18. Stella

18

STELLA

I hold the breakfast sandwiches in one hand as I dig in my pocket for the room key. After a restless night thinking about Will's sister, I can't put it off any longer. I have to come clean to Will. If he doesn't want to be with me after I tell him about my past, then I understand, but he deserves to know the truth.

My heart's hammering in my chest as I push open the door.

"I got us breakfast." I hold up the paper bags. It's a small peace offering before I tell him. Besides, my baby wouldn't let me go another minute without breakfast.

Will's sitting on the bed wrapped in a towel and holding his phone. His face is pale, and when he looks up his mouth is set in a grim line. It's as if I'm looking at a stranger.

He knows.

The air goes out of my lungs, and I drop the paper bags on the floor .

"Will…?" My voice is barely a whisper.

"When were you going to tell me, Stella?" His tone is icy and I shiver, wrapping my arms around myself.

"I was going to tell you now. I came back to explain."

He stands up and his muscles ripple across his bare torso, but this is no time to appreciate his cut abs.

"I'm listening."

His voice is clipped, and this must be his professional tone, the straight-laced attorney who's always on the right side of the law.

"I went wild after my mom died." I hate blaming her for this, but my therapist taught me to own the trauma, to recognize the impact it had on me. "I went from foster home to foster home, passed around like a thing nobody wanted."

His expression softens slightly, and there's empathy in his look. "It doesn't excuse any of the things that I did." I take a deep breath. My therapist also taught me to own my actions and to be accountable for the choices I made, even the bad ones.

"Cleo kept me straight for a while, but when she aged out of the system, I went off the rails for a few years."

He folds his arms across his chest, and I keep talking.

"I got in with a bad crowd. I didn't fully understand what they were doing. We used to hang out at a local basketball court, and lots of people would stop by. I never knew they were selling drugs."

He raises his eyebrows at me and I know how that sounds, but it's true. Kind of. I knew in the back of my mind that something was going down, but it was never talked about and I never asked questions. As I grew older, I began to realize I didn't want to be there. I didn't want to hang around these so-called friends anymore. But they were all I had.

"One night I had been drinking."

"Just drinking?" There's accusation in his voice, but I don't blame him for asking.

"Yes. Just drinking. The police turned up, and we ran. Someone threw a backpack to the ground, and I stumbled over it and tripped. The police caught me with the backpack full of drugs and cash."

The memory still makes me bitter, that the worst offenders got away and I was the one caught red-handed. I didn't even know what was in the backpack. But the police didn't believe me. In their eyes, I was one more problem they were getting off the street.

I had just turned eighteen and got the full force of the law.

"I went to prison." I say it quietly, ashamed to admit it to this man who's done nothing but good with his life. "It was the low point of a pretty shit life."

Will uncrosses his arms and takes half a step towards me. Then stops. There's indecision on his face, and I can't blame him for that.

"I got therapy for the first time. I worked through the trauma of losing my mom and saw how destructive my behavior had been since. I vowed to do better. I promised myself I'd change."

"Is this why you ran?"

I nod. "I'm one fuck-up after another, Will. I knew if you knew the truth about me, you wouldn't want anything to do with me. You're a lawyer. You can't be with someone with a criminal record. And when I found out about your sister…"

I slide the ring off my finger. "I can't ask you to forgive me for what I've done. I have to live with the consequences of my actions every day of my life."

I put the ring on the table by the door, and when I look at Will, his eyes are shiny with tears.

"I'm sorry you wasted a trip out here."

He doesn't say anything, but he doesn't try to stop me either. I'm fighting tears as I open the motel door room and step outside.

He doesn't follow me as I cross the parking lot and get on my bike.

As I ride back to my apartment, I let the tears flow. But I feel lighter. At least he knows what I am. I've told him the entire truth about me. At least that's one less burden to carry.