19. Eden
Eden
It turns out that when you avoid your friends for ten days, they go a little feral.
Not the cartoon kind of feral with matted hair and oversized teeth, more the “organise an intervention in the group chat” kind, where Becca is the ringleader and everyone else takes turns sending increasingly deranged memes and GIFs.
By the time they show up at our door for the “low-key dinner,” I’m honestly afraid to let them in.
She glances at the bag in Becca’s hand and snorts. “We brought food, because last time you fed us Sloane’s weird pregnancy craving soup and I was still tasting it three days later.”
“Soup was good,” Becca says, already brushing past me. “It was just…liquid.”
“That’s what soup is,” I reply, but she’s already in the kitchen, dropping the Doritos on the counter and scoping out our snack situation.
Sloane is leaning against the fridge pretending to read a nutrition label, but I can tell by the way she’s biting her cheek that she’s been listening to us the whole time.
I can also tell, with a rush of relief, that she’s better than she was last week.
There’s colour in her face and a lazy, unselfconscious way she’s shifting her weight from foot to foot, instead of standing rooted to one spot like a haunted tree.
I want to run over and wrap her up, but I know that would tip her off to my entire thought process, so I just give her a look that says “You’re still my favourite person,” and she gives it right back.
Bella sets the sangria on the counter and sidles up next to me. “You look like you’ve been sleeping.”
“I have. I mean, Sloane’s still waking up every two hours to pee, but otherwise it’s been quiet.”
“Liar,” Sloane calls, not even looking up from the label. “You snore louder than a jet engine.”
“You see what I live with?” I deadpan to Bella, who gives me a slow, appraising look and then starts cackling. “And she’s not even in her second trimester yet. God help us all.”
Becca, who has now claimed the kitchen table as her domain, dumps the Doritos into a salad bowl and is using one of our spatulas as a serving spoon. “Where’s Pia? And the kids?”
“Pia texted that they’d be here in ten. She’s probably at Walgreens buying three more types of snack food just in case.”
“I hope she brings the good crackers,” Bella mutters, already unscrewing the top off the sangria. “We’re all going to die of scurvy if Eden keeps feeding us like this.”
I make a show of being offended, but honestly, it’s nice to have the kitchen this full again.
For days it was just Sloane and me, orbiting each other in silent worry.
The noise, the dumb jokes, even the fighting over who gets the last chip, it’s all part of what makes this weird, cobbled-together friend group a real family.
I wander over to Sloane and lean in just enough that no one else can hear. “You okay?”
She turns to me, and the way she smiles is so soft I want to melt into the linoleum. “Better than okay,” she says, and for once, I believe her.
There’s a crash from the front hallway that sounds like a shopping bag full of glass bottles hitting the tile.
I run to investigate and find Arin and Meena wrestling each other in the entryway, both shrieking with laughter, while Pia stands above them juggling a bag of ice and what looks like a frozen cheesecake.
“They started fighting over who got to ring the bell,” Pia says by way of greeting, and then she hands me the ice bag. “Where do you want this?”
“Freezer’s good,” I reply, ushering the kids into the living room before they destroy any more of my property.
Meena launches herself onto the couch, immediately flipping upside down and hanging her head over the edge like a deranged bat.
Arin follows, making a beeline for the Xbox controller I stashed under the TV.
Pia lingers in the kitchen, unloading snacks onto the counter and whispering something to Bella, who immediately starts cackling again. I don’t know if I’ve ever met two people more committed to being agents of chaos, and I adore them for it.
Within twenty minutes, the kitchen looks like a convenience store exploded: chips, cookies, frozen appetisers, a random bag of clementines, and the makings of at least two different cocktails. The sangria has already been consumed.
Bella is already mixing something in a pitcher with alarming speed, and when I peek over her shoulder, she winks. “Don’t worry, there’s a virgin version for Sloane, but the rest of us are getting properly wrecked tonight.”
I look at Sloane, who is sitting at the table with her feet propped up on another chair, and I see she’s watching the mayhem with something like real happiness. There’s no edge to her laughter, no brittle quality to her voice. She looks content.
We all migrate to the living room, where the kids are already deep in a heated Mario Kart match. Becca and Bella pile onto the sofa, immediately arguing over the best Mario Kart character.
“Yoshi is statistically superior,” Bella says, which prompts Becca to threaten her with physical harm that I think might be their foreplay.
Pia sits on the floor, legs crossed, watching her kids with a dazed, absentminded smile.
Sloane drags me down next to her on the big armchair, and I settle in, feeling the warmth of her pressed against my side. She leans her head on my shoulder. I rest my cheek on the top of her hair, breathing in the faint smell of coconut shampoo and whatever magic makes Sloane smell like home.
“So,” Bella says after a while, “who’s going to be the godparent?”
I nearly choke on my cocktail. “Excuse me?”
She shrugs, the picture of innocence. “Someone’s gotta teach the child how to make bad decisions.”
“I thought that was my job,” I say, and the room erupts.
Sloane snorts so hard she has to grab my hand to steady herself. “If it’s up to Eden, this kid will never eat a vegetable that isn’t fried.”
“Fried is a valid preparation,” Becca says, raising her glass in solidarity.
“I think Sloane should pick,” Pia says, and it’s so out of character for her not to make a joke that everyone goes quiet. “She’s the one carrying the next generation. She should decide who gets the honour.”
Sloane looks at me, then at everyone else. “Is it weird if I want all of you to do it? Like, is communal godparenting a thing?”
“Godsquad!” Arin yells from the couch, not even looking away from the TV.
Meena cackles. “I’m in the squad, too. Right?”
“Sure, baby,” Pia says, before turning to us. “If it takes a village, we are going to raise the most emotionally unstable child in history.”
“Only if it gets your sarcasm gene,” Bella shoots back, and the energy in the room spikes again, like a little bonfire of shit-talking and inside jokes.
At one point, I catch Sloane watching me, her eyes crinkled at the edges. “What?” I ask, suddenly self-conscious.
She just shakes her head. “You’re happy,” she says. “I missed this.”
I want to say something cool, something witty, but all I can do is look at her and nod. “Me too.”
The party winds down around midnight, after the kids crash and Bella tries to do a TikTok dance and nearly sprains her knee. Pia and her spawn are the first to go to bed. Becca helps herself to a Tupperware of leftover Doritos. I don’t know why she needs to take them to bed with her.
After everyone’s gone upstairs, Sloane and I curl up on the couch, surrounded by empty chip bags and the remnants of the baby’s breath bouquet. The house is quiet, but it’s a good quiet, the kind that settles over you like a blanket.
“Hey, Eden?” Sloane says, voice soft in the dark.
“Yeah?”
She squeezes my hand. “We’re going to be okay, right?”
I look at her, at the way her face is half-shadow and half-moonlight, and I know that for the first time in weeks, I don’t have to fake it.
“Yeah. We really are.”
The next morning, the house smells like the death of a thousand Doritos and the slow, insistent creep of burnt coffee.
I come to with Sloane still snoring on my shoulder, her hair a halo of blonde static, an arm flopped over my ribcage like a seatbelt.
I blink a few times and realise that we never made it up to bed.
I also realise that Becca is sprawled on the other end of the couch, her feet basically in my lap.
I don’t remember her coming back downstairs.
There’s orange cheese dust on her chin, and the cat has claimed her belly as a nesting site.
Sloane wakes up with a groan. “Did we die?” she asks, eyes slitted against the grey Denver daylight.
“Not yet,” I say, “but give it an hour.”
There’s movement in the kitchen—Pia, of course, raiding the fridge. She’s wearing my ancient university hoodie and sipping coffee straight from the carafe. When she sees us, she raises her mug. “Survivors’ breakfast is in five,” she says. “It’s toast and whatever Sloane didn’t eat last night.”
“That won’t leave very much,” Becca mumbles, then wipes her face with the sleeve of her shirt. “God, why am I awake?”
I have no idea, but I’m glad she is. I’m glad they’re all still here, orbiting our gravitational mess like it’s their job.
Bella appears a minute later, walking like her head is filled with broken glass. She does not speak until she’s had at least two sips of coffee, then croaks, “I had a dream that Eden was teaching a baby to run a marathon.”
“Pretty sure that’s a prophecy,” Becca says.
“Not if it inherits my genes,” I reply, nudging Sloane until she grunts and sits up.
Pia brings over a tray of blackened toast and orange segments, the latter dumped unceremoniously into the hideous bowl from last night. She sets it on the coffee table and plops down beside Becca, nearly dislodging the cat.
“Did anyone else hear Arin and Meena plotting to start a YouTube channel at four in the morning?” she asks.
I shake my head. “No, but I fully support their hustle.”
Bella snorts. “You’re just hoping they get enough subscribers to pay for your home repairs.”
Sloane perks up. “Speaking of future plans…can we talk about last night? I feel like I blacked out before the godparent debate was resolved.”
Pia waves a hand. “We’re all godparents, Sloane. The child will be raised by committee.”
“A lesbian parenting collective,” Becca says. “Very on brand.”
“We’re not all lesbians,” Pia replies, arching an eyebrow.
Bella shrugs. “Honorary. Same difference.”
Pia cocks her head in thought. “Yeah, okay. I support that.”
I glance at Sloane, who’s picking at the edge of the couch, her mouth set in that tight line she gets when she’s about to say something real.
She takes a breath. “I’m scared,” she says. “Like, really, honestly terrified. I didn’t want to say it out loud before, but after the…incident, I keep thinking about everything that could go wrong.”
The group looks at us both confused. They don’t know about the “incident,” and I’m not sure it’s the right time to explain when Sloane clearly has some feelings she needs to vent. I decide I’ll take them all to one side later on and explain. God, I’m going to get a proper earful from them all.
There’s a pause. For a second, I want to jump in and smooth it over, make a joke about how we could always sell the baby on Craigslist if it turns out to be a dud, but I don’t. I just let the silence stand.
Sloane’s voice gets softer. “I know it’s dumb, but sometimes I feel like everyone else has this secret manual for adulthood and I’m just…making it up as I go.”
Pia nods, understanding that I need her not to question Sloane because I will fill her in later. “That’s because we’re all making it up. None of us know what the fuck we’re doing. We’re just trying not to traumatise our kids more than our parents traumatised us.”
Becca raises a toast with her coffee mug. “Cheers to generational trauma, bitches.”
Bella, for once, doesn’t joke. “You don’t have to know what you’re doing. You just have to love the hell out of that kid and each other.”
Sloane looks at me, her eyes glassy. “What if I’m not enough?” she whispers.
I don’t know why that hits me so hard. Maybe because I’ve spent my entire life terrified of the same thing, even when I pretended otherwise.
I grab her hand and squeeze it. “You are so much more than enough, Sloane. I wouldn’t have survived the last year without you.”
For a second I think she’s going to cry, but she just laughs, shaky and real. “You’re only saying that because I comforted you with lots of sex.”
“That too,” I admit with a grin.
Pia leans over and hugs us both, almost tipping the coffee tray onto the carpet. “No more secrets, okay? If we’re scared, we say it. If we’re happy, we say it. If we want to run away and join a lesbian commune in Vermont, we say it.”
Clearly, she’s really on board with being an honorary lesbian.
“Can we still have internet?” Becca asks.
“Yes,” Bella deadpans. “And a Costco membership.”
There’s a ripple of laughter, then a quiet that’s not awkward at all. It feels good, like something’s been unlocked.
Pia makes a show of checking her phone. “We have forty-five minutes before Arin and Meena decide their late-night YouTube idea should actually become reality. My kids are hustlers. If anyone wants to confess their sins or share their dreams, now’s your chance.”
Becca, of course, goes first. “I want to open a wool cafe. A queer place, where the only rule is you have to knit as you drink coffee and nobody’s allowed to mansplain anything.”
Bella, after a pause, says, “I’m good. I’ve got everything I want.”
“Sappy,” Pia mumbles, and we all laugh again.
Sloane looks at me. “What about you, Eden? What do you want?”
The question lands heavy and light at the same time. I think about my art, the weird, wobbly bowls, the room I painted for a future that’s still just a maybe. I think about this house, filled with chaos and crumbs and the people I love most.
“I want to raise a kid who feels like they can be themselves,” I say, surprised by how much I mean it. “I want them to have what we have: a family that chooses each other over and over.”
It’s quiet for a second, then Bella scoffs. “That’s some gay Hallmark shit, Eden.”
“Shut up,” I reply, but I’m grinning.
Meena and Arin tumble in, still in pyjamas, holding an iPad and a tripod made of spatulas. “Showtime!” they yell. I guess they expected us to hear their midnight rambling, because kids are not quiet, even when they think they are.
I look at Sloane, and she looks at me, and I see the future in that glance: messy and beautiful and ours.
The living room fills with noise again—kids, cat, coffee, the sound of Becca and Pia arguing about who gets to be the cool godparent.
I sink into the couch, feeling the press of Sloane’s hand in mine, the weight of the cat on my lap, the pulse of our little universe spinning in perfect, chaotic rhythm.
This is the family I chose, the one that chose me back.
We are enough. More than enough.
And we’re just getting started.