Act Your Age, Eve Brown (The Brown Sisters #3)(4)
“No,” Mum agreed, “just too feckless to stick with one. To do the hard work, after the excitement and glamour has faded. Too immature to be an adult. When are you going to act your age, Eve? I swear, it’s embarrassing—”
And there it was. Eve sucked in a breath and blinked back the hot tears prickling at the corners of her eyes. They were more shock than pain, like the tears that came with a banged elbow—but she shouldn’t be shocked at all, now, should she? Of course her parents saw her this way. Of course they thought she was an immature little brat. She’d never given anyone a reason to think she was anything else.
“I—I need to go,” she said, standing up quickly, her voice thick with tears. Embarrassing. She was so bloody embarrassing, crying like a child because her mother had told her the truth, running away from everything because she wasn’t strong enough to cope with the pressure.
“Eve, darling,” Mum began, already sounding softer, full of regret. Next, she’d say, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that, and everyone would decide that was enough for today, and the poor, delicate baby of the family would be let off the hook for a while because everyone knew Eve couldn’t handle difficult conversations.
She wanted to be more than this. She really, really did.
She just didn’t know how.
“Don’t worry,” she said sharply. “I’ve listened to everything you’ve said, and I’m taking it very seriously. I don’t need you to baby me anymore. I will deal with this on my own, and I will try not to disappoint or—or embarrass you in the process.” But now I need to go before I completely undermine myself by bursting into tears. She turned her back on her stricken parents and bolted.
Chapter Two
It had taken Eve seven attempts to pass her driving test. Apparently, she had serious spatial awareness problems that took four years of weekly lessons to overcome. But driving was one of the few things Eve had refused to give up on, because earning a license meant earning freedom.
For example: the freedom to drive fast and aimless down abandoned country roads while blasting a playlist that started with Stormzy’s “Big for Your Boots” at full volume. Her mood had taken a sharp dip, and Barbra would no longer do.
As she sped past turn after turn that would take her back to the main road—to the city, to her sisters—Eve debated the pros and cons of running to Chloe or Dani for help. What, exactly, would she say? Help, Mum and Dad have cruelly demanded I hold down a job and take on some adult responsibilities? Ha. Chloe was hideously blunt, and Dani was addicted to hard work. They were both intimidatingly no-nonsense and had a shocking tendency to tell Eve the absolute truth, without even the accompaniment of a soothing cup of tea or a nice bit of chocolate. They’d eye-roll her into oblivion, and she would absolutely deserve it.
Eve had told her parents she’d handle things herself, and she would keep that promise. As soon as she finished undoing the instinctive panic caused by this morning’s conversation, that is.
She turned up the endless music and drove. The sun faded behind gray clouds, and pre-rain mist soaked into her skin through the open windows, and well over two hours passed without her even noticing. Just when she was beginning to feel the first pangs of hunger, she caught sight of a sign that read SKYBRIAR: FIFTEEN MILES.
“Skybriar,” she murmured over the thrum of cleopatrick’s “hometown.” It sounded like a fairy tale. Fairy tales meant happily ever after.
She took the turn.
Skybriar looked like a fairy tale, too. Its main road unraveled down a gigantic hill, the kind usually found in books or Welsh travel brochures. Mysterious woodland stood tall on either side of the pavement, likely containing pixies and unicorns and other fabulous things. The air through Eve’s open window tasted fresh and earthy and clean as she drove deeper into the town, past adorable, old-fashioned, stone-built houses and people in wellies walking well-behaved little dogs. She spotted a sign among the green, a gleaming blue board with white lace effect around the edges that read PEMBERTON GINGERBREAD FESTIVAL: SATURDAY, 31ST AUGUST. How absolutely darling, and how potentially delicious. Oh—but it wasn’t the thirty-first yet. Never mind.
Another turn, taken at random, and she struck gold. Up ahead, guarded by a grand oak tree and fenced in by a low, moss-covered wall, sat an impressive redbrick Victorian with a burgundy sign outside that read CASTELL COTTAGE. EXCELLENT ACCOMMODATION, DELICIOUS CUISINE.
She was feeling better already.
(Actually, that was a categorical lie. But she would feel better, once she ate, and took a moment to think, and generally stopped her drama queen behavior. Eve was quite certain of that.)
She threw her car into the nearest sort-of parking space—well, it was an empty spot by the pavement, so it would do—and cut off the radio. Then she slipped in an AirPod, chose a new song—“Shut Up and Groove,” Masego—to match her determinedly positive mood, and pressed Play. Flipping down the car’s mirror, she dabbed at her red eyes and stared disapprovingly at her bare mouth. Boring, boring, boring. Even her waist-length braids, lavender and brown, were still tied back in a bedtime knot. She set them free to spill over her shoulders, then rifled through her glove box and found a glittery, orange Chanel lip gloss.
“There,” she smiled at her reflection. “Much better.” When in doubt, throw some color at it. Satisfied, she got out of the car and approached the cute little countryside restaurant thingy through softly falling drizzle. Only when she reached the grand front door, above which sat yet another burgundy sign, did she notice what she’d missed the first time.