He closes his mouth and nods his head to show his agreement. I squeeze his hand and relish the familiar feel.
“I took all of my emotions and lashed out at you. I broke up with you in the midst of all the chaos, rather than stopping totake a moment to breathe and reflect on everything that had happened.”
“When I saw you at prom, it was the final blow to my crumbling world. Instead of admitting I fucked up and asking you to forgive me, I couldn’t admit that I fucked up and ask you to forgive me. I doubled down in my anger—you moved on and didn’t need me anymore.” I fidget with my straw, making ice cubes bob up and down.
“I went home that night and confronted my parents about the fight with my grandfather. They wouldn’t admit anything and told me I remembered it all wrong. There is no mafia, no love, baby. I just have an overly active imagination. I felt like I was ten again. But I told them then that I would not enter the business world as they wanted (it was then that I told them I wouldn’t be studying business). I was going to art school. I confessed that I applied, received an acceptance letter, and had a full-ride scholarship waiting for me. Surprisingly, they nodded and agreed.”
“At graduation, I found it too difficult to look at you. I wanted to run to you, but we were both leaving for different states. So what was the point? Who can actually make long-distance relationships work, right?” I let out a light, dry laugh. “I roomed with a girl who’s double-majoring in art and psychology. She wants to be a therapist, so naturally, I cried to her about you. A lot. Somewhere between the drunk tears and denial, I realized I was the problem. I ruined us. You were never the issue, D. I was just too stubborn to admit I needed you. I tried to move on, and I couldn’t. There’s been no one else, not really. So I’m asking you, begging actually, to forgive me. In my moments of loss and foolishness, I threw away the best thing in my life. If we can start over, even just as friends… I’d be grateful. Because more than anything, I miss my best friend.”
Donovan says nothing. Instead, he stands, still holding my hands, walks around the table, and pulls me to my feet. And then, without hesitation, he kisses me.
There’s no softness, no gentle question in it. Just the desperate ache of two years without a heart.
When he pulls away, I’m breathless, and he presses his forehead to mine.
“I’m so sorry, Stella. For not knowing what you were going through, for not protecting you, for not seeing it. If I had known…” I shake my head, but he holds me tighter. “Stella, you looked at me once and ruined me for anyone else. You stole my heart with that look, and I’ve spent two years trying to remember how to breathe without it. I don’t care what we are right now. Just let me be near you again. Friend, partner, whatever space you’ve got for me… I’ll take it. Gladly. Because even after everything… I never stopped being yours.”
My heart stutters in my chest. I spent two years mourning him like he was gone, and here he is, saying he never left me at all.
I don’t know what will happen next. But I know this moment, this feeling, is real.
He has always been mine.
Donovan
Over the next few weeks, Stella and I fall into a steady routine, becoming inseparable.
I grab her favorite latte on my drive into work, and we walk in silence toward the school's front doors, sipping our drinks and letting the caffeine work its magic.
I make a quick detour to the office to check my box for anything important. Then we enjoy the slow stroll down the stale-smelling hallway. We might not say much during this part of the day, but there’s a peacefulness between us. It feels like this is where we’re supposed to be.
With Friday slowly creeping closer, Stella and I still haven’t talked about what’s next.
Spending two weeks in Agave Hills and two weeks in Virginia over the next few months will be miserable.
But what happens when the project is over? When will Stella execute this production flawlessly?
The thought weighs heavily on my mind, but I won’t let it taint the time I have with her.
We’re just getting back to us. I’ll keep holding on to our quiet lunch dates in my office. The dinners we cook together in her kitchen, the nervous touches, and the kisses I steal every chance I get.
Today is the first day of practice. We’ll be on the field warming up and getting a general feel for the teams. Wednesdays are usually for freshmen and JV, but today everyone’s out there. I wasn’t a part of summer training camps or tryouts, so I don’t know where any of the players stand.
Standing on the sidelines in my athletic gear, clipboard in hand, I’m feverishly jotting down notes while the team runs through drills. My baseball hat isn’t doing a damn thing to keep the beating sun out of my eyes.
Somewhere between passing drills, I hear murmurs ripple through the team, and heads start turning toward the stands.
What the hell has these boys all riled up?
I blow a long whistle. “Crawford, let’s go. What’s got you so distracted?”
When I turn to look, it makes total sense.
Midway up in the bleachers, Stella is sitting with a book in her hands. It feels like we’ve stepped into a time portal, because this was always my favorite sight to see.
Once I get the team to stop gawking and focus again, we finally make it through the rest of practice. But one of the freshmen speaks up and asks the question that’s clearly on every player’s mind.
“Who’s the gothic hottie in the stands?”
