34. Eve
EVE
The drive from New York to Wintervale passes in a blur of snow-dusted highways and comfortable silence.
Nash's hand rests on my thigh as he navigates the familiar roads leading home, his thumb tracing absent patterns through my jeans.
Every few miles, I catch him glancing at me with an expression that's equal parts contentment and disbelief, like he's still processing that we're doing this together.
"Should I be?"
His mouth quirks into that half-smile I've grown to love. "Your parents might have some questions about your disappeared fiancé and sudden boyfriend upgrade."
The understatement makes me laugh despite the knot of anxiety in my stomach. "That's one way to put it."
Nash pulls into my parents' driveway, the familiar sight of the two-story colonial with its red door and snow-covered evergreens making my chest tight with emotion.
Through the front windows, I can see the warm glow of Christmas lights and catch a glimpse of movement that tells me my parents are watching for our arrival.
"You ready for this?" Nash asks, cutting the engine.
I take a deep breath, steadying myself for the conversation ahead. "As ready as I can be."
The front door opens before we've even made it halfway up the walkway, and my mother appears on the threshold with her arms already extended. Lorna Turner has always been the type of woman who greets every homecoming like a celebration, and today is no exception.
"Eve, sweetheart," she says, pulling me into a hug that smells like vanilla and the lavender soap she's used for as long as I can remember. "It's so good to see you."
Over her shoulder, I see my father emerge from the house.
Charles Turner moves with the measured confidence of a man who's spent decades solving problems through sheer determination, but today there's something uncertain in his expression.
His sharp gaze moves from me to Nash with obvious questions.
"Nash Callahan," Dad says, extending his hand with the kind of firm politeness that doesn't quite hide his confusion. "Didn't expect to see you again."
"Mr. Turner," Nash replies, accepting the handshake with steady composure. "Thank you for having me."
The formality between them feels strange after everything Nash and I have shared, but I understand the necessity.
My parents know Nash as the boy who left town for medical school and never came back.
They have no context for the man standing beside me now, no understanding of how we found each other again or what we've built together.
"Come in, come in," Mom says, ushering us both inside where the warmth immediately begins to thaw my wind-chapped cheeks. "I've got coffee on, and your father just finished putting another log on the fire."
The living room looks exactly as I remember it—overstuffed furniture arranged around the stone fireplace, family photos covering every available surface, and a Christmas tree that puts our New York apartment version to shame.
The familiar comfort of home wars with the knowledge that I need to shatter my parents' assumptions about my life.
We settle into the living room, Nash and I on the couch while my parents take the chairs across from us. The arrangement feels vaguely like an interrogation, though I know that's not their intention.
"So," Dad begins, his voice carefully neutral, "where's Ethan? I expected him to drive up with you."
The question I've been dreading. I've rehearsed this conversation during the entire drive from New York, but actually sitting here under my parents' concerned gazes makes the words stick in my throat.
"Ethan's gone," I say finally, the admission hanging heavy in the sudden silence.
Mom's coffee cup pauses halfway to her lips. "Gone? What do you mean gone?"
I glance at Nash, drawing strength from his steady presence beside me. "He was embezzling from the company, Dad. From you. When I found out about it, he... disappeared. I haven't seen him since."
My father's eyes widen, his businessman's mind immediately jumping to the implications. "How much? How long has this been going on?"
"I don't know all the details," I lie smoothly, grateful that Nash and I decided to keep the truth about Ethan's death between us. "But it's been handled. The money's been returned, and you won't have any more problems with it."
Dad's eyes narrow with the kind of sharp intelligence that built Turner Timber from nothing into the successful operation it is today. "Handled how? By who?"
"People who know how to handle these kinds of situations," Nash says quietly, his voice carrying just enough edge to suggest that further questions wouldn't be welcome.
My parents' gazes swing to Nash with new awareness, taking in the subtle authority in his posture and the way he speaks about criminal activity like it's something he understands intimately.
I can practically see the wheels turning in their minds as they reassess the man sitting in their living room.
"I see," Dad says slowly, though it's clear he doesn't see at all.
"The important thing," I continue, desperate to move the conversation away from Ethan's fate, "is that I'm safe. And I'm happy. Nash and I... we found each other again. We're together now."
The shift in topic doesn't seem to reassure my parents. If anything, they look more confused than before.
"Together?" Mom echoes, her gaze moving between Nash and me with obvious bewilderment. "But sweetheart, you were engaged to Ethan just a few weeks ago. You've been living with him for years. You even moved to New York with him."
The gentle reproach in her voice makes guilt twist in my stomach.
My parents have always seen me as their steady, dependable daughter—the one who makes careful decisions and thinks things through.
The idea that I could go from engaged to one man to in love with another in the space of a few weeks probably seems completely out of character.
"I know how it looks," I admit, reaching for Nash's hand and finding comfort in the way his fingers immediately intertwine with mine. "But Nash and I have history. You know that And what I feel for him... it's not new. It's just finally right."
Nash's thumb strokes across my knuckles, a small gesture of support that doesn't go unnoticed by my parents.
"History," Dad repeats, his tone suggesting he remembers some of that history. "As I recall, you two didn't exactly get along growing up."
"We were complicated," Nash says with characteristic understatement. "But people change. I've changed."
"Have you?" The question comes from my mother, and there's something almost maternal in the way she studies Nash's face. "Because the boy I remember had a reputation for trouble. For making choices that hurt people."
Nash doesn't flinch under her scrutiny, but I can feel the tension radiating from his body. "You're right, Mrs. Turner. I did hurt people. I hurt Eve, specifically, more times than I care to remember. But I'm not that boy anymore, and I'd rather die than cause her pain again."
The quiet intensity in his voice seems to surprise my parents. They exchange one of those wordless conversations that couples develop after decades of marriage, and I hold my breath waiting for their verdict.
"Well," Mom says finally, setting down her coffee cup with a decisive click, "if Eve is happy, then that's what matters. But Nash, I hope you understand that we'll be watching. Our daughter has been through enough upheaval lately."
"I understand," Nash replies solemnly. "And I appreciate the concern. Eve deserves people who look out for her."
Dad clears his throat, bringing the conversation back to practical matters. "What about living arrangements? Are you planning to come back home, Eve? Your old room is exactly as you left it."
The question I've been hoping to avoid. I love my parents, love this house and the memories it contains, but the thought of moving back to Wintervale after the life I've started building in New York makes my chest tight with something that feels uncomfortably close to panic.
"Actually," I say carefully, "I was hoping to stay in New York. I've got a life there now, and Nash's work is there, and I just... I think that's where I belong."
The disappointment on my parents' faces is immediate and heartbreaking. Mom's smile becomes forced, while Dad's expression shuts down completely.
"I see," Mom says, though her voice suggests she doesn't see at all. "It's just that we hoped... after everything with Ethan, we thought you might want to come home for a while. Let us take care of you."
The offer is tempting in its simplicity.
It would be so easy to fall back into the safety of childhood, to let my parents handle the complicated business of rebuilding my life while I hide in familiar surroundings.
But the woman I've become—the woman Nash helped me discover—doesn't want easy. She wants real.
"I appreciate that," I tell them, meaning every word. "But I need to figure out who I am on my own terms. And right now, that means staying in New York with Nash."
We spend the rest of the afternoon navigating carefully around the minefield of family expectations and unasked questions.
My parents do their best to welcome Nash, but I can tell they're struggling to reconcile the man he is now with their memories of the troubled boy who used to torment their daughter.
Nash, for his part, handles their scrutiny with impressive grace.
He answers their questions honestly without revealing anything that might alarm them, speaks respectfully about his work as an EMT while glossing over the darker aspects of his life in New York.
By the time we leave for our hotel, my parents seem cautiously optimistic about my choice in men, even if they're not entirely convinced.