Chapter 2: Seventeen and Stupid

Stella's POV

Standing there with Tobias clinging to my legs and Thaddeus's broken voice echoing in my ears, I felt something inside me crack open like a dam. All those buried memories came flooding back, drowning me in the bitter taste of my own stupidity.

I was seventeen, wearing one of Mrs. Henderson's old cardigans she'd tried to jazz up with cheap buttons from the dollar store. My fingers were raw from shelving books all morning, and I was teetering on the library's rickety step ladder, reaching for the top shelf where someone had jammed a bunch of dusty classics nobody ever checked out.

That's when he walked in.

Twenty-year-old Thaddeus Carver, home from college for winter break, looking like he'd stepped out of a J.Crew catalog with his perfect hair and pricey jacket. I'd seen him around town before—hard to miss the golden boy of the Carver family—but never this close.

I was stretching for a copy of Pride and Prejudice when my fingers finally grazed it. Victory lasted two seconds before the damn thing slipped, taking half a dozen other books down with it.

"Shit!" I cursed, clapping a hand over my mouth as heat rushed to my cheeks. Real smooth, Stella.

That's when I heard him laugh—this warm, rich sound that made my stomach flip.

"Need a hand up there?"

I looked down to find him standing right below me, catching the fallen books with an amused grin. Up close, he was even more striking: those dark brown eyes, that lopsided smile, the way he looked at me like I was worth noticing, not just the cleaning lady's kid from the wrong side of town.

"I've got it," I mumbled, climbing down the ladder with all the grace of a drunk toddler.

But he was already there, steadying the ladder with one hand and offering the other to help me down. When his fingers touched mine, it felt like a spark shot up my arm.

"You're like Jane Eyre," he said softly, almost thoughtful. "Small but fierce, reaching for the impossible."

I nearly toppled off the damn thing.

Nobody had ever compared me to a book character before. Nobody had ever seen me as anything but white trash who could read.

That day, while we talked about books and dreams and all the places he'd seen at college, I sliced my finger on a paper edge. Without missing a beat, he pulled out a handkerchief—who the hell carries those anymore?—and wrapped it gently around my finger.

"Your eyes are incredible," he said, his thumb brushing my knuckles. "Like emeralds."

I'd never felt beautiful before. I'd never felt like anything but a charity case in hand-me-downs, praying no one spotted the holes in my shoes.

But when Thaddeus looked at me that way, I started to believe I could be somebody. Worth something.

Our first real date came three weeks later. He picked me up in his BMW—Mrs. Henderson nearly passed out when she saw it—and took me to Romano's, the fanciest spot in our podunk town, with cloth napkins and more forks than anyone needs.

I wore the only decent dress I owned, a navy blue number Mrs. Henderson had altered from her '80s wardrobe. It was baggy up top and tight in the hips, and I felt like a total fraud walking through those glass doors.

The hostess gave me a once-over with barely hidden disdain before seating us. I could feel every eye in the place on us, whispering: What the hell is Thaddeus Carver doing with her?

When the waiter brought the wine list, I panicked. I'd never seen bottles pricier than a ten-spot at the gas station, and this thing was like a novel in French.

"Just water for me," I said quickly, cheeks burning.

Thaddeus ordered something I couldn't pronounce, and when it was time for food, I was lost. Coq au vin? Beef bourguignon? I barely knew what half of it meant, let alone how to eat it.

The silverware looked like a trap. Which fork for salad? Which knife for fish? I watched Thaddeus for hints—he made it seem effortless—but when I grabbed the wrong one, the waiter's eyebrows shot up.

"Wrong one, sweetheart," Thaddeus said gently, reaching over to show me. "Start from the outside and work in."

But it was too late. I caught the smirks from other tables, the whispers. The waiter's face had shifted to smug amusement.

I wanted the floor to swallow me whole. Right there in that stuffy joint with its pretentious menu and judgmental crowd.

But Thaddeus didn't laugh or look embarrassed. He leaned in and said, "Screw the rules. Eat however you want."

Then he grabbed his bread with his hands—no knife or fancy spreader—and grinned like we were in on a secret joke.

"Background doesn't matter," he added, his eyes serious. "You've got the most beautiful heart I've ever seen."

That night, walking me back to Mrs. Henderson's tiny house, he kissed me for the first time under a flickering streetlight. Soft, sweet, like a scene from a rom-com.

He made me believe Cinderella could snag her prince. But fairy tales are bullshit—they always were.

Seven years. Seven years of being his dirty little secret, sneaking around in shadows and stolen moments, pretending I didn't notice how he never introduced me to his college buddies or brought me to family events.

I was twenty-four when I finally grew a spine and forced The Talk. We were in his mayor's office after hours—because God forbid anyone see us together in broad daylight—and I'd rehearsed my lines for weeks.

"Thaddeus," I said, heart pounding. "We need to talk."

He was flipping through some city report, barely glancing up. "What's up, babe?"

"About us. Our future." I took a deep breath. "We've been together seven years. Isn't it time we talked about marriage?"

The report hit his desk with a smack. When he looked at me, his face was stone-cold, making my stomach drop.

"Marriage is just a piece of paper, Stella. What we have is real. Why do we need some legal crap to prove it?"

"Because I want people to know I matter to you," I shot back, hating how small I sounded. "I'm tired of hiding like we're doing something wrong."

He stood, raking his hands through his hair. "Don't be like that, Stella. Don't turn into one of those needy, clingy women. Our love's pure because it doesn't need anyone's stamp of approval."

Our love. Like it was some delicate thing that'd shatter in the real world.

"So what, I'm your side piece forever? Your secret fuck until you find someone 'appropriate' to marry?"

"That's not—" He clenched his jaw. "You're being dramatic."

"Am I? It sure feels like you're ashamed of me."

"I'm not ashamed." But he couldn't look me in the eye.

"Then prove it. Marry me, Thaddeus. Make this real."

The silence stretched like a gulf. I could hear my heartbeat, feel my dreams crumbling with every tick of the clock on his wall.

"I gotta go," he muttered finally, grabbing his jacket. "I'll call you later."

The final blow came two months later at the grocery store. I was in the cereal aisle, debating between Cheerios and the cheap knockoff, when I overheard them.

"That poor Blackwood girl," Mrs. Patterson said, all fake pity. "Still thinking she can snag a Carver."

"Seven years chasing that boy," Mrs. Chen chuckled. "Someone oughta tell her guys like Thaddeus don't marry girls like her. They fool around until something better shows up."

"What'd she expect? A fairy-tale ending? She's the janitor's daughter, for Pete's sake. Cute enough for a fling, but not Carver stock."

Their laughter burned like acid. I pressed against the shelves, nails digging into my palms until they bled.

The whole damn town knows, I realized, gutted. They all see me as his temporary toy.

That night, I stared at myself in the bathroom mirror, eyes hollow from sleepless nights and empty promises.

If seven years isn't enough for a ring, I thought, hands shaking as I grabbed the box of condoms from the cabinet, maybe a baby will force his hand.

So I did it. I took a needle and poked tiny holes in every last one.