Bella
We're back to being nearly three thousand miles away from each other and the tears have dried up. I feel strangely vindicated, thinking about those words that he said to me. The regret. Because I knew it would come. I always knew.
There is a sense of relief the moment I arrive at my building. A comfortable familiarity returning, now that I'm back in New York.
The night doorman shuffles quickly to the door as I struggle with my luggage.
"Good evening Ms. Swan."
"Please, just Bella."
"Good evening, Ms. Bella. Nice trip?"
I don't know what to say, so I smile and pass him by.
"Oh, Ms. Bella?"
I squeeze my eyes shut and take a deep breath before I turn to face him.
"Yes?"
"I'm afraid there's a screech owl, built her nest outside your window. Making all kinds of racket. Your neighbors have been complaining about it all weekend. I hope it doesn't cause you too much bother."
Fuck my life.
I nod, determined not to panic.
Pass the mailboxes. Go up the stairs. Round the corner.
I take the elevator up to the top floor and navigate the maze of hallways to my apartment.
…
As the sun falls behind the trees, I make my way to my barn. I've been going every day. I tell myself that it has nothing to do with Edward but I'm a terrible liar.
Even when we don't talk, the company is nice. His company. The way he looks at me. Like I'm real.
I walk through the open doors expecting him to be waiting for me, but the barn is silent and still. I feel a sudden pang of disappointment, but it's brushed away as quickly as it came. I've been coming here for years, long before Edward. I don't need him. I climb up to my loft and light the lantern. This place is dirty and falling apart. And I smile because it's mine.
I drag my fingers over the books in the nearest pile. I've read them all. I close my eyes, choosing one at random. To Kill a Mockingbird. I wipe the dust from the spine and curl up in my spot by the window.
I love the smell of old books. Maybe it's not the smell so much as the mystery of who else flipped through these same pages, read these same words.
I try to read before my mind has a chance to get away from itself. But sometimes someone else's words are not enough. I can't focus. Why isn't he here? Maybe he's had enough. Before I've sufficiently convinced myself that I don't care, I hear his voice.
"Bellaaaaa?" He sounds almost giddy.
My heart jumps. I can't help but smile, but I don't answer. I don't move from my spot on my blanket.
I can see his hair peeking over the ledge, then his eyes, then his smile. His smile with his perfect teeth.
"We're going owling." His eyes are thrilled with this plan.
"We're going what? I don't kill birds." I hide behind my book.
"We're not going to kill anything. It's like bird watching, except with owls."
"Last time, I checked, owls were birds." I look at him like he's a moron. Only because he's not.
"Stop trying to make me feel stupid. We're going owling."
"Alright, City Boy, how exactly does one go owling?"
"It's simple. We walk into the woods with nothing but a flashlight and our parkas and look for owls." Oh, dear lord.
"Clearly, this is a well thought out plan. Unfortunately, I don't have my parka. Maybe next time." His smile grows impossibly wider as he tosses a huge purple jacket over the loft railing. It falls limp at my feet.
"Edward, you don't know the first thing about finding an owl in the forest. You're going to get us lost. Our search and rescue will be all over the news. Charlie will…"
"Bella, haven't you ever done anything dangerous in your entire life?" A laugh escapes my mouth before I can stop it. His grin isn't going anywhere.
"Are we still talking about owling? Wow, City Boy, you sure are a wild child."
"Okay, so we've established that it's not dangerous. Let's go." He jumps from where he's standing on the ladder. "Don't forget the parka. It's cold."
Arguing with him at this point is more trouble than it's worth. I pull the photo of my mother from my pocket to use as a bookmark. I can't help but stare at her face.
"Bella?"
"I'll be right down."
"Here, you can even wear my gloves." He tosses one up. Then the other.
I reluctantly close my book with my mother inside it and set it on top of the nearest pile. I throw on the jacket and scoot to the edge of the loft, my legs hanging over. "Don't say I never did anything for you."
"I wouldn't dream of it." He winks at me. He fucking winks at me.
We make our way through several pastures to the edge of the woods.
"So, Edward, what inspired this beauty idea?"
He shrugs, "I've always wanted to go owling."
"You are so bizarre, you know that?"
"Why is that weird?"
"Because it's something that old people do. It's right between Bingo night and knitting. Bingo, owling, knitting." His laugh lights up his entire face.
"I guess I'm an old man at heart. I had this book when I was little about this kid that goes owling with his dad. I always wanted to try it." Suddenly it doesn't sound so lame. I don't tell him this.
"So, what are the rules?"
"You have to be patient. And silent. I'm pretty sure those are the only rules." His smirk. I make an active decision not to look at his face.
But my feet are only interesting for so long. As we walk through the woods I chance a few peaks. It's alarming, and yet somehow comforting, that he's always watching me.
We walk for what seems like hours into the dark forest. Only the sound of the leaves under our feet.
I can't feel my face. I'm about ready to call it a failed owling mission.
"Edw…" his hand flies to cover my mouth and he begs me with his eyes to be quiet. We both freeze. There is the faintest sound in the distance.
An owl.
Edward's eyes are incredibly wide. He's kind of precious like this.
His hand is gone, but only for a second. He takes my gloved hand in his, like it's nothing. I stare at his fingers wrapped around mine as we walk slowly in the direction of the sound.
Only silence.
And now that he's no longer watching me, I can't help but watch him. My eyes travel from his fingers to his face. He looks like a little boy. And it's like I've never seen him before this moment. Nothing but the moon on his face. The trees casting shadows along his jaw. His mouth slightly open, in awe.
My heart in my chest.
He stops suddenly and turns on the flashlight. His other hand remains in mine. I follow the path of the light as it illuminates the tree in front of us.
Time stops. There is a huge, honest-to-goodness, real life owl staring back at us. Piercing eyes. Patterned feathers. A wildness that is electrifying. It is staring directly at me. I feel impossibly small.
And then without warning, it swoops down over our heads and it's gone. The flashlight falls to the ground with a thud. We both squeal like schoolgirls. I haven't felt this alive in years. I don't want to think about what that says about me.
With the need for quiet gone, the silence settles uncomfortably around us. My hand still in his. His eyes on me. My eyes on his feet.
He pulls me closer, forcing me to face him, but I won't look at his eyes. I don't know how to do this.
With his free hand, he brushes my hair from my face. It's cold enough that I can see my breath. I can feel his breath on my face. My heart is having issue with all of it.
He pulls a tiny wisp of a feather from my hair. We both chuckle.
Before I can stop myself, I'm looking into his eyes. I regret it immediately. Even in the dark, those eyes say too much. More than I can handle. I feel like I might drown at any moment.
And then I realize that we're closer. I don't know if it was him or if it was me. All I know is that we are.
I haven't let myself feel anything in ten years. Nothing.
It's too much.
And I have to ruin it.
"I'm freezing cold. I can't feel my face." A whisper.
He keeps his eyes on mine. Like he's looking for secrets. He pulls the hood of my jacket over me. The back of his hand brushes against my cheek. Shivers and goose bumps. And my face is not cold compared to that hand. He traces my face with his fingertips, leaving a trail of fire behind. Across my brow. Down my cheek. Along my jaw. Over my lips. Like a blind man.
"Edward?"
His hands stay.
His mouth hovers over mine and cold no longer exists.
Everything else slowly falls away. The heat of his breath burns my face. There is a part of my mind that is panicked and there is another part, a louder part, that is desperate, screaming for him to kiss me.
For a moment, I'm worried that I spoke the words out loud, but it no longer matters as he closes the gap and lightly, so very, very lightly kisses the corner of my mouth. So gently, I'm not sure if I'm imagining it. I stand motionless, afraid to move, afraid to breathe, and then his lips are my lips. Soft and barely there.
My arms hang limp at my sides. I feel impossibly alive, yet paralyzed.
Small kisses that go to my toes.
Slow. Soft. Silent.
He kisses me like I'm fragile. Like I've been glued back together too many times. It's maddening. I want him to kiss me like I'm bullet proof. For a second, I feel like I am.
And I'm kissing him. I'm kissing him back.
He tastes like Christmas. Sweet and spicy. Soft and scratchy.
He pulls at my bottom lip with his lips and a strange sound escapes my mouth. I would be embarrassed but it seems I no longer have a capacity for such things.
My hands. They no longer belong to me. And I suddenly hate these gloves.
And now his mouth is fire. And everything.
My heart in my chest, like a freight train.
It's too much, and I don't know how to feel this without feeling the rest of it.
I break away but I'm too late. I'm too late and now the rest of it is here too.
The day everything changed.
Car alarms and screaming. Sirens. The air is too thick to breath. The screaming is better than the silence in the front seat. The smell of blood mixed with concrete. I am nine years old. I am the Cowardly Lion.
I close my eyes tight, as tight as they go. Maybe when I open them, I won't still be trapped here. I wait for minutes, hours, maybe days. Even with my eyes closed, I know that there is no sun. Only black.
Loud banging noises. And then the light comes with the voices. They don't sound like regular voices. They sound like they are coming from a cave or maybe underwater. I don't think I'm underwater. More silence. But I don't want the silence any more. I can't bear it. I can feel the panic rising, poised to boil over.
I watch myself crawl over her and pound the horn. Again. Again. Again.
More screaming. The good kind this time. Shouts and Panic. If there could be good panic, this would be it. There are lights and arms. There are so many arms, but no faces. Power tools. And arms, pulling.
And I am free. And cold. And surrounded. And alone.
But I'm not in the car. Not even close.
The forest floor.
"Bella." He says my name like it's a goodbye.
Edward.
The only hands on my face are mine.
"Bella, I'm sorry." There is almost panic in his voice. In his voice.
"Edward, please don't."
"Please don't what?" And I can't look at his face anymore.
"I can't do this with you."
"Bella, don't tell me you didn't feel that."
"I felt nothing."
He's looking for the lie, but I won't let him see my eyes. I'm a terrible liar.
…
I'm in front of my apartment, key in hand, staring at my locked door, no concept of how long I've been standing here. I fidget with the lock, suddenly desperate to get inside. The door shut, locked, dead bolted, I go immediately to the living room windows and close the blinds. As if that will help anything.
I pull my phone from my pocket and stare at the screen. Countless emails. Voicemails. Even more missed calls.
I will do what I've done for years, the one thing that I'm good at. I will wear the mask. I will play the part. I will smile and laugh.
I'm independent. I'm strong. I'm happy. I pretend.
I make good money. I let the other money sit. I ignore it. I don't want it.
I throw myself into my work so that there isn't a spare moment to think about him. I go in early and stay late. I sit in my office and ignore the irony of my job. I pick apart someone else's words for a living. I fix their mistakes. I tell them when they aren't giving me enough. I'm a fraud, a hypocrite. But they listen to me. They buy it.
Maybe one day I will become so good at pretending that even I will believe the lie.