sport during dinner. He politely answers my parents’ million questions about NCAA hockey and his engineering program. He asks Grace about Michael’s deployment, listens to Willow rank the best Disney princesses, and feigns interest in Lincoln’s train collection that he drags to the table in the middle of our meal. And he’s gracious when my dad tows him into the den after to show him all of his signed hockey paraphernalia—even when Willow tags along to “help explain.”
Grace and I hang back in the kitchen, helping with the dishes while our mother prepares dessert. But when Nash doesn’t return after a couple of minutes, I start to grow a little worried. I crane my neck and peer down the hall, envisioning Nash being bored to death by my father’s stories about getting Mario Lemieux’s autograph at an airport in Dallas and the year our favorite team made it to the Cup finals only to be “robbed.” My father is very sweet, but he likes to talk. A lot.
“So, Vi.” Grace lowers her voice, her blue eyes shining with affection as she dries a porcelain serving dish next to me. “Did you find your butterflies?”
“And then some.” Warmth floods my cheeks as I rinse the final pan beneath the faucet and hand it to her.
“Good,” she says. “I really like him.”
My heart soars. “You do?”
“He’s a little quiet, but I can tell he’s crazy about you. I think Mom and Dad like him, too.”
“Let’s hope. He’s been in there with Dad for a while.” Another peek down the hallway reveals they’re still in the den. Setting down my checkered dish towel, I tell her, “I’m going to go check on them.”
I poke my head into the den to find Nash playing Mario Kart with Willow on my parents’ oversized flatscreen TV. He’s Toad, she’s Princess Peach, and it’s one of the cutest things I’ve ever seen. My dad is in the plaid armchair across from them, cheering Willow on. Due to his arthritis, he can’t keep up with video games.
“What do we have here?” I ask, leaning against the wooden doorframe.
Willow’s attention doesn’t deviate from the screen. “I’m beating Mr. Nash!” She leans over, angling her entire body as she rounds a bend in the course.
Nash steals a glance at me over his shoulder, his expression slightly sheepish. “It was her idea.”
I grin. “Sure it was.”
After they finish the Mushroom Cup, we visit over coffee and dessert until it’s time to leave. Fortunately, my parents are early risers and Grace goes to bed when her kids do, which means we won’t be staying too late. Nash has been a trooper, but I don’t want to push my luck.
“So, Nash.” My father sets down his fork next to his half-eaten slice of pumpkin pie. “Violet tells us you’ve been drafted by Chicago. That’s an impressive accomplishment.”
“It must’ve taken a lot of dedication and hard work to reach that level,” my mother adds.
“Er, yeah.” Nash rubs the back of his neck, evidently unsure of how to accept the compliment. “I guess it did.”
I finish my last bite of pie, swallowing. “He’s being modest. Nash is one of the hardest working athletes on the team. And he’s a force to be reckoned with on the ice. You guys will have to come to watch one of their games.”
Nash squeezes my hand beneath the table, looking both slightly embarrassed and flattered. I wish he knew he deserved to hear things like that all the time.
“We absolutely will,” my father agrees. “Maybe we could bring Willow and Linc, too.”
We’re interrupted by a huge crash, followed by Willow wailing for her mommy. Grace thrusts Abigail into my arms and dashes into the kitchen. She returns a moment later, letting us know that Willow was attempting to serve herself seconds of pie, the remainder of which is now on the floor. It’s both cute and sad because Willow is always trying to do “grown up” things.
It’s also sad because I love pumpkin pie, and now there are no leftovers to take home.
Everyone exchanges hugs at the front door and my parents fawn all over Nash, insisting he come back for Christmas. As much as I would love that, I assume he has to go home to his own family eventually. Even if he doesn’t seem happy about it.
My car has been idling for a few minutes, thanks to Nash sneaking out to start it, and the interior is warm and cozy when we climb in. Good thing, too, because it feels like winter in the air and I have a wicked chill.
“My parents liked you,” I tell Nash, fastening my seatbelt.
Ignition still in park, he turns to look at me with genuine worry across his face. “You sure? Your mom seemed to, but I couldn’t get a read on your dad.”
“I think my dad was a little starstruck. I told you, we’re a big hockey family.” I tried to prepare him for this. In their eyes, he’s a sports hero. The good news is, I can tell that they liked him beyond just that. But I knew they would.
“Hope so,” he mutters, shoulder-checking as he eases out of the street parking spot. “Dads are tricky.”
And there it is. I know there’s more to the father thing than he lets on.
“You were a big hit with Lincoln and Willow, too, Mr. Nash.”
I don’t mention Abigail, even though seeing him hold her gave me instant baby fever. I get the sense that holding her was a big enough step for him, and I don’t want to freak him out by sounding too baby-crazed. I mean, I kind of am—I love babies and I always have. But I know I’m not having one of my own any time soon.
Maybe in five more years or so. Before thirty, I hope.
“I still can’t believe Willow kicked my ass at Mario Kart. I was trying, too.”
“Ooh, is your fragile male ego bruised?”
“A little.” He laughs, easing the car to a halt at a four-way stop. “In my defense, we only have an Xbox. I haven’t played Nintendo since I was a kid.”
“I hope you didn’t mind them following you around like lost puppies. I think they miss having Michael around. My dad tries to play with them, but he can’t really keep up. They’re too full of beans.”
“Nah, it was fun. I like kids . . .” Nash trails off, a crease forming in his forehead. “I’m not sure I want my own, though.”
Disappointment slams into me like a wrecking ball to the stomach. If Nash doesn’t want to have kids, that means we could never have a real future. I can’t believe we’ve never discussed this before.
“But you’re so good with them.” I bite the inside of my cheek, regretting the words as soon as I blurt them out. Pushing Nash is a surefire way to get him to clam up.
He keeps his eyes focused on the road, saying nothing. I can’t read his expression. My regret increases with every second that passes, and I desperately wish I could take back what I said. Heavy silence fills the vehicle while the heater whirs away, blowing air that suddenly feels ten degrees too hot even though I was chilly mere moments ago.
“Not sure it’s a good idea,” he says.
The rest of the drive home is quiet.
***
Nash’s house is deserted when we arrive, unusually silent in the absence of boisterous roommates and skittering puppy paws. Connor flew home for Thanksgiving, Drew and Savannah reportedly go see each other’s families together, and Vaughn took Biscuit to his mom’s, where I was assured he’d be spoiled rotten.
Mind spinning, I grab my overnight bag and head into the bathroom, washing off my makeup and brushing my teeth. Then I change into a skimpy pink pajama set with a strappy tank top and tiny shorts that I bought specifically for tonight. I skip underwear, like I’d planned, but my brain isn’t even remotely in seduction mode.
There’s no way we could make it this far only to fail over something so fundamental, so impossibly irreconcilable.
I’ve just finished brushing my hair when Nash strolls out of the bathroom and comes up behind me, cinching his forearms around my waist. He’s wearing nothing but black boxer briefs, his heated skin pressing against mine. Setting down the hairbrush, I let my eyes drift shut for a brief moment while I memorize the way it feels to be in his arms.
“You’ve been quiet. Is something wrong?” His grip is firm and steadying, spearmint toothpaste breath warm against my cheek.
Pausing, I summon the strength to say what I need to—even knowing I might break us in the process.
My bottom lip wobbles. “I really want a future with you. And I would never want to force you into having kids if that isn’t something you want. But having a family someday is important to me, and I don’t know where that leaves us.”
“It’s not that I don’t like kids. It’s that—“ He cuts off abruptly.
Anxious to hear what he has to say, I wait for him to finish but he doesn’t.
“That what?” I ask.
His chest rises against my back and falls with a sigh, but he doesn’t respond. My skin turns cold as he releases me, walking away to sit on the edge of the bed, resting his corded forearms on his thick, hockey thighs. A hairline crack forms in my heart. This is all too familiar, and it hurts even worse the second time around.
“Don’t do this again.” My voice wavers, a lone tear spilling down my cheek. “You always used to shut down on me.”
Nash’s face falls. “Please don’t cry. Not because of me. I promise you, I’m not worth it.”
“Then stop pushing me away and talk to me like you promised. I know there’s a lot you aren’t telling me, but what I don’t know is why.” I feel like I’m begging but I see a gap in his armor, and I desperately want to get beneath it. “What goes on in your head that always makes you want to bail?”
Frustration creeps into his tone. “I don’t know how to stay, Vi.”
“What do you mean?”
The emotional walls shoot right back up and he goes blank again.
“Nash.” I ease onto the black comforter beside him and splay my hand across his bare chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against my palm. Call it naïve, call it denial, but I refuse to give up on him. He’s come so far with letting me in. Something tells me we can work through this.
He looks down at my hand and swallows hard, his Adam’s apple dipping. “Like I said, I don’t know how to stay. I don’t want to lose my temper with you.”
The words stop me cold. Nash did lots of not-so-great things near the end, like not prioritizing me and taking me for granted. But he’s never lost his temper with me; he’s never even raised his voice. Even when we argue, he’s in control—until he walks away, at least.
And the closer we got last time, the more he walked away. That doesn’t feel like a coincidence.
“You never have. Why do you think you would?”
His gaze stays aimed down, fixed on the floor at our feet. “It’s all I ever knew growing up.”
My stomach turns because I’m starting to get an idea of what he’s been hiding—and why he’s been hiding it. I reach up, gently stroking his stubbled jawline, and his eyes drift shut.
He grabs hold of my fingers, pressing them to his cheek. “I don’t want to be like that, especially when it comes to you.”
“You’re not,” I insist. “Not even a little.”
“I don’t know,” he says quietly, his eyes still closed. “Sometimes I feel like that inside.”
Now my heart is breaking for another reason entirely.
“Everyone gets mad, Nash. It’s how you handle it that counts.”
“I guess.”
A chill in the air runs over my skin. I shiver, goosebumps popping up along my arms. Nash reaches over and grabs the blanket folded at the foot of his bed, draping it over my bare shoulders. His heavy arm curls around me, tucking me against him.
“Can you please tell me what you were going to say before?”
Several heartbeats pass before he answers. “I was going to say, I like kids. But I don’t know if I’d be a good dad.”
More pieces of the puzzle click together. I want to ask him to elaborate but get the sense I shouldn’t. Instead, I lean my head on his shoulder and place a hand on his muscular thigh. His rough hand covers mine, squeezing it in response.
“I think you would be,” I tell him gently. “I mean, if you wanted to. Someday.” While I don’t want to be pushy, I get the sense his reservations are coming from a place of fear and not a true aversion.
“I didn’t have the best example. I don’t want to repeat his mistakes.”
