11. Eden
Eden
There are a few things in life I’m scared of. The apocalypse, bears, tigers, lions. Basically any wild animal. But there is one thing that scares me a hell of a lot more: running out of Scampi Fries. I’ve had them imported from the UK, because Sloane has got some weird-ass cravings.
She’s six weeks post-insemination, and she’s one week into the cravings.
I felt so proud of myself, bulk ordering those greasy fried little bastards.
Like I’d finally done something worthy of becoming a parent and supporting Sloane.
What I didn’t anticipate was the fact that my wife would become a fucking velociraptor with blonde hair the second she reached five weeks.
I watched in awe and horror as she chomped her beautiful arse through a full box of her favourite pub snack. Now I’m screwed because she’ll be back from work in an hour, and the first thing she’ll reach for are her mini bags of crisps, and guess what? There are none in the house.
What I’ve also come to learn about pregnant Sloane is that she has a penchant for swinging between moods like she’s a kid at the fucking park. One second she’s laughing, then she’s sobbing, and lastly she’s raging. I can’t keep up, and we’ve still got eight months of this to go.
“Jenna!”
“Eden, have you any idea what time it is?”
I do not, and I couldn’t care less. “We have a Scampi emergency, Jen!”
“Eden, we sent you a full moving box full of them!”
“Tell that to Sloane, Jenna. I’m sure not, because I’ll end up saying something that will get me buried in the backyard, or my Doc Martens thrown in the trash.”
Jenna snorts. “Okay, so what, you want me to send some more?”
“Of course I fucking do!”
“Jesus, alright. I’ll get them shipped in the morning.”
“First class, or whatever the equivalent for boxed crisps is. I need them here ASAP!”
“Done. Now bugger off, I’m sleeping!”
It’s my turn to chuckle. Jenna has a full-blown English accent now. She’s been over in Blighty for a year now, and her British roots are shining through.
The phone clicks as she ends the call. I haven’t got time to think about Jenna right now, though. I need to hit up the phone tree and find some sodding Scampi Fries.
“Bella!” I practically scream. “Please tell me you have Scampi Fries?”
I never thought I’d say those two words so often in my life.
“I got you, bitch! On my way over.”
I run to the front window and peer through the blinds like a paranoid housewife in a Stephen King novel.
Sloane’s car isn’t in the drive yet, but she’s been getting home earlier some days, probably to avoid Heather (an overly enthusiastic work neighbour) and her never-ending “organic baby wellness” updates.
I need to get ahead of this. If I fail her, if she walks through that door and finds the snack cupboard empty, I’ll never hear the end of it.
I can already picture the look she’ll give me: equal parts betrayal and abject disgust, like I’m the one who forgot to clean the litter tray and the cat took its revenge on her pillow.
A cat, I may add, that I never agreed to, but the bloody thing wrapped its little manipulative paw around my soft wife and won the battle. I now have several cat trees to navigate in the house, as well as two litter trays I have to clean out.
The phone buzzes in my palm and I nearly drop it. A voice memo from Bella. I brace myself and play it.
It’s just her laughing, breathless and cackling. “I got the goods! Meet me outside in two.”
There is no greater gift than a friend who enables your wife’s pregnancy cravings.
I throw my hair back into a topknot, grab my jacket from the peg, and sprint for the front door.
I nearly trip over the shoes Sloane has abandoned at the threshold, all lined up in a neat row but never where they’re supposed to be.
I slip on her rainbow Birks for maximum speed, almost breaking my ankle in the process, and barrel outside.
Bella’s car is idling at the curb, windows down, music blasting. Her dog Pork is sat in the passenger side sporting a black tutu with neon skulls all over it.
“Bless you,” I wheeze, grabbing the multi-bag and cradling it like it’s actual gold bullion. “You’re a lifesaver.”
“You look like you haven’t slept in a week.”
I consider lying, but what’s the point? “I haven’t. Between the mood swings and the midnight eating, Sloane’s basically a sleep terrorist.”
Bella cackles. “You wanted this, remember?”
I do remember. I remember the whole long, ridiculous journey to get here: the appointments, the negotiations, the legal documents, the months of hope and the weeks of disappointment.
I remember Sloane’s tears the third time it didn’t work, and the way she refused to let go of my hand in the waiting room even though her palms were sweaty and it made mine itch.
But in the here and now, I just want to make her happy. I want her to come home, flop on the couch, and find her favourite weird snack waiting, ready to be devoured.
Bella’s phone buzzes. She glances at it, then back at me. “I gotta go, but good luck. Text me if you need anything. Like, if she starts craving something actually disgusting.”
I lift the bag in a salute. “Thanks, comrade. Give Becca my love.”
She waves, and the car putters away, leaving behind a thin trail of exhaust and a faint echo of Slipknot.
I sprint back inside, dump the Scampi Fries into the cupboard and set one bag on the coffee table.
The house is otherwise clean for once. I debated vacuuming, but the last time I did that, pregnant Sloane claimed the noise made her want to vomit, so I’ve settled for strategic dusting and arranging the throw pillows in a way that might suggest “homey” and not “stressed-out artist with a cleaning fetish.”
I glance at the clock. Twelve minutes to go.
I pull out my phone and scroll through my work email half-heartedly. I’m waiting for a response from a gallery in London, but my attention span is a limp noodle these days, and all I can think about is the next disaster waiting to happen.
Maybe the Scampi Fries will last a day, maybe she’ll want something else tomorrow, maybe she’ll decide she hates me for not anticipating her next mood swing.
The front door opens. Sloane stands there, framed in the afternoon light, her hair tied back in a messy bun and her cheeks flushed from the walk up the drive. She looks tired, but when she sees me, she breaks into a real, genuine smile. The kind that always makes my knees a little weak, even now.
“Hey, babe,” she says, dropping her bag on the floor and toeing off her shoes. “You will not believe the day I’ve had.”
I pretend to be nonchalant, leaning against the kitchen counter. “Try me.”
She makes a beeline for the coffee table, snatching up the bag. Ripping it open, she shoves her nose in and inhales, then stops dead. “Did you get more? I thought we were all out?”
“Bella is a goddess among mortals. She delivered them herself.”
Sloane drops onto the couch and pops four Scampi Fries into her mouth. She closes her eyes, chews, and lets out a moan so loud and primal it would make Gordon Ramsay blush. In this moment, she’s the happiest person alive.
I watch her, and my chest fills with something warm and dangerous. I want to remember this: the miracle of making her happy, for a second. The proof that I can do something right.
She looks up at me, crumbs stuck to her lips. “You’re the best wife ever,” she says, like it’s a fact and not a joke.
I sit next to her and steal a Scampi Fry for myself. It’s disgusting, but I eat it anyway. “You say that now, but wait until you see the dinner I didn’t cook.”
She laughs and leans her head on my shoulder. I wrap my arm around her, careful not to squeeze too tight. She smells like synthetic lemon and the faintest trace of sweat, and under that, the scent that’s all her.
I tell myself I’m not going to cry, but my eyes sting anyway. Stupid sleep deprivation at its finest. I let her lean into me, and I stroke her hair back from her face.
We sit in silence for a minute, listening to the cat pawing at something in the laundry closet, and Sloane just breathes, shovelling Scampi Fries in at a methodical, almost metronomic pace. She’s the only person I know who chews with such unembarrassed gusto.
We stay like that, limbs askew, her hair in my mouth, until my phone buzzes again. This time it’s an email from the gallery. I try to ignore it, but Sloane shoots me a look.
“You know you have to open that, right?”
I sigh. “What if they hate my stuff?”
Impostor syndrome is still a thing for me. I’ve had multiple gallery shows over my career, but every time a new opportunity comes along, it’s like I’m an art student starting out all over again.
She tilts her head. “Then they have bad taste. You’re brilliant.”
I open the email. My hands are shaking, but I manage to click the attachment. It’s a PDF, the words all formal and British and laced with compliments that seem impossible, like they hired a poet just to make me feel good.
We are delighted to confirm your solo show for early spring, and look forward to discussing the details at your convenience.
I read the sentence twice, then a third time, and then decide I must have had a stroke. Sloane grabs the phone out of my hand and reads it herself, cackling as she goes.
“You did it!” she yells, bouncing on the couch even though she knows she’s supposed to be careful. “Eden Sawyer, you did it!”
I love this is how she reacts every time I get a commission or gallery show.
The cat comes streaking in at the noise, claws out, and launches onto the couch, hitting me directly in the ribcage. I yelp, but Sloane just pets the little demon like it’s a medal of honour.
“We have to celebrate,” she says, grinning so wide I’m afraid her face will split open.
“I have to call my mum,” I whisper, still stunned. “She’ll want to know.”
“Do it,” Sloane says, gently tugging my hair. “And then we’re getting takeout, because I’m too happy to cook.”
I dial my mum, and even though it’s the middle of the night in the UK, she answers on the first ring. “Eden? Is everything alright?”
“I got the show!” I blurt. Mum and Dad are visiting Gran for the millionth time this year. I knew it would happen as soon as Jenna left. She never stopped being restless with her baby being so far away.
“Oh, love! Well done. We’ll celebrate when we get back and we can start planning the trip.”
As if going to the gallery show without her and Dad was ever an option, right?
“Cool. Give Gran and Grandad a big sloppy kiss from us!”
“I will. How is Sloane?”
Another moment in time I’ll never forget. Telling my parents Sloane was finally pregnant. I thought announcing we were thinking about a baby was enough to give Mum a heart attack. She almost keeled over on the spot when we showed her the positive pregnancy results.
“Eating us out of Scampi Fries at a rate that could enter the Guinness Book of World Records.”
Mum laughs. “I remember the cravings. Do you need us to bring some home?”
“Please. Jenna’s going to ship some ASAP, but more boxes can’t hurt.”
“Alright, love, consider it done. Congratulations again, Eden. We’re so very proud of you, and I know your gran is going to be over the moon.”
“Ta, Mum. Speak soon.”
When I hang up Sloane’s on her phone, already ordering every kind of takeout she can think of, just in case.
“We’re going to need carbs for your victory lap,” she says, then tosses the phone aside and kisses me, her mouth tasting of fishy crisps.
The next day the emergency Scampi Fries are gone, but there’s a new box waiting on the doorstep.
I text Jenna that she’s my MVP.
Sloane wakes up smelling like lemon and happiness, and doesn’t even yell when she finds the cat has shredded her favourite hoodie. That’s how good a mood she’s in.
We spend the weekend half-pretending we’re normal adults, making lists of baby names (all rejected), and binge-watching documentaries about octopuses.
Bella and Becca come over for a girls’ night, which descends into chaos as usual.
Pia messages cussing because we’re having fun without her.
Like we were the ones to send her on a vacation to Hawaii.
How terrible! Although the texts did remind me that I haven’t watered her plants once since she’s been away. Oops.
Every evening I find myself painting in the garage, using colours I’ve never touched before, making messy, bright portraits of our weird little family. We decided my studio in the spare room was too small when it got to the point I could barely get to my easel with all the canvases shoved in there.
I send a photo of one particularly nuts painting to the gallery, not expecting a reply, but they email back immediately.
They love it and want more. Perfect. For once, I don’t question it. I just keep painting. If they want my batshit crazy art, they can have it.
By Monday, the house looks like a disaster zone, cat hair everywhere, but when Sloane gets home she doesn’t even notice. She just kisses me, wipes paint from my cheek, and makes me promise I’ll hang one of the paintings in the nursery.
I do, even though I know the kid will probably hate it.
Or maybe they’ll take after me. It’s a distinct possibility considering Sloane had my little egg popped inside of her.
With both of our eggs used in the process, the kid could come out looking like either of us.
Or, as my brain has started to imagine, a hybrid of the two.
I picture a little baby, its hair half blonde, half black, zipping out.
It will have running sneakers on and a paintbrush in its little hand.
I’ve been hanging out with Bella too much.