Chapter 21
Eden
Waking up feeling hungover would be fine if I’d actually had something alcoholic to drink last night, but I didn’t. The headache and overall shitty feeling are the result of a really messed-up day.
I’ve never been a person to ask, “Why me?” or “why my family?” but I did a lot of that yesterday afternoon.
My gran is the best person in the world and the last person who deserves cancer.
Then again, no one deserves that shit. I just can’t get my head around it.
She’ll be okay, I know that because Sloane was right.
Gran will beat the shit out of cancer, and we’ll all move on.
But there’s still a way to go before that.
Up until a few weeks ago, my life was pretty mundane. Sure, I had an ache in my chest because the woman I love was gone, but I was living, and my family was happy and healthy.
A ridiculous and pretty arrogant part of me momentarily wonders if my happiness with Sloane is cursed. She came back to me, and I felt—feel—on top of the world. But then this happens. Gran, the woman I’ve admired since I could form thoughts, is sick.
Sloane continues to sleep soundly next to me. She was perfect last night, and I instantly felt better when she turned up at my door.
The alarm on my phone says I’ve slept all of five hours, which is a win considering my mind wouldn’t stop turning last night.
I fell asleep quickly, but woke in the middle of the night, panicking.
The nightmare sucked, and it was only because I could hold on to Sloane, I was able to pass out again.
That happened several times throughout the night, which is why I’m so sleep-deprived.
My face is crusty from dried tears, and I need to pee, but when I move, Sloane doesn’t let go.
She just makes a sleepy, kitten-grade noise and scoots closer.
Eventually, my bladder wins out and I crab walk my way out of the bed.
I’m half-hungover with emotion and I know I look like shit, but at least I managed to strip off yesterday’s clothes before climbing into bed.
Sloane flops onto her back and starts starfishing with zero shame the second I’m out of reach.
I tiptoe out and head straight for the bathroom, barely making it before disaster strikes.
On my way back, I catch sight of myself in the hallway mirror: hair in full witch mode, eyes puffy, shirt stretched and on backwards.
I tiptoe into the living room, not wanting to wake Sloane.
I almost ruin that plan by shrieking wildly when I come face to face with Gran, who is perched on the low couch under Becca’s string of fairy lights, embroidered tote at her feet, mug in hand, looking absolutely at home.
She’s pulled the blinds just enough to let in a wedge of brutal sunlight that hits me right in the face.
“Look at the state of you,” Gran says, setting her mug down and fixing me with a full-throttle grin. “Come here, love. You look like a bin bag with legs.”
Bending at the waist, I suck in some air. My heart is in my arse right now. Jesus, we need to beef up security in this place. Imagine if Gran was an intruder!
“You always say the sweetest things,” I mumble before standing up straight and heading over to the couch.
I plop down next to her, feet tucked under my knees.
The tote has a bunch of smiley faces and anatomical hearts hand-stitched all over it.
I run my finger over one of the wonky hearts and try not to cry for the seventy-fourth time this week.
I notice my spare keys I gave to Mum on the coffee table. At least I know she entered the property without scaling the fire escape or something equally ridiculous.
Gran leans in, smelling faintly of rosewater and menthol, and grabs my hands. Her skin is paper, but her grip could crush rocks. “So,” she says, “how are you holding up since the—what do you call it here—the big reveal?”
I consider bullshitting, but my poker face is broken. “Fine, considering.” It’s the truth. I’ve been better, but at the end of the day, it isn’t about me. Gran’s the one with the big C.
“Don’t you worry, pet. They can call it what they like, but I’m stronger than any label.” She squeezes my hands, and her face says she believes every word.
“I know you are,” I say, voice shaky. “But it’s still—shit, Gran. It’s still cancer.”
Gran shrugs, all shoulders and stubborn. “Losing my boobs, I can deal with. If I lost both arms, you’d never hear the end of it. But this?” She tugs at the collar of her jumper, then waggles her eyebrows at me. “This isn’t something that can bring me down.”
She leans back, stretching her legs, and glances over at my bedroom door, which is cracked open just enough to show the lump of Sloane’s body beneath the duvet. Gran’s eyes go sly.
“There isn’t by any chance a lovely blonde waiting for you in there, is there?” she asks, stage-whispering like I’m five.
My cheeks burn so hard I might combust. “Maybe?”
She cackles. “Don’t look so guilty, Eden. It’s not illegal.”
“It’s…complicated.” I’m twisting my hair into a knot so I have an excuse to look anywhere but at her. “We’re just figuring it out.”
“Good for you. You were always a clever girl, but now you’re letting your heart have a say. Took you long enough.” She pats my thigh and then—because this is Gran—gives it a playful pinch.
We lapse into silence for a minute, just sipping coffee and letting the world be small.
It’s surreal having her here, surrounded by my grown-up life.
For so long, Gran was the entire backbone of our family.
Whenever things went to hell, she’d swoop in with that ancient VW and a tub of Grandad’s home-baked cheese scones and just fix shit.
I never considered she might not be around forever. I never considered she could break.
Finally, she sighs. “I didn’t want to tell you over the phone, you know. Bad news needs to be delivered with a proper cup of tea and a hug. None of this text message business.”
“You could’ve at least given us a heads-up,” I say, soft. “Mum nearly fainted when you just turned up at the door.”
“Your mother’s always been dramatic. Runs in the family, doesn’t it?
” She bumps my shoulder with hers, then grows a little more serious.
“But the real truth is, I missed you. I missed your daft faces and your strange American biscuits. And Meena, of course. I needed to see her before she’s old enough to call me an embarrassing fossil. ”
“She’s already started rolling her eyes at people,” I admit. “Pia says she’s advanced.”
“Impressive considering she’s a newborn.” Gran chuckles.
“Pia’s newborn. I bet she was rolling her eyes in the womb.”
Gran grins, then settles back against the pillows. Her frame looks so small in my city-sized furniture, but her energy fills the room. She looks at me with that laser-eyed focus she’s used to blast through every lie or secret I’ve ever tried to keep.
“I’m not going to lie,” she says, voice gentle. “I’m scared. Of the surgery, of the hospitals, all of it. But I’m even more scared you’ll let this tear you up inside. That’s not what I want, understand?”
I swallow hard. “What if I do anyway?”
“Then you do,” she shrugs, “but you get up in the morning and make a mess of your life anyway. You don’t stop painting or loving or eating ice cream out the tub. You promise me that.”
“Promise,” I say, and I mean it.
She smiles. “Good. Now tell me about Sloane. I don’t believe for one second you’re just ‘figuring things out’, young lady.”
I freeze for half a second, but then I remember how much Gran loved Sloane, even when she’d only heard about her through my endless nattering. “I’ve asked her to go slow. She’s still a big dork,” I add, laughing.
“Perfect match for you, then.” She nods, as if this seals the matter. “I know she hurt you, my darling. But if she’s still the one, don’t let a little fear stop you from giving her your all.”
My heart does that embarrassing gallop thing, but I don’t let on. “She’s staying over until the race this weekend. We’ve got another charity run.”
I don’t know why I’m telling Gran that.
“Are you dressing up?” Gran’s eyes go cartoon-wide. “Your mum’s been sending me photos of all your costumes. Bloody brilliant, love.”
“It’s fun, and we all have a giggle.” I smile, remembering some of the daft shit we’ve dressed up in.
“As it should be! Now, if you’re okay, I’ll head back to your parents. Your grandad will want to take his morning walk soon, and the silly old sod insists I go with him.”
I follow her, ignoring the way my nose stings with the threat of more tears. At the door, she stops and turns, drawing me into a rib-crushing hug. For someone made of sinew and old lady bones, she hugs like a linebacker.
“Look after yourself. And make sure you paint,” she whispers, barely audible.
“I’ll try.”
She kisses my hair and lets me go, then disappears down the hall to the elevator.
It’s only after the click of the door that I realise Sloane’s awake, standing in the kitchen, arms folded and watching me with the softest smile.
“She’s amazing,” Sloane says.
“Yeah,” I agree. “She really is.”
Sloane opens her arms, and I don’t even hesitate. I go straight to her, and she holds me with such confidence, I allow myself one last mini breakdown before sorting myself out.
Back in my room, Sloane places two coffee mugs on the bedside table and ushers me back to bed.
“You need some more sleep,” she says softly. I can’t argue because it’s true. Also, she’s just lowered my head to her chest and let’s be honest, I’m not moving away from her boobs.