I gulp past the lump that sticks in my throat at the memory from one of our past fights, the words still embedded deep on my heart. He would get so annoyed every time I bought a new planner, muttering that we both knew I wouldn’t stick with it, or when I would get overstimulated and need to change outfits ten times before going out, then he’d be a dick about my time management.
I rest my cheek against the edge of the bathtub, reminding myself that Shawn is an insensitive, selfish asshole. I can manage my neurodivergent brain with therapy and medication, but there’s nothing to fix being a fucking douchebag.
Surprise hits me when Cole texts me. I didn’t think he’d still have my number. Not that I ever deleted his from my contacts. I hold my breath as I read it.
Cole:I unmatched. Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone. Good luck.
Eve:Thanks. You too. Did Heston win? I didn’t check the final score.
Cole:Yeah. They’re awesome. The team bus is on its way back now. I’m riding with them.
Eve:They didn’t see anything, did they? The…you know. The thing that we’re not talking about.
Cole:No we’re in the clear.
Eve:Good. They’re cool, but there’s no way I’d trust them with that information.
Cole:See you on Thanksgiving if you don’t stop by the rink to have lunch with your dad. Night.
Eve:Night.
Sighing, I sink lower until the water comes up to my nose. If only he wasn’t Benson’s best friend or Dad’s assistant coach. If we could be two random people who matched on this app. Maybe then we could flirt, and flirting would lead to a date.
And that date would lead to knowing how Cole Kincaid kisses. Whether he’s soft and teasing, or commanding and dizzying. Either way, I’d want it.
I’m left wonderingwhat ifuntil the bubbles dwindle and the bath cools.
SEVEN
EVE
On Thanksgiving,people all over Heston Lake are coming together to spend time with their families. Their fireplaces add a cozy note of smokiness to the autumn air.
And I’m standing in the cold outside Shawn’s apartment building with my arms folded tightly across my chest, tapping my foot in annoyance.
I need to go in there and get the embroidery box he forgot to pack up with all my other stuff when he dumped me.
“Just do it,” I mutter.
I’ve been encouraging myself with a promise that this will be an in-and-out thing, going over how I imagine the conversation will go. Rubbing my forehead, I ready myself to get through this situation.
Since he ended things between us two weeks ago, I’ve moved from hurt to anger toward him. It’s not that I’m mad over the breakup, though the way he did it sucked. The deeper pain is caused by this feeding into the niggling anxiety that I’m too much and I’m easily thrown away.
My therapeutic response has been sending him middle finger emojis whenever I think about the breakup. Not mymost mature reaction, but I stand by it. The messages stopped delivering, so I assume he blocked my number.
Which is why I’m here in person instead of asking him to give the last of my stuff back over text.
Centering myself with a few deep breaths, I mumble, “No bad days, girl. Rip him off like a bandage. Or a self-wax strip.”
I shudder at the phantom pain I’ll never forget from the first time the girls decided it would be a great idea to try it.
Rolling my shoulders back and lifting my head high, I march inside. His neighbor that tried to steal my glue gun is in the elevator on her way out. I plaster on my sweetest smile and wish her a happy holiday.
I practice what I’ll say on the ride to Shawn’s floor. The hallway is unchanged, yet feels so weird when I walk down it. I no longer belong here.
There’s no answer when I knock. I give it a minute, then try again. At last, the door opens.
It’s not Shawn. I blink at the woman. She’s gorgeous and put together. Her hair is a fashionable chin-length dark bob and her chic dress clings to her lithe frame.
