Chapter 14
Fourteen
My room looks like an episode of Hoarders. That old TV show about people who never threw anything away. Their homes would be overrun and piled high with things they never used.
The things in this room are all I have. I use them.
Daily. However, they are now in a ninety-square-foot room.
It seems I am destined to be a reality TV star.
It’s a good thing my last place was furnished.
Where in the world would I fit a couch in here?
My pottery wheel is smashed between the double-size bed and the tall dresser Roman bought for me.
There is no way I can work in here. I can’t even walk in this room.
Not that I’m ready to work. I can’t quite get my headspace there … But it would be nice to have a clear path to my bed.
“Hey, Stell,” Roman says with a tap on my door. “I have these questions—” He opens the door—without permission—and pauses at the sight of my hoarder room.
“What if I’d been naked?” I gripe.
His eyes are still roving over my things that I’ve been playing a dangerous game of Tetris with for the last two days. They are piled almost to the ceiling. “I knocked,” he says, but my things are distracting him.
“Yes, but you didn’t wait for an invitation.” I swallow. New and not-so-improved Roman is supposed to be the grumpy one. Not me. “I’m sorry. I’m just feeling a little overwhelmed.”
“I can imagine.” He clears his throat before glancing my way. “Stella, why is all of this in here? You have a whole house worth of things in this bedroom.” He picks up my one and only whisk.
I snatch it back and hold it to my chest. “This isn’t my house.”
“I told you to unpack. I told you to put things wherever.” He moves himself around my pottery wheel, past my box of thingy-ma-bobs, and sits on the bed. Unfortunately for Roman, he also sits on my scoring tool, because I haven’t figured out where to put all my things.
Huh, maybe I am a hoarder.
“Yo—” he barks.
“Sorry,” I say, picking up the tool. “That shouldn’t be there. I don’t even know if I’ll use it again.”
His brow furrows. “That’s insane. Of course you will.” The crease between his eyes deepens as he looks around my chaotic, star-of-hoarders bedroom. “But not in here. You need a place for these things.”
“This is your house, not mine, and I don’t want to—”
He scoffs. “We’re going to be living together for a while. You can make this your home. I want you to.” He stands in front of me, setting one hand on my shoulder and squeezing. “Move in. It’s okay.”
“I still have boxes to unpack. But venture out of this room, Stell. Okay?” He moves around me, around a tower of boxes, and smacks his toe into the side of my small kiln sitting to the right of my pottery wheel.
“Ouch.” He hops once, and I grimace for him.
“That’s hard. I mean, I knew it was heavy, I carried it in, but ow. ”
I wrinkle my nose. “Are you okay?”
He hops again, and I can’t help it, I snort. Pinching my lips shut, I try—and fail—to keep a laugh from filtering through my lips.
“You’re laughing at me?” he says, hopping. He’s so not helping his case.
“I’m sorry,” I say, but the words come out with more delirious laughter. My entire disastrous life up until this point is catching up with me.
Roman stands on both feet and scowls at me. “Maybe I should tickle you until you wet your pants.”
I suck in a breath. “That happened one time!” I point at him. “And I was ten years old! Why do you always have to bring that up?” I say, though he hasn’t brought it up since we reunited.
He lunges my way.
Stabbing my pointed finger in his direction, I jerk back and yell, “You wouldn’t dare.”
He laughs—but it’s lost some luster. “Nah. I wouldn’t.” He peers around my room once more. “Move in. Okay?”
And I am utterly disappointed.
Brice met Roman when I was nine. They bonded and became the best of friends immediately.
Roman melded into our family almost as if he’d always been there.
Even after we took a term in Canada for three years, Roman came to visit.
He and Brice would pick up like no time had passed.
That’s what I want in this moment. I want time to turn back.
I want Roman to fly across my things and tickle me until I cannot breathe.
He would have, once.
“You unpack. Move some stuff out of this room. The whisk is welcome in the kitchen. We’ll go over green card questions later.” He gives me a wink and drops his head before leaving the room altogether.
My breaths turn short and shallow, and I snatch up my phone from the cluttered dresser top.
Me: He wants to go over green card questions.
Willow: Okay …
Me: I can’t, Will. Every time he asks, I am punched with guilt and I’m physically sick. What have I done?
Willow: You could ’fess up.
Me: Just to have him back out and lose his cabin? Try again.
Willow: You could make out. You are married, and he’s a hottie.
Me: Not helpful.
Willow: What is the matter, Stella? You knew what you were getting into.
Me: I didn’t know how guilty the lies would make me feel. Yes, Roman’s helping me. I thought it would be fine. I’m helping him too. But it’s been two days, and every time he talks about immigration and green cards, I become not only a failure but a horrible human being.
Willow: I thought we were over the failure talk. I’m going to text you every day and you’re going to tell me something you’re good at. Got it? Because you aren’t a failure or a horrible human being.
Willow: Oh, Jerry says hello.
“Hey,” Roman says, poking his head back into my room. “What’s the plan for your wheel and kiln?”
“Um.” I peer at my equipment, which involves a whole lot more than the wheel and kiln—though those are the largest items. “I’m not sure.
I know they take up a lot of room.” I shake my head, my stomach hurting.
“They’re in the way. I don’t even plan to use them while I’m here.
Maybe I can move the dresser into the closet and—”
“Stell, slow down. Of course you need to use them. This is your work. That’s like saying we’ll shove my cleats and shin guards into a closet where they won’t get used.”
I swallow and bite my inner cheek. “Your cleats and shin guards literally take up one foot of space. These are … big.” Even owning the smaller versions of everything, my pottery equipment is large and heavy.
“And it’s not like I can work in your living room.
I can get a storage unit.” Though how in the world would I pay for that?
“No need. Take the porch.”
“The porch?” I scowl at him.
“Yeah, on the back of the house. The windows will make for great lighting.”
“I know where the porch is,” I say. I also know he said it was his favorite part of the house. That he wanted to watch the sun rise and set there every day. “I can’t. That’s yours.”
He scoffs, and for two seconds, his Roman smile, his real smile, lights up his face. “To what? Sit? I’m pretty sure I can sit next to your pottery wheel and watch the sunrise.”
I lick my lips and shove both hands into my pockets.
“Give me two minutes,” he says. “I’ll move your wheel and kiln out there.”
My heart thuds with gratitude and this feeling that, despite the strange circumstances, maybe Roman is supposed to be back in my life.
Roman’s giving me his porch. I can’t imagine a more inspiring place to work, as it looks right out into the woods.
“And then we can go over those questions.”
My fluttering heart plummets. My light, burden-free head pounds with an ache, reminding me that Roman and I aren’t roommates.
We aren’t old friends reunited. We certainly aren’t lovers.
We are people who once knew each other. People who’ve made a deal.
He’s trying to help me, and I’m just a big fat liar.
The churning in my gut tells me there is no way I’ll be able to work on that porch. Not now. Not ever.