Page 53 of Five Stolen Rings
“I’m sorry,” I say quickly, trying to pat her on the back while keeping her upright. “This could happen to anyone, all right?” I sigh. “I shouldn’t have joked about it. I’m sorry.”
That bottom lip of hers trembles—you kissed those lips,my traitorous brain says—as her chin quivers…
And then, right there, in the middle of this fancy French café, Stella begins towail.
Great heaving sobs—they could notpossiblybe louder—crashing through the lovely French afternoon all these people are trying to have; heads whip our direction as Stella’s face turns steadily redder, her hair sticking to her face as she cries, andgood grief,there’s snot involved?—
It is at this point that I do a swift cost-benefit analysis and determine thatgetting out of this buildingis now the number one priority. So even though Stella is wailing, half-standing at best, and even though she deserves a chance to cry in peace, all I can currently do for her is lean down, pick her up, and rush her out of the café.
Like she’s a screaming infant, and I’m the stressed-out father trying not to disrupt all the other restaurant-goers.
“Benny,” I bark over my shoulder as he continues to trail slowly after us. I’m tempted to throw Stella’s red bag at him. “Comeon.”
I manage to get Stella to the car with minimal resistance; she’s not fighting me, just sobbing. I put her down and toss her bag on the floor of the footwell. Then I settle her in the passenger seat, fastening her seatbelt over her and pulling it tight.
“Someone found out,” she says, her voice devastated asfat tears trail down her cheeks. She inhales several stuttering breaths and goes on, “Bridget found out. Dawn was right. She says—she says?—”
“What does she say?” I ask with a sigh. I don’t know who Dawn is, but Stella seems to want to talk about her.
“She says I’m a—a—ahome-wrecker,” she wails, erupting into violent tears once more.
My heart picks up speed, but I keep my voice casual. “Dawn can shut her big fat mouth.” I stroke her head, pulling her hair gently away from her tear-stained face. “Ignore her, Princess.”
“I didn’t mean to,” she says. “I didn’t know.” She swipes her tears clumsily away and sniffles. “I would never.” A fresh wave of crying comes over her, and she curls in on herself like she’s trying to hold herself together. “I would—would—wouldnever,” she repeats, barely comprehensible this time.
Then, so suddenly I jump, her hand shoots out; she reaches for my shirt and grabs it, fisting the fabric in a tight grip. I teeter as she tugs me down, stretches my shirt up to her nose, andblows, a disgusting gurgle of snot and tears.
“Stella,” I groan, yanking my shirt away from her. “Oh,gross?—”
“Ew,” Benny says, wrinkling his nose at me.
I roll my eyes and open the door to the backseat, gesturing irritably; Benny slides on in perfectly at ease, like I’m his chauffeur. I slam the door closed.
I’ll drop him at his mom’s house; Mama Nuzzolo will give him a few good whacks with her slipper.
I step back and shut Stella’s door, hurrying around to my side of the car, getting in quickly. Then, praying to any and all deities who may be listening that we won’t get stopped on the way home, I pull my shirtoff over my head.
“Why—why—” Stella stutters through her sobs, and when I glance over at her, she’s pointing at my naked torso. “Why are youhot?”
I nearly choke on the surprise laugh that tries to come out; it breaks through my disgust at being used as a tissue. “Sorry?”
“You’re not supposed to be pretty,” she wails, dropping her head into her hands.
“Let’s go home, okay?” I say with a shake of my head. There’s no point trying to have a conversation while she’s in this state. “I’ll make you some toast and you can get some rest.”
It’s what my mom used to do for me when I was sick as a kid, something I never really appreciated until she died and no one made me toast anymore.
Makingyourselftoast when you’ve got a cold is not the same, I can tell you that. I’ll make Stella toast with strawberry jam, I decide, because she likes strawberry jam.
But by the time we stop in front of Benny’s mom’s house, her lids are drooping, and when we pull into my parking spot back in Lucky, she’s fast asleep.
I don’t have the heart to wake her up.
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