Chapter 34 Carson
CARSON
When Dan finally leaves for the shop after another round, I head straight for my parents’ old room, inspired to make a change.
And that’s only a little bit because the futon mattress in the guest room is deeply uncomfortable.
I was only able to get any sleep on it last night thanks to the ten thousand orgasms Dan gave me. I was positively worn out.
The primary bedroom is small and filled with oversize furniture.
A queen-size mahogany sleigh bed takes up the majority of the space, and I start by pulling off the plaid comforter, folding it up, and placing it in a trash bag for donation.
I take down the heavy velvet curtains on the two small windows, which brightens the room considerably.
I check the city bulk pickup schedule on my phone so I know when to pull the mattress onto the curb.
Then I take a picture of the bed and post it on Facebook Marketplace, free as long as the receiver picks it up.
Same with the large dresser and mirror and matching end tables.
There’s nothing I can do about the shabby carpet until the furniture is gone, but I head into the bathroom to see what awaits me.
The en suite is small, barely the size of a walk-in closet, and contains only a shower and a small vanity.
There is diamond-patterned linoleum, and the shower is yellowing cream fiberglass with a frosted glass door.
The whole things is deeply nineties and very not cute.
I flop onto the bare bed and search YouTube to see how easy it is to replace drop-in showers and vanities, then scour Pinterest for ideas on updating small bathrooms.
The problem is, none of it looks right to me. I want a bathtub big enough to lie in after derby practice, but there’s no way I can fit one in here. There’s only one tiny window, making the whole place feel incredibly cave-like.
And even if I could fix all those things, I just…don’t want to. I don’t want to redo my parents’ bathroom. I don’t want to move into my parents’ bedroom with its two small windows positioned high on the wall so I can’t see outside. Not if I don’t have to.
And with the gift of this house, I have the assets I need to make my own home.
So I pull up Zillow.
I spend nearly an hour scrolling listings in Bloomington, falling in love with little stone houses with cozy fireplaces and picture book cottages with original built-ins.
I imagine what it would be like to live in the house with the pink-tiled bathroom, or the one with the wide front porch, or the dark wood midcentury modern hidden in the trees.
I look at houses for sale around Cardinal Springs, trying to see how far my money will go if I sell this house.
Not far, it turns out, but my salary is more than enough to rent an apartment near campus while I figure out my next steps.
And if I’m close to IU, I could easily work toward my master’s in elementary education while I’m teaching, which would mean a raise that would help me eventually buy a house.
Seeing the contours of an actual future, one I’m choosing for myself, makes a tingling excitement start in my chest that surges out to my fingers and toes. I’m practically levitating off the bed with the energy that comes from this daydream.
No, not a daydream.
A plan.
I’m several pages deep in a real estate rabbit hole when my doorbell rings.
“I heard a little something while standing in line at the bakery this morning,” Grace says, side-eyeing me as she hands me a bag of muffins from Crimson ’n’ Cream.
“What flavor?” I ask as I glance down into the bag, following her toward the kitchen.
“White chocolate raspberry,” she says, then pulls out a chair and points at it. “Sit.”
I do, plucking off a chunk of muffin and shoving it into my mouth. What with all the sex and real estate research, I’ve managed to make it to almost noon without feeding myself. I’m absolutely famished and in need of some serious carbs.
Grace takes the chair across me. She leans her elbows on the table, hands clasped, and studies me like an interrogator.
“What?” I ask.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were sleeping with my brother?”
“What?” I shriek. It’s only been, like, twelve hours. How could she possibly know that?
“Apparently Mrs. Eberle saw you two at CVS buying condoms. She says that you said they were for Wyatt and Owen, but Wyatt has an IUD and a big mouth, so I happen to know they weren’t for her. And anyway, you’ve been all moony over Dan for a while.”
The muffin turns to sand in my mouth. It takes effort to swallow it. I don’t know what to say. This might actually be harder than letting my mother know I’m sleeping with Dan.
I settle for a simple shrug.
“Are you kidding me?” Grace cries—the truth must be all over my face. I have never been a very good liar, and Grace knows me better than anybody. Of course she can tell when my hand is in the proverbial cookie jar. “I can’t believe this!”
I thought maybe it was guilt I was feeling.
Or maybe a little bit of shame. But once I catch my breath, I realize that the sensation roiling in my gut is anger.
Anger at my mother for keeping me on such a tight leash, anger at myself for letting her, and now anger at Grace for sitting across from me like a cop, talking to me like I’ve committed some kind of crime.
I drop the muffin bag on the table.
“Why are you mad at me?” I cry.
Grace blinks like she wasn’t expecting that. And maybe she wasn’t. My Midwest nice usually manifests in an awful lot of apologies for things I haven’t done and graciousness where none is warranted. But I’m good and pissed now, and Midwest nice has left the premises.
“Because you’re my best friend,” Grace says. “You’re my best friend, and I had to hear it from Daphne at the bakery, who heard it from Lizzy at the salon, who heard it directly from Mrs. Eberle. Why didn’t I hear it from you?”
I cross my arms over my chest. “Because every time Dan comes up, you shut the conversation down.”
“I’m trying to protect you! I know my brother. He’s moody and secretive, and you’re a talkative ray of sunshine. He’ll hurt you, Carson. He won’t mean to, because he’s not an asshole. But you’ll wind up hurt nonetheless. Starting something with him is a bad idea. He’s bad for you.”
All I can think as she rants is, I don’t think you know your brother at all.
“I’m your best friend,” she says. It sounds like a last-ditch effort to get through to me.
It doesn’t work.
I shake my head. “Grace, I love you, but right now you’re being a real asshole.”
She looks at me like I’ve slapped her. “What?”
I sit back in my chair and cross my arms. “When you were falling in love with Decker, I was nothing but supportive. Did I ever say, ‘Hey, isn’t he kind of a fuckboy with a garbage reputation who plays a professional sport in another city? Starting something with him seems a little dicey.’ I did not!
” I shrug. “All I’m asking for is the same support I gave you—the same support I’ve always given you. ”
She’s quiet for a moment, and I can see her controlling little heart doing battle inside her.
I know she means well. I know it. But that doesn’t mean that I have to accept it.
Maybe we’ve both been bad friends lately.
Her with the judgment, and me for not speaking up.
For not telling her how I really feel. For not setting a boundary.
“And what happens if things go badly?” she asks in a whisper.
I let out a laugh tinged with bitterness.
“The same thing that happened when they went badly for you! I was there for you, I comforted you, I fed you wine and cake and commiserated, and then when Decker got his shit together, I helped him fix things with you!” At the reminder of all she went through on the way to her own happily ever after, Grace’s eyes go watery, and mine do a little too.
But I charge on. “If Dan breaks my heart, I expect you to be my friend and let me cry about it and not say ‘I told you so.’ If Dan breaks my heart, that’s going to suck, but you know what will suck more?
Walking away from someone who makes me so happy just because there’s a possibility it won’t work out.
I want to put my money on things working out for me.
I want to bet on myself. And in this moment, that means betting on Dan. ”
She nods, but I think it’s more for herself than for me. Like she’s trying to get herself to catch up to what she knows is right.
“Okay,” she says. “If this is what you want, then I’m here for you. For better or for worse.”
“As you should be,” I say. I can’t keep the heat out of my voice, because she still sounds like she doubts me. Like her support is a concession, not an act of friendship.
“But I’m going to tell you the same thing I told Wyatt—no details. I’m glad you’re getting dicked down well and good, but I don’t want to know anything about it. He’s my brother, and ew, no thank you.”
I laugh. “Deal,” I say. I reach for the muffin bag again, but Grace intercepts my wrist, flipping my arm over.
“What is that?” She’s staring wide-eyed at the lemon tattoo on the inside of my arm. It looks much better after Dan redressed it this morning, peeling off the adhesive protectant, cleaning it, and covering it with a fresh clear film.
“It’s a tattoo,” I tell her.
“Where did you get it?”
I pause. I don’t know if Grace knows about Dan’s side hustle, and I’m not about to spill his secrets.
“Bloomington,” I say, which has the virtue of being the truth.
Grace studies it, her eyes tracing the lines. “It looks really good,” she says. “Did it hurt?”
“I mean, yeah,” I say, laughing. “But it wasn’t unbearable. Mostly just uncomfortable.”
She looks up with a knowing smile. “Does this mean you’re going to hang your lemon wallpaper?”
I shrug, leaning back in my chair. “I don’t know,” I confess.
“But you love that wallpaper! You just got a permanent tribute to the wallpaper on your arm. What’s stopping you?”
I glance around the kitchen and think of all the work it would take to redo the floors and repaint the dark wood cabinets, and then I’d have to replace the old white appliances, stained and aging. “This house, I think. I’m not sure if I want to stay here.”
Grace’s eyebrows shoot up to her hairline. “Seriously? Where would you go?”
“I think maybe Bloomington,” I say. The first time I articulated this plan aloud—to Dan, naked in the quarry—there was a question mark there.
But now it doesn’t seem like a question, and that feels good.
“I can rent a place while I wait for the house to sell, see if I like it. If I do, then I can save the profits from the house until the right thing comes along for me to buy.”
“And you’d leave your job here?”
“Yeah. And if I were in Bloomington, I could apply to get my master’s. That would mean a raise.” I glance down at the tattoo. “I don’t think Cardinal Springs is the right place for me. I think that if I’m going to grow up for real, I need to go.”
Grace gives a slight smile, but when she sucks in a breath, she sniffles a little. “I think that sounds like a great plan, Carson.”
“You don’t think it’s insane to give up a free house?”
She shakes her head. “Not if it’s not what you want. If someone gives you an ugly sweater, that doesn’t mean you have to wear it.”
I scoff. “Have you met me? It absolutely does.”
Grace laughs. “It seems like maybe that’s not true anymore.”
And then I’m laughing too. “I don’t think it is.”