A/N: ObliviBella Fail-O-Meter rating: 7/8 (I can't decide, feel free to tell me what you think). There's a temporary formatting change for this chapter, it worked better this way. Next chapter will be back to normal. See you at the bottom.
Chapter 6: The Sixth Time
The sixth time I told Bella Swan I loved her, I didn't say it out loud. I was pissed at myself for even thinking it.
August:
"Charlotte, seriously? I'm fine. It's fine. I knew how it was going to play out, I knew it was going to be bad. I have no one to blame but myself." I'm rolling my eyes at her, even though she can't see me over the phone, because, what else am I supposed to say? That I got fucked over, in both the literal and figurative senses? That's obvious to anyone.
But, I'm on my own in Chicago now, and I'm going to make the most of it. Fuck Bella. If she thinks I'm going to spend my first year of college pining away for her, she's out of her fucking mind. Mostly though- fuck me. Because I want to hate her, I want to despise every molecule in her body, I want to feel nothing but contempt for her. And I can't.
"You are lying through your teeth, Eddie. You are the opposite of fine. Whatever little emo plan your boy-brain is concocting right now is a bad, bad scene. Thinking with your dick got you into this, I swear, continuing to think with it isn't going to fix it."
"What is it that you want from me? I fucked up. I got fucked. End of story." This conversation is getting me nowhere. Talking and thinking about it aren't going to make it stop hurting. "Char, I have to go. I'll talk to you later."
"Whatever. Call me when you grow up. I'll be here."
I hung up and threw the phone across the room, it spun into the wall, carving out a chunk of plaster before hurtling to the floor with a loud crack. "FUCK!"
September:
As I slowly ease into consciousness, I try to open my eyes only to realize that they feel like they've been glued shut. My mouth is sandpaper dry and tastes literally like shit. Well, what I think shit would taste like if one were to sample it. I lay there for a minute, trying to force coherent, linear thoughts to form in my sharply throbbing brain. But, beyond the acute need for a toothbrush and some Advil, there is only a swirling vortex of pain.
Light snoring to my left forces me to consider my surroundings, and I realize that I am not in my bed. I actually have no idea where I am. I sneak a glance at the body next to me, red curls cascade across the pillow in a wild disarray, obscuring her face. Her milky white shoulders and tits lay exposed, the rest of her is hidden by the sheet, but presumably naked. I wince, realizing that our mutual lack of clothing probably means we weren't playing Monopoly last night. Damn Eric and his "just one more" brand of logic.
I ease out of the bed, quietly and gingerly making my way around the room to find my clothes from last night. After 10 minutes I'm still missing a sock, but decide that a clean get away is more important. I wish that an errant sock was the only thing I left behind every time I wake up in some strange girl's strange room. I wish that the price for a couple of hours of numbness wasn't a massive hangover and the smell of the wrong girl on my skin.
October:
I've been staring at the computer for forty-five minutes. The latest email from Emmett is taunting me, daring me to open it, open the wounds and dump buckets of salt on them. They don't mean to be insensitive, but they send me these fragments of her life without me, this person she's desperately trying to become. They are torturing me, and begging me, as if I can save her. As if I can even save myself. Sighing deeply, I click the link and the screen is filled with the evidence of her latest round of fuckery. Without fail, every Monday for the last 3 months I have received emails just like this one. Without fail, I beg my finger not to push the button, I beg my eyes not to stare, I beg my heart not to break. Every time. I am so fucking weak.
Bella splayed out across a table, tiny black shirt pulled up under her breasts, a douche with a backwards hat licking salt off her creamy, smooth stomach, while she grins around a lime wedge.
Bella sandwiched between two guys on a dance floor, bumpgrindfucking without shame.
Bella laughing drunkenly, sloppily, cigarette dangling dangerously from her mouth, sitting on some guy's lap.
But, it's not the images of Bella offering herself to everyone but me that kills me. It's not the smoking or the drinking or the guys. It's the look in her eyes. The cold, dead, sadness that permeates her smile. It's the sharp, aching, pain radiating from her that twists the broken shards of my heart. And I can't understand why she's trying so hard to be this person, when it obviously makes her so unhappy. I can't understand why being this person she is without me, is better than being the person she is with me.
I tear my eyes away from the images, though it doesn't matter because they are already permanently burned into my memory. I read Emmett's message:
Dude,
Your girl is out of control. Talk to her. Please. And call us, douche, we miss your sorry ass.
Em
I close the email without responding. The same way I've done with every Monday email he's sent since August. Any other day and I respond, any other subject, I talk. I have nothing to say about this, though I know exactly what I would say if I did reply: "She's not my girl. I can't talk to her." And if I could talk to her? I'd say "I love you" and "I fucking hate you" and "that's a lie" and "I wish it wasn't."
Mondays are the days I usually go out. I tell my roommate, Eric, that it's to relieve the stress of the beginning of the week. Not that he cares, he never needs an excuse. Really though, it's because I need to erase the images of Bella's eyes-smile-sadness from my mind. I need a reprieve from imagining the things she's done, the people she's done them with, and the knowledge that it will never be me. I need someone who is all 'yes, there', 'yes, please', and 'oh god, yes' to drown out the sound of that single, reverberating 'no' that broke my heart and shattered me.
December:
Dear Edward Cullen,
Northwestern University's Academic Standards Policy indicates that students must maintain a cumulative grade point average of 2.0 or better to remain in good academic standing. A review of your academic record for the Fall Semester of 2006 indicates that you have not met this minimum academic standard.
I skimmed the rest of the letter, looking to see what I had to do to fix this. I knew it was coming, you don't fail two classes without consequences. At least this was just academic probation and they weren't kicking me out. I was hoping there was a solution where my parents didn't have to be involved. They were going to be so disappointed in me. I was disappointed in me.
My heart stopped when I came to the final line:
A copy of this letter has been mailed to your permanent address of record.
Fuck. My. Life.
As if on cue, my phone began ringing, and my parents name flashed across the screen. I picked up, but didn't even get a chance to greet them before my mother started in on me.
"Edward Anthony, would you care to explain to me this notice of academic probation?" The sharp anger in her voice made my throat constrict and I felt like I was five years old again, awash in shame.
I briefly thought about reminding her it was a federal offence to open someone else's mail. But, I'm pretty sure she would have killed me through the phone, then used their Christmas trip to Chicago to bring me back to life and kill me again.
"I don't know, Mom. Things got away from me and I couldn't catch up. I can fix it. I will fix it." I try to reassure her.
"Which would be a perfectly reasonable excuse had you not insisted all semester that your classes were fine, and that you had to miss Thanksgiving to study," she sighed at me, her disappointment palpable even 2200 miles away. "Our flight leaves in the morning. We'll talk about it when we get there. I'm not going to lie, Edward- your father is going to have a coronary"
"I know. I am really sorry." I tell her to have a safe trip and then we hang up. This sucks. Everything sucks right now. How the hell did I let things get so bad?
March:
The library closes in ten minutes and I have to get this paper finished. I'm again silently cursing Student Housing for denying my request for a mid-year room transfer. Having Eric as my roommate was great as long as I didn't study, but now? It's like living in Animal House. I have no idea how the hell he does it, but he's passing all his classes.
He didn't take me seriously when my parents told me I had the Spring Semester to get my shit together or they would stop paying for school. It was just awkward for awhile, Eric coming in at 2am with whatever-girl, drunken laughter and loud moans. I can't believe that I wasted months of my life doing the same shit. It's just hostile now. I'm pissed that he has no respect for boundaries or common courtesy. He's pissed that I'm "a fucking douche". Good times.
I've had to work my ass off to fix the mess I made of my classes last semester. As it is, I'm going to have to do a Summer Session to catch up. I have a tentative acceptance into the Music Composition major, but I have to have to get my GPA back up, and I have to have my Gen. Ed. requirements finished by the end of next fall. Ordinarily they would have wait listed my ass for the major because of my grades, but I pleaded my case. After submitting samples of what I've already composed, the Director agreed to give me a chance. I'm pretty sure it was one composition in particular that saved me.
The overhead speakers buzz and the lights flicker, reminding me that the library is, in fact, closing and I have to leave. Maybe the room will be empty when I get there. I gather my shit, stuffing papers in my backpack, grab my laptop and head out. It's so fucking cold outside, my hands ache as soon as the sharp, frozen air touches them. I miss the milder weather back home. I miss a lot of things back home.
Fifteen minutes later, I'm warming up in my room. Thank god Eric seems to be out for the night, maybe I can actually get this paper finished. I decide to take a few minutes to check my email before I get back to work. I don't have to fear my email any longer, Emmett finally stopped sending me updates on Bella after I didn't come home for Thanksgiving. I think maybe they all finally got the hint that I wasn't getting involved. It was amazing how much easier it was to put myself back together, without the constant reminders of why I fell apart.
I glanced down the list in my inbox. Several advertisements for porn, an email from my mom, a forward from Jasper. Then, sitting innocuously amongst the others, as if it was a normal occurrence, as if it could have been anyone, was a name that made my heart stop. Bella Swan.
With trembling fingers, I click on her name, and the message pops open.
I've missed you.
That's it. After months of silence, that's all she says. I can only think of one reply and I type it up quickly, sending it off before I lose my nerve.
I've missed me, too.
April:
Another email from Bella sits in my inbox. She has emailed me once a week since that first email. Sometimes it's a memory from when we were kids, sometimes it's just an update on her life, sometimes it's a plea for me to respond. Never is it an explanation of anything. No answers, no apologies. Nothing real. I read every one of them, I never reply. She walked out on me. I am not crawling back to her.
May:
"Edward, you have to talk to her sometime. I know I'm the last person to defend Bella, but she does seem to be trying," Charlotte tried to reason with me. "If it were me, I would have told her to go to hell a long time ago, and not thought twice about it. But, you aren't that person. If you don't at least make the effort, you will beat yourself up over it forever."
After weeks of writing me useless words, Bella has finally sent me an email that actually deserves a response. Only now I find that I don't know if I can do it. It still just fucking hurts to think about that day, and I'm still just so angry with her.
"I'm scared, Char. I didn't think I was ever going to get myself together after last summer. I can't even begin to tell you the shit I pulled, how close I came to giving up and losing everything. I know we've talked about it, but god, I was a fucking mess."
"I understand that, I really do. Trust me, we were all scared for you there for awhile. You got through it, though, and you're stronger for it," she reassured me. "Answer me honestly: do you still have shit you need to say to Bella? If the answer to that is truly 'no', then delete that email and move on with your life. But, I suspect, no, fuck that, I know you still have shit to say to her, and you can't move on until you do." I fucking hate it when she's right, and she's always right.
"Fine, I'll talk to her. But, I'm not doing it over email."
"Whatever floats your boat, Eddie. Just make sure you say what you need to say, ask what you need to ask, and actually listen to her when she answers."
"What the hell would I do without you, Charlotte? How many times have you saved my ass now?"
"You would be a sad, lonely boy without me, Edward, that's for sure," she laughed, but we both know it's the truth. "Well, you give as much as you take, too. You really are a good friend, and I know Peter is grateful when you translate 'stupid boy speak' for me. More than once his ass would have been at the curb, if you hadn't talked me down from the ledge."
I laugh at her, because that's also true. We make plans to hang out in a couple of weeks when we both get back to Forks. We're going to hit the film festival showings in Port Angeles. We say our goodbyes and hang up. I have a fucking email that needs a response.
I sigh as I open my Gmail account, and re-read Bella's email for the hundredth time.
Edward,
Okay, this is the last one. I don't know, maybe it's just really too much, and you can't forgive me. I understand if that's the case. I don't even know if you're reading my emails. But, I thought I would try one last time, and just try to explain everything. Please know though, that even if you don't ever respond, or if you decide to respond in 20 years, I'll still be here waiting for you and missing my best friend.
I'm so fucking sorry. So, so sorry. I can't say that enough. I know now how much I must have hurt you, and I swear that was never what I meant to do. I freaked out and I ran and I'm just fucking sorry. I know you don't owe me anything, but I just need you to understand, even if you can't forgive me.
I don't know what happened last summer, it was just supposed to be sex. But, god, Edward, it was so much more and I have no idea what it was. You've said you love me for years, like it was this big fireworks, lightening storm revelation, like you were in the dark and then, suddenly you weren't. Honest to god, I've never had that and I'm so sorry. I would give anything to have that to give back to you. I feel the same about you now as I did when we were kids. I can't be happy without you there. Nothing makes sense when you're gone, and I spend my time hoping you'll be back soon. I've always hoped that whatever adventures we have in life, we can have as many of them as possible together. But, that's what being best friends means, right?
I'm sure you heard about the shit I put everyone through here, and I realize now that I was searching for my lightning storm. I just wanted to know if I could feel anything more than I do now, because maybe if I figured out how, I could give it to you. But, Edward, I never did. It never compared to our friendship, mostly I just felt sad and empty. I don't know that I'm capable of feeling anything more than what I feel for us.
Maybe there's a glitch in my brain that makes it work differently than other people's, maybe I inherited Renee's inability to love. I don't know, all I can tell you is that I'm so fucked up, and I miss you and I need you.
Please tell me it's not too late.
B
Fuck, it hurt just as much to read it the hundredth time, as it did the first time. But, Charlotte is right, I have things I need to say and I have questions that I need answered. So, I reply:
I'll be home in 2 weeks. I'll call you then.
The summer before Bella and I started High School, we sat in our meadow and I told her how I felt, while I wrote in the composition journal she gave me that year for my birthday. I was composing our friendship, translating love into notes on staff lines. She's right, my realization was like fireworks, like a lightning storm. It lit up everything, illuminated parts of myself I didn't even know were in shadow. There was even a soundtrack for the flash pan explosion: a piano piece. I watched Bella walk away from me for the first time, and I swore to myself that I would play the piece for her the first time she told me she loved me.
I've tweaked it over the years, added different parts, rearranged things, but the basic structure is the same. It's the sweet, soaring feeling of meadows and love and promises. It's the bitter cacophony of disappointment and fear and rejection. It's the searching, swirling, sun shower of hope.
I had wanted her to be the first to hear it, the first to glide along the rise and fall of the music, the first to be surrounded by the notes she inspired. I had dreams of us moving through the music together, like a living scrapbook of our lives, memories and remembrances greeting us, waving allegro, shouting forte.
I never imagined the music would be reduced to meaningless paper, in a second-chance portfolio, trying to save the only other thing I've ever wanted besides her. Trying to save the only thing I have if I can't have her.
A/N: So, Edward found his spine and Bella gave us some answers...sort of. What do you guys think? Do you still want to hurt Bella or does she maybe get a little sympathy?
Next up, they meet. I wonder how that's going to go down? Okay, I totally know, but what do you, dear reader, think is going to happen?
Friendly waves to Jerseyhalliwell and KnittingVamp7- thank you for reading and letting me know what you think. If you want your own friendly wave, drop me a note, I don't bite...well, I do, but in the nicest way possible.
As always, dear reader, thank you for sticking with my little story. I don't own anything.
Much love to Nitareality for her Beta Magic and her ability to peer into the swirling cloud of flotsom floating through my brain and pluck out the things that actually make sense.
