At least the Mariners had won, so Sam was in a buoyant mood and sex was likely to be extra spirited when they got home. Nash glanced at his watch. It was pushing midnight. The game had dragged on and on into extra innings. If there was anything worse than enduring a tenth game in only a three-week span, it was suffering through a pitching duel that went into overtime.
The things he did for love. He was exhausted. At least he didn’t have to work tomorrow, but still, he’d gotten up early this morning and worked a twelve-hour shift. He’d have to ride in with Sam tomorrow to pick up his car since they’d never have made it to the game in time if he’d driven all the way home to Sammamish and back after work, and he hadn’t felt like swinging by the hospital this late to drive home separately.
His eyelids felt heavy. Nash closed them just to rest his eyes. He wasn’t going to fall asleep, though. Maybe just rest his head on the side window, too, but definitely not going to fall asleep.
* * * *
The stabbing pain radiating through Nash’s arm made it difficult to focus on anything else. He opened his eyes and squinted in the glare of the morning light. The windows in the bedroom faced east. There were blinds on the window, but they weren’t slanted backward, so the sun peeked through between the slats. What was the sun doing actually shining in Seattle anyway? The whole damned world was conspiring against him.
Fuck that dream, too. If he was going to dream about Sam, couldn’t it at least have been a happy memory instead of a miserable evening like that one had been? He’d been too out of it when they’d finally arrived home later to even care about sex anymore. That night had had no redeeming value whatsoever.
“Just as well,” he muttered, forcing himself to a sitting position. “Sam is your past. Emmitt is your present and your future.”
Maybe his subconscious was trying to help him get over Sam by dredging up bad memories. Well, fuck his subconscious. There were plenty of good memories, too. They’d had some fantastic times together. He could get himself over this without trashing Sam’s memory.
He scanned the room, and there was no sign of Emmitt. Well, there were clues that he’d slept in the bed beside Nash—the indent on the pillow, the messed-up bedding on the other side of the mattress—but, the man himself was gone. Judging by the clock on Emmitt’s bedside table, he was no doubt at his office. No, it was a surgery day, so he was at the hospital.
Nash had gone to bed earlier than either Emmitt or his parents, so without the evidence of the rumpled bed he wouldn’t have known he’d spent the night sleeping with another man. “Just as well,” he mumbled again.
His gaze landed on his bedside table. He moaned in relief, reaching first for the pills, then thought better of it and put them down and picked up a couple crackers Emmitt had left for him to eat first. After all, the pills wouldn’t do him much good if he vomited them up within minutes.
He washed down the crackers with a swig of water, then ate a couple more for good measure since his stomach was completely empty, before finally allowing himself to take the pills. He sat for a few more minutes, finishing the bowl of crackers before nature’s call got too persistent, and he made his way to the bathroom.
After relieving himself, a quick wash-up, and brushing his teeth, he sat on the bed to wait for the pills to take effect before facing the struggle to change out of his pajamas and into some clothes.
He stared at the now-empty bowl on the nightstand. Screw bouquets of roses and other grand gestures of love. This kind of thoughtful deed eclipsed that shit. Emmitt was a keeper—gentle, caring, attentive, and uncomplaining. Nash already knew this in his heart. He just needed to quit thinking about Sam so he could concentrate on loving Emmitt.
* * * *
“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” Dad said. “You should kick back in one of those cushy chairs and just let your body heal.”
“But that’s just it, Dad. Sitting around isn’t the best way to recuperate. Of course I don’t want to do anything to strain my injured arm, but getting my blood flowing in general is better.”
Dad turned to Mom. “Paula, a little help here, please.”
Mom frowned. “I don’t know…what he says kind of makes sense, don’t you think?”
“Besides,” Nash added. “If I’m sitting like a lump in the chair, I’ve got nothing to do but dwell on how much my arm hurts. Putting stuff away will be a distraction from that.”
Dad stared, then heaved a heavy sigh. “Part of my objection is due to you not remembering this guy. I get that the engagement just happened, but you never mentioned him in your phone calls prior to the other day when you announced you were getting married, so we don’t know anything about him. Obviously this relationship moved along very fast. What if you don’t ever remember him? Are you sure you want to unpack everything before you’re certain you want to move forward?”
Nash stiffened. “You don’t like him?”
“I’m not saying that.” Dad shook his head. “We hardly know him, but I’ll admit I like what I’ve seen of him so far.”
“Mom?”
“My instincts are usually pretty solid. I think he’s a good one.”
“I fell in love with him once, I’ll do it again.” Nash nodded with conviction. “It’s not like I have that much personal stuff, anyway. I want to go into this with a positive attitude.”
“When you were staring off into space earlier, you were thinking about Sam, weren’t you?” Mom asked.
No sense denying it. It wasn’t like it was unreasonable under the circumstances, anyway. “But I need to just forget about him. That’s over, and there’s obviously no hope.”
“In your mind, it just happened, though,” Dad said.
“Have you thought about calling him?” Mom added.
Of course he’d thought about it…and rejected it. It might’ve been a couple days for Nash, but it had been four months for Sam, and Sam was busy building his new life—or rebuilding his old life, technically. He loved Sam enough to not want to screw things up. Emotions didn’t have to overrule good sense.
“I don’t want to bother him.”
“Myles told us that Sam called Harley, asking about you. He’s concerned,” Mom said. “I’m pretty sure he’d welcome a call from you.”
“And think about this…” Dad added. “First time around you at least got to say good-bye to Sam. Maybe talking to him will give you the closure you need.”
Nash stared out the windows. That was true enough about Sam…he probably wouldn’t be upset. Nash knew nothing about Sam’s husband, though. Was he the jealous type? And what if talking to Sam made things worse, instead of helping him move on?
“I’ll think about it.”
“Fine.” Dad gestured to the cartons piled against the wall. “You’re not lifting any of those boxes, though. I’ll do the heavy lifting and get them open…pretty much anything that needs two hands.”
Mom stood and approached the stacks. “Which do you want to open first?”
Nash shook his head. “I don’t even know which ones are mine, let alone what’s in them.”
On second thought, which boxes were whose was easy enough to deduce. “Never mind…no doubt the ones in grocery store boxes and stuff are mine and the ones in those uniform U-Haul boxes are his.”
“I don’t suppose there’s a junk drawer in that fancy kitchen with a box opener in it,” Dad said. He’d managed the statement without any overt sarcastic overtone, so perhaps it wasn’t intended to be.
Mom’s side-eye response was, though. “Not a chance. Want a paring knife, or just pick and peel?”
“Myles has got to have at least a small toolbox somewhere. If it’s not under the kitchen sink, then maybe in that little bathroom or laundry under the stairs,” Dad replied.
While Dad walked around the corner to search for a toolbox, Mom patted the top box on Nash’s pile. “Pork ’n’ beans box first?”
“Sure. It’s probably books. That makes sense for a smaller box.” Although not so much sense for a top box, so who knew.
Mom nodded and turned to Emmitt’s bookcases. “Well, at least they’re empty.”
Nash sighed. He couldn’t really arrange his stuff until he knew what Emmitt had to put on the shelving, too. If it wasn’t one thing, it was another. They could remove stuff from the boxes, anyway, and sort it out later.
Dad came back around the corner, victorious, with a box cutter in hand. “There’s a toolbox in that laundry alcove, in case you need anything else later.”
Come to think of it, Nash probably had a toolbox of his own in one of those boxes. He owned one—or had, anyway—so it was a question of how thoroughly he’d packed his stuff from Sam’s. He could use that rationale to explain a phone call to Sam…“Hey, hate to bother you, but I’ve finally gotten around to unpacking and noticed I left some of my stuff behind.” That sounded better than a weepy, “I needed to hear your voice one more time,” didn’t it?
He’d had stuff spread out all over Sam’s house. Photos, books, his collection of cat figurines. A sudden ache of yearning for Tigger brought a frown to Nash’s face. Due to Sam’s allergy, one of the nurses in the OR had taken his cat when he’d moved in with Sam. Now he didn’t have either of them—the cat or Sam.
A ringtone Nash didn’t recognize broke the mood. Actually, he recognized the song—it was Bobby Darin singing “Dream Lover,” but he didn’t remember assigning it to anyone. A moment of panic flashed through Nash’s mind when Dad picked up the phone, looked at it, then passed it to him.
“Myles is calling you,” he deadpanned.
Nash exhaled loudly, his anxiety relieved. To whom had he thought he’d assign such a ringtone other than his fiancé? He smiled and reached for the phone, encouraged to know he’d associated that song with Emmitt.
“Hello?”
“Nash? Good morning.” Emmitt’s tone was upbeat, but rushed. “I have only a minute, but I wanted to check in and see how you’re feeling.”
“Oh, fine. I’ll live, anyway. Hey, how do you feel about cats?”
“Cats? I don’t know. Never had one. You wouldn’t rather have a dog?”
“A dog? No. You mean you don’t like cats?”
“Uh…no, I didn’t mean it that way. Can we talk about his later?”
“Yeah, sure.” They’d probably already had this conversation. Emmitt was probably getting tired of rehashing issues they’d already settled. “So, anyway, we’re doing a little unpacking in the living room. Would…umm…do you want to take care of your boxes yourself? ’Cause we wouldn’t mind doing it, and it would probably make it easier to know where I should put my stuff if I know what else needs to be worked in, too.”
“Oh. Yeah, sure, if you want. There’s nothing in there that I don’t want anybody to see, or anything like that.” The pitch of Emmitt’s voice rose, as if he was cheered by Nash’s request. Was he cheered by the good sign that Nash was unpacking his belongings and therefore planning to stay, or that Nash was staying active? Either seemed to fit his temperament more than the idea that he was unduly pleased to be getting out of a little work. Regardless, it was another positive sign.
“Cool. That should keep us busy through the afternoon, then.”
Nash heard some background voices speaking to Emmitt, and his muffled reply, then, “Nash? Sorry, I’ve got to go. I’ll see you later…probably around six. I’ll call if I’m going to be much later than that.”
“Okay, sure.” That was all Nash got out before Emmitt clicked off. “Well, shit,” he muttered, staring at the phone. Then sighed and put it on the coffee table.
It was going to feel different being on the receiving end of that kind of call instead of the one making it, or the voice in the background calling away the doctor’s attention. He also knew that the “I’ll” in “I’ll call if I’m going to be…” didn’t necessarily mean Emmitt himself would call, either. At least he’d likely be more understanding than the average doctor’s spouse.
“Myles will be home around six,” Nash said, “or call if that changes. Oh, and he’s fine with letting us unpack those other boxes, too.”
“Good. That’ll keep you two busy through the afternoon.” Mom narrowed her eyes at him. “But you’ll take plenty of breaks, and eat snacks throughout the day.”
“Us two?” Dad asked.
“Myles gave me the link to a good grocery that delivers. I’m going online to place an order. Then I’ll bake an apple pie and get some prep work done for lunch and dinner.” She absently shook her head and looked at Nash. “The man has an amazingly well-equipped kitchen for someone who doesn’t cook.”
Awesome. Maybe Emmitt had gotten the kitchen stuff in his divorce. Whatever…Nash didn’t give a shit why, he was just glad Mom seemed happy. With his appetite starting to come back, he better appreciated her efforts.
Dad grimaced, which was his version of a smile, so he had no objections, either. He placed the opened box of textbooks on the floor next to a bookcase, then opened a few of Emmitt’s boxes and put them on the coffee table for Nash to sort through.
It was slow going, one-handed, especially taking care not to jostle himself overmuch in the process. As promised, Dad let him handle anything that wasn’t heavy or awkward since the point of the project was for Nash to get some low-level exercise and stay active so he wouldn’t dwell on the pain.
Unpacking Emmitt’s things proved to be interesting. It was a good way to get to know his future husband—or at least a way to learn about his reading and movie preferences (mysteries and a well-rounded mix of action flicks, sci-fi, and rom-coms), and get a peek at his history.
There was an old family photo with a couple he assumed must be Emmitt’s parents, and three boys. Two of them were older, probably college or post-graduate aged, and a teenager who looked like a younger hippie-fied version of Emmitt. The kid’s hair was well past his shoulders, and he was sporting a carefree happy grin and making a peace sign with the fingers of his right hand. Nash never would have believed it if he hadn’t seen it for himself.
There were several more framed photos featuring people who looked like Emmitt’s older brothers from that first photo, posing with their wives and children. The other pictures that stood out were one of Emmitt with an older couple—grandparents maybe—when he was probably college age. His hair was a little shorter than in the teenaged photo, but still on the long side. It was the goatee he was sporting that made Nash grin. The other was a picture of Emmitt decked out in his college graduation gown, etcetera, standing at a podium, giving a speech. Probably a valedictorian speech—Nash had heard that Emmitt had been tops in his class all the way through. The goatee had become a Van Dyke for that photo, although the hair was a bit shorter than in the earlier one. All in all, he’d gained a bit of insight into his fiancé, and liked what he’d seen.
Mid-afternoon, Nash was sitting on a barstool at the kitchen island, snacking on veggies and hummus, when his phone piped up again. This time, the ringtone was Gloria Gaynor singing “I Will Survive.” Interesting choice for a ringtone, and once again, not one he remembered assigning to anyone.
Dad picked the phone off the coffee table, looked at it, and swiped to answer. Clue number one…it was someone Dad knew.
“Hello.” Dad kept his greeting simple and offered no further hints. He listened for a moment, then replied, “No, this is Conrad. He’s occupied at the moment. If you’re still downtown, maybe you could come by for a visit.” Dad glanced at Nash and took a deep breath. “I think it would do him some good.”
Cool, a visitor. Maybe it was Angela. Probably not Harley. He’d said he’d give Nash the week to hang with his parents, then he’d stop in to visit on Saturday. Nash looked at the clock on the microwave. No, probably not Angela. She’d be working until six.
“Okay, we’ll see you soon.” Dad gave the caller the address, then ended the call.
Nash raised his eyebrows, silently asking.
“He called Harley again, and Harley encouraged him to get in touch,” Dad stated.
Nash stiffened. Again. He called Harley again. The ringtone was beginning to make sense. “Who’s coming over?” Nash whispered, although he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear the answer.
“Sam. He’ll be here around five.”
Nash felt the blood drain from his face, and he slumped forward, triggering a sharp twinge to radiate through his arm. “Ouch. Damn it.”
* * * *