Darcy stood over her phone, glaring down at the message from Nash. They’d spoken briefly on Tuesday, both of them complaining about the unusual heat and humidity, and she’d known a casual conversation was the wrong time to broach the subject of his prospective house.
Sure. Come over for dinner tomorrow night. We’ll eat inside with the air conditioners on full blast.
She put together a pot roast with veggies in the slow cooker and went off to the library, feeling slightly cheerful, slightly anxious. On her way home from work, she stopped to buy a bottle of red wine and a six-pack of Whale’s Tale Pale Ale, Nash’s favorite. At home she changed into a sundress so loose she could wear it without a bra, and pulled her hair up into a high ponytail, away from her neck. Then, barefoot, she padded downstairs and into the kitchen to put together a salad.
When she opened the door to Nash, his face lit up. He stepped inside, pulled her to him, and kissed her vigorously.
“I’ve missed you,” he said.
Darcy turned away, leading him into the house. His kiss had unsettled her and his words had surprised her. He had missed her?
She’d better drink a little wine before she said anything she’d regret.
“Want an ale?” she asked.
“Thanks.” He leaned against the kitchen counter, looking at her quizzically as she took the bottle from the fridge. “Something smells good.”
“Pot roast. Bless the man who invented slow cookers.” She paid great attention to pouring herself a glass of wine. “How’s work?” She led Nash back into the living room and settled into an overstuffed chair.
Nash sank onto the sofa. “Hot.”
“Your nose is red, and look at your neck. Do you put on sunblock? Because you should or you might be sorry when you’re older.”
“Thanks, Mom,” Nash teased. “How was your week?”
“Great. The children’s story time is such a crush of children, and Willow is an enormous help. In the evenings, Willow’s babysitting Susan Brueckner’s children, three boys who seem to be the inspiration for the term ‘attention deficit disorder.’ Susan’s working in a yarn shop in the evenings, and it’s making her so happy—not just because she’s escaping her noisy children, but because she feels good being around yarn and meeting people and being herself rather than Otto’s wife and the boys’ mother.” Talking about her friends changed her mood, cheered her up, and made her feel less paranoid about Nash. “Do you construction men ever—I don’t know—discuss your personal lives with each other?”
Nash laughed. “You should spend a day at our site. We can’t hear ourselves over the noise of the chain saw and the hammers. When we break for lunch, we collapse in the shade and eat. The most intimate moment we’ve had was when Juan passed out from acrophobia.”
“What about the guys we hang out with on Sundays? Lyle and the others?”
“You know what we talk about—the Red Sox. Maybe, occasionally, to break the monotony, the Patriots.”
And the words spilled out of Darcy’s mouth before she took a second to think.
“So you’re not close to Lyle and the others, but you told them you’re buying a house on the island and you didn’t tell me?” She didn’t intend to sound angry, but her voice shook.
Nash blinked, surprised. “You mean on Sunday? Okay, well, Paul is a real estate broker. I wanted to get his opinion. The owner is trying to sell it himself. I don’t know the island property values that well. I’ve only been here since March. I needed some friendly advice.”
Fists clenched, Darcy stood up. Then she sat down. She would not, she would not allow herself to go into a pitiful, needy, clingy pit of begging. She would never say those terrible words: Where do you think our relationship is headed? She would not say I think I love you. She would not say Do you think you love me?
It took all her self-control, but she shook her head and held her hand up in a stop gesture. “Give me a moment.” She forced a smile.
She would not even ask if they were a couple. This wasn’t high school.
Finally she decided to attempt a kind of reasonable explanation. “I’m sorry, Nash. I guess I’m overreacting because I hate it when people keep secrets from me.”
“I wasn’t keeping a secret from you,” Nash told her. “I just hadn’t had a chance to tell you yet. I’m only beginning to think about this, about buying a place.”
Okay, that was good, that was better. She aimed for a casual tone. “Housing is ridiculously expensive here.”
“Tell me about it. You’re lucky your grandmother left you this house.”