“He’s not wearing a ring, and neither am I,” one of them says with a buzzed giggle as she walks out of the bar. “And did you see those arms?” She cools herself with a wave of an accordion-like fan, the wordsBride, Bitchwritten across it. “I bet that man can?—”
I ram Cap’s wheelchair into her.
“Hey!” she snaps, spinning to scowl at me. “Watch it!”
I fake an apologetic wince. “Sorry.”
I am not.
Cap’s next chuckle is the most irritating sound I’ve ever heard.
By the time we make it to the last stop and Nash blows a jingle on his stupid harmonica, I realize how over him and this I am.
“He’s pretty good on that thing,” Cap says.
I want to pinch the tube of his oxygen.
“Any other questions before I send y’all off into the city on your own?” Nash asks once we’ve returned to Thirsty for History. He leans casually against the exterior brick wall with his arms folded over his chest and one foot crossed over the other. Blissfully unaware and annoying the ever-loving shit out of me.
“I love antique furniture,” says a round woman wearing a visor, a backpack, and a neon T-shirt that says Shem Creek. “What’s your favorite spot in town to find old treasures?”
“You know,” Nash says, taking his sunglasses off once again. “There’s a popular place over in West Ashley, but I can honestlysay I’ve only ever found real treasure in one antique store in my life. Sadly, that one’s in North Carolina.”
I still.
“But what do I know?” He chuckles. “Lucky for us, we have a bit of an expert on the matter right here in our group.” He lifts his arm to point a casual finger my way, and the crowd responds as if he’s Moses parting the Red Sea. They step to one side or the other until there’s once again a clear path between him and me. “I’m sure my wife would be happy to point you in the right direction.” His amused eyes latch onto mine and stay as he adds, “Thank y’all for coming today. Enjoy your time in this beautiful city.”
The crowd breaks apart, and with a shit-eating grin, Nash wraps his lips around the harmonica and makes it sing.
Sixteen
Damn him.
Seventeen
The dad who didn’t know I existed and the husband I didn’t know I was still married to sit comfortably at a table of an oyster bar to create the most surreal moment of my life.
“Nash,” I say evenly, “this is Rueben.” Cap’s eyes narrow. “Whom I like to call Dad.”
Nash must remember my dad was long gone, because he does a double take.
“Rueben.” He reaches across the table to shake his hand. “Nash”—he cuts his eyes to me—“your son-in-law.”
Dadfinds this hilarious. “Call me Cap.”
“Cap.”
They’re all smiley and smug.
How nice.
“I’m sure you’re surprised to see me. Us,” I say, trying my best to sound professional. I fish the newspaper article out of my pocket. “I’m here for work. And I al?—”
“You look good, Rue.”
At this lie, my body betrays me.
“Thank you. You look—” I drink him in. Brown eyes, golden skin, sandy hair once upon a time I lost my fingers in. The scruffon his jaw is new, as are a couple of the lines around his eyes. He looks damn good. “The same.” Cap chuckles and it turns to a cough; I glare at him. “Like I was saying, I’m here for work. I’m looking for a rare collection of coins to?—”
