4. Eve
EVE
AGE SEVENTEEN
The Winter Formal transforms St. Agnes High's gymnasium into something almost magical—twinkling lights strung between basketball hoops, silver streamers catching the low lighting, and the scent of pine from the makeshift decorations mixing with teenage cologne and hairspray.
The theme this year is "Winter Wonderland," which basically means everything sparkles and the heating system can't quite keep up with the December chill seeping through the old brick walls.
I sit at a round table draped in white cloth, watching my date—Derek something-or-other from my AP History class—tongue-wrestle with Melissa Crawford near the darkened corner by the emergency exit.
They're not even trying to be subtle about it.
His hands are already wandering places that would make Sister Margaret cross herself twice.
I should care. Any normal girl would march over there and cause a scene, or at least feel hurt.
Instead, I trace the condensation on my untouched punch cup and wonder why I even bothered coming tonight.
The navy blue dress Sarah convinced me to buy hangs perfectly on my frame, the fabric skimming my curves in all the right places, but what's the point when the boy who asked me would rather explore someone else's body than dance with mine?
This is how it always goes, though. People get close enough to see the surface—the good grades, the helpful nature, the girl who volunteers at church fundraisers and never causes trouble—but they never stick around long enough to dig deeper.
Like I'm perfectly pleasant company until something more interesting walks by.
Sarah spins past in Marcus's arms, her red hair catching the light as she laughs at something he whispers in her ear.
They've been together for over two years now—after so many more back and forths—one of those couples that makes everyone else feel like they're missing something fundamental about love.
Emma sways with her date near the center of the dance floor, her usual sharp edges softened by the romantic lighting and whatever spell slow dances cast over teenage hearts.
And here I sit. Alone. Again.
I take a sip of the too-sweet punch and grimace. Even the refreshments at this dance are disappointing.
"Looks like your prince charming found himself a new princess."
The voice makes my spine stiffen before I even turn around.
Nash Callahan stands behind my chair, hands shoved deep in the pockets of a black suit that looks too damn good on her.
The formal wear should make him look civilized, tamed somehow, but it only emphasizes the sharp lines of his jaw and the way his sandy hair falls just perfectly imperfect across his forehead.
His ocean-blue eyes hold that familiar glint of amusement that always makes me want to punch something.
Or someone.
"What do you want, Nash?" I don't bother hiding the irritation in my voice. After years of his snide comments and that disaster on the ferris wheel that I never let go of—not to mention the way he kissed me at the bonfire and then pretended it never happened—I'm done pretending to be polite.
He shrugs, the movement casual but somehow predatory. Like a wolf deciding whether its prey is worth the chase. "Dance with me."
I laugh, but there's no humor in it. "Are you serious right now?"
"Dead serious, sweetheart."
That nickname. He's been calling me that since we were kids, but the way it rolls off his tongue now makes something twist low in my stomach. Something I absolutely refuse to acknowledge.
Hatred. That's what it is.
"Why?" I cross my arms, the silk of my dress whispering against itself. "Shouldn't you be off somewhere smoking behind the building with Jake? Or maybe finding some other girl to mess with?"
Nash's expression darkens, a shadow passing over those stupidly perfect features. For just a moment, he looks almost... hurt? But that's impossible. Nash Callahan doesn't get hurt. He's the one who does the hurting.
"Maybe I wanted to dance with the prettiest girl at the formal." His voice drops lower, rough around the edges in a way that makes my traitorous pulse quicken.
"Save the charm for someone who'll fall for it." I turn back to watch Derek's hands roam even lower on Melissa's back. "I'm not interested in being your entertainment for the evening."
"Jesus Christ, Eve." The frustration in his voice catches me off guard. "Can't you just?—"
"Just what? Fall all over myself because the great Nash Callahan finally decided to acknowledge my existence? Pretend you haven't spent the last ten years making me feel like dirt under your shoe?"
Something flashes across his face—anger, maybe, or something deeper I can't quite read. Before I can process it fully, he moves around my chair and extends his hand.
"Dance with me, sweetheart."
It's not really a request anymore. There's something commanding in his tone, something that makes the air between us crackle with tension. When I don't immediately take his hand, he huffs out an annoyed breath and reaches down, fingers wrapping around my wrist.
"What are you?—"
He pulls me to my feet with surprising gentleness, his touch burning through the thin silk of my gloves. For a heartbeat, we stand frozen, close enough that I can smell his cologne—something expensive and masculine that makes my head spin.
Then he's leading me onto the dance floor, his hand settling possessively on the small of my back as he draws me into the circle of his arms. The song is something slow and dreamy, all strings and soft vocals that seem designed to make people do stupid things.
Like dance with boys who've spent years breaking your heart in small, daily increments.
"This is ridiculous," I mutter, but I don't pull away. His body is warm and solid against mine, and despite everything—all the hurt and anger and confusion—being this close to him feels like coming home and jumping off a cliff at the same time.
"Stop thinking so hard." His breath tickles my ear as he spins us slowly. And then his voice drops lower, like I'm not supposed to hear the next part. "For once, Eve, just stop making this so damn hard on me."
I tip my head back to look up at him, studying the sharp angles of his face in the dim lighting. I don't really know how to make sense of what he just said. It's far too loaded with years of confusion and hurt.
"Why are you really here, Nash?"
His jaw ticks, a muscle jumping beneath the skin as his eyes dart away from mine for just a moment. When they return, there's something raw there, something that makes my chest tighten unexpectedly.
He shrugs, but the gesture lacks his usual careless confidence. "It's my last Winter Formal. Seems like a waste to ditch it when I'll never get another chance."
The honesty in his voice catches me off guard. Nash Callahan, admitting to something as simple as not wanting to miss out? It doesn't fit the image I've built of him over the years—the boy who acts like nothing matters, like he's above all the small-town traditions the rest of us cling to.
His voice drops then, rough and quiet against the gentle swell of music. "I know too much about missed chances."
Something in those words hits me square in the chest. The way he says it, like he's carrying the weight of regrets I never knew existed. For a moment, the boy who's tormented me since childhood feels like a stranger, someone complex and wounded hiding beneath that perfect exterior.
We move together in the dim light, his hand spanning the small of my back, fingers splayed against the silk in a way that makes heat pool low in my belly.
The other couples fade into background noise—Sarah's laughter, the rustle of formal dresses, the soft conversations floating around us.
All of it dims until there's nothing but Nash's ocean-blue eyes locked on mine and the way his body moves against me with surprising grace.
I remember that kiss at that bonfire. How unexpected it was, how right it felt when his mouth crashed against mine even if he was being an asshole moments before.
The way his hands tangled in my hair like he'd been starving for the touch of me.
How my entire world narrowed down to the taste of beer on his lips and the desperate way he held me, like I might disappear if he let go.
And then how he pulled away like I'd burned him. How he told me that it was nice to shut me up before walking away, leaving me standing there with my lips still tingling and my heart cracked wide open.
But right now, with his thumb brushing against my spine through the silk and his eyes dark with something I can't quite name, that memory feels distant.
Unreal. This Nash—the one holding me like I'm something precious, the one who admits to regret—this version makes my chest ache in an entirely different way.
His free hand comes up to cup my cheek, thumb tracing the line of my cheekbone with devastating gentleness. The touch sends shivers racing down my spine, and I can't help but lean into it, my eyes fluttering closed for just a moment.
Maybe I was wrong about him. Maybe ten years ago, when I first moved here and thought Nash Callahan was just a lost boy hiding behind cruel words, maybe I saw something real. Something worth believing in.
When I open my eyes, he's closer than before. Close enough that I can count the darker flecks in his blue irises, can feel the warmth of his breath against my lips. His gaze drops to my mouth, and the air between us grows thick with possibility.
This is it. This is the moment where everything changes, where all the hurt and anger and confusion gets swept away by something bigger, something that's been building between us for years whether I wanted to admit it or not.
His head dips lower, and I tilt my face up to meet him halfway?—
And then it all comes crashing back.
The laughter. Years and years of Nash's cruel laughter after he'd tormented me. Of mocking me, making rude comments, ruining my chances with guys like Todd just to make me feel worthless afterwards. How he's always called me "sweetheart" with just enough condescension to make it sting.
How he kissed me like I was everything he'd ever wanted and then walked away like I was nothing at all.
The memories wash over me, and suddenly I can't breathe. Can't think past the roaring in my ears and the way my heart pounds against my ribs like a caged animal.
I won't do this again. I won't let him make me believe in something that doesn't exist, won't let him kiss me and then pretend it never happened. Won't give him another chance to look at me like I'm a mistake he wishes he could take back.
I step away from him so abruptly that he stumbles slightly, his hands falling away from my body. The loss of his warmth hits me immediately, but I push through it, gathering every scrap of dignity I have left.
"Eve—"
But I'm already turning away, already pushing through the crowd of swaying couples toward the exit. My heels click against the gymnasium floor with sharp, angry precision, each step taking me further from the boy who's spent years breaking my heart in small, daily increments.
Let him know what it feels like to be left standing alone for once. Let him know what it feels like to reach for something and have it slip through his fingers like smoke.
Let Nash Callahan know what it feels like to hurt for once.