Where We Belong

by Shann McPherson

  Nash: Yeah.

  His response is short, perhaps a little curt, and piques my interest immediately. I stare at his one-word answer, contemplating what’s behind it. I could say goodnight and leave it at that, or I could do what I do best and pry. I chew on the inside of my cheek as I reread his text a few more times.

  Was everything okay with you two tonight? I tap into my phone. I hesitate momentarily, wondering if I might be overstepping some kind of invisible boundary. Is it my place to ask Nash how he and his fiancée are doing? But then my curiosity gets the better of me and I press send.

  After a few excruciatingly long moments where I begin to think the worst, those three dots appear in our text window for at least a few minutes. I wonder what he can possibly be replying with that is taking him so long. Then the dots disappear and my shoulders slump. The dots quickly reappear, and my heart picks up a few paces as I idly chew on my thumbnail, staring at the screen while waiting with bated breath. But just as I’m preparing myself to read his essay of a text message, my phone chimes in my hand, and my anticipation dissolves the moment I see his response.

  Nash: Yeah. We’re fine.

  Well that response certainly wouldn’t have taken two and a half minutes to write. What was he going to say? Maybe he was going to tell me the truth, because from what I saw earlier tonight things are most certainly not fine. I hate that he feels as if he can’t be honest with me—we’re best friends—but I decide to let it go. He clearly isn’t in the mood for talking, and I feel ridiculous for allowing a few dots in a text window to get the better of me.

  Okay. Goodnight x, I send back, huffing out a sigh of frustration as I sink back into the cushy leather of the couch. I roll my eyes at my own disappointment. I’m not sure what I was expecting. Did I really think he was going to tell me that everything between him and Anna is falling apart? That he’s beginning to realize he isn’t in love with her anymore? That he no longer wants to marry her because he’s still head over heels in love with me? No, I didn’t. Well, not really. First and foremost, before love got in the way and ruined everything, Nash Harris was my very best friend. We used to tell each other everything. I just want that Nash back, the one who isn’t afraid to tell me the truth. The one who would write an essay text message, and expect an essay in return. The one I love more than life itself. I miss that Nash.

  Just as I’m beginning to give up all hope on my plan to win Nash back because, let’s face it, he really does seem to be well and truly over me, my phone vibrates from the couch cushion beside me. With a furrowed brow of confusion, I pick it up to see another text message.

  Nash: I miss you.

  I gasp out loud and, even as I stare at it, I don’t actually believe my own eyes. But there it is right in front of me. Black and white. Illuminated in the dim light of the room. Glaring at me like the blinding light of a beacon. My jaw drops, and everything seems to come to a standstill, my heart thumping wildly in what feels like the very back of my throat.

  He misses me?

  I read the text message at least a thousand times, trying so hard to analyze those three tiny words. Does he miss me, Murph, his old friend? Or does he miss me, Murph, his ex-girlfriend? The one he shared so much with from our first kiss, to our first time? Those three words are so simple to misconstrue, and while my heart is beating unbelievably fast in my chest it feels as if it’s about to explode, I know I can’t let myself get too carried away. Nash misses me. I desperately try to collect what little composure I have left as I stare at the three tiny words on the screen. Three tiny words with so much meaning. Three tiny words that have the power to change absolutely everything.

  Contemplating my reply, I consider whether or not to return the sentiment, but before I can do anything, my phone buzzes in my hand once again.

  Nash: Goodnight, Murph.

  I exhale a trembling breath, staring at his final message, but I don’t bother with a reply. Instead, I lock my phone and place it face down in my lap.

  “Holy crap,” I whisper under my breath as I relax back against the couch, shaking my head as a million conflicting thoughts race through my mind.

  “Holy crap, what?”

  I startle, turning quickly to see Harley hobbling through the doorway, clutching at his side. He’s changed into a pair of sweats and a Bulldogs’ T-shirt, and he looks like death warmed up as he flops down onto the couch beside me, relaxing back and closing his eyes.

  “Nothing.” I wave a hand in the air, dismissing his question, tucking my phone into my purse as I try to convince myself not to overthink Nash’s cryptic text message. “I’ll get you that glass of water.” I stand, hurrying back into the kitchen to avoid any further questions from him. But when I return with the icy glass in my hand, I stop just shy of the couch. In the minute it took me to refill the glass with fresh cold water from the fridge, Harley somehow managed to fall into a sound sleep. I guess excessive pooping could knock anyone out for the night.

  As I watch him snoring quietly for a moment, looking peaceful, I catch myself smiling at just how adorable he looks. His mouth is slightly open, his chin resting on his chest. Unruly hair sticks up every which way, the longer locks falling down over his forehead. Long lashes fan over his cheeks, and a slight furrow pulls between his brows as if, even in his sleep, he’s overthinking something.

  The longer I watch him, the more something I’ve not felt before pulls low in my belly, and I know right at that moment that I should leave, but I can’t. I owe it to him to stick around. He might become dehydrated through the night. If he did and I wasn’t here and something happened, I’d never forgive myself.

  So, placing the glass of water onto the lamp table within his reach, I sit beside him and tug at the afghan throw from the back the couch. Tucking the blanket over us, I nestle slightly closer to Harley, and I close my eyes, smiling at the thought of Nash Harris missing me.

  Chapter 14

  My eyelashes flutter to the sound of a crow squawking loudly from outside. Encased in an unfamiliar yet welcoming, all-consuming warmth, I nestle a little closer, slowly drifting back to sleep. But that’s when it hits me. I freeze, stiffening completely. Squeezing my eyes closed, I don’t dare breathe. I take a moment to comprehend what the hell is going on, where the hell I am, and why the hell I’m there, before I nervously open one eye. Peering through my lashes, I see Harley beside me, his arm wrapped around my shoulders as he continues sleeping soundly.

  What in the actual heck?

  Why the hell am I asleep with Harley’s arm around me?

  I begin finding it difficult to breathe, and yet he’s completely oblivious to me and the current state of my mini-meltdown. I find some relief in the fact that we’re both fully clothed—thank God—the two of us covered by a crochet blanket. Hell, there’s even a throw cushion squeezed in between us. From what I can tell, nothing untoward has occurred. And suddenly I remember last night—the past twenty-four hours, in fact—and it all comes back to me.

  The laxatives.

  The cake.

  Harley’s diarrhea.

  Drunk Anna.

  Nash.

  I miss you …

  I close my eyes tight again, resting my head against the back of the couch. Pushing my tangled hair out of my face and adjusting my lopsided glasses, I release a heavy sigh, and consider everything that’s happened. Everything that’s changed with that one text message. But then, I cast a sideways glance at Harley, my mind reeling. Why the hell is he so close to me? I become distracted and, for a moment, I find myself watching him sleep. His lips are pursed together, causing his dimples to pull into his cheeks, and his long eyelashes flutter ever so slightly as the hint of a grin begins to ghost over those same lips as if he’s dreaming the most unimaginable of dreams. And, for the first time in the fifteen years I’ve known him, he looks innocent, angelic almost. I can’t help but smile at the sight before me. He really is a beautiful specimen of a man.

  When I sleep I’m almost certain I look like one
of those furry cats with the out-turned eyes: my tongue hanging out the side of my mouth, drool trailing down my chin, the occasional snort. But Harley, he’s beautiful, and the longer I watch him, the more I regret being woken up by that damn crow. With his arm wrapped around me, I haven’t slept so peacefully in a long time.

  Wait. What the hell am I even thinking? I quickly shake my head at my own thoughts, silently chastising my subconscious before forcing myself to unravel from the warmth provided by Harley’s embrace, careful not to wake him. I stand, collecting my shoes and purse from the floor before tiptoeing out of the living room. But then I find myself pausing in the doorway, glancing back over my shoulder, and my eyes travel to Harley, to where I notice his arm is now clutching the throw cushion, as if in my absence he desperately needs something to hold on to, as if he’s afraid to sleep alone, and at that thought an unexpected emotion comes over me, one I’ve never felt before, one I never expected to feel when it comes to Harley Shaw.

  ***

  I spend almost twenty minutes in the shower when I get home. The hot water rolling over my tense muscles feels like heaven. The steam works wonders on my skin. But nothing helps to ease the conflicted thoughts racing through my mind. My mind keeps flashing back to last night. From Nash’s confusing, heart-stopping text message, to the way Harley’s arm felt when it was wrapped around me so warm and protectively, to the way his intoxicating scent invaded every one of my senses.

  I shake my head at that last thought. I can’t be thinking of Harley like this. I need to get my head back in the game, and it takes all I have to focus on those three words still burning a hole in my heart.

  I miss you …

  I’d been trying to pry into Nash’s relationship with Anna, and I thought maybe I’d pushed too hard, especially after his curt responses. But then, out of the blue, he tells me he misses me? I’ve never been so confused. I desperately want to ask him what he meant by that message, but I simply cannot bring myself to do it. I sure as hell don’t want him to know that I’ve been overthinking it, and, to be honest, I’m terrified what he might say.

  After coming out of the bathroom, I walk into my bedroom to see my cell phone ringing from where it’s charging on the bedside table. I don’t know the number flashing on the screen, so I answer with my most polite voice in case it’s a customer.

  “Hello, Alice Murphy speaking,” I answer with a smile.

  “Murph?” A female voice comes through. “Murph, it’s me. Anna.”

  And at that, my eyes bulge and instinctively I clutch at the towel I’m wearing as if I’m sinking and it’s my only lifeline. My stomach drops at the thought that she knows something’s up. Has she seen the text message Nash sent me? I sure as hell wouldn’t be too happy if my fiancé was messaging his ex, telling her how he misses her.

  “Hello?” Anna’s high-pitched voice rings through the phone.

  “Um, yeah.” I clear my throat. “Sorry. Hey, Anna …?”

  “I’m so sorry to just call you out of the blue,” she begins, and I breathe a sigh of relief when I hear the distinct smile in her voice. “I was wondering if you could meet me at the club?”

  My brow furrows at her request, which actually sounds more like a polite demand.

  “They’re beginning to set up the ballroom for Saturday and I really want your opinion where to put the cake table. I want to make sure everyone sees your masterpiece, and I want to get the best possible photos when Nash and I cut it.”

  On one hand I’m relieved she obviously knows nothing about mine and Nash’s text message conversation. But my relief is short-lived. Nothing has changed. The wedding is still on. They’re not breaking up. It’s not as if I expected to get a call today to tell me the wedding’s been canceled, but I expected something. Nash misses me. Me! Or had I read too much into it? I know it wasn’t my imagination—he really did send it, I saw it in my messages this morning—but maybe he didn’t mean it like I’m thinking he meant it. I can’t help noticing the way in which my shoulders fall at the realization that Nash and Anna are still getting married.

  “Sure,” I say, trying to sound cheerful while swallowing the lump at the back of my throat. “I can meet you there in an hour. Is that okay?”

  “Oh, thank you, Murph,” Anna gushes through the phone. “This means the world to me.”

  “No problem,” I reply through gritted teeth, rolling my eyes as I end the call.

  Great. I shake my head, taking a moment to look around at my surrounds. Now I’m being forced to see Anna, and Anna alone, and in the place she and Nash are getting married, no less. I don’t even have Harley as a buffer. I groan in frustration before flopping backward onto my bed. Throwing an arm over my eyes, I really could scream.

  An hour later I’m walking through the main entrance of Harrington Country Club, yet again. Only this time, it’s a Tuesday morning, and the elegant dining guests dressed in their finest evening wear have been replaced with wealthy retirees wearing polo shirts and tennis shoes. Housewives dripping in pearls and diamonds are dressed in designer activewear as if they’re going to do anything more than sit out on the patio sipping mimosas before noon. Graceville’s elite, who have enough money not to worry about holding down a day job, carry tennis rackets and golf clubs, and to-go cups.

  I have to say I feel more than a little out of place wearing my blue jean dungarees and scuffed old Converse, but I’m only stopping in on my way to the bakery. It’s not as if I’m here to pledge as a member. But as I wander aimlessly through the lobby, with no idea where I’m going, I fear I might be asked to leave.

  “Murph!”

  I turn to see Anna hurrying through the marble lobby toward me and, for a moment, I’m slightly taken aback by her appearance. She looks different. Normally she comes across as so put-together, so flawless. But today she looks tired, hungover, on edge, and a little disheveled. Maybe the wine at dinner last night has taken its toll. She closes the distance between us with her arms outstretched. I wasn’t expecting an embrace, yet here she is wrapping her skinny arms around me as if she’s known me for years.

  “Oh my goodness!” She gasps a little breathlessly, pulling away and smiling at me, her eyes wide. “Thank you so much for coming on such short notice. You’re a lifesaver.”

  I nod, looking around. It’s not as if I have much else going on—I blocked out most of my calendar this week to make their wedding cake—but I wasn’t about to let her know that, in case she expected me to be at her beck and call between now and Saturday.

  Anna takes my hand, leading the way. “I think my wedding planner is going to kill me.” She laughs nervously, glancing back at me over her shoulder. “I’ve told her three different places where I want the cake table, but I keep changing my mind.”

  I force a smile onto my face. “It’s really not a big deal,” I assure her, because it isn’t. Quite frankly I’m confused she’s even making it an issue. It’s a cake table, for Christ’s sake. “The cake can go wherever you—” I stop talking when we step through the double doors and into the grand ballroom, and I’m momentarily rendered speechless by the sheer beauty and opulence laid out before me.

  Black silk hangs from the beams high up in the ceiling, draping overhead with a million twinkling fairy lights scattered in the darkness, giving the illusion of a clear night sky in the middle of the day. Strategically placed tables are dressed in stark white tablecloths accented by black and white striped table runners. Crystals hang from centerpiece vases, shimmering like diamonds as they catch the light. It really is quite magnificent. A little gaudy for my liking, definitely not something I would want, but still spectacular.

  “Okay.” Anna drops my hand, turning to me as she begins walking backward toward the black and white tiled dance floor in the center of the expansive room. “I was thinking of having the cake here.” She indicates a space right beside the bridal table, looking to me with a tentative smile.

  I shake my head. “No. Not a good idea. Someone is gonna get drunk,
make a fool of themselves on that there dance floor. They’ll probably end up going head first into the damn thing.”

  Anna looks from the dance floor, to where she was thinking of placing the cake, and back again. “You’re right.” She nods, cursing once under breath, and she actually looks disappointed in herself. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of that.”

  “How about here?” I move to the left of the stage where I presume a band will be set up. “Everyone will see it, but it’ll be out of the way,” I continue. “And the beautiful fairy light backdrop will show in the photos when you’re cutting it.” I point to where a man is standing on a ladder, draping a waterfall of twinkling lights behind the stage.

  Anna nods, pursing her lips as she seems to consider my suggestion, but before she can say anything, her phone begins ringing in her hand. I watch as she looks down at the screen, and a small crease pulls between her brows. A heavy sigh causes her shoulders to fall. “Can you please excuse me, Murph?”

  “Yeah, sure.” I shrug, waving her off to answer the call as I turn, taking in the beauty surrounding me.

  I walk to the demo table already set up in all its glory, and I trail a finger over the delicate gold flower petals immaculately presented in the centerpiece vase, smiling in wonderment at the sheer magnificence of it all. But then it gets me thinking about my own wedding. I wouldn’t want it in some stuffy country club ballroom. I want to get married outside, maybe by the lake off Old Mill Road, with a reception under the stars. As I touch one of the delicate orchids beautifully arranged within the extravagant vase, my smile falls, because at that moment I realize how unlikely a wedding of my own actually is. The man I always wanted to marry is getting married to someone else, right here in this over-the-top ballroom, to a woman who is everything I’m not, and there’s nothing I can do about it.