Nor did I want to.
26
Ryan
I’ve just stepped out of the shower when my phone rings.
Glancing at the clock on the nightstand, it reads 4:30 p.m., and I realize I only have an hour before Fletcher comes over with dinner after his shift.
He’s supposed to be bringing lemon pepper chicken wings and a few other specialties from Kip’s Diner, things I haven’t tried yet and he’s appalled I haven’t sampled. But at the rate I’m going, my hair will still be wet when he arrives.
Not that I ever make much of an effort with my daily appearance. A quick blow dry, a swipe of mascara, a spritz of perfume. I’m gifted with high cheekbones and pretty manageable natural hair, which I thank my lucky stars for.
I’m scared to look at the screen of my cell, because I know who’s calling. Yanis stopped contacting me months ago … and I’m surprised in this moment that I haven’t thought of him in that long, too. Maybe Presley was right when she said I felt differently about certain men. Or maybe it was because I had a new man on my mind … that was typically how I operated.
How could I tell if I really felt differently about Fletcher, or if I was just using this relationship with its shiny new sex presents as a distraction?
Shaking that unwanted thought from my brain, I pick it up to see my mom’s name flashing across the screen.
My sigh is audible in the small guest cottage, and I wish someone was here to swat the damn thing out of my grip. Her calls have been increasing, and this is the fourth one in the many months I’ve taken up residence in Fawn Hill. Four calls in a couple months might not sound like a lot, but after not hearing from someone in a year and a half, it was odd. And since this is my junkie mother we’re talking about, it is dangerously suspicious.
I didn’t want to hear her voice. I didn’t want my heart to weep for the mother she should have been, or for the childhood I could have had. I didn’t want to worry about her, because I shouldn’t have to. And I didn’t want to have to refuse, essentially sentencing her to mania, when she asked me for money to get high.
So, instead of taking the call, like I’ve done so many times before, I send it to voicemail.
And in a moment of spontaneous growth and courage, my finger hits the block button before I can think about stopping it. Time seems to stop for a nanosecond, and I hold my breath, expecting the sky to fall or something equally as disastrously grand.
But nothing does.
Life just keeps on going. I get a Facebook notification from a friend in Germany, somewhere down the block a neighbor is cutting their lawn. I know when I walk out of the cottage door, sunshine and humidity will greet me. I’ll go teach the kids in my summer course tomorrow, and I’ll still be able to grab drinks with the girls on Friday night.
For so long, I allowed this idea of my mother to fill my soul with tension and dread. Would I get a phone that she overdosed? Would she show up at my job asking for money? Would my life suffer if I cut her out completely … because after all, she’s the only blood relative I know of. It seemed like a harsh mistake to end our relationship, because I was the child and love from my mother was something that was supposed to be a no brainer. It was simply supposed to exist.
But it didn’t have to be like that. The families we were born into didn’t have to be that source of love for us. We could find it in other ways, like the friendship I had with Presley. Recognizing that some bonds were toxic … it was a relief.
That’s what I had just done, the minute I’d stopped making it possible for her to contact me.
I rub a fist into my chest and sit down on the edge of the bed, thinking there should be some monumental swell of emotions in me. And maybe relief is there, but sadness and hurt … I think they left a long time ago where my mother is concerned.
My stomach grumbles, and I have to laugh, because if this isn’t my body’s way of telling me that life goes on, I don’t know what is.
Realizing I can’t wait another hour for food, I throw on the outfit I’d already picked for when Fletcher arrives and make my way through the backyard and into Presley’s kitchen. I find Hattie sitting at the kitchen counter.
“Hey,” I say warmly, giving her a side hug before moving to explore the pantry.
“Hiya,” she responds, popping a piece of watermelon in her mouth. “The course going well?”
It’s what she asks me every time I see her. I’m not sure if she really just wants to know that, but I suspect the question is deeper. Part of me suspects Hattie wants me to plant permanent roots in Fawn Hill, and that’s just her way of planting the seed in my head.
She isn’t the only one who’s tried to broach the subject. Presley slips it into conversation now and then, Lily told me the other day that she thinks it would be so sweet if I moved to town, and then there was the whole awkward encounter with Fletcher at his kitchen table.
The truth is … I don’t see myself staying in this small town for the rest of my life. Sure, I like it well enough, and this break was long overdue. But I’m a traveler; wanderlust has infected me like a virus, and the only cure is to take off for the next destination. I like having a home base to come back to, and maybe Fawn Hill could be that, but I wouldn’t be me if I didn’t spend a month in Vienna and the next in Bermuda.
Ducking into the fridge, I grab a snack pack of pretzels and cream cheese. Keaton buys them for himself, but I’ve become addicted, and subsequently stolen his supply over the last month.
Opening it and popping the first dunked pretzel in my mouth, I nod. “The kids are really getting the hang of it. I should have thanked you a while ago, I’m so—”
“Don’t you go apologizing now. There is no need. I just brought two things together that we’re looking for each other. That’s thanks enough for me. It suits you, teaching. You should think about doing it long term.”
And there it is, that little suggestion again. I’m not one for running at the first sign of commitment, that was never my problem. No, Presley and I used to joke that she ran to avoid getting hurt by anyone, and I ran only after I’d been hurt and overstayed my welcome. Was that what I was doing here?
“What? Do I have ‘I’m in my thirties and still don’t know where my life is going’ stamped on my forehead?” I joke, only half meaning it.
Hattie raises her eyebrows at me. “I’m not the one who said it. But if you think about it, you do know where you’re going. You know a lot more about yourself than most. You’re just scared to implement the decisions you know those preferences call for.”
“Like what?” I ask, genuinely curious now.
“You know you love computers, but you’re tired of your job. Perhaps you’ve outgrown it, or more likely, you need a position that calls for more than just fixing rich people’s problems. What you crave is to help those who could really do good with the skills you can teach. And in doing so, you do good yourself.”
Jeez, I wasn’t looking for a therapy session when I came in here, but Hattie is taking me to church.
When I don’t reply, she goes on. “The need for comfort and security constantly battles your desire to see the world. You can have both, you know. A hometown and adventures abroad. You’ve done it before, but maybe it’s time to establish a new place to store your clothes. The same goes for love. You’ve done it before, but this time, with that strapping youngest Nash boy, it’s different. We all see it. I don’t even have to know your dating history to know that the way you look at each other, it’s the real deal.”
How the hell could she possibly know all of this? It’s like she’s reading my mind, and I can’t stop her. In a very short amount of time, I’ve come to care deeply for Fletcher. Not just on a romantic level, but I respect his drive and his values. I don’t think I can say that for any of my past relationships … those were all just fluff compared with the things I see in Fletcher.
“And last, your biological mother. I’m not even going to sugar-coat this one. It is far past time to cut her
out of your life. She’s toxic, she’s cancer, and she’s eating up the confidence and good self-worth you have with each time she dials your num—”
This one, I can give her an answer to, so I cut her off.
“I’ve stopped taking her phone calls, and … I just blocked her number.” I breathe, because just saying it feels like a huge weight off of me.
Hattie’s expression turns from one of sternness, to surprise. “Well … good. No one like that deserves your love or attention. And if you ever need an ear to listen, I’m here. We’re your family, have been since the day Presley told me about her wacky new roommate in New York.”
“Aren’t you just supposed to say some mumbo jumbo about following my destiny, or seeing the light? From what I hear, you never give Presley the answers, you just guide her in the right direction. Why spell it all out for me?”
Hattie’s smile is small. “Because you already know the answers. You’re just sitting on your ass, pretending that you don’t. With Presley, she really didn’t know what she wanted out of life. You, Ryan, have all the options listed in front of you, but you simply won’t choose. That’s why. It’s time to make your choice.”
“Just because you say so?” Her words mildly annoy me, but the beat of my heart tells me she’s dangerously close to having my number.
Hattie rises, patting me on the shoulder. “I’m an old woman, close to death. I don’t mince words anymore, and you should take my advice before I’m gone.”
I yell after her, “You can’t play that card! It won’t work with me, Presley has warned me!”
The chuckle I hear down the hall tells me she doesn’t believe me. And to be honest, I don’t believe myself either.
27
Ryan
“You do know that camping is literally the worst thing you could force me to do, right?”
Inspecting the nature around us, I screw up my face and stick out my tongue.
“Oh, come on, it’s not so bad. You’ve hiked in Hawaii before, and you liked those hot springs in Iceland.” Presley tries to point these adventures out as if they’re anything like sleeping in a sweat cocoon on a floor of dirt.
“Those were beautiful, enchanting vacation experiences. I’d rather stick a fork in my eyeball than pee in a bucket and roast trout over a fire we started ourselves.”
Okay, I know I sound like a brat … but I’m a city girl. Fawn Hill is about as country as it gets for me, and then the Nash family decided to take me even further past my limits.
“I know whose sleeping bag I’m leaving a dead spider in,” Travis whispers loudly behind his hand to his little brothers, and I shoot him a death glare.
The whole crew decided to come along on this jaunt into the forest, with Penelope and Forrest bringing the kids. The only person not here is Lily, who opted to stay home with the baby. But since Bowen is the most rugged of all the brothers, and the one who knows the most about camping, he’s here to make sure we don’t kill ourselves.
Now that Fletcher and I have spent the last week and a half sleeping in each other’s beds, it seems the cat’s out of the bag. The group already assumes we’ll be sharing a tent, so when shelter setup starts, Presley just throws me a nod and tells me to get to work on my love shack.
One look at the man I’ve been sharing a mattress with, and I know we’ll have to zipper that tent door tight and keep the noise down. Damn, does he look fine. He’s got about three days’ worth of stubble on his jaw, a red flannel shirt open and flapping in the breeze, with nothing beneath it but bare skin, and hiking boots that make me want to drag him into the woods. He’s like a sexy lumberjack on a stick, and that’s usually not my type, but hell, if he isn’t doing it for me today.
Really, he does it for me every day. We’ve been practically inseparable the last two weeks, and the ways in which we’ve gotten to know each other …
My cheeks heat wildly just at the thought. It’s more than that, though. Fletcher and I spend hours talking; we discuss his goals, my travels, his family, what we like most in the world and what we hate. The connection is deep, infusing itself in my marrow. In the past, I’ve been swept along the current of lust for the man I’m with. But with him … it’s the complete package.
That scares me more than I’m ready to admit.
“Ready to set up our Hotel de Dirt?” I joke to him as I unbuckle some part of the tent material that I’m pretty sure I wasn’t supposed to touch.
“Sure,” he deadpans, his face blank.
Fletcher has seemed off all day. He’s cold, aloof, has barely cracked a joke, which is so unlike him … and he was snippy to the kids while unloading the car. I’ve never seen him do that, and that’s how I know something is really wrong.
“Are you okay?” I ask in a low voice, so no one can hear me.
“I’m fine.” His voice is a hard clip.
I’m beginning to get ticked off, because I’m not an idiot. “Clearly, you’re not. Do you want to talk about it?”
Fletcher shoots an angry huff in my direction. “No. Just drop it.”
That pisses me off even more. I don’t care about a lot of people, but I care about him. And the way he’s brushing me off when I’m only trying to help? That makes me angry, but I swallow it. He needs compassion more than he needs my ire.
I go to him, resting a hand on his bicep. “Fletcher, what is it? Let me help you.”
“I … never mind. You won’t understand.” He wrenches out of my hold, rather harshly, and stomps away.
Presley looks at me quizzically, but tosses her head in Fletcher’s retreating direction, and I nod, letting her know I’m going after him.
He’s moving at such a fast pace, I have to jog to keep up. By the time I look up, we’re a distance away from the campsite.
We’re far enough into the trees now that the others wouldn’t be able to hear us if I yelled for them, not that I’ll need to. Fletcher’s in a bad mood, not dangerous.
“Fletch, I’m asking you to talk to me. Don’t pull this bullshit. We’ve never done the dramatics with one and other, let’s not start now.” Maybe he’ll listen to reason.
His forward progress halts, but he still gives me his flannel-clad back. Those big, capable hands come up to rake through his hair, and I can feel the frustration rolling off him in waves.
When he speaks, his voice is a hoarse, pained thing. “I … have days. It’s been years since I got sober, so they’re few and far between, but they still happen. I’ll go through an entire week, never thinking once about being an alcoholic. And then, it’s like a switch flips. I’ll wake up one morning, like today, and the need to drink burns so badly in my throat that I have to physically hurt myself in order to not ravage the town in search of alcohol.”
My gaze falls to his bruised, scabbing knuckles, and I’m surprised I didn’t see them before.
“What can I do to help?” I ask, genuinely trying to ease his agony.
The look he gives me is one of utter disdain. “Nothing, Ryan. You can’t do a thing. Isn’t this what you’re afraid of? What everyone’s afraid of? That I’ll drink myself back into oblivion? I don’t even understand why you’re with me. Just … get away from me.”
He’s angry and deflecting, and I should get away from him. But I understand him too much, in a way he doesn’t even realize.
“Take it out on me. You have a craving? Use my body to satisfy it.” My words might sound shaky, but I’m puffing out my chest like I’m not scared of a thing he could do to me.
I’m not scared of him, he’s Fletcher. But right now? He’s looking at me as if he could rip me in two and not bat an eye about it. I haven’t encountered this Fletcher yet, the restless addict in need of a hit.
That expression that he might tear me down, disappear on me, fail completely in his sobriety … or all three at once. That’s what I’m afraid of when it comes to him. Except I know, just like I do with my mother, that he needs to lean on me. And despite all the warning signs I’ve taught myself, I’
m in too deep when it comes to my feelings for Fletcher. I’m half in love with the man.
So instead, I’ll sacrifice myself to this side of him in hopes I’ll get the wonderful side back.
He comes crashing into me, my back hitting hard against a rough tree just behind me. Fletcher’s bruised and bloody knuckles catch my skull before it hits, and then he’s consuming me. Biting at my lips, kissing them so aggressively that I know he’ll leave a mark.
Rough fingertips pull at my T-shirt and shorts, trying to shove it all aside. I can’t think straight, the rough pleasure he’s delivering in the form of his whiskery mouth to my neck has my knees buckling. My hands go to his open shirt, tracing the muscles of his abdomen in hurried circles.
“Turn around,” he growls, half moving even though he commanded what I should do.
Pressed up against the tree, the bark digging into my palms, I’m panting like a wanton animal, exposing myself for Fletcher to do as he pleases.
Behind me, I hear the pull of his zipper, the ragged breaths that burst from his lungs. And then my shorts are pulled quickly down my legs, coming to rest at my ankles, above my shoes. Fletcher does the same with my thong, pulling it just far enough so that he can enter me unhindered by the scrap of lace.
My skin crawls with goose bumps as he slides an arm around my waist, holding me flush against him. The other arm comes under my right arm and across my chest. Fletcher has a full hold on me, and I’m not going anywhere.
“If you have to yell, bite into my arm.” He growls and then slams into me.
I’m so shocked, my voice doesn’t even work to do that. The sensation of him invading me, the sting of it accompanied by the wetness that started pooling the minute I heard the hiss of his zipper … it’s unlike any other arousal I’ve felt before. Fletcher is possessive in a way that’s not being put on; this isn’t just some role play fantasy or kinky shit.
Nash Brothers Box Set Page 69