Page 32 of Where Happiness Begins

He gives me that same eyebrow quirk.

“I swear I’m not. And I’m not against it. I just…” I walk to open the door, the early summer breeze cool against my face at this time of night. “I don’t like you feeling like you owe me something.” I’m in his debt enough. I’ve seen the first insurance payment go through two days ago, which means he followed through with his end of the deal, and the relief that inhabited my body the second I saw that amount felt like breathing for the first time with eighty pounds off my shoulders.

“You don’t owe me anything,” Carter says. “I’m just trying to be adecentperson.” Even though his face doesn’t let up anything, I’m pretty sure I hear a hint of humor in his voice.

My lips twitch up. Using my own words against me. A good one.

“Fine.Thank you, then.”

“You’re welcome,” he says as he crosses the threshold, then removes his boots and places them right next to where I’ve left my own shoes. The picture is so domestic, it’s almost caricatural.

As I take off my coat and tie my hair in a bun, unable to stand it being loose a second longer, my stomach grumbles so loudly it makes Carter glance my way.

“I haven’t eaten in twelve hours. Sue me.”

He shakes his head with round eyes as if to say he wouldn’t dare, and I bypass him on my way to the kitchen. I don’t usually cookafter an evening shift, but I know I have no leftovers and I can’t go to bed like this.

I scavenge through the cupboards until I find a can of white beans and a jar of sauce. I pull a pan out, turn the stove on, and jump when I hear, “What are you making?”

It almost feels like seeing a ghost when I turn and find Carter sitting on my kitchen countertop, watching me. That’s definitely a first.

“What are you doing here?” It seems I keep asking that question as of late.

“Should I leave?”

“I—No, of course not,” I babble, still uncertain whether this is real or I’m already asleep and dreaming. I’m not about to complain about it, though. Not when that was the exact outcome I was wishing for a few weeks ago.

Carter dips his head. “So?”

I look back at my pan. “Oh.” The sauce is sizzling, so I pour the contents of the can in. “Just beans in pesto.” My voice is hesitant when I ask, “Want some?”

Perched on the counter, he looks younger than he usually does. From looking at his ID when I filled out the marriage license, I know he’s thirty, but here, in the dim kitchen light, with his head cocked and his hair a little mussed as if he’d been sleeping before coming to pick me up, he reminds me of a kid waking up for a piece of cake by the refrigerator light in the middle of the night.

“Sure,” he says, once again surprising me. Who is this man and what has he done to the grumbling guy who moved in with me?

I decide not to make a big deal out of it. He might return to his basement exile tomorrow, and this would only be a blip in our cohabitation, but if this is the only thing I get, then I’ll take it.

Carter remains silent as I stir the sauce and hum one of the Crash & Burn songs I listened to tonight. When I heard it play through the speakers from the local radio station the bar usually tunes in to, I almost dropped the beer I was holding. I don’t know if the few posts and videos I’ve shared of them have even made a difference, but I like to pretend they did. I’ve never been part of a team as a kid, being homeschooled most of my teens, and even though my role is minimal, the band has succeeded in making me feel like I’m a small part of them now.

When the beans are done, I place them on two plates and sprinkle spices on top before adding pieces of pita bread and forks. Then I bring Carter’s plate to his hands and join him on the countertop, facing him.

He thanks me and we both start eating in silence, cicadas singing through the screens of the windows I forgot to close.

“I have a question for you,” I say, making him look up faster than I expected. I gathered Carter isn’t the type to share everything about himself over mimosas, but now that I take a good look at him, I figure I’ve underestimated it. He’s not a simple closed door, more like a fortress he’d never want anyone breaching. Still, I’ll try my best.

“Hm?” he says,ever so eloquently.

I kick my feet so they lean against the opposite cupboards. “What have you been eating for the past weeks? Have you been using the kitchen in secret?”

He visibly exhales.

“I, uh…” He scratches his jaw, the beard slightly longer than it was a few days ago. “I got a microwave and ate instant ramen.”

A moment passes. Then two.

And then I burst out laughing, head thrown back, a deep belly one I can’t control. “Oh my God,” I wheeze. “That’s so pathetic.”

And then, the most beautiful thing happens.

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