“You aren’t the only one who thinks that.”
“Thinks what?” I ask him genuinely, already forgetting what I’d said before as I’m too distracted by my beverage.
“Nothing.” He shrugs it off and goes to the cabinet, pulling out a box of tea bags and a pretty mug with owls on it. I nearly tease him, taunt him for the girly mug, even though I know it must be for his wife. I bite my tongue and stifle the playful thoughts as I prepare to go somewhere else and stay out of Carter’s way. This isn’t my house and he isn’t my family. I’m more than aware of that.
I only get one step away though before Carter speaks with his back to me, putting a mug of water in the microwave. “Spring will be here soon,” he tells me.
Stopping in my tracks, I turn rather than look over my shoulder and wait for him to turn as well. He does slowly, awkwardly even with his broad shoulders.
“Why does your face look like that?” he asks me when he takes in what must be a confused expression.
“Is that your attempt at small talk?”
“People like to talk about the weather, Miss Fawn.”
It’s my turn to let out a huff of a laugh, small and insignificant, but it breaks the tension, one chisel at a time.
“Spring’s my favorite season.”
“It’s Aria’s too. Well,” he continues talking as he retrieves the mug from the now beeping microwave and sets a bag of tea into the cup. “Spring and fall. She said she can’t pick just one.”
It doesn’t pass my notice that his expression softens when he talks about Aria. The recollection softens something inside of me too.
“How long have you and Aria been together?”
“Just a little while.” His answer is… less than informative. Maybe it’s a Cross brothers thing.
“I heard she’s expecting?”
“That’s right.” His grin turns cocky and I half expect him to brag about how it happened on the first try or how his swimmers are so strong. Some macho bullshit like that, but it doesn’t come.
“Congratulations.”
“Thank you.”
“Well, I’ll let you get to it,” I tell him, but he doesn’t let the conversation end.
“Jase really likes you.” The statement surprises me, holding me where I am.
Warmth flows through me, from my chest all the way to my cheeks. I don’t know what to say other than, “I really like him too.”
“He’s turning back to his emotional… hotheaded younger self.”
“Hotheaded?” I pry. Carter doesn’t seem to take the bait though.
“When we were younger, he used to be a real troublemaker,” Carter says as he leans against the counter, staring into the cup of tea and lifting the bag of leaves. We both watch the steam billow into a swirl of dissipating clouds although I’m across the room.
“Really?” The shock is evident.
“Not because he was… like me. Not that kind of trouble.”
If Carter’s going to talk, I’m damn well going to listen. Taking a step closer to the counter, I ask him, “What kind of trouble?”
He peers at me, but not for long. “He just couldn’t keep his mouth shut. It should have gotten him into more trouble than it did really. I know if I’d done it… My father never hit Jase. I can’t remember a single time. He liked the belt and took it out on us mostly, me and Daniel.”
A sadness creeps inside of me at the ease with which Carter speaks of his father beating him and his brother. He was the oldest. I’m the youngest, but I remember the way my mother used to yell at my sister for things that I didn’t even think were wrong. With parted lips, I grip the edge of the counter, cold and unmoving as he continues. “I remember so many times my father would say to Jase, your mouth is going to get you in trouble.”
“Parents sometimes take it out on the eldest.”
“If I’d talked like Jase did when we were younger, I’d have been punched in the mouth.” Carter’s statement doesn’t come with emotion. It’s merely the way things were for them back then.
“He used to say it like it was. He never had a filter, and couldn’t just be quiet. There were so many times he said shit to my father that made my back arch expecting to be hit there. He had the balls to call everyone out on their shit and never stopped for a moment to question what he was saying.”
“Honesty without compassion is brutality.” I say the quote and then add when Carter looks back at me, “I don’t know who said it. It’s just a saying.”
Standing up straighter, he holds the tea with both hands and tells me, “He was compassionate, too much. That’s why he never let a moment pass him where he thought he could change what was happening if he only made people aware of how wrong it was.”