Chapter 1
ONE
EVE
November
What is it about the end of the year that seems to make everything fall apart?
The rest of the time I feel like I have everything under control, then as soon as September hits an impending sense of anxiety builds a cozy little cabin in my chest. By the time it’s November I realize no, in fact, I don’t have it together and I’m out of time to change that.
There’s next year, sure. Except we all know it’ll be the same cycle over and over.
Or maybe it feels that way because today is one of those days where everything has gone wrong.
First, I managed to leave for work without the emotional support water bottle I take everywhere.
Then I spilled coffee all over myself, and when I was in the bathroom cleaning it I noticed the inseam of my favorite jeans beginning to wear thin at the thighs.
And, once again, I’ve body checked an inanimate object at the end of my bartending shift at The Landmark.
Mondays? Hard enough to deal with on their own. Mondays when the holiday rush is in full swing and every calendar reminder keeps screaming at you that time is running out before a new year is upon us? The worst.
Mom’s cheerful voice echoes through my mind with the admonishment she’s given me my entire life: slow down.
I rub my throbbing hip and glare at the offending counter I clipped. I remembered to clear the door frame from the back room, swerving at the last second to avoid banging my shoulder into it, only to miscalculate the distance between my curvy hips and the spot I’ve dubbed the Corner of Hip Death.
“Did someone move that?” I ask.
A few of our older daytime regulars seated on barstools are doing a terrible job of containing their amusement. Even my dad’s retired coaching friend Neil Cannon snorts, shaking his head.
It’s been a slow lunch after what I like to call Hockey Weekends—the Thursday through Sunday crowd of locals, students, and the entire Heston University hockey team packing the place wall to wall.
Those shifts bring in the best tips because the place is hopping.
During the season, everyone ends up here to celebrate or commiserate after a game.
“It only seems to jump around for you.” Mr. Boucher, the owner, chuckles while sliding a basket of wings and a beer to a customer at the other end of the bar. “Have a good night, Eve. Tell your mom and dad hi.”
His sympathetic smile helps ease the ache in my hip.
It’ll bruise, though I’m used to how often I give myself minor injuries like this.
At least this one won’t be like the mystery ones I find that leave me wondering what I clumsily stumbled into and when.
Terrible depth perception is just one of the super powers granted to me by my ADHD.
Hammy ambles over with his whole back end wagging and snuffles at my hand until I pet him. Mr. Boucher’s lovable tan and white bar dog has an irresistible permanent smile you can’t help but fall in love with.
“Sure,” I say. “See you later.”
I march myself out the door with renewed purpose and head for my boyfriend’s place. I finished early enough for us to grab dinner together. His apartment isn’t far from The Landmark. Nothing in Heston Lake is more than a short walk away.
The only way to turn around a bad day is finding something positive to focus on.
Positives like my fun, colorful punch needle creations, my latest craft hobby obsession. I picture how cute a set of mug rugs and embroidery hoop wall decor with sassy sayings would be selling at the holiday market hosted in the square at the center of town every year.
I quickly discard the idea. Instead, I settle on my favorite activity: making my own earrings. The pink heart-shaped lollipop ones I have on are the latest pair I’ve made.
I love designing and making things. Sometimes I wonder if they’re good enough to start my own business to turn my hobbies into a hustle.
I’ve dreamed up a logo and imagined how I’d fit in at the craft fairs I love attending.
It would be so fun to create things to make everyone’s day brighter with a smile because of something I made.
Then I get overwhelmed by all the things that I’d need to do. I’m not business savvy the way Benson is. My brother followed his dreams and did all the right things to open his brewery with his partner by his side.
On my way to Shawn’s, I pause at the corner where an old camper is out for sale. It’s been here a few weeks without any bites. Each time I pass, I’m tempted to put an offer in. It’s beat up, but if I could fix it, paint it with my logo—
No. It would be too impulsive. I’m working on that because my last three impulse buys that I was sure were going to be my new thing are gathering dust in my apartment.
The camera I needed to start a photography career, the yoga mat I bought as a promise to get into a whole mind-body routine, and the cute planners I get when I see them then forget to use after a short time are all examples of why I need to hold back.
I love the rush of a new idea, but struggle with follow through. I spare the camper one more wistful glance before I’m on my way again.
If I’m making earrings, I want to see if the audiobook I requested is available to reserve. Otherwise I’ll be blasting music, needing some sort of background noise while I work.
When I unlock my phone to check, two calendar alerts pop up to let me know Thanksgiving is in two weeks, kicking off what my family considers the start of the holidays.
The second alert is to remind me to shop for presents, otherwise I’ll be stuck stressing about getting or making everything last minute.
Without my digital calendar keeping me on track, I’d be even more of a disaster human.
It’s not that I’m a holiday-season-hater or anything dramatic.
I love Heston Lake in the winter with its seasonal lights and charming historic atmosphere.
New England winters are the prettiest with crisp mornings and the delicate frost. There’s something magical about snow dusting the pine trees and sipping hot chocolate by the frozen lake.
I enjoy watching Mom decorate every square inch of her house during her favorite time of year.
It was fun as a kid because my birthday is during the holidays. It always felt like the whole town was celebrating with me.
As I got older, being lumped in with the festivities of Christmas and New Year’s lost its sparkle.
There’s nothing like December 31st sneaking up on me time and again to make me face that another year has crept by—quite literally, since it’s my birthdate.
No one tells you in college that once you graduate your life moves at lightning speed.
Then you’re looking up two years later, realizing you’re about to turn twenty-five and you haven’t done anything you planned yet.
It already took me an extra year to finish my graphic arts and marketing degree. I thought by now I’d figure my life out and know what I want to do with it.
Not even close. I live at home. Well, in the renovated apartment over my parents’ garage. I still have the bartending job I got in college, though I do pick up a few freelance things here and there from online listings or small businesses around town that take pity on me.
The only major decision I’ve made lately is changing up my hairstyle. I give the ends of my ponytail a tug, running my fingers through the natural brown that fades in an ombré to blonde ends. At least my parents understand and aren’t pressuring me.
Before I open the library app to browse the new releases in romance for my next audiobook, I’m distracted by hunger.
It hits me like a flipped switch. I run back through my shift and nod to myself wryly.
I had a handful of fries at the beginning of work, but I guess I forgot to eat a full meal again.
I should see what Shawn wants tonight. My pace slows so I don’t trip as I walk and type simultaneously.
Eve: Done work!
Eve: I’m about to be at your place. What do you feel like having for dinner?
Eve: Maybe me? Or I can be your dessert [wink emoji]
Not even a minute later, he responds. Weird. Usually he takes a while to answer. He’s the world’s slowest texter. I can send him three to four rapid-fire thoughts as they occur to me before he answers once.
The message is a huge paragraph. Also odd. Brows furrowed, I scroll back up to find the beginning while waiting for the elevator in the lobby.
Shawn: I’ve been thinking for a while. We keep going through the same cycle.
We can’t keep doing this. It’s time we both grow up and let what we had go.
We’re not in college anymore. I want to be able to put Heston Lake behind me and you’re what’s holding me back from getting out of this tiny ass town.
I need to end this. It’s what’s best for both of us.
We’re over. This time it’s for good. You don’t have to say anything.
Leave your key in my mailbox. Good luck.
By the time I reach the end, my ears buzz with rushing blood. The elevator dings. My legs feel like they’re detached from my body as I shuffle inside in a daze. I read it again, most irritated by the blasé good luck.
He responded too quickly to have time to type it all out. There wasn’t any indication he typed at all. It has to be prewritten. Copied and pasted to blindside me the moment I messaged him.
All those times I’ve caught him squinting at his phone lately, tapping away, I thought he was working on his resume. I imagine him drafting this breakup note while we ate meals, watched TV, before we went to bed.
A weak laugh of disbelief slips out of me. Not only does he want to break up two weeks before the holiday season begins, but he’s doing it by a crappy one-sided text. I grit my teeth at his sheer douchebaggery.
By the time the elevator opens on the third floor, my blood is simmering, close to a boiling point. I inhale, trying to keep my rising anger at bay. Balling my fists at my sides, I steel myself for this conversation.
He can text me all he wants, but he’s not dumping me so easily. Not without my own chance to say something.
There’s a box of my stuff left in the hall outside his apartment. I recognize my glue gun and the knitting needles I decorated myself poking out from the top. That bastard.
Before I have time to pound on his door, one of his neighbors who lives alone across the hall comes out. I never got her name, but I’ve always waved hello to the elderly woman. She makes a beeline right for my box.
“Hey, wait!” Darting forward, I slap a hand over the box to keep her from taking it. “Sorry, this stuff is all mine. Shawn put this out without asking me.”
The woman frowns, not backing off. She eyes my glue gun and her hand inches closer. I can’t believe her audacity when she snatches it from the box.
“It’s been out here all day for anyone to take. Says free right here.”
She points to the other side where I recognize Shawn’s handwriting. A sharp twinge throbs in my chest.
He really had this planned out, from what he wanted to say to me to end it to tossing out every trace of me.
Unbelievable.