Chapter 9
Nine
Less than twenty-four hours later, Willow stares at me packing up my one and only little suitcase that graced her apartment.
Turns out you don’t need a lot of stuff when you’re hanging out in your PJs, eating popcorn, and questioning all your life choices.
Everything else I own is in my car and the small cargo basket attached to the back.
“Okay? You said okay to a marriage proposal? To a man you haven’t seen in a decade?”
“More like eight and a half years.” I lift one shoulder in a shrug. “But it’s Roman.”
“Stella,” she gripes. “He thinks he’s committing a crime for you. He believes he’s helping you get a green card.”
“Yep,” I say. And swallow down the load of guilt that comes with my answer. “But he also can’t live in his cabin without me. Something about his team contract. So, see? I’m helping him too.”
“You have a problem. You know that, right?” Willow shakes her head. Before I can ask which problem she’s referring to, she goes on. “It isn’t your job to make everyone happy.”
I scrunch my face. I have a lot of problems … but that?
“I know that,” I say.
“I’m not sure you do,” she says. “Besides, you’re letting him believe that he’s helping keep you from deportation.”
I flap my arms at my sides. “What, Willow? What do you want me to do, live on your couch forever? Isn’t Jerry waiting to move in?
” Willow’s long-term boyfriend is currently staying at his grandma’s house just waiting for me to get a life and move on.
We both know it. “Should I call my mother right now and break her heart with one hit of bad news after another? She will never believe in me if I tell her how I’ve failed now.
” Why should she? I’m not sure I believe in myself.
“She would hire movers to pack me up and move me to Canada this very day. So, see? Roman is saving me from being deported!” I rock on my heels, firmly placing my hands on my hips.
Willow stares at me, then rolls her head to the side. “But marriage?” she says, unconvinced. “It’s marriage, Stella. Promised vows. Holy priest.”
My pulse races with her words. I shake my head. “No. It doesn’t count if it isn’t real for either of us. It’s a non-counting marriage.”
“I don’t think that’s a term.”
“It is,” I say.
“It’s not.”
“Well, it is now.” I stand straight, hands on hips. “Besides, there will be no priest. It’ll be a judge or someone extremely unholy, like your uncle that got certified on the internet.”
Willow sucks in an offended breath. “Uncle Benji is holy. He’s great.”
“Or—” I point to her. “It could be you!”
“It will most definitely not be me,” Willow says. “Stell, marriage?”
I shrug.
“To save face?” she says, her tone low and sorrowful. “To give your parents peace of mind? That isn’t your job—”
“And to help Roman,” I say. “You keep forgetting that part.”
“Right—you’re making him happy too. What about you? What about your work—”
“I don’t even know if I want to do pottery anymore.”
Willow gasps.
“I just need some time. I can’t do anything right lately.”
“Stop with the doubt. You’re so busy doubting yourself, you can’t see how wonderful you are.” She reaches out a hand and shakes my shoulder.
I give her a small smile, thankful for her friendship, for her goodness. Placing my hand over hers, I squeeze her fingers. “I love you, Will. Thanks for letting me crash here.”
“You have to leave today?” she whines.
“Hello? Jerry.” I wrap one arm around her waist, hugging her to my side. “I know you love me, Willow. I also know you don’t want me on your couch any longer.”
“It’s not that,” she moans.
I nod and zip up my suitcase of PJs and unused microwave popcorn.
“I’m worried about you.”
Willow is a good, wise friend attempting to make me rethink this decision. But marrying Roman might be the only thing I’ve got going for me. Stella isn’t a big fat failure, Mother. She’s been secretly dating Roman Graves, the boy you loved and adored, and now they are big-time hitched.
“Please, Will, you’ve let me stay too long as it is. I appreciate you. Jerry’s put his plans on hold long enough.” I rest my head on her shoulder. “Let me go.”
Willow steps back, forcing me to look at her. She rolls her eyes at my obnoxious bout of sentimentality. “This feels like trouble.”
“But not your trouble. As long as you don’t turn my well-intending … fiancé into the authorities for something he hasn’t actually done, we’ll be fine.”
“Are you listening to yourself? Does any of that actually make sense to you?”
“Every single word. I’ve got this, Will.”
She huffs and rolls her head back. “Keep me informed.” After stabbing me with her best death glare, Willow wraps me up in a quick hug. “Invite me to the wedding! And the minute your husband kicks you out for being a U.S. citizen, know that you have a couch to come back to.”
“That isn’t going to happen.” I shake my head, not at all convinced but faking it for the both of us. “Roman said he just wanted to help me. He will be. I’ll help him and he’ll help me. Just not in the way he thinks he is.”
“Your life went from tragic to insane. You know that, right?”
I drag my suitcase behind me, Willow following. “I do.” I smirk. I sound like I’m practicing for the big day.
“Don’t forget your Spiral Song.” She hurries over to the TV stand and picks up my damaged vase.
I pull in a deep breath and exhale. “You keep it. Call it a gift. Throw it away if you want.”
She hugs the vase to her chest. “It’s still beautiful. Damaged isn’t the same as broken.”
I stare at the glossy blue-and-white swirls of my labor of love pressed close to Willow. I’m not sure if she’s talking about me or the vase.
“Okay, Stella,” I say to myself. “You’ve got this.
Clothes, toothbrush, pottery wheel.” I have everything I need.
“As well as directions to Roman’s cabin in the Tesoro woods.
I’ve got this. I don’t have to be a big fat failure at, well, everything.
” However, I have not convinced myself. I am exactly two hours and eleven minutes from my new home.
One that won’t evict me. One that won’t judge me.
One that will be quiet and peaceful and ready for an introverted, reflective, creative type like me.
I puff out my cheeks and blow a gust of air from my lips.
Finding my Elton John best hits playlist, I belt song after song from a time long before my birth. By the time I reach my turn off into the woods, I am exhausted. I have given my Mini Cooper, my pottery wheel, and my PJs one heck of a concert.
“Oh!” I say. “Roman said to call once I reached this point.” He wanted to know when to watch for me. I guess in case I get lost. I peer out at the windy road ahead and the ominous pines stretching up to the sky. Or maybe he wanted to know to look for my bones in case I get eaten.
I text the newly added name and number in my phone:
Me: At the turn off. See you in fifteen.
Roman: Remember, the GPS isn’t updated. It got you to the dirt road, but no matter what it says, it won’t get you to the house. Stay on the main road until that first turn, take a right there. Then take the second left. Head out for a couple miles and the house will be on the right.
He’s already told me this, but I don’t mind Roman not wanting me to get eaten in the woods. I’m pretty grateful actually. I pull onto the dirt road and head into the pines at a snail’s pace. Ten minutes later, I take that first turn. My confidence grows, and I pick up my speed.
I see the next turn, just up ahead. I’m so close to my new home sweet home when everything screeches to a halt.
I slam on the brakes. My seatbelt locks, jerking my back into my seat as I come to a complete stop.
A fluffy black-and-white tail with two twin pups following wanders across the road.
Stretching my neck, I give myself a better view of the little kamikaze crew.
“Aww, skunk family.” I exhale through my nose, pulse thudding. “Whoa. I almost killed a whole skunk family.”
Slow and steady, the three meander until they make it across the dirt road where they escape into the deep woods.
My heart pounds in my ears. I breathe in and out through my nose, my nostrils flaring. With my eyes focused ahead, I see my turn. It’s close. But I can’t quite stop my foot from smashing into the brake, when—tap, tap, tap.
I suck in another gust of air and turn to my driver’s side window. Roman stares at me in gray sweatpants and a tan zip-up jacket. How can someone look like a GQ model in sweats? Is that possible? Clearly it is. But is it fair?
I swallow and roll down my driver’s side window.
“You okay? It’s been twenty minutes. I thought maybe you’d gotten lost.”
I peer up at Roman, the boy I once knew and trusted. “I almost killed a skunk family.” My confession comes out in a gust. “A family, Roman!” Blood rushes to my fingertips as I grip the steering wheel tight.
“A family?”
“Yes,” I groan. “A mom and two little baby skunks just crossed the road. Right in front of my car! They came out of nowhere. They almost died because of me. Some skunk daddy would have been waiting and waiting and waiting, only to have his family lost forever.”
“Maybe they should have stopped for you. You had the right of way. Maybe they almost died because they’re impatient.
They should pay better attention before walking out into the road.
” He grins at me—and for two seconds, I’m back in time.
The trees have parted, the sun is shining through, and true joy has made its way into the depths of my Mini Cooper. That smile has always been magical.
A shaky breath slips from my lips that has nothing to do with almost becoming a skunk murderer.
“Can I get in?” he asks, pointing to my car.
“Um.” I peer over at my passenger seat, currently holding a box of my latest creations. “Sure.”
He jogs around the vehicle, and I scoop up my box of “thingy-ma-bobs.” Sliding into the car, Roman peers over at me. “I’m not sure you can drive and hold that.”
“Right. It was in your seat. So, I—”
“I’ll hold it.”
Roman Graves. Brice’s best friend. Professional soccer player. My teenage crush. That man is in my car, holding my stuff, and proposing marriage to me.
Okay, he isn’t currently proposing. That sort of already happened.
“You don’t have a secret surprise party waiting at this cabin for me, do you?” I say nervously—something to fill the empty space around us. “You aren’t going to kneel down and propose all dramatic for your social media, right?”
“No.” He snuffs out a laugh. “I don’t do social media,” he says. His smile falters.
“Sure, you do.” I roll along the dirt road at a snail’s pace—a pace that would never murder woodland creatures. “You post every Friday.”
Roman smirks beside me, and I stiffen. Did I just give myself away? Yes, I follow Roman. No, I’m not a prowler.
“That’s what my mom says.” I swallow. “I don’t follow you.” Scoffing, I shoot one quick glance Roman’s way. It’s an expression that says my mother is the prowler. His smile returns, but it’s suspicious. “She follows you. She loves you. Always has. She says you post on Fridays.”
“She says? Not you?”
“Nope.” I stare ahead, watching the road, waiting for Roman’s house to come into view. “My mother.”
“Your mother is observant,” he says.
Another pause—but this time, I choose not to fill the silence.
“How is Rebecca?” Roman asks.
See, I don’t need to fill the silence. He will.
“Good. She’s good. I mean, she isn’t thrilled about moving. But she’s healthy, and I think she and Dad are happy.”
“Yeah. The move. I’m sorry. I know this,” he says, motioning from me to himself, “isn’t ideal. But you don’t want to move back to Canada with your parents—right? That’s what Willow said.”
Oh, I truly wonder what Willow said that day. And how Roman came to interpret each and every one of her words. I clear my throat, and soon a small home comes into view. I stare at the log cabin yards ahead of us. It’s the only house in sight. It must be Roman’s.
He’s still waiting for an answer.
“Do I want to move to Canada? And back in with my parents? Holy—no. No. No.” I shake my head and stare at my saving grace—Roman Graves.
“And you’re okay with … marriage?” he asks.
“Are you okay with marriage?” I choke on the words. That question feels more pressing. He’s marrying me to save me. And, let’s not forget, to obtain this cabin.
“Yeah,” he says, but his voice is strained. “One hundred percent okay.”
“We’ll have to tell my mother.”
“The truth?” he says, his brows cinched in worry. “Rebecca may not approve of our illegal activity.”
“Um, no. Not the truth.” I grip the steering wheel until my knuckles have gone a starch white. “Never.” Gosh, I’m doing all this to spare her, to avoid owning up to every single one of my current failures.
He nods. “Big no. Got it.”
“But we will have to tell her we’re getting married. Maybe we should tell her that we already are, so she doesn’t try to make a trip back for the ceremony.”
“Do you want a … wedding?”
“Holy no!” I shake my head. “Do you?”
“No. Um. No.” He sits back in his seat, then points ahead. “This is my house. There’s a long drive, pull all the way in.”
I follow his instructions, mentally going over the multiple ways a conversation with my mother could go, and trying to decide which would cause her the least pain.
I come to a stop and study Roman’s small house.
Smooth, rounded logs form the four outer walls of the box-ish cabin.
There’s a wooden porch out front with one rocking chair.
This is either a place where someone goes to live rustically for a week or where someone goes to murder woodland creatures without getting caught.
There must not be another house for miles …
My throat tightens. “Is there electricity?”
Roman smirks, running a hand over the bristles of his chin. “Yes.”
“Indoor plumbing?” Oh, please let there be indoor plumbing. Please.
Another huff. “Yes, Stella. A functioning kitchen, a small living room, two bedrooms—”
Two. He made a point of that, didn’t he? I guess that means snuggling with Roman is out.
“And an enclosed back porch. There’s even one bathroom with running water and everything.” He sets his hand to the door handle, giving me a small wink.
I have to admit, I am relieved to hear we have running water. At first sight of this rustic little place, I wasn’t sure. “Wait. What about a dishwasher?”
“Oh.” He sighs, swinging his door open and letting in the crisp November air. “Sorry. No dishwasher.”
I exhale, relieved, because this just might work. “Perfect.”