toys?” I sift through the Target bags, examining their contents. For obvious reasons, Nash did the shopping while I waited with Biscuit in the vehicle.
“Yeah, I don’t want him chewing my shit,” he grumbles, pulling into a suburban neighborhood not far from campus. “The internet said it would help.”
In addition to the toys, he purchased a black collar and matching leash, puppy chow, a brush, dog shampoo, food and water bowls, and a soft, fuzzy gray dog bed. It’s endearing, if a little confusing. For someone who isn’t into animals, he sure wants to make sure this one is well taken care of.
“All black, white, and gray, huh?” I ask. “Trying to make sure Biscuit matches the Grizzlies’ team colors?”
Nash grunts but says nothing. Probably because I’m right.
A few minutes later, he eases into the driveway of a cute two-story house clad with slate-blue siding and white trim, opening the attached garage with his remote. The house appears well maintained, the yard tidy. I’m not sure what I was expecting, but it wasn’t this.
I peer through the window. “Nice place. Who takes care of the yard?”
“We take turns.” He eases his SUV inside, squeezing in next to a black BMW X5 and kills the ignition. The garage isn’t quite as pristine as the rest of the exterior, thanks to an abundance of hockey equipment all over the place. “Except Connor. He outsources his.”
From what little I know of Connor, this does not surprise me. He’s in my training group, so we’re acquainted—though I’ve struggled to get a read on his personality beyond “fucking” and “getting fucked up.” His words, not mine.
I open the passenger side door, expecting Biscuit to leap into the front seat, but he doesn’t. When I turn around, I find him sprawled across the backseat, furry belly up, lights out on his new dog bed. Snoring.
Being a puppy must be tiring.
“Nash, look,” I whisper, poking his bicep. Shit. Shouldn’t have done that, it’s all firm and muscly, and now my mind is going places it shouldn’t. I have to touch him enough during training as it is; I really need to refrain from touching him when we’re alone.
He glances over his shoulder, and his expression softens when he sees the sleeping dog. Even though Nash will never admit it, I think he could end up liking Biscuit if he gave him a chance. Debatable whether he is open-minded enough to give him said chance, however.
“Think you can get him inside without waking him?” I ask.
Nash looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. “Doubtful. But I can try.”
I grab the supplies and slip out of the vehicle, careful not to slam the door while Nash goes around to the passenger side to attempt sleeping puppy extraction. Even though he told me to let myself into his house, it still feels wrong. It feels weird being here in general, if I’m being honest. Nash lived in the dorms when we dated, and seeing his natural habitat seems oddly intimate. Like another part of him I’ve never gotten to know.
As with the exterior of the house, the interior is warm and cozy, and significantly cleaner than one would expect. The hardwood floors gleam, and the drywall is shockingly intact. Other than the pile of enormous-sized athletic shoes by the door and the heap of hockey sticks in the garage, you wouldn’t know four athletes lived here.
Vaughn is in the living room with his legs stretched out, typing furiously on a laptop. Surprise stretches across his face when he sees me bearing an armload of Target bags, but it’s quickly replaced by a warm smile. “Hey, Violet.”
“Hey.” I slip off my boots on the entry mat, nudging them aside. I’m not entirely confident they escaped the pee incident at the vet unscathed—in fact, I’m pretty sure they didn’t—and I don’t want to track anything throughout the house. Actually, I’m surprised Nash even let me wear my boots in the car after that happened, but I opted not to question it.
Vaughn’s surprise returns when Nash appears a moment later, holding a tired looking, but awake, puppy in his arms. Nash sets Biscuit down, brushing the loose fur off his hands, and Biscuit takes off like a shot to explore the house, newly reinvigorated by the change in surroundings.
“Is this your puppy, Violet?” Vaughn breaks into a grin as he sets his laptop aside, watching Biscuit sniff underneath the couch. Biscuit pulls out a stray T-shirt, chewing it, and Vaughn bends down, gently taking it out of his jaws.
“Uh, no,” I say. “Not exactly.” Nash didn’t seem overly concerned with how his roommates would react to the dog development, but I still don’t want to be the one to break the news.
“We found him in the parking garage at school,” Nash explains, slipping off his olive green Carhartt jacket and hanging it on the hook. “He’s a stray. Violet can’t have animals at her place, so I’m keeping him until we find him a home. You know, fostering him temporarily. Mostly because Violet sucked me into it.”
I roll my eyes, fighting the rush of heat creeping into my cheeks. Truth is, I know he did this for me, and I think it’s incredibly sweet. I’m just not sure what to make of it.
“We named him Biscuit,” I add.
“Nice.” Vaughn kneels, extending his palm for Biscuit to sniff and scratching behind his ears. “Hey, Biscuit. You can stay with us for a while, huh?”
Biscuit barks in response, his tail wagging like a windshield wiper on full speed. I toss Vaughn a bone-shaped chew toy and he plays fetch with Biscuit for a minute while I sift through the shopping bags, passing items to Nash to put away in the nearby closet.
Connor wanders into the living room, shirtless, lazily raking a hand through his wavy blond hair. He’s clutching a bottle of beer in his other hand, the label of which I can’t make out. “Did one of you dicks just bark?” His gaze falls to Biscuit, and he comes to a screeching halt in the doorway. “Why the fuck is there a dog in our living room?”
“I’m keeping him temporarily until we can find him a home,” Nash says wearily, yanking the tag off the collar and fastening it around Biscuit’s neck to make sure it fits. Biscuit looks down at it and begins to run in circles, trying unsuccessfully to chew it.
“You didn’t think to ask us first?” Connor asks, tipping back his bottle while he eyes Biscuit with mistrust. Apparently, Nash isn’t the only non-animal person in the house.
Nash’s tone sharpens. “Why, do you plan on helping take care of him?”
“Hell no.”
“Then don’t worry about it. I’ll deal with Biscuit, and he’ll be gone before you know it.”
Even though I know this can’t be permanent, the reminder within the second half of his statement makes me irrationally sad. Realistically, I know all we can do is try to find him the best home possible. Preferably one that will allow me visitation rights, because I’m already attached.
Before Connor can respond, Drew walks through the front door, accompanied by the girl I saw hugging Nash after the Grizzlies game. Drew is a junior defenseman in Preston’s training group, cute in a clean-cut sort of way. And she’s gorgeous, with striking copper-red hair—the kind of color you bring to your stylist and beg for, but they can’t replicate because it’s natural. As a dishwater blonde who has to highlight the heck out of my hair to mitigate its default blah, paper-bag color, I’m envious.
“Violet, this is Savannah,” Nash says, gesturing to her. “Sav, this is Vi.”
Immediately, I recognize the name because he’s mentioned her in passing several times. She’s Drew’s best friend, which means that hug I witnessed was likely innocent. Not that I’d been wondering about that or anything.
Savannah gives me a warm smile, her brown eyes crinkling at the corners. “It’s so nice to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you, too,” I tell her.
“Oh my God. You guys got a puppy!” Savannah squeals, running over to Vaughn and Biscuit. She picks up a rainbow-colored chew toy, engaging in a game of tug of war with Biscuit, who digs in his heels and slides across the hardwood.
Drew shoots Nash a questioning look. “We got a dog?”
Nash sighs. “I’ll explain later.”
***
Our first time giving a doggie bath is eventful, to say the least. Biscuit alternates between drinking from the running faucet and shaking the water off his fur, drenching us and the rest of the small bathroom in the process. After the third round of us both getting soaked, Nash leaves to get an extra shirt of his so I can change into it while he throws mine in the dryer.
He returns a moment later wearing a clean pair of navy joggers and a white Grizzlies T-shirt that hangs off his broad frame so perfectly it should be illegal.
“You can change in my room,” he says, handing me a folded gray T-shirt. “It’s the one on the left. I’ll watch this furry little maniac, but I’m not even attempting to shampoo him until you get back.”
I would object to the “furry little maniac” label if not for the fact that it’s accurate. Biscuit is incredibly sweet—not to mention, clearly eager for human companionship based on the way he’s basking in all this newfound attention—but maniac is an apt descriptor. I foresee obedience school in his future, potentially multiple times.
“Thanks.” I slip out of the bathroom, leaving Nash alone with Biscuit, and head down the hall to his bedroom. When I push open the door and flip on the light switch, my heart does a somersault. Faint traces of his familiar cologne permeate the air, but beyond that, his room is wholly unfamiliar. While that’s to be expected, it saddens me.
A laptop sits on his glass desk next to a framed picture of him with Connor, Drew, Vaughn, and Savannah on what appears to be New Year’s Eve. Other than the photo and a handful of hockey trophies, the room is spotless and largely devoid of other personal items, which isn’t a huge surprise since he isn’t exactly the sentimental type. And as I’d expected, his queen-sized bed is neatly made, covered with black sheets and a matching comforter.
For a split second, I entertain the most absurd, torturesome curiosity about how many other girls have been in that bed, and I immediately delete the thought.
Drawing in a breath, I shut the door and wriggle out of my pink waffle-weave crewneck, its damp cotton clinging to my skin. When I slip Nash’s clean, well-worn T-shirt over my head, it swallows me whole thanks to our foot-plus height difference. There’s a tug of nostalgia in my gut at wearing his clothes again after so long, and another tug in my gut for all the things we missed in between.
I return to the bathroom and carefully step over a puddle of water on the tiled bathroom floor, gesturing to myself. “This is a dress.”
Nash glances over his shoulder at me, his mouth tipping up at one corner. “I dunno, I think you look cute.”
It’s impossible to hide my giddy smile, and my heart does another somersault because clearly, it’s taking up gymnastics as a new hobby. Such a small statement shouldn’t have the impact it does. It wouldn’t, coming from anyone else.
We finally reach step two of the bath process: applying soap. Nash passes me the bottle, still a little wary of the furry fiend housed in the bathtub. Leaning forward, I scrub rosemary-mint dog shampoo into Biscuit’s fur while he cranes his neck, trying to eat the bubbles.
“Didn’t we feed you before this? You must be growing.” I laugh, blocking his efforts with my elbow and catching a sloppy lick on my forearm as more water splashes onto my jeans.
“I thought you said your vehicle was in the shop a few weeks ago,” Nash says, kneeling beside me. “Every time I drop you off, it’s still there. What gives, Vi? Is it still not fixed?”
The abruptness of his question blindsides me, and I don’t have an answer at the ready. I try to think back on what I told him. Did I say it was in the shop? What a sloppy, stupid lie. Dammit, Violet.
I clear my throat, trying to keep my voice even. “What I meant was, it isn’t running properly. I haven’t taken it in to be fixed yet. I haven’t had, um, time.”
“Highly unusual to experience issues with a brand-new Honda like that. Usually, they’re pretty reliable.”
“Must be bad luck.”
We’re in close quarters, static electricity humming between our skin. In addition to the heat of his body, I can feel his eyes on me, watching my reaction while I keep my attention fixed on the puppy. Nash is difficult to lie to at the best of times, and I’m unprepared. When I catch his face in my peripheral vision, I know I’m busted.
His dark green eyes narrow, flashing with suspicion. “Uh-huh.”
There’s a weighty pause, and I look up at him. My pulse pitter-patters faster with every passing second. His gaze holds mine, unwavering, until I feel like he can see into my brain. I’ve lost my mind. I think I lost it the first day I had to assess Nash—probably the moment I touched him.
“What’s actually going on with your car? Or with you, more specifically?” He’s sporting his patented, “don’t waste my time,” look.
“Nothing.” Looking away, I grab the plastic cup we brought upstairs and fill it with warm water beneath the tub faucet, trying to rinse off Biscuit. Unfortunately, he thinks this is a game, and he scoots over to Nash’s side of the tub, just beyond my reach. His tongue lolls out of his mouth, tail wagging as he waits for my next move.
“Why don’t you drive anymore?” Nash presses. “You’ve had your license since you were sixteen.”
Panic rises in my throat. “I don’t . . . like to?”
His heavy sigh echoes off the bathtub tiles. “Level with me, Vi. I did you a solid by keeping the dog. You owe me one.”
“You’re pulling out the Biscuit card so soon? I thought you’d hold onto that one for a while and save it for something good.” I’m trying to be playful but his mouth sets in a stern line, unwilling to bite.
“I want to know. It’s been eating at me.”
I dodge his gaze again, focusing on rinsing the last suds from Biscuit’s fur. Biscuit drinks nearly as much clean water as gets on his body, but the soap is gone so I call it a success and pull the plug on the drain. The water gurgles and Biscuit dances in a circle, his nails clicking as he watches the mini whirlpool.
“I just . . .” I trail off, scrunching up my mouth. Nausea creeps up on me. “Remember that multi-car pileup on the freeway last January?”
“What about it?” Nash’s brow creases, concern across his face ramping up.
An onslaught of memories I’d rather forget assault me, and I draw in a breath, trying to quell them. Pushing them to the back of my mind, like I always do, rather than re-live it.
“I was involved in that. Smack in the middle. I got hit by two different cars coming at me from opposite directions, and my car got pushed into the one in front of me. It was a total write-off.”
“Holy shit. Were you okay?”
While he’s fairly calm, I get the sense Nash is losing it on the inside. Usually, he’s a pro at hiding his emotions, but right now the cracks are showing. The telltale vein in his forehead is a dead giveaway.
“A few bumps and bruises, but I wasn’t seriously injured. The person in the car next to me was critically injured, though. They had to cut her from her vehicle. Anyway, long story short, I was too scared to drive after it happened and then it just sort of”—my voice cracks, and I swallow—“snowballed from there.”
“Vi. I’m sorry.” His hand lands on my upper arm, his voice gentle. It hurts in a million different ways. Because I don’t like talking about this, because I miss him, because it makes me think of all the would-have, could-haves I’ve been working so hard to ignore.
“It’s stupid, right? I’m not even the one who got hurt.” I think about that all the time; it’s selfish of me to be scared like this when other people ended up far worse off than I did. Even though no one died, several were critically hurt. All the same, I can’t shake the feeling of terror I get when I even think about getting behind the wheel of a car.
It’s also more than a little embarrassing that, as a grown adult, I am too scared to drive.
“It’s not stupid.” Nash’s heavy arm wraps around my shoulders, hugging me. Hot tears rise behind my eyes, and I blink them away. We linger that way for a few moments, neither of us saying anything. The closeness is both comforting and upsetting all at once, because it feels so good, I don’t want him to let me go.
“I know I’ll have to get past it eventually, it’s just easier to put it off until later.”
In the empty tub, Biscuit whines expectantly, leaning forward on his paws in an attempt to escape. Nash squeezes me again before he grabs a towel from beneath the sink, drying off the dog and lifting him out of the tub. The instant Biscuit’s feet hit the floor, he zooms out of the bathroom and gallops down the stairs. Distantly, Vaughn laughs and says something I can’t make out.
I sniffle, wiping away an errant tear from the corner of my eye. “I should get home. It’s late, and I have an early lecture tomorrow.”
***
Once I change back into my dry shirt, Nash leaves Biscuit in the care of Drew and Vaughn while Connor side-eyes from the other couch. Our drive home is quiet, mostly because I’m exhausted and falling asleep in the passenger seat. Nash slips off his jacket, passing it to me to use as a makeshift pillow, and I doze off briefly before I feel the car slow to a stop, waking me.
It’s a strange reversal of the scenario with Preston. Whereas I didn’t know what I wanted to happen with him, I know exactly what I wish would happen with Nash, even though I also know it’s a bad idea. Maybe I’m a little unstable from the long day. I’ve been up since six to run with Claire before class, and I was expecting to arrive home several hours ago. Instead, Nash and I rescued a puppy, hugged twice, I saw his house and his bedroom, and I topped it all off with spilling a personal secret to him that hardly anyone knows. Draining would be an understatement.
Leaving his car running, he wordlessly walks me to my front door. We come to a stop, bathed in moonlight and chill fall air. Someone must have left our motion-activated porch light switched off, because it doesn’t trigger.
“Thank you,” I say, shifting my bag on my shoulder. “I know you’re not a huge animal guy, but it means a lot to me that you agreed to help him.” Though for someone who doesn’t like dogs, he seems like a natural. Biscuit was following him around before we left like, well, a lost puppy.
“As long as you help me with the adoption process like you promised.”
A wave of grief hits me. I’m not sure if it’s about Biscuit, or us. “I will.”
Something unspoken hangs in the air. Maybe it’s the closure we never got. Nash ducks his head, catching my eye. “You still know my number, right?”
“I do,” I admit, breaking eye contact. Know it? I can still dial it blindfolded, backward, and upside down. And I’ve had to talk myself out of doing just that countless times.
“Text me, then, ’cause I can’t text you.”
“Why not?” I look up at him in confusion.
His jaw tightens, but it’s hurt I detect and not anger. “You changed yours.”
“Oh. Yeah, guess I did.” Changing my number was one of several tactics I employed to help ease the post-breakup transition. Rebounding with Jay McAllister was another. So was dyeing my hair brown. Briefly flirting with the idea of transferring schools. Consuming a billion self-help books. And taking up knitting for all of two weeks.
Most of them didn’t work. Okay, none of them did.
“Why did you do that? So I couldn’t call you?” A rare flicker of vulnerability appears on his face. Every once in a while, I see pieces of him like this that I suspect no one else ever does.
“No.” I huff, scrambling to fight another tide of tears creeping in. With my emotional batteries drained, the truth tumbles out before I can stop it. “I changed it a few weeks after we broke up so I could tell myself that’s why you weren’t calling me. You know, instead of the real reason.”
“What do you think the real reason was?” Nash’s voice is uncharacteristically soft.
“That you didn’t want to.”
“No, Vi. I didn’t think you wanted me to.”
I did. So badly it still hurts.
“But you must have tried at some point, if you know I changed my number.”
“Yeah, I tried to call you last February.” He looks a little sheepish. “I was drunk after Vaughn’s twenty-first birthday party.”
“What were you going to say?” My heart squeezes in my chest, simultaneously swelling with hope and contracting with fear.
One corner of his mouth lifts. “I have no idea.”
Suddenly, the porch light next to us flicks on. A sign that either Julianna or Claire is up, possibly both. Nash’s eyes stay glued to me, and my breath stills. I take a small, micro-step forward, and he does the same. There’s a moment’s hesitation before we close the rest of the distance, and his strong arms wrap around my body. We fit perfectly—like a missing puzzle piece snapping into place. The urge to cry amplifies a thousandfold but I stuff it down, vowing to save it for once I’m inside.
He squeezes me tighter, and my sadness dissipates, replaced by a sense of deep relief. It feels like I’ve been holding my breath the entire time we’ve been apart and now I can finally let it go.
I rest my cheek against the worn cotton of his hoodie and let my eyes drift shut, listening to his slow and steady heartbeat, savoring every second of being in his arms. It’s been so long since I was held like this, warm and secure, fully comfortable. Obviously, I’ve been hugged, but it hasn’t been the same. There’s an intimacy with him I’ve never had with anyone else.
I glance up at him, trying to gauge whether he’s feeling the same things that I am, but his expression is difficult to read. My pulse kicks up as he leans closer, his stubble scraping my skin. His nose brushes mine, and time stops, our lips hovering less than an inch apart. My brain and body are at complete odds, waging a civil war inside my head. My body thinks we’re home, while my brain says to run. My heart, which should be the tiebreaker, has recused itself from the vote due to a lack of impartiality.
I want more than anything for him to kiss me, and it terrifies the hell out of me.
“I should go,” I whisper, looking away.
Nash slowly lets me go, but one hand lingers on my waist while I fumble for my keys, unlocking the front door with shaky hands. Tugging it open, I force myself to take a step away from him that I don’t want to take, and shift to face him.
“Thanks again.”
He gives me a half-smile that’s as sad as the way I feel. “Of course. Night, Vi.”
