I smile softly, looking down at my muffin.
Nash leans against the counter, eyes softer. “You okay?” he asks, voice low.
I nod. “I think so.”
He waits, not pushing. I sip my coffee, breathing in the cinnamon and sugar.
He finally says, “You want to talk about it?”
I shake my head, then, after a second, shrug.
“I just feel like I fucked everything up. And then I made it worse by hiding from everyone.”
Nash smiles, but it’s gentle. “Trials go how they go. And you were amazing. I’ve seen enough trials to know.”
I want to believe him, but the words slide right off. “Doesn’t feel that way.”
He reaches out and tucks a stray strand of hair behind my ear. The gesture is so intimate it stuns me silent.
He says, “Come on. Let’s sit down and eat these big ass muffins.”
I walk to the living room and sit on the couch with my feet up. Nash follows behind me, sitting by my feet, his elbow resting on my lower legs.
I pick at the edge of my muffin, and say, “Thank you. For checking on me and bringing me breakfast. But I have to say this kind of feels like a boyfriend thing to do.”
He gives a little laugh. “The boyfriend bar seems pretty low if common decency qualifies. But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss you this week.”
I don’t know what to do with the warmth that rises in me.
“I missed you too,” I say, and the words feel good.
We sit there, drinking coffee and eating muffins. He talks a mile a minute, filling the air with stories about band drama, weird clients, and a tangent about the local dive bar’s new bathroom mural. Sometimes he gestures wildly, and I pretend not to notice when his hand lands softly on my knee and just stays. I should be self-conscious about the way I look, but there’s this sense of relief just having him here.
It makes me feel human again.
After a while, he says, “So, you coming back to work next week?”
I consider his question.
Do I want to come back to work next week? Not really. But I can’t very well wallow in self-pity until the end of time, can I? The loss still hurts, but I know I can’t allow it to keep me down forever.
I nod, more certain that it’s time. “Yeah. I think I’m ready.”
“Good,” he says. “Because it just didn’t feel the same writing sexy notes on everyone else’s coffee cups.”
I roll my eyes and playfully push his shoulder, and he winces.
“What? What’s wrong?”
“Just a little sore,” he says, taking off his jacket and revealing scabbed skin on his forearm.
I grab his arm gently to take a closer look. “Oh my God. What happened?!”
“Oh, you know. Broke up a fight between my bike and the pavement.”
“Why didn’t you call me? Why didn’t youtellme?”
“Kind of feels like something a boyfriend would let his girlfriend know, right?”
