“I’m totally into Bluey,” Carter says with a grin. “She’s one of Charlie’s favorites.”
I smile at this. I really love how much he cares about Charlie. Holly is lucky to have him as a friend.
“Honestly, you can give me something you’ve already painted,” he says. “I don’t need you to create anything new. Or I could come to your show and buy something. That’s the goal of these things, right? To sell everything?”
“No,” I quickly say. “Absolutely not. I mean, yes, that’s the point, but you are not buying anything atanyof my shows. You’re getting something custom. Somethingfreeand custom. And you aren’t allowed to fight me on that because it’s the only thing I’m truly giving you in thisbargain.”
His eyes lift as he smiles. “Don’t forget the cat. You’re also taking care of him.”
“Of course! The cat. That makesallthe difference.”
Carter pushes his hands into the pockets of his coat. “The show that’s here in Atlanta—will we be married by then?”
I do some quick math in my head. We haven’t picked a specific wedding date yet, but we did say six weeks from now, which lands us somewhere in the middle of March. My show at Second Light Gallery is the last week of March, ten days before I was supposed to fly back to Canada.
It’s wild to think that a few weeks ago, I fully expected to have that show and then say goodbye to Georgia for the foreseeable future. A wave of relief washes over me.
Not anymore.
Now I get to stay. All thanks to Carter.
“Um, yeah. It’s at the end of March, so I guess we will be.”
“Okay, then. I’ll make sure it’s on my calendar so I can come support you.”
My eyes drop to the floor, even as heat climbs my cheeks. So far, my imaginings of life with Carter have been contained to our own individual interactions. I’ve thought about living with him, occupying the same space. But having him come to my show, introducing him to my peers, my friends, to gallery owners. Calling him myhusband.
The idea has a certain appeal to it. I mean,look at him.Not to mention the general goodness he seems to radiate. But I don’t want him to feel obligated. He’s already going above and beyond; putting any further demands on him feels like too much.
“It’s sweet of you to offer, but you really don’t have to,” I say. “I think as long as we’re seen togethersome,you shouldn’t have to worry about my art things.”
“I don’t know,” he says. “Seems like it might seem suspicious if we aren’t showing up for each other. I come to your shows. You come to the occasional home game. I’d be happy to support you in that way.”
I wrap my arms around my middle and sink against the door, my stomach falling into my shoes. I especially can’t expect him to show up for me when I can’t do the same for him.
“Hey,” Carter says gently when I don’t respond. “Did I say something wrong? You went a little pale.”
“No, I…” I clear my throat. “You’re right. It’s a perfectly reasonable expectation. It’s only, I don’t…” I pause and take a deep breath. “I guess Miles didn’t tell you I don’t go to hockey games?”
Carter lifts his eyebrows. “He didn’t. So you don’t go…just as a general rule?”
I nod. “It’s complicated. And probably stupid. But I—” I close my eyes for the briefest moment and try to take a steadying breath.
“It’s not that I don’twantto be there,” I say to Carter. “I justcan’tbe there.” I force myself to look up and meet his gaze. “And I would appreciate it if you didn’t ask me why.”
His eyes are troubled, his brow furrowed, but then he nods, taking on a more neutral expression. “Okay. I understand,” he says. “I’m sure we can find plenty of other ways to be seen together.”
Carter’s words sound sincere, but there’s definitely a distance between us that wasn’t there before. It’s my own fault, but there’s no way I can talk to him about this. Not without digging into things I still struggle to talk about with my family, much less people I’m only just getting to know.
I was sixteen the first time I had a panic attack during ahockey game. Miles was already in the NHL by then, playing for Boston before he was traded to the Jaguars. The team was in Winnipeg for a game, and Mom and I went to see him play. It wasn’t the first time we’d been to games, but it was the first time Miles got into afightduring a game. Not just a hard hit against the boards, an actual fight. Fists flying, bodies scrambling.
In a flash, I was nine years old again, watching my father throw his fists into Miles over and over again.
I threw up into my popcorn bucket and white-knuckled it through the rest of the game. But the next time his team came to town, my body did the same thing. Reacted the same way even when hewasn’tfighting.
The damage was done. I left before the end of the first period, and I haven’t watched Miles play since.
“Thank you,” I say, forcing my memories aside so I can give Carter my full attention. “And…I’m sorry.”
