Page 75 of Carry On (Love Doesn’t Cure All #4)

NASH

LINCOLN: Just text if you need backup.

I can handle this.

LINCOLN: I never said you couldn’t. I’m just offering to be there.

I know, and I’ve got this.

Like hell you’ve got this , the voice commented, loud and overbearing like it had been all day and all night.

Fuck, I needed a drink.

Or ten drinks.

Maybe I’d just go drink in another bar and never show up for lunch.

Stopping on the sidewalk, I sighed and ran a hand through my long hair. I couldn’t do that. I’d promised Peter I’d do this lunch. I owed him it. I owed him a lifetime of memories.

Or maybe his memories are better off without you, the voice said.

Oh, it was going to be a long day.

Calhoun’s was a little hole-in-the-wall Irish tavern that Peter picked. The kid wasn’t old enough to drink but thought the name was fate or some shit like that. I envied his happy optimism. I wanted a shred of his excitement for this meeting, but I couldn’t muster it.

Meeting up with them meant pretending everything was okay. It was the whole reason I’d left in the first place. I couldn’t maintain that facade. It was too exhausting. I didn’t know how to smile and pretend like I wasn’t crumbling under the ever-present pressure of the world.

And yet, here I was, inviting in those same circumstances all over again.

They didn’t need my dark and twisted mess.

They didn’t need me.

Swallowing my pride, I made myself walk inside.

“Nash!” someone exclaimed, moving to cut me off. I had all of five seconds to register that the man in front of me was my brother before he dragged me in for a hug.

“You look good,” Peter whispered as he squeezed me tighter.

“You got tall, kid,” I said. That much was true.

He had at least two or three inches on me, and that was saying something, considering I was pushing six-two.

His chestnut hair contrasted with my blond hair, but those Calhoun green eyes were prominent as ever.

Broad shoulders, lean muscles, and tanned skin, the kid looked every bit the rancher he wanted to be.

Hell, he even had some stubble on that baby face of his.

As much as I loved the kid, the ongoing hug made my skin crawl. I gave him a quick pat on the shoulder, hoping to hell he’d get off of me. Thankfully, he did and shoved his hands in his pockets.

“It’s good to see you.” That giant smile on his face as he said the words was infectious.

“Yeah,” I agreed. Despite the growing discomfort in my chest, I did mean it.

“Come on.” He pointed over his shoulder. “We have a table this way.”

I followed him through the scattered crowd to a table toward the back. I expected to see Charlotte, but the man next to her? He was a surprise I didn’t want.

He didn’t want you either, the voice reminded me.

Mitchell Calhoun.

My fucking father.

‘Sorry,’ Peter mouthed, which told me this had been the plan all along.

“It’s fine, kid,” I assured him. I knew it wasn’t his doing. That was the thing about Mitchell. No one could make the man do a damn thing he didn’t want. My childhood was literal proof of that. “Mitchell.”

“Patrick,” he replied.

“It’s Nash,” I corrected, my voice sharp.

“Right.” At least he had the intelligence to avoid trying to hug me. He did offer me his hand, though. I caved just enough to shake it, quick but not fast enough.

Charlotte, however, wouldn’t settle for a handshake. She rounded the table and wrapped me up in a hug, the kind that bled with that mom feeling. It fostered something bitter inside me, the part of me that wished my mother were still around. I envied Peter’s ability to have this in his life.

“Oh, look at you.” She beamed. “You look so good.”

“Thank you,” I said, offering a slight smile. I wasn’t mad at Charlotte. At least, not anymore. My childhood wasn’t her fault. She’d done her best given the circumstances that had thrown us together.

“Sit, sit,” Charlotte ordered as she gestured to the seat across from her. I sat, and Peter was quick to fill the spot next to me. “So, Nash, it’s good to see you. How are you? How have you been?”

I appreciated Charlotte’s attempts to lead the conversation, but fucking hell, that was a loaded question. I made a face as I tried to come up with the fastest, easiest way to sum up the years I’d been in Seattle. I had no desire to tell them anything.

They don’t want your mess, the voice stated.

Maybe I’d tell Peter the oddball thing here or there, but never all the details.

“You’re married,” Mitchell commented.

“Uh…” Fuck. I glanced down at my wedding ring. I’d meant to take that off before coming, but wearing it had become second nature. Besides, a little part of me liked wearing it. “Yeah. It’s… new.”

So new that we got married before we decided to be a couple.

“Oh!” she gasped, a hand flying up to her chest. “Oh! I wish we’d known. We would’ve been there.”

“It was a small ceremony,” I replied. “Nothing special.”

They know you’re lying, the voice said.

“She could’ve come today,” Peter chimed in.

Ah, that. I’d known most of my life that I wasn’t straight. I had no interest in anyone. Sex, relationships, connection. I embraced the lone wolf thing on a deeply intrinsic level.

Lincoln was the first real person to captivate me. The few hookups I had were with men. I just never felt the need to announce that to my family. I didn’t know how they’d take it.

One more reason for them not to love you, the voice commented.

“Work comes first, you know?” I kept it simple and honest. Lincoln was at work after all. “Maybe next time.”

Foot meet mouth. That was a door I wasn’t sure I wanted to open, even as Peter’s face lit up.

“I’d like that,” he replied. “You guys should come to Pine Creek. Did I tell you I have a cow now?”

“Jesus fuck,” I scoffed. “You and your damn cows.”

“It’s only temporary!” he exclaimed. “I borrowed it from…”

The conversation rolled on around me, moving from Peter’s horse training to my father’s job to the gossip in Pine Creek. It was all too much. Too fleeting. I couldn’t grasp onto any of it. I didn’t know how to connect with them.

I was drowning in the civility and norm of it all.

I needed an anchor. My anchor.

Under the table, I pulled out my phone and texted Lincoln.

Help. I can’t do this.

LINCOLN: I’m on my way.