Page 6 of Fragments of You

“You don’t mean that. Besides, he’s had a rough go of things lately. It’s good that he’s letting loose a little. I can’t imagine losing either of my parents, let alone both by the age of eighteen.”

“Yeah...” Nash clears his throat like he’s going to say more but doesn’t.

It’s hard for him to talk about Felix’s mom. Jen was the closest thing Nash ever had to an actual mom in his life, given that his mom left when he was little, and I know that really meant something to him.

“So...” I finally say after a few long moments. “Have you decided when you’re going to tell your dad you’re moving out?”

“Tomorrow.” He shifts uncomfortably.

“I know Felix is excited for you to move in. I bet he’s lonely in that house all by himself.”

He shifts again like he can’t find a good position.

“Are you okay?” I ask when he takes another long drink, grimacing as he resurfaces from the bottle.

It’s not uncommon for Nash to drink at parties, or on the weekends, but I can’t say I’ve ever seen him drink like he has as of recently. Usually, it’s just beer, maybe a shot or two, but whiskey straight from the bottle... Up until a month ago, I can only think of one other time I’ve seen him do that, and it was following a pretty bad altercation with his father, where he walked away with a black eye and bloody lip. Something’s up... I just can’t believe it’s taken me until now to realize.

“What’s going on, Nash? Did something happen?” I grab his chin, guiding his face toward me. He lets me but won’t meet my gaze. “Nash.” Nervous knots twist inside my stomach.

“I’m not moving in with Felix,” he finally says after too long.

“What do you mean you’re not moving in with Felix? Where are you going to go? You can’t stay with your dad anymore. Things will only get worse now that you’re an adult.”

“I’m not staying with my dad either.” He pulls away from my touch, which is very unlike Nash, taking another hard pull of whiskey.

“Then where are you going to go?” I try again, uncertainty rising in my voice.

“I’m leaving, P.”

“Leaving where?” Confusion makes my vision feel cloudy.

“Madison. Hell, the state of Georgia.” Another swipe of his hand through his hair, another drink of whiskey. “I can’t be here anymore. I can’t.”

“What are you talking about? You can’t leave. What about me?” This is so far out of left field that I feel completely blindsided by it.

Never once has he ever mentioned actually leaving Madison. Hell, two weeks ago, we were making plans for our last summer before college. Where we wanted to visit, all the things we wanted to do. And while Nash had no plans of going to school, he had already committed to working on Mr. Miller’s farm again this summer, which he’s done every summer since he was twelve. As for me, I never even considered a college outside of Madison University because leaving Nash was out of the question.

“There isn’t going to be an us after tonight, P.”

His words act like a knife driven straight through my chest cavity, piercing me directly in the heart.

“You don’t mean that. If you need to leave, if you need to get away for a while, I understand. But that doesn’t mean that we... That I can’t wait for you.”

“You don’t get it. I’m leaving, Paisley.”

The use of my first name is comparative to a parent using their child’s full name—like you know in an instant you’re in trouble. Nash never calls me anything but P. In all the years I’ve known him... Hell, since we were in grade school, I’ve always just been P.

“If I don’t leave now, before I know it, it’ll be twenty years from now, and I’ll be stuck in a dead-end job, with a mortgage I can’t afford, three kids I didn’t want, and a wife I resent for things that were entirely out of her control.” He finally glances in my direction, sadness filling the space where his easy smile and carefree nature usually lie.

In that one look, the perfectly laid pieces of my future begin to fall out of place, sliding so rapidly off the board that I can’t move fast enough to catch them before they’re careening toward the ground.

“Either that, or you’ll get tired of me and leave, just like my mom did.”

“I’m not your mom. And you certainly are not your father.”

“You sure about that?” He holds up the whiskey bottle before taking a long swig for good measure.

“You’re not your father,” I repeat more forcefully.

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