This Is Stella's Reality

July 27, 2015

My fingers were coated in olive oil as they dimpled bubbles across the surface of a sheet focaccia dough. Anxiety was rippling through me, and every sound the island made had my skin shivering.

The wash of ocean waves across the white sand tingled my eardrums. Crickets chirping in the garden made me nauseous. And Bucky's footsteps up the wooden stairs in the sunroom nearly sent me into a spiral.

"Hey," he said softly as his hand came to slide up my back. He pressed a kiss to my hair and breathed in the scent of our rose shampoo. "Can I help?"

I let go of a shaky sigh and looked around. "I don't think there's much to do. You have the roast in a pot, and I've got the bread. That's pretty much it, darling."

He smiled down at me and turned my shoulders to hug me. "It'll be alright."

My eyes closed as I fought back tears. My throat burned with the rising anxiety in my chest, heavy with grief and the oncoming confrontation. "I know," I breathed. "I have you, and I know we can do anything together."

"Damn right," he said with a smile. "I love you."

"I love you too."

Bucky lifted the sheet of dough and tossed it into the oven to bake. I looked down at my clothes, covered in flour and dirty from the garden.

"I'm going to change," I sighed. Bucky pulled me for one last kiss and smiled before I walked to our bedroom.

My fingers flickered through hangers and settled on a sage green sundress, wrapped and cinched at the waist. It was cute and simple. Bucky would like it. A part of me hoped Steve would too. Another part didn't care.

My chest heaved a bit. This would be a long night. I turned towards the door to leave, but something stopped me. I looked over at my night stand, to Steve's engagement ring sitting listless on the wooden top. I picked it up and twirled it in my hands, slipping it back onto my finger.

I stepped back into the kitchen and watched as Bucky stirred the pot simmering on the stove. He looked handsome tonight. His hair was longer and curly with a thick beard chiseling his features.

There was a knock at the door. Firm yet gentle. Steve.

My heart skipped to my throat, and Bucky's head whipped around. We looked at each other. "I'll get it," he said hoarsely.

I busied myself preparing the table as Bucky opened the door. It was silent for a moment, strained and tense as the boys exchanged pleasantries.

There was a shuffling of feet as they walked through the sitting room. Steve cleared his throat, prompting me to look up.

Our eyes met, and I felt my heart break all over again. He looked exhausted. Sick even. His eyes were hollow and empty, and his thoughts were an echo chamber of depression.

"Hi, Steve," I said softly.

He stared at me a moment longer. "Hi, Stella."

Bucky was in the kitchen, placing another bouquet of flowers in a vase. White lilies and red roses dotted with baby's breath. I swallowed back my grief.

"Would you like some wine?" I asked.

His eyes held mine before he looked away and towards the floor. "Uh, no thanks," he said awkwardly.

I nodded, not wanting to push him. "Well," I sighed, "there's dinner if you're hungry."

"I shouldn't stay long," Steve said softly.

"Why?" Bucky's voice was harsh and mean. "Sit and eat."

Steve looked over his shoulder and stared at the back of Bucky's head for a while before nodding and walking to stand near him. "Can I help with anything?"