Chapter 22 EVE #2
"She should have," I interject automatically.
"—but then I finished stuffing it, and..." He shakes his head. "It was no longer a brain."
I bite my lip, fighting a smile. "Then what was it, Harrison?"
He gives me a flat look. "A testicle, Foster."
I blink.
And then I lose it completely.
Laughter bubbles up from somewhere deep inside me, the kind I haven't felt since before diagnosis, before Chuck, before everything. It starts silent, with my shoulders shaking, then breaks free in a way that would horrify my ex-husband.
"It's not funny," he mutters, but his fingers find my hair, loosening what's left of my messy bun.
"It's so much worse than I imagined," I wheeze, feeling the tightness in my chest unravel. "You made me a Christmas Testicle."
"You never made time to crochet back then, and I figured it would make you smile."
I lean back against him without thinking, still catching my breath. "It would have."
"I almost sent it your way. I had it with me in Pittsburgh."
My body goes still. The wall I've been carefully maintaining rises instinctively.
"Adam—" I start, but he shakes his head.
"We don't have to talk about it. Not tonight."
I study him for a moment, assessing options like treatment plans. Then, against my better judgment, I reach for his hand. Not analyzing it like a medical case. Not overthinking it. Just... reaching.
After a few seconds, I lift the Christmas Pickle again. "Guess I make time now."
"Guess you do," he murmurs, and I hear everything he's not saying.
A muffled rip draws our attention. Dorothy has somehow managed to steal one of my socks from the half-unpacked suitcase and is parading it around like a prize, while LoverBoy jumps around her and Blanche gives them both that long-suffering look she's perfected.
"Oh, absolutely not." I push up from my chair, but Dorothy bolts.
I lunge for the dog, but the sock thief is too fast. I whirl, looking to Adam for help, and suddenly we're close. Too close. His body heat radiates through the hoodie I'm wearing, and my fingers accidentally brush his stomach as I try to maintain balance.
I tilt my head up, my body betraying me with the instinct to kiss him.
My heart hammers against my ribs. This is dangerous.
But instead of kissing him, I cross my arms, tilting my head like I'm about to ask something casual. "Do you still have it? The brain that looks like testicles?"
It's not casual at all, and we both know it.
"Took me hours," he murmurs. "Not my first project, and definitely not my last." He’s not answering my question. "Though…" His gaze drops to the Christmas Pickle in my hand. "That one's got a very interesting shape too. I should make something complementary. Zucchini? Eggplant?"
Heat crawls up my neck that has nothing to do with my basal body temperature. "Definitely not zucchini," I blurt out, remembering Sally's comments. "Eggplant. Or banana. Baseball bat, even."
"Quite the specific preferences there, Foster."
My grip tightens on the pickle. "You have no idea."
Dorothy darts by again, this time with my lacy red panties.
"Oh, for—Dorothy, drop it!" I huff, then sigh. "I don't think this conversation is over, right?"
"Definitely not," he says as I wrangle Dorothy and shove the lacy red panties into his hoodie pocket.
"I'm meeting Wes and Megan at the park," he tells me. "Promised the kid some skating and waffles. Wes said she's been asking about you."
I tense slightly. Getting attached to Megan means getting attached to this town. To these people. To the idea of something that can't last. "Maybe next time. Some charts and pickles need finishing."
He pauses at the door. “If you're not ready for the whole town spectacle, that's okay. We can do something smaller. Just us. Or nothing at all, if that's what you need."
His willingness to let me set boundaries makes my throat tight in a way Chuck never did. My eyes drift to my phone, where Chuck's latest text sits like a time bomb.
"My ex texted again," I say, keeping my voice neutral. "Right before you got back."
Adam steps back into the room. "What did he want?"
"To know if I'm ever coming back to Chicago, or if I've 'given up on real medicine.' His words." I set the phone down, my knuckles white. "Apparently small-town practice is beneath someone with my training."
"That's..." Adam searches for the right word.
"Textbook Chuck." I pull up the latest text, showing Adam:
Unknown Number
Your suspension is still a hot topic at the monthly board meeting. Might want to consider how long you plan to hide in the country.
Adam's jaw tightens as he reads it. "He's escalating. This isn't keeping tabs. This is trying to control your next move."
"He knows I'm applying for positions," I admit. "He’s controlling. His father’s the same way with his mother. Chuck used to tell stories like it was funny. Like it was part of 'professional competition.'"
"And now he's doing the same to you."
"Not anymore," I say, with more conviction than I feel. "Or at least, I'm trying not to let it affect me."
"For what it's worth, I think you're handling this better than you realize."
I glance up, wondering if he really sees what I'm trying so hard to hide.
All the years spent wasting my time. All the moments Chuck belittled me with words.
The insults he started hurling. The feeling of being trapped.
Cancer had made me feel lucky just to survive, a mindset Chuck exploited at every turn after acting for months like my every thought mattered.
"Most men wouldn't stay with someone with your health concerns," he'd remind me, as if loving me was some heroic burden he'd chosen to bear rather than a choice freely made.
Even if when I got an actual scare, he was nowhere to be seen.
“Not everyone has your chance," he's say and he'd be right.
Adam leans forward. "Still…Not letting him pull you back into his orbit. Focusing on your pickle."
"I'm still hiding from a tree lighting," I point out with a wry smile.
"Or you're choosing your battles. There's a difference between hiding and setting boundaries."
Something shifts inside me. "Chuck would have insisted I go. Would have had the whole evening mapped out to maximize networking opportunities."
"I'm not Chuck," Adam says simply, but there’s an edge to his voice. Because it's not the first time he reminds me of that.
"No," I agree. "You're not."
My eyes drift to the glass heart ornament on the dresser, catching the Christmas lights.
The one thing Chuck still wants from me, perhaps the only thing that survived our marriage intact.
I turn away from it, from the memory of him dismissing something so precious as "just glass" while simultaneously trying to claim it.
"I should still finish these though." I wave to the charts in front of me.
Adam nods, accepting my choice without pushing. "The offer stands. If you change your mind."
I don't reply, but I can't help the small smile that forms. He sees it. I know he does.
He grabs his coat. "I'll see you later, Foster."
I don't answer.
But I watch him leave, wondering when exactly I started measuring time by the moments until I see him again.
This wasn't the plan. One night was supposed to be enough.
It's not. Not even close.
Ten minutes later, Sally bangs at my door with urgency in her voice that has me jumping up, “Eve, Santa’s mother needs help.”