Chapter 26
chapter
twenty-six
NATE
Pale yellow paint drips onto my beat-up tennis shoes.
The plastic beneath my feet crinkles as I shift along with the paint roller. With each swipe, I cover the original gray wall, transforming it into something Teagan finds happier and less “basic.”
This space was originally a spare bedroom decorated with florals—fake roses in vases on the dresser and nightstands, flowers on the bedspread, and some weird metal palm trees in the corner.
When we moved in, I promised Teagan a playroom, and along with that promise, we agreed she could decorate it however she wants.
Evidently, it wasn’t enough for her to do her own bedroom; she found picking out a wall color and furniture far too much fun and wants to do it again in here, starting with this yellow paint.
She’s also requested a bean bag chair, white bookshelves, and a loft bed with a desk underneath. She wants it to look like the one her LA friend had in her room. I had to veto the last item since this is supposed to be her playroom and not a second bedroom.
Surprisingly, Teagan didn’t fight me on it. She groaned, but she let it slide a lot faster than the time I told her she couldn’t wear her bikini to the first day of second grade.
What did surprise me is that she wants to keep the metal palm trees. Only my mother would pick out something so wacky. It might be why Teagan wants to keep them—she likes having things from Nan-Nan.
The little girl always keeps me on my toes, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Spending all this time with her has allowed me to get to know so much more about her than I did when we only had a few days together here and there.
Teagan is smart and creative and contemplative. She’s the best parts of Sabrina and me.
The back door opens and shuts. “Son?” my dad calls out, and I hear the rustling of bags like he brought in half the grocery store. There’s no telling what my mother sent him over here with.
“In the spare bedroom,” I call back and start on the next wall.
He joins me, rubbing his hands together like we’re about to dig into a steak dinner. He’s far too excited to paint, but that’s Dad. The man would find something fun about a rain puddle.
“Put me to work.”
I chuckle, glad for the company more than anything. “There’s an extra roller in the closet, or if you’re up for it, there’s a brush for the trim.”
“This room was never really a spare bedroom.” Dad shakes his head.
“After forty years of thinking anyone would actually use it, as if all our friends and family weren’t living in a twenty-mile radius, your mother finally gave up last year and started using it for storage.
It took longer to pack up this room than it did the rest of the house combined. ”
“What did you do with all of it?”
He pushes his glasses higher onto the bridge of his nose and rises onto the step ladder to dive in. “Since my yard sale idea was not well received—”
“To put it mildly.”
He winks at me and continues, “I suggested we store the important things in the garage, and the rest could be donated.”
I study him, waiting for the rest. I have a hunch that’s not the end.
He catches me staring. “I was overruled, and it all ended up in the attic.” He smiles and adds, “Let’s put it this way—if it makes your mother happy, I’ll put up with a few extra things lying around.”
That’s what I’ve always appreciated about their marriage.
My mom might love her flair. She wears bright clothes and rocks her fair share of sequins, but my parents aren’t flashy people.
They don’t have expensive cars or the latest technology, but their love and respect for each other, as well as their family and friends, go above and beyond.
I admire the hell out of them for it.
“How’s the new place? Still liking it?” I ask, finishing up the final wall. It’ll take a second coat, but with my dad here, we’ll get it done in time for the surprise reveal when Teagan returns from school.
“Still getting unpacked and settled.” He grunts as he hoists the ladder over. “I’m getting slower in my old age.”
His tone is lighthearted, but it gnaws at me. “If you need help, why do you shoo me away every time I show up to offer it?”
“Because you have your own house to settle into. Your mother and I are fine to take our time with ours. Made a game of it.”
“Of course you have.” I grin.
“For each box we put away, we treat ourselves to a piece of pie.”
“In that case, I’m surprised you still have anything left to unpack.”
“You’d think.” His laugh is hearty, rising from deep in his chest and filling the room. It’s the soundtrack of so much of my childhood.
That and the rapid-fire thumping of Mom’s sewing machine. She always loved to sew, and my father enjoyed sitting across from her with a newspaper, reading and laughing with her.
They have the kind of marriage I’ve always dreamed of.
They have fun together. They bring out the best in each other and those around them. It’s thanks to them and their encouragement that I always strive for my best.
I’ve always tried to make them proud.
Dad and I talk while we work over the next hour, after which we settle onto the couch with a couple of waters and the Bready or Knot croissants my mother sent with him.
These things are the stuff of legends. I swear, they taste better and better every time I have one. How I’ve lived the majority of the last ten years without them is a mystery.
A car rumbles outside, filling the brief silence between Dad and me while we chug our bottles of water like we finished building the room from the ground up instead of just painting it.
Through the window, I catch sight of Maren pulling into her driveway.
She cuts off the engine and saunters up to her front door, a purple box in hand.
Her hair is loose and swings across her shoulders with each step.
It’s warmer outside today, so no sweater or jacket. She wears a loose tee, her skin golden under the sunlight.
The leggings molded to her perfect thighs make my eye twitch. Merely looking at her flips my world upside down. My emotions run rampant like a dog chasing its tail.
“How’s it going with her?” my dad’s voice snaps my attention back to him.
I peer down at my water like it’s a portal into the past, recalling the conversation he and I had when I first told him that Maren and I were a couple.
He’d asked me how it was going with her, much like he does now, and I answer the same as I did back then.
“Call me crazy, but I might just marry her someday.”
Dad shakes his head and releases another hearty laugh that echoes off the walls. “You always did fancy that girl.”
“It was far more than that, Dad.” I toy with the bottle cap, then drain the rest of my water.
“So, what’s stopping you now? Why don’t you go on and marry her already? God knows, it would make your mother happy.”
“I have to convince her to go out with me first.”
“You never did give up easily.” He shifts forward, places his empty water bottle onto the coffee table, and rubs his hands together.
“When you were a kid, you were afraid of heights. Even two feet high sent you into a tailspin, so I took you to the playground, where I distracted you with the brightly colored slides. I helped you climb up, focusing only on the different colors, and then without even thinking, you stood tall, gave me a high five, and slid right on down as a totally different kid. You weren’t afraid at all.
I couldn’t get you off the slides after that. ”
“I barely remember that.”
“You were the same way with swimming. Too afraid of the water.”
“I do remember that, and it was warranted. The water can be scary—too many unknowns under there, even in a pool.”
“Sure, sure.” He nods. “But nothing was as scary as what you’d cooked up in your head, and as soon as you faced your fears, you realized they weren’t that big of a deal to begin with. Just like these tattoos.”
“What about them?”
“You clearly stopped being afraid of needles.”
“I guess so.”
“My point is that you became fearless, son, and I’m so proud of you.”
It’s true. I’ve never let fear stop me from doing anything. I’ve been scuba diving and snorkeling several times over the years, even with all the unknowns lurking in the deep.
And I’ve always come out the other side a better man for it.
“Thanks, Dad.” I swallow the sudden lump in my throat. When he came over earlier, I had no inkling we’d end up in this kind of conversation.
I also didn’t realize how badly I needed to hear this. Sure, my parents have applauded and cheered me on my whole life. Even when I was ten and I wanted to move to Alaska to pursue dog sledding, my mother sewed me a sweater to keep me warm when I made it up there.
When I wanted to play football, my father, who’d never played a sport in his life, learned how to throw a spiral just so he could help me practice.
But having him here in our old house that now belongs to me, telling me he’s proud after all the changes I’ve made to myself and my life—it just hits different. It’s that much more special.
“What are you so afraid of now?” he asks, tilting his head toward the house next door.
I blow out a long, slow breath and rub the back of my damp neck. “I’m afraid we messed up too badly. That I hurt her too deeply, and I don’t know how to fix it. I might not be able to repair the damage.”
“Bologna,” he huffs.
I dip my head, my body suddenly heavy.
“True, unyielding love can fix even the most broken of hearts.” He squeezes my shoulder, jostling me forward. “If anyone can find a way, it’s you. Be brave. Be fearless, son.”
Emotion lodges itself in my throat, so I forgo anything beyond a simple nod.
His bottle crinkles in his grip as he stands and points toward the kitchen. “I better be getting on.”
“Need another water for the road?” I manage.
“No, no.” Dad waves me off, and I follow him toward the back door, where he stops and faces me. “How’d I do, by the way?”
I search his expression. “The paint? It’s great.”
He flicks his wrist, waving me off again. “I meant, Maren. Your mother asked me to bring her up, but to do it real casual like. I did, right?” A twinkle flashes in his eyes, and understanding dawns.
“Aren’t you both too busy to be worried about my love life?” I shake my head.
He levels me with a sober look. “We’re never too busy for our boy. Let us know if you need anything—anything at all. We can get more croissants, or if you and Teagan need any Nerf gun tips, I’ve got plenty. Evie and I have tons of marriage advice too, for when the time comes.”
“Noted.”
Dad squints at me, and the hair stands at the back of my neck. I know what he’s about to say is going to be serious before he ever speaks. What is in the water today with all this heavy talk?
“You would get married again, huh?” he asks.
Images of Maren and Teagan slam into me. A carousel of them baking in the kitchen, laughing and singing, filter through my mind, and a smile tugs on the corners of my lips. “Yeah,” I tell my dad. “I’d get married again, if it was the right person.”
Seemingly satisfied with the answer, he opens the back door, and a flap of the fence post in the wind catches our attention. It’s the one Maren and I used to sneak to and from each other’s houses back when.
“Damn,” Dad mutters. “I forgot to fix the fence for you. I can take care of that next—”
“No need,” I cut in. “It’s been like that for over twenty years. I can’t imagine sealing it off now.”
“It is sort of a fixture of the house, huh?” He chuckles and makes his way out, his keys jingling in one hand. On his way around the path toward the driveway, he pauses to twist a flowerpot toward the sun, then carries on.
I stow away the remaining croissants for when Teagan gets home, and through the window over the sink, I find the fence post still fluttering.
“You became fearless.”
My dad’s right. I have shed so many of my fears, but there are still so many other things that scare me, especially where Teagan is concerned. Fatherhood will do that. It makes me overthink everything—and it’s still not enough.
And I’m scared of Maren.
Even though I know I affect her—I have zero doubts that she has feelings for me—she might not ever act on them. She might keep pushing me away until there’s nothing left for us to chase.
She broke my heart all those years ago, and I never got closure until now. I never truly moved on from that night on the bleachers before I left Sapphire Creek.
It was the last time I’d ever given my whole heart to someone.
But I broke her heart in more ways than one too, and I don’t blame her for not trusting me now. It’s a lot of weight to carry—a lot of walls to tear down.
And there’s very little hope that I can, but I know I want to.
I fucking need to.
There’s so much that Maren doesn’t know, and I can’t walk away from her until I lay it all out there. Even that might not be enough.
I can’t go back and change anything in our past, but I can show her how much I’ve thought about her over the years. How much she’s always meant to me.
That I’ll never stop loving her.
For me, Maren was never the one who got away—she’s always just been the one.
And that’s scary. Big feelings are terrifying.
It’s like photography. I knew I wanted to make it my career long before I ever told Maren or anyone else about it. I was too afraid of the reception, but most of all, I feared I wasn’t good enough to make it.
The pictures I take aren’t of myself, but they’re an extension of me. It’s an image from my perspective. My interpretation of a scene. My feelings infused in the lighting, the angle, the subject itself.
It’s vulnerable, and it’s unnerving.
That’s why I haven’t been completely honest with Maren. I had the perfect chance the morning we slept together, but I floundered.
Then I screwed my jaw shut like it was Pandora’s Box.
I was afraid, but I was also cautious. I knew she wouldn’t be open to hearing what I have to say. She was too upset to believe me—to understand the gravity of my feelings.
But I wasn’t ready to tell her, either. To put myself out there, bare myself so fully, and risk rejection.
If I have any shot at getting her back, I can’t shy away. I have to show her, once and for all, that she and I do have a happy ending in us.