Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Nathan
“So, how goes the journey home?” Trish asks, her face filling my phone screen during our video call.
I sigh and rake a hand through my hair.
The garage is freezing—even with the space heater blasting like it’s fighting for its life—but I’ve been out here for two days straight, working on the furniture.
Grandma’s dresser. Her rocking chair. Her nightstand.
I’ve stripped them down to bare wood, the scent of sawdust settling into my clothes, my skin, my lungs.
“What fucking journey, Trish? I’m here, aren’t I?”
It comes out harsher than I intend.
“Ouch,” she says, arching a brow. “Grumpy much? What’s going on, Nate? Things not going as easy as you thought they would?”
She’s not wrong.
I’ve been wallowing in one big fucking pity party ever since my run in with Ad.
Cake, confetti, the whole pathetic shebang.
I set down the sanding block and slump onto Grandma’s old stool.
“Is it going the way I thought? I don’t know. I mean, the mayor met me at the diner the other day. Folks around town have been real kind. Real outgoing. Real thrilled to have me move back.”
“So, everyone is glad to see you. That’s good,” she offers cautiously.
“I suppose so.”
And it is.
Except for one thing—one woman, actually—the only one in town who isn’t at all thrilled to see me. And of course she’s the only fucking one who matters a damn.
Trish waits. She knows me far too well.
“Everyone is glad,” I say quietly. “Except her.”
Her face softens. “Ah.”
Yeah. Ah.
“Her being the woman behind the first big hit?”
“Behind it? She wasn’t behind it, she was inside it. Goddamn it, Trish, I saw her, and nothing changed. I mean everything has changed, but not the way I feel about her. Nothing inside here,” I say and point to my chest.
“So you’ve talked to her, then?”
“I mean, I tried. I’ve seen Adrianna since the hardware store,” I admit. “A couple times, actually. At the grocery store. At the post office. She spots me and fucking evaporates like smoke.”
Trish winces.
“A lot of time has passed since you won that show and left town, Nate. Can’t exactly blame her.”
Fuck.
Trish is right. I know she is. I mean, I still want to argue. But I huff out a breath instead.
“I know,” I groan. “God, do I know.”
I haven’t worked up the nerve to bring myself to the bakery yet—yeah I know that’s where she is most days. I’ve been keeping tabs, asking questions. I know I’m gonna just have to do it.
Grab my balls and walk through those doors and confront my past, and maybe, my future?
I honestly can’t wait to see her behind the counter wearing a little apron with flour on it, her hair piled up haphazardly, her smile probably bright enough to kill me.
She took over the place after her mom retired. Runs it herself.
Incredible, really. Admirable.
And she’s raising her niece—Bonnie’s kid, Bella.
Her sister’s daughter.
Fuck me, I knew this woman was special when we were both still kids, but I think maybe Adrianna Bosco is a saint.
She stayed.
She showed up.
She didn’t chase anything glittery or loud or selfish.
She didn’t leave.
I swallow hard.
“She’s so goddamned good, Trish. And I know I’m unworthy, but every time I see her, my feelings get all fucked up. I mean, I want her. I still fucking want her. That part’s easy. I never stopped, in fact I think I always want her. It’s just my default setting.”
I laugh without humor.
“But?” she prods.
“But I ruined it sixteen years ago. I walked away, and I guess I expected the world to wait.”
My voice cracks.
“She didn’t.”
“No, Nate. She couldn’t.”
I lean back, staring at the ceiling beams. “So how does one atone for sixteen years of absence, exactly?”
Trish snorts. “Ha! Is that all it’s been? Look, Nate, I’m not Cupid, but why don’t you just do some big grand gesture?”
“A grand gesture,” I repeat slowly.
And heaven help me—I actually start thinking about it.
I’ve learned bits and pieces about Ad and Bella and her mom from the gossip around town. People sure love to talk. And apparently, Bella is in a school play. Tonight.
A school play.
Kids.
Crowds.
No cameras.
No press.
Just normal.
Something in my chest flickers.
“What if,” I say, sitting forward, “I show up incognito at the school play?”
Trish chokes on her coffee. “Nate—”
“And maybe,” I continue, ignoring her horror, “I give a donation to the drama club? Shake hands with the kids or something after the show? Boost morale? Make it a night they remember?”
She stares.
Long.
Hard.
“That’s not exactly what I meant by grand gesture,” she finally says. “Also, you can’t just show up incognito—you’re Nathan fucking Thorn. But, okay. Let’s pretend. Why are you doing this?”
I don’t hesitate.
“Because her niece is performing,” I whisper. “And I want her to give me a chance. So, maybe tonight is a start?”
A start to something I should’ve begun a long time ago.
A start toward making things right.
A start toward earning—if not forgiveness—then maybe the chance to look her in the eyes without shame.
Trish sighs.
“Well, if you’re going to do it, at least try not to traumatize any children.”
“I promise,” I say, but for the first time since coming home, something like hope flickers in my chest.
Small.
Stupid.
Probably doomed.
But hope, nonetheless.