Nash shrugged. “So maybe he’s being helpful.”
“I didn’t ask for his advice. Kent knows what he’s doing. I don’t need Mr. Sunshine on my ass too.”
Tameron grinned. “Mr. Sunshine?”
I avoided his gaze. “He’s too fucking happy. It irritates the shit out of me.”
“They should make a law against that. Happy people don’t belong in rehab centers.” Tameron’s voice was dripping with sarcasm.
“Look, he’s just too much, okay? Too happy, too helpful, too in my face. And he was flirting with me.”
Silence.
“Flirting with you?” Tameron asked. “Are you sure?”
“He called me Sergeant Grumpy today,” I snapped.
Tameron snorted. “Bro, if you think that’s flirting, you need a refresher course. Unlike what they told us in kindergarten, pulling someone’s pigtails isn’t always a sign of attraction.”
“He’s gay,” I tried to clarify.
Nash quirked an eyebrow. “Yeah, so? Doesn’t mean he likes you. I mean, I’m gay, and I only like you maybe fifty percent of the time.”
Jesus, why was it so hard for him to see? Maybe he needed more details. “He keeps looking at me, watching me as I do my exercises. Like, he’s staring at my ass.”
“At your ass? Or at your posture so he can give you feedback on your form?” Nash asked.
I frowned. Was I wrong? Had Heath not been flirting? It had felt like it, and I had been to enough gay bars with Nash and Tameron to recognize it. But maybe I was wrong in accusing him of coming on to me. That thought didn’t sit well with me at all. I wasn’t homophobic, and I had no issues with men flirting with me, but my protests made it sound like I did.
“Never mind,” I said, then shoveled a forkful of food into my mouth, hoping that would get me out of the hot seat.
“How was your day?” Nash asked Tameron, and I breathed out with relief.
I was mostly quiet during the rest of dinner. It was my turn to do the dishes—yes, we had a roster for all household tasks—but I didn’t mind so much usually. Today, however, I feared Nash would take the opportunity for a fatherly chat, and what do you know, he stayed behind when Tameron plopped down on the couch to play Xbox and Bean retreated to his room.
For a long time, Nash didn’t say anything as he cleared the table for me while I rinsed and loaded the dishwasher, then started on the pans by hand. “How’s the rehab going other than that annoying guy?” he finally asked.
Okay, that question was innocent enough. Maybe I was wrong about him wanting to scold me. After all, I had zero experience with father figures in my life, so maybe I’d been reading the signals all wrong.
“Slow, but okay, I guess.”
“Slow?”
I shrugged. “I still can’t walk without holding on to something, and my balance is shit.”
“I’d imagine it takes a while to get used to walking with a prosthetic leg. What’s the average time for that?”
“Five months,” I said sheepishly.
“Of which you’ve done, what, three weeks?”
I cringed. “Yeah.”
He didn’t say anything else. Nash was efficient like that.
“What’s your plan for the next phase?” he then asked.
“Next phase?’
