Chapter 3 EVE #2
But during our relationship, I learned how to walk on eggshells in my own home, to brace myself for him finding faults in what I did or didn’t do without ever taking accountability for himself, to not laugh too hard because it wasn’t “becoming.”
To not bring up cancer or my fatigue or my fears because I needed to be strong “for my own good.”
And I believed him. I played the part because I helped write the script until the scenes kept changing. Until my role kept shrinking and getting sadder.
And it’s not my job to keep molding myself into someone smaller or shinier (too much one moment, not enough the next), to match whatever version of me made him taller, brighter, the superhero of a story I was never meant to star in.
At least that’s what my therapist says.
Needing a palate cleanser from Chuck, I press play again.
“You’re mine, mi amore.” The narrator’s voice drags thanks to my car’s dying speaker system before catching up to itself, and his deep timbre rumbles through my ancient Honda Civic with crystal clarity. Thank you, universe.
This audiobook may be the only love story in my future. But hey, at least I’ve got my vibrator for orgasms: reliable, rechargeable, really efficient and bullshit-resistant.
Go, me.
An hour later, I’m still lost. My Honda Civic smells of burnt Pop-Tart, the GPS won’t stop recalculating, and through the speakers, Dante has given Catharina three orgasms and a back massage.
I glance down. Still no Spencer Road. Cool, cool, cool.
Right as Dante is about to show Catharina again how much he cares, the ringtone with Rachel Platten’s “Fight Song” belts through Bluetooth.
“Eve!” Multiple voices explode through my speakers, startling Dorothy into dachshund parkour against the window despite being securely attached, while Blanche hides underneath her paws.
“You at the B&B?” Poppy asks.
“Any Bigfoot sightings?” Julie adds.
“Or sexy lumberjacks who read poetry?” Harper chimes in. “Also. Send pictures. But be careful. Julie’s picky about pictures. She’s threatening to block me.”
“I will block you,” Julie replies. “You send me one more picture of my brother making you breakfast in a Santa costume and I will erase you from my contacts.”
“He looked good.”
“Gross. That’s my brother.”
“You asked for pictures!”
“Of the Christmas Tree, Harper. The Christmas Tree.”
“Ohhh… I don’t think I should send you picture of his Christmas Tree. It’s a Redwood… if you know what I mean.”
“Delete my number!”
I snort, surprising myself. Apparently, I’m still capable of amusement under layers of cynicism. A Christmas miracle.
“Alright, alright.” Claire’s voice has a smile in it, “Send me all the pictures. I’m not related to any of you. Now, Eve, ready for your Hallmark Christmas movie era? Rumor has it your male lead has large hands.”
“Hallmark? Have you met me? Eve Foster, Registered Nurse and newly appointed Christmas Grinch.”
Claire chuckles. “Hey, the scrubs you packed for this ‘perfect second chance’ job are festive red and green. You’re trying.”
True, but I don’t tell her it feels like a tiny Band-Aid on a million broken bones.
“Chuck called.”
The car falls silent except for Blanche’s suspicious snort and whispers of “this asshole.”
“Tell me you’re blocking Dr. Jerk Du Soleil’s number,” Claire continues.
“I did. But he called me from the hospital… when I realized it was him, I thought he might say something about my suspension I could tell Jennie.”
“F—f—fuck him,” they chorus as my Bluetooth stutters, choosing violence as its final act.
“Your car gets it,” Harper says.
“Turn right now,” my GPS commands with the confidence of someone who’s never seen a ditch.
“If I turn right now, I’m ending up on Dateline.”
A shadow appears in the distance.
I squint.
Bigfoot? A man? An axe-wielding monster?
“This is how it starts,” I murmur, as both Blanche and Dorothy’s barking hits full alert levels.
“What do you mean? Eve? Hello?” My friends’ voices grow increasingly concerned but also further away as if my reception is getting spotty… I narrow my eyes, as a tiny blur darts into the road.
“Shit!” I slam on the brake and yank the wheel, tires skidding as I swerve toward the shoulder. “Everyone okay?”
I turn to my dogs who I swear nod back at me.
“I’ll be right back,” I tell them and slide out of the car with Dorothy’s carrier she refuses to use.
The chihuahua stares at me with the wide-eyed terror of a creature that was trying to vibe before the universe betrayed him.
And damn it, I recognize that look. That “how did I get here?” look that makes you question every life choice that led to this moment.
“Come on,” I whisper. “You got this.”
And maybe it’s my understanding tone, or the cold, but the chihuahua with a Christmas sweatshirt and a collar that says “LoverBoy” jumps into the carrier like he’s finally found its emotional support human.
Welcome to the club, buddy. We’re all looking for that particular someone.
Well, not me. I got my dogs. The only relationship status with a scientifically proven positive impact on blood pressure.
I glance back up.
Fuck.
That shadow grew broad shoulders.
“Let’s go, LoverBoy.” I hurry back into my car, keeping the rising panic locked deep inside with all my other unresolved trauma. Not today, Satan.
The phone chimes. Please let it be Claire telling me she’s geo-located me and is sending help. But nope.
My car’s robotic Bluetooth voice reads:
Second Chance Dating App
"Love the pic. Do you suck dicks?"
Happy Holidays to me.
I grip the steering wheel, a startled laugh escaping me. This is from an app that promises love and understanding, a partner who gets you.
The laugh dies in my throat as I squint through the windshield. The shadowy figure is moving closer. And is he crouching? Making a strange sound?
“Co, co, co.”
It could be a coyote with bronchitis. Or a serial killer rehearsing his holiday-themed monologue. Either way, I’ve watched enough true-crime shows to know this is where the narrator says, “She never saw it coming.”
Where is Dante with his “touch her and die” intensity when you need him?
A fictional man ready to burn the world down for his love sounds pretty good right about now.
Something about the approaching figure makes my stomach clench in a way that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with déjà vu.
Great. Even my fight-or-flight response is having flashbacks.
My Bluetooth comes back to life. “Hello? Hello? You’re freaaaaaaaaaaking us o—o—out.” Julie’s voice goes up two octaves.
Unbothered, LoverBoy stretches and settles in the carrier like he’s lived here forever. For a dog I almost ran over, he seems alarmingly trusting.
I glance at him, at Blanche, at Dorothy. Three sets of eyes staring at me like I know what I’m doing. Dangerous assumption, but I’ll take it.
“I’m okay.” I’m not even sure my friends can hear me at that point. Not that it matters when my definition of “okay” includes being stranded in a horror Christmas movie with a cursed Honda Civic, three dogs, and a potential serial killer doing his best seasonal ASMR.
Where is my emotional support pickle when I need it? In the backseat, looking at me like I’ve lost my mind.
Proof 1001 I’m not Hallmark material.
But Lifetime? Oh, I’m your final girl… armed with trauma, a push-up bra, and one shot at my Prove-It-All-Without-Falling-Apart era.
Fa-la-la-la?