My gaze wandered. “It’s nice, actually. Doesn’t make mefeel like I have to be careful or on my best manners, or something. Neat people are psychopaths, anyway.”
He grinned. “I kind of thought, with my room being on the fourth floor and all, that you’d be scared to be this far up. You know, since the fire.”
I rested my chin on my knees, tilting my head from side to side. “Meh; it’s weird. It’s like actual death doesn’t terrify me, but feeling trapped, or in a room full of people, does.” I puffed out a single half-laugh. “It makes absolutely no sense.”
He reached forward, placing his giant hand around my ankle and massaging it. “It makes sense. I mean, death is the end; it’s over, but being judged, or teased, it’s prolonged pain and torture.”
I exhaled. “Exactly. I spent fifteen years with my parents, and I think death would have been easier. Not trying to be dark, but living with them was torture. They were just awful people.”
His head tilted, gaze scanning my face. I could tell he was trying to decide what to say. It’s the first time I’d mentioned my parents at all. “What did they do to you?”
My head swayed from side to side. “I don’t think they liked me. I wasn’t the child they’d hoped for. They were never around, and I barely knew them. When we did talk, it was usually to criticize me or tell me I wasn’t living up to their expectations.”
He nodded, but gave me the space to keep talking.
“Nannies raised me, and there were many of them. They quit often. My parents were assholes to anyone they considered beneath them, and I wasn’t exactly an amiable child. Iacted out a lot for attention, or with anger.” I laughed to keep the otherwise heavy conversation light.
“That sounds like a lonely life,” Nash whispered under his breath.
I agreed. “They told me I was an embarrassment to them, constantly pointed out my shortcomings. My education suffered because my parent’s schedules were unpredictable; they’d often forget about signing me up or simply didn’t prioritize it. When my anxiety spiked because of all the uncertainty, I stopped going to school altogether because I began having these awful panic attacks. My life felt incredibly unstable.
Around age twelve or thirteen, the state investigated my absences and began berating my parents. It was then my parents decided I was unmanageable, and somehow Dr. Catherine entered the picture. They thought she’d talk sense into me, or something, but she became my savior instead. She got me into a stable homeschooling situation. I could catch up, and I wouldn’t have the stress of classes with kids.”
His expression held pain and justified horror. “I can’t imagine not being able to feel safe in your own home like that—not being able to trust your own parents.”
I shook my head, the memory of it causing a lick of panic to trail down my spine and settle in my gut, but I hid it behind a fake smile. “I… it’s—they just—”
He squeezed my ankle to stop me. “It’s okay. You don’t have to justify yourself. Remember, you get to decide what you do and don’t want to tell me.”
I looked at him, my smile dying as my eyes rimmed with tears. How was he so good at this? In thisnew technicolor world with Nash, I felt like I could tell him I was a serial killer and he’d still look at me the same. I held his gaze, despite my emotions.
He reached forward, catching a tear on my cheek that escaped. “My mother always told me that nothing before this moment, right now, really matters. Every moment from here on out is ours to control and shape. It’s up to you what you want them to look like.” He grinned. “It’s easier said than done, of course, but still a comforting thought.”
It was a comforting thought. Cat had told me something similar before, but hearing Nash say it was different.
He leaned in, easily wrapping his arms around me. I felt his lips press against the top of my head. I’d give anything to kiss him like we had this morning, but this wasn’t the time.
He pulled back. “Come on, hungry monster. Let’s feed you.”
???
Nash set the largest piece of meat I’d ever seen in front of me at the dining table. It would have fed me for a week.
The dining room was next to the kitchen, in a small space between the kitchen and front room. It housed a small but extendable round table with four chairs.
Bee was in the kitchen, handheld mixer whizzing in her hand. “Let the steak rest for a bit while I finish whipping the potatoes,” she yelled over the clattering sound of the whisks against the side of the glass bowl. “It’ll taste better, trust me.”
Nash set another plated steak beside mine, and a third he’d balanced on his forearm directly across from me. Bill had hishead in my lap, keeping me company while I navigated this new and only mildly frightening experience of a sit-down dinner with friends. I tried not to think too much of it.
Mr. Beans plopped down in the chair across from me, his nose practically touching the steak. I stretched out my leg and foot, shifting in my seat to kick the chair opposite, hoping to scare him off before he could swipe the meat.
Nash watched me, a smile on his face. He sat in the chair next to me. I crossed my legs back into my own seat, feet off the floor. His long legs meant that when he sat back, one knee brushed against my thigh. He put a hand on my knee, then reached for his napkin, spreading it across his lap.
Bee brought over an enormous glass bowl and set it down with a thud in the middle of the table. She stuck a serving spoon in the center, just like putting a candle in frosting. The bowl was piled high with potatoes—a mountain of them, easily enough to feed twenty people.
I half coughed, half laughed at the enormity of it.
“Blame this guy,” Bee said, pointing at Nash with a steak knife in hand. “Helovespotatoes. I wouldn’t be surprised if he put down half of that.”
