Page 33 of Where Happiness Begins
The corners of Carter’s lips turn upward.
It’s nothing big, something you’d probably miss if you didn’t know him, but now that I’ve seen the ways his face can remain still as a statue, his smile iseverything. It doesn’t matter that the change is subtle, that it’s only noticeable in the crease at his chin and the twitch of his left brow. It’s as if a light has been turned on.
The sight makes somethingwhooshin my stomach, like bubbly liquid fizzling from my belly all the way to my chest.
I can’t stop laughing, but this time, it’s not only out of laughter; it’s also out of sheer happiness, that maybe the two years we’re forced to spend together aren’t doomed after all.
Chapter 14
The type of information I’ve shared on my platforms over the years is kind of contradictory.
On the one hand, I’ve always been fully transparent about my medical journey. When I was put on a trial for a new drug that might have beneficial effects in the slowing of FSGS—or focal segmental glomerulosclerosis—I shared the entire experience with my followers, and I also cried on my channel when I learned it had done nothing for the auto-destruction my body was wrecking on my kidneys. When I learned that a kidney had been found for me and that it was a match, I shared the news on my pages almost right after telling Nan and best friends. It didn’t matter that there were chances it might end up falling through—a living donor changing their mind, a deceased donor’s organ not being usable after all, someone else needing it more urgently than me—I wanted to let them all know. It’s always felt as if they’ve been part of my struggles and successes, being the best support group a person could hope for, and I didn’t want to keep any of it from them. If the happiness over the good news was to last for only a few days, then I wanted them to have those days, too.
However, as much as I’ve kept this side of my life open to the public, my personal life is something I’ve tried to keep for myself. With Greg, since he was also an influencer, we shared a lot about our relationship online, but the moment we broke up, I took a step back. I didn’t share details of our breakup, didn’t talk about the trauma of trying to date again after a previous relationship had messed with everything you thought you knew and liked about yourself. I barely mentioned the passing of my father.
So I shouldn’t have been surprised when, even weeks after my initial marriage announcement, my inboxes and comments sections, even on sponsored posts, continue to be flooded with demands for information on my husband.
@TS1989: WHO IS HE?!?!?!
@Flowersinbloom27: Bitch you can’t just drop this and leave
@Samseaberg: You don’t even need to show his face, we know he’s hot af just by looking at THAT HAND!!!
That last one made me laugh. I looked again at the picture I’d taken of Carter’s hand draped on my thigh, and that personwas right: the sight of those long fingers and strong veins does something to me, too.
I tried to keep it on the down-low, to go on with my regular posting schedule, but it’s not working. I need to give them something, or else I fear they’re going to revolt.
I walk out of my bedroom/office and head over to the kitchen, where I stop in my tracks and take in the scene.
Carter is standing in front of the stove, cooking something that smells heavenly, his wide back to me, tattooed arms on full display. The sight is nothing out of the ordinary, and yet it makes my mouth dry. The art is all in black and white, traced in fine lines. There doesn’t appear to be a theme to the tattoos. A lion’s head, mid-roar is drawn next to a mechanical clock that blends into a pair of wings and a pickaxe. I don’t know if they all have meanings or were picked randomly, but they are true works of art.
I clear my throat, then get back in motion, trying to forget how insanely attractive this man I’m married to only on paper is. “What are you making?” I ask.
“Lentil spaghetti sauce,” he says. “Although I can’t promise it won’t taste like shit.”
I can’t stop my smile from growing. I didn’t want to hope he was cooking for the both of us, but a part of me obviously did.
“Not a big cook?” I ask, hopping on the counter like we did a few nights back. Something shifted between us that night in the dimness of our kitchen. Since then, we’ve lived our own lives as usual, but every evening I’ve been home and made dinner, he’s joined me there and ate with me. Usually, the television was on and we didn’t chat much, but just knowing he was there felt great.
“Usually I do okay,” Carter says as he drains the pasta in the sink. “But I’ve never cooked a vegetarian recipe before.”
Thankfully, his back is still to me, so he doesn’t see the way mysmile grows even more.
“I’m sure it’ll be good.”
He looks over his shoulder. “You have a lot of faith in me.”
And I realize I do.
Not only in regards to his cooking abilities but about everything. I’ve been living with a man I know practically nothing about for weeks, and yet I’ve never felt safer in my own house. He might not be Little Mr. Sunshine, but for all his faults, he’s never once scared me. Since I’ve been living on my own here, I’ve spent so many nights jumping up because I thought I’d heard a sound, tiptoeing through the house with a heavy water bottle I could swing around as a weapon. I haven’t slept this well in years. Maybe I’m too trustful of Carter, or maybe he just gives me a sense of security.
He finishes making the sauce, then serves two plates on the kitchen counter, our dining spot of choice. We never make it to the formal dining table.
“So,” I say after a few bites of delicious pasta, pausing the show he was watching, one about a rock band in the seventies. “I have a favor to ask you.”
He hums, continuing to eat.
“I was wondering if you’d go on a live stream with me.”
