him and looked toward the kitchen where Millie was standing looking in the fridge. “I’m hungry. Aren’t we eating?” She was desperate to change the subject before Billy asked how she was doing.

  Millie smirked. “Yes, El. Hold your horses. I promise I’ll feed you.” She moved from the fridge and pulled out some sort of savory smelling casserole from the oven.

  At the same time, Patrick emerged from his room. Stella’s entire body tensed and she looked at Billy, who grabbed her hand and pulled her next to him on the couch.

  “You want to play?” he asked, knowing her answer. Stella actually didn’t mind Billy’s video games, sitting with him and watching him play soothed her soul for some reason.

  Patrick walked through the kitchen and stood in the doorway into the den. “El.” He nodded at her.

  “Asshole,” Stella said through clenched teeth.

  Billy and Patrick both burst out laughing. “Tell us how you really feel, El,” Billy managed through his laughter.

  “Always has,” Patrick said, coming over to squeeze onto the couch next to them, pushing Stella over into Billy.

  Stella elbowed Patrick in the stomach, pushing him away from her. He leaned into her ear and whispered, “I’m sorry.”

  Her defenses weakened a bit; she missed this. She needed her friends. Ignoring Patrick, she got up and walked into the kitchen. “Can I help?” she asked Millie.

  “Sure,” Millie answered. “You can set the table.”

  Stella walked over to the cabinet, grabbed four plates and placed them on the table. This feels almost normal. “What are we eating?”

  “Billy requested Frito Pie,” Millie answered, making a face that showed disgust. She pulled out a pitcher out of the fridge. “And I made my special recipe sangria.”

  “Typical. We get together and start drinking at lunch.” Stella smiled at Millie, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “I should’ve walked.”

  “I wish you would’ve brought Coop,” Patrick called from the den.

  Stella glanced at him, acknowledging his comment, but didn’t answer. She walked over to the drawers and pulled out silverware.

  Millie was pouring the drinks at the table. “Come on, it’s ready,” she announced to the guys in the den.

  Billy paused his game and walked toward the table. Patrick trailed him, his mind trying to determine the right strategy with Stella.

  They sat at the table and looked at one another. Millie sipped her drink nonchalantly and Billy inhaled his Frito Pie so fast you’d think someone was about to steal it off of his plate.

  After several bites, Billy was the first one to break the silence. “El, I, for one, have missed you tremendously. Millie doesn’t get naked nearly enough when you aren’t here.” He tried to shake the tension out of the room.

  “I do, too,” Millie pouted. “Just not in the main room.” She blushed at her own words.

  Patrick grabbed her hand. “I’m happy you only get naked for me.” His cold eyes softened as he spoke to her.

  Stella put a fork full of Frito Pie into her mouth. “So this is Frito Pie, huh?”

  “Yep. Do you love it or what?” Billy asked, his mouth full practically to bursting.

  “Um, not really,” she answered. “No offense, Mil.”

  “None taken, I think I’ll just drink,” Millie said, taking a big gulp of sangria.

  “I told you she wouldn’t like it,” Patrick hissed at Billy.

  “Yeah, I know. You know everything about her and I don’t,” Billy said, taking a big bite and not thinking about what he was saying. “You can’t account for bad taste, El.”

  “You’re the one with bad taste, Billy,” she laughed. “Though if I was twelve, like I think you are on the inside, this would probably be awesome.”

  Patrick looked over at Stella, trying to initiate some sort of real conversation. “So you look like you’re doing good, El. You feeling okay?”

  “Well, feeling okay kinda shifts for me on a daily basis right now,” she answered honestly.

  “Tell us how you’re doing,” Millie implored.

  “I’m making it, which I’m told is all I can expect right now.”

  “You still doing physical therapy?” Patrick asked.

  “Yep. I started lifting weights again. I’m going to be glad when I don’t have to wait for doctors and therapists to tell me what I can and can’t do.”

  “Have they told you what the impact of your injuries will be in the long term?” Billy asked.

  “Sort of, they don’t know everything. I may need more surgeries.”

  Patrick’s jaw tensed.

  “I’m in pain all the time. It went from pretty significant constant pain to a dull pain; also constant. The pain has lessened, yes, but it never leaves.”

  “Oh, that sucks, El,” Millie comforted Stella while looking at Patrick, waiting for him to explode. He’d been wrapped up in what happened to Stella since day one. He even flew out to Montana only to have Stella spit in his face. She didn’t know what happened between them, but it was something big.

  “Were they able to get the bullet?” Billy asked.

  “Billy!” Patrick chastised.

  “Bullet went through my back,” Stella answered.

  “For real?” Billy’s eyes grew wide. “Can I see?”

  “Sure.” Stella took a gulp of her drink and stood up. She took her shirt off and turned around.

  Millie gasped, but other than that the room was quiet. Stella turned back around and put her shirt back on, her scars still angry red lines stretching across her chest and mid-section.

  “Stella,” Patrick said in a low, hoarse voice. He never called her that.

  Her eyes rose to Patrick’s. The rage, hatred, and regret she saw in his eyes mirrored her own. “Yes?”

  “I’m so sorry, El.”
Patrick looked broken.

  Millie’s eyes were stuck to her drink. Billy’s mouth was still open.

  “Well, fuck. If I’d know this would keep y’all quiet, I would’ve done it thirty minutes ago,” Stella said, trying to lighten the mood.

  “Your tattoo looks sick now. There’s a for real bullet hole in it.” Billy finally found his words.

  “So I’ve been told,” Stella deadpanned.

  “I didn’t know you had all those scars,” Millie said quietly.

  “Yep, pretty ugly huh?”

  “Nothing on you is ugly, El,” Patrick said, his voice sincere.

  Stella and Millie both looked at him, Stella’s head cocked to the side in a question. “I think you’ve been watching too many tabloids, Patrick. Those pictures were me before I almost died, leaving me scarred and broken, but thanks for trying to boost my ego.”

  Millie, still staring at Patrick, refilled her drink. She had been oddly quiet during this conversation and Stella took notice.

  Billy started laughing. “You know, I really like the bikini picture the media has started running every time they talk about you.”

  “Oh, you like my 19-year-old self?” Stella teased.

  “Way better. Now you’re old and all scarred and shit.” He shoveled Frito Pie in his mouth.

  Everyone stared at Billy, quiet. Then Stella burst out laughing; real, obnoxious laughter, which caused Millie and Patrick to join in. Stella snorted, which sent Billy into hysterics. Stella needed this, this free speaking, this not walking on eggshells conversation. It made her feel just the tiniest bit normal.

  The conversation shifted to everyone playing catch up with Stella. Because Stella didn’t eat her Frito Pie and had been drinking, the sangria went straight to her head. After lunch, they moved to the den. When she sat down, she felt herself drifting to sleep. She desperately wanted to give in and rest, but she stopped herself and stood abruptly.