Willow: Sorry. Confused. Do you want him to kiss you?
Me: It was just odd. The judge skipped the whole you-may-kiss-the-bride part. I’m certain Roman asked him to. It just makes me wonder.
Willow: Wonder what? Do I need to meet you at that cabin with a two-liter?
I peer out the window again, thinking. I know the answer to this question, but it feels painful to say out loud. I can’t imagine that typing it out would be any better.
But I do—because we can’t have Willow showing up to Roman’s cabin with Coke, demanding confessions.
Me: How much he already regrets this.
Willow: Maybe he’s shy.
Me: Maybe he hates me.
Willow: He doesn’t hate you! He married you!
Me: But he wouldn’t kiss me.
Willow: I’m sorry, sweetie. He’s crazy if he had a chance to kiss you and he didn’t take it. LUNATIC. You’ve married a lunatic.
Me: It’s not the kiss.
But maybe it was a little. Kissing Roman Graves has been on my bucket list since eighth grade. Mostly it was about the regret and obligation that Roman so clearly feels.
Fran complained too. She said, “What kind of wedding doesn’t end in a kiss?” To which Roman told her, “A courthouse wedding. I’ll kiss her in the privacy of my own home. We aren’t show-monkeys.”
It was all very romantic.
Or not.
Willow: You just tell that man he’s going to have to kiss you at some point. For keeping up pretenses.
Me: WILLOW. It’s about the regret he feels, not the kiss he didn’t give me.
Willow: Only … it might be about the kiss too. Right?
Dang, she knows me well.
I peer over at my husband of twenty-two minutes. The scruff on his face looks as if it were made to be touched. I’m not saying I should touch it. But someone probably should. I swallow, draw my eyes up from the touchable scruff on his chin to Roman’s lips.
“You might have to kiss me one day,” I say, because I am officially married, and I can’t be the quietlittle woman.
“Excuse me?” he says, glancing over at me.
Cabin or not, I need to know that I haven’t completely messed up Roman’s life. I need to find my comfort space with him again. Roman was once a very safe place for me. I need him to be that again. Is that even possible? It’s been so long. And while we are technically husband and wife, all to help one another, there is this little stumbling block of him thinking I need a green card.
“When we’re with your friends. You may have to kiss me, hold my hand, be a tiny bit affectionate. You know? To keep up appearances.” I just need to hear his answer for this. Regret or no regret. I need to understand.
“Those guys aren’t my friends.”
“They aren’t?” I scoff. “The guys you called to be witnesses at our marriage ceremony aren’t your friends?”
He peers forward again. “Nope.” He’s literally giving me nothing. Maybe Roman is shy. That feels a whole lot better than Stella ruined Roman’s life.
“Then where are your friends, Roman? Why didn’t you call them? I’ve never seen you act so aloof with people before.” He’s been short and cold with everyone but me, so unlike the friendly, charismatic boy I once knew and crushed on.
“I don’t have friends anymore.”
