Where Happiness Begins (Evermore #3)

18. Chapter 18

Chapter 18

I wake up to a ruckus coming from down the hall.

I worked yesterday and didn’t get home until three thirty in the morning, so even though my phone tells me it’s 8:00 a.m., I still want to bang my head against the wall. Whoever’s making all that noise better be happy I’m not grumpy in the morning.

Slippers on, I trudge over to where the sound is coming from, then stop dead in my tracks when I find all the honey-colored cabinet doors ripped off their hinges, Carter piling them on the floor, one of them still hanging halfway onto its hinges. Every inch of my messy cupboards is exposed, threatening to send me into a panic. I really should have done a better clean-up before he moved in.

“What’s going on here?”

He looks up from where he’s crouched in front of the island, noticing my presence for the first time.

“I’m removing the cabinets,” he says, then goes back to unscrewing a door as if that was the most normal answer in the world.

“I can see that,” I say, stepping closer to him while rubbing sleep off my eyes. “The question is why. ”

He lifts his head. “I opened a cupboard to grab a cup and almost left with the door, and I thought that was enough. Found a sanding machine in the garage.” He lets out a grunt that has no right to sound sexy as he throws the door on top of the others. “I’ll sand and paint them before reinstalling them properly.”

Something clenches in my chest. That sanding machine. Dad bought it a few years ago, thinking he could do some of the work in the house by himself, but my health took a turn for the worse at that time, and he never got to pick it up again.

He never will either.

A crease forms between Carter’s brows. “Hope you don’t mind.” Then he turns and looks up at the kitchen, which looks like a whole mess. “Yeah, maybe I—”

“Thank you,” I say, voice choked up for some reason. Maybe because he’s getting a step closer to achieving what Dad would’ve wanted for this place, or maybe because he’s removed a huge weight off my shoulders by taking the lead on this project I knew needed to be done but couldn’t get myself to pursue, or maybe just because he’s taking his precious time to do this for me. “I really appreciate it.”

“Course,” he says, still frowning, studying me for a moment, then another. Finally, he breaks the contact to look at his phone, then stands. “I’ll have to finish this later, though. The band’s recording today.”

“Can I come?” I ask, partly because I have no plans and partly because I have a feeling if I stay here alone and continue looking at this ongoing project, I’ll feel never-ending grief I’d rather avoid .

Carter pauses wiping his hands to ask, “You want to?”

“Sure. It’ll make good content.” Anything to get me out of this place. I go get a cup from the—now open—cupboard to make some tea. “Oh, I could make it some sort of interview too afterward.”

“Sure, yeah.” He scratches his head. “I need to stop by my place while we’re in Boston, though.”

“Boston?”

“Yeah.”

“Your job’s in Boston? Like, you drive there every day?”

A pause, then, “Yeah?”

“And you have a place there.”

“Are we just stating facts here or…”

“Oh my God, why didn’t you tell me?” I never even thought to ask him where he used to live. Since we met so close to here, I assumed he was from the area too, but I should’ve thought it through. Carter works for a record label, and clearly, there are no record labels in the small towns of Vermont.

“Lilianne, it’s fine.”

“This makes no sense. You should go back to your place. We’ll keep up with the pretense another way.” Even as I say the words, they taste bitter in my mouth. As strange as it felt to have him in my space initially, I think it’d be hard to go back to the way it was. Waking up in a small space that finds a way to feel so incredibly vast. Losing the safety net I’ve started to feel when he’s around. Not being able to see his “kill me now” face every time it’s my turn to pick a movie to watch while we eat dinner—apparently, Mr. Carter only likes movies when they have “great soundtracks or interesting acting.” Of course he couldn’t enjoy films for their plots like any normal human being. Just for that, when it’s my day, I always pick the most random movies I can think of, usually ones with terrible artistry that I still enjoy thoroughly.

“I don’t mind the drive.”

“Carter.” I stand straight, only realizing how close we are to each other when I feel his breath on my forehead.

His thumb lightly chucks my chin. “Lilianne,” he says in that infuriating way, never once having shortened my name. “I’m fine.”

“I don’t want you troubling yourself.” For me , I refrain from adding.

“I’m not.” His mouth ticks. “The company’s okay here.” Then, before I can react, he’s stepping backward with a stern, “We’re leaving in ten. Better get changed.”

I look down at my clothes, realizing I’m still in the Christmas pajamas I wear year-round, those that are a size too small but that I can’t get rid of because they’re too soft. Appropriate when I used to be alone in here, but maybe I should’ve thought twice about coming out in them today.

Except when I bring my attention back to Carter, it’s to find his eyes skimming me over. The shirt barely covers my stomach, leaving a slit of skin that he seems to have gotten stuck on. He’s only wearing jeans and a black T-shirt, and yet I feel naked next to him. I pull the hem down, breaking the strange trance he seemed to be in as if restarting normal speed after a slow-motion scene .

Carter looks back at the kitchen, studying something. “Meet you at the car.” Then he disappears down the stairs.

I remain in place for a long moment before rushing to get ready, wondering whether I imagined it all or not, and what it’d mean that I hoped it was real.

“What are you doing?”

“What does it look like I’m doing?” I ask as I shut the passenger door behind me.

The building Carter has parked in front of is in the older part of the city, and while it’s nothing fancy, the place looks well-kept, with four stories and a dark-brown brick exterior. Children are drawing shapes in the street with multicolored chalk, while an elderly couple is rocking in their chairs on one of the upper balconies.

Carter doesn’t move from his spot next to the car, staring.

“I’m coming in,” I end up saying.

“You don’t have to,” he says, which I translate to please don’t come inside my place .

“If you thought I wouldn’t get my nosy ass into your stuff to discover all your deepest, darkest secrets, then you’re wrong, boo .”

His face loses some of its color, which only makes me grin. “Come on. Show me what Andrew Carter’s natural habitat looks like.” I start walking toward the building, and eventually, he has no choice but to follow .

“Less messy than yours, that’s for sure.”

I gasp audibly. “I’m not messy.”

He throws me a look.

“I’m not ,” I repeat as he opens the front door and leads us through an old but cozy lobby to the elevator. He presses the button and the doors automatically open.

We step inside. “Tell that to the hundred chocolate bar wrappers strewn all around the house,” he says.

“I like to snack. Sue me.”

He snickers, a side of his lips curling up, and just like the last time I saw his face light up with a smile, a whoosh goes through my chest.

“What about the socks you keep littering all over the place?”

“I’m always cold and like to be prepared.” The elevator doors open, leading us to a narrow corridor with only three doors. I straighten my shoulders. “Plus, I’m not the one we’re supposed to be roasting today. That’s all you.”

Carter takes the lead, stopping in front of the first apartment we come across. Then he unlocks the door and opens it to me.

I’m not sure whether I’m disappointed or pleasantly surprised that I have nothing to roast him about, after all. Carter’s place is…lovely. I expected a bachelor pad or, based on the way he brought nothing to the basement, an air mattress thrown on the floor with a television and nothing else. But that’s as far from the truth as possible. Natural sunlight wafts in, illuminating the dark leather couch and kitchen table in buttery yellows. It’s a small space that’s not cluttered but that also feels lived in. Apart from the open-air kitchen and living room, there seems to be one other room at the other end of the hallway.

I take slow steps, soaking it all in, trying to memorize every detail. Knowing Carter, I’ll probably never get a glimpse of his universe like this again, and I don’t want to miss anything. Not the live plants decorating the space. Not the neatly stacked books in the hanging shelves, or the checkered rags in the kitchen, or the guitar leaned on a stand in the corner of the living room.

I let my hands drag over the strings, picking at a few to play a false note. “You play?”

He tracks the movement of my fingers as he says, “Used to.”

The black-on-black instrument is so him, I can almost picture it. The way he’d look with the guitar in his hands, careful, focused, face tight as he’d play every note with diligence. He’d forget about the world like he does when he’s watching one of his historical fiction movies or when he’s looking for the missing number in his sudoku square like it’s a mathematical equation that will determine the fate of the world. Sometimes, he doesn’t even notice I’m watching, too lost in his own mind, his pen always tapping the same corner of his jaw where a small mole resides, a bull’s-eye for his fidgeting.

“Why’d you stop?”

I’d swear I don’t imagine the faraway look in his eyes as he says, “Another life.”

I hum, then continue exploring, not wanting to dig into something he’d clearly rather keep hidden. We’ve come to build a careful kind of trust, one that’s constructed brick by brick but that could easily crumble with the wrong question. I’ve come to see he doesn’t want me to be hunting for answers, but by catching information here and there and holding onto it, I’m getting better and better at figuring out who Andrew Carter truly is.

“I’ll be back,” Carter says before disappearing into what I assume is his bedroom, probably doing whatever it was he needed to do by coming here.

My feet take me to the books, my curiosity piqued, and I chuckle when I start reading the titles.

“Who would’ve known you were such a nerd?”

The grump comes out of the room with a stony face, making me laugh even more.

“Big fan of hobbits?” I follow him to the patio door.

He spins on his heels. “I’ve seen the kind of books you read. You’re really not in a place to judge my hobbits.”

My jaw drops open. I thought my discreet covers made me subtle when I read steamy romance books, but I guess they didn’t.

“Opened them up to read?” I ask.

“No need. You should see the way you blush when you get to those parts.”

Of course that is when my body once again decides to betray me by making my face burst into flames. Stupid pale skin and stupid vascular dilation.

Amusement is written all over his face even without a smile as he turns around and opens the patio door. The bastard knows he’s right .

“What are you—” I lose my words as I try to wrap my head around what I’m seeing.

A large, likely handmade wooden bird feeder is hanging from a hook on the patio ceiling, and here is Carter, putting what looks like bird kibble into the feeder. Almost immediately after he steps back, a brown bird flies to the feeder, picking at a few bites before flying off. Carter doesn’t look away, an expression of peace—or is it contentment?—overtaking his face. Like this is his safe place.

I can’t stop staring as Carter puts food into a second feeder, then picks up a watering can that’s exactly like the one Nan owns and starts watering his plants, both inside and outside the apartment. This man, who shows such a tough exterior and an unapproachable air, comes back to his Boston place to keep the birds fed and the plants watered.

I misjudged him. I really did.

When he’s done, he comes to get me with a, “Ready?”

I nod, then follow him out. Only once we’re in the elevator do I say, “I really like what you did with the place.” We’re both shoulder to shoulder, staring at the metal doors, unmoving.

“Thanks.”

“And with the feeders. Built yourself a real little zoo up there.”

He exhales in what can be considered a laugh, then shifts on his feet. “I was a little lonely.”

I hold my breath, waiting for him to say something else to erase that moment of vulnerability he just had, but he doesn’t. As if it needed to come out, like he’s waited a long time to tell someone how those birds that come and go might have been his saving grace .

I don’t want to speak for fear of breaking the rare, fragile bubble he’s just blown around the two of us, one that might burst the second those elevator doors open. Instead, I take a step closer and, still facing the doors, let my head lean to the side, just enough so it can rest on his musky-smelling arm, his skin warm against my temple.

Maybe he and I aren’t so different after all.