Chapter 16
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Bev
I’m determined not to stay any longer than is professionally necessary at Nate’s house. I made a promise to my dad, and I didn’t entirely keep it at Azalea Beach. But that’s not a reason to keep breaking it. I’m a woman of my word. So it’s all the more reason to try harder. To be better. There will be no more hijinks tonight. I’ll make sure of it.
As I walk around Nate’s car, I take in his glittering home like some spread out of a magazine. A sprawling modern mansion, all rectangles and stylish windows. The landscaping lights are the perfect level of brightness, not like some rich people’s homes on Melody Bay that are lit up like football stadiums—you could see the bottoms of their pools from outer space.
But let me tell you a secret… I have a thing for looking inside rich people’s houses. When I went to NYU, you could walk down 10 th street, gazing into all the windows of the fabulously decorated brownstones, gold mirrors, funky art, exotic plants, tasteful paint choices. It gave me so much pleasure—even just taking a peek. Some people like to look at pictures of hot men emerging from the ocean, all wet and muscled, and then there’s me, who likes to gaze into a life I’ll never have—but at least, I get a little taste of it by looking in.
And I don’t exactly mean the materialistic aspect of it. It’s more the comfort. A life where you’re not one bill away from losing your house or one car break-down from packing all your belongings in a box.
So I confess: I’m curious to peek inside his house. But at the same time, as much as I want to, I’m also wary of it. I don’t want to connect Nate with safety in any way. Because he’s a danger to women everywhere. With his gray eyes and his “you don’t have to like me” shrug, which of course, only makes you like him more. In contrast, I’m like a vibrating wire, so strung out with nerves, trying to please people, and here he’s like “whatever” and everyone nearly falls over with appreciation?
What would it be, to be like that?
But I can’t even go there, and that’s the problem with Nate Hart. He takes you places you’ve never been, like that orgasm on the beach, and places you want to return to every day. And there’s a danger in that. Life is change. So why hope for something good if it’ll most likely leave you?
Nate joins me in the driveway, closing the car door behind him. We walk to the lawn, and Nate puts Moose down on the pebbles right next to the grass.
Moose seems completely unsure of the grass. He doesn’t want to move, but after some cajoling, he gently touches a few strands with his paw. He then looks up at Nate like he’s checking if it was okay.
“Good boy,” Nate says, kneeling next to Moose .
“He’s probably never seen grass before,” I say.
A look of sorrow crosses Nate’s face, and then he steps on the grass himself. “Come,” he says, gesturing for Moose to follow.
Moose cocks his head to the side.
“Come,” Nate calls again.
Moose takes a tentative step onto the velvety grass.
I can't help but clap at Moose’s brave steps, which startles him.
“Sorry, to scare you, Moose. What a good cutie patootie’s first steps onto grass!” I grin so hard, I can feel my eyes crinkle with it. I’m proud of his progress.
“I haven’t seen that in a while.” Nate is completely in the shadows, which makes his comment seem godly, like a voice coming down from the heavens.
“What?”
“That smile.”
I pull my sweatshirt tighter. Could that be true? It’s been a rough year, sure.
“I almost got you there last night.”
I shoot him a look like, “Don’t go there.”
He steps into the light, holding up his hands. “I meant at the toe-war contest. Not you know…what happened by the beach.”
I’m curious now, although I don’t want to be. “When was the last time you saw it?”
“The yard prank back in high school. Before our parents talked. It was when I caught you red-handed, and you explained about the rainbow colors.”
I’d forgotten about that. Nate and I warred in a series of escalating pranks. The run-of-the-mill toilet-papering a house. But then it got more creative. I’d read if you sprinkled laundry detergent and fruit loops on someone’s lawn that when it rained, it made their grass bubble in different colors. Needless to say, it wasn’t true and killed his lawn. His dad called my dad, and well, my dad apologized and offered to pay for it, which he did. But I never got grounded. This was very unexpected because my dad is strict. Growing up, if I did something “wrong,” I had to take full responsibility for it, you better believe it. But my dad said Nate’s father was so rude and said such egregious things that my punishment would be just having to interact with Nate in the first place.
So it’s obvious, my dad never liked Nate. Except now, my dad is sick. He’s frail. He knows he’s going to die in the next few years, and he tells me he’s terrified of dying, which I get. I am too. Although not everyone is. Aimi’s parents, for example, have a very peaceful relationship with death. They know it’s a part of life, and it helps them appreciate life more. They welcome it when it comes and just hope it’s as painless as possible.
In contrast, my dad is not ready. And if I’m honest, he’s not ready—not because of himself—but because of me. He doesn’t want to leave me. He’s always thought I’m a sensitive soul. Maybe it’s my love for animals, which he associates with sensitivity.
I try to show him I’m okay. I hoped Jay would be proof. Hey Dad, look, I have a boyfriend. My dad is old-fashioned, and even though something like that shouldn’t matter, it does—not because I have a boyfriend; he’d be happy if I had a girlfriend too—but because he wants me to have someone . Maybe because he knows what it’s like to be alone in this world after my mom left him.
Still no matter what I do, it’s like the more I try to prove I’m okay, the more he worries .
And the absolute last thing I want is to worry my frail dad. My dad hates Nate, and if I ever mention there’s a hint of romance, he won’t feel peace. And shouldn’t that be the easiest thing to give him? The most precious? A little peace?
It’s feeling harder than it should, but I’ve got to get my head on straight. I’ll see my dad in an hour or two, and I want to be able to look him in the eye. Which means I can’t let this go any further. All attempts at bonding, connection, whatever, need to be shut down.
“Want to walk him to the water?” Nate asks.
“We should probably just give him that bath.”
“But he hasn’t gone potty yet.”
I sigh. He’s right.
I know that I could not answer—just walk to the water instead—and he’d know exactly what I mean because we’re so in tune after spending two days together. But I don’t want that kind of unspoken connection between us. “Okay,” I say.
We follow the stone path to the back of the house. A yellow rose creeps up a gate, and behind it, the moon appears, announcing itself with a pearly beauty that makes you stop. Round and bright and low in the sky. It’ll get you every time.
Moose trails behind Nate, sniffing the ground, which seems promising.
Nate and I brush arms, and pleasure breezes through me gently—like blowing on dandelion seeds.
I step further away.
We reach his infinity pool, flat and serene, surrounded by a gorgeous deck, and a million-dollar view of the ocean (probably literally). The moon spectacularly lights the dark sea .
“This is my parent’s home.” He awkwardly flings his arm around. It seems like he wants to take back the gesture halfway through.
I don’t say anything. Just look around in awe.
He studies me as if curious what I really think. “Do you think I’m one of those rich assholes we used to joke about?” he asks.
“Nah, you’re from here. You don’t just summer here.”
“But I could still be a rich asshole.”
“You took Moose,” I say simply.
He seems disappointed like he wants more reassurance.
I’m not sure how to respond. “How much do you stay here?” I ask.
He looks around like it’s an Airbnb. “I mean, I know where the forks are. I have clothes here.”
“You know where the forks are?”
“I know where a lot of the stuff is.”
“But it’s not your home?”
“Well, what is a home?”
“I don’t know.” The breeze rustles my hair. “Some place with memories?”
“Shouldn’t they be good memories then?”
I nod, surprised at this.
“You live with your dad, right?” he asks.
I nod again, looking out at the ocean. Am I being pulled in? Or just answering a question? It’s hard to know.
“Is that your home?” he asks.
“My dad is my home more than anything else. I think family makes the home.”
“So your home doesn’t like me?” He shoves his hands deep into his pockets.
“How did you know?” I ask before I can stop myself.
“It’s true then. ”
I chew on my lip. “Let’s wash Moose. It doesn’t look like he’s going to potty any time soon.”
Nate enters a code into the blue lit-up keypad by one of the glass doors, and it makes a satisfying beep. He slides the door open. Moose is too pooped to walk much more, so Nate scoops him up, carrying him like a baby, which Moose seems to enjoy, and I silently curse because it’s hard not to find him attractive when he does “pet dad” so successfully.
I follow them into some kind of deconstructed living room or sitting room or whatever rich people call the room with the simple white couch that probably cost more than my car and the sleek glass coffee table that doesn’t have the faintest trace of dust.
I can see what he means. It doesn’t necessarily feel like a home. It feels like a place where you don’t want to spill anything, ever.
He walks carrying Moose with one hand and fishing around his pockets with the other, and he must find what he’s looking for because he tosses a set of keys on the counter as we pass by.
After passing many breathtaking pieces of artwork and the softest of carpets (Moose, be a good boy on those!), we finally enter what must be Nate’s room. Again, there are floor to ceiling windows, but with it being dark, they just reflect the room back. I try not to stare at the big bed with the fluffiest of duvets and wonder if it smells like him.
Even if the rest of the house seems impersonal, this room seems very Nate. Sure, it’s got the luxury bed and the spa-like lighting, but various stands hold sleek guitars in the corner. Sheet music is scattered on the ground, marked with red pen, and a few black shirts have been tossed across the bed .
Nate puts Moose down and scoops up one of the shirts and tosses it into what must be the laundry. “Sorry about that,” he says with a sheepish smile. “I didn’t expect company.”
I realize that one of the shirts must have been a pair of briefs, and I’m hit with a sudden wave of intimacy. It makes the room feel smaller and strangely like we’re wearing less clothes. In other words, it feels dangerous. Like anything could happen. And by “anything,” I mean things that we shouldn’t be doing.
I direct my attention at Moose. “How ya doing, little guy?”
He doesn’t meet my eyes and cowers. Any attention—other than Nate’s—seems to frighten him. It breaks my heart.
Nate scoops him up and continues into the ensuite bathroom.
“He may not like this,” I say as I follow behind.
“We’ll make this as painless as possible.” Nate scratches Moose’s ear.
I catch up with them, so we enter the bathroom side by side. Clawfoot tub, window behind it that probably overlooks the ocean, although it’s too dark to see. I glance around for allergy meds. “So Nathaniel, one thing has been on my mind.”
“Yes, Beverly.”
“I thought you were allergic to dogs and cats.”
“Modern medicine and their allergy pills.” His voice echoes around the large bathroom.
At first, I hadn’t believed he was allergic, but now, I’m not so sure. In fact, I’m feeling less sure about everything .
I eye his toothpaste and the expensive looking shaving cream on his sink. Again, it all feels too personal. “I really need to go after this,” I say.
He doesn’t respond, and he’s not facing me, so I can’t read his expression. Instead, he places Moose down and kneels in front of a clawfoot tooth tub. He turns on the water, feeling it, as if to test the temperature.
Moose’s tail shoots straight between his legs. He runs and “hides” in a corner, next to what looks like a towel warmer.
“Moose looks scared,” I say. “He could bite if he feels cornered. Maybe we should wait until we’re at the shelter tomorrow—”
I stop when Nate slowly approaches Moose, pets him a few times, and then picks him up. Moose’s legs flail a bit as he’s slowly lowered down into the tub, but he handles the water better than expected.
While Nate handles Moose, I rip off my sweatshirt, feeling hotter inside, and honestly, not wanting it to get wet if Moose splashes, which he most certainly will.
Nate’s eyes widen when he sees me in my tank top. But then he seems to read something in my expression—perhaps how much I’m trying to resist him—and turns back to Moose all business. “Shampoo?” he asks like a surgeon asking for a scalpel.
I dig through the bag, cursing myself that I didn’t already have this ready, and finally hand it over. Our fingers brush, and pleasure flutters through me.
He seems unaffected by it, squirts shampoo into his palm, and starts lathering.
A thick bar of fancy soap falls off the side of the tub, and I bend to grab it. I happen to catch Nate’s eyes focusing hard on my cleavage. I pretend like I don’t notice .
“Ice cream after this?” he asks, his voice rough.
“Nate.”
He uses his knuckle to scratch an itch on his face. It leaves a water streak I fight the urge to dry.
“We need to focus on Moose,” I say.
“We can eat ice cream and focus on Moose.”
“But do you mean ice cream or ice cream?”
He side-glances at me, an expression I can’t read. After a moment, he says coyly, “I’m not sure if I know the difference.”
I sigh. “We talked about this.”
Moose looks between us as if trying to figure out what’s going on.
“It’s still a secret,” he says.
I reach to help with the washing, but nope, Moose just wants Nate. I have to confess it stings a little. Of course, Moose wants Nate. Nate who seemingly wins at everything without even trying.
“Then how about dinner?” Nate asks. “All you ate for lunch was that ten-foot-long beef jerky from the gas station.”
I frown at him. “It wasn’t ten feet.”
“Okay, it was three feet.”
“It wasn’t…” He shakes his head. “It was a really long beef jerky.”
I hadn’t realized Nate had been studying my beef jerky intake, but whatever. Truthfully, I wanted to give a very, very small bite to Moose, but Moose seemed too uncertain about eating. I worry Moose learned eating came at some expense—like if Moose’s owner caught him eating, then it led to some sort of punishment, which makes me feel nauseous.
“I have pasta here,” Nate says, getting back to washing .
“I’ve got to get home.”
“I bet you don’t have handmade pasta at home. Imported from Italy.”
No shit, that’s true. And if this is anything like the Kumamoto oysters, I’d love to broaden my horizons again—instead of the frozen dinner I’ve had a million times before. Still, I need to minimize time with him. “That does sound good but…” I trail off, trying to think of an excuse.
Nate’s face falls in disappointment. After a moment, he says, “Can you help me get Moose settled a bit longer? I’ve never done this before, ever . And you know way more than I do. It’s your job to know this stuff—not that you have to stay—it’s not your job to stay. But you just know more is all.”
When he puts it like that, it’s hard to say no. Plus, if my dad asks, couldn’t I explain it the same way? Who can argue with that? “Okay,” I agree.
But inside, I repeat like a mantra, Don’t let anything happen. Don’t let anything happen!