Falter: The Nash Brothers, Book Four

by Aarons, Carrie

  An afternoon coffee, preferably iced with a pump of vanilla syrup, sounds like the perfect treat. The July sun is scorching, but I’m kind of getting used to the blinding heat of a small-town summer. In the city, the sun falls behind skyscrapers, and it’s all sweaty subway cars and rankled men in black business suits.

  But here, out in the country, the air smells so sweet in the sunshine that I can practically inhale the rolling hills past Main Street. Everywhere you go, you’re met with harsh rays that lick up your skin, but the vitamin D leaves such a pleasant feeling that it’s easy to mind the humidity.

  I’m almost at the coffee shop, my mouth watering for that cold brew, when my path is interrupted.

  Up the sidewalk, a bunch of people suddenly emerge from the entrance of what looks like a church. I watch them, men and women, shuffle out, some of their faces neutral while others looked deep in thought.

  Suddenly, the crowd parts and I see Fletcher, his hands stuffed in his pockets as he walks right toward me.

  I contemplate ducking behind a garbage can in front of me, but then decide that is not at all something I would do. I am not a coward, even if the man makes my heartbeat jump into my throat every time I see him. Though as I near the church, and come so close to contact with Fletcher, I see the sign announcing why all of those people had been in there.

  Alcoholics Anonymous.

  The bottom of my stomach clenches, low and nauseous, and a barrage of emotions come over me. Fletcher was just in there, at an AA meeting. He’s an addict, just like …

  My mother.

  I remember now, Presley mentioning something about this before, but I’d honestly forgotten. And it all comes rushing back; how he didn’t drink at their wedding, or accompany us out to the Goat & Barrister, the local Fawn Hill bar, whenever I was in town.

  “Uh, hi,” I say awkwardly, Fletcher approaching before I can carefully rearrange my expression to not look judgy or surprised.

  He holds up his hand in a brisk wave, and then shoves it down in his pockets, looking like a man caught red-handed. “Hey. Uh …”

  We both just kind of stand there, the uncomfortableness growing by the second.

  “I was just in a meeting.” He points back toward the church, because this is so weird that we can’t not acknowledge it.

  I shake my head, waving him off. “That’s supposed to be anonymous, right? You don’t need to explain.”

  “Ryan, you just saw me walk out of there. I’m not ashamed of it, and it would be fucking strange if I tried to lie about it.” He chuckles, and I swallow watching the Adam’s apple bob under the tanned skin of his throat.

  And just like that, he manages to erase most of the comparisons between my mother and him I’d been making in my head. Fletcher is standing in front of me, sober and honest. He’s not shrinking away from me, making excuses or acting defensively to save his own ass. I may not know him well, but I think I’m a pretty good judge of character, and I know when someone is lying to me. My entire relationship with my mother has been her sneaking around, acting suspicious, and breaking my heart around every corner.

  In one encounter, Fletcher has owned up to his shortcomings, and laid them right out in the open between us.

  “I’m glad you’re getting the help you need.” I nod, not sure how to proceed.

  Fletcher’s sea-blue eyes study my face, and the warmth of the small smile turning his mouth up at the corners has me wanting to move in closer.

  “Can I buy you a coffee?” he asks as if reading my mind.

  And even though I know I shouldn’t open this can of worms, my brain rejects everything else but the word yes.

  11

  Fletcher

  I set the large vanilla iced coffee down in front of Ryan and then place my medium cold brew across from it.

  Before I take the empty seat on the other side of the table, I grab the apple turnover and two forks I left waiting on the counter.

  “You didn’t have to buy this. I could have gotten mine,” she protests half-heartedly after the fact.

  “Don’t worry about it. The owner owes me a favor.” I toss a nod to Carlton, the coffee shop owner who I’ve known … well, probably my entire life.

  “Still, you didn’t have to. And a sweet treat? It’s too much.” Her smile is sarcastic, and my heart goes to shit.

  Beating all wild and crazy, that I have to stamp out its hope and frivolity with a pointer finger to the chest. As if I’m telling my own organ to knock it off.

  I hand her a fork and don’t wait before I dig into my half of the apple turnover. The sweetness and tartness explode in my mouth, and I sigh at the much-needed dessert after the dreaded AA meeting. It’s not that I don’t want to go to meetings, hell, I know it’s vital for my recovery and continued sobriety.

  But something about being in that basement made me feel like I was being slowly strangled. Especially when listening to newly sober peers, those with a one day chip, or someone who fell off the wagon and had to start fresh. We had one of those today, a guy who’d chucked his thirteen-year recovery out the window for a bottle of Jack on a day he was feeling particularly low. Watching him stand at the podium and tearfully fight his way through his new reality was soul-crushing.

  We eat in silence for a moment, sipping our coffee as we people watch out the windows or around the shop. I’m not sure why I asked her to get coffee with me, but when I saw her on that sidewalk, I was desperate for a bit of normal conversation that I’d jumped at the chance. Or maybe it was because she’d been looking at me like I was diseased, like she’d caught me walking out of a murder scene instead of an AA meeting.

  At that moment, I just wanted to show Ryan that I was a guy worthy of her time. And until now, I haven’t allowed myself to think about what way I want her to think of me.

  “How is the small-town life treating you?” I start with a basic subject.

  Ryan shrugs, sipping her coffee. “It’s fine, I guess. A change from traveling, but it’s nice to be close to Presley for a while. I just taught a basic coding class to some middle schoolers at Hattie’s insistence. It wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be.”

  I take in her inky black ponytail, ears full of tiny hoops and studs, and the band of tattoos curling around her right bicep. Not only is she fucking sexy in an upscale biker chick kind of way, but she’d be one of those kick-ass teachers you remembered forever. One who was cool and let you call them by their first name, and you were actually excited to go to their class every day.

  “That sounds good … at least it gives you something to do while you’re staying in town,” I tell her, not sure if she actually thinks it’s a good thing.

  Besides some errant gossip about a bad breakup, I know very little about why Ryan is staying in Fawn Hill. I suppose I could ask her, but she might take it as an intrusion, when we’re really only at the surface level when it comes to knowing each other.

  Aside from the fact that I’ve seen her naked. And she basically asked me to kiss her in the bushes during the manhunt party. Or that whenever we’re within fifty feet of each other, I feel this electric tension stringing us together, as if we’re connected by two ends of the same cord.

  “So, do you ask all women you meet on sidewalks out for coffee?” She shoots me an arrogant grin, and I think she’s flirting with me.

  It’s easier than getting into a deep conversation or asking each other personal questions. I know this game well, the one that’s all charm and innuendo, rather than really getting to know someone. If this is how she wants to play it, I can do that, too.

  As it stands, I’m kicking myself for even asking her to sit here with me.

  “Only the ones who specifically know nothing about my sober journey but see me coming out of an AA meeting. Really freaks ’em out, ya know? That’s what I’m going for.”

  “Shock and awe?”

  “Or a sketchy past and a shaky future,” I joke self-deprecatingly. “How about you? Do you always eat half an apple turno
ver with your best friend’s husband’s little brother?”

  Ryan chuckles. “That’s a stretch of an association. Can’t we just say we’re friends? I mean, you have seen me naked.”

  My cheeks definitely adopt a deep shade of pink. I’ve always been prone to blushing, and it has always annoyed the shit out of me. Something about it seems … unmanly.

  “Fine, friends it is. Then we don’t have to make this weird and call it a date.” I try to keep my voice as humorous as possible.

  Although, my cock would beg to differ. He has thought of dating Ryan in a very serious way, for a very long time. Probably from the first moment I saw her in that tight black dress at Keaton and Presley’s rehearsal dinner. Her hair had been a spiky bob back then, and she’d looked so different from all the women I knew.

  Like some ethereal, dark angel.

  “I’m not dating men right now, anyway.” She says it nonchalantly, but I hear the tension behind it.

  I raise an eyebrow. “So, you’re dating women?”

  Ryan laughs, and I preen at how I just mixed her choice of words up. “No, although I might have better luck. No, I just mean … I’ve promised myself I won’t get into anything for a year.”

  For some reason, that makes me both relieved and irked. “That’s good to hear, considering I’m not in the market for anything either.”

  As if she asked, dumb-ass. What the hell am I doing? I basically just told her that I wasn’t interested in her either, as if she said it first and I was saving face.

  “Oh, really? And why, may I ask, is that?” She lowers her mouth to the straw, sipping coyly as amusement plays over her features.

  I realize that she’s flirting with me, and I could answer with some charming, sly remark, but I choose to tell her the truth.

  “When I got sober, there is this recovery rule that says you shouldn’t start a sexual relationship within the first year of working the program. I took that seriously, and then I just extended it. I don’t plan to start anything unless I’m completely serious about someone.”

  My answer puts a damper on the genial nature of our conversation, but I live my life owning my truths these days. Secrets keep us sick, that’s what Cookie says.

  “How long have you been sober?” she asks quietly, and I know she’s probably been trying to work that question into the conversation for a while now.

  “Five years. I got back from rehab shortly before Keaton and Presley got engaged, so I guess you’ll never know crazy-party-animal me.”

  Most of me is glad about that. I was a mess as a drunk; sloppy and needy, always trying to be the life of the party even if it meant I’d break a limb. The things I said to women, how I treated them … it was disgraceful. I’m happy Ryan will never have to witness it. Even if she isn’t dating men.

  “You should be really proud. It isn’t easy overcoming addiction.” She says this as if she has some deeper knowledge on the subject, and suddenly, I want to ask her how she knows.

  My voice is low as I blink up at her. “Who says I’ve overcome it?”

  Ryan nods. “You’re right, that was the wrong word. Conquer? Tame?”

  She isn’t joking, and I can tell by the set of her caramel eyes that she’s trying to congratulate me in a genuine way.

  “Those are better. When you’re an addict, there is no … overcoming it. It’s always right there, sitting just under the surface of your flesh. Most days, I feel like it’s going to swallow me whole, and I only escape the pull by the skin of my teeth.”

  Hell, that was way deeper than I wanted to get. And now Ryan is looking at me with a timid, almost fawn-like indecision in her eyes. Should she stay and see if I put one right between her eyes? Or should she bolt, running far away?

  I didn’t think it was possible to scare a woman like her off. Apparently, I also had never voiced how difficult maintaining my sobriety was. And I’d just chosen the worst possible candidate to reveal the gritty, rough reality.

  12

  Ryan

  I can’t fall in love with an addict.

  Growing up in the clutches of one, I know how dangerous it is to trust them with your heart.

  Shit, why the hell was love even on the tip of my tongue. I haven’t even been on a real date with Fletcher Nash, and that coffee we shared after his AA meeting surely doesn’t count.

  Regardless, I’m on a fast from men. I told him as much. Not that it deterred his quiet, gentle, delicate soul from speaking directly to mine.

  Fuck my foolish heart. It fell too easily and trusted too swiftly, despite its awful track record. My head wasn’t much better, for as intellectual as I could be, my brain never talked the foolish organ in my chest out of the stupid shit it did.

  It’s been a week since my not-a-date date with Fletcher, and all I can think about are his words echoing in my head. That an addict never stops being an addict. His truth was so powerful, and … refreshing. It was the first time in my life that someone who’d abused drugs or alcohol had been so upfront about what it felt like to suffer from the disease. And trust me, with my mother and growing up in the foster care system, I’d known plenty.

  Our shared coffee drinking had ended awkwardly, with him trying to make some kind of joke to save us from the pit of reality he’d dug us down deep in. I escaped with half of my heart still lying on the table, listening to how damaged he was.

  Because I was damaged, too, though my party trick was hiding all the scars and old wounds underneath a cool, composed, sassy exterior.

  My phone chimes as I head into Kip’s, the diner everyone in town seems to flock to for lunch. Presley asked me to meet her here, as we haven’t gotten much time together with her busy studio schedule.

  The message is from my boss, Geralyn. When I decided to move into consultancy, I wasn’t going to pick just any company. I was going to pick the best, and one run by a complete badass woman in the STEM sphere. Geralyn Octon is such a woman and has no problem keeping up with the biggest of Internet bad boys. She works hard, is tough as nails, and runs one of the best hacker consultant agencies in the world. It’s why I’ve been as successful as I am, picking her to be my boss.

  Selecting the voicemail, I press my phone to my ear.

  “Ryan, I just had a project come in with a big-time company, flashy data breach. Has your name all over it. Call me back.”

  A year ago, maybe even two, that message would have gotten my blood thrumming. I would have been like a dog biting to get off the leash to work on whatever project it was Geralyn described as flashy.

  But at this moment? Nothing about her words excites me. I am so disinterested that I don’t even feel like myself anymore. Something about Yanis, about Greece, sucked all the life out of me.

  No … I was lying to myself if I put all the onus on him. I’d been fading even before his betrayal. I am in my thirties now, and things I’d convinced myself I never wanted … they’ve started to look appealing. Settling down, marriage, children …

  Why is it that I can practically hear the biological clock ticking in my ears, now?

  “Hey, you!” Presley bounces out from the booth she’s secured for us in the back.

  The diner smells heavenly, like fresh peaches and sizzling, buttery pie crust. I’m in dire need of a thick, juicy burger, and my mouth starts watering for it.

  “Hi.” I hug her, kissing her on the cheek as we both pull away. “How were the morning classes?”

  Presley hasn’t even grabbed us menus. Probably because she knows I’ll order a burger, and I know that she’ll order a BLT. These were the little intricacies of knowing someone for as long as we’d known each other. In New York, we’d been family. I’d been the only one there for her, and while she knew a bit about my past, I wasn’t sure she fully grasped that she was my only family.

  She giggles. “Mr. Abrams farted again in the senior class. I had to try so hard not to laugh.”

  “Something about that downward dog really gets him barking.” I wiggle my eyebrows, c
racking the pun.

  Presley rolls her eyes. “That one was too easy.”

  We order as the waitress comes by, who then asks how Presley is and if she and Keaton plan on attending the town hall dance in three weeks.

  “Wouldn’t miss it. Don’t you know I’m married to the self-appointed mayor? I think Keaton is secretly hoping we win Mr. and Mrs. Fawn Hill.” My best friend shakes her head as if her husband is incorrigible, but deep down, I know she thinks his childlike splendor about these things is adorable.

  “This place really is something right out of Gilmore Girls,” I tell her, sipping my lemonade the minute it’s set down on the table.

  “That’s why I stay. Oh, and the fact that I belong here more than I ever have anywhere. Isn’t it strange? Me, here?”

  Honestly, when she first moved here, I thought she was nuts. I’d pegged it as just another Presley running away from her problems situation, and bet she’d be back in the city in two months’ time. But now that I’ve met the Nashes and have stayed in Fawn Hill for extended periods of time … I understood why she fit so well here.

  My head cocks to the side. “No … it suits you.”

  “The small-town vet’s wife. I guess it does.” Her smile widens, and I know she’s mooning over Keaton.

  “And the kick-ass yogi business owner who has transformed a town’s fitness regimen. Give yourself the proper credit you deserve.”

  She nods. “I learned from the best, after all. Remember when you made me demand a raise at the restaurant I was hostessing at?”

  The place had been a brown-nosing eatery close to the major news network buildings, used for schmoozing anchors and guests alike.

  “Yeah, because they were giving you like two bucks an hour and made you close every night. I woulda socked that manager right in the nose.”

  Presley laughs. “And I did it, you got me so fired up. Then he canned me right on the spot. Said I was a cocky little bitch not worth my weight in martini olives.”