had a good luck charm. I could use sure one right now.
After suggesting we order pizza from Gino’s, I let Nash turn on the St. Louis vs. Minnesota game in hopes of buttering him up, instead of angling to watch another episode of Bridgerton like I really want. Who knows, maybe a commercial for something Thanksgiving-related will pop up, and I can use that as a springboard into what I want to say.
Our pizza arrives before a good opportunity does. We eat dinner on the couch while I wrack my brain, trying to find a natural way to broach the subject. Three slices of cheese pizza later, I’m still empty-handed. Because of this, I stress eat an entire packet of Skittles for dessert.
Several more minutes crawl by while I twist the knit gray blanket we’re snuggled beneath in my hands, wringing the fabric over and over. We’re well into the third period of the game, and I still haven’t pulled the trigger.
“Vi,” Nash says gently, covering my hands with his. “What’s with the fidgeting? Is something wrong?”
“Are you going home for Thanksgiving?” I blurt.
So much for finding a low-pressure way to bring it up.
Something indecipherable flashes across his face. “No, not until Christmas.”
If I’m reading him correctly, I’d wager he isn’t happy about going home then, either. It’s difficult not knowing anything about such a big part of his life—like this big, blank piece in the puzzle of who he is. Even the first time we dated, it seemed like he went out of his way to keep me away from his father. I wish he’d tell me more so I understood why.
Temptation to press the issue grips me, but I force myself to let it go. Overloading him won’t help my case.
“My parents asked me if you’d like to come to Thanksgiving at their house,” I tell him. “I’d like it if you came. But you don’t have to if you don’t want to.”
While it would mean a lot to me if he did, I want to avoid a repeat of the Easter debacle. If Nash genuinely doesn’t want to come, I’m not going to force the issue. Though it won’t bode well for our future if he says no. At some point, he has to meet my family.
“Don’t they hate me?” Nash raises his eyebrows. “They should, anyway. Then again, you should, too.”
“No, they don’t know about any of…that.” Time for more candy. Reaching over, I tear open another packet of Skittles, pouring it directly into my mouth. My stress level is at a twelve out of ten. While I tried to tell myself it wasn’t a big deal, I’ll be crushed if he says no.
Skepticism stretches across his face. “They don’t? From everything you’ve told me, you’re incredibly close to them. I was sure they’d heard all the gory details and constructed voodoo dolls of me.”
My parents have no idea. Grace knows what went down, but she’s open-minded enough not to hold it against Nash. When I gave her an update the last time we hung out, including the truth about my feelings for him and how deep they run, she was supportive of me giving him a second chance. I guess I’m not the only hopeless romantic in our family, after all.
“I lied for you that day. Told them you had food poisoning.” My voice cracks. “Then I went home and cried into my pillow for a week, but I like to think I sold it in front of them.”
He tsks, corners of his mouth tugging down. “I’m sorry, Petal.”
“I’ve forgiven you. I don’t think you’d do that now.”
“I would never.” He cups my face, brushing a kiss against my lips. “And I’d love to come.”
My cheeks tug into a massive grin. “You would?”
“Yeah. It’ll be good to meet them.”
I nearly do a happy dance on the spot, but I refrain. Barely. Thanksgiving is one of my favorite holidays, and having Nash there with my family is everything I could have wanted.
“Oh my gosh, I’m so excited. Willow and Lincoln are going to love you. Everyone will, I know it.”
“I think it would be good practice if you drove there, though.”
My knee-jerk reaction to this is, heck no. But if Nash is willing to step out of his comfort zone, then I suppose I should, too. Plus, I’ve been making steady progress with driving. The first time I left the parking lot was a little shaky, but he helped me get through it. I even drove home from the mall with him a few days ago. It’s still scary, but it’s getting easier. And the idea of having my independence back is appealing.
“I will if you drive back,” I offer. “Not sure I’m ready to drive that far in the dark.”
Nash smirks. “I assumed that was a given. I don’t get drunk off a single glass of wine with dinner like you do.”
“I’m half your size, what do you expect?”
“It’s cute, Vi.”
I harrumph, poking his ribcage because he knows how I feel about the C-word. Being short, people throw that term at me a lot, and not always in a complimentary way—in a patronizing way like, “Oh, aren’t you cute?“ Almost as if I’m not a fully-grown adult.
“You’re sexy,” he amends, his lips drifting along the curve of my neck. His teeth sink into my earlobe, and my whole body comes alive. “And beautiful. So fucking beautiful it blows my mind.”
