Up In Smoke

by Love Lost Contest

After a lifetime of being overlooked, one woman may finally have the push needed to realize her beauty isn't at an end, it's at a beginning.

Title Up In Smoke

Characters Bella & Edward

Rating M

Word Count 3250

Disclaimer Stephanie Meyer owns Twilight, I do not. I just love working with her characters.

Summary: After a lifetime of being overlooked, one woman may finally have the push needed to realize her beauty isn't at an end, it's at a beginning

I drop my cigarette and grind it out in the fine dirt with my heel. I find myself confused, dazed, and completely pathetic. Three years spend with someone that I would have given my life for is now up in smoke, like the butt under my heel. The sad realization that they never loved me the same way makes my heart ache in ways that no one should ever experience.

I know that in his twisted way he did love me but it was for what I could provide. It wasn't about companionship or that happy horse shit that makes life worth living. It was about money and objects, even though he preached that money and possessions were never a motivation for him. It was about a house, a brand new shiny sixty thousand dollar truck, and being one of the guys. To him I was just a pretty face that could get him those things.

I pull another cigarette out of my pack and light it, taking a long drag and exhaling in a sigh. No matter how much I smoke it doesn't help with the anxiety and the numbness floating around me. Sitting at a picnic bench next to an almost deserted parking lot, I let myself float back, remembering some of the times that I should have stood up for myself.

I remember him telling me before we started seeing each other that he was the type to rule the bedroom. It was a turn on then, and I had no clue what such a statement truly meant. Its meaning was painfully clear one rainy spring day.

We were both home from working doing nothing in particular. I lay on the couch not paying attention to the daytime talk show that made Jerry Springer look like Larry King. He was over at his small faux-oak roll top desk, in contrast his large frame made him look like a grizzly bear at the kiddie table. He bent down to get a pen he knocked off the table and winked at me. I felt my skin heat up. He slowly got out of his chair an walked over to me, and took me by the hand, and led me to the bedroom.

He kissed me tenderly; paying particular attention to body parts that sang at his touch. Pulling his shirt over his head, I ran my hands up his chest, over his shoulders and buried my fingers in his brown hair.

Slowly he traced his hands up my arms and removed my hands from his head. "Don't, he whispered. I complied, removing my shirt instead. I wanted to feel him against my bare chest.

"Stop," he whispered, again removing my hands from the hem of my shirt.

"I want to feel you against me," I whispered back. As soon as the words left my mouth, he, removed himself from the bed with a lurch.

"I don't want your fucking shirt off," he growled and left the room. I laid there stunned. What the fuck just happened? Tears stung my eyes.

Rejection coursed through me. He said he did this to a previous girlfriend. He had told me that he had ended his relationship with her when her control in the bedroom turned his stomach. Was that how he felt about me? Did I disgust him? By taking off my shirt was I killing the mood?

I sat up and grabbed a brush off the night stand, running it through my hair. Placing the brush back in its place, I stood up and walked back to the living room, picking up the remote and flipping through the channels, not saying a word to him.

I stole a glance back over the couch at him. He was at his desk again humming some stupid Looney Tunes song shuffling papers. I turned back to the TV, finding a movie to watch.

I don't know how much time went by, enough to know that Mel Gibson wasn't the bad ass that he tried to portray.

Movement behind the couch is what caught my attention. I tilted my head slightly and there he was, leaning over the back of the couch his mouth next to my ear.

"Are you ready to do this again?" I said nothing; I just let him lead me back into the bedroom where he got what he needed.

Yeah, that was a red flag. I knew it then, but I ignored it. My desire to be loved overrode that nagging feeling that I was headed into something that would break me.

I stayed with him. Even though he was a very selfish lover and never wanted me without a tee shirt or something covering my body.

I knew I was settling, but I lied to myself. It is easy to convince yourself that it isn't that bad, the other things made it worth it—the huge bouquet of flowers when I graduated college, the beautiful necklace that he got me for Christmas, and the nights we spent just talking into the wee hours of the morning. That was how he showed his love. Or at least, I had convinced myself of that.

Had I loved him? Yes, I loved him, everything about him, even the fucked up parts. He was smart, diplomatic, and I liked the attention he gave me when others were around. I would lay awake at night and slowly run my fingers through his hair and he would sigh softly as he slept. My heart was so full of love for this fucked up man that I feared that my heart would burst.

Although now, it's hard to believe that I felt that way at all. I look at him now and see a man that couldn't love, not truly or completely.

It was a six months ago today that I told him that I wanted a divorce. Six months ago, I had realized that I wasn't the person that I wanted to be when I was with him. I was a cold bitter person, resenting everything that came from his mouth, insulted by the small "suggestions" that would mold me into what he wanted.

I'm not a bad person; I was just naive enough to think that I could sacrifice myself so that my children could have a father figure.

"Fuck." I curse, pulling out yet another cigarette. I remove myself from the bench and make my way to my red minivan. After a year, why am I still filled with such regret? I don't regret asking for the divorce. Regret that I didn't ask for what I needed; I regret that I lied so many times to myself, and that I believed that if I loved him enough he would return it.

For that reason alone, I was the screwed up fucker, not him.

I make my way across town and pull into a small gas station to get another pack of smokes. This pity train I am on needs more steam. Perhaps a trip to the happy store was in order.

"I'm heading to the happy store. Wanna come with?" he asked twirling his keys in his hand.

"Fuck yeah, I'm comin',"' I exclaimed as I slid my feet into pink fuzzy slippers.

"I'm not taking you anywhere looking like that," he said pointing to my feet.

"Oh, please. It's a block away and I wear worse things than this out in public." I said looking down at my blue and lime green striped pajama pants and dark blue shirt. I wiggled my slipper at him. "You afraid that my pinkies will draw too much attention?"

"No, you look like Ma Kettle." He laughed finally, seeing that I am not exactly color coordinated.

"You are afraid of my pinkies," I teased, taking them off and slipping them on my hands.

"What are you doing?" he asked backing towards the door.

"I am gonna desensitize you." I spoke softly approaching him like I was walking up to a spooked horse. I slowly lifted the slipper and brought it to his arm.

"Don't touch me with those things," he bellowed and ran from the house with me hot on his heels.

When he reached the bottom of the steps I launch myself at his back wrapping my slipper clad hands and my striped legs around him.

"This will hurt just a little." I giggle, rubbing my fuzzy slipper in his face. He screamed like a girl and ran for the car with me laughing manically on his back. He reached for the door and opened it. I stopped its progress with my foot and slammed it shut. "You love my pinkies don't you?"

"No, it's disgusting," he bellowed laughing along with me.

"Say it." I yelled, "I LOVE YOUR PINKIES!"

"Never! You vile pink fluffy shoe wearing heathen." He laughed as he grasped my leg behind my knee and pulled me around to face him. All the while I was still continuing the attack on his face. "They stink!"

I halted my assault, wide-eyed, "They stink? Really?" I brought one of the slippers to my face and sniffed. That is when he made his move. He pinned me to the hood of the car and rubbed my pinkies in my face.

"How do you like it? Huh?" I squealed and squirmed trying to get away from them.

"Okay, Okay. They stink. I'm sorry." I squealed again. We lay sprawled across the hood breathless, still laughing. He stopped and kissed my nose.

"I love your pinkies by the way." He said softly, pulling me off the car. I blushed and turned to get into the car. "So whaddya want? Rum or Rum?"

"Hmm, Capitan Morgan?" I asked, tapping my chin with my index finger.

"Always."

"I'd have to say Rum," I declared buckling my seat belt.

I smiled fondly at the memory. At least there were the good times. I think to myself, I can't say that it was a complete waste of my heart.

I get out of my car and walk into the liquor store, or as he dubbed it, 'Happy Store'. I peruse the aisles, looking for something to help me sleep. I am lying to myself again. I don't want to sleep; I sleep just fine for the most part. I want something to turn off the incessant whirling of my brain. I want to stop the constant psycho-analyzing the past three years.

I grab a bottle of cheap bourbon and walk to the cash register. I don't get carded since the stress of the last year has marched across my face leaving it mark. I give a weak smile to the cashier and I grabbed my brown paper bag, making my way back to my car and my vacant house.

~o0o~

I sit on my faded brown couch leaning forward, resting my elbows on my knees. Before me is a small white stool with a pint mason jar and a bottle of Jack. I sit staring blankly at the bottle. I am the one that can't live this way anymore. I am the one that told him that I hate who I am when I am with him. It is true. I absolutely loathe myself.

My cell phone vibrates on the couch next to me, the screen lit up with the bright laughing faces of my two girls.

"Hello," I answer, trying to fight the weight in my chest.

"Hi Mom." It is Leah, my oldest. "I just wanted to call you and say that we are back from the beach."

"Did you have fun?" I ask, smiling slightly at the thought of them carefree during this upheaval.

"Yeah, we had a blast. Rachel's dad took us cliff jumping." I wince. There is no way in hell that I would have enough intestinal fortitude to do that. But my girls are fearless and play just as hard as they work. "Megs jumped too. It was funny, she was all like–" she tells the story of her sister flailing about as she jumped. I grin at her, happy in the fact that they are taking all of this in stride. Kids are resilient like that; too bad their own mother is having such a hard time keeping it together.

I get off the phone but not before getting instructions to relax and take a bubble bath. I have good kids. They look out for me just as much as I look out for them.

I make my way to the bathroom with my bottle and Mason jar, intent on following the prescription that my daughter set forth. Steam billows around the small bathroom as I remove my clothes and immerse myself into the hot bath water.

It is there that I polish off a bottle of Jack, sobbing into my bathwater. What is it about me that someone couldn't find lovable? What attribute do I possess that men find so revolting that they can't bear to be intimate with me? It is obvious, my body isn't what it used to be; I'm overweight, stretch marks making my abdomen look like I got into a fight with a bob cat and lost. The days of my beauty are over, spent on a man that didn't want them in the first place.

I will be alone the rest of my days; the children will grow up and have kids of their own, while I will sit here writing sad pathetic things into a notebook that is of no consequence, surrounded by nothing but my dogs to keep me company.

I will accept my fate, as bitter as it tastes, and try to make it through my life alone. I will put on a new face. A face that will hide the anguish I feel about my destiny. I will smile, I will laugh, I will talk to my friends like nothing ever happened. That is how I will live.

I stumble out of the bathtub without draining the water, leaving my bottle on the floor. I somehow make it to my bedroom soaking wet, leaving a trail of drippy wet foot prints on the aged wood floor.

I crawl into bed, wrapping up in the blankets and knowing that I will never in my mortal life find the love that I seek. I will be alone. I am not meant to be loved in this life; I'm only to experience the longing for it and the sad desperation to find it.

The next morning I call in sick to work, telling them I had some sort of freakish summer flu. I think he bought the excuse and is more than likely hosing off my desk with Purell.

I walk to my coffee pot, wishing that the coffee would magically start brewing itself. I am hung over, and the faint sound of the fan in the living room is making my head pound. I reach across the counter for my cigarettes and light on up.

I inhale and immediately start to gag. Feeling the bile rise in my throat, I fling the burning cigarette into a glass of water in the sink and run to the bathroom.

Fuck this, I think to myself between heaves. My whole body contracts as I attempt to vomit over and over again. The smell of bile mixes with the putrid stench from last night's binge to make me even more nauseous.

Resting my head on the toilet seat, I glance over at the brown tinted bathwater from the night before. I had spilled more Jack into the tub than I had consumed; although my aching head didn't dispel that theory.

I drain the tub and scour the bathroom thoroughly, ridding it of the funk from the night before. From there I move to the kitchen and then to living room. With each item I dust, disinfect, vacuum, and rearrange, I push the thoughts from last night to the deepest parts of my mind. I move like a woman possessed, sweat dripping down the side of my face as I change sheets and stuff more clothes into the washer. Keep working that is all that matters now.

~o0o~

In the following months I throw myself into my work. Allowing me forget about how lonely I truly am. I have my routine; on Mondays, I go to the local coffee shop and write in my notebook at lunch. On Friday nights, I have sushi with my friends. I drink more than I should; it helps me sleep. I stay away from hard alcohol; I traded it in for wine. I drink copious amounts of it after my girls went to bed. It is a pattern that helps, but that nagging feeling still returns and I start all over again.

~o0o~

Today, Monday, I sit here writing in my notebook. The luxurious smell of customized coffee and newspapers fills my nostrils. I take my normal seat at the window, lazily sipping my bottled water and doodling on a blank tablet in front of me. My mind is blank, the words are not flowing, images not taking form.

Out of the corner of my eye I notice a white paper cup being placed beside me. I move my purse to make room for whoever wanted to sit at the small bar.

"Sorry," I murmur, "Let me just make room for you."

"No need to." The voice is deep, smooth and washes over me like a cool refreshing wave. I turn my head; I want to see who is capable of producing such a melodic calming influence.

He is stunning, tall, muscular, and has the most beautiful eyes I have ever had the fortune of gazing upon.

"You like them right?" he asked. He asked me a question. I have to answer, but the clutch between my brain and my mouth is still depressed. I am speechless. "You come in every Monday and order a vanilla latte." I stare at him dumbly. "Please tell me you still drink them." He chuckles nervously.

I cast my gaze at the table and then back up to him. I have to break this spell he cast upon me.

"Yes, I love vanilla." I say quietly.

"Good." he pushes the cup closer to me. "Please accept this; I want you to enjoy it." He takes a step back.

"Thank you," I murmur, as my face heats up.

"I hope to see you next Monday." He smiles meekly before turning and walking to the door.

"His name," hissed an elderly woman beside me. "Get his name, honey." I stare at the woman not completely understanding what she is telling me. "Honey." She grabs my arm and pulls it.

"I didn't catch your name." I raise my voice to catch his attention.

He turns back and gives me an award winning smile. "Edward."

"Thank you, Edward." I sigh. "Thank you very much." He nods his head, giving me a wink as he steps out the door.

I turn back to the cup of coffee staring at it and trying to process what had just happened. Small black elegant writing catches my eye. I turn the cup to view it. His name and number, in elegant, precise letters, are on the cup. "Edward," I whisper to myself, my heart fluttering as I trace the numbers with my finger. "I look forward to seeing you, too."