Chapter 24
Twenty-Four
“Let’s talk about what you like about one another,” Dr. Marsha Tregear says. Her tone is soft and soothing, and it might be giving me hives. Now I get to lie to this nice woman too. “Stella, why don’t you go first.”
My jaw clenches and I drop my eyes, glaring at my real, actual pants. Boo.
Roman sets a hand on my knee.
“I love when my husband is overly pushy about counseling. Nothing spices up date night like talking to a therapist.” Well, shoot. There’s nothing nice about that sentence.
This time, it really is Roman’s fault.
“I’ll go,” Roman says, and he is one brave man keeping that hand on my knee. “When Stella was a kid, she always got up early on school days and made a pot of coffee for her parents.”
My breath hitches and my cheeks burn. How did he know about that? I lift my shoulder in a small shrug. “I did it once, and Mom mentioned how much she loved waking up to the smell.”
Dr. Tregear smiles at Roman like he is her A+ student. And I guess he is. He sounded so sincere just now.
I let out a trembling breath and clench my jaw. “I always loved that even though Roman was by far the best player on our high school team, he’d still pass the ball. He was a team player. He didn’t hog it like—”
At the same time, Roman and I say, “Cody Rawlings.”
I laugh and Roman snickers beside me.
“You two have a lot of history,” Dr. Tregear says. She offers me a small approving look. It’s possible I’ve bumped myself up to a B-minus student.
“We do,” Roman says. “We grew up together. Stella was always special to me.”
I was? I nibble on my lip—this isn’t for Dr. Tregear’s grading system. It’s just a thought that comes. “I felt seen whenever my brother and Roman would go out. Roman always said hello to me. He didn’t treat me like a kid. And he asked about my plans. None of Brice’s other friends did that.”
“Did you ever get an invite?” Dr. Tregear asks, and I might be getting a B+ now.
“She was fifteen. We were eighteen,” Roman says, glancing from the computer screen to me. “So, no. Brice would have killed me.”
My heart thumps. Brice.
“And what does Brice think now that you’re together?” Dr. Tregear watches us through Roman’s laptop screen, grading our every move. At least, I feel graded.
Roman isn’t quick to answer this one though.
“Brice passed away just after he and Roman graduated,” I say.
“Oh.” Her forehead wrinkles. “I’m sorry.” Her head tilts to the side like she’s examining us. She scribbles something on her notepad before asking, “Do you think he’s part of what threw you together?”
“Maybe,” I say.
But Roman shakes his head. “No.”
“Okay then, we’ve talked about the past. What about the present? What do you admire now?”
Roman and I are clams tightly shut. The present is so much more complicated.
She lifts her brows, and it’s possible even Roman has lost his straight A score. “Then, let’s talk about what’s bothering you. What are some of the issues the two of you seem to be having?”
“Communication,” Roman says, his answer so eager I want to smack him.
I scoff. “Well, he won’t stop with the questions. They are constant. We get hitched, and the man thinks he needs to know every single tiny thing about me. Isn’t there something special to a little mystery?” I scoot one inch away from Roman and cross my arms.
“I just want us to know one another better.” He stiffens. “You know it’s important.”
Dr. Tregear’s mouth purses, and her eyes squint like she’s studying us. “Would you say you married in haste without knowing one another well?”
“No!” we both blurt.
“She’s just acting different,” Roman says.
“Ha! Me?” I snap—he is most definitely not the old Roman.
“I just mean she’s an artist. Yet she isn’t creating.”
I blink. I hadn’t realized Roman was bothered so much by my lack of crafting. “I don’t feel like it right now.”
“Why not, Stella?” Dr. Tregear asks.
But I don’t have an answer for that. At least, not one I like admitting to. I’m not myself right now—in every possible way. I’m married. I’m lying to my family as well as Roman. I’m living in Nevada. So many reasons—and yet not one that seems to make sense in my head.
“I don’t know,” I say. “I’m not sure if it’s something I’ll do anymore.”
“That’s insane,” Roman says, whirling on me.
“It’s not,” I tell him. He isn’t trying to pay bills on “thingy-ma-bobs.”
“Why do you say that, Roman?” Dr. Tregear asks.
“She’s brilliant, and she isn’t allowed to quit.”
“Not allowed?” My brows furrow. “You can’t—”
“Roman, Stella’s allowed to do whatever she wants.” Dr. Tregear pushes her glasses up from the end of her nose.
“I’ve noticed,” he grunts, peering back at the computer.
“Let’s move on,” she says, and I think Roman and I both might be failing now. “How would you describe the level of intimacy in your relationship?”
I balk. “Nonexistent.”
“Really?” Dr. Tregear says, and she jots a note down in her book, her hand scribbling furiously.
“Not nonexistent.” Roman’s words are quick.
Dr. Tregear slides her glasses from her face, then looks from me to Roman. “So, you are active partners?”
I grunt. What do I care? I’m failing this session. “Nope.”
“Not recently active. But we are intimate,” Roman says, playing the faithful husband role.
“Stella, you are unsatisfied?”
“Meh.” I exhale a long breath, feeling weary. I lean back against the couch and cross my legs. I might be more satisfied if Roman had let fifteen-year-old Stella have one win by actually kissing his bride.
“Um, not meh. Never meh,” Roman says, waving his hands in a clear no sign.
I lift one shoulder.
“Let’s talk about it,” Dr. Tregear says, folding her hands together and resting them on her desk.
“Average,” I say with a decisive nod. That’s generous for a barely kiss to the corner of my lips.
“Stella,” Roman yips. “No. No way. Way above average. Like A+ average.” His jaw flexes. “Next subject, Doctor. Something a little simpler, maybe?”
“Okay, well, it’s the end of November. Christmas is less than a month away. What are the two of you doing for the holiday?”
My head hurts and my stomach rolls with this whole messy interview.
I can’t seem to muster a happy word for this woman.
“Not a thing. My family’s in Canada. Roman hasn’t seen his in years.
We are doing natta. Nothing.” My eyes water, suddenly filled with emotion.
“It doesn’t even look like Christmas here. ”
“What do you mean?” Dr. Tregear says.
“There’s no tree. No wreaths. No gifts. Nothing. I’m not sure Roman celebrates Christmas anymore.”
“Of course I celebrate Christmas,” he says.
“Really?” I ask, finally looking at him.
“Yes. I’ve been alone a long time, but we can decorate. We can get a tree, if that’s what you want—”
“I’m not feeling very well,” I say, because all at once, instead of avoiding conversations, instead of losing my cool, I want to cry. “Maybe we can analyze Roman’s manhood next week.”