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6
CARTER
Angela’s wordshit me hard and echo through me again and again as I continue unpacking my backpack and assessing our supplies.
I’m used to being combative with you. We’re never in situations where we have to work together, and I fell back into old habits.
Old habits. Combativeness. Not getting along. Never working together.
That’s what we are—what we have. What we’ve become.
Funny, though, if I was going to describe my old habits about her, it would go like this: sensing whenever she enters a room, whether it be O’Malley’s bar or the damn grocery store. Working harder around her than I do around anyone else to keep my mask of calm, cool, wisdom in place—feeling like it matters more, too. Making sure not to bring her up too often in conversation, afraid that the way I say her name will betray my longing for her.
I have no one else to blame but myself. I had a chance with Angela all those years ago, and I screwed up.
What I’m feeling right now is shame. And that same shame is what keeps me from talking about this with Hunter and Jamie.I’m sure they’d try to understand. And Jamie actually might know how to help. After all, he ignored his feelings for Cat for years and dated other people. That’s pretty much the definition of screwing up. But Hunter would probably chastise me if I told him that I basically treated Angela like a one night stand. He wouldn’t get it. He’s never treated anyone like that, he doesn’t have it in him.
But it’s more than shame that keeps me silent. It’s habit. Probably my worst one, or my best one depending on how you look at it—keeping my emotions inside like this. Turning them over, scrutinizing them, laying them out like a math problem in my head, and then solving it alone.
It’s a habit I developed as a kid. I’m eight years older than my sister, and when she was born, it became clear to me that my parents needed to devote their time and attention to her, rather than to me. I started to learn how to take care of myself, and I guess I just never stopped. Pretty soon, my parents started noticing how mature I was, and so did my teachers. All of my report cards were full of things like, “Carter is a bright child who never causes any problems in class,” “Carter is an academically gifted youth who is mature beyond his years,” “Carter is a joy to have in class.”
And so on.
The thing is, fulfilling these expectations has never been that difficult for me. Iamacademically gifted. Iwasa mature child who didn’t want to cause any problems in class. I do prefer handling my problems alone. But I’m also not used to failing at things.
And the weight of my own expectations for myself is probably why I’ve never recovered from screwing up so badly with Angela. She’s the single thing I’ve failed at.
“You alright there, Carter?” Angela asks. “You’ve been staring at the same protein bar for five minutes.”
“Oh,” I say, feeling my cheeks start to heat. I can’t remember the last time I blushed, but fifteen minutes alone with Angela and I’m red. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just thinking about things,” I say rather stupidly.
“Right,” she says. “Um, any chance I can have some food?”
“Of course,” I say, and hand her a peanut butter protein bar. I make a silent vow that Angela is going to get the larger share of the food, if it comes to that. I’ve got more meat on my bones than her, and more muscle.
She eats part of the bar and then lays back down on the futon, staring up at the ceiling. She sighs deeply, and I hear the covers rustle a bit as she gets comfortable.
“It’s pathetic. Being trapped on this island is giving me the most time to just relax that I’ve had in months,” she says quietly, almost as if to herself.
“It’s not pathetic,” I respond immediately. I scoot closer to the edge of the bed, so that I’m sitting within reach of her. “Has work been busy?”
“Yes, more than I’d like to admit,” she says. “I love my job, don’t get me wrong. Being a nurse is fulfilling but…I just spend all my days at the hospital.”
“You don’t get any days off?” I ask, suddenly concerned. Shedoeslook tired. Angela is always beautiful, but there are slight bags under her eyes and she looks more pale than usual. Though that could be due to the stress of the situation.
“I do, normally three a week. But I end up taking on other shifts because the other nurses on my team are just…” She pauses here, as if figuring out what to say, and screws her face up in a grimace.
“It’s okay, let it out. I won’t tell anyone,” I say. I think she’s worried about speaking ill of her coworkers. And it’s admirable. Angela is known among our friends for having a sharp tongue. In reality, she’s just honest and she doesn’t say anything withoutreason. She’s not one to speak meanly about others just to vent or make herself feel better. But sometimes I think that’s exactly what she needs.
“They’re nice, and we get along well, and I’m even making friends with a few of them. But they just aren’t dedicated enough. They don’t pick up the slack. It all falls to me. If someone is sick, or has to be with their kids, or has an emergency, I’m the person who always offers to come in first,” she says.
“So stop offering,” I say, “it’s simple.”
“Maybe for you,” she says.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I’m genuinely curious.
She sits up straight in bed and levels me with her trademark, hard-as-nails stare.
