Page 24 of Nash
"Why me?" Kyle asks.
"Because you're afraid of the goat, and I think that's going to be relevant."
"What does that mean? Ruby. What does that mean?"
I hit play on the speaker. Dolly Parton. "9 to 5." The five of them circle the chairs while the yard watches. Frankie moves with the calm precision of a woman who has never lost anything in her life. East is already trash-talking. Rider keeps pace, head down, focused. Amelia is laughing before the first round even starts, and Kyle keeps glancing at her instead of watching the chairs, which is information I'm filing away for later.
I kill the music. All five dive. East shoves Rider sideways and drops into a chair. Frankie sits without breaking stride. Amelia slides into the third. Kyle and Rider scramble for the last one. Rider gets there first. Kyle is out.
"ROUND ONE?" Kyle throws his hands up. "I lasted one round?"
"You were looking at Amelia instead of the chairs," Frankie says.
Kyle's face goes red. Amelia bites her lip and looks at the ground, but her shoulders are shaking.
"I was NOT—I was assessing the competitive field."
"You were assessing something," I say.
I pull a chair. Round two. Dolly keeps playing. Frankie is out next, which shocks no one more than Frankie, who stares atthe chair East stole from under her like she's considering arson. Round three takes out Rider, who accepts elimination with a nod and goes to stand next to Kyle.
East and Amelia. One chair. The yard is invested. Darla is chanting East's name. Kyle is very quietly chanting Amelia's, which he thinks nobody notices. Everybody notices.
I kill the music. They both lunge. East gets there first, drops into the seat, and throws both arms up in victory. Amelia stumbles, catches herself on the back of the chair, and lands halfway in East's lap. East freezes. Darla raises one eyebrow. Amelia scrambles up, laughing, face flushed, and Kyle is already at her side with a water bottle he produced from absolutely nowhere.
"You okay?" he asks earnestly. Slightly too fast.
"I'm fine, Kyle." She takes the water. Their fingers brush on the bottle, and Kyle's whole posture lifts an inch.
That's when Nasty Nash Jr. reaches the end of his lead, lunges, and headbutts Kyle directly in the shin. The sound Kyle makes is not a word. It's something between a yelp and a war cry that starts in his throat and ends somewhere in the tree line.
"SON OF A BITCH." He grabs his shin, hopping on one foot. "THAT'S IT. I want a restraining order. An actual restraining order. Ruby, your son just committed assault."
"He's Nash's son. Take it up with the father."
Amelia is covering her mouth with both hands, her eyes bright, and the laugh she's trying to hold in is shaking her whole body. Kyle looks at her, shin in hand, and his expression shifts from outrage to something softer when he realizes she's laughing. He stands up straighter. Let's go of his shin.
"I'm fine," he says. "That didn't hurt."
It absolutely hurt.
Halfway through the games, I glance toward the wall and Nash has moved. Closer to the picnic table. Closer to me.
"And now," I announce, holding up the final gift, "the pièce de résistance. The guest of honor's custom wardrobe."
I cross the yard to Nash. He watches me come. His eyes start at my face, drop to my mouth, trail down to my legs, and come back up slow enough that the heat of it reaches me before I reach him. I stop in front of him. My pulse is hammering. His hands are at his sides. I think about those hands in my hair, around my throat, and my breath stutters.
I hold out the tiny onesie.
It reads NASTY NASH JR. in iron-on letters across the front.
"For your son," I say. "Congratulations, Dad."
His eyes drop to the onesie. Come back up to mine. His gaze slides to my mouth, stays there a beat too long, and my skin goes warm from my collarbone to my ears.
"He's not my son."
"He has your name. Lives at your clubhouse. He terrorizes your warden. By Mississippi common law, that's a dependent."
