I watched Carson tip back another glass of expensive Champagne out of the corner of my eye, wondering what was wrong with him and when I should bring it up. During the last-minute engagement celebration for Hillary and Eric probably wasn’t the best time. Luckily, Carson and I were roomies, which gave me lots of time to wonder what had been distracting him so much.

I’d been noticing it more and more lately. At the café earlier, he’d been somewhere else mentally, which was really unlike him. One of the things I loved most about him was his ability to ignore everything but the present. Actually, make that one of the things I both loved and hated about him.

But complaining about my next-to-perfect life seemed a bit too narcissistic. Everything had been amazing with Carson and I since the very beginning and, after a few rough patches that had mostly centered around his inexperience in living with someone he actually liked—i.e. someone he wasn’t related to—I couldn’t be happier.

Okay, that was a lie. I could be happier, but I didn’t know how. Some small part of me felt like something was missing. I just couldn’t figure out what it was. Maybe what bothered Carson was that he knew something was bothering me? Great, neither of us knew what the hell was going on. Time for some serious relationship evaluation. Internally, of course, because relationship evaluation was the one thing Carson completely sucked at. Thankfully, he was good at all the other parts, so it didn’t matter. You don’t need to assess a situation that’s really great, right?

He loved me. I loved him. We never fought and—

Maybe that was it. Other than my parents, couples fought. It was totally normal, healthy even. What wasn’t normal was for two people to be around each other so much and never fight. Maybe that’s what Carson and I needed.

As stupid as the idea was, it also made sense considering who our parental role models were. I’d never learned how to fight, and Carson had never learned how to fight without things getting violent. Stick us together and you had a non-confrontational powder keg ready to blow up any second.

Pick your battles suddenly meant something different. Maybe I needed to commit, pick something small so we could practice fighting. Then, once we figured it out, I would choose a larger conflict. This was potentially the worst idea I’d ever had, but how else could we learn? And we had to learn—that I was sure of.

Hillary and Eric fought all the time, and they were engaged. Carson’s brother and his fiancée argued occasionally, I was sure, and they were getting married in a few days. Even my parents fought—not loudly and never when they thought I could hear, but I always knew when it was coming. My mom would clench her jaw and find something to busy herself with, and my dad would send me to bed. The first time I realized that was code for you need to leave so we can argue was when he’d told me it was bedtime at four o’clock in the afternoon.

And the most damning, if that’s the right way to look at it, was that I’d never fought with any of my ex-boyfriends. And those relationships were doomed. So, yeah, damning was the right way to look at it. I couldn’t let Carson’s and my relationship go that route. Being able to fight properly, and make up properly, were two things healthy couples did. Especially because I knew eventually we’d have something big to fight about and, if we weren’t ready, we’d lose everything we’d worked so hard for.

Ever since we finally realized we wanted to be together, the only stuff we fought about were things that could be fixed with a joke or a kiss. Taking the last of the coffee or leaving the toilet seat up weren’t exactly declarations of war.

Carson caught me staring and leaned closer, setting his glass down so he could brush my hair behind my ear. I don’t care how many times he touched me, that rush of adrenaline would never go away.

He kissed my cheek and whispered, “You want another drink, gorgeous?”

I didn’t answer right away because I knew as soon as I did, he’d go get it for me. And I wanted to enjoy the warmth of his breath a little longer.

“Another round?” Eric asked loudly.

Hillary answered immediately. “Hell, yeah, my almost-husband.”

“Can’t see that getting old anytime soon,” I teased. Over the last half hour, she’d been calling him a different variation of it every time she spoke. Almost-husband, it’s-about-time-you-asked-man, soon-to-be-groom, or future Mr. Miller—which he balked at. Evidently, he wouldn’t be taking her name after they got married.

I laughed and felt Carson pull away. Something was definitely wrong. Maybe I wouldn’t have to pick a fight, after all. Maybe it would happen organically. Damn, I hoped we were ready for it.

---

I dumped my bag on the table I’d designed for our apartment. Our apartment. I would never get used to that. Aside from the fact I’d never be able to afford this place on my own—not that he let me pay for any of it, of course—it just felt weird to think of something that had been his for so long as partially mine. I adored living here, though.

The whole place was a reclaimed-wood showcase for my designs now. To the point where I’d started refusing to sell him anything else because my shins and hip bones were already bruised from walking into tables, stools, and desks all the time. Plus, I was trying to build a name for myself as an artist, which meant people actually had to see the art to be able to buy it. Thankfully, I’d been able to get a larger warehouse space, one with a back room Carson wasn’t allowed in, where I could hide any new pieces I’d finished working on.

My suitcases were packed and ready for our trip to Tahiti for Carson's brother Hayden's marriage to his incredible fiancée Andi. Since I’d never actually been to an island, I may have overdone it. I wasn’t sure what was appropriate attire, but you couldn’t go wrong with layers, right? Lots and lots of layers. And lingerie because Carson loved it. And way too many shoes. We were only going to be there for seven days—two before the wedding and five after, so we could explore by ourselves and pretend we were shipwrecked. Maybe I wouldn’t need all those layers, after all. Or any, actually.

If I knew Carson, he’d make me close my eyes and imagine our ship going down in a huge storm. As the waves got bigger and tossed our poor little vessel around, he’d shake me for authenticity. Then he’d start tearing my clothes off—because, obviously, that would happen in a storm—until I was in my underwear. We’d spend the next five days living off coconuts and mangos. Oh, man, now I’d screwed myself. If he didn’t do that, I’d be so disappointed. I’d probably spend the entire trip pouting and horny. Speaking of…

I turned around when he was right behind me and slid my hands over his shoulders. “Are you still in the mood to celebrate?”

He didn’t move, like, not even to grope me. “What’s there to celebrate?” he snapped. Then he moved—to create empty space between us. For the first time ever.

“What’s going on?”

“I just want to go to bed.” He brushed by me and headed toward the bedroom.

“That’s what I was hinting at,” I mumbled, knowing our motivations were completely different. Totally clueless as to why, though. “Carson, what’s wrong?”

He turned in the doorway, resting an arm on one side of the jamb, rubbing his lips together but not looking at me. “Do you ever wonder if you’d be better off with someone like Eric? Someone…with a little insight into what he wants out of life?”

Oh, shit. Everything had been going so well. Too well. For a second, I felt like I’d just stepped out of my body and was watching the two of us stand there, fifteen feet away from each other, not understanding a goddamn thing. And for another second, I wondered if I was witnessing the beginning of the end. When two people stopped being able to understand each other or express what was going on.

When two people started falling apart.