Can I See You?

Author's Notes:

This is not a typical Loving Wives story. I wanted to write something different that still fits within the category. If you clicked on this looking to read a BTB, RAAC, or swinging story, you won't find that here. There are some amazing authors on LE who have written wonderful stories along those lines. This isn't one of those stories.

As with many of my stories, this arguably could have gone in another genre. Erotic couplings or romance, perhaps. However, I think LW fits for reasons you will hopefully understand if you read ahead.

This is a short read. If you're still with me after the above disclosure, then I hope you enjoy reading this tale as much as I enjoyed writing it.

***

"Hey, Trent, how are you doing?" my brother asked in a tone that seemed far too serious for an out-of-the-blue call on a Wednesday night.

"I'm good, Theo," I replied apprehensively. "To what do I owe the honor?"

He hesitated. "Look, brother, there's no way to sugar coat this, so I'll just come out and say it... Stella got married."'

I heard the words, but they weren't registering. Theo waited silently as I processed what he'd said.

Stella Reed. The girl who lived next door to me when we grew up together in our small town in Colorado. The girl who I moved to Los Angeles with after we graduated high school, so we could strike it big in Hollywood. The girl who had become the greatest love of my life. The girl I always thought would come back to me, because we were meant to be together.

Stella Reed... was married.

"Trent? Are you still there?"

"Yeah," I replied, my voice hoarse. "I'm still here."

"Are you--"

"When?" I interrupted.

"What?"

"When did she get married?"

Theo was silent for a moment, then reluctantly answered, "Last week, I hear."

I let his words sink in.

"Trent? Are--"

"I've got to go, Theo." I ended the call.

I set my phone down on my writing desk, next to my laptop. Standing in front of the desk, I looked out the window of my apartment toward the distant lights of downtown Los Angeles, and I stewed on what Theo had said.

I felt something wet and warm hit the back of my hand. Then I felt it again. I glanced down at my hand, just in time to catch a glistening droplet of liquid falling and splattering where the other two had landed. It was only then that I realized I was crying.

Once the realization struck me, it was Niagara Falls. I exhaled a body-wracking sob that originated from somewhere deep in my chest--from deep in my soul--while my tears flowed freely.

I thought I'd have more time. I thought I'd have another chance. I was wrong.

I picked up my phone and opened the text messages app. I had to search for her name; it had been so long since we last communicated. When I found our text chain, I hesitated before opening it.

When I finally opened the thread, I saw that it had been eighteen months since the last time we communicated with each other. The last words we ever exchanged. I read them for the first time in so long.

Maybe we need a break, Trent.

Maybe we do.

When I wrote that, I thought a break would mean a couple weeks. Maybe a month. I never imagined it would be forever.

I went to the fridge and grabbed a beer as I stared at my screen. Before I knew it, the beer bottle was empty. I grabbed another as I continued to analyze the last words we'd written to each other. The second bottle was empty soon after.

Without thinking, I clicked on the message window and began typing a text to Stella.

Congratulations.

I hoped she could feel the sarcasm I'd poured into that single word. Hoped she felt my scorn.

I stared at my screen for an hour after I sent the text. Three more beer bottles were empty before I finally set my phone down, stumbled into bed, and passed out. She hadn't responded.

***

I felt like shit when I woke up the next morning. I rarely drank, so five beers in less than two hours did a number on my head.

I grabbed two Advil, a glass of water, and swallowed the Advil. Returning to my bedroom with the glass, I picked up my phone and saw I had a text from Stella. I chugged the rest of my water, then opened the message.

Can I see you?

She sent the message three hours earlier, at four o'clock in the morning.

My mind raced. I didn't understand why she wanted to see me after all the time that had passed. My thumbs were itching to write her back. I typed out and deleted a dozen responses before I settled on:

When and where?

She didn't respond immediately. I gave it ten minutes then went about my day.

All week, prior to Theo's call, I'd had a burst of energy and ideas working on a new movie script. Between the lingering hangover, and the news about Stella, my momentum had come to a screeching halt. At noon, I decided to break for an early lunch in the hope that it would help clear my head and allow me to focus.

I took a walk outside and headed toward Sunset Junction. I'd moved into the trendy, bohemian area of Silver Lake around nine months ago, after I finally got my big break. For a writer, Silver Lake was one of

the

places to be and, more importantly, to be seen.

I grabbed a coffee from Intelligentsia, where all the hipsters congregated for their daily injection of caffeine, then walked down to Tacos Delta.

Tacos Delta was take-out only, though it has a few seats around the building. I wanted good food that would help with a hangover, and no company. I ordered a plate of chile verde, al pastor, and carne asada tacos from the window, then took a seat on the small patio area.

Nibbling slowly on my tacos, while ignoring the rice and beans, I felt my phone vibrate. Eagerly, I pulled it from my pocket.

I had a new text from Stella.

Saturday at 8:00? Your place? Do you still live in Hollywood Hills?

I hadn't expected her to want to see me at all, let alone so soon. And at my apartment no less. I'd initially reached out to Stella from a place of anger. A place of pain. Yet, as I read her message, some of the old feelings began to bubble up. I was anxious to see her. Desperate to see her.

I'm free this Saturday at 8. But I live in Silver Lake now.

I sent her a link to my apartment. This time she responded immediately.

I'll see you then.

***

At five minutes after eight o'clock, I began to wonder if the usually punctual Stella had changed her mind and decided not to come over. I resumed pacing around my apartment, following my usual figure eight pattern around the couch and my kitchen table--the route I took to work through writer's block or visualize a dialogue. Only now, I was working out what I would say to her if and when she arrived.

The past few days had dragged on at a torturously slow pace. I couldn't focus on the script I'd been working on. My mind was preoccupied with memories of Stella and speculation about why she wanted to see me. I ultimately ended up spending most of my time counting down the minutes until our encounter, which only made the appointed time and place seem farther away.

On the plus side, once I realized Stella was coming over, I returned to my normal good habits: gym, jogging, a mostly pescatarian diet, and no alcohol. I wanted to look and feel my best when I saw her.

A woman I hadn't seen nor spoken to in a year-and-a-half, I was suddenly concerned with her opinion of me. For that reason, I was dressed in a light blue dress shirt, black jeans and black dress shoes--the color scheme Stella once told me looked best on me since it paired with my blue eyes and black hair.

A knock at the front door of my apartment shook me out of my head. Freed from my pondering, I became uncomfortably aware of my quickening pulse and dry throat. What an irony that would have been, I thought as I walked toward the front door: a nervous, tongue-tied storyteller.

With a deep breath to calm my nerves, I unlocked and opened the door. Standing outside the door to my apartment, looking every bit as beautiful as I remembered her, was my childhood sweetheart. The one and only girl I'd ever wanted. The only one I'd ever loved.

"Can I come in?" she asked hesitantly, her blue gray eyes briefly meeting mine before looking past me and into the room.

"Of course," I replied, stepping aside and holding the door open. "Please, come in."

Stella walked inside, her brown heeled booties clacking on the hardwood floor as she looked around my apartment. While she took in the scenery, I took her in.

She was still breath-taking, with luscious, wavy auburn hair that ended at the midpoint of her shoulder blades, fair skin, and full lips. The chocolate-colored V-neck sweater shirt fit her like a glove, accentuating her perfect round breasts, while the form-fitting blue jeans highlighted her long shapely legs. Yet it was her eyes--the ones taking in my apartment and avoiding me--that had always been her most remarkable feature. Like a stormy sky, they seemed to change color from blue to gray depending on her mood or the lighting; they looked blue to me at that moment.

"I like your apartment," she said absently, her eyes still dodging me.

"Thanks," I replied. "Can I get you something to drink?"

"Do you have any wine?" she asked, looking at my writing desk and running her fingers on my laptop.

"I have a Roero Arneis," I replied.

That got her attention; she finally looked at me. Her gaze nearly floored me. I was looking into the eyes of the girl who was my first everything: best friend, girlfriend, kiss, love, lover, and heartbreak.

Stella and I became neighbors when we were five years old, after my family moved from Littleton to Breckenridge. Despite its popularity as a skiing and snowboarding destination, few people lived in the area. Stella was one of the few kids nearby, and the only one my age. With our shared love of the outdoors, and a similar taste in movies, we became friends instantly.

Had we not grown up together, and become best friends, I never would have had a chance at Stella Reed. After puberty hit, I grew to be six-feet tall, fit, and reasonably good looking. Though, it was my mind and wit that most people seemed to find attractive about me, and which opened my career path.

Stella, however, grew into a stunning woman. She was five-feet seven-inches, with long legs, rich auburn hair, a brilliant smile, and those stormy, color-changing eyes. She looked like a movie star. Fortunately for me, she had taken a liking to me before her star ascended, much to the chagrin of every warm-blooded male who laid eyes on her.

After we graduated high school, we moved to California together. I attended college at USC, studying in the film department, and trying to make connections, in the hope that I would become a screenwriter. Stella attended an acting school with dreams of becoming a star--everyone in our hometown thought she would be a famous actress one day. Together, we thought we could be Hollywood's next power couple.

Our dreams never came to fruition. One year after I graduated from college, Stella and I broke up.

"I'd love a glass of Roero Arneis," Stella replied with a sad smile, her now-gray eyes watching me attentively.

I pulled the bottle from the fridge and uncorked it, as Stella slowly made her way over toward me, the clacking of her heels filling the room.

"Is that the same one we drank--"

"Yes," I answered before she finished her question. It was the wine label we drank to celebrate the eighth anniversary of the day I asked her to be my girlfriend, and also when I graduated from college. I'd bought the bottle of wine I was now opening to celebrate our ninth year together or our engagement, whichever came first. We never made it. I kept the wine. "It's Bruno Giacosa."

I grabbed two wine glasses, then poured a glass for each of us. I didn't drink often. Yet, tonight, a drink seemed appropriate. Perhaps even necessary.

Handing her a glass, her fingers brushed against mine and our eyes met for a split second. In that instant, I thought I saw a hint of the girl I held in my arms so many times. An echo of the girl who loved me.

"Thank you," she said. Then she added, "You look great, Trent."

"You look as beautiful as ever, Stella," I said hoarsely, followed by a drink to wet my dry throat.

"Thanks," she replied softly, her eyes leaving mine as she turned and walked back toward my writing desk, looking out the window toward the city lights. "I hear you finally had success with one of your scripts."

"Yes," was my one-word reply, as I watched her gracefully move about my apartment, evading me.

When she realized I wasn't offering any more, she turned and looked at me. She flashed me a playful smile, one that I had seen so many times and had always loved. "Well, are you going to tell me about it?"

"Well," I began, trying to warm up to her, "I sold a script to Magnum Productions, which is owned by a Hollywood heavy hitter named Don Mitchell. He took the script and pitched it to Netflix, who bought the rights. It's in post-production now and will hopefully come out within the next six months."

"Congratulations, Trent," she beamed, nearly knocking me off my feet with her sensational smile that made her blue eyes sparkle. "That's wonderful. What was the script?"

"The Addict," I replied softly as I watched her smile falter.

"The one that was based on your uncle?" she asked, her voice tight. "The one--"

"Yes," I interrupted, not wanting to hear her say it. It was the script I had been working on in college and after I graduated. One of the primary sources of the constant arguments that ultimately led to our break up.

In the year leading up to our split, Stella and I fought all the time. We had accrued a mountain of debt between my private school education, her acting classes, and the cost of living in Los Angeles. We'd hoped that success in Hollywood would eliminate that debt, yet both of us were struggling to catch a break. Stella was working two waitressing jobs while trying to audition for roles; she always seemed to end up as the second choice. I was working a variety of editing jobs--even editing college papers and essays at one point, we were so desperate for money--while also trying to find time to finish my script.

Toward the end, Stella and I barely saw each other because of how much we were working. When we did see each other, we constantly fought over our finances, the lack of time spent together, or my inability to find time to finish my script. It got so bad that, although we had been best friends and together for over eight years, our last conversation was a pair of one-sentence text messages.

"Well, I'm glad to hear you finished your script," she offered shakily. "At least something good came from it."

I didn't know how to respond. There were no words.

Thankfully, Stella changed the subject. "What are you working on now?" she asked, her smile trying to break through the storm that was reflected in her gray eyes.

"A Western," I answered cheerfully. "Don Mitchell and Netflix were impressed with my writing, and when they heard I grew up in Colorado, they asked how I felt about writing a Western.

"It's the Yellowstone effect. Yellowstone became so popular, other networks are looking to copy its success and take some of its market share. And with Netflix, I can afford to write a script that's a little more... steamy," I chuckled.

Stella's resulting smile broke the gloom, bringing a sparkle to her blue eyes. "I'm happy for you, Trent. You finally made it. I can't think of anyone who deserves it more than you."

"Thanks, Stella. But what about you?" I asked. "Are you still acting?"

"No," she replied sadly, her eyes falling to the floor. "David would prefer that I not work. Said I don't need to work another day in my life."

David Anderson. Stella's husband. I knew who he was. Saw the picture of them together on social media three months after Stella and I split up. The same day I deleted all my social media accounts so I wouldn't have to see her with anyone else. I looked him up afterwards and got some intel from my family, who were still close with Stella's family back in Colorado.

At forty-eight years old, David was almost twice Stella's age. He was a divorcee with three kids from his ex-wife; Stella was his young, new trophy wife. As a trust fund kid who took his inherited wealth and bought dozens of car dealerships in the greater Los Angeles area, David Anderson was one of the elites who was helping to ensure the cycle of wealth and poverty remained alive and well in the twenty-first century, even in the progressive state of California.

It broke my heart to hear that her new husband didn't want Stella to work.

"I never imagined that anything would stop Stella Reed from becoming an A-list actress," I offered with a half-hearted smile. I tried to hold back the rest of what I was thinking but failed. "Even when you offered to take on a full-time job, and give up your dream of acting, when things got tight, I wouldn't let you do it. I knew how much it meant to you."

Stella sniffed lightly, briefly caught my gaze with her gray eyes, and gave me a sad smile. Then she was quiet. Thinking of something; I could tell.

"Do you remember when I practiced my 'temptress' role on you while you were still in school?" she asked, her smile returning in full force and lightening the mood.

Her question shocked me. I could

never

forget Stella's "temptress" role. During my second year at USC, Stella was working on a part for her acting class where she played a sexy secretary trying to seduce her married boss. Each night, she practiced her lines with me, which inevitably got me so worked up that I would eventually launch myself at her and drag her to our bedroom. As Stella's acting improved, the sex got hotter. For one scorching month, we had the best sex of our lives.

"Of course I remember, Stella," I answered with a grin, though my joy at recalling that period was dampened by my confusion over why she brought it up in the first place. "It was one of the best times of my life. It was..." I trailed off.

"It was what?" she pressed me to continue.

"Why are you asking me about that, Stella?" I asked, changing the subject, and fighting back the pain in my chest and the lump in my throat. "Why are you here?"

She swallowed. "I'm not sure," she admitted quietly. "I just saw your text and... and I needed to see you."

"Why?"

"Why did you text me?"

"I asked you first," I replied with a subtle smirk.

"And yet you're going to answer first," she fired back with a smirk of her own. Seeing the mirth in her blue eyes, I knew she was right.

"I texted you because I heard you'd gotten married, and it hurt me. And I wanted you to know you hurt me," I admitted, shocked at both my honesty and how easily my response came out.

"I'm sorry, Trent," she said softly, walking toward me, the clack of her heels filling the room once again. "I never, ever wanted to hurt you."

"Do you love him?" I asked, unsure where that question had come from. It just came out.

She paused, then continued to walk toward me, her gray eyes meeting my gaze now. "He makes me feel safe. And after feeling for so long that my whole world could come crashing down in an instant, it's nice to feel safe."

"Do you love him?" I repeated.

"There's more than one way to love--"

"Do you love him?" My voice was louder than I'd intended, my pain getting the better of me. Stella stood silent, so I continued. "Do you love him the way you once told me you loved me? That it hurts to breathe when he's not around. And does he love you the way I did?"

"No," she conceded with a whisper. "But, then again, neither did you at the end. You didn't love me the way you once did. You were so angry. So stressed out all the time. You weren't the man I'd fallen in love with."