23. Nash #3
Eve laughs, a real laugh that sounds like music over the background noise of the city. "Fair point. But still. This is perfect."
She's right. Sitting here with her, watching her face as she experiences simple pleasures like hot chocolate and ice skating, feels more perfect than anything has in years.
For this moment, we're not the broken kids who hurt each other.
We're not the adults carrying the weight of a decade's worth of mistakes and regrets.
We're just Nash and Eve, drinking hot chocolate on a winter afternoon, and that's enough.
"What's next?" Eve asks, finishing her hot chocolate and looking at me expectantly.
The trust in her voice, the way she's letting me guide this day, makes something warm unfurl in my chest. She's relaxed now, the wariness from this morning replaced by something that looks almost like happiness.
The sweet, sunny girl I remembered from childhood is shining through, and I want to soak up every second of it.
"There's a Christmas market in Union Square," I say, standing and offering her my hand again. "If you're up for more walking."
"Lead the way," she says, taking my hand without hesitation.
The market is exactly what I hoped it would be—a maze of wooden stalls selling everything from handmade ornaments to artisanal soaps to roasted almonds that smell like heaven.
Eve moves from stall to stall with the enthusiasm of someone experiencing everything for the first time, touching soft scarves and admiring delicate glass ornaments with wonder.
"Look at this," she says, stopping in front of a stall selling handmade jewelry. She picks up a pair of silver earrings shaped like snowflakes, holding them up to catch the light. "They're beautiful."
They are beautiful, but not as beautiful as the way her face lights up as she examines them. Without thinking, I reach for my wallet.
"Don't," Eve says quickly, noticing my movement. "You don't need to buy me things."
"I want to," I say simply, already pulling out cash to hand to the vendor.
"Nash—"
"It's Christmas," I tell her, accepting the small wrapped package from the smiling vendor. "Everyone deserves something special at Christmas."
Eve stares at the package in my hand like it might explode. "I can't accept this."
"You can," I say, pressing it into her palm and closing her fingers around it. "And you will. Because it makes me happy to give it to you."
For a moment, I think she's going to argue. Her mouth opens like she's about to protest, but then she looks at my face and whatever she sees there makes her close it again.
"Thank you," she says softly, slipping the package into her coat pocket. "That's... that's really sweet of you."
Sweet. If she only knew the things I've done, the darkness I carry, she wouldn't call me sweet. But for today, in this moment, maybe I can be the man she thinks I am.
We spend another hour wandering through the market, sharing a bag of roasted chestnuts and watching a string quartet play Christmas carols. Eve picks out a small ornament I get for her—a hand-painted angel with delicate wings—and when I ask who it's for, she shrugs.
"I don't know," she admits. "I just liked it. Maybe for your tree, if you don't mind."
My tree. As if this temporary arrangement of hers staying in my apartment might extend to Christmas, as if she might still be here to help me decorate a tree I don't even own.
"I don't have a tree," I tell her.
"Oh." She looks disappointed. "Well, maybe we could get one. If you want. I mean, if I'm still..."
She doesn't finish the sentence, but I know what she's asking. If she's still here. If this strange liminal space we're occupying continues past the point where her memories return and she remembers why she hates me.
"We could do that," I say, because in this moment, planning a future that probably won't happen feels worth the inevitable disappointment.
By the time we head home, the sun is setting and the city lights are beginning to twinkle against the darkening sky. Eve walks beside me with her hands buried deep in her coat pockets, looking more relaxed than I've seen her since she woke up in that hospital bed.
"Thank you for today," she says as we climb the stairs to my apartment. "I needed this. I needed to feel... normal."
Normal. If only she knew how far from normal this day has been for me. How I've spent years avoiding the kind of simple pleasures we indulged in today, telling myself I don't deserve them. How being with her like this—easy and comfortable and sweet—feels like playing house with someone else's life.
But she's right. Today felt normal in a way that nothing has for years.
Today felt like who we could have been if we'd been different people, if I'd been different.
If I'd been brave enough to tell her how I felt instead of pushing her away.
If I'd been kind instead of cruel, patient instead of possessive.
But, despite all of that, today was perfect. Today was everything I never let myself hope for, and no matter what happens next, no one can take that away from either of us.