Nash Brothers Box Set

by Carrie Aarons

  “I’m not sending you any more money.” I put my foot down, stopping her drug-fueled diatribe.

  I’ve learned that mistake the hard way, many times. It started when I was fifteen and would send her any bit of my after-school job pay. And then when I was twenty, in college, and would shave off portions of my scholarship-awarded stipends. Then again, at twenty-four, when I was earning good money with my first company. Each time, I believed she’d use the money to get clean, to go to rehab and come back into my life as a real parent.

  The last time I sent her funds, she’d nearly overdosed and I got the call from the hospital as her emergency contact. When I’d gone to visit her in the room she was admitted to, I barely recognized her. Her skin was gray, her hair missing in patches, and so many track marks up her arm, it looked like an angry cat had gone to town on it. I was so disgusted, I puked in the adjoining hospital room bathroom.

  I didn’t have the heart to completely block her number, call me an idiot, I know.

  “Aw, come on, sweetheart. Don’t you want to help out your dear old mama?” Her voice was scratchy, as if she’d smoked every pack of cigarettes in America.

  Considering she’d given me up at birth, put me into some of the worst foster homes imaginable, and didn’t give a real shit about me, was it any wonder I didn’t want to help her fuel her heroin habit? But I don’t say that, it’s no use. I’ve tried to have that logical discussion before, and it only ended with me in tears and her immature, destroyed brain confused over why I would have any problem with her.

  “I’m not sending you anything. Don’t call here again, Natasha.” My stomach is in knots, because there is a very good chance I could never talk to her again.

  Why did I still care for this useless piece of a human? Because she was my biological mother, and we were all apparently born with unconditional love for them … no matter how horribly they treat us.

  “You know, you’re some high and mighty bitch, you little—”

  I cut her off before she can hurl more insults at me, clicking the red button on the screen to hang up abruptly.

  “Fuck,” I mutter, running my hands through my disheveled hair.

  I’ll never be able to sleep after that rousing conversation. My legs shake unconsciously on the bed, and I huff a frustrated breath as I stand and walk out of the guest cottage. Outside, the night is muggy and does nothing to relieve the pent-up anger in my chest.

  Crossing the backyard, I gently and quietly slide open the door to the kitchen, silently thanking Presley for keeping it open in case I need a midnight cereal binge. Right now, though, I need something stronger than cereal.

  Breaking open the bar cart that Keaton keeps on the other side of their island, I select a single malt scotch and pour a heavy hand into a highball glass. The first sip numbs my jumpy limbs, and the second and third start to drown my anxious thoughts.

  “Someone else needs a nightcap, I see.”

  Hattie, Presley’s grandmother, walks into the kitchen. I rush to her, hugging her tightly.

  “I didn’t realize you were staying here tonight!” I keep my excited voice quiet.

  “A pipe burst in my bathroom and soaked the whole bedroom carpet. I’ll be staying a day or two while it gets fixed. Apologies for not visiting sooner, you know I adore you, girl.”

  The warm smile that stretches my lips is genuine. “And I adore you. Can I pour you a glass? What’s keeping you up?”

  She grunts as she takes a seat at the kitchen table, and I start fixing her a drink. “At my age, you don’t sleep much anymore. Just catnaps here and there. But my old bones are too stiff and pained to lie down flat in a bed for long. And what, might I ask, woke you up?”

  Bringing both our drinks, I sit next to her at the table. “A phone call.”

  We both sip, the bitter liquor burning as it slides down my throat.

  “Who was on the other end? Not that prick, I hope.”

  Of course, Presley told Hattie. Her grandmother has a way of pulling information out of anyone with a pulse. I don’t mind though, Hattie only wants the best for me, and I know it.

  “No, thank God. I’m done wasting time on his excuses, or him in general.”

  She pats my knee. “Good to hear. So, who woke you?”

  I take a large gulp before I answer. “My mother.”

  “Ah.” Hattie sips, ruminating. “You know, you don’t have to waste time on her excuses, either.”

  “I know that. But with her, it’s not that simple.” My fingers tap the side of the glass.

  “No, I suppose it’s not,” she agrees.

  We drink in silence for a few minutes, and then Hattie speaks again.

  “Ryan, you have had a tough life. I’m not sure anyone in this town, or anyone you consider a friend, really grasps how much shit you’ve had to shovel. Being abandoned, as a child, it does a number on you … one I don’t fully grasp because I haven’t walked in your shoes. And I know why you turn to men to fill that love tank of yours, why you think their approval and affection will make it full. I’m also aware that you know you’re a strong, capable woman … one who can kick ass in the boardroom or the bedroom. But something, deep down in that closed off heart of yours, is broken. You think you give these men love, but you’ve never truly gifted your heart to anyone. Because the first person who was supposed to take care of it, completely broke it. Over and over again, I’m sure your mother lets you down. I’m an old woman, so I can say these things without having explicit knowledge on the specific subject. So, I’m going to tell you that, until you cut out the cancer that is your mother, you will never truly be able to be with someone as a whole person.”

  Hattie’s words are harsh, and tears prick at the corners of my eyes. Maybe it’s the whiskey, because I’m not usually a crier, or maybe it’s that she’s so brutally correct.

  But she’s wrong, in a way. Someone in this town does know me … sees inside my soul and understands on a deeper level than he should be able to.

  When Fletcher found me during the manhunt game earlier tonight, it had been fate meddling again. What were the chances? First, the drive into town, and then him walking into my guest cottage. The third time, and it was more than just a coincidence now. I am a science girl through and through, but the universe is clearly sending me signals and I am not against believing in superstition if it’s trying to tell me something.

  And when he hunted me down, not on purpose, I could feel the tension between us coming to a tee. That’s why I’d asked if he was going to kiss me. Because my promise to myself was to stay away from men, but Fletcher seemed to be digging himself into my thoughts like a stubborn splinter. If he is going to go for it, I am not going to stop him.

  Though, Fletcher seemed to stop on both our behalves. It’s as if he knew my moral dilemma and had an almost identical one. We could act on this, and maybe it would be great. But, more likely, we would only end up in worse condition than we are right now. I appreciate his ability to act rationally.

  Still, I would love to know what it would feel like to kiss him.

  Hattie stands. “I’m headed back up for a cat nap before dawn. Come find me tomorrow, I could use your help with something.”

  Her complete redirection throws me off, leaving the advice she’d just shot me straight with echoing around in my brain.

  “What’s that?” I finish off my glass and clear both to the sink.

  “There is an advanced computer course at the middle school during the summer months, but the teacher is an incompetent moron. I volunteer about town, since I sold the shop, and someone in the receptionist’s office mentioned that the kids needed to learn coding. I think you’d be perfect to help them.”

  “Aw, Hattie, I don’t know—” I start to object, because I’m not a kid person, nor do I have the patience to teach.

  “Hush, child. No one says no to me. It would serve you good to just shut up and show up when you’re told. It’s not like you’re busy with anything else, hiding out
here. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Keeping my mouth shut, I nod, because what else am I going to do.

  When I finally do stumble back to the cottage, more tipsy for the wear, I collapse onto the bed and fall into another dark, dreamless sleep.

  9

  Fletcher

  Examining my online bank account, I tilt my head.

  In a good way, that is. Because I’ve saved way more than I previously thought. It’s almost like digging in your pockets and finding a twenty-dollar bill. Except, in this case, I found thousands more than I thought.

  Shit, I’ve been way more frugal than I thought I’d been. Which means … I can finally attempt to do something I’ve been waiting years to do.

  Shutting my laptop, I throw on a pair of sneakers and a ball cap. Mom is already dozing in her rocker in the living room, Alex Trebek asking questions on the TV. Planting a kiss on her forehead, I quietly leave the house.

  Opting to walk the mile over to Forrest and Penelope’s place, I turn my face upward to the setting sun. Summer is my favorite season in Fawn Hill. Being outside does something good for my soul, I’m far too jumpy being cooped up in the winter. Plus, I’m not freezing my nuts off while I walk across town.

  My mind strays to Ryan, and what she’s doing over at Presley and Keaton’s house. Poker night isn’t there, and as much as I’ve denied myself when it comes to her, part of me kind of wishes I was seeing her tonight.

  Is she thinking about our almost kiss? How long is she staying in town?

  I haven’t seen her in a week, since that night. I’ve been busy in the wood shop, and at work. And she is busy with … well, I’m not sure. I can’t exactly ask about her daily activities or how long her stay will be, because then my family will only meddle harder.

  I arrive at Forrest’s and realize that I’m the last one to the party. Bowen and Keaton’s cars are here, and when I walk in the side door without bothering to knock, I don’t hear the kids.

  “Are the kids asleep?” I ask Penelope when I find her in the kitchen, pouring herself a glass of red.

  She kisses me on the cheek and picks up her wine. “Nope, they’re at Marion’s for the night. You guys are having poker night, and Mama is watching The Bachelor with a drink.”

  My eyes avoid looking at the bottle, but I can still smell it and I back away toward the door to the basement. “Sounds great, have fun.”

  It’s been five years, and still, my fingers ache to reach out and grasp that bottle in my hands.

  “Hey, man. What took you so long?” Keaton asks when I step off the last stair.

  Forrest and Penelope finished their basement about six months ago. It’s a full-on separate apartment almost, with a tiny kitchen, a pullout couch, a bathroom with a shower stall and vintage arcade games for the boys. I would have considered moving in here, if they’d asked and I was able to put up with the chaos of their household on a daily basis. Which I was not.

  My brothers have cleaned out the downstairs bar and taking the place of Bowen’s favorite bottles are liters of soda, iced tea, and lemonade. I appreciate that they keep poker night a sober event for me, hell, it’s probably bad enough I’m gambling. But card games were never my problem and aren’t the things that trigger me to want to drink.

  Everything triggers me to want to drink, on a minute-by-minute basis. I figure I shouldn’t have to rule out guy time with my brothers just because I crave the smooth burn of bourbon sliding down my throat every second.

  “I walked here,” I say, grabbing an iced tea and joining them.

  Bowen shuffles the deck and deals. “Get ready to give me your money, suckers.”

  “Nah, I’m feeling lucky tonight. Plus, my roof.” Forrest points up.

  I just smirk, because I’m usually the victor here. My brothers have lousy poker faces, especially Keaton.

  “I’m not even going to attempt to brag, because we all know I’m crap,” my oldest brother admits.

  “That’s his one curse word for the week and we got to witness it!” Forrest teases.

  Glancing down at my first hand, I ask for two new cards in exchange for the ones I discard. My brother’s heads are buried in their own hands, but by the crease in Bowen’s brow, and the way Keaton is chewing his lip, I know I can manage to pick up a better combination of cards than them. Forrest is a little tougher, especially because my twin and I usually play very similarly.

  “Hey, do you guys know of any cheap listings in town?” I throw the question out, knowing they’re going to start prying.

  But since looking at my bank account, it’s all I can think about.

  “You mean house listings?” Bowen asks, curious.

  “Yeah. I’ve checked into my finances, and I think I’m ready.”

  “To buy something? You sure you want that much responsibility?” Keaton eyes me.

  And here we go. “Yes, Dad. I’m almost thirty fucking years old and live in Mom’s guest room, believe me, I think I know how to handle myself.”

  All three of my brothers exchange a look, and suddenly I’m envisioning slitting their throats with my cards.

  “What?” I cry, exasperated.

  My twin speaks up. “It’s just … you don’t want a house. It’s so much work, and if I had to do it again as a bachelor, I totally would have rented a small place. It was dumb to own a whole home, and I didn’t use half of it.”

  “What you’re saying is, you all think it’s a bad idea for me to get my own place. Just admit it, I’m not a moron, despite your opinions of me.”

  I was only saying what everyone in the room was thinking. I’m not sure why my temper is getting the best of me … honestly, most of the time, I’m a really laid-back guy. Probably because, for the past five years, I’ve proven to myself and everyone around me that I can be sober, responsible, reliable, and all the other positive personality attributes you can think of. I’ve spent a lot of time repenting and allowing my family to keep me under close watch.

  And now, the first time I try to tell them I’m ready to spread my wings, they’re batting me back down to the ground.

  Keaton’s face frowns in sympathy, and I know what he’s about to say is all going to be pandering bullshit.

  “That’s not what we’re saying, Fletch. We’re just … we worry about you. We see how well you’re doing, and how great your life is right now, and we just want the best for you. You’re doing good at Mom’s, with your job and your woodworking … why change something? Consistency is best, correct? Buying a home, it’s a big step with lots of frustrations and problems that could arise. You don’t need that kind of stress.”

  I want to throttle him, and I have to bite the back of my tongue hard to keep from letting my fury out. They all look at me like the little brother slash screw-up that they still think I am. Have I ever interfered in their lives, or kicked them while they were down? Not once. Yet, they always seem to be ready and willing to do it to me.

  “Have you not been watching for the last five years while I clean my life up and get it in working order? Do I not show up for Mom more than any of you these days? Have I found a passion that I’m good at, that I have begun to make money off of? When will my recovery be enough for you guys to look at me like a normal person, instead of your alcoholic, troublemaker brother?”

  And that’s the crux of it. What has been weighing on me for so long, just knocking at my heart to be let out. They don’t view me on the same level as themselves, and that’s why this is working me up so much.

  I throw my cards down, more than done with this poker night. Fuck, I need a meeting so bad right now.

  Without another word to my brothers, I march up the stairs and out of Forrest’s house. Their calls after me hit my ears, but I don’t stop.

  I fume down the street, speed-walking away from the house toward Mom’s. It’s nearly nine o’clock, which means I won’t be able to get to an AA meeting until tomorrow morning. My throat is dry and my fingertips are cold, and this is the time I know I�
�m most vulnerable. When nothing I can think of in the world sounds like it will make me feel better.

  That’s when alcohol, my old buddy, pops into my head. Alcohol always made me feel better. It picked me up when I felt worthless. It wrapped a warm arm around me when the girl I wanted went home with someone else. It kept me company when everyone else was moving on with their lives.

  Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

  I’m jonesing, and I know it. So I pull out my cell phone, tapping on the first number on my favorites screen.

  “Fletch, how’s your night?”

  Cookie’s warm, raspy voice fills my ear, and instantly, I can feel my anxiety level lower.

  “Not great.” I blow out a breath of air, stopping as I turn the corner onto an unlit street.

  I take a seat on the curb and rest my elbows on my knees, almost needing to take a pause and regroup.

  “Tell me about it,” my sponsor says, knowing that I both need a moment, but need to vent.

  The first time I went to an AA meeting, after I left rehab, I was so freaked out; I didn’t talk the entire time. I sat there listening to stories of people who were twenty years sober, of others who had stolen money from their family or gotten so drunk that they’d ended up face down in a pond, gasping for air when their nervous system finally woke them up. One guy had smashed into a family of five on their way home from church, injuring all and almost killing one of them. He’d gone to prison for seven years and had been sober for fifteen.

  What struck me most about the meeting though, was how not alone I felt. I’d never, in my life, encountered people who spoke about alcohol the way I thought about it. Like it was inevitable to consume, an old lover whom you both hated and desperately needed. For years, I thought my relationship with drinking was just more severe than those of my imbibing, partying counterparts.

  Being in that meeting had shown me, truly, that I had a problem … but I wasn’t the only one.