Page 93 of Between the Lines

“Good girl.”

Why is it that a simpleGood girlgets me every single time? Two of the most powerful syllables in the English language, I tell you. I pant. Wiggle in my seat to find some relief between my thighs—How am I literally ready to go again?

“How did things go with the move?” he asks, his focus still trained on my nails.

“Good. Everyone came to help, so it didn’t take too long to get everything across town.”

I recount the events from the move as he finishes the second coat, only pausing for a moment when he actually leans down to blow over the tops of my fingers when he’s done. He remains cross-legged on the floor.

“And how about your parents? Are they taking it well?”

Here is where I tense. Where I’d usually pick at my nails as a way to fidget, I can’t—because Nathan painted my nails and I’ll be damned if I ruin this gift. My only two options are to stew in my discomfort or drown in Nathan’s gaze.

The moment I choose the latter, an overwhelming feeling of relief floods in. Here, with Nathan, I don’t have to drown. The pity I’ve always feared is absent. My soft, caring man stares up at me with eyes wide open and a bottle of clear coat waiting in his hands forwhen my nails are dry. I could cry. Instead, I do the one thing I usually avoid. I tell my truth.

“When I asked to speak with my parents the other night, it was like talking to a brick wall. I reminded them that I have my own life, that I’m a college graduate, that I’m twenty five years old, and that I have dreams of my own. They tilted their heads like they were confused, and then laid on the guilt.

“They’ve always called my ‘way with kids’ agift. ‘This is your gift, Claire. This is what you were made to do, Claire.’ Like they’ve been gaslighting me since I was eight years old, and I only realized it when I went away to college.”

I shrug, and my eyes drop. Nathan’s stare is so intense that I fear falling down into it for too long will entrap me. He doesn’t let me run very far, though. Immediately, his hand is encased around mine—delicately enough that he can be my support without touching the soft pink polish.

“Iknowthat I’m good with my siblings. But just because I have a ‘gift’ doesn’t mean I want to use it. I don’t want to be put into a box.”

“And you don’t belong in one either.”

I can taste the gruffness in Nathan’s voice. It’s the same texture from when he’d said,That’s right, Claire, you come for your man.

I don’t know what to do with this. The affirmation, thesupportfrom another person. I’ve barely wrapped my head around the fact that I’ve made friends who care enough to move me into a new home and get me started from the ground up. Having this man here to support me like this? It might take some time. Especially when we aren’t even supposed to be together in the first place.

But in the same breath, that man is now testing my manicure delicately with the pad of his thumb. He is sealing a clear coat over the top, because heresearchedhow to do a manicure at home and apparently,all of the best websitestold him to.

Tightness forms in my chest at the memory of how hard it was towalk away from him the first time, and at how much more severely it is going to ruin me this time. I can’t let another moment go before asking.

“What are we doing, Nathan? I thought this was against the rules.”

He pauses his painting, stiffening for a few heavy moments, before the weight of his gaze from below pins me to my seat.

“It is. But I want you too much to listen.”

He swallows, and I let that settle.

I want him too. Forget the rules. For once in my life, I’m taking what I want and damning the consequences. So, I nod. Affirming that whatever it is we’re doing, we’ll carry it out in secret. It’s a silent affirmation that thrills me to my core at the same time that a kernel of dread plants itself in my soul.

When he’s finished with my manicure, he joins me on the couch, pulls the side table in front of us, and sets up the kickstand on my Kindle case.

“Let me know when to turn the page.” I lift a brow in question. “Until your nails dry.”

And that’s how we spend the rest of the night: I read, while Nathan rests his chin on my shoulder, clicking the side of my Kindle to turn the page when I squeeze his thigh. For these moments in time, the rest of the world fades away to nothing but him and me.

thirty-nine

claire

“Oh my God,I’m sorry I’m so late! I said I’d be home for dinner!”

Penelope barrels through the door of the attached garage like a bull in a China shop, bags swinging from her arms, her hair in disarray. I glance up from my Kindle and grin tiredly.

“Not a problem. Dinner is on the island if you’re hungry.”

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