Her smile stretches wide as she rushes toward them, her voice shrill with forced cheer. “Well, hello there! How can I help you?”
The woman steps forward with a tight smile. “We’re here on behalf of Mr. Caldwell,” she says with an air of authority. “He’s arranged for additional staff to assist with the operations here for the week.”
For a moment, my mother freezes, her eyes darting toward Nathaniel, who is calmly dabbing at his mouth with a napkin.
“Oh!” she exclaims, recovering quickly. “Yes, of course. That’s wonderful! Come in, come in!” She gestures toward the diner with exaggerated hospitality. “Let me show you around!”
As the new staff begin to disperse under my mother’s overly attentive guidance, my father emerges from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a towel. His gaze sweeps over the newcomers, brows creasing in confusion.
“What’s all this?” he asks, his tone more gruff than curious.
“It’s all thanks to Nathaniel,” my mother answers quickly, her voice unnaturally high. “He’s been so generous, insisting on hiring staff to help us out this week. Isn’t that something, Ron?”
My father’s eyes narrow as they flick to Nathaniel, who rises from the booth with his usual unhurried grace.
“We spoke about this arrangement earlier,” Nathaniel explains calmly. “I promised Olivia a break, and this is me following through.”
There’s a beat of silence, and then my father clears his throat. “Right, well, I suppose that’s…helpful.” His words are careful now, searching for the correct ratio of gratitude to self-respect.
My mother, however, has no such restraint. “Oh, it’s more than helpful,” she gushes. “It’s so generous of you, Nathaniel. I don’t know how we’ll ever repay you for your kindness.”
Nathaniel turns his gaze toward her. “There’s no need for repayment. This is for Olivia.”
Her smile wavers, but she quickly masks it with another burst of enthusiasm. “Of course, of course. Olivia deserves it.”
I want to disappear. The way my parents act around Nathaniel—my mother’s unrelenting eagerness, my father’s strained attempts at politeness—is humiliating.
I’m starting to think this was a mistake.
I don’t even know why I let myself hope they might show up differently just because Nathaniel is here. They’ve never given me a reason to believe they were capable of better, least of all for my sake. And yet the disappointment sits heavy anyway, familiar as breathing.
Nathaniel, on the other hand, remains perfectly composed. If anything, he seems to revel in the control he exudes, his presence commanding in a way that makes even my parents tread lightly. His arm finds its way around my shoulders as he stands, pulling me gently to my feet.
He guides me with an ease that feels both natural and deliberate, his hand never leaving me as we approach the register. My mother bustles behind the counter, pulling out the slip with an energy that borders on giddy.
“That’ll be $24.85,” she says, her voice sugary sweet.
Nathaniel takes out his wallet without a word, sliding a sleek black card across the counter. My mother’s eyes zero in on the card, and her smile stretches impossibly wider, though her hands tremble slightly as she processes the payment.
When she hands him the receipt to sign, he scribbles his name quickly before reaching into his wallet again. He pulls out a few crisp hundred-dollar bills and places them on the counter casually.
“Oh, that’s… Nathaniel, this is too much,” my mother stammers, her gaze darting between the cash and his face.
“It’s not,” he says, slipping his wallet back into his pocket. His tone leaves no room for argument.
He turns to me then, his expression softening as he places his hand lightly at the small of my back. “Let’s go,” he says so gently it almost unravels me.
As we step outside, the cool air hits my skin, a stark contrast to the stuffiness of the diner. I look up at Nathaniel, wondering how he can be so unbothered in the face of such transparent greed.
“They’ll be fine without you for a while,” he says quietly.
And for the first time since arriving in Ashby, I believe him.
FIFTEEN
nathaniel
The gravel crunchesunder the tires as I pull into the parking lot of the Doyle Conservation Area. The towering trees frame the space with an almost cathedral-like reverence, their branches filtering the sunlight into golden shards that dance across the ground. It’s quiet here—almost sacred in its peacefulness. A far cry from the cacophony of Bennett’s Place, with its clattering dishes and Claudia’s grating laugh.
