A/N: Thanks, as ever, to Evilgiraffe82 and LJ Summers. They're the perfect betas: strict and supportive. Any remaining mistakes are mine.
Thanks, a million times over, to Chele and Emmy for reccing Love is but a Memory on the PPSS Blog!
o o o
It's him. It's really him. My body knows before my mind can register it, and I am jerked into consciousness by the shaking of my hands and the waves of nausea hitting my stomach. My breath stops, then picks up too fast, too shallow.
"Edward." My voice comes out strangled, unfamiliar.
He doesn't answer. His eyes bore into me, and he's still, so still; I'd forgotten how still he can be. He doesn't move, doesn't blink.
Time stops, and in this ever expanding moment I take in his looks—the same eyes, the same angular features; shorter hair, and an angry set to his jaw that I don't remember. He's also bigger, more imposing, his shoulders more erect, his face fuller. It's the boy from my dreams, from my memories; only he's now a man. He's a man with hip clothes and a grey woolen coat, the sort of man who would intimidate me if I met him at a conference, the sort of man who I would never be able to speak to.
A man who's now staring at me, unmoving, and a rising sense of panic courses through me. My voice—my voice?— jerks me out of my stupor.
"You came."
His face softens, his intense stare abates, and the beginning of a tentative smile moves his lips.
"Hi."
I barely hear his voice, and I am desperate for more words, desperate for more closeness, desperate for him.
Neither of us makes a move to try and reduce the distance between us and I am gripped with an overwhelming fear that we'll never be able to close this chasm and break this impasse. The silence and stillness engulf us and suffocate me.
Finally, he leans forward, bends in front of me and picks up my car-keys. He hands them to me, still not speaking, and I reach for them, noticing my hands are still shaking.
"Thanks."
We're face to face now, and he's tall, so much taller and bigger than me, and this is wrong, this can never be, this is still a dream and I want to keep dreaming, because I know if I wake up I'm going to get a fully-fledged panic attack.
Still unmoving, he finally speaks. "My brother gave me your card."
His voice is different than I remember, an almost perfect Chicago accent overriding the lingering traces of foreignness. His tone is also deeper, the voice of someone who speaks little and with purpose. The voice of a man.
I swallow and nod, urging him to go on.
"He didn't want to give it to me at first."
I nod again. Yes, that figures.
"I didn't believe it was really you."
There's something in his voice, something I can't quite place—it sounds like anger to me, like he's repressing some dark, explosive feeling. It makes me nervous and unsure of how to react. This is not at all how I thought our reunion would go.
I attempt a placating smile. This man scares me. I don't know him, he's not who I thought it was, he's not who I expected.
"I didn't want it to be you."
His words are cutting, dissonant, and any second now and I'll start crying and he'll turn around and leave, and any remnants of what we once had will be destroyed forever.
Displaying a courage I didn't know I possessed I lift my right arm and slowly, hesitantly bring my hand level with his chest. I don't dare touch him, sensing that I'd need his permission, sensing I'd be trespassing. Slowly, ever so slowly, he moves to grab my hand and brings it to his body, pressing it flat against the lapels of his soft, expensive jacket. A searing warmth seeps through, and my hand is trapped, and I feel the pressure in a million tiny points on my skin.
I look at our joined hands then up to his face. He briefly closes his eyes and takes a deep sharp breath. There's nothing I can say right now that would not make me collapse, that would not make him run. I'll stay like this, touching him, trying to make this real, for however long he wants me to, for however long he'll let me.
After long, charged minutes he releases my hand. Whatever emotion he felt is gone, and in its place is a pleasant, detached expression that makes my heart sink. I'm still at the mercy of a raging emotional storm, still incapable of knowing who I am or what's going on, and he seems so composed, so in control.
"It's good to see you again Bella. Funny how life can be, eh? Who would have thought we'd ever meet again?"
His tone is conversational and easy. We're two long-lost friends who've met again after a long time, casual acquaintances who simply lost touch. The pain in my chest is searing.
I nod again, and search for words that don't come.
"You look well."
For some reason his tone makes me feel sure he doesn't mean it.
I force myself to speak.
"You too… you look really well."
He shrugs and begins walking. After a moment's hesitation, I fall into step with him. At first his hands are shoved deep into his pockets, but he doesn't seem to be able to keep them still for long and he fidgets, running them through his hair, scratching his forehead, picking at invisible threads on his coat. It takes a minute to figure out why that's so strange.
"Have you quit smoking?" My words burst out as the realization hits me.
He looks surprised, taken aback. He laughs, and for a moment it looks like he might actually mean it.
"Yeah, I quit about five years ago. I can't believe you remember that about me."
I smile. I wonder if he smells different, up close.
We walk quietly down one of the campus's tree-lined pathways, in silence for a few minutes. There's hardly anyone around this late, and it's about to start raining.
He's the next one to speak. "Have you always been here? All this time?"
I shake my head. "No, less than a year actually. I came to do my post-doc."
"You're from… Wyoming, right?" He pauses before naming the state, and I get a brief sense his hesitation is not quite what he meant. Has he really forgotten where I'm from?
"Washington…What about you? How long have you been here?"
"A while."
He's giving me nothing, nothing at all. I have so many questions but am too intimidated to ask anything. I guess that's something else that hasn't changed.
We walk in silence for a while longer, and we're almost back at the parking lot. Just before we reach our cars, Edward slows down a little and turns toward me.
"So… listen. I play at this club, Mike's—you know? The jazz club downtown— on Friday and Saturday nights. You could come by sometime, if you wanted."
He doesn't phrase it like an invitation, but I grasp at this flimsy offering and speak too quickly, like an over-eager puppy.
"Okay."
He kicks at the dirt and looks away, eyeing me sideways, his expression unreadable.
"Cool. There's a good lineup this Friday. I'll leave your name at the door for you and someone else, you know, if you want to bring a… a date."
There's only a hint of hesitation in his words and they hit me like a slap in the face. A date? He wants me to bring a date? I don't understand why until I realize it's probably his way of saying he's not available. It occurs to me I haven't even noticed if he's wearing a wedding ring, and for all I know he might be in a relationship, married, with kids… it's been ten years after all, why wouldn't he be... People move on. Life goes on.
Just because I haven't, it doesn't mean he's not had a full, happy life.
"Okay."
He smiles a bit and his eyes soften, a glimpse of a new emotion illuminating them.
"Great, I'll see you there. Take care, Bella."
He walks quickly, without looking back, to his car—some shiny silver thing—and drives away, taking the corners too quickly.
I watch him disappear into the drizzling rain and finally allow my breath to flow freely.
o o o
I'm left shaken and lost by my encounter with Edward. I don't even know what he wants, what I want. It didn't really go the way I thought it would, the way I imagined so many times over the years.
I got my wish, my deepest, darkest wish to come true. I've found him again, and yet I feel as lost as I always have.
Dream and reality, memory and illusion blend and overlap and I am no longer sure of what I experienced and what I wished for; no longer sure of who I am.
o o o
Over the next three days I'm tempted over and over to forget all about it and not go to the club on Friday. I replay our encounter in my head a million times, each time finding new details to convince me that I shouldn't go.
He doesn't really want me there.
He said so himself—he wished it wasn't me.
He's not the same boy, he's a stranger. A man I don't know, and who doesn't want to know me.
He's not interested in me.
I've got nothing to wear.
I'll look like a fool.
I know nothing of jazz or jazz clubs.
What I do know, however, is fear, and I'm scared—of ridicule, of rejection; but also of loneliness, of this being the end. Where do I go from here? Where do I go, if the central episode of my life reveals itself to be nothing more than a figment of my imagination?
In the end it's this very fear that spurs me on. I cannot let this slip away without giving it a final try. I may be frightened of Edward, but I'm much more scared frightened of losing him for good.
o o o
My mind is set, but that doesn't mean it will be easy. The very thought of stepping into a jazz club by myself – for of course I'llbe going by myself, who else would I bring?—fills me with terror. I don't even know what I'm supposed to wear, but I'm fairly certain that none of my clothes fit the bill.
Thursday night sees me wandering through the mall. I spend almost a hundred dollars in creams and lotions supposed to smooth and de-frizz and rejuvenate and deep cleanse. I have no idea what I need or what is good so I just buy everything and cling to the hope that it'll all give me courage and strength and the sophistication I lack.
I wish I had someone to ask for advice on what to wear, how to behave… but my few friends back home are just as clueless as I am, and I'm not close to anyone out here. I briefly consider calling my mother, who would no doubt be thrilled to help, but I don't really want to be explaining why I am suddenly interested in clothes and conditioners and makeup; not to mention the very real possibility that her advice would end up making me look like a hemp-weaving hippie.
I push myself into a busy department store and walk aimlessly through racks and racks of beautiful, glitzy clothes, fingering shiny fabrics, admiring intricate patterns, marveling at vibrant colors I will never wear. The choice is immense and paralyzing and I am about to give up—on clothes, on everything—when a shop assistant approaches me. She's middle aged, quite formidably beautiful, and infused with innate elegance despite the standard issue black pants suit that constitutes her uniform. Her nametag says Carmen and I want to run away and hide.
"May I help you?" she says in a deep, warm voice that is at the same time courteous and assertive. Something about her calm, composed demeanor keeps me rooted on the spot.
"Yes… maybe... I need some clothes for a…" for a what? A function? A date? "… an evening out. Something classy but not flashy…"
Carmen looks at me intently and nods slightly. There is no phony friendliness on her face, but she's not hostile; it looks like she's merely considering options.
"Will you wear a skirt?" She asks in the same neutral, non-judgmental tone she used earlier.
I shake my head quickly, and she smiles a little.
She starts walking through the racks and pulls a few items off the shelves and hangers, then leads the way to the changing rooms. I get changed into what look like simple, unremarkable clothes- a pair of fitted, sheer black pants and a slightly transparent indigo top with quarter-length sleeves- and walk outside. Carmen is waiting for me with her hands folded, and smiles again as she gently gets hold of my shoulders and turns me around so that I am standing in front of a full-length mirror.
I have to admit, I look good. Really good. The garments that seemed so simple and forgettable on the hangers make me look sophisticated and elegant, but still myself. Carmen gently reaches up to my head and releases my hair from its sloppy bun. She smoothes it down my shoulders with a gentle, motherly touch and raises an eyebrow in a questioning smirk.
I nod and smile wider.
"This looks… beautiful. Thank you."
Carmen steps away from me and acknowledges my words with a satisfied nod.
"Have fun, sweetie," she tells me as she hands me my purchases; I think she really means it, that she knows more than she's letting on, and I wonder what she would think if I hugged her now.
o o o
Friday is a write-off; I wake up late after a restless night, I turn up late for my lessons and forget a tutorial; once I'm in my office I get absolutely nothing done and I finally call it a day at around four.
I've done my research on Mike's, asked around among my trendiest colleagues and even went as far as calling the place up to confirm opening times. After thoughtful consideration I conclude that the best time to show up will be around ten—not too early that the place will be empty, but not too late that I risk missing the highlight of tonight's program, who, apparently, happens to be Edward Masen.
Masen. I try saying this unfamiliar surname out loud and wonder what's the history behind it, whether it's his real surname, a derivation of it, or just something brand new, a stage name of sorts.
Just one more thing about him that I don't know.
As I busy myself with the unfamiliar tasks of plucking, exfoliating, deodorizing, moisturizing, smoothing and glossing, I wish- for the first time- that I had someone to take with me, someone to lean on. A friend, a sibling… anyone. Perhaps even a date My isolation never bothered me before —it's who I am, and I made my peace with it long ago- but even in my lack of worldliness I understand it's not quite normal for a woman to go out to a club by herself. It briefly crosses my mind that I should maybe let someone know where I'm going, but the thought of calling my dad to tell him that I'll be going out tonight in the hope of talking to a guy I met on a street ten years ago- oh and incidentally I lost my virginity to- is so surreal it actually makes me laugh out loud.
I'm ready at eight and there's nothing left for me to do but sit and wait. I watch some TV and try to eat something but fail miserably. The rising waves of panic threaten to overcome me, but I am determined to keep them at bay.
Finally, incapable of waiting any longer, I grab my purse and go out.
o o o
The club is dark and smoky. I give my name at the door and am shown to a table right up beside the small stage—someone's already playing, a lively ensemble piece that's loud and insistent. I'm so close to the musicians I can practically touch them.
My table is small, but it's clearly meant for two people, and I feel every pair of eyes in the locale on me. A waitress—too pretty, too glamorous—materializes and asks for my order; I panic, blurting out the first drink that comes to my mind, a martini. I can't for the life of me remember whether I've ever had one, what's in it, whether I even like it—it just sounds appropriate, and I drink it regardless of the bitter taste and sharp alcoholic tang. And when I'm done, I get another one, and let the buzz spread to my limbs and lull my head in a sleepy, falsely confident mood. I push away the disappointment I feel at not seeing Edward anywhere, at not being welcomed by him; I empty myself of all rejection.
As the alcohol spreads and the smoke stupefies me, it doesn't matter any more that I'm alone and awkward, that there's no sign of Edward, that all the women around me are beautiful and worldly and sophisticated, that I've been waiting for a long time and I'm hot and flushed. It all feels like a dream, like I'm floating overhead, watching myself, and I'm stunned by this confident, brave woman I see, focused and courageous in her quest for answers.
Then suddenly the stage goes quiet, the musicians drag away their instruments, until only a lone piano is left. There's a feverish, excited whispering all around the room, and a palpable sense of excitement and anticipation spreads around making the atmosphere buzzing and intense. It takes me a minute to realize what's happening and then a sudden silence falls, and everyone turns back, and I see him: it's Edward, walking fast towards the stage area, his head bent, his hands in his pockets, his eyes trained on the piano. He's wearing black pants and a black shirt, unbuttoned at the collar and turned up at the cuffs; his hair is wild and his features are set and grim.
It only takes him a few strides to get to the instrument. He sits down on the stool, turns toward the room and surveys it quickly, nodding in a small sign of greeting to the crowd. A tentative clapping answers back, but is quickly extinguished. Too much tension, too much expectation. All eyes are on him.
And his eyes… his eyes linger on me for a few seconds before dipping down to the keyboard. From where I'm sitting I have a direct line of vision to his face, and I realize I'm shivering with anticipation and nerves.
I've never seen or heard Edward play, though I've dreamed of this moment for so long. He is so gorgeous, so imposing, so in control, and the whole room is hanging from his every movement, an eerie silence having descended on the crowded club as we all wait for him to start playing.
He stills with his eyes closed for the longest moment, and then finally, out of nowhere, he starts playing. I don't know what I was expecting, but his notes are angry, dissonant and fierce, yet intensely familiar. It takes me a moment to place it, and then I recognize it: he's playing a Nirvana cover and it sounds at once violent and heartbreaking in a way I would have never expected. The rhythm picks up in unexpected places and then slows down almost to a crawl in others and the crowd is mesmerized and excited and he seems wild and lost and I'm shaking.
When his first set ends there's loud clapping and cheering and he barely acknowledges it, launching straight into the next song, and on and on he goes, playing spectacularly, exciting the audience into a frenzy, then shutting them down in an emotional stupor. The crowd vibrates and pulsates along with his music.
Not once does he look toward me, but I can't look away–- can't look away from his perfect form, the tendons bulging in his forearms, the fingers dancing and caressing and assaulting, the deep frowns, the private smiles. Sweat beads his forehead and falls down on the keys, and on and on he goes, racing and rallying. Time stands still and extends and I'm shaking, tingling with excitement, body and mind and soul aflame with longing and desire, paralyzed on my chair by the sheer intensity of my desire to reach out and touch him, the music devouring me and consuming me and exhausting me.
He finally stops, looks out to the crowd, nods and gestures to someone at the bar—a gorgeous waitress, not the same one I saw earlier –- a stunning red-head in a tight sequined dress walks over to him with a tall glass in hand and places it on his piano. Before walking back she runs a hand through his hair and down his neck, then leans down to kiss him; his body tenses in response, and he moves his head in a jerky movement that causes her to hit an awkward spot between his ear and his mouth.
Seeing her touch him so intimately sends a deep pain through me, starting in my stomach and ending in my groin. As if in response his eyes flash to where I'm sitting, checking I'm still there. They linger on me for just a beat and something unreadable passes over them—indecision, anger, hurt- I can't tell and it doesn't make sense. But just as quickly he looks away. His hand darts out to reach the woman, he pulls her down again, and he kisses her straight on the mouth, strong and obvious. I'm horrified and stunned, and through my suddenly crowded vision I can see his eyes are open and staring at me with so much fury I recoil.
The redhead walks away and he resumes playing.
I'm floating, miserable, devastated. I want to run away and disappear but am too ashamed to move, too shell-shocked to gather my thoughts together and act in response. I'm hurt, he's hurt me, and I don't know why or what pleasure he's deriving from my humiliation. I focus all my effort on holding back my tears, on regulating my breathing, on preventing my eyes from closing and never reopening again, too scared to look at him, too scared to never see him again.
I know I should leave now, I want to leave, and yet I stay glued to my chair, incapable of peeling my eyes away from Edward.
He keeps playing, even more determined and fixated than before, and in the distance I register the cheering and the clapping and the excitement. He drinks in between sets now, and gets refills, and his hands grip his hair when he's not playing and he never, ever looks my way; his neck is tense, veins buzzing with the effort of looking straight ahead, sweat running down his overheated skin.
The evening stretches into eternity. I'm sure I've never felt this lonely and cold in my whole life. Somewhere, somehow I still hang on to the irrational hope that this was all a misunderstanding, all a dream, that it didn't really happen and that before long he will stand up, walk toward me, take my hand and hold me close, and he'll be the boy I loved and lost and found again.
But nothing like that happens, and when he finally finishes playing he thanks the audience—wild, enthusiastic, adoring —and walks to the bar without a sideways glance. And still I cannot help myself from looking at him, following him with my eyes, and I find him surrounded by people who touch him, want him, and grab him.
He smiles and drinks and talks and keeps his head still—so still, the tendons in his neck bulging with the effort. I grab my purse and finally stand up, walking my walk of shame, passing just inches away from him. Finally, finally, as if in slow motion his head turns to me, and our eyes lock. His face contracts, his lips twitch and I catch a slight movement in his arm out of the corner of my eyes; but then someone grabs him excitedly and the moment passes. His eyes leave me, and he's gone.
I walk out of the club, sobs now tearing through me, run down the street till I find a cab, and head home.
Once inside I strip out of my pretty new clothes and push them straight into the trashcan, wishing them and all the hope they represent to be shredded and discarded. Crying, I step into the shower, rinsing furiously, so that all the makeup and products and disgusting smells of the evening run together down the drain, mixed with my angry humiliated tears. I slide to the bottom of the tub and sit there, hugging my knees, the water turning progressively colder until the crying subsides and the ache in my chest dulls into a low rumble.
I don't bother with clothes as I make my way to my bed, hair still dripping wet and, shivering from cold and exhaustion, I climb under the comforter and beg for sleep, for oblivion, for deliverance.
None comes. My brain refuses to slow down and images flash through my head: the sight of Edward's lips on someone else's overlapping with the memory of his body and the pain of his disappearance. I think of how pathetic I must have seemed to him, how pitiful were my attempts to dress up and impress him. Anger surges through me, indignation at his careless, hurtful actions. I ask myself over and over why, how he could have been so cruel, how could he defile our shared past so. I come to the conclusion it had all been a dream—all of it, my memories, nothing had happened, nothing from his side, he never cared, because how could he do this to me otherwise?
o o o
The doorbell almost scares me to death. It's so loud and insistent. It's three am a.m. I ignore it, sure it's a mistake, but reach out for my phone anyway, ready to call 911 just in case.
My heart is pounding in my chest and the doorbell doesn't stop. It rings, and rings, sounding desperate and insistent and I'm sure I'll finally have a heart attack and die tonight—the thought is almost welcome—and that makes me get up and throw on a t-shirt and a pair of shorts. Still clutching my phone, I make my way to the intercom and pick it up.
It's suddenly silent and I'm almost scared to speak.
"Yes." I whisper into the receiver.
"Bella!"
I drop it, drop the phone, drop to my knees. It can't be, it won't be, and how… why? How much more hurt can I take?
"Bella! Please, let me in! Bella, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry… please, please let me in!" His voice sounds desperate and begging through the tinny intercom, and once again I'm unable to move, incapable of thought. The intercom dangles just over my head and I hear him again.
"Please, please Bella. I… I'm so sorry, let me in, let me see you."
I reach up and buzz him in.
o o o
A/N: yes, I know you probably want to kill me now...