“Your brother, maybe?”
“Brice was always so busy with his own stuff, he never really gotinvolved in mine.”
Her lips pinch as she waits for me to produce some kind of an answer.
My energized, caffeinated mind wanders. And wanders ... And wanders ...
All the way back to my freshman year in high school. All the way back to Roman Graves. I crushed on that boy hardcore. But I’m pretty sure Brice would have disowned me if anything had happened. Roman was a senior, an athlete, and dreamy, so nothing would have happened. Still, my brother caught me drawing a heart over Roman’s face in my yearbook one day. He tore the page out of the book and scolded me for a solid two minutes.
“Who is it, Stell?” Willow asks, invading my memory.
Maybe it’s the cola, but my mouth opens, and out speaks truth: “Roman.”
“Roman?” She squints. “You’ve never mentioned a Roman. Old boyfriend?”
Willow and I have only been close for a couple years now. Roman was long before her time. When I think of him. I think of Brice. And when I think of Brice, I’m transported to a time I haven’t fully worked through yet. So, I rarely let myself think of Roman.
“No,” I say, because for the first time in years, I feel like talking about Roman. The bubbly liquid stimulating my body has decided that it won’t be detrimental to my soul to do so. “He was my brother’s best friend growing up. He’s a soccer player—he actually went pro.”
“Nice. For real?”
I swallow and peer down into my mug of Coke. “Yeah, my family hasn’t kept in touch with him. It’s been years.” Nine, to be exact. “He might not even remember me,” I say.Only he would. I’m Brice’s sister. Still, the lie comes out, shielding my heart.
“And this Roman believed in you?” she asks.
My lips work into a small grin, one I am painfully trying and failing to hide. I take one more sip from my mug, concealing my mouth. I’m not sure my popcorn binge and this soda are mixing well, and yet, I keep on. “I think he did.” I pinch my brows, my mouth continuing to twitch with a smile from memories I haven’t conjured in years. “He’d always ask what I was working on. I begged for a potter’s wheel for Christmas when I was just thirteen. I don’t think my parents realized how far I’d take the obsession. They thought it was a nice hobby, something to keep me away from the internet. So, they indulged me. Something, they no doubt regret?—”
Willow circles her finger in the air. “Go back to Roman.”
I swallow and blink away from her gaze. “He asked me to make him something once.” My crooked grin is back, only now there’s a rhythmic thump in my heart. Yes, Roman was to-die-for gorgeous. Yes, he was a gifted athlete. Every single female at Jackson High came out to watch the boy play his game. But I saw Roman up close and personal, in my home, with my family, and he saw me. I know he did.
Willow sets her mug on the coffee table and leans toward me, elbows on knees. “Tell me.”
“He wanted a ceramic trophy.” I shake my head. “A soccer ball on a base with a plaque that read: GOAT.” I chuckle at the memory. “And after I made it and gave it to him, he told me I had a future. He told me I was to ceramics what he was to soccer, and that we were both going to make it one day.”
“Wow.” She laughs. “He had a healthy self-esteem.”
I shrug. There are plenty of days I’d love to borrow Roman’s self-confidence. “He really was that good. But making that silly trophy for Roman changed me. He loved it so much. Roman made me think I could do this, that I could make beautiful things for people and be successful.”
She stares at me. “He remembers you, Stella.”
“What do you mean?” I say, peering into my empty mug.
“Thatguy. A guy who tells a girl she’s the GOAT, that she has a future, he doesn’t forget about her.”
Four
Two days later,I have changed my socks.
See? Improvement. I also plan to shower. Maybe. And if I’m not too wiped out afterThe Last Jedi, then I plan to search the internet for soul-sucking jobs that happen to pay the bills.
I am in the deep, dark depths of an itty-bitty depression at the moment. I’ll be fine! I just need to see if Rey defeats Palpatine or not.
My phone pings, and I glance down at the device sitting next to my latest bag of popcorn and a freshly opened can of Diet Dr. Pepper.
Mom.
Oh, bless. I’m not ready to be the cause of more pain for my parents … maybe next month. But then, why would I ruin Christmas? Disappointment from your daughter is a terrible Christmas gift.
