Chapter 16 Carmen #3
Maybe that’s why he says, “I lost someone, and I’m familiar with the heart-ripping sensation that comes with it. I wouldn’t wish that shit on my worst enemy.”
I would. On Conrad.
Is Carter sharing his vulnerability with me because I shared mine by bringing him home? Like, to my actual home. This isn’t some tasteless apartment in the city I rented out to be closer to the Strip. This is a house full of memories.
Carter didn’t come here to get deep with me, but his eyes are already way beneath the surface, turning a different shade of blue. One far too out of my depth.
“Running away can’t save you, Carmen.”
He’s not talking about saving in the literal sense.
The type of saving he’s referring to is something a tad too real for me.
But it’s real because it’s true. I might as well snap out of it and face the facts. This undefinable thing between us isn’t gonna last forever. A heart will break, maybe multiple, and I’ll wind up back at the airport punching another bitch in line for security.
And the next time, I won’t be able to run out and coincidentally bump into the bikers, because they won’t exist. They’ll leave or die, and I’ll be right back to square one mourning another person, making a vow to myself to never attach strings to another human being again.
“Sometimes running can be good. If you’re good at cardio.”
Carter sets the mug down on the countertop, like he needs both hands for what he’s gonna say next.
“I sold my business, joined the motorcycle mafia, and frequented the bar every night. I thought that was going to be enough to fix everything. It bandages your problems and provides a temporary solution, but the problems never go away. In the dead of night when you can’t sleep, the person you’re trying to bury comes alive and reminds you that he’s still there, and never going away. ”
Otis yells my name at such a convenient time. I force a smile at Carter and disappear into the next room to take my son out of his cot. He protests in my arms, demanding to be put down on the floor so he can “check on his soldiers.”
“He’s just like his mother.” Carter steps into the living area behind me and observes.
I’d rather he didn’t.
I flash him a gritted smile to say, you can leave us alone now, but he doesn’t get the memo and takes a seat on my faux-leather couch. The one purchased from an online marketplace six months into my pregnancy, where the guy didn’t even bother to carry it inside for me.
The carpet rip that Carter is now flipping with his shoe is from when I had to drag it in through the house.
Otis plays with his action figures. I stick my hands on my hips and remain standing, like I’m the awkward guest instead of the host, a stranger to my own home because Carter Trescott is in it.
He pats the space on the couch beside him. “Come sit.”
I leave a respectable gap between us, palms flat on my lap like I’m sitting in on an important conference.
“Who did you say his father was?” Carter asks.
I shrivel up and shut my eyes. Please, lord, no. Not this question.
In situations like this, it’s best to play cool. Showing signs of awkwardness raises suspicion.
“I didn’t say. But he’s not important.”
Not important.
Even though I’ve slept with him multiple times.
And now he’s my number one protector.
“Not important at all,” I say.
“How old is he?”
“Two,” I huff, crossing my arms over my chest.
Stay outta my life and I’ll stay out of yours.
Although, I can’t help but wonder about who he lost. A wife? A parent? Nothing brings a person back down to planet earth like the death of a loved one.
Carter traded his business for peace, but it sounds like he still hasn’t found that.
He’s still Carter Trescott, CEO of Milton’s Milkshakes, the man who sleeps with women and dumps them straight after, too self-important to say goodbye like the rest of us. That’s why he joined the club. He sickened himself and wanted to get away from himself.
He slides off the couch and approaches Otis, who’s mindlessly playing with his action figures on the other side of the room.
“Which one can I have?” Carter asks.
Otis looks up, pissed that someone has interrupted him, but also pleased at the same time. Because another person wants to play. Finally.
He rummages through various figures and puts one in Carter’s hand, explaining the rules in toddler babble. Carter listens intently, nodding, his eyes concentrating way too much on my boy’s face.
I stir uncomfortably in my seat, but the fear becomes a much warmer emotion once they start to play. Carter cracks a playful smile at my son, and suddenly I’m admiring a piece of art. Every smile line. Every white tooth, exposed in joy as they play action figures together.
They each build their own army.
“On the count of three,” says Carter, poised, ready to attack. “We charge. Are you ready?”
Otis nods with excitement.
His gummy smile warms my chest.
“One, two…three!”
Carter handicaps himself so Otis can claim victory.
The pair of them laugh.
I sit and watch, feeling my ovaries release an extra egg. Wow. Impregnate me right this second, Mr. Trescott. Since when is he so good with kids?
The warm flush disappears. My stomach starts to sink. Their happy voices echo through my bones, turning each one cold.
It was meant to be just Otis and me.
We were supposed to be safer as a pair.
I was never planning to tell Carter the truth, and I also didn’t want to.
Why should I when he didn’t even care to use his manners?
The broken faux-leather couch engulfs my body as the laughter rings out.
He’s good with him.
Why does he have to be so goddam paternal?
My organs are still fuzzy, but the dread in my stomach is way louder.
I have always strived to provide for my son and give him the world. But I can’t give him this. I can’t be a mother and a father. I can’t pick up action figures and relate to his interests. I can’t run around the room pretend-wrestling him.
Carter tackles him to the ground using boyish force, rough enough for Otis to howl in laughter and enjoy it, but not rough enough to overstep.
He messes up his golden hair. “Well done, buddy. Clan Maclean have come out victorious. Your army won the battle, but can they win the war?” He hitches a playful eyebrow and then stands back up to full height.
Against Otis, he looks like a skyscraper.
“Time to clean up, buddy. I don’t think your mommy would appreciate all of this mess.”
Otis obeys, returning all the soldiers back into the box.
There’s always a delay when it’s me telling him to tidy up.
Carter lands back on the couch and flings his tattooed arms around the backrest.
It’s starting to feel a bit too much like happy family. My body craves his arms. They shouldn’t be slung around the back of the couch. They should be wrapped around me.
The urge to cuddle up to him is so strong that I have to shuffle myself away from him.
I feel small. My whole life, I have focused on being big.
Keeping a straight spine, chin up, shoulders back.
I wanted to walk down the street with purpose.
To command respect from strangers. I was desperate to be the antithesis of my wasteaway mom who wore sweatpants and greasy hair every day like it was uniform.
She was the least respected woman in town, therefore it was crucial I became the opposite of that, to prove to myself that I didn’t share her genetics. I could be different. I could stand tall, take up space, and do something meaningful with my time. The apple didn’t have to fall close the tree.
But then I followed in her footsteps with the casual nights out and flings, and realized that I was always gonna be my mother’s daughter. I could try to escape it, but my libido was always going to be my worst enemy.
I was destined to prioritize my freedom over my own child.
Now, I don’t just feel small in Carter’s presence. I feel like a failure.
After visiting my mother’s grave the day after she was buried, I made a vow to myself—never rely on another human being. Not unless you want to be let down by them.
And now I’m putting my child’s life in the hands of a motorcyclist. One who—despite the rugged makeover—has admitted to never having changed at all.
Where does that leave us?
Carter is right. You can never run away from yourself. Forget bank balances, standing tall, and faking it till you make it. The old you will always be inside, dictating your life no matter where you go.
We’re the same reckless people from three years ago, unknowingly conceiving a child that would change everything. Forever.
“He’s mine,” Carter states.
Relax your shoulders.
Sit up straight.
I fail to do both of those things.
I probably look like I’m chewing on chalk. I feel every part of my anatomy tense.
Damn, I wish I could unhear a sentence.
I wish words were like pencil marks and could be erased.
Carter’s leather jacket crunches as he turns his body to face me.
I feel his gaze on my temple, but I refuse to look. If I do, he’ll do his usual and find the answer in my eyes.
But I’m too pussy to nod my head and make this real. So I slur a “No.”
“Carmen.” His voice is gravelly. “Don’t lie to me.”