PART 18 – The Conversation We Had Been Avoiding

I waited until my hands stopped trembling before I called Carter again.

I did not want to speak to him while every sentence felt like a defense. I wanted to listen, and I wanted to be able to explain myself without apologizing for having feelings.

When he answered, his voice was quieter than it had been earlier.

"Are you ready to talk?"

"I think so."

"Do you want me to come over?"

I glanced toward the closed wardrobe.

"Not yet. I want us to talk on the phone first."

"All right."

I sat at the desk, keeping the grandfather's photograph within sight.

For a few seconds, neither of us spoke.

Then Carter said, "I've been thinking about what you told me."

I waited.

"I shouldn't have started talking about the wedding before asking how you were."

The admission caught me off guard.

I had expected to explain that point again. I had prepared myself to defend it, and now I had to adjust to the fact that he had acknowledged it.

"Thank you for saying that," I replied.

"I was worried about everything falling apart. I was thinking about the guests and the arrangements, and I didn't stop to think about what you were going through."

"I understand that you were worried."

"But I still handled it badly."

I looked down at my hands.

"Yes," I said. "You did."

The words were difficult to speak without softening them.

I had spent so long trying to make other people comfortable that direct honesty felt almost rude.

But Carter did not argue with me.

That mattered.

It did not erase the morning, but it allowed the conversation to continue.

"I want to understand what happened to you," he said. "Are you sure you don't know who did it?"

"No. I woke up that way. I haven't figured out who was responsible."

"Did you see anyone?"

"No."

"Did anyone say anything to you?"

"No, Carter. I don't have an answer yet."

"Okay."

I waited for him to suggest a theory or ask whether I suspected someone.

He did neither.

For a moment, I felt the relief I had wanted earlier.

Then I reminded myself that one better conversation could not answer every question about our relationship.

There was still something I needed to say.

"I also need you to understand that the wedding isn't the only thing I'm thinking about."

"What else?"

"Us."

The word hung between us.

I heard him shift, then settle again.

"Are you saying you don't love me?"

"No. I'm saying that loving you doesn't automatically mean I'm ready to get married today."

He did not respond immediately.

I continued.

"I have spent a lot of time trying to make sure everything between us stays calm. Sometimes I've agreed with you when I wasn't sure I agreed. Sometimes I've let things go because I didn't want us to argue."

"Like what?"

"I don't want to turn this into a list of every disagreement we've ever had."

"Then how am I supposed to understand?"

The question was fair, and I took a moment to consider it.

"I think we need to be able to disagree without either of us feeling that the relationship is in danger."

He was quiet.

"I don't want that either," he said.

"I know. But wanting it isn't the same as doing it."

I could hear my own heartbeat.

I had never said those words to him so plainly.

Part of me wanted to take them back and replace them with something gentler. I wanted to assure him that I still loved him, that we could fix everything, that the morning had simply been a terrible mistake.

But I did not know whether we could fix everything.

I would not promise that just to make the conversation easier.

Carter spoke again.

"I thought we were happy."

"We have been happy."

"Then why does it feel like you're questioning our whole relationship?"

"Because I am questioning whether we're ready for marriage. That doesn't mean every good thing between us was false."

I stopped and took a breath.

"I don't want to punish you for something I can't prove. I don't want to accuse you of doing this to my hair. But I also don't want to ignore how I've been feeling just because today was supposed to be perfect."

"I understand."

I wanted to believe he did.

For now, I accepted that he was trying to hear me.

"What do you want from me?" he asked.

The question made me pause.

I had imagined him asking it, but I had not prepared a simple answer.

"I want honesty. I want to be able to say no without feeling that I'm destroying something. I want us to talk about difficult things without rushing to make them disappear."

"That sounds reasonable."

"And I need time to decide whether I'm ready to marry you."

He let out a slow breath.

"How much time?"

"I can't give you an exact answer."

"Rachel, we can't leave everything uncertain forever."

"I'm not asking you to wait forever. I'm asking you not to pressure me into a decision today."

The silence that followed was uncomfortable, but I did not fill it.

Finally, Carter said, "I can give you time."

I closed my eyes briefly.

"Thank you."

"I still want to marry you."

"I know."

"And I hope you still want to marry me."

I looked toward the wardrobe.

"I want to believe that we can have the kind of marriage I thought we were building. I need to understand whether we really can."

He did not answer right away.

When he finally spoke, his voice sounded tired.

"All right."

We ended the call a few minutes later.

I remained at the desk, listening to the quiet after his voice disappeared.

Nothing had been solved.

But we had managed to speak without turning every sentence into a fight. Carter had acknowledged that he had handled the earlier conversation badly, and I had told him what I needed without pretending I had already made a final decision.

That was a beginning.

It was not proof that we would succeed.

I picked up my grandfather's photograph and held it for a moment.

I wanted to believe that love could survive honesty.

I was beginning to understand that if it could not, the wedding would not have saved it.

Click here to continue reading: PART 19: What the Inheritance Could Not Tell Me