Page 8 of Scoring Eden

“I think so. Aunt Aspen plugged it in when we got home.”

God bless my little sister. Macon’s phone is the only reason I can sleep while he’s away.

“You wanna call me before you go to sleep tonight?”

“Yeah.” He scooches off his bed and walks toward me with his arms outstretched.

I fight to hide a smile and hold him to me. More often than not recently, it’s been me initiating hugs, often to total rejection. So, it’s like Christmas morning when he comes to me first.

“Come on. We can pack your bag together.”

“I’m thinking we should go out,” Aspen exclaims, setting her empty bowl down on the small coffee table.

She stayed with me after Macon was picked up, citing that she didn’t want to go back to her dorm because she was craving pasta, and her roommate is a fitness fanatic who judges her for eating carbs. But I know Aspen. And I know that she didn’t want me to be alone tonight.

I grimace. “Really? At this time?”

The sun has long since set, the apartment awash with a muted, golden glow seeping from the table lamp in the corner and the bathroom light that Aspen left on. Macon called at eight for me to tell him goodnight, and my plans for the evening revolved around a long bath and a nine o’clock bedtime.

I’m all about the rock-and-roll lifestyle.

“Yes!” She bounces in her seat, her long braid whipping against her shoulder. “We should go to a bar. It’ll be fun, and you need fun. Seriously, when was the last time you actually had any?”

“I took Macon to the zoo last week. That was pretty fun. There’s a gorilla there who can do sign language, and Macon…” I laugh at the memory but trail off at the pitying look on her face.

“I meant fun without Macon. Without being Eden the Mom. When was the last time you had fun as just Eden?”

I can’t blame her for the intervention.

My life has become a conveyor belt of school drop-offs, work, and laundry. But I don’t think she can blame me for not finding time for fun in between all of that.

Truth is, my identity is so tied into being a mother that it sometimes feels like there’s no room for me. Having a baby at eighteen will do that to a girl, I guess. I’ve been a mother all of my adult life. Who even am I without it?

After dropping out of high school, losing all my friends, and being corralled into a marriage I never wanted as damage control for my family’s shame over my teenage pregnancy, I never had the opportunity to learn.

“I mean, when was the last time you had something stronger than soda to drink?”

Last month, actually. I sank a bottle of rosé while trying to predict the asking price of listings featured on Selling Sunset. See? This girl still knows how to live it up.

My sister sighs. “Look, I love you, but whenever Macon’s not here, you wallow on your shitty little futon for two days, bingeing Netflix reality shows about realtors in LA.”

“I watch other things,” I huff. “There’s a show about realtors in the OC as well.”

She stares at me like I’m proving her point. Then she takes my hand, as if it will help soften the blow of whatever she’s about to say next. “I get that you never had the chance to be young, but, dude, you’re not dead yet. You’re still in your twenties. You get one weekend every month where you could be getting out there and actually living a little, and God fucking knows you need to. If I have to spend one more evening helping you clean melted Cheeto dust out of your hair, I will file for emancipation.”

“I don’t think you can emancipate your sister.”

“Respectfully, Eden, you are a twenty-eight-year-old woman with the life of a retired spinster.” She crosses her arms. “I will find a way.”

“Ouch.”

“The truth hurts sometimes, Edie, that’s why it’s called tough love.” She slaps her knee. “Now, go take a shower.”

I resist, even though I know she’s already won this battle. “What about money?”

“Pick out an outfit hot enough that other people will pay for your drinks.”

“But I’m tired.”