Why I Love You
The alarm clock glows green in the darkness, telling me it's past two in the morning and sending a faint light over the curves of her still body. She's laying on her side in what used to be my bed, under what used to be her comforter--in what is now our sanctuary, the place where we end our days and begin our mornings together.
With my eyes, I trace the hill of her hips, the contours of her pale, slender arms, the tiny toes peeking out from under the green blankets.
When I can't sleep, this is what I do. I stare at her sleeping form, reverently counting every glorious perfection and endearing imperfection, every freckle and mahogany strand of hair, every inch of pale skin and pink lips. I tack them all on my long list of why I love this woman--this crazy, gorgeous, reckless woman--and then I go over it again and again, thanking all that's holy for who she is and who she's made me, and wishing that I could do more for her, anything for her.
She always assures me that I do plenty. She'll pat my hand and smile sweetly up at me, saying that I'm all a man should be and she's lucky to have me. And I'll listen in silence, holding her hand and holding her here, with me, where she probably shouldn't be but for some reason wants to be.
Bella shifts next to me and a hand reaches in my direction, searching for me. I close it in both of mine and bring it to my lips so I can kiss the silky skin covering each delicate bone. As weird as it sounds, Bella's hands are one of my favorite parts of her, because, in a way, they are the reason we met…
It was a mid-summer's day spent on the playground, and we were just kids; small and breakable and full of wonder.
My mother sat on a bench nearby, waving in encouragement. "Go on, Eddie!" she called. "Go have fun with your friends!" And so I turned from her loving, smiling face to play on the jungle gym alone, too embarrassed even at my young age to admit I had no friends to play with.
Repetitively, I trekked up the ladder and down the slide. Up and down, up and down, wishing some of the other kids would ask me to play with them.
It was on my fourth trip up the latter when I saw the flash of a yellow sundress and the bounce of curly pigtails climbing ahead of me. She was much smaller than me, and wasn't as good at climbing. Her slow pace was starting to annoy me, and I began concentrating on her every movement, willing her to go faster.
That's when I noticed her tiny hand curling around the rung of the latter. Each fingertip was coated in a sanguine red, and my curious young mind immediately wondered what had happened to her, what had made her bleed. Blood fascinated me, the way it does most little boys, and the thought of a girl who wasn't going to go crying to mommy over a little bit of gore was strange to me.
Finally, the girl made it up the latter, and I followed her to the back of the line for the slide. My eyes were transfixed on her fingers, and without even thinking about it, I was reaching to get a closer look. My hand touched hers, and she turned to face me.
I peeled my eyes away from red fingers to look at huge brown eyes and hair that looked burgundy in the sunlight and the cutest little button nose I'd ever seen.
She must've thought I was trying to hold her hand, because she wove our fingers together and beamed up at me. "Hi! My name's Bella," she said in a childish, excited voice.
I wasn't interested in her name, only in the cause of her injury. "Is that blood?" I pointed to the red.
The little girl looked down at her hand and giggled. "No, silly. It's nail polish! I did it all by myself! Do you like it?" I looked closer at our intertwined hands and realized that it was, indeed, polish that was smeared unevenly all over her fingers, barely any on the actual nails.
She looked in my eyes, all hopeful and adorable, and I couldn't help but lie to her. "It looks pretty."
Bella smiled again and squeezed the hand that she still held. "Thank you. What's your name?"
"Edward."
"Do you want to play with me, Edward?"
There it was; the question I had been waiting to hear from some kid, any kid at all. Even then, she was able to give me exactly what I wanted and needed, without even knowing it. And from that day on, my big, calloused hands never let go of smaller ones with red nails.
Now, as the grown Bella sleeps peacefully beside me, and the memory of a more youthful Bella dances behind my eyes, I try to think of other tactics to coax sleep. If Bella was awake, I know what she would tell me.
"Read a book, Edward," she would say. "It'll relax you." She'd then stand up to make me some warm tea, because my baby is always trying to help. As she walked past, she would touch my hair and kiss my cheek, whispering in my ear, "You don't read enough."
And I would grab her arm and pull her back to me, grinning when she would stumble into my lap. "Then read to me," I would tell her with a kiss to the tip of her nose.
Her eyes would light up, just like they did the first time, and I would remember that brilliant child who sat on my front stoop countless times and read passages from books far beyond her reading level…
She was in third grade, and I was in fifth. By classic schoolyard rules, I was supposed to be smarter, wiser, and cooler than every lowly third grader in the school.
But Bella was different. She could write in cursive, and calculate complex addition problems, and she was even learning her times tables. Bella was a genius, and I was nothing but a rambunctious boy who liked to whip wads of paper at my unsuspecting classmates when the teacher's back was turned.
Despite that all, we were best friends. I gave her piggy back rides when her feet were tired, and she always let me eat her chocolate cupcakes at lunch, because she knew they were my favorite.
Back then, she was like my little sister. I watched over her, and she let me.
Our afternoons were spent at my house, while Bella's mom was still at work. I would kick a soccer ball around my yard, and Bella would watch from afar. When I got tired and sweaty, I would jog back to her, and she'd always have a glass of water waiting for me.
When she was reading, she'd insist on wearing Charlie's old reading glasses. They were black rimmed and magnified her brown eyes tenfold, and they gave her a terrible headache, but she wouldn't take them off for anyone.
One particularly hot day in Forks, I abandoned my soccer ball and made my way over to Bella. Without even looking up at my flushed face from the book resting on her knees, she handed me my water, and continued reading. She was smiling down at the pages of her worn book, silently appreciating the private joke written down before her.
I took a sip of the cool liquid and focused on the thick lenses balancing on her dainty nose, instead of the way her teeth gleamed through her full lips. Back then, I didn't want to admit to myself that I loved my best friend. "Whatcha reading, Bella?"
Bella raised her head and pushed up her glasses with one finger. "Catcher in the Rye."
I'd heard of that book before. My big brother Emmett had had to read it for his high school English class, and he'd said there were all kinds of bad things in there; curse words and beer, bad girls who did bad things for money and crazy boys who skipped school. I didn't think my little Bella should be reading that grown up book, but I wasn't going to be the one to crush her spirit. She could handle big books like that. She may not have understood everything she read, but she could always find the deeper meanings in her books. That's just how smart and intuitive she was.
"Is it any good?" I asked.
Little Bella beamed at me as she caressed the dog-eared corners of her beloved book, and nodded fervently. "You'd like it, Edward."
"Then read to me."
Her big eyes lit up as she scanned the print, looking for her spot. And then she spoke, and the fluidity and passion in her voice completely enraptured me:
I was half in love with her by the time we sat down. That's the thing about girls. Every time they do something pretty, even if they're not much to look at, or even if they're sort of stupid, you fall half in love with them, and then you never know where the hell you are.
Bella didn't even falter or blush when she said the swear word out loud. She was lost in the text, all outside distractions ignored as her eyes darted left to right across the paper, absorbing each and every syllable and breathing them out in a harmonious combination of words.
I grinned crookedly despite myself at her small voice reading such adult text, but if I was being honest, she moved me in that moment like no one else ever possibly could.
We talked about love that day. Not in a serious way, but in the way that dream-chasing young girls and tough young boys do. Bella wondered if love was really like Holden said it was in The Catcher in the Rye, and I rolled my eyes and told her not to be stupid.
Everything about her oozed love and affection, while it was a rare occasion for anything of the sort to permeate my coarse exterior. She was and is the only thing that can make me love, make me feel. She's always been able to bring out emotions in me that I didn't even know existed.
After that day, I asked Bella to read to me much more frequently. I pretended that I was only doing it to please her, when in reality, I was thinking only of the sound of elegant words being spoken in her singsong voice. But Bella saw through my façade, and with a smirk she would open the worn binding of whatever it was she was reading, and give me what I wanted, because that was just her nature. Always giving. Always.
And I would take, and feel guilty for it later, when I had nothing to give in return.
Which is part of the reason I won't wake her up now, at this late hour. Because she would rise out of this bed without a thought, and she would walk on sleep-heavy feet to get me something to drink, read with bleary eyes my favorite books, sing me a sweet song in a raspy voice. For me, because she loves me. All the while I would watch her from my spot in our bed, telling her not to trouble herself and praying she would anyway.
I won't do that to her tonight. She gives too much and receives too little, and if I can give her this one thing, this night of uninterrupted slumber, then I will do just that. I will suffer a sleepless night for her, and only her. I'm a martyr for her, when I can be. It's my way of giving back.
She hates when I do that--when I beat myself up for her, or let her take her frustrations out on me. But she doesn't realize that it's the least I can do, doesn't realize that I wish I could do so much more…
"The meadow. Ten minutes." That's all she had said to me. No hellos or how are yous, no chitchat or small talk. There was only a choking, sobbing voice on the other end of the phone, and I, not being able to deny her anything, told her I'd be there in five.
It was cold and dark outside when I hung up the phone and walked outside. Streetlights lit my way as I shrugged into my jacket and walked down the deserted streets of my neighborhood, mentally preparing myself for whatever it was that could make my Bella cry and flexing my newly obtained muscles, just in case I had to punch someone out for her.
When I arrived at the meadow, she was lying in the dewy grass, her eyes red-rimmed and unseeing, her clothes wet and muddy. Her long brown hair was spread out all around her in messy waves, and she clutched a used tissue in her fist.
Looking at her only confirmed my well-established love for her. Where others may have seen a mess of a girl, I only saw my beautiful Bella, who at the moment, desperately needed a hug.
I'd been in love with her for some time. I thought she was lovely in her simplicity and brilliant in her complexity. I hung onto her every word and savored her every movement. There were times when she would do or say things and I would think, "She feels the same way. She loves me," but through some unspoken rule, we never mentioned it. I was a senior, and I would be leaving soon to go to college, so I guess we thought it would be easier to remain platonic.
Still, I would fall asleep most nights with her face tattooed on the inside of my eyelids and her name on my lips, and I would hope and pray that we would, through some miracle, be together. All the while she would prance off with boys too old and too controlling for her, giving me warm smiles and kisses on the cheek that clearly said we were still what we always had been; best friends. And I would cringe at the sight of her on someone else's arm, but for her benefit, I never spoke of the pain it caused me.
Because I had things those guys could never have of Bella's--I had her trust. I had her loyalty. When she needed something, she called me, not them. She might have had all those other boys, but she still needed me. And that was enough to pacify me.
That's why I was here, in the meadow; because she needed me to be.
For a minute, all I could do was stare at her, lying in the meadow we discovered as children, with the moonlight bathing her face in a soft blue light. But then her shaky voice called out to me, and I went to her, wordlessly taking her in my arms. I didn't need to ask her what was wrong; she would tell me when she was ready.
We stayed like that for a while--her against my chest, the tears on her cheeks leaving marks on my jacket, and me conspicuously delighting myself with the scent of her hair--until she sniffled and lifted her head from my chest to look at me with sad eyes. "Jake broke up with me."
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes and say something sarcastic like, "That's a shock."
Instead, I kissed her wet cheek and told her I was sorry. That's what I always did. I apologized for the things those assholes did to her, the things they themselves would never atone for. And she would always thank me with a small nod and an even smaller smile.
Not this time. This time, she shot away from me, out of my embrace, and stared at me with an unreadable expression on her face. "What the hell do you have to be sorry for, Edward?" she whispered. Then, louder, she said, "You didn't do this to me."
"No, Bella," I wanted to say. "I'd never do this to you."
But I didn't say that. Like an idiot, I just stood there, still as a statue, and tried not to flinch away from her hard gaze.
"I mean, God, Edward. You saying sorry for something you had absolutely nothing to do with is not going to help." Her voice was rising in height now, as she turned to face me with her arms crossed over her chest. "Then what would help? What do you want me to do, Bella?"
Tears were rolling down her cheeks, and her lips quivered as she took a step closer to me and got in my face. "Tell me that I'm stupid for ever loving that asshole! Tell me that you knew this was coming! Yell at me!"
"Bella." I shook my head. "I'm not going to yell at you."
"Yell at me!" she insisted. She banged her balled up fists against my chest, her breaths ragged and her cries escalading. "Yell, Edward!"
It was all too much--the sobs and the brown eyes and the fists and the shouts.
So I gave her what she wanted. I grabbed her shoulders and I shook her a little too roughly and I told her what she wanted to hear. "You should have never been with him, Bella. He was all wrong for you! You know why? Because he's not me, Bella! He's all the things I'm not, and you need someone like me. You need me, Bella, me! Why couldn't you ever see that?"
Her tear-soaked eyes widened, but she said nothing. She just waited. So I continued.
"Why couldn't you ever see that we're perfect for each other, and that I've been here, waiting for you, waiting for us?"
Finally, she opened her mouth, but only to whisper, "What are you talking about?"
"I'm talking about me and you, Bella. Me and you." "Edward…" she started. But I wasn't going to let her turn me down. My heart just couldn't take it.
And so I did the very thing that I had been fantasizing about since the moment I was old enough to notice the way her eyelashes touched her cheeks when she closed her eyes; I kissed her. I took hold of her and forced her to me, and I kissed her.
She was rigid against me, but I didn't stop. I pushed my lips against hers again and again, and I wordlessly pleaded with her to just give me this, this one thing, this one moment, just please, just give me it…
That's when she melted into me and we were one. Her lips tasted like salty tears when she kissed me back, but it didn't matter. She kissed me, and she was mine, if only for a moment.
But it wasn't just a moment, because it didn't end there.
After that fateful moment, we were awkward and clumsy. The things that had previously come natural to us, like holding hands or teasing each other, took on a whole new meaning. But we worked through it, because I wanted her, and she might have wanted me, but we both definitely wanted an us.
I was right; she needed someone like me.
Of course, I only thought that because I knew that I could never hurt her the way all her past boyfriends had. That didn't mean I was worthy of her, though. And so I would spend my time with her, trying to be as good as she was, while I attempted to give her everything she wanted and needed, and more. When she failed a calculus test, or she missed her mom, or she just wasn't happy, I was there. I let her scream at me and throw things at me and take all of her emotions out on me, because she needed to, and because for just that one second, I felt like I was giving back some of what I took.
That was the way we operated, and it worked. She hated it, hated the way she could sometimes explode on me and the way I'd always let her, but it worked nonetheless. It got us to where we are today, in our bed, with her in my arms.
Bella sighs in my arms and shifts closer to me, burrowing her face into my side. I'm tired, and I want so badly to fall asleep with her snuggled up next to me, but sleep is still eluding me. At this point, though, it's so early in the morning that I might as well just stay awake, so I carefully extract myself from Bella's grip and slip out of bed.
Since I'm up, I figure I might as well cook a big breakfast for my girl. Rummaging through the fridge and cabinets, I get out all the ingredients and start mixing up pancakes. Then I lay strip after strip of bacon in a pan and sprinkle salt and sugar on them, just like Bella taught me.
She's always been the cook. Usually, I just steer clear of the kitchen, given my tendency to burn everything to the point where it's far from edible. Unlike me, Bella can cook just about anything, and it's always delicious. Especially her chicken soup. That's always been a favorite of mine…
My head was throbbing and my throat felt like it had a dagger protruding from it, not to mention the terrible fever that had me sweating buckets.
My roommate wasn't much help, but that was to be expected from a flighty college student whose obsession was bedding every freshman girl who came his way. The most he had done for me in my sick state was toss a box of tissues at my face and tell me to "stop sniffling, you fucker, I'm trying to sleep."
Bella had followed me to college at the University of Washington. She studied English, and I was pre-med. Our schedules conflicted, so we didn't see each other much, but when we did, we were your typical sappy couple. We would whisper private jokes in each other's ears and nip at each other whenever possible. Our friends hated it, but that's just how we were, so they learned to ignore it.
During the time I was sick, she would call me nightly and tell me about her day, refusing to let me get a word in edgewise because she didn't want me to use my sore throat. I didn't mind, though. I enjoyed listening to her ramblings, enjoyed knowing exactly what she was doing while I was confined to my bed.
Meanwhile, when she wasn't on the phone with me or at her classes, Bella spent her time with her new roommate, Alice Brandon. She would have spent her time nursing me back to health, but I wouldn't let her within ten feet of my infectious room.
Alice was both a godsend and a disaster waiting to happen. On the good side, she was there for Bella when I couldn't be, and gave her someone to talk to about…girl things. On the other side, she was a pretty-in-pink gossip queen who turned my sweet girl into a hair and makeup obsessed frosh.
But I really couldn't complain. My Bella needed someone who she could hang out with and talk to besides me, and I was thankful that she had found that person in Alice. And, being honest, I couldn't exactly complain about the slick, shiny hair and long eyelashes Bella had started sporting because of her.
Bella had had plans to go to a club not far from campus with Alice the Saturday I got a call from my doctor. Turned out I had mono--and a sinus infection on top of that--and the news couldn't have come at a worse time. Finals were coming up and I was by no means ready to be in my bed without a voice.
I told Bella of my dilemma, and she immediately began spewing out plans to make things easier on me.
"Well, why don't you let me drop some Nyquil or something off for you, babe? Please? I haven't seen you in ages. I miss you." In my mind, I could see her perfect bottom lip puffing out in a pout.
"Bella." I paused and grimaced at the sound of my raspy voice. "I will not let you catch mono off of me. It's hell, trust me."
She pleaded a few more times, but I would not have her going through the pain I was going through, so I told her to have fun at the club with Alice, and to call me when she got home. She conceded, although grudgingly.
That night, I managed to convince my roommate to stay with me, if only so I could see another human face for just a little. I didn't care about that jackass's health…but Bella was a different story.
"Dude, Edward, I swear to fuck if you get me sick, I'll have your balls."
"Relax, Jasper," I choked in my hoarse voice. It was all I could manage to say for the moment.
Jasper threw a case of DVDs at me and told me to chose one while he made himself some food. I picked one out at random, not in the mood for a movie, anyway. What I really wanted to do was go to the club and make sure no grubby assholes were dancing on my girl.
That's when I heard a loud knock on the door. The piercing noise made my headache pound, and I buried my head into my pillow in response.
I closed my eyes and breathed in the scent of my pillow--which still had the lingering tint of Bella--and waited for Jasper to send our visitor elsewhere.
And then it was like my fever went away, my throat healed, and my head stopped pounding. Because there were one-hundred-ten pounds of perfection sitting on my back.
Lifting my head off the pillow, I tried to look at her, but she had me pinned.
She bounced up and down lightly on my back as she crooned, "Hiiiii Eddie!"
It was so good to feel her warmth and smell her shampoo and hear her voice that I couldn't even take the time to be mad at her for exposing herself to my germs.
I groaned and rolled over in one swift motion, catching her before she had a chance to fall, all the while making sure not to breathe.
My efforts were unnecessary, though. My baby was decked out in gear that would keep her safe from mono. She wore yellow rubber gloves, the kind you wear to wash dishes, a painter's mask, and her Biology goggles.
Laughing at her and ignoring the shooting pain in my chest and throat, I kissed her lightly through the mask and gripped her hair. "Oh, Bella," I sighed. "You never listen, do you?"
Bella touched my lip with her rubber-clad finger and shook her head. "Never." A slow grin made her eyes light up. "I made you some soup!"
Excitedly, she jumped out of my embrace and into the kitchen of my apartment--where Jasper had inconspicuously departed--and brought a Tupperware container of steaming broth and a spoon to my bed.
"It's homemade chicken noodle," she told me proudly.
To this day, I will swear on the bible that that soup was what made me recover so quickly. It was like heaven in the form of noodles, and the warm liquid soothed my every ache and pain.
Just thinking about that soup makes my mouth water. If I could fry eggs and flip pancakes that tasted a fourth as good as Bella's soup, I'd cook my baby breakfast every morning.
But the truth of the matter is, I'm a horrible cook. So horrible, in fact, that the eggs that I just tried to scramble look like rubbery yellow blobs.
Frustrated with my lack of culinary skills, I toss the eggs into the trash and flip the last pancake on the griddle. At least those survived.
After pouring an excess amount of syrup on them, I plate them and head back up the stairs. Breakfast in bed seems like a good way to wake up my love.
Silently, I creep across the wooden floor of our room, trying not to trip over anything in the darkness.
A soft whisper stops me in my tracks. "Edward?"
Bella's always talked in her sleep, but it still thrills me when it's my name on her lips. A smile tugs at my own lips, and I almost want to let her sleep so I can hear her say my name again in that tired drawl.
But it's not sleep-talk this time. "Do you know why I love you?" she asks, as she sits up in the bed and rubs her eyes with balled up fists.
I grin, because this is a sort of tradition of ours…
I couldn't wait to make Isabella Marie Swan my wife. It seemed like I'd been waiting to put a ring on her finger since the moment I met her, and after she graduated college, I did just that.
She'd accepted my proposal without hesitation and with tears of joy. And I…I just sat back in disbelief, because she was really mine.
We decided early on that we wanted our personal vows to be in private, where we could say anything in the world to each other, anything we wanted or needed to say, anything that we couldn't say in front of all our loved ones. Things like that needed to be private, we decided.
So it was after we were married, in the honeymoon suite that Carlisle and Esme bought for us, that we exchanged our vows. At first, neither of us knew what to say. We laid in the over-stuffed hotel bed--me still in my tux, the tie undone, and Bella with her gown bunched up under her legs--and stared at each other, willing to words to express what we felt to come.
"Do you know why I love you?" I asked. Because she had to know, and if she didn't, I would make sure she did.
"Tell me why, Edward."
I took her hand and held it close to my chest. "I love you because you still wear red nail polish, just because you know how much I love it. I love your passion for books, and the way you read to me whenever I ask. I love how your voice sounds when you yell at me, and how you always feel terrible for it afterwards, even though I really don't mind. I love you because you cook me enough food for a family of ten, and it's always delicious.
"I love you because you give and give and give--always giving to me and never asking for anything in return. I love the way you walk and the way you push your hair out of your eyes. I love your dimples and your freckles, and that mole right behind your ear that you always wanted to have removed.
"I love you, Bella, because you're everything a man could ever hope for. You're more than I deserve and your more than just my wife--you're my everything. And I love how you're not laughing at how cliché that sounded, but I wish you would, because I love your laugh, too.
"Bella, dear, I love you. And if I told you all the reasons why, we'd be here for a long time. But I'm not worried, because I have you for the rest of forever, till death do us part, for as long as we both shall live. And if it takes me that long to tell you why I'm in love with you, it still won't be enough, because you give me a new reason every day--no, every second."
I took a deep breathe, and exhaled my final words to her, "I just love you, dammit." And she cried tears that were not sad and stared for a long time at my face, before she launched into the reasons why she loved me back, and I listened on in amazement, because she really did love me as much I loved her.
Now, as I lay down beside my wife with a plate full of poorly-made pancakes, I'm prepared to give her even more reasons why I'm happy she's mine.
But she beats me to it. "I love you, Edward Masen Cullen, because you tell me I look beautiful, even when I look like death. I love you because you buy me books and movies and everything I could possibly want without me even having to ask. I love how you're always there when I need you, and how you always take care of me, and how you're always trying to be better for me.
"I love the way you smell when you come home from work and the way you look when you get out of the shower. And I love how your hands feel in mine.
"I love the fact that you didn't wake me up when you couldn't fall asleep last night, even though I know you desperately wanted to. And I love how I knew you didn't sleep because I couldn't hear your snoring or feel your warm breath on my neck while I slept--I love how much I missed those things, too.
"I love you, Edward, because you're part of me. There's no other way to explain it. You're mine because without you, I wouldn't be me. I'd die."
Bella moves the plate of food from my hands and sets them on the table beside our bed, so she can crawl into my arms. She lays on my chest and kisses me, her sweet breath mingling with mine as I tighten my hold on her, because I never can get too close to this woman.
She speaks her professions of love between each kiss, and they only make the flutter in my stomach quicken. "And I love the way you hold me, the way you kiss me."
With one final peck to my lips, Bella--my girl, my baby, my love, my wife, my everything--looks into my eyes and smiles my favorite smile, the one that says she's happy right where she is.
"I just love you, dammit."