though. She's still in my head, reminding me I'm throwing everything away, fucking up my own life. I'm not good enough, so I have to work ten times harder than everyone else to keep up. Nothing I do will ever be enough. The thoughts have etched themselves into my brain the way water carves through stone over time.
The new head housekeeper, Thalia, said she would bring me my meals to the guest house, but I was always welcome to eat in the main house. I tell myself that's why I'm going over there now. I hate to have her deliver me food like I'm royalty or something. I'm perfectly capable of going to the house to get my own dinner.
It's a little after five when I walk into the house. It's silent except for the sound of someone in the kitchen. Expecting to walk in and find Thalia making dinner, I stop in my tracks when I pass through the dining room and see Nash shoving greens into a blender. He's in the same business attire he had on earlier when he practically attacked me in the guest house. His dark gray slacks are tight around his backside with a black snug-fitting T-shirt tucked into them.
When I first met Nash, he still seemed like a kid. We're the same age, but he was in such a low place at that time. Now he's a man, and it almost feels like we switched places. His life got substantially better while mine got so much worse.
For a moment I watch him fill the blender with yogurt and berries, trying not to gaze too long at the sculpted muscles of his back or the way he fills out those pants. He still doesn't even know I'm standing here, so I clear my throat and make my presence known.
He does a double take after first looking at me, probably thinking I'm one of the housekeepers. Keeping my eyes averted, I walk straight to the fridge to get something to drink.
"Oh, Hanna...hi."
I respond with a small smile. Nash and I have been acquaintances for years, but now suddenly things feel weird.
"Are you getting settled okay?" he asks after a moment.
"Yep. I'm fine."
"Good."
It's awkwardly quiet for a moment, and I'm tempted to leave but it would be rude to just walk in and out so quickly. Instead, I linger at the kitchen island.
"Would you like some?" He holds out his smoothie toward me.
"Aren't you going to eat dinner?" I ask after shaking my head at his offer.
"I eat late. I usually work until eight or nine."
His eyes linger on my face for a moment as the silence absorbs us, and I find myself biting my lip because I have nothing to say.
"I'm sorry again," he mutters before turning back to the blender. "For what I did today."
"Who exactly did you think I was?"
There's a quick glance in my direction before he answers. "I had no clue. Maybe a housekeeper or employee."
"And that's how you would treat them? Grab them like that?"
When he finally looks up at me, there's a thin layer of shame on his expression. Like I opened a wound or made him face something he didn't want to face.
"You took me by surprise. That's all. I wouldn't...normally..."
Suddenly I see Nash, the boy. The one I met three years ago. And I wonder what he sees when he looks at me.
Instead of harping on him more about the incident, I brush past him and head for the refrigerator. Seeing a carton of eggs and some vegetables in the drawer, I pull them out and make my way for the kitchen island.
"Thalia will be making dinner soon," he says, eyeing me skeptically.
"You need to eat more than a smoothie, and you shouldn't wait until eight tonight to do it. Let me make you an omelette." He doesn't reply as I set to chopping up the spinach, red pepper, and onions. For a moment, it feels good, like I’m a part of this family, not such an outsider, and in the silence of the kitchen, I write poetry in my head. Something about the sizzle of the skillet and feeling so far removed from the real world. It needs work.
"Thank you," he mumbles quietly while I work. Then he sits on the bar stool and scrolls through his phone. Every few moments I feel his eyes on me.
"Do you ever take a break?" I ask.
"I like to work." His fingers are typing away frantically at his phone,