Page 21 of Tessa and Nash

“Nash—” Mom starts.

“Rusty, no—” Rose says at the same time.

Ellie gasps. “Wyatt!”

Lila laughs. Full belly laugh. “The dog ate the peas!”

Wyatt claps, thrilled by the madness he’s unleashed.

Rusty’s head pops up beside my knee, triumphant, pea stuck to his whiskers.

Faith groans. “Great. Now he’s going to think this is dinner theater.”

Boone reaches for a napkin, calm as ever, fishing peas out of his glass. “Five-second rule doesn’t apply to beverages.”

Mom exhales, already grabbing paper towels. “Rose, I’ve got it.”

Rose’s mouth twitches. “He’s been practicing that arm all day.”

The tension fractures. Not gone, but cracked enough to breathe through.

“I should probably head out,” I say, pushing my chair back. “Early morning tomorrow.”

It’s a weak exit. I know it the second the words leave my mouth.

Mom’s gaze sharpens. “Nash⁠—”

“I’ll explain,” I say quickly. “Soon. I just… need some air.”

Boone doesn’t stop me. Dallas’s eyes follow me as I stand. Faith might want to say something, but decides against it. Rose gives me a small, encouraging smile that somehow makes it worse.

Ellie waves. “Bye, Uncle Nash.”

“Night, kiddo,” I say, forcing a smile.

Wyatt squeals. Rusty noses my boot hopefully.

I grab my coat and head for the door before anyone can press harder.

Outside, the cold hits my face. I breathe it in, trying to calm the mess in my chest.

What the hell did I just do?

I wanted them to believe in me.

I wanted to prove I wasn’t just all talk.

Instead, I’ve backed myself into the tightest corner of my life, and I have no idea how I’m supposed to get out. But right now, I do need a drink…

I drive into town with the radio off, headlights slicing through the dark. Every red light daring me to turn around. I don’t. I keep going, because sitting alone with my thoughts feels more dangerous than any bar.

The place is already half full when I push through the door. Warmth hits me first. Then the smell. Beer, old wood, a hint of smoke that never quite leaves. Laughter hums under the music, familiar and low.

I slide onto a stool and signal for a whiskey.

Make it a good one.

I’ve barely taken the first swallow when I feel eyes on me. Not subtle. Buckhorn never is.