Chapter 6 - Nash
*It sold the story.*
Right.
The story.
Because that's all this is. A story. A performance. Something we're both pretending is real so her parents will back off.
I knew that going in. Knew it when I said yes. Knew it when I put my hand on her waist, on her knee, when I told her parents she was beautiful.
Knowing it doesn't make it hurt less.
I fold myself into the passenger seat of her car and stare straight ahead while she gets in the driver's side. The engine starts, and we pull out of the parking lot in silence.
*The best thing that's happened to me since I moved here.*
She'd said it so convincingly. Looked right at her father with her chin up and her voice steady and said it like she meant every word.
And for a few seconds, a few stupid, dangerous seconds, I'd let myself believe it was real.
That she wasn't just selling a story. That she actually meant it.
Hope kills.
I learned that a long time ago, in a burning building when I'd hoped my captain would make it out and he didn't. Learned it again when I'd hoped my body would hold up for a few more years and it gave out instead.
Should've learned it well enough not to hope that Claire Taylor could ever actually want someone like me.
"You okay?" she asks, breaking the silence.
"Fine."
"You're quiet."
I'm always quiet. But I don't say that.
The road stretches out ahead of us, dark except for the sweep of her headlights. Fields on either side. No other cars. Just us and the hum of the engine and the weight of everything I can't say sitting heavy in my chest.
"Thank you again," she says. "For tonight. I know that was probably awful for you."
"It was fine."
"My parents were—"
"They care about you. They're worried. It's not a crime."
She glances over at me. "You don't have to defend them."
"I'm not defending them. I'm just saying I get it." I look out the window at the darkness. "You're their daughter. They want what's best for you. They think that's the city and a corporate job and someone who—"
I stop.
"Someone who what?" she prompts.
*Someone who's not me.*
Someone younger. Richer. Someone with a future instead of a past. Someone whose body isn't held together with scar tissue and whose nightmares don't wake him up at three a.m. in a cold sweat.
"Someone they approve of," I finish.
"Well, they don't get to decide who I date," she says firmly. "Real or fake."
Real or fake.
There it is again. The reminder. The line I'm not supposed to cross.
"No," I agree. "They don't."
More silence.
I should say something. Make conversation. That's what normal people do when they're stuck in a car together for forty-five minutes. But I don't trust myself right now. Don't trust that I won't say something I can't take back.
Like how sitting next to her at dinner was the best part of my week.
Like how when she stood up to her parents, I wanted to pull her into my lap and kiss her until she forgot they existed.
Like how paying for dinner wasn't about playing a role, it was about the fact that no one talks to her that way while I'm sitting right there.
Like how I'd do it again tomorrow. And the day after. And every day she'd let me.
The car makes a sound.
A bad sound.
A stuttering, coughing sound that I know from two decades of driving beat-up fire trucks that were held together with prayer and duct tape.
"What was that?" Claire asks, her hands tightening on the wheel.
"Not sure. Might be—"
The engine cuts out.
Just dies, right there in the middle of the dark country road.
The headlights stay on for a few seconds, then fade. The dashboard goes dark. Everything stops except the sound of Claire saying "no, no, no, no" under her breath as she steers the car to the side of the road.
We roll to a stop on the shoulder.
Silence.
"Shit," Claire says. She turns the key. Nothing happens. "Shit, shit, shit."
"Pop the hood."
"What?"
"The hood. Pop it."
She fumbles around until she finds the release, and I get out of the car. My knees protest. They always do after being cramped in a small space, but I ignore them and make my way to the front of the car.
The hood is warm under my hands as I lift it. I pull out my phone and turn on the flashlight, sweeping it over the engine. Everything looks fine. No obvious leaks, no disconnected wires, nothing smoking or sparking.
Could be the alternator. Could be the battery, though that wouldn't explain the sudden death. Could be a dozen other things I can't diagnose in the dark on the side of the road.
Claire appears next to me, hugging herself against the cool night air. "How bad is it?"
"Can't tell. Need better light. Better tools."
"Can you fix it?"
"Maybe. Not here."
She pulls out her phone, the screen illuminating her face in the darkness. "I'll call a tow truck."
"Won't do any good tonight."
She looks at me. "What do you mean?"
"Casey's the only mechanic in town. His shop doesn't open until eight a.m. And he doesn't answer his phone after nine p.m."
I know this because I've called him before. Casey's a good mechanic but he keeps strict hours and he sleeps like the dead.
"So, we're just... stuck here?" Claire asks, looking around at the dark road, the empty fields. "In the middle of nowhere?"
"We can call someone for a ride."
"Who? My parents are an hour away in the opposite direction and I am not calling them."
Fair.
"Friends?"
"I don't—" She stops, and I can see the admission costs her. "I don't really have anyone here yet. Not anyone I'd call at ten p.m. to rescue me from the side of the road."
Something about that hurts. The idea that she's been here for months and she's alone. No one to call. No one except—
I pull out my phone and scroll through my contacts. There aren't many. Tom from the community center. Casey, though he won't answer. A few other guys I've worked construction with.
I try Tom first. It rings six times before going to voicemail.
"Tom, it's Nash. Car broke down on Route 47. Give me a call if you get this."
I try the next number. Bill, who helped me with a roofing job last month. Straight to voicemail.
Then Rick. No answer.
Casey, knowing it's useless. Voicemail.
I lower the phone and Claire is watching me with wide eyes.
"No one?" she asks quietly.
"Everyone's either asleep or not answering."
"So, we're really stuck here."
I look around. Dark road. Empty fields. No houses in sight, no lights except the stars. We're at least two miles from the nearest building, probably more.
"We could walk," I say, though the thought of her walking two miles in heels and that dress makes something protective flare in my chest.
"In the dark? On this road?" She shakes her head. "That seems like a good way to get hit by a truck."
She's right.
"We could wait in the car," I say. "Until morning. Call Casey when he opens at eight. Tell him it’s an emergency"
Claire looks at the car, then at me, then back at the car.
"You mean... spend the night here? In the car?"
"Unless you want to call your parents."
"I'd rather sleep on the side of the road," she says immediately.
Despite everything, I almost smile.
"Car it is, then."
She hugs herself tighter, and I realize she's shivering. The dress she's wearing is thin, meant for fancy restaurants with climate control, not standing on the side of a dark road for the next eight hours.
I shrug off my button-up shirt before I can think better of it, leaving me in just the white undershirt beneath.
"Here," I say, holding it out.
She stares at it. "Nash, you don't—"
"Take it."
"But you'll be cold."
"I run hot. Take it."
She hesitates, then reaches out and takes the shirt. When she puts it on, it swallows her. The shoulders hang down her arms, the hem falls to mid-thigh. She has to roll the sleeves up three times before her hands appear.
She looks ridiculous.
She looks perfect.
"Thank you," she says quietly.
I just nod, not trusting myself to speak.
We get back in the car. Without the engine running, there's no heat, but at least we're out of the wind. Claire curls up in the driver's seat, pulling her legs up and wrapping her arms around them. My shirt bunches around her like a blanket.
I try to find a comfortable position in the passenger seat, but it's impossible. My legs are too long, the seat is too small, and every position I try makes my knees or my back protest.
"This is insane," Claire says after a few minutes of silence. "This whole night is insane."
"Yeah."
"My car dies. We're stuck in the middle of nowhere. We have to sleep in a sedan that's barely big enough for one person, let alone two."
"Could be worse."
She turns her head to look at me. "How?"
"Could be raining."
As if on cue, I hear the distant rumble of thunder. Claire starts laughing. It's slightly hysterical, but it's real, and the sound of it fills the car and does something to the tightness in my chest.
"Of course," she says. "Of course it's going to rain."
"Might not."
"Oh, it definitely will. That's just how tonight is going."
She's still laughing, and I find myself watching her in the darkness. The way her shoulders shake. The way she's smiling even though everything's gone wrong. The way she somehow makes being stranded on the side of the road seem less like a disaster and more like an adventure.
"I'm sorry," she says when the laughter finally dies down. "For dragging you into this whole mess. The fake dating thing, and now this…."
"You didn't drag me anywhere. I said yes."
"I know, but—"
"Claire." I wait until she looks at me. "I said yes because I wanted to. Not because I felt obligated. Not because I thought I owed you something. I wanted to help you."
"Why?"
I could lie. Could say something about being neighborly, about doing the right thing, about any of a dozen safe answers that wouldn't reveal too much.
But I'm tired. Tired of pretending. Tired of keeping everything locked down.
And we're stuck in this car until morning. Nowhere to go. Nothing to do but sit here in the darkness and finally say the things I've been holding back.
"Because I like you," I say.
Her eyes go wide. "You... what?"
"I like you. Have since you moved in. Probably should've kept that to me, but there it is."
She's staring at me like I just spoke a foreign language. "You like me."
"Yeah."
"Like... as a person? Or—"
"As more than a neighbor," I say. "As more than a friend."
"But—" She shakes her head. "You barely know me."
"I know enough."
"You've barely talked to me before this week."
"Didn't need to talk to you to notice you." I run a hand through my hair, aware I'm saying too much and unable to stop. "I notice you all the time. The way you hum when you think no one's listening. The way you always take your trash out at exactly seven on Tuesdays."
"You really have been watching me," she whispers.
"Yeah." I should feel ashamed of that. I don't. "Not in a creepy way. Just... paying attention."
"Why didn't you say anything?"
"What was I supposed to say?" I let out a rough laugh. "Hi, I'm your neighbor who's old enough to be your father and I can't stop thinking about you?"
"You're not old enough to be my father."
"Close enough."
"You're seventeen years older than me. That's not—"
"It's a lifetime, Claire. I've lived a whole life already. Career, injuries, retirement. You're just starting out."
"So?"
"So, you should be with someone your own age. Someone who has something to offer besides a pension and a house that needs work."
"What if I don't want that?" Her voice is quiet but firm.
My heart stops. "What?"
"What if—" She takes a breath. "What if I don't care that you're older? What if I've been noticing you too?"
I stare at her. "You have?"
"Yes." She won't look at me now, picking at the rolled-up sleeve of my shirt. "I thought I was going crazy. You're just… You're so—"
"So what?"
"Hot," she blurts out. "You're really hot and I know I shouldn't think that because this is supposed to be fake but every time you touched me tonight I could barely think and when you put your hand on my knee I—"
She stops abruptly.
"You what?" My voice comes out rougher than I intend.
She shakes her head. "Nothing. Never mind."
"Claire."
"It's embarrassing."
"Tell me anyway."
"I got wet, okay?" Her face is flaming red now.
"Your hand was on my knee and you were sitting there defending me to my parents and you looked so…
And I just, I've been wet since the restaurant and it's mortifying and I'm telling you this because apparently being stranded in a car is like truth serum for me. "
I forget how to breathe.
She's wet.
She's been wet since dinner.
Since I touched her.
"That's not embarrassing," I manage.
"It's humiliating. You're doing me a favor and I'm sitting here having physical reactions like a teenager."
"Claire, look at me."
She doesn't move.
"Please."
Slowly, she turns her head.
"It's not embarrassing," I say again. "And it's not humiliating.
You want to know what's humiliating? I had to jerk off in the shower before dinner because I couldn't stop thinking about how you were going to look in a dress.
I've been hard since you asked me to be your fake boyfriend.
I've spent the last three months watching you and wanting you and telling myself I couldn't have you because I'm too old, too broken, too—"
I stop, breathing hard.
She's staring at me with wide eyes and parted lips.
"You jerked off thinking about me?" she whispers.
"Yeah."
"Today?"
"Today. Yesterday. Pretty much every day since you moved in."
"Oh my god."
"So no," I say. "You don't get to be embarrassed about getting wet when I've been walking around half-hard every time I see you take your trash out."
She makes a sound that's half-laugh, half-moan. "This is insane."
"Yeah."
"We're supposed to be fake dating."
"I know."
"This wasn't supposed to be real."
"I know that too."
Thunder rumbles again, closer this time.
Claire looks out the windshield at the dark sky. "It's going to rain."
"Probably."
"We're going to be stuck in this car all night."
"Yeah."
She turns back to me. "Nash, I—"
Whatever she was going to say is cut off by the first drop of rain hitting the windshield. Then another. Then it's pouring, drumming against the metal roof, turning the world outside into a wall of water.
We're trapped.
Just the two of us in this tiny car in the middle of nowhere with eight hours until morning and everything we just admitted hanging in the air. Claire is still looking at me, and I'm looking at her, and I can see the exact moment she makes a decision.
She unbuckles her seatbelt.
"What are you doing?" I ask.
"I don't know," she says. "But we're stuck here all night anyway, so—"
She shifts in her seat, moving closer, and my brain short-circuits when I realize what she's doing.
She's climbing over the center console.
Toward me.