“Yeah,” Roman says. “Me. Not you. Stell, you need people. You’re disheartened.”
I do feel on edge and not myself. Apparently, your life falling apart as well as marrying someone on a whim while lying to them daily does not help lift your spirits. “I am an introvert,” I retort. “I don’t need people.”
“Youabsolutelyneed people. You always have. You just have a time limit, and you need to recharge alone.”
I grip the warm pan in my lap tighter and stare out the windshield. “Did you read that in the book Willow mailed me?” I haven’t opened the thing. Why would I want to read something calledWhispering into the Void: One Introvert’s Memoir?
“I’m serious, Stella. You don’t want to work with me on green card questions. You won’t call your mother.”
“Ha!” I cry. “That’s not new.”
“You also haven’t made a thing on your pottery wheel. You haven’t left the house?—”
“I go for a walk every day. I saw the tails of my skunk friends clear across the woods.”
“I’m serious. And I’m getting worried. You can’t live like this for a year.” Roman’s face tightens with thoughtfulness. “Or however long we need. Is it a year?” He lifts one hand from the steering wheel and waves off his question. “It doesn’t matter. You can’t live like this.”
Why not? Hiding in Roman’s cabin sounds like my best bet. Why would I want to come out to the real world, the one I am failing in?
I realized the other day that, at some point, I will have to announce ourdivorceto my parents.
Divorce.
Isn’t that just another failure? Something to bring them sorrow.
The thought makes me want to hyperventilate.
Wow—Stella, you did not think this one through.
Nope, I saw an out, and I jumped into a river of boiling hot lava.
Brilliant.
“I’m fine,” I lie. Lying got me into this mess … maybe, eventually, it’ll get me out.
“We’re here. We have green beans. Let’s give it a try, and if you absolutely need out, text me ‘911’.”
“So cliché,” I groan, for no better reason than to be disagreeable.
“Fine then, text me ‘turkey trot’.”
I snort out a laugh. “Are you kidding?”
Roman gives one small shrug. “What do you want to text me, then?”
“How about ‘Lucca Cruz has a seriously fine toosh’?”
Roman’s jaw clenches. “If you text me that, I’m leaving you at Baxter’s to live permanently.”
I clasp my hands together. “I’m sorry, Roman. I’ll behave. I’m just anxious.” I need to check my attitude. I need to remember that none of this is Roman’s fault. I mean, it’s a little his fault. He did announce to a news reporter that we were getting married. But to save me. That man is a regular Clark Kent.
I glance over at my husband. My husband, the hero. Dark hair, magical blue eyes, a tattoo that suspiciously looks to be written in my brother’s handwriting, and that dimple. My stomach flips, and I remind it that we aren’t here to fall for Roman Graves. Brice forbade it long ago, and Roman would never see me like that.
The green beans in my lap are a constant reminder that none of this is real. How are green beans so ominous? Well, when Roman said that green bean casserole was the only Thanksgiving dish he could think to make, I told him,Fantastic. Wonderful. I can’t wait.
Only, I hate green bean casserole.
Just another lie. This casserole is like the soggy symbol of our entire marriage.
