Chapter 7 Eve
SEVEN
EVE
On Thanksgiving, people all over Heston Lake are coming together to spend time with their families. Their fireplaces add a cozy note of smokiness to the autumn air.
And I’m standing in the cold outside Shawn’s apartment building with my arms folded tightly across my chest, tapping my foot in annoyance.
I need to go in there and get the embroidery box he forgot to pack up with all my other stuff when he dumped me.
“Just do it,” I mutter.
I’ve been encouraging myself with a promise that this will be an in-and-out thing, going over how I imagine the conversation will go. Rubbing my forehead, I ready myself to get through this situation.
Since he ended things between us two weeks ago, I’ve moved from hurt to anger toward him. It’s not that I’m mad over the breakup, though the way he did it sucked. The deeper pain is caused by this feeding into the niggling anxiety that I’m too much and I’m easily thrown away.
My therapeutic response has been sending him middle finger emojis whenever I think about the breakup. Not my most mature reaction, but I stand by it. The messages stopped delivering, so I assume he blocked my number.
Which is why I’m here in person instead of asking him to give the last of my stuff back over text.
Centering myself with a few deep breaths, I mumble, “No bad days, girl. Rip him off like a bandage. Or a self-wax strip.”
I shudder at the phantom pain I’ll never forget from the first time the girls decided it would be a great idea to try it.
Rolling my shoulders back and lifting my head high, I march inside. His neighbor that tried to steal my glue gun is in the elevator on her way out. I plaster on my sweetest smile and wish her a happy holiday.
I practice what I’ll say on the ride to Shawn’s floor. The hallway is unchanged, yet feels so weird when I walk down it. I no longer belong here.
There’s no answer when I knock. I give it a minute, then try again. At last, the door opens.
It’s not Shawn. I blink at the woman. She’s gorgeous and put together. Her hair is a fashionable chin-length dark bob and her chic dress clings to her lithe frame.
“Can I help you?”
“Uh…” I resist the urge to check if I got the apartment wrong somehow. “Is Shawn here?”
Recognition crosses her face, along with a hint of regret that I hope I’m imagining. “Oh, you’re—He’s not here. He went out to buy our pie. Do you need something?”
I open and close my mouth. “I’m just here to get something of mine that I left. A box of embroidery thread.”
She ponders for a moment, then holds the door open for me. I hesitate.
She waves me inside. “I haven’t seen it, but I have an idea of where it could be. Come in while I look.”
A strange, tense sensation settles in my chest when I step through the door.
The place smells different. Like perfume—one I’d never wear.
There’s a candle lit on the side table in the entrance that’s not mine, along with other feminine touches that stand out as I catalog the differences from the bachelor pad I knew his place as.
The table is set for an intimate holiday meal for two and something mouthwatering roasts in the oven. I don’t want to believe what my instincts are picking up. It’s hard to ignore the signs piling up one after the other the further I venture into the apartment.
“Wait out here. I’ll only be a minute,” she says.
While she’s gone, I peek in the hallway closet. A few pairs of her shoes sit next to his, along with her coats. There’s a calendar he didn’t own before tacked to the wall in the kitchen with handwriting much neater than his.
This woman lives with Shawn. It’s only been two weeks. There’s no way he fell so head over heels for someone else that he’d ask her to move in that quickly.
Which means he was cheating on me. I purse my lips, willing my swirling emotions to vanish. Blood rushes in my ears.
Is it hot in here? It feels way too stuffy.
How long was he stringing me along while he cheated with someone else? Is that why he broke things off with me? Does any of it even matter? Did I?
My eyes slam shut. It only helps a little. I try to stop feeling everything all at once, attempting to rationalize that things were never serious between us. It was a college fling that lasted too long because it was familiar.
Still. That asshole didn’t have to cheat on me if he met someone else. I thought he was a coward for texting me to dump me. A bitter laugh escapes me.
I cover my mouth as things click into place. Flimsy excuses lately about not being able to have me over. Things moved around that I wrote off as nothing.
My gaze snaps to the hall leading to the bedroom. She recognized me. She must know I dated Shawn. But was she aware of what he was doing behind my back? Did he do it to both of us?
The flash of guilt on her face is telling. Talk about not being a girl’s girl. I could never do this to someone else.
This is too much. I rub my temples while my heart beats hard enough to burst from my chest at any moment. I’m not interested in confronting this girl or waiting around for Shawn. I don’t want to hear either of their explanations or apologies. I need to get out of here. Now.
“Sorry, I have to go. Emergency turkey situation.” I call out the lie without waiting for her to answer before I’m out the door.
In the elevator, I realize that I got so worked up, I ended up forgetting my damn embroidery box. Irritation tugs at me, skittering along my skin until I feel like I’m vibrating with it. I force out a breath to release some of the overwhelm from my emotions drowning me.
I’m not going back for it again. I’ll have to rebuy it.
The ride goes by in a blur. I leave the building as fast as my legs will carry me without breaking into a run.
I love my red boots. They make me feel like a confident boss bitch. Running in them? Bad idea. With my luck, I’ll catch the chunky heels on something and break my ankle. I’m not spending Thanksgiving in the emergency room or explaining to anyone how I hurt myself.
The further I walk through town, the easier it is to breathe again.
I stomp on an especially crisp looking leaf, pretending it’s my ex’s face. It’s marginally satisfying and gives me an outlet.
“Fuck him,” I mumble.
Shawn doesn’t deserve another second of my time or an inch of space in my mind. I’m so fucking done with him. And I sure as hell won’t let him ruin my day.
I shove this bullshit with him to a corner of my mind and turn down the tree and lamp-lined road that heads through the center of town. The historic lamps are spruced up with seasonal banners and snowflake light decorations that illuminate at night.
I stop in my tracks when I come to the corner where the beat up old camper is for sale.
It’s seen better days. The siding is mismatched and missing in some spots from rusting away. Once again I picture how great it would be with a makeover for my business.
It would be impulsive to buy this thing. I don’t even know if this whole idea will go anywhere because perfectionism tends to slow me down.
My impulsivity feels like a blessing and a curse because my brain operates on two timelines: right now and not right now.
When I have strong urges to do something, it has to be then and there to satisfy myself. On the other hand, when I lose interest or am feeling overwhelmed, it goes firmly in the back of my mind to wait until later, if it comes at all.
My mind screams at me right now, right now, right fucking now.
Screw it. I have a decent amount saved up from tips, and I’ve heard it from my friends, my family, and people all over town countless times that the creations I craft are good enough to sell.
Then they all turn around and warn me off when I feel like charging into something because I’m gripped by an idea.
This could be my chance to take the next step in my life. I've been floundering since I graduated from Heston U. Am I going to remain a bartender forever, or am I going to have the guts to chase my dreams?
I don’t want anything to hold me back.
Without giving myself time to chicken out, I text the number on the sale sign. The owner answers eagerly, more glad than anything to have someone take it off his hands. He agrees to come by the bar next week to make the sale and lets me know I can pick it up whenever I want.
A giddy squeal bursts free. I do a little happy dance, laughing when a passing car honks. I wave, recognizing Mr. Boucher and his son Theo that plays on the hockey team. His daughter Lainey is probably in the back with her nose in a book.
“Hi! Happy Thanksgiving!” I shout.
They give the horn a few more taps and drive on. I feel much better on my way home.
There’s nothing I can do about Shawn cheating on me. We’re over. I just want to move on and not think about him anymore. Fuck him very much. I hope he has an exceptionally mediocre life that brings him no fulfillment whatsoever.
And me? I’m going to strive for no bad days.
It’s almost noon when I get home. I was only gone for a little over an hour, tops, but Mom’s transformed the house.
A fir garland winds around the banister on the staircase dotted with frost-tipped fake leaves and a string of lights. The pinecone animals that decorated the mantel in the living room have been replaced with tapered candles and her bottlebrush tree collection.
This is nothing compared to how it will be by this weekend.
Only some of her numerous boxes that house her holiday decor have been pulled out.
She loves the winter season and Christmas most of all.
Usually her decorations go up on November 1st, adorning every room in the house with a seasonal touch that doesn’t come down until well into January.
Mom loves the holidays so much that she ended up with me, her Christmas baby. Well, I was meant to be born on Christmas Eve, but I didn’t arrive until December 31st. Either way, it’s why they named me Eve. Dad teases both of us for my stubbornness about Mom’s plans from the start.