Page 83 of Nutmeg + Mistletoe
“My dad and I have always been close. Like, really close. He was my whole world for a long time,” she says, her voice softening, just enough to show the shift. “Especially after my mom died. He never let me feel it too hard.”
She doesn’t get misty. Doesn’t crumble or pause for dramatic effect. She just says it plainly, like it’s a fact she’s lived with so long it’s settled in her bones.
“He hasn’t been with anyone since. Not really. He’s had dates, sure. Girls here and there. But nothing that meant something. It’s like he’s waiting. Or protecting something. Or maybe himself.”
“Maybe he’s just not the settling-down type,” I offer, too lightly and my chest immediately closes, tightening around the words.
“No, that’s the thing,” she says, pouring us both wine. “Lately, he’s been different. Talking about slowing down. Wanting something real. Something more. I’ve even started trying to fix him up on dates.”
She takes a sip of wine. I take a gulp, the conversation suddenly too close for comfort.
“There was one girl, though,” she says, her voice dropping. “Vegas,” she says, looking around.
And I choke.
Wine shoots down the wrong pipe and I’m coughing into my elbow like a complete moron. Real smooth, Eslin.
“Jesus, are you okay?” Marlow asks, eyes wide as she grabs a napkin and reaches toward me.
I wave her off between coughs. “Fine. Totally fine. Just—wrong hole. I mean pipe!”
Because pipe doesn’t make me think about penises at all, either.
Trying to steer the conversation away from the trapdoor opening beneath me, I manage, “Must’ve been some girl.”
My voice sounds almost normal. My heart, however, is doing sprints.
“Yeah, sounds like it.” Marlow shrugs. “He doesn’t say much about her. But whatever it was, something about her stuck with him.”
No kidding.
I set my glass down, pulse still hammering beneath my skin, and force my brain to pivot before my face gives me away.
“So. About Declan, currently known as husband,” I joke, glancing around to make sure Grant’s still out of earshot.
He is.
Marlow freezes. Then she exhales, long and worn out.
“Yeah. That.”
I lean against the counter, elbow propped, eyes on her. “You don’t have to go there if you don’t want to.”
“No, it’s fine. It’s justcomplicated. He’s sexy as hell, obviously. Accent for days. More tattoos than should be legal. But he’s also intense. And something in me…no, everything in me…is screaming I don’t need that kind of intensity in my life right now.”
“And how are things going with the divorce?”
I ask it casually, like a good friend would—like I haven’t already heard every messy, melodramatic detail in weekly therapy sessions with her soon-to-be ex. Marlow hasn’t had the time to vent, and I’ve kept my mouth shut like I’m supposed to. But still, I’m dying to know if her side of the story sounds anything like his.
She lets out a dry laugh. “Impossible. He’s pulling the most ridiculous stunts. My lawyers are bleeding me dry over paperwork that should’ve taken a week, tops. But Declan’s acting like I burned down his entire world.”
“His feelings are hurt,” I say quietly, without thinking.
She blinks, takes another long sip of her wine. “I don’t get it. We knew each other for twenty-four hours.”
“Sometimes,” I say, eyes glued to the bottom of my glass, “that’s all it takes.”
The room stills for half a second before Marlow tilts her head. “Sounds like you know something about that?”
