Page 106 of Nice Guys Don't Kiss Like That At Christmas
The confirmation appears on screen, and I wait for the familiar adrenaline crash that usually follows major decisions.It doesn’t come.Instead, there’s this strange lightness in my chest, what others might simply call hope.No need to take my pulse or analyze my respiratory rate.For once, I’m feeling it without the medical play-by-play.
Carefully moving LoverBoy to his bed, I close my laptop and set it aside, already imagining how I’ll tell Adam.I’ll watch his face when I say the words, “I’m going back to the Cape,” and try to read what that means for us in those blue eyes that somehow always see through my carefully constructed walls.
I have no idea what he’ll say, how he’ll react.Whether this step will bring us closer or create new complications.But for the first time in years, I’m moving toward something instead of away from it.Choosing instead of running.
Outside, the afternoon sun catches on fresh snow, turning it into a canvas of gold and shadow.I can see my footprints from this morning’s walk with Dorothy, Blanche and Loverboy, already softening at the edges, but still visible.Still there.
I press my palm against the cool window glass, watching my breath create a small fog that fades almost instantly.The town looks different in this light, not because it’s changed, but because I’m seeing it differently.
Each path transformed not by becoming something else entirely, but by evolving, adding layers.
Like me.
Not the frightened girl in the hospital bed.Not Chuck’s perfect wife.Not the ice queen nurse.
Eve.All of me.Finally coming home to myself.
Chapter thirty-three
ADAM
THE ADAM IS NO LONGER IN A PICKLE.HE USED HIS PICKLE.
Adam
Kellan?Really?Using my pickle?
Kellan
Someone had to memorialize the historic occasion.
Wes
How many years of drought was it again?One?Two?My houseplants get more action.
Mike
Also, I ordered the part for Eve's car, but you wanted me to add what to the detail?
Me
A pickle.Wait, I'm on my way.
Isilencemyphoneas Wes' next message comes through, no doubt another dig at my expense.The guys have been relentless since they figured out Eve and I crossed that line.I can take the ribbing.
Eve’s dropped the girls off at daycare around 5pm and I’ve been in my office, putting a few more stitches in the lumpy green monstrosity I'm trying to pass off as a crocheted pickle.
And as I head down to Mike's garage, the air has that bone-deep December chill that promises more snow, and the town square is bustling with volunteers setting up for tonight’s holiday’s concert.
The Tangled soundtrack plays from Mike's ancient radio, and I catch myself humming along.
My steps slow when I spot Frank Mitchell leaning against the counter at Mike's garage.Great.
"We need to talk," I tell him, nodding toward the bench outside.Despite the cold, this conversation needs privacy.
Frank follows me with visible reluctance.The bench outside shows us all of Main Street and I can’t help but stare at the place I’ll always call home.Because who said you can only have one?
"You want to talk about Eve?"His hostility hits me like a slap."Or how you broke my sister's heart?"
