Chapter 9
Eden
Everything feels new and yet so familiar. The smell of Sloane’s shampoo, and the way she bites her lip. It took a lot of vodka and friendship therapy last night to fully process the past few days. I was still spinning out about Sloane’s lack of text message reply when I got back to the apartment.
Bella took one look at me, rolled her eyes, and set about pouring us both drinks.
Becca joined us and together we got slightly hammered whilst having our mutual session.
Becca needed time to digest too. She was just as shocked as me that Sloane was back, but she certainly wasn’t having the type of crisis I was having.
Past tense because after my alcohol-fuelled session, I came to a decision.
I want Sloane in my life again. I’d be cutting my nose off to spite my face if I tried to live any other way. I’ve loved the woman since high school, and if the past few years are anything to go by, I never stopped and won’t ever get over her.
I have the same attitude towards us as I did back in Holcroft. Yes, we’re young, but that doesn’t mean we don’t know our hearts. Sloane hasn’t told me she wants us to try again, and I’m not expecting her to just yet.
However, I saw it in her eyes. I know her…
possibly not as well as I used to, but the foundations are still there.
I know her facial expressions and the hidden meanings behind her eyes.
She was scared I’d run away when we bumped into each other, but once we got talking, she was also scared I’d stay.
That’s why she didn’t want me to be nice to her.
She didn’t want me to forgive her because once I did, we’re moving into new territory.
For a long time now, we’ve both been living in a very similar state of bullshit.
Hurt, sad, guilty. I think we both wear it like a second skin now.
But I don’t want to live like that anymore.
All I’ve wanted was to see her again, and here she is.
I know we’ve got loads to talk about and I’ll have moments where I’ll want to run away because Sloane could hurt me again.
But the chance I’ve been begging the universe for is here, presented to me on a lovely, blonde-bobbed platter.
Becca has every intention of diving right back into the best friend role, and I plan to step into the role of friends for now, until we’re ready for more.
So here I am, sitting in Sloane’s new abode.
I can’t recall ever being in the Bishops’ pool house before, but I’ll hazard a guess Sloane’s parents had it renovated for her return home.
It’s really nice, and having a pool literally outside the front door is pretty great.
Bella and I only have a puddle that forms in heavy rain outside our place.
Sloane looks lovely. Although I’ve always said she could wear a trash bag and pull it off. I love her new haircut. It makes her look a little older and makes her eyes stand out more. Her beautiful blue eyes.
Alright, chill out, Eden. Fucking hell, this ain’t a period drama.
We drink our coffees in silence as we settle into what is a weird as fuck situation.
I don’t want Sloane to sit here and apologise again.
Of course, I want to know how she is and what’s been happening with her, but I also don’t want her to feel like she’s having to justify herself to me or tell me things she’s not comfortable telling me.
Maybe I should start with my life? Something light.
“Hey, guess what?” I blurt.
Sloane jumps slightly, sloshing her coffee. “Shit.” She chuckles, wiping her chin.
My brain is laser-focused on the movement of her tongue. I’m fucking tragic, I swear. “Sorry, my bad.” I laugh, hoping to cover any residual tension. Inside my mind, I’m already sketching out a painting of Sloane licking her lips. I wish I had some paper and a pen.
“You look excited.” Sloane smiles. “Are you going to finish telling me your news?”
“Right! So, my gran got me a gallery space…in London!”
There’s a beat, like the news crosses the equator in Sloane’s mind and needs to clear customs before arrival.
“Wait, like, an actual gallery?”
“Yup.” I slap the coffee table for effect, nearly spiking my cup onto the floor.
“Not a closet in the back of a dry cleaners or something equally starving artist. An actual, for-the-public, space in London.” I whistle, still in disbelief myself.
“I did a piece for this really posh lady, and well, she had a friend who owns a gallery and bish bash bosh, posh lady shows my work to her mate and he wants to showcase it!”
Sloane’s smile forms in slow motion, full of shock and then pride. “That’s…Eden, that’s fucking amazing.”
Now I’m blushing. “Yeah, well, it’s a start. It means I actually have to start acting like a serious adult.” I laugh.
She looks at me with this dorky sincerity, and there’s so much familiarity in it. “You deserve this. Especially after the last couple of years.”
I almost make a joke and say, ‘Yeah, nothing like using trauma as an artistic launch pad,’ but I don’t. I hold her gaze instead. It’s weirdly tender, honest. God, I missed this.
Sloane clears her throat, snapping herself out of the trance. “Will you have to go to London?”
I shake my head. “Maybe. I mean, it would be an awesome experience. If I go it would only be for a few weeks. Just to help get set up and attend the launch. Bella and Becca are already planning a trip. You—“ It comes out on its own, and for a nanosecond I panic. ”—you should come too. If you want.”
Her mouth opens and closes like she’s doing the alphabet in her head. “You’d want me there?”
I scratch the back of my head. “I wouldn’t have said it otherwise.”
The silence that follows could be one of those heavy ones, like a stone in your shoe, but it isn’t.
Sloane grins at the floor, then at me. “I’d like that.”
And it’s the first time since she’s been back I see her smile with all her teeth—not clamped, not a mask hiding stress and anxiety.
We let that settle while we finish our drinks. My heart is thrashing along to the rhythm of a heavy metal song.
I want to fill every second with more, to not let this slide back into the weird, stilted void of before, so I point at the sliding glass doors. “If I go swimming, are you going to try to drown me?”
I promised myself I would push past…well, the past, and drag Sloane along with me as we start a new phase in our fucked up little lives. Starting with hanging out as friends, pissing about in the pool.
Sloane arches a brow, carding a hand through her new hairstyle. Without a word, she gets up and opens the door, letting in the summer breeze and chlorine of the pool. She looks over her shoulder. “Only if you wear that tragic old swimsuit. You know the one.”
I mock gasp, hand to heart. “Excuse you, the SpongeBob print is a classic.”
It’s a swimsuit I picked up in the summer before we left for college. I fucking love it to this day.
Sloane snorts. “I still have nightmares.”
We’re already halfway outside when I realise we’re falling into old patterns, which is a comfort, and yet because of how things have been between us, our behaviour is also a little thrilling. It’s a mystery as to where we’ll end up.
The aforementioned awesome swimsuit is back at my apartment, so it looks like I’ll be swimming in my undies.
Nothing I haven’t done before. Sloane strips down to her knickers and sports bra, so she’s clearly not fussed about our lack of swimming suits.
Following her lead, I shuck off my clothes.
We’re wearing nearly identical sports bras, which makes me laugh.
I instantly think of lesbian couples who dress the same for some reason.
Wishful thinking, E!
The water’s freezing as I launch myself in with an impressive cannonball.
For a second, I kind of want to die, but Sloane’s laugh is so ridiculous and pure that it’s immediately worth it.
She follows me in, arms flailing. We’re both yelling at the cold, and my teeth are chattering so hard I might shatter them.
Why haven’t they heated the fucking thing?
For the first time since Sloane smacked herself back into my life, I’m not thinking about the past or the next crisis. Just the deep, bone-warming thrill of being close to her again.
When we haul ourselves out and collapse on the deck, she looks at me, water streaming off her nose. “Thank you for not hating me.”
I shake my head with a rueful smile. “You make it impossible.”
We dick about for a few hours, alternating between swimming and sunbathing. Nothing more is mentioned in regards to the past, and I’m happy with that.
I’m just getting dry again when I hear a door to the main house open. Craning my head, I look straight into Mrs Bishop’s eyes. Her smile widens significantly, and we both know what it means that I’m here.
“Eden, look at you,” she gasps, power-walking her way towards me. I jump to my feet just in time to be caught in a strong hug. My eyes shoot to the side, and I see Sloane smiling at us both.
“Hey,” is my lame arse reply.
“Welcome back,” she says before letting me go and turning to Sloane. “We’re grilling again this evening. You could invite Becca to join us now that Eden’s here.”
I can see Sloane weighing it up. She’s trying to figure out if it’s too much too soon, so I try to take the pressure off.
“That sounds like a great plan. Is it cool if I invite Pia, too?”
Mrs B knows all the players in our weird little gang.
“Oh yes. A dip in the pool might help relieve some strain on the poor girl.”
Sloane furrows her brows. “What’s wrong with Pia?”
“Shit, didn’t Becca tell you? Pia’s about to drop a baby!”
Sloane gasps. “She’s pregnant?”
“Heavily.” I laugh.
“Wow,” is all I get back.
“I’ll text the group, if you’re cool with that, ba…Sloane.”
Shit, I nearly called her babe.
She must have heard the near slip, because there’s a twitch at the edge of her mouth. If she cares she doesn’t show it, so I just power on, rattling off a text to everyone.
Bella will absolutely show up like she’s walking a red carpet, probably in a mesh top, ripped black tights and her usual Doc Marten boots.
Becca will come just to insult Bella’s shoes and try to see how much meat she can steal off the grill before being caught.
I’ve never met anyone who eats like that woman.
Sloane disappears inside with her mum, presumably to start preparing food. I wrap a towel around myself and sit on the warm cement, letting the sun toast my skin. For the first time in ages, my brain isn’t loud. It’s just here, in the moment, and quiet.
The girls start arriving over the next hour, a slow procession of chaos and questionable fashion choices. Bella is, as predicted, dressed for a Berlin nightclub and walks straight past Sloane’s mother with a wink.
“Mrs B,” she says, “I brought the good wine.” She holds up a bottle with a label in French. Neither of us reads French, but it looks expensive, so we pretend.
Becca and Pia show up together. I imagine Becca was summoned by our rather emotional and large friend to pick her up. Pia isn’t doing well with Todd being away so much and has started calling on her friends more often.
Becca has a bag of Doritos for herself and a quart of Ben how she nibbles her lip when concentrating, or how she sighs before laughing.
She’s not the same girl from high school, but she isn’t a stranger either.
At some point, the conversation turns to London.
“You’re going, aren’t you?” Bella says, as if she’s daring me to admit cowardice.
“I think so,” I reply, watching her for signs of mockery. But she just grins, all teeth and approval.
“Good, because I’ve already started planning my outfits,” Bella dictates in complete seriousness.
“You’re going to be a famous artist and forget about us!” Becca declares, her voice only half joking.
“Impossible,” I say.
Becca gives a satisfied shrug and returns to her chips.
Pia looks at me with her usual soft concern. “You know we’re proud, right?” She says it so simply. I nod too fast, swallow around a hot prick of happy tears.
Later, after food and mocktails and some truly tragic pool volleyball, Sloane and I end up sitting with our feet dipped in the pool.
She’s wrapped in a soft hoodie, sipping from a sad, watery soda, and I feel like we’re in one of those “coming home” moments from a movie, only better because it’s real.
She doesn’t say anything for a while, just lets me sit near her, close enough that our knees touch every so often.
“Thanks for today,” she finally says. “I needed it.”
“Me too.” And it feels as true as anything I’ve ever said.
There are things I want to tell her. How I tried to block her number but could never bring myself to do it.
That I still have the stupid art project she made for my birthday, the one with the photo booth strips and the quote about souls.
That I wish I could bottle up afternoons like this and keep them for the shit days.
But I don’t say any of it. Instead, I bump her knee and ask, “Wanna help me pick out which paintings to take to London?”
I already know the paintings I’m going to submit, but I love the idea of Sloane being in my creative space again. I’ll have to hide the dozen or so naked ones of her, though. That would be embarrassing, and she might find it a little creepy.
She smiles at the water, then at me. “I’d like that.”
Maybe we’re not rewriting history. Maybe we’re just giving it a new ending.
That night I return home in the dark, hair still wet, stomach full, heart lighter than it’s been in years. I don’t check my phone for new texts—there’s nothing I need that isn’t already waiting for me, bright and safe, just up the road.