Page 44 of Cruel Fate

“I gotta make do, then,” she says, and Bill rolls his eyes.

“Make do with me, honey.”

“Your wife wouldn’t like that too much.”

Bill grins.

I love watching the way Stella has with people—she doesn’t judge anyone. I realize if I hate how she lives because she can’t afford better, I won’t be able to convince her to move even if I pay for it. She thrives among the working moms and the tired kids and the cheerful bus drivers because she’s one of them.

Finding her way the best she can.

I do more than love her.

I admire her.

It’s a heady combination.

Bill stops at a corner on a nice street, and Stella’s off the bus and stepping onto the sidewalk before I’m even out of my seat. I think about saying something to Bill, but he’s zoned out, tapping his fingers on the enormous steering wheel to a beat only he can hear.

I catch up to her, and she smiles sheepishly. “I’m sorry. I try to keep Bill on schedule.”

Brushing my hand over her hair, I say, “It’s okay. I appreciate him waiting for me to get off.”

She laughs, and we walk another block to a cream-colored apartment complex.

Trees fill the yard, their leaves drifting in the evening air. She lets me in, peeking at my face to see my reaction, but so far, while I’ve never lived in an apartment complex, I like it.

Her apartment is located in the back corner of the building, and the first thing I notice is the large picture window that’s ground level, the grass a brilliant green. My poor Stella. Working in payroll and living here...she spends all her time in the basement.

“I can hang up your jacket, if you want.”

She’s asking me if I’m going to stay. I didn’t bring a change of clothes, and I gratefully give her my suit jacket, kick off my dress shoes, and roll up my sleeves.

“I thought we could order pizza and watch a movie?”

She adds a question mark at the end, expecting me to turn down the boring activity.

“Sounds great.”

“I don’t have any booze, but I have fizzy water, lemonade, or I can put on a pot of coffee.”

Coffee doesn’t sound good if we’re going to eat pizza, and I don’t like lemonade. “Fizzy water’s fine.”

“I have a couple of different flavors. Help yourself,” she says, tilting her head and inviting me to poke around her fridge. “I’m going to change. I’ll be right back.”

I ignore the water and choose to poke around her living room instead. A large orange candle sitting on a coffee table scents the air of pumpkin pie. The sofa is worn, and a small flat screen TV sits on a beat-up entertainment center. Bookcases line the walls, the cheap kind that have cardboard for backing, the shelves bowing under the weight of so many books.

She’s a reader, my Stella, and I haven’t bothered to pick up a book since graduating from Columbia. I pull one from the pile. A couple locked in a steamy embrace is centered on the cover, a cow in the background chewing a mouthful of hay.A Cowboy for Christmas.

I grin. Stella’s a romantic. I hope I can live up to the perfect heroes in all these books.

She shuffles into the living room and catches me studying a picture of her wearing a bright green graduation gown. Her cap is askew and the tassel brushes at her cheek. An older woman who has long grey hair and is dressed in a colorful blouse and skirt hugs her, an arm wrapped tightly around her shoulders. Stella’s grinning, waving her diploma at the camera.

“Is this your grandma?”

Stella’s smile falls, and I kick myself for asking the careless question. I never want to say anything that will make her sad.

“No. That’s Maryanne. She was my foster mom, but then I aged out. She’s the last person I lived with before I moved into this place.”

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