Chapter 9 #3
I do some quick math in my head. We haven’t picked a specific wedding date yet, but we did say six weeks from now, which lands us somewhere in the middle of March. My show at Second Light Gallery is the last week of March, ten days before I was supposed to fly back to Canada.
It’s wild to think that a few weeks ago, I fully expected to have that show and then say goodbye to Georgia for the foreseeable future. A wave of relief washes over me.
Not anymore.
Now I get to stay. All thanks to Carter.
“Um, yeah. It’s at the end of March, so I guess we will be.”
“Okay, then. I’ll make sure it’s on my calendar so I can come support you.”
My eyes drop to the floor, even as heat climbs my cheeks.
So far, my imaginings of life with Carter have been contained to our own individual interactions.
I’ve thought about living with him, occupying the same space.
But having him come to my show, introducing him to my peers, my friends, to gallery owners. Calling him my husband.
The idea has a certain appeal to it. I mean, look at him. Not to mention the general goodness he seems to radiate. But I don’t want him to feel obligated. He’s already going above and beyond; putting any further demands on him feels like too much.
“It’s sweet of you to offer, but you really don’t have to,” I say. “I think as long as we’re seen together some, you shouldn’t have to worry about my art things.”
“I don’t know,” he says. “Seems like it might seem suspicious if we aren’t showing up for each other. I come to your shows. You come to the occasional home game. I’d be happy to support you in that way.”
I wrap my arms around my middle and sink against the door, my stomach falling into my shoes. I especially can’t expect him to show up for me when I can’t do the same for him.
“Hey,” Carter says gently when I don’t respond. “Did I say something wrong? You went a little pale.”
“No, I…” I clear my throat. “You’re right. It’s a perfectly reasonable expectation. It’s only, I don’t…” I pause and take a deep breath. “I guess Miles didn’t tell you I don’t go to hockey games?”
Carter lifts his eyebrows. “He didn’t. So you don’t go…just as a general rule?”
I nod. “It’s complicated. And probably stupid. But I—” I close my eyes for the briefest moment and try to take a steadying breath.
“It’s not that I don’t want to be there,” I say to Carter. “I just can’t be there.” I force myself to look up and meet his gaze. “And I would appreciate it if you didn’t ask me why.”
His eyes are troubled, his brow furrowed, but then he nods, taking on a more neutral expression. “Okay. I understand,” he says. “I’m sure we can find plenty of other ways to be seen together.”
Carter’s words sound sincere, but there’s definitely a distance between us that wasn’t there before. It’s my own fault, but there’s no way I can talk to him about this. Not without digging into things I still struggle to talk about with my family, much less people I’m only just getting to know.
I was sixteen the first time I had a panic attack during a hockey game.
Miles was already in the NHL by then, playing for Boston before he was traded to the Jaguars.
The team was in Winnipeg for a game, and Mom and I went to see him play.
It wasn’t the first time we’d been to games, but it was the first time Miles got into a fight during a game.
Not just a hard hit against the boards, an actual fight. Fists flying, bodies scrambling.
In a flash, I was nine years old again, watching my father throw his fists into Miles over and over again.
I threw up into my popcorn bucket and white-knuckled it through the rest of the game. But the next time his team came to town, my body did the same thing. Reacted the same way even when he wasn’t fighting.
The damage was done. I left before the end of the first period, and I haven’t watched Miles play since.
“Thank you,” I say, forcing my memories aside so I can give Carter my full attention. “And…I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize,” he quickly says. “Going to hockey games was never part of our agreement. I assumed, but I didn’t have a good reason to. It’s really fine.”
I take in his warm gaze, and some of the tension eases out of my shoulders.
For a split second, I want to just tell him.
Explain everything. But then my mouth goes dry, a sheen of sweat breaking out across my forehead, and I let the words die on my tongue.
“You’re too nice for your own good, Carter,” I say instead.
He smiles. “Not the first time I’ve heard that one. But I promise I don’t need you at hockey games to feel like I’m getting the better end of this bargain.”
I roll my eyes. “You definitely are not.”
“You haven’t met the cat yet.”
I stifle a laugh, appreciating that somehow, he’s managed to bring back a little levity to our conversation. “Should I be concerned?”
“Gordie’s great,” he says. “But he does like to chew through shoelaces, so you’ll need to keep your closet door closed.”
“Gordie,” I repeat. “After Gordie Howe? I meant to ask before, but I didn’t get the chance.”
He lifts an eyebrow, like he’s surprised by my hockey knowledge.
“I just said I don’t watch hockey. Not that I don’t know it. Miles is still my brother.”
“Fair enough,” Carter says. “So, when I come to New York next week, we’ll just…meet after the game?”
The Jaguars’ upcoming game schedule will take the team up to Montreal, then to New York, then finally to Boston before returning them home to Atlanta.
The New York game hits in the middle of my second week in the city, so Anna suggested we get together for our proposal and make sure we’re somewhere public, where a hockey fan or two might recognize Carter.
“I hope that’s okay,” I say. “Sorry I can’t come to the actual game.”
“Don’t worry about it,” he says. “I won’t have a ton of time after, but I’ll figure out a place we can go and text you the details.”
“Sounds good,” I say. “Thanks again for doing this. I’m still not sure I understand why you said yes.”
Something I can’t quite read flickers behind his expression, but then he smiles, looking a little chagrined. “I don’t know what else to say. Your art is just that good.”
“Stop it. It is not. And you have to promise you’ll tell me if you decide to change your mind. If at any point you don’t want to go through with it, all you have to do is tell me.”
“I won’t change my mind, Sarah,” he says. “I gave you my word.”
“Did you?”
He seems to think for a second. “I guess not officially. So here.” He holds up his pinky.
“A pinky promise?”
He nods as I link my pinky around his. His skin is warm, and despite all the touching we’ve already done tonight, the contact sends a rush of sensation up my arm.
“You have my word, Sarah. You can trust me.”
I may not understand how we ended up here or why he ever agreed to say yes. But for right now, wherever it may lead, I’m choosing to trust his pinky promise.
Here’s hoping I don’t regret it.