Chapter 28 ADAM
Chapter twenty-eight
ADAM
Thirty minutes later, there's a knock at the door.
I pause, setting aside the curriculum material I've been staring at without really seeing.
When I open it, Eve's standing there with two mugs of hot chocolate, both topped with whipped cream and marshmallows.
She's wearing my hoodie again, her honey-blonde hair loose around her shoulders, a hesitancy in her eyes I've rarely seen.
"Thought you might need the sugar," she says, her voice steady but her fingers tightening on the mugs. She doesn't immediately push past me like she would have yesterday. Instead, she waits…like she's no longer certain of her welcome. And my chest tightens.
"I do. Thanks." I take the mug she offers, our fingers brushing. Even that small contact sends electricity up my arm. The air between us feels charged, loaded with everything we haven't said yet.
"Blanche and Dorothy are staying with Sally tonight," she adds, finally stepping into the room. "Apparently they've been invited to a 'doggy pajama party' downstairs. Which I'm pretty sure is Sally's way of giving us privacy."
"Subtle as ever." I smile, and some of the tension eases.
She settles cross-legged on the bed—our bed—looking around like she's seeing the room for the first time.
Her eyes linger on the honeymoon suite's ridiculous heart-shaped pillows, then shift to the curriculum materials spread across the desk, the textbooks stacked neatly beside my laptop. "Looks serious."
"It is," I admit, joining her on the bed but leaving space between us. This conversation feels too important to rush. "This program... it's not just another teaching position, Eve. It's a chance to completely rethink how we train vet techs for rural communities."
Her eyes meet mine, curious but also careful, like she's afraid to show too much interest in case it means she's already committing to something.
"Do you know that for most specialized veterinary care, farmers have to drive hours?
Sometimes across state lines? And that's if they can even afford it.
" I can hear the passion creeping into my voice, the same intensity that convinced the board to back this program.
"This curriculum will train techs who can serve as front-line care in places that can't support a full-time specialist."
"You really care about this," she says softly, her gaze more open now.
"It's what I've been working toward since vet school.
I just... got comfortable here. Too comfortable.
" I run a hand through my hair, choosing honesty over self-protection.
"My therapist helped me see I was using Pine Creek as a safety net.
Saying I was needed, that no one else could do what I do here. "
Eve raises an eyebrow, her mug pausing halfway to her lips. "Therapy?"
"For a while," I admit, watching her carefully. "After I sold the clinic. To make sure I was leaving for the right reasons, not running away." I gesture to the curriculum. "This program. It's not just a job. It's my chance to create something lasting.
She nods, something like understanding in her eyes. "I've been thinking about Chicago," she says finally, her fingers tracing the rim of her mug in that careful way she has when she's working through something difficult.
"Yeah?"
"Claire said something to me the other night, that I might be going back for the wrong reasons." She stares into her mug like it holds answers to questions she hasn't even formulated yet. "To prove something to Chuck. To everyone who whispered when I left."
I sit beside her, careful to maintain that space between us. This isn't about closing physical distance yet. This is about really hearing each other. "And what do you think?"
"I think she might be right." She looks up, meeting my eyes directly for the first time since entering the room. "I'm not sure I want the trauma coordinator position because I want it, or because I want to show Chuck I can do it."
"For what it's worth," I say, "I think you'd be amazing at it."
Her smile is small but genuine. "Maybe. But it might not be what I need.
It's full-time and I still get exhausted some days.
That's why I was working part-time before.
It's more of a administrative position, less time with patients.
And it doesn't give me the room to implement new protocols. Like the one Chuck took credit for."
"Okay," I'm listening. Really listening.
And she exhales slowly before taking a sip of her hot chocolate, leaving a dot of whipped cream on her upper lip.
Without thinking, I reach out, wiping it away with my thumb.
Her eyes darken as I do, pupils dilating slightly.
Not just with desire, but with something deeper.
Recognition, maybe. Of how naturally we fit together, even now.
"Adam, I need to tell you why I freaked out about Sandwich Bay."
"You don't have to—"
"I do," she cuts me off, setting her mug down with a determined clink. "If we're doing honest, let's do honest. I can't tell you that you're not communicating and then do the exact same. Especially when I hid things from you in the past."
"It's not a competition. Let's not count points."
"I agree, but I want to tell you." She takes a deep breath, steadying herself. "I realized my first thought when I saw that brochure wasn't anger about you keeping it from me."
"It wasn't?"
She tilts her head, thinking as if she's reviewing her feelings for the truth.
"Okay, it was. But it was more than … It was pure panic.
" She twists the edge of my hoodie between her fingers, a gesture so achingly familiar from our video calls years ago.
"Yes, I left Barnstable because every corner of that town knew me as the Foster girl with Hodgkin's.
" She pauses. "People called it the Good Cancer, you know.
Which when you're in the midst of treatment isn't…
it doesn't feel good. But still, I had options.
And then when the first lines of treatment didn't work, well…
they looked at me with pity or admiration or maybe they looked at me too much or not enough.
I don't know. That's things I'm still working through.
They thought I might not make it to community college graduation. But it's not the only reason."
"Eve—"
"I'm not finished." Her voice isn't sharp, just determined. "When cancer hits you at nineteen, it doesn't only take your health. It takes your certainty. Your sense of... inevitable future. And everyone there saw me at my absolute worst. But it also reminds me how quickly everything can change."
She looks up at me, eyes shining but tears not falling. "These feelings I have for you scare me, Adam. I lost myself in Chuck. Tried to be what he wanted me to be. But maybe I never found myself in the first place."
I set my own mug down, shifting closer but still not touching her. "You didn't lose yourself in him. He manipulated you. There's a difference."
"Maybe." She doesn't sound convinced. "But then there's the other thing. The thing I never let myself think about with anyone else. The thing I always think about whenever I step back onto the Cape. I know it's not rational. My last scare was in Chicago, but..."
I wait, knowing what's coming. Giving her space to say it.
"What if it comes back?" she whispers, so softly I almost don't hear it.
"What if we start something and my cancer comes back?
It's been six years in remission, but I'm more at risk for other types of cancer.
And I don't even know about having kids.
I want them. I've got frozen eggs. But what if it doesn't work?
I met wonderful women in forums who got into early menopause.
Some were thirty-five. Thirty-eight. And then one day from another.
Hormones out of whack. I'm luckier. I'm here.
My periods came back. But I still get tired.
So tired. What if I'm broken in more ways than one? "
Her voice breaks on the last word, and something in me breaks with it. Before I can stop myself, I reach for her hand, covering it with mine. Not grabbing, not pulling—just connecting.
"Then we deal with it," I tell her, my voice rougher than intended. "Together."
She laughs, but it's shaky. "You say that now.
But you haven't seen it. What cancer does to people who care about you.
How exhausting it is. How it changes things.
" Her fingers tighten around mine, her knuckles white against her skin.
"Last year, at my five-year scan, something showed up.
I needed a biopsy, time off because removing a few lymph nodes underneath my arm made it hard to move my arm for a bit.
Chuck was already distant, but that week?
He couldn't even look at me. Like my body betraying me was somehow betraying him too. "
She swallows hard, her eyes fixed on our joined hands.
"It's always there, in the back of my mind.
Some days it feels like ancient history, some days it feels like yesterday, and some days it feels like something I haven't fully processed yet.
Like I've been too busy surviving to actually understand what happened to me.
And Christmas time brings it all back like a snowball to the face.
That's when I got diagnosed. When I got my transplant.
When I had that scare. When I relive things that I really should have dealt with by now. "
"You're putting a timer on feelings," I say gently.
"But I bet it's not the same as years ago.
You're no longer in fight-or-flight response.
" I pause, choosing my next words carefully.
"But you're right. I haven't seen it," I admit, tightening my hold on her hand. "But I've seen you, Eve. The real you."