Why is that so crazy? People need plates. Why can’t Roman need plates?
“And he came to the manufacturer?” One of Rosalie’s pretty brows has quirked high on her head in question.
“For her!” Fran says, hands on her heart.
I nibble on my bottom lip and nod. “Yep. That Roman, always skipping the middleman.”
Roman
“What’s she like?” Tru asks.
“Who?”
“Bro, your wife,” Wade says.
“Oh.” I look around. Lucca should be saving me from this conversation right now. But he’s flirting with Candy or Mandy—I never got the chance to ask her. “Um, she’s great.”
“I think he means, does she have hobbies? Does she play ball? What does she do for a living?” Zev says. He’s not evena part of this conversation, but he’s overheard and now he’s adding his two cents.
I smile at him—because that’s my job tonight—and his brows pull together. He stares at me like I’ve stuck out my tongue and screwed up my eyes. “Sure,” I say. Stella isn’t working. She was fired. But does she want everyone knowing her business? We haven’t discussed it. “She’s an independent artist,” I say. “She makes pottery.” The more I speak, the more right the words feel. “If you want something, you let me know. Stella can make anything.”
“That’s fire,” Tru says.
“It is fire,” I say, spying my wife in a group of women. And then I smile at the kid.
Stella
I am a jam sandwich. Rosalie is one slice of bread and Fran is the other. And I am the jam.
I don’t really want to be jam. I’m not even sure I like jam.
But here I am. Jam.
“Is Roman romantic? I just picture him as quiet and brooding, but deep down a total romantic.” Fran sighs.
“Is she serious?” I ask Rosalie with a smile. I’m talking and I’m smiling. Roman cannot accuse me of breaking our deal. I have smiled the crap out of tonight.
Rosalie completely ignores Fran and my question, asking one of her own. “How long were you engaged?”
That’s easier. Sort of. “Well?—”
“Wait,” Fran interrupts. “Tell us how he proposed.”
“Oooh, yeah.” Rosalie nods. “I want to hear that story too.”
“Proposal …” I feel my forehead wrinkle.
“Wait. Don’t start without me!” Alice Baxter says. She leaves her current conversation and sits on the floor in front of us, her one-year-old daughter in her lap. Jasmine holds a cloth picture book in her little hands. The little blonde smacks the pages with her chubby fists.
Sarah sits at the end of the couch, her body turned toward us. I officially have an audience. And I don’t have any answers. Maybe I should have allowed Roman to go over those green card questions after all. I’m certain this was one of them.
The thought turns my stomach, though—like, every time Roman brings them up. They are a reminder of how I’ve lied to him.
“We were …” I say, each word slow and thoughtful. “In the woods.”
“Ooo,” Fran sings, to which Rosalie shushes her.
“And there was … a fire.” Woods and fire—those sound like a match.
