Now, sitting in her kitchen, the answer was obvious; Willow. She’d never met anyone more suited to being a dad. She could see him carrying a strawberry blonde boy on his shoulders. Teaching a little girl with pigtails to kick a football. It wasn’t the right time now, but that didn’t mean it couldn’t be their future. She’d cleaned her apartment. She could stop fucking herself up. She had every intention of dealing with her family. Why couldn’t she and Willow have a baby?

With a shaking hand, Eden signed her contract. She stared at the digital scribble—so unlike her hand-drawn signature—and forwarded the document to Andy.

“Done,” she told her apartment. Then she wrote Willow a reply.

I still have to go on tour, but I love you too. Can we please try long-distance? 

Her fingers itched as she wrote, hating every molecule of vulnerability. But running away was what she’d always done, it was time to try the opposite and see what happened. She sent the text, then collapsed into bed and slept for sixteen hours.

19

Usually, Eden woke up groggy, but the next morning she bounced out of bed. Some gaping internal wounds seemed to have knitted overnight and she found herself irrationally optimistic about life. Smiling at nothing, she checked her phone. Willow hadn’t replied but Francis had sent a message.

Hope you pulled up okay after Hardiman’s party. Looking forward to touring, sexy.

The words were followed by a bunch of devil emojis. So, he’d taken exactly nothing away from his fight with Willow. He was going to keep creeping on her until she said something.

Why not now?

Fingers trembling, Eden went to her contact page and hit ‘call.’ She waited for the voicemail to click on, but to her surprise, Francis picked up. “Hey sexy, how are you?”

“I’m not going to fuck you.”

There was a stunned silence. “Okay…?”

“I’m serious. I appreciate you getting me on the tour, and I love your music, but you need to knock this shit off.”

He chucked. “Edie, don’t be like that. We’re friends.”

“We’re not. We’re Shaq and Kobe. We work well together and we complement each other, but you do not get to swing your dick in my face and act like you’re doing me a favour.”

A long awkward silence.

“Is this about your redheaded man?”

“This is about me, Francis. I’m a fucking great DJ and I’m gonna make you look cool, so show me some respect.”

He laughed, but there was a warmer note to it. “Okay. I’m not gonna apologise for thinking you’re hot though.”

“I wouldn’t want you to.”

“And if you weren’t with Williams—”

“Nothing would happen. We’re so not a match, it isn’t even funny. I’ll let you go, Francis. Talk soon?”