But the girl simply waves me off before storming into her bedroom and slamming the door shut.
My pulse races, and I snatch my phone from the coffee table.
Me: Is counselingextreme?
Lucca: You gotta do what you gotta do, man. Make the call.
Me: I’m taking advice from an idiot.
Lucca: If we weren’t so close, and if I didn’t get your sense of humor, that might hurt.
Twenty-Three
I will not yellat Roman today.
I promptly cross my heart over my chest with the thought.
I don’t want to be grumpy with him. None of this is Roman’s fault. But I’m out of excuses and every time he mentions a green card question, I seem to lose my lying mind. I crack. I crash out. What I thought would save insecurities is actually increasing them. I may be saving my parents from pain—but not myself. And not Roman.
He could still annul this marriage. We’re only twenty days in. But then he’d lose his cabin. Gosh, I’m good at sticky situations.
But today, I have a goal. And it’s not to crash, burn, and blame it on Roman.
The sun shines through my bedroom window, onto the third self-help book Willow has gifted me—The Approval Trap: Breaking Free From the Need to Please. The girl is on a mission.
Speak of the bestie …
Willow: It’s time.
Me: For breakfast?
Willow: You know what for.
Me: This is getting old. I’ve already told you, I’m great at popcorn, I’m great at picking movies, I have a decent Darth Vader impression.
Willow: What else?
Me: I have recently become awesome at losing my temper with a man who has been nothing but lovely to me.
Willow: BUZZ. That one doesn’t count. I honestly think being with Roman is making you work through the grief you haven’t completely accepted.
Me: When did this conversation make a super serious U-turn??
Willow: Then tell me something you’re freaking fantastic at, Stella Everly Graves.
Me: Fine. I am also pretty great at taking walks.
Willow: Walks? BUZZ.
Me: No, really. I’ve taken a lot of them since living out in the middle of the wilderness. I find the prettiest paths. And I always find my way home.
Willow: Fine. Walks it is. But tomorrow, you better give me something good.
Me: Walking is good. Now go eat your Captain Crunch. I smell bacon.
I don’t move from my bed just yet though. Willow thinks I’m working through grief? Maneuvering until my body is sprawled on this bed and my head skiffs the floor, I reach for my old journal. It’s where it’s been in every single one of my homes—beneath my bed. I sit up, book in my lap, and flip through the filled pages until the riffling stops. I pull Brice’s photo from the crease of page ninety-four and stare at my brother.
His senior picture. His eyes are bright, the same color as mine. His hair, a dark blond, is newly cut—with Mom’s insistence—and he’s grinning. My eyes blur with unshed tears.
