Page 49 of Where Happiness Begins

“What’s up with the smile?” he says in his gruff voice. Guess he’s not a morning person.

Lucky for him, I am. “I have something I wanted to show you.”

His brows draw together like I said something ridiculous.

And then, doubt creeps over me.

Maybe this was a bad idea. I got a little carried away yesterday when I thought back to what had been collecting dust in the garage and could finally be put to good use. I didn’t watch more videos of Carter or his band yesterday, wanting to respect the privacy he’d asked of me even if he wasn’t there to see, but my curiosity never dimmed, and the idea came to me late last night. I never stopped to think about whether Carter would actually like it.

“Lilianne? What’s up?”

Right. Guess it’s too late to turn back now.

I clear my throat. “I found something in the garage—or rather I went looking for it—and I thought it might be useful to you.”

Carter doesn’t budge, doesn’t even blink as I move to my left and show the eighties’ acoustic guitar Dad had kept in pristine condition over the years. “Ta-da!”

My smile slowly slips as he remains silent. The only indication he’s still alive is the tick in his jaw. “It was my dad’s. After seeing yours at your place, I remembered I still had it in here somewhere.” I knot my fingers behind my back. “Thought we could put it to use again.”

His gaze remains on the scratched acoustic guitar. “I told you. I don’t play anymore.”

I nod, then do it again, and again. “Right. You’re right.” I’m not sure why my chest feels this tight, but I try my best to hide it. “I’m sorry. It—”

“Don’t.” He takes a step my way. “Apologize, I mean.”

I nod again as if this is the only thing I know how to do.

His gaze is heavy on mine before he decides to step closer to the instrument, his fingers hovering over its neck in an almost caress. There’s reverence in the way his hand moves. I can almost imagine him doing it on my skin, down my back. How it’d feel to be touched this way.

“He never taught you?” he asks, pulling me out of my inappropriate daydreams.

“Always said he would one day.” I go to say more, but I feel like if I continue, the words won’t come out well. He never will teach me, after all.

Carter glances up, eyes searching, the color so dark I can barely see any green, then brings his attention back down. Fingers hover once more, his body looking like it’s fighting a battle with itself, one I know nothing about.

It feels like a lifetime passes before Carter actually touches the guitar. When he does, it feels like a heavy tension slips out of the room through cracks in the wall, like a commune bated breath has been released. He doesn’t look at it anymore but grips its neck tightly, lifting it from its stand.

“Let’s do it,” he says.

“Huh?”

“I don’t play, but that doesn’t mean you can’t.” Carter takes two steps toward the living room couch, his easy hold on the instrument looking like second nature to him.

“Oh, no, it’s okay, I—”

“Didn’t you say you wanted to tryeverything?” He lifts the guitar, holding me accountable with a single annoying glare. Hegot me and he knows it. “Then get your ass on that couch and start living, Fireball.”

For some reason, his words make me laugh. No one ever puts stuff in my face. So long as I was spending time in the hospital or recovering post-surgery, people would treat me with kid gloves, looking at me like I was a fragile flower a wind gust away from shriveling.

But not Carter.

“Fine.” I go to the couch and grab the guitar he’s holding out to me. I never thought this would be the outcome of taking the guitar out of the garage, but it doesn’t matter. It will be used one way or another.

“All right, so to get through a song, you need to know your chords first.” He sits next to me, and the way he looks at the instrument now, in my hands, is different from how he did before. There’s a new lightness to his demeanor. “Let’s start with a basic one.” Then he proceeds to explain to me where all my fingers need to rest on the strings so I block the right ones and hopefully produce the right note. However, it’s tight on the twin couch, and from the side, it’s hard for him to reach around and place my fingers properly.

After three failed attempts and the most horrendous false notes ever head, he mutters a, “Fuck it,” then rounds the couch so he’s standing behind me, his tall frame wrapping around my shoulders like the warmest of blankets.

“There.” Easily, he settles my fingers in the proper position, his touch as careful around my hands as it was above the guitar earlier. “Now strum.”

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