Chapter three
EVE
“UCMedicalCenterthanksyou for your application, but after careful consideration, we regret to inform you we decided to move forward with a better-suited candidate.Wishing you happy holidays.”Translation:Your-Suspension-Makes-You-Radioactive.
This is the sixth rejection email this week.
It’s all good.I’ve still got five pending applications.Plus, the Trauma ER Coordinator position at Lakeview Hospital doesn’t open until January.The timing’s perfect: finish this small-town stint, grab a glowing recommendation that screams “stable and so professional,” and make it back to Chicago in time to show Chuck he didn’t completely obliterate me.
Because he didn’t.
I’m still EveCan-Do-ThisFoster.Right?
Maybe.Totally.
“You okay girls?”I murmur to my dogs in the backseat as I pause my audiobook.
When my Great Dane and dachshund tilt their head as if to say, “You got this mom,” I finally step out of my parked car.The only one in this deserted gas station. My gaze darts around and goosebumps trail up my neck.Between the inflatable Santa singing “Merry Christmas” in a creepy metallic voice in the corner, the flickering lights and the abandoned-vibes of the motel on the other side of the road, this could be the beginning ofThe Shining: Christmas Edition.
Hurrying, I slam my credit card against the machine while my phone rings.The hospital.Hope flickers in my chest.Maybe they saw the error of their ways and are asking me back.
“Eve.”Great.My ex.
I clear my throat.“I don’t have time.”But of course he doesn’t listen to me.Instead, his voice blares from the speakers from inside the car as my phone switches to Bluetooth without my permission.Something about holiday staffing schedules I never asked about.
The pump beeps.
Payment declined.
Crap.Shit.Fuck.
Wind and snow slap me in the face as I use my only other card while attempting one of those deep-breathing “hmms” Julie taught me.But I sound like a congested Rudolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer impersonating a meditation instructor.My bank account is probably sending me an “I’m so disappointed text,” and I refuse to calculate how many oatmeal dinners stand between me and financial ruin.Dorothy’s dental surgery cost more than my monthly rent, and she probably still has better credit than I do.
Approved.
I’d do a happy dance, but my fingers are frozen and I’m 90% sure a serial killer’s watching me from that abandoned building.
“Eve, are you even listening?”I slide back into my car, ignoring my ex’s grating tone and the tightening in my throat as my dogs throw meMommy-will-never-afford-premium-kibble-againstares from the backseat.
I exhale, rip off my beanie, and push back my honey-blonde hair, now standing on end like I licked an outlet.Not quite the“new life, new hair”cut Claire recommended post-divorce.The mirror reflects my tired brown eyes and circles no concealer dares challenge.I look less“exciting new chapter”and more“needs a nap and more therapy.”
But I got this.
The motor sputters as I turn back onto what can only be described as a country road to holiday hell.
“Why are you really calling, Chuck?”I maintain my professional nurse voice.The one I use when explaining to drunk college students why, no, the ER can’t “just take out” the lightbulb they’ve inserted somewhere creative.Nothing says“holiday spirit”quite like maintaining eye contact with a guy wearing only a Santa hat who keeps insisting, “But it was a Christmas light.Festive, dude.”
“I’m worried about you,” Chuck says, his voice mellowing into that smooth tone that once made my shoulders relax.“I’ve been thinking about us, and how sorry I am about how things ended.”
My entire body tenses.Ah, this part of the script.Chuck’s“genuine”apology.Version 10.0.He’s perfected it over the years, with enough regret and tenderness to sound convincing to anyone who hasn’t heard it before.Five versions ago, I might have believed him.Now?It’s anotherJerk Du Soleilperformance.
I let him talk anyway.Not because there’s hope left, but because when Chuck thinks his apology has landed, he gets careless.And careless means information I could use.For Jennie who needs to know his apologies come with an expiration date.For me...
He continues, “I was thinking about that Christmas Eve at my parents’.Remember?When you told everyone about that glass heart ornament your grandfather made?”
I remember.The warm lights, the champagne, how Chuck had pulled me close as I explained Papet’s glassblowing.How everyone listened instead of executing their standardEve-is-talking-let’s-check-our-phonesprotocol.One of those rare moments when I didn’t force a Chuck-approved smile.When I belonged.Or thought so.
Memory blurs the worst parts like anesthesia: numbing what hurt until the feeling floods back, sharp and sudden.
