Chapter 13
Thirteen
In theory, this shouldn’t be difficult. The words are simple.
Nash, there’s been a misunderstanding. Please sign here.
Also, I accidentally had your child and didn’t tell you.
Or her. Oh, and this is my treasure-hunting dad—he has some questions for you.
Less than thirty seconds and this can all be over.
In the scheme of everything else, it’s nothing compared to no money and a brain tumor.
And yet.
Parked down a cobblestone street in a small lot across from a small building with a colorful sign blasting Thirsty for History, no money and a brain tumor pale in comparison to the task at hand.
All I keep thinking: Nash is in there.
I know that because I made Cap call on the drive and ask. The woman said yes; I nearly wrecked.
Nash is in that building.
Somewhere on the other side of the windows covered with flyers and posters of historical images, he’s living and breathing and doing whatever it is tour guides do.
“You need to scream again?” a gruff voice asks. Cap’s. Because he’s still in the car too.
“What?” I flick my eyes from the windows to him. “No. Why?”
“You’re holding on to that steering wheel like you’re trying to pull it off the damn car.”
“Oh.” I loosen my grip, knuckles regaining some of their natural color. “I was thinking about the gold.”
Cap grunts, mutters, “Sure you were,” then gets out of the car, me following suit.
On the sidewalk, I look at my reflection in the car window and gasp—literally gasp—at the sight before me.
Meeting a new dad is one thing, but Nash can’t see me like this, sweating and in the same outfit I had on the last time we saw each other.
I might be here to get a divorce, but I have my pride.
I smooth my bangs with my fingers and adjust the straps of my overalls only to look like the exact same disaster area I started out as.
“Shit,” I mutter, dragging my thumbs under my eyes and fixing nothing. I belong in a lost-and-found box.
Despite the agonizing temperature, I fling open the trunk, dig through my suitcase, and grab whatever I can: a flannel shirt, ball cap, and a pair of oversized sunglasses.
Anything is better than how I look now, and since the chances of a fairy godmother appearing to fix me or a surprise ’90s talk show makeover happening in the amount of time I have, I slap the hat on my head and slip my arms in the shirt.
Cap watches me. “You hidin’ from someone?”
“I don’t know what I’m doing.” I’m fully panicking, that’s what I’m doing.
If my mom were here, she’d say my erratic feelings are a sign that I’m doing something fun, while my dad would tell me I’m worked up because it’s a bad plan.
Neither of them would be helpful, and neither of them is here.
All I have is Cap. “I forgot to eat lunch, and I think my blood sugar is crashing.” I fumble to get the buttons buttoned up the flannel.
I finally get the last one—right at my throat—and my reflection now resembles a lumberjack thug. “Perfect.”
Cap grunts in disagreement.
When I remember the engagement ring on my finger, it becomes a forty-pound kettlebell. Jonathan. I slip it off and put it in my pocket. I’m not here to rekindle something with Nash—I don’t need to see him to know that—but something about being engaged and married makes my skin crawl.
And the fact that I’ve lied to Bennie about what happened to him.
And, maybe in some circles, not telling Nash about Bennie could also be considered a lie.
Maybe I’m just a liar.
“Here’s the plan.” I assess Cap. He buttoned a few of the buttons of his shirt to cover his belly, but his chest hair and the gold pendant buried in it are still very much on display.
As is the yellow tint of his skin, unruly beard on his face, and the cane that should be censored.
We are the most ridiculous duo I’ve ever seen.
“We’ll act natural, and when the moment’s right, I’ll talk to him.
This will be nothing. He’ll sign the papers, you can ask him whatever you think he knows that you don’t about the gold, and we’ll go our separate ways.
” I scratch my neck. I’ll figure out the Bennie piece later. “What do you think?”
He answers by way of hobbling across the street toward the guide office, me scurrying behind.
Inside, the air conditioner blasts—bless—but it’s so crowded with tourists that the relief is short lived.
The same people who flood the vineyards of Fontain every summer—families, bachelorette parties, and couples living out their golden years—huddle together, buzzing about weather, food, and the pending tour.
“Alright, folks,” a deep voice calls, silencing the crowd. Nash’s voice. His slight drawl. His patented undertow of amusement in every spoken word.
People shift just enough I get a clear line of sight on him, and it knocks the wind clear out of me. On reflex, I grab Cap’s arm to steady myself.
“Must be him,” Cap says, amused. I’d tell him to go straight to hell if I knew how to talk or breathe.
Nash looks like Nash. Like he’s spent the last eight years in a cryogenic chamber preserving all of who he is right down to his ridiculous button-up shirts. Today’s is a dusty teal covered in magnolia blossoms.
I don’t think there’s another man on this planet who could pull it off the way he does.
Another man who can be covered in flowers while also letting anyone with eyeballs know what’s beneath them is long, lean, and the stuff lewd fantasies are made of.
“I’m filling in today, but…” Nash gives a playfully pained grin, and I feel my own lips lift—slightly.
“It’s been a while and I’m rusty, so take it easy on me.
” My slight smile turns to a smug smirk.
Of course it’s been a while. Of course the man still can’t work regular hours like a responsible adult.
I can’t wait to tell my mother. “We’re heading out in ten minutes.
I’ll be coming around with water and maps.
We have one mile with a few drinks and snacks along the way.
Next tour leaves in forty-five minutes with Ms. Sunny. ”
“That’s right, y’all,” a flamboyant Black woman with a wide smile shouts from next to him.
She’s around my age, wearing a bright floral shirt, and pointing a handheld battery-operated mister fan toward her face.
“Nash might have the looks and be the bossman”—bossman?
—“but I got the smarts of this operation. You bes’ stick with me, okay? Okay.”
They both laugh, along with the crowd, before Ms. Sunny spritzes herself with fan water and goes back to shuffling papers and Nash begins making his way around the room.
Oh, God.
“I can’t walk a mile,” Cap says, poking me with his pornographic cane.
I swat it away. “I might not be able to do this,” I whisper, scratching my neck again.
“I might be allergic to something.” I glance at Nash.
“I think he looks worse than before, what do you think?” I look at Cap like he should answer—he doesn’t.
“This isn’t the right plan. We should come back later. I need a shower.”
“Too late for that.” Cap gestures with his cane in Nash’s direction. “The husband you’re divorcing is almost here.”
I look; he’s right. Nash is only a few people away.
No.
“And I still can’t walk that far,” Cap repeats.
“Fine.” I take precious cash out of my pocket and shove it in his hands.
Seventy dollars for two tour tickets takes me down to $505.
29. I’ll be sure to throw myself a pity party and freak the fuck out about that later.
“Go get us two tickets.” I pull the hat lower on my head and shrug into my flannel-covered shoulders.
“And see if they have a wheelchair. I’ll push you. ”
He doesn’t budge.
“Cap,” I urge, wondering if this is what it feels like to hyperventilate. “Go. Before it’s too late.”
He taps his cane against the ground at the same time a woman bumps into me and gives me insight into how people become homicidal maniacs out of nowhere.
“Call me Dad,” Cap says.
“What?”
I look around the room and spot Nash laughing with a group of girls in a bachelorette party, pink sashes across their chests.
They’re making goo-goo eyes at him while he says something that makes them giggle.
He gives them a flirty wink; I grunt in disgust. At a glimpse of the words We the People branded on his forearm, my stomach jumps then drops.
“I want you to call me Dad while we do this,” Cap repeats, oblivious to the internal organ failure I’m experiencing.
“Are you insane?” I demand through clenched teeth. “Why the hell would I do that? I don’t even know you. And I have a dad.”
“Where is he?”
“He died,” I tell him, fully offended.
He shrugs, like that’s no big deal and we have all the time in the world. Like Nash hasn’t moved closer with his water and maps and sheer existence, closing in on me like a lion to lamb without him even knowing. “Don’t seem like much of a problem then. Plus, I never was called dad before.”
Inside, I scream.
I will not call this man Dad.
“You said you never wanted kids,” I grit out.
“Changed my mind.”
I glare at him, refusing. Absofuckinglutely not.
“Suit yourself.” He turns around casually and takes a labored step toward the door, saying over his shoulder, “Good luck with the gold.”
This bastard.
“Fine.” My fists and teeth clench at the triumphant smile on his face. Meanwhile, I’m baking like a meatloaf under my stupid flannel. “Rueben. Cap. Dad. Go. Get. The. Tickets.”
He grins. “Sure thing, kiddo.”
Kiddo.
I’ll unpack that later along with the many issues this man clearly has.
Now, I just want to disappear. I want whatever’s about to happen to be ancient history.
I skim over a sign explaining the tour. Your knowledgeable guide will lead you around the historic city of Charleston on a one-mile journey of local stories between stops of eats and drinks that are filled with histories of their own.