I can’t be late again. Sure, my best friend, Eve, is my boss, but that somehow makes it worse. I can’t even get my shit together for her, my sister from another mister, my emotional support human, the one person who’d help me bury a body. No questions asked. Just extra shovels, a tarp, and a smile.
Dammit!
Where the fuck are my fucking jeans?
I rush to the overflowing laundry basket and dump it, scattering clothes across the floor.
Kicking aside stuff I wore weeks ago, I finally unearth my favorite ripped skinny jeans. I glance at the disaster zone I’ve just created, then shrug.
The laundry pile’s been here this long. What’s another few days?
With speed that would put Quicksilver to shame, I yank on my clean-enough jeans, a faded band T-shirt, and a thick zip-up hoodie.
Does it match? Not even a little.
Now, where the hell are my shoes?
I swipe an arm under the bed, only to find them shoved so far back I can barely reach them. They must’ve caught the scent of bullshit on the wind. Probably their ex, back to fight for shared custody of a dog they never walked.
Once I lace up my high-top Vans, I grab a granola bar—because nothing screams “I have my life together” like processed oats—then toss my German shepherd/husky mix, Louie, a treat for putting up with me.
Eve keeps saying I can bring her to the shop, but mornings are always a mess.
I launch my bag into my ancient SUV and collapse into the driver’s seat, silently offering a fresh goat to the car gods.
Maybe two.
When it finally splutters to life, “Milk Lizard” by The Dillinger Escape Plan screams through my speakers as I head to Lilith’s Garden—pun totally intended.
Eve’s got a complex. When you’re named after the woman blamed for dooming humanity, you end up carrying a lot of shit that isn’t yours.
Her father, who was hardcore religious even before her mom walked out, hammered one thing into her from the start: A woman isn’t worth shit unless a man says so.
Eve rejected that bullshit with both middle fingers.
She has the backbone of a war general, the mouth of a Marine, and the sheer force of will to convince a man to get a tramp stamp just for fun.
Eve is rooted crownvetch and wild English ivy, still climbing even after her father tried to cut her back to nothing.
And when her dad crossed an unforgivable line, my parents took her in without question and made goddamn sure he never touched her again.
Once she was with us, nothing really changed. It only made clear what we already knew—Eve was family. She was a Hagan the moment she called my dad’s tattoos “scribbles” and told him they’d probably poison him.
No hesitation. No fear. Just Eve being a loudmouth kid who already felt safe with my family.
She still uses that same sharp humor, but now, it’s not always that simple.
When Eve makes jokes about her name, I know she’s using humor to cover the bruises.
Which is probably why she named her shop after Lilith, Adam’s first wife and the woman who invented telling a man to go fuck himself.
As I tear through the quiet streets of Lorewood, my engine protests with a cough but keeps grinding forward. I could get a new car, but why bother? This one works just fine—except when it doesn’t.
Thankfully, my morning drive is quick and pleasant, aside from the anxiety caused by the dashboard clock. The trees along the mountain blaze red, yellow, and orange, flickering like someone set the whole forest on fire just for the aesthetic.
The town is still as I drive down Main Street, careful to go the speed limit so I don’t piss anyone off. A few shop owners are outside already, and one or two give me a friendly wave as they ready themselves for the day ahead.
Everything hums with sleepy, small-town charm.
