Page 86 of Nash

“Clearly… ” I can’t help it. I have to make her smile. “I prefer people who are wild animals.”

She laughs. I don’t. But it’s a start back to feeling like my broken-hearted self.

“Well,” she says, “at least you didn’t do your primal play kink the week of my wedding because it looks like an animal attacked you. Clearly, he wasn’t a beige flag.” Pause. “More like a red flag. It might be for the best.”

Her words echo her father’s, and all I can feel is more pain. Pain over losing him. Pain over lying straight to her face.

It feels so wrong that Nash is right. We can’t hide this, and we can’t do this to her.

“Can I take you out today?” she asks. “You need air, sunshine, and five spicy margaritas.”

I let her convince me to eat a little, shower, and put on my black mini with white polka dots and my Mary Janes. But I don’t braid my hair. I can’t. It reminds me of how Nash would unbraid it.

After a lunch of fish tacos and, yes, margaritas, Alena suggests we get my dress fitted.

“It will make you feel better,” she says as we enter the wedding shop. “It worked wonders for curing Blair of her NFL dick disease.”

“I don’t know,” I reply, aiming for the bridal side of the store. “She’s still running a fuck fever over Beau Bronson. Apparently, he gave it to her so big and blue that she’ll never be the same.”

Alena laughs, and she’s right. Standing on the platform, surrounded by mirrors, I do feel a little better. The sage green dresses she chose are stunning. They flow to the floor, cinch tight around the waist, but have a convertible top. You can twist and wear its two wide fabric straps in multiple ways.

“Blair is wearing hers twisted and over one shoulder,” Alena says, admiring me. “So wear yours however you like, too.”

“I like it this way,” I reply. “It looks more traditional. Like a Grecian goddess style, twisted and tied behind my neck.”

“Traditional?” She laughs. “Since when are you traditional?”

“Alena?” A deep voice calls. “Is that you, sweetpea?”

No. Please. No.

“Dad!” she shouts back. “We’re in here.”

I can’t move. I can’t breathe. I’m frozen, watching the horror in the reflection of the mirrors.Mirrors.

Nash sweeps the velvet curtain aside and does it again. He stops dead in his tracks, but this time, it’s not over his daughter. It’s over me.

“Doesn’t she look beautiful?” Alena beams, rushing to hug him.

“Yes,” Nash answers with his heated stare locked on mine. “Very beautiful.”

Don’t you dare cry.

You can’t. You can’t let Alena know.

It takes everything I have to hide the breaking inside. The crushing weight. The suffocating pain. I want to die, but I have to stay standing.

“Dad,” Alena is focused on him, “you look so handsome.” She adjusts his jacket collar. “See? You make a navy suit look good. Maybe now you can go on those dates you always hide from me because I know you’re hiding something. A girlfriend, right?”

God, this is cruel.

“No. No girlfriend…” He swallows hard, still looking at me. “We were, uh, just here getting fitted. I didn’t know you’d be here, too.”

He’s talking to me, not Alena, but thankfully, she’s not aware.

“We?” she asks. “Is Michael here, too?”

Michael?

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