To Believey, with lots of love. Heaps of love, in fact.
And with many thanks to Hadley Hemingway.
Chapter 4.
Nine-thirty becomes ten and I'm still telling myself "not long now" while the minute hand swings low on its next circle around the clock face hung above my desk. The anticipation rippling in my stomach solidifies and becomes something heavy and consuming.
Next door's twinkle lights shut off; a few minutes later, the house beyond stops flashing. Someone, and I have my suspicions about whom, complained about the lights keeping the younger children awake, so there's now a neighborhood agreement that they'll all be switched off by ten-thirty. Someone actually went to the effort of making and distributing flyers detailing these rules. Except they're not rules, they're "recommendations." It's dumb. Surely most kids would be asleep before ten-thirty—the twins go to bed at eight o'clock—so what's the point? Get them turned off after dinner if it's really such a problem.
Usually I like to watch the street dimming, night taking hold. But tonight, it feels sort of ominous. More lights are extinguished. Extinguished. I say it out loud and it sounds almost threatening. My windows are closed but I imagine the soft hoots of an owl and the rustle of dead leaves in the street and I shiver, pull my sweater up around my neck. I reset my phone, even though my mom's text is proof it's working fine. When it comes back on, there are no new texts, emails, or Facebook messages. No missed calls.
I need a distraction. I suppose I could make myself something to eat, but my stomach feels unsettled to the point of nausea. I'm thinking about turning on the TV when the bottle of black nailpolish on my shelf catches my eye. That'll kill some time.
…
"Your nails look like crap. Buy some acetone." Was it really only yesterday you were giving me shit about the chipped paint on my fingernails?
It must've been. We killed an hour or so in the record store, where I gave you shit for buying Ed Sheeran's latest, and then I walked you over to Lauren's house for your Girls' Night.
"Come up for a while," you'd said, as we picked our way through the bicycles, skateboards, and Razor scooters abandoned in the driveway of the big, white house. "Lauren'll have some. I can do them for you."
Something moved above us. A little face peeped through the pink and purple curtains on the second storey—which reminded me of the last time you convinced me the girls wouldn't mind me coming in "for a while."
"No way. I came home with fucking purple glitter on my toes last time."
You giggled and tucked your hair behind your ear. "That wasn't my fault."
Lauren's youngest sister—the second storey spy—did them, her hands shaking, her face screwed up in concentration. She wouldn't look me in the eye, just smiled at my toes when I told her it was the best pedicure I'd ever had.
"Uh, yeah, it was. You were the one who put Jessie up to it."
"Yeah, but she was so sad about that kid teasing her at school. You helped her realize that not all boys are assholes, see?"
I shook my head. "That shit was a pain in the ass to get off." I took a step backwards, hands in my pockets. "Anyway, call me tomorrow?"
"Yep. See ya."
…
'Tomorrow' is almost over. You still haven't called.
I don't bother with the acetone, just layer on more black paint over the existing mess. It's not as neat as when you do it, but I'm a hell of a lot better at it than I was the first time boredom prompted me to pick up a bottle in your bedroom and paint my thumbnail blue.
By the time a second coat is dry, it's after eleven. I run downstairs to check the door is locked, though I leave on all the inside lights in case Mom comes home drunk and stumbling. I get in bed and read for a while. Or try to. I read the same paragraph three times and it still doesn't make sense, so I give up, toss the book onto my nightstand.
It's nothing out of the ordinary. There are ten million ways to explain your silence, your absence. You're grounded, out with a friend, having a fight with your parents, on the phone to Alice, you went Christmas shopping… It's not the first time you've left me waiting but, with this new word in my mind and my heartbeat, it feels new. And scary.
I love you.
But love is a coin. Two sided.
I flip off the light, roll over to face the wall. Uncertainty gurgles through my veins, drawn down into that darkness in my gut. Like some kind of under-the-bed monster that feeds on children's fear, it becomes swollen with my questions: What do I do now? Should I tell you? Will you want to hear it?
What if you love someone else? The thought is like fingers around my throat.
No. I'd know. I always have.
The way you couldn't leave your hair alone when you were talking to Seth Clearwater. He was probably your first crush. You'd untie and retie your ponytail, twist it up on top of your head, pull it loose again. I don't think you even knew you were doing it. Sometimes you'd work these tiny braids into it, and they'd get all tangled when you tried to undo them. It made my scalp ache just watching you.
The way you'd pause in doorways, creating a jam, as you scanned the cafeteria or our classrooms. I thought you were looking for somewhere to sit, and I'd give you a shove toward the nearest pair of free chairs, until I started watching you more closely. You were looking for that Paul guy. You'd spot him, smile, then look away. You never tried to sit by him—it was like it was enough to know he was there. He was pretty cute, a nice guy. His dad took a job overseas a semester later.
The way your cheeks would turn pink when Liam Maxwell started paying attention to you in eighth grade. And by paying attention I mean flicking chewed up bits of paper at you and pulling your hair when he was walking behind you. You should've been annoyed. I was. But I saw the way you'd blush and bite your lips to hide your smile and I knew you liked the attention. You liked him. And I'll never in a million years tell you this but, after a few weeks of him acting like a dickhead to get your attention, Riley and I shoved him into the brick wall behind the gym and told him to tell you he liked you or piss off and leave you alone. He took the second option, like a scared little shit—or maybe it was because he knew there was no way your parents would let you date anyone before you turned sixteen. I still feel kind of bad when I remember the way your eyes would drop when he'd blank you out every time you came face to face after he and I reached our "understanding."
The way you wouldn't shut up about how great Jake Black was after he kissed you at his sister's party the summer before our junior year. Jake was so cute, so sweet, so thoughtful. You were so in love with him. That is, until you got tired of him demanding all your time, all your attention. Until you told him you were too young to be so serious with someone. Until he turned up at your house with a bunch of flowers and got you grounded for a month for defying your parents' no-dating rule.
The way I hardly heard from you when you first started seeing Sam Uley. I understood. Sex does that, especially when you're having to sneak around behind your parents' backs to have it. And hey, I did the same thing to you when Tanya was around. And after a while, we adjusted. We worked out how to balance friends and lovers.
So, yeah. There's no one else. Doubt's chokehold eases and I can breathe.
I roll over again, thump my pillow, pull the covers up. I yawn and sleep slowly descends, pressing down, making my limbs heavy, slowing my mind.
This is weird, I think, teetering on the edge of unconsciousness. Nothing has changed since the last time I lay here. But it feels like everything has.
…
"Edward."
Lit by the moon, your face is white and your eyes are black and I'm not sure if I'm awake or dreaming.
"Edward. Wake up."
I rub my eyes and you're still there, smiling. I can feel the weight of your body dipping the mattress. I can smell your shampoo and the faint traces of incense and weed clinging to your clothes. My hand feels too heavy under the covers but I manage to free it and I put it on your knee and it's warm and really there.
You're here. The sparrow wakes with a start and swoops from its perch, only to slam into my ribcage like it's a too-clean glass door.
Because I love you.
And now that you're here, I don't know what to do with that.
With you pinning my sheets down, it's a struggle to sit up. I pull a pillow into my lap and shake my head as if to dissipate the fog of sleep.
"Where–" My voice is sandpaper rough. I cough and clear my throat, try again. "Where have you been?"
"Out."
One word. It's such an insufficient explanation that a small chuckle escapes me.
I reach over and flip the lamp on.
You're in jeans and a too-big sweater that hangs off your shoulder, something you picked up in a goodwill store. It's knitted from chunky black wool, probably handmade by someone's grandmother. Your mom hates it, so either you've snuck out or you haven't been home since yesterday. Your makeup is a little smudgy and your hair is a mess, so the same applies.
"I forgot. Are you mad?"
I am mad. But I'm also too relieved to want to fight with you just yet. "Forgot what?"
"That I was staying at Alice's tonight." You're whispering and I interrupt you to ask if my mom's car is in the driveway. You say it isn't.
"You don't need to whisper then."
"Oh." At that you toe off your shoes and move to sit facing me, your legs criss-cross applesauce. "I was getting worried."
"You were…" I shake my head, tug a hand through my hair. "Bella, where's your phone?"
You pull the tie from your hair and start unweaving the messy braid. "Mom's got it."
"She confiscated it?"
Hair falls around your face as you nod; it's kinked from the way it was tied. Even in the low light it glints red. "Too much talking back. And I swore in front of Charlotte."
"But she still let you go to Alice's?"
"Well, no. But she let me trade my phone for being grounded. She's got it for two weeks."
"Right."
You sigh, examining the ends of your hair. "I know I said I'd call you, but then Lauren's mom dropped me home late. And I was about to call you but Mom got all up in my face and I got annoyed. By the time she calmed down and took me over to Alice's, I just forgot. I'm really sorry."
"I…" I don't know what to say. I feel stupid. Annoyed. Relieved. "You're here."
"Yeah." You push your hair over one shoulder, separate out a strand, and start braiding it. "And so then, I was going to call you on Alice's phone, but she's been on it since like, all freaking night, so I figured, screw it, I'd just come over and see you."
"That's it?" I don't mean to say it out loud, but you don't seem to find it strange.
"Yeah. I'm sorry, man. I feel like such a flake. Were you…" You squint at me as you start working on another braid, and I wonder what you're looking for, what you see. "Were you worried?"
I scratch the back of my neck and drop my gaze to your feet. Your toenails are a familiar shade of sparkly purple.
"Kind of, yeah."
You wrinkle your nose, but it's a grimace aimed at yourself, not at me. "I'm sorry."
"It's fine," I say, and it is and it's not, but I'm tired and I'll wait until later to untangle the mess of feeling I've got balled up inside.
You yawn, covering your mouth with the back of your hand, and I notice that your fingernails match your toes.
"Are you going back to Alice's?"
You shrug. "I can. Do you want me to?"
I don't answer, just lie back down and lift the corner of my comforter. You nod, then reach for my phone and tap at it for a minute; I figure you're texting Alice.
You climb into bed beside me and steal one of my pillows. Our shoulders are pressed together and your foot is against my calf and it's so familiar. We've slept like this so many times, and usually it'd mean talking into the night until our speech is slurred, but you're yawning again and it's making me yawn, too. And maybe the anxiety I've been trying to keep in check all day has caught up with me because even though I have a hundred different thoughts running through my brain I can't find the energy to give them voice. Not right now. I think I'm asleep before you've even switched off the lamp.
