Years pass and people change. This is a simple fact of life. I know, because I've changed a great deal over the past decade. I'm hardly the girl I once was. Sometimes I struggle with whether or not this is a good thing. More often than not I concede that it is very good for me. Once I was naïve and foolish—and happy. Now I'm wise beyond my years and safe, all too aware that happiness is fodder for fairytales and the silly girls who don't stay far, far away from them. Girls just like me when I was a child.
My life is no fairytale, though it could have been once. I thought it was going to be, anyway. But I had to let go of all that; I kissed all thoughts of immortals and golden eyes and icy kisses and butterflies in my stomach and fragrant meadows and promises of forever goodbye.
I grew up and tried to forget. And I did the hardest thing I ever had to: live.
X
Sometimes when I'm lying in bed at night with his head on my stomach, I cheat and think of Edward. In those early morning hours, still with the darkness and chill of nighttime, I convince myself that it's okay to think of him now and then. It's the grown up and healthy thing to do, to wade through my emotions and face all the pain. Only it hurts too much to be healthy.
I picture him laughing, his sensual lips creased up in a smile I would never forget, in various places: hiking up a grand mountain in chase of a bear with Emmett; resting in a field with plush grass and never-ending flowers; lying with another woman, their perfect limbs wrapped up together on satin sheets. Most of the time I imagine him somewhere in the sun, his opal-colored flesh glistening, with me beside him, running my fingertips across his skin so cold it burns.
There are times I miss him so much that I can hardly get out of bed. The illusion of a life I've created seems more hollow than usual on those days. Greg knows vaguely that I loved and lost back in high school and is very good about giving me space. I snort at the image he probably has in his head: me, awkward and in love with a quarterback, or a track star, or another immature womanizer. He has no idea of the life I lived in Forks. He is so open and honest with me that occasionally I get the urge to tell him everything. It's more that I want to tell someone to prove to myself it actually happened. That it wasn't just a dream.
But Greg can never know. He is rational, sensible. There are no shades of grey in Greg's world, no lurking monsters in the shadows. He wouldn't be able to wrap his head around it, about the almost frightening love I felt once for a beautiful man and his family. He would never be able to comprehend my devotion and the ever-present thoughts of golden eyes and cool hands that plague my mind almost constantly.
Tonight, however, thoughts of Charlie creep in despite my best efforts to keep them out. I struggle to hold on to the image of Edward's face, which never fails to send a sharp tearing of pain through my chest, a pain more welcome than the one I'm trying to push away. My flawless memory of Edward's face burns me tonight, of course, but then once again Charlie's trusting face flashes behind my eyes and a foreign, almost suffocating hopelessness slithers in. Now I wish I had taken the sedative.
Desperately I try to shut off my thoughts. My doctor tells me sometimes focusing on the relaxation of parts of my body will aid in falling asleep. Tonight, Greg's head feels heavy and my legs are restless beneath the too-hot covers. I sigh while attempting to move my legs around a bit without waking him up.
"What are you thinking about?" Greg's voice is raspy with disrupted sleep.
I stroke his hair. "Did I wake you?"
The question is stupid and the answer obvious, but it's something to say.
Instead of answering, he nuzzles into the softness of my stomach. He hums in contentment, vibrating against my skin and making me shiver.
We are silent, but just as I'm positive he's asleep, he speaks. "Are you all right?"
His voice is so genuinely concerned and exuding love that I look down at him. His eyes are shining, lit up by the Fork Motel's lights filtering through the cheap blinds. It is during moments like this that I'm overcome by the depth of his love. It's not an illusion, or a cheesy fairytale, or unbelievable by any means. I know he loves me. I'm not a distraction, or a toy, or an experiment. To Greg, I'm just Bella. He'll never really know how grateful I am for that.
"Touch me." My voice is a whisper, but it is certain.
Greg shifts so he is sitting. "I don't think that's a good idea right now."
I know why he thinks so, and in my more reasonable moments I'd agree with him. But now, back in Forks and in this crummy hotel, I need something. I want to hurt, and this is the best way I can think of going about it. I also want to be touched, to feel real, to know I'm loved. A brief thought crosses my mind, a terrible accusation from my conscience that I'm using Greg, but I shut it up. We all use one another, after all. I would know.
I touch his bare chest, grazing the swells of his subtle muscles and hating myself for imagining someone else's.
"Please." I hate begging, but I'm certainly not above it. "I need it."
And like with everything else, Greg cannot deny me.
We connect in the darkness, and it's not long before we finish.
Greg's hands clutch me to him as I cry, staring into the shadows. His arms are warm, the weight of his hands are familiar. But I cry harder because they are the wrong arms, the wrong hands.
It's all wrong.
X
The rain is my punishment the day Charlie is buried. Its droplets are piercing cold and relentless. I have left my hair down to frizz, aware that I'll look as ugly as I feel. The writer in me is almost pleased with the poetic justice.
Today I have taken a sedative, prompted by Greg and my own emotions. My eyes are swollen and I've never felt so tired. Or so numb. I concentrate on my expensive heels occasionally digging into the mud and the uncomfortable pressure of heavy raindrops that fall on the sections Greg's umbrella doesn't cover.
Jacob is there, staring at me from across Charlie's grave. He looks lost and regretful, but I don't care. I don't care about much of anything at the moment. I look away, but Billy's intense eyes capture my attention. He, too, looks remorseful, but he also looks like he has something to say. The rest of the pack, including Sam, stand to the side of Jacob and his father. They look distracted, peering around as though some presence were lurking behind the forgotten gravestones. I wonder if it's just habit, but their tense postures alert me it's something more. My curiosity is stirred minutely, but then I sigh and look down at my hands.
The priest is droning on about eternal life and I have to fight the urge to giggle when I think of the Cullens. The pills certainly make me loopy. Had the Cullens heard my father died? Had they learned how? Did they know about Renee?
Did they even care?
I feel Greg's lips cooled by the weather on my cheek, alerting me that the funeral is over. People are suddenly before me with clammy hands, offering their condolences and eyeing me like I'm about to have a very large, messy breakdown. Perhaps the only person I'm fooling is myself.
Billy folds around my hand tightly when he makes his way up to me. His hand is warm, reminding me of his son's warm skin. I shiver. "Please come by, Bella, before you leave town." Hesitantly but defiantly, he wraps his other hand around my forearm. His grasp is almost desperate. I stare deeply into his eyes, finding myself interested in spite of myself.
The years have not been good to Billy Black, but he's still technically healthy. The consuming worry he's born over the years is written plainly across his face. His eyes are tired and yellowed, dull with age and too many problems. Still, kindness and concern shines through and I find myself nodding.
"Thank you." His words are so silent that I cannot hear them over the rain, but I read his lips. "Come soon. It's important."
He wheels away, ignoring his son who is hovering nearby. I'm dreading a conversation. Greg must pick up on the tension, though he has no idea about the particulars, because he leads us to his car. By the time I'm seated in the passenger seat, Jacob is gone.
As Greg jogs around to his side of the car, I see a flicker of white in the distance.
It's just a blur, and it could be anything. But the tingles in my previously numb body tell me otherwise.
"Do you want something to eat?" Greg asks.
Never taking my eyes off of where the blur had been, I shake my head. Part of me wants to get out and investigate. Another part of me wants to get out and scream and scream and rage against the rain that has turned to ice.
But a much larger part of me denies what I've seen. I'm silent and still as we drive away, leaving my father and the rest of the past behind.