Chapter 9 Carter #2
“Actors display different emotions, and when they're not too bad, I can study their features and make mental notes about them. Helps me in my everyday life. I shouldn’t have told you. I suck at social interaction and I’m just proving it to you right now.
” His tone is heavy and urgent, as if he was eager to end our call, and the idea of it suddenly makes me want to cry.
I know he’s different, but I like it; that’s something I actually really, really like about him.
“Carter?”
“Yeah?”
“I…I like that you’re, um…different.” I hope he won’t take it wrong and understand my meaning.
“I’ve spent years with the so-called perfect man.
He was holding on to all the social standards, and still, he’s the worst person I've ever met in my life. Just because you fit in the eyes of others doesn’t mean you’re worthy,” I pause, blinking twice and shoving away the old memories, “you’re direct and you don’t try to seduce me with tricks and…
” Did I say seduce? God, what am I? Eighty?
“I didn’t mean seduce, anyway, just know that as long as you treat me like you’ve been doing, I’m not going anywhere. ”
Oh. My. God. You don’t even know if you’re still able to kiss a man without crying like a baby. What makes you think you can make these kinds of promises?
“Are you still there?” I ask because apart from his breathing, I haven’t heard him speak. Is it weird that I told him I liked him? I haven’t been in the dating pool in ages. Perhaps I’m too direct, and I should let him simmer a bit more.
“I do want to seduce you.” His tone is strong and determined, the heat of it coming right out of the device. “I just want to make sure I’m doing it right.” I exhale, licking my lip and imagining how it would feel if he was the one doing it.
“Well…you are,” I confess in a whisper. He sighs, and I hear sheets moving as if he’s tossing and turning. Am I unsettling him? Can I do that?
“When you say that, it makes me want to drive to you right now and stare at you while you sleep,” he grunts and the heaviness of his voice makes the hair on my neck rise.
Oh.
Oo-kay.
I did say I liked him being intense.
He delivered.
“Um, I’m not sure you want to watch me while I sleep. I heard I make weird faces.”
I chuckle, reminding myself of what Nancy used to say when we were sharing a room back when we were kids.
You open your mouth like a fish, Lana, it’s so funny.
I’ve always laughed at the scene in movies when the male protagonist watches his love interest sleep because that’s the most unrealistic thing I’ve ever seen.
What if you snore at night? God, I hope I don’t, because that wouldn’t be hot at all.
“Then, I guess it’s a good thing I have a hard time reading faces.
To me, you’ll just be as beautiful as usual,” he adds and I wonder if he just made a joke.
Can Carter make jokes? I guess he’s not wrong.
If he can’t really read faces, then good for me, I won’t have to bother about looking like a fish at night if we ever go that far.
Stop thinking about fish and focus. Go back to flirting, or whatever you think you’re doing.
I snuggle in my covers and get more comfortable.
I can actually talk to him about anything and not be awkward about it. That’s…nice.
“Thank you,” I say shyly, his compliment rolling on my skin like lava.
“I like talking to you,” he says, and I smile like a silly girl.
“I was thinking the exact same thing,” I admit, shaking my head in my bed.
Whoever this man is, I hope I’ll get to enjoy his company for as long as possible.
I sigh and continue. “Tell me something you never told anyone,” I ask, remembering that game Nancy and I used to play at night before going to sleep.
It was our way of knowing that nobody else could know us better than we did.
It was our little safe place to bond and be okay with our vulnerability and weirdness.
I wait for a few seconds, but this time I know he’s still there. He’s just thinking.
“I miss my mom and my sisters,” he murmurs with a tone I haven’t heard from him before. Could it be sadness? I didn’t know he had sisters, and now I feel stupid for playing this game and making him remember the hard times of his life.
“Has it been a long time?”
“It’ll be thirteen years in November.”
Thirteen years ago? But he’s barely twenty-five. How could he survive if he lost his family at…twelve years old? The image of a little blond boy shatters my heart, and I wish I could hug him right now. Even though he’s taller than a giant and stronger than a Viking. Everyone needs a hug sometimes.
“I’m sorry,” I tell him because that’s the only thing that comes to my mind and the only thing I’d like to hear if I was him. “Tell me about them,” I say softly, hoping he will.
“Haven’t talked about them in a while,” he says, but I don’t hear him close off. He’s still there. We’re still talking and stepping into dark waters, holding hands and not backing down.
“Elisabeth always had a book in her hand, and she had a laugh that made any rainy day turn into a sunny one. Kind of like you, actually.” A small smile dances along my lips as I listen to him carefully, focusing on remembering everything he says because it’s precious and it’s a part of him he’s willing to share with me.
And from the few times I’ve seen him, I know in my bones he’s not the kind to open up to many.
“Emma was younger, nine years old, and with a wit that could disarm anyone. Feistiest little girl I’ve ever met.
She would stand on her chair at dinner and sing the American anthem with the confidence of a thousand men, hand on her heart.
Then she would often start dancing and fall from her chair, but that’s another story for another time,” he says, and I swear I can hear him smile.
My heart aches for him, but at the same time, I’m delighted to hear him talk about the people he loved.
What happened to them?
“And my mom… My mom was my whole world. Kind of feel like a kid saying this, but yeah, she was everything to me. The only one who wouldn’t call me a freak for being different.
She used to make us pancakes on Sunday. Now when I smell pancakes, I always think about her smile and how she could make anything better.
” He clears his throat, and I clench my jaw, thinking about his childhood and whatever must have happened to leave him all alone.
As if he could hear the questions stirring in my head, he speaks.
“My father did something to them. And then they were gone,” he says bluntly, his voice cold as ice and sharp as a knife.
His father hurt his sisters and mother. God.
That’s awful. Did he murder them? Hit them?
Is he still alive? Where did Carter go when he lost his family?
He didn’t say Dad. He said Father. Few people notice these kinds of details, but I used to do the same and talk about my ex by calling him Ben.
Not my love, not my everything, not my darling. Just Ben.
As if the words could protect me from him, creating enough distance to forget he was a part of my life.
From the tone of his voice and the shifting of the energy in the room, I get that he won’t speak about it anymore, and I understand.
I’ll keep my question for another time. Wounds aren’t doors you want to keep open, because you never know what can come out of them and twist your heart all over again.
“Thank you for telling me,” I murmur, knowing that he opened up, and I hope he knows I’ll cherish this.
“What about you?” he asks. “Tell me something you never said out loud to anyone.” I think about a few things I could tell him without sounding like a total wreck.
It’s Carter. He just shared a personal truth about himself. Don’t let him down by telling him basic stuff. Be brave.
“This is gonna sound weird,” I tell him, twisting my mouth.
“I had my fair share of unhinged things in my life, sweetness. I promise whatever you’ll say won’t be weirder than what I’m used to.” Reassuring me in a soft and low tone, his words are like a warm hug, telling me it’s okay to share. It’s okay to learn to trust again.
“I think,” I clear my throat, “I think I’d like to shout really loud just once. Like in a forest or somewhere no one could hear me.” Silence. “You still there?” I ask, my voice shaking a bit.
“Yes.”
“Isn’t it…strange?”
“Why would it be?”
“Um, because no one yells at the top of their lungs at the supermarket without looking like a total cuckoo.”
“Why do you want to shout?” he asks.
“Because I never did. I… I’m mad about something, really, really mad. But I never got to express my anger. Just had to stay nice and quiet, smile, and be in people-pleasing mode.” My words cut through my heart like a betrayal to myself.
Why can’t I be mad?
Why didn’t I allow myself to be?
Why am I still smiling at him and saying freaking thank yous when he’s here?
“And now I feel like it’s too late, I don’t have the right to be mad anymore, I missed the call. But it’s still there, and I don’t know how to… It’s just, it’s there.” My right hand mindlessly covers my stomach.
“It’s never too late to be mad, Lana. You have every right to be.” And I love that he doesn’t diminish my feelings and knows what I’m talking about without needing to bring out his name.
“I know, but…I used to be called hysterical or childish when I did that. The very few times I tried to fight back and shout, which was horrible because conflict literally makes me want to cry.”
My God, what am I telling him? The pipes are open and I can’t stop it now.