Chapter 19 #2
I’m still wearing what I slept in: a t-shirt and my least flattering pair of sweatpants. My hair is in a messy bun, and not the good kind that looks effortlessly chic on other people. And I’m wearing my glasses I hardly ever wear, even though I should.
Nash knocks again, louder.
“Avery, I know you’re in there. Please let me in. I brought you breakfast.”
I groan, then unlatch the door. He takes one look at me and laughs.
Not in an unkind way, more stunned.
“Wow, I—”
I grab the coffee and try to bury my face in the steam.
“Please don’t say anything. I already know how I look. I can’t believe you’re seeing me like this.”
He shrugs, stepping inside. “I was going to say how refreshing it is to see you like this. Without the makeup, the perfect curls. You look great with those things, too. But right now? You’re fucking beautiful.”
He plants a kiss on my forehead, then turns toward the kitchen. Making his way to the counter, he sets our breakfast down and looks at me with a smug smile.
“And I’m not just saying that because you’re wearing my shirt,” he says, with a wink.
My head snaps down to find he’s right. I am wearing his shirt. The one I absentmindedly wore home after we made pizza.
Shit.
I probably look like such a weirdo. I should’ve given the shirt back to him the first chance I had, but I kept forgetting. Then, being home this week and running out of pretty much all my clean clothes, it was one of the last options I had.
“Oh, I—I meant to give it back to you. I just—I got behind on my laundry this week, and it was clean because I had washed it to give it back to you and—”
“Keep it,” he cuts me off.
“Are you sure? I mean, it’s yours. I can just wash it again and give it back.”
“I’m sure, Avery. Keep it.”
Salem winds around his legs, purring. Nash doesn’t miss a beat, like this is something the two of them do together every morning.
He opens the bag and pulls out two massive muffins.
“Blueberry or chocolate chip?,” he asks.
“Blueberry.”
He hands me the blueberry muffin and says, “Perfect. ‘Cause chocolate chip is my favorite.”
I giggle. “What if I had picked that one?”
Nash gives me a confused look. “I would’ve given it to you.”
I smile softly, looking down at my muffin.
Nash leans against the counter, eyes softer. “You okay?” he asks, voice low.
I nod. “I think so.”
He waits, not pushing. I sip my coffee, breathing in the cinnamon and sugar.
He finally says, “You want to talk about it?”
I shake my head, then, after a second, shrug.
“I just feel like I fucked everything up. And then I made it worse by hiding from everyone.”
Nash smiles, but it’s gentle. “Trials go how they go. And you were amazing. I’ve seen enough trials to know.”
I want to believe him, but the words slide right off. “Doesn’t feel that way.”
He reaches out and tucks a stray strand of hair behind my ear. The gesture is so intimate it stuns me silent.
He says, “Come on. Let’s sit down and eat these big ass muffins.”
I walk to the living room and sit on the couch with my feet up. Nash follows behind me, sitting by my feet, his elbow resting on my lower legs.
I pick at the edge of my muffin, and say, “Thank you. For checking on me and bringing me breakfast. But I have to say this kind of feels like a boyfriend thing to do.”
He gives a little laugh. “The boyfriend bar seems pretty low if common decency qualifies. But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss you this week.”
I don’t know what to do with the warmth that rises in me.
“I missed you too,” I say, and the words feel good.
We sit there, drinking coffee and eating muffins.
He talks a mile a minute, filling the air with stories about band drama, weird clients, and a tangent about the local dive bar’s new bathroom mural.
Sometimes he gestures wildly, and I pretend not to notice when his hand lands softly on my knee and just stays.
I should be self-conscious about the way I look, but there’s this sense of relief just having him here.
It makes me feel human again.
After a while, he says, “So, you coming back to work next week?”
I consider his question.
Do I want to come back to work next week? Not really. But I can’t very well wallow in self-pity until the end of time, can I? The loss still hurts, but I know I can’t allow it to keep me down forever.
I nod, more certain that it’s time. “Yeah. I think I’m ready.”
“Good,” he says. “Because it just didn’t feel the same writing sexy notes on everyone else’s coffee cups.”
I roll my eyes and playfully push his shoulder, and he winces.
“What? What’s wrong?”
“Just a little sore,” he says, taking off his jacket and revealing scabbed skin on his forearm.
I grab his arm gently to take a closer look. “Oh my God. What happened?!”
“Oh, you know. Broke up a fight between my bike and the pavement.”
“Why didn’t you call me? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Kind of feels like something a boyfriend would let his girlfriend know, right?”
I roll my eyes. He’s right. “That’s fair. But are you okay?”
“I’m good. Just a little road rash.”
I narrow my eyes at him, not entirely sure he’s telling me the whole truth.
He finishes his muffin and lies down between my legs with his arms resting on my thighs, his chin resting on his arms, and looks up at me.
“You worried about me, doll?” he asks, giving me a sly grin.
“A little,” I reply, running my fingers through his hair around his face.
And it’s the happiest I’ve felt in days. Weeks, maybe.