Chapter 5 - Claire #2
*Close to us.*
That's what this has always been about. Not my happiness. Not my career. They want me close so they can keep managing me like I'm a case file that needs their attention.
"I don't want to live close to you," I say, and my mother flinches like I've slapped her.
"Claire," she says, her voice tight. "That's hurtful."
"It's honest." I set down my fork before I stab something with it. "I love you both. I do. But I need space. I need to live my own life without you weighing in on every single decision I make."
"We're your parents. It's our job to guide you."
"I'm twenty-six years old. Your job is to let me make my own mistakes."
"And is this a mistake?" My father gestures between me and Nash. "Is he a mistake?"
The table goes silent.
Nash's hand tightens on my knee, just slightly, and I realize he's waiting. Waiting to see what I'll say. Waiting to see if I'll throw him under the bus to make peace with my parents.
I look at him.
He's watching me with those steady eyes, and there's something in his expression, something resigned. Like he already knows what I'm going to say. Like he's used to being called a mistake.
Fuck that.
"No," I say, looking back at my father. "He's not a mistake. He's the best thing that's happened to me since I moved here."
Nash goes very still beside me.
"Claire—" my mother starts.
"I mean it." I'm on a roll now and I can't stop. "Nash is kind. He's thoughtful. He doesn't try to control me or tell me what to do. He listens to me. He sees me. And honestly? That's more than I can say for either of you right now."
My mother's face has gone pale. My father's jaw is tight.
"We see you," my mother says quietly. "We've always seen you."
"No. You see who you want me to be. The daughter who goes to law school and lives in the city and marries someone from a firm you respect. But that's not who I am."
"Then who are you?" my father asks, and he sounds genuinely confused.
"I don't know yet," I admit. "That's what I'm trying to figure out. But I can't do that with you hovering over me every second."
The waiter chooses that moment to appear with dessert menus, and the timing is so bad I almost laugh.
Nobody orders dessert.
My father asks for the check, and when it comes, Nash reaches for it.
"I've got it," my father says.
"No sir," Nash says firmly. "I'll get it."
"Don't be ridiculous. This meal costs—"
"I know what it costs." Nash pulls out his wallet, actual cash, not a credit card, and puts enough bills on the table to cover the check and a generous tip. "I'm dating your daughter. I'll pay for dinner."
My father stares at the cash like he's never seen money before. My mother looks like she's trying to solve a complicated equation. I fall a little bit in love with Nash right then and there, and I have to remind myself very firmly that none of this is real.
We leave the restaurant in uncomfortable silence. The parking lot is dark now, lit only by a few strategically placed lights that cast long shadows across the pavement.
"Well," my mother says when we reach the cars. "This was... educational."
"We'll see you tomorrow," my father adds. "We thought we'd take you to breakfast. Just the three of us."
"Actually," Nash says before I can respond, "we've got plans tomorrow."
I look at him. We do?
"What plans?" my mother asks.
"Taking Claire to see the lake," Nash says smoothly. "There's a spot on the north side. Thought she'd like it."
He's lying. Making it up on the spot. And he's doing it to give me an out.
"That sounds nice," I say quickly. "I've been wanting to see more of the area."
My mother's mouth is a thin line. "I see."
"Maybe Sunday?" I offer. "We could do lunch?"
"Maybe," my father says in a tone that means absolutely not.
They get in their car and drive away without saying goodbye. The second their taillights disappear, I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding.
"Oh my god," I say. "Oh my god. That was—"
"You did good," Nash says.
I turn to look at him. He's standing there in the dim light, hands in his pockets, looking at me like I just did something impressive instead of having a minor breakdown at my parents.
"I basically told them I don't want to live near them."
"You set a boundary. That's good."
"They looked so hurt."
"They'll get over it." He pauses. "Or they won't. Either way, you said what you needed to say."
I laugh, and it comes out a little hysterical. "I can't believe you paid for dinner. That meal was probably two hundred dollars."
"Two forty-seven," he says. "Including tip."
"Nash, you didn't have to—"
"Yeah, I did."
"Why?"
"Because I'm supposed to be your boyfriend," he says finally. "And boyfriends don't let your parents pay for dinner when they've spent the whole meal disrespecting you."
Something warm and dangerous blooms in my chest.
"Thank you," I say softly. "For all of it. The hand thing, and the knee thing, and standing up for me, and everything."
"The knee thing?"
Oh god. Heat floods my face. "You…Your hand was on my knee. During dinner."
"Did you want me to move it?"
"No." The word comes out too fast. "No, it was good. It was very... couple-y."
He makes a sound that might be a laugh. "Couple-y."
"You know what I mean."
"Yeah. I do."
We stand there in the parking lot, and I know I should suggest we get in the car and leave, but I don't want to move yet. Don't want to break whatever this moment is.
"There's no lake spot, is there?" I ask. "On the north side."
"There's a lake. Don't know about a spot."
"So, you just made it up."
"You needed an out."
"What if they'd called my bluff? Asked for details?"
"Then I'd have found a spot," he says simply. "Driven around until we found something worth seeing."
The idea of that, of driving around with Nash, looking for a made-up place, just to keep up the lie, shouldn't make me feel the way it does.
Warm. Safe. Wanted.
"We should probably go," I say, even though I don't want to.
"Yeah."
But neither of us moves.
"Claire," he says, and the way he says my name makes me clench my thighs.
"Yeah?"
"What you said in there. About me being the best thing that's happened to you." He pauses. "You didn't have to say that."
"I know."
"Why did you?"
Because in that moment, it felt true. Because my parents were looking at him like he was something to be scraped off their shoe and I hated it. Because he was sitting there taking it all without flinching and I wanted them to know he mattered.
But I can't say any of that.
"It sold the story," I say instead. "Right?"
He looks at me for a long moment, and I swear something flickers across his face. Disappointment, maybe. Or maybe I’m overthinking it.
"Right," he says. "The story."
Then he turns and walks to the passenger side of my car, and I'm left standing there wondering what the hell just happened