Chapter 16
Sixteen
Three days later, the house is unpacked.
Things have a place. There is indeed a path to my bed.
I spent the morning avoiding Roman’s questions, watching the skunk family pass through the woods through the window of this porch, and reading a book that Willow emailed me called The Self-Love Project. It’s not that great.
I can hear noise in the kitchen and, officially bored, I follow it. I stand in the doorway, watching as Roman dumps boxed pasta into an empty pot. I observe for only a minute before opening my mouth. “Aren’t you supposed to boil the water first?”
“You don’t like answering my questions,” he says, referring to his three attempts at asking me green card questions and my three fantastic avoidance tactics.
1—Willow’s calling! She wasn’t. But I called her, and we talked for more than an hour.
2—Bedtime! All that unpacking exhausted me. It was only seven o’clock. I went to my room and read Willow’s dumb self-help book for the next three hours.
3—I’m on my period! Yeah… not a lie, but I’m also not sure what that had to do with my inability to answer his questions right that minute. Either way, it shocked him, and I made my escape.
What can I say? Every time he starts with questions and immigration talk, my stomach hurts, and I avoid the topic all together.
“I never said I didn’t like answering your questions.” I whine, though he’s spot on.
“I always cook it like this,” he says, as if he didn’t even hear me.
“It’s not sticky? It doesn’t clump together?” I ask, daring further into the kitchen.
“Here,” he says, thrusting a folded piece of paper from his pocket into my face. “Ask me these questions and observe.”
“Seriously?” I grouch.
“I got these from some site on the internet. They are the kinds of questions the immigration officer will ask us.”
I inwardly groan because, no, they aren’t.
There will be no immigration officer. And every time he mentions it, I feel like crawling into a hole and vomiting.
One day I’ll tell him—when there’s no risk of losing his cabin, when my parents are content.
But the way he’s stirring that uncooked pasta … today is not the day.
I peer down at the long list he’s printed and sigh. Then I grunt. But truly my insides are looking for a cliff to jump from. It might feel better.
“Go for it,” Roman says.
“Fine,” I growl. I read the first question in my head. “Do I have to memorize your phone number, or can I just set you as speed dial number one?” I give him a fake, full-teeth grin.
Roman leaves his pasta for one second to tap the paper. “It says, ‘What is your spouse’s phone number?’ You’re going to have to memorize.”
Another grunt. I think the new and not-so-improved Roman is rubbing off on me. “Okay. Next.” I lean against the kitchen counter and ignore the fact that he’s pouring jarred spaghetti sauce right over the uncooked pasta. Who is this monster? “Have you taken any trips together?”
“You probably would have come with me on an away game,” Roman says. “Fran comes with Callum often. And I think Devon’s wife would if they didn’t have a kid. Or two.”
“Or two? You don’t know.”
He shrugs. This Roman doesn’t know. My Roman would know how many kids Devon had. He’d know their names too. He might even be their favorite Red Tail. Somewhere deep inside of him is the same Roman I’ve always known. I know it.
I sigh, long and dramatic, like we have a major problem, Houston. “And yet, twenty soccer players, including the training staff and coaches, would know that I’ve never been on a trip with you.”
“Oh. Right. Immigration may talk to the team, and we need a plausible reason we never told them about us.”
“Is it plausible that Roman Graves, aka The Graveyard, doesn’t share?”
“Well—yeah,” he says in all seriousness. I’ve got invisible ants crawling all over my skin, hating every second of this conversation, and Roman is completely serious. “We’ll probably have to go with long distance, online, and private.”
“Roman,” I scoff. “Online? I’ve known you since I was nine. We haven’t had an online relationship.”
He gives his pasta another stir and pours half a jar of water into the pot. “Okay. So long distance and private, then.”
“Sure, let’s go with that instead of non-existent, untrue, and a complete lie.”
“Stella,” he says, dropping his wooden spoon into the pot. “What’s with you?”
“Maybe you’re rubbing off on me.” I flap my arms, smacking them to my sides. For a girl who married her long-lost crush five days ago, I am kind of in the depths of despair.
“Take a breath,” he says, moving in front of me.
I do—and then I’m breathing him in. The man smells like the woods.
He’s like breathing in pine and cedar and the great outdoors.
It makes me dizzy—probably a side effect of the grumpiness.
“It’s going to be okay. This is stressful.
We just need to be on the same page for these questions. ”
My eyes flutter closed, and then the pine and woods are gone. The warmth of his body and the scent of his soap have disappeared. It’s merely a lingering memory.
Winking one eye open, I watch him, across the room now, as he opens the fridge, taking out a bag of premade salad.
“What’s next?” he asks, motioning to the paper.
“Ugh.” I scan down and read, but my throat is tight, and my stomach hurts. I ignore it all and go on—for Roman. “Which side of the bed do you sleep on?”
“I sleep in the middle,” he says.
“Nope. Not with me in the bed.” I give him a cheesy, mocking grin—it’s better than crying. “Wrong. You go to jail.”
“Not funny,” he says. “Which side do you sleep on?”
“Before I came here, I was sleeping on a couch. Before that, my bed was a twin. Two nights ago, I tried the left side, and last night I chose the right.” I shrug. “The jury is still out.”
“Okay, let’s just pick one, then.” He shrugs, focused on his lettuce, dumping the bag of salad into a bowl. “I’ll take the right.”
“Whoa. I kind of like the right.” I tap my fingers in a nervous drumming to the countertop.
“Fine,” Roman says. “Then I’ll take the left.”
“But I haven’t completely ruled the left out.” With his silly questionnaire squeezed between my fingers, I press both fists to my hips.
“Stella,” he growls. “How can you take this so nonchalantly? This is serious.” And to him, it is. But I’m tired. Tired and grumpy and guilt-ridden. Apparently, the combination makes me sassy.
“Do we have to do this?” I ask. “I’m starving and your questions are only giving me hunger pains.”
“Hunger—” He groans and rakes a hand through his hair. “Fine.” His jaw clenches in that new way that it does—like whenever he talks to a teammate or possibly any living, breathing human. Except for me. Normally. “I’ll call you when it’s time for dinner.”
I escape to my room, avoidance tactic number four under my belt.
Me: How do I make the green card questions stop? They are making me feel like someone laid a pottery wheel on my chest.
Willow: You know how.
Me: Shut it.
Willow: So testy. Have you thrown a pot? You know that’ll make you feel better.
I have not. I’m not sure I can.
Me: No.
Willow: Well, hop to it. You still need to tell me one thing you’re great at today. I’ve been waiting all day …
Willow won’t stop asking until she gets an answer. She and Roman have that in common, I’m afraid. A shaky breath filters through my lips, and I type.
Me: Popcorn.
Willow: Microwave popcorn does not count as something you’re great at, Stella.
Me: It does, and I’m fantastic at it.
I have never failed at microwave popcorn. Work, everyday tasks, five whole days of marriage, sure. But popcorn? Never.