Because she can. All of it.
I still can’t believe my dad agreed to the visit so readily. He’s got a whole new life in Atlanta, one I’ve never been a part of. And we gave him zero notice. But when I told him Iwas married and that my wife wanted to visit, he told me they already had a room waiting for us.
Waiting.
Does that mean he’s been waiting for me to visit? Waiting, but never calling? Never texting? Never visiting? Never bothering to come to a game? Because that doesn’t add up.
Stella exits one of our two rooms—we use both these days. Her blonde hair is braided down her back, and she’s makeup-less, as we have to be at the Tesoro airport by seven.
My heart jumps at the sight of her. Mywife. Not only do I adore her, but she seems to like me back.
While I understand that our situation has moved lightning fast, it feels right. It feels like this is exactly how it’s supposed to be. Me and Stella. With all the …adoring.
“Hey,” she says, rolling her bag over to me and lifting on her toes to press a light kiss to my mouth. She’s good at this. Like we’ve been doing it for years.
Wrapping one arm around her, pressing my hand into the small of her back, I hug her against me. “Good morning,” I say in reply, leaning down to try that kiss again. My body and brain need more than a peck.
The balm on her lips tastes of strawberry and leaves me wanting more. More Stella. Always more.
I don’t even wantto know how much this non-stop flight to Atlanta is costing me. Then, Stella leans her head on my shoulder, watching as I scroll through movies on this mini television attached to the seat in front of me.
Floral and lilacs waft upward and into my nostrils. Her hand glides over my stomach, resting there. I would pay justas much to be seated like this on our couch in our cabin—but this works too. If I have to be on a plane, if I have to be flying out to my dad’s, seeing him for the first time in years, I’m glad it’s with Stella.
“Wait! Go back!” Her head perks up, and as I scroll back a page, she returns her head to my shoulder. “A New Hope. The original really is the best.”
“Star Wars?” I say, peeking down at her. “You watchStar Wars?”
She scoffs and lifts her head to challenge me. “I can watchStar Wars.”
“You can. But you don’t.”
“Only I do,” she sings.
“Since when?”
Her eyes narrow and she glares at me. I think she’s avoiding the question. I’m certain she is when she answers with, “Why can’t I be a fan? Are you sexist, Roman Graves?”
I spurt out a laugh. “It has nothing to do with gender.”
“Then what?”
I find her hand on my torso, entwining our fingers. “You really don’t remember?”
“Roman, spit it out.”
My head bows a little with the memory, but I can’t help my smile. “Brice and I had a marathon the summer before our junior year. You were what, thirteen? Brice said you were a know-it-all that year?—”
“I wasn’t a know-it-all.” She nudges my shoulder with her own. “I wasthirteen!”
“Anyway, Brice and I were two movies into aStar Warsmarathon when you walked in?—”
“Wait, I remember that. That’s the year Mom took away the TV from Brice’s room and said our family needed morefamily time, not TV time. You and Brice had to watch in the living room.” She sighs. “The last season ofConfessions of a Seventh Grade Crushhad just come out, and I was dying to watch it. Mom was threatening to cancel Netflix, and you and Brice never gave me a turn with the TV.” Stella glares, looking very much like that thirteen-year-old girl.
“Confessions of what?” I smirk, lifting her fingers and kissing the back of her hand.
Her eyes drop to our knotted fingers. “Never mind that. I remember the marathon.”
“Do you remember me inviting you to watch with us? You stomped and yelled that you would never, for the rest of your life, watch aStar Warsmovie.”
