Where Happiness Begins (Evermore #3)

20. Chapter 20

Chapter 20

W hen Carter walks up the stairs from the basement, I’m waiting for him.

He wasn’t expecting this—clearly. He’s wearing joggers and a white sleeveless T-shirt showcasing all those beautiful dark lines adorning his arms, his hair is mussed, and a crease from his pillow lines his cheek. For a moment, I’m taken aback at how normal he looks. Every time I see him, it’s as if he’s prepared for whatever could happen, always slightly on edge, and now, I’ve caught him off guard. For the first time, he appears entirely…human. He’s never gotten up after me, which probably explains why he let himself be this casual in the house, but I’m not going to complain. In fact, that little pillow crease makes me grin more than I’d care to admit.

Carter stops in his tracks when he sees me, hand stuck midway through his hair. “Hey.” He sounds confused, maybe even a little shy. I eat it up.

“Hey.”

“What’s up with the smile?” he says in his gruff voice. Guess he’s not a morning person.

Lucky for him, I am. “I have something I wanted to show you.”

His brows draw together like I said something ridiculous .

And then, doubt creeps over me.

Maybe this was a bad idea. I got a little carried away yesterday when I thought back to what had been collecting dust in the garage and could finally be put to good use. I didn’t watch more videos of Carter or his band yesterday, wanting to respect the privacy he’d asked of me even if he wasn’t there to see, but my curiosity never dimmed, and the idea came to me late last night. I never stopped to think about whether Carter would actually like it.

“Lilianne? What’s up?”

Right. Guess it’s too late to turn back now.

I clear my throat. “I found something in the garage—or rather I went looking for it—and I thought it might be useful to you.”

Carter doesn’t budge, doesn’t even blink as I move to my left and show the eighties’ acoustic guitar Dad had kept in pristine condition over the years. “Ta-da!”

My smile slowly slips as he remains silent. The only indication he’s still alive is the tick in his jaw. “It was my dad’s. After seeing yours at your place, I remembered I still had it in here somewhere.” I knot my fingers behind my back. “Thought we could put it to use again.”

His gaze remains on the scratched acoustic guitar. “I told you. I don’t play anymore.”

I nod, then do it again, and again. “Right. You’re right.” I’m not sure why my chest feels this tight, but I try my best to hide it. “I’m sorry. It—”

“Don’t.” He takes a step my way. “Apologize, I mean.”

I nod again as if this is the only thing I know how to do .

His gaze is heavy on mine before he decides to step closer to the instrument, his fingers hovering over its neck in an almost caress. There’s reverence in the way his hand moves. I can almost imagine him doing it on my skin, down my back. How it’d feel to be touched this way.

“He never taught you?” he asks, pulling me out of my inappropriate daydreams.

“Always said he would one day.” I go to say more, but I feel like if I continue, the words won’t come out well. He never will teach me, after all.

Carter glances up, eyes searching, the color so dark I can barely see any green, then brings his attention back down. Fingers hover once more, his body looking like it’s fighting a battle with itself, one I know nothing about.

It feels like a lifetime passes before Carter actually touches the guitar. When he does, it feels like a heavy tension slips out of the room through cracks in the wall, like a commune bated breath has been released. He doesn’t look at it anymore but grips its neck tightly, lifting it from its stand.

“Let’s do it,” he says.

“Huh?”

“I don’t play, but that doesn’t mean you can’t.” Carter takes two steps toward the living room couch, his easy hold on the instrument looking like second nature to him.

“Oh, no, it’s okay, I—”

“Didn’t you say you wanted to try everything ?” He lifts the guitar, holding me accountable with a single annoying glare. He got me and he knows it. “Then get your ass on that couch and start living, Fireball.”

For some reason, his words make me laugh. No one ever puts stuff in my face. So long as I was spending time in the hospital or recovering post-surgery, people would treat me with kid gloves, looking at me like I was a fragile flower a wind gust away from shriveling.

But not Carter.

“Fine.” I go to the couch and grab the guitar he’s holding out to me. I never thought this would be the outcome of taking the guitar out of the garage, but it doesn’t matter. It will be used one way or another.

“All right, so to get through a song, you need to know your chords first.” He sits next to me, and the way he looks at the instrument now, in my hands, is different from how he did before. There’s a new lightness to his demeanor. “Let’s start with a basic one.” Then he proceeds to explain to me where all my fingers need to rest on the strings so I block the right ones and hopefully produce the right note. However, it’s tight on the twin couch, and from the side, it’s hard for him to reach around and place my fingers properly.

After three failed attempts and the most horrendous false notes ever head, he mutters a, “Fuck it,” then rounds the couch so he’s standing behind me, his tall frame wrapping around my shoulders like the warmest of blankets .

“There.” Easily, he settles my fingers in the proper position, his touch as careful around my hands as it was above the guitar earlier. “Now strum.”

I do, producing a C chord that finally sounds right. A high-pitched sound comes out of me, one I wish very much I could’ve kept back. That is, until I hear Carter chuckles. I lean my head back, neck almost bent in half as I look up to find Carter pinching his lips.

That little scoundrel, hiding his smiles from me.

I grin at him long enough that eventually, he lets some of it out.

Whoosh. A Christmas tree being lit on.

Mission accomplished, I straighten and try to strum my C chord by myself, and after two more tries, I get it right.

“Show me more,” I ask him, and he does.

He proceeds to teach me the hand placements for a few more chords, then to play them in a specific order. I do, taking so much time to position my fingers between each note that the song is barely recognizable. However, when I repeat them a few more times, I finally recognize The Beatles’ “Let It Be.” A song I remember Dad and I belting out in the car more times than I can count. One I’ve always loved so much.

“See?” Carter says, pride thick in his voice. “Easy.”

I did it. It might have taken me an insanely long amount of time to get these four stupid chords in a song, but I did do it.

I look down at the pale brown guitar, brushing my thumb over a scratch under the strings, one that probably came from a night of music with friends during Dad’s early adulthood .

He might never have had the chance to teach me like he wished to, but got to it nonetheless.

I blink fast against the tears that suddenly rush up, part sadness and part deep, flowering happiness.

“What’s wrong?” Carter asks, suddenly standing in front of me, his voice louder than usual. This man is too good at reading me.

“Nothing,” I say with a shake of my head. And then, when I see his nervous expression—one I never thought I’d see on his face, never mind for me—I can’t help myself.

I climb to my feet over the couch so I can hug him properly.

Like this, I’m barely taller than him, which allows me to wrap my arms around his neck and pour everything it is I’m feeling about this moment into the embrace.

At first, he doesn’t hug me back, and I don’t even care. A unilateral hug is what he deserves for gifting me this, whether he wants it or not. After a few seconds, though, there’s a barely-there pressure around my lower back. He’s giving the weakest hug I’ve ever received, one that feels a little like he’s restraining himself, or maybe like he’s forcing himself to give me a little something, but again, I don’t care. This isn’t about me. It’s about him, who’s just given me so much. And if I can only explain my full gratefulness by squeezing the air out of his lungs, then I will.

“Thank you,” I whisper against the silky scent of bergamot in his neck. For taking his time for me. For granting another one of Dad’s wishes.

For caring.