Chapter 8 Rhiannon #2
“My ex.” The word tastes bitter. After months, it still feels like a betrayal to call him that. “Matthew.”
I pause, surprised I’m telling him this. Surprised I want to tell him this.
“He didn’t like traditions that didn’t include him.
Said they were childish. That I should grow up.
That the cupcake thing was embarrassing and made me look like I was twelve.
” I’m staring at my hands now, picking at my cuticles.
“And my mom—she started agreeing with him. Said maybe he was right. Maybe it was time to put away childish things.”
“Childish things,” Carter repeats, and there’s an edge to his voice I haven’t heard before. “Like joy? Like traditions that make you happy?”
“I guess.”
“That’s bullshit.”
I look up, startled.
“No, seriously. That’s complete bullshit.” He leans forward. “There’s nothing childish about having things that make you happy. About traditions and rituals and joy. That’s called being human. That’s called having a personality.”
My throat is tight. “Yeah, well. Tell that to Matthew.”
“I would. Gladly. Where is he? I’ll find him right now.”
I laugh despite myself. “He’s probably at home. Planning the perfect Christmas party with our families, where everything is tasteful and mature and completely joyless.”
“He sounds like an asshole.”
“He was. A bit.” The admission feels like relief. Like lancing a wound. “But everyone loved him. Everyone still loves him. They think I’m crazy for ending it.”
“You’re not crazy.” The certainty in Carter’s voice makes me look up. He’s watching me with this intensity that makes my chest tight. “You’re not crazy for wanting to be yourself. For wanting someone who loves you as you are, not who they think you should be.”
“Thanks,” I murmur.
“Okay, well, enough of the joyless monster who doesn’t deserve Christmas.” Carter says it so matter-of-factly that I almost laugh. “Anyone who ruins cupcake traditions is automatically on the naughty list.”
“Is that how that list works?”
“It’s exactly how it works. I’m calling Santa right now to confirm.” He mimes picking up a phone. “Hey Santa, yeah, it’s Carter Wolfe. I need to report a Grinch... Yes, I’ll hold.”
I’m laughing now, really laughing. “You’re so stupid.”
“But I made you laugh again,” He sets down his imaginary phone. “For what it’s worth, I hope you get your cupcake Christmas back someday. The real one. With the bad singing and the sugar coma breakfast.”
The warmth in his voice makes my chest tight.
“What about you?” I ask, needing to shift focus. “What are your Christmas traditions?”
His expression flickers—something painful passing across his face before he rebuilds the smile. But this one doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Pretty standard stuff. My mom makes hot chocolate from scratch—like, the real deal with actual chocolate and cinnamon. My dad dresses up as Santa even though my brother and I were way too old for it. We’d have this gingerbread house competition where—” He stops.
Swallows. “Where Dominic would always win because he was good at everything.”
Was?
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
“He died January last year. It’s been nearly two years.”
I watch as Carter’s entire demeanor shifts—the easy charm falling away like a mask, revealing something raw and wounded underneath.
“Carter,” I whisper. “I’m so sorry.”
And suddenly everything makes sense. The absences from class. The way Professor Bam looked at him with that careful kindness. The reason he’s here instead of home with his family.
He’s not running from Christmas.
He’s running from grief.
“Yeah.” He sets down his burger like it suddenly weighs too much. “Everyone’s sorry. That’s kind of the problem, you know? Everyone’s so sorry they don’t know how to be normal around me anymore.
His voice cracks on the word “normal,” and my heart cracks with it.
“They either treat me like I’m going to break,” he continues, “or they tiptoe around anything related to Dom, or they give me these looks like they’re waiting for me to fall apart.
Or like my ex, Kath, they leave me because they don’t know how to fix a broken toy.
” He laughs, but it sounds hollow. “Sorry. This got dark fast. I’m usually better at keeping things light. ”
“You don’t have to keep things light.”
“Don’t I?” He looks at me, and his eyes are so open, so vulnerable, that I have to remember to breathe.
“I feel like that’s my whole thing. Carter, the charming guy who makes everything easier.
Carter, who’s fun to be around because he doesn’t make you feel sad.
” He attempts a smile. “I’m really good at parties. ”
“Carter, who uses humor as a defense mechanism?”
He blinks. Then laughs—a real laugh this time. “Called out. Directly called out.”
“It takes one to know one.”
“You do it too?”
I shrug.
“Sometimes. Or I use work. I’m not funny enough to use humor. It’s easier than being honest about how much things hurt.”
We sit with that and it feels like we just traded secrets. Like we’re kids at a sleepover.
“My parents tried so hard last Christmas,” Carter says quietly. “To make it normal. To do all the traditions. The hot chocolate, the gingerbread houses, the Santa costume. But there’s this chair at the table that’s empty.”
He stops, and I can see him struggling with what comes next.
“And we all pretend not to notice it,” he continues. “Like if we just don’t look at it, don’t acknowledge it, maybe it won’t be real. Maybe Dom will just walk through the door saying he got held up at the hospital. Maybe this is all some terrible mistake.”
His voice breaks on the word “mistake.”
“And my mom—she cries in the kitchen when she thinks no one’s listening. She makes his favorite cookies even though he’s not there to eat them. And my dad keeps almost saying his name and then catching himself, like he’s afraid he’ll hurt me if he talks about him.”
I don’t realize I’m crying until a tear drips onto my hand.
“I can’t watch them try so hard,” Carter says, “when I know it’s never going to be okay again. When I know that chair is always going to be empty. When I know that every Christmas for the rest of our lives is going to be about who’s missing instead of who’s there.”
“Does that make me a coward?” He finally looks at me, and his eyes are black, searching. “Running away like this?
“No.” I wipe my tears away. My voice is fierce. “No, it doesn’t make you a coward. It makes you human.”
“Everyone keeps telling me time will heal. That it gets easier. That Dominic would want me to be happy.”
“And?”
“And it’s all bullshit.” He laughs, but it’s bitter. “Time doesn’t heal. It just makes you better at pretending. And I don’t know what Dominic would want because he’s dead, and I can’t ask him, and everyone acting like they know how that feels is just making it worse.”
“It is bullshit,” I agree quietly.
He stares at me. “You’re not going to tell me he’d want me to be happy?”
“I didn’t know him. I don’t know what he’d want.” I meet his eyes. “But I know you’re allowed to feel however you feel. And you’re allowed to run away if that’s what you need to survive Christmas. And you’re allowed to be not okay.”
Carter lets out a breath that sounds like he’s been holding it for months. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For not giving me the speech. For just... letting it be hard.” He wipes his eyes with the back of his hand. “Sorry for laying this all on you like this.”
“Stop apologizing for having feelings.”
He rubs his sharp jaw. “I’m not. I’m just not used to…opening up.”
“You are. You’ve apologized three times in the last five minutes.”
“Well.” He manages a smile. “Sorry about that.”
I giggle. “I don’t mind. I’m just glad I’m not at home, you know?”
“So, you are running away.”
“Yeah.” He looks at me. “We both are, aren’t we?”
“Yeah,” I admit. “We are.”
“To running away.” He raises his water glass.
I clink mine against it. “To running away.”
We finish eating, and the conversation shifts to lighter things—bad movies we’ve seen, embarrassing moments from other classes, the terrible coffee in the geology building.
Carter does an impression of Professor Straub that makes me laugh so hard I snort, which makes him laugh, and suddenly we’re both cracking up over nothing.
“Okay, new topic before I propose marriage or something. What’s your stance on the pie situation? Because they brought us apple and cherry and I simply cannot choose.”
“We could split both?”
“Absolutely.” He cuts into the apple pie with his fork. “Okay, prepared to be amazed. This is going to be—” He takes a bite, and his face falls. “Okay, this is actually pretty mediocre. But we’re going to pretend it’s amazing because I hyped it up and I refuse to be wrong.”
“It’s not that bad.”
“It’s definitely that bad.” He takes another bite anyway. “You know what, though? This whole thing—the terrible pie, the community fries, hiding from Christmas in a motel room—this is actually kind of great.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” He looks at me, and there’s something in his expression that makes my breath catch.
“I haven’t felt this normal in months. Like I can just be me, not Dominic’s little brother or the guy everyone feels sorry for.
Just Carter, eating subpar pie with someone who doesn’t expect me to be anything I’m not. ”
“I like just-Carter.”
“Yeah?” His smile is soft now, intimate. “I like just-Rhi too. The one who snort-laughs and eats cupcakes for breakfast.”
We’re looking at each other across the table, and the air between us feels charged. Electric.
He has a scar on the top corner of his lip, just to the right. It’s tiny—barely noticeable unless you’re staring at his mouth, which I definitely am. I wonder where he got it. A childhood accident? A sports injury?
I want to reach out and touch it.
I want to trace the line of it with my finger.
I stand up abruptly, knocking over my water glass.
“Oh my god! I’m sorry.” I fret over cleaning it up.
God, why am I like this? Some girls would laugh it off—toss their hair, make a joke, turn clumsiness into charm. I’ve never been that girl. When I slip even a little, everything in me goes rigid like I’m about to be judged.
“Hey, it’s fine,” Carter grins. “It’s only water.”
I grimace.
“I should go. It’s late and we have an early start tomorrow, and I should really—I should go.”
“Right. Yeah. Of course.” He stands too, and we do this awkward dance where we’re both trying to move toward the door at the same time and nearly collide. “Sorry. After you.”
“Thanks.” I’m hyper-aware of how close he is as I move past him. Close enough that I can smell his soap again. Close enough that our arms brush.
We reach the door, and I should just leave. Should say thank you and goodnight and get out before I do something stupid.
But I don’t.
I turn back, and he’s right there—closer than I expected—and we’re in this threshold space that feels suspended from reality.
“Thank you,” I say. “For dinner. And for... for telling me about Dominic. I know that wasn’t easy.”
“Thank you for listening. And for not trying to fix it.”
“I can’t fix it.”
“I know. But you didn’t try.”
We’re standing so close. Too close for colleagues. Too close for research partners.
His eyes drop to my mouth for just a second—so quick I might have imagined it—before meeting my eyes again.
“Good night, Rhi.”
His voice is rougher than before.
“Good night, Carter.”
I force myself to turn. To walk away.
I’m three steps down the hall when he calls out.
“Hey!”
I turn, and my heart is doing that thing again where it forgets how to beat normally.
He’s still in the doorway, backlit by the warm glow of his room, and he looks like every romantic comedy moment I’ve ever secretly wanted and told myself I didn’t deserve.
“For the record,” he says, “I do remember you from freshman year. Not at first—I’m an idiot—but I remember now.
I remember thinking you had the prettiest handwriting I’d ever seen.
” He laughs softly. “And I remember thinking I couldn’t add anything with a partner that smart.
That dedicated. So I just... didn’t try.
Because trying meant failing, and failing meant proving I was as much of a waste of space as I felt. ”
My throat is so tight I can barely breathe. “Carter—”
He remembers my handwriting.
“I’m sorry,” he says simply.
“You weren’t a waste of time,” I say quietly.
“Smart and kind.” His smile is crooked, boyish, devastating. “I’m going to prove you right. Just watch.”
“I’m watching.”
“Good.” He leans against the doorframe. “Because I’m planning to be extremely impressive tomorrow. I might even organize something. With labels.”
“Now you’re just showing off.”
“Absolutely I am.” His grin widens. “Good night, Rhi.”
“Good night, Carter.”
This time I don’t look back.
If I look back, I might not leave.
And that would be a very bad idea.
Probably.
Back in my room, I go through my nighttime routine on complete autopilot.
Wash face. The water is too hot, but I don’t adjust it.
Brush teeth.
Set out clothes for tomorrow. Thermal leggings. Base layer. The blue fleece that doesn’t make me look completely shapeless.
But my mind is somewhere else entirely.
It’s on the way Carter’s eyes crinkled when he laughed.
On the way his voice went soft when he talked about his brother.
On the way he looked at me like I was something worth looking at—not despite my double and triple checking and my inability to relax, but somehow because of them.
He’s nothing like I expected.
He’s sweet and kind and funny and he’s in so much pain he doesn’t know what to do with it.
He uses charm like armor, just like I use work as a shield.
I get into bed and stare at the ceiling.
This is bad.
This is so, so bad.
Because charming Carter, I could resist. Charming Carter was just a pretty face and an easy smile and a guy who didn’t remember my name.
But this Carter—the one who tips delivery people generously and listens when I talk about Christmas cupcakes and lets his walls down just enough to show me the hurt underneath—this Carter is impossible to protect myself against.
This Carter is dangerous.
Because this Carter makes me want things I’ve convinced myself I don’t deserve.