Chapter 5 - Claire
His hand is so much bigger than mine.
That's all I can think about as we walk toward the restaurant.
Not the fact that my parents are waiting inside.
Not the fact that I'm about to sit through what will probably be the most awkward dinner of my life.
Not the fact that I'm wearing a dress that's slightly too tight and heels that are already making my feet hurt.
Just his hand.
The way it completely engulfs mine. The warmth of it. The rough calluses on his palm. The way his thumb is resting against the side of my hand like it belongs there.
I'm holding hands with Nash Holland, and I might actually pass out.
"You okay?" he asks, his voice low.
"Fine. Great. Totally fine."
I sound manic. His grip tightens slightly, and I don't know if he's trying to reassure me or steady me, but either way it works.
Sort of.
The restaurant is even fancier inside than it looked from the parking lot. All dark wood and cream-colored linens and soft jazz playing from hidden speakers. The kind of place where the waiters probably make more money than I do.
My parents are already seated at a table near the window. Of course they are. My mother doesn't believe in being fashionably late. She believes in being early so she can judge everyone else when they arrive.
She sees us first.
Her eyes drop immediately to our joined hands, and her expression does the usual. Surprise, disapproval, and maybe a tiny hint of concern.
Good.
"Claire," she says as we approach. "You made it."
"We made it," I correct, squeezing Nash's hand. "Traffic wasn't bad."
My father stands, and I watch him take in Nash. All of Nash again. The height, the build, the scars visible on his forearms below his rolled-up sleeves. The gray in his hair. The fact that he's probably closer to my parents' age than mine.
"Nash," my father says, extending his hand. "Good to see you again."
Nash lets go of my hand to shake my father's, and I immediately miss the contact.
"You too, sir."
Sir. He called my father sir. I don't know why that does something to me, but it does.
We sit, and Nash pulls out my chair before I can do it myself. His hand brushes my lower back as I sit down, just for a second, and I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from making a sound.
He sits next to me, close enough that our legs are almost touching under the table.
Almost.
A waiter appears with menus and water glasses, and my mother orders a bottle of wine that probably costs more than my rent.
"So," she says once the waiter disappears. "Nash. You told us you’re retired from firefighting, right?"
"Yes ma'am."
"That must have been quite the career."
"It was."
My mother waits for him to elaborate. He doesn't.
She takes a sip of water. "And now you do... odd jobs?"
"That's right."
"What kind of odd jobs?"
I can hear the judgment in her voice. The way she's saying "odd jobs" like it's code for "unemployed."
"Construction, mostly," Nash says, unbothered. "Roofing, repairs, whatever people need help with."
"How industrious," my mother says in a tone that suggests it's anything but.
My father leans back in his chair. "Must be hard to make a living that way. Inconsistent work, no benefits."
"I get a pension from the fire department," Nash says evenly. "It's enough."
"Enough for what?" my mother asks.
"To live."
The simplicity of the answer seems to stump her.
I jump in before she can recover. "Nash owns his house outright. He's doing great." I’ve no idea if it’s true, but I say it anyway.
"Does he?" My father's eyebrows rise slightly. "That's impressive. Real estate in even small towns isn't cheap these days."
"Bought it two years ago," Nash says. "Before prices went up."
"Smart," my father admits grudgingly.
The waiter returns with the wine and goes through the whole production of letting my father taste it before pouring glasses for everyone. I take a large sip immediately.
This is going to be a long dinner.
"So, how exactly did you two meet?" my mother asks, her eyes moving between us. "Claire was rather vague earlier."
"We're neighbors," I say. "I told you that."
"Yes, but how did you go from neighbors to... this?" She gestures vaguely at us.
I open my mouth, but Nash speaks first.
"I helped her carry groceries one day," he says. "She was trying to get everything in one trip. Looked like she was about to drop it all."
I stare at him.
That actually happened. Three weeks ago. I'd parked in my driveway with way too many bags and I'd been determined to make it work, and he'd appeared out of nowhere and just taken half of them from me without asking.
I'd stammered out a thank you and he'd nodded and carried them up to my porch and left. I didn't know he remembered that.
"We started talking," Nash continues. "She invited me in for coffee. We just... kept talking."
Oh my god.
He's good at this.
Too good.
And the way he's telling it, calm, like it's the most natural thing in the world, makes it sound real. Makes it sound like it actually happened that way.
My mother's expression softens slightly. "That's... sweet."
My father still looks skeptical. "And when was this?"
"About a month and a half ago," I say, picking up the thread. "We took things slow at first. Just coffee, talking. Then he asked me to dinner and..." I shrug, trying to look casual. "Here we are."
"Here you are," my mother echoes. "Dating a man who's… How old are you, Nash?"
Oh no.
"Forty-three," Nash says without hesitation.
The number hangs in the air like a bomb.
"Forty-three," my mother repeats. "And you're twenty-six, Claire."
"I'm aware of my own age, Mom."
"That's quite an age gap."
"So?"
"So, it's something to consider. You're in very different life stages. He's—"
"He's sitting right here," I interrupt. "And I'm an adult who can make my own decisions about who I date."
My father sets down his wine glass. "Nobody's saying you can't, sweetheart. We're just concerned. We want to make sure you've thought this through."
"I have thought it through."
"Have you?" My mother leans forward slightly. "Because from where we're sitting, it looks like you moved to the middle of nowhere, took a job that isolates you, and latched onto the first man who showed you attention."
Anger flares hot in my chest. "That's not—"
Nash's hand lands on my knee under the table.
I stop mid-sentence.
His palm is warm through the thin fabric of my dress, and his fingers are splayed wide across my thigh, steady and grounding.
"Claire didn't latch onto anyone," he says, his voice quiet but firm. "I pursued her. Not the other way around."
My mother blinks. "You pursued her?"
"Yeah." He looks at me, and there's something in his eyes I can't read. "Hard not to. She's smart, funny, beautiful. Any man would be lucky to have her attention."
He called me beautiful.
*Beautiful.*
Not cute. Not pretty. *Beautiful.*
And the way he's looking at me right now, with his hand on my knee and his eyes locked on mine, makes me believe he means it.
"Well," my father says, clearing his throat. "That's... good to hear."
My mother doesn't look convinced, but she picks up her menu. "Shall we order?"
My mother orders the most expensive thing on the menu, some kind of fish with a French name I can't pronounce. My father gets steak. I order pasta because it's the only thing I can imagine actually being able to swallow with my stomach in knots.
Nash orders the same steak as my father, and I watch my dad's expression shift slightly. Like ordering the same thing is some kind of test that Nash just passed.
The whole time, Nash's hand stays on my knee.
Not moving. Not sliding up or down or doing anything inappropriate. Just... there. Heavy and warm and impossible to ignore.
I'm aware of it. Of him. Of the way his thigh is pressed against mine under the table. The way I can smell his cologne, something woodsy and clean. The way he leans back in his chair, completely at ease, while I'm sitting here trying not to combust.
My parents ask questions. Lots of questions.
Where did Nash grow up? (Here, in Blackwater Falls, before his parents moved away.)
Does he have siblings? (No.)
What made him want to be a firefighter? (His grandfather was one.)
What are his plans for the future? (Keep working, keep living quiet.)
Through it all, Nash answers with that same calm, measured tone. Never giving more than necessary, never getting defensive, never taking the bait when my mother's questions edge toward accusatory.
He's better at this than I am.
I'm sitting here vibrating with anxiety, refilling my wine glass every time it gets below halfway full, and he's just... steady.
Like nothing they say can touch him.
"So, Claire," my father says, cutting into his steak. "Have you given any more thought to that position at Morrison & Hale?"
I freeze, fork halfway to my mouth. "What position?"
"The one I mentioned last month. IT manager. They're still looking, and I put in a good word for you."
"Dad, I have a job."
"I know you have a job. I'm talking about a career." He says it like there's a difference I'm too stupid to understand. "Morrison & Hale is one of the top firms in the city. The pay is excellent, the benefits are even better, and you'd be back where you belong."
"I belong here."
"Claire—"
"I like my job. I like working remotely. I like living in Blackwater Falls."
My mother sets down her fork with a soft clink. "Sweetheart, we're just trying to look out for you. You're young. You have so much potential. It seems like such a waste to spend it in a town where nothing happens."
"Things happen here," I say tightly.
"Like what?"
"I don't know. Normal things. Good things. I have neighbors I actually know. I can walk to the coffee shop and people say hello. I'm not constantly stressed out of my mind."
"You could have all that in the city," my father says. "We've told you. We'll help you find a nice apartment. Something in a good neighborhood. Close to us."
There it is.