Chapter 12 #2
“Can’t keep her out of there.” He grins. “How’s the new job?” He’s annoyingly genuine. “You settling in?”
Remy’s head bobbles. “As much as I can for a temporary position.”
Rue and I exchange a look behind her back; if Darren’s banging a yoga teacher, this position isn’t temporary.
To Rue, he says, “See Nash’s bus rolling out by Mom’s.”
Nash is a tour guide and opened a location in Fontain over the summer. From what I’ve heard, it’s been well received. He tells the history of the town while shuttling buzzed tourists to the wineries of the area.
“Busy,” Rue tells him. “He loves it though. Wants to get another bus next summer.”
“Good to hear.” Gavin leans a comfortable hip against Mom’s counter like this is the sort of thing he does.
Like he and my sisters and my mother and these paint-chipped cabinets are thick as thieves.
His bright eyes meet mine in what I’d dare call a taunt.
He’s like a gnat. A rugged gnat. A young, rugged, annoying gnat.
The four of them make small talk. Meanwhile: I stew.
He keeps looking at me. Raising his brows. Provoking me with his eyes and little slants of his mouth hidden beneath his mangy beard. Silently saying You might not want me here but look at all these people who do.
When I can’t take it anymore, I cut him off midsentence. “Why the hell are you here?” Everyone fights smiles, making me that much more pissed. “And what is so funny?”
“Gavin,” Mom says with a sigh, “I’m sure you remember—”
“Of course I remember,” Gavin interrupts, sending an amused look my way. “My parents—and brother—never let me forget.”
What? I’ve never seen this man until a few weeks ago, and I sure as shit don’t know his parents. Or brother.
“Parents?” I wave my hands through the air. “What does that mean?”
Remy giggles. Giggles.
Gavin wets his lips. “Means I remember you even though you clearly don’t remember me.”
“Gavin Nickels.” Rue says his name like he’s a celebrity and not some neighbor with a foil-covered lasagna who mows the city of Fontain between telling bad jokes. “Are you kidding, Reese?”
I look at him; I’m not. But everyone’s silence makes me think I should.
So I think.
I think and I think.
I think until Rue disappears for two seconds and returns with a framed photo of a stick-figured drawing with the words I lava you, and it strikes me like lightning to a metal rod.
I didn’t recognize him because the last time I saw him, he was a kid—we both were. And he definitely didn’t have that body or beard. He didn’t ride a mower in old boots or carry in pans of lasagna.
He was adorable and little and hung on my every word as I taught him to read from a book about glass.
“Davy Crockett?” I ask, stunned. And I see it. I see it. It’s him—little Gavin—twenty-some years older and looking at me in a way I can’t quite put a finger on.
He winks. “Only to you, Miss Reese.”
And right in the middle of my mother’s kitchen, I’m speechless. More speechless than when Trish told me I needed to take a three-month break or than I’ve been in my entire life. My mouth can’t make a single word. Yet he’s unfazed, smooth even.
All I can think: Gavin Nickels?
“As you can see,” Rue says, amused, “Reese still doesn’t play well with others.”
I give her outfit—some kind of cotton onesie jumper thing that makes her look like an overgrown baby—a scathing look. “And Rue still dresses like a Cabbage Patch Kid.”
Rue flips me off; Mom asks about a vineyard; Gavin smiles and answers her.
They talk and I stare.
At grown-up Gavin Nickels.
His dirty blond hair isn’t long enough for a ponytail, but it’s long enough it hangs out from under his hat and around his shabbily bearded face.
A half-hidden worn leather strap hugs the neckline of his shirt—some kind of primitive necklace.
When he folds his arms over his chest, it reveals a tattoo of tongs on the outer edge of his forearm.
Gavin Nickels went from a boy in a coon-skinned cap to a man with strange tattoos and jewelry.
“You’re staring,” Remy whispers.
“Of course I’m fucking staring,” I whisper back, flustered. “Why didn’t anyone tell me? What’s he doing here?”
She laughs a little. “Why are you making such a big deal about this?”
It’s a great question I don’t have an answer for. “I’m not.”
“Is it because he’s hot?”
“He’s not hot!” I whisper-shout. “He’s a child.” I look at him. “And needs to be pressure washed.”
She snorts. “You sound like such a hag, he’s not a child.” Then: “He’s single. You should go out with him.”
“I’m not going out with him,” I say through clenched teeth. “You go out with him.”
“I’m married.”
It takes all my willpower not to remind her that she’s in a tiny-ass rental house while her husband fucks a yoga teacher in their suburban marital bed.
She continues whispering as she fills me in.
“He’s Mom’s neighbor. His niece lives with him.
” The girl with the backpack. “Mom and Dad grew up with his parents.” I remember that from when we were younger.
We’d see the Nickelses around town and sometimes when I was with Amanda and Greg.
“He’s been helping out since the tumor. Works in maintenance for the city.
” Explains the tattoo—hedge trimmers. He’s committed to lawn care, and this alternate universe is a weird place to be.
“Good guy. And you were his first love.” When I think she’s done: “And you were flirting with him.”
I gasp. “I was not flirting with him.”
“Yes you were,” she insists. “And a little flustered.” Her brows lift. “I’ve never seen you flustered.” She makes kissy fingers in my face, and I elbow her until she grunts.
Mom offers Gavin the plate of my latest batch of cookies, and he takes one. His eyes meet mine as he takes his first bite. Crumbs fall from his mouth that he catches with his free hand.
Him eating my cookie makes my neck hot.
Something is said about his mom, and he turns his attention back to my mom whose face is filled with concern.
“What’s the deal with his parents?” I whisper to Remy.
“They bought a vineyard. Put all their retirement money into it,” she explains. “But when his brother died—”
“Greg?” That can’t be right. “He married Amanda.”
Her expression turns somber. “Ree . . . they both died in a house fire over a year ago.”
My “What?” comes out of me like air from a deflating tire.
Amanda died? I haven’t talked to her in years. But . . . died? She wasn’t even forty. How did I not know?
As if reading my thoughts, Remy whispers, “Rue and Mom tried to tell you, but they couldn’t get you on the phone because you were in the middle of some big deal.
Then you were . . .” Busy. A bitch. A terrible person.
I know all the words she could use to fill in the trailed-off blank.
“Then everything happened with the antique store and Mom, you know?”
I don’t know.
My best friend from high school died, and I had no idea.
I left Fontain, got too busy to talk to her—to anyone—then stayed too busy to know she died. How is this possible?
“Anyway,” Remy continues, “then his dad died a few months ago. Why the niece is with him—Addie. She’s the sweetest and Bennie’s age.”
I remember I made a joke about him having a brother. I’m such an asshole.
And Amanda and Greg are gone.
Gone.
They didn’t see the sunrise this morning and they won’t see it set tonight. They won’t see anything ever again.
I need something to do, so I get a glass of water and drink the entire thing.
Of course it’s Gavin—he looks just like him.
If the him of twenty-three years ago was over six feet, had broad shoulders, a tattoo, and facial hair that resembled shag carpeting.
When Mom says, “Reese might be able to help,” it makes me jump.
“What?” I set my empty glass on the counter.
“I’ll never admit she did wonders for Old Vines,” Rue adds.
I give her a sweet smile—her and Mom’s antique store was bleeding money over the summer when I saved their asses. “Bet that hurt.”
She sticks her tongue out.
“Help with what?” I look at Gavin. “Because my rates for tutoring have gone up.”
“Noted.” He works his tongue across his bottom lip and shifts his weight between his grass-covered boots, making debris fall to the floor. I’ll be sweeping that mess up later. “But I don’t want to interfere with her busy schedule.”
“Nonsense,” Mom says. “She needs something to do.” To me: “Nancy wants to sell the vineyard to downsize, and Gavin doesn’t like the deal.”
That doesn’t have much to do with me—I know very little about real estate or vineyards—but there’s a flicker of excitement at the prospect of busyness. If Gavin’s appearance is any indication of the state of the property, it probably needs a lot of work. Which means a lot of time.
Which means I’d have to get the firm on board with me taking on a project while I’m supposed to be sabbaticaling—that will never happen.
“I do have something to do,” I remind her. “Make sure people don’t ring doorbells so you can recover.” I give Gavin a fake smile he returns with a genuine one.
“Oh, Ree,” Rue says in a tone I hate, “there’s more to it than that, isn’t there? Baby . . . sister.”
Out of Mom’s view, I flip that bitch off.
“I don’t need you to take care of me,” Mom interjects. “I’m fine.”
“You had brain surgery!”
“All I do is sleep!” she cries. “And I’m supposed to be transitioning into normal everyday activities. Isn’t that what the therapist said?”
“Supervised everyday activities.”
She scoffs. “You’ve barely left, and it’s making me claustrophobic.”
“I left this morning!” The appointment at the fertility clinic was only an hour, but still. “And I’ve barely been here three weeks.”
“Three weeks of making me claustrophobic.”
The entire room collectively raises their eyebrows like I don’t have a leg to stand on.
And I don’t.