3. Nash
NASH
AGE FIFTEEN
The bonfire crackles against the November cold, sending sparks dancing toward stars I can't see through the smoke.
Pine needles crunch under my boots as I shift my weight, hands shoved deep in my jacket pockets.
The old quarry spreads out behind us like a black mouth, Silver Lake frozen solid beyond that.
Everyone's here tonight—half of St. Agnes, it feels like—clustered around the flames in their usual groups.
I shouldn't be here. Should be home, probably, doing homework or pretending to care about the college brochures my mom keeps leaving on the kitchen table.
But home means silence and the kind of quiet that makes my thoughts too loud.
Out here, at least, there's noise. Laughter.
The hiss of beer cans opening. Marcus making an ass of himself somewhere in the shadows.
Speaking of which—I catch sight of him through the orange glow, practically attached to Sarah Mitchell's face.
Can't believe that stupid panda finally worked.
He's been pining after her since middle school, always trying to win her over at the county fair with a stuffed panda—among other equally ridiculous endeavors throughout the years.
Pathetic. But apparently effective, because there they are, her fingers tangled in his hair, trying to swallow each other like they have been for two months.
I take a long pull from my beer, letting the bitter taste wash away the weird knot in my chest. Not jealousy. Just irritation at having to watch Marcus fumble his way to second base while I've got nothing better to do.
That's when I see her.
Eve's standing near the far edge of the circle, close enough to the fire that the light catches the soft curves of her face.
She's grown into those features over the past year—lost that last bit of kid-roundness that used to make her look so damn young.
At fourteen, she's all gentle lines and warm brown eyes that seem to take in everything without judging it.
Her curls catch the firelight, and she's wearing that green sweater that makes her skin look like polished wood.
My throat goes dry.
She's talking to Emma Miller, both of them laughing at something I can't hear from here.
Eve's hands move when she talks, gestures small and graceful, and I find myself tracking every movement like I'm studying for a test. The way she tucks a curl behind her ear.
How she shifts her weight from one foot to the other.
The soft smile that never quite leaves her mouth, even when she's not actively using it.
I've been watching her for years now. Telling myself it's nothing, that I'm just...
aware of her. The way you're aware of weather patterns or the price of gas.
Information your brain files away without asking permission.
But standing here, watching the firelight play across her face, I know I'm full of shit.
She gets under my skin in ways I can't explain and don't want to examine. Makes me feel things I have no business feeling about a girl who still gets driven to school by her parents sometimes. Who volunteers at the church bake sales and probably believes in fairytales and happy endings.
I'm not good for girls like Eve Turner. Hell, I'm not good for anyone, if I'm being honest. But especially not her.
The smart thing would be to look away. Find something else to focus on—Marcus and Sarah's amateur hour make-out session, the junior girls gossiping by the beer cooler, literally anything else. But my eyes keep drifting back to her like she's magnetic north and I'm a broken compass.
Someone bumps into her—Todd Brennan, probably half-drunk already—and she stumbles slightly.
My hands clench into fists before I catch myself.
Todd says something that makes her laugh, but it's the polite kind of laugh.
The one she uses when she's being nice to people she'd rather avoid.
I know because I've heard it directed at me more times than I care to count.
Todd doesn't take the hint. He moves closer, one hand reaching out to touch her arm, and something hot and ugly unfurls in my chest. The rational part of my brain knows I have no claim on Eve Turner.
No right to feel possessive about a girl I've barely spoken to in years.
But watching another guy's hands on her makes me want to break things.
Starting with Todd's fingers.
I force myself to stay put, jaw clenched so tight it aches. Take another swig of beer and try to pretend I'm not cataloguing every expression that crosses her face. The way Todd's learning closer and Eve doesn't move away. The way she's smiling up at him. Politely.
Or I tell myself that's what it is.
"Callahan."
Jake's voice cuts through my brooding, and I turn to find him approaching with that easy grin that's gotten him out of more trouble than it should. He's got a beer in one hand and mischief in his eyes—never a good combination.
"Thought that was you lurking in the shadows like some kind of serial killer." He follows my gaze toward the fire, then back to my face, and his grin widens. "Oh, I see. Doing some Eve-watching again?"
"Shut up, Morrison."
"Hey, no judgment here." He takes a long drink, eyes sparkling with the kind of amusement that usually ends with me punching something. "She's looking good these days. Really... filled out, you know?"
The beer can crumples slightly in my grip. "Watch it."
"Easy there, Romeo." Jake holds up his free hand in mock surrender, but he's still smiling like he's found the world's most entertaining toy. "Just making an observation. She's what, fourteen now? That's not that much younger than us."
"Drop it."
But Jake's never been good at reading warning signs. "I mean, if you're not interested, maybe I should go introduce myself. See if she wants to?—"
I move before the thought fully forms, stepping close enough to Jake that he has to tilt his head back to meet my eyes. The casual smile slides off his face, replaced by something more cautious.
"You won't," I say quietly. "Touch her, talk to her, even look at her too long, and we're going to have a problem."
Jake blinks once, twice. Then, because he's smarter than he acts most of the time, he nods slowly. "Okay. Okay, man. Jesus. Didn't realize you'd already called dibs."
"I haven't called anything." The lie tastes bitter. "Just... stay away from her."
"Sure. Whatever you say." He backs up a step, hands raised. "But Nash? You might want to figure out what you actually want before someone else does."
He disappears back into the crowd, leaving me alone with the fire and the weight of my own contradictions. I can't have Eve Turner. Won't let myself even try. But I'll be damned if I let anyone else have her either.
I'm fifteen years old and already going to hell.
Might as well enjoy the view on the way down.
I turn back toward the fire, trying to shake off Jake's words, when I catch sight of Eve again.
Todd's moved even closer, close enough that there's barely an inch between them.
His hand is on her waist now, fingers spread wide like he owns her, and she's looking up at him with something that makes my blood turn to ice.
Interest.
Not the polite, distant smile she usually wears around guys like Todd.
Not the careful politeness that keeps everyone at arm's length.
She's actually listening to whatever bullshit he's feeding her, head tilted slightly, those warm brown eyes focused on his face like he's saying something worth hearing.
My vision tunnels. The sounds of the party—laughter, music, the crackle of flames—fade to white noise.
All I can see is Todd's thumb brushing against the soft fabric of her sweater, the way she doesn't step back, doesn't put that careful distance between them that she puts between herself and everyone else.
Between herself and me.
Something violent and primal tears through my chest. Logic evaporates. The careful control I've spent years building crumbles to dust. Before I know what I'm doing, my feet are moving, carrying me around the fire toward them with purpose that feels inevitable as gravity.
"—should come to my party next weekend," Todd's saying as I get close enough to hear. His voice has that lazy confidence of someone who's never been told no. "My parents are going to Burlington for the weekend, so the house'll be empty. Just a few friends, you know? Nothing crazy."
Right. Nothing crazy. Just him and his dickhead friends trying to get the good girls drunk enough to regret it in the morning.
"I don't know," Eve's saying, but she's not outright refusing. There's uncertainty in her voice, like she's actually considering it. "I'd have to ask my parents?—"
"You don't have to ask permission for everything," Todd interrupts, and his hand slides higher on her waist. Possessive. Presumptuous. "You're old enough to make your own decisions, aren't you?"
That's when I lose it completely.
"Yeah, she is. She just doesn't want to be around trash like you."
The words come out harsh, sharp enough to cut through the noise around us. Todd jerks back, his hand dropping from Eve's waist as he spins to face me. Eve goes rigid, those warm eyes going wide with shock.
"What the hell, Callahan?" Todd's trying to play it off, but I can see the uncertainty flickering behind his bravado. Good. He should be uncertain. "We're just talking."
"No, you're not." I step closer, using every inch of height and muscle I've got to crowd into his space.
At fifteen, I'm already bigger than most guys my age, and Todd's not most guys—he's a skinny little shit who thinks his daddy's money makes him untouchable.
"You're putting your hands on someone who doesn't want them there. "
"I didn't hear her complaining." But Todd's backing up now, hands raised like he's trying to defuse a bomb. Smart boy. "Look, man, if you've got some kind of thing for her?—"
"Get out of here, Brennan."