Fleeting: The Nash Brothers, Book One

by Aarons, Carrie

  Which is why I did a stupid thing.

  Generally, I am as in-the-lines as they come. I go to work; I pay my taxes early; I call my grandparents weekly and always use the crosswalk. I don’t color outsides the lines; I don’t break rules or promises, to myself or others. I’m predictable and boring, as I’ve been told a thousand times by Fletcher, and I like it that way.

  I’d been good for two weeks about not allowing myself to go into McDaniel’s Books & Post. I already had a crush on Presley McDaniel, one that I’d been denying since she came into my practice. There was no good that could come from crushing harder on her. She was a nomad, and there was no way a woman like that was settling in Fawn Hill.

  Except, as I was walking back from getting a mid-afternoon coffee at Fawn Hill Java, my mind went haywire and threw my carefully constructed rule book out the window. Before I knew what was happening, the bell over the door was tinkling as I crossed the threshold, and then there she was.

  Presley straightened up from where she’d been slouching over a book on the counter. Her sunset-colored hair was piled high on top of her head today, leaving her face unframed. I could see the high slant of her cheekbones and the way that all of those long lashes kissed her cheeks when they hooded over those green eyes. She looks comfortable yet put-together in her short-sleeved sundress, and I’m rewarded with a brief smile as I walk through the door.

  “Reading on the job?” I hope that opening line is okay.

  It’s been so long since I’ve felt the urge to flirt that I’m probably completely rusty.

  Presley looks down at the book and flaps the front cover over to mark her spot, then closes it.

  “It’s slow this time of day. The morning rush of postal carriers and UPS drivers is done, and the lunch chaos of workers trying to mail letters is over. Now I just have to wait for the onslaught of after-school mom’s trying to mail same-day packages, and it’ll be time to close up shop.”

  I laugh at her accurate timetable of a normal day in Fawn Hill. “Sounds about right. Although dealing with animals is much less predictable than the Fawn Hill PTA. What are you reading?”

  She holds it up so I can see the front cover, whose title is The Perfect Couple, written by Elin Hilderbrand. “It’s fantastic, a little mystery, a mega beach read. I forgot how much I like reading, how a story can transport you to a different place entirely. I lost my love for books when I moved to New York City.”

  I walk farther into the shop and over to the counter to stand directly across from Presley. “I know what you mean. I’ll read two or three great books and then get so busy that new ones start collecting dust on my nightstand. But when I come back to reading, I always remember how much I like it.”

  Presley nods like I’m speaking the exact thoughts she’s thinking. “Yes! You’re so right.”

  My fingers drum on the counter as I search for something to keep the conversation going. “Do you miss living in New York City?”

  A thoughtful look passes over her face. “Hmm, well, I guess I miss the Chinese food you can order ’round the clock. And my yoga studio, gosh do I miss teaching classes. There isn’t even a gym in Fawn Hill.”

  I don’t miss the way her eyes light up when she mentions yoga. “You should talk to Lily at the library. They host cooking classes and other courses during the week, I’m sure they’d love if you mentioned teaching a yoga class.”

  Presley looks taken aback for a moment. “I … I could do that, yeah.”

  Our conversation lapses for a moment, and I want to ask the obvious question burning in my throat.

  “So is there anything else you miss?” There is no subtlety left in my voice. I am asking if she has someone she left back in New York.

  She smiles like she knows what I’m trying to get at. “No, nothing else. I actually kind of like it here, which keeps surprising me. Oh, and I finally got a slice of pie at Kip’s. They’re either going to make me fat or take all my money. I’m not sure which will happen first.”

  “I won’t tell you how many times I’ve had to loosen my belt on the afternoons I eat there.”

  And now I’m telling her about unbuckling my pants. Great. I have absolutely zero game.

  But, Presley laughs, a tiny hint of pink stealing over her cheeks. “I don’t doubt it.”

  And here it goes. I take a breath, my brain shouting at me to definitely not pass go and collect two hundred dollars. But my heart and my mouth tell that useless thought center they’re doing it anyway.

  “Maybe one afternoon I could take you out for a slice of pie? Or three?”

  My heart is hammering in my chest, and I suddenly feel the need to drink a gallon of water. How stupid am I? I said I wasn’t going to let my crush on this woman tempt me, and not twenty minutes into my second conversation with her, I’m asking her out. In a totally cheesy way, let’s not forget. A slice of pie? I’m basically insinuating that I want to have sex with her. Which I do, but …

  Shut up, doc.

  “Um … yeah, sure. I’m kind of busy learning the ropes here, but maybe we could meet up in a couple of weeks.”

  And the slap of rejection burns across my cheeks. Ever wonder what it sounds like when a woman politely turns you down? Presley just gave the prime example.

  “Great.” I plaster a fake smile on my face. “That sounds great. Well, I’ve got to get back, have a guinea pig with a hiccup problem.”

  I start to walk out the door, but her voice stops me. “Oh, was there anything you needed help with in the shop?”

  Fuck me. I walked in here and didn’t even provide a cover for why I stopped in. I scramble, looking around, and pick up a random book off the shelf closest to me.

  “I was going to buy this new book, but it will probably just collect dust on my nightstand. Thanks anyway!”

  It’s not until I’m almost out the door and can feel her hiding a smile behind my back, that I realize I just put back a children’s sudoku puzzle book on the shelf.

  6

  Presley

  Oh my, the vet is adorable.

  I can’t help the giggle that escapes my lips as I watch him speed walk back to his office, which is across the street and down three storefronts to the corner where the converted Victorian home sits. His deep breath before he asked me out. The fumbling, cheesy line about pie. The way his hands kept drumming on the counter. Keaton had been so nervous that I thought he might pass out before I could answer.

  The sweet, vanilla Dr. Nash seemed like he’d make any number of these small-town girls the happiest person on the planet, but for me? We just weren’t right. I felt like a bitch turning him down, especially with the roundabout no I gave as an answer, but he deserves someone much more together than me. He’s a calm, blue-skied spring afternoon and I’m a tornado in the middle of a blizzard.

  In the seconds after he asked, I almost said yes. Going out with the sexy vet in my new town would be fun. Hell, even if he couldn’t hold a conversation, he was nice to look at. But he could hold a conversation, and a witty one at that. I think that’s what ultimately made me say no. I was going to convince myself that we wouldn’t fit because … what if I ended up really liking him? I had no clue if I was staying here, or where I ultimately wanted my life to go. Getting involved with someone, especially someone as steady as Keaton Nash, was just asking for trouble.

  My phone buzzes on the counter, and I lift it to see two messages waiting for me. I open the first.

  Gwen: How is Grandma? Tell her I send my love, but I’m working this weekend so I won’t be able to call.

  I roll my eyes. So typical of my older sister to “send her love” in a text message that isn’t even to our grandmother, and then casually drop in that she’ll be doing important lawyer things this weekend so don’t disrupt her. That’s basically what the message was saying, and it infuriated me that even after twenty-seven years of knowing her narcissistic ways, she could still get to me.

  Presley: Grandma is good, I’ll tell her.

&nb
sp; I left it short because I wasn’t going to open the door for her to brag about work more than she already did. After a minute of waiting to see if she’ll respond, and maybe ask about me, she doesn’t, and I open the second message.

  Ryan: Hey, boo. How’s it going in bumblefuck? Miss you, just had an iced macchiato and it made me think of you. Come home and I’ll buy you one. I’ll even spring for a seventeen-dollar martini at Al Pucco’s.

  The smile that stretches my face is real, and a homesickness for my best friend and the city hits like a tidal wave. Although, I’d forgotten how expensive it all was. Seventeen bucks for a martini? I’d seen a sign outside the only bar on Main Street advertising three-dollar beers every weekday.

  Presley: Miss you more, lady. Surprisingly, bumblefuck ain’t so bad. Very quiet, but they have three-dollar beer and the best pie I’ve ever eaten. How’s the apartment? Your job? How’s Daniel?

  Ryan and I lived together when I first moved to the Big Apple after college. We met at a spin class and fell in friendship love over organic avocado burgers. And now that I think about it, I kind of want to slap myself in the face for ever being that uppity. We shared an apartment for three years, until she moved in with her boyfriend, Daniel. He worked at a big Wall Street financial firm, and while I liked him okay, I couldn’t really understand what Ryan saw in him. She was a smart-as-hell coder at one of the biggest social media companies in the world, ran triathlons, and had lived in London for half of her childhood. Compared to her, Daniel was drier than gluten-free bread.

  Ryan: Apartment is no more. Same with Daniel. He wanted to go to Florida for our summer vacation. I wanted to go to Madrid. It took me this long to see that the guy was dull as drywall. Who the hell wastes a year of their life for that?

  Presley: Thank God, I don’t know how many more times I could point out to you that the man ironed his socks. Good riddance. So, Madrid it is, then?

  Ryan: I leave in two weeks, can’t wait. My boss is going to let me work remotely for two months, so I’ll be there for a while. A tryst with a Latin lover sounds like exactly the right dose of medicine to heal my stupid heart. Care to join me?

  Her life was so cool, and it made me jealous more than I wished to admit.

  Presley: Gotta pass this time, love. Have to stay here to help Grandma out. You should come visit, though. You might get a hoot out of this place. Plus, I’m thinking about hosting a yoga class. They don’t have a studio here.

  Ryan: Wait, you’re going to start your own class? That’s fucking awesome, Pres. Proud of you. Maybe I’ll journey to bumblefuck after my European tour. Gotta get back to work, can’t keep the masses from posting their most ridiculous inner thoughts. Love you.

  Presley: Love you, more.

  Sighing, I set my phone down on the counter and start the procedure for locking up. I don’t know why I’d randomly told her that I might start a yoga class. Keaton Nash had only told me about the library offerings less than half an hour ago. But the idea was flicking me in the forehead now, and wouldn’t go away, like an annoying little brother.

  I’d obviously noticed in the month I’d lived here that Fawn Hill didn’t have a yoga studio, much less a gym. I’d been doing my practice on a yoga mat in Grandma’s basement, and that was getting pretty old. It wasn’t relaxing or soothing to move through sequences in a dank, moldy, unfinished room.

  Maybe I’ll check into the library classes like Keaton had mentioned. The worst the person running them could say was no. But, if they said yes, this might be something I could do for myself. It might be the start of something.

  And wasn’t it strange that the idea of building something here, of putting down roots in this small town, didn’t have me sprinting in the other direction?

  7

  Keaton

  Sun rays peak out from behind the clouds as my feet hit the pavement.

  I rounded the bend on the far end of the lake at Bloomsbury Park, running steadily around the mile-long track paved into the shores of the town’s only body of water. Sweat trickled from my brows … for the first week of June, it was humid and hot even at eight in the morning. My calves ached and the knee I’d hyperextended playing baseball in high school screamed at me. But I kept going. The burn in my lungs felt cathartic, and running is one of the only activities that takes me out of my own head.

  My life might not look stressful, living in a small town as a single guy, but the responsibility on my shoulders was, at times, crushing. I ran my own veterinary practice. Aside from Dierdra answering the phones and keeping the schedule, and my accountant looking at my books every quarter, I did most everything else. I saw patients, operated, birthed farm animals, ordered supplies, ran our small social media presence, participated in community events, and volunteered at the county shelter twice a month.

  And that was just my job. I was also the oldest child, and with Dad gone, the man of the family. When Mom had trouble with her gutters, or car, or needed something out of the attic, or … anything really, I was the one she called. Reliable, steady Keaton, that was me. When my brothers were in trouble, I was the one who fixed the problem. I wrangled them on the holidays, scolded them when they didn’t do what they’d promised Mom, and was the moral compass of the Nash family.

  It was exhausting. And October, the third anniversary of Dad’s death, was only four months away. Which meant the stress was only going to intensify.

  Mom was going to go into complete mourning, just like she had the year before. It had lasted until well after New Year’s when I’d finally threatened her with therapy that she’d refused many times before.

  But she was going to have a bigger problem this year. My brothers and I agreed that she couldn’t stay in the six-bedroom house we’d grown up in. It was too big, too much maintenance, and every single corner and closet reminded her of our father. I loved the house almost as much as she did, but on the upcoming third year since his passing, it was time to let it go.

  We all had to start living again.

  I headed into mile four, my arms pumping to the music blasting through my headphones. Coming out here on a weekday morning was my favorite time, almost no other Fawn Hill resident took to running the lake path at this time.

  My phone rings from the band wrapped around my arm, cutting The Who off. I slow down, taking it out of its sleeve. The number that flashes on the screen turns the blood in my veins to ice. Because there can only be one reason he’s calling, and even if his reaching out does me a favor, he’s still the last person on earth I want to talk to.

  “Gerry, is he there?” I pick up, letting him know I know why he’s calling.

  A grunt and what sounds like glass crunching in the background. “Yeah, he’s here. Better get down here quick, Keaton, or I’ll be forced to call the cops if he tries to take his keys.”

  “Fucking, hell,” I say more to myself than to Gerry Flint.

  Gerry Flint is the owner of the Goat & Barrister, the one bar on Main Street. He’s a decent man, but with the history between us, we’re never going to be friends.

  His daughter had bashed my heart in with a bat … and even if we’d been chummy once, there was no coming back from that.

  Sprinting to the parking lot, I’m peeling out and swerving through town in a frenzy. Two cars actually honk at me on my way to the bar, and road rage is unheard of in our town.

  Within five minutes of the phone call, I’m walking into the Goat. It’s a dark tavern, with wood paneling and old British-inspired decor. The person Gerry called about is slumped over the sticky, cherry-top bar, but I can tell he isn’t sleeping.

  “Fletcher.” I sigh, not knowing if his name is a curse, a question or simply a resigned greeting.

  My brother looks up, his eyes glassy, a cut above his lip bleeding, and then turns back to Gerry, who is polishing glasses behind the bar.

  “You called him, you asshole? I don’t need a daddy, or didn’t you hear mine is dead?” Fletch practically spits at the owner, and I cringe.

 
; “That’s enough, Fletch. Let’s go, I’ll drive you home. Gerry, thank you for calling. Can I have his keys? We’ll pick his car up later.”

  There was smashed glass under his chair, and I could see beer dripping from a poster over a table on the other wall. As I neared, I caught a whiff of Fletcher and had to hold my breath. He’d definitely pissed himself, and it was possible there was throw up on his T-shirt. Fuck, and I was going to let him in my car?

  My youngest brother … the family addict. I blew out a breath, trying to hold my temper at bay. Fletch had always been a party boy, he was the one you called for a good time. When Dad was alive, he kept it under wraps more … although Bowen and I had been the ones to bail him out of jail twice; once when he was eighteen and once when he was twenty, both for being drunk and disorderly. It got worse after that, and when I still lived at home, I’d find liquor bottles hidden in all sorts of places. The year after Dad died, he got a DUI and had been forced into an out-patient rehab as part of his court sentence. That had lasted all of six months, and he’d been slowly drinking himself to death since.

  “I can drive.” He pushes my hand away when I try to help lift him off the stool. “Hey, get your hands off me, pussy!”

  I don’t consider myself to have a short fuse, on the contrary mine’s probably pretty long, but I’ve had it with Fletcher. I know he’s an addict, and I know it’s a disease, but when you’re in it, watching a family member ruin their life, it’s hard not to get angry.

  “I said, let’s fucking go. Or would you rather I call the cops on you, brother?” I bite out.

  Fletcher cracks up laughing, his body swaying as he stands. “Oh, man, I ruffled Keaton’s feathers, I’m in big trouble!”