12. Nash
twelve
nash
“W e better be stopping for coffee,” Imogen whines as she climbs into my truck. She’s holding her head and wearing sunglasses, which can only mean one thing.
“Are you hungover?”
She shushes me, groaning as she turns down the radio. “Damn, do you have to be so loud? Yes, I’m hungover. I went over to Bethany’s for a girls night and may have had a bit too much wine.”
I pull the truck out of her driveway, enroute to Dad’s house. Imogen rarely ever drinks, so I can only imagine how she’s feeling right now. Part of me wants to make fun of her for it like any big brother would, but I’m glad that she was able to get out and have some fun.
“If you’re nice, I might just stop and grab you something to eat. Did you have a good time?”
“Yeah, it was a nice break. Oh, I also made a new friend. She’s a bit younger than you, but I think you’d like her. She’s incredibly cute. Want me to introduce you?” she asks, knowing that I can’t stand being set up by anyone.
“I think I’ll pass.” There’s already someone that’s captured my attention.
“Oh, come on. It’s been ages since you let me fix you up with anyone. I really think you’d like her. She’s probably one of the bravest women I’ve ever met.”
If Imogen is one thing, she’s persistent. I roll down the truck’s windows to let in some of that salty air that always calms my nerves.
“I appreciate that you’re looking out for me, but this is something I need to do myself.” My voice sternly tries to get the point across that this conversation is finished.
She huffs and collapses dramatically against her seat. “Fine, I’ll stop prying for now, but no promises that I won’t in the future.”
I go to interrupt her, but she holds up a hand.
“No, don’t you try telling me to stop worrying. You were meant to have your own family to love and protect. Any woman would be lucky to have you, even if you are a stubborn jackass that’s always happy.” Even with her sunglasses, I can tell that she’s joking. “Plus, you can’t be annoyed with me. I’m meddling for a good cause,” she adds.
Stopping at a chain coffee shop that seems to be on every street corner in New England, we grab breakfast sandwiches and iced coffees.
“How’s the hangover treating you?” I ask as we hit the halfway point in our drive to Gloucester.
“It’s better. For a while there, it felt like a heavy metal band was playing a concert in my brain.”
The sound of slurping fills the cab and she sucks down the last of her drink.
“Good, because you know that Dad would love nothing more than to give you crap for drinking too much the day before we’re supposed to go on the boat.”
Our father, Mack, was a true New England fisherman. He’s been casting out nets and bringing Imogen and I along for as long as I can remember. One of his favorite stories to tell is how I took my first steps on his boat, The Lady Kriller .
Even in his seventies, officially retired, Dad’s out on his boat every day doing what he loves. I feel guilty from time to time that Imogen and I were never drawn to take over the family business. Dad, however, couldn’t care less. He’s beyond proud of the lives we’ve created for ourselves.
We finally arrive at the boat yard a short while later, and Dad is already waiting for us on the wooden dock. I may be biased, but my dad’s the best. Not only do I look just like him, but his passion for life is unmatched.
“Hey, aren’t you two a sight for sore eyes,” Dad calls to us, cupping his hands around his mouth.
Imogen reaches him first and gives him a tight hug and kiss on the cheek. I’m next, and as he’s done since I was a little boy, my dad holds my face in both of his hands and touches his forehead to mine. His brown eyes twinkle with mischief, his laugh lines signifying a lifetime of laughter.
“Hi, Dad. How are you doing today?” He releases my face, and takes a few steps backwards.
“I’m feeling good,” he says. “I woke up and the sun was shining, so I have nothing to complain about. Well?”
“Well what, Daddy?” Imogen replies. She and I exchange a confused look.
“My outfit!” He poses, showing off what he’s wearing today. “What do you think about my new ‘fit’? That’s what the kids call it these days.”
It’s then that I realize what my father is wearing. A navy shirt with bold text reads, My son saves lives . On top of his head is a light pink hat emblazoned with the phrase Proud Girl Dad .
Imogen quickly takes her phone out and snaps a photo. “Sir, when did you become a style icon?” she asks, continuing to take photos as our dad jokingly poses. “I can’t believe Mom let you out of the house looking like this.”
“Your mother thinks I’m a stud.” He grins, walking over to the boat and hopping onto the deck. “You two coming?” he asks, holding out a hand to Imogen to help her on board.
“Aye aye, Captain!” she roars, joining him.
The sound of an incoming text pulls my attention away.
“Let me check this quickly,” I tell them, taking out my phone to see who it could be.
I can’t help the stupid smile that spreads across my face when I see Cora’s name on my screen. She agreed to meet me tonight for dinner, which feels like a miracle. We’re still in the friend stage of our relationship, but slowly she seems to be coming around to the idea of giving me a chance—a chance to show her I’m nothing like her past partners.
“Get a move on, son! We’re losing daylight, and the fish wait for no one!” Dad calls, ready to get the day started. He’s right, we do need to get going. As much as I’d love to talk to her, I’ll just check once I’m on board.
My day can only go up from here.
* * *
I spoke too soon. I pull my phone out of my pocket and reread Cora’s message for the hundredth time once I’m back home.
Cora
Hi, I’m so sorry to do this, but I need to cancel our dinner plans for tonight. I don’t feel well.
My gut reaction was that I’d pushed her too far after our lunch at the diner. But even though I’ve only known her a short time, I have a feeling that Cora isn’t the type to simply cancel plans without a reason.
I drive home after my exhausting fishing trip out in the scorching sun, take a fast shower, and relax on the couch. The house is too quiet and my mind keeps wandering back to Cora and if she’s okay.
It wouldn’t be creepy to bring her soup and check on her, right? Maybe Imogen would know. She’s usually pretty good at this kind of stuff.
I have a hypothetical for you
Imogen
A hypothetical? About what?
Hypothetically speaking, would it be weird to bring soup over to a woman that you’re interested in? She’s sick.
Imogen
Shut the fuck up! You’re interested in a woman? Who is she?
Answer the question...
Imogen
I don’t think it’s weird. It’s actually kinda sweet.
Who is she?
I’m not a dumb man. While I love my sister, I happen to know that she’s a huge gossip. There’s no way that I’m telling her about Cora just yet, or at least until Cora lets her walls down.
Thanks, sis. Love you.
I pull out ingredients for homemade chicken noodle soup from my refrigerator. The kitchen is where I feel most in my element, and making something from scratch for another person is how I show them I care. Growing up, it was difficult for me to express my emotions, and I quickly found that making food for people was my way of connecting. Cooking for someone else allows me to show others how much they mean to me.
I put on some music to make the house feel less empty as I prep the ingredients and throw them into a large stock pot. I chop onions, peel and slice carrots, and cut the chicken. Half an hour later, my kitchen is filled with the comforting scents of simmering chicken, garlic, onion, and veggies. Ladling a large portion into a container, I pack it in an insulated cooler and grab my keys.
The drive to Jack’s isn’t long enough for me to second guess my decision. The soup and my med kit are in the passenger seat as I roll into the gravel driveway.
My hands full, I walk up to the house and knock on the front door.
“Please don’t let this be a huge mistake,” I mutter.
The door opens, and standing in front of me is Cora, looking even more breathtaking than the last time I saw her. Her natural beauty makes my heart stop. She’s wearing a short sleeve pajama shirt that’s covered in cartoon sushi rolls with matching shorts. Her hair is thrown up in an effortless messy bun. Her eyebrows shoot up the instant she looks at me. The surprise on her face instantly has me wishing the earth would open up and swallow me whole.
“Nash? I wasn’t expecting you.”
“I know.” I hold out the container to her. “Um, I wanted to stop by and bring you some soup, since you said you weren’t feeling well.”
“Oh, wow. This smells incredible.” A small smile forms on her lips, and my heart does a backflip, like I’m a teenager making the cutest girl in class smile.
“Would you like to come in?” she asks, smoothing down the wrinkles in her pajamas with one hand. “I swear I’m not contagious, and I’m dying to try some of that soup.”
She leads me inside, beelining straight to the kitchen to pull two bowls from the cabinet and place them on the counter.
“Where did you get this from?” she asks after putting soup in each bowl, placing one in front of me. “It looks so freaking yummy.”
“I made it. I wasn’t sure whether you’d like it or not, but it’s the recipe my mom used whenever my sister or I was sick. She’s always been the rock of our family.”
“That’s such a sweet memory.” Cora raises her spoon towards her lips, but suddenly drops it with a clink.
She clutches her abdomen with both hands, wincing with pain. I jump up from my stool and rush over to her. Looking her over head to toe, I try to find the source of her discomfort, but come up with nothing.
“Honey Bee, what’s wrong? What hurts?”
“I’m fine, it’ll pass,” she replies through clenched teeth.
“Let me help you. Do you need to go to the hospital?” I ask, leading her over to the sofa so that she can sit down.
“No! No hospital,” she shouts emphatically, her body tense.
“Talk to me, honey. I hate seeing you in pain.” I start running through a list of possibilities in my head and how to fix this for her.
“It’s my PCOS,” she replies weakly, her body is less tense now, and Cora looks like she’s able to breathe better.
“Does your cramping usually get this bad?’ I ask, leaning into my training.
“The pain usually isn’t this bad, but on occasion it can be pretty brutal, like today.”
“So this is why you cancelled?” I pull her towards me, gently rubbing her back, and it pleases me when she sighs and leans into my touch.
“I promise, I wasn’t trying to avoid you. I started feeling crappy this morning and knew it wouldn’t go away in time.”
“Well, I’m here now. Do you want some company, or I can leave to give you some space?” The overwhelming need to take care of her consumes me, and I silently pray that she doesn’t send me away.
“Seriously?” The surprise on her face isn’t what I expected. “You’d really stay?” she asks, making me wonder. Just how badly was she mistreated before if something simple like this takes her by surprise?
“Of course, if you’ll let me. To be honest, I’m a homebody. I enjoy spending time hanging out and relaxing.” At these words, she snuggles closer, and having her near me calms my soul.
“How about I go grab our soups, and we can hang on the couch and watch something?” I suggest, pointing towards the TV.
She looks up at me and her smile seals the deal. “Honestly, that sounds perfect. How do you feel about British murder mysteries?”
Wait a minute, now this seals the deal. “I love them,” I say, not even bothering to contain my excitement. “Wait, which ones do you watch?”
She pulls away, her gorgeous emerald eyes sparkling. “Really? I don’t think I’ve ever met someone who liked them. Okay, I love Father Brown , Midsomer Murders, and Vera .”
We spend the next few hours bingeing episodes, laughing and talking about our favorite shows, and competing against each other to see who can solve the mystery first. Cora’s smug smirk and happy dance on the couch when she beats me makes me fall hard for her.
What man wouldn’t want to do this every single night, until the day they died?