Chapter 27
Chapter twenty-seven
EVE
The conservatory at the back of the B&B is technically closed for winter, but Sally insisted it would be "the perfect thinking spot." She had a heater and a mattress brought so I could actually sleep there. Wild how she can find a mattress that quickly after all.
And now? In the middle of the afternoon, glass walls streaked with condensation, wicker furniture with faded cushions, and the small space heater fighting valiantly against December's chill. Not exactly winter wonderland material, but it beats having a breakdown in the room I share with Adam.
Shared. Maybe still share? I don't even know.
Blanche lies across my feet like a living weighted blanket, her warmth more effective than the space heater.
Dorothy, meanwhile, has created an impressive path through the dust on the tile, her endless pacing matching the circular thoughts in my head.
The mug of hot chocolate Sally pressed into my hands is cold now, a thin skin forming on top.
"What would you actually say to him if he were here?
" I mutter to myself, tapping my fingers in that triple-rhythm my therapist noticed years ago.
When asked if it was a coping mechanism, I'd laughed and said it was my nervous system being "neurologically inefficient.
" Dr. Patel had given me that look. The one that says she's waiting for me to stop hiding behind medical terminology.
I pull out my crochet project. Another emotional support pickle, of course. This one's stitches are erratic, too tight in some places, too loose in others. A mess. A fucking pickle mess. Like me.
The Cape.
"He tried to protect me," I say to Blanche, who lifts her head slightly, ears perked. "But also himself, maybe."
Outside, snow falls in fat, silent flakes. The world beyond the glass transforms into that perfect postcard that tourists dream about. The kind of Christmas scene I spent years actively avoiding because it reminded me too much of home.
Cape Cod. When I say it in my head, it feels less like a location and more like a diagnosis: a condition to be managed, symptoms to be treated, outcomes to be feared.
But is that fair? To Adam or to myself?
The conservatory door creaks open and Sally enters bearing fresh cocoa and what appears to be cinnamon cookies shaped like—unsurprisingly—pickles.
"How are we doing?" she asks, setting the refreshments on the table.
"Still breathing," I respond dryly. "Though probably giving my therapist a year's worth of material."
Sally sits in the chair across from me, not with her usual theatrical flair but with unexpected gentleness. "I owe you an apology."
"For the fake limp to get me to the tree lighting? Or for the mules with antlers serenading my window this morning?"
"Both," she admits. "Though I stand by the mules. Their Christmas spirit is genuine." She fiddles with her apron. "But I've been... facilitating, when maybe I should have been listening."
I snort. "Facilitating is one word for it."
Sally puts a thermos on the small table. There's a Christmas sticker on it, "Piping Hot Hot Chocolate". Not asking questions. Just there. Comforting.
Dorothy finally stops pacing and jumps onto my lap, her small body vibrating with the anxiety she's picked up from me. I stroke her back, tapping that familiar rhythm. "It's not about the Cape," I say finally, surprising myself with the admission.
Sally waits, patient in a way I wouldn't have expected.
"It's about going back to the place where everything fell apart, where everyone knew me as.
.. that girl with cancer. The one who didn't become what she was supposed to.
" I swallow hard. "And Adam not telling me.
It felt like he didn't trust me to handle it.
Like Chuck not 'trusting' me to be a good nurse, to be me.
Like Chuck hiding things to better manipulate me. "
"Is that fair, though?" Sally asks, her voice gentle. "To compare them?"
"No," I admit. "It's not. Adam was trying to protect me in his own way. Chuck was only ever protecting himself."
"And while we're being honest," Sally continues, "your reaction probably confirmed his fears about telling you."
I wince. She's right. I'd gone full clinical Ice Queen, as if lowering my body temperature could freeze the feelings trying to bubble up.
My phone buzzes on the table. I ignore it. Dorothy whines.
"I've been thinking about what my therapist would say," I tell Sally, who looks surprised I'm still talking to her.
"She'd probably ask me which is worse: seeing Cape Cod as the place where everything fell apart, or missing the chance for it to become the place where everything finally came together? "
Sally beams like I've solved a particularly difficult Christmas riddle. "That's quite insightful for someone who claims not to believe in fate."
"It's not fate," I insist. "It's... weighing outcomes. Clinical assessment."
"Of course it is, dear."
Through the foggy glass, I catch movement in the park across the street. A tall figure walking a small dog. Even from this distance, I'd know that silhouette anywhere. Adam and LoverBoy, making their slow way through the snow. Something in my chest constricts painfully, then releases.
I miss them both so much it physically hurts.
"It's not that I don't want to be with him," I say softly. "It's that I'm terrified of wanting it this much."
Sally pats my hand. "That's usually how you know it's worth fighting for."
My observations shift as another figure appears in my line of sight.
The Travel Lover reviewer, her professional camera hanging around her neck, notebook in hand.
She's watching Adam and LoverBoy with the same clinical interest she's been directing at everything in Pine Creek. Cataloging. Assessing. Taking notes.
I recognize that approach. It's what I do when I'm afraid to engage directly.
"Your reviewer's been documenting Adam," I note, nodding toward the window.
Sally follows my gaze. "She's very thorough.
Takes the 'authentic Pine Creek experience' quite seriously.
" We watch the reviewer head back toward the B&B and for a bit, we're both silent, until Sally turns her back to me a few minutes later.
"She asked about the pipes, you know. Whether they have a. .. history."
I turn to her, suddenly suspicious. "Sally. Those pipes really did break, didn't they?"
"Absolutely," she says and I think I believe her. "Though I may have... exaggerated how long repairs would take." She smooths her apron. "And perhaps never actually attempted to bring that spare mattress I promised. Until now. Here."
"And your limp that got me to the tree lighting?"
"Well, I do get arthritis but nope, it was Christmas magic," she admits without a hint of remorse. "And you can't deny the results were worth it."
I should be angry. Instead, I find myself fighting a smile, which only intensifies my irritation. "We're not characters in a Hallmark movie, Sally."
"Of course not," she agrees too readily. "Those aren't nearly messy enough."
As if on cue, Dorothy abandons my lap to lunge for my emotional support pickle project, which I've set aside on the chair.
The yarn catches on her collar, creating a pickle-to-dachshund tether that she seems determined to destroy.
She darts under the nearest table, dragging the unraveling evidence behind her
"Dorothy!" I scramble after her, medical instincts assessing potential hazards: yarn ingestion, knocked-over furniture, moderate to severe emotional distress (mine). "Come on!" And there's a lot of stress and horror scenarios as my voice hits a pitch Mariah Carey would be proud of.
Blanche watches the chaos with the resigned expression of someone who's seen this particular emergency play out before. Her diagnostic assessment: not life-threatening, just life-complicating.
I'm on my knees, arm extended under the wicker table, when the conservatory door opens again. I look up to find the Travel Lover reviewer staring at me, her expression moving through surprise to what appears to be professional satisfaction.
She makes a small note in her book that I can clearly read from my undignified position: "Emotional investment of guests: 5 stars."
Perfect. I've become part of the B&B's Christmas ambiance.
"Don't mind me," she says with a smile that's far too knowing. "Just checking the... acoustics."
The door closes behind her, and I collapse back onto my heels, yarn tangled around my fingers. "I think your reviewer added me to her evaluation metrics."
"She recognizes authentic experiences when she sees them," Sally says with that matchmaking twinkle in her eye. "It's her job."
I sigh as Dorothy returns, dragging what's left of my pickle project, looking far too pleased with herself. I settle her back on my lap. "There's nothing authentic about making people's pipes break."
"Again, that I didn't do," Sally says, "But you got to admit, there is something authentic about what happens after they do."
Sally gestures to the thermos and I nod. She pours me more hot cocoa as my phone buzzes again, insistent. I finally pick it up, expecting Claire or my mother. Instead, it's Adam.
Adam
I should have told you sooner. The truth is, I was scared.
Not of Cape Cod, but of what it might mean for us.
I don't want to lose you, Eve. But I don't want either of us to give up something that matters either.
I think we can find a middle path. Find a way to support each other's dreams. Compromise.
I never want to put you in a situation where you feel like you can't breathe. And I really want to try. Us. For real.
My fingers hover over the screen, unsteady. The warmth that spreads through me has nothing to do with the space heater or the dogs or even Sally's fresh cocoa.
He wants to try.
Not fix. Not solve. Not manage.
Try.
And maybe that's all either of us can promise right now.
I take a deep breath and begin typing my reply, the words coming easier than I expected:
Me
I should have asked rather than assumed.
Cape Cod scares me, but not for the reasons you think.
I've been running from what it represents rather than dealing with it.
But if I could face it with someone who sees me.
All of me. Maybe it wouldn't be running back.
Maybe it would be moving forward. I want to try too.
I pause, delete the last line, and replace it with something truer:
I miss you. And LoverBoy. And I want to try too. This small-town vet, the dogs... all of it. But we need to talk. Really talk.
As I hit send, the snow outside begins to fall harder, transforming Pine Creek into the winter wonderland it was always meant to be. Dorothy stretches in my lap, more relaxed than she's been all day. Blanche's tail thumps once against the floor.
In the park, Adam has stopped walking. Even from here, I can tell he's looking at his phone.
Looking at my words.
Looking at me, saying yes.
To trying.
To us.