Chapter 9
Carter
The first thing I notice, as I blink myself awake, is that it’s morning. And later than usual.
Fuck! Did my alarm not go off? My immediate surge of panic has me struggling to sit up, and— ouch! My head!
For a just a moment, I feel like I’ve become trapped in one of those carnival sideshows; the kind that you only ever see in movies. Usually horror films. I feel like I’m strapped to a revolving wheel while bright, sharp knives are thrown at my head. My initial thought is that I’m sick. Or possibly dying. Then I remember getting drunk last night.
So, it’s just a hangover. It’s nothing fatal. I guess that’s good.
I feel an even bigger sense of relief when I recall my rambling, incoherent call to an exceedingly groggy Luis (some time in the wee hours of the morning) informing him that I would not be in this morning. Or possibly not today. And also, a small amount of guilt—when I also recall his annoyed response: that a fucking note would have sufficed, or a text, or…basically anything other than a call in the middle of the fucking night that woke him up, disturbed his sleep and got him out of bed hours earlier than needed.
I chuckle a little now, thinking about it, amused by the memory of his outrage. I’ll think of a way to make it up to him. I swear, I will. Sometime. But definitely not right now.
I close my eyes, prepared to drift peacefully back to sleep, secure in the knowledge that my kitchen is in good hands. But then I remember the reason for last night’s overindulgence. Jo. Aw, fuck.
I crack one eye open and glance at the window, trying to determine what time it is. Trying to calculate where she might be.
It’s a complicated equation. It’s like one of the ones that I used to hate, and frankly sucked at, back when I was in school. I waste a few minutes, and burn through far too many brain cells, trying to calculate what time she might have left, how fast she’s likely driving, whether or not she would stopped somewhere, for food, or gas, or a bathroom break. If I take that total and subtract it from whatever time it is now, and then multiply that by however many miles it is across Texas… Or do I need to divide?
Shit. Whatever. I have no idea. All’s I know is that it’s a great big, wide-ass state and she’s probably still within its borders. For all the good that does me. I mean, it’s not like she’s going to turn the car around. Not even if I could remember where I left my phone this time around, not even if it’s charged. Not even if I called and begged her not to leave me.
“Jo,” I groan, pulling a pillow over my face, feeling tears start to leak from my eyes. I can’t help wondering why everything is so hard, why heartbreak hurts so much, why nothing I do is ever good enough.
“What’s the matter? What do you need?” an impossible voice impossibly inquires.
I shove the pillow away. “What—” I say, as I narrow my eyes and scowl suspiciously at Jo, who’s perched on the side of the bed, eyeing me with concern. Or, to be more exact, scowling at what had better not be a hallucination.
“Yeah, that’s what I just said,” Jo responds, frowning worriedly. “What’s up? Are you okay?”
“—Are you doing here?” I say, finally getting the rest of the question out.
“Oh.” Jo’s face flushes red. “Well. You said we’d talk tomorrow—I mean, you said that yesterday, so it’s today. Is it too early? Should I have called first? Or…or did you not really mean it?”
“Of course, I meant it,” I say as I reach for her and pull her down on top of me. I wrap my arms around her and hold her close. Probably too close. I know I’m having trouble breathing; it’s possible she is too. “Don’t leave,” I tell her, and I can’t honestly say if it’s an order or a plea. No, scratch that. It’s whatever she wants it to be, whatever will get me the answer I want, the answer I need . “Please,” I add because manners never hurt.
“I won’t. I’m not. I promise,” Jo replies.
“Good,” I sigh, relaxing my hold but only a little. I shift around to get comfortable, while still keeping her snuggled tight against me, and I think she’s laughing. And I’m content to fall asleep like that. But then, the growing wetness seeping through my T-shirt, from where her face is pressed against my chest, combined with the sustained shaking of her shoulders, adds up to a different interpretation.
With a sinking heart, I pull back so I can see her face. “Are you crying?”
“Maybe. A little.” She shrugs and offers a watery smile.
“Jo…”
“ Can we talk?” she asks. “Or do you not want to yet? Or at all?”
“We can talk.” I push myself up to a seat, then wince at the light. “But—ow. Could we at least close the curtains first?”
“Headache?” she asks in sympathetic tones.
I’m about to say no, but who am I kidding? She’s here in my apartment, isn’t she? That means she’s probably seen the disarray, the empty bottles. She already knows. “Mm.”
“Here.” She twists around, grabs something from the nightstand, and then turns back to me. She hands me two, small brown pills and a bottle of cold brew. “Maybe this’ll help.”
I swallow the pills and chase them with coffee while she drags the curtains across the window. In the dim light that remains, the room seems to shrink. It feels smaller, more intimate—which is probably a mistake.
“Better?” Jo inquires as she returns to sit on the bed beside me.
I nod, then grimace as I recap the bottle of coffee. “It’s cold.”
Jo snorts. “Well, you keep them in your fridge, Carter. What did you expect?”
“Touché,” I murmur. “So. What’s going on?”
Jo’s eyes shift nervously. “Well, I’m staying here. In Heartwood,” she says. “I’m not saying you didn’t do a great job of setting up in-home care for Vi, because you definitely did. But I need to be here for her, too. I can’t leave while she needs me.”
I nod. Neither of us acknowledges the fact that this is no longer about Vi’s concussion, which she’s pretty much recovered from, anyway. We’re talking about Vi’s other issue—the incurable, neurodegenerative disease that’s slowly stealing her away from us, the one that, realistically, means she’s going to need someone taking care of her for the rest of her life, however long that might be. Can Jo really be that person?
Maybe she can read the doubt in my eyes, or maybe something in my expression gives me away, because she frowns and says, “I’m not going to abandon her, Carter. I’m not.”
“Okay.” I shrug and nod. I try and look encouraging, try and look supportive. I’m not sure how successful I am, however. Her eyes rove over my face for a moment, then she bites her lip and looks away.
I drag in a shaky breath and ask, “So. What about us?” I try really hard not to make it sound like my entire future is riding on her answer. But that’s how it feels.
Jocelyn
What about us?
“Well, that’s the question, isn’t it?” I laugh nervously. This shouldn’t feel so daunting, so impossible, risky, uncertain. I make myself review the evidence in my favor. Last night, Carter drank himself into oblivion because he’d convinced himself that I was leaving. This morning, he squeezed me so hard that my ribs are probably bruised, and then he begged me to stay.
I know he wants me, I just don’t know how much. Or for how long.
“I meant what I said last night,” I tell him. I’m not going to ask again for a second chance. But I love you.” He opens his mouth to reply, but I press my fingers against his lips to stop him. “Don’t say anything yet,” I say. “I know you don’t believe that yet, but you will . And I… I just want to be with you, for however long you want me to be, in whatever ways you’ll let me.”
He grasps my wrist and lowers my hand away from his lips. “I know that you love me,” he says gently. “I just wasn’t sure if you loved me enough to stay?”
There’s a question there. There are so many things I could say to that, so many answers I could make. But what ends up coming out is, “Well, I guess we’ll find out.”
“Yeah,” he says. “I guess we will.”
“But you know,” I tell him. “There is one condition.”
“Ohhh, so you’re making conditions now?” he replies in teasing tones. “How about that?”
“Yeah. But just one. I don’t want to hide anymore. I don’t want to sneak around. I want everyone in town to know that we’re together. And I really need you to be okay with that.”
“Sounds definitely like more than one condition,” he says, mocking me with my own words.
I shake my head. “It is what it is. Take it or leave it.”
Carter smiles. “Oh, I’m definitely going to take it.” And then he reaches for me.
This time, we make love slowly—because, suddenly, it feels like we have all the time in the world. I hope we do.
“So, how long can you stay?” Carter asks, a long time later.
I raise my head and frown at him. “I told you. I can stay forever. However long you want me to stay.”
He shakes his head. “No. I mean now, today. When do you have to get back to the house?”
“Oh.” I think about that. “I don’t know. Probably not for a while yet? Why? What did you have in mind?”
“Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m starving. I thought maybe we could have dinner.”
My glance strays toward the kitchen. “Here?”
“I was thinking more like…downstairs. In the restaurant. Out in public—no more hiding. Isn’t that what you said you wanted?”
“Yes.” I throw myself into his arms, kiss him with all the strength at my disposal—not as much as I had earlier, before we exhausted ourselves with each other. “Do you want to go now?”
“Well, I was thinking we should dress first,” Carter says. “But going like this would certainly meet the definition of not hiding from anyone.”
“Yeah,” I say grinning back at him. “It would do that. But I think it’s okay to keep people guessing a little bit.”
“Up to you,” Carter says. Then he draws me back down, and kisses me again, and… You know what? Maybe I’m not that tired after all. Dinner can wait.