Not even death could ever make me forget the look on his face at my proclamation.
I just hope he’ll remember it after I’m gone.
I sleep a few more hours after that, wrapped in Logan’s arms. When I wake up, Quaid’s on my other side, his nose tucked into my neck.
It would be perfect, except Carter’s not here. I’ll never not need all three of them.
I slide out of their embrace and knee my way towards the end of the bed, cringing with how sore I feel. I skipped my medication yesterday. That can’t happen.
Quickly going into the bathroom, I go through my never-ending bottles of pills, staring at myself in the mirror forlornly. Today, there is no hiding that I look sick. I’m pale, my cheeks are gaunt, my eyes are dull. I smooth down my riotous curls and pinch my cheeks. I’m going to need lots of makeup today to avoid having the guys drag me to the hospital.
Sighing, I throw on makeup and run some product in my hair before putting on a denim jumper that I’d bought right before the trip. It was the kind of outfit I’d never had the courage to wear before, but now…YOLO and all of that.
Logan and Quaid are still sleeping when I come back into the bedroom, and I’m tempted to take a picture of them. They’re both curled towards where I was sleeping, so they’re just inches away from each other. It’s adorable really. I control myself enough to only take three pictures, and then I softly tread out of the room, closing the door softly behind me so they can continue to sleep. We’re all worn out after what happened.
Carter’s sitting on the patio, staring off towards the ocean while he sips an espresso. A carton of cigarettes is on the table next to him. I cringe when I see them. He’d told me that he only smokes when he’s stressed, and judging by the ashtray filled with cigarette butts, he’s really stressed.
“It’s a beautiful view,” I comment as he exhales a smoky plume. We both watch the smoke drift through the wind away from us.
He turns to look at me. “Yes it is.”
Somehow, the way he says it doesn’t sound corny at all. I don’t think it’s possible for Carter to come across as anything other than sexy and mysterious. His voice is a gift to women.
“Want to go find that tree?” I ask, standing up taller as his gaze peruses my body.
“Have you eaten anything?” he responds, quirking his brow. The memory of how his hands felt on my bare skin lights me on fire as his gaze continues to devour me. Evidently, the fact that he’s seen that I’m skin and bone at this point doesn’t make a difference, because he looks like he wants to swallow me whole.
I swallow roughly, trying to control the flush that is spreading across my body.
“Food, and then we’ll find a tree,” I offer, even though I’m not sure how much food I’m going to be able to get down my throat. I still feel raw from all the events over the last twenty-four hours, and combined with all the medicine I just took, food is really the last thing on my mind.
But I have to keep up appearances and all of that.
We venture out of the hotel, and Carter surprises me by taking my hand as we walk along the cobblestone sidewalk. I look over at him but he keeps his gaze in front of me, the only acknowledgement he gives me is to squeeze my hand once reassuringly.
We eat lunch at a café a few blocks down from the hotel that our concierge recommended. I’m able to eat most of my fruit plate and half a sandwich, and it seems to mollify Carter’s watchful stare.
We don’t say much beyond commenting on a few of the more colorful people that we see pass by the café. I get Carter to smile a few times on my guesses for some of the passersby’s occupations, which is really a victory since Carter’s smiles are hard to come by.
After lunch, we pick up a bottle of a local vineyard’s wine and some plastic cups from a nearby deli, and then we’re off to find a tree.
And Carter’s still holding my hand.
We both get a few disgruntled text messages from Logan and Quaid about being left behind, so I shoot them a picture of them practically snuggled up in bed together to shut them up. It’s nice to have this time alone with Carter. My relationship has been immediate with Logan and Quaid since reuniting, and Carter and I are still worlds behind.
Or maybe not worlds…after that bath.
The cashier at the deli had looked at me strangely when I inquired about a good tree, as he should of, but then he’d recommended heading towards the Avenida de Cervantes. Evidently, there is a giant chorisia tree there that has intense pink flowers on it that he’d passed walking home every day.
We make idle chit-chat as we walk, still staying away from anything serious and heavy.
And then I see the tree.
Squealing with delight, I drag Carter over to it and plop down, pulling him down beside me. The tree is gorgeous, every branch laden with spectacular pink blossoms that smell heavenly. I sigh and lean against the thick trunk, inhaling the sweet scents floating around me.
“What’s with the tree?” Carter asks as he settles in beside me. I pop open an eye.
“Don’t you remember?”
He squints as though trying to think of what I could be remembering. I’m a little disappointed that he can’t immediately think of it. I guess it was a funny thing that seemed significant for one person and insignificant for others.
“On warm days at school, when you didn’t want to go to the cafeteria—”
“Which was every day,” he interrupts with a roll of his eyes.
“Yes, which was every day,” I comment dryly. “Anyways…on warm days, I would join you a couple of days a week under the tree on the back lawn of the school, and we would eat lunch and you would take pictures of the tree.”
Carter’s eyes crinkle up strangely as he glances at me. He rubs his chest, as if what I’d said physically hurt him. “And so that’s why you wanted to drink wine under a tree?” he asks, and his voice sounds strangely choked up.
I shrug shyly. “It was one of my favorite memories with you growing up,” I tell him softly as I open the wine and pour us both two big cups full. It feels freeing to just be able to day drink like this without anywhere to have to be.
There’s a long silence as we both sip the wine, which is delicious by the way.
“I wasn’t taking pictures of the tree,” Carter blurts out.
I looked at him quizzically. “What?”
“I wasn’t taking pictures of the tree,” he repeats, keeping his gaze averted from mine.
“What were you taking pictures of, then?” I ask, confused.
“You,” he says softly, finally turning those beautiful dark eyes towards me. A pink petal falls from the blossoms above us, settling into his hair, a vibrant pink against the sleek blackness of it.
“You were taking pictures of me?” I repeat, disbelievingly. We’d spent hours by that tree every fall and spring growing up. And he was always taking pictures.
“It’s always been you,” he admits hoarsely. “I have thousands of pictures of you. Every time I tried to take pictures of something else, it just felt off. Because there wasn’t anything as beautiful and interesting as you to take pictures of. You were all I saw.”
He takes a deep breath.