Before I know it, the morning sun peeks through the curtains. Still, I don’t move. I don’t feel like I can.
I didn’t hear from Nash again. Not a call or a text. Nothing.
Part of me wants to call him and demand he tell me why he blew me off this time, but I also don’t want to lose whatever we found. So I lay here, clutching that same pillow, telling myself I hadn’t made a mistake giving him a chance instead of trying to repair things with Ward.
It will all be fine.
If only I believed it.
I can barely keep my eyes open as I slug into my parents’ house, ready for our weekly Sunday dinner.
Nash was supposed to be here.
He’d asked if it was okay, which I thought was so sweet. Neither of us thought that his showing up would look suspicious. Still, I wanted to hold off on telling Beckett anything was going on. He understood.“When we tell our families about us, I want you to be sure you’re mine,”he’d whispered against my lips.
I already was. I always have been. But it meant so much that he respected my fears. He understood I was waiting for the other shoe to drop, and it seems as though that was with good reason, though he assured me he would prove himself to me.
My eyes press shut as I fall into the kitchen doorframe, the thud forcing my mother’s gaze up to me.
“Betty, sweetheart, are you okay? Are you ill?” The back of her hand immediately presses to my forehead. I didn’t think I looked that terrible. Then again, I barely managed to slip into sweatpants, a ratty off-the-shoulder t-shirt, and a bra. There was no tugging the brush through my knotted hair, so it sits in a lopsided bun at the top of my head.
“I didn’t get any sleep last night.” I try to wave her off, but she insists on pressing her hand to both cheeks, my forehead again, and then to my lymph nodes. “Mom, I said I’m fine. I’m just tired.”
“Don’t you snap at me, Beatrice Hughes.”
My head bows, chin pressing to my chest. I’m not one to dive into the extremes of my emotions, but it seems that’s all I’ve done since that first kiss with Nash. “I’m sorry, Momma. Can I help with anything?”
“Just go sit down. You look like death. I’ll make you some tea.”
A weak smile tugs at one corner of my mouth before I shuffle to the living room, checking my phone for the millionth time. Still, there’s nothing from Nash. The morsel of hope I was clinging to fades away as I stare off into space.
Noises filter in and out of my consciousness in the background, but there’s no focus. There’s no real comprehension as I wallow while berating myself for falling for his charming smile and warm hugs.
I knew better.
And I still dove headfirst. The worst part is knowing I would do it all over again. When it comes to Nash Donovan, I’m putty. I’m weak.
“Betty!” Beckett waves his hand in front of my face. “What’s wrong with you? Are you sick?”
“Can you all stop asking me if I’m sick?” I grumble, shoving up off the couch. “I’m tired. Running the inn is a lot of work.”
Beckett holds his hands up, backing away, and I instantly feel horrible for snapping at him, too. It’s not their fault that my heart is in shambles at my feet all over again because I’ve gone less than twenty-four hours without hearing from my…
“I’m sorry, big brother.” I hug him around the waist, giving him three squeezes the way I always did as a kid.
He holds me back, resting his chin on my head. “If it’s too much…”
“It’s not. It was just a busy weekend with the Miller’s ceremony and the rodeo. I’m okay, I promise.” It’s a lie, but I hope he believes it because I can’t fathom telling my family the real reason I look like a zombie’s cousin.
“Betty, I know you’re tough and will work your ass off. It’s probably the only thing we have in common. You can’t keep running yourself into the ground, though. Have you talked to Jim about quitting the bar altogether?” There’s so much concern in his eyes. So much love. I want to tell him everything. Beckett and I have always been close. He’s always been someone I could confess my worries to, and he’d give me his advice and then hold me afterward.
Many never understood how we could be so close when we’re five years apart, but it’s the Hughes way. We support each other. Family is everything and always comes first, no matter what.
“I’m slowly phasing out of the bar,” I say as we move toward the dining room. “I rarely work more than once a week these days.”
“Good,” he hums, kissing the top of my head. “You’re too smart to be a bartender.”
I know he means nothing by the comment, but it stings.
