Nash Brothers Box Set - Carrie Aarons Page 0,264

way others can’t. It’s not a mystery why kids would be drawn to you … you’re like, who I would have wanted to be when I grew up if you were my teacher.”

Our waitress sets down our food, and I immediately take a giant bite of my burger. The cheese blends into the meat, and the tang of the ketchup hits my tongue in vinegary goodness. Looking across the table, Presley is just as invested in her BLT. We’re making sounds of ecstasy over our food, probably loud enough to attract the looks of other diners, and we both start to laugh at the same moment, mouths full of food.

“Being there just makes me think of how awkward I was in my middle school days. I had a hopeless crush on this guy named Tim. We were a couple for all of three seconds before he dumped me because he said I was too distracting with his youth football schedule.”

“Stop it! Men never change, do they? Except now, instead of youth football, it’s poker night with the boys. In middle school, I had not yet mastered how to tame my hair. I looked like a giant fuzzy monster, like Elmo if he’d been sent through the spin cycle.”

A giggle escapes me because I’ve seen those pictures of her. It wasn’t a pretty era for my friend.

“Would you go back? To the high school glory days?” I ask, wondering about her answer.

She tilts her head to the side, chewing a hunk of bacon as she considers my question. “Hmm, sometimes I’d like to. Life was so much simpler then. Homework had a deadline, Friday night parties were a guarantee. Your laundry was done for you and everything in the world was tainted with this hopeful possibility or something. Like anything was just in reach at the tip of your finger. How about you?”

It doesn’t take me even a second to answer, “Not if you paid me a hundred million dollars.”

Getting out of high school meant aging out of the system. It meant no one could keep tabs on my life anymore.

The past twelve years had been my glory days, and I’d lived them to their fullest.

13

Fletcher

“Fletch? FLETCH?”

Someone calls my name over the pound of the country song banging through the speakers in my shop.

The chainsaw in my hand whirs and jumps as I slice chip after chip from the massive block of wood in front of me. I’m not sure yet what it’s going to be, but my brain has been grasping at ideas all week and I’ve finally had time to come out here and do something about it.

I turn the belt off, waiting until the tool is all the way off before I set it on the ground. Prying my goggles from my face, I look to the entrance of the barn to see Keaton.

He walks in, admiring some of the half-finished work I’ve got going on, and sets a bag that looks suspiciously like the one the from the donut stand on Main Street on my workbench.

“Brought some reinforcements.” He nods at the pastry bag, and I open it to peer inside.

My favorite chocolate cruller and a Boston cream sit side by side. “Thanks.”

I haven’t spoken to any of my brothers since poker night, which was about two weeks ago. It’s the longest I’ve gone without talking to them since I got sober. Back when I was drinking, I would disappear for a month here or there, sleeping on friend’s couches or scumming around with lowlifes. I’ve tried to cut out the isolating behavior since I came home from rehab, but I’m still pissed about what went down at Forrest’s house.

“What are you working on?” My older brother sticks his hands in his khaki short pockets, and I know he’s trying to lean into the conversation with softball questions.

“Not sure yet.” I cross my arms over my chest.

I’m being glib on purpose because he wants this to be easy. Everything comes easy to Keaton, who has been the golden child of our family since my life started. I didn’t even have a shot, Keaton is six years older than I am, and he’d already firmly cemented his role as the next in line to the Nash throne by the time Forrest and I came into the picture. Dad groomed him to be a mini Jack Nash, and so far, he was doing a bang-up job.

So, no, I wasn’t going to make this easy.

“Come on, Fletch, don’t be like