Since high school, I have spent a lot of time working on myself. I've had enough time to realize that I am the one who caused my heartbreak, not Donovan.
I hop into the driver's seat of my rental car and push the button to start it. My phone automatically connects to the Bluetooth speakers, and my audiobook starts right where I left off. Before putting the car into drive, I place the phone into the phone holder and hit pause on my romance. There’s no way I can listen to a woman get railed by a minotaur right now! I back out of the visitor parking spot and drive home in silence.
I grab my belongings and walk into the ridiculously large kitchen, dropping my bags on the oversized kitchen island and setting my water bottle by the sink.
I head up the soft carpeted stairs towards my childhood bedroom, and Ansel’s ringtone blaresGirls Just Want to Have Fun, obviously. The perfect chaos to match her soul.
I jog down the steps and grab my phone off the counter, picking it up just in time to avoid going to voicemail. Not like she would use it. I would just be bombarded with a barrage of texts and memes.
“What’s up, Slay Muffin? How was your first day with Sir Stage Whisperer?” I hear Ansel’s peppy voice blare through the phone before I can even put it to my ear.
“Uhh… it was fine.” I can’t get my words out, my interaction with Donovan still reeling in my mind.
I snag a Diet Coke and head back up to my room while recapping the day spent with my hot as fuck theater teacher. I sit on the king-size bed in my room that hasn’t changed since I moved to Virginia. I take a sip of my drink and put it on my nightstand.
I start to tell her about Mr. Lightheart bringing me coffee, and accidentally say, “He looked so edible holding my latte, wearing black trousers and his red Chuck Taylors. And those fucking glasses.”
“Wait…did you just say Mr. Lightheart is a hottie? Why is your BFF just now finding out you are in the midst of a theater sex god?” Her squeals are ear-piercing. “Stella. Maybe at the end of this, Mr. Drama King can give you a standing O!”
I cover my eyes and groan. “ANSEL! Your sexy theater talk isn’t helping, and I am not finished telling you EVERYTHING.” I drag out everything for dramatics.
“Sorry, Stell. I will keep Mr. Standing O out of my mouth.” She giggles like a maniac.
“Oh, such a comedian! Maybe you should go to acting school instead!” I can’t help but laugh after I say that. I can’t stay fake mad at her.
“Okay, so where was I? Oh yes, I am going to try and talk him into possibly putting on the musical Sweeney Todd and casting Aster as Sweeney.” My legs are resting against the wall as I am lying on my back, telling her my vision of the show. “I really think if I can execute this show perfectly, I will get an A in the class.” I let out a sigh and continue, “OH, and I fell flat on my face in front of Donovan. He grabbed my arm to help me up I looked into his gorgeous blue eyes and froze, then ran off in the opposite direction while he was yelling for me to stop.” The words come out of my mouth so fast that it’s practically one long sentence.
“Stell, wait. Did you say Donovan is there?” For the next hour, I give her the full play-by-play, no details left out.
When I am finished, she is suspiciously quiet. “My tarot cards are saying you and Donovan are endgame. They show love and a future, but be careful, Stella. The last card is very ominous.”
Nothing like a little foreshadowing with your unsolicited psychic reading.
Her words sink in, and I say, “I know we have had many late-night drunken conversations about what happened. It's my fault things ended. But do you really think now is the right time to talk to him?” I whisper.
Ansel, in her bestI am supposed to become a therapist voice, replies,“I think you will feel better about the part you played in the breakup if you talk to him and open up about it. There will never be a perfect time. However, you need closure on the past to move forward. Whether you want to move forward with him, or move forward on your own to a new future.”
I know she is right. I haven’t been able to move. I hurt my best friend—the man I loved—because I was embarrassed, angry, and too stubborn to listen to what he was saying.
“You’re right, Ansel. I’m going to ask him to grab coffee with me so we can talk. I need to get everything off my chest. Loveya, Sugar Plague. I will talk to you tomorrow.” Hanging up the phone, I lay it down with a very heavy heart.
I change into my yoga pants and head to the gym downstairs to run. Even though I love the fresh air against my face as I run, 110 degrees is too damn hot for that right now.
After three miles, I drag myself to the kitchen and throw together a salad, alone in this giant house. I think Mom said they’re in Paris for work. I wash my bowl, wipe down the counter, and head upstairs for a shower.
As hot water hits my skin, I start mentally drafting what I’ll say to Donovan.Hey D, long time no talk. Sorry, I was a fucking idiot.I scrub myself down with strawberry and orange body wash, trying to rinse off today’s humiliation, wash and condition my hair, letting the water pour down my back. Turning off the faucet, I wrap myself in a fluffy towel and lather on my goat’s milk lotion. Jasmine petals and regret.
Exhaustion settled in an hour ago. I throw on my favorite VSD sleep shirt and crawl into bed, finally letting myself drift off.
Stella
The rising morning sun creeps in through the partially open curtains. I roll over onto my stomach and bury my face into my pillow. My angry bladder is the only reason I get out of the warm bed. After I use the bathroom and wash my hands, I shuffle my way back to my room.
I rub the sleep from my eyes and squint at the glowing red numbers. 5:30. Seriously? Glen Powell should still be shirtless running around in my dreams. I know my body thinks it’s 8:30 am and I’m running late for class, but come on!
I take this as my cue to get out of bed and finish my morning yoga.
After thirty minutes of virtual yoga, I feel stretched and relaxed. The instructor makes each video feel like you are in the same room. Heading upstairs, I take a quick body shower to rid myself of the sweat. Sitting down at the vanity, I get to work blow drying my hair and twisting it into two of the cutest space buns. It’s too hot for my hair to touch my neck.
