Chapter Text
“What’s one thing in your life you’ve never done, but you wish you had?”
The question comes as they’re lying side-by-side on the rooftop of Greta’s apartment building, staring up at the stars. It’s a peaceful night, an easy night; the kind of night Carson’s gotten used to in the past few weeks, the kind she never wants to stop having.
Coming to New York had been inevitable. Three months and a messy divorce later and Carson had finally had her fuck it moment, feeling herself growing more and more impatient with the distance between them. They’d written, and called, speaking for hours as Carson gripped the telephone so tightly her knuckles went white, culminating in one late November evening. Carson had been in a frenzy over her lease ending, the short, three-month tenancy only ever a temporary one, but housing in Detroit had been in short supply, her part-time job in a library not paying nearly enough to move up the property ladder. Greta had listened, and sympathised, and waited patiently for Carson to lay all her fears on the table, before answering, simply, come to New York.
So she had. Overnight trains and ludicrously-expensive cabs and, briefly, a bus engine failure somewhere near Allentown had led her to Brooklyn, delivered her to Greta and given her for the first time in her life an understanding of what it really means to feel like you’re coming home. She’d never felt joy in her life quite like seeing Greta for the first time at Union Station, eyes locking across the concourse like every shitty romance novel had described; she’d used every ounce of willpower she had to stop herself from running across the station and kissing Greta like she was her last source of oxygen. Instead, she’d fallen into step beside her, let their fingers brush together, and walked into a world she’d been dreaming of since she stepped off that porch in Rockford.
She’d worried briefly that it’d feel stilted, that the dynamic they’d had would somehow have changed in the time apart, but living with Greta is the most at ease she’s ever felt in her life, days filled with a breezy domesticity she’d never had with Charlie. Greta works at Vivienne’s Monday to Friday, Carson picks up tutoring jobs where she can, spending the rest of the time getting to know New York, bringing Greta the occasional lunch at the office, reading her way through the Red Hook branch of the Brooklyn Public Library. They wash dishes together, dance around the room to Greta’s tiny radio, walk down to the harbourfront, tumble into bed together, laughing, chatting, touching. It’s bliss.
“I always wanted to see the Utah Salt Flats.”
Greta shifts onto her side, looking at Carson as she hums. “Utah, huh. Got a hankering for Mormons?”
Carson chuckles as she shuffles in closer. It’s freezing out, a typical January night, but they’re bundled up to the nines against the heating vent, huddled close in the privacy of the rooftop. Greta’s hair is sticking out at all angles from underneath her knitted hat, breath visible in the frosty air. Carson kisses her - she can’t not, not when Greta’s eyes are sparkling at her like that. “My mom went when she was a kid. Promised to take me, but we never ended up going. I wish I’d travelled more, like, just generally, but that was always specifically where I wanted to go.”
Greta nods, threading a gloved hand through Carson’s hair. “Anywhere else along the way?”
Carson thinks for a moment. It’s been so long since she even considered the possibility of elsewhere - her life was in Idaho, and then it wasn’t, and that was that. “Somewhere with good music,” she decides. “Jazz, or swing, or even some kind of folk country stuff. Somewhere easy. Somewhere I can just kick back and enjoy myself.”
“Yeah.”
“How about you?”
Greta sighs. “Everywhere. As a kid I always wanted to start by visiting every state. Then go to Europe, and visit every country. Then Asia, then Africa, and so on.”
“How many states have you been to?”
“Thirteen. Mostly New England, a few others around the Midwest.” Greta rolls onto her back, reaching for Carson’s hand as she stares up at the sky. “I just wanna see it all, y’know?”
“Yeah. I learned to drive, after Charlie got drafted. Always had this dream of just going all over, bundling up in a shitty car and hitting the road.” Carson turns her head, looking at Greta, who hums in response. “Never had the money for it. Or the courage, really. But I still think about it, sometimes.”
Silence settles between them, comfortable, minutes passing slowly as Carson squeezes Greta’s hand. It’s a surprisingly clear night above them, stars visible above the haze of the city, and she thinks back to the first time they lay staring at the sky together, all those months ago in Rockford. It feels at once as if it were yesterday and a world away, a whole other universe back when they were dancing around each other, still trying not to give in to the pull.
“Why don’t we?”
The response breaks through the quiet, and Carson frowns. “What?”
Greta rolls back over, facing her. “Why don’t we? Hit the road?”
“I don’t–”
“You can drive. I can drive. A little, anyway. We’ve still got two months before the season starts.”
“Greta–”
“I have savings. We could rent one of those vans, the ones people go camping in.” Greta’s eyes are lighting up, and Carson feels a slow smile taking over her face, a tingling feeling in the pit of her stomach. “We could go to Utah.”
“Or California.”
“Or both.”
It’s ridiculous. It’s stupid, and improbable, and fantastical, but Carson doesn’t care. Not when Greta’s looking at her like that, adventure in her eyes, the kind of glint she only ever gets when they’re about to do something just on the right side of reckless. Greta isn’t someone particularly accustomed to freedom, at least, not in the way that matters, and Carson wants nothing more than to hand that feeling to her on a silver platter however and whenever she can.
Greta stares at her, a smile forming on her face as she sees Carson thinking. “You’re considering it.”
“Might be.”
“You want to do it.”
“Might do.”
“Carson–”
“What about your job?”
Greta shrugs. “I’ll miss it, sure. But Vivienne knew I’d only ever be there temporarily. I can talk to her on Monday, see what my options are.”
Something is sparking in Carson that feels suspiciously like hope. “And you wouldn’t mind leaving early?”
“What, to go across the country with my girlfriend, something I’ve dreamed of since I was twelve? Are you kidding?”
No matter how many times Greta refers to her as my girlfriend, Carson still gets that adoring feeling in her chest. “I just want to make sure–”
“Carson,” Greta taps the end of her nose affectionately, smiling. “If you want to do this, I’m all in. I’m all in. I love my job, but it’ll be there waiting for me next off-season.” She sits up, Carson feeling a rush of cold air at the absence of her body next to her. “C’mon,” Greta extends a hand, pulling Carson to her feet and giggling as snow starts to gently fall around them, a snowflake landing on her cheekbone. “See? It’s a sign. Now come inside and get warm.”
“Thought you didn’t believe in signs.”
“I told you, I believe in ice cubes. Snowflakes aren’t that far off.”
“They’re so different–”
“Carson–”
“Alright, alright, it’s a sign” she takes Greta’s proffered hand, grinning at her exasperation as Greta turns them to the fire escape. “Let’s go plan a road trip.”
Greta gets home from work Monday evening with a map of the United States, a magazine, and a spring in her step. “Vivienne said she’ll be sorry to lose me early, but if I want to put in my two weeks, she’s happy to have me back next year,” she relays before Carson’s even had a chance to say hello, leaning in for a kiss. “So–”
“We’re going?”
“We’re going.”
Carson couldn’t stop the grin on her face even if she wanted to, pulling Greta into an excited hug. “Dinner’s nearly ready,” she mumbles into her shoulder, and Greta kisses her head, rubbing her back as she squeezes her close.
“You’re perfect.”
They chat aimlessly over a shared chicken pot pie, talking about routes they want to take, monuments to see, whether they want to take a chance on cheap motels or get some kind of mobile trailer to save their money for sightseeing. Greta cracks the wine out, winking at Carson as she does. “I think this counts as a special occasion,” she quips, as Carson throws her a grin, clearing their plates and getting her pencils on the way back as they move over to the couch, spreading the map out over the coffee table.
“North first, or south?”
“South, I think. If we leave on the morning of the twenty-fourth, we could be in Virginia by the afternoon.”
Tracing the routes on Greta’s map has Carson in her element. She scours the lines, looking at where they could stop, where would be most efficient, pointing out rest stops and attractions as Greta tops their glasses up. “Tennessee has good music, apparently,” Greta comments, settling herself on the sofa, running a hand across the small of Carson’s back. “Nashville, Memphis, I always read about them. If we started through Virginia, we could stop there for a few days.”
Carson nods, tracing a light pencil line down the I-81. Greta leans in, resting her chin on Carson’s shoulder as she surveys the map. “Then up through Oklahoma to Colorado, gets us on track for Utah.” Carson follows the trail, drawing a line up towards the West.
“Colorado has mountains. We could stop there for a bit? I bet they’re beautiful.”
“Sure. Find a cabin somewhere.” Greta pauses for a second, pressing a kiss to Carson’s neck. “We’ll have to be careful when we stop overnight. Two-bedroom rooms only, make sure both beds look slept in.” Her arm comes to wrap gently around Carson’s waist, settling in closer behind her. “Maybe you should wear your ring?”
Carson sighs. She knows Greta’s right, that it’ll look better, add an extra layer of safety for the both of them, but she hates the idea of putting it back on. She hadn’t been able to bring herself to throw it out - it seemed wasteful, shameful, somehow. Instead it lays buried at the back of Greta's vanity, untouched. Out of sight, out of mind. “I guess.”
“I know.” Greta kisses her shoulder, other arm making its way down to hold Carson’s hand. “I could wear it, if you want. But I think one of us should.”
The idea of Greta in her wedding ring is at once both odd and charming. She could almost pretend that it was theirs, that she’d given it to Greta out of love and not necessity, that they lived in a world where that kind of formality was granted to people like them. “Yeah. Yeah, you could wear it. If you don’t mind. If it feels weird, I’ll put it on–”
“We can always swap halfway.” Greta settles herself on Carson’s shoulder again, looking down at the map, changing the subject. “Once we get to the salt flats, we can start heading south through Nevada. Stop at some of the parks on the way to Los Angeles?”
The pencil follows suit as Carson traces the route, stopping to add more asterisks to Yosemite and Sequoia, circling Los Angeles as their final destination. She looks across the map, follows the trail, nodding to herself as she does. “I picked up a catalog at the library today. The big vans are expensive, but I think we could probably rent one of those travel trailers to hook up to a car. Might be a bit cramped, but it’s a quarter of the price.”
“We won’t really need much, just somewhere to sleep. Maybe a little kitchen, something like that.”
Carson hums in agreement, putting the map down in favour of the catalog, flipping it open to where she’d folded the top corner down. “I was looking at this one. They’re not that cheap, but if we buy second-hand then I think we could do it.” She points down to the small print. “It says the bed can be set up for a couple, or as twin beds. So it wouldn’t look odd, us getting one. I can telephone tomorrow?”
“Perfect.”
“It’s got a gas hob, and a sink, so we can cook. I think having running water gets a little complicated, but we can just get some gallon jugs to keep in the back.”
Greta nods as she takes a sip of wine. “We can take our bedding, and all of my kitchen stuff. Get some easy groceries for the journey. Not sure we’ll have the facilities for pie-baking, but I’ll live.”
“I’ll remind you of that when we’re on our fifth day of plain spaghetti.”
Carson draws back over their route, darkening the pencil marks until they’ve got a clear line running from Brooklyn to Los Angeles, curving slightly down to the South and back up again. It’s strange to think what that map represents, the sheer size of the journey difficult to imagine. “I think we’ll be on the road for about three weeks, if we’re stopping to sightsee on the way,” she comments, Greta rubbing a hand across her back.
“I’ve got about three hundred and fifty dollars saved. Then my last paycheck, which should be another seventy,” Greta leans over as Carson writes the figures down. “I know it’s a lot, but it’s got to last us. Half of it will go on the car and trailer, easy.”
“I think I’ve got about forty by now,” Carson adds her own income to the list, grateful for Vivienne’s apparent desire to pay her workers a lot better than the parents of the children Carson teaches English to. “I’ll see if there’s any jobs on the board tomorrow, try and boost it a bit. I can try and pick things up along the way, too.”
“We could always dress up as those living statues, the ones you see at Times Square. See if anyone throws a few dollars our way.” Greta’s joking, but Carson can’t help grinning at the image, painting themselves copper-rust-green and standing for hours in the middle of Oklahoma.
“Not your worst idea.”
“Not sure it’s my best, either.”
“Desperate times.”
Greta puts her wine down, turns Carson’s head to kiss her. “Better make sure they don’t get that desperate, then.”
It’s a funny feeling, packing up their entire lives.
Finding a car had been harder than expected, the first three firms outright refusing to rent any of their vehicles to unmarried women. Carson’s torn between putting up a fight and knowing Greta won’t want attention drawn to them, getting her fury out in a tirade on the rooftop as Greta smokes, nodding along. “We’ll find somewhere. Or we won’t, and then we start paying more attention to the trains. We’ll figure it out.”
She’s grateful for Greta, for her foolproof ability to keep Carson grounded. And as if by magic, the firm they visited the following day had conceded, even if they did spend a little longer staring at Carson’s licence than she deemed strictly necessary. They’d agreed on a fair price, spoken to the Los Angeles branch about leaving the rental there, and Carson had left with a beaming smile and the keys in her pocket, driving them home feeling on top of the world. Greta had been impressed at her ability to navigate the busy New York traffic, teasing her about all the other things they’d done in a car together before driving had even been an option as Carson blushed bright red.
Getting hold of a trailer had proved more of a challenge, the war effort stopping most of the manufacturers from continuing. They’d planned to leave on the twenty-fourth, pushing that back to the twenty-seventh as Carson had sat anxiously by the phone, waiting for the call to confirm they’d won their bid for a recently-refurbished Eccles pull-along caravan. Greta had come home to find her pacing up and down the hallway, biting at a hangnail so hard she was bleeding, steering her inside their apartment and patching her up with a kiss. “We’ll either get it, or we won’t. But you’ll still need both hands to drive, so stop biting them off.”
They’d lost out on that one, Carson’s stress levels rising by the day, but on the twenty-sixth a call comes through from a Henry Bryant, who’d been given their contact details by the dealership and was looking to sell on his old Trotwood. She’d accepted, met Greta at the office, and they’d driven down to collect it, the owner in question somewhat bemused at two women showing up, but more than happy to carry on with the transaction, wishing them luck as they’d hooked it up.
Greta had been slowly collecting groceries on her way back from work, various tins and packets slowly taking over the kitchen counter. They’d both been practically living out of suitcases for the last few days, clothes and accessories packed and ready. The reality of the trip had felt like an abstract concept, but now Carson finds herself hauling groceries down to the garage, Greta following behind with various pieces of kitchen equipment, finding homes for it all in the tiny cupboard lining the side. It isn’t exactly going to equate to fine dining, but they’ve got enough paraffin gas to last them, and Carson’s pretty confident they’ll at least come up with something edible, rationalising that they can always head to a diner if it gets too insufferable.
“Have you got the aspirin, or do I?”
“I’ve got it,” Carson waves the bottle at her, tucking it next to their tiny first-aid kit, stowed in the glove compartment in case they needed it. “Is the map back there?”
“Still upstairs. On the counter.”
It’s an exhausting evening, Carson cursing the lack of elevator as they trudge up and down from the seventh floor, deciding to leave the last of their suitcases until the morning as she kicks her shoes off, locking the door behind her. “I need a bath,” she moans, and Greta sticks her head out from the bathroom.
“Already running one. Mind if I join?”
“Only if you wash my hair.”
A grin as she disappears back through the door. “Deal.”
Carson strips off in their bedroom, laying her clothes out for the morning. She wanders through to the bathroom, perching on the end of the tub as Greta eyes her up and down, a smirk firmly on her face. “Bit of a treat.”
She just grins, testing the water temperature. Greta likes her baths to practically boil her alive; Carson always has to let the cold tap run for a bit, and tonight is no different as she snatches her fingers back out of the water, blowing on them. “How do you still have any skin, ” she mutters, words dying in her throat as Greta drops her robe, leaning in for a kiss.
“Trade secret.”
Greta gets in first, Carson sitting in front of her, leaning back in the warmth, groaning as it soothes her aching muscles. “Next time we’re living somewhere with an elevator. I’ll pay whatever.”
Greta’s arms wrap around her waist, pulling her in close as she peppers Carson’s shoulders with kisses. “Good stamina training, though. We’ll be fit as fiddles by April.” Carson hums a vague agreement, closing her eyes as steam rises around them. Greta nuzzles into her shoulder blades, resting her forehead against the top of Carson’s spine. “I’m really excited for tomorrow.”
“Me too. Feels weird, but like, good weird. Exciting weird.”
“Yeah. Exciting weird.” Greta shifts them both to sink lower into the water, tracing idle patterns on Carson’s stomach and chuckling as she flinches, ticklish. “I hate to do this now, but can we go over some ground rules? It’s been a while since we didn’t have our own space.”
As much as Carson hates having to boil down their behaviours, she knows it’s what Greta needs to feel safe, nodding. “Twin beds everywhere, I remember.” She turns to kiss the side of Greta’s head. “We’ll sleep together in the caravan, right? Just make it up the next morning?”
“Yeah. We can keep the blinds closed, and the lock seems sturdy enough.”
“What else?”
Greta thinks for a moment. “We need a cover story. Why we’re travelling, I mean. If I’m wearing your ring, I can always say my husband was sent home from the front. I don’t really know how it all works, do they send them to specific hospitals? Or just wherever has a bed?”
“Wherever has a bed, I think.”
“Okay.” Greta kisses her shoulder again, settling her chin there. “So, my husband was sent back. And you’re my cousin, generously agreeing to chaperone me back West at his request.”
Carson chuckles to herself, nodding. “Alright, cousin. What’s your husband’s name?”
“Clark.”
“Clark?”
“Like Clark Gable. The actor. All the girls in my year were swooning over him.”
“Okay, Mrs. Gable,” Carson grins, hand resting gently on Greta’s thigh in the water. “Any others?”
“No night driving.”
She hadn’t expected that one, not sure what difference it makes to the perceptions of their relationship, but Greta continues. “I can drive, but I’m not very good, and I don’t want you getting hurt by trying to go through to the morning. We’ll pull over in a ditch if we have to, but that’s the point of having that trailer. I don’t want you getting hurt, or too tired.”
The consideration in Greta’s voice has Carson melting into her, nodding with a gentle smile as she squeezes Greta’s thigh. “Okay. No night driving. Promise.”
“And if it gets too much, if you want to turn back just say the word. I want to have fun, but if you’re doing the bulk of the work, I want you to be able to stop when you need to.”
“You’re too good to me,” Carson murmurs, feeling Greta’s soft smile at the nape of her neck. “Twin beds, careful with the caravan layout, you’re married to a movie star, no night driving, and we stop if it’s too tiring.”
“That should cover it.”
Carson turns to kiss her properly, a hand weaving through Greta’s curls as she does, ignoring the splash of water that jumps over the edge of the tub as she rolls herself over. “We’re gonna have the best time, Greta. We’re gonna see everything.”
“It’s going to be great,” Greta agrees as she kisses her again, before gently turning her over to start washing her hair for her, scooping warm water and working it through Carson’s locks. “And that’s Mrs. Gable to you.”
The rest of their last night in the flat feels stranger than Carson had anticipated. Two weeks of non-stop planning had sailed past, packing lists made and dutifully followed, the sight of their home for the foreseeable future parked neatly in the garage of Greta’s apartment building a pleasant feeling as they’d headed upstairs, suitcases by the door. Carson sinks back into the pillows as she watches Greta set her curls at the vanity, uncharacteristically bare with most of her beauty tools already packed and ready. Greta catches her eye in the mirror, winks at her. “Won’t be long.”
Carson grins at her, putting her book aside; she’s not been following the text for at least four pages, too distracted by the sight of her girlfriend, a common theme across their time together. “I can’t believe we’re actually doing this.”
Greta slots the last hairpin into place, standing and turning the light off, leaving them with only the dim glow of their bedside lamp. “Me neither.” She crosses the room, sliding into bed as Carson opens her arms, warmth flooding her bones as Greta settles herself down. She presses a kiss to Greta’s forehead, smiles as Greta hums, burrowing further in as Carson curls herself around her.
She used to think the nights apart were for the best. She could convince herself that the separation stopped her from falling too quickly, that she didn’t spend night after night aching for Greta in a way that felt like physical pain. The distance kept them safe, she told herself repeatedly, they were less likely to be caught if they kept to their respective rooms. Besides, if Carson so much as turns over it wakes Shirley up; sneaking Greta in was never a possibility, even at her most desperate.
But now she knows what it’s like to hold Greta close, night after night after night. She knows what it is to have Greta come home to her, to hear the familiar click of the lock in the key and feel a tingle of excitement in her stomach. She knows the feeling of Greta burrowed into her so well she thinks she could describe it in her sleep, could map out their bodies with pin-point accuracy. The way Greta’s arm stretches across her ribcage, rising and falling with Carson’s breaths, how their legs tangle together, the soft smell of Greta’s shampoo as she tucks her head under Carson’s chin. It’s a reversal from the early days of Greta taking charge; Carson understands now how desperately Greta needs someone to hold her for a change, to stroke her hair and whisper to her as she drifts to sleep.
She doesn’t know that she can go back to how things were in Rockford, creeping around and spending the nights by herself, listening to Shirley's humidifiers instead of Greta's even breathing. She's drawn herself a line in the sand, and she's not all that confident she can wipe it away, holding Greta tighter as the apprehension begins to take hold.
“Whatcha thinkin’, chickadee?”
Carson shakes her head, hand playing with the baby hairs at the nape of Greta’s neck. “Nothing much. Just that I’m gonna miss this, when the season starts. Getting to be with you.”
Greta smiles at her, one of those soft, gentle smiles that Carson has come to learn are reserved for her. “Let’s live in the present, then.” She presses a kiss to Carson’s jaw before nuzzling her head back under her chin, sighing contentedly. “Tomorrow we’re going on a fabulous road trip. We’re gonna see the sights, and eat all the food, and hear all the music. And when we’ve seen the sights, and eaten the food, and heard the music–” Carson can’t help the giggle that escapes her at Greta’s checklist, “then we’re gonna pile back into our shitty, secondhand trailer, or whatever hotel we can’t afford, and we get to have all night together too. Just us.”
Sometimes, Greta comes out with statements that make Carson feel like she’s in a dream. That are so precisely what she needs to hear it’s as if Greta is reading her mind. “Yeah,” she says, letting Greta’s words sink into her brain, running them over. “Yeah, we do.” She breathes out, letting the worries of the future evaporate into the dim light, kisses Greta’s hair as Greta draws the blankets up over them, resting her head back against Carson’s sternum.
It’s a quiet night out. Carson’s usually the first to doze off, the weight of Greta against her soothing her into sleep, the feeling of her giving Carson’s body something to focus on instead of the thousand thoughts flying around her brain at any given moment. Tonight, though, she contents herself by staring out of the window, stroking a hand lazily up and down Greta’s back as she sleeps. She thinks back to where she was a year ago - back in Idaho, anxiously reading about the launch of the All-American Girls Professional Baseball League, lying awake trying to talk herself out of getting on a train to Illinois even when she knew she was always going to. She thinks back to Carson-from-a-year-ago, wonders what she’d think if she was confronted by her future self.
She doesn’t know which part would be the most remarkable; that she’s divorced, that she’s a professional baseball player, that she has a girlfriend, that she’s about to drive across the country with said girlfriend, all of it would have been earth-shaking. She wouldn’t have believed it, even if blessed with the gift of foresight and shown it all like a movie. I don’t think I’m the kind of person who has a destiny, she’d told Greta, all those months ago, back when Greta was just an alluring stranger with a hair mister and a tendency to sneak a look at things that didn’t belong to her.
Well, I guess you get to decide that, don’t you?
It’s not particularly clear whether she had decided it, or whether the luck Greta doesn’t believe in had been responsible for the past almost-year, but Carson finds she’s surprisingly content to simply ride the wave. To make the decisions that needed to be made and let the fates handle the rest of it. Whatever it is that brought her to Greta, Carson’s thankful every day, every minute she gets to hold Greta a divine blessing from a God she’s not prayed to since she was ten. Leaving Idaho, taking a gamble and betting on herself for once - it was the best decision she’s ever made.
The memory makes her think about her mother. That ability to get up and go, run into the wind and let the cards fall where they may, it’s something she’d always believed was an omen, a part of her to lock away and punish herself with until she’d finally squashed the impulse altogether. But these days it doesn’t feel like damnation. It feels like absolution. In running, she’d found the Peaches. She’d found Rockford. She’d found Greta, who lights up her whole world, makes Carson feel like she deserves freedom from the lingering idea of her wrongdoings, of what she’s always felt to be her mother’s curse. Greta has her own ghosts, more than Carson thinks she knows about, but the two of them push each other further into the light. Less an undoing of the past, more of a quiet acceptance, an embracing of their respective hauntings and a promise to stick around regardless. Something that says here, stay with me. I’ll keep you safe. You watch my back, and I’ll watch yours.
Greta shifts in her sleep, murmurs something Carson can’t quite hear, and she’s brought back to the present, wrapping her arms tighter around her girlfriend. Greta unconsciously burrows further into her, nuzzling her nose into Carson’s sternum, and Carson smiles in the darkness, kisses the top of her head.
Tomorrow, they get up and leave because they want to. Hand-in-hand, across the country, answering to nobody but themselves.
Tomorrow, Carson thinks, can’t come soon enough.