Assholes.
“Well.” Cap clears his throat. “Nothing.”
“What?” That’s not the right answer. “Yesterday the plantation and today the tree—why bother coming back to either?”
He spins his cane as his eyes roam over the tree. “Refresh my memory.”
I drag my hands down my face and groan.
“What’d you do when you were looking?” Nash asks.
“Thought about digging but never bothered.” Cap takes another hit, wispy tendrils spilling out of his mouth as he talks. “Been so many scientists and arborists and every other kind of -ist. Figured they would’ve found something if it was here. Mostly just walked around and thought about it.” He smiles. “Before I lost the leg, of course.”
I let out a frustrated breath. This man watched me cry my face off and is acting like this is no big deal. Like I’m not down to my last $17.32 and sleeping in a shed. Like I have all the time inthe damn world. Even if he doesn’t know every detail, he knows enough.
“Let’s check the gift shop,” Nash says, gesturing to the small wooden building. “See what we see. If anything stands out.”
Leaving Cap on a bench once again, I follow Nash. He guides me in with a hand on the small of my back. Worse than him touching me is the fact that I notice. The fact—briefly—I think of pushing my weight against it just to refamiliarize myself with what it feels like to have him holding me. Before I can talk myself in or out of it, his hand is gone, and the decision is made.
Less than ten seconds in the store, I wilt. Filled with T-shirts, packs of cornbread mix, and bad lighting, it’s a far cry from the gold mine I was hoping for. The gift shop is a gift shop. I stop at a tower display of postcards I can’t afford and take one off the rack to give myself something to do.
If there’s nothing here and there was nothing yesterday, maybe there’s nothing anywhere. This whole thing might be a waste. The thought plays on a loop. This trip will be a waste, and I won’t fix any of my problems.
My mom won’t be able to have surgery.
I can’t pay Bennie’s tuition.
The store will close.
“You sending that to the dentist?” Nash asks, interrupting my mental nosedive.
I look at the postcard in my hands. “My mother, actually.”
He picks one up and studies the image on the front. “Maybe I’ll send her one too.”
It occurs to me he might. It also occurs to me that, no matter his motivation, for the last eight years he saw racks of postcards just like this one and thought of me long enough to buy one to send.Why?
“Your last card said you were ready togive me up.” I exchange one for another, not really looking at it. “Is thatbecause—” I clear my throat, mindlessly grabbing postcard after postcard. “Are you, you know, serious?”
His eyebrows lift. “Serious?”
“You know.” My face heats and I make an exasperated sound. “You know what I mean, Nash.”
“Afraid I don’t,Rue.” His lips tug to one side, eyes dancing so wildly it’s like they’re part of a Broadway production. “You’re going to have to use big girl words and spell it all out for me.”
“You’re being an ass.” I blow at my bangs and roll my shoulders. “And you know what I mean.”
He takes the postcards from my hand—I’ve seemingly collected every option—and walks toward the register. “Can’t say that I do.”
“Fine,” I whisper as the cashier rings us up. “Emma. Is she a ... person?” Just hours ago, I convinced myself I couldn’t care less if he’s with someone, but here I am, borderline obsessed with knowing.
“A person?” he mockingly whispers, handing money to the cashier. “Interesting word choice. That what you call your fiancé?”
When I huff, his smile widens.
“Actually I do.”Not.I snatch the cards from him and drop them into my purse, flustered while he keeps looking at me with all his Nashishness. Silently provoking me. “And since you’re too childish to have this conversation, I’m going to assumegive you upwas Nash-speak for send the papers because you’re serious enough with her you ...” I want to scream. At myself. “Will tell me I’m wrong if I’m wrong. But it’s also none of my business and if you’re happy that’s great for you.”
He presses his lips together, squints at me, then leans in close. Close enough it makes my breath catch and lips think he’s coming for them; he doesn’t. He bypasses my face to bring hismouth to my ear. He smells like pepper and cedarwood and a myriad of memories. In a low voice, he says, “You’re wrong.”
