Chapter 2 - Nash
I watch her walk back to her house, bare feet leaving dark prints in the wet grass, and I don't move. I can't move. She just asked me to be her boyfriend.
Fake boyfriend, I correct myself. Pretend. Not real.
But still.
I stand there in my yard, mower silent beside me, trying to process what the hell just happened.
Claire.
Her name is Claire. I know because I've seen the mail in her box when I walk past. Claire Taylor.
I've never said it out loud, but I've thought it plenty of times.
Usually when I'm lying awake at three in the morning, staring at the ceiling, wondering what the hell is wrong with me that I can't stop thinking about my neighbor.
My much younger, completely out of my league neighbor.
Who just asked me to pretend to date her.
I should've said no.
That's what a smart man would've done. A reasonable man. Someone with a functioning sense of self-preservation.
But I'm not smart and I've never been reasonable, and the second she said *I need you to pretend to be my boyfriend*, every logical thought in my head went up in flames.
I said yes before I could stop myself.
Like it was nothing. Like she'd asked to borrow a cup of sugar instead of asking me to play the role I've been fantasizing about for three months straight.
Jesus Christ, I'm an idiot.
I grab the mower handle and yank it back toward the garage. The wheels catch on a patch of uneven ground and I have to muscle it free. Good. I need something to do with my hands before I do something stupid like walk over there and ask her if she meant it.
Of course she meant it. She looked terrified when she said it, but she meant it.
And she thinks I'm doing her a favor.
*Someone they wouldn't approve of, no offense.*
No offense.
Like I don't know exactly what I look like. Like I haven't spent the last two years watching women in this town look at me and then look away, quick and polite, because they can see the damage written all over me.
I'm forty-three years old. I'm covered in scars. I've got nothing to offer except a pension, a mortgage, and a lifetime of nightmares about buildings that collapsed with people still inside.
Not exactly boyfriend material.
But fake boyfriend material? Yeah. I can see that. I'm probably perfect for it. Old enough to scare her parents, rough enough to make them worry, forgettable enough that when this is over she won't think twice about it.
The thing is, I knew this was coming. Not this exactly. I didn't know she'd walk across the lawn and ask me to pretend to be something I've wanted to be since the day she moved in.
But I knew I was going to say yes to her eventually.
Whatever she asked. Whenever she asked.
Because I've been gone for her since the first time I saw her struggling to carry a box up her porch steps, hair falling out of her ponytail, glasses sliding down her nose.
She'd been wearing overalls like she'd stepped out of a painting about wholesome country living, and she'd been humming something under her breath.
I'd been getting my mail and I'd frozen, envelope in hand, just watching her. She hadn't noticed me. She never did back then.
I'd wanted to help. Wanted to walk over, take the box, carry it inside for her. But I couldn't make myself move. Couldn't make myself cross that invisible line between her world and mine.
So, I'd just stood there like a creep until she got the box inside, and then I'd gone into my house and told myself to get a grip.
That lasted about six hours.
By nightfall I was already listening to her. The sound of her door closing. Her footsteps on the porch. The way she'd hum to herself when she thought no one was around.
It got worse after that.
I started noticing everything.
The way she double-checked her locks at night. The yellow curtains with bees on them that appeared in her window. The fact that she took her trash out every Tuesday evening at exactly seven o'clock, like she had it scheduled on her phone.
The light on her porch that burned out two weeks ago.
I'd fixed that at two in the morning, standing on her steps with a replacement bulb I'd bought three days earlier, just in case. Just so I'd be ready when she needed something.
She never knew.
And I told myself that was fine. Better, even. I could keep an eye on her, make sure she was safe, and she'd never have to know that her neighbor was completely obsessed with her.
Except now she knows I exist.
And she's going to let me touch her.
Put my arm around her, she'd said.
*Maybe put your arm around me once or twice.*
Like it's nothing.
Like I haven't been thinking about what it would feel like to have her tucked against my side for three months.
I go inside and head straight for the shower because I'm still covered in grass clippings and sweat and I need to do something normal before I lose my mind entirely.
The water is cold. I make it cold on purpose.
It doesn't help.
I keep seeing the way she looked standing in my yard. Those pajama shorts that showed off her thick thighs, the kind I want wrapped around me. That oversized shirt that somehow made her look smaller and more touchable. Her hair falling out of its ponytail, messy and perfect.
And her face. She'd looked nervous. Embarrassed. Like she thought I might laugh at her. Like I could ever laugh at her.
Like I'm not spending every second of willpower I have just keeping myself from walking over there and telling her I'll be whatever she needs me to be. Fake, real, anything in between.
I brace my hands against the shower wall and let the water pound down on my shoulders.
This is a bad idea.
The worst idea.
Because when this is over, when her parents leave and she thanks me and we go back to being strangers who live next door to each other, I'm going to know exactly what I'm missing.
And it's going to kill me.
But I already said yes.
And I'm not taking it back.
Days later…
Friday comes too fast and not fast enough.
I've been useless all week. Couldn't focus on anything. Picked up a job helping repaint the community center and spent half the day staring at the wall instead of rolling paint onto it. Tom, the guy who hired me, asked if I was feeling okay.
I lied and said I was fine.
I'm not fine. I'm standing in my living room at two in the afternoon, staring at my closet like it holds the answers to the universe.
What does a fake boyfriend wear?
I've got jeans. A lot of jeans. Some T-shirts. A couple of flannels. Work boots that are still caked in mud from the last job.
Nothing that says *hi, I'm dating your daughter and you should definitely not worry about this.*
Not that I'm trying to make them comfortable. Claire said she wanted someone they wouldn't approve of. That's me. I don't have to try.
But still.
I pull on a black T-shirt that's tight enough to show the scars on my arms and a pair of jeans that are clean but worn. Boots. No point in pretending to be something I'm not.
Then I stand in front of the mirror and regret every choice I've ever made. I look exactly like what I am. An old, broken-down firefighter who spent too many years running into buildings that should've been left to burn.
The scar across my ribs is visible through the shirt if you look close enough. The ones on my arms are obvious. There's a new one on my hand from last month when I caught it on a piece of sheet metal during a roofing job.
I'm a mess.
And I'm about to meet her parents.
My phone buzzes.
Claire: *They're here. Can you come over in like ten minutes? I told them you were at work.*
My heart kicks into overdrive.
Ten minutes.
Me: *Yeah.*
I hit send before I can overthink it. Then I spend the next nine minutes pacing my living room like a caged animal.
This is insane. I'm insane. She's going to take one look at me standing next to her parents and realize this was a mistake. But I'm going anyway.
Because she asked.
At nine and a half minutes, I walk out my front door, cross the lawn, and knock on hers.
She answers so fast she must've been standing right there.
"Hi," she says breathlessly.
"Hi."
We stare at each other.
She looks—
God, she looks beautiful.
She's wearing a blue sundress that hugs her curves in all the right ways, and her hair is down, falling past her shoulders in dark waves. She's got makeup on; not a lot, just enough to make her eyes look even bigger behind her glasses.
She's stunning.
And I'm standing on her porch in a T-shirt and boots, looking like I just walked off a construction site.
"You came," she says.
"You asked."
Something flickers across her face.
"Right," she says. "Okay. So. My parents are inside. They're… Well, you'll see. Just… I don't know, stand close to me? And maybe act like you... like me?"
"I do like you."
It comes out before I can stop it.
Her eyes go wide. "I mean, like like me. Like we're dating."
"I know what you meant."
She bites her lip and I have to look away before I do something stupid.
"Okay," she says. "Okay. Let's do this."
She reaches for my hand.
I freeze. Her hand is small and soft and warm, and the second her fingers wrap around mine, every coherent thought I've ever had disappears into thin air.
"Is this okay?" she asks, looking up at me.
No. Yes. I don't know.
"Yeah," I manage.
She smiles, nervous, but real, and tugs me inside.
The house smells like her. Something sweet and clean, like vanilla and soap. I've wondered what it smelled like in here. Now I know, and I'm never going to forget it.
Her parents are in the living room.
I know this because the second we walk in, a woman's voice says, "Claire, is that him?"
"Yeah, Mom," Claire says. "This is Nash."
I round the corner and get my first look at them.
Her mother is tall, thin, blonde. She's wearing a cream-colored blouse and slacks that probably cost more than my mortgage payment. Her father is next to her, graying hair, expensive watch, the kind of posture that says he's used to people listening when he talks.
They both look at me.
Then they look at Claire's hand in mine.
Then they look at me again.
Her mother's smile is frozen in place. Her father's expression doesn't change, but his eyes narrow just slightly.
"Nash," her mother says slowly. "It's... nice to meet you."
"You too, ma'am."
"Claire didn't mention she was seeing anyone," her father says.
"It's new," Claire says quickly, squeezing my hand. "We've been neighbors for a while, but we just started dating recently."
"How recently?" her mother asks.
"Does it matter?" Claire's voice has an edge to it now.
Her mother's smile tightens. "Of course not, sweetheart. We're just surprised. You usually tell us these things."
"Well, I'm telling you now."
The room goes quiet. I can feel the tension like a physical thing, thick and suffocating. Claire's grip on my hand is almost painful.
I do the only thing I can think of.
I let go of her hand and slide my arm around her waist instead, pulling her into my side.
She fits perfectly. Soft and warm and right, like she was made to be there. She looks up at me, startled, and I look down at her and forget her parents are in the room.
Forget this is fake.
Forget everything except the way she feels against me.
"Nash and I are happy," she says, but she's still looking at me. "That's all that matters."
Her mother makes a soft noise that might be agreement or protest.
Her father clears his throat. "And what is it you do, Nash?"
I drag my eyes away from Claire and look at him.
"Odd jobs," I say. "Construction, repairs. Whatever people need."
"So, you're a handyman."
It's not a question. It's a judgment.
"Something like that."
"And before that?"
"Firefighter."
That makes him pause. Just for a second.
"Retired?"
"Yeah."
"Why?"
Because my knees gave out. Because I couldn't breathe right anymore. Because I watched my captain die and I couldn't save him.
"Body couldn't handle it anymore," I say instead.
Claire's hand comes up to rest on my chest, right over the scar that no one can see through my shirt.
"He's a hero," she says firmly. "He saved people."
Her mother's expression softens. Just a fraction. Her father still looks like he's calculating my net worth and finding it lacking.
"Well," her mother says. "This is certainly... unexpected."
"Life's full of surprises," Claire says.
She's still touching me. Her hand is warm through my shirt and I can feel my heartbeat kick up under her palm.
Can she feel it too? Does she know what she's doing to me?
Her father checks his watch. "We should go get settled at the hotel. We'll take you both to dinner tonight. Seven o'clock?"
"We'd love that," Claire says.
No, we wouldn't, I think. But I nod anyway. Because she asked.
And I'd follow her straight into hell if that's where she needed me to go.