14. Nate

14

NATE

The musty church basement smell smashes into me as I descend the creaky stairs. It's a scent I've grown used to—old hymnals, cheap coffee, and lingering incense. I pause at the bottom step, gripping the cold metal railing. Part of me wants to bolt, but I know I need to be here.

I push on the heavy wooden door to my grief support meeting and step into the dimly lit room. The circle of folding chairs is half-full of familiar faces. Some nod as I enter, others keep muttering to each other.

"Morning, Nate," DeJuan, our group leader, says. He's fiddling with Styrofoam cups and a large coffee urn. "Glad you made it."

I force a smile, settling into an empty chair. The metal is cool against my back, and I relish the opportunity to sit in air conditioning before work. These basement meetings always feel colder than they should, even in Pittsburgh's sticky summers.

As the stragglers file in, DeJuan takes his seat. He's a stocky guy in his fifties, with kind eyes and a permanent five o'clock shadow. "All right, folks," he says softly. "Let's get started. Who wants to share first?"

There's a moment of silence, and the regulars avert their gaze. I wonder if they're like me—worrying about hogging the floor, but also worrying about breaking down in tears. I stare at my hands, calloused and scarred from years of construction work. They're my father's hands. The thought threatens to overwhelm me, and I clench them into fists.

"I'll go," Kenya says from my left. As she starts talking about cleaning out her mom's closet, my mind drifts.

I don't want to be here. I don't want to be anywhere. The weight of the past year—Dad's death, the business, all the responsibilities I never asked for… It's crushing me.

Then there's Eden. God, the way I treated her initially. The way she tasted when I kissed her the other night. Can she really be serious about giving me another chance? I swallow hard, pushing the thought away.

Kenya finishes, and there's a murmur of support from the group. DeJuan thanks her and asks if anyone else wants to speak. The silence stretches on, broken only by the ancient HVAC system's hum.

"Nate?" DeJuan's voice startles me. "We haven't heard from you in a while. How are things going?"

My throat tightens, and for a moment, I consider lying. It'd be easier to say I'm fine, that things are getting better. But something in DeJuan's gentle gaze stops me.

"I…" I start, then falter. The words stick in my chest, trapped behind a wall of grief and guilt. I clear my throat and try again. "Things are… complicated."

DeJuan nods encouragingly. "Take your time. We're all here to listen."

I take a deep breath. "The business," I finally manage. "Dad's business. Donovan and Son. I'm… I'm not sure I can do it."

The admission hangs in the air, and I brace myself for judgment. Instead, I'm met with understanding nods.

"That's a lot of pressure," says Tom, an older guy who lost his wife last year. "Taking over a whole business, especially after such a loss."

A small weight release at having said the words out loud. "I'm making mistakes," I continue. "The paperwork, the management stuff… It's not what I'm good at. Dad made it look so easy, but I… I'm drowning in it."

"It sounds like you're carrying a heavy burden," DeJuan says softly. "Can you tell us more about what you're feeling?"

"Guilt." I run a hand through my hair. "Like I'm letting Dad down. He built this business from nothing, and now I'm messing it up. I can tell the guys on the crew are nervous. But at the same time, I hate dealing with contracts and payroll. I love building things, but I hate the rest of it, and I keep hoping it'll all go away… but it's piling up, and I know it's going to crash down on me."

There's a murmur of sympathy from the group. Kenya leans forward in her chair. "Have you considered that maybe this isn't what your dad wanted for you? To be miserable trying to fill his shoes?"

I blink, caught off guard by the question. "He named the business ‘and Son.' It was his dream for me to take over." My mind flashes to a more recent dream, to Eden, bent over, studying the bees in that wall. I swallow hard, pushing the image away. "I've been so focused on trying to do everything right, to make up for … for mistakes I made after he died."

DeJuan nods. "That's understandable. Grief can make us feel obligated to carry on exactly as our loved ones did. But that might not always be the best path for us, or what they would have wanted."

"But the business…" I protest weakly. "It was his life's work. I can't abandon it."

"Nobody's saying you should abandon it," DeJuan says gently. "But maybe there's a way to honor your father's legacy without sacrificing your own happiness and well-being. Have you considered other options? Maybe hiring someone to handle the management side while you focus on the construction?"

I shake my head.

"It's okay to forge your own path, Nate," Susan, a woman in her sixties, says. "Your father raised you to be your own man, not his clone. He'd want you to be happy."

Her words hit me hard, and a lump forms in my throat. "I miss him," I whisper, my voice cracking. "I miss being able to ask him for advice. He always knew what to do."

"Of course you do," DeJuan says softly. "And it's okay to miss him, to wish you could turn to him. But remember, Nate, your father gave you the tools you need. He taught you about construction, about hard work, and integrity. Those lessons don't disappear just because you might choose a different path for the business."

I wipe my eyes.

DeJuan gives me an encouraging smile. "Do you want to talk more about those mistakes you mentioned? About your progress making amends?"

I hesitate, thinking of Eden again. I want to trust that I'm making progress with her but I'm so raw after these meetings and grief still confuses me. "Not today." I'm overwhelmed by the possibility, by the suggestion of not continuing the management part of the business. I can barely make sense of my thoughts.

As the meeting wraps up, I linger, helping DeJuan stack chairs and clean coffee cups. "Thanks," I say quietly as we work. "For pushing me to open up today. I didn't realize how much I needed to say all that out loud."

DeJuan puts a hand on my shoulder. "That's what we're here for. Remember, healing isn't linear. There will be good days and bad days, but you're not alone in this journey."

As I climb the stairs out of the basement, the humid morning air hits my face. I take a deep breath. I don't have all the answers yet, but for the first time in a long time, I feel like I might be able to find them. And maybe I can find a way to make things right with Eden, too.

Work on the house goes smoothly for the rest of the day, despite being distracted. Chris and Sparky are plowing through the flooring, and the electrical guy has come and gone, so we no longer need to run the generators. I'm good at this part. So why do I hate the rest of it so badly? Someone has to do all the behind-the-scenes shit. My dad did it just fine.

Or did he? I think of how much he smoked, of how stressed he appeared most weekends when he thought I was distracted by the TV as he worked at his computer. Maybe Dad wasn't fine, either.

The thought works its way into my consciousness, and I have to shut off the jab saw. I can't cut drywall when I'm distracted. I peek at my phone, not sure who I'm hoping would have called. Nobody has.

But I think about Eden. I think about the feel of her in my lap Sunday night, the taste of her so perfectly sweet against my tongue. I need to see her.

I call her, but it goes to voicemail. I stare at the job site and realize almost everyone has left for the day. I drive home, shower, and cram a freezer burrito into my mouth before I try Eden again. When it still goes to voicemail, I pace the room, remembering her mother kicking over the bees. Eden's freezer is full now, and I hate thinking that something would happen to her hoard of honeycomb.

I drag a hand down my face, noticing the sprouts of stubble. What if Eden's mom kicked over more of her bees?

I decide to drive by the house just to say hello. She can send me away if she's busy.

When I get to Eden's house, all the lights are blazing but I don't hear any shouting. Thinking that's an improvement from the time I was here with the cops, I climb the porch steps and raise my fist to knock when the door pulls back, revealing a flustered Eden.

"Oh," she says, her mouth opening, and then her lip quivers. "It's you."

I lean against the doorframe. "I wanted to check in but your phone …" I hesitate, not wanting to sound like I'm accusing her of sending my calls to voicemail.

She closes her eyes. "My phone's dead. And I haven't had a chance to charge it because?—"

"Eden, dear, are you coming up to help me organize these products? After all, I did help you with your bee work. Fair is fair, darling."

I raise my brows and peer over her shoulder. "Your mom's back?" She nods and I lean closer, needing to be near her. "Want to talk about it?"

She slumps into me, wrapping her arms around me in a hug that feels more like a cry for help. Startled I draw in a breath and gather her in my arms, squeezing gently and stroking her hair as she starts to cry.

"I got you," I whisper into the top of her head, smelling the faintest whiff of beekeeper smoke in her hair. "Do you want to go somewhere and talk?" She shakes her head against my shoulder, so instead of leaving, I scoop her into my arms and sit us on the porch. The boards creak under our combined weight, and I hold her until she seems able to talk. She tells me how her mom showed up with a bunch of pyramid scheme stuff that would have cost a couple grand out of pocket.

"I have the worst feeling, Nate. I don't know how she could have gotten the money in any above-ground way."

I reach for her hand and gently stroke my thumb along her knuckles. "I hope this doesn't sound bad, but are you sure she didn't take it from you? Is there cash in the house?"

Eden sucks in a breath and sits up. "I used to keep cash in the freezer, with the frames. But I just processed everything last week, and I made a deposit."

The suggestion that her mother might steal from her has not insulted Eden, and I realize it's probably happened before. My guts clench in sympathy for this woman who is so good and so kind to even creatures that sting. "What do you want to do?" I run my fingers through her hair in a way I hope soothes her as much as it does me.

She shrugs. "I want to make out with you a little."

I laugh. "I guess when you put it that way…"

She reaches to kiss me, and I return the favor, nibbling her bottom lip and sweeping my tongue into her mouth. She moans softly, and I press a hand to the back of her head, holding her against me as we kiss among the fireflies outside.

Sooner than I'd like, Eden pulls away, breathless but smiling. "You're good at that," she whispers.

"Not half bad yourself." I let my thumb trace along her jaw. Her skin is smooth and soft, her lips swollen. Maybe from the stubble on my cheeks.

Eden nestles into my lap, resting her cheek on my chest. It's hot and the air is still, but I don't mind the extra heat of our bodies connecting. Quite the opposite.

"I just want my mom to be happy," Eden says, surprising me.

"Hasn't she always made you guys miserable?"

Eden nods. "Because she is unhappy. I know if she felt secure, she could be her best self and would make kinder choices with my sisters and me."

I think about her words for a long time, how Eden has spent a lifetime bearing the brunt of her mother's irresponsible choices. She still wants nothing but for her mother to live her best life. Eden is always doing that—making sure people are happy.

"Who does that for you?" I ask her.

"What?" She lifts her head, meeting my gaze.

"Who makes you feel secure and happy?" I cup her face with both hands. "Who takes care of Eden Storm?"

She bites her lip. "My sisters make me happy."

My eyes drift down her body before traveling back up. "But who makes you feel good, Eden?"

She blushes. My body springs into hyperdrive, my blood chugging south toward my crotch at the thought of her writhing in pleasure. Of Eden so lost to sensation she forgets her own name and can only moan mine. The hair stands up on the back of my neck and I have to touch more of her, I have to draw her closer to me. "Will you let me make you feel good?"

A flash of concern runs along her brow. "What about going slow?"

I did say that, but making her feel good feels necessary to me right now, not like I'm rushing into something dangerous. "I have no expectations, Eden. I'm here offering to make you feel good. Would you like that?"

She blinks, eyes owl-like. Her yes is a whisper—a barely perceptible nod of her head. I'm on my feet in a flash, carrying her into the darkness of the garden. The whole yard smells like honeysuckle, and the cicadas are screaming as if they're egging me on. I stride between her sister's plants and sink to the ground, hauling her tight against my lap as I suck on her neck.

I memorize the sounds she makes as my thumb finds her nipple under her shirt, and when my name is a shaking groan in my ear, I pull her against me, where I'm hard for her.

"I know what you need," I assure her. "I know you're not looking for complications or commitments."

My words seem to energize her, and Eden squirms against me, bucking and trying to find friction through my jeans and those tiny fucking shorts she always wears. I palm her ass as I reach up the leg of her cut-offs. Fingers greedy, I rub her pointed nipple with one hand as I squeeze her backside, grinding her against my erection, knowing it's not enough to pull her over the edge.

"More," she whines, and I growl in satisfaction. I bite her earlobe, earning a broken moan as Eden tries to muffle her cries against my neck.

She wriggles, kissing me and letting her head tip back when I slide my hand up her shorts. I trace the edges of her cotton underwear, and my fingertips inch inside.

"Oh, yes," Eden moans. "Nate, you feel so good."

"I'm going to take good care of you," I murmur. I find wetness, and she purrs in approval, kissing the column of her throat as she lets herself dip in my arms. "You're so wet, Eden. Your hot honey is seeping all over my fingers."

"Keep talking," she pants. "It's so hot when you talk like that."

I don't let myself wonder if I took care of her the first time. I don't tax myself trying to remember then. Instead, I let the sight and sensation of her now burn into my brain, forming a core memory I will access when I touch myself for the rest of my life. Eden grips my shoulders as one of my blunt fingertips finds her entrance.

She lets me slide right in, and she whimpers in pleasure as I slowly fuck her with my finger.

"You like that? You ready for another finger, beautiful? That's it, gorgeous. Let me in. Shit, you're so slippery and perfect." The scent of her arousal fills the air, tart and salty, hanging around us like a mist.

"Look how you need this, Eden." I fuck her deep and slow with two fingers, and when she starts breathing heavy, I press against her clit with my thumb. She bows against my body, nipples pressing into my chest through both of our shirts, hard peaks desperate for friction. If we were inside, on a bed, I'd have her shirt off and use my mouth to bring her that much more stimulation on her chest. But we're in a garden, surrounded by fireflies, and both my hands are gloriously occupied.

She starts to pulse around me. She's so beautiful and sexy, letting herself trust me like this.

"It's so good, Nate." Eden's words are punctuated with breathy grunts. Her knees dig into my ribs, and I wince, but there's no way I'm slowing down when she's this close.

"It's a damn privilege to make you feel this way," I tell her. Eden's eyes lock onto mine and her mouth drops open in a beautiful pink oh as she comes apart. She trembles and shudders, shakes and pulses as she comes.

Nothing and no one has ever looked more amazing.

Eden collapses against my chest, sighing contentedly. I slide my hand from her body, bring my fingers to my mouth, and suck them clean, the taste of her blooming across my tongue.

"Fuck, you're incredible." I've never meant anything more truthfully. "Thank you so much."

Eden tips her face up, her eyes hooded and sleepy, arms draped across my shoulders and around my neck. "You're thanking me? For that? Shit, Nate. Give me a minute, and I'll take care of you."

"Nooo." I kiss her forehead. "I told you. This was for you. I wanted to make you feel good today. Now I want to tuck you into your bed, bring you a glass of water, and drive away knowing you'll have sweet dreams."

"Ha." Eden nuzzles against my chest. "Are you for real?"

"I could ask the same question."

"Mmm. So we're both real." She kisses my nose. "And you made me feel really, really good."

I hold her in the garden until I sense her start to doze off. It takes a bit of effort, but I get to my feet, adjusting her in my arms and making good on my promise.