Act Your Age, Eve Brown

by Talia Hibbert

  With a muttered curse, Jacob jerked open his desk drawer searching for a distraction and found—

  An AirPod. Right there, in the midst of his carefully organized sudoku magazines, resting on a heart-shaped sticky note that could only have come from one person. His stomach tensed, and he slammed the drawer shut again. Exhaled, hard. Stared at the wall, and swallowed every forbidden feeling that tried to creep up from his chest . . . until one slipped past his defenses and whispered in his ear.

  She didn’t actually leave, you know. You sent her away.

  Well, yeah. That had been the fucking point: sending her away before she could leave. He’d learned very early in life that obligation wasn’t enough to make anyone keep him. Eve wouldn’t have kept him, either, in the end, whether she realized it or not. So he should just—he should just fucking forget her.

  Instead, he opened the drawer again with a shaking hand. Then he lifted out the AirPod and the sticky note, put them both on the desk, and read the flowing lines of Eve’s handwriting.

  Jacob,

  This is synched to my phone. If you keep one, we can listen to the same music while we do the housekeeping!

  XOXO

  Sunshine

  It was the Sunshine that did it. Jacob stared at the note for long minutes, memories flickering through his mind like old film. He saw Eve’s eyes flash as she fired sarcasm and insults right back at him. Eve’s irrepressible smile as she laughed in the face of his irritation. Eve’s voice practically singing his name, as if she’d never met a word she liked better.

  The feelings he didn’t want came thicker and faster, until there were far too many for Jacob to bat away. They crawled over him in a wave of uncomfortable warmth and impossible longing, whispering wild hopes he could never in a thousand years believe. But he wanted to. His heart twisted, almost pulling itself in two, because he wanted to believe those hopes so bad. They washed across his scorched earth like a gentle, cleansing wave, and suddenly, he saw everything a little differently.

  Jacob, I wasn’t going to leave. I’d changed my mind. Okay? I wanted to stay.

  She’d said that to him. She’d said that, out loud, and he’d dismissed it as not enough because . . .

  Because he hadn’t believed her. He hadn’t been able to believe her. She hadn’t meant it, was just trying not to hurt him. Any other interpretation had felt impossible—still felt impossible now. His heart slammed up against old fears, fears that swore he should tread carefully or end up broken.

  But instead of focusing on that—on the threat of his own pain—now Jacob focused on hers. Eve’s. She’d looked so fucking sad. And then so hurt. Because—what had he said to her?

  Did you tell anyone?

  As if he didn’t trust her. Well, he hadn’t trusted her. Only now did he realize what a fucking insult that must be. Only now did he realize that thinking so lowly of his own worth required him to think badly of Eve in turn. And he refused to do that. He’d promised her he wouldn't do that. God, he’d told her he wouldn't let go, and then, at the first sign of trouble, he’d pushed.

  A scale tipped back and forth inside him like a seesaw, making him nauseous. On the one side was his own self-doubt, the weight of the idea that no one could stick around. But on the other side was Eve herself. The woman he knew her to be. Sweet, and sparkly, and a little chaotic—and smart, and caring, and real.

  Eve could do anything. He definitely believed that. Which meant if she wanted to, she could choose Jacob.

  But only if he let go of scales and doubts and all the little things that had made him shove her away. Only if he believed in himself, too.

  He stood, swallowed, then picked up the note and the AirPod, shoving both in his pocket. Checking the clock, he strode out of his office and down the hall. He managed to restrain himself until he stepped out of Castell Cottage completely and into the cool night. Then he ran all the way to the Rose and Crown.

  * * *

  “Jesus, man, are you okay?”

  Jacob stood in the doorway of the Rose and Crown, one hand on his thigh as he bent double, breathing hard. He hadn’t been for a run since fracturing his wrist, and according to his doctor’s advice, he probably shouldn’t have taken that one. But this was an urgent situation, so . . .

  Catching his breath, he looked up at Mont, who was all wide-eyed astonishment and obvious alarm. He had a mop and bucket in his hands, and behind him, Katy, the barmaid, was drying glasses at the bar—or rather, she’d frozen in the act of drying glasses, and was also staring at Jacob.

  He briefly considered dragging Mont off somewhere private for this little chat, then decided there was no time. If he didn’t get answers soon, he might die. Of uncertainty. Or love. Or regret. At least one of those had to be deadly, and possibly all three.

  So he straightened up and just blurted it out. “I love Eve and I didn’t tell her. Do you think I should’ve told her?”

  Mont blinked rapidly. At the bar, Katy made a strangled noise before putting down a glass and grabbing her phone in what she probably thought was a very subtle move. Fucking teenagers.

  “I—I don’t know, mate,” Mont said finally. “Maybe. Probably. Are we going to talk, now, about why she left?” Because Mont had been bugging him since yesterday about it. So had Aunt Lucy. So, for God’s sake, had Liam, the man who never called or texted, managing to get on Jacob’s arse all the way from the United bloody States.

  “She left because I told her to go,” Jacob said. “She’d been planning to—eventually—so I told her to go. Because I thought she’d always leave anyway. I just, I really fucking believed it, Mont, and it seemed so reasonable at the time, I swear it did, but now I’m starting to wonder if it wasn’t, and I don’t know which half of my brain is the smart half and which half is all emotional and shit.”

  Mont sighed and ran a hand over his stubbled jaw. “Jacob. Mate. Maybe the smart half is all emotional and shit.”

  Jacob collapsed at the nearest table. “Yes, I’ve been afraid of that.” And afraid of facing just how badly he’d fucked up, hurting Eve with all his insecurities. Shit. Shit.

  He had to fix it. He had to. Even if she wanted nothing to do with him after the crap he’d pulled, she had to know exactly how vital, how powerful, how perfect she was. He had to make her know, even if she despised him. Even if he’d ruined the fledgling magic between them.

  “I don’t think you need me to tell you all this, Jake,” Mont said. “I think you just want me to confirm you’re not completely deluded before you run off and do something wild.”

  Yes. Yes, that was true.

  “So ask,” Mont continued. “Just ask me.”

  His voice hoarse, Jacob managed the hardest question of all. “Do you think Eve could love me? If I told her I was sorry, and I—I trusted her, and she—gave me a chance?”

  “Yeah, genius. I do. Aside from anything else, you’re pretty fucking lovable.”

  Something in Jacob wanted to ignore those words, to brush them aside as unlikely or impossible. But that something didn’t have permission to lead—not anymore. It was old and battered and bruised. It was toxic and it told him such utterly believable lies. It belonged to a far younger version of himself, and it also belonged to his parents. Worst of all, that thing had hurt Eve.

  He decided to squash it.

  It would definitely pop back up again, but in order to maintain the level-headed analysis he so prized, Jacob would happily—and ruthlessly—continue to squash.

  “Okay,” he said. “Okay. Thanks. Going now.” He turned to leave.

  “Hey.” A viselike hand clamped onto his shoulder. “Reminder: it’s almost two o’clock in the morning.”

  Jacob deflated a little. “Oh. Right. Yes.” No fetching Eve just yet, then. Fetching Eve later. Never mind. He had a feeling he’d be able to sleep, now, so that was something. “Thanks, Mont. Bye.”

  * * *

  No matter how hard she tried, Eve couldn’t make her old bedroom feel like home. All the
things she used to do here—lying in until noon watching porn, ordering new T-shirts because she was bored with the many, many slogans in her walk-in wardrobe, bitching about her “friends” in her journal—felt silly and pointless and wrong. Which, in turn, made the room itself feel silly and pointless and wrong, because it offered no other diversions. She couldn’t even focus on her favorite romance novels, since the idea of reading about love suddenly made her feel sick to her stomach.

  This was most unfortunate, since she also couldn’t get up and leave her room. If she did, she might bump into one of the relatives lingering worriedly about the house, and she hadn’t yet decided what she wanted to say to them. She knew she was pissed off about their behavior yesterday, but she couldn’t quite articulate why.

  She was too busy thinking about Jacob.

  As in, Mariah Carey’s “Through the Rain” blaring from her speakers, the aforementioned journal in her hands, one sad, used tissue on the bedside table—thinking about Jacob. She was trying to write something horrible and scathing about him, but she couldn’t quite manage it. Every time she put pen to paper she’d remember something terrible, like the way he forced himself to say soft, gentle things when she really needed it, or the way he threw himself around to rescue her from minor disasters in clumsiness, and then she’d cry a little tiny bit. Again.

  Although, at this point, she was getting sick of crying. Because yes, Jacob was lovely and blah, blah, blah, but he’d also been monumentally shitty yesterday, and actually, she was rather fucking pissed about that, too. The more she thought about it, the more she suspected she was furious.

  She remembered his iron expression as he’d asked, Did you tell anyone? and wanted to shout, This isn’t fucking chess. Stop trying to checkmate me.

  She knew she’d done wrong. She’d lied, and she’d lost his trust, and she’d pressed down on a barely healed scar without ever meaning to. But he’d done the same right back, acting as if all she cared about was having her cake and eating it, too. Acting as if she was some sort of spoiled brat, after everything.

  So, yes: Eve was pissed.

  Satisfied, now that she’d identified the burning in her diaphragm, she put down her pen and flicked back through her journal—back through all the other times she’d been pissed off. Because that was the theme, she realized, as she combed through random dates. Something happened, she didn’t like it, so she ranted about it in silence.

  Hello darling,

  Olivia was absolutely frightful today, so I put coriander in her lemon drizzle cake and then I blocked her phone number.

  Hello darling,

  The festival coordinator called me an imbecile for putting up the map boards incorrectly—can you believe that? Well, good luck to him with putting them up right, because I’ve come home and that poxy little festival can carry on with one less volunteer. I didn’t really want to meet the Dixie Chicks anyway.

  Good morning, darling,

  It’s been eight days since Cecelia’s wedding. I’m sorry I didn’t write sooner, but you are an inanimate object, so it doesn’t really matter.

  She remembered writing that last entry, just like she remembered the wedding itself. The rush of success that had soured so easily, and the familiar lick of fear when everything started to go wrong. It had seemed easier to give up completely than to face yet another fucking failure. Had been such a relief to come home and vent in her journal and then forget it had ever happened.

  But Eve didn’t feel that relief anymore. Now, she read over that last entry and wanted to call Cecelia, apologize for the dress, then demand the slander against Eve Antonia Weddings be removed from the internet because those doves had needed rescuing, and all that aside, Eve had done a bloody good job.

  Her mind stumbled over the words a little, the first time. But the more Eve repeated them to herself, the smoother they came. She’d done a bloody good job. She knew she had. She’d tried her hardest, she’d been organized and capable, she’d bent over backward to make someone else’s dreams come true. She’d been good.

  Just like she’d been good at Castell Cottage, no matter what Jacob said.

  Yes, you’re good. But that doesn’t make you irreplaceable.

  The old Eve might accept that statement. The new one wanted to throw a chair.

  How dare he think the worst of her, after treating her like she was the best? How dare he push her away after making her feel needed? How dare he act as if she was the same scared, thoughtless woman he’d first met when he must know by now that she was so much more? If he’d given her a chance to explain, she could’ve told him that she was passionate about Castell Cottage, that her commitment meant something.

  Although . . . it suddenly occurred to Eve that, despite Jacob’s devotion to the B&B, maybe it wasn’t her commitment to Castell Cottage he’d wanted to hear about.

  Hm.

  Hmmm.

  It was too soon to tell him about the little seed of love sprouting in her chest, putting down deep, delicate roots. It had to be too soon. That’s what Eve had thought, anyway.

  But what if she’d been wrong?

  A knock at the door startled her out of her tangled thoughts. “It’s only me, darling,” Gigi called, just like she had yesterday evening.

  “Come in,” Eve said, but her mind was still churning, replaying that last edgy, uncertain conversation with Jacob. Everything had come crashing together without warning, two sides of her life that she’d been learning to handle separately, and she hadn’t known what to do for the best.

  “Shivani made you breakfast,” Gigi said, shutting the door behind her. “A cheese and sun-dried tomato omelet, you lucky thing. She’s always shoving spinach at me.”

  “Tell her thank you,” Eve murmured absently, but the words were just a reflex. She’d thought—she’d wanted to make it clear to Jacob that she wasn’t messing him around, work-wise, and then he’d told her to fuck right off and quite frankly broken her heart. (At least, Eve assumed the throbbing ache in her chest was heartbreak. If it wasn’t, it must be the start of some other cardiac event.) When he’d gotten rid of her so easily, she’d felt as if her bones were too fragile to carry her. She’d had to leave. She’d had to run. Except now she was wondering if getting rid of her had been easy for Jacob at all.

  She’d been so hurt by his sudden coldness, she’d forgotten what that coldness meant. Forgotten that his barbed wire was just a desperate form of protection.

  “Thank Shivani yourself, darling,” Gigi was saying. “Come to our midmorning practice in the sunroom. She misses you terribly, as do I.”

  Eve finally looked up at her grandmother, who was perched on the edge of her bed in a skintight, baby-blue jersey catsuit. “Um . . . I . . . I don’t think I can make midmorning practice, actually.”

  “Gosh,” Gigi said. “You look a little dazed, sweetheart. Perhaps we should go and see Doctor Bobby. He was telling me all about these lovely vitamin drips they’ve had in from America, they’ll pep you right up.”

  “No thank you,” Eve murmured, disentangling herself from the silky canopy of her princess bed. “I have plans today.”

  “Do you, indeed? How thrilling, do share.” Gigi picked up the omelet she’d just placed on the bedside table and helped herself to a bite.

  “I’m going to have stern words with the family,” Eve called as she strode into the en suite, “and then I’m going back to Skybriar where I will inform Jacob that he can’t sack me without due cause, or I shall take him to tribunal, and also that I love him, and if he wants to get rid of me he’ll have to say something definitive about that.”

  There was a short pause from the bedroom before Gigi replied, “Oh, Eve. Yes. Absolutely yes. You take a shower, my little moppet, and I will choose your T-shirt.”

  * * *

  “I have something to say!” Eve announced as she swept into the kitchen. Then she stopped in her tracks, snapped her mouth shut, and blinked at the crowded island. “Oh. Erm. Hello, everyone.”

 
; She’d expected her parents to be pacing about the place, since they both took Fridays off, but she hadn’t been prepared to find her sisters and their boyfriends lurking, as well. Still, she would not be deterred. Eve lifted her chin and nodded at the men. “Hello, Redford, Zafir. Since you did not force yourselves into my haven of self-actualization, you are exempt from the coming storm.”

  Red grinned and leaned back against the kitchen wall, his long, fiery hair standing out against the cream tile. “Nice one.”

  Chloe rolled her eyes.

  Zaf, meanwhile, was busy stroking one massive hand over Danika’s back with grave intensity—but he spared a second to turn his dark eyes on Eve and grunt. It was one of his neutral grunts, which she took to mean, Very well, carry on. So she did.

  “First of all.” Eve turned to glare at Gigi, who had followed her in, and then at Shivani, who sat at the breakfast bar. “You two are supposed to be the voices of reason in this house.” She ignored the sharp sound of her mother’s outraged breath. “What on earth were you doing in Skybriar?”

  “I decided we had better go along,” Shivani said, her attention on her own omelet, “in case your mother lost her temper and threatened someone with a lawsuit.”

  Eve faltered. “Ah. Hm. Well, I suppose that’s fair enough.”

  “Eve!” Mum said, her outrage intensifying.

  Eve, however, was in no mood. She was the outraged one, thank you very much, and over the last twenty minutes of preparation—during which Janelle Monáe’s “Make Me Feel” tongue-clicked encouragingly in her ear—she’d decided she had every right to be. So she said firmly, “Clearly, Shivani’s caution was warranted, because you behaved horribly.”

  “Now, sweetheart,” Dad began.

  “As did you. You’re just as bad as each other!”

  Dad shut his mouth with an astonished click.

  “I appreciate that I’ve handled some things poorly, recently,” Eve said, swallowing as she considered her next words. “Up to and including running off to another county because I was upset about being told off. You were absolutely right to take me to task, because I’ve been letting childish fear limit me for far too long, and it wasn’t fair to myself or to you.”