Chapter 53
Fifty-Three
Roman’s been a nervous, anxious mess all morning. He slept next to me last night. I honestly wasn’t sure that he would after my mental breakdown over skunks and my impromptu therapy session with mom.
I could see myself gaining everything I thought I wanted and losing Roman. And I lost it. Then I went to bed alone, crying myself to sleep.
Still, I woke up and there he was. Beside me.
I wish I knew what that meant.
I wish I understood anything. Things were so much easier before Willow swooped in solving all my financial and housing problems.
He slept in longer than normal, and when he woke, I was in the shower and now… he’s just acting strange. We have to be at the church for Fran and Callum’s wedding in less than an hour.
I’m all ready and I’ve made a decision. If my heart is getting broken today—it’s going to break on my terms. I hold Roman’s Christmas gift and step into our shared Jack and Jill bathroom—where Roman is standing in front of the mirror, hair dripping, dress pants on, and shirtless.
Gloriously shirtless. It feels like a cruel thing to do to a girl who just lost every single reason to stay married to the man.
I swallow and keep my eyes on the prize—Roman’s face. Though those pectorals are winking at me. I see them in my peripheral. “I want you to open this,” I tell him.
His gaze falls to the box in my hands. “It isn’t Christmas.”
“Close enough,” I say, unsure if I’ll still be here tomorrow.
Roman leans against the bathroom sink and carefully tears into the paper, pulling out the peacock glazed bowl I made him. My “soul-piece”.
There’s a card inside a sealed envelope telling him the name of the piece and offering a replica of his GOAT trophy. He hasn’t opened it yet, maybe after the wedding, I’m okay with that.
I just need to see him open this.
He blinks rapidly, peering down at the piece. “Stell,” he swallows, “it’s beautiful. It’s raw and honest. I—I love it.”
Raw and honest. Only Roman would describe a bowl exactly as my intentions created it.
“I’m going to wait in the car,” I tell him. It feels like my heart might be cracking—a perfect match to my Spiral Song piece. “We don’t want to be late.”
Roman stares at me, holding my gift to his chest, his bicep flexes, fighting for attention with that pectoral muscle. He looks back down at the bowl. “I’ll hurry.”
Waiting in Roman’s Bronco, I send Willow a picture of my red, flowy dress along with a list.
Me: Things Stella Everly is good at:
Finding the right Christmas gifts
Falling in ice skates
Eating more pancakes than a professional athlete
Being honest (even if it takes some time)
Teaching someone to use the pottery wheel
Planning a piece
Impulsively creating a piece
There’s more. That’s what I’ve got today. Love you, Will.
Willow: Killer dress, Stell. Merry Christmas. Also—Stella Everly is a fabulous friend.
Yes, yes I am.
Our ride is quiet to the church. I text Willow a few more times and Roman says—nothing. Until he parks. “Are you mad at me?”
I peer at my sweet husband and honestly answer, “I’m not sure I could ever be mad at you, Roman.” I tilt my head. “Let’s go watch our friends get married.”
The ground glistens—as if Fran ordered and paid for it. The trees around the church are covered in frost and ice, giving the entire space a winter wonderland feel.
Roman sets one hand on my arm. “Stella, I feel like I need to say something—"
“You don’t owe me anything,” I say, opening the door and stepping outside. We meet at the front of the vehicle. Roman offers his arm, keeping me from slipping in my heels. “Roman, thank you for helping me. For being there for me. You’ve been such a good friend. I never meant to impose—”
“No one ever said you imposed. I told you I wanted to try—"
“You did.” I smile at him. “But we both know you didn’t sign up for,” I peer up at the church in front of us, “forever.” I hold back my tears and start toward the steps of the church. “And long distance,” I sigh. “It’s hard.”
“Stella,” he growls.
But my heart is already hurting. I’ll survive. I have survived. Wasn’t that the point of telling my mother all of my failures? I failed. I lied. I hurt both mom and me. And we both survived.
I’m bound to fail and survive again.
“Roman! Stella!” Ebony Jacobson stands next to her husband, Roman’s coach, waving from the doors of the church. “You’re here!”
“We wouldn’t miss it,” I say—realizing as I lose Roman, I’m losing Fran, Rosalie, and the Red Tails. We may have been new friends, but they still meant something to me.
“Of course not,” Roman says beside me.
Jet slaps a hand to Roman’s back, pulling him in for a quick hug, and then we’re inside.
An usher leads us to our seats, as we walk, I put on a brave face, waving to Roman’s team and friends.
My throat clenches and I sit on the edge of my seat, watching as the ceremony begins. Rosalie and Zev walk down the aisle. The wedding march sounds, and we stand for Fran.
She’s beautiful and Callum is full of joy and tears. He watches her like no one else is in the room.
This is how it should be. Dating, falling, loving, then wedding. This is the beginnings of a marriage. This is right.
One tear falls and I swat it away with the back of my hand.
“What’s wrong, Stell?” Roman’s words are low, his breath warm against my cheek.
I peek over at him, but his face blurs with my brimming tears.
He lifts a hand to my cheek, the pad of his thumb swiping away the moisture there. “Tell me,” he whispers.
Words refuse to come. My throat aches with sorrow, for how quickly our private little haven has crumbled. I can’t expect any more than he’s already given—even if he’d like to date me.
“No? Then let me tell you,” he whispers as the priest introduces himself, welcoming us to the Fairchild-Whitaker wedding.
On command, Roman and I sit together. But I stare at him, unable to look away, unable to keep my tears at bay any longer.
“I love you, Stell. I don’t want you to leave.”
Did he just say—“You love me?”
“I do. And if you don’t love me back, I’ll help you pack your bags. I’m not trying to steal your opportunity. But—”
The woman behind us clears her throat—apparently our whispers are not quiet enough for her.
“Stay?” he says so low that I have to read his mouth to make out the word.
And then I hiccup. I slap a hand over my mouth and the man in front of us looks behind. Roman peeks up to Fran and Callum and I follow his gaze, but our friends don’t seem to notice the fuss we’re causing.
Braving my hand from my mouth, I whisper, “Did you open the card in your Christmas gift?”
Roman’s brows pull together. “I did.”
“Did you see the name of your bowl?”
“Soul-piece?” he says.
“I’m very willing to give you a piece of my soul Roman Graves. I already have.”
Roman’s mouth quirks in that grin that made a fifteen-year-old girl swoon and very adult Stella melt at his feet. “Does that mean you’ll stay?”
I nod and Roman leans toward me, kissing my lips and ignoring the grunts from the woman behind us. He holds my face in his hands, pulling back to examine me.
We sit like that a moment. And then the priest is spouting vows and asking Callum if he’ll take Fran to be his wife.
Roman inches closer, his nose brushing mine. “I do,” he says so soft that even the nosy Nellie behind us has no idea that he’s spoken.
I close the small gap between us, pecking his mouth and listening as the priest repeats the same vow for Fran. When he’s done, I look into my husband’s eyes and whisper, “I do.”
Roman presses his mouth to mine, not waiting for the priest to instruct Callum to kiss his bride.
Our first wedding ceremony ended without a kiss. But this one is making up for it, a hundred times over.