Page 113 of Carry On
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.Thatwas 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.”
