“And she hated that name.Mrs. E.”She’s half grinning, though. And while Rebecca Everly may have scoffed often at my pet name for her, she always did so with a giggle.
“She loved it,” I retort.
Stella leans one shoulder against the wall separating my porch and my house. She crosses one foot behind the other and smirks at me. “How were you always able to do that?”
“Do what?”
“Your never-ending confidence? Your endless self-surety? The not caring what others think and then ending up with everyone loving you?” She crosses her arms. “How?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Is this how she actually sees me? If only she knew.
“It’s true.” She stands straight, moving one hand to her hip.
“Things have changed. I’ve changed. Believe me, Stell, no one loves me.”
“You know what I think?” Stella’s eyes lock on me, holding my gaze and never letting up. I’m not allowed to look away from her. She forbids it. “I think the real Roman Graves is still in there. He just needs a little help coming out.”
“You’d be wrong.” Somehow, I find the strength to break eye contact with her. I peer down at her wheel when suddenly her cool fingers trail over my skin.
“I doubt that,” she says, combing over theink on my forearm. I’m sure she recognizes the handwriting—it’s her brother’s. “Very much.”
Sixteen
Three days later,the house is unpacked. Things have a place. There is indeed a path to my bed. I spent the morning avoiding Roman’s questions, watching the skunk family pass through the woods through the window of this porch, and reading a book that Willow emailed me calledThe Self-Love Project. It’s not that great.
I can hear noise in the kitchen and, officially bored, I follow it. I stand in the doorway, watching as Roman dumps boxed pasta into an empty pot. I observe for only a minute before opening my mouth. “Aren’t you supposed to boil the water first?”
“You don’t like answering my questions,” he says, referring to his three attempts at asking me green card questions and my three fantastic avoidance tactics.
1—Willow’scalling! She wasn’t. But I called her, and we talked for more than an hour.
2—Bedtime! All that unpacking exhausted me.It was only seven o’clock. I went to my room and read Willow’s dumb self-help book for the next three hours.
3—I’m on my period!Yeah… not a lie, but I’m also not sure what that had to do with my inability to answer his questions right that minute. Either way, it shocked him, and I made my escape.
What can I say? Every time he starts with questions and immigration talk, my stomach hurts, and I avoid the topic all together.
“I never said I didn’t like answering your questions.” I whine, though he’s spot on.
“I always cook it like this,” he says, as if he didn’t even hear me.
“It’s not sticky? It doesn’t clump together?” I ask, daring further into the kitchen.
“Here,” he says, thrusting a folded piece of paper from his pocket into my face. “Ask me these questions and observe.”
“Seriously?” I grouch.
“I got these from some site on the internet. They are the kinds of questions the immigration officer will ask us.”
I inwardly groan because, no, they aren’t. There will be no immigration officer. And every time he mentions it, I feel like crawling into a hole and vomiting. One day I’ll tell him—when there’s no risk of losing his cabin, when my parents are content. But the way he’s stirring that uncooked pasta … today is not the day.
I peer down at the long list he’s printed and sigh. Then I grunt. But truly my insides are looking for a cliff to jump from. It might feel better.
“Go for it,” Roman says.
“Fine,” I growl. I read the first question in my head. “Do I have to memorize your phone number, or can I just set you as speed dial number one?” I give him a fake, full-teeth grin.
Roman leaves his pasta for one second to tap the paper. “It says, ‘What is your spouse’s phone number?’ You’re going to have to memorize.”
