Chapter 24 #2
"Going back to Chicago on my terms feels like proving to everyone and to me that I can do this. Going back to Cape Cod would be like admitting one more failure. On the bright side, thanks to Chuck, at least this time, I’d know if someone was keeping something from me,” I joke, even though the laugh that follows doesn’t sound like mine.
“That’s not—” he starts, then stops.
“Not what?”
“Nothing. Just... that’s shit. What he did." He pauses before adding, "You weren’t an idiot,” he says quietly. “You were trying to love someone who didn’t know how to show up. Someone who manipulated you."
“Yeah, well.” I lean into his warmth without meaning to.
“Right now, I feel… I don’t know like maybe I wouldn’t repeat the same mistakes.
” The words feel raw, unarmored, like I’ve stepped out of my scrubs without realizing it.
Maybe that’s what trust is. Risking frostbite for a little warmth.
“And I’m glad… I’m glad to be here with you.
For now. And then wherever you go next…” I shiver.
“I hope it’s warm so I can come visit during winter. ”
The silence stretches a beat too long.
I refuse to let my chest tighten. “I didn’t mean… It sounded like I was inviting myself.”
“Right,” he finally says, but something in his voice sounds off.
I glance at him. There’s something in his expression I can’t read. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” He clears his throat. “Just... glad you’re here.”
“Me too,” I admit, and mean it.
“Listen… I…” His gaze flickers away. I tell myself it’s the cold, the noise, anything but distance. For once, I don’t want to suspect the worst.
Megan and Wes hurry back our way and whatever else he wanted to tell me stays up in the air.
Adam’s hand finds my thigh and rubs a circle right where my fingers tap against my pants as Sally steps toward us. Her limp still isn’t back. “Adam, we need you for the costume change.”
“Costume change?”
“Oh, yes. Adam makes the perfect Santa.”
But she doesn’t stop there.
“Santa needs an elf,” she tells me.
“Absolutely not.”
“But Eve, dear,” Sally insists with the determination of a bacteria colony resisting my strongest antibiotics. “Adam looks so handsome in the costume.”
“I don’t do costumes.” I cross my arms, channeling my best clinical detachment. “I’m a nurse, not a North Pole recruit.”
“It’s a hat,” Adam murmurs. “And maybe some jingle bells.”
“You’re enjoying this,” I accuse.
The corner of his mouth lifts. “Maybe a little.”
“Fine.” I exhale, wondering when exactly I became the person who argues about elf hats. The clinical diagnosis? Acute holiday resistance syndrome with a side of Chuck-induced dignity preservation.
My brain, helpful as ever, flashes a memory reel: Eve Foster, age ten, wearing a handmade turtle shell to school for twelve consecutive days.
Eve Foster, when she wasn’t crying in the shower, choreographing a dance routine to “Stayin’ Alive” because why not?
Eve Foster with Claire during night shifts, creating the most ridiculous pop quiz to make patients laugh.
My fingers tap-tap-tap against my thigh.
One, two. three. I catch Adam watching the movement, like he’s translating my personal Morse code of anxiety.
But it’s not just anxiety. It’s something else.
Something that feels suspiciously like wanting.
Because I want to do this. To not look back on that moment and wish I had done it.
I already have plenty of regrets from saying no when I wanted to say yes. Plenty of remorse when I said yes, when I wanted to say no.
“But no tights,” I add firmly, channeling my best this-is-not-negotiable ER nurse voice. “No pointy shoes. Just a hat.”
Even as I say it, I realize I’m denying myself something I actually want. Because the truth is, I do want the hat. I want the bells.
“Actually,” I hear myself add before my professional filter can kick in, “the pointy shoes too. But I draw the line at tights.”
Warmth spreads through my chest, like that day I collapsed on the floor from exhaustion and Blanche and Dorothy took it as an invitation for face-cleaning services. Less slobber involved here, but the same unexpected comfort.
Wes chuckles while Megan bounces like she’s won the North Pole lottery. And there’s Adam, with that half smile that makes my medical brain catalog completely unprofessional responses.
Proof 1002 I’m not Hallmark material (I’m pretty sure they’d have gone full Elf), but maybe I’m not entirely Lifetime trauma-drama either.
My gaze locks on Adam. My pulse quickens.
I can’t stop staring at the man. At his stubble that left the perfect burn against my inner thighs, at those veterinarian hands that know exactly where to apply pressure.
His gaze drops to my lips, and I swear he flexes those fingers deliberately, a silent reminder of exactly what they’re capable of.
The memory alone makes my core clench in anticipation, forcing me to press my thighs together to alleviate the sudden ache.
When he leans imperceptibly closer, his warm breath grazing my ear, I nearly forget we’re standing in the middle of a crowded park.
“Can’t wait to know if you’ve been naughty or nice,” he whispers, his voice reminding me why VoiceGasm is the perfect nickname for him and making my skin prickle with heat despite the winter air.
I clear my throat and he gives me his half-grin that has me reminding myself, we definitely have to keep it PG on stage.