Chapter 9 Carter #3
“I just always felt like I was making a fool of myself because my anger was laughed at. And now each time he gives me something, like Noah’s new shoes, I have to take them in my hand and say thank you, I swear, it kills me.
” I realize I’m out of breath and I wonder if Carter’s still there listening or if he left the chat a minute ago when I started rambling.
You matter.
Your feelings matter.
If he leaves, it just means he’s not worth it.
“I have an idea,” he grunts. “How ‘bout next time, I bring you up the valley so you can have a good shout and then we’ll go and eat something? Anything you want.”
“You mean a yelling date?” I joke and bite my lip, imagining shouting at the top of my lungs next to a very still and unbothered Carter. I chuckle out loud because this could actually happen, and I’m pretty sure he wouldn't even flinch.
“Yeah. Would you like that?”
“Are you offering to drive me up a mountain to yell at the void while watching me, then going to eat casually right after?”
“Yeah.”
“Carter, you’re messing with me.” I chuckle. It feels good to laugh. I love that he makes me feel this way. Lighter, smaller, yet stronger. Like I could tell him anything and he would acknowledge me and respect me, whatever I say.
“I’m not messing with you, sweetness. I don’t really make jokes or pranks.
I would need to understand the subtext to do that and…
I don’t. I’d like to make you laugh, though, I just don’t know how.
But no, I’m not messing with you.” He’d like to make me laugh.
Can I turn into an even more squishy puddle?
And his voice… How come the sweetest and kindest man I've ever met is wrapped up into a Greek God with a voice as rough as gravel, and why does he make me want to bite my pillow each time he calls me sweetness?
“Even if you say you don’t know how to make me laugh, you still do.”
“Do I?”
“Yes, it’s not always the things you do that make me laugh, just your attitude compared to mine.
I don’t know, it’s just funny how different we are and still…
” My words hang in the air, and I wonder how he feels about us.
What does he truly want? Is he looking for a long-term relationship?
Am I even looking for a long-term relationship?
“I never got to ask,” I start, taking a deep breath, “since I’m a mom and I’ve already been married and all, um…”
As if he can read my mind and understand how difficult it is for me to ask him about this, he cuts me off, “The whole thing, Lana. Not just a one-night fling. The whole thing.”
“Do you mean…marriage?” My lips tremble as I wonder if this will be a breaking point. I do not want to get married again, at least not in the near future. My first marriage left me in pieces, and I want to build myself back before taking on another commitment.
“No, I don’t mean marriage,” he says with a soft tone. “I mean finding my person, and keeping it, always.”
“What about kids?” I ask, ignoring the beating of my heart.
“If I tell you, you might run away, and I don’t want you to run away,” he admits, and my heart thumps.
What does he mean? Does he want kids? I don’t want to go through that again after my first traumatic postpartum.
I was left all alone and… No, I can’t ever do that again.
I don’t want to. My Noah is enough for me. But don’t all men want kids?
“I won’t, I promise.”
“I don’t want kids, Lana. I made that promise to myself a long time ago and I tend to hold on to it.”
“Can I ask why?”
“Maybe I’ll tell you the whole story one day, but just know it has nothing to do with you.
I don’t think my DNA should ever be replicated.
My father… And I’m not… I don’t think a kid made from my genes could bring any good to this world.
” What? His father must have committed horrendous things to make him believe that.
And if he thinks he can’t be a good father because of his lack of social cues, I really don’t think that’s true.
“You’d be a great father,” I tell him honestly, but he doesn’t answer right away.
“I…I don’t know about that, sweetness.”
“But wouldn't it be a deal breaker that… That I already have a child?”
“No. It’s even better. ‘Cause I can’t give you that. So you’ll never have to resent me for it.”
“Carter…”
“No, Lana, it’s alright, really,” he says, “and, um,” he clears his throat, “don’t run away after what I’m gonna say.”
“I won’t.”
“I did say I don't want to become a father, but I didn’t say I couldn't be a step-father.” Tears blur my vision at his words. I didn’t know where this conversation would lead or if this would be the end of what barely began between us.
Marriage, kids, all those things are so important to bring up if you want a shot at happiness.
Any different views on it can kill a relationship from the inside.
My palms are sweating as if my body had been scared of this more than I had realized.
“Please don’t hang up. I didn’t want to push. It’s your kid, I’ll stay back,” he urges. “I just thought you should know.”
“Carter, no. It’s… I’m processing,” I admit, “I was afraid you’ll want a dozen kids and that'd be the end of it because I don’t… I don’t want to be pregnant again,” I swallow, “ever.”
He remains silent for a few seconds, his breathing even and reassuring, like a balm on my churning mind.
“So you won’t run?” he asks, and his question breaks my heart a bit, but still, I smile softly.
“No, Carter, I won’t run.” I shake my head ever so slightly “And you…?”
“Run to you most likely,” he says, and I chuckle because the amount of butterflies this man stirs in me is really concerning.
“When can I see you again?” His voice is heavy, and suddenly the energy shifts in my room. Did I put the heat on? I don’t remember doing it.
“How about Saturday morning at my place after I drop Noah off at my sister’s?” I offer.
“You sure? I don’t want to mess up your plans. I could pick you up if you want and we could grab a bite somewhere.”
“I appreciate it, but it’s actually easier for me at home. I’ll be able to work on a few house chores before,” I explain. “Time management is kind of a must if I want everything to get done.”
“If you need help, just ask me, I’ll fix whatever you need.”
My heart, Carter. That’s what I need you to fix.
“Well, maybe there’s a pipe or two to check,” I say before slapping my forehead, realizing the double meaning of what I just said. Thank God Carter doesn’t understand the subtext or I’d be in trouble with a capital T.
“I’ll bring my tools.”
“Yeah,” I say in a breath, my face flushing, “you do that.”
“Goodnight, Carter,” I say, my voice surprisingly soft and shy.
“Goodnight, sweetness. I’ll count the days,” he says before I gasp and hang up.
Rolling on my side, the covers still on me, I take his sweater and pull it out from under my pillow.
Yes, I did that, and I’m not ashamed of it.
I don’t even know the word. I fall asleep, dreaming about tattoos, intense blue eyes, and massive arms, hoping that this time, everything will work out.