Contest Entry for the 2014 Mistletoe Contest
EdMazingC's (Host) top pick **THANKS**
Thank you, Ninkita, for being my last minute Beta and helping me get it cleaned up and ready to post.
Twilly, I absolutely love the banner. Thanks for sharing your amazing talent!
If you didn't get a chance to read the other entries, check them out. There are some really INCREDIBLE authors and storytellers here. Thanks to everyone who read and voted in the contest!
The rain is threatening to shatter my windshield and everything is a shadowed blur of green and black. I hate driving - especially in the rain, at night, on a winding road. I'm dreading reaching my destination but I can't avoid it. And yet, perverse as it seems, I'm drawn to it. I don't even know if he'll be there, although it seems likely.
My mom and Aunt Esme have celebrated Christmas jointly since before I can remember. She's been like a second mother to me my entire life. I don't see why that would change, even though Esme is married now. Married to Edward's father. My God, I'm insane to be obsessing over my sort-of step-brother-cousin.
I really am a complete mess. It's my nature to begin with, but this last year has tortured me. I grip the steering wheel tightly and ease off the gas as I hit another turn – another slippery leaf-strewn death-trap of a turn. The closer I get, the faster my heart beats, the shallower my breathing becomes, the more I want to turn around and flee. I'm hyperventilating and I know it but that doesn't help me stop. If anything it makes it worse.
I creep through the nearly deserted streets of my hometown. It's after 10 pm on December 23rd and everything is closed. Everyone with any sense is at home, dry and warm. Miles outside of town I finally reach the turn off to Aunt Esme's house. The formerly rutted, overgrown lane has been trimmed, groomed, and spread with fresh gravel. The crushed rock glows a ghostly gray wherever it peeks out from beneath the leaves and pine needles. It's one of many changes since Doctor Carlisle Cullen rescued my aunt from advanced spinsterhood.
I approve of him. Of course I do. How could I not? Seeing her glow with joy, loving and being loved, looking decades younger than her 58 years. . . How could I not love the man who made her smile like that? And my mom and dad think he's great, too. Finally, my dad has a 'bro' to hang with while the 'girls' get drunk off spiced cider and hot-buttered rum every Christmas.
The only shadow that gives me pause is the presence of Carlisle's son, Edward. He is gorgeous, intelligent, polite and as cold and stiff as a day old corpse. . . except when he isn't. And that's why I'm terrified to arrive, but still careening down the narrow lane much faster than my eight year old Civic should really be driven.
I brake harder than I intend to when I burst from the cover of the forest into the clearing that rings Aunt Esme's colonial inspired house. I say house but it's practically a mansion. I skid a little on the gravel, my tires fish-tailing alarmingly. I tap the brakes gently. I carefully park on the far side of the house, as far away as possible from the silver Volvo hatchback that sits conspicuously in the front driveway. It's Edward's car. Now I know he's here and my heart rate spikes again. I don't exit my car immediately. I'm still shaking.
There are lights shining from every floor of the three-story home. It looks so bright and welcoming. My eyes pick out subtle differences. It's been repainted recently, there is a new cedar trellis for the climbing rose and the ivy has been cleared away from the foundation. More of Carlisle's influence, of course.
I remember so many summer days and holidays spent climbing through the attic, exploring empty rooms, crawling between sheet-draped furniture, sifting through piles of books and artwork and baskets of craft supplies or playing dress up in front of the ornate mirror in one of the guestrooms. I never realized I was just rattling around like a wooden doll in an oversized dollhouse.
When I was a child it was a wonderland for my imagination; a giant playground for an active girl trapped inside by the incessant rain. As I got older I began to wonder why Aunt Esme lived in such an enormous house all by herself. The first floor was like a luxury mansion; high ceilings, polished wood floors, plush carpet in the recessed family room, a kitchen big enough to cook a banquet for 100 guests and a spiral staircase beckoning you to explore the second and third floors.
The bedrooms on the second floor were beautiful with four-poster beds and carved wooden dressers. Esme designated one room as mine for visits and sleepovers. When I was little it was overflowing with dolls, stuffed animals and pillows. I didn't even have a bed then. I just slept on the floor surrounded by my furry friends. When I turned eleven she ordered me a canopy bed and I begged my mom to let me sleep over for a whole week, drifting off each night to dreams of princesses and knights and mythical adventures.
The bed is still there but I'm in my mid-twenties now. The dollhouse and accessories are in the attic. All but a few very special stuffed animals have been donated. I know when I climb those stairs tonight that the sheets will be freshly washed, the comforter folded back, and there will be a small box wrapped in gold foil paper on the pillow. Aunt Esme has given me a new pair of earrings every Christmas since I had my ears pierced when I turned eight.
I am comforted by our traditions. It is change that makes me grind my teeth. Instead of four bodies round the table it will be six. Instead of Dad disappearing into the TV room while us girls talk and laugh and drink, we will be evenly matched - three men, three women. Well, Dad and Mom, Esme and Carlisle will be evenly matched. Edward and I. . . I don't know.
Aunt Esme started dating Doctor Cullen soon after he moved to Forks. She has always borne the brunt of this small town's penchant for gossip and speculation. Living alone and unmarried, yet polished, sophisticated and wealthy; she is a poor fit for this logging town although nobody outside of our family knows why that is so. They don't know that she left Forks at the age of 17 to be a companion to an elderly lady on the east coast. She traveled the world, learned other languages, experienced culture, art and music. She attended operas and theatricals in all the great venues of the world. She devoted almost a decade of her youth to the entertainment and comfort of an eccentric but wealthy foreign lady named Didyme Adessi.
When Didyme passed away she left a large portion of her estate to my aunt. As a child, I loved to hear Aunt Esme's stories of the fantastical adventures she experienced as a young woman. Her hazel eyes would flash and glow with joy and enchantment as she relived those memories. I didn't understand why she chose to return to her hometown after seeing everything the world had to offer. Well, maybe I do get it. My mom and her older sister were inseparable as children and they haven't really changed. I don't think they could live without each other.
Every Thanksgiving we gather in my parents' tiny kitchen and eat until we can barely move. Every Christmas we decorate Aunt Esme's house with lights and garlands, eat too much, drink too much, sleep too much, and extend the revelry over as many days as possible. When my dad doesn't have to work, he lets loose a little bit. When he has to stay sober he just shakes his head and smirks as my mom and Aunt Esme dissolve into giggling immaturity.
Last Christmas was different and I hated it. Esme invited Carlisle and his son to join us. Edward brought his fiancé. Rosalie Hale looked like a super model, but she wasn't. She was an obstetrician who worked in the same hospital as him. At five foot ten and only 130 pounds, she was graceful, poised, brilliant, stylish; the perfect woman. She and Edward were evenly matched while I was the ugly step sister. While they were there I forced myself to eat more slowly. I cut my meat into tiny pieces. I only ate one slice of pie. I sipped my wine. Then I snuck downstairs in the middle of the night to offset the calorie deficit that built up over the course of each day.
On Christmas Eve last year, a slightly tipsy Esme and a smiling Carlisle went around the house hanging sprigs of Mistletoe. I hate that obnoxious, parasitic weed. I tried to ignore them but my mom and Aunt Esme kept staging opportunities to capture kisses from their men. Edward and Rosalie were noticeably disinclined to join in the newly minted 'excessive PDA' tradition.
Carlisle was warm and outgoing, asking me about the bookstore I opened three years ago in Port Angeles with a hefty loan from my aunt. He kept my wine glass full at meal times and kept us all talking about our memories, our town and all the things we loved about it. Edward barely said a word. Rosalie never opened her mouth except to slip a miniscule scrap of food between her perfectly painted lips.
After Christmas dinner, Rosalie escaped as soon as social customs allowed; presumably to purge her stomach and perform hours of yoga in the guest room Esme set up for her. I was in the kitchen preparing apple-quince tarts from a recipe I discovered in a vintage cookbook when I remembered the packet of fresh nutmeg seeds I had purchased in Seattle. It was nestled in the side pocket of my duffel bag. I wiped my hands on my apron, dusted myself off and headed for the stairs. Edward was descending them and we were a hairbreadth away from passing one another when my aunt called out, "Uh, uh, uh. You're under the mistletoe! Let's see a kiss!" Sure enough, Carlisle had managed to hang a particularly large bunch of mistletoe from the chandelier above the base of the stairs.
I remember spinning and staring with shell-shocked betrayal at the grinning quartet in the living room. When I looked back at Edward, his expression was inscrutable. But he didn't decline. He stood there in his freshly pressed slacks and crisp shirt and just looked at me. I was wearing an apron over my peasant skirt and blue blouse. My hair was frizzy with perspiration and escaping from my braid in wisps and straggles. I was hungry and cranky and not nearly drunk enough to kiss a near-perfect, but ice-cold stranger, especially before an audience.
And I didn't kiss him.
But he kissed me.
He stepped toward me. His hands, graceful but strong, framed my face – cool skin against burning cheeks. His right hand slid down my cheek to cup my neck, his fingertips in my hair and his thumb putting gentle pressure against my jaw, tipping my chin up toward him. He tilted his head ever so slightly to one side and lowered his face until nothing separated us but a breath, a pause, an embarrassed silence. And then his mouth brushed against mine, silk and velvet, so soft and gentle. He pulled away after the briefest pause, my name a whisper on his lips.
And then the cold veil of indifference slipped back into place.
I was stunned. With flaming cheeks, I fled up the stairs while the previous generation hollered and laughed in the living room. I was too mortified to return to the kitchen for almost an hour. When I did, they were playing pinochle around the ottoman with a fire burning merrily behind them. Edward was nowhere to be seen.
I took out my confusion and embarrassment on peeling and chopping the quinces. I fought back tears as I scraped the leathery skin off with a vegetable peeler and gouged out the hardened core with a blunt knife. I didn't dare leave the kitchen again until I heard the older couples disappear upstairs to bed at close to midnight. As the timer counted down the minutes, the blend of scents was pure torture to my half-starved stomach; cloves, nutmeg, cinnamon, apples, quince and homemade pastry. It had been a long day but I waited patiently for the tarts to cook, and then turned them out from the oversized muffin pan to cool.
There were two with damaged crusts. Those were mine. I downed a snifter of brandy between steaming bites of tart. With a full stomach and a pleasant buzz, my imagination began to paint the kiss with excessively romantic overtones. Maybe Rosalie and Edward were breaking up. Maybe he was tired of the anorexic look and wanted somebody with a few more curves. . . or a lot more. Maybe he saw my fly-away hair and bohemian clothes as refreshing. Maybe all future holidays would see the six of us paired up perfectly, talking and laughing around the dining table for brunch the day after Christmas. With a nest of butterflies in my stomach, I arranged the 22 remaining tarts in concentric circles on two serving dishes, draped them with cloth napkins and went up to bed.
We all slept late the next day. Esme, my mom and I met up in the kitchen at 10 am to make brunch. I bit my lip in frustration. Somebody had already dug into the tarts. Three were missing. When I asked my mom she said they were gone when she got up. But so were Edward and Rosalie. Apparently they had decided to drive back to Seattle early without saying goodbye to anyone.
My confusion only grew in the coming months. With no contact and no sense of closure, the significance of the kiss became a sore spot in my pride, my self confidence and my peace of mind.
The next time I saw him was six and a half months later at Esme and Carlisle's wedding. He was standing behind his father wearing a perfectly tailored black tuxedo and a smile. Just looking at him made me dizzy.
Esme was wearing a vintage lace French gown with off-the-shoulder sleeves and a short train. My mother and I walked down the aisle ahead of her. My mother's dress was burgundy silk tied with a rose sash, an elegant gown that reminded me of something an Athenian goddess would wear. I had starved and speed-walked off eight pounds in anticipation of wearing that dress for the wedding. My gown was the opposite color scheme of my mother's – rose silk bunched at the shoulder and dropping straight down to the floor, gathered at the waist with a wide burgundy ribbon. I know it made my figure look incredible; curvaceous and soft in all the best places. But when I made eye contact with Edward as I walked down the aisle, his expression became serious and he seemed to look straight through me.
His presence less than 10 feet away made me nervous and distracted through the whole ceremony. I was relieved when the recessional began and I took my place behind my mother. I expected Edward to walk beside her but he hung back, matching his steps to mine. We all walked next door to the reception in the church hall. He neither looked at nor spoke to me and I quickly found some old friends to distract me from his presence.
I couldn't help that my eyes sought him out of their own accord. After half an hour I realized that he was there alone. Rosalie wasn't in attendance. I overheard my mom and Esme talking. Apparently they broke up. She eloped with her PA the month prior. Judging by the unwavering mask of indifference on Edward's face, he barely noticed she was gone.
I wondered if he told her about the kiss.
I wondered if he even remembered it.
I wondered why I couldn't forget.
Knowing he was alone gave me courage. Well, that and four glasses of champagne. I scraped together enough nerve to ask him to dance. He declined. My mother overheard and pushed us together.
"The maid of honor and the best man have to dance together."
"But mom, you're the matron of honor!"
"And I already have a dance partner. Go on, kids. Have fun!"
But we weren't kids. I was twenty five, and I didn't even know his age. Early thirties, maybe. And it wasn't fun. It was stilted and stiff.
It was as if that kiss had never happened. He had never spoken my name with any sort of feeling. He hadn't looked searchingly into my eyes for a reflection of his own desire. He certainly didn't wake up in the middle of the night randomly over the last six months panting with an unnamed need and nobody but an old, half-blind tabby cat for a bed mate. When the song ended, he thanked me formally for the dance and retreated to the bar for the rest of the reception.
Perhaps he was heartbroken over Rosalie, but I doubted it. There was more affection between the Clintons than I had seen between Edward and Rosalie. But maybe I didn't have the whole story. My mom and Aunt Esme speculated about his life, his relationships and his career. His father once told Esme that he had been distant since his mother's death when he was fourteen. He refused counseling. As a freshman in high school he threw himself into his academic career then followed in his father's footsteps and became a doctor.
I was relieved that he wasn't at my parents' house for Thanksgiving this year, but I still had to listen to Esme and Renee talking about him constantly. I barely spoke a word for the entirety of my two day visit and nobody even noticed.
Now, looking up at the house that was my second home through all of my childhood, I decide that this stalemate or whatever it is needs to end. I try not to feel resentful, but part of me is beginning to despise my step-cousin. On the other hand, I can't help feeling that the face he wears for the world is a cardboard cutout, a shell. What we all see is nothing more than the image of a disinterested man he projects to shield the terrified, lonely boy on the inside.
Then again, maybe I've read too many books. Perhaps he's just an asshole.
If he can't decide to open up and be a part of the family this Christmas, I'm going to have to find a way to draw him out. I tell myself that I'm motivated by more than the possibility of another kiss. I actually want this strange, silent, beautiful man to open himself up to living life. If he chooses to welcome me in on a personal level, that would be even more incredible.
The rain has faded to a steady drip. I take a steadying breath of cold air and reach for the door handle. I climb out of the car, shut my door, turn around and scream as a shadow looms before me.
"Hey, it's just me. Bella, it's me! Edward." His hands are held out in the universal sign of peace. "Can I help you carry anything inside?"
I press my palm against my chest to force my heart back inside. "I'm sorry. I didn't see you. Don't worry though, I've got it," I say as I step around him to my trunk and sling my duffel bag over my shoulder. I reach for the two bags of groceries I brought but he scoops them up before I can grab them.
"Please let me help. My father sent me out here and if I come in empty handed he'll scold me like an errant school boy."
I don't know how to reply beyond a stammering "thank you". Edward is being positively chatty compared to the last two times I've seen him. I slam the trunk shut and we walk up the front steps together.
"Bella! There you are!" cries my aunt when Edward opens the door for me. "Did you bring the cranberries?"
"Yes. And a few other things, too."
"Ooooh, did you find any quinces?" Esme is rapidly emptying the paper grocery sacks onto the counter while Edward watches, slack-jawed.
"Actually, yeah I did. Those tarts turned out so well last year I decided I had to make them again."
"What's a quince?" Edward asks with a quizzical look. Esme holds up a bag of large, yellow, roughly pear-shaped fruit.
"They're a fruit from the rose family, like apples and pears," I say, supplying the barest amount of horticultural trivia. I help my aunt finish unpacking and stowing the groceries, feeling a bit self-conscious with Edward standing there, hands in his pockets.
"Is that what you put in the tarts you made last year? They were incredible," he says, sniffing the air as the sweet, floral scent unfurls and fills the rooms.
"Um, yeah. And a few different kinds of apple. Mystery solved. I wondered who snuck the tarts from the kitchen counter last year."
"Sorry about that. Rosalie insisted on leaving before breakfast. I was absolutely famished and grabbed a few for the road. I don't think I've ever tasted anything so delicious before in my life." Edward grabs one of the quinces off the counter and inspects it curiously as he speaks.
Out of the corner of my eye I see Esme smirk and dart her eyes appraisingly between us. She is the one who taught me how to cook. She also used to swear by the antiquated truism that "the way to a man's heart is through his stomach". Never mind that the saying applies to me more than most men of my acquaintance.
I'm searching for a polite way to escape to my room to unpack and get ready for bed. We usually spend Christmas Eve decorating and I'm already exhausted. I need all the energy I can get to keep up with my mom and Esme tomorrow. Carlisle chooses that moment to pop into the kitchen and wrap his arms around Esme from behind.
"Mmmm. Something smells like heaven. What is that?"
Edward holds the culprit in the air and chuckles. "It's called a quince. I think you should try growing them."
"We've got plenty of space. I'll look into it. So Edward, what time is Leah arriving tomorrow?"
I should have known. A man as beautiful as Edward couldn't possibly stay single. I wonder if she's another blonde. I slip from the room feeling my aunt's eyes on my back. She sees right through me. I am transparent and I hate it. I try to close my ears to the melodic tones of Edward's reply but it's impossible.
"She's spending Christmas Eve with her family in Seattle. She may or may not be joining us. It all depends on how her family reacts when she tells them. . ."
I don't hear the rest. Knowing that he's in another relationship is bad enough. I don't want the details. My memories of the kiss exhume nightmare emotions now. Rejection. Humiliation. Loneliness.
I brush my teeth, change into my pajamas and scurry to my room. Just as I expected, there is a gold wrapped box on my pillow. I dump my duffel on the floor at the foot of the bed.
I pick up the box, turn it over in my hands, carefully loosen the tape and unwrap it. Inside is a small velvet jewelry box. It opens with a sharp snick and I pull out one of the gold dangling earrings. Mistletoe. How festive. Esme is not very subtle sometimes. However, I doubt she knew about Leah when she bought them.
I grit my teeth and stuff the box into the end pocket of my bag. I turn out the light, climb beneath the covers and stare at the ceiling, willing myself to go to sleep.
I can't.
Hours pass before I hear footsteps climbing the stairs. I pick out the soft hum of Carlisle's voice as he and my aunt pass my door on the way to their bedroom. It's almost 2 o'clock in the morning when I finally drift off to sleep.
The phantom sound of footsteps shuffling outside my door pulls me back to the hazy place between conscious thought and slumber. Tap tap. It's so soft I think I am imagining things. The sound does not repeat itself. I fall back to sleep and dream of soft lips and eyes painted the familiar gray-green of fresh mistletoe.
I am groggy when my alarm wakes me up at 7:00. I turn it off, swing my legs over the side of the bed and stare at the wall for several minutes. I refuse to go through a repeat of last year. If Edward is bringing another girlfriend over for Christmas, that's fine with me. I'm not going to tiptoe around them. I'm going to act like this is any other Christmas. It's time these Cullen men saw the real us. Esme, Renee and Bella – giggling, half drunk, loud and crazy. And I am going to eat whatever I feel like eating. I don't care if Leah is a size zero Crossfit champion. If that's what Edward is into, fine. He can have all the bony ass he likes.
Aw, hell. Who am I kidding? It kills me that he's dating super models and I spend my days and nights fantasizing about unattainable men, fictional or otherwise.
I unpack my bag, rattling hangers and shutting drawers a little harder than necessary. I gather my clothes for the day into a bundle, grab my shower caddy and head for the bathroom. My eyes are still blurry when I open the door. But not too blurry to know exactly what I'm looking at when my eyes meet Edward's horrified gaze.
My jaw drops open in a silent scream of shock and embarrassment. His left arm is outstretched, braced against the wall above the toilet. His pants are hanging low on his hips. I see the round swell of his ass cheeks rising above the black flannel, and his right hand is wrapped around his swollen dick. It's hard and jutting out straight in front of him. The head sticks out beyond his clenched fist, purplish pink and engorged with blood. I feel my eyes bug out as I watch it twitch, milky fluid pulsing from the tip.
My timing is horrible. Or perfect. Oh my gosh, oh my gosh, oh my gosh.
I choke on my words.
My eyes leap back to his. . . to his face frozen between terror and relief. . . to his jaw working soundlessly. . . to the muscles of his naked chest and arms trembling from exertion.
I back away slowly, tripping over my heels, my clothes clutched to my chest. I pull the door shut as I flee. This is going to be so much harder to forget than the kiss. So much harder. Fuck.
That bathroom has always had a tricky lock.
I escape to my room and lock the door. I sit on the edge of my bed, rocking back and forth. How am I going to look him in the eye now? I've seen him mostly naked. Jerking off. Coming! There is no way I can sit across from him or make small talk with him and his girlfriend. No way. Maybe he'll leave early again. But even as I hope for that, my stomach twists painfully. I don't want him to go. Not really. I am pathetic. Obsessed. Hopeless.
Tears burn behind my clenched eyelids and I flop back across my bed. I only wonder if he is as embarrassed as I am. I mean, everyone knows men masturbate. It's not like he walked in on me. Just the thought makes my skin flame as I blush from scalp to toe. I cannot get the image of him grasping his dick out of my head. Or the thick fluid spurting from the. . . I can't even think it any more. I can hear the blood whooshing in my ears. It matches the pulsating sensation between my thighs.
My fingers tremble. I want to touch myself so desperately. Instead, I squeeze my arms tighter across my chest.
There is a gentle knock at the door and I squeak in alarm.
"Yes?" My voice quakes.
"Bella, it's me. Um, Edward."
I freeze. I should say something. Anything. Apologize at the very least. Instead I lie there completely petrified.
"I'm really sorry. I mean, I should have locked the door. I thought it was. . . I mean. . . shit. I'm just sorry, I guess. Yeah."
His voice peters out and several seconds pass before I hear his footsteps fade away along the hall and down the stairs.
It takes me almost 15 minutes to work up the courage to leave my room. Even then I can't go to that bathroom. I just can't. I mean, how can I possibly sit down on that toilet knowing. . . No. Just no.
I take the narrow stairs up to the third floor and shut myself in the old-fashioned bathroom that we rarely use. One of the bulbs over the sink is dead and the mint green and white striped wallpaper makes my skin look sallow. I use the toilet and then fill the antique claw-foot tub, running the hot water for thirty seconds first to empty sediment from the pipes and rinse the fine layer of dust down the drain.
Half an hour later I creep down the stairs to the kitchen. Esme is standing hip-to-hip with Carlisle in the kitchen, chopping up ingredients for omelets. The smell of coffee blends with oven-fresh croissants and my stomach gurgles. Edward is sitting at the counter with a mug of black coffee and a newspaper open before him. He glances up at me as I enter the room but looks down again immediately. I can't read him. Not at all.
I swallow past my annoyance and embarrassment. This is my kitchen. Well, actually it's my aunt's, but still. This is my home turf, not his. I know this morning isn't his fault. My brain knows it, at least, but I am so far off balance that I am slightly nauseated and that kind of pisses me off. He's not even trying to and he's already ruining my second Christmas in a row.
Even worse than my annoyance is the persistent urge to look over at him, to imagine the flex and swell of muscles and the shimmer of sweat on bare skin.
I pour myself a cup of coffee, dose it with vanilla creamer, snatch a croissant from the plate on the counter and escape to the garage to dig through the decorations. My mom and dad will be here any minute. Then I can proceed to goof off with Mom and Aunt Esme as we decorate the house and pretend Edward doesn't exist.
The first thing I see when the garage light flicks on is a pile of fresh evergreen boughs and a paper bag overflowing with clusters of oval-shaped leaves. I'm going to kill them. Both of them. Christmas has officially become my least favorite holiday.
I skirt the offensive flora and drag the red and green plastic totes away from the back wall. Esme and Carlisle already put up the tree and hung it with white lights, but so far there are no ornaments. We went with a red and gold theme last year. It was very classy but had zero personality. You could have found the exact same tree in almost any department store.
Several minutes pass before I find what I'm looking for. Half of one tub is full of homemade ornaments. In most families homemade is synonymous with tacky. With Aunt Esme at the helm, each ornament we have made through the years is a piece of art. One year we etched glass disks with snowflake designs and hung them from red silk ribbons. When I was fifteen we collected pinecones and frosted them with synthetic snow. They still smell like the forest even after a decade. Another year my mom fixed laminated portraits of each of us in walnut frames. I see that we have several left over frames in the box. I plan to add Carlisle and Edward's portraits to the collection. It goes without saying that Leah won't get one until she's wearing a wedding band and is officially a Cullen. If we 'lose' the extra frames between now and then, oh well.
I pull out another tub filled with ribbons and one of clear glass orbs and icicles. I have a nice pile in the middle of the floor when my parents arrive and everyone crowds into the garage. Mom and Aunt Esme are delighted with my choices and dive straight down memory lane, sifting through the relics of Christmas Past while the men lug the boxes into the house.
"Aunt Esme, can I borrow your digital camera and printer?"
"Absolutely, hun. What are you up to?"
"I just want to add Carlisle and Edward to the family tree," I reply from her office off the living room. I keep my eyes averted when I come back out. I feel Edward watching me. There is a sensation like moths flitting about in my stomach. It's odd but not altogether unpleasant.
I beckon Carlisle over to the dining room. One wall is painted a warm, nutty brown. It reflects the chandelier's glow in cheerful hues lighting up his silver-blond hair and making him look younger.
"Right here?"
"Yeah, just there. And. . . smile," I say, snapping his picture. I check the display and grin. My step uncle is very photogenic. "Perfect. Next!"
Carlisle claps Edward on the shoulder as he passes. Edward takes his place against the wall, hands stuffed in the pockets of his jeans. I look through the camera and frown. His hair is a mess of colors; auburn tangled with red and gold and copper. Against the brown wall it loses its vibrancy, the beautiful chaos muted and washed out.
"What's wrong?" he asks.
"The lighting in here is bad."
"It was fine a minute ago," he replies, confused.
I ignore him and look around, irritated but unable to articulate why. He still looks incredible. Why should I care if the picture isn't perfect? It's just going to be a miniature hanging from a tree. But I do care.
"Come here," I beckon abruptly. He follows me outside onto the back deck without a word.
The late morning sun is breaking through the clouds, setting the back of the house aglow with gold-tinged light. I'm only wearing a thin sweater and knee high socks beneath my skirt. The cold air swirls around my legs but I feel hot and flushed. Edward in the sunlight is a vision. His hair gleams, reflecting every shade of red and gold. His eyes spark like gems, brilliant stars glinting from their green depths. He takes my breath away.
Edward clears his throat uncomfortably and looks around the back yard, winter bare and wild.
"So, where do you want me?"
"Right here." His eyes dart back to mine and I blush. "Against the side of the house," I stammer, wishing it didn't sound like a double entendre. His blush matches mine, rose pink on pale skin.
He shuffles back against the white wall and I look again through the camera. He is no longer the distant, aloof man I met last year. Now, with embarrassment and shyness tinting his cheeks, the bite of the air bringing the blood to the surface of his skin, the contrast of his pale complexion and the white siding against dark eyebrows, pink lips and fiery hair, he looks like an angel, fierce and vulnerable in turn. I want to hide from him or take him in my arms and press his body against mine.
My finger trembles over the button. His gaze is piercing. I count to three silently, my lips moving but no sound escaping. I lower the camera and swallow hard. With a hand up to shield the screen from the sun I look at the picture. I am captivated.
"That bad, huh?"
"What? No! It's beautiful. I mean, you're beautiful. I. . . shit, I mean. . . it's good." Stumbling over myself, I edge past him, hurry through the house and shut myself in Esme's office.
It takes titanic doses of self-control to crop and print the photos without obsessing over his eyes, his lips, his rigid jaw line. I hesitate for a fraction of a second before e-mailing the picture to myself. I regret sending it immediately. I'll only torture myself with the image. With a huff of frustration I take the printed pictures out to the living room, trim the edges and insert them into the waiting frames.
My aunt takes the one of her husband with a dazzling smile. "Oh, Bella. This is perfect," she breathes.
I watch with mixed emotions as she hangs the frame beside her own. I hang Edward's as far away from mine as I can.
Once the tree is loaded with as many ornaments as it can hold while still looking somewhat dignified we split into pairs. Carlisle and Edward hang the evergreen garlands over the door frames and along the banisters. My mom and aunt follow behind with rolls of ribbon, dressing the room in silver and midnight blue.
My dad and I pull knick-knacks like candle sticks, nutcrackers and topiaries from their boxes until every flat surface is sporting some sort of Christmas themed decoration. I scold my dad when I realize he has posed three of the nutcrackers in a ménage tres. His smile is mostly hidden beneath his mustache but I know it's there. His sense of humor is far from reverent. I position them in a more dignified manner and then take small scissors around trimming all the candle wicks. Dad's lighter runs out of butane so we use long matches to light the candles and the logs in the fireplace. Soon, the smell of cinnamon and pine sap warms the air.
I look around. It's gorgeous. So beautiful that I can almost forget the incident from this morning. Edward catches my eye from across the room. I look away, flustered. Almost, but not quite. My cheeks burn from more than the rising temperature.
My stomach growls and I realize I barely ate anything for breakfast. I leave everyone else to finish packing away the boxes and wrapping. I am digging around in the fridge for something to eat when my aunt lets out a cry of frustration.
"Oh no, I can't believe it."
"What's wrong?"
"I completely forgot to take the ham out of the freezer. It will never thaw in time!"
Carlisle steps into the kitchen with a look of concern on his face. "Can't we thaw it in cold water?"
"That will ruin the texture. No, that won't work. Bella, I hate to ask you, but can you run into town and pick out a rib roast or maybe a goose from the butcher?"
"Really?" I eye her suspiciously. Thawing meat in cold water doesn't change the texture that much. I know she's a perfectionist when it comes to cooking, but something is off and I can't quite put my finger on it.
"Yes, but you better hurry. They close at 2 pm."
"Uh, okay. I guess." I slip the apple and string cheese I found into the pocket of my skirt, chug a glass of water at the sink then head upstairs to grab my purse.
I eye the mistletoe that has appeared above the landing suspiciously but skirt past it without incident. I am wedging my feet into my boots when my aunt appears beside me.
"Honey, why don't you take Edward with you? You can show him around town while it's still light."
Startled, I look up at my step-cousin. He's standing a few feet behind my aunt looking sheepish and a bit uncomfortable. She has that effect on a lot of people.
I narrow my eyes at her but her expression is carefully blank. "Anything else?"
"Oh, no. I don't think so."
"Great. We'll be back in an hour." I look back and forth between them twice before Edward jumps a bit and grabs his jacket and shoes.
The drive to the butcher is awkward. Edward is too tall for my car. His head almost touches the ceiling and even with the seat pushed all the way back his knees are practically rubbing up against the glove box. His hands are folded in his lap, long fingers criss-crossed, knuckles white. I remember them flexing, pressed against the wall, curled around his. . . shit, shit, shit. I swerve back to the middle of my lane as a rusty black pick-up passes us going the other direction. I keep my eyes firmly planted on the road the rest of the way. Edward is still silent.
I hop out of my car and he unfolds his frame from the passenger seat. Edward hurries ahead to get the door for me and we join the press of bodies waiting to collect their orders. I take a number and peer through the glass at mounds of steaks, ground beef and sausages. I try to ignore Edward but I feel him close beside me, his presence humming like a live wire less than an arm's length away.
It seems like an hour has dragged by before they call my number and I raise my hand to get Mr. Crowley's attention. He smiles when he recognizes me. His son Tyler went to school with me.
"Bella Swan, how are you, kid?"
"I'm doing great, Mr. Crowley. Just here to pick up something for Aunt Esme to cook tomorrow."
"Ah. That's right. I've got a beautiful roast set aside for her. She ordered it last week. A real nice cut."
My brow furrows in confusion before everything clicks. She's going to pay for this. I nod and force a smile. Mr. Crowley returns a few moments later with an enormous rib roast, heavily marbled with a thin layer of glossy fat rimming the meat.
"Wow. That's a lot of cow."
"Yep. Eight pounds. Are you guys throwing a party?"
"Nope, just family," I reply, choosing not to mention Leah's possible attendance. Edward is still standing silently beside me.
"And who's this? Your boyfriend?"
I cough in surprise and laugh at the absurdity of his suggestion. In my dreams. "No, this is my step brother, I mean cousin. Doctor Cullen's son, Edward." I am stumbling over my words and blushing again.
"Nice to meet you, Edward." Mr. Crowley is as jovial as ever. "But when are you going to find a man, Bella? Tyler and Lauren are expecting their second baby in March. You don't want to miss the boat!"
"Wow, congratulations." I can't even reply to his suggestion. Now is not the place to remind everyone that you have to have sex to get pregnant. While we might be celebrating one virgin giving birth tomorrow, I am no candidate for impregnation with the children of deities. I am fumbling for my credit card when I see a familiar hand drop two hundred-dollar bills on the counter.
"Thanks, Mr. Crowley," Edward's smooth voice washes over my shoulder. "It's wonderful to meet you, too. And good luck with the grandbaby."
Now it's my turn to be silent. I drop my wallet back into my purse while Edward takes his change, tucks the enormous paper-wrapped parcel under his arm and guides me back to the door. I barely manage to throw a 'merry Christmas' over my shoulder before we're back outside in the damp cold.
"So, are you going to show me around town?" Edward asks once he's stowed the meat in the trunk. I look around the town center stretching all of two blocks in each direction and shrug. He falls in step beside me and I slip into tour-guide mode, pointing out the historic buildings and naming the businesses that have managed to hang on despite the bitter pull of the recession.
It only takes twenty minutes to tour the entire town but in those twenty minutes something finally clicks. I have been blinded by his beauty, by his stiff manners, even by my inexplicable attraction. Now, talking with him about the town I grew up in and sharing memories, I realize we actually have a lot in common. We're both only children. We're both somewhat introverted. His interests take a more scientific track than mine, but we seem to share the perspective that books have a lot more to offer than the average person.
I start to relax and even enjoy myself. I'm surprised the first time I hear him laugh. Edward's voice is a rich tenor that is so pleasant to listen to. His laughter, though, is gorgeous. I feel it tingle in the pit of my stomach and it warms me like nothing else I've ever felt before. We find our way back to the car laughing over another anecdote he's sharing of his humiliating days as a resident physician.
The car ride to town felt like we were sitting in a bucket of ice. Driving home is like being dipped in hot chocolate with marshmallows; warm, sweet and cozy. I am giggling over his rendition of 'The Chipmunks sing Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer' when we pull down the lane to my aunt's house. It takes me several seconds before I realize Edward has gone unnaturally still and quiet beside me. When I do notice I look over in surprise to see his face is stiff as marble and his brow is furrowed with worry. I follow his gaze to see a figure sitting on the front porch waiting for us.
I swallow my laughter, feeling it turn stale and hollow on my tongue. I know who it is immediately. Leah.
I have barely put the car in park before Edward is out of the door and hurrying to her. I watch her stand, her svelte body clad in tight jeans and a plain-cut but stylish coat. Her thick black hair swings back from her face and I gasp. She isn't blonde, but she is dazzlingly beautiful. Her features are twisted in anguish but even through her pain I can tell she is stunning. Her skin is a deep copper hue and her cheekbones seem to be carved from living wood. She is exotic. Other-worldly. It hits me then, Edward might open up to me and become a part of my family, but he will be eternally out of my league. He belongs with somebody like her.
I blink back tears as he wraps his arms around her. I don't have a clue why she is crying against his shoulder. It's none of my business and I'm not even going to ask. I retrieve the meat and edge past the intertwined lovers. Esme greets me with an expectant smile on her face. I manage not to glare at her, but only barely.
"So, let's get cooking. How many hours is it going to take to cook that side of beef you ordered? Do we need to put it in the oven now or is 2 am early enough to have it ready for Christmas dinner?"
"Now, Bella. . ."
"Don't patronize me, Auntie. That was low and you know it. We both know you didn't forget the ham in the freezer. None of us even like ham anyway!"
"Can you blame me for trying?"
"Yes. . . Yes. I. Can." It's all too much. I stomp up to my room and shut the door. When I see the mistletoe hanging from the canopy above my bed it's all I can do to contain the shriek of frustration that wells up inside me. I tear the offensive bunch of greenery down and chuck it out the window. I pull my Kindle out of the bedside table, settle into my bed with a huff and tune out the rest of the world.
I flip through my reading list but nothing looks interesting. My brain is stuck playing scenes from today on repeat. The glint of sun off the burnt copper highlights in his hair. . . His teeth flashing brilliant white as he laughs. . . His warm, masculine scent pervading my car. . . His eyes on me as he comes, pulsing hot and hard in his hand.
I thump the heel of my hand against my forehead over and over but I can't eradicate him.
Edward Cullen sucks. I hate him. I hate him.
Shit. I don't. But I really, really wish I did.
My mom knocks on my door at 6:30 for dinner.
"I'm not hungry."
"Bella, Sweetie, what's going on?"
"I have a headache. And cramps. I'm just going to sleep it off."
"Can I bring you anything? Advil? Hot tea?"
"No thanks, Mom. I'm sorry. I just don't feel well." My conscience squirms when I hear her dejected sigh but she eventually retreats down stairs.
I'm not physically tired but my emotions are wrung out and I feel pale with exhaustion. I eventually slip into a fitful sleep. For the second night in a row I awaken to a gentle tap at my door. I wait in silence, holding my breath. The tap comes again followed by my name, whispered in a voice that tears at my heart. I only breathe because I have to, shallow and halting. It seems like forever before he shuffles away. I feel the tears dripping down my temples, soaking my hair and the pillow case.
I stare at the canopy above me and the bedraggled ribbon still clinging to a shred of mistletoe. I wish that kiss had never happened. Christmas has lost its magic. From this day forward it will always be torture for me. As the years pass and I drift into middle age, I will put on pounds and adopt cats and he'll get married to Leah or some other successful beauty, they'll bring their perfect children around to celebrate Christmas with the grandparents, and I'll force myself to smile. And bake.
My stomach rumbles. I think back and realize that I haven't eaten anything besides a croissant today. I fumble for my coat in the dark and find my apple and a squishy, warm stick of string cheese. I deliberate staying in bed, alone and safe, versus loading up a plate of leftovers. Christmas Eve dinners are almost as good as Christmas dinner. My stomach wins the battle by shoving my wilting pride firmly in a box and duct taping it shut. Merry fucking Christmas.
It's almost 3 am. The house is silent. I creep down the stairs wishing they didn't creak so much. Despite my misgivings I reach the kitchen without incident. I flick on the small light above the stove and root around in the fridge until I have the makings of a feast fit for a glutton. Aunt Esme made Chicken cordon bleu, scalloped potatoes, stuffed portabella caps, tomato salad with capers and herbed focaccia. I grab a wine glass from the drying rack beside the sink, pour myself a full glass of chardonnay and dig in. Even cold, Esme's cooking tastes like ambrosia. I'm two thirds of the way through my plate of food and finishing my second glass of wine when I hear footsteps in the hallway upstairs. I turn out the light and slink into the dining room. I freeze in the corner only now realizing that I'm still clutching my wine glass.
A female voice I don't recognize begins speaking and it takes me a moment to realize Leah is talking on the phone, not to me. I bite my lip, unsure if I should reveal myself or just wait it out. The moment passes and I no longer have a choice. My temper rises the more I hear until I am trembling with rage. How could she do this to him? It takes all of my self-control, admittedly not my strongest trait, to maintain my silence.
"I miss you, babe. . ."
. . .
"Yeah, he's asleep upstairs."
. . .
"I don't know what I was expecting. I'm too optimistic, I guess."
. . .
"No, you were right. You both were. I still hate it, though."
. . .
"His dad and step-mom invited me to stay as long as I like, but I'd rather be there with you."
. . .
"Yeah, I know. He's sweet but kind of oblivious. I swear he's completely clueless about women. You should have heard him last night. Once we got over my drama and he finished calling my parents every name in the book he just clammed right up."
. . .
"No, she was up in her room all night."
. . .
"I have no idea. She's kind of frumpy, but who am I to judge?"
. . .
"You know I think you're perfect."
. . .
"Mmm hmm. I miss you, too. So much."
. . .
"I'll let you know when we're leaving. Probably in two or three days unless he pulls his head out of his ass before then, in which case I might drive back without him."
. . .
"Okay, hun. Love you, too. Bye."
I grit my teeth and shake with fury. I don't even care that she called me frumpy, I already know that, but how dare she cheat on Edward? Because there is no doubt in my mind that the person on the other side of that confusing conversation is more than just a friend. Leah's voice took on a soft, almost caressing timbre when she said 'I miss you'. And her scoffing tone when she referred to Edward as 'oblivious' made my blood boil!
I stand there, frozen in indecision. How can I sit at the table tomorrow, knowing that Edward's relationship with his girlfriend is a sham? Is she crawling back into bed with him right now? My stomach turns at the thought and my midnight 'snack' sits heavy in my gut. I scrape the remains of my food into the compost bin, wash my glass and dishes and trudge back up the stairs to my room.
I lay awake in bed until dawn paints the sky a miserable gray. I see that clouds rolled in overnight. The weather matches my mood – dark and dismal.
I cobble together an outfit and make the trek up to the third floor bathroom to bathe and dress. The mirror is foggy with condensation as I brush my hair, wishing it could be silky and straight like Leah's, or honey-wheat toned like Rosalie's. Instead my hair is just brown, boring brown, like my eyes. I separate my hair into three thick strands and braid it, tying off the end with two elastics. Why wish for a different reality? This is me and nothing is going to change that.
I hang my damp towel over the bed frame, dump my dirty clothes in the laundry hamper and head downstairs with my keys. The rest of the house is still sleeping as I fetch my gifts from the car and add them to the pile beneath the tree. We gave up hanging stockings from the mantle when I was 10, but this morning I miss that magical feeling of anticipation. I long for the buzzing excitement and the thrill of uncovering treats that my parents and Aunt Esme hid around the house for me. Looking back, I guess I was spoiled. I can't help but wonder what Christmas traditions Edward lost when his mother died. I can't imagine Christmas without my two moms. Just contemplating that loss makes my chest ache deep inside.
I go to the kitchen and start the coffee hoping caffeine will shake me from my somber mood. I am settling down at the counter with two jam-slathered slices of toast and a steaming mug of coffee when the front door opens. I freeze with a slice of toast hovering two inches below my mouth. Sneakered footsteps squeak across the wood floors and Leah appears in the doorway. Her sleek hair is tied up in a high pony tail. She is dressed for running in a long sleeved spandex top and black running tights. She greets me with a confident smile, her expression the exact opposite of her tear-stained look yesterday afternoon.
"You must be Bella. I'm so sorry about yesterday. Are you feeling better? Cramps are pure evil."
"I'm okay." I swallow thickly. Did my mom really announce that I had cramps to everyone? Sometimes she makes me want to shake her. I refrain from glaring at the cheating bitch. She doesn't know I heard her phone call and I would rather keep it that way.
Leah pours herself a glass of orange juice from the fridge and sips it, watching me in a disconcertingly frank manner. It bothers me that she seems so at home here. She doesn't belong. However, I see what Edward likes about her. Her figure is lean and athletic, and she has nicely shaped breasts and hips. In fact, she is truly stunning. Her gray eyes are framed by sooty black lashes and her lips have an alluring pout. Most men would roll over for a woman like her. Apparently at least two do.
Leah smirks and I realize I have been staring at her with a scowl on my face. I shrug off her presence and dig into my pre-breakfast snack. I have no idea how much prep work they got out of the way last night. Probably not much since that's usually my job. I drain the rest of my coffee and walk over to the fridge to inventory the ingredients. I know I can peel the potatoes ahead of time and leave them in water and the lettuce can be washed and drained. I try to ignore Leah's presence but I am losing the battle.
Finally, I can't take it anymore. I spin around and take an angry step toward her. She is several inches taller than me and I would normally be intimidated by someone like her, but right now I'm too angry to care. "I don't get it. What are you doing here anyway? It's bad enough that Edward brought his ice-queen fiancé to Christmas last year. At least they were engaged! What are you doing here? Christmas is a family holiday, so unless there is something 'serious' between you and Edward, you are not part of my family." I'm fuming. I know my behavior is inexcusably rude. After all, cheater or not, she is a guest in my aunt's home.
Leah's expression doesn't change. Her features are perfectly composed except for the hint of a smirk hovering around her lips.
"I couldn't agree more. Christmas should be about family. That's why I went to my parent's house first to tell them I'm getting married." My heart plunges through the floor and I stagger back a step. "Needless to say, that conversation didn't go well at all. I knew my parents were conservative but I had no idea they would disown me when I told them I'm a lesbian. I'm just glad I have a friend like Edward who invited me to join him for Christmas and welcomed me into his family's home."
I hold onto the counter for support as my brain desperately tries to catch up, reshuffling everything I've seen and heard and trying to make sense of it all. I am simultaneously relieved and horrified. I just lashed out at Edward's friend like a jealous harpy. If he finds out. . .
"I'm so sorry. I heard you on the phone last night and I just assumed. . . Oh, God. I'm an idiot. Please don't tell Edward. . ."
"Don't tell me what?"
I spin around with a squeak. Edward is standing in the doorway wearing a white undershirt and those same black flannel pants. I feel faint. My cheeks are flaming and my heart is jumping out of my chest.
"Bella thought I was your girlfriend and then when she heard me on the phone with Emily last night she assumed I was cheating on you. She was inches away from tossing my ass out on the curb when I told her the truth."
I look back and forth between the two of them frantically. The truth is there in Leah's brazen smirk and the twitching smile that replaces Edward's confused expression. I feel weak. Edward's frame is blocking the doorway but I can always escape outside into the back yard. I feel Edward's gaze on me and I meet his eyes unwillingly. He takes a step towards me and I stop breathing.
"Leah is a third degree black belt, but somehow I have a feeling you could take her if you were angry enough." Leah snorts but she's laughing, too.
"I wouldn't. . . I mean, I didn't. . . It was a misunderstanding."
"I'll say. I don't have a girlfriend. Not yet at least. That's why I asked your aunt to help me get you alone yesterday. I was kind of hoping. . ." He advances while he speaks until we are standing almost toe to toe. He pauses and looks down at his feet as a brilliant blush swims up his neck. Suddenly he is as tongue-tied as me.
Leah clears her throat to break the silence and we both look at her in surprise.
"Let me make this easy for you two," she says and points up. I can't believe I didn't notice it before. Carlisle or Esme or maybe a helpful Christmas elf has hung another sprig of mistletoe from the light fixture in the middle of the kitchen. It's directly over our heads.
"Do you want to try this again?" he asks me shyly.
I swallow hard and nod.
My vision narrows to his eyes, soft green around the edges with flecks of emerald and amber in the middle. He steps closer and brings his hands up to my shoulders. I lift my chin and pause with my heart in my throat. I can't believe this is happening.
I lick my lips. His eyes drift down, the pupils dilating and his breaths coming in short, choppy gasps. Then he leans down to me and I'm rising up to meet him and we're pressed against each other, lips, chests, knees and toes. He's pulling me against him and I'm wrapping my arms around his neck, my fingers in his hair and my eyes squeezed shut. His taste is like cinnamon and brown sugar. His lips are soft as velvet. His hands, his strong, sexy, sensual hands, are running up my arms and down my back to grab my hips and draw me up tight against him.
Finally.
I melt into him feeling soft and feminine and so, so desirable. He cups my jaw with one hand, his thumb stroking my lower lip, gently coaxing my mouth open so his tongue can slip between my lips. I tremble in his embrace, overwhelmed by the onslaught of emotions and physical sensations. He releases me reluctantly and rests his forehead against mine as we both catch our breath.
"It's about friggin' time. Now we can take down all this blasted mistletoe." My dad shoulders past us to reach the coffee pot and we both look around us in shock. Our bubble is completely ruptured. Leah, my mom, Aunt Esme and Carlisle are standing shoulder to shoulder, their faces a collection of amusement and relief.
I'm too happy to hate them. Maybe I won't kill them after all.
Edward and I look into each other's eyes and I see the honest attraction there. It's impossible to contain my smile or the giggle that rises up from my belly.
"Come here, you," Edward says and pulls me back against him giving the rest of the family room to reach the fridge and coffee pot.
I lean my head back against his chest and he rests his chin against my hair. His left arm comes around my arms and upper chest, pulling me firmly against his heat. With his other hand, Edward picks up the end of my braid, tickling my ear and cheek with the tip until I squirm against him. I bite my lip to control my happy grin but I'm fighting a losing battle. My dad casts a mocking scowl at Edward's hands touching me but I can tell it doesn't bother him that much. Over the last year, Carlisle has become a close friend and he likes and respects Edward. Esme and my mom keep darting pleased smiles in our direction. Carlisle is the only one acting halfway normal. And, of course, Leah seems completely unaffected.
Esme and my Mom quickly assemble a breakfast of scrambled eggs, bacon and pancakes then shoo us all out of the kitchen so they can get to work on Christmas dinner. I start guiltily in their direction but they push me back toward Edward, so I take a seat next to him at the dining table.
"So what's Emily up to today?" Edward asks Leah. I watch their body language and facial expressions and it's all so clear. I can't believe what an idiot I was. They act like buddies or siblings, not lovers.
"She's down in Texas visiting her brother and his family. They have three kids and Emily adores children. She invited me but I wanted to settle things with my parents first. Needless to say, we won't ever have to worry about juggling conflicting family holidays now." There is a touch of bitterness and pain beneath her joking tone but she hides it well.
"Why don't you guys join us? Make it a good square number?"
We all look at my dad in surprise and then kind of nod in agreement. We have tons of space, the dining set has eight chairs, Leah's blunt humor is kind of refreshing. . . it works.
"Really? Are you serious?"
"Why wouldn't I be? Besides, Carlisle and I are getting too old to scale the roof hanging up lights. You kids can take over next year."
I look up to see Edward grinning at Leah. She looks like she's on the verge of tears again.
"I'll talk to Emily, but I think we'd love that."
"Good then. I'm gonna go chop some more wood. Edward, why don't you give me a hand?" Somehow my dad can make a request sound like a command. It must be a police thing.
Edward's grin fades into trepidation and he squeezes my hand before grabbing his shoes and coat to follow my dad out into the cold. Trust Dad to find the nearest weapon to intimidate my first real suitor even when he's off duty. Carlisle gives me a reassuring smile and Leah just chuckles under her breath.
Leah helps me gather the breakfast things and get the dishwasher running before disappearing into the other room to call her fiancé. I throw myself into the preparations with my mom and aunt and the next several hours fly by.
My dad and Edward are still absent when Carlisle is setting the table and helping us carry all the food to the sideboard. I twist my apron anxiously wondering if there has been an accidental, or worse, an intentional injury. The minute hand creeps up to noon before the door opens and Edward stomps in, chafing his hands and face red with cold. He doesn't meet my gaze immediately but my dad does. He is positively gloating, and I glare daggers at him. I don't know what he said or did to reduce a thirty-something professional to an intimidated teenage boy but I'm not a little girl and I don't want Edward treating me like one.
"Boys, go get cleaned up. Dinner's ready and then it's time for gifts." Aunt Esme's voice cuts through the tension and we scatter to tidy ourselves, wash hands and get back to our seats.
Everything tastes wonderful but I eat more slowly than ever because one of my hands is trapped in Edward's grasp below the tablecloth. My dad eventually unbends enough to toast our new relationship with his glass of beer. Carlisle responds with a toast to their 'women'. Edward toasts the butcher and the excellent roast. I toast the mistletoe amid giddy whoops from my mom and aunt and grumbles from my dad. The toasts dissolve into drunken laughter when Aunt Esme toasts the wine and chugs her mostly full glass in five seconds flat.
We're a giggling, stumbling mess by the time we gather around the Christmas tree. Carlisle puts on a floppy red Santa hat and hands the gifts around one by one. Leah is near tears again when she sees my family has embraced her presence giving her all-weather gloves for when she goes running, a gift card to take Emily out for dinner and a gorgeous mountain landscape scene made by a local craftsman out of hammered copper and steel.
None of my gifts surprise me: books, fuzzy socks, Amazon gift card, etc. At least, none of them surprise me until Edward's. I open the small envelop and look down in puzzlement at the card that falls into my lap. Orca? "What's this for?" I ask.
"I was hoping it would move Port Angeles and Seattle a little closer together." His smile is a bit tentative and unsure. Then I get it. He pre-loaded an Orca Card for me to take the ferry back and forth. "See? I got myself a matching one," he says pulling another card from his wallet.
It's finally clicking for me. This is real. We're starting a real relationship. I lean my head against his shoulder and tell him thank you.
When he starts to unwrap my gift I become suddenly anxious. I bought it two weeks ago in a fit of inspiration. What do you buy for your step-brother/cousin who you've only met twice, danced with once, kissed once, but fantasized about for a year? Oven mitts and an apron, of course.
"Wow, these are. . ." He looks like he's at a loss for words. Or maybe just lost. Fortunately for me, Esme swoops in and saves me from utter humiliation.
"Bella, what a great idea! Are you going to teach him how to cook? Carlisle was hopeless in the kitchen before but now we love cooking together. I wish I had thought of that!"
"Cooking is kind of my thing. Well, actually it's a family thing," I confess to Edward.
"Don't forget the drinking," my mom interjects, raising her glass from the other couch.
"I think I would really like that. You can start by showing me what to do with those quince things later this evening."
I bite my lip and blush. How did I ever think this man was cold? He lights me up inside like nothing and nobody else ever has.
We spend the rest of the afternoon and evening in our traditional activities, playing cards, snacking on left-overs, eating pie and sipping hot cider and spiced rum. Esme gave Carlisle a dart board and I can't stop laughing at their tipsy attempts to hang it and actually hit the target with the metal-tipped darts. The wall is peppered with holes before night falls. Leah is a dead shot, hitting the bulls-eye time after time even though I know she drank just as much as me. She cracks a rare smile when my mom forces her to wear a wreath on her head to mark her as the victor.
Edward and I clear a space on the kitchen counter and I give him a crash course in making flaky pie crust, chopping the fruit and balancing the sugar, thickener and spices. The tarts don't turn out as pretty as last year and the pastry is a bit tough, but he's so proud of his accomplishment, standing there in his crisp black apron dusted with flour and looking adorable. I pull him back to the center of the room and draw him down for a lingering kiss.
We pull apart reluctantly. "I better get to bed. I'm exhausted and you look like you are, too."
"I haven't slept well the last few nights. Too nervous."
"About me?"
"Yeah, and what you might say. How you would react if I asked you out on a date."
"Well, ask me and I can put your mind at ease."
He takes off his apron and folds it, setting in on the end of the counter. He takes both of my hands in his and looks me straight in the eye. I feel my heart flutter against my ribs.
"Bella, can I take you out to dinner tomorrow evening?"
"I would like that. As long as we go somewhere other than the Forks diner."
"Port Angeles?"
"That gives us a few options, sure."
"Can I pick you up at 5 o'clock?"
I giggle at the absurd request. "How about I meet you at the landing?"
"Under the mistletoe?"
"You read my mind."
With that he kisses me goodnight one more time and I leave him standing there in the kitchen, hair mussed, eyes bright, and a smile on his lips.
If he taps on my door again tonight, I just might answer. . .
Thanks for reading and MERRY CHRISTMAS!