I’ve never been entirely clear on what milestone must be unlocked before an engagement becomes viable.
Partnership?
Property acquisition?
Planetary alignment?
Regardless, he’s never been shy about weighing in onmydecisions.
The day I told him I’d declared a double major in literature and French, he looked at me with that mix of amusement and condescension I’d gotten from him through the years.
“Literature and French?” he said. “That’syour plan?”
“Yes,” I replied. “That’s my plan.”
He snorted. “What the hell are you going to do with that? Open a poetry-themed café in Paris?”
“I hadn’t ruled it out.”
“You do realize it’s not 1890 anymore, right? People don’t make a living off quoting Hugo in cafés.”
“Maybe notyourpeople,” I said sweetly. “But some of us value things that don’t come with a bonus structure.”
“Sure,” he said. “Until rent’s due.”
When Mom got sick, Carter was barely around.
He called. He texted. He even sent money to help with expenses, since mom wasn’t able to work and was living under a pile of debt. And I appreciated that, in theory.
But when it came to the day-to-day, he wasn’t there.
He wasn’t there the day I found her collapsed on the bathroom floor, too weak to lift her head.
He wasn’t there for the weekly chemo visits or the nights she screamed from bone pain while I sat on the edge of her bed whispering “it’s okay, it’s okay,” even though it wasn’t.
He wasn’t there when I had to argue with the insurance company to get her the meds that made her sleep through the night without waking up vomiting into a bucket.
He missed all of that.
I recall a specific phone call made in mid-January. Mom had just lost her hair, and I was standing in the kitchen holding a clump of it I’d swept up off the floor. I’d texted Carter.
Call me when you can. You really need to come sooner rather than later.
When he finally called, his voice was rushed. Distracted.
“Look, Ree, I wish I could come, but I’ve only got this one shot at partnership,” he said. “It’s not like I don’t care, but the timing’s just—bad.”
Bad timing.
As if death were supposed to wait for a window in his schedule.
I didn’t argue.
What was the point?
He took my silence as agreement.
And honestly? That call told me everything I needed to know about how we were going to do this. I would be the one here, holding her hand. Carrying the load. Cleaning the messes. Completing hospice forms. Managing pain and bills and grief and casseroles left on the porch.
