Chapter 5Eden
5
Eden
E den was standing on stage, bathed in the spotlight's warm glow, about to graciously accept her Grammy for the year's best album. The applause and cheers of the crowd swelled around her, and her heart soared. But just as she was about to say her heartfelt thanks, a shrill, persistent noise intruded on her glorious dream. She groaned softly, her eyes fluttering open in drowsy confusion. Who, in the name of all things sacred, would be ringing her gate bell at such an ungodly hour? Her gaze meandered to the digital clock on her bedside table, and she winced at the bright red numerals that displayed the time – 9 AM. It was way too early.
As Eden's eyes slowly drifted close, her body jerked awake as she remembered the filming crew coming over to start the documentary. She rolled out of bed exceptionally ungracefully, somehow getting tangled in the top sheet of her white linen sheets. She ended up barrel-rolling three times until she thudded to the floor in a tight cocoon of sheets. She wrestled her arms and legs out of her self-inflicted burrito wrap and sprinted to the button of her intercom system attached to a speaker at the entrance of her gated driveway.
"Come on in!" She spoke through the speaker and pressed the button that unlocked the gates. She ran to the bathroom and brushed her teeth at lightning speed. Once she heard a knock, she ran to the front door and pulled the heavy wood door with a velocity that swept her hair back.
She initially met eyes with Ronan, their gazes unexpectedly locked together, which he promptly broke as his eyes tracked down her body. She glanced down at her attire, a thin cropped tank top paired with boy-short underwear that left little to the imagination. The fabric was so delicate that it did little to conceal her curves. Her nipples, responding to the morning chill, were undeniably making their presence known through the sheer material.
"Uh, is now a bad time?" Ronan asked. His cheeks hinted at the loveliest shade of pink as he averted his eyes. She had bared much more in front of countless eyes before; after all, she'd practically been naked on the cover of Rolling Stone a few months back.
But there was something about the way he looked at her that made her feel unexpectedly vulnerable. His gaze, deliberate yet unsteady, would occasionally dart to her chest despite his obvious effort not to. It was strangely thrilling, the way he seemed to struggle against himself and fail, like she was some magnetic force he couldn’t resist. A shiver rolled up her spine, her pulse quickening with the odd rush of heat coursing through her veins. What was it about his gaze that made her feel so alive, like her skin was humming? It didn’t make sense. The only logical explanation she could muster was that she must’ve rattled her brain a little too hard during her overzealous headbanging—or maybe it was from the crowd surfing last night.
"Oh, I am so sorry! I was in a rush and didn't realize. Come in! I'll put on some clothes." She turned towards her closet but couldn't resist letting her hips sway a little more than necessary. She padded into her walk-in closet and grabbed some light-wash vintage jeans and an oversized band tee.
"Wow, this place is gorgeous." Ronan's muffled voice echoed in what sounded like the living room. Her Malibu house was situated on the beach with sweeping views of the Pacific Ocean, and it had been her first investment when her music career took off. She fell in love with the charming bungalow at first sight. As soon as she stepped foot on the back deck, she knew it would be her first home. It had a panoramic view that stretched as far as the eye could see, long miles of beautiful blue ocean.
After twenty-three years of living in the chaos of New York City, she had grown used to the constant blare of car horns and wail of police sirens. The rhythmic crash of ocean waves, soft and melodic, was a stark and soothing contrast. That was what she loved about it; it was the antithesis of her New York City life. It was a fresh start, a place not tainted by the misfortune of her previous life.
But once she moved to Los Angeles, she quickly discovered that she couldn't escape her problems. It turns out, you carry yourself wherever you go. Relocating from the epicenter didn't solve her issues. She had to do that herself with the help of her highly tolerant therapist.
She returned to the living room and saw several people setting up various cameras and lighting. They must have followed Ronan in from the driveway. She watched as Ronan stood in front of her collection of vinyl records, his tall frame towering over the shelves. His broad shoulders sloped slightly forward as he perused the albums, bringing his head closer to the spines. With a fingertip, he delicately traced the row of records. Eden watched in fascination, her gaze following the graceful line of his powerful bicep. He had a muscular build, yet there was a lithe quality to him. A few veins on his forearm subtly bulged as he ran his finger along the row of albums. Eden had never imagined she could find a forearm attractive, but there she was, inexplicably wondering how those puppies would feel under her fingertips. His hand stilled, almost as if her silent fascination had commanded him to pause.
"You were amazing last night," Ronan spoke softly with his back to her, as if he knew she was here. Then he turned around, fixing his eyes on Eden.
"I don't think I've ever witnessed someone command a room like you. You could've sung the ABCs, and every single person in that place would've been enamored," he continued, his gaze locked onto hers, holding a sincerity that was hard to miss. "Myself included."
She felt heat spread throughout her chest and into the roots of her hair, and she knew she was blushing. She didn't think she'd blushed like that since middle school. Her traitorous blood vessels were dilating in her cheeks at his comment. She had received compliments from attractive men before, but they had never made her feel bashful like a schoolgirl. Why was her body reacting like this? She was a red-blooded, freshly-turned-twenty-six-year-old woman, not a giggling tween.
"If that's the case, maybe I'll start a cult. Any interest in joining? All that is required is your undying loyalty to me and a valid social security number." Eden smiled, pleased with herself.
"I don't need much convincing. Just show me where to sign." Ronan raised his eyebrows as a warm smile unfurled across his face. It was impossible for her not to be captivated by the way his smile seemed to illuminate his face, like the sun emerging from behind retreating storm clouds. Or by the light that now danced in his eyes, like the burdens that had once clouded his mind were dissipated.
"Eden! Let's get you into hair and makeup!" a technician announced behind them. A woman in a headset whisked her away, placed her into a chair. A team of four people applied her makeup and fixed her hair. Her phone vibrated with a new text message, which Eden promptly pulled out while being attended to.
INGRID: How is working with that hottie Journalist? There is nothing I love more than a reserved intellectual! Finn told me how swoon-worthy he is.
EDEN: Your previous taste in men says otherwise. You usually go for loud, obnoxious drummers.
INGRID: That is ancient history, like the History Channel already ran a docuseries about that... that is how ANCIENT that is.
EDEN: If you say so…
INGRID: Enough about me!! Tell me about that hot man... What is his deal? Is he single? I have a lot of questions...
EDEN: I will tell you everything. Are you still staying over tomorrow night?
INGRID: Without a doubt, Finn's place is like Studio 54 in its heyday. Models sprawled on his couch 24/7, and a random guy who refuses to take off a horse mask just loitering in his living room. It's a fever dream.
EDEN: I don't know why you didn't just stay with me from the get-go..
INGRID: Four years of guilt. Finn played the neglected child card and claimed I abandoned him without a trace.
EDEN: No comment.
EDEN: Tomorrow night. Before you go back to NY for the winter season, you can ask Ronan whatever burning questions you have.
INGRID: Okay love bug xx
Eden's mind wandered back to the intense relationship between Ingrid and Beck during their Juilliard days. Their connection had been magnetic, drawing them together with an irresistible force. They were passionate, their love as fierce as their arguments. Ingrid had met Beck at a Battle of the Bands show during their junior year at Juilliard. They had an instant connection, and the rest was history. Eden had never seen Ingrid so deeply in love or enamored with any other relationship since.
They went through a whirlwind romance that lasted for a few months. Eventually, they fizzled out after a massive fight that marked the end of their relationship, leading Ingrid to ghost everyone except Eden.
Beck had joined her band two years ago, along with Finn and Reef, after her original band fell apart. Eden had made sure to ask Ingrid’s blessing before approaching Beck about joining. She knew the unresolved history between Ingrid and Beck was a delicate subject and didn’t want her decision to jeopardize their friendship.
Ingrid, despite her mixed feelings, gave her blessing. She couldn’t deny Beck’s extraordinary drumming talent or ignore the tough spot Eden was in after her previous band’s sudden breakup.
Despite Ingrid's understanding, Eden recognized that it wasn't easy for Ingrid to face Beck again, especially since Ingrid had purposely avoided any encounters with him since their breakup four years ago. They hadn't seen each other since. Whenever Ingrid attended Eden's shows over the last two years, she didn't step foot in the green room before or after the shows, determined not to run into Beck. Eden knew Ingrid still harbored feelings for him, that she was stuck in the past like no time had passed. Without closure, Eden knew moving past those feelings was impossible for Ingrid.
Someone rolled out a clothes rack with various outfits to choose from. Eden's eyes flitted across the length of the rack; there were seemingly endless options, from frilly dresses to business casual chic. The production team settled on a white silk collar shirt with tight, cropped black dress pants. The more makeup and hairspray they applied, the less she felt like herself. She looked at her face in the mirror. She looked poreless, her eyes lined with fake eyelashes, and her hair meticulously curled.
The production team had set up an interview chair by the large window in her living room. As she sat in the chair and felt the harsh white ring light blare onto her face, she started to feel disconnected from reality. She watched as a camera tech fiddled with a complicated-looking camera, and then she spotted a lanky intern handing out coffees to various staff members. She was then watching herself outside her body; she felt someone blotting her forehead with powder, and then another hand adjusted any loose curls to the perfect position over her shoulder. There, directly in front of her, were those unmistakable green eyes, their intensity pulling her back into the moment.
"Hey, are you okay?" Ronan inquired, concern etched across his features. He leaned forward, his brows furrowing in worry. She attempted to swallow to wet her dry throat as she stood up woodenly and walked over to the French doors overlooking the ocean. Ronan followed her, and he stood so close that she felt the warmth radiating off him. In that moment, she longed to bask in that warmth, to shield herself from the outside world, even if just for a brief second.
"This isn't working for me. We're trying to create something authentic, and all this fanfare... it feels hypocritical," she whispered, her right hand gently rubbing her chest. He nodded briefly and said, "Hey, everyone, please clear out! Take the day off." Without hesitation, they began packing their equipment, their footsteps fading as they shuffled outside. She felt a weight immediately lift off her shoulder and breathed deeply, relief washing over her.
"I am really sorry. I just think a formal interview style isn't what I imagined for this project. It will be too stiff, and I honestly don't think I could open up with so many people in the room." Eden said as she looked out the window, watching the ocean waves crash to the shore. She looked at Ronan's reflection on the glass of the sliding door, his eyebrows still furrowed with concern as his eyes studied the profile of her face.
"I get it. Do you want me to leave too?" Ronan asked quietly. Eden considered it for a moment, her mind weighing the options. No, she didn't want him to leave. She felt oddly comfortable with him. Eden noticed the subtle tightness in his jaw and the tension in his shoulders—signs that he was struggling with something inside. She could tell because she’d been there herself. Like seeks like. Maybe they could help each other navigate their inner demons. She had learned that those demons might never fully go away, but keeping them at arm's length, not letting them scream in your face, was a win in itself.
"No, I don't," Eden replied, her gaze shifting from the window to his face as she carefully studied him. "You probably know I've never done an interview before," she continued, to which Ronan nodded. "Let's just say I'm an extremely private person even though my face is splashed across the tabloids. Opening up doesn't come naturally to me."
"We can take it slow." His voice took on a soothing quality as if he were trying to calm a skittish horse.
"Okay, Murphy. Get your camera," she said with a wry smile as she assessed him. Ronan raised an eyebrow in response.