Chapter 44 EVE #2
Dorothy wags her tail, probably wondering if she gets a treat for sitting through this, and Blanche leans against me like she knows I need grounding.
Adam’s voice drops to that register that still makes me shiver.
“Marry me, Foster.” His thumb brushes my lip, gaze locked on mine, steady as ever. “And maybe we can finally convince Blanche that the vacuum cleaner isn’t actually evil? And adopt one more pet we’ll name Rose to complete our Golden Girl family.”
His eyes hold love and lust and kindness, and I don’t hesitate. Not for a second.
I throw myself into his arms, tears streaming, laughing as I sob out “yes, yes, yes,” and when he kisses me, deeply, hungrily, I whisper, “I’m so lucky kind guys do kiss like that.”
“Oh, Foster.” His voice drops lower, rough with everything we both know is coming later tonight. “This kind guy knows exactly how to make you come apart.”
His thumb brushes my lip, his breath hot against my ear. “And I really want to reenact page thirty-five of that new romance novel...”
My whole body burns, heat pooling low in my belly as I remember exactly what’s on page thirty-five. A moment involving a beach, a sunset, and creative use of hands that Adam has already proven he’s mastered.
I laugh, breathless, tugging him closer. “And page thirty-six?”
“Oh, love,” he growls, lifting me right off my feet, “We’re about to write our own fucking novel.”
Behind us, I hear my mother’s delighted gasp, my father’s embarrassed cough, and my grandparents’ knowing chuckles. Claire whoops with all the subtlety of a cardiac alarm, “That’s my girl! Get your vet with the magic hands!” while Mike pretends to cover Jamie’s ears.
Julie is scribbling furiously in her notebook, muttering as Landon looks on with that expression of amused adoration he reserves just for her.
Harper elbows her husband, Jack. “Remember our proposal? Less public, more naked.” She smirks when Julie groans, “That’s still my brother you’re talking about!”
Kellan stands with his arm around Zoe. Poppy pretends not to tear up while Tristan tries to act like he’s not watching her every reaction, and Wes is lifting Megan onto his shoulders as Noelle snaps pictures.
“They’re all here,” I whisper, a little overwhelmed, a lot overjoyed.
Adam squeezes my hand. “They love you, too.”
I nod. “They love us.”
And he continues, “Oh they like us, exactly as we are.”
I smile. Knowing he’s quoting Bridget Jones’ Diary because of what I told him the first time we kissed. And when he kisses me, it’s with the intensity of a kind guy who knows exactly how to unravel me.
And as Blanche finally breaks formation to demand pets, and Dorothy yips at the waves, and LoverBoy runs around and Mama Bear Sophia watches us all, I know. This is it.
This is love. Not the curated, matching-mugs-in-a-Cape-Cod-kitchen kind. (Even though we do have those. Claire got me my first, and now I collect them up and down the Cape.)
Not the kind I tried to force with Chuck by being quieter, easier, smaller. Total #CoupleGoals on the outside, unraveling on the inside.
This is the real thing. The kind you choose even when the dishwasher’s broken and your emotional support pickle has baggage. The kind where I get to be fully me—cold, warm, anxious, brave, silent, loud, or all of that at once (early-treatment perimenopause for the win)—and still be loved for it.
And I get to love him back. For who he was. For who he is now. For every version still unfolding. To appreciate every soft, stubborn, steady inch of him.
It’s not always puppies and butterflies.
Sometimes it’s slamming a door you didn’t mean to, then apologizing with your arms wrapped around each other and your voice steadier than it was the first time.
It’s talking when your nervous system’s more regulated (thanks, therapy), and laughing at nothing because your eyes just met across the room.
It’s us.
Second chances aren’t about rewriting the past. They’re about owning every plot twist that got you here and saying, “Yeah. I’ll take this ending. This new beginning.”
My mom and his grab the dogs, whispering. “You two need a bit of privacy.”
Margaret winks at me. “Lady Grey says hi. And I have a book for you.”
Adam groans. “Mom…”
“Going, going, gone…” She chuckles.
The waves crash softly in the distance, but all I hear is his voice, his hand sliding to my waist, fingers dipping just under the hem of my sweater.
“We should probably give Dickle and Brain the night off,” he says, all low heat and mischief. “They’ve seen things. Even they deserve boundaries.”
I laugh, breathless, as he draws me in tighter, his mouth trailing heat along my neck
“Plus, the newest AdamPro is charged. Those charging cables are a game changer. I’m charged, too. And page thirty-seven? It would make them combust.”
“Are you going to wear the antlers, too?”
“Anything you want.”
And I kiss him. Slow, deep, entirely indecent for a public beach. Something I never do (still not big on PDA), but it feels like we’re alone right now.
Somewhere in the distance, my grandmother calls out, only half hiding her amusement. “We’ll meet you two at home!”
“Eventually,” Kellan mutters under his breath, followed by Dorothy’s triumphant bark and what sounds like Blanche herding everyone up the boardwalk.
We don’t move. We don’t even try. We’re kissing again with snowflakes melting between us, my toes already numb in my boots, half neuropathy, half winter chill.
I know without asking that he’ll warm them later with those capable veterinarian hands.
My mascara is probably smudged, and my hair is a wind-tangled mess, but neither of us cares.
Love doesn’t always look tidy.
Sometimes it looks like scars and soft touches and someone learning every part of you.
Sometimes it looks like midnight laughter and morning shower. Sometimes it looks like this.
On a beach.
With a kind man with ocean eyes, a soft and strong heart, and hands large enough to ruin you in the best possible way and massage your feet to help with lingering neuropathy.
And the kind of pickle that makes my mouth go dry.
And yes. We’re 1000% reenacting page thirty-five. And thirty-six.
And maybe the bonus scene in the special edition.
Merry Christmas to us.
And to all the emotionally frayed, yarn-stuffed support vegetables out there: may you find someone who doesn’t flinch when the stuffing shows.
Who steadies your hands without ever taking the tools away.
Because standing on your own doesn’t mean standing alone.
And you’re allowed to be more than someone else’s support pickle.
.. you get to be the main character, too.
Merry Christmas to you.
And Happy Holidays, whatever you’re celebrating. May it be warm.
And a little spicy.