Chapter 9 EVE
Chapter nine
EVE
I should go upstairs.
When I came to scavenge some food, I left the girls all happy and quiet.
Settled. Dorothy finally curled up like she hasn’t been limping like a rom-com heroine waiting for someone to see her, truly see her.
Blanche claimed the bed like she paid rent.
And I’m still down here in the kitchen with the guy I ghosted seven years ago, pretending pancakes aren’t a loaded, emotionally risky snack.
The table is warm from where my elbow’s been resting. His foot bumps mine under the table when he shifts. Heat travels up my leg from that single point of contact, unwelcome and electric. He says nothing. Neither do I.
After that penis-shaped walk down my memory lane, we’re quiet.
But it’s not silence.
It’s old. Familiar. Like slipping back into a Christmas Mariah Carey song we all know the lyrics to, but can’t quite reach the pitch.
“So…” I say, poking at the syrup smear on my plate with my fork. “Still love iZombie?”
His head tilts. “Obviously.”
I glance up, catching his gaze directly for the first time in minutes. My stomach tightens. “Even the last season?”
He nods. “Especially the last season.”
I smile. “Good answer.” His mouth quirks up on one side. That half smile that used to make my heart stutter. Still does, apparently.
“We agreed,” he says. “That finale? That jump in time? Liv and Major!”
I nod, relieved. “I couldn’t have handled a Veronica Mars reboot-style. Not again.”
He grimaces. “Trauma.”
“I needed something to believe in.”
“You needed Liv and Ravi and that fake documentary ep where she eats filmmaker brain.”
“Oh God,” I laugh, and it feels rusty, like something I haven’t used properly in years. “That one got me through a week of night shifts.”
“I watched it after a twelve-hour emergency calf delivery. While half asleep. Many emotions.”
“Same,” I murmur, then shake my head. “I binged so many shows during the past months. The Bear, obviously. Because why not spend your time off reliving the emotional intensity of a kitchen during service?”
He snorts. The sound is so achingly familiar that my chest constricts.
“And XO, Kitty because I needed something with actual joy. And outfits.”
“Balance,” he says.
I point at him with my fork. The kitchen light catches on the metal. “Exactly.”
There’s a beat where I forget where we are.
Like really forget. It’s not the kitchen.
It’s not Pine Creek. It’s some place where things between us never got broken.
Only paused. On hold. His eyes are the same storm-blue they’ve always been, fixed on me like I’m something valuable he thought he’d lost.
The silence stretches between us again, broken only by the soft scrape of forks against plates. I find myself staring at the syrup pattern on my empty plate, something about the quiet with Adam making me want to fill it with truths I’ve been avoiding.
“I got suspended,” I say, not looking up. “My nursing license. That’s why I’m here.”
Adam’s fork stills against his plate. He doesn’t push, just waits.
“Questioning a doctor’s order.” I shrug like it doesn’t matter. Like it didn’t upend my entire life. “Your father knows. I think that’s why he hired me.”
“Dad’s big on second chances,” Adam says after a moment. “It’s why half the staff at the clinic has some kind of story.”
“That’s why the second chance contract?” I ask.
He nods. “He’s got this thing about people deserving another shot.” There’s something in his voice I can’t quite read. “So what happened? With the suspension?”
I take a breath. “I followed protocol, got overruled. My ex was Chief of Emergency and...” I trail off, shaking my head. “Doesn’t matter. The board cleared me eventually, but Chicago hospitals haven’t exactly been eager to hire me.”
Adam watches me, his expression unreadable. “That’s rough.”
“Your dad’s the only one who gave me a chance.” I finally look up. “One month and a good recommendation from him might help me get back on track.”
“To Chicago?” There’s something careful in his tone.
I nod. “I have to. There’s no other plan for me. I want to prove to everyone and to myself that I was right. That I can do it. Whatever it is. That my ex doesn’t get to dictate what happens to me. Not anymore.”
He doesn’t ask why. Doesn’t try to fix it. Just says, “You’re a good nurse, Eve. And your ex was definitely an ass.”
“You don’t know that,” I whisper.
“I know enough,” he says simply.
And for a moment, I let myself believe him.
He shakes his head, a small smile playing at his lips. “I still can’t believe you’re here. In Pine Creek. Talk about... coincidences.”
“The kind readers wouldn’t believe if it happened in books but happens more often than not in real life,” I say, pushing a stray crumb around my plate. “Like people discovering they’re long-lost neighbors or running into their high school crush at an airport during a snowstorm.”
“We’re not neighbors,” he points out, his eyes never leaving mine.
“No.” I smile despite myself. “We’re not.”
The quiet that follows feels different in a way I don’t want to analyze.
“I guess we probably should’ve talked about where we were from.”
He glances over at me. Calm, but I catch the slight tension in his jaw, the way his fingers stop tapping against the table.
“Back then,” I add. “Remember our first rules? No full names. Not too many personal details. And we still shared so much more. Not everything, but still. Definitely not the basics”
He nods once. “Could’ve changed things. Maybe you wouldn’t be here if we did.”
There’s a beat. I don’t know why I say the next part. I don’t think I meant to.
“Maybe I would’ve come sooner.”
My mouth closes around the last word like it just betrayed me in front of company. Heat floods my face, crawls down my neck. The air in the room feels suddenly thinner.
Oh no.
His head lifts slightly, and that look—slow and sharp and completely unreadable—spreads across his face like heat. Something shifts in his eyes, darkens them.
I wave a hand, blood rushing in my ears. “I meant here. Pine Creek. Not like… not like some big emotional gesture. Definitely not a euphemism.”
“Right,” he says, totally not helping. His voice has dropped to that dangerous register that makes my thighs clench involuntarily.
“Obviously, I wasn’t… like… coming, coming. I meant… I could’ve visited sooner.” The words tumble out too fast, tripping over each other in their desperation.
“Totally clear.” There’s a hint of amusement in his tone. Or maybe hunger? Both?
I groan into my hands. My skin feels too hot against my palms. “Someone needs to unplug me.”
He leans back in his chair, arms crossed. The movement pulls his shirt taut across his chest. And he’s trying so hard not to smile, which makes it worse. My stomach drops.
“It’s fine,” I mutter. “This is fine. I’m a grown woman who accidentally propositioned her almost-ex, mid-pancake.”
He’s quiet a second, then says, “You think I’m your almost-ex?”
I freeze.
Because that voice. The way it drops when he’s about to say something that splits me open. I should’ve remembered this part.
I clear my throat. My fingers tap against my thigh, counting heartbeats that come too fast. “You’re my almost-something. We didn’t get far enough for an ex.”
He doesn’t argue.
And I hate how much that hurts. Like a paper cut, small but stinging, leaving a mark disproportionate to its size.
I gather our plates because I need to move. Do something. Put space between us before I completely unravel in this soft, syrup-scented kitchen. The ceramic feels cold against my suddenly overheated palms.
“You don’t have to wash everything,” he says as he stands up to dry them and put them away.
“I know.” The dish soap smells artificially sweet. Strawberry, maybe. Too cheerful for this moment.
“But you’re doing it anyway.”
“And you’re drying them. Even though you don’t have to. That’s our brand.” My voice aims for lightness but lands somewhere near brittle.
“What? Over-functioning and retreating from vulnerability?”
I snort. “Wow. Therapist much?”
“Yes, I’m therapized.”
Of course he is.
He continues, “Learned to deal with my own shadows. Became more resilient. Able to enjoy the happy moments even more. Still a work in progress though. Also… I once helped a dog who was afraid of wind chimes. I know avoidance when I see it.”
I glance over my shoulder. Our eyes lock. Electricity passes between us. “Okay, first of all, I’m not retreating. I’m tactically withdrawing.”
“Mmhm.” His eyes don’t leave mine, and I feel exposed, like he can read every thought scrolling across my mind in neon.
“And second of all…” I trail off, turning the faucet off. Water drips, ticks against the stainless steel. “It’s easier to talk when your hands are busy.”
“Is that what we’re doing?” he says, quieter. “Talking?”
I look at him. Really look.
He’s still got flour on his sleeve. His hair’s messed up in that way it gets when he’s been thinking too hard or running his hand through it too many times. And his eyes are locked on mine like he’s not ready to let go of again.
“We’re talking,” I say.
And I hate how my voice cracks on it, splitting the word into jagged pieces. But that must be a sign for him to move. To give me space, when I don’t know if that’s what I want.
“I should go to bed. Long day tomorrow.” He steps aside. Not fast. Just… enough that I feel it.
“I’ll check on Dorothy tomorrow morning before leaving if you want,” he says.
“She’ll appreciate it. I know, I do.” My pulse pounds in my throat, in my wrists, in places I don’t want to acknowledge.
His eyes hold mine a beat too long, saying what his words don’t: I knew you too, once.
“Night, Foster,” he says softly.
“Night, Harrison.” The name feels strange in my mouth. Too formal for someone whose T-shirt I still have, whose laugh I can conjure perfectly in the middle of the night.
He waits. Like he thinks I might say more. Like he’s giving me one more chance.
But I can’t. My throat closes around words I don’t trust myself to say.
So I watch him walk away. Each step creating more distance, a tangible reminder of all the space that’s grown between us over seven years.
Then I sit back down at the table.
And stare at the empty kitchen like it might have the answers I’ve been trying not to ask. Like it might tell me why, even after everything, my body still leans toward him like he’s gravity.
By the time I get back upstairs, the dogs are no longer content and happy. I bring the carrier inside that Adam left in front of my door.
And Dorothy won’t settle.
She’s pacing in slow, halting loops by the foot of the bed. Limping enough to make my stomach knot. Then she circles back and whines at my feet, like I’m the only thing holding her together. Her nails click against the hardwood, a nervous metronome marking time.
I crouch beside her, feel her trembling under my palm. “You’re okay,” I whisper, checking her paw for the fifth time. The pad feels warm, slightly tender. “You just don’t like change. Same, honestly.”
She huffs dramatically, which I think is a sign of agreement, but then the moment I stand to grab my phone from the charger across the room, she yips. A sad little sound. Wounded. Accusatory. It pierces straight through me.
I stop.
She stops whining.
I take a step.
She limps dramatically toward me like she’s in a one-dog opera titled The Betrayal of Eve Foster. Her brown eyes follow my every move.
“Oh my God,” I mutter, heart pounding against my ribs. “You’re messing with me.”
She’s not, though. Not entirely.
She’s clingy, yes. But the limp is real. Probably. Her appetite’s been off. She didn’t even try to steal the one pancake I brought up with me. Dorothy, who once stole an entire rotisserie chicken in the twelve seconds I turned my back.
The pipes groan overhead, long and low, like something in this building is breathing through its problems, and I hate that it sounds exactly like me. The noise makes Dorothy press closer to my legs, her small body vibrating with anxiety.
I glance at the corner, where the soft-sided carrier I brought in earlier sits, unopened. Dorothy’s been side-eyeing it all night. Whimpering every time I even look at it.
I thought it was leftover trauma from earlier.
But what if it’s more?
What if I didn’t notice something earlier? What if it’s her back or her shoulder or something internal? What if it’s not a panic response, but pain? My mind clicks into nurse mode, cataloging symptoms, worst-case scenarios unspooling like film.
I press a palm to her chest. Feel her heart racing. She leans into it, tail curled, soft.
“You’re okay,” I murmur again. “You’re okay.”
But she doesn’t feel okay. I know that tightness in my chest—the one that warns something’s wrong before the monitors start screaming.
And now my heart’s racing and my brain’s doing that thing where it loops worst-case scenarios on repeat and the room feels too quiet and I—
The note.
The one taped to my door when I arrived.
“My son’s staying on the other side. Call him if you need anything.”
And a phone number.
I grab my phone. Type it in manually. Because of course we don’t have each other’s number. We never did. Only communicated through the app like an additional layer we thought we needed. My thumb hovers over the keypad, hesitating. The screen glows too bright in the dim room.
I stare at the message box.
Do not spiral, Eve. Just text. It’s about your dog. Not about you. Not about Pittsburgh. Not about what you’re wearing. Or what you’re not wearing. Or how you are spiraling. This is just about Dorothy.
Okay.
I type:
Me
Hey. It's Eve. Sorry it's late. Dorothy's acting off. Limping, clingy, and kind of panicking whenever I walk away. I think it might be related to the carrier but I'm not sure and now I can't stop spiraling. Could you maybe take a look now? If you’re still awake?
I stare at it.
Too much? Not enough? Too desperate? Too clinical?
I send it before I can second-guess myself again.
It’s professional.
Nothing more.