Chapter 48
EVIE
I throw my bush hat to the tiny, lumpy bed and brush my sweaty hair from my face as the video call attempts to connect. I’m just about to hang up when a telltale tickle at my ankle draws my attention. And my slap.
“Eve?” A melodic, cut glass accent fills the air, and I spring upright, like one of those crazy inflatable dancers outside of a car dealership.
“Hey, Lucy!”
Yes, that Lucy.
“I’m good. Exceptionally good, actually.” She smiles, and my heart twists at the familiarity. “What where you doing just now? When the call connected?”
“Zumba?” I answer, my voice rendering the answer a question. I was swatting at a mosquito, but the jumpy reaction was more about the sound of her voice. It’s not deep like Oliver’s, but the cadence is so similar, it caught me off guard.
“Ah. I thought Tucker might’ve been touching your bottom again,” she says with a soft chuckle.
“We left Tucker in Port Moresby.” Thank God.
“He is so sweet.”
“Easy to say when it’s not your butt he’s feeling up.”
“I do think my life could only be improved by some bum touching.”
“I’ll drop him by your apartment in Singapore on my way back home.” Home. It’s such a small word, but it fires a thrill through me. I can feel its pull, his pull.
Will he forgive me?
“You’ve decided?” It’s not hard to see her pleasure, despite the grainy internet connection.
“Yes.” My shoulders lift with a deep inhale. “I have.” It’s time to be brave. I shouldn’t have left in the first place, but in that moment, I let fear rule me. I let it convince me that it was happening all over again—a proposal by the wrong man for the wrong reasons—that I was about to be made a fool of again. But I see things clearly now. Oliver isn’t a thing like Mitch. He was acting out of love, not opportunity. Sure, his timing might not have been great, but I know his heart was in the right place.
“Eve?”
I come back to myself and Lucy’s concerned expression. “Sorry, I zoned out.” Oliver was about to propose, and I cut him dead in front of all those people.
“You’re worried.”
My stomach sinks to my boots. “What if he never wants to see me again?”
“He will.”
“What if it’s too late? What if he can’t trust me again—it’s not like it’s the first time I ran.” If only I’d trusted myself, listened to my heart and not my overcrowded head.
“Stop,” she says softly. “You were overwrought. You worked against your feelings instead of with them, that’s all.”
We’ve talked a lot about what passed between Mitch and her. And what came after. We’ve gone over the similarities in our experiences and how easily a betrayal, a loss of trust, leads to a cloud in judgment. It can make you feel like you’ll never trust again—yourself or anyone else.
There isn’t much we haven’t shared. I’ve told her about my parents, the roots of this erosion. And she’s confided how she wishes she could take back all that passed between her and Oliver.
“He’d be a fool not to listen.” Lucy is so kind. Beautiful, serene, wicked funny too. She has this openness about her. I’d be lucky to call her a friend. Or a sister?
I found her email address on her company website while I was hiding out in Dubai. I reached out, not quite sure what to expect and already regretting leaving the way I did. I don’t know what I was expecting. Certainly not understanding or friendship.
“Maybe you should come with me?”
“And play gooseberry?” she laughs. “No thanks.”
“That might be a little optimistic. He might throw me out.”
“Doubtful. It sounds like my brother is head over heels for you. And I think you’re just the person to keep him on his toes.”
“But what if—”
“Eve, love doesn’t just go when your physical presence removes itself. It’s just a hiccup, and hardly surprising, given your natures.”
“Meaning what?”
“That you’re both as stubborn as a box of rocks. Enough worrying. Tell me about your day. Mine was a nightmare of numbers and boring talk. Paint some color for me.”
“Oh, I’ve got color. Green for the bushland to get to some remote village. Blue for triage and surgery tents we erected. Then there was a lot of red and brown after that, but I’ll leave the sources to your imagination.”
Her nose scrunches. “No puppies?”
“I filled my quota of puppy cuddling. Then I neutered a half dozen village strays.”
“Did you think about anyone in particular while doing so?”
“Like Mitch?” I shake my head. “I don’t get how dog can be a human insult. I’ve met more dogs I like than humans.”
“You have a point, but I do think he should be neutered. As a preventative measure, if nothing else.”
Before I can answer, a commotion starts up outside. The roar of an engine, the barking of dogs. Raised voices?
“Hold that thought,” I say, pointing a thumb over my shoulder. “I need to see what’s going on outside.”
“What if it’s trouble—the rebels or whatever they call them?”
But rebels don’t have posh English accents.