Chapter Fifteen
Eden
I woke up knowing it was a day to keep the curtains closed.
Even the light hurt. Every cell in my body felt like it was bruised, the skin a little too tight, the blood in my head a little too thick.
I stayed horizontal, pretending that if I lay still long enough, the world would slow to match the ache in my chest.
But eventually my phone lit up, blue glow slicing through the gloom, and the name “Gram” on the screen like a hug.
Come over, the text read. I made that coffee cake you like. Don’t make me freeze it, Edie.
I stared at the words so long they started to swim. For a split second, I wanted to pretend I was still a person who had family dinners, who showed up to things, who could walk into her grandmother’s house without tears coming. But that wasn’t me. Not anymore.
With an exhale, I closed my eyes, counted backward from fifty, and willed myself out of bed. One foot in front of the other, autopilot through the shower, the world a tunnel of steam and shampoo and skin that didn’t quite feel like mine.
Outside, the rain had given way to sunshine.
Every other car on the street was dusted with pollen and city grit.
I drove in a silence so total it might have been a crime scene, windows up, the only sound the dull click of the engine and the tiny voice in my head that said, “Don’t do it, Eden. Stay away from the painful thoughts.”
But I drove anyway. Because when you get a text from your grandmother, you listen. Even if it kills you.
Her house was the same as always white, black trim, doormat that read, OH NO NOT YOU AGAIN. I almost smiled. I almost didn’t want to puke.
I let myself in. The air was thick with cinnamon and orange peel, the carpet vacuumed in neat rows, the kitchen table already set for two. Gram stood at the counter, her hair silver and pulled tight into a bun, slicing into a still-steaming coffee cake with a surgeon’s focus.
“Ten minutes late,” she said without turning around. “That’s new. You usually show up early to steal the gooey corner.”
“You didn’t give me a time. And I almost stayed in bed,” I said.
She set the knife down and faced me, arms folded, eyebrow raised. “You look like hell.”
“Thanks,” I said. “You look like Martha Stewart if she murdered all her husbands for the insurance money.”
Gram grinned, satisfied. “That’s the spirit.”
She pointed me to the table, poured coffee, then sat. For a while, we just ate, the only sound the scrape of fork on plate and the gentle hum of the radiator. It was so normal I could almost forget that the last three days had been a slow-motion car crash of heartbreak and self-doubt.
I was halfway through my second piece when Gram finally put her fork down. “You need to let the past go and prepare for the future.”
I went cold, frozen in place.
Gram leaned in, voice gentle but unyielding. “You’re not a quitter, Eden. You never were.”
I opened my mouth to argue, but the front door clicked, and voices drifted in from the hallway. For a second, I thought I was hallucinating, hearing ghosts, but then the sound resolved into words, familiar and jagged.
“Just let her have five minutes before you jump in,” said my mother’s voice, soft as always but with a hint of fear.
“She’s my daughter, too,” said my father, lower, softer, as if that made it better.
I wanted to run. I wanted to evaporate into the walls. But Gram’s hand shot out and locked around my wrist, iron under paper skin.
“Stay,” she said.
I stayed.
They entered the kitchen side by side, awkward and tentative, the way people do when they’ve spent years perfecting avoidance. My mother wore a scarf I’d bought her for Christmas a decade ago. My father looked older, smaller, as if he’d been compressed by some invisible vice.
For a moment, no one spoke. Then my mother crossed to me and, in a move so unlike her it felt unreal, wrapped me in a hug.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m sorry I let it get so bad.”
My father joined, a clumsy three-person embrace, and for a second I just stood there, arms limp, unsure if I was supposed to hug back or push away.
Gram cleared her throat. “You’re crushing the cake, you know.”
We all laughed, a little. It felt fragile, but it was a start.
They pulled away, and my mother dabbed at her eyes. “We’ve been talking. A lot. We want to do better, Eden. We want to make things right.”
My father nodded, the words coming slow. “We’re not good at this. But we want to try.”
I wanted to believe them. I did. But the wound was too fresh. I couldn’t just stitch it shut and pretend it never bled.
“I don’t know if I can forgive you,” I said, voice shaking. “Not yet.”
“That’s okay,” said my mother. “But can you let us try?”
I nodded, because it was all I could do.
Then Gram stood, bustling to clear plates. “Now that we’ve had our group therapy, who wants more coffee?”
I did. I wanted a gallon of it, injected straight into the vein.
The rest of the morning passed in a blur; small talk, apologies, plans to call every week, maybe see a counselor together.
Mom got a cute little pom-husky dog and showed me pics of a blue-eyed pup I wanted to spoil with endless walks.
Dad fixed up Dolan’s car so much that it felt like a blast from the past to watch the video he’d taken of him walking around it and detailing what he’d done.
It was so surreal I half expected a camera crew to burst in and shout, “You’ve been punked! ”
I almost laughed at the thought. Instead, I kept my head down and tried to memorize the way the sunlight hit the kitchen wall, the smell of coffee cake, the sound of my parents’ voices when they weren’t fighting.
But then there was another knock at the door. Two quick, one slow.
My blood went cold. There was only one person in the world who knocked like that.
Gareth.
My heart stopped. Started again, double-time.
Gram looked at me, eyes wide. “I’ll get it,” she said, but I was already up, already halfway to the door.
He stood on the front step, hands fisted in the pockets of a charcoal suit that looked slept-in. His eyes were red, but dry, and for the first time ever, he looked…human. Vulnerable, even.
“Hi,” he said, voice barely above a whisper.
“Hi,” I echoed. My lungs forgot how to work.
He took a step forward, then stopped, as if the threshold was a force field.
“I’m sorry,” he said, and it was so simple, so raw, that it almost undid me. “I was wrong. About everything.”
I shook my head, unable to speak.
He tried again. “You were right. I was afraid. Not of you, or this-” he gestured at the house, the family, the future, “but of losing control. Of letting myself care that much.”
I bit my lip, the words thick in my throat.
“I love you,” he said, and the words were a shockwave through my system. “I love you, Eden. And I don’t want to spend another day pretending I don’t.”
He stepped closer, leaving my skin buzzing. “But I understand if you never want to see me again. I’ll leave. I promise.”
I thought I would burst.
I thought I would break.
But then Gram’s voice came from behind me, loud and clear: “Are you going to invite him in, or make him propose on the stoop like a vacuum salesman?”
I blushed, but stepped aside.
He entered, cautious, every movement a question. My parents lingered in the kitchen, trying to look busy but obviously eavesdropping.
I looked up at him, every muscle trembling. “Why are you here?”
He swallowed, hard. “Because I couldn’t stop thinking about you. Because I want to be with you. Because I want this-” he gestured at the whole messy tableau of family and coffee cake and morning light, “more than I want to win.”
I laughed. “You’re an idiot.”
He smiled, and it was real. “I know.”
We stood there, inches apart, the world spinning. I wanted to throw myself at him, but I also wanted to slap him for making it so hard.
“I told you I quit,” I said, and he nodded, solemn.
“And I accept. But I can’t let you go that easy.”
I reached out, and he caught my hand, his grip tight and warm. We just stood there, silent, the past dissolving into something new.
Then, from the kitchen, my mother’s voice: “Well, are you going to tell her, or do I have to?”
I stared at her, confused. “Tell me what?”
My mother smiled, a little conspiratorial. “He didn’t just come here for you. He brought us here. He called us last week, told us everything.”
I looked at Gareth, stunned.
He shrugged, sheepish. “I thought maybe if I could fix your family, I could make up for breaking you.”
I burst out laughing, and then, unexpectedly, burst into tears. “You didn’t break me, you dolt.”
I saw Gram shake her head and waggled a finger at her. “Don’t.”
He pulled me in, holding me tight, his hand at the back of my head.
“You’re still an idiot,” I said, my tears dotting his shirt.
“I know,” he whispered. “But I’m your idiot. Or, I’d like to be. Can you forgive me?”
“Absolutely not. But I’ll think about it.”
We stayed like that for a long time, the rest of the world melting away.
But then, the door swung open again and Ruby walked in, arms loaded with shopping bags, hair freshly styled.
“Did I miss the big moment?” she asked, dropping the bags with a thud. “Tell me he didn’t chicken out.”
I wiped my face, sniffling. “What big moment?”
Ruby rolled her eyes, looked at my grandmother, then at Gareth. “Is she always this dense, or is it the trauma?”
“Runs in the family,” said Gram.
Gareth looked at me, then at the room, then back at me. He fished something from his pocket, a small, black box, and dropped to one knee.
The room went silent. Even the radiator kicked off.
He cleared his throat, then looked up, eyes blazing.
“I messed up.”
I nodded. “You covered that part.”
He smiled, and continued. “I want to spend the rest of my life with you. I want to spend forever making up for hurting you, and doing everything I can to make you happy, even if it takes everything and every moment I have left on this Earth. Will you marry me?” he asked.
My mind went blank. My heart stuttered, then soared.
For a moment, all I could do was stare. At him, at the ring box, at the weird, perfect, broken circle of my family.
I looked at the wall, at a framed photo of Dolan. I wondered what he would say, if he could see me now.
I hoped he’d be proud.
Tears streamed down my face. I nodded, unable to speak.
“Yes,” I whispered.
The room erupted. Gram whooped and began taking credit to my father, my mother crying softly, Ruby shrieking, my father raising both hands like he’d just scored the game-winning goal.
Gareth slid the heavy ring on my finger, then stood and pulled me into a hug that felt like coming home.
We stood there, surrounded by chaos and love and the smell of cinnamon, and I knew, in that moment, that I could survive anything.
Even happiness.
Later, much later, after the cake and the phone calls and the awkward but sincere group hug with my parents, I found myself outside, alone on the porch, looking at the sky.
Gareth joined me, arms wrapped around my waist, chin on my shoulder.
“You okay?” he asked.
I nodded. “Better than okay.”
He kissed my cheek, gentle. “I meant what I said. I’ll try, with my family. If you want. And I really am sorry for putting you in that position. I was an asshole.”
I leaned into him, content. “We’ll figure it out. Together.”
He squeezed me, then whispered, “I love you.”
I smiled, eyes closed, letting it sink in.
“I love you, too,” I said, and meant it.
The future wasn’t neat. It wasn’t perfect. But it was ours.
And for the first time in a very long time, I was excited to see what tomorrow would bring.
I had hope. A hope I’d thought long since lost.
And it was all his fault in the best possible way.