Page 92 of Scoring Eden

Alex: Or at least do something that might make her feel more comfortable at my place.

Aspen: And you can’t do this on your own?

Alex: I could, but it would be better if you helped me.

Aspen: I am the magic touch for most things, I agree.

Alex: So, will you help me?

Aspen: I need to think about it.

Alex: It involves spending my money.

Aspen: You really should’ve led with that.

TWENTY-FIVE

ALEX

I finish adjusting the last of the new art pieces that we’ve hung on the wall and step back to survey our work. Where the apartment used to be a sterile box of black and white, it’s now splashed in shades of mauve, taupe, and rose. From the throw cushions, to the art, to the vintage rug that Aspen is straightening on the living room floor, to the peonies on the coffee table, the place looks like something straight out of Eden’s Pinterest board.

We didn’t even need to repaint. All it took was setting Aspen loose in the homeware store with free rein of my credit card. It turns out that it’s actually pretty easy to transform the aesthetic of your apartment if all the walls are white. That said, the black tiles are proving somewhat of an issue, which is why the several rugs we bought today are all so fucking big.

But if Eden wants me to retile, then I’ll retile.

“Do you think she’ll like it?”

“It looks like a cotton candy machine exploded in here.” Aspen looks up from the rug, slapping at a curling corner with more aggression than necessary. “She’ll love it.”

“You don’t think she’d rather have done it herself?” I chew my lip. “Like, what if she hates the rugs? Or the new lamps? Or the bedding? Or—”

“Will you relax?” Aspen clambers off the floor and dusts off her bedazzled jeans. They’re threaded at the bottom with feathers in every color of the rainbow, and her t-shirt reads Pass me the fucking vino in red, sequined letters. “She’ll appreciate the effort. And if she hates it, then at least you have the cash for her to do it all again.”

“Yeah.” I nod. “Yeah, you’re right.”

“I’m always right.” She flashes a mega-watt smile. “It’s you that’s the fuck-up.”

To say Aspen has been civil with me today would be a gross fabrication. When I picked her up in front of her dorm earlier, she had a (sharpened) kitchen knife in one hand and what looked like a hatchet in the other.

I admire her spirit and the fierce protectiveness she feels toward her sister—I would also threaten a man with sharp objects if he did to Brynn what I did—but I wasn’t feeling particularly receptive to weaponry this afternoon, so I made her throw them in a bush before getting in the car. Whether they’ve been seized by the police department while she’s been gone is her problem to deal with later.

But what she couldn’t exact in grievous bodily harm, she certainly made up for in cutting words. Over the last several hours, I have been called—and this is by no means an exhaustive list—a fuckwit, a turd-tumbler, a gibberwhore, and an ass-shitter. To which I argued that, technically, we’re all ass-shitters, so it doesn’t really count as an insult, and promptly earned myself a slap on the back of the head.

She’s mean.

And frankly, I’m a little scared of her.

“Will you cut me some slack?” I ask her. “I’m trying here.”

She tips her head to one side. “Has Eden forgiven you yet?”

I don’t know. I didn’t really stick around long enough last night to finish the conversation and find out. I could hazard an educated guess, though. If anything, she’s probably more confused and angry that I did the exact same thing I’d come to apologize for. Running away. All because of one throw-away comment about car accidents.

Shit. I need an appointment with Dr. Sharma ASAP.

“I don’t think so.”

“Well, you’ve gotta earn her forgiveness before you can earn mine.” She pauses, narrowing her eyes into slits. “And let me be very clear: mine is a lot harder to come by, especially where my sister is involved.”