As he starts the engine and pulls out of the lot, Alexander thinks it’s weird Eden can’t afford her own transportation. She’s apparently worked as a sous chef for several restaurants before, and her salary there alone would have been more than enough to afford her a cheap car. Or, at the very least, a chef jacket that doesn’t look like it’s about to fall apart.
Maybe she’s bad with her money. Maybe she’s just super frugal. Or maybe she’s trying to reduce her carbon footprint by taking public transit. In the end, it’s none of his business.
He lights a cigarette to make up for the one he didn’t finish earlier. He lets the burn of smoke build in his lungs as the memory of Eden touching his arm flashes across his mind. His heart picks up speed, but he has no sweet clue why.
“Whatever,” he mumbles to himself as he drives home.
The first thing Eden does when she gets back to the apartment is toe off her shoes, walk over to the back of the living room couch, and flop head-first over the back to bury her face in the cushions.
Every inch of her body is sore. Her hands are dry from constant washing, her hair is a knotted mess, and she still has the scent of murky dish water up her nose.
She contemplates falling asleep then and there, but not at the risk of waking up with a kink in her neck and a knot between her shoulders. Eden sits up, forces herself to stand, and slowly but surely drags her dead feet down the hall to the bedroom.
Got a boyfriend at home waiting for you?
Rina’s question was perfectly innocent, but somewhere deep down, Eden could feel the sting in her chest. No, there was nobody at home waiting for her. Her cramped one-bedroom apartment can only boast one resident, and she isn’t there half the time anyway thanks to work.
Fridge, empty.
Laundry, piling up.
Dust, everywhere.
Hotel, Trivago.
Eden has no time to clean. She has more important matters to take care of.
She heads over to her wardrobe—a white, four-drawer cabinet from Ikea she managed to score when one of her neighbors moved out— and pulls the top drawer open. Eden reaches to the back and fishes out the large coffee tin she’s hidden there, popping the plastic lid off to peer at the contents inside.
Cash. Lots of it.
She adds what she earned from tonight’s service—the kitchen gets 5% kickback of whatever the servers earn in tips—and closes the lid back up, replacing the coffee tin quickly.
“Only five thousand to go,” she whispers to herself, half-reminder and half-assurance.
She forgoes taking a shower and decides to wash in the morning. Right now, her bed beckons.
* * *
He’s there before she is, tall and alert and appearing well-rested. Eden doesn’t understand how he looks so refreshed considering how late they worked last night. His dark black hair is washed and absurdly fluffy. His face is serene in the daylight. Practically sparkling.
Then there’s her. She’s more than aware that her hair is still wet from her shower, and her bangs are doing that weird cow-lick thing she despises. There are dark circles beneath her eyes, her cheeks feel puffy, and she’d be willing to do just about anything to get one more hour of sleep.
So unfair.
Alexander sips at his coffee, observing the time on his watch. Eden’s really starting to hate that damn thing.
“Congratulations,” he says dryly. “You’re only thirty seconds late.”
“Traffic was awful,” she replies, shrugging off her jacket to hang it up.
She’s about to pull out her uniform jacket when Alexander shakes his head. “Stop.”
“What?”
“You’re not putting that thing on.”
“Why not?”
