He grins. “Sure thing, kiddo.”
Kiddo.
I’ll unpack that later along with the many issues this man clearly has. Now, I just want to disappear. I want whatever’s about to happen to be ancient history. I skim over a sign explaining the tour.Your knowledgeable guide will lead youaround the historic city of Charleston on a one-mile journey of local stories between stops of eats and drinks that are filled with histories of their own.
I can handle that.
I can do this.
But when Nash steps in front of me, I nearly die. Every regulatory system in my body starts shutting down when he asks, “Water?”
I stare at him through my sunglasses, pinching my flannel around my throat. He’s here. He’s right here. Holding a bottle of water and smiling. Like I didn’t spend night after night wishing for him and hating him and loving him all at once. Out of nowhere, I’m filled with longing—I want my fingertips on his skin. I want to say, “Hey, Nash, it’s me. Long time no see.” I want it so badly my skin and tongue tingle and my heart skips a beat.
Cap—Dad—returns with tickets and a wheelchair, breaking my trance. I snatch the water from Nash’s hands without saying a word and chug the entire thing.
“Where y’all visiting from?” Nash asks Cap conversationally, giving us each a map.
Cap looks between Nash and me as he drops into the wheelchair, arranging his oxygen tank and cane across his lap.
I shake my head then stare at my feet.
“Local,” Cap says.
“I love locals.” Without looking at him, I can hear his smile. “Maybe y’all can teach me a thing or two. Thanks for being here.”
When he moves to the next group, I let out the biggest exhale of my life.
“Seems nice,” Cap says.
“You sound like Mom,” I snap, wheeling him outside to the designated start area andposition us at the back of the crowd and as far away from Nash as possible. “And he’s not nice.”
He chuckles.
And then I hear it.
The wail of a harmonica.
At the front of the crowd, Nash stands, harmonica in his hands—an old Hohner I’d recognize anywhere—and an effortless smile on his face. If he wasn’t wearing sunglasses, I’m sure his brown eyes would be squinting and bright.
I thought I’d show up and the history between eight years ago and now wouldn’t matter, but when he laughs his laugh—the unabashed one that comes from somewhere deep in his belly and trickles over gravel in his throat—it kicks my kneecaps. It’s like seeing him for the first time all over again.
“You’ll know I have something smart to say when you hear me pretending to be Tom Petty.” Nash wiggles the harmonica in the air with a grin and the crowd chuckles. He already has them eating out of the palm of his hand and we haven’t even gone anywhere.
I clutch the flannel at my chest before taking Cap’s water from his lap without asking and drain half of it.
What am I doing here? What in the actual hell is my plan?
“We going or what?” Cap snaps.
The group has moved down the street and Nash is already talking.
“Sorry.” I wedge the bottle into the back pocket of the wheelchair along with Cap’s canister of oxygen.
“Benjamin Franklin once said,” Nash is saying as we catch up with them, “‘There never was a good war or a bad peace.’ And while he wasn’t talking about Charleston specifically, boy does it apply.”
He’s still obsessed with Benjamin Franklin and has a job where he strolls around telling stories and playing a harmonica—this calms my nerves a bit. Even if his career title has changed, he hasn’t. Not one bit. If I looked up the address he sent me, I bet it’s to a hotel and his clothes are in trash bags.
He starts rattling off periods of hardship and flourishment of the city before leading us along at a leisurely stroll, each step a little easier than the last. Maybe the worst is over. Maybe seeing him was the rip of the Band-Aid and everything else will be smooth sailing.
