One word. That’s all I managed. After two years of imagining this moment, fantasizing about what I’d say if she gave me even a sliver of her time, I sent one stupid word.
Never once in all those fake scenarios I made up in my head did I say, 'Okay.'
I pocket my phone, defeat painted across my face, and head toward the locker room.
The class changes, and they’re ready to run out the door. With a minute or two left in the day, I open the exit that leads to the football field, wave them out early, and head home.
My suitcases are still sprawled across the bed, half-unpacked, clothes hanging out like a crime scene. I dig through looking forsomething to wear, yank out my “game day attire”—black slacks, a crisp maroon button-down, and the nicest dress shoes I own.
Looking at the outfit on my bed, I realize this won’t do. I look like I’m trying to win a lawsuit, not win back the woman I love. I toss it aside, grab my worn medium-blue Wranglers, and throw on a short-sleeved green Henley. I reach for a baseball cap, then stop myself.
I look in the mirror and freeze; the boy Stella knew two years ago is gone. Standing here is the man I’m still learning how to be.
Shutting the bedroom door, the one that looks frozen in time, I make my way to the stairs. Before I take the first step down, I peek into the nursery and tell my stepmom goodbye. She is rocking my baby sister to sleep. I grab my motorcycle helmet and riding jacket, throw a leg over my Honda Rebel, and let the speed calm my nerves.
Stella
Iarrive at Honey & Heat at 4:15. From a young age, my parents taught me that being fifteen minutes early is on time, and being on time is late. It’s one habit I refuse to let go of.
I snag a table in the back corner, trying to avoid the inevitable Friday night crowd. The server, Betty, stops at the table for small talk, asking me about art school and how the family business is doing. She even asks if I was eating enough while away.Twice.She’s always had that grandmotherly charm with the kids around here.
The diner is quickly filling up, teenagers piling into the booths. There is a girl sitting in the booth in front of me, gushing over the hot gym teacher and wondering about the mystery of him.
I smile and chuckle to myself. I have noticed the students' reactions to Donovan differ depending on whether they have siblings. Those with older siblings often feel sorry for the career path he lost, while those who don’t have older siblings want to know who the mysterious man is.
The sound of a motorcycle pulling in rattles the windows and pulls me out of my thoughts. Everyone stops to look out thewindow, every girl staring with mouths open, and I’m pretty sure Betty just wiped drool off her chin.
The man hitches his leg over the bike to get off and takes his helmet off. My heart drops when I see the mystery man.Holy shit. Donovan D’Angelo rides a motorcycle.
Now who's wiping the drool off their chin?
The giggling girls in front of me lower their voices to a murmuring whisper as Donovan walks towards me. Their heads snap back to look at him as he passes. He places his helmet on the bench next to him and removes his riding jacket. Howis he not burning up in that?
Betty quickly walks up to the table, gushing over Donovan like she just saw a superstar for the first time. Which is surprising since Agave Hills gets famous people all the time.
Betty doesn’t even allow us to order; she just scurries off and submits an order to the back. Donovan and I look at each other and burst out laughing.
“I guess we are pretty predictable, huh?” he says.
We say very little and sit in an awkward silence until the plate of nacho fries and two Dr. Peppers sit in the middle of the table. I pick at a couple of fries, forgetting the way my mouth waters every time I eat these. Sipping the soda, I square my shoulders and sit up straight. Seeing the heaviness weighing on Donovan, I take a deep breath and ready myself for what I need to get off my chest.
“Donovan. First, thank you for meeting me. I am truly sorry for the way I reacted in the hallway yesterday. I was ambushed by an overwhelming amount of embarrassment.” I adjust myself on the bench, so my left foot sits under me.
“Stella, don’t apologize. It was a lot to take in. Plus, I really need to tell you I’m sorry”.
“Stop, please stop. I know there is a lot you feel you must say to me, but it’s not on you to apologize for what happened. I reallyneed to get this off my chest.” I rush out in a single breath as my fingers push the spoon handle back and forth on the table.
“Okay. You have my full attention.” Donovan stares at me with an unsure look in his eyes.
“I am not really sure where to start; it feels like a lot of baggage to unpack. So I will start just before our phone call.” He nods and listens.
“Senior year, I had so much, uh, drama, I guess you can say, going on at home. I told you bits of it but never let you know the whole truth.” I breathe in deep and continue on.
“My parents were going through a rough patch. There was so much yelling, and when my grandparents got involved, it felt like my world was going to end.” Currently, I can’t hear anything going on around us.
I can’t hear the laughter or stories being told. The sound of ice pelting the bottom of a glass cup is gone. So I sink back into those memories and open up about what transpired.
I park my car in the large roundabout driveway and make my way up the back stairs leading to the mudroom. Tossing my umbrella into the basket and kicking off my soaking-wet Vans, I notice the freshly folded towels in the wicker basket on the dryer and grab the one on top.
