27. Eden
Eden
If anyone tries to tell you that time flies once you have a baby, punch them in the throat and then ask them to babysit.
If anything, time becomes a reverse black hole, where hours elongate and slow until every day is a slog through unending cycles of drool, disaster, and poop.
So, when you finally look up and realise that nine months have passed, it’s less “oh, how precious” and more “what the actual fuck.”
Nine months. That’s how long it took to bake Olivia, and it’s also the exact interval between “welcome to parenthood, Sawyer-Bishop,” and “your parents are officially moving to the other side of the planet.” Not that I’m counting, but I might have a spreadsheet and at least three colour-coded countdown apps reminding me to call Mum before her morning walks on the “bloody freezing” North Sea coast.
Today is the day. The Farewell Tour, round two, but this time with a non-refundable one-way ticket. Sloane and I drive my parents to the airport in our Subaru, which now smells permanently of banana mush and wet dog despite the fact that we don’t own a dog.
Olivia is in the back, squealing at her own reflection in a sticky hand mirror and occasionally using it to club herself in the face.
My mother insists on narrating every one of these head bonks, as if I might miss a single one.
Dad is lost in the cycle of checking and rechecking his manbag every five minutes because he’s convinced himself he’s magically lost their passports.
At the terminal, Mum refuses to let go of Olivia, and I can already see the tear ducts priming for launch.
She whispers a string of impossibly specific predictions into Olivia’s ear—“You’ll walk on the winter solstice, you’ll love Black Sabbath, and you’ll make your mums lose their absolute minds”—before finally handing her over with a soft, tragic wail.
Dad manages to keep it together, but I see him slip a paintbrush into Olivia’s car seat like he’s bequeathing a family heirloom. It’s cheap, and the bristles are splayed, but I tuck it into my jacket like it’s made of gold.
We watch them disappear through security.
For a split second I’m thirteen again, left behind at a school gate because Mum is late for a partners meeting, only this time I’ve got Sloane’s hand in mine, and a baby chewing her own foot like it’s a delicacy, and a life that’s half terrifying, half wonderful.
I have to remind myself that it’s a good thing.
That this is what parents are supposed to do—launch you into the world, and then, if you’re lucky, occasionally check in to make sure you haven’t joined a cult.
The drive home is thick with silence. Sloane is good at letting me stew, and she only interrupts my moping to hand back the emergency fruit pouches when Olivia starts making her pre-exorcism whimper.
We pull into the driveway and stare at the house, our house, as if it’s new and unfamiliar terrain.
I half expect it to have caved in without my mother’s gravitational presence.
“You okay?” Sloane asks, turning to me but not pushing.
I consider lying. Then I consider crying, but decide against it because Olivia is watching and I don’t want to set a precedent.
“I think I’m going to need, like, three hours of Friends reruns and a large whiskey.”
Sloane nods, taking it as gospel. “We have to go to Benny’s at six. Bella reserved the back booth and threatened to release a swarm of angry lesbians if we don’t show up.”
“Perfect. Can we just…pretend to be normal people until then?”
Sloane grins. “I think we’ve always pretended. That’s basically our brand.”
Benny’s Diner is still unchanged. I think it’s going to be one of those places that remains stuck in time, and I’ll always love it for that. The windows are foggy, the Formica is sticky, and the lighting does wonders for under-eye circles.
Olivia is at peak cuteness, dressed in a onesie that Sloane’s mother bought her. It’s black with rainbow frogs printed on it. Bella will friggin’ love it. Olivia’s already coated the sleeves in drool before we even get to the table.
The gang is already there. Becca, in a beanie and what looks like her fourth straight day in sweats, is holding down the fort, texting with one hand and eating fries with the other. Bella is next to her, black eyeliner so precise it probably required a ruler, arms folded and scanning the room.
Pia is downing her milkshake with gusto.
The kids aren’t here, which explains Pia’s radiant smile.
Bryce loves looking after Meena and Arin, which in turn means Pia can have five minutes to herself, which has done wonders for us all.
There’s an empty chair for Sloane, a highchair for Olivia, and a big, garish bouquet of balloon animals taking up the other side of the table. I’m not even surprised.
“Look at this crew!” Becca shouts, waving her phone like a tiny flag. “The Sawyer-Bishop power couple, and baby Liv, who will no doubt be the head of the UN or a rock star.”
I’ll just be happy if she lets us get through her teen years unscathed, to be honest—although her lungs are made for power ballads, that’s for sure.
As we settle in, a waitress with a nametag that says “DARLA” appears, wielding three milkshakes and the resignation of someone who’s worked in food service since the invention of the booth. She sets the shakes down with a thud and eyes Olivia. “Well, aren’t you the prettiest little thing?”
Olivia immediately blows a spit bubble and smacks the table. Darla beams.
“She gets it from her moms,” Bella says, then winks at Sloane.
Conversation is the usual: updates on Pia’s new job, Bella’s latest failed attempt to quit Twitter, Becca’s ongoing feud with their neighbour, and, of course, the spectre of my parents’ transatlantic escape.
It’s comforting, in a masochistic way, to hear everyone else’s drama and realise I am not, in fact, the centre of the universe.
Sloane orders for us, her standard two veggie burgers, one extra fries, and two milkshakes that have the highest calorie count.
She’s not even pretending to make healthy choices anymore, which is oddly reassuring.
Olivia gets a plastic bowl of mashed carrots and, I swear to God, she starts plotting the trajectory before the spoon even gets close.
About ten minutes in, Olivia makes her move. With the wrist flick of a future tennis star, she launches a glob of orange paste directly at Bella, nailing her squarely on the left boob.
Bella doesn’t flinch. “Impressive,” she says, dabbing at her shirt with a napkin. “She’s got your aim, Sloane.”
I feel a twinge of pride. Becca leans over and scoops the next glob off the table. “Wait until she’s strong enough to really launch her food. My cousin’s baby almost took out a ceiling fan with a banana.”
Darla returns with our food, balancing the tray like an Olympic sport. “Here we are, loves. Anything else I can get you?”
“Do you have any mushy peas?” Sloane asks, deadpan.
Darla’s eyebrows go up. “Um…maybe in the back. You want some for the little one?”
“Would make her day,” I say. I’m a little ashamed my child likes the revolting things, but there we are. Mum gave her some a few weeks ago, and she’s addicted. I’ve had to special order cans of them just to keep her happy.
Darla nods, all business. “I’ll see what I can do.”
Bella waits until Darla leaves before launching her bombshell. “I have an idea for next month,” she announces, voice like a challenge.
Sloane and I exchange glances. “Is it another bar crawl?” Sloane asks.
“God, no. Last time half of us didn’t make it past round two,” Bella says, then points at me. “And some of us passed out in the coat closet at the Lucky Gnome.”
I raise my hands in mock surrender. “In my defence, it was warm and the coats reminded me of a soft pillow.”
“This is way better. The city marathon. We do it as a team. Raise money for the Trevor Project or, I don’t know, something with more lesbian flavour. We train together, then run together. Or walk. Or crawl. Doesn’t matter,” Bella continues.
A silence descends. Sloane blinks. “You want us to…exercise? In public?”
Neither Sloane nor I have run in a long time.
Becca chimes in, “I think that’s the point. Community. Sweat. Making memories. Plus, think about the photo ops.”
I try to picture myself in running shorts again, possibly with a baby carrier strapped to my chest, and nearly choke on laughter.
Sloane chews this over, then looks at me with that “what if” glint. “It’s not a terrible idea.”
“I can’t believe you’re siding with Bella,” I say, half horrified, half impressed.
“It’ll be good for us,” she says, and I know she means “good for you,” but I don’t call her out. Of the two of us, I’ll be the one who struggles to get back into shape. My pre-Sloane personality regarding exercise has slowly started creeping back in.
Bella, victorious, immediately opens her phone and starts looking up registration fees. “We’ll do matching shirts. Something subversive, like ‘Lez Run.’”
Becca cackles. I try to protest, but Sloane’s already pulled up the race website and is filling in our details.
“If we do this,” I say, “I’m not responsible for anything I moan post-race.”
“Deal,” says Bella. “I’ll get you blackout drunk at the finish line.”
Darla returns with a bowl of pale green mush and sets it in front of Olivia, who stares at it like it’s about to bite her.
“Special delivery,” Darla says, and winks. “Let me know if she wants a to-go container.”
Olivia shoves a fistful into her mouth, then into her hair, and then onto the highchair tray. She is the picture of contentment, a goblin queen in her element.
“I can’t wait for her to be a teen,” Becca snorts. “She’s going to be hell. Jenna 2.0.”
Sloane smiles, soft and proud. “She already is.”
Eventually, Bella gets tired of marathon logistics and pivots to the “which show are we binging next” debate. It’s a heated contest between the new queer vampire drama and a limited series about overfishing. Olivia votes by smearing pea sludge on Sloane’s jeans.
When Olivia is sufficiently more vegetable goo than human baby, we settle the check.
Walking out into the Colorado twilight, where the air is crisp, we soak in the relative quiet of the early evening.
Sloane holds my hand. Bella and Becca trail behind, arguing about whether the marathon requires any actual running, and Pia debates whether she could fit in a quick mani-pedi before relieving Bryce of babysitting duty.
“Hey,” Sloane says, nudging me. “You doing okay?”
“Yeah,” I say, and I’m not lying. “I think I am.”
At the car, we load Olivia into her seat and pile in. For a second, the world is silent, just the three of us, breathing. Then Sloane clears her throat.
“I know it’s been a rough couple of weeks,” she says, “but I want you to know, we’re going to be okay. Even if you miss them, even if you miss the whole family thing, we’re still—” She gestures between us, “this. Us.”
I nod, not trusting my voice.
Olivia babbles in the back, like she’s reciting a poem only she can hear.
I take Sloane’s hand, squeeze it. “Thank you,” I whisper. “For all of it.”
She smiles, soft. “Anytime, Sawyer.”
The next morning, there’s an email from my parents.
It’s a selfie of the two of them at a seaside pub with Gran, Grandad, Jenna, and Kiera, drinks in hand, wind whipping Mum’s hair into a chaos of salt and grey.
The subject line just says “Wankers,” which makes me laugh.
At the bottom, a PS: “Don’t forget, we’re only a phone call and a bad joke away. ”
I delete the countdown app. I toss the bristly paintbrush into Olivia’s toy box. And then I sit down at the kitchen table, open my laptop, and finish registering for the city marathon.
Because if there’s anything my parents taught me, it’s that sometimes you just have to keep moving, even when you’re not sure where the hell you’re going.
That night at Benny’s, we didn’t do a formal toast. But here’s the one I give now, under my breath, as I stare at the gentle chaos of my family, my friends, my perfectly imperfect life:
To new adventures. To questionable decisions. To the people you lose, the ones you find, and the ones you make along the way.
And to mashed carrots, because they are fucking everywhere.