“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 todateme.
“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.
Fifty-Four
I can’t rememberthe last time I stepped foot in Jackson, California. Maybe graduation day. And the only time I ever came to the cemetery, besides the day Brice was buried—was when Brice and I brought dates here on Halloween. Our big plans of the girls getting scared and needing our strength and comfort might have backfired. Big time.
I never wanted to come back. I never thought I could handle it. Brice shouldn’t behere.And yet, it’s peaceful. It’s quiet. In some strange way it reminds me of my cabin in the woods. And with Stella’s hand in mine, I bravely step up to the flat gray stone with my best friend’s name.
Brice Everly
Son, Brother, Friend
I swallow past the lump in my throat and look at Stella. But she’s stronger than me. Maybe because she’s been here before, maybe because she just is. She crouches next to thestone and brushes away cut grass and debris before laying a single red rose next to his name.
