There are no words for the anger coursing through me.
“There’s a buyer,” Jonathan continues, “and you can get out from under the bills and do something other than spending your days in those dusty shelves wearing ...” His voice trails off as he gestures at my overalls. “You won’t even have to work after we get married.”
I know he is drunk, and yet I am livid.
“We aren’t getting married,” I snap.
At the same time the waitress appears, Nash’s foot presses down on mine under the table, reminding me he’s still there. Our eyes meet.
To me, Jonathan says, “We can talk about it later.” Another raise of his glass. “Let’s just enjoy dinner.”
As everyone gives the waitress their orders, I’m boiling. I don’t want this dinner. I want him to listen. And leave. And talk to me when I get back to Fontain.
“Can we please, please go?” I beg him. “Eat somewhere else.”
“Bah!” Jonathan lifts his glass. “We’re just getting started.”
Nash asks, “How did you and Rue meet?”
I say, “We didn’t,” because I don’t want to talk about this. I don’t want to talk about anything. All I want is for them to leave and me to die.
“At a coffee shop,” Jonathan says. “She was ordering a cavity-causing concoction, and we struck up a conversation.” He winks at me. “Made a black coffee drinker out of her.”
Cap says, “Never heard how you and Rue ended up married, Nash. Bet your outfit was an eyesore.” He eyes my overalls. “Rue’s too.”
I pin my dad with a death glare because this is categoricallynotthe time for that story—it’s not the time for any story—but when I look at Nash, his lips tug to one side and I melt a little; it’s a great story.
Next to me, Jonathan drapes his arm around the back of my chair. “I can’t wait to hear this.”
I’ve reached my limit of arguing with him and move to pretending he isn’t here. I won’t win. He won’t leave. He hates being wrong when he’s sober, so I’m never going to get him to listen to me now. My only play is to survive the night and deal with him tomorrow.
Nash leans into his elbows on the table. “You want to tell it or should I?”
“Oh please.” I gesture toward him with my refilled glass, lifting my foot against his. “You’re the storyteller.”
“Rue and I had been dating two months,” he begins.
“A month,” I correct.
He chuckles, looking at me like he already knew that. “Right. A month. And we were walking around Fontain?—”
“Which was his idea of a date, might I add.”
“Only if the company was worth a damn.”
“And?”
“And?” He grins, foot wiggling on mine. “You tell me.”
Night after night of us just roaming around that tiny town—they were the best dates.
Jonathan chimes in with: “You would have walked right by my office.” He tips his glass. “Ironic.”
“We ended up in the courthouse,” Nash says.
“Because it started raining,” I interject between sips. “That’s why we went in there. I wasn’t in the mood to get soaked or struck by lightning.”
“That’s right.” Nash rubs his chin. “It was raining. That was your idea.” It was; he wanted to dance in the rain and I refused. A choice that changed everything. “We get into the courthouse—tiny little building in Fontain—and the clerk comes out and says,‘Marriage ceremony for—’what name? You remember?”
