Chapter 19
Nineteen
“Nice place,” Cap says through a cough. His chest hair and gold chain are in full force as we stand in front of a house.
Nash’s house, according to the address.
That is the picture of domestic maturity with a mailbox, a garden hose, and a cheeky No Soliciting sign.
I glance up and down the live oak-lined street. Warm morning light leaks through strands of Spanish moss like a scene stolen from a Nicholas Sparks book. It’s revoltingly perfect.
Even though the house is small, with its white siding, black trim, and big porch surrounded by bushy azaleas, it’s gorgeous. And the complete opposite of the tree house I imagined him living in. This looks . . . grown-up. Like a place you’d plant roots.
Nash’s truck is in the driveway along with a bright blue sedan. It strikes me that he might not live alone.
Maybe that’s why he was ready to give me up—he’s ready to move on. Get remarried.
Good for him!
The front door opens and a brown and black dog darts out, pouncing toward us as Nash steps onto the porch.
Coffee mug in hand, he’s wearing a shirt covered with avocados, slim-cut shorts, and bare feet.
His hair is wet, like he just got out of the shower, and the look on his face tells me he doesn’t have a care in the world.
Must be nice.
“Frank,” he tells us as the dog sniffs my hands.
“Hi, Frank.” I scrub his ears and let this new piece of Nash sink in. He has a dog he apparently remembers to feed. The jarring revelations just keep on coming.
Ms. Sunny the tour guide emerges from the house with the same wide smile she had yesterday. The braids covering her head are pulled back in a cherry-red headband. “Welcome home, fam!” she yells, arms wide like she wants a hug.
Nash and Ms. Sunny?
This . . . is unexpected.
Cap and I exchange a look but walk toward her, both of us grunting as she pulls us into a soft-bodied, nutty-smelling hug.
“I hear you about to play pirates,” she says loudly when we’re out of her grasp.
At my face she adds, “Don’t look so scared, honey child.
I ain’t gonna tell nobody. I’m the friend you call to help bury the bodies, know what I’m sayin’?
” She looks Cap up and down. “We put an eye patch on you, and we got ourselves a real pirate. And a handsome one at that.”
Cap laughs, and—is he blushing?
“I am a captain,” he admits, puffing his chest a bit.
“Sunny here stopped by to help me rework the tour schedule for the next few weeks,” Nash fills in from the porch. “Free up my time.”
I’ll never understand why that innocent explanation relieves the building pressure in my chest.
“I’m Rue.” I smile and extend my hand toward her. “This is Cap.”
“Hell naw.” Sunny slaps my hand away. “We family, girlfriend.” She hugs me again, squeezing me tight. Too tight. In my ear so only I can hear, she whispers, “You love him?”
“What?” I whisper back, not hiding my shock. I fight her hug only for it to tighten. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means you hurt that man and I’ll feed your scrawny white ass to the crabs at the bottom of the Ashley River. You hear me?”
I jerk back, and she smiles wide. Sunny is a psycho.
She turns to Cap and pinches his whisker-covered cheek. “I can tell you’re trouble, Cappy.”
He eats this up.
“Trouble’s what I’m known for.”
What is happening?
“Alright now, y’all have fun.”
Then Sunny’s in her car, driving away with a cheery wave through the window like she didn’t just threaten to kill me.
“I like her,” Cap says as he limps up the steps and into Nash’s house.
“Sure,” I mutter. “If you’re into the clinically insane.”
Nash chuckles, taking a sip of coffee as he looks me over in today’s khaki-colored linen overalls and navy-blue tank.
I almost wore one of the sundresses Reese forced me to bring while she criticized my wardrobe.
“You can’t show up on the tatted-up teacher’s doorstep like a damn hick, Rue!
” She had seemingly forgotten that I don’t care about the tatted-up teacher or looking like a damn hick. I’m here for a divorce, not a date.
Instead, I dressed for practicality and comfort—like I always do. The fact that my hair is in a loose braid, my bangs are swept to the side, and I wore mascara for the first time in months is simply because I woke up early this morning and was bored.
“Good morning,” I say cordially, sidling past him in the doorway without making any contact. “Your house is very nice, Nash.”
“Thank you for that very scripted compliment, Rue Conway,” he teases, making my eyes roll.
Inside, the well-lit open floor plan is a blend of old and new design elements.
The kitchen has a modern tile backsplash and shiny countertops, but the appliances are retro red.
His furniture is new, except for the coffee table.
I’d bet all the money I’m here to find that it’s an authentic Danish ceramic tile-top mid-century piece.
Without flipping it over and properly investigating it like I want, my guess is it’s from the sixties and, judging by the geometric designs on the stoneware tiles, a Poulsen and Wortz.
It takes every ounce of willpower for me not to run over and pet it.
The walls are covered in framed historical propaganda posters. I stop at a print of Rosie the Riveter.
Nash says, “Always liked her overalls.”
“They’re coveralls,” I correct.
In the living room, built-in bookshelves contain as many dusty bookends as crisp ones, antique knick-knacks, and little army soldiers in between. I’d never pictured him in such a mature and tidy place, yet somehow, it’s so him.
Somehow, he learned to pick up after himself and use a vacuum in the eight years we’ve been separated.
And then I see two things that ground me back to what I know: The biggest TV known to man—connected to an original Nintendo of all things—fills the living room wall, and instead of a dining table, he has a pool table.
He’s grown up, but not completely. Not even close. What forty-three-year-old man has a pool table instead of an actual table? I mentally scoff at this. Mentally pat myself on the back at the validation of how well I still know him.
Even so, at the glass doors that lead to the backyard, it’s hard for me to grasp where I am.
Nash’s house. My husband. The father of my child.
The man I pretend is dead so I don’t have to think of him as a real person and acknowledge that somewhere in this world he lives a whole life that Bennie and I aren’t part of.
The outdoor area could be in a magazine.
There’s a swimming pool— crystal clear—with three inner tubes shaped like animals floating around it.
On the concrete patio, a large umbrella-covered table is surrounded by chairs.
A bin holds more pool toys. There’s a grill.
Bennie would love it. So would my mother.
When I start imagining myself spending hot summer days there, I shove the thoughts away.
Nash steps next to me, facing the same backyard oasis I do, quiet as he sips his coffee.
“Other than the pool table and obnoxious TV, it’s beautiful,” I tell him, my eyes catching on a small building with a single window and outdoor shower stall. “What’s in there?”
“One, nobody really eats at a dining table, and two, the pool table is more fun.”
I roll my eyes.
“And that,” he says, gesturing with his mug to the small building in his backyard, “was supposed to be a guest house, but I accidentally put a bar and futon in it instead.”
I don’t even dwell on the fact he’s a grown man with an accidental futon. Even without seeing the inside, I can already tell it’s nicer than the hotel I stayed in last night.
“Sunny’s interesting,” I finally say. “She on a work release from the psych ward?”
He laughs around his mug. “She never has a thought she doesn’t tell you, that’s for sure. And a bit protective.” My eyebrows raise at what an understatement that is. “And hostile.”
I focus on the backyard.
“You’re different,” he says.
“Okay.” I keep my gaze fixed on the rafts floating around the pool, and shift my weight between my feet.
“More serious,” he continues. Like I care at all about what he thinks or the fact Sylvia the stupid psychic called me the same thing.
“I’m older than I used to be. Comes with the territory.”
He shrugs, tracking Frank as he chases a squirrel across the yard. “Guess for some people.”
I eye his ridiculous shirt, now noticing the avocados have smiley faces. He’s like a Lost Boy in Neverland, refusing to grow up. No wonder he and my mother like each other so much.
He looks at me sideways. “Your fiancé as serious as you?”
I sweep my bangs to the side. “I’m not talking about him.”
“But you love him?”
I fold my arms over my chest and fully face him. “I am so sick of people asking me that. Of course I do.”
He shrugs, taking another easy sip of coffee. “He know you’re married?”
“I didn’t know I was married until three days ago,” I deflect.
“So he doesn’t know?”
“He does now,” I say, haughty. “He thought you died.”
“He what?” His eyes widen. “Why the hell did he think that?”
I study a lawn chair like it’s the most interesting thing I’ve ever seen. “Because I told him that’s what happened.”
He’s incredulous. “Why?”
“Because . . .” it’s what your daughter thinks. “I panicked and—”
“Panicked about what?”
“I didn’t know how else to explain.”
He scoffs. “Explain what, Rue? That you changed your mind about wanting to be married to me?”
When our eyes meet, his coffee stills. “That I married a man who couldn’t be what I needed him to be.”
There’s not enough time for it to fully settle before a coughing fit from Cap pulls us to the kitchen.
While the two of them strike up an easy conversation, I have a mental duel with myself over why I just said that—I couldn’t stop myself.