I'm aware of it. Of him. Of the way his thigh is pressed against mine under the table. The way I can smell his cologne, something woodsy and clean. The way he leans back in his chair, completely at ease, while I'm sitting here trying not to combust.
My parents ask questions. Lots of questions.
Where did Nash grow up? (Here, in Blackwater Falls, before his parents moved away.)
Does he have siblings? (No.)
What made him want to be a firefighter? (His grandfather was one.)
What are his plans for the future? (Keep working, keep living quiet.)
Through it all, Nash answers with that same calm, measured tone. Never giving more than necessary, never getting defensive, never taking the bait when my mother's questions edge toward accusatory.
He's better at this than I am.
I'm sitting here vibrating with anxiety, refilling my wine glass every time it gets below halfway full, and he's just... steady.
Like nothing they say can touch him.
"So, Claire," my father says, cutting into his steak. "Have you given any more thought to that position at Morrison & Hale?"
I freeze, fork halfway to my mouth. "What position?"
"The one I mentioned last month. IT manager. They're still looking, and I put in a good word for you."
"Dad, I have a job."
"I know you have a job. I'm talking about a career." He says it like there's a difference I'm too stupid to understand. "Morrison & Hale is one of the top firms in the city. The pay is excellent, the benefits are even better, and you'd be back where you belong."
"I belong here."
"Claire—"
"I like my job. I like working remotely. I like living in Blackwater Falls."
My mother sets down her fork with a soft clink. "Sweetheart, we're just trying to look out for you. You're young. You have so much potential. It seems like such a waste to spend it in a town where nothing happens."
"Things happen here," I say tightly.
"Like what?"
"I don't know. Normal things. Good things. I have neighbors I actually know. I can walk to the coffee shop and people say hello. I'm not constantly stressed out of my mind."
"You could have all that in the city," my father says. "We've told you. We'll help you find a nice apartment. Something in a good neighborhood. Close to us."
There it is.
*Close to us.*
That's what this has always been about. Not my happiness. Not my career. They want me close so they can keep managing me like I'm a case file that needs their attention.
"I don't want to live close to you," I say, and my mother flinches like I've slapped her.
"Claire," she says, her voice tight. "That's hurtful."
"It's honest." I set down my fork before I stab something with it. "I love you both. I do. But I need space. I need to live my own life without you weighing in on every single decision I make."
"We're your parents. It's our job to guide you."
