Chapter 33
Thirty-three
Corey
It’s Friday night, and this weekend is Nash’s last weekend before he goes back to work. His parental leave has been so critical in establishing his relationship with Nancy, but now I can see he has itchy feet and is ready to get back to it.
His time off has been worth it, though. Ever since that night the other week when he asked me to go over to read Nancy a bedtime story, they’ve been stronger than ever.
I don’t know exactly what he said to her, other than trying to explain all the different types of love, while reassuring her of the very special place she holds in his heart.
But I will remember the conversation we had before I read to her for the rest of my life.
“Hi, poppet,” I said, carefully opening her door in case she drifted off. She hasn’t.
“Hi, Bunny.”
“Your daddy said you wanted me to read you a story tonight?”
“Yes, please. But…” I cock my head at her. She’s chewing on her bottom lip, something clearly on her mind.
“But what?” I ask, as I perch on the edge of her bed.
“Do you love my daddy?” I smile, because I’d been worried she was going to ask me something difficult to answer.
“I do. Very much. Is that OK?”
“Mmhm, I s’pose. Daddy loves you as well. He told me.”
“He did? Well, that’s good then, isn’t it? We love each other very much.”
“Mmhm.” Her bottom lip gets another quick chomp before she continues. “He loves me the most most, but don’t worry ’cause it’s diff’rent. ’K?”
“What d’you mean, sweetheart?”
“Well, you see, Bunny, there’s lots of diff’rent types of love.” I smile.
“That’s right, there are.”
“And Daddy loves me the most most because he’s my daddy, and I’m his Nancy, especially ’cause I’m ’dopted.
” I’m following, just about, but I’m sure this has more context in her memory of the conversation she’s just had with Nash, so I just go along with it.
“But he loves you diff’rent. It’s called mantic love,” she says sagely.
“Do you mean ro-mantic love?” I check.
“That’s what I said. Mantic love,” she says, punctuating it with an eye roll, the sass of which I’m certain only a four-year-old could master. “Anyway, you know it’s my birthday next week?”
“I do,” I hedge.
“Well, I know what I want to ask for.”
“What’s that?”
“For you to love me, too. Like Daddy does.” Her voice is a trembling whisper, insecurity lacing her words. My heart swells for this child. Doesn’t she know?
“Can I tell you a secret, poppet?” She nods at me. I lean down so I can whisper to her. “I already do.”
She snaps her eyes to mine, shock evident on her face.
“Promise?” she asks.
“I promise. I love you lots and lots and lots. In fact, don’t tell Emma or Uncle Rain, but I think you’re probably my best friend.”
She reaches up and pulls me down into a hug. Then she whispers wetly into my ear.
“You’re my best friend, too.”
Then, in the way of children around the world, a switch flips, and she hands me her favourite book expectantly. Topic changed, I guess.
I smile at the memory as I put the finishing touches to my outfit.
I’m wearing baggy jeans, a loose-fitting white T-shirt – my standard outfit these days – and Nash’s hoodie that I still haven’t even attempted to return to him.
Judging by the possessive grin he gets every time he sees me wearing it, I don’t think he’s all that worried.
He’s taking me on a date tonight but swore it was super casual. So, if he lied to me, he’s just going to have to deal.
“Hot stuff, are ye nearly done in there? I’m busting for a pee,” Emma calls through the bathroom door. And there we have the one downside of a single bathroom. I pull open the door and am met by a frantically bouncing, blue-haired Scot.
I rush out of the way as she squeezes past me, and she has her knickers round her knees before I’ve even pulled the door closed.
As I’m walking away down the hall to the living room to collect my phone and wallet, I hear a painfully inaccurate and therefore very accurate Scottish/American impression of Mel Gibson in Braveheart.
“Freedoooom.” I snort a laugh and shake my head at her theatrics.
When she emerges a few minutes later and joins me in the living room, she plops herself back into her spot on the sofa and recommences threading beads onto a string for some activity she’s planning with Nancy.
“Feel better?” I ask, sarcastically.
“Aye, much thanks. It wouldnae have been so bad if you weren’t such a tart when you’re getting ready.”
“What a delight you are,” I tease, and she grins maniacally at me.
“I know, right?”
“What’re you doing with these again?” I ask, indicating the strings of large beads in different colours.
“We’re making abacuses. Abaci? Abacuseses?”
I incline my head in understanding. “Cool. OK, well, have a good night. I’m off. I won’t be back tonight.”
“Standard,” she calls at my retreating back.
I no longer feel guilty about spending an awful lot of nights at Nash’s. Not since she told me she’s grateful that I pay half her rent for her.
Just as I reach it, there’s a tap on the door, and Nancy steps in without waiting for me to open it.
“Girls’ night,” she calls, and Emma hops up, sweeping Nancy into her arms for a hug.
“Yay, and my bestie’s here. Are you ready for a fun night?”
“Yessss,” Nancy hisses excitedly. Nash, who followed his daughter inside, hands Emma her small backpack.
“She’s been very excited about sleeping in a living room fort,” he says with a dubious expression on his face.
“And that face” – Emma indicates to his grimace – “is why we’re doin’ it here, and no’ at yours. Have fun, you two,” she calls, disappearing into the living room, both she and Nancy talking a mile a minute.
When we get to the bottom of the stairs and step outside, I take Nash in. He’s wearing casual jeans, a band T-shirt for some nineties grunge band, and… are those DCs?
“Who is this person, and where is the love of my life?” I ask, skeptically.
“This is the real me, baby. Deal with it.” I laugh because I have never seen Nash so dressed down before.
It’s hilariously out of character, but also weirdly perfect for him.
“I’m going to give you a lesson in good music as we drive, just for the attitude.
” He presses a quick, hard kiss to my mouth, then strides back across the green and climbs into his Land Rover.
I follow, and he connects his phone to the dashboard.
Our journey begins, and although he’s kept our first proper date destination a secret, I guess pretty quickly that we’re going to the beach.
The relatively short drive is soundtracked by a random compilation consisting of System of a Down, AC/DC, Reel Big Fish, and, in a random change of pace, Andy C.
“I never pegged you as a fan of ska. That wasn’t on my bingo card for you.” I look at him quizzically. The look he gives me in return is feral.
“You’ve never pegged me, full stop.”
I freeze, eyes wide and unblinking. This man, I swear to God, has the ability to steal my breath in the most unexpected ways. He winks at me before sliding on a pair of tortoiseshell wayfarer sunglasses, making me practically come on the spot from how sexy he is.
When we get out of the car, he grabs his phone and quickly sends a text before pocketing it and taking my hand.
He leads me along the footpath through the dunes, pointing to a spot further down the coast as our destination.
As we walk, two men approach. As they get closer, I realise it’s Cole and Archer.
They smile at me and slap Nash on the back as they pass, and that’s it. No words uttered.
I look up at Nash in confusion, and he just grins at me, those fucking sunglasses making my knees weak.
The reason for twins’ presence becomes clear the moment we head down onto the sand, and I am led to a small cove that has been fenced in with windbreaks.
This section of the beach is quiet, anyway, with it literally being just a beach, not a town or destination, but the makeshift fence does add more privacy.
Once we pass through the section left open, and Nash closes it, I turn and can’t believe my eyes.
Dotted around the sand in hurricane lanterns are what seem like hundreds of candles, all lit and emitting a soft glow.
It’s not dark yet, but when the sun goes down, it’s going to be stunning.
There’s a portable campfire in the middle of a small circle of beach pebbles, and beyond that, a large picnic blanket is weighed down with more stones, and the most beautiful canvas bell tent, with bunting hung over the entrance that is currently folded back to one side, showing a bed inside comprised of thick blankets and pillows, and what I assume is a sleep mat underneath it all.
I gasp, covering my mouth with my hands, and Nash wraps his strong arms around me from behind, pulling him into me.
“Is this OK?” he asks. I don’t respond, just turn in the circle of his arms, clasp his face with my hands, and pull him down for a kiss. When we separate, he replies, “I’ll take that as a yes.”
He leads me to the blanket and guides me to sit while he grabs a picnic basket from the tent.
When he opens it, I see a selection of sandwiches, cakes, and chocolate truffles, all from Poppy’s Café, so I know they’ll be delicious.
Tucked into the corner is a bottle of chilled champagne, and Nash, sitting next to me now, makes quick work of popping the cork and pouring us each a glass.
“To us,” he says, handing me my glass and raising a toast.
“To us,” I echo, and we clink our plastic glasses together with an unsatisfying dull tap.
I take a sip, then release a deep breath.
What a perfect idea for a first date.
We eat and watch the waves ebb and flow, the marsh warblers chirping song the only soundtrack beside the sea.
We kiss, and talk, and kiss some more, and then he asks me a question I’m ready to answer for the first time since I lost my grandmother.