Page 76 of Carry On (Love Doesn’t Cure All #4)

LINCOLN

Did I move my office to a coffee shop down the street from Calhoun’s just in case Nash needed me?

Yes, I did.

Was it probably overbearing and too much?

Probably.

But did I give a fuck?

No, I did not.

The truth was, I saw how hard he struggled after his phone call with Peter. His withdrawn response only fueled my worry about him adjusting to all the changes. I knew he said he’d be fine alone, and I hoped he would, but I was ready to be there if he wasn’t.

Calhoun’s was an old Irish bar with shamrock windows, a pool table that needed new felt, and the smell of smoke was built into the wood. But everything I read online talked about how they had some of the best burgers in Seattle, so that was a plus.

Nash waited just inside the door. From the look on his face, the man was uncomfortable and ready to run. It tugged at my heart. Wrapping an arm around his waist, I pulled him in close and kissed him. I kept it short and sweet. As I leaned back, I smiled softly.

“Get out of your head, Lucky,” I whispered.

“I’m…”

Struggling. The word he was looking for was struggling.

“I know,” I said. “Lucky for you, people find me charming.”

“Oh?” One brow lifted with curiosity.

“I’m often described as charming and charismatic.”

“Along with being egotistical and full of shit,” Nash retorted, making me laugh.

“That’s accurate too,” I replied. I sobered slightly as I added, “What I’m trying to say is that I’ve got you. We’ll get through this, and then we’ll go home and cuddle.”

“We saw where cuddling got us last night.”

“Mm, I know.” And it was probably the easiest way to get him out of his head after all of this was over. It wasn’t like I minded in the least. I wove my fingers through his and gave him a reassuring squeeze. “Come on. We’ve got this.”

“I don’t want to have this,” he muttered, but he led me toward the back of the bar where three people stood as we approached—Charlotte, Peter, and the last one had to be Mitchell, his father.

That would account for Nash’s request for help. I could only imagine how seeing his father made him feel. He avoided the man at all costs.

“Lincoln Cassidy,” I greeted them cheerfully and held out a hand, shaking each of theirs respectfully. “Nash’s husband.”

And it was in that moment, as varying looks of surprise crossed their face, that I realized none of them knew that Nash wasn’t straight. Ah, well, fuck. I glanced at Nash, but he just gave the smallest shake of his head.

What a way to come out.

“It’s nice to meet you.” Charlotte recovered first. Her gaze drifted between the two of us. “I had no idea that you were—”

“A lawyer?” I cut her off with a forced chuckle. “I know. It’s not the first thing that Nash brings up about me. Being a criminal defense attorney has brought up a few tense moral compass conversations.”

That wasn’t a lie, per se. Nash didn’t give a fuck about my career. He understood my need to hold the police department accountable for all their actions within every case. My uncle, on the other hand, did not, and I drew from that for inspiration.

It was easier to deflect to that rather than force Nash to have another conversation he didn’t want to have with them.

Sitting next to Nash, I rested a hand on his knee to maintain contact because I knew he found comfort in that.

“Cassidy…” Charlotte scrutinized me as she said my last name slowly, the wheels very clearly turning in her head. “You know, there’s a Beau Cassidy in Pine Creek. He lives on the other side of town off of… what’s the street, honey? It’s off of Main.”

“Honeycutt,” Mitchell and I replied simultaneously.

“Yes, Beau Cassidy is my uncle,” I continued with a nod. “I grew up in Pine Creek.”

“Is that how you two met?” Peter asked. He may have had darker hair and several inches on Nash, but it was startling just how alike they looked. The Calhoun genes ran strong in them, considering how much both of them resembled their dad.

“No,” Nash said, shaking his head.

“Well, we met once at your coming home parade,” I chimed in, and he made a small, disinterested sound. “But honestly, it was a handshake, and that was it. We ran into each other at a coffee shop here, and well… the rest is history as they say.”

A performative narrative wasn’t beneficial here. I could tell from how his leg bounced under the table that he was anxious. His narrow gaze as he watched his father was a pretty vivid telltale sign of his growing anger.

“I’m glad you’re happy,” Mitchell told us. The look on Nash’s face told me he wasn’t convinced. His father must’ve seen it too because he added, “I do mean it.”

“Yeah,” he muttered.

An uncomfortable silence settled as the two of them just stared at one another. I drew in a deep breath as I assessed the situation, coming up with as many possible ways to hold a damn conversation as I could because I’d need it. The two of them weren’t going to be any help.

“I’m sorry for the awkwardness,” Charlotte said as she joined me at the bar. One hour in, and I was ready to start day drinking. The hostility of the whole situation had me on edge, scratching something deep inside me, something triggering. I didn’t do well with this kind of silent anger.

When Nash and Peter went to play a round or two of pool, I took a step back and made a beeline for the bar to breathe. Mitchell trailed after them but kept his distance, leaving Charlotte to follow me.

“It’s fine,” I assured her.

“They weren’t always like this,” she continued. “They’ve actually gotten better about being in the same room together.”

My gaze flicked across the room to where Nash purposefully ignored his father. This was considered an improvement?

“It used to be that Nash couldn’t be around Mitchell without yelling,” she told me. “I don’t blame him, you know. I think I’d be a terrible mother if I wanted them to get along… not that I’m his mother.”

“No matter what he might say,” I began softly because I knew how he felt about Charlotte, “step-mothers are still mothers.”

“That’s very sweet of you to say.”

“I mean it.” I took a long sip of whiskey and nodded slowly as I swallowed.

Nash didn’t harbor any resentment toward Charlotte.

She just wasn’t his mother, and he didn’t believe in the concept of step-parents—at least not when it applied to him.

Everything with his father had left him deeply scarred and his outlook on family skewed.

“How is he?” Charlotte asked, making me frown.

“He’s fine,” I lied. Well, mostly lied. There were good days. I just struggled to figure out where they were amidst the darker days.

“I mean, truly, Lincoln. Is he okay?” she insisted. I sighed as I tried to figure out how to best answer her question. “Did he tell you how he ended up leaving the Army?”

“Just that he and his team were ambushed,” I said. “And that he was the only one who survived.”

“Did he tell you that he came home on a stretcher?” she asked. I just shook my head. That was new information to me. “Nothing can ever quite prepare you for being given that piece of information. He was in a hospital overseas for three weeks in a coma.”

My chest tightened painfully when I heard that. I didn’t want to think about Nash like that. I wanted to know everything about him, but some things just hurt to hear.

“He had a brain bleed, among other things,” Charlotte explained. “He recovered and came home. He was quieter… more withdrawn. And that’s saying something, considering he’d always been quiet and kept to himself. And then the headaches started. It’s impossible to explain what they were like.”

“He still gets them,” I whispered.

“Oh.” She blew out a short breath. “I’d hoped that someone would’ve figured out why by now.”

“We’re trying,” I assured her. “It’s just… a process.”

“I hope he finds answers,” she replied, and I believed her. “But the headaches led to drinking as a way to deal with the pain, and he just… he began to slip away before any of us could do anything.

“The system failed Mitchell in his own struggles, and as he watched Nash deteriorate, he got scared,” she said, her voice thick with emotion.

“We both did. He tried to handle it. He just couldn’t sit by and do nothing.

That fight was… oh, it was so bad that the neighbors called the police. And you know how Chief Rockwell is.”

“Do I ever,” I scoffed. I hadn’t heard that name in forever. Chief Rockwell was more nosy and intrusive than anything else.

“It took forever to get him to leave. Peter was at the neighbor’s to keep him out of it all, and Nash just… he was done. He left. I tried to get him to stay, but he didn’t want to, and he didn’t want our help. We had no choice. We had to let him go.”

“You know about his situation here in Seattle, don’t you?”

“You mean, did I know that he was homeless? Yes, I did,” she admitted. “Five years ago, I was in town for a show with some of my girlfriends, and I saw him. At first, I thought I was imagining things, but I wasn’t. I debated saying something, but I knew he wouldn’t take it well.”

That was absolutely true.

“Mitchell and I agreed not to tell Peter,” Charlotte said. “He’s… he’s always looked up to Nash. I genuinely didn’t think that Nash would want his brother to know, and, considering the elaborate lies he’s told Peter over the years, it was the right choice.”

Was it the right choice? That much I was on the fence about. While I knew helping him was hard, I didn’t wholly believe that doing nothing was the right choice either. He deserved more.

“Can I give you a piece of advice?” she asked. I nodded because I wasn’t sure I could stop her, even if I wanted to. “PTSD is a scary thing.”

Yes, it fucking was.

“It’s dangerous and violent in ways people never realize,” she whispered. “The man who came back wasn’t the same boy who enlisted. He’s fighting a war inside his head that you’ll never be able to touch… that you won’t be able to save him from. But he loves you.”

Her words made my heart stutter, and I glanced at her. Did Nash love me? I had no doubts about our connection, but love? I wasn’t so sure about that one.

“I just hope it’s enough,” I admitted a little pathetically.

“Me too, Lincoln.” She patted my arm gently. “Me too.”