Page 26 of Scoring Eden

And I’m so tired of February.

TEXT THREAD BETWEEN ALEX AND ASPEN

Aspen: Hi, this is Aspen. We met at the bar last weekend.

Alex: So we did. How did you get my number?

Aspen: Eden fell asleep, so I looked through her phone.

Alex: Will she appreciate this when she wakes up?

Aspen: Dude, she’s had the same passcode for ten years. I keep telling her to change it, but she doesn’t listen, so this is on her.

Alex: That tracks. What can I do for you?

Aspen: I don’t know how to put this in a diplomatic way, but Eden needs new clothes.

Alex: What happened to hers?

Aspen: Spaghetti stains mostly.

Alex: And what do you want me to do about this?

Aspen: That’s up to you. I just figured that if you’re gonna be doing all this PR stuff, you’d probably prefer your girlfriend to be wearing clean clothes. And I would take her shopping myself, but neither of us have the funds.

Alex: Does this mean she’s agreeing to the deal?

Aspen: Not necessarily. But it might help.

Alex: Okay, I’ll drop off my card in the morning.

Aspen: Wait, what? I was just thinking you could give her an advance or something.

Alex: No, that money is for her future. Just put it all on my card.

EIGHT

ALEX

I look down at the address Aspen sent me on my phone then back up at the decrepit, weather-beaten building in front of me.

This can’t be right.

The bottom level is dedicated to an art store, where a broken sign reading SKETCH sags from the splintering wood portico. The windows are boarded on one side, shattered glass littering the brown turf beneath it, and even the drooping clouds above are stained a heavy gray.

To the side of the building, overgrown shrubs line the path toward a red door with peeling paint and an intercom with two apartment numbers. According to Aspen, Eden lives at 1B.

“Hello?” Aspen’s voice crackles through the shitty speaker.

“It’s Alex.”

“Okay, one sec,” she whispers just as someone yells, “Who is it?” from somewhere else in the room. “Amazon,” Aspen yells back.

That woman is a menace. In the space of twelve hours, she’s somehow managed to con me out of a sizable sum of money and even has me personally delivering my credit card to her at an address she doesn’t even live at, all while lying to her sister who is now expecting an Amazon delivery, not the dashingly handsome soccer player she’s considering faking a relationship with.

She buzzes me in, and I take the flight of stairs up to the apartment door—painted a light shade of pink, with a gold number plaque—and rap my fist against it.

“I’ve got it, Mom!” a new voice yells before the door whips open to reveal a boy with floppy brown hair and a small gap between his front teeth. His inquisitive gaze scans the height of me, his eyes widening when he reaches my face, with a whispered, “Holy shit.”