I make the mistake of looking over at him. He grins at me with that same crooked half smile, and I can’t help smiling back. “I remember one time when she was around eight, Cara made us all sit in the living room to watch her ‘fashion show,’” Nate says. “She wore my mom’s old power suit from the ’90s and a pair of red heels that were way too big.” He laughs at the memory. “I’m pretty sure she tripped on the coffee table and split her lip.”
I snort out a laugh. “So it’s safe to say she’s always liked the limelight?”
Nate shrugs. “Not really. She’s actually pretty shy.” He pauses at the next intersection. “Which way…?”
“Oh, sorry! Left.” Nate makes the turn, and I take a minute to reflect on what he just said about Cara. I know he’s her big brother, so he’ll probably always see her in her best light—butcome on. The woman made herself a national story by coming forward about Aaron right before our wedding. So she can’t bethatmuch of a wallflower. Plus, she seems to be holding her own pretty well with us Bennets.
“Look,” I say to him. “I’m glad you and I have decided to be friends, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to be friends with your sister. No offense.”
“I get it,” he says, eyes on the road. “I mean, I heard that passive-
aggressive little exchange in the kitchen this morning.”
I whip my head to face him. “You heard that?”
He shrugs. “Window was open. I was fixing a loose board on the deck right outside. Anyway, I think you should be careful…”
There’s a pause, and I wonder if he’s going to warn me not to hurt his little sister. But in classic Nate fashion, he catches me completely off guard.
“She’s a black belt in karate and has kicked my ass many times before.”
I burst out laughing, and Nate looks over at me affronted. “It was humiliating!”
“You guys are pretty close, huh?” I ask him, once my laughter has died down.
He shrugs. “Yeah. I mean we’re six years apart, so we kind of did our own thing growing up. But after our mom died…”
There’s a silence that threatens to turn awkward. I want to reach over and touch his arm in support. Would that be weird? My body makes the decision while my brain’s still considering. I place a gentle hand on the forearm that’s resting on the console between us. He flinches but doesn’t pull away.
“I’m sure Cara was grateful to have you during that time.” I might not like or trust the woman, but I can still feel bad for what Cara went through, losing her mother at a young age.
Nate nods. “Thanks,” he says quietly, his voice a little rough. We ride in silence for a few minutes. When he speaks again, his voice is stronger, his trademark grin back in place. “Anyway, I guess I’ve just always tried to look out for her. You know, classic big brother stuff. Like, ‘Hey, I can make fun of my sister, butyoucan’t.”
“I get that.”
We pull into the parking lot for a big cluster of shops. Nate gets out of the truck and comes around to my side, opening the door for me. I’m surprised by the gentlemanly gesture—it doesn’t really match the state of the truck itself. Or the state of Nate himself. He’s in wrinkled cargo shorts and a heather-gray T-shirt with a cartoon catfish giving a thumbs-up under the wordsFeelin Fin-tastic.
“I’ll pick you up in an hour?” he asks.
“Sure, that’d be great.”
“What’d you say you were shopping for again? Some antique chamber pots?”
“Flowerpots,” I correct. “Bud vases, actually, for the centerpieces.”
He grins. “That was a test. Man, youarebad at sabotage.”
“Nikki! How nice to run into you,” says a voice from behind me.
I swivel around to see Mary Moore Musgrove rounding the corner, her arms loaded down with shopping bags from the local kids’ clothing store.
I feel myself clicking “on.”
“Hi!” I say, giving her a quick hug. “How have you been? How’re the kids?”
“Oh, we’re good. We’re good. It’s so nice you’re able to get back home for the summer.” There’s an edge to her voice that surprises me. “Your mom can’t stop telling me how well you’re doing—your clothing company, your apartment in LA… It all sounds so glamorous.”
Her tone drips with the distinctly Southern flavor of sugar-coated sourness, and I know I’m not imagining her annoyance. Is Mary Moore of the perfect Instagramable life jealous of mine?
