Chapter 4: Dinner with the Devil

Then Carter moved in.

He rolled up with a U-Haul, a couple of his buddies, and a mountain of boxes with his name scrawled in Sharpie. The neighborhood moms peeked through their curtains, whispering about the new kid on the block.

My mom showed up at his door with a plate of fruit: “Honey, are you living alone?”

She said it with her best Southern hospitality smile, already plotting to feed him a proper dinner. Carter straightened up, suddenly all “Yes, ma’am,” and “Thank you, ma’am.”

When he saw my mom, he turned on the charm: “My parents fight all the time. I’m worried it’ll mess up my grades.”

He said it with this kicked-puppy look, like he’d been through a lifetime of family drama. My mom’s heart melted right there.

Me: “…What’s there to affect? Your GPA barely scrapes a 2.0.”

He shot me a dirty look, but my mom just tutted and handed him another slice of watermelon.

After that, he became a regular at my house, bringing fancy whiskey to score a free meal. He even called my dad ‘bro,’ slinging an arm around his shoulder like they were long-lost pals.

He’d show up at dinnertime, grinning like he owned the place, and my dad would just shake his head, already setting out an extra plate. My parents didn’t even bother asking anymore.

At meals, he’d help serve and set the table; afterward, he’d be the first to grab a sponge and wash the dishes.

My mom especially liked him: “Carter, whichever girl marries you is really lucky.”

She said it with a wink, and Carter grinned, pretending to be shy. The rest of us just rolled our eyes, but it was obvious he’d won her over.

When my parents weren’t around, he’d pop over just to say, “Don’t get any ideas—in this life, I’ll never marry you!”

As if anyone cared about his drama.

It was like he’d been professionally trained—Carter was weirdly handy to have around.

He’d peel shrimp for me at dinner, even pick out whole chunks of crab meat.

My favorite grapefruit? He’d peel it, pick out the seeds, and drop it off at my desk like it was nothing.

For the half watermelon my parents gave us, he’d scoop out all the seeds and leave the sweetest center for me. He even carved it into a heart shape, like he was auditioning for a rom-com.

And he’d explain, looking guilty: “I’m just generous by nature. Don’t get the wrong idea, okay?”

He blurted it out so fast he almost tripped over his own words. I just rolled my eyes and took another bite.

Diego and I are both in the honors class. Every week, we’d walk to the other campus for extra classes, both aiming for Stanford.

During the summer before junior year, both Diego and I got invited to Stanford’s summer camp.

So we ended up talking more than usual.

Carter couldn’t sit still: “Can you keep it down? Your happiness is seriously distracting me.”

He said it with a pout, slouched in his seat, shooting death glares at both of us. Diego just ignored him, flipping another page of his calculus book.

Diego looked annoyed: “Is his head still scrambled?”

I said, “Just ignore him.”

Carter puffed up like a pufferfish, tossing and turning in his seat like a restless puppy.

He even made a show of using his phone right in front of me, screen brightness maxed out: (texting) How much would you let your girlfriend hang out with other guys?

As if he was worried I wouldn’t see, he set the font to jumbo size.

His answer was heartbreak central: (texting) As long as she doesn’t bring home another guy, her happiness is what matters most.

I lost it and smacked him: “Are you out of your mind?!”

That was the first time I’d ever hit anyone.

Carter was stunned, and so were his buddies. They immediately started damage control: “Nobody saw anything! Nobody mentions this! Got it?!”

Diego came back into the classroom and called out: “Heard you got smacked by your girlfriend, Carter?”

The whole class cracked up, and Carter just buried his face in his arms, refusing to look at anyone.

On the day I was leaving, Carter—shockingly—didn’t show up to see me off.

I called an Uber, slid in, hadn’t even closed the door yet when a hand grabbed it.

“You’re really leaving? For how many days? Will you come back? Will you still love me when you come back?”

Carter put on this whole desperate sitcom routine, acting like a housewife from a soap opera.

But this time, he actually seemed serious—even his eyes were red.

He looked like he hadn’t slept all night, hair sticking out in every direction, dark circles under his eyes. For once, all the bravado was gone—just raw, honest worry.

Afraid the driver would get annoyed, I hurried, “Goodbye!”

“Will we really see each other again, babe?” He still clung to the door. “Promise me you’ll be happy when we meet again!”

I couldn’t take it, shoved him away, and slammed the door: “Let’s go, please.”

The car started rolling, and Carter actually chased after it, yelling: “You have to be brave, you have to be happy—”

His voice faded as the Uber pulled away, but I watched him in the rearview mirror—still waving, still shouting, still being Carter Reed. Impossible to ignore, even when he was nothing but a blur in the distance.