Chapter 8 #2
I do as instructed and sit on the floor in my underwear, legs crisscrossed, scrolling Instagram to distract myself.
Every so often I catch sight of my reflection in the closet mirror.
I flex my toes, then my fingers, then do the little grounding thing Dr Chen taught me.
Name five objects you see, four sounds you hear, three things you can touch.
I see discarded denim, my phone, a succulent, the bed, and my running shoes.
I hear the birds outside, the hum of the fridge, a distant siren, my own pulse in my ears.
I touch the soft hem of a sweater lying on the floor, the cold tiles, the rough edge of my split thumbnail.
It helps…a little.
By the time Becca’s knock comes I’m almost human again. I pull on the closest hoodie and shuffle to the door. She’s standing there in the sun holding a Tupperware of carrot sticks and hummus. She takes one look at me and cackles.
“You weren’t kidding. The nuclear option.”
“I’m two bad outfit changes from becoming a cautionary meme,” I cry, letting her in. “Help.”
She surveys the wreckage. “Wow. This is…a mess.”
“I want to look nice, but not like trying to look nice. Is that a thing?”
“It’s definitely a thing.” Becca pokes at the pile with her foot. “For you, it’s maybe the thing.”
We sit cross-legged on the bed, and she opens the Tupperware between us, offering a carrot stick like a peace pipe. I crunch it nervously.
“Okay,” she says. “First question…are you planning to seduce her, or just talk?”
I sputter hummus everywhere. “Jesus, Becca. This isn’t that. We are a long, long way away from that!”
Becca grins. “So you’ve been thinking about it? Getting back with her, that is.”
I pluck at my hoodie. “Maybe.”
She shakes her head. “Okay, I won’t push. But also, you can’t overthink this, Sloane. Eden knows you. She likes you in whatever you’re wearing, even if it’s literal pajamas.”
We go through the options together. We narrow it down to a faded blue henley and a skirt I wore once when I was with Eden, and she really appreciated it.
“Perfect,” Becca says, brushing imaginary lint from my shoulder. “You look like the best version of yourself.”
I check the mirror. She’s right. I look…approachable. Like a person who eats normal food and has only the usual amount of emotional baggage.
“Thanks. For doing this.”
Becca shrugs, but her eyes go a little watery. “You don’t have to thank me. I’m glad you called.”
We’re quiet for a moment.
“I should have reached out sooner,” I huff, staring at my socked feet. “It’s just…I felt like I’d be dragging you down again.”
She knows all this because I’ve already explained, but I feel I need to say it again.
Becca puts a hand on my knee. “You know that’s not how it works. And anyway, I miss our dramatic fashion crises.”
I laugh, and it feels real.
We kill the rest of the carrots. Then she stands, checks her phone, and says, “I gotta get back before Bella realizes I’m gone. But if you freak out before Eden gets here, you call me. Deal?”
“Deal,” I say, and she squeezes my shoulder before heading out.
I have one hour until Eden arrives. I spend most of it pacing the apartment, tidying things that don’t need tidying, rehearsing possible conversations in my head.
I consider baking cookies from scratch, but then remember how sparkling the kitchen is and how I absolutely do not want to spend an hour cleaning it after making a mess.
Instead, I set out a sleeve of Oreos and two mugs, then sit on the couch and scroll through photos of Eden and me from the Before Times.
Us at prom, blurry and beaming; us at the charity run, sweat-soaked and happy; us at Bella’s ugly sweater party, doing shots of peppermint schnapps and laughing like we had all the time in the world.
I wonder which version of me Eden is expecting. I hope it’s this one—the one who’s nervous but trying, who wears her anxiety like a favorite jacket and shows up anyway.
When the main house gate buzzer rings I leap to answer it, heart pounding so loud I almost miss Eden’s voice through the intercom.
“Hey,” she says, all casual. “Got your caffeine, and I stole a brownie from the bakery counter, hope that’s cool.”
“Cool,” I say, and immediately regret it. Who says “cool” anymore? Not humans. Then I remember Eden would still say “cool” because she’s an old soul who finds those kinds of words acceptable, no matter the trend.
I let her in and spend the next thirty seconds fixing my hair and smoothing my skirt. When Eden knocks, I open the door, and there she is—taller than I remember somehow, with a grin that fills the space and a paper coffee tray balanced in one hand.
“Hey,” she repeats, and there’s something in her eyes that makes me believe, just for a second, that maybe this won’t be a disaster.
“Hey,” I say, then step aside to let her in.
She hands me a coffee, and takes in the apartment. “Place looks great.”
“Thanks, I vacuumed twice.”
She laughs as I go red.
We settle on the couch, close but not too close, and for the first time in months I feel almost normal. Like maybe, just maybe, there’s a way to do this, to be here and not totally fall apart.
Eden clinks her paper cup against mine in a mock toast. “To cookies and questionable life choices.”
“To friends who show up anyway.” I smile.
And I mean it.