Page 45 of Where Happiness Begins
I’m not sure whether I’m disappointed or pleasantly surprised that I have nothing to roast him about, after all. Carter’s place is…lovely. I expected a bachelor pad or, based on the way he brought nothing to the basement, an air mattress thrown on the floor with a television and nothing else. But that’s as far from the truth as possible. Natural sunlight wafts in, illuminating the dark leather couch and kitchen table in buttery yellows. It’s a small space that’s not cluttered but that also feels lived in. Apart fromthe open-air kitchen and living room, there seems to be one other room at the other end of the hallway.
I take slow steps, soaking it all in, trying to memorize every detail. Knowing Carter, I’ll probably never get a glimpse of his universe like this again, and I don’t want to miss anything. Not the live plants decorating the space. Not the neatly stacked books in the hanging shelves, or the checkered rags in the kitchen, or the guitar leaned on a stand in the corner of the living room.
I let my hands drag over the strings, picking at a few to play a false note. “You play?”
He tracks the movement of my fingers as he says, “Used to.”
The black-on-black instrument is so him, I can almost picture it. The way he’d look with the guitar in his hands, careful, focused, face tight as he’d play every note with diligence. He’d forget about the world like he does when he’s watching one of his historical fiction movies or when he’s looking for the missing number in his sudoku square like it’s a mathematical equation that will determine the fate of the world. Sometimes, he doesn’t even notice I’m watching, too lost in his own mind, his pen always tapping the same corner of his jaw where a small mole resides, a bull’s-eye for his fidgeting.
“Why’d you stop?”
I’d swear I don’t imagine the faraway look in his eyes as he says, “Another life.”
I hum, then continue exploring, not wanting to dig into something he’d clearly rather keep hidden. We’ve come to build a careful kind of trust, one that’s constructed brick by brick but that couldeasily crumble with the wrong question. I’ve come to see he doesn’t want me to be hunting for answers, but by catching information here and there and holding onto it, I’m getting better and better at figuring out who Andrew Carter truly is.
“I’ll be back,” Carter says before disappearing into what I assume is his bedroom, probably doing whatever it was he needed to do by coming here.
My feet take me to the books, my curiosity piqued, and I chuckle when I start reading the titles.
“Who would’ve known you were such a nerd?”
The grump comes out of the room with a stony face, making me laugh even more.
“Big fan of hobbits?” I follow him to the patio door.
He spins on his heels. “I’ve seen the kind of books you read. You’re really not in a place to judge my hobbits.”
My jaw drops open. I thought my discreet covers made me subtle when I read steamy romance books, but I guess they didn’t.
“Opened them up to read?” I ask.
“No need. You should see the way you blush when you get tothoseparts.”
Of course that is when my body once again decides to betray me by making my face burst into flames. Stupid pale skin and stupid vascular dilation.
Amusement is written all over his face even without a smile as he turns around and opens the patio door. The bastard knows he’s right.
“What are you—” I lose my words as I try to wrap my head around what I’m seeing.
A large, likely handmade wooden bird feeder is hanging from a hook on the patio ceiling, and here is Carter, putting what looks like bird kibble into the feeder. Almost immediately after he steps back, a brown bird flies to the feeder, picking at a few bites before flying off. Carter doesn’t look away, an expression of peace—or is it contentment?—overtaking his face. Like this is his safe place.
I can’t stop staring as Carter puts food into a second feeder, then picks up a watering can that’s exactly like the one Nan owns and starts watering his plants, both inside and outside the apartment. This man, who shows such a tough exterior and an unapproachable air, comes back to his Boston place to keep the birds fed and the plants watered.
I misjudged him. I really did.
When he’s done, he comes to get me with a, “Ready?”
I nod, then follow him out. Only once we’re in the elevator do I say, “I really like what you did with the place.” We’re both shoulder to shoulder, staring at the metal doors, unmoving.
“Thanks.”
“And with the feeders. Built yourself a real little zoo up there.”
He exhales in what can be considered a laugh, then shifts on his feet. “I was a little lonely.”
I hold my breath, waiting for him to say something else to erase that moment of vulnerability he just had, but he doesn’t. As if it needed to come out, like he’s waited a long time to tell someone how those birds that come and go might have been his saving grace.
I don’t want to speak for fear of breaking the rare, fragile bubble he’s just blown around the two of us, one that might burst the second those elevator doors open. Instead, I take a step closer and, still facing the doors, let my head lean to the side, just enough so it can rest on his musky-smelling arm, his skin warm against my temple.
