“Good morning,” I say cordially, sidling past him in the doorway without making any contact. “Your house is very nice, Nash.”
“Thank you for that very scripted compliment, Rue Conway,” he teases, making my eyes roll.
Inside, the well-lit open floor plan is a blend of old and new design elements. The kitchen has a modern tile backsplash and shiny countertops, but the appliances are retro red. His furniture is new, except for the coffee table. I’d bet all the money I’m here to find that it’s an authentic Danish ceramic tile-top mid-century piece. Without flipping it over and properly investigating it like I want, my guess is it’s from the sixties and, judging by the geometric designs on the stoneware tiles, a Poulsen and Wortz. It takes every ounce of willpower for me not to run over and pet it.
The walls are covered in framed historical propaganda posters. I stop at a print of Rosie the Riveter.
Nash says, “Always liked her overalls.”
“They’re coveralls,” I correct.
In the living room, built-in bookshelves contain as many dusty bookends as crisp ones, antique knick-knacks, and little army soldiers in between. I’d never pictured him in such a mature and tidy place, yet somehow, it’s so him.
Somehow, he learned to pick up after himself and use a vacuum in the eight years we’ve been separated.
And then I see two things that ground me back to what I know: The biggest TV known to man—connected to an original Nintendo of all things—fills the living room wall, and instead of a dining table, he has a pool table.
He’s grown up, but not completely. Not even close. What forty-three-year-old man has a pool table instead of an actual table? I mentally scoff at this. Mentally pat myself on the back at the validation of how well I still know him.
Even so, at the glass doors that lead to the backyard, it’s hard for me to grasp where I am. Nash’s house. My husband. The father of my child. The man I pretend is dead so I don’t have tothink of him as a real person and acknowledge that somewhere in this world he lives a whole life that Bennie and I aren’t part of.
The outdoor area could be in a magazine. There’s a swimming pool— crystal clear—with three inner tubes shaped like animals floating around it. On the concrete patio, a large umbrella-covered table is surrounded by chairs. A bin holds more pool toys. There’s a grill. Bennie would love it. So would my mother. When I start imagining myself spending hot summer days there, I shove the thoughts away.
Nash steps next to me, facing the same backyard oasis I do, quiet as he sips his coffee.
“Other than the pool table and obnoxious TV, it’s beautiful,” I tell him, my eyes catching on a small building with a single window and outdoor shower stall. “What’s in there?”
“One, nobody really eats at a dining table, and two, the pool table is more fun.”
I roll my eyes.
“And that,” he says, gesturing with his mug to the small building in his backyard, “was supposed to be a guest house, but I accidentally put a bar and futon in it instead.”
I don’t even dwell on the fact he’s a grown man with an accidental futon. Even without seeing the inside, I can already tell it’s nicer than the hotel I stayed in last night.
“Sunny’s interesting,” I finally say. “She on a work release from the psych ward?”
He laughs around his mug. “She never has a thought she doesn’t tell you, that’s for sure. And a bit protective.” My eyebrows raise at what an understatement that is. “And hostile.”
I focus on the backyard.
“You’re different,” he says.
“Okay.” I keep my gaze fixed on the rafts floating around the pool, and shift my weight between my feet.
“More serious,” he continues. Like I care at all about what he thinks or the fact Sylvia the stupid psychic called me the same thing.
“I’m older than I used to be. Comes with the territory.”
He shrugs, tracking Frank as he chases a squirrel across the yard. “Guess for some people.”
I eye his ridiculous shirt, now noticing the avocados have smiley faces. He’s like a Lost Boy in Neverland, refusing to grow up. No wonder he and my mother like each other so much.
He looks at me sideways. “Your fiancé as serious as you?”
I sweep my bangs to the side. “I’m not talking about him.”
“But you love him?”
