7. Eve
EVE
AGE TWENTY-TWO
Ishouldn't be here.
But here I am anyway, standing in this narrow hallway that smells like old radiators and someone's dinner from two floors down, clutching the strap of my purse like it's the only thing keeping me tethered to reality.
Four years. Four years since I ran out of his childhood bedroom with his taste still on my lips and my heart cracked clean through.
Four years of telling myself I was over Nash Callahan, that what happened between us was just small-town desperation and teenage stupidity rolled into one catastrophic mistake.
Four years of lying to myself.
I know he comes home. Everyone in Wintervale knows when Nash Callahan graces our little mountain town with his presence—the whispers follow him down Main Street like he's some kind of celebrity.
The golden boy who made it out, who's saving lives in the big city while the rest of us are still trudging through the same snow-covered streets we grew up on.
But somehow, every time he's been back, I've managed to be somewhere else.
Working at the mill office. Taking classes at the community college.
Hiding in my apartment with the blinds drawn and my phone turned off because even the possibility of running into him makes my chest tight with something that feels too much like hope.
The truth is, I've been sleepwalking through my life since the night I left him.
Got my associate's degree in business because it seemed practical, safe.
Started sleeping with Ethan Caldwell because he was there and interested and having someone want me felt better than the alternative.
We're together, I guess, in that undefined way where he takes me to dinner and I let him stay over sometimes and we both pretend it's leading somewhere meaningful.
But my heart's never been in it. Not with Ethan, not with school, not with anything. I've been going through the motions, painting over the cracks, telling myself this hollow ache in my chest is just what growing up feels like.
Then Ethan mentioned this business trip to New York, something about meeting with lawyers for his consulting work, and asked if I wanted to come along.
Said it might be good for me to see the city, broaden my horizons.
I said yes before I could stop myself, already planning how I'd casually ask Marcus for Nash's address the next time I saw him at the diner.
Like I wasn't planning this exact moment from the second Ethan suggested the trip.
My knuckles hover over the door, and I can hear my pulse in my ears. This is insane. He probably doesn't even remember me, probably has some sophisticated New York girlfriend with perfect hair and a master's degree who knows which fork to use at fancy restaurants.
But I knock anyway, three sharp raps that echo down the hallway like gunshots.
Footsteps approach, and my stomach drops into my boots. The door swings open, and I'm already starting to smile, already preparing some casual explanation for why I'm here, when?—
It's not Nash.
It's a girl. A stunning girl, maybe eighteen or nineteen, with smooth brown skin and the kind of natural beauty that doesn't need makeup to stop traffic.
Her dark hair falls in perfect coils around her shoulders, and she's wearing a fitted black tank top that shows off lean, toned arms. She looks like she could be on the cover of a magazine, all sharp cheekbones and intelligent dark eyes that size me up in about two seconds flat.
"Can I help you?" Her voice is soft but wary, like she's used to being careful about who she lets in.
My mouth opens, but nothing comes out. Heat floods my cheeks as the reality of the situation crashes over me like ice water. Of course Nash has someone. Of course he's moved on. Four years is a lifetime, and I've been clinging to a memory of a boy who probably doesn't exist anymore.
"I—" I manage, then shake my head, backing away from the door. "I'm sorry. I made a mistake."
The girl's eyes narrow slightly, like she's trying to figure out if I'm some kind of threat, but before she can say anything else, a voice from deeper in the apartment makes my entire world tilt sideways.
"Morgan, who is it?"
Nash.
His voice is deeper than I remember, roughened by years and cigarettes and probably late nights in emergency rooms. But it's still him, still that same drawl that used to make my fifteen-year-old heart skip beats and my eighteen-year-old body come apart under his hands.
I turn and start walking toward the stairs, my legs moving on autopilot while my brain screams at me to run faster. This was such a mistake. Such a stupid, pathetic mistake.
I can't see him.
"Eve?"
I freeze halfway to the stairwell, my hand gripping the banister so tight my knuckles go white. Slowly, against every instinct I have, I turn around.
And there he is.
Nash Callahan, twenty-three years old and somehow even more devastating than the boy I left behind.
He's taller than I remember, broader through the shoulders, wearing jeans and a simple gray t-shirt that clings to muscles and shows peeks of tattoos he definitely didn't have in high school.
His sandy hair is longer, tousled like he's been running his hands through it, and those ocean-blue eyes are just as intense as ever.
But there's something different about him too. Something harder around the edges, like the city has polished away some of his small-town softness and left behind someone more dangerous. More adult.
He's staring at me like I'm a ghost, and maybe I am. Maybe we both are.
"Hi, Nash." The words come out smaller than I intended, barely more than a whisper.
He steps into the hallway, letting the apartment door close behind him, and I notice the girl—Morgan—watching us through the gap with those sharp, calculating eyes. His girlfriend, obviously. The thought sends a spike of something ugly and possessive through my chest.
"What are you doing here?" He doesn't sound angry, just... surprised. Confused. Like finding me outside his door is the last thing he expected on a Tuesday evening in December.
"I don't know." The honesty slips out before I can stop it. "I was in the city with—with someone, and I had your address, and I just..." I trail off, realizing how pathetic this all sounds. "I shouldn't have come. You clearly have a life here, and I'm just?—"
"You're just what?" His voice is quiet, but there's something underneath it that makes my skin prickle with awareness.
I look at him—really look at him—and for a moment I'm eighteen again, breathless and wanting and terrified of how much he could hurt me.
I'm thinking that everything about Nash feels right—it's always felt right in brief stretches of time—but I couldn't wait for it to all go wrong.
So I left and he never talked to me again.
Because I will always be easily forgettable to him.
"Nothing." I force myself to meet his gaze, to keep my chin up even as my heart shatters all over again. "I'm nothing, Nash. Just like always. I should go."
He studies me for a long moment, those blue eyes traveling over my face like he's memorizing it. Then he nods once, sharp and final.
"Take care of yourself, Eve."
And just like that, he turns and walks back into his apartment, leaving me standing alone in a hallway that suddenly feels a thousand miles away from home.
I don't move until I hear the lock click into place. Then I turn and walk toward the stairs on legs that feel like they're made of glass, each step careful and deliberate because I'm afraid if I move too fast, I'll shatter completely.
By the time I reach the street, my cheeks are wet with tears I didn't realize I was crying. The December air bites at my exposed skin, and I pull my coat tighter around myself as I start walking back toward the hotel where Ethan is probably waiting for me to return from my "shopping trip."
I hate Nash Callahan. I hate him for being exactly what I remembered and nothing like what I needed. I hate him for having that beautiful girl in his apartment and that new hardness in his eyes that says he's become someone I'll never understand.
Most of all, I hate him for letting me go. Again.