Nash Brothers Box Set

by Carrie Aarons

  As he nears, our eyes connect, and a flicker of recognition runs over his face. I feel the world go full-on slow-motion, with Fletcher’s steps slowing and the tires on the car all but coming to a stop. Those blue eyes, the color of the sea outside my window in Santorini, blink twice, and his tongue darts out to wet his lips. He’s all hard lines and lean control, and I often wonder what he was like before he stopped drinking.

  It’s more than just physical attraction between us, though. I’ve never been alone in a room with Fletcher, and yet, I can tell that he and I are the same. He knows next to nothing about my past, but when he looks at me, I feel as if he understands the pain inside my chest.

  Presley honks violently, snapping me out of my trance, waving her free hand out the window in a furious greeting of her brother-in-law. Fletcher raises a hand, waving back, and smiling with all the pearly whites in his mouth showing.

  “You go, bro!” Presley yells as we pass him, her brother-in-law not stopping his run to chat with us.

  I can’t help it when my head swivels backward, staring at his retreating form as those perfectly sculpted calves carry him over the hot pavement.

  “He runs six miles every morning. Told me once that it helps with the cravings,” my best friend divulges.

  The last thing I need is temptation, especially in the form of a recovering addict who would never be able to give me the kind of support I’d need in a relationship.

  So, I turn back around and root myself firmly forward in my seat.

  No good will come from ogling Fletcher Nash, even if I have a hard time shutting down the thoughts racing through my head.

  2

  Fletcher

  The itch in the back of my throat is so strong, that it takes everything in my body to even sit up in bed.

  No, this itch is not physical, it’s not something you can clear with a drink of water or a cough drop. This irritating feeling, a throb that cannot be shooed out of your brain with a silly distraction like song lyrics, is bone deep … it sits in the marrow.

  The itch is addiction, and even after almost five years of sobriety, I wake up each day with the overwhelming urge to drink. To drown myself in a bottle of cheap tequila, or my favorite IPA, or the crisp hard cider that Mr. Hinard makes on his orchard just over the county line.

  I can name you almost every brand of vodka in the liquor store next to the pizza place on Main Street. Not because I’ve stepped foot in there in five years, but because in the ten years before that, I could have checked in like it was a long-term-stay hotel I frequented.

  To push past the cravings takes every ounce of energy in my body. I have to literally latch my hands behind my back to keep them from grabbing my keys and heading out in search of a buzz.

  That’s the thing no one can quite explain when you go through rehab and start attending meetings. They say it will be hard, that your sobriety is essential to living a healthy life, that if you stop drinking, everything will turn around. Counselors tell you to focus on the positive and surround yourself with people who live a life you aspire to have. Other recovering alcoholics warn about the dangers of social situations and the reality of wronged friends not accepting you as a sober person, even if you make amends.

  But I’m not sure anyone told me how crippling the feeling of addiction would be. That even years later, almost half a decade, I’d still wake up with a lump in my throat and my hands shaking to grip a bottle. When they say you’re an addict for life, even after getting sober, they mean it.

  Stumbling to the bathroom, I lock the door before taking my morning piss. Living with your mother at the age of twenty-nine is not only embarrassing but having her walk in on you mid-drawer drop is something I’ll never quite scrub from my brain.

  Note to all kids out there; stay in school, don’t do drugs and lay off the bottle. Otherwise, you’ll end up living with your mom, working a dead-end job, and trying to rebuild your life as a grown-ass man.

  After I drain the snake, I wash my hands, brush my teeth, and head back to the spare bedroom in my mom’s condo that has been mine ever since I got back from rehab. As if being the baby of four brothers didn’t come with enough teasing, I’d now put myself in the position to be called pathetic.

  I try not to berate myself, as I do each time I walk into a house that isn’t my own, as I dress for my daily run.

  Six miles, every single morning. Endorphins help with the cravings and you don’t have much time to think with heavy metal blasting in your ears and your feet pounding the road.

  “Do you want some coffee?” Mom asks as I enter the kitchen, sitting in her usual chair at the table in the breakfast nook.

  I shake my head. “No, thanks. Just my usual goo before my run.”

  All I eat before my workouts is one of those disgusting gel packets that make me shudder just thinking about it. The goop is gross sliding down your throat but it fills your stomach without making you want to vomit halfway through and gives you enough energy to not have me passing out after six miles in the hot July sun.

  “Can you pick up milk on your way home? We’re almost out.” Her attention is back on the local paper splayed out in front of her.

  “Sure. See you in a bit,” I tell her, kissing her on the cheek and heading for the front door.

  The heat blasts me in the face as soon as I step outside. It’s summer days now, which means that even at seven thirty in the morning, it’s a balmy seventy-five. Not that I mind, the harder I sweat, the more the itch in the back of my throat lessens.

  Before slipping my phone into the arm band strapped around my right bicep, I scroll through my music to the heavy metal playlist I compiled. Hitting shuffle, an Iron Maiden song blasts through my headphones, giving my heart a jolt akin to an electric shock. Blood begins pumping furiously into my loins, the excitement and fear of a long, hard run mixing in a heady combination.

  My muscles scream as I run, trying to beat the pace I set yesterday. That’s how my life goes; I’m always trying to do a little better than I did yesterday. So far, I haven’t backslid much, which I’m thankful for.

  I’m also so far behind every other person my age, there probably isn’t any deeper to sink.

  I spot Presley’s new white open-top Jeep the minute I come up over the hill. My sister-in-law might be a free-spirit, rolling meadows kind of girl, but she’s still got some of that New York City extra-ness in her that our small town just can’t erase. The truck is flashy, with all the bells and whistles, and I honestly love it. Bowen grumbled about how obnoxious it was when she bought it, and of course, my twin brother’s wife, Penelope, sat on top of the roll bar the day Presley and Keaton pulled up to Mom’s in it.

  There is someone in the passenger seat, I notice, as my sneakers push rhythmically off the hot blacktop. It’s strange that Presley would be out here at this time of day … nothing leads from this road but the airport.

  The airport … which means the person in her passenger seat is …

  Ryan Shea.

  As the truck slows, and my sister-in-law begins wildly waving her hand at me, I study the woman sitting next to her.

  She looks different from the last time I saw her, more than two years ago. Her raven-black hair is longer, past her shoulders, where it used to be styled in a short cut that made her look like a punk rock princess. Ryan looks thinner, a fact I’m concerned about even if I haven’t seen her in years. She still has the same dark and mysterious personality, like she might kiss you one second and throw you down a well the next. Her amber eyes, the color of smooth whiskey, connect immediately with mine.

  And even though I’m already sweating my balls off, being within her vicinity makes me feel as if the sun instantly started burning a thousand degrees hotter.

  The first time I met her was at Presley and Keaton’s wedding, when they were trying to set her up with my twin brother. Forrest and Ryan are both hackers, or coders depending on who you talk to. While my brother now worked with local law enforcement to catch cyber c
riminals, Ryan was a consultant. She took jobs all around the world with different companies, protecting their data and testing their computer forensic weaknesses. Her life is glamorous and expensive, whereas mine is as cheap and rundown as the motel out on the outskirts of town.

  Swiftly, I avert my gaze, because I know that if I look too long, I’ll start to want things I can’t give her.

  When I got sober, I made a vow to myself that I wouldn’t be with another woman until it was the real deal. I wouldn’t touch another female until the relationship was so serious, I was thinking about making her my wife.

  After years of blacking out night after night, ending up asleep in bushes, or on couches at houses where I woke up and didn’t know a single soul … it was a miracle I wasn’t dead, riddled with STDs, or in debt to five baby mamas. It might sound ridiculous, but it’s true; I don’t remember a single sexual encounter for the last almost ten years of my life because of how fucked up I’d been.

  Ryan Shea … she’s the type of temptation that I need to avoid at all costs.

  She’s the type of woman who could make all of those cravings slam right back into my throat.

  She’s the exact type to become an addiction. And that means talking to her, looking at her, hell … even breathing in her direction.

  It’s all off limits.

  3

  Ryan

  “You’re sure you wouldn’t be more comfortable in the guest room?”

  Presley eyes me as I unpack the bigger of my two bags.

  I shake my head. “No, I want you two to have your privacy. Plus, if I have any hysterical crying fits, it’ll be nicer not to have Keaton hear them.”

  My best friend chews her lip as a frown of worry marks her pretty, freckled face. “Ry, I’m not going to rush you, but just promise me you’re not as bad as you seem?”

  Does she want me to tell her that I’m not suicidal? Because I’m not. Though, I am so heartbroken and damaged, that someone like Presley couldn’t understand. My best friend, although I love her, can be a bit dramatic about being the outcast of her family. And now that she’s been all about worshipped by the Nash clan, she feels a type of compassion that I will never experience.

  Because while other people have at least one person they can turn to if all else fails, I have no one. I was raised in the New York state foster system, bouncing from house to house until I was eighteen and could finally, legally, make decisions for myself. I was an orphan, my only living relative was my biological mother who … the damage she’d done was something that can never be forgotten.

  Shaking my head to clear it, I paste on a smile. “I’ll be okay. I’m better now that I’m here, okay? Now will you go inside and kiss your adorable husband and stop worrying about me?”

  “Fine. But there is so much food in the fridge, I wasn’t sure if you were still eating meat or not. So I stocked up on everything I know you like, including those disgusting chocolate Twizzlers. Come into the house whenever you like, and I have a yoga class at three that has your name on it.”

  It’s kind of sweet that she prepared things for me, and I know it’s to keep my mind off my breakup with Yanis. Ugh, just thinking his name makes my heart surge with fury, regret, and sorrow.

  “Thanks. You’re a really good friend. Even after I went distant for a few years …”

  “Don’t even mention it.” Presley shushes me, enveloping me in a big bear hug. “All right, I’ll see you at the studio. It’s not a far walk, but if you want a ride, there are plenty of Nashes around to give you one.”

  With that, she leaves me alone in her shed turned guest cottage. I turn in a circle, marveling at how far down the bottom of the barrel I’ve sunk. I used to live in Manhattan, the greatest city in the world. Two weeks ago, I woke up to a cerulean blue ocean and white-washed houses built into the side of a mountain in Santorini.

  Now, I live in my best friend’s backyard, in the middle of small-town Pennsylvania. Not that the cottage didn’t have its own charm, with all the modern fixings. It just wasn’t Positano or Berlin.

  I sound like a spoiled brat. I know that; I do … it’s just, I can’t help but feel sorry for myself. I feel lost, untethered, and without a purpose in my own life. Never in my thirty-one years have I felt like that. When you grow up with nothing, it almost fuels you. To be better, to become the best, to succeed. No one tells you what happens when you get everything you strived for, but it feels all wrong.

  My suitcases on the bed beg to be unpacked, and although it’ll make this situation more permanent, I am not the type of person to leave their stuff in bags for weeks. The work will occupy my hands and mind, at least for a little while.

  The guest cottage is a studio of sorts, a decently sized room with a queen bed, oversized chair, dresser, small closet and mini-fridge. There is a tiny TV on top of the dresser, and an adjoining bathroom that’s no bigger than a coffin … but at least I won’t have to go into the house to pee and shower.

  For this moment in time, it’s just what I need. And provides privacy that a guest room inside of Presley and Keaton’s home never could.

  When everything is put away, I check the time on my cell phone. One fifteen in the afternoon. Just enough time for me to raid Presley’s fridge, throw on yoga clothes, and walk to the studio. Unlike the people in Fawn Hill, I’m used to walking everywhere. I haven’t owned a car in seven years; my feet and public transportation have been my modes of travel.

  “Aw, yeahhhh.” I pump a fist in the air when I spot the homemade turkey burgers in the refrigerator.

  I grab one, a slice of cheese, a pickle, and some sweet potato fries I find in another container. Keaton Nash really knows the way to a girl’s heart, even if it isn’t his wife’s. When the food is warm, I take it out back and eat on the patio, basking in the scorching summer heat.

  My cell phone dings on the table top, a notification from my Facebook app chiming.

  Opening the social media network, I scroll for a minute before I check the notification. Turns out, it’s actually a message from …

  Yanis.

  I curse myself for not blocking him on all of my social media profiles, but I’ve sort of been traveling as fast as I can to get away from him, so …

  Deleting the message without reading it, I flip over to my email. I’m sure this new message from him doesn’t say anything different than the twenty texts, emails and voicemails he’s already left me.

  Before I can convince myself not to, I stupidly open my voicemail and play the most recent message from him.

  “My beauty, please come back to me. You know I love you more than a thousand suns. We Europeans are freer than Americans, I miss my glamour girl.”

  Rolling my eyes, I hit delete in a fit of rage. And then carrying that fury with me, I erase every single message, email and correspondence he’s ever sent me. Our relationship is so over, it’s buried deeper than the ships at the bottom of the sea surrounding Santorini.

  The bastard, with his Greek god body, rolling accent, carefree charm and flowery language. I should have seen right through his bullshit, but just like every other time I’ve fallen in love, I ignored every warning sign.

  Which is probably why I found him, a year and a half into our relationship, screwing not one but two skanks in our bed.

  I need a distraction. Checking the time, I see I’ve wasted enough to be comfortably early to Presley’s yoga class, and quickly throw on my clothes and walk over to the studio.

  Being away for so long, I’d forgotten how charming Fawn Hill’s main street is. It’s everything you picture when you think of a small town, with some newer shops thrown in. One of those is Presley’s business.

  “Ryan! I didn’t know you were in town,” Lily greets me as I walk.

  I hug her, honestly amazed that she looks so thin for just having had a baby a month ago. “Um, I’m sorry, did you even pop a kid out?”

  She chuckles. “An eight pounder! She’s so cute, but, and I feel guilty saying this, I love
my afternoons off when Bowen watches her. Getting a class in here and there helps me relax.”

  Blinking, I still can’t stop staring at her. As if Lily Nash wasn’t already the sweetest, most perfect person I’ve ever met … of course, she looks like a damn model after pregnancy.

  “So, how are you? You’ve been in, wait don’t remind me … Italy?” She taps a finger to her nose.

  “Greece,” I say, quickly changing the subject. “How is mom life?”

  Lily’s face turns into an adorable mushy expression of love. “It is so amazing. I feel like I could cry at the drop of a hat just thinking about her.”

  And sure enough, she begins to tear up. Presley comes over, her face flushed, from what I assume has been her day of teaching and pats her sister-in-law on the shoulder.

  “Are you crying again?” Her expression is sympathetic.

  Lily nods and retreats to the bathroom to dab her eyes.

  “Did you eat?” Presley asks, that note of concern still in her voice.

  “Yes, Mom.” I roll my eyes. “Pres, I appreciate all you’re doing, but I don’t need a babysitter. I’m going to be okay. I can feed and clothe myself, and I’ll figure out how to heal in my own time. I love you.”

  I squeeze her hand and she manages a small smile.

  “All right, well let’s work some of those issues out on the mat. Time for class.”

  The yoga class is an intense hour of stretching, holding, balancing and deep thinking … something I’m very thankful for. It takes me out of my body, numbs my mind for a while so that the thoughts buzzing around in there don’t drown me in anxiety.

  Afterward, I feel this kind of cathartic need to almost … cry, maybe? I haven’t cried since I found Yanis cheating on me. Not when I packed up my shit, not when I hopped on a plane, and not even when I touched down in the US.

  Quickly, I throw a wave Presley’s way and exit the studio. She must have some inkling not to run after me, because I walk home in silence, just letting all the emotions run over me like the tide.