“I just don’t know what she wants. I don’t know if she wants the job, to stay married, or even is she wants me anymore?—”
“Maybe she’s in it for the skunks.”
“I’m serious,” I say, dragging my hand down my face once more.
“Graveyard. Bruh. You are thinking about this all wrong. You don’t know what she wants. You only know whatyouwant.”
I sit with that a minute. “True.”
“Yeah, it is,” Lucca says. “True and wise.”
“It is kind of wise.”
“Oh, yeah. That’s what you get when you come to me,Mano.Wisdom.”
I ignore the cockiness of my friend. “And tonight, Stella just taught me that honesty truly might be the best policy.”
“You’re gonna tell her to stay?” Lucca says with a laugh.
“I’m going to tell her Iwanther to stay. The choice is hers.”
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 Jackand 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, flowydress along with a list.
