Page 50 of Where Happiness Begins

I do, producing a C chord that finally sounds right. A high-pitched sound comes out of me, one I wish very much I could’ve kept back. That is, until I hear Carter chuckles. I lean my head back, neck almost bent in half as I look up to find Carter pinching his lips.

That little scoundrel, hiding his smiles from me.

I grin at him long enough that eventually, he lets some of it out.

Whoosh.A Christmas tree being lit on.

Mission accomplished, I straighten and try to strum my C chord by myself, and after two more tries, I get it right.

“Show me more,” I ask him, and he does.

He proceeds to teach me the hand placements for a few more chords, then to play them in a specific order. I do, taking so much time to position my fingers between each note that the song is barely recognizable. However, when I repeat them a few more times, I finally recognize The Beatles’ “Let It Be.” A song I remember Dad and I belting out in the car more times than I can count. One I’ve always loved so much.

“See?” Carter says, pride thick in his voice. “Easy.”

I did it. It might have taken me an insanely long amount of time to get these four stupid chords in a song, but I did do it.

I look down at the pale brown guitar, brushing my thumb over a scratch under the strings, one that probably came from a night of music with friends during Dad’s early adulthood.

He might never have had the chance to teach me like he wished to, but got to it nonetheless.

I blink fast against the tears that suddenly rush up, part sadness and part deep, flowering happiness.

“What’s wrong?” Carter asks, suddenly standing in front of me, his voice louder than usual. This man is too good at reading me.

“Nothing,” I say with a shake of my head. And then, when I see his nervous expression—one I never thought I’d see on his face, never mind for me—I can’t help myself.

I climb to my feet over the couch so I can hug him properly.

Like this, I’m barely taller than him, which allows me to wrap my arms around his neck and pour everything it is I’m feeling about this moment into the embrace.

At first, he doesn’t hug me back, and I don’t even care. A unilateral hug is what he deserves for gifting me this, whether he wants it or not. After a few seconds, though, there’s a barely-there pressure around my lower back. He’s giving the weakest hug I’ve ever received, one that feels a little like he’s restraining himself, or maybe like he’s forcing himself to give me a little something, but again, I don’t care. This isn’t about me. It’s about him, who’s just given me so much. And if I can only explain my full gratefulness by squeezing the air out of his lungs, then I will.

“Thank you,” I whisper against the silky scent of bergamot in his neck. For taking his time for me. For granting another one of Dad’s wishes.

For caring.

Chapter 21

“This place is a pigsty.”

I look up from my book, with the smutty cover on full display—what use is there to hide them from him anymore? “I’m sorry?”

Carter’s sitting in the rocking chair Nana always monopolizes when she visits but that he’s adopted in the past weeks. Now he doesn’t only eat with me when I’m home, but he’ll also join me in the living room sometimes, either to watch whatever movie I’ve put on while working on edits or to read in his chair. Every time, I almost feel afraid to move or make a sound as if it’s a fluke and he’ll leave once he realizes I’m here. But somehow, he never does, even when I end up getting comfortable and start talking his ear off about which influencers are dating or fighting online or about howTwilightis a cult favorite for a reason.

“We need to clean around here,” he clarifies.

Six words I never thought I’d hear out of a man’s mouth.

I start to look around, and now that he’s said it…yeah, it’s pretty bad.

I’ve never been a neat freak, but when I lived alone, the house remained more or less clean, mostly because I couldn’t make muchof a mess on my own. However, now, the place looks lived-in. There are blankets messily thrown onto the floor from two nights ago when Carter reluctantly joined me on the couch to watch the thirdTwilightmovie (hence the discussion on its cultural significance) and we ended up going to bed at 3:00 a.m. after watching the next two movies, his arm draped on top of the couch, sometimes brushing my neck and making the blankets unnecessary. Music sheets are strewn across the dining room table from the time Carter decided to teach me the basics of reading music, and then from the time he showed me how to play my father’s old partitions on the guitar. An umbrella is leaning against the door, still dripping water onto the welcome mat from last night. I’d opened my car door after coming from a show, prepared to run across the driveway in the rain, only to find Carter there, umbrella above him and ready to shelter me from the summer storm. Dust covers the floor from when Carter patched some small holes in the walls over the last week.

I like the way the house looks now, as messy as it is.

“There must be at least twenty half-drunk glasses of water strewn across the house,” Carter says, bringing me back to earth.

I flip my gaze to him. “I like to stay hydrated.”

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