The whole place was neat—bookshelves arranged by color and size, open kitchen shelves with identical plates. The only clutter was a pile of sketchbooks scattered over the kitchen counter. A large wooden drafting table sat empty against the wall.
“You’re an artist.” It came out like an accusation and she tried to soften her tone. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Nathan tossed his keys into a small bowl near the door. “Because I’m not an artist.”
He moved to the counter and gathered the sketchbooks into a neater stack. Watching his slow, methodical movements made her want to throw something to reclaim his attention. “That is a five-thousand-dollar drafting table.”
He shoved the sketchbooks out of sight. “How do you know how much it costs? Are you an artist?”
“Why do you do that?”
“Do what?”
She raised an eyebrow. “That. Answer a question with a question.”
“Is that what I’m doing?”
“Yes. Or are you only this way with me?”
He stared at the table. “It was a birthday gift from my brother. I’ve never used it.”
“But you kept it.”
“It was a gift.”
The table obviously had history, which was none of her business. Despite shoving her tongue down his throat thirty minutes ago, she needed to remember that she barely knew this man. Nathan had an entire life she knew nothing about. He was entitled to keep some things private.
“I studied art history in college,” she said. “Black American portraiture. One of my professors owned the same table.”
“So you’re a photographer.”
“Yes. No. I used to be. Now, it’s barely a hobby.” She bit her lip and scanned the room, searching for a different topic. “Did you decorate this place yourself?”
He frowned. “It’s not decorated.”
Rachel pointed to a throw pillow on his couch. “That’s not functional.”
“Are pillows ever?”
She smiled. He was starting to sound like himself again. “Ask me in ten years when you need five different sizes to avoid getting a crick in your neck.” She leaned against the sofa. “Do you want to ask about the car?”
Nathan tensed. “Not really.”
She understood his reluctance. She’d been a chaos demon since the day they met. Drunken confessions. Needy late-night phone calls. Now she’d committed vandalism right in front of him. “It was Matt’s.”
“I assumed.”
“You saw him at the party?”
He unfolded his arms. “With the woman? Yeah, I did.”
“A warning would have been nice, a note—he loves notes—letting me know his girlfriend would be there.” Her eyes were drawn to a loose thread on one of his pillows. She clasped her hands and looked away.
“Do you still love him?”
His voice was gruff and rushed in a way that implied there was a right answer. Maybe that’s what was on his mind. “No,” she said, handing over another secret buried so deep, she’d only just realized it was true. “And he’s not why I kissed you.”
“No one would blame you for wanting revenge.”
“You’re not revenge.” She paused. “The car, that was revenge. And not because I still love him. I’m jealous of him. I always have been.”
Nathan’s shoulders slacked as the tension faded from his body. His shirt was still wrinkled from where her hands had gripped his shoulders in the shed. He pushed off the counter and moved closer, preserving enough distance to stay out of reach.
“I’m jealous of his friends, his career. The way he walks into a room and assumes everyone will like him. How it never occurs to him they won’t.”
She ran a hand through her hair, dislodging the dahlia. Nathan watched her yank at the hair clip for a moment, and whispered, “Stop. Let me.” He started untangling her hair, a few strands at a time, like he was doing to her insides—unfurling truths from places she didn’t know existed. She closed her eyes when his fingers brushed the shell of her ear.
“I’m jealous of how easy it is for him to let other people do things for him. He delegates every second of his life. Every burden. How do you do that and not float away?”
Nathan stroked her back and she leaned into it. “I’m angry,” she whispered. “I’m fucking furious at myself.” Her eyes burned and she closed them until the pressure passed. “This wasn’t supposed to be my life. And now I don’t know who I am without it.”
He set the hair clip on a table. “What life were you supposed to have?”
Rachel thought of Lyric. “There was a woman at the party tonight. A former classmate. We were a year apart.” She wrapped her arms tight around her waist. “She didn’t recognize me. She looked right at me and saw the First Lady of Oasis Springs and not Rachel Thomas, because I buried her. I gave her up and I grieved for her because it was the right thing to do. I became a wife. And a mother. And that should be enough.” She met his eyes, desperately searching. “Why isn’t that enough?”
Bobbi had once told Nathan he had a hero complex, but he didn’t believe her. He’d never wanted to be someone’s savior. And Rachel didn’t need saving. She was strong and brave. Brave enough to be vulnerable with someone who was practically a stranger without expecting the same in return. She leaned into him after her confession, dazed but content, as if he’d done enough for her by existing. But it wasn’t close to enough. He wanted to make things better. Solve her problems. Be her hero.
He also wanted to kiss her again. It was all he could think about. In the car. At the door. As he pried that pin from her hair, he’d wanted to press his face into all that softness. But that wasn’t what she needed. If he was being honest with himself, he didn’t know how to help her. He had no idea what it was like to stare down the end of a marriage. But he did know how it felt to lose something that was a part of you, and how lonely it was when no one knew or cared.
“Let me show you something.” Nathan grabbed the tablet hidden underneath his sketches. His stomach coiled in protest as he pulled up his Instagram account. He hated this moment—that sliver of space between someone’s eyes hitting his drawings and the reaction they thought he wanted. When he’d shown them to his ex Nina, she’d said all the right things, compliments that a good girlfriend would give early in a relationship. But he’d seen her true feelings the second she’d looked at the screen: confusion and amusement. This is what he does in his spare time?
That was the last time he’d shown it to anyone he was dating. But this was different. Rachel wasn’t his girlfriend. Friend also seemed inadequate. Rachel was a feeling. She was the reason he woke up every morning and checked his phone with his heart in his throat. She was the flutter in his chest when he drove by The Stand. She was a spark that made him want to draw again. He wanted to fill the empty sketchbooks he’d been ignoring for months with renderings of her face.
Rachel saw the first drawing and whispered so softly that he could barely make out the words. “What did you say?” he asked.