I suck in a breath. “That happenedonetime!” I point at him. “And I was ten years old! Why do you always have to bring that up?” I say, though he hasn’t brought it up since we reunited.
He lunges my way.
Stabbing my pointed finger in his direction, I jerk back and yell, “You wouldn’t dare.”
He laughs—but it’s lost some luster. “Nah. I wouldn’t.” He peers around my room once more. “Move in. Okay?”
And I am utterly disappointed.
Brice met Roman when I was nine. They bonded and became the best of friends immediately. Roman melded into our family almost as if he’d always been there. Even after we took a term in Canada for three years, Roman came to visit. He and Brice would pick up like no time had passed. That’swhat I want in this moment. I want time to turn back. I want Roman to fly across my things and tickle me until I cannot breathe.
He would have, once.
“You unpack. Move some stuff out of this room. The whisk is welcome in the kitchen. We’ll go over green card questions later.” He gives me a wink and drops his head before leaving the room altogether.
My breaths turn short and shallow, and I snatch up my phone from the cluttered dresser top.
Me: He wants to go over green card questions.
Willow: Okay …
Me: I can’t, Will. Every time he asks, I am punched with guilt and I’m physically sick. What have I done?
Willow: You could ’fess up.
Me: Just to have him back out and lose his cabin? Try again.
Willow: You could make out. You are married, and he’s a hottie.
Me: Not helpful.
Willow: What is the matter, Stella? You knew what you were getting into.
Me: I didn’t know how guilty the lies would make me feel. Yes, Roman’s helping me. I thought it would be fine. I’m helping him too. But it’s been two days, and every time he talks about immigration and green cards, I become not only a failure but a horrible human being.
Willow: I thought we were over the failure talk. I’m going to text you every day and you’re going to tell me something you’re good at. Got it? Because you aren’t a failure or a horrible human being.
Willow: Oh, Jerry says hello.
“Hey,” Roman says, poking his head back into my room. “What’s the plan for your wheel and kiln?”
“Um.” I peer at my equipment, which involves a whole lot more than the wheel and kiln—though those are the largest items. “I’m not sure. I know they take up a lot of room.” I shake my head, my stomach hurting. “They’re in the way. I don’t even plan to use them while I’m here. Maybe I can move the dresser into the closet and?—”
“Stell, slow down. Of course you need to use them. This is your work. That’s like saying we’ll shove my cleats and shin guards into a closet where they won’t get used.”
I swallow and bite my inner cheek. “Your cleats and shin guards literally take up one foot of space. These are … big.” Even owning the smaller versions of everything, my pottery equipment is large and heavy. “And it’s not like I can work in your living room. I can get a storage unit.” Though how in the world would I pay for that?
“No need. Take the porch.”
“The porch?” I scowl at him.
“Yeah, on the back of the house. The windows will make for great lighting.”
“I know where the porch is,” I say. I also know he said it was his favorite part of the house. That he wanted to watch the sun rise and set there every day. “I can’t. That’s yours.”
He scoffs, and for two seconds, his Roman smile, his real smile, lights up his face. “To what? Sit? I’m pretty sure I can sit next to your pottery wheel and watch the sunrise.”
I lick my lips and shove both hands into my pockets.
