Page 66 of Where Happiness Begins
“Why do you hide?” comes his gruff voice a few seconds later.
I turn to my side. “Huh?”
“Your pills. Why’d you hide them?”
Why do I always forget this man is more perceptive than anyone gives him credit for?
“I didn’t hide,” I lie. “I just don’t boast about taking them.”
Movement comes from my side, and the bed dips as if he’s now facing me too. “Waiting until it’s dark to take them feels a lot like hiding.”
“What are you, the pill police?”
He doesn’t answer, only shifts closer as if he knows his silence is even more poignant than a question, and damn him, it works.
“It’s not something I like to talk about, that’s all.” With my followers, sure. It’s what started my channel, after all. Talking about my journey through illness and interacting with people who have gone through similar hardships. But with the people close to me, I try to keep it as silent as possible, even when I wish I could share my concerns with someone else.
“Why?” Even with the loud AC, I hear the rustle of the sheets as he moves closer as if he wants to be close enough to see all it is I’m not saying.
“Because I learned it’s not what people want to listen to.” I hate the rasp in my voice at that small sentence that’s such a feat of vulnerability.
There were times after my transplant when I felt ill and was worried I might be rejecting my new kidney, and I preferred absorbing this anxiety than sharing it with others, even those I trusted the most. I didn’t want to be their sick friend, or their sick granddaughter, or their sick colleague. I only ever wanted to be Lilianne.
“Someone hurt you,” he says, not a question but a statement.
“I… What…”
“You mentioned the other day how you wanted someone who could actually love you. Meaning someone hurt you before.”
I swallow. It doesn’t hurt anymore to think about Greg as a person, but it does hurt to think of all the years I wasted with him, watching everything I said, the way I breathed, everything not to make him notice another thing that might be wrong about me. I saw the way he looked at the bruises on my arms from being poked, saw how he tried his hardest to pretend that I wasn’t sick. So I did too.
“Maybe,” I say, to both his previous questions.
After a long time where I almost wonder if Carter fell asleep, he says, “It’s not something to be ashamed of.”
“I know.” In theory, Idoknow this, but old habits die hard and all that.
“I don’t want you to hide the next time.” Again, not a question or a suggestion, but a statement. Straight through, just like him. “Okay?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“I’m serious.” Suddenly, a hand lands on my waist, so warm even through the sweatshirt. I don’t think he even realizes where he’s touching me, his expression so focused. “You’re a survivor. Own it.”
My nose tingles, and I breathe deeply to keep myself under control.
“What about you?” I ask, wanting to change the subject before I burst into tears or worse. “Anyone important in your past?”
Now that I’ve gotten used to the darkness, I can see the shake of his head.
“Not one?”
Another head shake. “Never been a relationship guy.”
I’m not sure I want to explore whatever that means, so instead, I say, “So you decided to skip the girlfriends stage and go straight to being married.”
“Wasn’t such a bad idea,” he answers, and before I have the time to react to the lack of humor in his answer, the little tease has the gall to nudge me with his feet under the covers. I startle.
“Jumpy, are we?”
