Chapter 17
AURORA
Me
Good news: Tyler got a job doing lawns two or three days a week! He texted me this morning. He’s still hunting for other work too, but he’s going to send me part of his paycheck every time he gets paid.
Jules
woohoo!!!!
India
Do you trust him to actually give you the money?
Me
Not totally, but I can’t do anything else, so…
India
Oh—by the way
I had a voicemail from our landlord
Did either of you guys get that call?
Jules
what????
no
I have nothing
Me
Let me check.
Oh—yes, I do. I’ll listen in a bit. What is it?
India
Don’t freak out, but he’s going to sell
Jules
our house??
India
Of course our house, DQ
BUT DON’T WORRY!
He said our rental contract will remain valid
“Honey, I’m home!”
I almost drop my phone at the sudden intrusion of noise in Roman’s quiet house on Friday afternoon. The front door slams closed, and a second later Roman himself strides into the kitchen, looking well-rested and much healthier than on Wednesday.
“There’s no need to yell,” I say, looking over at him from where I’m seated on the ground.
Despite no longer working at Soul2Soul, he’s still dressed the same as he did when he was there—a blazer and button-up with tan pants and brown shoes. He’s pulling off the jacket as he walks in, draping it over one arm, and his brows jump as his eyes fall on me.
“There you are,” he says. He grins at the mostly empty pantry and then at me. “Did you miss me?”
“I did not,” I say succinctly, checking the date on a can of green beans. My eyes skim over the jumble of numbers three times before my brain registers them.
Our house is changing hands? Jules is right to worry—DQ, our Dancing Queen—even though oftentimes she overreacts.
Everything could go smoothly—I don’t think it’s uncommon for rentals to change owners. I need to listen to the voicemail, but if India was told our lease will remain in place, things might be okay.
If a new landlord comes in and changes his mind about renting, though, we could be forced out.
Anxiety dances over my skin like writhing bugs, a feeling that makes me shudder as I squeeze my eyes shut to banish the sensation.
This is not the place or the time for me to freak out. I’m more or less at work in the house of a client, elbow deep in my current task.
I’m surrounded by cans and bags and boxes and canisters, a small army of non-perishables on this linoleum floor, and my hair is probably a little frizzy because it’s starting to get warmer out.
I set the green beans down and pull my hair into a ponytail, uncrossing my legs to shake them out and get the blood flowing again.
“What about at work?” Roman says as he inches past my mess. He drapes his suit coat over the back of a chair and then heads to the fridge. “Be honest. You miss me at work, don’t you?”
“Not even a little bit,” I lie.
He grabs a bottle of water out of the fridge and then closes it, leaning back against the counter and looking at me.
I flush as his eyes land on the blue cardigan I’m wearing once again, his lips twitching knowingly, but he doesn’t comment on it.
“Is the new lady as pretty as I am?” he says instead.
“You’re not pretty.”
“You used the word perfect when you were here before. You called my hair perfect.”
“I just wanted to make you feel better.” The words jump out of my mouth, and I don’t try to stop them—I don’t rescind them, either, even when Roman raises one brow at me.
He makes a tsk sound. “Didn’t I tell you you were a liar?
” he says in a soft, silky voice, his lips still twitching at the corners.
He takes a swig of water, but his eyes never leave mine.
Then he drags one thumb over his lower lip, a strangely seductive move, and goes on.
“You and I both know I’m the most handsome man you’ve ever met, Aurora. ”
I swallow and tell my quickening pulse to cut that out. It’s just my nerves. My anxiety over the new housing situation—or maybe I’m coming down with whatever sickness he had.
That’s all.
“I’d have to consider that further before committing to an answer,” I say.
He laughs at this, and I’m grateful; I can handle laughing, teasing Roman. That version of him is fun to banter with, easy to be around.
It’s the other side of him that gets in my head—the side that’s much more confident, more intense, more self-assured about what he wants. He observes, takes his time, moves patiently, and seems amused by obstacles that try to impede him.
I don’t know how I can possibly know these things about him…and yet I do.
How does that work?
“Well, anyway,” I say, because I’m being ridiculous and I need to stop thinking like this. I turn my eyes to the empty shelves in front of me. “You won’t even recognize your pantry when I’m done with it.”
Roman hums, an amused sound. “I can’t wait to see.” He pauses. “You’ve moved pretty quickly through this place. I must say, I’m impressed. I know, I know,” he says loudly as I scoff. “I know. Who am I to have an opinion on how fast you can get through a house?”
When I glance at him, his eyes are dancing with the same laughter that’s in his voice.
“Regardless,” he goes on with a shrug. “I’m still impressed.” He takes a few more drinks of water and then pushes off the counter. “I’m going to go shower. No peeking, little vandal.” And with a ridiculous wink, he strides out of the room.
“I would never,” I call after him, but the only response I get is a distant laugh.
The rest of the pantry organization goes smoothly. I ignore the creaking, rushing sound of the shower running, followed by the clunk of it turning off again.
It’s none of my business, but I can’t help noticing that he took a short shower, not nearly as long as I’d expect—if I thought about that sort of thing.
It’s just that he took longer on Wednesday, although admittedly he was barely lucid at the time.
But his hair is always shiny, and he’s always neatly dressed, and he always smells delicious.
In my mind, someone like that takes long, indulgent showers, filled with multiple kinds of hair product and soap and who knows what else.
Then again, I also figured him for an instant ramen guy, a cold cereal guy, a no-cooking-ever guy who survived on pizza and takeout and beer.
“Stop it,” I snap at myself when I realize how much I’ve been considering things I have no business considering. “Just—stop it.”
He is immature and messy and young. I repeat this several times, and I think it might help some. Then I push the kitchen chair up to the table with too much force and hiss when my finger gets caught.
But the throbbing pain does what my mind alone couldn’t manage; it pulls my thoughts away from Roman—away, even, from my worries about our home being sold.
The respite doesn’t last very long, of course, but I appreciate it while it’s there. Once I shake my hand a few times and then run the finger under cold water, I head out of the kitchen to do a walkthrough of the living and dining rooms.
I have to admit, they look great. My style is more minimalist than Roman’s grandmother’s, but everything here is neatly in its place.
The bookshelf is organized, everything is polished, and the air is no longer stale or musty.
There’s an indescribable sense of satisfaction in running my hand over every surface I pass as I walk, knowing it’s been dusted and sanitized—
“Oh,” I say in surprise when my fingers knock something to the floor. I glance to the floor to see what’s fallen from where it was propped on the mantle over the fireplace, and my eyes land on a small bundle of papers tied with twine.
The letters—the love letters Roman’s grandparents sent to each other before they were married. The little stack is similar in color to the wall it was leaned against, and I didn’t look closely enough.
I bend over quickly to pick them up, because they’re old, and I’m not sure how well old paper holds up. They seem fine, though, as I inspect them—writing still faded, paper still worn, but otherwise intact.
A love story that’s lasted all these years; what would the rest of that even look like? A love that has conquered ups and downs and in betweens, a love that comes out on top no matter what?
My parents love each other. My father is completely devoted to my mother. She’s scatterbrained sometimes, prone to whims, but he follows along with a smile, going with her wherever the wind blows her. She, in turn, adores him. He’s her entire world.
It’s quiet, their love, but I’ve seen it my whole life. They’re both kind-hearted and sweet, gentle in ways I’m not, patient with each other always.
Something tugs in my chest, a painful longing so potent that for a moment I’m actually startled.
I’m very unlike my parents, especially my mother. But I could still have what they have, couldn’t I? With the right person?
I stare at the bundle of letters in my hand for another moment, and it doesn’t take me long to decide; I give a nod and then begin unwrapping the twine.
But Roman said I could read them all, didn’t he? He offered to let me read them, and he’s already read me some. If he hadn’t been willing, I wouldn’t look at them now.
I set the twine on the mantle—impeccably clean, by the way, still dust-free and gleaming—before shuffling through the letters.
As I peer into the envelopes, I notice that there seem to be two letters per envelope.
The first seems to be a letter from Roman’s grandmother and the second a response from his grandfather.
I reread the letters Roman read out loud to me, the ones about his grandmother waiting for his grandfather, and the sister visiting St. Louis, and the faint lipstick kiss on the back of the paper.
“Sweet,” I murmur, drifting over to the couch and settling down so I can read more comfortably. A smile tugs over my lips, but it dies quickly as I skim the words again.
It’s sort of sad. What ever happened to Roman’s great-grandmother? She was really sick.