“I’m sorry, Nash,” Pa says. He’s a good man, he’s just so entrenched in the Wisco of it all that he can’t see anything else. Maybe it has something to do with me and Henry not being little boys anymore. He’s losing Henry to marriage—as much as he can when they will end up living in a house on Henry’s part of this land. He’s lost me to professional football, even though I come home often. Times are changing, but everything in this house is the same. They don’t have to worry about Henry anymore, so now all their attention has turned to me.
“It’s okay, Charlie. I chose to play in Italy. I loved it there, but I’m equally happy to be home.” Nash has recovered and is forking a green bean instead of wishing for death.
“We shouldn’t be spending all night talking about me and Nash, we should be talking about the plans for the weekend.” I gesture at Henry who has been quietly devouring several bratwursts.
“Tomorrow—rehearsal dinner at The Lodge. Saturday—wedding. Any questions?” he deadpans.
“What time should I be there on Saturday?”
“Around one o’clock. There’ll be lunch when we get there.”
Ma stands and starts collecting her plates. “Is everyone finished?”
A chorus of yeses come in reply. We all stand to get our plates back to the kitchen. When I put mine in the dishwasher after rinsing it in the sink, Ma stops me. “Why don’t you take Nash to the beach and get a bonfire going? You can take s’mores stuff with you. We have everything for it.”
I put my arms around her in a bear hug. “Thanks, Ma.” When did she get so small? Is she shrinking already? I thought that was just a thing in movies.
I turn to Nash. “Grab a sweatshirt. It’s not that chilly, but it’s the wind that’ll get ya.”
A flash of amusement glitters through her eyes, and I know I’ve pleased her with my midwestern-isms.
Seeing her in my parents’ house, back in my hometown, I realize that I want to spend the rest of my life finding new ways to please her.
Chapter Fifty
NASH
“Slow down,” I basically have to yell so Wyatt can hear me over the wind. This golf cart feels like it’s doing a million miles an hour down the wooded path that leads from the farmhouse to the shore of Lake Michigan. I pick his hand up off my thigh and put it back on the wheel. “At least use two hands if you insist on flying like this.”
One more slight turn and we burst through the dense trees to a clearing. The dirt road leads to a grassy area to park. We pile out of the golf cart and carry sweatshirts, chairs, a cooler, and s’mores accoutrement through the grass where it stutters off into sand. The sound of the waves crashing is as loud as the wind was on the way here, but much more relaxing. The sun is just about to set over the huge expanse of water. It’s crazy to see how it goes on forever, knowing that this isn’t the ocean. Wyatt once told me that if you look really carefully on a clear day, you can see the lights of Michigan across the water, but I think he was fucking with me. Sounds exactly like something Henry would have convinced him of as a kid.
A lot of the shore is owned by people who have beachfronthouses, but some are connected to huge swaths of land like the Vandergriff’s, and some are small parcels that are beach clubs for local neighborhoods.
I pop the chairs open, facing the water, while Wyatt busies himself with the fire. I would normally help, but I’m frozen in my spot, watching the way his hands maneuver the kindling. His hair is a bit messy from a long day of travel. He has shorts on despite the cold cut of the wind across the lake, because of course he does. If you see Wyatt in a pair of pants, it’s probably snowmageddon. I’ve noticed you can always spot a Wisconsin native in the winter because they’ll have just jeans and a hoodie on when it’s literally snowing.
“There she is.” He sweet talks the fire into burning just like he can sweet talk me into glowing under his hands. He stands from where he was kneeling and sits in the chair next to me. Why do I have such vivid images of me sitting on his lap as the fire dies down? Why am I questioning it? This is my last weekend as his fake girlfriend. I’ve already decided I’m going to cut off the sex when we get home. I don’t want my heart involved with this any more than it already is, but I’ve got to enjoy it while I still can.
I stand quickly before I can decide against it. Then I’m just a statue in the sand. Wyatt looks at me. “What’s up? Don’t tell me you have to pee already, we just got here.”
I shake my head. “No, it’s not that. I just…”
Like he has for the last eight years, Wyatt reads me. “What do you want?”
I take a step closer to him. I can’t help but lick my lips as I eye his lap. Huge thighs spread easily in his canvas chair. The perfect place to perch. It’s so nice to be with someone who towers over me. I never thought I’d find that at six-foot-one. Like I can sit on his lap and not feel like a monster on the hill.
I take another step. When I put my hand on his thigh, he looks up at me from his seat. I don’t let myself think any more, I just turn and settle myself. I can feel his entire body go stiff under me.
Wyatt immediately recovers, putting a hand around my waist and leaning me back against his chest. Together we relax on the chair, alternating watching the flames dance and the waves roll.
I want to enjoy the peace and serenity of this moment, but something from dinner is still on my mind. “Why don’t you tell your parents the truth?”
He takes a moment, sitting very still behind me, and I know he’s thinking about what might happen if he did tell them. “Everyone loves Clark.”
“Okay, and…?”
He sucks in a deep breath. “You lived in Wisconsin for four years. You know what it’s like here. They worship him like a hero.”
“I mean a Super Bowl win, four MVPs, super high passer rating…” I list off Clark’s stats.