by Roxy Reid
Shit. I can’t have this guy giving up because he thinks there’s another better group out there. Stella needs this one.
“How much is your operating budget?” I ask.
He names a number that seems ridiculously low, until I check their location’s zip code.
“Done,” I say.
“What do you mean, done?”
“I mean I’ll drop off the check tomorrow.”
“Wade, my man—I mean, Mr. St. George—it’s not that I’m not grateful. But … you know this isn’t tax deductible, right?”
I’m beginning to see why Isaiah’s organization is having financial problems.
“Do you always try this hard to refuse donations?” I ask, wryly.
“Ha. No,” Isaiah says. Then his voice gets quiet. “But people here are used to broken promises. I don’t want to get people’s hopes up, if you’re gonna take back that mighty generous offer as soon as you do your research and realize we don’t look nice and shiny in a press release.”
I think about Stella. Cheerful and take-charge on the surface, but always a little sure the world will turn on her the instant she starts counting on it for good things.
I hope that one day, she can start counting on good things.
“Go ahead and get people’s hopes up,” I say. “On one condition.”
Isaiah’s laugh is wry. “There it is.”
“I need you to keep the donation anonymous.”
“What, like keep it out of the papers?”
“Yes, but I was thinking more like … don’t tell your patrons. The people who play your instruments. Does that work for you?”
There’s a pause, and I hold my breath.
“Yeah,” Isaiah says slowly. “Yeah, I think I could do that.”
I set a time to drop off the check tomorrow, and hang up.
Then, before I can chicken out, I take a shot of whiskey, and send Stella the text I should have written months ago.
I love you, Stella. But this isn’t good for me. I know you don’t want a relationship, but I do. And I can’t move on as long as we’re still in touch. Thank you for everything. Maybe we can try the friend thing again when I’m not in love with you.
Goodbye Stella. Be well.
I want to add something more. Something like how I hope the world has nothing but good in store for her. How I’ll think of her every time I sit in that old wingback leather armchair she picked out. How she should absolutely call me if she ever needs anything, even if it’s just a lightbulb changed.
Instead I sit send, my eyes blurring.
Then I turn off my phone, flop down on my old couch in front of the tv, and find a movie marathon on the sci-fi channel.
It’s just my luck that the next movie up is Princess Marigold.
17
Stella
Goodbye, Stella. Be well.
I stare at Wade’s text. And that’s when it hits me.
It’s over. It’s really over. I bury my head in pillow and howl.
For the first time in a year the urge to go find a bar, any bar, and lose myself rises up.
Instead I call Duke.
He doesn’t answer. So I call again. And again. And again.
He answers in a panic. “Stella are you ok? What’s wrong?”
I feel bad for bothering him, but just hearing his voice grounds me. Knowing I have Duke in my corner helps me find my strong place again.
“I’m fine. I just really needed to talk to you.” My voice breaks.
“Look, Stella, you know I’m always here for you, but you’ve been ignoring literally all of my calls since you dumped Wade, so if this could wait until tomorrow, I’m on a date, and she’s not my type at all, she wears cardigans for fuck’s sake, but she just beat me on the trading floor and I kind of think—”
“I’m pregnant,” I blurt out. “I’m pregnant with Wade’s kid and he doesn’t know because I haven’t told him because I’m terrified if we co-parent I’ll never get over him, and if we don’t co-parent the courts will choose him over me, and now he’s not texting me back.”
There’s a moment of silence, and I wonder if I’ve finally pushed him over the edge, little-sister-crisis-wise.
And then Duke sighs. “Fine. I’ll go cancel the date. But if I end up a bachelor dating hot, easy, boring women for the rest of my life, it’s your fault.”
He hangs up, and calls me back barely a few minutes later, like he’s worried about what I’ll do if left unattended.
“Ok,” Duke says. “Tell me what happened. From the beginning.”
So I do. I skip over the sex parts and the mushy parts, but I tell him everything else. Breaking up. Finding out I was pregnant. Wade wanting to get back together, saying he loves me, but saying all that without knowing I’m having a kid he may or may not want. Both of us hanging on, in our own way, for the past two months, before Wade finally ripped the cord connecting us earlier today.
“And you’re calling because you’re feeling overwhelmed with the pregnancy,” Duke says. “That makes sense. But I’m here for you. I’m here for whatever you want to do. If you need money, if you need a place to stay, if you need someone to fleece Wade at poker …”
I make a sound that’s somewhere between a sob and a laugh. “That’s sweet of you. And thank you. I might need help before the baby comes, and right after. But for now I’m fine.”
“Oh. Then you’re upset because …?” my big brother asks.
I rise and pace the small space of my apartment. “Because Wade stopped texting. He’s gone. And I knew it was going to happen. Obviously. I’m not stupid. But I just … I wasn’t prepared for it tonight.”
Duke hesitates. “You know I’m in your corner, Stella. First, last, always.”
I wince. I can tell he’s leading in to something I’m not going to like.
“But Wade doesn’t actually want to be gone. He wants you. He’d probably be thrilled you guys were having a kid. Once he got over the complete and total shock of it, I mean.”
I rub my heart. “I know he’d do the right thing. But that’s not the same as being thrilled.”
“How the fuck would you know that?” Duke asks, exasperated.
“Because he told me about how a pregnancy scare ended his last relationship. As soon as they found out she wasn’t pregnant, he realized he would have been miserable with her and broke it off. If I tell Wade the truth, it will be exactly like that, but worse, because I’m actually pregnant.”
“No it won’t. Because it’s you,” Duke says, like I’m missing something incredibly obvious. “It wasn’t having a kid that would have made him miserable. It was forever with someone he didn’t love. He loves you, you doofus.”
I feel shaky, like I have a fever. Duke can’t be right. Can he?
And if he is … do I love Wade enough to risk being hurt again? To risk losing custody, when I already love this baby so much?
“And even if I’m wrong, which I’m not, I think you should tell him,” Duke says.
“What?!”
“He’s the best guy I know. He’d be good for your kid, he’d be good for you, and he deserves to know. Also, not to be crude, but he’s a literal billionaire and you’re in an apartment with no furniture.”
“Duke,” I scold.
“Oh come off it.” I can practically hear Duke rolling his eyes. “It’s more money than any human will ever need, under any circumstances, and I say that as someone who works on wall street. Plus, it’s Wade. I bet it took all his self-control not to buy you a drum set when you said you were saving for one.”
“That is not the point,” I say, and Duke sighs.
“I know,” he says quietly. “I know.”
I slowly sit down on my mattress. It’s awkward, given my fun new weight distribution, but I manage. I really should have thought about the inconvenience of using a mattress on the floor while pregnant before I broke the bed having mind-blowing sex.
“Just think about it,” Duke says. “It’s a
bsolutely your choice. But just be brave when you make it, ok? The world’s better than you think.”
I nod, then remember he can’t see me.
“Love you, Stella,” Duke says.
My throat tightens. We’re not an I-love-you family. “I love you, too.”
I hang up, Duke’s words running through my head. It’s absolutely your choice. But be brave when you make it.
I fall asleep trying to figure out what brave even is.
A few days later, I’m still trying to figure out what the brave thing to do is in this situation, when I get a call from Rock-A-Holics Anonymous.
Someone’s donated drums. They have drums for me to play. They’ll be ready for me to play tomorrow.
I hang up feeling like I’ve won the lottery.
“This is what Mama needs,” I tell T.L.D. “A way to think. Life lesson number one: It’s always easier to be brave when you’re making a shit ton of noise.”
T.L.D. doesn’t say anything, but I’m pretty sure they agree.
The next day I walk in to Rock-A-Holics Anonymous like it’s the first day of school.
I’m greeted by an easy-going black man a few years older than me, who introduces himself as Isaiah Jones, founder. He takes me on a tour of the space, which is one big room where all the instruments are stored, plus a bunch of small, windowed rooms for playing. “This place used to be a radio station,” Isaiah explains, “so most of our rooms are actually sound proof. But there are a few in the back that aren’t.”
“Normally you can check out an instrument and reserve a room up front, but the keyboards and the drums are already set up.”
My jaw drops open when he takes me to the room and I see the drums. I was expecting some battered, long-suffering beauty of a drum set, but this: this is brand new, gorgeous, and expensive.
I grab the sticks and sit down behind the set almost reverently. “Is there anything else I have to do?” I ask. “Sign a waiver?”
Isaiah chuckles. “Not unless you’re planning to play yourself to death.”
I grin at the drums like a kid at Christmas.
Isaiah laughs. “See, that expression is why we do what we do. I’ll be in my office meeting with a donor if you need me. We also have a reporter coming to do a piece on a big donation we just got, so I’d be out of here before 2 p.m. if you want to keep your anonymity.”
I nod, and start playing before he’s even left the room.
God, I missed this. I missed the way I can make a rhythm build and build until it explodes. I missed how physical it is. I missed how easy it is to disappear into the flow of it.
Marking out rhythms with my drumsticks on the apartment floor is not a good substitute.
But now I’m home.
I scoop my hair into a hasty ponytail away from my face, crack my neck, and start playing every song I’ve ever loved.
And with each song I play, I get a little closer to being brave enough to tell Wade.
18
Wade
I’m sitting in Isaiah’s office, going over some final paperwork that probably could have been done via email, but I’ll admit it’s kind of cool to see where my money’s going. One of the rooms I passed on the way to Isaiah’s office had a group of grungy teens with acoustic guitars. Another one had a tattooed grandma shredding the bass.
Isaiah’s office decor is evenly split between photos of a younger him playing with various famous musicians, and diplomas, books and certifications about addiction treatment.
I’m finishing the paperwork, when suddenly there’s a swell of drumming. I look up, curious.
Isaiah’s rolling his eyes. “Sometimes it gets stuffy in the booths, and the musicians get tempted to prop the doors open. When there’s other people using the space I stop them, but sometimes when it’s just me around, I kind of like the free concert. I’ll go ask her to close the door.”
Her. My heart leaps, wondering if it’s Stella.
But that’s ridiculous. The odds of her being here, on the exact day I am, are pretty damn low. Besides, even if she is here, it’s not like I can go back and see her. The whole point of this donation is to put a final punctuation mark on our last sentence.
We’re done. Through. Moving on.
Isaiah starts to rise, to go tell the drummer to close the door, when he notices the clock. “Shit. We should get you out of here. There’s a reporter doing a story on us, and you said you wanted to stay anonymous.”
I leave the signed papers on his desk, and stand as his phone buzzes.
“Crap. She’s already here. Let’s go out the back way, then I’ll go meet the reporter out front.”
I nod and follow him down a dim hall decorated with band stickers, away from the front room. The drum room must be in the back, because the sounds getting louder as we go.
Isaiah glances through the glass window to the drum room. “Hold on, I’m just going to ask her to close the door—”
My hand shoots, grabbing his shoulder to stop him. “Wait.”
Because it’s Stella. Cheeks flushed, pink hair flying, power and skill in every movement. The wave of sound hits me in the chest, traveling through my body. I’ve never seen her like this.
I didn’t know that she could do this.
I mean I knew.
But I didn’t know.
And to think, Duke and I thought we were helping by getting her to shove herself behind a computer.
Stella is almost hidden behind the drums, from this angle. But I can tell she belongs there.
Isaiah peels my hand off his shoulder, and I automatically apologize, but I can’t take my eyes off Stella.
“You know,” Isaiah says firmly, “Most people think the ‘Anonymous’ part of our name is just for the pun, but we do take our patrons anonymity as seriously as we take yours, so we should keep moving. Especially before that reporter shows up.”
I nod reluctantly, and start to move, when the movement catches Stella’s attention.
Her eyes widen, and the pulsing rhythm comes to a grinding halt.
“Apologies for disturbing you,” Isaiah says as he reaches for the door handle. “If you could just keep your door closed, I’d appreciate it, for the other patrons.”
He starts to close the door. Stella’s eyes fly between the drums and me, and back again.
“Wait!”
Isaiah hesitates, looking between Stella and me with curiosity.
“Wade, did you buy these drums?” Stella demands.
“I should go. There’s a reporter …” but my feet won’t move. And apparently hers won’t either, because she stays behind the drums.
“I told you I was disappointed they didn’t have drums. And then suddenly they have drums. You fixed it for me. Even after I broke up with you, and turned you down, and kept texting so you couldn’t forget me …”
“It wasn’t just for you,” I bluff. “Rock-A-Holics is a great program. I’ve been a supporter for years.”
Isaiah snorts a laugh, then tries to cover it up with a cough.
“It wasn’t for you,” I lie. “But if it helped you, I’m glad.”
“Oh.” She looks uncertain.
Fuck, was that the wrong thing to say? I just want to go back in time, before I showed up and stole the joy from her face. Back before she knew this had anything to do with me.
“The reporter is coming,” Isaiah reminds me.
“Right.” I try to smile at Stella, so she won’t see my heart is breaking. “See you around, Marigold.” I turn to go.
“Wait!”
I look back for the second time, but this time she’s standing, coming out from behind the drums.
And that’s when I notice: she’s pregnant.
She’s pregnant with someone else’s kid. She’s not that far along, so it probably wasn’t planned, but it still hits me like a semi-truck. I’ve been telling her I love her, trying to cling to the past, and she’s been moving on in the most definitive way it is possible for someone to move on.
She is literally making a new life.
A new family.
With someone who’s not me.
“This is why I couldn’t just go back to you, go back to how things were, when you showed up at my apartment that day.”
“Yeah, I can see that,” I say, and for some reason her shoulders sink.
Shit, I’ve said the wrong thing again.
What are you supposed to say when the love of your life is starting a family with some other man? Congratulations?
Yes. That’s exactly what you’re supposed to say.
“I think that you two have some clarifying to do,” Isaiah says, neutrally. “I’ll go stall the reporter. But if you’d both like to preserve the ‘anonymous’ part of your respective titles, I’d recommend you take this outside.” He points to the door marked EXIT at the far end of the hall, then heads back toward the front room with all the instruments.
I swallow past the giant mound of jealousy in my throat. I said I wanted her to be happy. I said I wanted her to know the world has good things in store for her.
I just didn’t picture it like this.
“Congratulations,” I say, trying to mean it. But my mouth is as dry as the desert. “Thank you for telling me. I’m really happy for you both.”
And then I turn to leave, before the urge to smash something takes over.
“Is that all you have to say?” Stella asks, fury rising in her voice.
“What do you want me to say?” I demand, wheeling to face her. “I’m trying, but I’m so jealous I can’t see straight.”
“What do you have to be jealous about?!” she shouts, throwing her hands up in the air.
“Him.”
She blinks, confused. “Who?”
Jesus, she’s going to make me say it. “The father. I’m jealous of him, ok? I know I never gave you any reason to think I was serious about this, and I know I’m supposed to be getting over you, but I realize some part of me thought … some part of me wanted …” I blow out a breath. My jaw is so tight it feels like it’s going to snap. “I just wish it was me, ok?”