Page 51 of Where Happiness Begins

“I can see that.”

My eyes narrow. “Why don’t you mind your business and start cleaning, then.”

Humor colors his cheeks, and just as asked, he gets up and starts putting the place in order, which in turn makes me feel lazy, so Ijoin him.

We spend the next two hours cleaning the entire living area from top to bottom, one person doing the dishes while the other dries, then one picking stuff up before the other vacuums and mops. I put a 2010s music playlist on the speakers and can’t help myself from dancing as I clean, and while Carter doesn’t participate, he hums to the beat a few times.

Thankfully, the house is small, and we’re able to do a lot in a short amount of time.

“Now on to the rooms,” Carter says, a rag on his shoulder and bright pink scrubbing gloves hanging out of the pockets of his sweatpants. He shouldn’t look this good while cleaning, and yet I have to stop myself from ogling him. This scene is so casual that for a moment, I lose myself to the fantasy. This is just another Sunday morning with my husband. We’ve done the laundry and the cleaning, and later tonight, we’ll spend an evening out and make love in the kitchen because we weren’t able to wait to get to our room. This is our life.

Except it’s not.

I clear my throat. “My room’s fine.”

“I’d bet everything I own that there’s another army of water glasses in there.”

My mouth curls up. How spot-on.

“Let’s go,” he says, heading toward the first closed door in the hallway.

“Not this one,” I interrupt before he can turn the doorknob. I’m not ready to go back into Dad’s room yet. I’m definitely not ready to clean it up either.

He pauses, hand a twist away from opening up to a scene of preserved grief, and the look he gives me says he knows exactly what I’m doing. Still, he doesn’t insist, slowly letting go of the door with a nod. I’m so relieved, I don’t even worry that he moves along right to my own room.

“Yep, even worse than I thought,” he says once he opens the door, bringing back some of the lightness that has seeped out for a short moment.

“It’s fine,” I say, automatically bending to pick up stray clothes from the floor. I don’t even have it in me to be embarrassed about the state of my room—the one place I do get pretty messy. Carter has witnessed too many mornings of me walking into the kitchen with my hair all over the place and drool probably stuck to my chin for that. It’s nice, really, not to have to pretend in front of him. No need to make an effort in a fake relationship.

I remember with Greg, I would wake up earlier than him, go put on some makeup to give my skin some color and make sure my lips weren’t too chapped when he woke up. Some days, I’d pretend I was going to run errands when I actually had medical appointments, and I’d lock myself in the bathroom to take my medications. I never wanted him to feel like I was too much to handle. It’s probably a good thing he dumped me for good before my father died because I don’t think I would’ve been able to keep up any pretense at that time.

“I don’t understand how much water such a small body can actually drink,” he says as he continues to add glasses to the already massive pile he’s holding.

“I spent years restricting my water intake because my kidneys couldn’t handle it. Now I drink it like it’s liquid gold.”

Carter pauses in his movement, assessing, as if he’s suddenly seen my body for the first time. When he spends a bit longer on my arms, I lean down to pick up some more clothes, all the while pulling my sleeves down to my wrists. I’ve never liked how thin I was, and while I’ve been able to gain some weight after my transplant from a diet that was much less restrictive, I still feel like I’m too bony every time I look at myself in the mirror.

When I straighten up, he takes a step forward. “You know what?” He hands me the glass that was the closest on my nightstand, the one I brought with me to bed last night. “Drink up.”

I grin, grabbing the glass and taking a large gulp that does still taste like heaven, even two years post-transplant.

Then we’re back to our cleaning routine, me shifting to the music, Carter mumbling under his breath every time he finds something that “doesn’t belong in a bedroom.” Every time, I pretend I don’t hear him and fight back laughter.

“Where do the pajamas go?” he asks as he picks up a large T-shirt I always use as a nightgown fromthe chair—the one no one has sat on in years because its sole purpose is now to hold my clothes.

“Bottom drawer,” I say over my shoulder, noticing the neat way he folds the washed-out shirt.

A drawer rolls open while I fill up the hamper with loose socks, and only when I notice the room has become eerily quiet do I turn around.

And die on the spot.

Carter is leaning over the bottom drawer of my nightstand—notmy dresser—which I only use to store one thing.

My toys.

Carter seems transfixed, gaze lost in the pile of vibrators.

“Oh my God, not that drawer,” I say just as he leans forward to pick up…yep, he pickedthatone. The gigantic pink dildo Wren and Lexie gave me for my birthday last year as a joke. The two heathens had dared bring that thing to the restaurant, and I’d almost passed out from laughing so hard.

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