Page 1 of Thanks for Coming Along

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Eden

“In the trash!” a shrill voice called from above her head. “Right where she belongs!” Not only was the voice grating to her ears, but the tone was far too smug for Eden’s taste.

Eden Percydidfind herself lying in garbage. The voice was annoying, but it wasn’t wrong. A soggy bar napkin clung to her head like a sad, damp party hat.

Worst. Birthday. Ever.

Today, she turned 26. And, of course, this was how her night ended. If her life had a theme, it would be this: when things could go wrong, they absolutely would, with breathtaking flair.

The stench of stale beer and something far more unidentifiable hit her nose, making her stomach lurch. This was not the kind of glamor she’d envisioned for the start of another year of life. No confetti, no champagne, just garbage juice and the faint aroma of poor decisions.

She glanced up, tracking the source of that shrill voice. Her eyes narrowed at the gang of fake-tanned, knockoff Barbies cackling like a pack of mean-spirited cats. She couldn’t believe it—one of them had actually pushed her. Into a garbage can. On herbirthday. The audacity was staggering, rude in every possible sense of the word.

The cold, sticky club floor under her was bad enough, but then a stiletto heel hovered just inches from her face, its sharp point dangerously close to her eyeball. Eden froze, holding her breath as the heel wobbled, inching closer to her. One wrong move, and it could puncture her cornea—or, if the universe was feeling especially cruel, give her a lobotomy. Honestly, at this point, a lobotomy didn’t seem like the worst idea. Maybe it would stop her from getting into ridiculous situations like this—or at the very least, make her forget they ever happened.

"Not today," she muttered under her breath, pushing herself up with a grimace. The combination of garbage juice and stale beer seemed to cling to her skin like a bad omen. Eden was many things—messy, disorganized, unpredictable—but she wasn’t about to add trash to the list.

Eden swore she didn’t look for trouble—it just had an infuriating knack for finding her. Although, if she were being honest, this time maybe she had poked the bear. Or rather, Ingrid had.

Her best friend had clocked Eden’s sour mood long before they arrived at the club. Ingrid always had a way of knowing when Eden was off-kilter, and tonight was no exception. She also had a zero-tolerance policy for anyone adding to Eden’s stress. So when those girls made their snide remarks about Eden’s “shitty music,” Ingrid’s protective instincts kicked in like a mama bear ready to maul anything that threatened her cub.

It started small—just a sarcastic comment here, a pointed jab there—until Ingrid snapped, calling them “orange-hued assholes.”

That didn’t exactly diffuse the tension. Instead, it fanned the flames into a full-blown yelling match.

Eden tried to keep the peace—or at least prevent them from getting banned from yetanotherclub—but found herself right in the thick of it. One of the platinum blondes, her spray-tanned arms flailing wildly, accidentally (or very possibly intentionally) shoved Eden. She stumbled backward, her boots skidding against the sticky floor, before she landed with a graceless thud on the concrete.

It wasn’t her worst fall, but it was definitely one of her least dignified. Her arms pinwheeled, her knee smacked something hard, and—ta-da!—garbage can debris rained down on her like the world’s saddest confetti. Wait, she did get confetti on her birthday! That was a plus. A soggy, beer-soaked, crumpled napkin kind of plus, but still, a plus.

At least the gin and tonic she’d been nursing all night dulled some of the embarrassment—or maybe it was just numbing her tailbone. Either way, the sting of her pride hurt more than her ass.

As she peeled a limp piece of lettuce off her sleeve, she shot Ingrid a pointed look.

“This,” she muttered, voice dry, “is why I stay home.”

It was a new habit for Eden to limit herself to just one drink when she went out. Not that she went out much these days. There had been a time when her nights were punctuated by stunts like crushing beer cans against her head or downing an excessive amount of shots, all in an attempt to numb the noise of her chaotic thoughts. But things changed when she began intensive therapy and came to terms with the reality that alcohol had been her crutch for avoiding unresolved issues. Imagine that, she thought wryly. Who would've guessed that she'd ever be the type to sip a cocktail slowly and not make a scene? Who was she kidding? Alcohol or not, she still made a scene most nights.

These days, she aimed to conduct herself in a way that would make her therapist proud—most of the time, anyway. Occasionally, the mood struck, and she'd still throw a middle finger at the paparazzi for fun.

Paparazzi.Panic began to simmer. She scanned the room, her eyes darting around, and noticed a few onlookers gawking at the spectacle. A cold shiver ran down her spine at the thought that someone might have filmed the entire thing.

Eden didn’t care much about the consequences for herself. Scandals were practically a second language to her; she had weathered enough over the years to turn a headline-worthy catastrophe into just another Tuesday. A slightly rowdier Tuesday, sure, but still just a Tuesday.

The problem wasn’t her. It was Ingrid. Eden’s best friend had far more at stake. Ingrid had dedicated her life to becoming a principal dancer at the prestigious New York City Ballet. She was on the cusp of achieving that dream, and her commitment to her craft dwarfed even Eden’s success in the music industry. While Eden had spent their teenage years dancing on bars and chasing boys at 2 a.m., Ingrid had been in the studio, training with an Olympic level of discipline.

Music was Eden’s passion, sure, but it had never demanded the kind of single-minded devotion Ingrid gave to ballet. It wasn’t just a career for Ingrid—it was her life.

The thought of anything jeopardizing Ingrid’s hard-earned success hit Eden like a punch to the gut. Her mind raced, already strategizing how to spin this. She’d have her publicist team on damage control by morning. She wouldn’t let her mistake drag Ingrid down with her.

Eden scanned the room again but found no phones in sight. Relief flooded her when she realized no one seemed to be filming. The VIP area of the club had a strict no-phones policy; devices were typically confiscated at the entrance. Eden and Ingrid had been granted an exception—a perk of Eden’s B-list celebrity status—but it seemed no one else had been as lucky.

"You snot-nosed, cheeto-dusted brat!" Ingrid snapped, her voice slicing through the tense air like a whip. The room fell silent for half a beat before one of the girls hurled a stinging retort, her words dripping with venom. Eden didn’t catch exactly what was said, but judging by the way Ingrid’s shoulders tensed and her fists clenched, it must have hit its mark.

And then it happened—a sound erupted from Ingrid, guttural and raw, something so bizarrely primal that Eden nearly choked on her own breath. It was a yell that defied logic, somewhere between a battle cry and a Wookiee roar. Eden blinked, momentarily stunned. Was that really Ingrid? Her poised, ethereal best friend who could float across a stage as if gravity didn’t exist?

Ingrid’s arms rose, ready to fight for her best friend, and Eden couldn't help but feel a sudden rush of warmth. It was almost comical—Ingrid, the graceful ballerina, turned into a warrior in a split second. But Eden knew that when it came to her, Ingrid didn't hold back.It felt entirely unnecessary to Eden. She had endured far worse than this. She had grown up under the weight of words meant to tear her apart, insults designed to cut to the bone. She’d built armor over her childhood scars, shielding herself from the world’s sharp edges.

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