“She’s going to tell me everything,” Willow says—she’s so confident. She’s also most likely right.
“And yet, I’d like a moment,” Roman says to my friend.
“It’s okay, Willow. I’ll meet you at the car.”
Willow groans and flaps her arms at her sides, making a fuss. But when neither Roman nor I invite her to stay, she stomps off in the opposite direction.
“She isn’t normally so dramatic,” I tell him.
His tone warms as he glances from Willow back to me. “She seems nice.”
I sniff, my head buzzing, yet I keep up his casual conversation. “She is.” I tilt my head, peering into Roman’s blue eyes. Those eyes always reminded me of something precious, like a sapphire or a robin’s egg. Sighing, I set one hand on my hip. “Roman, what’s going on? Did we have some kind of courtship that I forgot about?” I wrinkle my nose and give him a mocking grin to go with my sarcastic tone.
He slips his hand into mine, pulling me to an abandoned corner of this field. I haven’t seen the man in almost nine years, and now he’s holding my hand and announcing our marriage. It’s all a little …much. Even for that fifteen-year-old girl inside of me.
My fingers tingle where our skin meets, but I tell myself to ignore it. I’m failing. But I pretend anyway. I should be mad. So, I choose to focus on that.
“Roman, what if my parents see that article?” I say. “What if they hear that interview?”
“It’s more of a Southwestern U.S. thing. It rarely goes national.”
“But it could. They could see it,” I argue.
He runs a hand over the short bristles of his hair. “I know. I know. We’ll figure it out. Let’s sit.”
“On the grass?”
He gives me a pointed stare, and I pull my hand from his, a fresh wave of fluttering leaves with it. I cross my arms, ignoring the dissipating sensation, and plop myself down on the cool grass.
“It’s sixty degrees out here, Roman,” I whine. I am totally entitled to whine right now.
He doesn’t care about my complaint. And really, I just need him to start explaining. He paces twice in front of where I sit before crouching down in front of me. “Stell, recently life has been brutal to you.”
All at once, my eyes prick with unshed tears. How does he know that?
“I am certain you didn’t deserve to get fired.”
I shake my head, my eyes stinging. “I didn’t.” At least, I don’t think I did. Joan might disagree.
“And kicked out of your place? No way. Not your fault.”
“A little my fault,” I whisper. “But completely accidental. Very innocent.” And one hundred percent Joan’s fault. If she hadn’t stressed me out that morning, I wouldn’t have distractedly rushed to start the dumb dishwasher, filling it with dish soap.
“No one deserves to be kicked out of their home,” he says, picking my hand back up in his. “And that award—you deserved it. I’m certain of it. I realize I never got to see the piece, but you had talent ten years ago. I can only imagine how amazing you are now.”
My throat tightens and I swallow down the avalanche of tears that threaten to join this reunion. “How do you know all that?”
“And,” he says—because he isn’t finished, “maybe I can’t do anything about all that. But I’m not going to let them discontinue your visa early.” His eyes pierce mine.
“My visa?” I say, my voice breaking—he’s lost me now.
“Youaren’tleaving.” Roman brings my hand up to his face, his breath warm on my skin, and the bristles of his short beard tickling me with their touch. He presses a kiss to my palm. “I’m going to fix this.”
“Roman, I’m not—” I say with a swallow. I’m slow and befuddled. It’s not my fault. Roman Graves just kissed my hand. His lips on my skin. Something my brain has been curious about for years.
“Do you want to move back to Canada?” he asks, and I think about my mother and how that sweet woman would have me packed and on a plane if she knew any of the things Roman just spoke of.
I shake my head. “No. Not now.”
