Page 95 of Where Happiness Begins

And soI want you to know this last thing: Even if you never want to talk to me again, even if we’d never met in the first place, I could never regret what I did. Donating that kidney was the best thing I ever did. You light up the fucking world, Lilianne. Even if I was just a blip in your path, I’d be fine with it, so long as you never dimmed.

So here. You have it all. You can take me out of your life forever. Even though my intentions were never to hurt you, I know I did, and for that, I’m so fucking sorry, and I deserve whatever decision you end up making. But I also want you to know that I’m not going anywhere. I know so many people walked away from you in your life, and I promise I won’t be one of them. You’re my one love. So I’ll be there if you decide you need me.

You might not be mine, but I’ll always be yours.

C

I read it a second time, and then a third, and each time, my heart only swells larger, eventually pushing against the restraints of my ribcage as if trying to break free.

I can try to continue hiding my own feelings from myself, but that’d be a waste of time.

I love this man.

It’s useless to continue telling myself I can move on. My heart’s decided Carter’s the one it wants, and I don’t think anything will ever change that. And this letter just proved why: despite it all, he’s a good man. A man I decided deserved my trust after years of thinking no man could ever truly want me for me.

That doesn’t mean I can just forget what happened, but I also can’t continue playing dumb and pretend I can cut him out of my life like he was a simple hookup. Like he didn’t hold my heart in the palm of his rough, calloused hands.

The edges of the papers ruffle with the breeze, and for a long time, I stare at them, wishing a powerful gust of wind could take them away from me. This way, I wouldn’t have to make a decision.

Unless I don’t need to make one yet. There’s no real rush. I was the one who wanted it to be done and over with as soon as possible, but the truth is, it can’t be. Even if I send over these papers, I’ll still wish he were mine. Still wish for a different ending for us. No amount of time or legal separation will change that. The only thing that will allow me true clarity is the truth. What he’s been begging to give me ever since the hospital.

Pushing myself off the damp pavement, I walk inside and ask Leah, my coworker, to cover for me. Then I grab my coat and keys and slip out of the bar.

It’s almost midnight by the time I get to Carter’s apartment, breathless as I knock.

It takes a long time for the door to open, and when it does, Carter looks half awake, rubbing sleep off his eyes. But the second he sees me, his entire body straightens as if someone poured a bucket of cold water down his shirt.

“I want to hear it. What you have to say, about your time with him.” I swallow, trying not to notice the dark circles under his eyes or the way it looks like he hasn’t shaved in days. “If you’re still willing.”

He blinks a few times as if not believing I’m actually here. Then he takes a step back, inviting me in. “Of course I am.”

And so our nights of discovery begin.

Chapter 39

It becomes something of a tradition.

Every night I’m not working at the bar, I meet up with Carter, and we talk. Or rather, I listen as he tells me all about the things that were kept in the dark between us before, but also all kinds of things I didn’t even think to ask. He tells me about the night he met my father for the first time and how he wanted nothing to do with him or his support. How his view of things started to change after a while, with Dad holding his ground until Carter had no choice but to relent. He laughs as he tells me all about the times Dad didn’t take his shit. He also tells me about those days before they met, when he’d just quit his band and felt like nothing would ever be okay again. Slowly, our conversations widen in span, veering from only focusing on Carter’s time with Dad to everything we’ve skimmed on before.

At first, I keep showing up at his apartment, but when he asks if he can make the journey to my place instead the next day, looking sheepish as he does, I find myself saying yes. I said once that I wanted this place to feel like home to him too, and I realize I still mean it. It feels right, to have him here, in this space he brought back to life. And whereas that first night I sat ramrod straight athis kitchen table, the more evenings we spend lost in dim lighting and hushed stories, the more comfortable I get.

The attraction I feel for him never dulls, only heightens with every visit, his honesty making me crave him more than ever before, but I pull at the emergency brake every time I feel myself falter. When he’s right there, talking and looking so alive, I have to sit on my hands to stop myself from touching him, from tracing his lips as he grins while recounting a story or from grabbing his hands when they shake as he talks about the day he received the call that the two of us were a match.

“It didn’t make sense at first. I never thought it’d actually work. But once I made sure it was real? I never hesitated.” His throat bobs as his gaze slides to me, making me look away. That’s what it all comes down to, isn’t it? Not the fact that he lied, or even the fact that he kept Dad’s story hidden. I can understand that he did it as a form of respect for him. It’s clear in the reverence he uses when he talks about him. But the kidney… That’s what’s truly holding me back.

Yet still I come back, night after night.

Carter doesn’t seem to mind my distance. He doesn’t push me, only takes what I’m willing to offer. I, however, don’t miss the corner smiles he gives me the first time I sit next to him on the couch, or the time I carefully let my head rest on his shoulder when he tells me a story about the time he and Dad got sick from eating raw chicken at a shabby joint. Dad apparently felt too bad sending his food back and ended up convincing Carter to man up and eat it, too. A wave of nostalgia hits me at the reminder of all that Dadwas, and feeling closer to Carter is a small comfort I allow myself. His body tenses under my cheek, only to finally relax once more, his soft breath hitting my forehead as he resumes his storytelling.

One night, as we lie curled up on the carpet of his living room with our backs against the couch, his fingers resting a hair’s breadth away from my thigh, he finally tells me about the night my father passed. It’s a sore story to get out of him, and it looks just as painful to tell as it is for me to hear, but I think we both needed it to be out in the open. And as much as I want to bury my head under a pillow and never hear about Dad’s last moments, I also smile through my tears at it because just like Nana said, it’s so much like him to have died trying to help someone else.

Nana wasn’t just right about that. The more I listen to Carter’s stories about Dad, the more I realize how little they matter in the grand scheme of things. The person Carter is describing is the same one I grew up with. The same one who would wake up early on appointment days to make a batch of cookies I could use as a comfort in case I received bad news. And after all, I’ve begun to make my peace with the parts of him he hid from me. A person can have a thousand different facets to them, and maybe we don’t need to know them all to know someone.

Because I knew my father. I knew he watched Christmas movies all year long and loved nothing more than a chilly October morning. I knew that his patience slipped every time he had to explain a problem to an appliance technician over the phone, and that his girlfriend abandoning him and the baby girl they’d just had was one of the worst pains of his life. And I knew he would’ve givenaway his life in a heartbeat if it meant being able to give a helping hand to someone.

“Thank you,” I tell him once he’s done, both of our voices raw. He dips his chin in understanding, not needing me to tell him why I’m grateful for these stories. Sometimes, it feels as if he knows me better than I know myself.

I haven’t realized I’ve once again started crying until the pad of his thumb caresses my cheek, wiping a tear with such gentle care it makes my throat constrict. His hand remains there, and when I sniffle, Carter gets to his feet. “Let me get you something,” he says.

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