A/N Something a little different. I hope you like it.
The style was partly inspired by Pavarti Tyler's Echoes of Love. It's also in the same vein as The Black Manta, if any of you still remember that :)
Disclaimer: I don't own anything Twilight. Just borrowing the characters.
1
The last time I saw you in this city, you were my eyes, my ears, my guide. You were only a few months old here but already mapped out its organs and hiding places, memorizing each artery that fanned out from the heart of Seattle across the Puget Sound. These you pointed out, our shoulders brushing as we leaned against the stark glass windows of the Tower Club.
"We're on the top of the world!" Your hands swept under my arms, lifting me by my waist in a Titanic pose, and for a few minutes I soared above Mount Rainier. Like the movie, we were out of place, two vagrants sneaking into the watering hole of Washington's elite. We gained access via the kitchen, thanks to your part-time job busing tables. My face was splotchy and my eyes swollen from weeks of watching by Charlie's bedside as he wasted away. But that morning, you made me laugh, not a forced smile, but a real throaty sound from my belly that for just a few minutes, chased the nightmares away.
After my father's death I left, taking up an internship in San Francisco at a firm that makes recycled products which turned into a paid offer and a chance to escape the bad memories of home. One year morphs into the next and before I know it I've been away for seven years.
This year our company sets a new sales target: the CEO wants to expand beyond California and Seattle is his first choice. "You're from Washington, aren't you?" He stops by my desk one morning after our weekly sales meeting. An uneasy feeling eats at my stomach, and a week later it's with a resigned sigh that I accept my assignment as head of the newly formed Northwest sales team.
Seeing you again is a possibility that's been in my mind ever since, but never did I expect it to be back here, at the Tower Club restaurant where you used to work.
"Bella." The moment I hear your voice I know it's you, giving me a few extra seconds to compose myself as you amble over. Despite your new hair style and sharp suit, it's a hundred percent you, even though I feign surprise in front of my business associates at seeing you here.
"This is Jacob Black, my high school classmate." I lie, ignoring your raised eyebrow. I don't want to invite too much unwanted curiosity-as far as my colleagues know, I'm dating a lawyer back home called Edward Cullen, who also happens to be our CEO's best friend and poker buddy.
I don't tell you any of that then, not even when you pull me outside into the drawing room for privacy. Our conversation is terse, because how can there ever be enough words to catch up on years of misgivings? And so we dance past topics that demand too difficult answers, exchanging name cards and a few pleasantries.
"Let me take you out to dinner," you insist as we make our way back into the restaurant. But we fly out that night, giving me the perfect excuse to reject your invitation.
Your brow creases, and I wonder, are you thinking about the summer of 2005? I'll never forget those months; it was my first time in Seattle and the last time you saw me. It was also my annus horriblis: the year I graduated from college and came home to a dying father on life support at Harborview Medical Center. You spent your weekends and every night after work with me at the hospital, keeping me fed and relieving me of my bedside duties. You even brought Billy down so he could say goodbye. You did so much for me, and I owe you everything. But when Charlie left us, he took away a chunk of me. I couldn't eat, sleep or talk for weeks after the funeral. When the chance to move to San Francisco popped up, I left without telling you or anyone back home.
"Let me send you to the airport," you insist as we return inside the restaurant. I turn you down, but end up in your BMW anyway that evening. You surprise me with your dogged persistence—or maybe it would have been a greater surprise were you not waiting for me in the brightly colored lounge of the W hotel when I checked out. I refuse to let you carry my bags as we enter the terminal, so you walk alongside, hands in your pockets as you try to refrain from laughing at 5 ft 3 inch me keep pace with my carry-on suitcase, lap-top bag, and handbag. I insist we say goodbye before the check-in counter, paranoid of running into our CEO.
"Call me." You pull me close and kiss the top of my head.
But I can't.
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