Nash (23 page)

I called Faith and filled her in on the situation with our mom. She sounded so stressed out and so sad, I

felt bad for her, but Mom was an adult and had to make her own choices and suffer her own consequences.

There wasn’t much we could do. We talked for most of the drive home. She couldn’t believe I had bailed

out on the doctor. I hadn’t exactly told her who my rescuer had been. I knew she wouldn’t like it. Not after

the way my younger self had broken at the hands of Nash’s thoughtless actions and words, directed at me

or not.

I still didn’t fully believe that he hadn’t been talking about me, that he was just running his mouth. The

vehemence in his tone, the anger in his eyes, made me want to believe him, but I just didn’t know. Frankly,

even if he was talking about someone else back then, the words were still cruel and awful. If I let go of that

memory, admitted that there was a distinct possibility that my own shattered sense of self, my own broken

self-confidence, had fabricated what I wanted to hear, what I just expected to hear about myself back then,

then it followed that I had to admit that everything I had done, all the roadblocks I faced in my

interpersonal relationships up to this point, fell on me. That was a tough pill to swallow.

I cleaned up the apartment a little, took a shower, and braided my long hair, made myself a bowl of

cereal for dinner because my stomach was turning up and down, and dug around in my closet for

something that was okay to get dirty but didn’t make me look like a bag lady. I settled on a pair of yoga

pants and a button-up flannel shirt over a tank top. It wasn’t going to win me any prizes on
Project Runway,

but I doubted it would send Nash running for the hills. It took me a second to recognize that I wasn’t

freaking out at him seeing me like this. Maybe because he had seen me so often in my scrubs at the hospital

and sans makeup while I was working. Or maybe it was because there wasn’t a part of me he hadn’t had his

hands or his mouth on and he didn’t seem to have any complaints. Had I been anyone else, I think his

nonverbal appreciation of my naked form would have been a huge stroke to my ego, but being as I was a

weirdo, I was just glad he kept his actual thoughts on the subject—good or bad—to himself.

He showed up a few minutes after ten, gave me a quick once-over, pulled me into a kiss that had me

panting and winded, and hauled me outside to the car. He was dressed in what I assumed he wore to work

and I could see that he had dark shadows under each eye and a scruff on his normally clean-shaven chin.

He looked drawn and worn out. I struggled a little with feeling guilty for asking him to give me some of his

time.

I asked him shyly, “Long week?”

He opened the door for me and ushered me into the car. The interior was still warm and he had the

Tossers playing on the radio. Every time I was in this monster of a car, Celtic punk rock was coming out of

the speakers.

When he got back behind the wheel, he looked over at me and gave me a lopsided grin.

“Well, hearing from you was a highlight of it for sure … and the flowers. You had the shop rolling. I’m

never going to hear the end of it. But Phil isn’t doing so great and I keep asking him about how I managed

to go my whole life without knowing that he was really my dad and he keeps telling me to talk to my mom.

I would rather eat glass. Plus now that Rule is back from his honeymoon, we have to start figuring out what

we want to do about the new shop. It’s all just kind of piling up.”

“I’m sorry about Phil and I can totally relate to the mom thing. I had to go get mine out of jail today.”

He barked out a laugh and looked at me. “You’re joking?”

“Nope.” I proceeded to tell him all about it, which meant I was the one carrying on the conversation for

a full fifteen minutes as he wound back across the city to the warehouse district out past Coors Field.

He asked questions along the way, but never interrupted, and I couldn’t believe how seamlessly I was

engaging with him. That never happened to me. He stopped in front of a huge garage and poked the code in

a big metal gate and drove through. I had no idea what we were doing in this part of the city or at this

location, so I looked at him questioningly.

“How is car repair fun?”

He tsked at me and pulled the Charger up to one of the closed bay doors.

“I rebuilt this entire beast from the ground up. It was my saving grace back in the day. This car and Phil

were pretty much the only things that kept me out of jail. It was how I figured out there were more

productive ways to spend my time than getting in trouble and trying to get a reaction out of my mom. Phil

told me that I needed a classic, something that would last the test of time. He told me if I took care of it,

babied it, loved it, that it would do the same for me. I realize now he was trying to teach me about more

than cars. He helped me pull it out of a junkyard and we spent years making it into the beast it is now.”

He got out of the car and punched in another code on another electric keypad, and the big bay door

started to roll up. The garage was dark and intimidating at first glance, but as he pulled the car in, the

headlights danced across a bunch of old cars in various stages of repair. It clearly wasn’t just a garage but a

custom car shop.

“My buddy Wheeler owns this place. He helps me out with the Charger when I need him to and we

trade out work. He lets me use the paint shop occasionally.”

I couldn’t help but lift an eyebrow. “A car guy named Wheeler? Really?”

He laughed and got out of the car. He reached behind the seat and pulled out a black bag and a roll of

something I hadn’t noticed earlier.

“His first name is Hudsen, and who are you to talk? You’re a nurse named Saint.”

He handed me the rolled-up bundle and I noticed that it was paper. I had no idea what we were doing

and told him as much.

He just took my other hand and we navigated the cars and toolboxes to the back of the shop, where

there was a sealed-off room. He turned on more lights and smirked at me. His eyes were glittering with

violet threads of merriment. I bit back a sigh. Really I could just stare at him all day and be happy.

“Back in the day I used to take a bunch of spray paint out and go tag a bunch of stuff to blow off steam.

I thought it was cool to break the law, to leave my mark all over the city, until I got busted and Phil had to

pay a huge-ass fine to keep me out of jail. That was how I got into art, into design. Really I think I wanted

to get busted doing something illegal so my mom would have to deal with me, but that’s neither here nor

there anymore and it’s still fun to paint with cans.”

We went into the room that was all white, had a crazy ventilation system, and had ventilators for

breathing hanging on the wall and a bunch of stuff that was obviously used to paint cars in it. Nash tossed

the bag on the floor and now I could hear the cans of paint inside it roll around together. He took the paper

out of my hands and walked over to one of the walls that had a wire hanging from it and a bunch of metal

clips.

“I can’t go out and paint walls, buildings, or trains anymore, at least not unless I’m getting paid to do it,

but graffiti is fun. It’s bright and wild, there are no rules, and after tattooing stuff for other people all day,

sometimes I need a change of pace. It’s nice just to get out and do my own thing, remember my own style.

Wheeler lets me set up in here. No mess, no vandalism charges, and it’s always pretty fun.”

I watched as he hung up two pieces of paper that were almost as tall as me and about as wide as a door.

He crouched down to start taking the multitude of paint cans in all the colors in the rainbow out of the bag.

I had never had someone let me in on one of their own little rituals before, never was close enough to

anyone for that. There was the pull he had on me acting up again.

“I can’t even draw a stick figure, Nash.” He was a professional artist, for goodness’ sake, how was I

supposed to be comfortable even playing around with that kind of skill level and talent judging me?

He grumbled something under his breath and crammed a black baseball hat that was in the bag on his

head backward. It was a good look for him.

“Saint, not everything is win or lose. We aren’t in competition with each other, we’re here to have fun

and spend some time together without a bunch of noise and the outside bugging us. Just relax and let go.”

I took his word for it. I didn’t have a choice. I had missed him this week and wanted this time with him.

I felt like he was giving me a peek inside the inner workings of his head. We stood side by side and

considered the giant canvases. He started on his first, and before I even picked up one can of paint he had

the entire background filled with swirling, primary colors that were bold and eye-catching. I couldn’t tell

what he was doing, but it was fascinating and engaging to watch.

I bit the tip of my tongue and started Bob Ross–ing some happy little trees and clouds. Before I knew it,

I forgot all about Nash, forgot I was in an auto body shop, and just started actually having fun. It was a lot

easier than I ever remembered painting being. I added a rainbow, and then I needed a pot of gold. Of

course, since I had a lopsided and runny pot of gold, I needed a leprechaun to go with it. By the time I was

done, I was laughing so hard I had to hold my sides, but the paper was covered in a sloppy, drippy mess

that no one would want, but it was hysterical to me, and when Nash looked over my shoulder at it and just

tilted his head and squinted his eyes to try and make it out, it only made me laugh harder. This is why

people kept telling me I needed to get out more. I couldn’t ever remember giggling so hard and

unrestrained.

I stepped around him to look at the creation he had been working on and my laughter got trapped in my

lungs. My jaw dropped open and I turned to him with gigantic eyes.

“Is that me?” I sounded like I was being strangled.

“Really? You have to ask?” His tone was humorous, but there was something else underlying it.

The picture he had created was a cartoon character, exaggerated and outrageous. The colors seemed to

pop off the paper. It was a nurse in an outrageously sexy outfit, the kind girls wore for Halloween when

they were on the prowl. She had wild red hair and was holding a cartoon syringe in one hand and a heart in

the other. Despite the exaggerated proportions and obvious enhancements to make her shockingly sexy, she

was me. The hair, the eyes, the face … all of it was me. How on earth had he done that in the twenty

minutes we had been screwing around?

“It’s amazing.”

“I keep telling you that so are you. You just aren’t listening.” He moved to take the painting down and I

reached out to stop him.

“Can I have it?”

He lifted an eyebrow. “Of course.”

It was huge, I had no idea what I was going to do with it, but the idea that that was how he saw me …

sexy, beautiful, and in control … I didn’t want to let it go.

“Nash, let’s go somewhere.”

“What do you mean? I was just gonna come back to your place with you if that was cool.”

I took the painting he offered me and hugged it to my chest.

“I never went on dates in high school, never had a guy try anything funny or get handsy so I could tell

him to stop. I didn’t kiss my first boy until I was almost twenty years old. I want you to take me somewhere

kids go to fool around. This was fun, and I haven’t really ever been the type to just let my hair down and

have fun. I think parking with you in a car sounds like a blast.” It also sounded hot and sexy and would

fulfill every teenage fantasy I had ever concocted that involved him.

“Saint, it’s cold out, we both have empty apartments, we’re both tall, and I’m not anywhere near as

small as I was in high school. It might sound fun, but the reality is going to be cold and cramped.” He was

grinning lightly when he said this, though, and I knew he just needed to be persuaded.

I put one of my hands on the center of his chest, felt his heartbeat steady and sound under my

fingertips, and looked up at him with pleading eyes.

“Please, Nash.”

He sighed and put a hand under my braid at the back of my neck.

“As long as you realize I probably won’t stop at second base and that means your ass is the one that’s

going to be naked and cold, then I’m in.”

I giggled, actually giggled, which I don’t think I had ever done before tonight, and kissed him on his

scruffy chin.

“Deal.”

He put the stuff from our painting party in the trunk, hopefully because he wanted the backseat free …

goody … and we started to head out of the city kind of toward Brookside.

“Where are we going?”

“Lookout Mountain.”

It was just outside Golden and where Buffalo Bill Cody’s grave was located. I had heard about it but