I give him a teasing smile. "The Globe has a therapist column, you know."
He chuckles. "God, do I love you. And I wish I had made a hundred different decisions. I should have told you about my father. I should have trusted you with that information, instead of withholding it. I'm sorry I'm related to him. If I could change that too, believe me, I would."
I look down at his hand covering mine. Slowly, I cover it with my other one too. "Honesty," I say. "It has to be the cornerstone going forward."
"I'll tell you everything. So much, kid, you'll ask me to shut up."
I laugh. "I don't think I'll ever do that."
"You will. Just wait." His free hand comes up beneath my chin, tipping my head back. "Does this mean you forgive me? It's okay if it takes time. If you never do. What I did was unforgivable."
I look into the hesitant, loving, vulnerable eyes across from mine. He's never said these words to anyone, I realize. It's a kick to my soul, reverberating in tune to his across the table.
"Not unforgivable," I say. "It wasn't your fault that your dad did what he did, you know."
"I know," he answers.
A bit too quickly.
"It wasn't. Not any of it."
"Well, he didn't care enough to stay out of prison for his children," Carter says. "Felt pretty personal."
"That was a reflection on him, not you."
He shakes his head slowly, and I know this is a conversation for another time. But I'm not going to forget about his answer.
"I'm sorry," he says again. "If I keep saying it, I worry it'll come off as insincere. But I know I have a hundred times left to say it before I come close to making up for it."
I shake my head. "You don't."
"Finding my father is one of your life missions. I remember. And I hid that from you." He reaches into the pocket of his jacket and pulls out a neatly folded wad of papers. "Here."
"What's this?"
"Ammunition," he says.
I unfold the pieces of paper. Pictures of his father. His prison sentence. Documents from the court case. Lists of the crimes he committed. And beneath it, a list of possible aliases he used. I see Carter's name several times amongst them.
"Carter…" I whisper.
"Expose him," he says. "Use him as the leading example in your article. I don't care. His real name is Mark Fischer."
Tears come to my eyes. "He's your father."
"He stopped being that a long time ago. I changed my last name to my mother's six months after he went to prison."
"But he's your sibling's father. Your mother's ex-husband. I'm not going to do this." I push the papers to the side and reach for him. The table is narrow enough to let me, my hands settling on the sides of his face. The stubble tickles my skin. "Carter," I say. "You don't have to atone for his crimes."
He gives a tiny nod.
There's more to talk about. But in this moment, there's only one thing left to say.
"So you love me?"
His lips curl into the smile I love the most. The genuine one, lighting up his eyes. It makes my insides flutter. "Yes," he says. "More than I know what to do with."
"I love you too," I tell him. "But don't worry, I have a few ideas."
His smile widens. "You'll have to show me."
He kisses me for longer than is appropriate in public. At some point, we notice the appearance of mozzarella-oozing pizzas beneath us on the table, but neither of us reacted when they were put down.
And surprise, surprise… it's the best pizza I've ever had.
"Essential Reporting: A Guide for Journalists ," I say, putting the frayed book into her brand-new bookcase. I pull another from the box. "The Count of Monte Cristo . There are some highs and lows here, kid."
"A classic!" she calls from the kitchen. It's an actual kitchen, too. When we first visited the rental, she'd swooned when she saw the full-sized fridge.
Thats when I knew I had her.
I pick up another book. "A Narrative History of the Free Press, " I read. "God, I'm dating a nerd, aren't I?"
Audrey laughs in the kitchen. It's my favorite sound. I've tried to lure it out over and over in the past three weeks, as many times as I can, to make up for the time when I didn't have it in my life.
"You're a nerd too! I caught you reading expense reports before bed last night."
I smile down at the books I'm unboxing. She'd insisted I didn't have to help her move, and I'd told her, in all honesty, that doing anything at all is better than not being with her.
"It's happy reading now," I call back. "I fall asleep with a smile on my face."
She sticks her head out of the doorway, curls falling in bouncy patterns around her head. "So that smile had nothing to do with me last night, did it?"
I give her a slow grin back. "Oh, it certainly did."
Her cheeks color and she looks so adorably proud of herself that I can't help myself. "I love you," I say.
She laughs and ducks back into the kitchen. "You said that yesterday night too! After you finished."
I reach for another book, still smiling. Oh, I'd finished all right. Or more aptly-she'd finished me off. In her mouth. It had been surprising and amazing and she'd looked up at me with delighted surprise afterwards.
"You know what my favorite thing about this place is?" she says. There's the rustle of cutlery as she pours it into a drawer.
"The lock?"
"No, but that's a close second."
"The kitchen," I say.