Chapter 40
40
Eleanor
Carson won’t let me pick them up from the airport. Our texts on the subject are formal. Businesslike.
Carson: You will not be operating a vehicle to reach me.
Eleanor: You let me drive your car more than once this summer.
Carson: I will see you when I’m home.
Eleanor: Fine. If you insist.
Carson: I do.
Needing a place to put all my energy, I do what feels most natural—I walk. All across Trove Hills. I walk to Rita’s Diner and get a cup of coffee to carry around. I walk the path of the forest preserve that lines the eastern edge of town. I walk side streets and main streets, letting the crisp chill of fall numb my skin, basking in the smell of the wet soil after all the rain.
And finally, I walk to Carson’s apartment.
Tatum texted me the address. It might not be fair to go here first when Carson might want to get ready before seeing me, but I have to do it. There has been so much waiting. I can’t stand a single extra moment of anticipation. For once, I need to be in the right place at the right time.
They pull into their parking spot in an open lot beside the building. They open their car door, reaching across the console to grab their bag from the foot of the passenger side.
“Hi,” I whisper.
Carson startles so much their head bumps the top of their car.
Instinctively I reach for them, closing the space between us far less gracefully than I planned, with half of me outside their car and half of me in it. But we’ve never been very neat with each other.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“Don’t be,” they tell me.
Chest to chest, our hearts beat together in that feverish way, adrenaline and surprise and, fuck it, longing. So much longing. We’re holding each other so close there is no space left, and still we don’t feel close enough. I want to climb inside Carson and live there.
I settle for letting them out of their car instead.
The fullness of their presence—upright, real, in front of me—makes up for every last obstacle we climbed to reach this. None of that matters anymore.
“Wait a second,” they say, noticing the flush in my cheeks. “Don’t tell me you walked here.”
“Okay, I won’t tell you that.”
“Where are your cats?” Carson asks. “They weren’t in your apartment.”
“They’re currently with your parents,” I say. “Are these really the questions you need to ask me first?”
“No,” they admit. They shake their head, ridding themselves of the last dregs of shock, letting our truth settle into their bones. “Wait. My parents are watching your cats right now?”
I press a finger to their mouth. “ Shhh. ”
They kiss me, deep and dirty, slipping their tongue into my mouth as they grab the small of my back. They pull back long enough to say, “I’ve wanted to do that for so long,” and then their mouth returns to mine.
It’s only when my hand slips under their shirt, passing fabric to find skin, that we break apart.
“Your fingers are freezing,” they say, jumping back.
“Must be from all the walking I didn’t do.”
Carson takes me inside to warm up, into the home I once feared entering, because coming here meant changing the rules. That’s as true now as it was then.
I look around at the tarp-covered floor. There are half-finished paintings. Pieces of plywood and all manner of tools. Pictures of Carson with members of their family. There’s even a picture of Ben. And framed on their bookshelf is the picture of us. The one that Aunt Fran took that day at the picnic.
“ Here ,” I say, kissing Carson on the mouth.
“Here what?” they ask, confused.
“I want to live here.”