She lights up when she sees the wine. “You brought Cakebread? You do love me!”
She grabs the food from the kitchen and heads to the couch. “I've gotLove Islandqueued up. Tonight's the bombshell drop. I have so many theories.”
Her apartment smells faintly like eucalyptus and citrus from a diffuser that sits on the entry table, and her apartment has become a sense of familiar comfort over the past few months.Her décor is inspired by her Southern roots, with clean lines, soft tones, and fresh flowers on the coffee table. The windowsill, however, is a nod to LA. It's lined with tiny crystals that she insists keep her energy grounded. The couch is half-buried in throw pillows that defy physics and comfort, but somehow, this place always feels like a soft landing.
I drop into my usual spot on the right side of the sectional and settle with my head at one end and feet at the other while she plates our dinner.
We've been doing this Thursday night thing for, man, I guess around six months now. Ever since Jess moved out after accidentally marrying Lucas in Vegas and deciding tostaymarried.
Stella took over her lease, and that's how I ended up with a standing appointment to eat takeout on her couch and watch hot people in swimwear make terrible decisions.
“Okay, so, before we start,” she says, settling next to me with her legs tucked under her, “I need to tell you my prediction about what's going to happen with Coco and Warren.”
“You always have predictions,” I say, but I'm smiling. This is peak Stella, analyzing reality TV like it's Shakespeare.
She points her fork at me. “And I'm usually right. Remember when I called that Miles was going to choose Ellie over Maycie three episodes before it happened?”
“Lucky guess.”
“Intuition,” she corrects. “It's all about reading body language and understanding what people really want versus what they think they want.”
I study her face, genuinely curious about this disconnect I've always noticed. “So, you can read everyone else like a book, but when it comes to yourself…”
“I'm completely blind,” she finishes with a self-deprecating laugh. “When it's about other people, I can see everythingclearly. But the second it involves me—what I want, what I'm good at, whether someone's actually interested—my brain just shuts down. All that intuition disappears.”
It's fascinating, really. Stella can walk into a room and immediately assess the power dynamics, figure out who's insecure, who's putting on an act, who's genuinely confident. She can spot a fake smile from across a party. But ask her to evaluate her own worth or recognize when someone's flirting with her, and she's completely lost.
Maybe it's because she's been told what she should want for so long that she's forgotten how to trust what she actually feels. Or maybe it's easier to analyze other people's lives because there's no risk involved. She can be more objective when her own heart isn't on the line.
She hits play and immediately pauses again when the first couple appears on screen. “See? Look at how he's standing. His feet are pointed toward the door, not toward her. Classic subconscious signal that he wants to escape.”
I try to focus on her commentary, but Dr. Cohen's voice keeps cutting through. Three months of physical therapy. Three months of hoping my shoulder decides to cooperate. Three months of pretending everything's fine while I watch other guys audition for jobs I should be going after.
“Brandon?” Stella's voice pulls me back. She's paused the show again and is looking at me with those blue eyes that miss nothing. “You're not even watching. What's going on?”
I consider brushing it off, making some joke about being distracted by her excellent analysis skills. But this is Stella. She's the one person I trust completely. If I can't tell her, who can I tell?
“I had my physical today,” I say, setting down my food.
“And?” She mutes the TV completely, giving me her full attention.
“And I didn't pass.” The words taste bitter. “My shoulder's not where it needs to be. Doc won't clear me for any new work and is making me return to physical therapy.”
Her face immediately softens. “Oh, Brandon.”
“Three months,” I continue because, if I stop talking, I might actually lose it. “Three months of physical therapy, and then I can retest. But it means I can't go after the Marvel gig. And if the production I'm on now finds out I'm not cleared…” I trail off, but we both know how this story ends. They'll replace me faster than I can say “stunt double.”
Stella sets down her own food and turns to face me completely. “How are you feeling about it?”
Leave it to Stella to ask the real question instead of offering empty reassurances. It's one of the things I love about her, this ability to cut straight to the heart of things.
“Terrified,” I admit. “This is all I know how to do, Stella. I've been doing stunts for fourteen years. If my body can't handle it anymore…”
“Then you transition. There are a million other things you could do in this space,” she says simply. “You're one of the most talented stunt actors I've ever seen work, but you are so much more than that. Remember that fight scene you choreographed for Sophia's last film? It was incredible.”
“That's different.”
“Is it? You'd still be in the industry you love, still doing work that matters. Just because you're not the one getting thrown through windows doesn't mean you wouldn't be valuable.”
