Grandma is a petite woman with white skin and her grey hair styled in an undercut pompadour. She only visited occasionally when I was growing up. She didn’t live near us, and to say she and Mom don’t get along is an understatement. But here I am—she invited me to come stay a week ago when my ex kicked me out of our apartment, and my life went boom. My relationship with my grandmother has always been sort of surface level, and I sure as shit didn’t see this coming.
Porter the guitar god. He who can croon and shout his country-rock songs with equal measure, according toRollingStonemagazine. The way he’s sitting at my grandmother’s table like this is a normal, rational thing for him to be doing is wild.
“Those years you spent working as a housekeeper…it wasn’t for a boring banker or a crypto bro,” I say, piecing it together. “You’re like some rock-star-adjacent person.”
“I washed his underwear, dear,” says Grandma. “It wasn’t exactly glamorous.”
“And she couldn’t tell you because I have very good lawyers,” adds Nash. “That and discussing my underwear makes her blush.”
Which reminds me of another question. “Why does she call you Nash?”
“It’s what my family and close friends calls me. Mom was always playing country music. The outlaw-country stuff she grew up listening to, like Kris Kristofferson and Linda Ronstadt. From about the age of five, I told anyone who’d listen I was going to Nashville,” he says. “But most people call me Porter. Aaron doesn’t exactly have street cred.”
“What would you like me to call you?”
He tucks his hair behind his ears, and I can finally see most of his face. Or what isn’t covered by the beard. “I want to say Daddy, but Nash is fine.”
Grandma looks to heaven, but no help is forthcoming.
I am average height and weight. This man dates supermodels. Therefore, it would be silly to let his flirty bullshit go to my head. “You’re a pretty man. But this situation is too weird, and I’m not sober enough to handle being hit on by you right now.”
“So, you’re telling me I should try again later?”
“No. But thank you for asking.”
“You have your grandmother’s bad attitude and sharp tongue.” Nash grins. He has this dry way of delivering his words. “I admire that in a woman.”
Grandma shakes her head. “Touch June and you get the stick.”
He just grunts.
“She hates men right now anyway. Just got her heart broken. That’s why she’s here.”
I wince. “Did we have to tell him that? Really?”
“You were just telling everyone at the bar,” says Grandma. The woman formerly known as my favorite family member. “Didn’t realize it was suddenly a secret.”
“Sorry ’bout your heart,” says Nash.
“Thanks.” I take a sip of tea. “And she’s right; your kind is currently repugnant to me.”
Grandma sets her cup of chamomile tea down, making the silver bangles on her wrist jingle, and gives him a long assessing look. “Why do you need somewhere to hide?”
“Because they’re going to try and talk me out of quitting and I don’t want to hear it.” Nash sits sprawled with his long legs out in front of him and an arm resting on the table. The only thing suggesting money is the heavy silver colored watch around his wrist. But he’s a big guy used to taking up space. This much is obvious. “I finished the tour and don’t owe any records. References have been written or otherwise organized for everyone who worked for me. Final and bonus payments have been made. I didn’t half-ass any of it, Audrey. I took care of all of them.”
“Good.”
“But I’m thirty-five years old and don’t have a life. Been hustling forever and I’m burnt out as fuck. Keep going this way and I’m going to wind up hating music. And I refuse to stay and let that happen.”
“Have you talked to Angus about this?” asks Grandma.
Nash shakes his head.
I take a sip of tea. “Who’s Angus?”
“Just some asshole I have nothing to do with anymore,” answers Nash.
Grandma’s answering sigh is heavy indeed. “I suppose no one would think to look for you here.”
