14. Sloane
Sloane
I’m not sure if it’s the jetlag, the nostalgia, or just watching Eden in all her naked glory, but the second she slides into bed, I want her so badly I could vibrate through the mattress.
She smells like soap and salt and something sharp—like she’s been outside long enough to collect the scent of the hedgerows. My mouth waters.
She spoons up behind me, tucks her chin into the crook of my neck, and slides one long, chilled arm under my t-shirt. Her hand lands on my belly, and she curls her fingers there, like she’s cradling both of us at once.
“You’re freezing,” I whisper, but I don’t want her to move even an inch.
She laughs, and the vibration of it is so familiar and so Eden that my heart does this little hiccup, like it’s skipping just to impress her. “Warm me up, then.”
Her palm roams up under my shirt, slow and deliberate, until she’s cupping my breast. I’m still not used to how different I feel now—firmer, heavier, sensitive in a way that’s almost electric.
She must sense it, because she’s gentler than usual, her thumb tracing little circles around my nipple.
I arch back into her, my skin tight and hot under her hand.
I catch her wrist, more to anchor myself than to stop her. “What if someone hears?” My voice is breathy and traitorous.
Eden’s lips graze my ear. “Everyone’s asleep. Or if they’re not, they bloody well deserve what they get for eavesdropping.”
She’s right, I know it, and honestly, the thought of getting caught only makes me want her more.
My legs tangle with hers. She hooks her knee between mine and rocks her hips forward, the hard line of her thigh pressing just where I want it.
I whimper—actually whimper—and she kisses the back of my neck, slow and open-mouthed.
Her hand slides back down, unceremoniously pushing my panties aside. She’s not usually this impatient, but it’s like the last two days of travel have coiled her up and now she needs to unwind, and the only way to do it is to touch every part of me at once.
I can’t breathe. I’m already soaking wet, and the heat of her palm makes my hips jerk erratically. She circles my clit with two fingers, just barely there, and I bite my lip to keep from moaning.
My entire focus tunnels down to the place where we’re connected, and then she slides her fingers to my entrance, teasing me before entering me slowly with a relentless rhythm. My toes curl against the sheets. Her other hand is back on my breast, squeezing just this side of too hard.
“Jesus, Eden—” I gasp, shuddering all over.
She crooks her fingers, and I see actual stars. My lower back arches; I’m half off the bed, clutching her arm like it’s a life preserver. She keeps at it, steady and sure, until I’m right on the edge, and then she pauses.
I nearly sob. “Don’t you fucking dare—”
She laughs, low and dark. “Patience, doctor.”
Normally I’d have a comeback, but my brain is gone, replaced by a series of exclamation points.
She resumes, and this time she doesn’t stop, doesn’t even slow down, just pushes me toward the edge with brutal efficiency until I come, hard, biting into the pillow to muffle it.
I can hear my own heartbeat in my ears. I can hear her too.
Her breathing ragged, her voice in my hair, muttering, “fuck, you’re gorgeous” as if it’s a mantra.
My clit pulses for what feels like an eternity.
Afterward, I flop boneless onto my back, chest heaving. Eden props herself up on one elbow and grins down at me. Her hair is wild. She looks so proud of herself, it’s almost embarrassing.
I reach for her, pulling her on top of me.
“Your turn,” I say, and she rolls her eyes like she’s humoring me, but she’s already shifting her hips against mine, hungry for friction.
I run my hands up her back, fingernails scratching down her spine, biting at the line of her jaw.
She hisses, arches into me, and I know exactly how to get her there.
I slide a hand between us, fingers finding her slick and ready.
She’s always so easy for me, so responsive, like her body is tuned to my own.
I work her slowly, making her beg for it with every twist of my wrist, every bite to her collarbone.
She’s louder than I am, which is dangerous, but also exhilarating.
I want them all to know she’s mine, that I can make her fall apart even in a house full of our friends and family.
With every pass through her slit, I feel my own sex clench with a renewed energy. I could easily come again, but not until I’ve pulled the thread on Eden’s resolve and she’s spilling all over my hand.
It doesn’t take long before she’s clutching at my shoulders, biting my earlobe, rutting harder against my hand until she’s coming apart with a shudder that feels like it could bring the walls down. I hold her through it, stroking her hair, kissing the side of her face over and over.
Once she can no longer hold herself up she collapses beside me, and we lie tangled together, a mess of limbs and sweat and cotton sheets. I can hear the faint, blessed sound of someone snoring down the hall. I let myself laugh quietly.
Eden draws lazy circles on my stomach, her breathing finally slowing. “You okay?” she murmurs.
I turn to face her and kiss the tip of her nose. “Better than okay.”
We drift somewhere between sleep and delirious contentment, the weight of the jetlag and the week and the whole messy, shifting world settling around us like a blanket.
For once, I don’t care about what comes next, or how many sleepless nights it will take to get there.
For now, it’s just us—Eden and me and the baby, held together by sweat and skin and the impossible luck of finding each other in the first place.
I fall asleep smiling, and wake up to the sound of Meena and Arin fighting over a single crumpet at the kitchen table, and Eden’s hand still anchored on my belly, refusing to let go.
I didn’t realize how much I needed this vacation.
It feels like we’ve both been on fast-forward, racing through life together these past eighteen months.
Everything was about growing our family and dealing with the fallout of Jenna moving away.
And there was fallout. Eden struggled more than she ever let on, but I saw it.
I saw how much it hurt when Liz got upset that her baby was thousands of miles away.
How she had to correct herself when she was about to say she was going over to see Jenna, only to realize she wasn’t there anymore.
Phone calls became frequent, but they could never replace what Eden and Jenna had when they lived in the same town.
Add the stress and disappointment of failed IVF treatments, and it’s been a really long year and a half. We both know it’s only going to get harder when the goblin arrives. Jesus, we need to stop calling it that.
It’s 7:10 a.m. when Meena and Arin discover the concept of “British cereal.” Apparently, Weetabix is both a torture device and an architectural challenge, and not even Bella’s advanced degree can explain why it smells like a wet barn.
Pia, already caffeinated and in full mother-of-the-year mode, films the chaos for an Instagram story.
I hear her narrate, “Day two in the land of starchy sadness—pray for us,” in a flawless David Attenborough voice.
By the time Eden and I stagger into the kitchen, the kids have moved on to using the cereal bricks as missiles.
Gran, unfazed, pours me a mug of tea and slides me a plate of toast heavier than most free weights.
“Eat up, darling, you’re eating for two now,” she says. Then she winks at Eden and adds, “Make sure she actually finishes it.”
Eden’s still in her pajamas—black, of course, but with little cartoon pigs on the shirt, a gift from Bella.
She looks so tired and so happy it makes my chest hurt.
I want to go back to bed and drag her with me, but today is Beach Day, and Gran has issued a decree that all family members must present themselves on the sand by noon or face the consequences.
Consequences, as it turns out, is being left alone with Grandad John and his unedited opinions about American politics.
By ten we’re loaded up with every conceivable beach supply: umbrellas, towels, three types of sunscreen because Eden declared there would be no melanoma on her watch, plus enough snacks to survive a minor apocalypse.
The air is chilly, and the sky threatens rain, but no one cares.
We are going to the beach if it kills us.
The walk down the cliff path is steep and treacherous, but Arin and Meena navigate it with the reckless agility of mountain goats. Pia yells, “No running near the edge!” so many times it becomes a chant, which only makes them go faster.
Bella and Becca bring up the rear, arguing about the optimal sandwich-to-blanket ratio. I miss being their roommate sometimes, because the conversations were weird as hell, which is why they are perfect for each other.
Eden is beside me, her fingers threaded through mine, humming some tune I can’t place. She’s so relaxed here—like every muscle in her body is finally convinced there are no emergencies on the horizon or that she doesn’t have to mend another leaky faucet.
The beach is a stretch of pale sand and stones, ringed by cliffs and a ribbon of grey water.
Grandad John sets up a windbreak, then immediately disappears to help the kids dig a trench that could probably accommodate livestock.
Gran parks herself on a folding chair, whips out a sketchbook, and pretends not to watch every move the children make.
Eden drops our bag on the sand and starts stripping off layers, down to a sports bra and leggings she could have shoplifted from a goth Lululemon.
“You’re not going in the water,” I warn. “It’s like, negative two degrees.”
She grins at me. “You underestimate British resilience.”
She lasts thirty seconds in the surf before she comes running back, howling, “Jesus Christ, I can’t feel my fucking feet!” It seems she’s forgotten she’s no longer a resilient Brit anymore.
I wrap her in a towel and she nuzzles into my neck, honest-to-god purring.
We spend the next hour inventing games with the kids and trying to keep them from getting hypothermia. Becca and Bella attempt to build a sandcastle that resembles the Sydney Opera House, but Arin immediately flattens it, yelling, “Godzilla attack!”
Meena tries to bury me up to my neck and I let her, because honestly, the sand is kind of warm and I like the way Eden hovers nearby, brushing grains off my face and kissing my forehead when she thinks no one’s looking.
At one point, Pia disappears up the beach, phone clutched in her hand, pacing in furious circles.
She’s definitely texting someone, and her posture has the rigid, haunted look of someone arguing with an invisible enemy.
Becca notices too, but only makes a face and shrugs, as if to say, “She’s an adult, let her spiral. ”
I wonder if it’s Todd, and if it is, what fight could possibly be so urgent that it can’t wait until we’re back in Colorado. You’d think after a year they’d have figured out how to co-exist without fighting, but no. There are still too many emotions involved.
After a while, Gran calls me over. She’s drawn a sketch of Eden and the kids, all kinetic motion and sharp lines, and asks if I think it would make a nice painting. I tell her it’s perfect, and she gives me this soft, knowing smile that says she’s not really talking about art.
“Family looks good on you,” she says, tearing the page out and handing it to me. “Tell Eden I said so.”
I tuck the drawing into my hoodie, and watch as Eden tackles Arin into the sand, both of them shrieking with laughter.
We picnic on smooshed sandwiches and potato chips.
Grandad tells a story about Eden at age six, getting her head stuck in the stair banister, which makes her groan and threaten to bury her grandfather in a sandpit.
He eggs her on, and before long she and Jenna are hauling him to the surf, with the rest of us cheering them on as he yells, “I have a pacemaker, you monsters!”
He does not, but it’s his favorite lie.
After the food coma sets in, I take a long walk with Eden down the tide line. The water’s too cold for more than toe-dipping, but she insists on collecting shells for Meena.
We collapse onto a towel side by side. She’s got that faraway look—the one she gets when she’s thinking too much, or not enough.
“Can I ask you something?” she says, tracing abstract shapes on my knee.
“Anything.”
She’s quiet for a beat. “Do you ever worry we’re going to fuck this up? The kid, I mean. That we’ll fuck it up, somehow.”
I consider this. “I think about it every day. But mostly I think about how grateful I am that we get a chance to try.”
She nods, biting her lip. “I like that.”
“I like you!” I reply with a smile and a kiss.
She leans back in and kisses me again, soft and lingering. She tastes of sea air and the faintest hint of cheese from lunch. When she pulls away, she smiles, all teeth and sunshine.
“Do you want to go back to the cottage and nap for six years?” she asks.
“Only if you promise to spoon me the whole time.”
“Deal.”
We stand, brushing sand off each other, and head back up the hill. The sun is already starting to set, and the wind has picked up, turning the air brisk and alive.
Back at the cottage, Grandad is asleep in the armchair, Meena and Arin are drawing mustaches on him with washable marker, and Jenna is deep in conversation with Pia, who looks like she’s been crying.
I want to go to her, but something in the way Jenna is talking—soft, steady, no-nonsense—makes me think she’s got it handled.
Eden leads me up to our room, and we cocoon under the covers, limbs tangled, the exhaustion of the day sinking into our bones.
“I’m glad we came,” Eden says, her voice barely above a whisper.
I close my eyes, smiling. “Me too.”