6. Sloane
Sloane
Eden leaves with Meena to meet Todd at a neutral, kid-friendly location.
I’m glad it’s Eden going and not me. The whole thing makes my anxiety spike.
I don’t know how I’d react to Todd’s broken spirit.
No matter what Pia thinks of him, he loves her and the kids, and I know he’ll be struggling with this.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m Team Pia, but I hate seeing anyone struggle.
I know what it’s like to feel as if you’re drowning on dry land.
Pia takes Arin to see Eden’s parents, who apparently have developed an unhealthy obsession with the little guy’s dimples and cannot go forty-eight hours without a fix.
Plus, Pia needs all the parental support she can get right now.
She and Liz became almost inseparable when she was pregnant with Meena, and it’s never really changed.
The house is empty and oddly quiet. I’ve already gotten used to the noise of three extra people.
It’s unnerving. I have no obligations until tomorrow, when I have to tell Kiera that her star basketball player is one injury away from flaming out of the sport entirely if he keeps ignoring my advice.
Theoretically, I could catch up on some well-needed sleep, or maybe binge some reality TV, or just lay in bed and replay the evening’s conversation until I’ve fully internalized that, yes, Eden and I are still okay.
But all I want to do is run.
I grab my gear, black-on-black spandex with a neon stripe so drivers can’t ignore me even if they try.
The sports bra is new, a splurge justified by self-care in the form of wanting to avoid black eyes, and the shoes are already laced from my last run.
I leave a note in the kitchen letting Eden know I’m running.
She’ll understand it’s my processing time, and I’m sure she’ll be doing the same thing, just with a ten-year-old and a heartbroken Todd.
Huh, not ideal. I’ll encourage her to paint when she gets home, if she hasn’t already taken herself to her art studio.
The air outside is sharp but not ice shards in the back of your throat. I do a few pointless stretches and then set off, immediately finding the right pace. Not too slow, not a full sprint. Enough to let my thoughts catch up with my legs.
I replay the baby conversation in my head, over and over, as if it’s a new favorite podcast episode.
Each time, I try to find the part where Eden’s mask slips, the line where she goes from supportive to “oh god, I made a mistake marrying this lunatic.” But it’s not there.
She didn’t hesitate…kind of. There was a moment I thought her brain might have rebooted, but she got through it like a champ.
She wanted to talk about it. She wanted to know what I was thinking, and when she asked, it wasn’t a trap. It was genuine.
At the third mile marker, I let myself fantasize.
The thought is so alien I almost trip on a chunk of sidewalk. I, Sloane Bishop, am allowing myself to imagine a future with a baby. Not an abstract “maybe,” but an actual, physical child. Our child.
In this fantasy, it’s not a disaster. The kid isn’t colicky or allergic to oxygen.
It has Eden’s grin and my feet. It’s wearing a onesie with a cartoon skeleton on it, which is probably not age appropriate because Bella bought it, but looks amazing.
We take it to the park, and Eden sketches caricatures of other parents while I show off my superior playground push technique.
The best part? We don’t stop being ourselves. Eden still drinks too much coffee and uses far too much sarcasm in conversations. I still run every day and have a successful business. We are not replaced by New Parent Aliens, we just become a little more.
There is, of course, a logistical issue.
Someone will need to carry this baby, and I know it should be me.
Apart from the fact that I already know Eden would screw her face up at the mere thought of her being pregnant, Eden is tall, but she’s built like a stick insect.
Her skeleton is probably made of graphite and watercolor paint.
I, on the other hand, am a finely tuned athletic machine with enough muscle and bone density to survive the zombie apocalypse.
If anyone’s uterus is up for the challenge, it’s mine.
I like the thought of Eden fussing over me for nine months.
I like the idea of surprising everyone with our new, adorable, genetically superior offspring.
I like the idea that I, a person who used to need a paper bag just to survive the cheese aisle at Whole Foods, am now considering incubating a human for almost a year. That’s growth.
I reach the turnoff for the vista. It’s a little out of the way, but my legs are in charge now, and they want the view.
The path is muddy but not treacherous. The trees are still bare except for the handful of stubborn leaves left over from last fall.
The wind up here is colder, and my sweat chills instantly.
I stand on the overlook, watching the mountains stretch out.
I pull out my phone, scroll through the notifications. Nothing urgent. Just a text.
Eden
Meena’s a champ. No tears. Hope you’re running all your demons out. X
I smile, thumbs freezing in the wind as I reply.
You
I’m basically a new person now. May even pick up knitting.
She sends back a GIF of a dog chasing its own tail. I love her.
The next leg is mostly downhill, which means I can let go and just coast, not think about footfall or breathing. My mind does that thing where it goes blank, and I realize that for the first time in months, I’m not anxious about anything. It’s terrifying and exhilarating.
My parents’ house is at the bottom of the hill, looking as regal as ever.
I let myself in the back door, breathing hard and hoping I’m met with a large glass of something cold.
The inside is warm, full of bread smells and the low murmur of the evening news.
Mom is at the kitchen island, meticulously slicing something that looks like a cross between a tomato and a cantaloupe.
She looks up, grins. “Hey, baby, this is a nice surprise!”
“I missed you,” I pant, still catching my breath.
She eyes me, clocking the sweat and the undertone of anxiety I’ve been carrying. “Let me guess. You’ve either won the lottery, or Eden’s left you for a cult leader.”
I laugh. “Neither, actually.”
Mom slides me a glass of water and perches on a stool. “Then what brings you to my lair so late?”
“I want a baby,” I blurt, and immediately regret the lack of buildup.
Her eyebrows do a thing. “Wow,” she says, rightfully taken aback, “I didn’t see that coming.”
“Me either,” I admit. “I mean, I did. I’ve been thinking about it. But I thought if I said it out loud, I’d implode or something.”
She nods, like she’s mentally recalibrating her entire worldview. “And Eden?”
“She doesn’t hate the idea. I mean, she’s not one hundred percent on board, but she’s not…horrified?”
“That’s progress,” Mom laughs.
“It is, isn’t it?”
She nods. “People change. So what’s the plan?”
I shake my head. “I have no plan. I just…needed to say it to someone who isn’t my wife or my insane best friends. I’m not looking for approval, I just—” I break off, not sure how to finish.
“Want to make sure it’s not a psychotic break?” She offers with a grin.
“Yeah. That.”
It sounds as if we’re joking, and for the most part we are.
However, I know better than to dismiss my mental health.
I’ve managed my anxiety well over the past decade, never getting to the low point I did in college.
That doesn’t mean it’s been easy. Any major changes or decisions get analyzed to make sure they aren’t a byproduct of something sinister running around my brain.
Mom pours herself tea and adds a criminal amount of honey.
“You’re not crazy. Eden would make a fantastic mom.
You both would. Plus, it’s okay to want something different from when you were in your twenties.
People evolve, sweetie. But before anything gets decided, I think it would be a good idea to talk to Dr. Chen. ”
“I will,” I promise, meaning it. Now that Eden has left the door open for further discussion, I will make sure I’m in a good place to receive whatever she has to say.
We sit in the kitchen for a while, talking about nothing important.
I stay for a late supper. Mom makes spaghetti and garlic bread, and we watch an episode of “Nailed It!” while she critiques the contestants’ technique with the kind of venom usually reserved for politicians and telemarketers.
I never realized she had such strong feelings on the matter of buttercream frosting. I leave feeling so much lighter.
On the jog home, I email Dr. Chen. By the time I make it back to my front door, I have a reply and an appointment in three days.
I’m smiling when I step inside, the good kind of tired humming in my muscles. Eden is on the couch, sketchbook in her lap, feet up on the coffee table. She looks up and gives that smile that makes my heart melt and my panties feel tight.
“Have a good run?”
“The best.”
I sink down next to her, letting my head rest on her shoulder. She smells like pencil shavings and citrus shampoo.
“Are you okay?” I ask. After all, I’m not the one who is surprised by all this.
Eden puts her sketchpad down and pulls me into her arms. “I’m processing.”
“Okay,” I say quietly. I desperately want to know what that means, and where her heart lies in the matter, but I can’t be selfish. She deserves as much time as she needs to come to a decision that is right for her.
We sit like that for a long time. Not talking, just thinking our own thoughts.
Just the soft tick of the wall clock, the faint hum of the fridge, and our bodies pressed together on a sofa that is already sagging in the middle from years of us sharing it.
She doesn’t let go, not even when my leg goes numb underneath her.
I’m grateful for it. Sometimes, I still need to know she’s not letting me go anywhere.
Eventually, Eden’s breathing gets slow and heavy, and I realize she’s fallen asleep on my shoulder.
There’s a smear of graphite on her cheek, and I wipe it away with my thumb.
I remember the first time I saw her sleep in this house—curled up in a too-small chair in the art studio, hair falling over her eyes, hands stained a multi-colored riot.
I’ve tried, over the past decade, to never take her for granted.
Not her time, not her touch, not her willingness to let me be afraid and still love me anyway.
I slide my phone out and snap a picture of her, cheek smooshed against my shoulder, mouth open just a little. I know she’ll be mad later, but I also know she’ll secretly love it and will probably set it as my phone wallpaper. I set the phone down and just…exist.
When she stirs, I’m half asleep myself. She mumbles something and nuzzles deeper into my hoodie. “Sorry,” she yawns, voice thick with sleep, “didn’t mean to pass out.”
“You didn’t. I just have a very boring shoulder.”
She snickers and sits up, stretching her arms over her head until her joints crack. “Did you eat?”
“Had spaghetti at Mom’s. Watched ‘Nailed It!’ and judged strangers who can’t bake cake.”
“That’s your kink, isn’t it?”
“Right next to watching you sleep.”
Eden gives me a sideways look. “Creepy.”
“Romantic,” I reply, grinning.
She stands and holds out a hand. “Come on. I want to show you something.”
I let her lead me up the stairs, past the guest rooms where Pia, Arin, and Meena are presumably passed out, through the hallway lined with our oddly mixed styles of interior design, and into her studio.
The place is a beautiful mess: canvases stacked three deep, paint tubes in various states of explosion, a coffee mug that’s more rinse water than caffeine.
She stops in front of her worktable, where a fresh canvas is propped on an easel. I expect the usual chaos of color, maybe a skeleton or two, but this one is different. It’s just a sketch, black lines on white, but I know what I’m looking at instantly.
It’s two hands, holding each other. One is unmistakably mine—short fingernails, the little scar from when I fell off my bike in sixth grade.
The other is hers, long and elegant, a silver ring on the middle finger.
But what makes it different is the way she’s drawn them.
They’re not just holding; they’re supporting, fingers intertwined, and knuckles braced.
The hands are holding up a third, tiny fist, curled in sleep, dimpled and perfect.
I look at her, and she’s looking at me.
“I’ve never drawn a baby before,” Eden says, almost bashful. “You know how I feel about sentimental art, but—” She shrugs. “Couldn’t get it out of my head, so when I got home from meeting up with Todd, I came up here and drew this.”
I reach out and touch the edge of the canvas, afraid I might smudge the charcoal. “It’s beautiful,” I say. “You’re beautiful.”
She laughs, embarrassed. “You’re such a sap.”
“You’re the one who drew it.”
She looks at me, really looks, and I see something open in her face. “I don’t know if I want to be a parent,” she admits, “but I know that if I did, it would have to be with you.”
There’s a lump in my throat, so I do the only thing I can: I kiss her, slow and deep, until the fear in me quiets down.
We go back to the living room, where Eden pulls a blanket off the back of the couch and wraps us both in it.
I tuck her into the crook of my arm, and we let the silence do the talking.
I think about what my mom said, about people changing, and I realize she’s right.
We’re not who we were at twenty. Maybe we’re not supposed to be.
Maybe we’re supposed to want new, scary things, and figure them out together.
Tomorrow we’ll talk more. Maybe we’ll make lists, or pros and cons, or consult every queer parenting blog on the planet. Maybe we’ll panic and backpedal. Maybe, just maybe, we’ll decide to try. I don’t know yet, and neither does she.