Moonlit Craters

(10) One Tangled Mess

Music:  Sad Song, Scotty Sire
February 16th, 2020

*****

Stella shifted on the sofa, resisting the urge to bite her thumb. 

Howie would scold her for self-harm again if she did that now. 

But what did William Pennhurst want from her? 

Jacquiline insisted he was rich, had promised a sizeable donation to the hospital after this lunch. 

Why did he want to meet her so bad? 

What was in it for him? 

Was this one of those rich people are eccentric situations? 

"Stell," Howie's voice cut through her thoughts, "if you keep on fidgeting like that, I am going to take drastic measures." 

Oops. 

"Sorry." 

She could feel her mind drifting again, listless in an abyss. There had to be something she could do, something that wouldn't drive Howie up the wall while he tried to do his paperwork. 

The box!  

Her mother's journals. 

Richard's will. 

Definitely her mother's journals. She'd send the will to her attorney. 

Wait. That'd distract Howie more. He'd want to read with her. 

Fuck. 

Howie sighed. "Stell, what's bothering you?" He shut his laptop and put it off to the side. 

"Nothing. Finish your reports." She threw her arm over her eyes, staring at her stark white ceiling was starting to drive her insane.  Oh, wait, too late for that. She felt her lips twitch; the uncontrollable manic smile tried to break out. 

Except her muscles forgot how to work. It faded before it could appear. 

"They're done - or almost done. I can finish up in the office tomorrow." 

She lifted her arm to look at him, an eyebrow raised. 

"I promise!" he held his hands up in surrender. "I have one report left to write! That's it! Besides, it's almost 4!" 

Fuck - had she really been lost in thought for the past few hours? Howie must have been working hard to tune her fidgeting out. 

"Fine," she relented. "Although, I still think you could work for another fifteen minutes," she chided him as she sat up. 

"It'll take me an hour to write this report! At least." 

Stella rolled her eyes.  "Fifteen minutes of writing it tonight is fifteen less tomorrow." She sat up, tucking her knees under to face him. 

Howie stuck his tongue out at her. 

She blew a raspberry back.

"So, what's bugging you?" he asked, again. 

She could tell him about her mother's journals. With the events of the past few days, she hadn't found the time to bring it up. 

Or really wanted to. 

A frown marred her face. Now that she was thinking about it - she wasn't the only one who'd been hiding things. 

They argued all throughout Alaska. They never argued that much. 

He made off-color jokes about her body. Howie stopped that when she was first diagnosed with anorexia. Even though it wasn't body dysmorphia. 

And he joked about her bipolar way too soon after a manic episode. While depression still had its slimy grips around her.