15. Eden
Eden
Iwake early, before anyone else in the house, which is a miracle considering how hard I crashed last night. The kitchen is empty, the only sound being the faint tick of the Aga cooling and the hum of a fridge that’s older than my existence.
Sunlight pours in through the back window, splashing the tiles with yellow. I stand barefoot for a minute, letting it warm the bones in my ice-block feet, and then I do what I always do when I’m home…I sneak out to Gran’s studio.
Every time I walk in it’s like stepping into a memory.
Gran’s art is everywhere—on every shelf, every table, every paint-stained surface.
There are half-finished pots, a line of glass baubles suspended from the rafters, and a giant, ancient kiln lurking in the corner.
The whole place smells of clay dust and turpentine and, faintly, of burnt toast.
For a second I just stand there, letting the ghosts of summers past settle on my shoulders.
I was obsessed with this place as a kid.
Gran let me play apprentice, giving me scraps of clay to roll and twist and mangle while she worked magic with her hands.
I’ve never been as good as her with clay or sculpting, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t fun. I loved it as a kid.
Gran said I had “a knack,” but what I really had was unrefined chaos and a burning need to impress her. I made a hundred wonky mugs and one terrifying gnome that Grandad still uses as a doorstop. It scares the shit out of kids on Halloween.
I run my finger along the shelf, stopping at a small bowl glazed in midnight blue. My initials are carved into the bottom, a wonky ES from when I was seven. I remember the day I made it—how Gran let me choose whatever colour I wanted and how I ruined two shirts with the dye. Mum was not happy.
I’m cradling the bowl in my hands when I hear the door creak behind me. Gran stands there, hair in a wild halo and her bathrobe cinched so tight it’s a miracle she’s still breathing.
“I thought I heard you rattling about.” Her accent is thicker in the morning. “Couldn’t sleep?”
I shake my head. “All the sea air.”
She pads over and takes the bowl from me, turning it over in her hands. “You know, I never glazed another one like this. Something about the way the blue bled into the rim. Completely unrepeatable. That’s how you know it’s art.”
I ponder that for a second.
“Fancy making something?” She gestures at the workbench, already cleared as if she knew I’d be here.
I don’t even try to play it cool. I sit down and start kneading a lump of clay, the movements coming back to me like muscle memory. Gran sits across from me and pulls out a lump of her own, her hands moving with the ease of a lifetime’s practice.
At one point she thought she’d have to give it up because her arthritis was bad, but then she found CBD and all was right with the world again. I hated the thought of her talent no longer being used. Everything is better with my gran’s art in it. Period.
We work in silence for a while. The only sounds are the squelch of wet clay and the faint rattle of a radio somewhere in the house.
I shape the clay into a cup, then a bowl, then back into a lump when I realise I’ve made something obscene by accident. Gran snorts, not even glancing up.
Snickering, I decide to keep my lump of clay boob as is. It will make a great Christmas present for Bella.
“So,” Gran begins. “I’ve heard all about the bun in the oven, but I haven’t heard how you’re feeling about it, kiddo. Not really.”
It’s true. Gran and Sloane are in constant communication about the growing gremlin, but me and Gran haven’t really got down to the nitty-gritty about feelings and stuff. I guess I didn’t want to take anything away from Sloane. She needs the support more than I do.
I snort. “I’m constantly terrified.”
“That’s parenthood for you, Eden.”
I sigh. “Don’t get me wrong, it’s exciting, but sometimes I think Sloane’s more prepared for this than I am. She’s already read, like, six parenting books and I’m still googling ‘how not to fuck up your child emotionally.’”
Gran’s lips twitch, but with fondness. “That’s all any of us ever do, love. The trick is convincing the kid you didn’t mess up until they’re old enough to move out.”
She’s started shaping a tiny cat, her fingers pinching tufts of clay into ears. I watch her hands, thinking how they’ve held every disaster in the family, every heartbreak and big announcement and poorly thought-out tattoo reveal.
“Everyone’s expecting you to be the strong one,” she says, almost offhand, “but you’re allowed to be a bit of a mess, too.”
I nod, not trusting myself to say it’s not just ‘a bit’ lately.
We work for another stretch, and I’m actually enjoying the easy rhythm of it when Gran says, “You know, you could always move back.”
I shoot her a look. “We just spent two days on a plane, Gran. I’m not ready to defect.”
She shrugs, but there’s a glint in her eye. “I’m only saying. Jenna and Kiera are building a little life here. There’s room for more. And you wouldn’t have to raise your little goblin in a country where people think cheese comes in a can.”
“Don’t start,” I say, but she’s already working her way up to a full rant.
“I mean it, Eden.” Her voice goes soft. “When you were little, you were always the first one to jump in feet first. You’re not afraid of doing hard things. That’s why I think you’d make it work, back here.”
I want to laugh it off, make a joke about her trying to collect all her grandchildren like Pokémon, but I can’t. There’s a weird ache in my chest, and I can’t tell if it’s nostalgia or guilt.
“I’ve got a life over there, Gran. Friends. Sloane’s practice.”
“Maybe,” she says, “but sometimes the thing you’re building isn’t where you started. Sometimes it’s where you end up that matters.” She sets the cat down and wipes her hands on her robe. “Just a thought, love.”
I sit there, staring at my lump of clay boob, and try not to be annoyed that Gran’s got me thinking about it. About all of it. We clean up, and she ruffles my hair on the way out like I’m seven again.
My stomach rumbles, and I’m ready to chow down on some crumpets, but my journey to the kitchen is blocked by Pia sitting on the garden bench staring out into space. It’s not gone unnoticed that she’s been a little off lately. Also, she’s been stuck to her phone like it’s an extra appendage.
Gran notices too but doesn’t stop. She gestures to me and then leaves.
I dramatically throw myself on the bench next to her.
“Fuck, Eden, you scared me.”
I grin. “I love having that effect.”
She’s got that look on her face—the one that tells me she’s about to say something real, and if I make a joke, she’ll murder me and use my bones as a trellis for her backyard tomatoes. So I wait, letting the silence spool out. It’s a Sawyer family speciality, letting people come to you.
Pia sucks in a long breath, then lets it out slow. “Can I ask you something, and you promise not to do the thing where you psychoanalyse me like a discount Dr Phil?”
I raise my hand. “Scout’s honour. I’ll keep my mouth shut and just listen. Or at least I’ll try.”
She laughs, but it’s a tired sound. “I’m so fucking torn, E. About everything. The kids, work, Todd…and the new guy.”
I stiffen, but only a little. Not because I’m surprised. I knew she’d been seeing someone, but she’s been cagey about the details. Like if she said the words, the universe would conspire to destroy her last hope for happiness.
She barrels on, staring straight ahead at the dew-soaked grass. “It’s been three months. New guy wants to meet Meena and Arin, but I keep…I don’t know. Finding reasons not to let it happen. Am I being overly cautious, or just a coward?”
“It depends. What’s worrying you about Mr Mystery Man meeting them?”
“Isn’t it too soon? I mean we’ve been dating a few months. What if he meets the kids and they get attached only for us to break up?”
Blimey. “Well, I hate to say it, but you guys could be together for years and then…”
“Yeah. Maybe that’s what I’m afraid of.”
“P, you can’t keep the kids from getting hurt. I think that’s like…a life lesson or something.”
“Fuuuck,” she exhales in a kind of exhausted growl.
“Is that what all the anxious texting has been about?”
“Noticed that, huh?”
I snort. “Obviously, Pia. You’re not particularly subtle with…anything.”
“Bitch.” She laughs. “But yeah. Todd’s got his jock strap in a wad over it, and has been letting me know how he feels.”
“Whoa, hang on, isn’t he seeing a dermatologist?”
“Yes! Thank you. He didn’t ask for my permission, so fuck knows why he thinks I have to consult him.”
I hate that their relationship is this hostile. Not to be selfish, but we’ve all lost a friend in Todd since he and Pia split.
“Forget Todd. What do you want to do regarding your new fella?”
“It’s Bryce.”
“Huh?”
She swallows and becomes really interested in the hedge. “Bryce…he’s my new man.”
“Bryce Buckley? As in Party Bryce who still calls me UK?”
“Um, yeah, that would be the one.”
Well bugger me! “How…when?”
“Remember when Meena had that spelling bee? Well, Bryce was there with his niece.”
“Hang on, I thought he was still married?”
“Nah, he’s a sad old divorcee like me. The wife slept with her personal trainer. Then Bryce’s dad died and he decided it was time to move back. We bumped into each other at the bee, and he asked me for a coffee.”
“Jesus, P. Why didn’t you tell me?”
She shrugs. “Eden, you’ve been a hot mess since starting IVF. My dating life isn’t something you need to be worried about.”
I turn on the bench and grab her arm. “Hey now. I’m always a hot mess, and that’s never stopped you!”
She laughs.
“Pia, we’ve been through way too much shit to start worrying about overloading each other with emotional garbage.”
We sit there for a minute, just breathing, two hot messes in a garden that smells like wet lawn and a little like cat pee. I try to organise my thoughts, but it’s like herding ferrets on caffeine.
“So, let’s recap,” I finally say. “You’re dating Bryce, and you’re scared to let him meet the kids because you don’t want them to get hurt if it goes tits up.”
She winces, but nods. “That’s about the size of it. And, I don’t know, I just—”
“You’re worried what people will think,” I finish for her. She stares at the hedge, lips pursed.
“Yeah, maybe. I mean, he’s…you know. Bryce.”
“He’s a good guy.”
Bryce was always that guy at the party who’d invent drinking games on the fly and then lose at his own game. He was a jock but not an arsehole. He was and probably still is a pretty good artist. I have a lot of time for Bryce Buckley, and if Pia says he’s good to her, I believe her.
“I’m not judging,” I say, “but you do realise you’re basically dating a Labrador that’s learned to wear skinny jeans.”
She laughs so loudly a pigeon in the next garden erupts with fright. “God, Eden. You’re such a bitch. I love it.”
I elbow her. “You’re my best friend. That’s my job. But if you like him, and you want him to meet your kids, then what’s the worst that can happen?”
She picks at her cuticle. “I guess…they like him. Then if it doesn’t work out, I’m the villain.”
I shake my head. “You’re not the villain, P. You’re the main character. You just have to walk them through it if things get messy. You know who else is good at that?”
She looks at me sideways. “Is this the part where you say ‘you’ and I say ‘no, you’?”
“Exactly.” I grin.
She’s quiet again. I can see the wheels turning. “When did you get so insightful?”
I snort. “It’s my new job. I’m starting a side hustle as an agony aunt for traumatised ex-varsity lesbians and their ally besties.”
She snorts orange juice out of her nose, which is a move she’s been doing since we were thirteen. I feel a genuine pang of pride.
“Okay,” she says, wiping her nose on my sleeve (classic). “I’m going to do it. I’m going to let Bryce meet the kids. But if he fucks them up, I’m holding you personally responsible.”
“Deal,” I say. “And for what it’s worth, I think you’re a fucking legend.”
She smiles—not her usual, toothy show-off, but a real, tiny, just-for-me smile. “Right back at you, E.”
Gran appears out of nowhere, like a cryptid, and waves her phone at us. “You two, inside. There’s toast!”
I drag Pia inside. The kitchen smells like heaven. Jenna has made enough eggs and bacon to resuscitate a small army, and Sloane is already perched at the table, hand on her belly, demolishing a plate of beans on toast.
She looks up at me and winks. “You’re late for breakfast. I ate your crumpets out of spite.”
I drop into the chair next to her. “You know, they used to hang people for less in this country.”
She leans in, voice conspiratorial. “I could be persuaded to share if you let me lick the butter off your fingers.”
Whoa. I wasn’t expecting her to go full kink at the table, but she’s been spicy ever since we arrived.
I shoot her a look. “Are you trying to get me in trouble with Gran?”
“Too late,” Gran calls from the hallway. “Nothing you could do in this house would shock me. Have you met your mother?”
Sloane titters into her cup of tea. Breakfast is pure, feral chaos.
Arin pours orange juice directly onto his pancakes, Becca tries to teach Meena how to do “the perfect egg flip,” and Grandad John appears dressed as if he’s about to attend a Royal Wedding, even though he’s not scheduled to leave his armchair all day.
Over the clatter and noise, Bella appears in the doorway, looking like she spent the night wrestling with the Wi-Fi router. She slides in next to Becca and immediately starts critiquing the breakfast spread.
“I see you’ve given up on vegetables altogether,” she says, eyeing the mountain of bacon.
“It’s a holiday,” Sloane says through a mouthful of food, “and I’m eating for two.”
Bella raises an eyebrow. “You’re eating for the state of Texas at this rate.”
I’m about to make a joke about Bella’s endless kale smoothies when Pia pipes up, “Hey, everyone, I have an announcement.”
The room goes dead quiet, except for the sizzle from the pan. “I, um—” Pia’s cheeks go pink. “I’m dating Bryce!”
Well, that got everyone’s attention.