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“I wish…” I sipped the warm brew, knowing it wouldn’t soothe me enough.
“What do you wish, Ay?”
“I wish we’d been older, more mature, better at expressing ourselves. That I’d given you the opportunity to explain, that I hadn’t hurt you that day. So many things, really.”
Nash nodded, his face settled in solemn lines. “That we’d had less dysfunctional childhoods. Less grief and loss and crazy backstabbing.” He grimaced, rearranging the bag of peas.
“Need some pain meds?”
He shook his head. “I don’t have any pills here because I won’t take anything. Ever.” His face twisted. “I’m like her—my mom. I have that predisposition toward addiction. For me, the best option is to avoid temptation.”
“And that’s worked?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Better than anything else. But it’s only been a few months.”
“Do you miss it? The high, I mean.” I probably shouldn’t have asked. No, I knew I shouldn’t have.
He licked his lower lip. “I miss the numbness. It’s easier to go through life not caring than feeling the way I do for and about you. I missed you, Ay.” His throat worked, his eyes those toss’d seas Shakespeare wrote about. “I’ve missed you every day. At first, I was just angry, but then, it settled, and my longing was so, so huge it ripped into my guts.”
“I don’t want to hurt you,” I breathed. “I mean, I did, but that just made me feel worse. I understand now that we’ve both made mistakes.” I clasped my hand tighter around my teacup in an effort not to reach for him. If I did, I’d kiss him. Kissing Nash felt…like home.
I glanced around the kitchen. “I never got over leaving Austin. I never loved London. I just… I couldn’t face you.” I inhaled, but it was choppy. “That’s on me. I was…I was so scared you’d hurt me again.”
He raised an eyebrow in that Nash Porter way that said I was on thin ice. I laughed, charmed by his arrogance, which caused him to smile back. His white teeth flashed behind the russet-and-honey stubble, the deep dimple winking in his right cheek. His eyes sparkled like the sun through whiskey. He took my breath, then reached forward with his good hand and clasped my cold fingers.
Warmth pulsed through our touch, reorienting my world.
“I won’t hurt you, Ay,” he said, a vow. “Not on purpose. Never on purpose.”
“I missed you,” I blurted, desperate to fall into his arms. “So much I couldn’t breathe.”
“Same.”
That comforted me because it was our pattern, but more so because of the depth of emotion in that single word.
Fatigue blanketed me again. I needed sleep, but I also wanted him to hold me like he used to. I craved the connection, our closeness. Some return to normalcy. It had been so long.
He sighed, shaking his head. “It’s late. Let’s get you to bed.”
I let him lead me down the hall. He hesitated for a moment in the doorway to his room before he gently tugged me over the threshold. He moved toward his large, gleaming chest of drawers and opened one.
I let my gaze sweep the room, landing on the snapshots on the mantel. I crossed to them. There were two of Nash and Lev, one of his family taken weeks before Lev’s death, but the rest of the photos were me. Some were from our time at Holyoke, but others were more recent. They were press shots, and they appeared to be the originals.
“I bought them,” Nash said. “I couldn’t get close to you any other way. Not being able to talk to you? That was worse than losing Lev.”
I pressed my hand to my heart, which seemed to flutter and tumble under my palm.
Nash was still the same sensitive soul under the layers of cynicism and heartache. He still yearned for a connection, for love, for people to see him as more than the child of famous parents and a wealthy, spoiled celebrity.
But it was the conch shell sitting on his nightstand, mere inches from his pillow that stopped me cold.
“You still have it?” I whispered. I turned and wrapped my arms around him, careful of his swollen hand. Nash’s breath warmed the cool skin of my cheek. He dipped his knees, bringing himself to my eye level.
I loved that he’d do that for me—meet me on my level. He always had, and each time he did so, I felt seen, understood, cherished.
Yes, even when he hurt me, I’d known Nash cherished me. That was part of why coming here frightened me so. I’d spent years fighting for my independence, and I was damn well going to have it.
He nodded. “We can’t change the past, Ay. But I’ll always be grateful it brought me you. All we can do is live—now and onward.”
