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“He does treat you like fine porcelain,” Kate said, tapping her lip with her index finger. Unlike Jenna’s unpolished, short nails, Kate’s were longer and painted a midnight purple.
I glanced down at my own fingernails, surprised to see the well-buffed shine of my last manicure intact. Maybe now that I was back in Austin, I’d get my nails painted a shocking red—no, green. Yeah. To match my Jade malas. I smiled.
“What happened to Nash’s hand?” Jenna asked. “I didn’t get a chance to pester you about it earlier. And I know that’s why Cam wants to talk to him.”
I hesitated. “That’s on me.” I sighed and explained how it happened.
Mama Grace looked back over her shoulder where she was washing something in the sink. “I was there—at the hospital that day. He was so torn up over you.”
I dropped my gaze to the counter. “I’ve not been fair to him.” I drew a pattern with my fingertip. “I only saw my side of the situation.”
“I don’t claim to know everything about relationships,” Kate said. “But I can tell you taking the time to listen and really hear Nash will go a long way.”
I sucked in a breath. “I don’t want to mess this—us—up. And I don’t want to go too fast.” I looked away.
“What’s your gut telling you?” Mama Grace asked.
“I haven’t spoken to it in years,” I admitted.
Jenna nudged me with her shoulder. “Maybe it’s time to start.”
After dinner and clean-up, during which Nash and I handled the dishes, he asked me to walk with him. He took my hand, threading our fingers together, and headed toward the barn.
“Want to meet some of the horses?” he asked.
“Sure.”
We walked in companionable silence.
“Did you…did you love any of the guys you dated?” Nash asked.
His tentative question squeezed my stomach. “No,” I said, my voice soft, hating what I was admitting. “I was trying to erase you.”
He stalked away from me and stood, hands fisted at his sides, for so long that I fidgeted.
“I should go,” he finally said. “Check on the kittens.”
“Nash.”
“I need to process what you said.” He faced me, storms boiling in his eyes. “That you’d do that—try to erase me—it hurts.”
“Well, you didn’t have our entire relationship thrown in your face,” I snapped. I hugged my arms around my waist.
“You’re right. But I never once said I hated you or tried to use others to erase you.”
The words hit heavy and felt awful—like lead darts to the soul.
“We have so much history,” I whispered. “Can we do this?”
He hung his head. “When I was on tour, I used to write you texts in my head. I had whole conversations with you. I played out at least a hundred possibilities of how we’d reconnect.”
His gaze met mine. “You have to believe me when I tell you I wasn’t in my right mind that night.”
“And that makes me feel even worse about what happened in the coffee shop.” I glanced away, shame burning my cheeks. “I know I was wrong, but you didn’t seem to get it—what I went through. So I wanted you to feel the loss of being walked away from, the shame and heartache of the night…”
My words hung in the air.
“I’m struggling, Nash,” I said, my voice small. “What I just said makes me feel small and nasty. I don’t want to be that person. I need to let it go. I want to. But it’s hurt me for a long time.” I lifted his good hand and pressed it to my heart, my throat a jumble of barbed emotions.
