Page 25 of Nash
"Mississippi doesn't have common law dependents for livestock."
"That sounds like something a man in denial about fatherhood would say." I press the onesie into his hands. Our fingers brush. "You're welcome."
He folds the onesie with a single, precise motion and tucks it into the back pocket of his jeans.
He keeps it. My chest aches.
The cookout kicks in after the games. Knox mans the grill making burgers and dogs. Maggie's potato salad and her cornbread, which should be classified as a controlled substance, make an appearance. The long table fills. Plates pass. Voices layer.
Nash is at the end of the picnic table with a plate Maggie put in front of him. Burger. Fries. He hasn't touched it.
I walk past him on my way to the cooler. My hand drifts toward his plate. My fingers close around a fry.
His fingers wrap around my wrist, thumb pressing into the soft skin where my pulse is slamming. The grip holds me in place without any effort at all.
I look down at his hand. Look up at his face. He's watching me with that steady, patient expression that makes my knees unreliable.
"Ask," he says. Low. Just for me.
My mouth goes dry. "Can I have a fry?"
"Try again."
My stomach drops through the floor. The yard is loud around us. Kyle is telling a story, Darla's laughing, plates clink, and none of it reaches the two feet of air between Nash's face and mine.
"May I have a fry?" My voice comes out quieter than I intended. "Please."
His thumb strokes once across my pulse point. Then he lets go.
I take the fry. Put it in my mouth. Chew. My hand is shaking. The fry tastes like salt, adrenaline, the word please still sitting on my tongue. His eyes follow my mouth the entire time.
He picks up his burger and takes a bite. The corner of his mouth twitches.
I walk to the cooler on legs I can't entirely feel.
Kyle is at the far end of the table, holding court on a story about a supply run that somehow involves a flat tire, a raccoon, and a misunderstanding at a gas station in Tupelo.
"How the fuck do you misidentify a raccoon?" East asks.
Kyle waves him off without breaking stride. I slide into the empty seat beside him.
"Kyle. Tell me more about the raccoon."
He lights up. Launches into the extended cut, complete with hand gestures and sound effects. Amelia is across the table, chin in her hand, watching him with an expression she probablydoesn't know she's making. Whatever is happening between those two, it's not my place to complicate it.
I lean in just enough, laugh a little louder than the joke deserves, tip my head back at the punchline with my throat in the light because I know exactly how that carries across a yard. Kyle is the stage. The audience is at the end of the picnic table with a burger he still hasn't finished.
I let my eyes drift toward Nash casually, like I'm scanning the yard.
His jaw is locked. His eyes are on me. The muscle near his ear jumps once. The look on his face is the one I've been chasing for fourteen months; it's the one that saysI see exactly what you're doing and you're going to pay for it.
My whole body warms. I take a slow sip of beer, let the grin spread across my face, and hold his eyes while I do it. The thrill of it buzzes through me, better than the beer, better than the laugh, better than every joke I've landed all day.
Worth it.
The afternoon settles into the warm hum of the clubhouse yard. Sloane and Knox are on the bench, her head on his shoulder. Darla's feet are in East's lap, his hands rubbing her ankles while he argues with Kyle about something I can't hear. Malachi and Candace are clearing plates together, their shoulders touching, moving around each other without looking. James and Maggie sit at the far end, his arm around the back of her chair.
My chest aches. I look at all of it. The way they fit together, the ease of it, and the ache spreads.
