Page 95 of Nash
His body goes still. I can see his shoulders from the bedroom doorway, and the tension that locks through them is different from operational tension. This is personal.
He opens the door.
My mother's voice fills the apartment. "Nash, honey, is Ruby here? We didn't call because—"
"Raine." Nash's voice is careful. "Lawrence."
My father's voice. Low. Strained in a way I've never heard from him. "We need to talk. All of us."
I'm already moving. Jeans from the floor, yanked on. Nash's shirt swapped for my own from the closet. I pull my hair into a knot, catch my reflection in the bathroom mirror on the way past. Flushed. Swollen lips. A mark on my neck that Nash's mouth left twenty minutes ago. I grab a hoodie, zip it to my chin, and step into the hallway.
My parents are at the door. My mother's face is worried, her hands clasped in front of her. Standing behind her is my father, and his expression is one I've never seen on him before. His jaw is set. His eyes are red.
He looks past Nash. Finds me.
"Ruby." His voice cracks on my name. "I need to tell you something. Something I should have told you a long time ago."
Nash's hand finds mine behind the doorframe where my parents can't see. His fingers lace through mine and squeeze once.
My father steps inside.
Chapter 22
Ruby
Mymothersitsonthe couch. She crosses her ankles, uncrosses them, smooths her hands over her slacks. She's wearing the pearl earrings she wears to church, which means she got dressed for this. Planned it. Chose those earrings knowing she'd be sitting in her daughter's apartment telling her something that required pearls.
My father stands in the middle of the living room holding a manila folder against his chest. Nash pulls a chair from the kitchen table and sets it across from the couch. My father stares at it. His fingers whiten around the folder. He sits.
Nash positions himself behind me where I'm perched on the arm of the couch, his hand settling on my lower back. My mother reaches over and takes my hand. Her fingers are ice cold.
My father opens the folder.
A photograph slides onto the coffee table. Me and Nash outside Amaranth, taken from across the street. I recognize the parking lot, the front window, Nash's bike angled at the curb. The shot is clear enough to read the sign on the door.
A second photograph. Me and Nash walking through the clubhouse gate. Taken from the road. Both our faces visible.
My stomach drops.
A piece of white paper. Block letters. My father's hand trembles when he sets it down.
HANDLE YOUR BITCH DAUGHTER OR WE WILL.
My mother's grip crushes my fingers. Behind me, Nash goes still. His hand on my back presses flat, spreading wide, covering as much of me as one palm can reach.
"When did you get these?" Nash's voice is level. Too level.
"The photos arrived two weeks ago." My father's hands return to his knees. He grips them. "The note came three days later."
"Why didn't you bring them to me?"
My father's jaw works. He stares at the photographs on the coffee table, at the image of me walking beside Nash, unaware, smiling at something he must have said, caught in a frame I never knew existed.
"Because I've been handling this for three years," he says. "And handling it means keeping her out of it."
"Dad." My voice sounds far away. "What are you talking about?"
He looks at me. His composure, the courtroom composure I've watched him wear like armor my entire life, splinters.
