Parked down a cobblestone street in a small lot across from a small building with a colorful sign blasting Thirsty for History, no money and a brain tumor pale in comparison to the task at hand.
All I keep thinking: Nash is in there.
I know that because I made Cap call on the drive and ask. The woman said yes; I nearly wrecked.
Nash is in that building.
Somewhere on the other side of the windows covered with flyers and posters of historical images, he’s living and breathing and doing whatever it is tour guides do.
“You need to scream again?” a gruff voice asks. Cap’s. Because he’s still in the car too.
“What?” I flick my eyes from the windows to him. “No. Why?”
“You’re holding on to that steering wheel like you’re trying to pull it off the damn car.”
“Oh.” I loosen my grip, knuckles regaining some of their natural color. “I was thinking about the gold.”
Cap grunts, mutters, “Sure you were,” then gets out of the car, me following suit.
On the sidewalk, I look at my reflection in the car window and gasp—literally gasp—at the sight before me. Meeting a new dad is one thing, but Nash can’t see me like this, sweating and in the same outfit I had on the last time we saw each other. I might be here to get a divorce, but I have my pride.
I smooth my bangs with my fingers and adjust the straps of my overalls only to look like the exact same disaster area I started out as.
“Shit,” I mutter, dragging my thumbs under my eyes and fixing nothing. I belong in a lost-and-found box.
Despite the agonizing temperature, I fling open the trunk, dig through my suitcase, and grab whatever I can: a flannel shirt, ball cap, and a pair of oversized sunglasses. Anything is better than how I look now, and since the chances of a fairy godmother appearing to fix me or a surprise ’90s talk show makeover happening in the amount of time I have, I slap the hat on my head and slip my arms in the shirt.
Cap watches me. “You hidin’ from someone?”
“I don’t know what I’m doing.” I’m fully panicking, that’s what I’m doing. If my mom were here, she’d say my erratic feelings are a sign that I’m doing something fun, while my dad would tell me I’m worked up because it’s a bad plan. Neither of them would be helpful, and neither of them is here. All I haveis Cap. “I forgot to eat lunch, and I think my blood sugar is crashing.” I fumble to get the buttons buttoned up the flannel. I finally get the last one—right at my throat—and my reflection now resembles a lumberjack thug. “Perfect.”
Cap grunts in disagreement.
When I remember the engagement ring on my finger, it becomes a forty-pound kettlebell.Jonathan.I slip it off and put it in my pocket. I’m not here to rekindle something with Nash—I don’t need to see him to know that—but something about being engaged and married makes my skin crawl.
And the fact that I’ve lied to Bennie about what happened to him.
And, maybe in some circles, not telling Nash about Bennie could also be considered a lie.
Maybe I’m just a liar.
“Here’s the plan.” I assess Cap. He buttoned a few of the buttons of his shirt to cover his belly, but his chest hair and the gold pendant buried in it are still very much on display. As is the yellow tint of his skin, unruly beard on his face, and the cane that should be censored. We are the most ridiculous duo I’ve ever seen. “We’ll act natural, and when the moment’s right, I’ll talk to him. This will be nothing. He’ll sign the papers, you can ask him whatever you think he knows that you don’t about the gold, and we’ll go our separate ways.” I scratch my neck. I’ll figure out the Bennie piece later. “What do you think?”
He answers by way of hobbling across the street toward the guide office, me scurrying behind.
Inside, the air conditioner blasts—bless—but it’s so crowded with tourists that the relief is short lived. The same people who flood the vineyards of Fontain every summer—families, bachelorette parties, and couples living out their golden years—huddle together, buzzing about weather, food, and the pending tour.
“Alright, folks,” a deep voice calls, silencing the crowd. Nash’s voice. His slight drawl. His patented undertow of amusement in every spoken word.
People shift just enough I get a clear line of sight on him, and it knocks the wind clear out of me. On reflex, I grab Cap’s arm to steady myself.
“Must be him,” Cap says, amused. I’d tell him to go straight to hell if I knew how to talk or breathe.
Nash looks like Nash. Like he’s spent the last eight years in a cryogenic chamber preserving all of who he is right down to his ridiculous button-up shirts. Today’s is a dusty teal covered in magnolia blossoms.
I don’t think there’s another man on this planet who could pull it off the way he does.
Another man who can be covered in flowers while also letting anyone with eyeballs know what’s beneath them is long, lean, and the stuff lewd fantasies are made of.
