Chapter 26
Chapter twenty-six
ADAM
I’ve been in a shitty mood because I’ve fucked up. Because I worry I can’t make it better. Because I want to talk to her, give her space, hold her, give her time. Because I don't know what to do.
My phone beeps.
GROUP CHAT: Adam is in a PICKLE. HA. FUNNY.
Me
Really, did you have to use that name for the group chat? Also, Kellan, please tell me Mom or Dad aren't in this chat. Or fucking Frank. Because he’s been… something.
Kellan
Frank and the holidays. Never easy. No, he’s not on there. We haven’t talked in years. I should text him, too. And I double checked and the parental unit isn’t on here. It's Wes, Mike, Manuel, me and you.
Me
Great. The only successful relationship is Manuel and he never answers his texts.
Manuel
I'm here! Also... you can learn from the others about what not to do.
Wes
Did you think about crocheting her something else?
Kellan
Or give her your testicle?
Manuel
***
Me
The one I crocheted.
Mike
Your balls with a Santa hat on a platter could work, too.
Kellan
You got this, little bro.
I set my phone down and pace across the honeymoon suite, stopping to check on LoverBoy, who's watching me with that mix of judgment and concern only a Chihuahua can master. "Don't give me that look. I know I messed up."
The dog tilts his head like he's saying, "So fix it, dumbass."
"Working on it," I mutter, checking outside where Pine Creek is transforming for Christmas. Main Street buzzes with activity. Shops setting up for the Gingerbread competition, families bundled against the cold. Normal life continuing while mine feels suspended in amber.
What strikes me is Wes's silence in the chat.
No practical advice from the man who talked me through every relationship crisis.
He knows this is different than Faye. With Faye, I played a role—the dependable small-town vet who never asked for anything, who was always so damn reasonable.
When she got the DC offer, I didn't fight.
Didn't suggest compromises. Just nodded and said I understood, like the good guy everyone expects me to be.
But with Eve? This isn't about being good or reasonable. It's about being real.
I return to the desk, pulling out the brochure that started this mess.
Sandwich Bay Veterinary Practice. The lighthouse on the cover is straight off a postcard—exactly the kind of place I've pictured setting up shop.
My fingers tap against the wood in that same nervous pattern I've seen Eve do when she's processing something difficult.
The presentation for my first day sits half-finished beside it. "Why Vet Technicians Matter: Five Key Roles in Rural Care." Important work that suddenly feels hollow without having Eve to share it with.
I've spent my career helping animals feel safe. Reading signals. Creating environments where scared, defensive creatures can lower their guards. And then I spring Cape Cod on Eve without warning, like some amateur who's never seen a cornered animal before. Fucking brilliant, Harrison.
LoverBoy jumps onto the bed where the sheets are still rumpled, circling three times before settling into the spot that smells most like Eve. Smart dog. I grab my phone again.
Me
I should have told you earlier. I didn't want to spook you. And I know you hate the miscommunication trope. I do, too. And I know this wasn't miscommunication, it was non-communication.
Still no answer. I run a hand through my hair, rough enough that LoverBoy raises his head in concern.
If this were a medical case, I'd be methodical.
Examine all symptoms, make a diagnosis, develop a treatment plan.
But this is Eve—brilliant, complicated, stubborn Eve, and I'm way past clinical detachment.
I open my laptop and type "Chuck Edison" before I can talk myself out of it.
His carefully curated website appears—medical journals, speaking engagements, social media posts about excellence and leadership and other bullshit.
There's a pattern in every photo: Chuck centered, commanding, with Eve slightly off to the side.
That professional smile that never reached her eyes.
The one I saw that first night before she let me see the real her.
I slam the laptop shut. The guy's a textbook narcissist with a medical license. And if she wants me to know more, she'll tell me. I don't need his curated version of an Eve he tried to dim down.
Grabbing my jacket, I whistle for LoverBoy. "Come on. Need some air."
The cold hits us like a slap as we step outside.
Snow crunches under my boots while LoverBoy prances delicately beside me, somehow managing to keep his paws mostly dry despite his size.
Past Rosie's where Eve and I had coffee, past the tree we lit together, and past my parents' old house where we chatted for hours online when I came back from the university.
In every romance novel Eve loves, this would be the moment for a grand declaration, a dramatic sacrifice. I'd show up at her door with a crocheted pickle bouquet, pledging to drop everything and follow her anywhere.
But that's not what either of us needs.
With Faye, I let her go without a fight because part of me was relieved when she took that DC job. We looked good together, made sense to everyone around us, but I was playing a part the whole time. The reliable small-town vet. The good guy. The one who puts everyone else first.
This thing with Eve? It's not a role. It's not a performance.
It's me, finally figuring out what I actually want instead of what everyone needs from me.
And what I want? It's us finding a way to make it work because we're better together than alone.
Because we want each other. Because we support each other's dreams.
LoverBoy stops to mark a particularly fascinating streetlamp, taking his sweet time in the cold. "Seriously? You couldn't do this at the park?"
His look clearly says: "You're stalling. Send the text already."
"Fine. But if she doesn't answer, we're sharing the fancy dog treats I've been saving."
I pull my phone out again, fingers cold as I type another message, my heart pounding against my ribcage and yet calm washing over me, too.
LoverBoy headbutts my ankle, looking up expectantly.
"Yeah, I know," I mumble. "But the ball's in her court now."