“This ale house dates back to the early 1800s,” Nash says, opening a door at a restaurant as we approach. “We’ll taste a local brew from over on John’s Island and have one of my favorite southern snacks.”
I tuck my chin as I pass him. This isn’t roadside service like the last stop; we’re going inside.
At a cluster of reserved tables, I beeline to the farthest in the back, knocking Cap into chairs and tables, making him swear as I go. A family of four snags it before I can.
Dammit.
The only seats are up front ... where Nash is standing.
“For those of you not from the South,” Nash explains as a server comes around with small glasses of beer and paper baskets. “You are looking at the official State Snack Food of South Carolina, and one of my favorite treats, the boiled peanut.”
The kids from the family of four gag at the notion of such a food, clearly from anywherebutthe South. I’d laugh if anything was funny.
“Now it’s believed the concept of boiled peanuts originated in Africa,” Nash continues, “but they took hold in the South due to the fact the crop was—and still is—grown so abundantly here. There are even records of Civil War soldiers cooking peanuts over a fire with salt when food was scarce, especially in the later years of the war.”
He holds up a peanut, pops the shell open with his teeth, and scrapes the nuts out before displaying the empty shell between his fingers. His token grin is steady on his lips. “Can’t beat it.” He takes a sip from his beer. “Or that.” He lifts the glass toward the group. “Cheers. I’ll be around if you have any questions. Enjoy.”
Because this world is a cruel place, he approaches our table first.
“Y’all having a good time?” he asks, leaning a hip against the edge of our table.
The familiarity of his voice at this proximity scrapes over the curves of my bones. I sink down in my chair and take him in through my sunglasses.
Same strong jaw.
Same straight nose.
The hand wrapped around his beer still looks like it knows its way around a ... history book.
I clear my throat while Cap sizes Nash up like a real dad.
Cap asks, “You know a lot about the city?”
“Much as I can,” Nash says easily before taking a sip of his beer. “Been here about three years now, but there’s a lot of secrets in these old streets.”
Three years?I glanced at the postcards long enough to get angry but didn’t study them like a timeline. Three years is a lifetime in Nash years. Borderline fantastical.
Cap grunts. “You ever go anywhere you ain’t supposed to?”
I take a hefty sip of my beer, hiding as much of myself as I can under the rim of my hat.
“Maybe when I was younger,” Nash says with a chuckle. “But I try not to. City is a pain in the ass about that stuff.”
That is a shockingly responsible answer from the man who once spent a summer convincing me to break nearly every trespassing law in Fontain for the sake of taking our clothes off.
Cap grunts again, and I down the rest of my beer and shove four peanuts in my mouth at once. They’re warm, seasoned, and perfectly spicy. I’d love them if I wasn’t panic face-stuffing.
“You married?” Cap asks, glancing at me with an annoying smile. “My daughter here’s too shy to ask.”
I choke—fully choke. Severe enough Nash sets his beer down like he’s about to try to help me.
“She’s fine,” Cap says without really knowing. “She gets like this. Excitable little thing.”
I wave in agreement, cough subsiding as I pluck half of the shells out of my mouth and force myself to swallow the rest whole.
“I’m flattered,” Nash says, eyeing me as I wipe my half-hidden face. “But I am married.”
What?
