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“Riggins. What are you doing here?” I ask, staring at the man I haven’t seen in nearly five years outside of magazines and television. “Coming to see my wife,” he says, and my world shifts on its axis.
My life is like the ocean. Sometimes, I’m at the top, floating on my back, the sun on my face. Happy, warm. Whole. Other times, I’m in the deepest, dark blue depths, so cold I can’t remember what the sun feels like anymore. I'm numb.
“She’s a free spirit, little star,” I remember him saying. “Just like you; she always comes back to me.”
“Just like me,” I had said with a wide smile, a smile he had liked a lot because he kissed me so hard, I thought it was going to bruise.
What I do want is the printed-out photo of Gracie with, Gracie, 1 year old in New Mexico, scribbled in all too familiar scrawl on the back that he also left behind. And below that, You’ve still got all my love.
“Her fucking husband,” Riggins says in a low growl, and my entire body tightens, both with the clear aggression in his words and with what he’s saying.
“I’m always Riggs to you. And you’re my little star. Ironic when you’re my goddamn sun, when my entire world revolves around you.”
“This isn’t who I am anymore, Riggins.” “Then I can’t wait to get to know the new version of you, Stella. Make her my best friend, too.”
“If you don’t get a divorce moving, you’ll be fired at the restaurant. You will no longer be invited to family dinners.
Your father and I will be done with you. And if I get my way, Everest will be done with you.” Everest will be done with you.
What a B I T C H
“I’m yours. I’m yours, and I’m back, and I’m here to protect you,” he says to the top of my head.
