Page 8 of Nutcracker with Benefits
When he pulls back, our eyes catch for a moment. All the fire I felt this morning, excitement at the possibility of seeing Nash that banked when I stumbled into Dad instead, starts to catch again.
But a small voice in the back of my head reminds me that Nash didn’t tell me he was sleeping at his place. It would have taken mere seconds to message me about it. And then there’s the article….
Molly screeches loud enough to be heard all the way back here, and Nash and I both jump.
When I look back at him, he’s watching me, eyes full of warmth. Don’t read too much into it, Clara, I tell myself sternly. He’s your best friend. Who you bang. Best friend with bangifits.
I lean toward him. “When did Dad and Uncle D start sleeping separately anyway?”
“What? Oh.” Nash blinks and focuses on our conversation. “Your dad started using a C-PAP machine at night to combat his sleep apnea. It keeps Uncle D awake, so they sleep in separate rooms.”
“Oh.” I nibble my lip. “Are they doing okay?”
When Nash looks down at me quizzically, he registers the concern on my face and softens. He gently bumps his shoulder with mine. “Of course they’re okay. It’s Uncle D and Craig. Uncle D has been scaling back his time in the office, and Craig is loving that.”
Relief courses through me. “Good. Dad deserves that.”
Nash and I both settle our palms on the bed behind us, leaning back.
“I feel like such a shit for not telling you I was sleeping at my place,” he confesses.
“It’s okay. They kept your room as a shrine a lot longer than they did mine. It had to end eventually,” I tease. Nash lived with my parents while I was at college after his family kicked him out. It was just a few years ago that Nash finally got his own place, but since there were enough rooms for the two of us, he always slept over for Christmas.
Nash sighs, letting his head fall back on his neck. “It’s been crazy at work. It’s always hard when the holidays fall together, and this year with Hanukkah ending yesterday, it was a tight fit. The guy I’ve been working with on implementing some new coding is Jewish, and I’ve been trying hard not to pull him in, but…” He trails off and shrugs his shoulders. “Bugs.”
That one word does explain a lot. Growing up around Uncle D and later, Nash, I know there are always bugs in the code, kinks to work out.
“Will you still be able to take tomorrow off?”
“Of course. Jeb is back on the job and handling things, even today.”
Silence falls over us, and I work very hard not to bring up the last few paragraphs of that stupid article. I should just ask him about it, but I’m afraid the answer will be one I don’t want to hear.
Combined with the fact that Nash and I hadn’t talked a whole lot lately—the miscommunication about his sleeping plans being a big one—makes me think that Nash is off limits to me. And frankly, it’s about time. I knew someone would snatch him up.
“All right, well, we better get back to the family. I think the rolls are almost done, and I don’t want to get in trouble if they burn.” I tug on the sleeve of Nash’s shirt and heave myself off the bed.
The buns don’t burn, so we have sandwiches at the big dining room table, my parents ignoring the wild mess that my niblings make. It makes me wonder how often Molly and Ricky are here—often enough that they have their own place setting, apparently. I miss knowing these little things, the everyday facts about my family’s lives.
Our Christmas Day tradition, once presents have been opened and our big lunch has been eaten, is to sit on the couch and watch Christmas movies all day, talking, drinking tea or cider, and grazing on leftovers when we get hungry. Not surprisingly, our family is all about the food.
I usually spend at least half the time stealing glances at Nash, and most of those are catching him looking at me, too, which always shoots a thrill through me. But this year, Nash is on the other side of the couch with Dad and Uncle D between us. Now that they know that we’re more than friends, I am very conscious of trying not to look at Nash.
I fail. A lot.
But instead of secret glances, this year, I’m full of guilt. That last paragraph of the article plays on repeat in my head.
When asked if there was anyone special in his life, Darwish, who was named one of the city’s most eligible bachelors last year, said there was. He’s been romantically linked with several women over the years, most recently Dancing with the Stars alumni Nikita Howley. When asked to clarify, Darwish refused to comment. “That’s between me and her,” he said.
Coming home has always been a mixed bag of emotions for me. I’m excited to see my family, happy to force myself to take time off from work, and always, always nervous-excited to see Nash.
I live in the constant fear that someday, a few days before I fly home to visit again, he’ll say that, oh, he’s seeing someone, so this time we won’t be hooking up.
Because how is he still single?
Despite the attire du jour being Christmas pajamas—and though Nash’s Christmas pajamas, with their drunken grandmas and speeding sleighs, are particularly hideous—Nash still looks every bit the confident man I’ve watched him grow into. He’s sitting on the couch, an arm lying along the back, hand nearly touching Dad. One sock-clad foot is propped up on his knee, and he looks relaxed. But he could just as easily be wearing his suit, posing for one of the magazines. His brown skin, Roman nose, and thick eyebrows combine into a handsome face, despite the floppy hairstyle he’s wearing today and the overly long growth on his face that underscores how much work he’s been putting in lately.
Nash catches me staring and winks. He would have told me if he was seeing someone, right? Maybe there was someone and they broke up.
