It rings again, and this time it’sStar—mypulse spikes. I yank the wheel, nosing toward the curb, fumbling for the answer button.
“Star, baby—I'm so fucking sorry—”
Her voice cuts through me like a blade. “Donovan, this isn’t a call for apologies. First, call Coach Headstrom back. He won’t leave me the hell alone, wondering where you are. Second…” A pause sharp enough to stop my breath. “I’ve filed divorce papers. I want my last name back.”
I pull back into traffic, the drizzle thickening into a steady cold rain that needles through the windshield. My knuckles ache around the steering wheel, but I don’t ease my grip. Every red light feels like a countdown. I don't want to reach zero.
When I finally turn onto our street, the scene hits like a punch to the ribs. Ansel stands at the top of the stairs, rain plastering her hair to her head, hurling my belongings one by one toward the curb. A jacket arcs through the air, landing in a spreading puddle. My duffel bag bounces off the concrete with a wet slap.
For a second, I just sit there, watching from behind the glass like it’s not my life unraveling in real time. Like it’s some moviewhere the bastard at the center of it all deserves everything coming to him.
Ansel’s already coming for me before I’ve even closed the car door, stomping through the puddles, eyes lit like she’d set me on fire and roast marshmallows over the ashes.
“You think you’re a man? You’re not. You’re a weak, selfish bastard who couldn’t keep it in his pants long enough to remember the woman who’s done nothing but fight for you.”
She’s right in front of me now, rain dripping off her jaw, voice sharp enough to flay me. “Do you know what she looked like when I found her? No, of course you don’t. You weren’t there to watch her shake so hard she couldn’t even hold a glass of water. You weren’t there when she couldn’t breathe because she’d just found out her husband was fucking the one person who’s made her life hell since grade school.”
Another box slams into the puddle beside me, splashing my jeans. She doesn’t care. “I packed your shit because she shouldn’t have to come back here, to the reminder of you. She’s already cleaning up the rest of the mess you made just by existing in her life.”
Her eyes flick to the bourbon bottle in my passenger seat, and her lip curls. “Go back to your little cave and drink yourself into oblivion, Donovan. Go back to Elaine; I am sure she is waiting patiently on her knees for you. But don’t you dare come near her. Don’t you dare say her name. You’re done.”
“You hurt her, and I swear to God, Donovan, I’ll make sure the only thing you’re remembered for is the way you destroyed a good woman.”
Ansel’s back in seconds, a flash of black coat and fury, and the last thing she throws isn’t a box or a bag—it's Stella’s ring. It arcs through the air and hits the puddle at my feet, the splash cold against my ankles. Mud clings to the gold as I pick it up.
I scoop it up with shaking hands, shove the rest of my things into the trunk, and drive without remembering the road.
Back at the apartment, I lock the door like that will keep anything out. But the monsters aren’t outside. They’re here. They’re mine.
I slide down the door until I’m on the floor, the cheap wood digging into my spine. The ring—delicate, too small for my hands—sits on my pinky, staring at me, mocking me. Tears hit harder than I expect, and I chase them with bourbon until the room tilts.
Stella
The house still smells faintly of cardboard and dust, even though every box from Virginia is unpacked. It’s been about two months since I found my husband balls deep in the PR rep, who just happened to be my worst enemy—but it feels like just yesterday.
Ansel is perched on the arm of the couch, which happens to be her favorite place to sit, and Blythe is curled into the corner. Both of them watch the fire crackle while I scroll through paint colors on my phone.
The quiet feels like a loaded gun, so I will do anything to keep my mind, like diving headfirst into Blythe’s nail studio.
There is a knock at the front door. Sharp. Relentless.
Ansel’s up first, peeking through the window. She groans. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”
Mac stands on the porch, one hand gripping Donovan’s arm like he’s trying to keep him from bolting. Donovan looks… smaller somehow. Or maybe that’s just my satisfaction warping the image.
Mac gives me an apologetic shrug. “I’m here so nobody ends up in the hospital.”
Ansel mutters something about shovels under her breath and stalks toward the kitchen. Blythe follows, pulling Mac with her. “We’ll keep the ref in our corner,” she says, her voice soft but laced with steel.
The door clicks shut. It’s just him and me now.
Donovan swallows hard. “Star—”
“Don’t.” My voice cuts the space clean. “Don’t call me that. You lost that privilege the second you decided she was worth more than the truth.”
“Tell me,Coach,”the words coming out in disgust, “did you think of me while you fucked her?” Hurt flashes across his face; he stammers out, “What, no! Star, I am sorry.”
He tries again, but I step closer, slow, deliberate. “When you were insideme,” I say, tasting the bitterness on my own tongue, “did you think about her?”
