“You have a leak,” he said as though it were a personal affront.
“That would explain why we didn’t have any hot water.”
Jeff squished his way to the hot water heater and bent to study it. “Grab me a flashlight, would you?”
“I said I could take care of it.”
He looked over his shoulder at her. “Obviously you can’t.”
There was a time when he’d been able to read her. When he’d known her. Stella couldn’t recall exactly when that had changed, but it was never more obvious than in this moment when she was almost ready to punch him in the junk, and all he could do was give her a condescending sneer.
“Get out,” she said. “I’ll call a plumber. I have a wet vac. I will handle this.”
“I’m trying to help you.”
“I don’t need your help.” Stella crossed her arms and stepped back to let him pass. “I can handle it, whether you think so or not.”
“Don’t get all bent out of shape. I’m just trying to help you—”
“We’re not married anymore, Jeff.” Stella could no longer keep her voice steady and even, and she knew it was only going to give him more ammunition to accuse her of being overemotional—something he’d done a whole hell of a lot of during their last days. “This isn’t your responsibility, and I wouldn’t want you to throw it in my face later. Really, I can handle it.”
“Fine.” Jeff dusted off his hands and pushed past her, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like “stubborn bitch” under his breath.
She’d been called worse.
Stella followed him up the stairs and into the kitchen, leaving him in there and not bothering to look back when he called after her. Halfway up the stairs she heard the front door open and close. She knocked lightly on Tristan’s door, waiting until he answered before she opened it. She had to shove the door against a pile of dirty laundry, but ignored it for now.
“Hey.”
Tristan’s desk overflowed with miscellaneous junk, but he sat at it anyway. Bent over a sketch pad he closed when she came in, he shoved it under a pile of other things and twisted to look at her. He resembled Jeff more than ever when he scowled.
“I can take all the stuff back,” he said. “Cynthia’s the one who wanted to buy it all.”
“I figured.” Stella looked around the room, then leaned against the bedpost. “You don’t have to. Your dad can afford it.”
Tristan nodded, his mouth still turned down. “Okay.”
She wasn’t making it much better. “I’m sorry you heard us fighting about it. It’s not about you, Tristan. You know that, right?”
“Yeah. Whatever.” He turned back to his desk, but didn’t pull out the sketchbook or anything else. He just sat. Dismissing her.
“Tristan.”
He didn’t turn. Stella sighed. She moved closer to put her hand on his unyielding shoulder. She squeezed gently but said nothing else. Tristan sighed heavily.
A few years ago, their dog, Mr. Chips, had died of old age, at home with his head on Tristan’s lap. That had been the last time she could remember her son crying or allowing her to hug him close—he’d grown taller than her in the interim years. And distant. He was becoming more of a stranger to her every day, and she didn’t quite know how to stop it.
“No matter what happens between me and your dad, you know both of us still love you.”
“Yeah.”
Stella let go of him. “I could use your help in the basement, buddy. Can you come down, please?”
He nodded, still not looking at her. Stella didn’t push it. Instead, she put in a call to her neighbors to get the name of the plumber they’d used when renovating their bathroom. She called Home Depot to get the prices of hot water heaters, as well as information on their delivery and installation services. And then she went downstairs, hooked up the shop vac and started cleaning up all the mess.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The only real, true time travel occurs in the mind. Scents and music and flavors make memories so vivid it’s like being there all over again. This time, it was the sound of her name in a voice that had once been familiar but which she hadn’t heard in a really long time.
“Stella?”
It’s almost impossible not to turn around when someone says your name, kind of like the way most people will automatically take something if it’s thrust toward their hands. Stella wasn’t used to hearing her name shouted in a crowd, so she’d have turned even if it had been meant for someone else. Her heart was already pounding.
“Craig. Hi.” Her mouth stretched into a smile she knew was too wide. “Wow.”
He was smiling too. “Yeah. Wow. It’s been a really long time.”
Stella could’ve counted the length of it in months, weeks, days. Hours and minutes, actually, though admitting it would probably freak him out. It had been too long. Or maybe not long enough. The way her pulse leaped and her stomach twisted, she couldn’t be sure if she was happy to see him or ready to run away.
“Too long,” Craig said after a few seconds passed, Stella unable to speak.
“Yes,” she managed, relieved her voice didn’t shake. “Way too long. How’ve you been?”
“Good. I’ve been good. How are you? You look...great.”
Her breath tried to catch in her throat, and she forced a swallow instead. Once upon a time, he’d said other things to her that had made it hard for her to breathe. Time had passed. They would pretend it hadn’t happened; they’d been good at that. But she remembered.
“You too.”
They stared for too long. Stood a little too close for long-lost strangers bumping into each other in front of the coffee shop. He wore the same cologne, and it still twisted her up tight and complicated inside.
“Let’s go in,” Craig said. “Let me buy you a coffee.”
Coffee. Lunch. That’s all it had ever been with them. And once, just once, a conversation in the rain.
The day was bright and clear today with a perfect fall sky, blue and cloudless. Stella wore a short skirt with patterned tights and knee-high boots, a light jacket. She’d dressed this morning in anticipation of cooler weather, but all of a sudden she was far too warm. She had errands to run, places to be, things to do.
“Let’s go,” she said.
* * *
It starts in the coffee shop in the next town, the one she started going to specifically so she could avoid her friends and get out of the house at the same time, away from anything that reminded her of her failing marriage. It’s where she goes with her laptop and notebook to sit for hours and make lists and submit her résumé to dozens of places she hopes won’t hire her. She sits and drinks cup after cup of coffee and makes herself look busy so she can convince herself she is.
There’s a regular crowd in the coffee shop. There’s the woman who sits by the window, typing away and listening to her iPod—she writes books and is, if it’s possible, even more antisocial than Stella. There’s a man who stares at that woman when she’s not looking; Stella wonders how long it will take for him to work up the courage to talk to her. There’s a young mother who comes in every morning with her