Page 19 of Where Happiness Begins

That seems to get him to calm down, but before we can continue our conversation, the front door opens, and out comes my husband, socked feet padding down the front porch. In a gruff voice, he says, “Everything okay here?”

I don’t know what to expect from Finn, but he somehow finds a way to surprise me the most.

He laughs out loud.

“We’re quite all right. Thank you, good sir.”

Carter turns to me as if to confirm I’m fine, and while I appreciate the sentiment, I kind of want to burst into flames at the moment.

“We’re good,” I say. “Carter, this is Finn. Finn, this is Carter.” I clear my throat, then say in a low voice, “My husband.”

Even though he understands my reasoning, every bone in Finn’s body screams his discomfort at the situation.

He trudges back toward the house, and while I quickly follow him, I’m not fast enough to put myself between the two of them.

“Pleasure to meet you,” Finn says as he grabs Carter’s hand and starts shaking. Carter winces, probably from a grip that’s way tootight. “And if you eventhinkof putting your hands on her, I swear to God I’ll make your life a living hell.”

Oh my God.

I don’t know how to stop this, so I can only watch in horror as the two men continue to shake in the most awkward contact I’ve ever witnessed.

I only exhale when Finn finally lets go of Carter’s hand. “Actually, I might let Lexie handle him. That’d be even worse.”

I snicker. He has a point. I wouldn’t want to go past him, but fighting his fiancée, who’s an Olympic gymnast with a body made out of rock, would be way, way worse.

Finally, some lightness seeps into me. Finn knows, and the world didn’t explode. And as annoying as he is when he gets all protective like this, I’m grateful to have someone like him by my side.

Finn hugs me quickly. “Come by the apartment later. Lexie will have lots of questions.”

I’m sure she will. I don’t expect Finn to keep this secret from his fiancée, and I know he’s grateful I’m not asking him to. Plus, Lexie is like a tomb. Whatever you tell her to keep for herself will go with her to the grave.

I nod, and after throwing Carter one last murderous glance, Finn walks to his car and drives away. I don’t even know why he came here in the first place, but I guess it wasn’t important.

“Well.” I spin on my heels to face Carter, chuckling awkwardly. “Welcome home!”

Chapter 8

For as many scenarios as I’d created about how living with Carter would be like, the reality still found a way to surprise me.

I didn’t imagine we’d become best friends and have slumber parties every night, but I did expect some sort of partnership or even simple cordiality to take place between us.

I was dead wrong.

That first day, after Finn left and it was just the two of us outside, Carter didn’t even look me in the eye as he said, “I’ll be downstairs if you need me,” before disappearing inside the house.

He wasn’t joking. Aside from one or two exceptions when he had the vast displeasure of crossing paths with me, he’s hid in thebasement. Most days, I don’t even know whether he’s home or not. I feel like he tries his hardest not to make a sound in the basement, save for the rare flush of the toilet or the stream of the shower. He doesn’t appear to be watching TV or talking on the phone with anyone. It’s as if he wants me to forget he exists.

I don’t, obviously.

Even when I try to relax and pretend like I’m alone in my place, it’s just that. Pretending. I still enter the kitchen and living room warily as if I’ll surprise Carter there and we’ll need to exchange another awkward conversation that starts with me asking how he’s doing and him finding some excuse to run away.

I don’t want it to be this way. I know I’ll never be able to walk around the place in my underwear while my hair dries in a towel wrap like I did before, but it doesn’t matter. This could be more fun than a simple business arrangement. So last night, I tried to ambush him with food the moment he came back from work. I’d made enough quinoa salad to feed an army, but I still pretended it was a mere coincidence we were in the same room together at that moment.

“Oh, hey,” I said. Then I turned to my food, and like the great actress I am, said, “You hungry? I think I made too much.”

And what did this guy say?

“Thanks, but I’m good.” And then, as if I were a carrier of all infectious diseases known to humankind, he and his rude ass escaped toward the basement, leaving me embarrassed and wondering what the heck I could’ve done to make him want to have this little to do with me. I understand that we never agreed to anything other than faking a relationship in public, but is basic politeness that much to ask for? Every time I speak to him, it’s as if I’ve dropped a bomb in the room, and the awkwardness makes it hard to breathe.

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