The line goes dead. I stare at the bottle of Patron resting on the coffee table. Minutes later I slam the top back on. Time to make more changes.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Stella
The next morning, or rather early afternoon, I awaken with a pounding headache. Heartache, apparently, feels a lot like a heavy night of drinking without any of the fun to show for it. I drag my sorry ass out of bed. No shower. Barely wash my face and teeth. I’m listless. That’s what I am, listless.
Which is why I don’t bother with makeup. Dark circles? So what. Or tidying the rat’s nest that is my hair. Who cares.
I jam on my yoga pants, pull those suckers over my expanding waistline and check to make sure I didn’t give myself an unsightly camel toe. When I determine that I haven’t, I slip on my old faithful Princeton sweatshirt and my worn-out Uggs.
I need coffee––unfortunately for me it will be decaf––and my mommy. I don’t care what age you are sometimes you just need your mommy.
I drive the new Volvo SUV Dane bought me as a surprise baby gift. Practical. I love practical. I adore all practical things. This man gets me. And I humiliated him in front of his friends and fans. I need to be whipped. Except the same concerns I had last night remain. Nothing has changed in my head. And still no love. At least, none forthcoming from him.
I dial Dane’s number. He doesn’t pick up. The message plays on the Bluetooth. He paired my phone for me without me asking. He does nice things like that all the time. There’s a special place in hell for me.
“Hi…it’s me. You’re screening your calls…okay…I missed you last night. I just wanted to hear your voice.” Then I remember he’s doing a guest spot on ESPN today, a test run to see if he’d like to do more. “Good luck today. Call me when you can.”
As soon as I reach my mother’s place, she opens the door and rakes me from hair to toes with an expression of disapproval.
“Yes, I know I’m a hot mess.” She opens the door wider to let me in. “He asked me to marry him.”
I hold up my ring finger. Yes, I’m still wearing it.
Her face lights up. “That’s wonderful.”
“I said I’d think about it.”
Her face goes flat. Then she exhales. No need to wonder what that tired exhale means. Once again I’m the dumb girl that doesn’t get it, and she’s the poor unfortunate one having to explain it to me.
“Do you have decaf?––or a gun?” Not waiting for an answer, I make my way to the kitchen…where I find Bill having coffee at her table.
An eternity later, gaping, I say, “Bill?”
“Stella. Good to see you, sweetheart.”
“William, will you give us a moment.”
William? I can’t. I just can’t. I can’t do this. Not today.
Hanging onto his coffee cup, he gets up and walks over, plants a kiss on my cheek, pats my arm, and walks out of the room.
“Bill is here…having coffee,” I say robotically. Mostly to have it confirmed that I am indeed not seeing things.
“We’ll discuss that later. How did he take it?”
“Not well.” The look on his face haunts me still. I can’t even think about it without wanting to vomit.
“Stella––”
“Before you say anything I feel bad enough already.”
“Do you love him?”
The million-dollar question. Of course I love him. I love him more than I love money, or oxygen, or my independence. I love him more than all those things combined and rolled up in a warm Nutella crêpe.
“Yes, I love him.” And I know he loves me too––even if he hasn’t said it. I feel it every time he touches me. Every time he looks at me. It’s in every tender word and kind gesture.
I remember reading something once. That the Japanese believe broken things are more beautiful for the history they tell. They even go a step further, repairing pottery with gold and silver, turning the damage into something precious. Kintsukuroi, they call it.
That’s what Dane has done for me. He Kintsukuroied me––if that word were a verb which it isn’t. Slowly and gently, Dane filled in my gaps and turned me into a better version of myself. Whatever happens with us, I have him to thank for that. His actions outweigh his lack of words, that much is true. So do the words really matter?
“What if he gets sick of me? Or the spark flames out. Or he gets sick of me.” My mother is shaking her head before I even finish my riff. “Why complicate love with marriage? As a matter of fact if you really love someone, shouldn’t you vow not to marry them? Shouldn’t love keep you together instead of a contract?”
Like the contract that started our story.
“That’s a very nice speech, mija. But I know you better than you know yourself and I know you’re scared of ending up like me.” She lifts a brow. “Dane is not your father.” After a profound sigh, she looks away. “As much as I loved your father, the man was a coward. Dane is not a coward. He is a good man.”
“He is. And we could still crash and burn.”
She takes her glasses off and rubs the bridge of her nose. “Is he worth it?”
“Worth what?”
“The risk of a broken heart? The trouble if it doesn’t work out? Is it worth losing him if it means protecting yourself?”
The answer comes to me at once. A broken heart is nothing compared to the loss of him. That loss is one I may never recover from.
“Yes,” I answer with my whole heart, not a single doubt to be found in any corner of it. “He is worth it.”
“Then you have your answer.”
I do.
The tires of my brand new Volvo SUV screech to a stop in front of the ESPN building in Connecticut. I have no recollection of how I got here, but here I am nonetheless. Once I had my “born again” moment, I channeled Danica Patrick and tore out of Camilla’s driveway at top speed. Getting to Dane and spilling my guts, throwing myself at his feet and begging him to marry me was all I could think about.
The whole Bill and my mother thing…I just can’t right now. One crisis at a time.
I leave the Volvo at the curb, locked in the fire zone. A few suits loitering in the foyer eyeball me suspiciously as I march double time through the glass doors, head held high. It’s then I recall that what I’m wearing basically makes me look like a hard-up, nutso stalker. Throw my glasses in the mix and it’s safe to say I may have some trouble getting in to see him.
The two men at the check-in desk try and fail to keep their expressions neutral.
“I’m here to see Dane Wylder.” Chin lifted, I nonchalantly take my glasses off, doing my best to project authority. The initial blurriness, however, makes me squint and blink repeatedly.
Security guard number one’s expression remains unmoved. What I can make of it through the blur, that is.
“Are you family?” The tone of security guard number two tells me he doesn’t believe so.
“I’m his girlfriend––I mean fiancée.” Now they
definitely don’t believe me. “This is an emergency. Just call him, would you?”
The two exchange a look. “He’s busy at the moment. Would you like to leave a message?”
I pat down my body. I don’t even know why I do it, I usually keep my cell in the inside pocket of my purse, but I’m not thinking rationally right now. And I have no idea where my purse is.
“Make the call and tell him Stella is here,” I demand. In my defense, as Billy Crystal famously once said, when you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with someone, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible.
Stone-faced, the security dumbass makes no call. That’s when I lose it. “I’m his baby mama. Call him!!”
Security dumbass number one picks up the phone. “I have a Stella here for Dane Wylder…says she’s the baby mama…mmkay.” He hangs up the phone and simply stares. I’m about to go Kong on this guy. Hormones––no court of law would convict me.
“Third floor.”
Gloating, I give them the fakest smile I can muster before marching through the security turnstile. Once I get to the third floor, I grab a young PA dashing by. She points me in the direction of Dane’s dressing room, though not before she gives my clothes a queer look.
My heart pounds inside my chest. For the first time since I got in the car, I have doubts about how I’ll be received. I humiliated him in front of an audience. I wouldn’t blame him for not wanting to see me. A wave of nausea hits me at the mere recollection of it.
At the threshold, I hover, nerves turning me into a coward. Dane’s voice drifts out of the open doorway. I peek inside the dressing room and find him sitting in a director’s chair facing a large mirror.
He’s in a white dress shirt and navy slacks, his hair forced into one of those hipster side parts. My heart triples its beat. Speaking loudly, it’s saying, I love him. I love him in ways I never thought possible.
An attractive blonde in a tight pencil skirt places her hand on the arm rest and leans forward, her breasts far too close to my man’s face. “What are you doing after this? Wanna get a drink?” the blonde murmurs suggestively with a sly smile.