2. Carter
2
Carter
I step out onto the narrow balcony just off my bedroom, the early air still cool enough to raise goosebumps across my arms. It’s quiet out here but my brain’s already loud and running a million miles a minute.
I lean into the railing, stretch until my spine cracks, and pull my phone from the hoodie pocket like I haven’t already checked it a dozen times this morning. Haven’s text from last night is still open on the screen.
After months of watching her stream, of laughing over inside jokes no one else would get, of letting her absolutely destroy me in chat while I pretended not to be grinning like an idiot, she’s actually coming here. In real life, to see me.
I scrub a hand through my hair, trying to temper the giddy flutter in my chest, but it’s useless. She’s not just some crush anymore. She’s her . All fire and heart and chaos in a headset.
For some wild and crazy reason, she’s agreeing to drive fifty miles just to be in my orbit.
I open our texts again, thumbs hovering over the keyboard.
We’ve always been easy, flirty and effortless. She makes it feel like I don’t have to try too hard to be funny, or cool, or whatever the hell guys are supposed to be when they like someone.
With Haven, I can just be . And I think that’s why this feels like such a big deal, because it’s not nerves I’m feeling. I’ve been waiting for this moment longer than I want to admit.
So I type out a message. Something stupid that might make her laugh before she even gets out of bed.
Me : Morning, sweetheart. What’s the ETA on your arrival? I need time to warn the town about the hurricane that is Haven.
It takes her a few minutes to respond. Probably still asleep. Or ignoring my texts a little on purpose to get a rise out of me. Honestly, I love when she does it.
She always knows how to keep me guessing—knows exactly when to go quiet, when to flirt, when to come in with something that makes my stomach flip or my brain melt.
She hasn’t even touched me yet. But she’s already under my skin. Already got her fingerprints all over the way I think, the way I talk, the way I want.
While I wait, I step back inside, grab a T-shirt off my dresser, and tug it on before heading downstairs to the kitchen.
Tate’s already up, leaning against the counter, he doesn’t look up when I walk in. Just keeps staring at his phone, like if he focuses hard enough, it’ll save him from human interaction.
I chuckle lightly. “You look like you had a great night.”
He mutters something under his breath, too low to catch and definitely meant to be ignored.
I let it go, I’m used to this part. I open the fridge, pull out the carton of orange juice, and twist the cap off like I haven’t been navigating this exact cold war since we were twelve. “You know, you could just admit you’re pissed about Haven coming.”
That gets me a reaction. A sharp glance, quick and annoyed, before he goes back to his phone. “She’s coming to see you,” he says flatly. “Not my fucking problem.”
“Uh-huh.” I pour the juice, eyeing him over the rim of my glass. “Right. Totally. That’s why you’ve been extra moody since last night.”
He just keeps scrolling like I didn’t say a word, you’d think sharing a womb would make you similar. That being born minutes apart would at least give you some of the same wiring. But sometimes I look at Tate and wonder how the hell we came from the same house, let alone the same mother.
Our house was loud in the wrong ways and quiet when it shouldn’t have been like walking a tightrope between chaos and cold. We learned how to survive it differently.
Tate built walls. Thick ones. He learned early that if you never let anyone close, they can’t hurt you. Can’t leave bruises if they never touch you. So he pushes first, cuts deep, masks up.
Me? I went the other way. I learned to fill the silence. To make things easy, to smooth it over with a smile. To be soft where everything else was sharp. Somebody had to be.
I set my glass down with a little too much force, just to be annoying. “You could emotionally unmask, you know.”
He gives me a slow, one of those are you done ? glares he’s perfected over the years. It’s like talking to a brick wall that lives on playing first-person shooters.
I sigh. Exaggerated, dramatic, just to twist the knife a little more. “She’d lose her mind if she realized she’s been playing with you this whole time.”
Still nothing, no flinch. No rebuttal, just the slightest clench of his jaw tight and fast. But it’s enough. He pushes off the counter. “Like I said,” he mumbles. “Not my damn problem.”
Then he’s gone, just walks out like the conversation never happened. I shake my head, smirking into my orange juice. He’s so full of shit. I know him, better than anyone. I’ve seen him when he’s pissed, when he’s interested, when he’s spinning and pretending he’s not.
I know that little jaw tic, he feels something. Whether he wants to admit it or not. Maybe it’s because she’s coming here.
Maybe it’s because she’s real now. Not just a screen name, not just a voice through a headset. Maybe it’s because he knows she likes me.
I’m not letting anyone, especially him, fuck that up. Haven finally texts back while I’m sitting at the table.
Haven : Sorry, just woke up. You know I don’t function before noon!!
Haven : I can probably head out in the morning?
Tomorrow. That’s so close and still not soon enough. I grin and type back.
Me : Perfect. I’ll roll out the red carpet, or at least sweep my front porch steps
I don’t hit send right away. Instead, I hesitate. There’s something I want to say but I delete the message I almost sent and type something else instead.
Me : Can’t wait to see you, sweetheart.
I send it, and hope like hell she knows I mean it. Every fucking word. I drum my fingers against the tabletop, staring at my phone like it might fill the silence for me. Like maybe she’ll text again. Like maybe just hearing from her again will calm this chaos in my chest.
Not that I’m counting the seconds or anything.
The restless energy hasn’t left me since she agreed to come. It’s been riding me hard all morning, making it impossible to sit still, to think straight, to do anything except replay every message we’ve sent over the last year in my head like some hopeless idiot.
Maybe I am, I’ve been falling for her since the first time she laughed at one of my stupid jokes in chat. Maybe I never stood a chance the second she called me her favorite with that grin in her voice.
All I know is that tomorrow, I finally get to see her. Truthfully, I’m scared shitless I won’t be enough.
I should do something productive. Burn off some tension, work through it. Before I internally combust, I lace up my running shoes, shoving my earbuds in as I step outside. The air does little to cool the heat under my skin, but at least the steady rhythm of my feet hitting the pavement gives me something to focus on. One mile. Then two. The ache in my legs feels good, grounding, but my thoughts refuse to slow down.
By the time I make it back home, my hoodie is damp with sweat, my lungs burning in a way that feels more like frustration than exertion. I roll my shoulders as I climb the steps to my place, pushing my damp hair back before it falls into my eyes.
The dirty blonde waves always need a trim sooner than I remember to schedule one, but I like it better on the longer side. Tate says it makes me look like a stupid California surfer who ended up in the woods.
He says it like it’s an insult, but I’m pretty sure that just means I’m the hotter twin. Not my fault he went for dark hair and tattoos. Right now though, there’s only one girl I actually care about impressing.
I shove the thought aside and push open the door—only to catch a football straight to the gut.
“Shit—” I grunt, catching the football before it can knock the air out of me.
Hunter’s laugh echoes through the house. “Nice hands, man. Still garbage, though,” he teases. He’s sprawled on my couch, legs kicked up.
Hunter’s been in my life longer than my first bad haircut. He doesn’t knock. Doesn’t ask. Just shows up, raids my fridge, and starts running his mouth like it’s part of his morning routine. I toss the ball onto the counter, shooting him a look. “Did you know you’re an idiot?”
He grins. “Yep. So, what’s the occasion? You never texted me back last night.”
I head to the fridge, grabbing a water bottle as casually as I can. “Haven’s coming tomorrow.”
“No fucking way.”
I crack the cap open, trying to smother the stupid grin that keeps threatening to take over. “Yeah.”
Hunter sits up so fast the couch creaks. “So this is actually happening? The internet girlfriend you never shut up about is coming here? To see you?”
“She’s not my—” I shake my head, cutting myself off before I can lie. “It’s not like that.”
Hunter laughs like I just told the dumbest joke of the year. “Carter. Buddy. Do you even hear yourself? You talk about this girl like she’s the second coming of Christ.”
I take a long sip of water instead of answering, because he’s right.
It’s not just the way Haven plays like she was born with a controller in her hands or the way she can trash-talk anyone into the dirt but still turn around and be everyone’s favorite person. It’s not even how every damn message from her makes me smile. It’s that I’ve spent the past year watching her from a screen, wanting more.
Hunter nudges me with his foot. “What’s your game plan? Gonna confess your undying love? Or wait ‘til she gets here and just hope she figures it out?”
I roll my eyes. “She doesn’t see me like that.” Not the way I see her.
He raises an eyebrow. “And whose fault is that?” I don’t answer. There’s another problem. A six foot two problem with a shitty attitude and a neon mask.
Hunter must of read it on my face. “You told Tate yet?”
I cough out a laugh. “He knows.”
“And?”
“He’s pretending he doesn’t care.” That part stings a little. Not because I want a fight, but because deep down, I get it. I know what it feels like to want her too much. To hide behind distance and timing and pretend it’s not eating you alive.
Hunter lets out a low whistle. “That’ll last all of five minutes.”
I shake my head, setting my water down. “Yeah yeah, I know.”
Hunter leans back on the couch, tossing the football in the air. “So, what’s your actual plan?”
I shrug, biting into my apple. “What do you mean?”
He shoots me a look. “I mean, how are you gonna act when she’s actually here? You’ve only ever known her online. No in-person dynamic. No clue how this plays out when you’re sitting across from each other instead of behind a screen.”
That part has been creeping into my head all morning. It’s easy to flirt through a screen. To talk shit in the chat and send messages that hover somewhere between friendly and something else. But in person, what if she doesn’t vibe the same way she does on stream? What if she’s quieter? More guarded? Or worse… what if I misread everything and this isn’t as big of a deal to her as it is to me?
Hunter watches me, waiting for a response.
I lean back, exhaling slow. “It’s just… we’ve built this thing, online. What if I mess that up the second she walks through the door?”
He nods like that’s the only answer that makes sense. “Fair enough. Just don’t get weird about it.”
I scoff. “Why would I get weird?”
Hunter levels me with a look. “Because you like her, and whether you admit it or not, you’re hoping this turns into something more.”
With that he finally heads out, football tucked under one arm, and I lock the door behind him, the house goes quiet. Which should be calming. Instead, it’s loud in the way silence always is when your head won’t shut up. I scrub a hand over my face, pacing a few slow steps before giving in and heading upstairs toward my room. The door creaks like it always does when I push it open, and I freeze just inside the doorway.
It hits me all at once. She’s going to be here, in this room. I glance around like I’m seeing the place for the first time, bed rumpled from this morning, two empty water bottles on my desk, a hoodie half-hanging off the back of my chair, and my favorite worn-in throw blanket in a tangled heap at the foot of the bed.
Not awful. But not good either.
I sigh and move, smoothing the sheets, folding the blanket, tossing the bottles in the trash. She’s never seen this space. She only ever knows me from hers. From the way her voice filters through my headphones, from the way her smile lights up a screen and not the space next to me.
Tomorrow changes that. I sit down on the edge of the mattress, staring at the wall across from me like it might have answers. Then I pull out my phone.
Me : Should I panic clean my whole house or just assume you’ll be too distracted by my charm to notice the dust?
Three dots pop up. Then vanish. Then pop up again.
Haven : Bold of you to assume I don’t already plan on judging you.
I grin, fingers flying.
Me : Good, I like it when you’re mean to me.
Haven : You’re a silly one Carter.
Me : Only for you!
She doesn’t reply right away. The ache in my chest is back, but it’s not bad. Not really, just heavy with something I’m still figuring out how to carry. I glance around the room one last time, then lie back on the bed, staring at the ceiling.