Chapter 28
Twenty-Eight
The sun is shining through the bedroom window, but in a different spot than normal. It’s putting a glow on all of the things in this room. Things that don’t belong to me.
I sit up, feeling my once-wet hair rooster in every direction but down.
Awesome. My natural waves have taken on an entirely new life having gone to bed with a wet head.
I’m still in Roman’s jersey, sweats, and boxers, and while I still smell faintly of skunk, I smell like Roman too.
At least I think the skunk is faint—I’ve been wearing it all night, so I might be getting used to it.
Roman and I came clean yesterday. At least my lies are out in the open. If Roman will have me, I don’t want to get an annulment. I don’t want Roman to lose his home. And I don’t want my parents to hurt.
But the weight and burden that telling Roman the truth has lifted is incredible.
When Willow asks what I’m good at today, I’m going to tell her: confession!
I feel like a new person. Mostly. I’m certain I will feel brand new once I know for sure that I didn’t cost Roman his cabin and when I smell like me again.
Roman isn’t angry at me anymore. And a skunk is a small price to pay for that mercy.
Tiny infant-sized fireworks ready to make big explosions swirl in my stomach at the thought of him holding me, helping me, putting me to bed—in his very own jersey.
I’m not sure why he chose his clothes over mine.
But I’m sure he had his reasons. Knowing Roman, he didn’t want to violate trust by going through my things.
Either way, I do not hate the way it all turned out.
I push back the thought that my brother wouldn’t have liked this and scurry into the bathroom.
“Eep,” I squawk upon seeing myself. It’s worse than I thought.
The swelling in my eyes has gone down, and they don’t really hurt anymore, but they are rimmed red.
They’ve been through battle, and it shows.
And my hair … well, I’m not sure it’s salvageable.
That’s okay. Roman has left the Dawn dish soap in the bathroom, and I need another shower. This one where I am totally undressed, alone, and in charge of washing myself.
I scrub myself meticulously. Every nook and cranny of my body gets a good dose of Dawn until Roman’s bottle is close to empty. I even squirt a little in with my shampoo.
Then, I slip back into Roman’s clothes—I didn’t bring in anything else, but mostly I feel like wearing them. I comb the tangles from my wet hair and braid it before passing through Roman’s room once more, then out into the hall.
I smell pancakes. I sigh. I love pancakes.
My eyes prick with tears—over pancakes.
I shake my head, tossing the temptation to cry away and head for the kitchen.
I think Roman likes to cook. He seems happy when he’s cooking. I imagined a whole lot of takeout nights for him. And sure, we are literally living in the woods. But I’d bet he cooked like this before, in his Red Tail apartment.
I step into the kitchen, barefoot, and peek at tall, dark, sweet-smelling Roman. The whiskers on his chin are a little longer than normal. He must trim them daily. And I don’t think he’s showered yet today. The clock behind him reads ten.
“Whoa,” I say. I didn’t realize I’d slept so long.
Roman jerks with my noise, spatula raised. “Oh. Hey.” A smile blooms on his face, and beneath that beard, I know there’s a dimple flickering to life.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.” I lean against the counter, watching as he flips a beautifully golden pancake.
He waves off my apology. “You slept well?”
“So well. Your bed is remarkable.”
He coughs out a small laugh. “It’s the same exact bed as yours. I bought them the same day.”
I shrug, lifting myself onto the counter and taking a seat next to where Roman cooks. “I don’t know. There’s something about yours.”
“Or maybe you were just that exhausted.” He turns back to his skillet and scoops the six cooked pancakes from the pan. “Have you looked outside?”
“I saw the sun shining through. It was bright and beautiful.”
“Yeah, it’s reflecting off the snow.”
“It snowed? More than a skiff?”
“Oh yeah,” he says. “A lot more.”
I jump from the counter and hurry to the porch, peering out the window. It rarely ever snowed in Jackson. And never in Sacramento, at least since I’ve lived there. Only my Canadian Christmases ever had snow.
Sure enough, there is a healthy blanket of white on the ground. The world looks clean and new. Near the cabin, there isn’t a footprint to be seen. Nothing to ruin this perfect canvas. A few feet beyond, I can see the tracks of a four-legged creature and her two pups.
My breath hitches, and I’m not sure if I love or hate those critters. I had one of the longest nights of my life because of that skunk family. I also have Roman’s forgiveness.
“We can’t go outside today!” I call from the porch.
“Why not?” Roman chuckles, poking his head into the enclosed porch but peering at me rather than the beauty outside.
“The snow is perfect, Roman. Completely untouched. No ruining it—for one day. Okay?”
“Okay,” he agrees. It’s something I might have suggested at fifteen. I’m still that girl, just a little more experienced.
I follow Roman back into the kitchen, where two plates of pancakes sit on our kitchen table.
“Did you look in the living room?” he says, arms crossed.
I shake my head, feeling giddy. First the snow, and now—
“A tree!” I stand in the kitchen doorway, jerking my gaze back to him. “Roman! When did you get this?”
The biggest, real-life Christmas tree I have ever witnessed is currently taking up fifty percent of Roman’s living room. Growing up, we always had an artificial tree—a tall, skinny tree for our Canadian home, and a six-foot, average-sized thing for our California home.
“I went out last night—while you were having your own adventure—and cut it down.”
“You cut it down?” And suddenly, this kitchen is a hot pot.
I am picturing Roman on the cover of a Harlequin romance novel.
Red-and-black plaid button-up, opened, with his broad chest on display.
He’s got one foot on a large boulder and an ax over his shoulder, staring out at a wilderness full of pines.
I swallow. And sweat. My mouth might be watering. Just a little.
I would pay money and give up my favorite ribbon tool to see that.
And then I check myself. I mentally slap that image and those thoughts from my mind.
This marriage is still a sham. Just because I’ve come clean about my citizenship doesn’t mean Roman’s decided to fall madly in love with me. Or that I want him to.
I tell myself that I do not want him to.
“Yeah.” He puffs out his cheeks, then exhales a slow breath. “I wanted to apologize.” Walking from the doorway to the table, he sits. “I’m sorry, Stella.”
I shake my head, skirting my eyes from Roman to the tree and back again. I plod to the table and sit across from him. “What are you sorry for? I’m the one who’s sorry. I should have told you the truth.”
“I should have talked to you before announcing an engagement. I shouldn’t have assumed.” His eyes plead with mine. I’m the one who should be apologizing, but he’s so desperately sorry. “Please know, I honestly didn’t think about this cabin when I announced our marriage. I just wanted to help you.”
I blow a raspberry through my lips. “Goofball. That proves that I owe you the apology.”
“But Stell. I didn’t even ask you. I just announced to the southwestern US minor league soccer fans that we were getting married. I didn’t consider what you wanted, only what I thought you needed. I haven’t been a very good husband.”
My insides stir with his words, with his sincerity.
He keeps his eyes on mine. “And I’m sorry.”
A quivering breath whistles through my teeth, and my heart patters in my chest. Roman doesn’t hate me. And he isn’t forgiving me because an overprotective mama skunk forced him to. He forgave me before all that. He’d planned to apologize to me all along. He isn’t angry.
Even if he should be.
“I lied to you, Roman.”
“And in many ways, I was selfish and domineering. You’re all grown up, Stell. I should have asked if you wanted help before leaping in and forcing matrimony on you.”
I have never in my life been so strangely attracted by an apology. I gulp down my frenzied feelings. “Can we start over?”
“No matter how many times we begin, we’re still married. Unless—”
I hold up a hand, cutting him off. “Maybe that arrangement can still benefit us.”
Roman passes me the maple syrup, and I slather my warm hot cakes.
“Okay,” I say, setting the syrup down. “What we need is a moment of reckoning.”
“Come again?”
“No more secrets.” I swallow, knowing this isn’t going to be as easy as I’m making it out to be. At least not for me. I’m not sure what I’m asking of Roman. “Tell me about this cabin. Why is it so important to you? Why not just stay in the team apartment complex?”
And possibly surprising us both, Roman opens his mouth and speaks. He tells me exactly why. Since we lost Brice, he prefers solitude. According to him, he needs it. He tried to get his coach to make an exception in his contract. Much like my parents’ visa extension—it was denied.
I glance down at Roman’s tattoo. The one I’m sure has everything to do with my brother. And the one we’ve never talked about. I nod at the ink on his arm. “That’s Brice’s handwriting.”
Roman’s Adam’s apple bobs in a swallow. “It is. He wrote me only a couple handwritten notes in his life, but he always signed them “brother.” I needed a piece of him with me. You know?”
I sniff. “I do. He was your brother too.”
Roman’s fingers entwine, and he lays them across the table, next to his breakfast plate. “Yes. He was.”
“So, this marriage helped you get your cabin.”
“I never meant to be so selfish with you, Stella. Brice would kill me.” He drags a hand down his face, his dejected expression killing me.
I pull his hand away so I can see him better. “Brice would appreciate you trying to help me.”
“Would he?” His jaw clenches. “The Brice I remember left a bruise the size of a baseball on my shoulder whenever he caught me taking a second glance at his sister.”
My insides whirl. “Excuse me? I’m—” I shake my head. Words won’t form. “You did—What does that mean?”
“You were a freshman. And man, you were suddenly not a little girl anymore. And—” Roman shakes his head. “I’m not a creep. But I am a man. And you, you suddenly became this beautiful—”
A high “eep” escapes my lips and Roman silences. Did he just call me beautiful? Did he call teenage, dateless Stella beautiful?
“Whatever. I wasn’t trying to be inappropriate, but Brice took one look at my face, punched, then threatened. I tried—and failed—never to look at you again.”
I breathe out a disbelieving laugh.
It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell him that, like every other girl at Jackson High, I noticed him too.
That he wasn’t the only one Brice threatened.
But I can’t bring myself to say the words.
I lick maple syrup from my bottom lip and glance up to Roman’s baby blue eyes.
“You need your teammates, Roman. You’ve always needed your friends. ”
“I’m not saying you’re wrong, because there’s a very good chance you aren’t. But some of my non-friendly habits might be hard to break.”
“Well, break them anyway.”
“What about you, Stell? How is this marriage going to help you at all? Explain that to me. Because I’ve been trying to figure out why you lied to me. I have no idea why you agreed to this.”
My pulse thrums in my neck and wrists. “I’m complicated.”
“Give me a shot,” he says.
The nerves in my gut tell me to be quiet, but my heart tells me I need to say this out loud. I need to trust. And I want to trust Roman. “I watched my parents suffer after Brice—like I’ve never seen anyone suffer before.” My voice is small, but I get the words out.
He reaches for my hand, and I let him take it. I need the support. These are words I never even spoke to Willow.
“They just have me.” I swallow. “And I am a failure, Roman.” I shake my head, trying to jostle away the sting of unshed tears.
“You always thought I’d be successful, but you were wrong.
Every time I fail, I cause them fret and worry and pain.
They knew I couldn’t survive on ceramics.
So finally, I got my steady job at Clay & Crescent.
But it didn’t last. I’m so tired of worrying them.
Of disappointing them. Of being the cause of more pain. ”
“You couldn’t be a disappointment,” he says.
“I am,” I scoff. “Everything went wrong. I had finally given them relief with my steady job and safe home, and I lost both in the same day.” I peer down, and Roman squeezes my fingers, telling me to go on.
“I had such hopes that winning this award would change their minds about my work. That maybe instead of stressing them out, they’d believe in me.
” I peer at my half-eaten pancake. “I decided that if I told them I was marrying you, moving in with my husband, quitting my job, leaving my house, I’d save them some worry. ”
“You really think you cause them that much grief?”
I press my lips together. “I know I do.” I suck in a breath. “Oh. And while we’re being honest, I hate green beans.”