Chapter Four
Opposition: The position of a planet when it is exactly opposite the Sun in the sky as seen from Earth. A planet at opposition is at its closest approach to the Earth and is best suitable for observing.
"You can't pull it like that, Edward, it'll-"
"I got it," he snaps, as he roughly yanks on the innards of the copier. He flips a couple of levers and tries pulling again, but nothing moves. He jostles the machine, and plastic smacks against plastic somewhere inside, but it's stubborn, and won't let Edward have his way.
"You don't have to pull that part out; the paper is jammed behind the other-"
"I've done this before, Bella. I know what I'm doing." His head turns slightly towards me as he speaks, but he doesn't look in my direction. "It's just tricky, and I have to..."
His voice trails off as he ducks his head to the left to find another point of attack. His eyebrows are furrowed, and small beads of sweat are beginning to form along his hairline as he shifts his weight from one leg to another in his position crouched on the floor. I can empathize with him; I did battle with the fax machine a couple of days ago, and did not emerge victorious. If he would just let me help, we could probably slay this beast.
"The display says the jam is behind part number seven. This is number nine," I explain, pointing at the little blue number above the lever that he's fiddling with. "And you're yanking on the toner, not the fuser. It's gonna bust open-"
"It's not gonna bust open," he says, jiggling the toner drum so roughly that I can see every tendon in his forearm flexing beneath his skin.
I stand back, because I know from experience that whenever you think a piece of office equipment isn't going to do something, it does it, just to spite you.
And sure enough, no sooner than the words leave his mouth, that Xerox machine spites the hell out of Edward. It spews out a gust of toner, black as soot from a chimney, all over Edward's freshly pressed crisp white shirt.
"Shit," Edward says with a sigh, hanging his head low in defeat. He looks down at the carnage, and in one final burst of anger, he reaches over and slams the plastic front door of the copier against the base. It ricochets off of the broken toner drum, and hits Edward in the chest, causing a little black puff of ink to float through the air.
Edward stands, and moves to brush his shirt with the backs of his ink-stained fingers.
"Don't!" I yell. He startles, and lifts both arms up and away from his body. His hands are wide open and his fingers are splayed out, as if I'm getting ready to frisk him. "Don't touch it. Just...just move over there and don't touch it. I'll be right back."
I jog over to my desk and open the bottom drawer, then pull out the small can of Aqua Net I keep in there specifically for moments like these. I rip a few sheets off of the roll of paper towels that are in there too, then grab the canister vacuum from the janitor's closet. When I return to the copy room, Edward is leaning against the wall with his head down and eyes closed, and he's still got his arms stretched out awkwardly at his sides.
I put the hairspray and paper towels down on the counter next to him, then plug in the vacuum and make quick work of cleaning up the mess on the floor. Once I'm finished with that, I walk over to Edward, and wipe off the vacuum's nozzle with a clean paper towel.
"Do you mind if I untuck this?" I ask, pointing at his shirt.
He shakes his head, and when I look up at him, all the frustration has left his face. Eyes that were so irritated only a few minutes ago watch me, open wide, as if I'm performing some kind of miracle.
I pull firmly on the hem of his shirt, and let the nozzle hover over the black splotches of powder, watching as they gradually disappear. When I've gotten all that I can, I turn the vacuum off and pick up the Aqua Net.
I give the fabric a good spray, then look up at Edward as I slip my hand underneath his shirt, holding a paper towel behind the stain while I press against the front of it with another paper towel.
"What is that?" His voice is soft and inquisitive. His words slip across my skin, and they make me feel calm.
"It's hairspray," I reply, smiling. I've never been this close to him before, and his lips are so full and pink. He's got a tiny scar just above his right eyebrow, where the small, light line marks an otherwise flawless forehead. I want to ask him how he got it, but the question seems too intimate, even though I'm standing here with one of my hands up his shirt.
"You just happen to have a can of it in your desk?"
"I like to be prepared." I spray his shirt again, grab fresh paper towels, and reposition my hands.
"You and toner stains are old friends then?" Edward smiles. God, his teeth are perfectly straight, and so white. I want to use whatever toothpaste he uses. Did he wear braces? It'd be a damn shame if his parents spent good money on orthodontia to correct a smile that he uses so infrequently.
"Not so much friends as enemies," I laugh. "I had an incident with magenta a couple of years ago; nearly ruined my favorite pants. I looked like I'd been stabbed. I did a little CPR, and-"
"You were able to save them?" he asks. He sounds genuinely interested, not like he's just making conversation with me because I'm keeping his shirt from becoming a useless rag.
"I was. I wore them yesterday, actually."
"So you're telling me not to lose hope?"
Is he joking with me? Am I dreaming? I look around the room, and everything seems normal enough. Maybe I've managed to drift into an alternate universe or something.
"I think it's gonna pull through. It's a good thing you had your sleeves rolled up though, because this stuff is hard to get out of the cuffs for some reason."
"Small miracles," he replies. "Did you come up with this routine all on your own?"
I shake my head. "Nah. There's this thing on the internet called Google. You should look it up sometime."
Edward laughs, and the sound of it makes me smile.
"You know, I think I've heard of it," he says, narrowing his eyes at me. They crinkle just a bit in the corner when he grins, and those lines make him look like he's lighter than air.
"Spill coffee on yourself again, Cullen?" I look over and see Mike leaning up against the door frame, chomping obnoxiously on an apple.
The easy air between me and Edward gets sucked right out of the room by Newton's ginormous, troublemaking mouth. I've seen the two of them go at it more than once, so I intervene before things get ugly.
"Big words coming from someone who walked around with ketchup on their shirt for most of yesterday," I say.
"Touché, Swan," Mike replies through a mouthful of fruit. "Touché."
When he's gone, I toss the paper towels, and brush my fingers across Edward's shirt. "There. I think that's about as good as it's gonna get."
Edward looks down at the nearly spotless fabric where the toner used to be, and the right side of his mouth turns up into a smile. "Wow."
"You should change this as soon as you can, and wash it in cold water. Make sure all the toner's out before you put it in the dryer."
He runs a hand through his hair, and when I look at his coal-colored forehead, I laugh.
"You should probably wash your hands, too." When he sees his palms, he shakes his head. "And your face," I say, reaching up to run my finger across the streak of ink that's smudged on his skin. I hold my finger up so he can see it, and his grassy green eyes grow wide.
"Oh," he laughs. His nose scrunches up as he rubs his forehead with the back of his hand.
He walks out, but a few seconds later, he's back. He moves his hand up to grip the door frame, but stops himself before he touches it.
"Hey, Bella?"
"Yeah?"
"Thank you. You really don't know how much...I just...yeah. Thanks."
He's finally poked his head out from behind that ever-present wall of defensiveness and stress, and even though he's the same person, he looks completely different. He's all friendly bright eyes that make me want to tell him my life story, and warm, welcoming smiles that make me wish he would tell me his. If this Edward could manage to stick around for a while, I think I'd find it really hard not to like him.
"Anytime," I reply, smiling. "Just do your clothes a favor, and next time the copier acts up, call for backup before you throw the first punch, okay?"
"Deal," he laughs, then waves before he walks away.
Yeah, I would definitely like that guy a lot.
I pull the busted drum of toner out, and carefully put a new one in. Once I have the paper jam cleared, the machine beeps and roars to life, quickly churning page after page through the feeder.
I take the warm papers off the tray when they're finished, and turn them over on top of the lid. I expect to see copies of spreadsheets or expenses, but this stuff is definitely not work-related. The first page is a copy of two checks written out to Edward, and there's the name and address of a church and reception hall written in his handwriting at the bottom right-hand corner.
I pull the originals out of the feeder, and place the copies on top. I want to look through them so badly; my fingers are just drawn to the edge of the first page, and they itch to flip it over. Oh, God, I feel like I'm this close to solving the Rubik's Cube that is Edward Cullen, and if I can manage to make myself rifle through his personal stuff, I'll have all of his colors matched up.
It's so tempting. So very, very tempting. My index finger and thumb hold the corner of the paper between them, and they want to lift the paper up. They want it so badly that I almost can't control them. Even the atmosphere knows that I'm up to no good, because the air around me is so thick that I can't push my arm against it. I can't make it move.
Instead, I stare at the curling loops of the handwriting on the checks. So neat, and so feminine. Even though they have different designs, they both come from the same person, written on two different days. One Tanya Lanedi, who lives out in Redmond. Is Tanya Lanedi from Redmond, Washington as beautiful as her handwriting is? Why do I care? And why did she give him a hundred dollars? Actually, I'm probably better off not knowing.
There are many things I don't know, but one thing I'm absolutely sure of is that you never learn good things about people when you go snooping through their stuff. I found that out the hard way when I was nine years old, and I came across Emmett's stash of nudie mags while I was digging under his bed. I don't want to be that girl again; the one who pries and steals other people's secrets. So, I pick up the papers to give them back to Edward, and-
"Those are mine," he says. He looks panic-stricken for a moment, before his lips press together in a thin, angry line. His eyes harden into stone, his gaze so cold and sharp that it could cut through glass.
Every nerve in my body comes alive—frantic and feverish—making my skin feel electric and hot; so hot that my fingers could burn through the paper. Soon, the remorse sets in, cold and oppressive. It squelches the fire as it creeps up the small of my back and over my shoulders, cloaking my arms and chest with heaviness. I didn't look at anything, but I wanted to, and I could have. That's bad enough.
"I know, I...I got the machine to work, and I realized..." I will my mouth to stop moving, and I clamp it shut, biting down on the flesh of my lip to keep myself from making this worse than it already is.
"These aren't any of your business," he says icily, as he reaches out and snatches the papers from my hand. The swiftness of the movement burns my fingertips, and I instinctively take a step backward to create some distance. I don't like this Edward; I want the other one back.
"I didn't look, I just wanted..." Shut up, Bella. Just shut up.
Edward closes his eyes, and breathes a heavy breath through his nose. The papers in his hand brush noisily against his pants, as he roughly rubs the side of his face with the palm of the other, from his temple all the way down to the cleft in his chin. When he's finished, his skin is all red and splotchy, and I try not to look at it.
His eyes focus on the ceiling, and he sighs before he pivots on his heel and walks out the door. As he sprints down the hallway, shoulders squared with determination, I can almost see the wall built back up around him. It makes my heart sink.
A couple of hours later, I'm sitting at my desk replying to an email when Edward flies past, his BlackBerry practically glued to his ear. I see it's him out of the corner of my eye, but I can't bring myself to look at him. I'm still so embarrassed about earlier, even though I technically didn't do anything wrong. I wanted to, and I know that Edward thinks I did, and that's enough to make the guilt settle heavily in my stomach, like a brick.
He sits down at his desk and frantically rustles through his papers. I hear a few profanities, and even though I can't make out the actual conversation Edward's having, I can tell that it isn't a good one. He runs his fingers through his hair until it sticks up in nearly every direction, and then he sits back and takes a deep breath while he scans the top of his desk. A few seconds later he jolts forward, and it seems like he's finally found what he's looking for.
For the next few minutes, the rest of his conversation floats by my ears in whispers, and when he finally hangs up, he cradles his head in his hands and roughly rubs his eyes with the heels of his palms. It's times like these, when I can practically feel his stress pulsing through the air, that I feel like I'm watching a drowning man. I want to throw him a life preserver, but I don't know how to save him. And even if I did, I'm not entirely sure that he wants to be saved.
He jumps when his phone rings again, and I expect more of the same frenzied whispering and panic, but it doesn't come. Instead, he sinks back into his chair, smiling against the receiver as his arms relax at his sides, and the tension falls completely off his face. It's a complete contrast to the person he was just two minutes ago, and it confuses me. Edward's frustration often melts away into kindness, and that makes it nearly impossible for me to get a read on him.
I focus my attention back on my work, so he won't see me watching him like the creeper that I am. I wish I could be indifferent to everyone like most people seem to be, but no: I fixate on the antisocial ones, and try to figure them out. Maybe I should've been a psychologist. Mom would've loved that. Sure, I'd be up to my eyeballs in debt, but it'd be a hell of a lot more interesting than staring at spreadsheets all day.
Luckily, Edward interrupts my endless thought process before I can think up more imaginary careers for myself, because my brain playing the 'What if?' game is a very dangerous thing.
"I need to get these numbers in, but I have to go to a...thing," he says, pointing towards the door. "I was wondering if maybe you could...if you would mind entering them in for me?" He seems nervous and unsure of himself, completely different than he was the last time we spoke. That heavy brick of guilt in my belly comes surging to life, moving my hand forward to take the file folder he's holding.
"Sure," I say, attempting a smile. In reality, I hate doing this, because I always manage to mess up Edward's anal-retentive system in one way or another. But I can't find it in myself to tell him no, because I feel like I owe him one.
"It needs to be finished by two, so..."
"It's not a problem, Edward. I'll have it done."
"Okay," he says, turning to leave. He gets a few steps away before he turns back. "Please. I meant to ask if you would do that, please."
I can't help but smile at him, and he jogs out the door before I have a chance to respond.
I open the spreadsheet that Edward has saved on our shared drive, and I notice that he's got the sums for the different rows calculated incorrectly. I think that Excel is the bastard spawn of Satan, and I hate formulas, but if Edward doesn't catch his mistake, I'll have to put three times the work into fixing it later, so I might as well just fix it now. It takes twenty long minutes, two sticks of gum, twenty-six curse words, and three broken pencils before I get everything to add up the right way.
I stand up to stretch and take a quick breather, and after I sit back down, I pull the receipts out of the folder and begin to sort them by amount. I'm about halfway through the stack when I see a yellow sheet of legal paper mixed in with the other paperwork. It's covered in Edward's handwriting; full of street addresses, the name of a bank, and several dollar amounts that have been scratched out. Tanya, the check writer's name, is scrawled out a few times in the top right-hand corner in different scripts, almost like he was doodling while he talked on the phone.
Towards the bottom, in neat cursive lettering, I see something that makes my heart skip a beat.
My name.
My name on Edward's paper.
I quickly turn the paper over, adrenaline pumping through my veins so fast that it makes the tips of my fingers tingle. Why do I feel like this? Why is my name on there? I don't even know what any of these things mean, but I know that it all makes perfect sense to Edward, and I can guess that he'd be angry if he knew I was looking at it. I don't want to be the cause of that anger again. He probably just put this in the folder by accident in his hurry to leave, but I feel like I've just violated his privacy again, even though it was definitely not my fault this time.
I stand up and quickly walk over to Edward's desk, looking over my shoulder to see if anyone is watching me. I scan the mess he's got piled up everywhere to find a good place to put the paper so that he'll be able to find it easily, but won't be so obvious that someone has seen it. I finally decide to put it in his inbox, in the middle of a stack of papers, with the doodled-over corner hanging out. Hopefully it'll catch his eye whenever he goes looking for it, if he ever goes looking for it. Maybe it's just a throwaway piece of paper, but still. I don't want to be responsible for it.
I step back and look, and it seems inconspicuous enough. The last thing I want him to know is that I've seen the thing. I realize that I'm overreacting; if that paper belonged to anyone else in this office, I wouldn't think twice about handing it back to them in the folder with the finished product. But after seeing a different side of Edward this morning, and how hard it is for him to lower his defenses, I don't want to do anything else that will make him feel like he needs to raise them around me.
I hurry back to my desk to finish entering the receipts, and when I'm done with the spreadsheet I print the report that goes with it, then place the completed file on Edward's desk, far away from that yellow paper. I sit back down in my chair and stare at my computer screen, tapping my fingers against the keyboard, even though I'm not typing anything at all. My mind is swimming with questions whose answers aren't any of my business, but I'm drowning in the need to know them anyway. This is bad, and I need a distraction.
Jessica's always good for a distraction.
Her face is full of concentration as I approach her desk, and I can see her mouth moving as she reads the words on her computer screen. It's a habit she has that I probably never would've noticed if Mike and Tyler hadn't teased her about it. She smiles when she sees me, and I smile back at her. Jessica is all friendliness, and that friendliness is contagious.
"What's up?" I ask, leaning on the waist-high bar that makes up the front of her cubicle. It occurs to me that I probably look a whole lot like Mike does every morning when I see them together here.
"Not much," she replies, reclining against the back of her chair. "Just answering a few emails, fun stuff like that. How about you?"
"I just finished some stuff for Edward."
"That must've been the time of your life." She smiles sympathetically at me. "Are you the reason he ran out of here earlier?"
"I can't take credit for that one, sadly. Wish I could."
"I have no clue where he goes, even though I'm totally curious about it. Mike wants to trail him one day; he thinks Edward's involved in some kind of corporate espionage."
"What? This is one of the smaller accounting firms in Seattle. What would be the point of that?" Of all the ridiculous ideas I've heard that have been hatched in Newton's brain, this is definitely the strangest one.
"I don't know. He's got an overactive imagination. You should've heard all the weird stuff he was coming up with the other night after we watched The Lovely Bones." She bites her lip after the last word comes out of her mouth, and her eyebrows scrunch up with worry when she realizes that she just let her not-so-secret secret slip.
"I'd rather not know, thanks," I say, smiling. "Maybe he's got a kid he has to take care of, or a wife or something." I didn't start this conversation to dig. Yet here I am, standing in a trench, shoveling like hell.
"Pssh, he works too much overtime. In by seven, out after seven. There's no way. Besides, do you know any sane woman who would willingly marry that?"
I don't know what makes me feel like I need to defend Edward, but I do. "Come on, he's not that bad. Maybe he's just uptight at work. He could be completely different when he's away from here." Did those words just come out of my mouth? Yes. Yes, they did.
Jessica's right eyebrow cocks up so high that it looks like someone's pulling on it with a string. "Are you interested or something?" she asks, moving the heart charm that hangs from her necklace from side to side across the chain. It sounds like a zipper.
"What? No. I think the office has all the romance it can handle at the moment." I feel a little bad when she blushes, so I don't push it.
"Well, I certainly hope he's not married," she says, changing the subject to take the heat off of her and Mike. "Can you imagine cooking for him? I mean, did you see what he did to that sandwich last week?"
"Yeah, that was weird, wasn't it?" I ask in an elevated whisper. I wasn't sure if anyone else had noticed it, but I'm glad that she did. "I wonder what that was about. He eats sandwiches every day, and I've never seen him do something like that to it."
"He's probably one of those weirdos who has a cat named Mrs. Huffnagle or something crazy like that, and lets her eat off of china at the table, with like...a wine goblet holding her water and whatnot. He probably took it home for her, so she could have some people food." I expect her to crack a smile or laugh after she says this, but her expression is solemn. She's absolutely dead serious about this theory, and I can't even wrap my mind around it.
My eyes narrow, and my mouth tries to speak words that my brain is having trouble formulating. What I'd give to be inside her head for a day, as long as I had a guarantee that I'd be able to come back out.
"What?"
"Nothing," I laugh. "It's just that you and Mike are more perfect for each other than I would've imagined."
"What do you-"
"Hey, Bella?" Garrett calls from his office. "Can you come here for a sec?"
"I guess I should go," I say, tapping the edge of her desk with my hand.
"Have fun with that." Jessica sits up in her chair and begins typing again.
"I'll try," I reply, as I turn and walk away.
Thankfully, Garrett gives me a project that keeps me wrapped up for a couple of hours. A project that gives me no time to think of Edward, the mysterious Tanya, or Mrs. Huffnagle eating people food off of fine china.
Shortly after four, Edward returns from wherever it is that he went, looking like a man who is truly defeated. As he walks past my desk, he moves like he's pulling a ten-ton weight behind him; his footsteps are blocks of cement hitting the floor. His suit jacket hangs limply from his hand, and the sleeve drags across the ground as he moves, looking just as depressed as Edward does.
His shoulders slump, and he reaches up to loosen his tie, frantically pulling at the knot as if the thing is choking him, denying him the air he needs to stay alive. When Edward finally sits down, he cradles his head in his hands. It looks as heavy as a boulder, like it's taking every bit of effort he has left in his body to hold it upright.
When he finally sits up and starts working, he stares at his computer screen, but he doesn't get up. I'm not sure if I should go over there and talk to him, because I've been bitten more than once when it comes to his attitude. So, I check on him with an email that goes unanswered. He doesn't talk to me. He doesn't talk to anyone.
I sit quietly at my desk until I finish the project Garrett asked me to work on, and I'm surprised to see that it's seven-thirty. The office is mostly dark, apart from the little bit of light that shines through the window onto Edward's tired face. I'm about to get up and talk to him when my phone rings.
"Hello?" My voice sounds kind of hoarse and more irritated than I meant for it to.
"You sound so cheerful," my mom replies sarcastically. "Like a living, breathing ball of sunshine."
I sigh. After the way this day has gone, I should've expected a phone call from my biggest fan. "I've been here for almost twelve hours," I reply defensively.
"Good. You should be there for twelve hours every day, Bella. That's how you work your way up, and show your boss you're committed to your job. Get there before he does, and leave after."
My mother likes to provide running commentary on other people's work ethic, which is rich coming from a woman whose only job in thirty years was running the checkout register at the drug store in town for less than twenty hours a week.
"I can't work hours like that on a regular basis, Mom. It's not allowed for my position."
"Well, you work for free if you have to. Then, your boss will move you up to a position where you can. You have to think outside the box, Bella. Sometimes rules are meant to be followed, and sometimes they're made to be broken."
I wonder if this is what she says to my father after he comes home from one of his shifts. I want to tell her that she's delusional, and make a snide remark about how doing things her way might end with me getting a promotion, sure, even though I'll probably die of stress-related heart failure before I have a chance to enjoy the rewards. She'll only tell me to stop being so dramatic, and that will piss me off even more. So, I keep my mouth shut.
"Okay, Mom. You've made your point. Obviously you're not worried about my boss seeing me taking a personal call, so to what do I owe the honor?"
Mom sighs. "Since it's impossible to reach you on your cell lately, I wanted to tell you that your father and I are expecting you at home this weekend. Rose and Emmett will be here, and we're going to celebrate their engagement on Saturday night."
She doesn't ask me if I have any plans, or if I can make it. Of course not, because I'm the single daughter who threw the little bit of life she had away, so why wouldn't I be at her disposal? Why wouldn't I just drop everything to do what she wants me to do, when she wants me to do it?
If it were for anything else, I'd probably be willing to start a fight over it. But I love Em, and I love Rose, and I'd walk over hot coals for them. The hot coals in this instance being, of course, my mother.
"Okay, I'll be there."
"Good," Mom says, and I can hear the smile in her voice. "How are things at home?"
That weight that I've managed to keep at bay, that dark, sad thing that's been suspended above me, just out of sight, comes hurtling full-speed toward me. For over a week I've managed not to think about it; not to let it squeeze my heart and make my chest ache. Seven days of progress nearly undone by five simple words.
This is my test. Not how many nights I can go to sleep without dreaming of him, and wake up without missing him. This, this is where it counts. I can let her drop that weight on me, and crush me, and make me cry. I can let her make me feel guilty about loving someone enough to let him go.
I can let her win, and break me. It would be so easy to do, because that's what I've always done.
But today, I won't give her the satisfaction of tears and shame. I won't bend, and I won't break. I won't let her crush me. Today, I'll breathe. And I'll move. I'll walk away from her with my head held high, and my patched-up heart intact. Today, I'll win.
"I have to go, Mom. I'll see you on Saturday," I say, and hang up the phone before she has a chance to make me want to fight.
I smile as I shut down my computer, then stand up to stretch my tired muscles out in victory. It's a small one, but I'll take it. The small things are just stepping stones to the bigger ones, I guess.
I sling my cumbersome bag over my shoulder, and maybe it's the confidence I have from dealing with my mother, or maybe it's residual guilt I feel over what happened this morning, but whatever it is moves me on sure footing over to Edward's desk.
"You planning to stay much longer?" He looks up at me, and his eyes aren't the same as they were this morning. They're heavy, in need of a few days' rest away from spreadsheets, and responsibility, and flat-panel monitors. He glances down at his watch, and then back at me.
"Another half-hour or so," he says, lowering his head so that he can rub the back of his neck. "I have to show Garrett I'm serious about this client, because...well, he could've given them to Mike, but he gave them to me."
When those tired eyes look into mine, I see it. It's clear as day, and it hits me like a punch to the gut; stealing my breath and stopping my heart, making me feel so, so dizzy with realization.
He is the person my mother wants me to become.
A frantic, stressed-out worrier, with tired eyes and a heavy heart. Someone with just enough humor to keep me afloat, while my shoulders sag and my muscles ache from trying to keep up, then move ahead, and move ahead again until there's nowhere left to go, and I'm standing on the shore in first place, alone.
Does his mother push him like mine does? Did he give up his happiness so he could live out her dreams? Is there anyone in his life who wants him to live? Someone who wants him to earn money to take trips and see things you only get to see once in your life, not just earn money for money's sake? Isn't there anyone who loves those bright, friendly eyes, and that warm, welcoming smile, and wants to keep them from slipping away?
Because they slip all the time. Doesn't anyone notice?
I notice, and I want to stop the slip.
"I'm sure he knows you're serious," I say softly, with a grin. Then, like I no longer have control of my body, I step forward and switch on Edward's desk lamp. I like those bright, friendly eyes. I want them to see clearly.
"I'm leaving soon," he says, but he doesn't move an inch.
"You can turn it off when you leave, then. It's better for you if you have good light to work under."
"Thank you." He smiles at me. I like that warm, welcoming smile. It needs to eat.
"Can I bring you some dinner, or..."
"No, I'm good. Thanks, though. I...I brought something."
The way he's looking at me, with those eyes and that smile, I know that this is the first time anyone has turned on a light for him or offered him dinner in a very long while. He needs light and food and someone who cares. Where is that person?
"Okay, well...I'm gonna head out, so...I hope you have a really good night."
I want to ask him if he's all right, but he seems better than he was earlier, and if he wanted me to know how he was doing, he would've answered my email. I'm curious, but I don't want to pry, so I keep my mouth shut and walk toward the door.
He doesn't say anything. And that's okay, you know, because-
"Bella?" Edward calls.
I turn around, and he's leaning over his desk so that I can see him from where I'm standing. "Yeah?"
"I hope you have a really good night, too."
"I'll try, thanks."
When I look at him, that smile is still there. Tonight, it's not slipping. Maybe it was just for a minute, but I stopped the slip.
It's another small step, but it keeps me moving. I don't know if this Edward will still be around tomorrow, but I know he exists, and that comforts me.
As I walk down to my car, I feel good about my day for the first time since I've been working here. It's not a lot, but it's something. Every once in a while, like today, that something is everything. It propels me through stoplights and traffic and a crowded apartment parking lot. It pushes me up the steps to my front door, and eagerly turns the key in its lock. It makes me happy to be home. In my home.
Before I even set my bag down, my phone rings, and I reach over the counter to answer it.
"Hello?"
"Jesus, Bell. You scared the shit out of me. I thought some lame-ass wannabe grunge rocker had drowned you in a vat of Starbucks or something," he says, managing to sound irritated and like he wants to laugh, all at the same time.
"You really need to come up with some new Seattle jokes, Em."
"Yeah, noted. Seriously though, where were you? I tried calling your cell about a hundred times!" He gets all worked up like this on the rare occasion that he can't get in touch with me, because he thinks danger is lurking around every corner for me here in the big, bad city. It's endearing, but annoying as hell.
"I have to turn it off when I'm at work."
"Embarrassed by that Backstreet Boys ringtone, are ya?" he replies smugly.
"I switched it back already, thief. And don't think I'm unaware that song came from your own music collection."
"It was Rosie's," he says defensively, too quickly to be telling the truth.
"Yeah, sure it was," I reply. I open the refrigerator and pull out a few things to make for dinner. My stomach is growling, and I'm surprised Emmett can't hear it through the receiver. "I'll have to ask her about that."
"You need to turn your phone back on when you leave work, so I don't have a panic attack trying to get in touch with you." He thinks he's so stealthy, changing the subject.
"You're too overprotective, big brother. Besides, I only left the office about twenty minutes ago." I pop the top off a container of sour cream, and quickly throw it in the trash. Clearly, I need to pay attention to expiration dates more often. Yuck.
"But it's eight o'clock!" he says, so loudly I can feel my eardrum vibrating.
"You know, I can actually tell time."
"What are you doing at work so late?" He sounds suspicious, like he's getting ready to catch me in a lie.
"My boss gave me a project to work on, and I wanted to finish it up before I left for the night." I bend down and pull out a skillet from one of the bottom cabinets, and turn the front burner on to medium-high heat.
"You don't do that every day do you? Not at this new place, right?" I realize that wasn't suspicion I heard earlier; it was concern.
"No, I leave around five every day," I tell him. "This is the first time I've ever stayed late."
"Good," he says, in a long, exhausted sigh. "I don't want you turning into one of those corporate types with a BlackBerry glued to your face, and a computer on your lap every time you stop to take a shit, just because Mom wants you to be like that."
"You're so eloquent, Emmett. Mom must be proud." I pull a small container of rice off of the top shelf of the fridge, and I pop it in the microwave. "Speaking of Mom..."
"She got to you, didn't she? I was calling to warn you, and if you'd had your phone-"
"Ugh, drop it, okay? I don't want to fight with you before the weekend, because I'm counting on you to sneak some liquor into the house. Lots of it, preferably."
"I'll have Rosie fill up our flasks," he says, laughing. "You don't have to come, you know..."
"I know I don't have to. But it's for you, and I want to."
"Okay," he replies brightly. I bet he's smiling that huge Emmett smile, the one that makes me long for one of his bear hugs I get lost in before he gives me a noogie. "You eat yet?"
"I will be soon."
"What are you having? I'm fending for myself, since Rosie is in Portland 'til tomorrow."
"I'm just making some chicken and vegetables."
Emmett chokes out this disgusting, retching, gagging noise that makes me laugh.
"I think I'll stick to pizza."
"Healthy," I reply sarcastically.
"I'll see you this weekend. And make sure you turn your phone on."
Jerk.
"Make sure you hide your Backstreet Boys CDs from Rose," I tease.
"Night, Bell."
"Night."
I put the phone back on its base, then carefully lay the chicken down in the hot skillet. When everything has finished cooking, I arrange it on my plate, and stand back and smile. There are no leftovers, no meals for two. There's just enough to fit on one plate. For me.
I pour myself a glass of wine, and sit down at the table. I don't turn on the television or the radio, and I don't crave any background noise. I don't try to make things the way they used to be. I settle into the way things are, and it's easy. Like breathing.
I eat, and I enjoy the silence while I admire the vivid purple and pink watercolor sunset that shines outside my window. I'm quiet, and I'm calm. I'm alone, and it's okay.
I'm peaceful in the pleasure of my own company.