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The vet nods again.
Carter steps right into the passenger seat of his Bronco, signaling he is not in the mood to drive, even the short distance back to my apartment. Carter stares out the passenger side window silently until I park his Bronco next to my bike again.
He looks over at me. “I owe you a suit.”
I glance down at my blood-stained white shirt and pants. I didn’t even hold the dog. This was transferred from holding Carter.
I smile back at him. “Carter, you don’t owe me a damn suit.”
He goes quiet again. Too quiet. Disturbingly quiet.
“I need a shower,” Carter proclaims as we step into the apartment. His eyes refuse to find mine. Mine, on the hand, are fixed on him. On his every move. I need to know he is okay. I need to know we are okay.
His mood has gone somewhere since we left the vet, and he’s retreating from me.
“I’ll try not to touch anything…” he mumbles.
My heart sinks as he heads toward the guest room instead of my room.
But his things are already in that room, I reason. That’s all that is.
Not touch anything? WTF? Is that what he thinks of me? That I care if he gets blood or dirt on my furniture? That he ruins some towels? I think back to his comment about owing me a suit. That’s not who I am, and dammit, that’s not what I want him to think.
I have thoughts of joining him in the shower because I’m aching to be near him. He’s pulled away, too far away, and it’s killing me.
It’s impossible to miss the suitcase sitting at the foot of the bed in the guest room. The room Carter had stayed in while I was gone. If he was going to leave, he would have done it by now, right? If he leaves, I only have myself to blame. Maybe it’s empty, maybe it means nothing, it’s just a suitcase sitting at the foot of a bed in a room. But I know better. I don’t have to look in the closet or lift the bag to check its weight to know it’s full.
I duck out of the room when I hear the shower cut off. I pull some menus out of the drawer and ponder what kind of food might keep him from leaving me. The mushroom tacos from Central Market…maybe?
“This is not how this night was supposed to go,” Carter says as he walks into the room. Free of all the blood and mud from the dog. But his eyes still hold every ounce of the angst of the day.
I stay silent and look at him, again willing him to meet my eyes. He doesn’t.
“I was going to cook you dinner,” he says.
“What?”
“I was going to cook you a nice dinner,” he repeats. Carter walks into the kitchen and opens the fridge. He waves his hands across the array of veggies in the now very well-stocked fridge. “I thought maybe it would keep you from kicking me out.”
“Kicking you out?”
He shrugs.
“But you packed your suitcase?”
He nods at me, those eyes locking with mine for a fleeting second.
“Yep, preemptive measure.”
Fuck. My head is spinning, and I can’t form any cohesive sentences to explain why I went to Minnesota, and how badly I want him to stay, how badly I need him to stay. I run my hands through my short hair.
“You cook?” I smile at him.
He nods and his lips quirk into that mischievous little grin that turns sweet nerd Carter all devilish and sexy. “I had a roommate in Boston. She was in culinary school and lucky me, I was her number one taster. I might have learned a thing or two along the way. Why do you think I became a runner? I’d have weighed 400 pounds if I hadn’t.”
He pulls some things out of the fridge, then looks at his watch and pauses.
“Carter, we can order out.”
