Stella:Look, if you would rather not talk to me anymore, just tell me.
Finally, the voicemail.
I hit play, and her broken voice floods the room. Every word is devastation—her breath hitching, tears choking the edges of her sentences. “I don’t know how we went from making pancakes to not speaking. Please, baby, just talk to me.”
The silence after is worse than the message itself. I drag my hands down my face, the weight of the phone like a brick in my palm. I fucked up—plain and simple. I should’ve told her about Chelsea. Should’ve stayed. Should’ve answered when she needed me most. My chest aches with it, sick and heavy, the kind of mistake you can’t take back.
I call Stella’s phone. It rings three times before someone picks up. I open my mouth, but I don’t get a word out.
“She’s in there, crumbling, Donovan!” Ansel’s voice is sharp, ragged, and shaking with fury. “Drowning herself just to get through the night—and you? You’re out here being a fucking coward, like she’s not breaking because of you.”
Her words slice through me, hot and merciless. In the background, I swear I hear it—Stella’s muffled sob, or maybe just silence thick enough to choke on.
Then it hits me. Faint at first, then rising—her voice belting out “Coffin.” Not the carefree, off-key singing I know, but cracked from crying, slurred just enough to wreck me. I’ve heard her sing in the car a hundred times, windows down, laughter bubbling between lyrics. But this isn’t that. This is broken glass where sunlight once shone. “We’ll need a coffin handmade for two, ‘cause I love you to death.” I can hear it—tears and whiskey soaked into every note.
“Ansel, it’s not what you think. I’m not cheating on Stella. I am madly, fucking in love with that woman. Chelsea is the secretary for the football coaches. I asked her to help me get a ticket to fly out either Friday night or first thing Saturday morning.”
Ansel doesn’t say a word. On her end, the song starts over, Stella’s voice cracking on the first line.
“I wanted to surprise her, but Chelsea texted me once she got the message. Stella saw it and got mad. I should’ve told her what was happening, but once she started making accusations, I snapped. I let my anger run the show.”
I’m already moving—boots slamming the floor, jacket yanked from the chair, helmet in hand. I’ve wasted enough time.
“I’m on my way over now. Please, Ansel. She’s my world. I’m not okay without her. I can’t lose her—not again.”
The line goes quiet, but I don’t wait for an answer. I put on the helmet, straddle the bike, and gun the engine. The roar drowns out everything but the one thought pounding in my chest: get to Stella.
Stella
Iam not sure what time it is, but the sun is peeking through my curtains, so I know it’s at least midmorning.
Fuck, my head is throbbing. Why did I drink so goddamn much?
I slowly roll so I am on my back, staring up at my ceiling fan, the lazy whir of the blades making the room tilt in circles. Bad idea.
I run to the bathroom and violently hurl up the lack of contents in my stomach, acid burning my throat, ears ringing with every heave. I lay my head on the cold tile floor. My cheek sticks against it, my body damp with sweat, my head pounding, and my chest aching like it might cave in. After a few minutes on the floor, the smell of bacon creeps in—greasy, sharp, almost too much for my stomach. I carefully pick myself up off the floor. The sink water is icy against my face, and mint stings my tongue as I brush my teeth. Slowly, I feel human enough to move.
My feet drag against the plush carpet as I force myself into the kitchen. If Ansel is nice enough to cook me breakfast after the pity party I threw myself last night, the least I can do is benice and face her this morning. I round the corner and stop. The first thing I notice is a pastel pink motorcycle helmet—soft, almost candy-colored—with ridiculous little ears perched on the counter. A riding jacket and gloves lie beside it, casual, like they belong here.
My eyes follow the line of gear and land on Donovan, of all people, standing at the stove. Bacon crackles in the pan. Eggs hiss. And he’s wearingmypastel purple apron, the one that readsSeasoned with love and maybe a dash of arsenic—a joke gift from Ansel last Christmas.
Donovan turns around, spatula in hand, and just stares.
I drag my fingers through my hair, suddenly too aware of the tangles, the stale tequila sweat clinging to my skin. His expression twists—disgust, disbelief. Do I really look that bad? Or is this the moment he finally sees me clearly, stripped down, unworthy?
He spins on his toes too fast, like he can’t stand the thought, flicks the stove off, and slides the pan away. The distance between us vanishes in a handful of strides, and then I’m caught. His arms close around me, heat and steadiness wrapping tighter than I expect. My fingers twist into his shirt, desperate, like he’ll disappear if I loosen my grip. The fabric smells like him—clean, familiar, and grounding. My chest aches. He presses a kiss into my hair, breath lingering against my scalp, and pulls me even closer. His head finds my shoulder, like he’s the one searching for safety. For a second, I can’t tell who’s holding on to whom.
“Stella, baby… I am so fucking sorry.” His voice cracks, unashamed, breaking open before me.
“I apologize forever for letting you think—even for a second—that I could be the kind of man who’d betray you. You’re it for me. My life, my light, my whole goddamn world. If you asked me to move a mountain, I’d rip it apart with my bare hands.”His eyes lock on mine, something devastating and raw flickering there. “I should’ve never given you a reason to doubt it. Never.”
“Chelsea’s the secretary at work,” he blurts, words tumbling fast, like he knows he’s losing me. “I asked her to text me on Monday, during office hours. I needed her to check flights. I was trying to make sure I’d be home in time forSweeney Todd. For closing night.”
Relief and shame slam into me all at once, my heart lodged somewhere in the middle. Why did I let myself go there? Why did I believe—even for a breath—that he’d cheat?
“Donovan… I am so sorry.” His name stumbles out of me. “God, I’m so stupid.” The tears come fast, hot, and unstoppable. “I don’t know why my brain just saw a woman’s name and went there—why it jumped to the worst possible thing.” My breath hitches, head shaking. “I hate that I thought that about you. I hate that I let it take hold like that.”
When I finally force myself to look at him, his eyes are already glassy, brimming with the same ache tearing me apart.
