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Carrie wakes up next to Nick. There isn’t an abyss between them, not anymore. Nick’s arm is thrown over her side, and she can hear his breathing from nearby. They’ve slept like this before, in one another’s arms, but there’s always been something else there. They’d been breathless and giggling, and it hadn’t quite felt right.
Maybe it’s because Carrie couldn’t handle the intimacy, how the dark seemed to make Nick more knowing, and how it became harder to hide. She’d wanted to spill secrets, let them drip over her lips and fall in the gaps between them, but she didn’t. Instead, she’d pressed her lips together and pretended she wasn’t awake at all.
This? This isn’t necessarily easier, new and unexplored territory that it is. But it feels better, safer. There is no need to be more, to do something else, to be perfect.
Nick has seen her crying, has seen her falling apart, and has only opened his arms and his heart. Carrie doesn’t if she can ever repay that, doesn’t know how to begin even doing such a thing.
Stirring, she knees something hard that has her cursing. It’s enough to make Nick stir too, but after she freezes, he settles once again. They’d stayed up late watching movie after movie, until Carrie’s eyes had slipped close. She doesn’t remember what film she’d fallen asleep in, can’t even remember what they’d been watching. However, she does remember clips, flashes of colour, snatches of conversation.
Time fades into something that simply drifts past her. She’s aware of its passing, but doesn’t count it. The world seems to still be holding onto that dream-like quality and Carrie is loath to let it go. She doesn’t know what the day will hold, what her own mind will say, and she doesn’t want to spend another day holding onto her self-control by her fingernails.
Then Nick shifts, waking up quietly, and Carrie knows that there is no escaping the breaking of day.
“Hey,” he says, voice bleary with sleep and whisper-soft. Like this, it’s gentle; the harshness of the world stripped away from it. His eyelashes flutter against his cheek and, this close, she can count the individual eyelashes. “How are you feeling?”
The question jars her back to reality, fractures the softness that she was clinging to. She could lie, could pretend that after last night things are back to normal. Only, it’s not a normal that Carrie wishes for.
“I’m…” She trails off. What is she? She’s not her normal, not really okay, but she’s not still breaking down. At least, she hopes she’s not.
However, what comes after the breakdown? She hadn’t planned her breakdown when thinking about how to be a better person. She’s not sure where to go from here. There are no clearly laid steps, only uncertainty and fog.
She shrugs as best she can. “I don’t know.”
When she dares look at Nick, he doesn’t look happy exactly, but… he looks pleased, perhaps. He doesn’t speak, however, just gets up. He’s still wearing the clothes from last night, which Carrie likely should’ve expected. His grey top has creases, matching the pillow creases on his face, and one side of his tracksuit pants has ridden up until just below his knee.
He stretches and Carrie follows his lead, getting out of the bed. She picks up his laptop, almost lost amongst the blankets, and walks over to place it on the laptop. As she plugs the charger in, she wonders if this is strange. The familiarity between them remains the same, but the label on their relationship has changed.
Nick isn’t watching her though, instead he searches through a draw and emerges with a hairbrush in hand. For a second, he pauses, looking at uncertain as Carrie feels. “You can brush your hair if you want,” he says, “but—if you want—I could brush it for you?”
They haven’t done this, not really. It had felt too intimate, something that Carrie couldn’t allow. But now… Well, now it didn’t really feel like a big deal at all.
“Sure,” she says, hoping that Nick won’t notice that her voice is off. She remembers, suddenly, sitting in a chair and her dad behind her, brushing her hair until there hadn’t been a single knot left. “How- How do you want to do this?”
He shrugs, and Carrie finds herself grateful that he looks unsure as she is. At least, in this, they are on equal footing, together traversing new ground. He straightens the covers of the bed, repositioning everything so that it was neat. “You sit in front of me?” He suggests. “Afterward, we can go have breakfast.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Carrie says. When Nick pats the bed, she cautiously sits down, crossing her legs and turning her back to him. She feels him separate her hair into rough chunks. He holds a section as he begins brushing it, wary of tugging or pulling it.
“Let me know if I hurt you,” he says. Carrie hums. She closes her eyes and finds her shoulders relaxing, tension slowly being drawn away from her spine. It’s surprisingly nice. She trusts him at her back, and he’s gentle as he detangles knots.
Eventually, Carrie finds herself leaning back into Nick’s hands. He runs his fingers through her hair once it’s been brushing out, slowly weaving and tugging bits as he goes. It’s been a long time since Carrie’s worn her hair in any other style but her normal.
“You never need to tell me anything,” Nick says, “but if you ever want to talk to someone, I’m here.”
Carrie swallows. She had thought—well, it doesn’t matter anymore. She’s not quite sure if she really believes him. He means what he says, she knows him well enough to hear the sincerity, but she doesn’t know if she can bring herself to really trust that she can tell him anything.
After all, there are so many awful things that Carrie’s done, so many things she’s said, so many wrongs she can never right. No matter what she wants, she hasn’t changed—not overnight, not in a week. She’s still fractured shards, jagged edges, more likely to injure anyone who reaches out for her. And yet, Nick is here, offering access to his heart.
Has Nick always been like this? She thinks so. He’s always been far too willing to offer up his heart, all its softness, all its gentleness, and protects it with a defence easily splintered. Carrie only hopes that the splinters never hit him.
“Alright,” Nick says, when she doesn’t answer. “Let’s go get breakfast.” He places the hairbrush away and leads her down the stairs. As they walk down a hallway, Carrie catches her reflection in the glass covering a picture. She doesn’t look like she did last night, drenched and pale and unrecognisable. Her reflection still isn’t recognisable, but for a different reason.
Her hair is braided back, wispy strands pulled back, and it falls down her back in loose waves. A half-up Dutch braid, Carrie remembers Kayla telling her one day. It looks nice and it’s not something she’s ever worn just for fun before. She looks well-rested too, no sign of yesterday’s tears. It’s almost like she’s a new person.
She can only hope.
“Where’s your family?” She hasn’t seen any of them today.
“They’ve gone out for breakfast,” Nick says as they reach the kitchen. “Do you feel like pancakes? I feel like pancakes.”
Carrie shrugs when he looks at her. “Pancakes work,” she says. She watches as Nick moves about, clearly at ease in the kitchen. “Can I do anything to help?”
“It’s okay,” Nick says. “I like cooking.”
“I didn’t know that.”
She never claimed to be a good person, but she’d hoped she was at least somewhat good to Nick, but perhaps she hadn’t been. How much doesn’t she know? What hasn’t she paid attention to?
“Not many people do,” Nick says, “I don’t really advertise it. It’s something just for me really. Hey, you can choose some music if you want. There’s a Bluetooth speaker hidden at the top of the cupboards.”
Carrie’s phone is upstairs, messages still unanswered. Nick, however, just slides his phone across and Carrie unlocks it with a swipe of her finger. She scrolls through Spotify, pausing at some of the songs she sees, before finally choosing an old album she hasn’t heard in ages.
As it begins to play, Nick smiles. “This is a good album,” he says. He hums along to the song and Carrie finds herself harmonizing without a thought.
This is music as it should be, she thinks, void of sad songs and tragedy torn through it. This is music that isn’t grey. It’s the glow of a sunrise, colour streaked across the sky. It dances through the air, doesn’t contrast the silence but compliments it. Like this, Carrie thinks she could want to sing, want to create.
“I’m sorry,” Carrie says.
Nick looks at her, gaze steady. “You’ve already apologised,” he says simply, pouring batter into a pan. It sizzles.
Licking her lips, Carrie drops her gaze to the counter. It’s cold and smooth beneath her fingers. “I’m sorry for shutting you out,” she says, “and not letting you help. I… I got lost.” She presses her lips together, not entirely sure how to explain. “It was like… there was this abyss or something, and I was just falling down it. I dived in because I wanted to be better, wanted to be more, wanted to be perfect. But perfection’s just a black hole in the end.”
“Carrie,” Nick reaches out, takes hold of her hand. She’s trembling, she realises. It feels like a distant realisation. “It’s okay. I forgive you. You need to forgive yourself.”
It sounds much easier said than done. How could she possibly forgive herself? She needs to be-
“You’re enough,” Nick says, “as you are. You are enough in trying to be more. Maybe you don’t believe me, but I hope you one day will.”
She meets his gaze as he puts a pancake on a plate for her. He slides it across to her and doesn’t say anything more. Swallowing, Carrie tries to imagine it. She tries to imagine a future where she is happy, where she has forgiven herself, where she is enough just as she is. It seems impossible.
Can she be better? Can she forgive herself? Is it enough to try?
Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t. Right now, though, Carrie tries not to think about it. Instead, she listens to the soft sounds of the song, smells the pancake sizzling on the pan, and smiles at Nick. “I’m lucky enough with you as a friend,” she says, and means it too.
Nick smiles at her. “We’re lucky to have each other,” he agrees, and his voice sounds like hope for something better. And, somehow, Carrie finds herself hopeful too.