Finding Eden

04

The tiniest bit of air left my mouth as I let out the most unattractive noise—the first thing I've ever directed at him vocally. We stared at each other in stunned silence and I did the only other sensible thing to recover from my embarrassment.

I cried.

"Don't," he said hastily as he tried to pry the dish out of my hands.

When he found that my fingers were molded into the glass ridges, his mouth fell open, unsure of what method would calm me down the best.

"My bad," I gasped in between disgusting sobs.

"No, no. My bad. All my bad," he said, quick to place the blame upon himself.

If my eyes were reflective, he would have seen the transparent way his face twisted when my tear ducts filled up again. After shoving the dish into his hands, I wiped the wetness off my face with the edge of my scarf. He quickly placed the plate on his shoe cabinet and grabbed my arm before I could get away.

"I'm serious. When's the last time you've slept?"

He sighed when I shrugged and he guided me into his house. He made me take of my boots and he tossed my repulsive scarf near the door. There was another pair of shoes at the entrance. Noticing me notice that, he said that his friend was over but she'll let herself out.

"You don't," I hiccuped.

"I want to."

With tears still streaking down my face, I trailed behind him as he went to go heat up my apology casserole. He kicked the leg of a chair so that I could sit on it and when I placed my elbows on his table surface, it brought tremors to the ground we were placed on.

"What's your name?" I asked.

The question had been itching in my mind ever since he threw his cigarette out his balcony.

"Cade. Yours?"

"I'm Eden."

"Copacetic."

"Excuse me?"

"Co-pa-ce-tic. It means wonderful, everything's in order. Now that we know each other's names of course."

"You too, I guess."

To this, I saw his cheeks rise up from the corner of my eye. It wasn't long, watching him move around the kitchen and a plate consisting of chicken alfredo and broccoli was served up to me. Cade leaned on the counter and tossed me a fork, gauging my reaction as he twirled a corkscrew in his guitarist fingers.

"What happened to my casserole?"

"You're joking." He sat down at the breakfast bar, on the stool opposite of me. He then poured chardonnay into the empty glass next to me.

I hadn't been joking but I must have well been because he looked straight in my eyes and basically told me that he's had enough of the funeral casserole bullshit.

"I don't drink," I said.

"Your wine-stained lips would say otherwise," Cade said as he brought his own glass to clink against mine. "Let the feast begin."

And in our pity dinner, I learned that Cade was left-handed, majoring in music, and that he had a thing for dark comedy and Fred Astaire. In turn, Cade learned that I, Eden, was right-handed, a soloist at the ABT, and that I had a thing for Ginger Rogers. It was the most ill-fated turn of events as I learned that our favorite couplings had been musical royalty.

"Why haven't you slept since that night?" he asked again.

"Which night," I dodged his question.

"You know which night. I'm a psychology minor," he said, as if it explained it all.

"I see why you're shrewd."

"Stop avoiding the question, Eden."

The way he said it turned my name from minor to major and it stopped me in my tracks for a moment. He was quick to address me by my name and there was no doubt he had won over many people using this tactic.

"I don't know. It must be your bed," I said.

His amber eyes surveyed my face before he let up. "Why don't you sleep here then? Just for tonight."

"Something advises me not to." I shot his proposal down.

"But something advises you that maybe I'm right."

So fifteen minutes later, we climbed the stairs to the third floor. It felt odd, out of place, yet completely second habit, despite the premises of his proposition.

The second floor, he said, was where his all music instruments and devices are. I peered into the first room and it was disheveled. Minimalistic but messy, with the bed covers strewn all over the floor and mattress. A couple books here and there while the single lamp was the only furniture. What stood out was large canvas propped against the wall with a white sheet failing to cover the majority of it. It was unfinished but what was done was well done. It appeared to be a portrait of him, judging by the similar slope of his jaw and curve of his lips.

"I didn't know you painted as well," I said.

"I don't. It's not mine," he said and he shut the door to his room with more force than intended. He took me back to the room with the bare walls and smooth floors and large windows.

We settled down; I was under covers while he took up his place against the window. This time, he didn't have his cigarettes to accompany him. Only the same worn-down copy of Slaughterhouse Five. And at 12:50 a.m. Cade walked back to his room after he set up the oil heater because like he told me, that room tended to stray from heat.

He came back at 4:10 a.m. to wake me from my sleep because I was screaming and tangled in the sheets with death on my mind. And this time, he crept into the bed next to me.

The next few nights, I woke up in cold sweat with my heart beating to crack my ribs open and all he did was stroke my hair and rub the sides of my arms until I calmed down. And every time I fell asleep listening to his steady breathing, I appreciated how he didn't hold me down like the very first time my aunt had when she broke the news of my parents.