Page 24 of Wasted On Us

I freeze for a moment at how cute and human she looks, her hair in a slightly damp bun, wearing leggings and a large sweatshirt, before she takes the bags from my hands, disappearing to set them down on the kitchen counter. I take the time to glance around. Nothing looks the same as the last time I was here.

There are boxes everywhere. Most don’t look packed. A good deal of them are still brand new from the store, folded flat in heaps on the couch and floor. Piles of mail sit on the coffee table unopened, alongside folded laundry that never got put away. I’m not sure what to do with myself and settle for awkwardly standing by the sofa. She picks up on this, rushing to move the boxes over to a less-crowded corner of the floor.

“I’m sorry everything is such a mess.” Once there is space for me on the couch, she goes about clearing the table, taking an armload of laundry away, and shouting to me from the other room. “I didn’t really intend on moving. Things kind of snuck up on me.”

“Oh, yeah? Still staying in Frostvale?”

“Yep.” Passing back through the living room, she nods for me to follow her toward the kitchen. “My lease is up this month, and they’re raising the rent by $500.”

Once in the kitchen, I start removing the food from the bags. She looks so grateful for the coffee that I worry she might cry. “For what? The whole lease term?”

“Nope. Per month,” she groans, shaking her head in defeat as she opens a container of peanut sauce. “So, I’m doing the only thing I can do, moving in with my parents.”

There’s a quality of derision to her voice when she mentions having to live at home, and it makes me vaguely uncomfortable. I know it’s a cultural difference. For some people, living with their parents is seen as shameful or embarrassing, a mark of failure. The way I’ve been raised, there is nothing wrong with staying home to take care of your family. It’s tradition. I can’t imagine a life where Abuelita wouldn’t have someone at home to take care of her, but I guess things aren’t the same for Eden.

“C’mon. It’s not the worst thing in the world. I live at home, to help take care of my grandmother,” I offer, hoping that it puts her at ease. “And I’m grateful I’m able to do that.”

“Really?” She stops fiddling with the to-go box in front of her, turning to look at me over her shoulder. “You’re not just saying that?”

“Really.” I insist. “Although I do have a bit of a side hustle I’m working on in addition to working for my dad.” I never imagined in a million years that I would tell a woman about how unwilling I am to leave my grandmother’s side, but here we are. I don’t want to divulge any more than I already have, so I change the subject as best I can. “Now, let’s eat. You need the energy. Then, I’ll help you pack.”

She’s grateful for the food, even more so for the coffee and the extra pair of hands. We spend several hours packing, cleaning, and packing again. It never feels like a chore, no matter how long it takes. All I want to do is spend time with her in the quiet of her home, learning more about her with each box of belongings that we tape shut and label in permanent marker.

I grab a surprisingly heavy shoebox-sized container from the top of her hall closet, blowing off a layer of dust before setting it on the floor between us. The lid comes off to reveal a jumble of items that look like they’ve been collecting dust for years.

“Oh, no,” Eden murmurs, a mixture of amusement and embarrassment coloring her cheeks. “I haven’t looked in there for ages.”

I can’t resist the opportunity. “What’s this?” I pull out a high school yearbook. Eden’s picture is near the front—same sparkly eyes but with a mouthful of braces and a hairstyle that must have been in fashion about that time. I smirk, and she swats my arm.

“Oh, stop it. High school was a rough time,” she says, rolling her eyes. “Maybe we should ask your abuelita to produce some pics of you.”

“I was handsome even back then.”

“Modest too.”

Next, I pull out a bright neon-orange baseball cap with the wordsProm Committeeemblazoned on the front. “You were on the prom committee?”

Her laughter rings out in the nearly empty apartment. “It was a moment of weakness.”

Then I extract a small, stuffed unicorn with a missing eye. “What’s the story behind this one-eyed little guy?”

Eden looks at the stuffed unicorn, then sighs, a fond smile on her face. “That’s Sparkles. I won him at a carnival game.”

“Sparkles, huh?” I tease. “Did he lose his eye in a fierce dart battle?”

“No!” Eden laughs, throwing a balled-up sock at me. “My dog got hold of him.”

We spend the rest of the evening going through the box, each item a new story, a new glimpse into her past. The mix of nostalgia, laughter, and shared camaraderie turns the chore of packing into a shared memory I wouldn’t trade for anything.

We don’t get through the entire apartment, but we make it manageable and get far further than she would’ve gotten alone. Whatever is left is something she can handle herself in the morning.

“Oh, my God,” she gasps, looking at her cell phone and wiping at her eye with the back of her hand. “Is it really that late already?”

I check my watch and experience the same reaction. I had no idea that time had passed that quickly, but looking at the mountain of boxes around us, I get a sense of just how long I’ve been here.

“I really should get going.” I stand from my place on the floor, groaning at the stiffness in my joints. “You have a lot to do tomorrow. I don’t want to get in the way.”

“Get in the way? Please.” Eden shakes her head, coming to stand between me and the door. There’s a softness in her eyes, as if she’s been grappling with something inside herself and finally gave up. “You have been an absolute angel today. I couldn’t have done it without you. Any of the past few days, now that I think about it.”

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