by Roxy Reid
“Um …” the boy tries. “We sell some very nice lanterns in the camping aisle.”
“What’s wrong, Stella?” I ask.
She looks over her shoulder at me and frantically shoves a palm across her cheeks, wiping her tears away. “Oh. Wade. Nothing. Nothing’s wrong. I am completely fine.”
“She can’t reach to change the lightbulb in her apartment,” the sales associate says helpfully. “Her ceilings are too high, and we don’t sell any ladders tall enough.”
I look from Stella to the paltry ladder section.
“It’s fine,” Stella says, her voice bright and thin. “I’ll just … I’ll just do what this helpful young man says, and get a lantern.”
She flashes a smile at the sales associate. “Where’s your camping aisle?”
“No,” I say. Taking the stepladder from her. “I am changing your lightbulb.”
It’s the brotherly thing to do, I tell myself. It’s definitely not because Stella Harrington crying makes me frantic to fix any problem she’s ever run into.
I hand the sales associate my basket, put the ladder under my arm, and walk out of the store.
“Wade!” Stella chases after me. “Wade, you don’t need to do this. I’ll just ask my apartment super again. I’m sure he’ll get around to it.”
“How long ago did you ask him?” I load the ladder into the back of my car. I’ve seen the tiny thing Stella drives. I’m surprised she managed to fit a stepladder into it in the first place. I have no idea how she thought she’d handle a bigger ladder.
“Two weeks ago,” Stella admits as I shut the trunk. “And every day this week. But I’m sure tonight’s the night he gets around to it.”
“Stella,” I say.
“Wade.”
We stare each other down in the parking lot.
“I’m not helpless,” she finally says. “I can take care of myself.”
“Of course you’re not helpless. Just vertically challenged.”
She narrows her eyes at me, like she suspects me of ulterior motives.
“I’m just doing what Duke would do if he was here,” I say reasonably.
“Duke couldn’t reach it either,” she says.
“Well then, good thing he’s not here. That would be awkward.”
Stella throws up her arms. “Fine! If you’re determined to throw your Friday night away, then follow me to my place and help me change a lightbulb.”
She lives in an old but well-kept apartment complex in an area of town that hasn’t been gentrified yet. Stella apologizes the whole time she’s letting me in.
It really is dark in here. If it weren’t for the hallway light spilling in from the open door, I wouldn’t be able to see a damn thing.
“Is there any light in this place?” I ask.
“It’s a studio apartment. This is the whole place,” she says. “The bathroom light still works.”
“Right.” I set up the ladder underneath the light fixture in the center of the ceiling. It’s got places to screw in four lightbulbs, but only one spot has a lightbulb. I try the first step, but she’s right, the ceilings are high, and even I can’t reach it.
I go up to the next step of the ladder. “If I fall and break my neck, my mom gets all of my stock options.”
“Don’t joke about that,” Stella says, and I smile, because she sounds genuinely worried. I reach up and unscrew the lightbulb, passing it down to her. “Here you go. Where’s the new one?”
She grabs something off the window sill, and returns with a lightbulb she passes to me.
“Hey Stella,” I say. “How many billionaires does it take to screw in a lightbulb?”
“Please be careful,” she says. “I bought that ladder on sale. In the as-is section.”
I shift my weight, and there’s an ominous snapping sound, right on cue.
“Wade, get down from there, it’s not worth it.”
“I’m almost done,” I say, trying to screw in the lightbulb without shifting my weight. Or breathing. “Besides, I’m not leaving you in the dark.’
“It’s not so bad. Cooking is a challenge, but the lack of light does wonders for my sleep cycle.”
“There. Done.” I take a step down the ladder, and as the whole thing gives in on itself, I fall on my ass.
“Wade! Are you ok?” Stella hurries to help me up, but she trips on my feet and lands on top of me.
I can’t help it. I start laughing.
“What are you laughing about?” Stella asks, her voice so close in the dark it sends shivers down my spine. Don’t think about that. Duke’s sister. Employee. Don’t think about it.
“It’s just, this is exactly like something that would happen in those horrible romcoms you’re making me watch,” I say. “I thought they were unrealistic, but …”
I try to get up, but that turns out to be a mistake, because I just end up pressing upward into her softness, reminding my body of how long it’s been since I’ve had a woman’s weight on top of me.
“The unrealistic part is where it happens to someone you’re attracted to,” Stella says, and it might be my imagination, but her voice sounds breathy. “Someone you’d never let yourself touch like that unless you literally crashed into them.”
“Right. Totally unrealistic,” I say, hoping she gets off of me before my dick gets unrealistically hard.
And also, if I’m honest, really hoping she won’t.
“Stella …”
“Wade,” she answers, and I’m not imagining it. There’s a definite breathiness in her voice.
If this was anyone else, I know exactly what I’d do. Slide my hands through all that pretty pink hair and pull that pretty pink mouth down to mine. Nibble and suck until neither of us want the light to go on ever again.
But it’s not anyone else. It’s Stella Harrington, and I can’t do shit like that.
No matter how much I want to, with her sweet weight pressing down on me and the scent of gardenias and Stella fogging my brain.
I unceremoniously dump her to the side in an act of sheer self-preservation.
“Hey! There’s ladder parts under me.”
“Sorry. Sorry, I should go.” I stumble to my feet, and flip the light switch by the door.
The lights go up on a pretty empty apartment.
Completely empty, actually. There’s nothing but an open suitcase with silk, cotton, and leather spilling out of it.
She might as well have put up a big neon sign. I’m not sticking around. Don’t get used to me.
The only thing besides the suitcase is the bed in the corner. I can’t help thinking about walking Stella back into that bed, spreading her silky hair on the white sheets, tilting her hips up for me.
When I jerk my eyes back to Stella, she’s flushed.
Oh God. Please say she can’t see what I’m thinking. Please say she can’t see…
“I should go,” I repeat, like that’s the only sentence I know.
“Yeah,” Stella says. “I think you should.”
I flee before I do something we’d both regret.
I do my best to put the incident out of my head, but by Thursday, Stella’s still being tense and weird, and I can’t stand it.
Fuck, I admit to myself. I screwed up.
This isn’t going to blow over unless I clear the air and apologize. But somehow, apologizing in the office feels worse, like I’m highlighting the power difference between us as I remind her I almost lost control and kissed her on the floor of her apartment like an animal. I’d ask her to talk about it over lunch again, but that feels too much like I’m trying to make a move, or buy her forgiveness with a life’s supply of sweet tea.
I mean, if buying her forgiveness with a life’s supply of sweet tea would work, I’m totally up for it …
Stella sticks her head into my office. “I worked through lunch, so I’m going to go on a walk to get some fresh air.”
“Excellent. I’ll join you.” I stand up and grab my jacket before she can o
bject.
The air is surprisingly crisp as we stroll around the neighborhood. That’s the thing with spring in North Carolina. There’s highs and lows, and you never know what you’re going to get.
I slide my eyes to the side. It’s a little like Stella, actually.
I clear my throat. “I’m just going to come out and say it—”
“Oh God, they called you for a reference already, didn’t they? I swear I was going to tell you …” Stella trails off as she sees my face. “You’re not talking about the reference.”
“And you’re not talking the kiss the thing.”
“What kiss thing?”
What kiss thing, indeed. Apparently she’d been completely oblivious to my moment on the floor.
“Nothing,” I lie. “There was a weird scene in one of those romcoms—I wanted your opinion, as a woman—but I think I get it now, not a big deal at all. How about you tell me about this reference?”
“Well …” she bounces on her toes and bites her lip, clearly overflowing with nervous energy. “I have a job interview. Tomorrow. For my dream job.”
“What? Already? That’s amazing.”
Stella grins, and that’s another win. I am slowly learning to identify each of her smiles, and this is a new one.
“What is it?” I ask.
“St. Mary’s. It’s a private school, so it doesn’t matter that I don’t have a teaching license. They’ve got a big music program, and most of their percussion program is built around the needs of the marching band, so I spent the whole weekend learning everything I could about marching bands. Do you remember Nancy Kelly from high school? She did marching band in school, so we’re getting coffee tonight so I can ask her some questions.”
“That’s great,” I say. “When are they looking to hire?”
“It sounds like they want to make an offer next week.”
Next week? I feel a tug of loss. It’s been nice having her around. More than nice.
I’ve got some of the best people in the region working for me. The best in the country. None of them could have gotten me that meeting with Ms. Covington.
But it’s more than that. Since moving back to North Carolina, most of the people I see on a day-to-day basis are my employees, or other professional acquaintances. When I run into someone I used to know, they give me a sort of awed distance. Local boy made good. A little too good to invite him to the barbecue, or out for drinks.
It’s been a little isolating, if I’m honest.
But Stella blew right through all of that. She’s not intimidated by me. At all. And she’s funny. And smart, and creative, and irreverent.
I’ll miss running into her around the office. I almost open my mouth to ask if she wants to get a drink or something after she leaves.
As friends.
Obviously.
But instead I just say, “That soon. You could be free of St. George enterprises in a mere three weeks.”
“Oh no, I wouldn’t start until September, when the school year starts. They’re just doing this now because the old percussion teacher is retiring at the end of the year, and this is normally when they renew teachers’ contracts if they’re staying.”
“September,” I say, and immediately feel better. September is much better. “How are you feeling about the interview?”
Stella shrugs. “When I think about what I know, I’m fine. But when I think of the whole interview process … drummers don’t have job interviews, Wade. We have auditions. I’m good at sizing people up, at jumping in, at thinking on my feet. But … well. I haven’t done a job interview. Not for a real job.”
“You interviewed to work at St. George Enterprises,” I point out as we turn onto a street with fewer offices and more storefronts.
“Yeah, but that was different. I knew I had it,” she says, frustrated.
“Then just pretend you have it,” I suggest.
Stella laughs, and the sound does something funny to my chest.
“I’m serious,” I say. “That’s what I used to do when I wanted something too badly to think straight.”
“And now?”
I think about it. “I guess haven’t wanted anything that badly in a while.”
We walk in silence for a block.
“So, that’s one problem. Anything else you’re worried about?”
Stella bites her lip. “It’s silly.”
Not if it matters to you. “Just tell me.”
“I don’t have anything to wear. Playing clubs doesn’t really translate to school-teacher-appropriate. I went to buy a suit yesterday, but I couldn’t afford …” she blushes, and I think of her bare apartment.
It’s not because she travels light, I realize, feeling like an idiot. It’s because she’s broke.
She doesn’t even have her drum set. And the way she talks about drumming, I don’t want to think about what it cost her to get rid of them.
I’d buy her a suit in a heartbeat, if she asked. The money’s nothing to me. Even if she weren’t Duke’s sister, she’s my friend now.
But she’s not going to ask. And I know it would be wrong of me to offer.
“It’s fine,” Stella says after another block. “It’s not the clothes they’re hiring. It’s the person. And I have what I wear to work. It’ll be fine. Totally, totally fine.”
“Ok, you’ve said fine one too many times,” I tease her, and then I see a familiar shop sign up ahead. “Wait a minute. I’ve got an idea.”
I half-jog ahead, and when I see they’re open, I wave Stella over. “It’s a thrift store that specializes in business clothes. They’ve got some good stuff.”
Stella looks incredulous. “A billionaire shops at a thrift store?”
Well, no. I donate my old clothes here. Not that I’m going to mention that to Stella. “They’ve got a good reputation in the community.”
“I’m sure they do, but there are other things I want more than a new outfit. And my current work clothes are fine.”
I point to a mannequin in the window. “Tell me you don’t want that.”
It’s a classic black designer skirt suit. But the lining of the suit jacket is pink polka dots, the exact shade of Stella’s hair.
“Oh,” Stella breathes.
“You know, if you don’t get this job, there will be other interviews. It probably makes more sense to buy a suit if you don’t get this job—”
“Oh, shut up,” Stella says, but she’s grinning as she says it. She checks her watch. “Do we have time? You need to get back for the California call.”
“How fast can you try on a suit?”
Apparently, pretty fast.
Ten minutes later, we’re back out on the sidewalk, one pink-lined suit in the shopping bag Stella won’t let me carry for her. She didn’t come out of the dressing room, so I don’t know what it looks like on her, but the smile on her face as she swings the bag at her side tells me she looks pretty damn perfect.
They’d be a fool not to hire her. But the world is full of fools, so she practices her interview answers on the walk back, and I mentally cross my fingers and hope whoever’s sitting across the interview table can see how obviously, objectively great Stella Harrington is.
I mean, I can see it, and I’m not biased at all.
6
Stella
Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God.
The car window is down, the radio’s playing country, and I don’t even care that I’m in a suit, and I’m going to have to buy a whole new wardrobe of frumpy teacher clothes, because I got the job. Right there at the end of the interview, they looked at each other, nodded, and then offered it to me.
I want to sing at the top of my lungs. I want to shout at random passersby. I want to call my mama and tell her she was wrong when she said I’d never amount to anything.
I want to tell someone. I think of my old bandmates, the good ones, but they’d think I’m settling. Those who can’t do teach, and all that. They wouldn’t get how big this is. I co
uld tell Duke, but he’d jump straight into being practical, and preparing for problems that haven’t even happened yet. Which has its place, but it's not what I want right now.
I want to celebrate. I want to tell someone who will look impressed and give me a bear hug and shout with joy.
I want to tell Wade.
Without questioning why the person I want to tell the most is my boss, I make a U turn and drive to our office, hoping he’s still there. I feel a little spurt of excitement when I see his car’s still in the lot. I park, and check my reflection in the rearview mirror.
Not that it matters what I look like. Wade sees me every day. Plus, he witnessed the glory of my awkward teenage years. There is literally no reason for me to run my hands through my hair to give it body, or freshen my mascara. There’s definitely no reason for me to dig out the old pink lipstick in the base of my purse. I originally bought it because I got a kick out of the way it matched my hair, but now I’m thinking that it also matches the lining of my suit.
Not that Wade’s going to see the lining of my suit.
I’m just putting on lipstick because I’m happy, and sometimes happy days require lipstick.
As I walk into the office, I feel so giddy it’s like I’m glowing. I can’t wait to see Wade’s reaction when I tell him.
The office is almost empty, except for the intern who I know for a fact stays late so he can use the office printer for the sci-fi novel he’s writing. When the intern sees me, he walks into a wall and drops his freshly printed pages all over the floor.
Yep, I look good.
As I get closer to Wade’s office I hear him talking, and wonder if he stayed late for a phone call. Except he sounds sort of animated for a phone call.
“Don’t do it, Karen! He loves you—damn it. Fucking Steve ruining shit. AGAIN.”
I poke my head in. “What are you doing?”
Wade jolts like he’s been caught watching porn. “Nothing. Work. I …” His words die as he looks up from the computer.
His eyes start at my heels, and work their way up to my pink mouth.
And the look in his eyes? Now I know that’s why I put on the lipstick.
