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“Now, walk. Before I decide to start eating the clowns.”
Chapter 19
Eden
It's a beige-on-beige purgatory. A limbo of muted tones and suppressed hysteria, furnished with hard, plastic chairs that I’m sure are designed to keep you so on edge, that when you finally sink into the therapist’s plush armchair, you’re comfortable enough to want to open up.
It’s a psychological trick. A lullaby of false comfort before the dissection begins.
Next to me, Malachi’s doing that weird little habit I’ve noticed, where he curls his top lip upwards, touching his septum ring with it.
“This environment is hostile, Eden,” he grumbles, kicking the magazine table lightly. “This lighting is designed to induce madness. And why is there a placard demanding I ‘Just Breathe’?” he grunts, sneering in genuine distaste. “Is oxygen so scarce here that mortals require a written reminder to use their lungs?”
“It’s an inspirational poster, Malachi. Don’t start.”
The plastic armrests are slick under my palms, and I’m gripping them so hard I can feel the tendons in my hands screaming. The room’s shrinking. The walls are inching closer with every tick of the clock on the wall as I stare at the door, my brain running a looped simulation of exactly how many seconds it would take to bolt through it, sprint down the hall, and vanish into the street.
“It is a command,” he counters, crossing his arms. The heavy wool of the coat—Matthew’s coat—strains across his broad shoulders. “And the typography is aggressive. If I wanted to be micromanaged on my gas exchange, I would have stayed in Hell.”
“Keep your voice down,” I plead, eyes darting to the receptionist, who’s aggressively organizing files behind her desk.
“I am merely pointing out the inefficiency of a system that tells you to breathe through your problems rather than simply removing the source of the irritation,” he says, leaning back so far the plastic chair creaks in protest. “If a limb is gangrenous, you don't take a deep breath and 'sit with the feeling,' Eden. You lop it off. It’s cleaner.”
“It’s not gangrene, it’s grief,” I hiss. “And you can't just 'lop off' your brain.”
“We could try,” he murmurs, a dark, playful glint in those round-but-not-quite-right pupils.
I open my mouth to tell him to shut up for the tenth time, but the words die in my throat.
He moves faster than I can track. One moment his hand’s resting on his knee; the next, it’s swallowing mine, lacing his furnace-like fingers through my clammy ones.
“You are in distress,” he states, his thumb rubbing the back of my knuckles, glare fixed on the poster as if he is mentally lighting the edges on fire.. “Why are we doing this to you?”
“I have to,” I choke out, pressing the heels of my hands into my eyes until stars explode behind my lids. “If I don't do this, Piper calls my Mom. If she comes here... it’s worse. This is the lesser of two evils. Just...”
“Edes?”
I look up, and my heart falls right out of my ass.
My sister’s standing by the frosted glass door, her yoga bag slung over one shoulder, perfect face a mask of pitying softness that shatters the moment her eyes land on the man sitting next to me.
“Piper?” I choke out.
“Eden,” she breathes, her voice trembling with quiet confusion. “Is that... why are you holding hands with this man?”
My brain short-circuits, sparking like a downed power line in a puddle. Think, Eden. Think. I’m holding hands with a disguised demon who’s wearing my dead boyfriend’s coat, in the middle of a lobby that features a poster titled ‘Healing After Loss.’
Yeah. The exponential rate of my breakdown is officially hitting terminal velocity.
The silence is a vacuum, sucking the air right out of my lungs. I’m hovering somewhere between vomiting on the beige carpet or passing out into Malachi’s lap when the hand laced through mine gives a grounding squeeze.
“You must be Piper,” he says, his voice smoothing into something warm, compassionate, and utterly fraudulent. He offers his free hand. “I’m Mal. I’m so sorry we’re meeting under these circumstances.”
Piper blinks, her hand moving instinctively to shake his. She’s staring at him—at the slightly bronzed skin, the handsome jaw, and the sheer, overwhelming presence of him. “Mal? I… I’m sorry, how do you two know each other?”
“We met in a grief circle,” he outright lies, his expression softening into a mask of noble sorrow. “Lost my wife, Sarah, a few years ago. It was… a journey. I saw Eden across the room a few weeks ago and recognized the look in her eyes. I thought I’d keep her company today. Moral support, you know?”
What the fuck…
