Told you I'm bad at keeping promises.
My sincerest apologies for the 4-week wait. Jesus. I don't even have a good explanation for that one except for I'm freaking lazy and have a hard time focusing. First I told myself I'd get it done by the 9th. Then the 16th. Then the 23rd. And now it's the 30th and I'm officially done with chapter 2. Hallelujah.
Special shout-out to my best girl KATIE because it's her momentous 20th birthday! Happy birthday, dude. I love you. Here's your present. Enjoy it.
I hope this was worth the ridiculously long wait. Thank you for being patient and not giving up on me yet, guys!
Disclaimer - I don't own Twilight but this story idea as well as Tate belong to me.
CHAPTER TWO: Girls' Night
Bella
Ever since I turned thirteen, there hasn't been much excitement surrounding my birthday. Well, everyone else gets hyped up, but I don't give a shit. And ever since I got my first cell phone (for my thirteenth, ironically), I've woken up to a bunch of sappy texts from friends and family members. Today isn't any different, and the never-ending chiming from my cell is my alarm this morning. I forgot to put it on silent and throw it in the drawer last night. Go figure. Happy birthday, you idiot.
A sharp rapping at my door startles me out of the stupor I hadn't realized I'd fallen into. "Mommy, are you awake yet?" It sure doesn't feel like it, babydoll. When I don't answer right away, Tate knocks again, impatient now. "Mommy, wake up! I have a surprise!" She squeals a little and I hear her bare feet thump against the floor when she leaps once in excitement.
Oh, a surprise? From a four-year-old girl who probably demolished my kitchen with either our last carton of milk or pony stickers plastered all over the countertops I just cleaned and wooden cabinets I just polished? Fabulous. Sounds lovely.
"Give Mommy a few minutes, honeybun," I groan, stretching out my aching limbs and cracking my stiff neck, sighing as the pressure dissolves. I can't help but smile when Tate huffs at my unenthusiastic reply; she stomps off in the direction of our tiny living room, probably where she's been munching on her third bowl of Lucky Charms and unknowingly making a mess everywhere. My poor shiny coffee table that I spent an hour buffing up last night during a fit of anxiety over life.
Obligation to save my furniture before my daughter can cause any unintentionally permanent damage makes me pull my lazy ass out of bed. Scrubbing my hand over my face, I grumble to myself as I bend down to tug on my worn slippers. I really hope somebody thought to get me a new pair. Nah, the most I'll get from anyone is money from Charlie and Sue to buy them on my own. Maybe a ten-dollar Target gift card from dear little Seth. He's always liked me a lot, and compared to his sister, who most likely wanted me to have moved to hell instead of Seattle, Seth is funny and kind and very sweet to Tate. She absolutely adores him; before we left, the first thing she did every time the Clearwaters came over was jump onto the kid's back and shriek with laughter as he walked on his hands and knees around the house, mimicking a puppy.
Over the television's too-loud volume, Tate somehow hears the creak of my door opening and hurries to stop me before I step out into the hallway, abruptly crashing into my legs. "Wait!" she yells in a panicky voice. "Wait, Mommy, not yet." I roll my eyes when she's not looking. First she begs me to get up but then instructs me to keep waiting for her "surprise."
"What, boo?" I sigh, trying not to sound as irritated as I feel. "What am I waiting for, baby?" I'm rather scared to find out.
"Close your eyes." Tate smiles and I give her a suspicious look. Christ, what has she done? "Close 'em! Hold my hand." Reluctantly, I squeeze my eyes shut tight and let her take my hand in both of hers. She guides me carefully to my doom and I'm surprised that I don't catch the smell of too much sugary cereal or spilt milk. The TV is definitely up too high but aside from that, my other available senses don't pick up on any immediate danger or icky things to have to get rid of. I wait for Tate to give me permission to finally see again, and when I warily open my eyes, her surprise really surprises me.
It takes my breath away. I stand there in silence for a while, simply staring in awe, unable to believe what I'm looking at. I don't think anybody has ever done something as…heartfelt and precious as what Tate has done for me. The fact that my four-year-old daughter did this is astounding. Taped to the wall above the beige couch are pieces of construction paper, the brightly colored ones she never uses (she says they are only good enough for special occasions), with stunning little drawings of animals and people sketched on them. She cut patterned paper into the shape of a balloon with a string and placed it directly above the illustrations, Happy Birthday Mommy written on the paper balloon in someone else's print. I assume she had help at one point, but in my current state of speechless awe it doesn't matter who. She did this for me?
"Tate…" I start to speak but quickly choke on the words. I bite my lip to suppress a sob, the decorations blurring when a wave of emotion slams into me like I'm standing in an ocean, the tears welling up fast in my wide, astonished eyes. Unable to express how I feel verbally, all I can do is look from the drawings to Tate, over and over again. She smiles, so proud of herself, and swings on my arm gently while she waits for me to tell her how much I love it, and I do. Profoundly.
I kneel in front of her and cup her tiny face in my hands. Her eyes are bright, red lips twitching with her broadening smile. We gaze at each other for a long time before I speak. "Tate," I repeat softly, smiling too, "you put all this up for Mama?"
She nods, curls bouncing. "Yeah!" she squeaks, pulling my hands away to hold them. "I wanted your bir'day to be really nice. So—so I made you pictures! D'you like it, Mommy?" The fact that she has to ask makes me wonder if I don't seem as proud of everything she does as I think. I always praise her art, genuinely impressed with whatever it may be, whether it's a simple sketch of a cat or a sparkly paper bracelet made at daycare. I sound so pretentious when I say this, but she truly has a gift when it comes to art. No four-year-old puts as much detail into it as Tate. Where does she get the energy and patience to do any of this stuff? I'm honestly shocked. I always knew she'd be good at something, but not like this.
"I love it," I gush, overwhelmed. "It—it's beautiful, baby, really. I'm just a little—I can't believe you did this. When did you do this?" I think I already have my answer. Yesterday when I picked her up from daycare, she had a folder filled with what obviously are the illustrations, holding it tightly to her chest and refusing to let me see what was inside it. Now I understand.
Tate simply grins shyly and looks down at her feet, shrugging. She's so proud of herself and it warms my heart. I wrap her up into a crushing hug and squeeze her really close until she giggles in my ear to let go, but I won't—neither will she.
"Mommy, why do you have t' work on your birthday?" Tate's voice is annoyed. She's wrinkling her nose, as if in disgust.
I laugh once. "A lot of mamas have to, kiddo," I sigh. "My boss is busy today and needs me, so I have to be there." We are at a stoplight so I glance over my shoulder to see her better. Her tiny face is confused, almost frustrated. And sad. I remember three weeks ago when I dropped her off at daycare on her birthday, and she wore the same puzzled, dejected expression. Something twists in my stomach when it occurs to me how damaging this must be for my little girl. What am I doing to her? Spending eight hours in a daycare with smelly, sticky, noisy children for six days a week is not what I call an ideal childhood. Only seeing me and being with me during the mornings and a short while at night before bed is not a good relationship to have. We get Sundays off and take advantage of that free time in the most fun ways possible—but it's not enough. Oh my God, I'm ruining my kid. What the fuck was I thinking, deciding to get such a demanding job here in a city that isn't our home? What the fuck was I thinking, subjecting my four-year-old to practically grow up at daycare? What the fuck was I thinking, breaking up our family and ripping her away from the one place we both truly called home?
I don't deserve Tate. I don't deserve someone so patient and sweet and thoughtful, someone who still loves me even if I have basically torn apart her life. The obvious fact that I didn't need to move us here is glaring me right in the face. What is the point now? I know I wanted to come to Seattle for her, so she could escape the depressing greenery of Forks, but how is hardly seeing me and waiting for me to come pick her up at daycare any better than the damp confinement of the town we originated from? At least she had Charlie and Sue to happily look after her when I had my shifts at Newton's on Tuesdays and Saturdays. At least I got to both wake up and go home at a reasonable hour and be able to spend quality time with her. Now it's like we're opposing magnets; we want to be connected but because of my choice, we're slipping apart.
I don't realize how devastated my expression must be until Tate gives me a startled look and asks if I'm okay. I snap out of it, right as the light turns green and everyone else lurches forward. My stomach churns my measly breakfast of cereal and there's suddenly a sharp pain between my eyes. I need to talk to my dad. I could use some fatherly support.
Turns out today is an exceptionally busy day for Mr. Warner, so I don't get a chance to call Charlie for reassurance while I'm on a lunch break because I don't have a lunch break. All day I'm running around in these damned two-inch heels, making phone calls to companies interested in working with ours, setting up meetings for Mr. Warner, faxing important documents to others. It's the same old, same old, only I feel like I'm working two regular days in one. By three o'clock, I just wanna go home. I want the safe, unassuming comfort of Forks, to step back into Charlie's house and take a nap in my old rickety bed with Tate. (It's funny how I talk shit about Forks when it's pretty much the only place I'd rather be a good percent of the time.)
At one point, though, I do get about five minutes to breathe and something to drink. I lean heavily against the wall next to the water dispenser, chugging a small cup in ten seconds. I savor the cold liquid sliding down my throat into my chest; I feel like I haven't stopped moving since I got here. My headache from earlier has unfortunately gotten worse, and I don't know what to do about that. Tylenol and Motrin only provide fleeting relief and I can't exactly go lie down in the dark and wait for it to subside. I sigh, frustrated, taking another sip of water. I start to wonder what Tate is doing. I really miss her.
I'm just about to leave and head back to my desk when the break room door bursts open and Jessica Stanley barrels in, curls in a wild state of disorder and blue eyes filled to the brim with fury—and tears. Lauren Mallory is following her (they are just as inseparable now as they were in high school), saying something about how so-and-so doesn't "deserve" Jess and that he isn't the person they both apparently thought he was. Jess starts sob-screeching a moment later, distraught.
"He said he loved me," she weeps, collapsing dramatically into a chair with her head in her hands. I raise my eyebrows. It strikes me as odd to envision innocent, cheerful, sweet Mike Newton—Mike!—doing something as ghastly as cheating. I was his favorite person to sit next to at lunch when he moved to Forks and started attending high school; we were buds. And he was always nice to everyone, especially Jessica once she eventually caught his eye (he never admitted it, but he did have a crush on me for a while, until I encouraged him to ask her to go to prom instead, and they were together after that, joined at the hip and head over heels in love). It actually upsets me to think he went and had an affair. What an ass.
Forgetting my work duties, I plop into the chair next to Jess and give her a sympathetic look as she cries. We were good friends too, as soon as she was sure Mike and I didn't have any "unresolved tension or feelings" between us. Absolutely not. Mike was my friend and history partner, and nothing more. Him and Jess went on to the same college, and as far as I'm aware, got married. No kids yet, I don't think. They're both twenty-three. Jesus, twenty-three is too young for this to be happening to either of them. Too young for her to have her heart broken, their vows crushed. It doesn't make any sense.
Lauren stands behind her and smooths her tangled hair. Her eyes are rimmed with red and her face is tight, like she can't cry for Jessica's sake. I reach out and stroke Jess's shaking shoulder, trying to find words. We're not close but I want to help, out of genuine empathy. (And because a nasty part of me likes drama and I want to know what happened to Mike.)
"Okay, so," I begin slowly as soon as Jess stops shrieking like a banshee and calms slightly. "Uh, what exactly is going on?" I make a face, suddenly doubting my assumptions. If it turns out he didn't cheat, I'll be both surprised and relieved.
Surprised because that's the only explanation I can think of. Relieved because that means good old Mike isn't a cheater.
"She found someone else's number in Mike's phone," Lauren explains dismally, and my heart sinks. Well, shit. "And they were—um, texting," her voice drops to a whisper, "and it—well, you know." She wrinkles her nose in disgust and shivers.
I can't speak. God, what a mess. This is terrible. He was sexting with another woman? (Or a man, for all I know.) My mind is spinning—not a pleasant contribution to my already splitting headache. I'm clearly not an expert on relationships but it sure does make me wonder just how far apart couples can grow after a while instead of getting closer together. As soon as they all get married, that's when the trouble starts, and I don't get it. Why become unfaithful all of a sudden? Did your vows mean nothing to you? If you had doubts about your relationship before, getting married won't fix your problems. It has to be about communication and trust and respect, right? Honor that commitment and be honest with each other even before marriage. Either one or both of you are just setting each other up to fail and that seems like an awful way to end.
"Are—are you sure he—" I bite my lip, choosing my words carefully, but dropping the question before I ask it. This really isn't my place of knowledge. I settle for rubbing Jessica's shoulder again, chin in my hand as I think. Selfishly, I'm glad I didn't just find out my significant other sexted with someone else. My reaction would probably be more angrily vengeful.
(The fact that I'd ever fall in love and be in a relationship to begin with is laughable, actually. I'd fuck up and deserve this.)
"I'm really sorry, Jess," I mumble, feeling stupid now. "You didn't deserve that. Okay? This is all on him. Don't—don't go blaming yourself for what he did." I pause, letting the words sink in. Lauren offers her a tissue and she dabs at her puffy eyes, sniffling. "I think what's best for you both now is to talk it out," I continue slowly. "I know you're hurt by this and your first instinct is to scream and cry and get mad, but throwing things or saying words you can't take back will haunt you for the rest of your life. When you get home later and—and he's there, or if he comes home later, it'll be really hard to see him, but—but you have to be rational. Just talk to him. Sit him down and tell him you know what he was doing and if you can or can't move past it. I don't know why guys do these things—I don't know why anybody does these things—but depending on the way you handle it and how much you're both willing to try and get past it is up to you. If you truly love Mike—" Jess flinches, "—if you truly believe in him and in your relationship and want it to work, then you gotta make an effort. And if Mike isn't as loyal to your marriage and barely tries to do the same, at least you can walk away knowing you wanted it to work out. It'll hurt even more that he didn't, but you'll feel better if you at least tried yourself. Trying is nicer than giving up entirely."
Where the fuck did that come from? Jessica nods her understanding and wipes her nose with the tissue. Lauren is staring at me funny, like she can't believe single little Bella Swan could speak so intelligently about relationships. (As of a minute ago, I didn't either, but I guess staying up late binge-watching rom-coms sorta pays off. Now I don't regret doing that, despite what Mommy bloggers might have to say about it. Still, at least I didn't spend those nights getting drunk. Thank God.) I ignore Lauren, an old habit that has resurfaced now that we've been in close proximity of each other for more than five minutes, and sit here marveling at my own words. Not to sound totally pretentious, but even I'm surprised that I gave relationship advice.
After a little while, Jessica gets a hold of herself and heaves an unhappy sigh, absentmindedly flattening her tissue. She looks up at me, fresh tears shining in her eyes. She smiles gratefully, reaching for my hand. "Thank you," she whispers—and when her voice cracks, I internally kick myself for sticking around to partly hear about the drama of her marriage. I'm a decent person most of the time but that was low—I shouldn't take pleasure in anybody else's pain, especially not hers.
Jessica suddenly gets a surprised look on her face and gasps quietly. "Isn't it your birthday today?" she asks randomly.
She almost seems excited about it. "Oh—yeah," I reply, startled by the unexpected change in her previously blue mood.
She brightens considerably and Lauren only stares at her apprehensively; she was always known for being spontaneous and unpredictable when it came to her "fun ideas" back in high school. Maybe that hasn't changed. "What are you gonna do to celebrate?" she continues, and I catch a glint of hope in her wide eyes, like she wants me to invite her somewhere.
My brow furrows. "Um…Nothing, really. I'll pick up Tate on my way home from work and we'll just chill at home, I guess." I shrug casually, but I smile at the happy memory of seeing the creative, colorful decorations my daughter made for me.
"Oh." Jessica droops noticeably and I wonder what she was expecting me to say. There's a brief pause before she suggests to me in an optimistic voice, "Well, do you wanna go out? Lauren and I don't have any plans. We could go out to dinner. You can bring Tate, of course, we don't have to go anywhere super fancy or—or whatever." She's rambling like she used to, completely distracting me from what I actually wanted to do. "You know, a girls' night!"
The last time I did anything remotely close to a girls' night with Jessica, I got pregnant. So I'm not too sure about it now.
Not to mention I haven't had a close-knit group of friends in three and a half years and don't know shit about socializing. Well, I do, to an extent. Imagining myself going out with these two and toting my daughter along seems more intimidating than fun. How am I supposed to have a good time if I'm worried about Tate and what she's doing and how she feels? It's not like I can hire a babysitter at the last second; I wouldn't want anyone else taking care of my girl anyway. Tate has not met these ladies either, and I don't want her to be uncomfortable, specifically if there's even one glass of wine involved. (I don't want to assume things about people but red wine is most likely Jessica's guilty pleasure. Better her than me.) And I think I'd rather gauge my eyes out with a spoon than spend more than ten minutes with Lauren outside of work. Oh God.
Despite all of this—as well as the natural inclination to avoid any "celebration" of my birthday as possible—I still say yes.
Jess lights up and Lauren forces a smile. (The feeling is mutual.) "Oh, yay!" Jess squeals, clapping, any sign of betrayal and heartbreak gone from her eyes. It occurs to me that maybe going out with friends will keep her mind off Mike, and it will postpone the inevitable yet hopefully peaceful confrontation they'll have to have about their marriage soon. I guess I can put aside my awkwardness for a few hours for her sake, as painful as it might be. As long as nobody drinks or gets high or starts crying in the middle of the restaurant, I think it'll be okay. Tate will behave. It's them I'm worried for.
"Where are we gonna eat?" I say we because ultimately it's what Jess wants. Anywhere except a bar or night club is fine.
She contemplates for a minute, lips pursed. I kind of know what she's going to recommend before she does. "Oh, hey. You took Tate to that diner I mentioned, didn't you?" Yeah, the one where I accused an incredibly attractive waiter of trying to kidnap her. Nobody knows about that, though. I'm still trying to bury it deep in the back of my mind. "What'd you think?"
"It was nice," I answer nonchalantly, fixing my shoe to hide the dread in my eyes. "Yeah, we liked it. Tate did especially."
Lauren continues to act pleased at the impending reality of our evening together. Jess looks exuberant. "Oh, good," she chirps, clapping, suddenly reminding me of someone else we all used to know in school. Dark hair flashes in my head; I briefly see a shining smile, hear a chiming bell laugh. But the memory is gone in the same second and I can't get it back.
We plan to dress casually—praise the lord—and meet up at Half Century Diner at seven. I wonder if Lauren will bail at the last second (wouldn't put it past her, I'd do it too if I didn't feel bad for abandoning poor Jessica in her time of need). At least Tate will be excited—any chance she can get to have those pancakes is a chance she's going to take. I'm crossing my fingers you-know-who won't be working there tonight. Just my luck, I humiliated him so badly that he quit. Go figure.
Seven PM rolls around faster than I would have hoped. It's almost sad how much I dislike my birthday, and how little the day means to me as the years go by. I think I stopped caring when my mom died; she took the excitement for it with her and since then I just haven't given a shit. It's Tate's birthday I always look forward to. So Renée's loving impact lives on.
As expected, Tate is ecstatic to go out to dinner with me and my lady friends. She sits on my bathroom floor at my feet and plays with her new toys, babbling about what she did at daycare while I get ready. I'm trying to straighten all my long mahogany hair for once, or at least lessen the waves. Depending on the humidity or rain we'll get tonight, it might not be much of a success after a while. But it looks okay for now, and I'm almost done. Tate's already dressed. She looks cute as a button in her purple striped turtleneck, denim jumper, and brown fuzzy boots. Her crazy curls are pulled into pigtails on either side of her head the way I used to have mine when I was her age. Funny how she got my looks, like whoever in charge of fate and how the universe treats me decided to give me that much so I wouldn't wonder who fathered my child every time I look at her and saw somebody else's face. Well, I wonder who her daddy is despite that but thanks anyway.
"All righty, honeybun, you ready to go?" I smooth my now straight hair back from my face and pointedly unplug the iron from the wall. I try to sound convincingly eager to leave but my incredibly perceptive four-year-old sees through my shit.
A line forms between her pretty doe eyes. "It's your birthday, Mama," she reminds me. "Shouldn't you be happy today?"
Christ, she's observant. "I am happy," I tell her, sitting down on my knees in front of her. I reach out to touch her chubby rose-colored cheek; she doesn't flinch. "I'm going out to dinner with my best girl. That's you. How could I not be happy?"
She keeps staring at me with her head tilted to the side like a confused puppy. "You don't look happy," she says softly.
Now I'm just as puzzled as she appears to be, and concerned. Are my attempts at being enthusiastic that bad? Do I look miserable all the time? I don't show my general disapproval of the world in front of Tate. I save that for late-night texts to Angela Weber. I mean, it's no secret to myself anymore that I sort of regret uprooting my kid and moving us to Seattle. I wish I'd thought that over a little more. But I never act sad or bored or wistful around my daughter. We're connected, and I know she'd start to worry and reflect my mood, so I put on a game face and be strong for her. That's what mothers do.
Maybe I try to look happier than I feel but it's either not working anymore or never did in the first place.
Tate crawls into my lap and gives me a hug. I sit back and lean against the wall, holding her small body in my arms. She is my entire world, and while she makes me the happiest person alive, it kills me to think I'm not doing enough for her to ensure she's content. She never complains about a damn thing. She always smiles when she sees me. She laughs at the silliest shit and tells the funniest jokes. She seems happy too, right? What if that's a façade as well, what if I'm failing her?
"You make me happy," I murmur into her shoulder and giving her a squeeze. It's all I can say right now. I don't know how else to reassure her. She just needs to hear it. "You are my sunshine. I am so lucky to have you—don't ever forget that."
"I won't, Mommy," Tate whispers, tugging on a lock of my hair. "I just want you to be happy on your birthday like I was."
I struggle to fight back a wave of tears. She's too good to me; I don't deserve someone as understanding as Tate. "You had a good birthday?" I ask doubtfully, remembering that slightly awful day with a pained grimace, but she nods quickly and pulls away to settle in my lap. She pats my face, a small smile on her lips. My tense expression reflects in her eyes.
We sit here in silence for a while, probably longer than we should. She continues to play with my hair and it takes all that I have in me to not break down crying. Eventually I remember our dinner plans, and like any other adult and mom with an obligation, I force myself to get up off the bathroom floor, bringing Tate with me. I tell her to go get her backpack and a jacket while I brush my hair one last time before we go. I decide I look nice—almost pretty. Skipping past me, Tate tells me I am a princess.
Similar to my first day attending Forks Junior High, walking up to Half Century Diner again makes me want to hurl. I wish I had lied and said we didn't enjoy eating there just to get out of returning. How stupid is that, though? I'm so hung up on the little incident with the redheaded waiter that I'm genuinely frightened of going back and having to face him again. I'm sure he's already put it behind him, unlike me, and on the drive there I try to convince myself that worse things have went down—although I don't think it's every day you get accused of being a predatory kidnapper; that must have been a first.
Tate holds my hand, skipping merrily beside me. The diner is lit up bright from the inside, packed with customers like the first time we came. I hold my breath as Tate opens the door. I don't have time to check and see if the waiter is here when Jessica barrels out of nowhere and tackles me in a hug. I stumble slightly from the force of her impact but Tate steadies me automatically; a moment later she's clutching my right leg, clearly startled by this overexcited, bushy-haired stranger.
"Jess, let her breathe." Lauren appears, rolling her eyes, and wrenches Jess off of me. My hand instinctively goes to my daughter's head to soothe her. I should have warned her that Jessica is a bit…high-strung, even friendlier than necessary.
"Sorry," she squeaks, tossing her hair back from her grinning face. I scoop Tate up into my arms to set her on my hip. "I'm just really happy you could make it. Both of you!" She beams at Tate now, and her eyes melt adoringly. I'm already betting on dinner being me and Lauren attempting to make good conversation while Jessica becomes Tate's new best friend.
"Say hi," I urge Tate. She's not used to meeting new people, either, but I know she'll warm up to them shortly. "These are my friends from work. This is Jessica, and that's Lauren. Tell them thank you for inviting us." Meaning, do it for Mommy.
"Hi," Tate says softly, waving. Jess waves back, completely enamored by her; she's the heart-eyes emoji in human form. She only falls more in love when Tate thanks them shyly, and even Lauren cracks a charmed smile. (Tate is irresistible. I know I said I wouldn't be that mom but sometimes I just can't help myself. She really is all I have to love at the moment.)
Lauren and Jessica managed to snag the last available booth, and Tate feverishly crawls across the cushy seat to sit by the window, but she has to turn around and look out the glass from behind if she wants a nice view since there's an alley right next to us. She sits on her knees and presses her little fingertips against the glass, but I pull them away before she can make unnecessary prints that somebody shouldn't have to clean up. I tickle her back, and she squeals with laughter. She shrugs off her poofy coat and flops down on her bottom beside me.
Jess starts talking about what to order (I forgot what an appetite this girl has). I guess she's been here quite a few times, since she can recite the dinner menu off the top of her head without having to look at it first, which is kind of impressive.
I am in the middle of debating getting steak and potatoes for me and Tate when lo-and-behold, you-know-who shows up.
I don't really know what I was expecting. He works here, doesn't he? He has to make a living somehow, and even though batshit crazy mommies accuse him of pedophilia and kidnapping (like one time), he needs to get past that in order to be paid. That in itself should be rewarded; if I were him, I'd be just as afraid to come back to work and seeing me again as I am right now seeing him. And he's walking towards our table, notepad in hand, pencil behind his ear, ready to talk to us.
Tate senses his approach and looks up automatically. Recognition instantly lights in her eyes and she beams at him—he brightens considerably when he spots her as well, a crooked smile gracing his face; he resembles a model on a billboard.
"Hey there, little lady," he greets her in a near drawl, and she's quite literally bouncing in her seat. Lauren and Jess glance at him once and their eyes imitate my daughter's. Out of the corner of mine, I see Jessica nudge Lauren with her elbow; I have to restrain from snickering at their obvious reaction to his godlike features. (I can't judge, of course—I'm the same, only not as obvious. I hope.)
"I remember you!" Tate practically shouts. "You gave me my pony sticker on my birthday! D'you remember me, mister?"
"I do remember you," he says, and my friends look like they're about to melt from how cute this is. "Your name is Tate—you ordered the chocolate pancake with extra whipped cream and a cherry on top." Oh, and your mother was psychotic!
Wide-eyed Tate seems shocked that he knows her name; come to think of it, I can't recall ever saying it around him. Huh.
"I put my Rarity sticker on my door!" she announces joyfully, still bouncing. "Right next t'—t' all my other pony stickers!"
"Really?" He looks genuinely touched that she kept it. I wonder if he bought the rest of the stickers for the diner himself.
"Yeah!" Tate's voice squeaks an octave higher and the seat we share shakes with the force of her jumping. I'm surprised she's having such a delighted reaction to this man, considering he freaked her out that day when he kept her from leaving.
Without having any previous intention of speaking to him, I hear myself say suddenly, "Yeah, she loves it so much that I keep joking with her to just marry it." I scrunch my nose at Tate and she finally sits down, giggling.
"I'm glad you like it," the waiter tells her, and I notice his cheeks are tinted pink, just a little bit. Christ, he's handsome and nice to kids? Whoever winds up with him is one lucky person. What I wouldn't give for someone like that. I sigh internally.
Jess and Lauren are clearly thinking the same thing because when he asks them what they'd like to order, Lauren stutters and Jess's face turns fifty shades of scarlet after being caught staring. The waiter simply presses his lips together, as if to keep from smiling. What a little shit. (He must get this a lot, though, no doubt. Who wouldn't want him to serve them?)
"Uh—we haven't decided yet," Lauren finally blurts out, composing herself. She awkwardly clears her throat. Three times.
"That's fine. Would you rather start with some drinks?" He arches an eyebrow at her dramatic coughing. For God's sake.
She nods and gives him a fluttery-eyed, grateful smile. "A water for me, please." Jessica bobs her head in agreement. A prickly feeling something akin to irritation crawls up my spine. I stick my tongue in my cheek to prevent a sarcastic word or two from slipping out and ruining the whole night. Now I know for sure that Lauren hasn't changed a bit since high school. Stuck-up, annoyingly theatrical, and always after somebody else's man. I can count on one hand how many girls she screwed over by basically seducing their unassuming yet unfaithful boyfriends. (Wouldn't surprise me if she was the one Mike sexted with. That's a spiteful thing for me to think, but being around her is bringing back old memories. Oops.)
"I'll have a Coke," I say through partly gritted teeth, still glowering at Lauren. I now imagine her with devil horns and a tail.
"Okey dokey." The waiter jots down our order then says to my daughter, "And for you, little lady? What would you like?"
"Chocolate milk," Tate replies cheerily, not looking up from her coloring book. "With extra chocolate, please," she adds.
He laughs, scribbling her request beneath mine. "Alright, be back in a minute." I swear on my dead mother's life he winks at me before turning and heading for the kitchen. Now I'm the one gawking, momentarily forgetting my beef with Lauren.
Momentarily, of course. As soon as he disappears I'm back to boiling on the inside. Lauren and Jessica look stunned—I can't help but be a hypocrite and want to laugh at their almost exaggerated reactions. They start whispering like the good old days and naturally I'm excluded from their gossip. Jesus, it's like we're all sixteen again. I glance at Tate and realize I didn't have her yet when I was sixteen. I nonchalantly celebrated my birthday that year not knowing three months later I'd get knocked up at a party. Funnily enough, she exists because Jessica invited me. I practically owe Jess for that. Damn.
Well, in a way. I said no at first. But then I had that massive blow-out with Charlie over some stupid shit and decided two hours later to sneak out and go to Jessica's "holiday" party. Her parents were out of town and everyone invited was told not to breathe a word of it to anybody outside of school. Forks is tiny and news gets around pretty quickly—ironically, it would have been my dad, the chief of police, who'd be the one to break the whole thing up and send people home. And I didn't originally plan on drinking or consuming anything other than whatever finger foods Jess had laid out, but to spite Charlie—and clearly not thinking about the consequences—I had a couple beers and wound up chatting with some guy. The guy I drunkenly got into bed with—the guy who gave me my child, my life, my purpose. Now how am I supposed to regret him? How am I supposed to regret the choices I made when they led me straight to my daughter? I need Tate like I need air or food or water or sleep. I tell myself constantly that good things can still come out of bad experiences or decisions. Tate was given to me because I made multiple mistakes, but she's the silver lining behind those dark clouds. I've learned that not everything happens for a reason—sometimes life just sucks ass—but in this instance, she is my reason for anything.
I'm looking at Tate with that same devastated expression from earlier this morning in the car; my face reflects against the windowpane beside her and the sudden drizzle outside makes it seem like I'm crying. I hold back my tears and lean over to kiss her head. Surprised by my random display of affection, she smiles sweetly and pats my cheek in quiet response.
As expected, our waiter is showered with overenthusiastic thanks by Lauren and Jessica when he returns with our drinks. Tate gets hers first, and both our jaws fall open at the fancy vintage glass filled to the top with chocolate milk. He added a thin circle of whipped cream around the brim and a red umbrella as if he were serving an alcoholic beverage. Jess eyes my daughter's drink enviously, and I have to admit, I am too. Lauren isn't as impressed—maybe she noticed my hostility and wants to stick it to me by not fawning over my kid. That's fine—as long as she doesn't say anything snarky to Tate.
"Oh, wooow!" Tate looks happier in this moment than she has been in her entire life. And that's a whole lot of happiness.
The waiter laughs, visibly pleased about her ecstatic reaction. I take a second to finally search his shirt for a nametag so later I can thank him properly if I get the chance. Something soft like a distant memory flickers in the back of my mind—my eyes find his name written in bold caps and the six letters connect with my brain. Edward. Edward, Edward. Edward?
I snap out of my stare before it can start to get borderline creepy. Didn't I know an Edward once? What an old name. It's not a name you'd call your kids nowadays, or even twenty to twenty-five years ago (or however old this guy is). And yet, despite the dated sound, it fits him. Well, his physical appearance, at least, I don't know his actual personality to say for certain if it's the perfect name. But I think it is. I think he's a good person, too. No stranger goes out of their way for Tate like he has. People don't care as much as he does. They can be nice, but never like this. Anybody else might have been so upset with me that they'd kick us out of the restaurant after what I did; anybody else might have turned around in fear of having to see me again tonight and asked someone else to serve our table. But not him. Maybe it was Tate that gave him the confidence to keep walking towards us. Whatever it was that made him do so, I'm grateful. My girl is so excited.
I swear she's going to crawl over my lap to give him a big hug. "Thank you, mister!" Jesus, she hasn't looked this joyful since the last time we were here and he generously gave her that pony sticker. It's like her chocolate milk is a sacred gift from God himself. Well, it's obvious that she'll keep asking for it if we come back again. I have a hesitant feeling we will.
"Oh! Guess what, mister!" Tate pipes up, her doe eyes alight as she remembers something. "It's my mommy's birthday!"
I suppress a self-conscious groan, slightly mortified now. There's that devastating smile again. "Well, I guess that means she deserves her special birthday sticker, too. I'll be right back." Edward tucks the tray under his arm and he walks away before I can protest or tell him not to waste those cute stickers on me. Jessica is sipping her water innocently, watching.
"Well—he surely likes you girls," Lauren comments, swishing her ice around with her straw. My jaw clenches. Here we go.
"He likes Tate," I correct calmly, touching one of my daughter's soft curls as she returns to her coloring book, oblivious. "He's…just being extra nice for her sake," I explain in a low tone, directing a warning glare towards my jealous coworker.
She's getting ready to say something I know can't be pleasant when Edward walks up with a handful of stickers. His grin is bordering on amusement, as if he knows I'm slightly embarrassed over the situation but can't do anything about it. So I have to play along for Tate, because it'll make her happy. She leans over my arm to stare at the stickers, nodding when I choose a cute Dalmatian puppy, pleased. I peel off the backing and slap it onto my left shoulder so she can admire it.
"Thank you very much," I say to Edward nicely, because I always have to set a good example about manners for my kid.
He half-bows, still grinning. "You're welcome, m'lady," he replies, and I see Lauren roll her eyes. Her jealousy is palpable.
"Alright, I'll give you guys a few minutes to think about what you want to eat. I'll be back to take your order," Edward tells us cheerily and we thank him in unison, Tate the loudest; our eyes meet for a fraction of a second before he saunters off.
The only sound we hear for a while is the rapid scribbling of my daughter's crayon. I watch her color, not wanting to start a faux friendly convo with the platinum-haired witch sitting across from me, staring at her blood-red nails. Jess looks so out of place, the poor thing; she's caught in the middle of a six or seven year-long feud. I wouldn't blame her if she took Lauren's side, since they actually remained close after school. Not that this is about taking sides. Lauren might be acting like a high-schooler with her nonexistent attempts to hide her envy at the also nonexistent romance between Edward and I, but we're twenty-two years old. We have homes of our own now, we have jobs, and I have a child. We are adults, for Christ's sake, she should be handling the situation with responsibility and class—meaning, keep your whoring to a minimum around kids, and go find someone else's dick to hop onto. Don't even bother with resenting me. Edward's a goddamn waiter who I've met twice. I don't know anything about him. We've never even talked longer than ten minutes. So please, Lauren, give it up. Him and I are nothing more than strangers—he's just a waiter who hands out cute stickers.
"I have this weird feeling that I've seen him before," Lauren is saying, and my eyes jump to her face. She's leaning on the table, arms crossed, looking over at the other side of the diner. She watches Edward as he serves another table, smiling at a little boy when he gives him a juicy burger. I notice the boy has a sticker too, a lion on the back of his left hand. His guardian, a middle-aged woman with tired eyes and wavy brown hair the same color as his, thanks Edward for the food.
Unlike Lauren, I don't stare at Edward's ass while he works. Instead I appreciate his kindness from afar, admiring him for what seems like an exhausting job. Having to talk to a bunch of different people on a daily basis and forcing yourself to be lighthearted and patient with them sends waves of anxiety through my empty stomach. I don't know how waiters do it—at least, not this waiter. I don't know about the others working here. Maybe Edward was just born with a knack for being friendly and pleasant around strangers. I guess you have to be that way in order to last in the restaurant business. People sometimes don't return the warm smile or say thank you in the sincerest of tones. My self-esteem would plummet if this was my job.
"Yeah, me too," Jessica responds to Lauren's comment a bit too brightly, like she doesn't actually agree but wants to be included in the impending discussion of whether or not they've run into him outside of the diner. I get the sense that he's been the object of their faraway approval the few times they've eaten here, but Lauren is only bringing up her recognition in front of me to gauge my reaction. I'm not in the mood so I direct my attention back to my daughter instead of engaging.
What I wouldn't give to be spending my birthday back home in Forks. I'd choose pizza with my sullen stepsister over the most awkward dinner date with Lauren any day. At least Leah hates the entire world and not just me alone, unlike Lauren.
As promised, Edward returns after several tense minutes have passed, notepad in hand, smile still plastered on his face. "Ready to order now?" he asks brightly. I'm ready to die, actually, I think to myself, grabbing my forgotten soda, wanting to speak last. Jess practically jumps out of her skin; she's been so busy watching the silent animosity and Edward's ass to actually look at the damn menu. Funnily enough, she apparently has forgotten what's on it, and fumbles with it and quickly skims through it. Lauren rolls her eyes and does that fluttery thing with her long, dark lashes again when she looks at Edward, requesting a ham sandwich with lettuce and tomato and extra mayonnaise. Her tone practically borders on seductive and I wish I could just toss my drink in her face.
But Edward is gracious, nodding his understanding and jotting down her words. Jess seems to decide on her dinner the exact moment he turns to her. "A—a regular burger, please," she says hurriedly, feigning normalcy but failing. Her round face is the ruddy reddish color of our seats. Dear Lord, she looks like she could use a paper bag. I fear she might faint.
"Okay, and for you two?" Edward turns to Tate and I, probably regretting coming in at all tonight. We've got a lot of odd things going on right now, and I feel bad that he has to deal with someone like Lauren. But of course he's courteous even if she doesn't necessarily deserve it. It occurs to me that either he's used to being ogled at by the subjective eyes of the women who waltz in here or he has no clue whatsoever how painfully attractive he is. Maybe it's both, but he's confused.
"Mac'roni n' cheeeese!" Tate yodels unexpectedly, throwing her arms into the air and accidentally letting go of her crayon. It literally lands with a plop in Lauren's glass of water. A moment of collective stunned silence follows. Then she whispers, "Oopsie."
"Oopsie," Lauren repeats in a hushed sarcastic tone, lifting the crayon from her drink like it's a piece of food Tate tossed instead. Tight-lipped, she hands it back to my daughter, who thankfully looks more surprised than embarrassed. There's an amused yet mortified giggle struggling to escape my throat, but I swallow it down, not wanting to hurt Tate's feelings.
"Mac and cheese for the little lady," Edward confirms smoothly, grinning a bit, but speaking as if that didn't just happen.
"Medium-rare stake with potatoes for me, please," I tell him calmly, not looking, drying off Tate's crayon with my napkin.
"Okay, so," Edward says, "a regular burger for you, a ham sandwich with lettuce, tomato, and extra mayonnaise for you, mac and cheese for you, aaand a medium-rare steak with potatoes for you. Correct?" We nod. "Good. I'll be back soon!"
He's so adorably upbeat and happy. I'm kinda sad when he leaves us again, because now I don't have a distraction from Lauren. And it's gonna be a while until he comes back with our food. I seriously regret accepting Jessica's suggestion of this "girls' night." I know she's hurting about Mike and all, but I don't exactly owe her anything and should have just left it at offering moral support and the best advice I could muster. Putting myself in an uncomfortable situation just because I didn't have the heart to say no is something I need to stop doing, especially now that my child is involved in this crap. If something worse happens tonight and scars her little mind forever, I am never making friends in my entire life ever again.
Luckily Jessica launches a random conversation about upcoming television shows being released this month and neither Lauren nor I have to suffer in silence for very long. Ironically, both of us pretend to be interested in the topic of TV as our bubbly mutual friend chatters on for a good five minutes nonstop. I catch Lauren messing with her hair whenever Edward walks by to serve someone else, and I fidget awkwardly from time to time. Next to me, Tate sings to herself quietly.
Gradually Jessica starts asking our opinions on television and which series we like the most or look forward to seeing. It goes without saying that I don't have a clue—I'm not home enough during the week to watch anything appropriate for me and on my day off Tate and I usually go out and have some fun at the park or an inside jungle gym. So basically I'm not that into TV. I don't even know that many actors or actresses, to be honest. My world consists of being a mom to Tate. I have no time to figure out what I might like these days. Which is fine, of course—Tate is more important. And interesting.
See? This is why the Mommy bloggers wouldn't like me. First I let her sleep in my bed for no apparent reason, I wasn't as upset with her as I should have been when she took off while I was in the bathroom, and now they'd say I'm too attached and need to do things for me sometimes to teach her about independence and being your own person. I suppose they'd have a point, but what's wrong with loving my kid and wanting to be around her as much as I can? Tate's fun. She makes me laugh, smile, and cry all in the same day. I genuinely like the things she likes. Her pony show is adorable and teaches good life lessons. We do each other's hair occasionally (if her putting countless clips and ribbons in mine counts as her doing my hair). We read books and watch Disney movies together when we can. I would think acknowledging what she's absorbed in and encouraging her to continue enjoying those things is okay parenting. At least she's not being put into a box of expectations and forced to act a certain way to please me and the rest of the world. I tell her to be herself, and that it is perfectly alright to be whoever and like whatever she wants. I'd love her even if she hated puppies or went goth on me one day—and I can't say that those things won't happen because I don't get to decide her future for her. Only she does.
Sure, maybe distance will be necessary and healthy eventually. But she's four and is away from me too often already so it's truly nobody's place to judge how much time I do or don't spend with her. As long as I'm here—as long as I'm trying.
I get a glimpse into the daily night of the average twenty-three-year-old woman by watching Jess animatedly discuss TV. I admittedly zone out after a bit, her chipper voice turning into a hyper buzz in the background. I must look quite pathetic and awkward just sitting here coloring with my daughter while my one friend and her best friend talk about some medical show ironically set here in Seattle. I honestly don't think I've ever wanted to go home more than I do in this very moment.
Some birthday, I laugh to myself, reminiscing on last year when I was surrounded by people I actually like and we went to eat at a place I actually was familiar with. Charlie, Sue, Leah, Seth, Tate, and I all drove down to La Push and hung out at the beach after we ate. Tate splashed fearlessly in the water as the waves pushed against the rocky sand; she'd run from them if they got too big, and shrieked with laughter whenever Seth picked her up and swung her around. The sun set and disappeared behind a cluster of naturally dark clouds, obscuring the pale purple and blue sky behind them. Tate slept in my arms during the drive home, and I cherished every second of it. I continue to feel like I'd been given the greatest gift.
I get so lost in the beauty of my daughter that I don't notice Edward at first. All of a sudden my plate is being passed to me and Tate gasps dramatically when she sees her steaming bowl of mac and cheese. Her dinner looks more appetizing than mine, and she stares at it open-mouthed for several seconds while I put her crayons and coloring book away inside her backpack. I notice she pulled out one of the pony figurines she got for her birthday and has it standing by her drink.
I thank Edward and tell Tate to do the same. Again, she's practically about to launch herself at him in theatrical gratitude.
Unsurprisingly, I could say the same about Lauren and Jessica. Their girly behavior around this guy strongly reminds me of our high school days (before they met their current significant others) when they would fawn over practically any boy.
Dinner is good. Makes me think of Charlie, though, since steak and potatoes are pretty much all he likes to eat. At some point Lauren brings up work and for the first time tonight we can all mutually agree on one thing—that it freaking sucks ninety nine point nine percent of the time—and naturally Jess takes over the subject and tells a crazy random story about what happened during her lunch break last week, exaggerated and probably half a lie. But I listen because I have nothing to contribute to the conversation, entertained by her hand gestures.
For a few minutes, everything is okay. Lauren smiles several times and acts like a normal human being instead of gazing at our busy waiter. Jess keeps chatting away, but entices a laugh from me at one point. Tate giggles when I do even if it doesn't make any sense to her. She finishes her meal first then pushes her bowl away to hurriedly retrieve her art project.
Just as I'm starting to think maybe—maybe!—Lauren isn't going to shoot me dirty looks or act inappropriately in front of my daughter anymore, she does something far worse. I should have expected this, really, after their little crayon incident. But nothing could have prepared me for the look of pure shock, horror, and utter devastation that falls upon Tate's sweet face when Lauren deliberately—and I know it's on purpose because I see it happen out of the corner of my eye, too fast for me to react in time—knocks over her half-empty glass of water onto the table. Chips of ice splatter and the beverage spreads directly onto Tate's coloring book, bleeding through the pages and darkening the colors of her cartoon poodle.
She screams; an actual, bloodcurdling, bone-chilling scream that cuts through the noisy diner like a knife. Several things happen all in the same moment: my hands automatically grab her and pull her away from the mess, DANGER written in a bold red font in my brain as it jumps to the possible conclusion that the glass broke; the evil culprit pretends to give two shits by sopping up the water with her napkins, apologizing profusely; Jess, startled by the accident and Tate's shriek of despair, looks around frantically for help, waving her hands and asking what she can do; and finally, our dear waiter runs to us immediately. By the way we both move, it's almost as if we're in sync—he bends down to comfort Tate and I reach for her soaked coloring book, my vision blurred by my own tears. This cannot be happening right now. This can't be real.
I do what any helpless person would do and shake the book to air it out, gently dabbing at the wet pages with my sleeve and muttering "Oh God, oh God, oh God," under my breath. Tate is bawling behind me, begging me to save her pictures. But the damage is done and irreversible; colors melt together on every affected page. They'll dry but won't be the same.
Aside from her heartbroken crying, there is no sound. People are staring; some have rushed to help clean the table or to see if anyone is hurt. I hold the coloring book in my trembling hands, my face turned into something akin to stone. Fury, hotter than what I imagine hell to feel like, courses through my veins as I shoot daggers at pale-faced Lauren, who feigns pathetic innocence. My jaw clenches painfully and my knuckles throb with a violent desire to throw a punch at said face.
But I reign in my anger. I don't let it show that I want to beat her senseless for intentionally ruining one of my child's most cherished and prized possessions. Because I could get arrested and that is the last thing Tate needs right now.
I take a deep breath and step forward to grab her jacket and backpack, carefully placing the book and box of crayons inside. I zip it up and swing it over my shoulder, biting my lips to suppress a sob, then turn to Edward, holding Tate in his arms, to finally reclaim my daughter. Her tiny face is streaked with tears and redder than I've ever seen it before. She curls into my chest, locking her arms around my neck and breaking down on my shoulder. I clutch her tightly, giving Lauren a final parting look of ferocity and telling her in a remarkably calm voice, "You're paying." And on that note, I turn and walk out.
It's cold as fuck outside. I fumble with my keys, fingers still shaking, but manage to unlock the car and get Tate in it. I set her in her car seat and buckle her up, then slide over and sit beside her in the middle, pulling the door shut behind me. I let my tears fall, unable to restrain them anymore. Tate sniffles and whimpers dolefully. She stares at her lap sadly.
"I'm sorry, baby," is all I can say. "I promise I'll buy you a new coloring book. We can go pick one out tomorrow if you're up for it. Maybe I can finally get one for me, so we can color together. Does that sound okay?" She nods dully in agreement.
I lean forward to kiss her forehead. I wipe her remaining tears away with my thumb and tap her on the nose, trying to see her smile in the dark. But she doesn't respond and my heart aches. Sighing in defeat, I climb out to get in the front seat, but a tall, approaching figure startles me and makes me jump. Automatically, I leap back and press my body flat against the door to shield my daughter on the other side, my pulse thudding in my throat—but it's only Edward. Oh. Wait, what?
"Hi," he says quietly, and my eyes focus on his shadowed face as they adjust to the dark. "Sorry, um…Are you alright?"
A coldhearted, jealous bitch tipped her drink over my kid's coloring book on purpose and now Tate is upset because weeks upon weeks of pages she colored and worked on aren't going to look the same and it's my fault for dragging her along to my "birthday dinner" and for accepting Jessica's offer to go out in the first place. But I simply mutter, "Yeah, we're good" instead. I can't help but smile at him, touched by his compassion, but it's brief and watery and I want to break down in the street.
"Okay. Just wanted to check and see." He smiles back; he tucks his hands in his jeans pockets shyly, shuffling his feet.
"Thank you, Edward," I whisper, grateful that he can't see the tears falling onto my cheeks. "Not—not just for now, but—but for…um—being a really good waiter. You have been nothing but kind to Tate, and to me…Even after what I did last month—"
I swear he's blushing. And that he playfully rolls his eyes at my last comment. "Oh, shush. Please don't worry about that."
"I try not to," I joke lightly, swiping at my wet face with my hand. "But it's in my nature to give myself anxiety over stupid stuff I say and do. I'm that person who attracts bad luck and embarrassment like I'm a magnet for them or something…"
He nods understandingly. "I get it. But I don't want you to get anxious over it, it's okay. I'm just glad Tate didn't get hurt."
"Me too." We fall silent for a minute, recalling the moment I shouted at the poor guy across the diner and ripped her from his protective hands, believing him to be a freaking kidnapper in broad daylight. "Thank you for doing that, by the way."
He shrugs, grinning again slightly, scratching the back of his neck. He's about to say something else when Tate yells for me, her muffled, sleepy voice demanding to know if we're going home or not. Edward and I stifle a laugh and I reach for the driver's door, yanking it open and bending over to peer at her grumpy face. She squints when the automatic light hits her eyes; she actually looks like she just woke up from a little nap. "Yes, baby, we're gonna go home," I murmur. "Mr. Edward came out to say goodbye. Can you tell him thank you for dinner?" She sits up to see him better, more alert now.
"Thank you for my mac n' cheese and my chocolate milk, Mr. Edward!" she hollers with a wave. "They were really good!"
He appears next to me and waves back. "You're very welcome, sweetheart, I'm glad you enjoyed it," he answers warmly. Lord, I can't take it. He's too much. "Well, I'll see you around, okay? Tell your mama to bring you back." He winks at her.
She giggles sweetly and kicks her short legs in response. It's amazing how a stranger can brighten her mood but not me.
"Get home safe," Edward says to me, stepping back with a tiny nod and kindness in his eyes. "Oh—and happy birthday."
"Pfft." I laugh softly, looking away. "Thanks, man. This'll be a birthday I'll never forget." I take my seat behind the wheel, his amused chuckle a whisper in my ears. I shut the door and lower the window as I start the car. "Thanks again." I smile up at our copper-haired waiter standing at the curb. "Really, thank you. We appreciate your humanity." I make a face and he actually laughs loudly this time, folding his arms and shaking his head; there's a charmed gleam in his green eyes.
He watches me drive away slowly. My heavy heart pangs a little when I turn the corner and he disappears from the mirror.
I lean against the doorframe to Tate's room, arms crossed, watching her sleep. Baby girl is passed out, sprawled across her tiny mattress like a rag doll. Any trace of sadness or fear is gone from her sweet face; instead her baby-soft features are smooth and cherubic, porcelain with her normal shade of blush in her cheeks instead of burning red from hard crying.
Eventually I have to tear myself away even though it physically pains me to leave her. I close her door but not all the way so I can hear her if she calls for me—which I don't think will happen since she usually sleeps through the night. (Usually.)
Anxiety is creeping up my chest and seeping into my hands, so to keep my fingers and mind busy I decide to do dishes and listen to music. A bomb could go off and Tate wouldn't hear it, so I'm confident she won't even flinch. Still, I put the volume on low and set my phone on the counter in front of me as I quietly scrub plates and glasses, forcing my brain to pay close attention to the words being sung and to memorize them. If I let my thoughts wander, I will just get mad again.
Sooner than I had hoped, there aren't any dishes left to be washed and put away. I glance at the clock on the microwave and groan when I see it's only eight forty-five. Adele belts out a note in the background as I hang my head in exhaustion and stand here in my small kitchen for what seems like hours but is really only a minute or two. Heaving a sigh, I end the song and check my messages, flipping off the light as I head to the back door. Somehow I was blessed with a stunning view from the pint-sized terrace, and I collapse in one of the free but cheap metal chairs. I keep the glass door cracked.
Now that I'm finally getting around to reading all the nice birthday texts from Charlie and company, I realize that although I'm not as psyched to be twenty-two as Taylor Swift suggested and how this birthday in particular took a wrong turn, my family and friends back home have been thinking of me today and it's nice to see their kind words. Half these people I haven't talked to since graduation—the names in my phone are familiar but their faces are sort of a blur. I wonder what it was about me that they liked enough to want to keep in touch or to simply remember my birthday and take time out of their day to wish me a good one. What was I to them that they still care even after all these years? I appreciate it, whatever their reasons.
I thank them all individually, trying to spice up my repetitive answers with a different set of words and emoji's each time, using the cute ones Tate likes. I sigh when I get to Charlie (save the best for last, as they say), staring at his sentimental, fatherly message with a appreciative smile tugging at my lips. Charlie's not the best at expressing his emotions via speech—I know all too well how that feels—but he really stepped it up for me today and says some sweet things. I get choked up.
Rather than say thank you through text, I ask him if he's there and available to talk. It's a relief to finally get this chance.
Hey B, he types a few seconds later. Yeah, I'm here :) Poor dude hasn't figured out emoji's yet. Or an iPhone in general.
I call him first. As it rings, I untie my shoelaces and kick off my sneakers, and then pull my legs up beneath me. The line clicks and just like we always do, my dad and I say hello at the exact same time. I genuinely laugh for once—how funny.
"Hey, Dad," I snicker, tugging at my shirt sleeve absentmindedly. "Geez, why do we do that every time one of us calls?"
He's chuckling, too. "I dunno. Great minds think alike, I suppose? Or maybe it's just because we're father and daughter."
He sounds sleepy, but the good kind of sleepy, the kind you get after you've had a long but satisfying day. Hearing his rumbly voice and sense of humor in my ear takes me home to our cozy house in dreary Forks…this is what I needed today.
I ask him how his day went before he can ask about mine. I wonder how much I should leave out and what I should keep in—Tate's unexpected birthday decorations she made for me will certainly be included, but everything else? I don't know what Charlie would say if I told him pretty little Lauren Mallory turned out to be a vindictive bitch—more so than ever. It'd be a relief to tell someone how I feel about what happened tonight but I don't have the heart to upset Charlie. Tate is like a mini version of me, and even though he loves her as a granddaughter, I do think he gets a second chance to be a dad—the dad I rarely saw while growing up in Arizona, the dad I only visited during summers or every other holiday. My girl's his girl now too, and he wants to prove to himself that he actually can be a worthy, present father figure in both our lives.
I listen to him talk for a while, inquiring about Sue and the kids, wondering how they've been. I keep him chatting enough that maybe he'll get tired of talking and go to bed so I won't have to discuss my awkward evening with Lauren. Or at the very least, we can talk about our uncertain holiday plans and how I may or may not actually be able to go home as soon as shit starts getting real at work. God, I seriously hope I won't be breaking my promise to Tate. I shudder at the thought.
"But enough about me," Charlie eventually sighs, bringing me out of my trance. My stomach churns. Well, shit. So much for that plan. "How was your birthday? Did you do anything special?" He almost sounds hopeful. Way to be subtle, Dad.
I laugh sarcastically. "Ah. No." I bite my lip, wrinkling my nose in distaste. I'm not really lying now though—an uncomfortable dinner with Jessica and Lauren isn't considered special or fun in my mind. "Uh, it was good. Me and Tate went out to eat." That's not a lie, either. More of a half-truth. "She's so sweet, she made me these gorgeous decorations and hung them up, all by herself, in the living room." I look over my shoulder to admire her work through the glass. "She's a really talented artist. I'll take pictures so you can see, because they're so cute. I wasn't expecting it at all."
"I'm not surprised she's good," Charlie says warmly, and I can hear the smile in his voice. "You used to love art as a kid. You got it from your mom, I think, and now Tate gets it from you." We fall silent for a minute at the mention of Renée. A tightness builds in my chest, squeezing my heart. Tears prick at my eyes. The wound of losing her still feels fresh, open.
"Yeah," I reply, straining to remain upbeat. "I'll have to buy Tate a new coloring book. I, um, accidentally tipped my water over at dinner and it soaked the one she's been using all summer." Again, another half-truth. "I feel like crap." That's true.
"Oh no," Charlie groans. I hear him clap a hand to his forehead. Same. "Bells, you clumsy kid. Always knockin' shit over."
"Gee, way to make me feel worse. Thanks so much." But I laugh, because it's true, even if I didn't actually do it this time.
A different kind of quiet settles between us, both thinking about all the countless times I've been a bull in a china shop. I really am my father's daughter since I certainly don't get my balance problems from my mother. Charlie understands me.
"I miss you," I wind up mumbling, throat swollen. Because it's hitting me like a goddamn train all of a sudden, the silence growing too loud for me to stand. Usually we have these types of conversations in person. I'd come home from work to my daughter, my dad, and later Sue and her kids if they were there on those days. Tate would run to greet me and thrust her artwork in my face for me to see. When she went to bed, Charlie and I sat at the kitchen table or the back porch, and we talked about our day and what we wanted to do tomorrow. I hate myself for fucking up that routine, for uprooting my child and bringing her to Seattle. It was like a spur of the moment decision, something my own mother would have done. I got excited too fast and just like her, I make bad choices when I'm excited. And now my choices affect the ones I love.
"I miss you too, baby," Charlie whispers and the faint tremor in his words causes tears to flood my vision again. "But we have the holidays to look forward to, right? I know you've been real busy lately with work. But we'll see each other soon."
I have two and a half months to be anxious about my schedule and then throw a fit of despair when it turns out I'm right. I'll be forced to work during Thanksgiving, and probably up until late on Christmas Eve, which by then it will be too late to drive three hours back to Forks. I could shower Tate with gifts but she'd never forgive me for doing that to her. It would break her to be told we aren't going home for the holidays like she thought. And you wouldn't be happy with me either. "Oh, yeah, I—I know," I respond dully with a sniff, using my sleeve as a tissue for the second time tonight. My own words scream "liar."
"It's not like you joined the army or moved to the other side of the country," Charlie continues reassuringly. "You're just a few hours away." I get the sense he's trying to comfort both of us. He heaves a sigh. "Sometimes life takes us on paths we didn't think existed, or didn't think we'd travel down. We wind up in new places, meet new people, try new things. Life never goes the way we plan it, Bells. But take advantage of the good things you're given, and don't be afraid to do stuff you're scared of. I dunno what those things might be, I'm not you, but…What I'm trying to say is, being away from home, as hard as it might be for you and Tate—you wound up in Seattle for a reason. If you haven't already, you'll find out why and things'll start to make sense. But if time passes and you still don't know, you come home. You'll find yourself here."
I smile, touched by his unexpected advice. "Good to know. I needed that. Thanks, Dad." I underestimate him sometimes.
"You're welcome." Perplexed by my genuine praise, clearly he doesn't think he made much sense, but I take his words to heart. I tuck them away inside to comfort myself later as I'm tossing and turning in bed, unable to sleep due to worrying.
"Uhm…Hey, I think I'm gonna go get me and Tate ready for bed. We've had a long day, and I can't keep my eyes open."
"All righty. Same here. Thanks for calling me, it's always nice talking to you. Tell baby girl I said hi. Happy birthday, Bella."
Rolling my eyes, I bend over to pick up my shoes and I rise from the hard chair. "Haha. Thank you. And I will. I love you."
"Love you too, honey. Goodnight." He hangs up first, the line clicking quietly in my ear. I slide my phone in my pocket. I go back inside, suddenly becoming very aware of how freaking cold it is, shivering as I pull the door shut and lock it up.
I stop and admire my daughter's drawings for a bit, kneeling on the couch to inspect the details. This is the sweetest and best gift I never could have anticipated, a true reflection of who Tate is as a person: kind, generous, thoughtful, and loving. I don't know what I did to deserve such a great kid. And any day with Tate is a day never left unremembered or uncherished.
Today especially. As I resituate her tiny sleeping body to make room for myself beside her, I bitterly think of Lauren and how she hates me enough to hurt my child the way she did. The wicked witch should be grateful tomorrow's my day off.
I stare at Tate, unable to take my eyes off her. When I do gradually drift off, I think of her drawings. Mom would be proud.
The end!
Nah just kidding. We're barely getting started.
Congratulations if you made it to the end without getting bored and/or tired of the length! I ended up with more words than I thought. Whoops.
Again, I'm so sorry it took me so long to get this done :( I won't give a deadline for chapter 3 so it'll get here when it gets here. Dunno when that is but I'll write it eventually! There'll be more Bella/Edward interaction soon so stay tuned for that. I need to work on another fic for a bit so I'll probably take a teeny tiny break from this until I get some of that done. Anyway, hope you enjoyed! Give this a favorite/follow if you did, and leave a happy friendly review (I could use some positive feedback)!
Thank you for reading, loves! Catch ya on the flip side.
- Cherry
(Happy birthday, dinosaur.)
