Page 114 of All My Love

Where has evading these hard topics gotten us besides confused, lost, and angry? Seven years—more, if we’re being honest—of avoiding hard conversations to keep the peace or avoid picking at wounds. All it’s done has made things worse. All it’s done was put seven years of distance between us and fueled miscommunication and misunderstanding.

Finally, he sighs, realizing I’m not going to let this go, and starts to explain, still refusing to meet my eyes.

“After I got sober, there was a gap in our touring schedule. Management wanted us to make a new album and wanted me to fix my image. I’d gotten the DUI, and even though they were about to keep it low-key, the news I was a fuck up and wrapped too tight in the lifestyle was still spreading and not in a fun, all-press-is-good-press way. So they put us on a mandatory break, told me to get my shit together before I showed my face again.”

He sighs, his eyes far off like he’s lost in another world, another time before he continues.

“I went to rehab, did the whole thing, but I didn’t trust myself to be anything but alone. Locked myself in a hotel room and tried to write an album.” A self-pitying laugh escapes his chest as he shakes his head. “I couldn’t write. Nothing worked. I missed you and needed you. Knew that since you left, but I covered it in liquor. When I got sober, there was nothing left but a gaping hole.”

My eyes watch his face, carefully decoding each stretch of skin on muscle, each twitch of his face, each shift of his eyes, but he keeps staring ahead at the cabin before us, eyes glazed, in another life. Another time.

“So I bought land out here to see the stars. I’d say I don’t know why I picked here, picked Maine, but we both know that’s bullshit, and you were always smarter than I was. You know I bought it because of you.” He sighs and I reach out on instinct for his hand, hesitating a split second before I grab it. He twines his fingers with mine but still doesn’t look at me, still lost in that world.

“It worked for a bit, but nothing… nothing great came of it. I couldn’t write anything worth the ink in my pen. Before that, I was angry. I wrote about that, about you leaving when I thought I did nothing wrong, about my parents, about Dad. I could write about being on the road, the wild ride that was, but now that the rose-colored glasses were gone, I could see what a train wreck it all was. I wasn’t brave enough then, to write about what I’d done, how I’d fucked up everything.”

He shakes his head, finally dropping his eyes from the cabin but still not looking at me. Instead, his eyes are locked on our hands, to where I’m holding his. He shifts our hands so he can see my tattoo, then brushes his thumb over the tiny R before he takes a deep breath, continuing.

“I needed to distract myself when I was up here, so I started building. I didn’t know what I was doing, not at all, but one thing my dad gave me, though, was knowledge on how to build.” I remember that, how his father was a contractor, how he could fix and build anything, and how he helped remodel my parents’ living room before Jeanie died. “Something in my brain knew I needed blueprints, permits, or else I’d be fucked, so I did all of that and had everything delivered, but this?” His free hand waves at the cabin, indicating the area in front of us.

“This is all me. I did it all except some of the wiring and plumbing.” Finally, finally, his head turns and he looks at me, a small self-deprecating smile on his lips. “Hired that out, so at least we know it won’t burn to the ground if we turn the lights on.”

I return the small smile, and he turns to the cabin again.

“It worked, you know. Cleared my head enough to write. I’d build during the day, lay under the stars with my guitar at night, writing songs about forgiveness and redemption. Addiction and loss. That wasBarren. It hit number one.”

“I know,” I whisper. “I saw it. I was proud of you guys, even though I was still livid and lost and sad still. It hurt seeing you succeed when I felt so lost, like I was drowning. But knowing you guys did that all on your own. I was proud.”

Silence takes over the car again as we both get lost in our own thoughts.

I look at the cabin, understanding he did this—built this and chose here—because it was the only place he could feel close to me while giving me my space. I get it. It’s why I never left Ashford when LA or New York could have made more sense for a songwriter. It’s why I kept working at the diner, why I bought the house and never left the town, and why I fell in love with him.

It was my one last connection to him, a connection that I could deny all I wanted, but it was obvious if you looked.

And in that moment, I know my mind is made up.

I think I made my mind up when I read that first postcard withReturn to Senderstamped on it, to be honest.

We’ll make it work. I’ll get a thicker skin to deal with the tabloid shit if I have to, and we’ll work together to get over our bumpy past because I’ve learned over the years that I can survive without Riggins, but I can’tlivewithout him.

I’ve been surviving for seven years, and I’m tired of it.

I want my best friend back for good.

“Come on. Show me our house,” I whisper, squeezing his hand. His head turns to me and I see a glimmer of hope there, his face looking so boyish, harkening back to when we were kids so much that I almost cry.

“Really?” he asks.

“Yeah, Riggs. Take me home.”

47 CLOSE BEHIND

NOW

STELLA

“That one,” he whispers hours later as we lay on a blanket under the stars.

He was right all those years ago, the stars are wildly bright out here and the peace that’s taken over me soothes every part of me.