19. Eden
NINETEEN
EDEN
I’m awoken by a warm palm slipping over my thigh, fingers curling inward and gripping me possessively, his sultry voice in my ear as his lips brush against my skin. I shiver at the intimate touch, and as I fully wake, the screeching of brakes disrupts the peaceful slumber I just found myself in.
“It’s your stop, Eden.”
Swallowing back my drool, I lift my heavy head from none other than Teddy’s shoulder, a wet spot left behind on his soft, dark gray hoodie. Immediately, my cheeks flame, and my eyes zero in on his hand that’s still gripping my thigh. Through his pale skin, tendons and veins snake along the back and wind their way to his wrist before disappearing up his sleeve. I wonder his thoughts on tattoos, because he’d be even more beautiful inked and covered in the darkness that he seems at one with.
Wiping my lips free of drool with the back of my hand—my heart still hammering—I move to stand, but he keeps his hand on my thigh. When my eyes clash with his, they’re positively murderous. “I’m walking you inside tonight. Don’t argue with me.”
In that instant, I become a frightened little girl again, needing her dad to chase away the monsters under her bed. I’ve been alone in that double-wide for a year, and sure, some nights I get scared, but I’m an adult now. Except for when Teddy looks at me like this, demanding my obedience. My body gives it to him before my mind can keep up, and I nod dumbly. He doesn’t smile, or acknowledge my lack of fight, but instead stands and extends his hand to mine. Again, without a thought in my brain, I slip my hand into his, and he laces his fingers through mine, warmth seeping from him to me.
We exit the bus, my mind still in a fog from being so soundly asleep and awoken in such an… erotic sort of way. We walk slowly and in silence down the street, turning sharply onto the abandoned dirt road that leads to my home. Teddy seems to know the path even in the darkness, and I realize he’s probably followed me a few times. Why that makes my underwear unbearably wet, I’m not sure, but it does, and I begin to tremble. I lie to myself and peg it on the chilly, damp air.
No lights guide our way, this part of Seattle beyond run-down. Empty homes weep at us as we walk by, their inhabitants the ghosts I’m fond of or addicts passed out for the night. The silence between us grows thick, as though he wants to say a lot but is instead biting his tongue. It makes me nervous for a few different reasons, especially after that meeting in the office.
The white picket fence surrounding our quaint home comes into view amidst sweeping pine boughs, the grass within wildly overgrown. I never learned how to use the lawnmower before my dad got sick, and I’ve done my best to keep this place up all on my own, but it’s exhausting when there’s so many other things I have to do.
We pause outside the gate, and I glance up at the side of his face, chewing my lip. His eyes narrow on the house, but he’s not scrutinizing the broken screen door, or the siding that needs a powerwash. His eyes are on the front window, and he’s as rigid as a German shepherd poised to lunge. Something flickers in his gaze, his eyes widening slightly, and he pushes me behind him. In the next breath, the glint of a long, deadly knife strikes my eyes, and my breath catches in my throat.
“Keep your eyes down and only walk where I walk,” he whispers, and raw fear courses through me.
“Wh-what?” I breathe, glancing around his tall frame, but he shoves me gently behind him, stern and forceful but still soft enough not to hurt or scare me.
“Eden,” he warns, voice taking on an authoritative edge. That’s all it takes, that tone, so deep from within his chest. Hearing my name spoken in such a manner has my spine stiffening. “Grab my sweatshirt and keep your eyes down.”
My trembling hands obey, fingers curling into the fabric as I breathe in his scent. He takes a step forward, and I can barely see our feet through the darkness, clouds scuttling in front of the moon and blotting out our only source of light. He takes another step, each one so carefully measured that he makes no sound. Is he even breathing ?
The silence he is capable of is unnerving. Before I know it, we’re on the small stoop, and the asshole is slipping my key from its hidden spot beneath the fourth piece of siding to the right of the door. Despite the fact there may be some murderous lunatic in my house, I pinch the skin of his back through his hoodie, a reprimand for him clearly stalking me and knowing how to enter my home. I suppose I am partially to blame for not being more alert about my surroundings and discreet about where I keep my key, but still.
He makes no show of pain, and the door swings open slowly, the blackness of night pouring out and spilling onto our feet. I do listen and keep my eyes down, now, because I may not be afraid of the ghosts who haunt my home, but I have always been afraid of people.
When he takes a step forward this time, I hesitate to follow, the dark gray fabric stretching out between us. But then the thought of being left out here alone forces me to follow, for I’d much rather be safe next to Teddy than a sitting duck, and then it sinks in; he’s having me follow him for a reason.
In every horror movie, the boyfriend tells the girlfriend to stay put and he will go be chivalrous and take out the bad guy. And nine times out of ten, the monster is already there, ready to strike once she’s alone. Teddy forcing me to come with him, to keep my eyes down…he trusts himself against whatever could be in here, trusts that in a fight, he will win, so he’d never risk me by leaving me outside.
Teddy is prepared to kill to ensure that, and then his prowess with knives sinks in. I mull over these thoughts as a distraction from my fear. I can acknowledge that I am afraid right now, but that I’m also sort of just…numb. Because the most frightening person in here is the one wielding a knife, the one who went to an abandoned asylum alone and said he loved it.
I’m beginning to hate how perfect he feels to me, as though I am a puzzle missing an integral piece, and he is it. As my heart begins to race for new reasons, we clear each room of the house until we eventually stand in my small kitchen. He flicks on the light above the sink and slides his knife onto the counter, the sound grating after so much quiet.
I release him, stepping back and blinking away the harsh light. When he comes into view, his jaw is still set, but his eyes are…haunted.
“I saw someone through the window,” he all but whispers, holding my gaze so tightly it feels like a rope anchoring a ship in a storm. Dread fills me, and then awe, because if he can see things, too, then he really is perfect for me.
“No one’s here,” I hedge. “I live alone.”
“I know.”
My brows drop over my eyes in a deep glare, and I cross my arms.
“ How do you know that?”
He waves his hand dismissively in my face before pulling at the ends of his hair. “Not important right now. I saw someone, Eden. A figure. In your house.”
I chew my lip, feeling as though he’s accusing me of something. I’m not sure what, though.
“Maybe you’re seeing things? We’re tired?—”
His eyes slit in my direction, awfully accusatory, and I hug myself tighter.
“Why would you suggest that?”
Shit .
“Umm…because we’re tired, and it’s been proven that people see things when they’re tired?—”
He snaps his fingers at me, his teal eyes burning. It’s like I can see the synapses firing in his brain. It makes my head hurt, but it’s also fascinating, watching him figure things out, skipping the thousands of other steps normal people have to take to finally make it to the right conclusion. He is a genius, and that is terrifying.
“But, see, I wasn’t tired at the asylum and I still saw him .”
“Him?” I parrot, now utterly lost. Maybe he hadn’t figured me out…
“The ghost, Eden,” he says flatly, his unwavering stare pinning me to this spot, as though my feet are encased in blocks of concrete. My eyes begin to water, my heart thumping a little harder the longer we stare one another down.
“There’s no such thing as ghosts,” I say, jutting my chin up, feeling insolent. The way his grin flashes immediately, his eyes taunting me, makes me petrified. All of my bravado slips to the floor, along with my erratically pounding heart.
“Filthy little liar,” he hisses, towering above me, his presence suddenly as consuming as night itself. I take a step back, fear coursing through me. He follows, his step heavy and meant to be heard this time. “Why do you like it there, Eden?”
I shake my head, about to part my lips and spill a lie, but he shakes his head, and takes another step forward. Backing away, I hit the cupboards behind me, trapped.
“I just do.”
“That’s not normal,” he says, cocking his head at me in his scrutiny. He’s playing with me, because he already knows these answers. He just wants to make me admit it, wants to wield his power over me to force my darkest secrets from my lips. The genius in me admires him for it, but I won’t make it easy for him.
“Normal is subjective.”
“Stop denying it.”
“Denying what?—”
“That you can see them. The dead.”
Ice becomes my veins. He’s sadistic, the way he enjoys jerking my emotions around like this. Like a cat bouncing a befuddled little mouse between his paws.
“Teddy–”
“I saw him ,” he says again, eyes ignited. “And then he disappeared. Poof . Gone.”
“ Who ?” I yell, dropping my fists to my sides in anger. Lips twisting, he reaches behind my right shoulder, plucking a magnet from the fridge. Shoving it into my line of sight, the faces in the photo register. Me, grinning outside the courthouse the day I was given to my father. And my dad, hugging me back, proudly beaming.
“And I just saw him, here, now.”
My fingers are numb with cold, but I reach up, clutching the popsicle stick frame, taking it from his hand. Rubbing my thumb over my father’s face, tears well in my eyes. How in the fuck can Teddy see someone who hasn’t died yet, but someone who is close to death?
“Eden?”
My eyes bounce to his, and I smile softly, so confused, yet so amazed at the same time.
“He’s my dad. But he’s not dead.”