Nash Brothers Box Set

by Carrie Aarons

  “Oh, stop. Everyone in the place will be so fucking jealous of you, they won’t have time to sneer.” Penelope waves me off.

  “There is going to be booze at this thing, right?” I cross my fingers, holding them up for the ladies to see.

  Presley shakes her head. “No, unfortunately. Since it’s at town hall, there is technically no alcohol consumption allowed on premises. However, it doesn’t mean we aren’t pre-gaming in the parking lot or sneaking water bottles full of alcohol in our purses.”

  “Very high school prom. I love it,” I say, nodding with approval.

  Penelope shrugs, pulling her boobs up a little higher in her bra. “We’re leaving the kids at my mother’s, so we have to get a little wild and crazy on our night off. Plus, we all haven’t been out together in ages.”

  “Let’s get started early.” The twinkle in Presley’s eye tells me she’s ready for a night out, too.

  She goes to her dresser, where I see a bottle of grapefruit vodka and three shot glasses sitting.

  “Grapefruit vodka? Yuck, Pres. They really have turned you into Little Miss Huckleberry out here.” My body shudders just thinking about the sour liquor I’m about to swallow.

  Her eyebrows knit together. “Don’t call me that. It’s good, you haven’t even tried it.”

  I may have struck a nerve, so I nod and walk toward her, accepting my shot glass. Penelope joins us, her beautiful blond locks piled into a girl-next-door ponytail that looks both chic and adorable. The woman is a knockout and has a better body than me after three kids.

  “To Ryan. We’re so glad you’re hanging out in the sticks for a while,” Penelope toasts sarcastically, and I give her a wry smile before knocking my shot back.

  To my surprise, the taste isn’t half as terrible as I thought it would be.

  “See? It’s good.” Presley sticks her tongue out at me.

  “All right, we better get outside. The boys and Lily will be here soon.”

  Lily was planning on getting ready with us, but then called last minute to say she’d do her makeup and hair at home since Molly was cluster-feeding at the moment. Penelope and Presley had nodded into the phone sagely, all understanding. I had no idea what the fuck a cluster-feed was, so I just went along with it.

  The idea of walking to city hall from here, behind all the Nash men and their wives, was kind of intimidating. I was the odd girl out on their date night, and in my spiky heels, I felt even more so.

  I hang back to go down the stairs last, with my two friends nearly bouncing out the door, waiting for their husbands to arrive. The boys all headed to Bowen’s for pre-dance beers and bullshit, and I was kind of happy not to have them here when we were getting dressed.

  It felt like the good old days when Presley and I would sit in our shoebox city apartment and do each other’s hair or borrow a top from each other. The routine of girl gossip and makeup application makes me feel a bit more like myself … something I haven’t felt since probably before I went to Greece.

  I’m just nearing the front door when I hear whooping outside.

  “Damn, my wife is hot!”

  That’ll be Forrest, and by the time I push past the screen door, he and Penelope are full-on making out in the street.

  “Gross, get a room.” Bowen growls though he’s holding Lily’s hand like they might make a break for it. Being new parents can’t leave much time alone in the bedroom.

  “Hi, babe.” Presley pushes up on her toes to kiss Keaton.

  If I didn’t feel thoroughly left out before, I sure as hell did now.

  “Jeez, Ryan, you look great,” Lily gushes as she comes over to kiss my cheek, holding my hands out to admire my getup.

  She’s in a lilac top and skirt set with little white polka dots all over it. She looks every bit the charming, pretty, conservative woman that she is. Lily is that girl in grade school that everyone wants to be. If this were Hollywood, she’d be the Reese Witherspoon of the bunch.

  “She’s right, you look wonderful.” Keaton winks at me, and I know that my best friend’s husband is only paying me a compliment because no one else is here to.

  That’s when I spot him, stepping out from behind where Forrest and Penelope are still practically foreplaying in public.

  His eyes, the color of bright blue sea glass weathered by the ocean and time, connect with mine and almost smile. A shock works its way from my throat to my belly, and then all the way down to my toes. It’s not a shock really, I shouldn’t call it that. What I should say is it’s a … gentle slide of surprise every time I see this man.

  I’m not sure that even makes sense, but each time I hold Fletcher in my gaze, I discover something new. Like I missed a piece of him last time I looked at him. What jumpstarts my system most, though, is that it’s as if he’s experiencing the same thing.

  “Hey.” He holds up a hand, and I see the calluses dotting each crevice of his palm.

  “Hi.” One shoulder rises as I say it, almost in a shy greeting.

  “Let’s get this show on the road. I have punch to spike,” Forrest quips, and the group begins moving.

  Fletcher and I fall to the back, in a natural step, as the couple’s all walk arm in arm in front of us. The pairing off is something I expected, but I didn’t have the balls to ask if Fletcher was coming, so I was semi-sure I’d be walking alone. The fact that he did come only heightens my nerves about the evening.

  “Do you go to this every year?” I ask, trying to make polite conversation.

  He shakes his head, dark locks of hair spilling onto his forehead. He’s wearing a stark-white short-sleeved button-up, and it contrasts so vividly against his bronzed skin. Fletcher’s complexion makes it look like he’s been out working on the land, or something equally as small-towny. I realize, for the first time in the many weeks I’ve been here, that I don’t really know what he does for a living.

  “Not usually, no. But my brothers wouldn’t get off my ass about it, and they said it would be rude for you to not have a … date.” The way he says it makes me think he’s chewed the word around and around in his mouth. “Not that … I mean, I came mostly because I’m bidding to win the new clock tower project and want to make a good impression on the town council. But don’t tell them that.”

  The last couple of sentences whooshes out past his lips as if he’s trying to erase the word date from between us. I follow his cue, pretending to zip my lips.

  “I promise not to tell a soul. Not that I know a soul here to tell.” I laugh nervously. “So, the new clock tower, huh? I didn’t know you … constructed things?”

  I’m not exactly sure what to call it, or what he does to build something like that.

  Fletcher grins. “Well, make things. I guess, you could call it that. Construction genus, I am not.”

  “I’m sorry, that sounded dumb. Please, forget how awkward I am with words and tell me what you do.” There, that sounded a little more like I passed second grade grammar.

  “No worries. I do make things, in the simplest terms. At first, it was some whittling to keep my mind, and hands, occupied once I came home from rehab. While I was there, I became obsessed with building those model ships. I guess from one addiction to the next, right? And then it turned into constructing bird feeders, or a stool. I remember I finished this thing my mom could hang on her wall, a shelving unit of sorts with baskets, so that she could put her keys and bags there when she walked in the front door. And I thought, ‘wow, I’m actually not too bad at this.’ So then, I made that piece for Presley and Keaton’s wedding, and it just spiraled from there. People started requesting furniture or special orders … and I make a decent penny off it now. But, I want to make it my full-time gig. The first step is moving out of my mom’s house … which is in the works. God, that probably sounds pathetic to you.”

  The way Fletcher talks about his addiction, so open and honestly, it freaks the shit out of me. I’ve been conditioned, from a very young age, to keep my demons and insecurities locke
d up tight. Those are the things that make us most vulnerable, the things people can take advantage of. Anything that breaks you down should live in the shadows. And don’t even talk about the process of healing … because it won’t happen.

  These are the principles I’ve been led to believe. I’ve never met anyone before Fletcher who completely shattered them.

  “Honestly, I think it’s something to be really proud of.” I almost whisper this, and I can feel Fletcher turn his head to look over at me.

  And without me having to say it, I think he knows that I’m not just talking about moving out of his mom’s house.

  “You think?” His voice is full of wanting to please me, to believe that what I’ve said is true.

  I nod. “Trust me. Most people I’ve met in this life wear ego and fake niceties like permanent jackets. I find it refreshing that you wear your wounds as badges of honor.”

  15

  Ryan

  Fawn Hill’s town hall is a stately building and looks pretty much how you’d assume any small-town municipal building would look.

  Red brick exterior, tall white columns in the front, the town’s name in big, white bold letters over the front entrance. There are potted plants labeled as gifts from the elementary school dotting the sidewalk leading up to the double doors, and once inside, the whole place smells like a government office. If you’re wondering what a government office smells like, it’s a combination of Clorox wipes, laundry starch, moldy wood windowsills, and the musk of old library books. I find the scent oddly comforting.

  Keaton leads the way through the winding halls of the building, and the group of us passes the courtroom, the mayor’s offices, the entrance to the library, and other wings. Then we’re at the dance hall, which is really just a bunch of recreation rooms that have their dividers lifted to make it one giant space.

  “Wow, this place looks great,” Presley beams.

  I think she just hasn’t been to the city in a while, but I don’t say it. The hall is decorated in streamers, shiny cellophane, and tons of hand-drawn pictures that look like fourth graders drew them. It’s all very small-town cute, but it isn’t … great. That makes me sound like an asshole, but I’ve been to clubs in the city that have four-story glass sculptures, go-go dancers in cages, and walls of speakers that almost blast your eardrums out.

  This is just okay.

  “Thanks. I haven’t been back to work yet, but I had a hand in this,” Lily brags, but it’s just in the nicest way that no one takes it as boastful.

  Bowen bends down to press a kiss to his wife’s forehead. “You did an amazing job, babe.”

  “All right, who wants hooch?” Penelope pulls a flask out from the pocket of her dress.

  “You brought moonshine? Where the hell did you even get that?” Presley looks shocked.

  I’m just floored that anyone would refer to alcohol as hooch. I’m even more backwoods than I thought I was.

  “That stuff will rot your stomach.” Fletcher grimaces, like he knows all too well.

  “But it’ll get me drunk. And we are free of kids tonight. So I say go big or go home.” Penelope takes a swig, sputtering as the drink hits her throat.

  Her husband takes the flask, knocks one back, and then says, “This tastes like battery acid.”

  Bowen tries his luck next, always the manly man of the bunch.

  Lily shakes her head, indicating a pass, and Bowen goes to hand it to me.

  “Eh … I think I’ll hold off.” I’m not sure I’m ready for something that hard … especially in front of the kids dancing to One Direction right now.

  “Fine. Let’s go dance!” Penelope throws up her arms, and everyone follows their Queen Bee.

  She’s the morale of the group, the one who incites happiness and fun. As a mom to three boys, it amazes me how she does it. I feel like I would be hiding in a closet somewhere, having a breakdown.

  The eight of us dance to Stevie Wonder, Tim McGraw, The Beatles, Rihanna, and a whole mess of other music. I have to admit, it’s pretty fun. There is no judgment or lingering glances across the dance floor. There is no dark lighting or potent mixed drinks. No sleazy guys trying to pick you up.

  Just some good old-fashioned fun at the town hall.

  “We Danced” by Brad Paisley comes on, that soft, haunting melody spurring lovers to find each other’s arms. I’m not sure how it happens, I’m fairly certain Presley practically shoves me from behind so that I tumble into Fletcher’s arms. But … here I am, the youngest Nash brother holding me as a slow dance starts up.

  Amusement and something close to polite annoyance paints his face. “I guess I should ask you to dance?”

  I swear, my face is ten shades of red at this moment. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean … I think someone pushed me.”

  He seems to weigh this answer, and I can almost see the war playing out in his head. Should he really ask me to dance? Or would it just be too much of a hassle? Would it be rude if he walked off? Or does our holding each other during a love song register far more consequences?

  Finally, the lines of his face settle in an answer. “All the same, you’re here. We’re both partnerless. Dance with me.”

  It’s not a question, and against the logic trying to slap me in the face, I relent wordlessly. Fletcher’s long, ropey arms hook around my waist, settling at the appropriate height on my back … but the touch still makes every pore tingle. He’s taller than I am, even with my sky-high heels on. And the solid mass of his quintessential male figure reminds me, as I press my breasts and belly to his torso, that it’s been a long while since I’ve been to bed with anyone.

  Then, right there on that packed hardwood floor, we begin to sway. I get a little lost in the lyrics, my mind swept up in how much this man really did fall in love at first sight with this woman. The sappy, lovesick damsel in me wishes that any of my relationships had been so hopelessly romantic.

  Because that’s what I am, a hopeless romantic. No matter how many times it scorns me, I will always believe in love. Even if I’m terrified of it, I’ll never stop imagining that everlasting, all-consuming, genuine love can happen. And the songs about it only reinforce my rose-tinted view of it.

  Fletcher’s breath blows hot near my temple, and I try to contain the shudder that runs through me. My arms clasp around the back of his neck, and I can’t help when my fingers trail over the soft hairs at the nape of his skull.

  “So, we talked about my emotional demons last time I saw you. How about we cover yours this time?” He chuckles in my ear, his body and hands far too close to keep my brain thinking rational thoughts.

  I’m almost glad that we’re slow dancing, our cheeks almost pressing together. It means he can’t see my face, or read my eyes in that weird, almost searching way he does.

  “What do you want to know?” My voice has an edge of warning to it, almost as if I’m telling him not to test his luck.

  Fletcher makes a humming noise, like he’s thinking. “Why aren’t you dating men right now?”

  The phrase he uses has a small smile spreading over my face, remembering our non-date at the coffee shop. “I just came off an epic breakup. One that should go down in the history books as the suckiest relationship ender of all time. So, needless to say, I don’t feel like a repeat.”

  I can feel him nodding as his fingers dig ever so gently into the base of my spine. My dress is basically a second skin, but I wonder, without meaning to, what his hands might feel like if there was nothing between us at all.

  “How long were you with the jackass?”

  The song meanders as Brad Paisley croons. “Who said he was a jackass? What if I was the one who wrecked it?”

  “You weren’t,” he says simply, as if he knows the deepest parts of me.

  Somehow, the conversations between us always become intensely deep. I don’t know why; I’ve never felt this sort of magnetism to anyone else before. And it honestly scares the shit out of me that Fletcher Nash seems to have my number.


  I sigh. “You’re right. This time. We were together for a year and a half.”

  “Must have been serious, then,” Fletcher remarks, and I think I hear a bit of surprise in his voice.

  My shoulders rise and dip, considering his statement. “Yes, and no. I’ve been in years-long relationships with other people before.”

  I don’t say it to brag, it’s just a fact. And one that Fletcher needs to really grasp the whole picture. I am not an innocent party in what happened between Yanis and me.

  “Oh, yeah? Tell me about it. Let the recovering addict who’s never been in a long-term relationship, solve your relationship troubles.”

  “Well, Yanis and I were together for a year and a half. Before that, I dated a guy in New York, that I met at a SoulCycle class, for a year. I was in the best shape of my life. Before him, was this surfer in California for six months, but I ended it because he kept leaving to go surf shark-infested waters in places like Tahiti or Honolulu. There was the New York City boyfriend who I was with for almost three years when Presley lived with me. And before him, I dated two guys in college for a year each, and then had my high school sweetheart.”

  I say it all in a whoosh of breath because I don’t want to leave any spaces between the syllables. It all makes me look so terrible, like the serial monogamist I am, that I don’t want to explain it slowly. Better to rip it off, like a Band-Aid.

  “Wow …” Fletcher says, a little breathless.

  “Yeah …” I agree, twisting my arms a little tighter around his neck so I can pinch my wrist.

  It’s something I do when the nerves kick in so badly, when I feel the mask of confidence I wear begin to slip. Don’t get me wrong, I’m typically the type of person who is confident. I give no warnings about who I am and tend to feel very little guilt about the decisions I make. Only when I find someone who I think can truly wiggle their way under my skin am I an anxious mess.