Page 12 of Nutcracker with Benefits
I can hear the murmur of two low voices, so I pick up the pace and slide into the great room, Risky-Business style, nearly knocking into a piece of art on the wall.
Dad’s at the breakfast table, drinking coffee and reading the news on his tablet, but he glances up at me and rolls his eyes at my theatrics, trying not to laugh. “Our darling daughter has made an entrance,” he says. Uncle D emerges from the pantry, an apron protecting his front that says Sounds gay, I’m in. “Morning, Sugar Plum.”
“What? Hotels do not have the shiny floors nor the space for a running start. I never get to do this.”
Dad squints at me. “I’m trying to remember if I was as energetic at your age. If I tried to do that now, I might break a hip.”
“You aren’t that old,” I say, kissing him on his prickly cheek. “And when you were my age, you had kids. That ages you up, like, fifteen years.” I do another small slide to come around the kitchen island, and Uncle D offers me his cheek, too.
“You hear that, Rolf? She just aged me up to seventy-nine.”
I ignore my dad and sniff around the oven. “What are you baking?” I ask Uncle D.
“Cherry almond ricotta scones,” he says.
I raise my eyebrows. “Plain ole scones not good enough for you?”
“I’m looking for a new challenge.”
“You have too many hobbies. Last time I was here, you were cross-stitching curse words.” There’s one in my bathroom that says Ahh…the fucks I don’t give with pink flowers and emerald vines.
“Rolf is afraid to be at loose ends,” Dad says. “Ever since he cut back on his hours at the office, he’s been picking up one hobby after another.”
Uncle D’s chest puffs up. “Semi-retirement keeps me busy.”
I switch on the light inside the oven and bend over to look at the scones. “You had to bake these today? Nash says I should be prepared to eat when he gets me, which means I can’t have a scone just yet.”
“You can have coffee,” Dad says and pours me a mug. We settle in catching up with each other, but I have a hard time focusing on the conversation. I keep wondering if this is when I’m finally going to lose Nash.
The first time Nash visited for a weekend my sophomore year, I took him to a party, and we were one of the last to leave, but instead of playing beer pong or flip cup or darts, and getting hammered like everyone else, we talked. We talked so much I was hoarse the next day.
It revealed a stark difference between him and other guys our age. Nash was serious and quiet. Broody, rather than verbose. He was more grown up than any of those dill holes, even the seniors.
My freshman year, missing Nash had been like missing my family. At the time, he was still living with his parents, and visiting me was entirely out of the question. They would never have allowed their son an unsupervised weekend with someone like me.
When he came to visit that sophomore year, something clicked. Nash was a different man. Sure, he was still quiet and serious, but he smiled more and he laughed more.
Over trash can punch, he opened up to me about living with his parents—the shouting matches, the hypocrisy, the anger that simmered. And he told me about moving in with my parents and how he’d tried to balance the two, but something had to give.
When Nash and I agreed to keep our benefits casual, there were plenty of good reasons, but the biggest one for me was that I would never live in New York City. And I knew, even when I first met Nash and he was still developing into the man he is today, that he would be a catch.
And I also knew that someday, if I let myself fall in love with him, he’d break my heart. Someday I’d come back home to find him in a relationship, and then I’d watch from afar while he fell in love. I’d fly back for his wedding, and I’d always see him and his wife because she’d become part of our family, too.
I would never regret sleeping with Nash. Our first time was awkward and gentle, but I trusted him with my body.
But I would regret falling in love with him.
5
Clara
I hear Dad greeting someone, and when I walk around the corner into the foyer, it’s not Nash coming in but Kara, his stylist. She’s got a small clothing rack with her, hanging black bags swaying as she strides. She’s also got a rolling suitcase that clacks along the floor, too.
“Kara!” I shout and throw my arms around her.
“Clara!” She shouts back in the exact same tone, and we both giggle.
“What are you doing here?” I ask her, pulling back. It’s been years since I’ve seen her, though, of course, I’ve kept up with her work—Nash always cuts a fine figure nowadays and Kara is one hundred percent responsible for that.
