23. Eden
TWENTY-THREE
EDEN
Teddy stands between my dangling legs as I sit upon his bathroom counter. An array of makeup litters the clear spot on the other side of the sink, palettes of eyeshadow, all manner of tubes and sticks and brushes—all of which I never learned to use. Painted faces were for whores, my mother used to say. But she was so ugly, not even the most expensive shit would ever make her look better.
He pinches my hoodie, tugging it away from my body, and I glance down at it.
“What?”
“Do you have something easier to take off?”
My cheeks flame, and a strike of fear jolts my veins. He…wants to do this… now ? He grins and chuckles. “No, goofball. Not like that. I just meant something that won’t mess up my masterpiece when I’m done.”
Even more confused, my brows pull together. “You…you’re doing my makeup?”
He smirks. “What? Don’t trust me?”
“No…just…surprised, I guess,” I mutter, slipping my arms through the sleeves.
“I helped make your dress, too, if you were wondering.”
I tug the hood over my head and peel my sweatshirt off, shivering on his counter in a plain black tank top. His eyes dance, but they never leave mine. Nervous, I fill the heavy silence. “Seems there’s a lot to learn about you.”
“Same goes to you,” he says with a raise of his brows, reaching over to sort through the different brushes, fingers deftly plucking skin-tinted moisturizer and a sponge from the surface.
“I…I was thinking…since tonight is going to be pretty, umm, intimate…maybe we should ask each other questions,” I suggest. I feel like we are doing this all backwards, having sex before we even know what the other person’s favorite color is. I’m hoping this helps stem some of my nerves regarding tonight.
Maybe it will make him seem less godlike, and more human, and therefore less intimidating.
He smiles gently. “Deal. I’ll even let you go first.”
“Favorite color?”
He rolls his eyes with a chuckle, but brushes the tendrils of loose hair off my cheek with the back of his knuckles. My eyes flutter, heart racing in ecstasy, and I have to force myself to focus on his answer. “Black, obviously. You?”
“Blue.”
He nods, blotting my cheek with the damp sponge. “Favorite flavor of ice cream?”
I smile, slowly kicking my feet to the beat of the metal music playing in the background. “Birthday cake. You?”
His smile is permanent, his eyes focused on his task, his breath minty as it fans across my face. “Coconut.”
“Weirdo,” I giggle. He laughs, pulling the sponge away.
“What? How the fuck is that weird?”
“Who picks coconut? It’s so…obscure.”
He brushes the hair from my other cheek. “Eden, it’s ice cream. Stop psychoanalyzing me.”
“Fine,” I mutter. “Hmm…what books are on your desk right now?”
He pulls away slightly, dimples appearing near his laugh lines. “ The Art of War, Dracula, Looking for Alaska , A Midsummer Night’s Dream , and The Turn of the Screw . I only allow my favorites to be on the desk. You?”
My smile fades.
“You…you read that book? Alaska?”
“That’s two in a row, but yes, I did. I see why it’s one of your favorites.”
My heart aches in happiness, something I didn’t know was possible. “It’s my favorite , favorite.”
There’s a heavy pause before he answers, our eyes locked on one another so tightly it feels as though if that invisible string were to snap, the world would end.
“How do you think we’ll escape the labyrinth?” he asks softly. Sadness and deep melancholy transpires between us. He means the circus in our situation. I wish I had a better answer for him.
“I don’t know,” I say just as quietly.
“Do you trust me?”
His second question catches me off guard, but I nod silently.
“Will you tell me why you want this? Why you asked this of me?”
Ice pushes out all the lava that had just been flowing through my veins, and I shake my head, mouth opening and closing as I search for the answer. He deserves the truth, because it feels wrong to do this without telling him why. But if I tell him before, will he still go through with it?
I can’t afford for him not to at this point. Dick scheduled my meeting with the man this upcoming Tuesday night. If I want any control over this situation, then tonight has to work.
“After,” I whisper. “And that’s four.”
He cocks his brow and smirks, dismissing my rejection with ease and brevity, something I am thankful for.
“God, I guess I’ll brace myself,” he teases.
For the remainder of the process, I keep my line of questioning lighthearted, and he does the same. The amount of rich laughter that bounces between us makes my chest ache with how full my heart is. We have more in common than it seems either of us thought, and each time we answer a question the same, our laughter doubles.
“This is seriously you and Cash?” I ask, pointing in the direction I hear the music emanating.
“Yes. Why is that so surprising?”
“It’s more…I don’t know. Annoying,” I mutter, trying not to move my face too much.
“How?” he asks, aghast.
“Because you’re good at everything. You guys should seriously start a band,” I say, being sincere. It shouldn't surprise me that his singing voice is even more devastating than his speaking voice. He dabs at my bottom lip with the pad of his thumb, stealing my breath with the intimate gesture. Our eyes lock again, but before I can get sucked into the black hole that is his gaze, he grins.
“Mom’s coming.”
On cue, Tara knocks on the door frame to the bathroom, a garment bag draped over one arm, a bright and kind smile on her lips. Her eyes widen when she takes me in. I haven’t been allowed one glance in the mirror since he started, so I have no clue if he painted me to look like a damn clown or not.
“Oh, beautiful , Eden! Just like the photo of that dancer Teddy showed me!”
Brows furrowing, I glare at Teddy, who just smirks satisfactorily, smug with his work apparently.
“What did you do? What dancer?” I hiss.
“It will make more sense after you put this on.” He reaches for the garment bag, but his mom pulls away slightly, a reprimand in her matching eyes.
“Nah ah. Out.”
He smirks like the Devil himself.
“Mom,” he says, gripping both her shoulders and giving her a gentle shake for emphasis. “I’m going to see Eden buck ass naked in like, eight hours, tops. There’s no need for arbitrary discretion anymore.”
“Oh my god, Teddy!” I squeak at the same moment his mom swats him.
“Theodore Alexander Poe, I did not raise you like that!”
His laughter follows him out of the bathroom, and his mother and I stare at one another with red cheeks and wide eyes.
“That boy,” she mutters, hanging the bag on the back of the door and unzipping it to distract herself. Clasping my clammy hands together, I remain on the counter, unsure of what to do. The dresses I was raised in felt like wearing a burlap sack. I highly doubt whatever Teddy helped make for me is anything close to that.
Through the slit in the bag, black and crimson appear, tulle and silks and ribbons all unfurling out of the cover like a gothic waterfall. My breath stops in my throat as she fully releases it and steps to the side, revealing what must have taken hours— days —to complete. I only asked this of Teddy a week or so ago. He must’ve started on this that very night, meaning he knew precisely what I would want, what I would feel comfortable in.
Maybe he has seen me all these years. Maybe he was just stuck in his own hell.
“It’s…beautiful,” I whisper. She bites her bottom lip to hide her grin, though it is as wide as Teddy’s, the two so much alike that I find it comforting.
“Hop down, let’s make sure it fits,” she says excitedly. For some reason, undressing in the same room as her isn’t as awkward as I thought it would be, and I need her help zipping it, anyways.
I never had a mom who would be so kind to me, one who would teach me how to be feminine, one who would chastise me gently instead of beating me with a broom handle before locking me in the hall closet.
Once the dress is settled on my frame, she backs away and stares at her finished work, eyes overflowing with pride. Holding my arms out, I peek at her from under my new, long lashes.
“So perfect. Teddy knows you well, dear, look, look,” she encourages, hands gently grasping my shoulders to spin me to the mirror on the back of the door.
And the moment my brain registers that the gothic, punk princess in the mirror is me , I begin to cry.