Page 17 of Built to Fall
Eden groans again and flops onto the couch, her navy sweatshirt riding up slightly as she buries her face in a pillow. “I want to look good! The kind of good that would make an ex-boyfriend cry.”
“You don’t have any ex-boyfriends,” I remind her.
“Okay, well then I want the guys who I’ve hooked up with to see me from across the stands and remember me.”
“Set the bar a little higher next time, I beg of you,” Meredith deadpans.
“You guys are so unsupportive,” Eden mumbles into the heart-shaped pillow. One of the ones she clearly picked out
“You’ve changed outfits six times,” I say, setting my toast down beside my tea. “We’ve supported every single one.”
“And voted,” Kara adds, still in her half-pigeon stretch. “Democratically.”
Eden lifts her head enough to glare at us. “I liked the third one best.”
“I did too,” I say, walking over to sit beside her. “It was chill. Confident. You looked like you didn’t care at all.”
“Which means,” Kara chimes in, “you looked perfect for afootballgame—a place where outfits really don’t matter at all.”
“Again, you don’t really get to sayoutfits don’t matterwhen you quite literally make a living off of being a high-fashion supermodel.”
Kara doesn’t even blink. “Correction: I make a living off of other people’s care for the outfits I’m wearing. Totally different.”
Meredith snorts. “So humble of you.”
“I’m just saying,” Kara replies, “no one’s going to be looking at Eden when there are guys tackling each other in tight pants and helmets.”
I also hate that my mind immediately pictures Grant and how good he must look in his uniform—broad shoulders in pads, his jersey clinging to every muscle, with his helmet tucked under his arm.
I hate how easy it is for my brain to conjure the picture.
“Gee, thanks,” Eden mutters, but she’s smiling now.
“Don’t worry about it,” I tell her. “We still have plenty of time. You’ll figure it out.” It’s the most comfort I can provide.
“Wait.” Eden sits up, placing the throw pillow on her lap. “You know that vintage Yale sweater you wore freshman year?”
My entire body stills.
Of course I know what sweater she’s talking about.
I can still picture it folded on the chest at the foot of my mom’s bed. The way her favorite perfume still clings to the collar. I used to borrow it without asking. She let me take it to school when I left for Yale—said it deserved to be on a college campus again.
I wore it constantly the weeks following her death. Until I couldn’t anymore.
After a moment of Eden expectantly looking at me, I give her a stiff nod.
“Could I borrow that?”
“No.” I say it before I can even consider how it might hurt Eden’s feelings. A complete gut reaction.
“Oh…” Eden just stares at me, not knowing how to respond.
I don’t know what else to say either. The mention of my mom’s sweater landed in our apartment like a chopper on a helipad—too big for the space, too loud for this early in the morning.
Eden fidgets with the hem of her sleeve. “I didn’t mean?—”
“I know.” I offer her a half-smile, one that doesn’t quite reach.
