Chapter 5 EVE
Chapter five
EVE
The snow and my now flickering headlights make it impossible for me to make out whoever is out there, but whoever is out there is tall.
“E—e—ve?” My friends call out.
“Shh!”
Blanche’s chicken toy squeaks when I grip it like I’m wielding a sword, bracing for the fight of my life. I do not put the chicken down.
My emergency tote is on the floor behind the passenger seat—band-aids, an extra leash for the girls, hand sanitizer, my half-finished crochet Santa pickle (Dickle), two romance novels and the vibrator in its little velvet pouch that absolutely refuses to close all the way.
I reach back, hoping for… I don’t know… a whistle? A flashlight? A life decision reset button.
My fingers brush the pouch instead.
The vibrator’s slick pink head slides halfway out like it’s trying to make a grand entrance.
No. Nope. Not today.
I try to shove it back in with one hand, which only makes it tilt forward like it's making eye contact.
I freeze.
I pretend that did not happen.
I pretend I have control over anything in my life.
And I keep the chicken.
I’ve always wondered if my last thought would be some profound line to inspire generations. Instead, what flashes through my mind? Someone’s going to find my vibrator.
The police report will list “one female victim, three very much alive dogs, and one overused Pleasure3000 that suggests serious trust issues.”
At least I have clean underwear on (mom would be so proud).
Bigfoot knocks on my window like a well-behaved Bigfoot who’s read the serial killer etiquette handbook.
“You okay in there?” The deep voice has my stupid heartbeat speeding up with a roar. Because that voice tickles my brain.
“Huh-huh.” My fingers clench around Blanche’s rubber chicken until it squeaks again. “I have the cops on the line.”
“Say hi to Officer Martinez for me.” It’s not his casual tone that sends an icicle down my spine. It’s that the dots are connecting despite my brain’s singing La-la-la-la-This-Can’t-Be-Real.
Crap. Shit. Fuck. To the thousands.
I grab my beanie, tugging it down on my curls and ease the window down another inch, enough to peek out without confirming what I already sense in my stem cells.
“I’m a vet, but I’m first aid certified.” And now he’s angling his flashlight toward me.
I jerk back, but the beam catches my face and I slam my palm on the window control. Up. Now. The window shudders, sticks, then drops dramatically like Dorothy when she sees a squirrel. Of course.
“Need help with that?” He rasps out.
Not a serial killer.
Not a carjacker.
So much worse.
The AdamWoof is standing outside my car.
And yes, he looks like a man who could chop woods while reciting poetry and make forest creatures swoon. I’m not going to sneak a picture for Harper or Julie or… me.
I yank off my beanie, fluff my honey-blonde (no longer pink) hair then immediately slap my hands over my face. Not exactly a game-changing peek-a-boo, but hey, worth a shot.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Is that the tone of someone who’s asking if I hit my head or if I’m still in remission?
I’m not ready. I’m nowhere close to ready. Let’s face it, I’ll never be ready. Even if I lived to a thousand years and did therapy for a million hours. My car engine makes a concerning noise that definitely won’t support my escape plan.
“Ugh-ugh.”
“Have you seen a chihuahua?”
His voice is deeper than I remember. More... everything.
I peel my fingers away from my face one by one, hoping he might disappear. No such luck. He’s still here. Still devastating.
“Adam.” His name crawls out of my throat as the chicken squeaks once more. Because of course, the first time we meet in person I’m holding my dog’s support chicken toy.
He studies me silently, probably cataloging every change since we last connected (my face is fuller, my hair is my natural color, my brain’s gone offshore), while I fumble for words.
“So. Ugh, hmm. Hi.” Great words, Eve. Wonderful.
His lips twitch upward. “Really? Hi?” His voice wraps around me like honey and heat and a healthy dose of what-the-fuck.
“Yep. Hi. Hello.” Words and I used to be acquainted. Friends, really.
He crouches next to the car so we’re eye-level and yep, this is where “I could get lost in his gaze” makes actual sense. An ocean of regrets and remorse right there.
“Are you okay?” Ha. There it is. The tone. This is why Claire’s Hallmark movie magic is bound to fail. I’m not Hallmark material. I’m the cancer survivor with neuropathy, too much baggage and scars. As I said, pure Lifetime movie.
“Eve?” His tone is filled with tension. Oh right, the question.
“Yep. I’m good. Healthy,” I murmur and his jaw seems to relax. “Totally fine.” Because nothing says “fine” like my stomach spinning around and my heart doing flips Simone Biles would be proud of. Why does he have a gruff jaw now? Can I touch it?
Nope. No touching. Bad nurse, bad.
I brush my fingers in my hair instead and remind myself to breathe because that blue gaze of his is peeling layers of my past that would put me on the naughty list and my exhale is caught somewhere between my lungs and the North Pole.
“Thank fucking everything,” he rasps. Because despite everything, he’s still decent. And because of everything, I want to either lean closer or crawl under my Great Dane.
Instead, I sit even straighter, force my lips into… nope, not a smile. Say hello to the Joker—Eve Foster Edition.
My Bluetooth crackles back to life. “Eve?” Claire’s voice tightens with what sounds suspiciously like guilt. “Say something.”
“Yep. Good. Here.” I speak in code now.
“Oh good.” She breathes out. “Because there’s so much ahead. Like what I was telling you about your Hallmark movie era. I thought I should wait… but … I can’t wait anymore. Your new boss? I’m pretty sure he’s Adam’s father.”
“Yep, that Adam...” Julie confirms as Harper exclaims, “VoiceGasm in the actual flesh!”
Claire continues, “Remember that picture you have of him? I only realized it yesterday when I browsed old pictures on the clinic’s website. Dr. Harrison had a picture of his entire family… and, well… I tried to call—”
“She’s aware,” VoiceGasm says, deadpan.
My whole body locks up.
Adam stands back up, arms crossed, his face giving away nothing. And nothing means everything because I once could have written a medical thesaurus cataloging each of his micro-expressions.
“Wait.” Claire’s inhale could rival any dramatic podcast reveal. “Is he—”
“Right here?” My voice hits a high pitch only a dog could hear. I clear my throat. “Oh yeah. He’s right here.”
“Ohhh… plot twist,” Julie murmurs.
“I swear I didn’t realize it until that picture on the website,” Claire rushes to explain. “I was going to tell you last night, but you said you were done looking backward, that you needed this fresh start more than anything, and I thought...” She trails off, realizing she’s only making it worse.
“You thought ambushing me was better?” I hiss through clenched teeth, aware of Adam watching this unfold with that unreadable expression.
“It’s the perfect job and they don’t care, about…
your issues. And I thought maybe it was fate,” Claire admits quietly.
My best friend, the one who held my hand through scans when Chuck wouldn’t, the one who helped me pack after I found Chuck in that supply closet.
“And that if I told you, you wouldn’t go. ”
And there it is. The truth I can’t even argue with, because she’s right. I wouldn’t have come.
Seven years since I stood him up, convinced he deserved someone whole, not a girl with radiation burns and scars who couldn’t guarantee a future and who lied to him for months.
And now he’s standing here, not the vet student who’d read to me when I couldn’t sleep, but a full-grown man who’d make even Dante from my audiobook raise an eyebrow.
“I…”
Adam’s eyes narrow. “So, you didn’t plan to come here?” His voice is too controlled, too measured.
“I thought I was going to the Jersey Shore.” Like that explains anything.
“Eve, babe.” Claire clears her throat. “I never said The Jersey Shore. You’re in Pine Creek, close to Jersey Shore, a little town in Pennsylvania.”
“Find out if he still makes that sound when he—” Harper starts.
“—We can still hear you!” I interrupt, my face burning.
“I love you. You’ve got this,” Claire says softly.
“Yep. Love you, bye!” I hang up before my voice betrays me further.
I squeeze my eyes shut, wondering if I can manifest a sinkhole right under my feet.
“The chihuahua?” Adam’s voice pulls me back like a crash cart during code blue. Unwanted but necessary for survival.
I nod. “He’s here. He’s safe. He seems fine.”
“Good.”
“Did he bite you?” Great callback to seven years ago, ladies and gentlemen. I’m here all month, apparently.
“Really?” I really hate how even his tone remains a black hole.
I once memorized everything about this man: the way he likes his waffles (crispy on the outside, melting deliciousness on the inside), that he’s not a fan of peanut butter and chocolate (but loves snickers!), that he used to play hockey, that when he laughs, it’s the type of laughter that had the clearly magical power of thawing the Ice Queen—aka me.
“No, he didn’t bite me. And I can tend to my own wounds. Got plenty of years to learn.”
Ouch. “Yep. Good. Hmmm.”
From the backseat, my dogs are on a mission to remind me they’re here.
Dorothy is rustling behind me which usually means she’s plotting a soap opera where she's the main character.
Nope. She’s halfway into my tote.
“Dorothy. Don’t you—"
She emerges victorious, dragging Dickle—my half-crocheted Santa pickle ornament—by the yarn string. It looks more like something from Martians Have Big Dick Energy, too than an ornament, but hey, stress crocheting for the win.
At least it's not my vibrator.
“Dorothy. That is not a dog toy.”
She licks it.
And then she humps it.
Because of course she does.
I still have Blanche’s squeaky chicken toy in one hand, so I grab for Dickle with the other like I’m performing deranged festive juggling.
“Stop. Humping. Bad. Sex,” I blurt out before realizing the words, strung together, are deeply misleading.
Adam raises an eyebrow. “Bad sex?”
“Not you. I mean—no, not us. I meant the dogs. Sex. Bad. You. Good.” I should really stop speaking. Chuck once told me I was never flustered. Clearly, he was wrong.
Chuck never knew me. And maybe that one’s on me. My brain continues misfiring. “You. Me. Good. I mean I don’t know. For sure.” I drop the chicken.
Adam’s lips twitch. “I wouldn’t be opposed to a demonstration.”
My hand tightens on Dickle the crocheted pickle.
Adam’s gaze flicks down.
To the emergency tote.
Where the velvet pouch has fully given up and the vibrator is no leaning out like it has opinions.
“But let’s start with frostbite and your car first, yeah?”
“Yep. Good. Great.”
“Okay.”
“I have the manual somewhere.” But I’m not looking for the manual. I’m looking at him. And he’s looking at me.
“So, I’m not dreaming. EveNoName123.” My old username rolls off his tongue like a memory. “Here in my town.”
“Hmm-hmm.” At this stage, I should buy a thesaurus. Instead, I wave Dickle in the air, and finally lean forward, pretending to search for the manual, when my car’s stereo awakens: “For Christmas, I’m going to devour you until you scream my name, tesoro,” the deep-voiced narrator purrs.
Shit.
I press Volume Down, but the narrator surges louder: “His calloused hands trail up my thighs and when his tongue…”
I jab at one button. Another one. Come on.
The volume blasts as Adam watches, his jaw clenching.
“…slides against my very core and the moan I let out has him smiling as he looks up. ‘You’re going to come for me right here, with your pretty tits pressed against these Christmas windows while the snow falls outside—”
Crap.
I punch the radio. The plastic cracks, and my car wheezes its last breath.
Fuck.
Adam and I look at each other, and I whisper, “Even iZombie wouldn’t do that to Liv.” And for a split second, I catch a hint of his old smile. Not a ghost. Not a memory.
His expression softens. “You’re really okay.
” The relief in his voice has me pressing my lips together, giving him what Chuck labeled my Ice-Queen face instead of the I-want-a-hug whimper trapped in my throat.
Because hugs can splinter me open like a bone marrow biopsy without anesthesia, and no, thank you, I’ll take anything else on the menu.
“Yeah.” My voice doesn’t crack and my insides are definitely not on the verge of having a meltdown. I got everything under control. “I’m really okay.”
And I am. Mostly. Six years in remission should mean I’ve got my shit together. My scans are clear, but my life? Still playing catch-up.
His eyes hold mine. No blinking. No breathing. Then the stern expression I don’t know comes back.
“Welcome to Pine Creek, Eve.”
“Hmmm. Okay. Great.” I swear I know more words. “I’m going to call my insurance,” I announce with all the false confidence of a rom-com heroine about to have her life implode. Professional. Adult.
I tuck Dickle back into the emergency tote behind the passenger seat. Yes, the same tote that cannot contain its secrets, and try to act like this is a normal human moment.
I grab my phone (totally in control, totally not freaking out), but what greets me is a message from that stupid dating app again:
Second Chance Dating App
Ho Ho Ho, Nurse Eve! Mind taking a look at my North Pole? ??????
Why the eggplant emoji? Why the pickle? Why both? Why is my life like this?
LoverBoy seizes his moment for prison break, Dorothy yaps excitedly like she’s cheering him on, and Blanche headbutts my seat. The impact jolts me and my phone slips.
“I got it!” I lunge for it.
Except I absolutely do not “got” it. Adam does and glances at the screen.
Oh, no. My stomach twists into a pretzel of dread. Because what comes next is predictable. A sneer. A mean comment disguised as a compliment. Something to make my ribs shrink.
But Adam stares at that festive dick without a smirk.
“So,” he finally says, head tilting slightly. “You dating Santa now? Big North Pole Energy... or?”
Not mean. Not cruel. Not Chuck. Just dry. Teasing. Almost... playful.
A laugh snorts out of me like a startled pig, and my dogs bark happily like they haven’t heard that sound in forever. It feels good. Too good. Like finding something you thought was lost.
Then my phone beeps again. In his hand.
Adam’s expression darkens and the temperature between us drops ten degrees. Seven years of silence, and it took exactly eighty-seven seconds for everything to go wrong again.
I swallow hard. Some stories don’t deserve second chances.
And we’re one of them.