Page 11 of Thanks for Coming Along
A playful smile crept onto Eden's lips as she leaned closer. "You seriously thought I would just let you interrogate me without returning the favor? I'll cut you some slack, Murphy, considering we're just getting started, and you don't know me all that well. But mark my words, I fully intend to unravel everything about you."
Ronan couldn't help but feel a sense of nervousness swirling in his chest. He was genuinely looking forward to learning more about her, but he wasn't used to delving into his own feelings. It seemed like the only way this documentary was happening was if he also became the interview subject.
"Just don't fall in love with me," she said with a mischievous smile. And that was when his heart stopped for a moment.
She had a way of keeping him on his toes, blurring the lines between work and personal interest. He just hoped he could keep things professional between them, but as he gazed at her stunning face and easy smile, he couldn't ignore the doubt that it might prove nearly impossible.
"Of course not," he said back with a slight frown. He was nothing if not professional.
7
Eden
The next morning, Ronan showed up at Eden’s doorstep at what felt like the asscrack of dawn. She squinted at him, the sun glaring in her eyes, and noticed the nitro cold brews in his hands and the curious spark in his own. Lucky for him, the caffeine bribe stopped her from shooing him away like a door-to-door salesman. He was flashing a winning smile as if about to try and sell her solar panels. He was only missing the clipboard.
She opened the door wider as he handed her one of the cups of coffee.
"Thanks for the cold brew. How did you know it was my favorite?" she inquired. He shrugged.
"I saw you drinking one yesterday." The man was evidently observant, a detail she tried not to appear too impressed. Or flattered by.
"Should we start the day with a secret?" he asked.Jumping right in, are we?
"Hold your horses, cowboy. Let me take a sip of this. My brain is still asleep in bed." she said as she took a deep pull of the drink. He watched her with a small upward curl of his lip. "Okay, shoot."
"What's one of your favorite memories?" he asked as he sought to unravel another secret from her.
Memories started bubbling up in Eden’s mind, pulling her straight back to her Juilliard days. Those were some of the best and worst times of her life. It was when her music was gaining momentum, but her emotions often felt like chaos. She thought about rooftop parties with merlot in Solo cups, eating greasy pizza on the floor of Ingrid’s messy college apartment.
That was a time of dreaming so big they were buoyant. She and Ingrid would lie on that apartment floor, staring at the cracked ceiling, talking for hours about what their lives would look like when they finally made it. Some nights, they’d walk all the way to the Brooklyn Bridge, screaming their wildest hopes into the night like it could somehow echo into reality. They believed if they yelled loud enough, maybe the universe would hear them.
"Grab your camera and follow me. I'm gonna go get something," Eden said as she walked towards her bedroom, figuring it would be easier to show him rather than tell him. Eden brought her memory box out from her closet and placed it gently on the living room floor. Dust had collected on its lid. She swiped her fingers across it before lifting the top.
Carefully, she began sifting through the contents, and her fingers settled on a particular photograph. It was a picture of her as a teenager, around seventeen years old. She stood there with her very first electric guitar, a red 'Rogue Rocketeer' that had been passed down to her. Her eyes were outlined with smoky black eyeliner, her brown hair disheveled as she sang into a microphone.
As she picked up the photograph, a soft smile graced her lips. With Ronan sitting in front of her, she placed the picture in front of him.
"This was my first gig. They'd set me up in the corner of the bar at around 4 pm on a Wednesday. There were probably only seven people in the room, and only half of them were paying customers. The rest were Ingrid and her family. That has to be one of my favorite memories. Doing what I loved, and people listening. And I made twenty bucks."
"What did you do with the twenty bucks?" Ronan inquired, leaning in as if eager to hear more. Eden's smile widened at the memory.
"Ingrid and I managed to talk a bodega clerk into selling us some forties, and, naturally, we got into trouble—like any self-respecting teen obsessed with rock and roll would," she admitted, an impish gleam sparking in her eye.
"What about you? Do you have a favorite memory, maybe saving a kitten from an old woman's tree or rescuing a child from a burning building?" Ronan's expression shifted.
"Do you think I'm some kind of hero?" he responded, the question lingering in the air. Eden leaned forward, her eyes searching his.
"You tell me. You're a war journalist, someone who sacrifices himself for the greater good. That sounds pretty heroic to me."
"Not even close," Ronan murmured, his eyes averting from hers. He took a deep breath, then tilted the camera down to look at Eden.
"But if I had to pick," he continued, "It would probably be going to my Grandad's hometown in Ireland with my family when I was a kid. It was the last time I remember being a kid, you know? No real responsibilities, just enjoying being young."
Eden could relate all too well. Her childhood had been shaped by her parents' emotional absence—a neglect that went deeper than just not being around. She thought back to that cold, empty apartment where she’d often be left alone for days. In some ways, it was easier when they weren’t home; when they were, things usually felt worse. She couldn’t even remember what it was like to be a carefree kid. By the time she was eight, she’d already figured out how to take care of herself. Her mom was mostly locked away in her bedroom, and her dad… well, she’d learned quickly to avoid him as much as possible.
"What else do you have in the box of tricks?" Ronan asked, breaking her out of her thoughts, his camera lens now zeroing in on the box before her.
Eden dug through the photo box and pulled out another picture. It was Ingrid and Eden lazing in the sun on the grass in Central Park. They had to be around fifteen years old, Ingrid was picture perfect with her icy blond hair and big brown eyes. Eden had always been rougher, messier. Her brown hair was disheveled, dark makeup smeared her eyes.
