At least the smoothie was a bright, appealing orange color. I reached for it right as my stomach twisted with hunger. I sucked hard on the straw, expecting a fruity flavor.
What I got was something else. Something evil.
The liquid stayed in my mouth, my throat refusing it passage.
"What?" Nash asked, seeing my face. "The sweet potato base is a little hard to get used to, but once you do… Phin, swallow."
I held the sip in my mouth, trying not to move a single muscle for fear that it would spread the taste around. I shook my head.
"You have to swallow."
I wanted to, if only to get this moment behind me, but I was physically unable. The taste was savory but not. It didn't make sense in my mouth and made even less sense in my stomach.
"Phin." Nash said my name like it was a warning, but he couldn't stop his lips from curling into a smirk. "You're being silly. It isn't that bad—" He reached over, drinking from my same drink, using the same straw I'd put in my mouth. He winced but swallowed. "Maybe they changed the recipe."
My eyes bulged, tears forming the longer I kept the disgusting mush in my mouth.
Nash ducked his head so he stared only into my face. "You can't spit it out now. It's become a personal challenge. Swallow it, Phin. Mind over matter. Brain over body. Swallow."
The way he spoke the last command, letting his tongue linger on the hard L sounds, made me feel like we were in a different situation, like he was commanding me to swallow in a more intimate setting. My throat muscles obeyed.
"There you go. Good boy." Nash winked.
I imagined every disgusting thing I could, reminding myself of my first few days in my apartment when I'd had to dig someone else's hair clump out of my shower drain. Just thinking about that moment had me gagging for days, and it did the trick now. "I think I'm full."
"You're not. Try the rice cakes. I know they don't taste as bad because they don't taste like a whole lot."
"And this is supposed to help me flirt?"
"It's supposed to lay the foundation."
Foundations were important. I'd never attempt a quest without first acquiring the correct skills and equipment. I bit into the first of the cake sandwiches. How could something with the word cake and sandwich taste so abysmal? But Nash was right. The flavor wasn't nearly as offensive as the sweet potato smoothie. I couldn't wait to tell Reg and Bun about it. They'd react with appropriate levels of repulsion.
I reached for another rice cracker, wishing I had something to wash it down with. I'd guzzle gasoline before I resorted to drinking any more of the smoothie. Nash watched me. His drink was half gone, as were his crackers. I pushed mine toward him but instead of taking one, he grabbed my hand and turned my arm palm-side up. He traced the outline of my crow tattoo while I forgot how to breathe.
"What do these mean?" he asked without looking up from my tattoos. He had both my arms on the table, wrist up.
The stark black shapes against my pale skin were always a shock, but I liked that I'd never gotten used to the sight of them. My tattoos had never become something my brain no longer saw, like the nose on my face.
"Nuh-uh." I went to tug for my sleeve but had taken my jacket off already. "That isn't the secret you asked for last night." What the hell was wrong with me? He was giving me an out. Tell him about the crows and my parents instead of making something up to explain how I'd healed his brother. One was a personal, soul-deep fact about me that might change how he looked at me, and the other was a curse that would likely turn him from me forever.
But, if I was trying to not have a crush, then this was the way to do it.
"Tell me both and we'll keep going. Wyatt's bar opens in a bit. The early morning crew would be the perfect ones for you to practice on."
I didn't understand his reasoning but jumped at the chance to spend more time with him today. My own logic wasn't making much sense anyway. I was going to tell Nash the secret that would make him turn from me so that I wouldn't develop too hard of a crush, all so I could spend a little more time with him today? Or maybe, there was a part inside me that wanted Nash to know. I'd come close to telling Reg, Bun, and Chuck a few times over the years, mostly on nights when I broke into the wine and was feeling maudlin. But I'd always held back at the last minute.
I didn't want to hold back now. Mostly. I sort of wanted to hold back.
I was a mess.
"And tomorrow," Nash added, seemingly under the impression that I needed more convincing. Why did he want to know so badly? Maybe it was the chase. I'd expressed not wanting to share, so now that was the only thing he wanted? That meant, if I told him, his interest in me would wane.
So I shouldn't tell him? Urgh, this was confusing.
"Phin." Nash said my name with a laugh. "Your face has got some telenovela-level emotions flitting through. Look, I don't want to know anything you absolutely don't want to tell. But sometimes it's nice to share a secret, you know? So the weight isn't so heavy on your shoulders. Look at my shoulders, Phin. I could crack a walnut with my trapezius muscles." He flexed, making me grin.
"Fine, but can I have some water or something?" I eyed my smoothie with disdain. He slid my drink over to his side of the table and got up, ordering at the bar.
He returned with a bottle of something that I would've assumed was orange juice, if I hadn't already been fooled once before. I must have also shown my suspicion on my face because Nash laughed.
"It's orange juice, I promise." He cracked open the top and set it down in front of me. Before stepping back, he leaned in and said, "At Wyatt's, if you're good, we can have fries."
I sat up straight at that but then slouched with a frown. "French fries with real potatoes? Normal, russet potatoes? Not broccoli or cauliflower fries?"
"One hundred percent fried, greasy, frozen, from a bag straight into the deep fat fryer."
I took a sip of the juice like I was a drug dealer in a vacant warehouse taking a sample of the shipment before accepting it. Pure, unfiltered, orange juice. The good stuff. "Okay," I said with a nod.
Nash sat back down, but I missed his nearness.
"So, um, what do you want to know first?"
"Start with the tattoos," he said with an eager gleam.
I rubbed over the ink on my right wrist. "They represent my parents. They died when I was five, almost six. We lived in Monterey, California, and we were driving home from somewhere. I can't even remember anymore. Maybe it was a movie? A dinner with friends? But it was raining, and the roads were windy. It was like we were driving one minute, spinning through the air the next…"
"And then?" Nash asked, leaning forward.
"Then nothing. We hit. I passed out." I was already there in my mind. The smell of the gasoline leaking had burned my nose. Even as a kid, I'd recognized that smell for the danger it had represented. There'd been broken glass everywhere and, the entire time, the steady thrum of rain pouring all around us. And the blood. So much blood. I couldn't tell Nash what I'd done next. That was a secret I'd take to my grave.
"How were you saved?"
"A Good Samaritan drove by and pulled me out. The officials said he even offered to take me home until things got figured out, but my aunt was already on her way by then. I moved in with them, but I wasn't the same. Or maybe I was. I just know I've never really liked being around people for a very long time. Even before the curse, I moved into their pool house when I was able, and off their property shortly after that. At eighteen, I gained access to my inheritance and have been living off that and my writing ever since." What had he asked again? Oh yeah, about my tattoos. And I'd gone right into the whole tragic story.