Chapter 21
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Lucy
Four days have passed and it’s like Nash and I never kissed at all.
Though, by the time I wake up, he’s usually already left for the hospital, so it’s not like we’ve had a lot of time together.
He leaves a note on the coffee pot each morning, reminding me to be careful while working my ankle in the gym, and to have a nice day.
The first night, I went to bed before he even got home.
The next two, he was so exhausted I made him sit on the couch while I cooked him something to eat.
Last night, we watched TV together while he massaged my ankle.
Today will be the first real time we’ve spent together since it happened, and my plan is to just roll with the whole friendly roommate thing.
He was right about calling for a pause after we kissed, though it kills me to admit it.
The way he decided for me that I was in too fragile a state?
Yeah. Not cool. It felt way too much like my dad dictating how and why I should live.
He was right though, which is why I dropped it.
My life is too complicated.
Nash is too complicated. It’s all just… complicated.
With all that in mind, he asked for a pause and I’ll give it to him. It’s been easy so far because this morning, four boxes arrived from Los Angeles with my name on them.
Four.
That is all my life equates to. Two boxes of clothes. A box of random kitchen and living room items. And a box of stuff from my bedroom—pictures, journals, memorabilia.
Part of me whispers that’s a little sad, but really, I’m just thrilled to have more than a week’s worth of clothes. Pre-injury Lucy thought she was packing for a visit, not… whatever this has become. I lean into the closet to hang up the rest of my shirts when something catches my eye.
Is that a guitar?
It’s not in a case, just leaning against the back wall like it forgot it ever mattered to someone. The wood is smooth, slightly dulled with time. One string has snapped and curled in on itself like a dried-up question mark.
I lean forward, pressing my palm to the doorframe for balance. The closet’s just deep enough that I can reach it without crutching my way inside.
It’s heavier than I expect. Dusty and cool. A little scuffed at the edges, like it saw some life before being abandoned here.
I turn just as Nash walks past the room, a mug in one hand, phone in the other. He pauses, backpedals, brow raised.
“I swear I thought that thing was in the garage.”
“You play?”
“Used to.” He shrugs, then leans against the doorframe, looking unfairly handsome and totally at ease.
I trail my fingers over the strings, giving my attention to the instrument rather than the man. “Looks like it’s been a while.”
“Yeah.” Nash takes a sip of coffee, eyes locked on mine over the rim. “It started feeling like a waste of time, so I stopped.”
I blink. “A waste?”
He nods, nonchalant as ever. “It didn’t serve a purpose. Didn’t help me sleep. Didn’t help patients. Didn’t help my marriage. Didn’t make money. Just… took up space. And time.”
Woah. Marriage? Talk about dropping an info bomb.
And that’s another reason the kiss was a mistake. You barely know this man.
“You were married?”
Nash makes a gesture I can’t quite unravel, part dismissive, part embarrassed, a whole lot of hurt. “Wasn’t meant to be.”
I look down at the guitar in my hands. “But did it make you happy?”
“My marriage?” He sags against the wall, looking like he has no idea where to begin answering that one. I hurry to clarify because I’m sensing a painful history here and don’t want him to feel obligated to share.
“No. The guitar.”
“Oh. Right.” Relief washes over Nash’s face. “I mean, sure. I liked playing; I just wasn’t very good at it.”
“Then it wasn’t a waste.”
He lifts one brow like he’s not so sure.
“I’m serious,” I say. “Joy matters. Peace matters. Music gives people something real, even if it’s not billable or quantifiable.
” I search for words to express something that feels too big to have come from me, like it’s a universal truth, a fundamental reality, a kernel of something real and important we’ve all started to forget.
“Life shouldn’t just be hustle for hustle’s sake, grind because…
what? Money? Success? Of course those things matter, but surely that’s not the point of it all.
Is it easier when my bank account is full and I’m not worrying how I’ll pay my bills?
Yes. Undoubtedly. But there’s an ache in my soul that’s only soothed by music, dancing, staring at a perfect blue sky or spending a day connecting with someone.
I don’t know… the rest is all… plastic.”
I shrug because I know I failed to express what I really mean, and the more I chase down the explanation, the more nebulous it becomes. Like trying to remember a dream you’ve already mostly forgotten. You know it happened, it felt real and vivid and important, but it’s just… gone.
Nash stares at me for a second, unreadable. Then his mouth curves—not a full smile, but something like it. “You sound like my mom.”
“Good. Nora Kincaid is one of the wisest women I know. Or at least she was when I was twelve.”
“She still is,” he says, softer now. “Pain in the ass, but wise.”
I grin and lift the guitar slightly. “Will you play for me?”
That gets a laugh. “That right there is a hell no.”
“Aw, come on! Why not?”
“It’s been too long. And I was never as good as Grayson.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Gabby’s Grayson?”
Nash makes a face I can’t quite untangle. “Yeah. Wow. I forget you guys are friends.”
“We really have been circling each other for years, haven’t we?”
That shouldn’t feel as profound as it does, considering life in a small town can be a lot like life in a goldfish bowl. Everyone in Stillwater Bay knows everyone else.
But there’s something more about this connection. Something deeper. Something I can’t quite put my finger on.
“So,” I ask, “is it safe to assume you taught Grayson everything he knows about music?”
“Quite the opposite,” Nash says with a self-deprecating laugh. “That kid has real talent. I just made noise.”
He doesn’t say it bitterly, but the words land flat. Familiar. Like he’s heard them one too many times. I wonder, was he the one to say them? Or did they come from someone else?
“But if that noise brought you joy,” I say quietly, then simply extend the guitar out for him with a soft smile.
Nash takes the instrument and huffs out a breath. “You’re dangerous when you’re charming.”
“Only dangerous to nonsense,” I say, thoroughly enjoying the conversation.
Trish would have rolled her eyes at me. Dad never would have let me finish the first sentence before steamrolling into a diatribe about his view of the world.
Stella would have made a joke. Gabby would have listened, but I’d always wonder if she heard.
Nash feels different. He’s an enigma wrapped in a mystery, never quite responding the way I expect, but always, always making me feel safe. Heard.
Taken care of.
He watches me for a beat, something flickering behind his eyes. Then he straightens and jerks his chin toward the hallway. “C’mon. Let’s get some lunch before our physical therapy session today.”
I follow him out of the bedroom, and he drops the guitar off in his room before we meet at the kitchen. He opens the fridge then immediately closes it again. “Do you want to go out for lunch? I feel like maybe you’ve been trapped in the house too long.”
“Oh my goodness I would love that! I think I saw on a flier near Violet and Simon’s bakery that there’s live music at the pier today. Food trucks, the whole deal. Like a mini festival.”
Nash hesitates and I give him my best smile. “Come on. Music, food, sunshine, and good company? I think I hear a little joy calling… don’t you?”
He shakes his head. “See what I mean? Dangerous.”