Chapter 9- I Put a Spell on You
A/N: Thanks to: Amazing beta NelsonSmandela, who, like Algonquinrt and Feisty Young Beden, helped me find exactly the music I wanted for this chapter. A big kiss to Ninapolitan, for saying nice things about this story on the very entertaining Twigasm podcast, which pwns me so hard I can't listen to it and drive at the same time. If you haven't listened to it yet, and you're old enough to listen to very naughty things, go and do so. If you aren't old enough to hear and read naughty things, this might be about the time you stop reading this story. *cough*
Disclaimer: I own neither Twilight, nor the poetry of e.e. cummings, Pablo Neruda, nor any of this glorious music.
Chapter Music, all highly recommended for maximum pleasure and understanding of this chapter. This music will explain so much more than the words alone:
Nina Simone, I Put a Spell on You:
(youtube) /watch?v=8Y99tXNxV5s
Lauridsen O magnum mysterium
(youtube) /watch?v=cHOtfLvrjI8
Heitor Villa-Lobos, Bachiana Brasileira nº 5 sung by Bidu Sayão
(youtube) /watch?v=bLZD0XplYrI
Manu Delago, Hung Drum Solo
(youtube) /watch?v=TQXn5ba0aT8
Eisley, Marvelous Things
(check the Twilighted forum for this link)
~oЖo~
It's Christmas morning, and I'm slightly afraid to leave my bed. As strange as it sounds, this is the first Christmas I can remember spending with Charlie, and I have no idea how the two of us are supposed to make things festive or what he expects of me. I'd give my right arm for Renee, Jake, or Alice to be here. I'm just working up the courage to get up and face the awkward when the phone rings. I look at the caller ID and smile.
"Merry Christmas, Mom!"
"Merry Christmas, Baby!" Renee yells. I can hear strange, festive music in the background, melodic drums of some kind, and the sound of people partying. She's three hours ahead, so it's got to be just after noon in Jacksonville. That doesn't sound like Jacksonville. This sounds like a late-night commercial for horrible spring-break-themed videos.
"Where are you, Renee?" I ask, bracing myself.
"Cancun, baby! Yeah!" I can hear the broad smile in her voice as a chorus of young male voices nearby echoes her answer. "Oh, I wish you were here! There's so much going on; you wouldn't believe it! Concerts and beach volleyball, Christmas lights up everywhere, but it's still warm enough to wear a bikini. Oh and for some reason there are lots of camera crews on the beach — one of them is trying to get my attention right now. I'll wait till we're finished talking to find out what they want."
"Renee!" I start to panic. "Mom, please, please, just promise me if someone comes up to you with a camera you won't take your top off?"
"Come on, Bella, I'm just messing with you," she laughs delightedly. "Phil's been glued to my side ever since someone offered me a 'Hot MILF' t-shirt at the pool yesterday. I'm pleasantly surprised to find you've watched enough TV to know about these things. Now tell me about this delicious young Edward. You hit that yet?"
"Have I what?" I am deeply regretting sending her that picture of us together at the mixer. "You got the picture already? I just sent it last night."
"Yeah, it's on my phone. Bella, sweetie, he is adorable. That fine boy is giving you the look if I ever saw it. You still look like a virgin," she says in a bewilderingly accusatory tone.
I take it all back — I'd definitely rather face Charlie at this point.
"Oh God," I groan. "I should go, Renee. Maybe I should make pancakes if Charlie isn't up yet."
"What? That doesn't sound like him," she says skeptically. "Charlie's probably been up for hours by now. Wait, you two aren't hiding from each other, are you?"
"There may be some slight awkwardness going on here, yes," I admit begrudgingly.
"Honey, he loves you. Just take your present for him, put it on his plate while you cook breakfast, and give him a big hug when you see him. It's easy. Well, it'd be easier if you weren't so exactly alike."
"I know. How long have you been in Mexico? Did you get the package?"
"The neighbor told me one arrived, thanks, sweetie. Oh, hey that reminds me. I sent your presents to Charlie, but don't open the bigger one in front of him, okay?"
"What did you do?" I gasp.
"It's nothing bad, just a pretty nightgown. Edward will love it."
"Jesus."
"That's the idea. You have a good Christmas and say hi to your father for me, okay? I love you baby."
"I love you too, Mom. Give my love to Phil, okay?"
I've missed Charlie. Missing him is a strange sensation, but only slightly stranger than being in his presence can be at times. Charlie and I are so much alike, and so deeply private, that often his presence feels all at once resonant, comforting, and redundant. We can always respond to the lightheartedness of others, but left to our own devices, we become too serious, our combined gravitas threatening to sink us under an ocean of silence. We are two citadels, separated by a single staircase.
It's comforting and confusing all at once. Often I feel a swelling of affection for him, particularly during reunions or special occasions, only to panic, not knowing what to do with such excesses of emotion. I would invariably look into his eyes and see my own feelings mirrored there, followed by relief and companionable silence. We take care of each other in our own way. For him it's chains on my truck tires on an icy day. For me it's cooking him heart-healthy meals he actually likes. It's our way of saying that which would feel too dramatic, too embarrassing to say out loud.
I take the presents out of my suitcase and go downstairs to take Renee's advice.
~oЖo~
Approaching the glass windows in the green-bricked Odyssey bookshop in Port Angeles a few days later, I check my reflection one last time. It's only been a week since I've seen Edward, but for some reason I feel nervous about my appearance. I think maybe a week in my old tomboy ways might have erased whatever Edward may have seen in me. It's difficult to imagine that any appeal I might have for him would be fragile, fleeting. I think of the lullaby he wrote for me, and shiver. Could he have written the song for someone else, but recorded it as a gift?
I see him across the store, sitting on a step-stool in front of the classics. He's balancing a used hardcover in one hand, and he's flipping the pages at fast-paced intervals. He's turning too quickly to be really reading, so I assume he's scanning for a familiar passage. He hasn't seen me yet, so I take a rare moment to stare at him.
Edward's fine-boned face is drawn into a familiar, tense expression. A very slight scowl purses his lips, and his expressive eyebrows indicate either concentration or disapproval of something. I used to see this look on his face all the time, but lately he's been looking less austere. It makes me wonder what he's reading.
A gust of warm air from a heating vent hits the back of my neck, and I remove my coat, still staring. Edward inhales sensually, as if he's savoring an alluring perfume or a delicious baked good. I wonder if he loves the smell of books as much as I do. This is when he turns his head and scans the crowd. Unwilling to be caught staring, I start walking towards him just before he sees me. His face lights up brighter than any Christmas tree I've ever seen, and I can't help but smile back in wonder.
For me. His face lights up for me.
"Have you been waiting long?" I ask as we approach each other.
"Only about a hundred years," he jokes, and I look at my cell for the time, alarmed to think I might have been standing there gawking at him longer than I thought.
"Relax, Bella. I'm kidding. I haven't been here long at all."
"Marcus Aurelius seems to say otherwise," I nod at the book in his hand, finally able to read the cover. "One of my dad's favorites."
"Not one of yours?" he asks curiously.
"I like him very much," I insist. "There's a lot of comforting logic in there. I particularly like it when he reminds me that it's irrational to expect others to behave rationally. My father tends to read him whenever his work gets more dark-sided than boring."
"I imagine being the Sheriff of a small town would be mostly boring," he says, tucking a stray lock of hair behind my ear.
My breath catches, not only from this intimate action. Mentally I'm raking over the details of every conversation we've ever had. I don't recall ever mentioning Charlie's occupation. I decide to let it pass and quietly add it to the growing pile of missing pieces.
"Well, his work pretty much deals with traffic violations and the occasional prank gone wrong, but every now and then someone finds a body in the woods, or someone gets shot. He doesn't say much, but when the Meditations comes out, I know something's bothering him."
"I take it he's not religious, then?"
"It's kind of hard to tell with Charlie. He's almost impossible to read," I begin, and notice Edward's arched eyebrow. "What?"
"Just like his daughter, I see." He's giving me that focused look again, like he's trying to read my mind.
I wish he wouldn't do that. It makes my heart flutter and my knees shake, not to mention the abrupt changes in blood flow.
"Me? Are you kidding? I'd sell my soul to never blush again," I say, covering my cheeks as they redden.
Edward's smile falls and his eyes soften as he takes my hands from my face, turning one so that one of his cool knuckles barely skims the slope of my cheek.
"Don't say that, Bella," he murmurs. "I adore the way you blush."
Apparently my blush adores him right back, because my skin where he touched it becomes a blazing trail. I forget all language but that of Edward's sweet cool breath on my flaming face until his voice interrupts.
"You said you wanted to look for some new reading material?" he asks, frowning again as he replaces Marcus Aurelius on the bookshelf behind him.
I have to hold onto the bookshelves to keep from falling as he looks around the shop. I try to hide my humiliation while taking a steadying breath. He may light up for me, but I am clearly the one more beguiled than beguiling in this relationship.
"Yes, but the bookseller who usually gives me the best recommendations isn't working today," I say glumly.
"I think I've got a handle on your taste," he says with a little smile. "Let me pick out something for you?"
"Lay one on me," I say without thinking.
His eyes widen slightly, and the smile shifts from cheeky to something that makes me very nervous.
"What's your favorite book?" I ask him, covering my tracks.
That seems to distract him for a moment, but eventually he shakes his head.
"Impossible question. It would be difficult to choose a favorite author or genre, even."
"I guess that makes sense if I think about it. What of your favorites do you think I would like to read?"
"You really liked the Bulgakov, right?" he asks.
"Oh yes! I don't think I've ever read anything like it. Should I read more of him?" I ask, as we approach the beginning of the alphabet in the fiction/literature section.
"What about this?" he asks, pulling a thick black and blue paperback.
"Angela mentioned I should read Borges if I liked the Bulgakov. Collected Fictions? Why not 'short stories'?" I inquire, more of the book than Edward.
He's disappeared somewhere, so I start flipping through it and read one at random. It's only half a page long, but it's one of the most amazing things I've ever read.
"I love this," I breathe excitedly as Edward reappears with a small bag bearing the bookshop's name.
"I'm glad to hear it," he grins, looking at the identical copy he just purchased. "I was going to add this to my collection if you didn't want it, but I really want you to have it."
"What? Edward, no," I protest. "I didn't mean for you to buy me anything."
His smile fades.
"You don't want me buying you anything?" he says, looking a little hurt.
"I didn't buy you anything!" I confess, flustered. "I'm not very comfortable accepting gifts when I don't have anything to give in return. Will you let me get the movie tickets at least?"
He seems slightly mollified, but gets a stubborn glint in his eye.
"How about this: you take the book, read it, mark it up however you want to, and it lives with you, but I reserve the right to visit it any time I want."
"That seems … fair," I mumble stupidly, trying not to think about the implications involved with Edward visiting me any time he wants to. "Deal. But I still want to pay for the movie."
"You're stubborn," Edward observes disapprovingly.
He tucks the book into my large coat pocket, taking time to secure it with a snap. I laugh and hold out my right hand as if we're meeting for the first time.
"Have you met me?" I tease, as he takes my hand in his and stares at it. "Though I'm pretty sure you could give me a run for my money on that front."
He brings his hands together, engulfing mine completely. He seems mesmerized by the sight of my arm disappearing into his hands in what looks for all the world like a prayerful pose.
"Nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands." He whispers so softly that I barely hear him.
If this keeps up, I'm going to pass out by the end of the date. Nobody has ever said anything remotely like that to me.
"Is that from a poem?" I ask faintly, trying to refrain from embarrassing myself this time.
The question snaps him out of his reverie, and he releases my hand with a sad smile.
"Yes. I can recite it for you later, if you like." He frowns a little, as if immediately regretting making the offer.
"I'd like that. I love the way you read aloud," I say, thinking of the hospital waiting room.
I would walk for five days through the desert to listen to him read the fine print in prescription drug advertisements.
"I forgot to ask how your holiday is going so far," he asks, changing gears. "Are you having a good time with your family and … old friends?"
"Sure, I guess. Just family, really," I reply, a little confused at the abrupt shift in conversation.
"Oh? No running into any old boyfriends?" he presses, looking at a display of vintage map calendars as if he would like it to explode.
He looks … seriously jealous. I can't believe my eyes, but his expression is clear.
"Old boyfriends?" I laugh a bit louder than expected, surprised at the question.
Edward is not amused.
"Yes, you know, old beaus, boys you used to date back in high school, or perhaps over the summers," he glances nervously at me.
"I'm sorry to report that the sad state of my dating history is practically non-existent," I shrug.
"Practically?" he looks a little relieved, but not entirely. "What's wrong with the boys at your school? Why didn't they ask you out?"
"I got asked to dances sometimes," I shrug. "But I don't dance. Oh! I did go to prom my junior year. That was really awkward."
"Awkward?"
"Yeah, I went with this guy, Tyler Crowley. Nice guy, really, but kind of delusional. I think he only asked me because he felt guilty for hitting me with his van."
"I'm sorry, what did you say?" Edward's tone is quiet, but it gives me the chills nonetheless.
"I wasn't really hurt," I say quickly. "I had just buckled my seatbelt when his van hit a patch of ice, and he smashed into Bertha, my battle-axe of a truck. Tyler was far more injured than I was, but he was so freaked out about the possibility of my dad taking away his driver's license that he pestered me to go out with him. I told him I couldn't go to one dance with him, and I vaguely recall him saying something about still having prom."
"And he just assumed you would go to prom with him?" he asks, smiling.
"Yeah, and the best part about it was that he didn't even mention it again!" I laugh, remembering vividly. "I was just making dinner for Charlie one night when there's a knock on the door, and Tyler standing there in a big smile and a tuxedo."
Edward cracks up along with me, and it occurs to me that this is the first time I've ever seen him really laugh. I've seen him with many wry smiles and the occasional quiet, private laugh, but this willingly shared, audible expression of amusement is a new thing. I feel like giving myself a medal.
"So, what did you do?" he asks curiously, still smiling.
"What could I do? I went upstairs, dug my nicest dress out of my closet, slapped on some mascara, and went with him."
"And did he ask you out again?" he says, looking jealous again. I know I shouldn't like that, but coming from him it's kind of hot.
"I forgot to mention that when I finally came downstairs from getting ready, my dad was cleaning all his guns, and Tyler looked like he was going to pass out. I don't know if anyone ever told him that trying to kiss the chief-of-police's ass by dating his daughter was not the brightest move he could make. He was a complete gentleman that night, but he never asked me again, no."
"I really can't see you dating someone so dense."
"Tyler was sweet, but to be completely honest, neither can I," I confess. "Hence, the not dating till college. I think my father is extremely pleased about that. My mother, on the other hand, sends me embarrassing lingerie and even more embarrassing articles clipped out of Cosmo."
"She does?" Edward's thick eyebrows shoot up in surprise. "I don't really know anything about her."
"She does," I mutter. "Renee — that's my mom —lives in Jacksonville with her husband, Phil. She's kind of a free spirit. He's a minor-league baseball player. They're, um, in Cancun right now."
"So you said you've seen mostly family," he continues. "If your mother is in Mexico, who else is there in Forks besides Charlie?"
"Well, they're not technically blood relatives, but my dad's best friend, Billy Black, and his son, Jacob, feel like family."
"Hmm," he says, eyes narrowing.
He seems like he really wants to say something but is hesitant. I take the opportunity to get a question of my own in.
"We've been talking for a while about my family," I interrupt his internal monologue. "You must be missing yours."
I'm probably ruining some really eloquent brooding, but thinking about Jake has reminded me of something.
"Tell me about your family. You said there are four besides you?"
"I think we're missing the movie," Edward says, looking at his watch. "Do you want to catch the next one?"
I narrow my eyes at him. He thinks he's so smooth, and I guess he really is, but I'm starting to catch on to his sneaky little ways. I don't know whether he's avoiding talking about his parents or if he just tricked me out of paying for us at the movies, or both. I give him a look to tell him I'm on to him before glancing outside. The sun is pretty much gone now, but the sky is clear and a beautiful shade of deep blue, turning almost purple.
"We missed the sunset, but I'd much rather go walk along the waterfront and watch the stars come out. Would you mind?"
~oЖo~
We walk down a couple of blocks to the pier, stopping only to put our books in our cars. The air is pretty cold, and I button my coat up around my neck.
"Are you warm enough?" Edward asks, looking concerned.
He starts taking off his coat, so I stop him.
"I'm fine," I say, smiling at his chivalry. "But thank you, Edward."
I catch him smiling when I say his name.
"Did you get whatever it was keeping you from visiting your parents taken care of?" I ask curiously.
"So far, so good," he grins back, as if enjoying a private joke.
"Tell me about your family," I ask again. "When did they go to France?"
"About four years ago," he says, frowning. "I studied piano at a conservatory in Paris, while my mother studied art. She had always dreamed of learning different painting techniques. My father, I told you about him. He's a surgeon, and had a special invitation to teach some innovative surgical techniques at Paris Descartes University."
"And your brother?" I ask, slipping my hands in my coat pockets.
"Emmett?" he smiles broadly. "Emmett's pretty much up for anything, as long as he has Rosalie. She loves France. She was really the mastermind behind the family's relocation. Once she heard about my father's invitation to teach in Paris, it didn't take her long to persuade Esme—my mother- to follow her dream of studying art on the banks of the Seine."
"So, you were dragged along?" I ask, thinking about how odd the names in his family seem.
"Yes, but I didn't mind so much. Have you been, or were you just really good at French in school?" he asks curiously, as we walk east.
I spot one bright planet and one faint star above the water. I close my eyes and wish.
"I just went for a summer exchange," I say, smiling at the memory. "We started out in Paris, and I took some classes with a bunch of kids from all over the world. Then I went to Montpellier with my host family. They had a girl my age, and we tried to hang out. We didn't really have much in common. She didn't like to read, andI don't really care all that much about fashion."
"You always seem well-turned-out to me," he said, though I notice a little mischievous gleam in his eye.
"Thank you, but I can't really take credit. Surely you know about Dr. George's rules?" I ask, and he nods. "I don't really care about fashion, but I know what I like. Alice knows a couple of excellent thrift stores and has a gift for picking out things that look good on me. I really don't spend any more time on it than absolutely necessary. If it were up to me you'd probably only see me in jeans and hoodies."
"Did Alice dress you this morning?" he says, smiling at the fluttering hem of my skirt and sleek, brown, medium-heeled boots.
Yes. I am definitely not telling him about my panicked teleconference this morning.
The sidewalk curves with the water's edge, and we soon come to a wooded copse. Out of habit I peer into the woods. As we walk I notice birds flying away from us in all directions, leaving behind an eerie silence. I'm not paying attention to where I'm walking, and I stumble on what I truly hope is an uneven part of the pavement. My hands are wedged too deeply in my pockets to effectively brace myself against the impact, and in a flash I see the ground rush up to meet my face. I have only the slightest moment to hope that I won't need stitches this time when I feel strong arms around me and the whole process reversing.
"Thank you,"I wince, embarrassed. "Would you believe it if I told you I'm much more graceful than I used to be?"
"I'll take your word for it," he muses, not letting me go for just a few moments longer than necessary. He leans in close before looking away. "This looks like a nice place to stop and watch the stars."
We stop in a grassy strip between the walkway and the water. He takes off his thick wool coat and spreads it out on the ground. He sits, and I lie down beside him to stare at the sky.
"I love the sound of the water against the rocks," I murmur, but he doesn't say anything. He's just staring at me, and it's making me nervous. "Hey, Edward, you're looking in the wrong direction. Stars up there." I point.
He just smirks at me and keeps staring. This is getting unnerving. Just kiss me already if you're going to. The distance between us seems unbearable.
"Lie down beside me," I say, tugging on the sleeve of his sweater. "You're making me nervous."
"Bossy, aren't we?" he smirks. "Make me."
I gasp and poke him under the arm. Whenever I poke Jake in that spot he yelps in a totally amusing, high-pitched voice. Edward just rolls his eyes and gently traps my poking hand in his. I see no reason to back down just yet, and soon he's got my other hand as well. To an onlooker it would probably look as if we're just sweetly cuddling, but I'm completely trapped.
"Do you give up yet?" He grins wickedly.
I shiver at the sight of his shiny teeth and eyes, but I'm also strangely turned on. I know he wouldn't hurt me.
"You're stronger than you look," I concede, without technically admitting defeat.
"A fact for which I am eternally grateful," he says gently, loosening his hold and placing his lips against my hands.
Oh my.
"Me too," I recall, attempting to recover. "If you hadn't been there in that alley…"
"Speaking of which, I want to ask you something, but if it makes you uncomfortable, please just say so," he says, carefully. "What were you thinking about when I showed up? You were whispering something, but it didn't make much sense."
"It didn't make much sense to me either," I confess. "I don't know what I said, but what I was thinking — it was a combination of a Blake poem and some kind of last-minute prayer. I was absolutely certain he was going to kill me if you hadn't shown up."
" 'The Tyger?' " he asks. "That is an odd thing to be thinking about. Do you pray much?"
"Not really, no."
"Do you believe in God?" he asks, seriously.
I can't help but think of his musical 'confession' and wonder again if he thinks he's damned. The question seems important, so I take my time in answering it.
"That depends on what I'm doing," I finally reply.
He blinks at me in surprise.
"Well, it does."
"That was not one of the answers I was expecting," he says, shaking his head. "Can you explain what you mean?"
"Well," I begin, searching my coat pocket for my iPod. "Most of the time, I'm pretty sure that everything is natural. Rational. The scientific method is wonderful. Look at everything people can do. We've got the Internet, space travel, we can read our genes and measure the age of the earth and the distance of stars. I look around and see that most everything makes sense if your primary goal is to see things clearly."
"What about the rest of the time?" he says, taking an earbud when I offer it to him.
He stretches his arm behind me, hand on the ground to support us both while we sit. I instinctively snuggle into his side as I look for the choral piece I want, the Lauridsen O magnum mysterium. We lean back a bit, listen, and watch as the very highest, darkest part of the sky above us turns a deep bluish black and begins to show a glimmer of faint twinkling. The exquisite voices, without aid of musical instruments, seem to echo the emerging stars. The deep sparkling black seems almost like the pupil of a giant, blue, all-seeing eye. The stars, the music, the gentle lapping of water against the stones nearby: all are delicate, ageless, relentless, and very nearly endless. I find Edward's hand behind me and with my fingertip lightly trace figure eights on his skin.
"I don't have words for this," I say softly, as the song ends. "But it doesn't make me feel insignificant. It makes me feel … magnified somehow, because I can even witness such beauty. I don't know what it means when other people say they believe in a god. But I can understand why they do when I feel like this."
The iPod shuffles to Villa-Lobos, and we keep listening. Edward is silent. I wait several minutes before speaking again.
"Edward?" I ask.
"Bella."
"Do you think …" I can't bring myself to ask the rest of the question in my mind. It's too personal, too invasive, so I change course mid-sentence. "What do you feel when you're playing? Is it anything like this?"
"Somewhat," he says. "Though at this moment, I'm passive, helpless against it. When I'm playing it's more in my control."
Sounds like someone likes to be in control.
"This is what it feels like under the piano when you play," I confess, "when I move into your column."
He smiles down at me. "Column?"
"It's what I call it," I say, feeling foolish. "But it's like that Henry Vaughan poem: 'like a ring of pure and endless light'. When conditions are right and something extra happens with the music, it becomes almost architectural, or like rushing water. I'm not explaining it right."
"No, I understand what you mean," he kindly interrupts as I start to get flustered. "I think of it as 'flow'. A book* by that title came out about this subject about 20 years ago. Actually, you're rather poetic about it. Don't sell yourself short. Do you write poetry, or do you just like to read it?"
"Oh, no, I don't write poetry. I just like reading it. I never even asked if you like poetry," I whisper, feeling vulnerable again.
"I most certainly do now," he declares, dipping his head down to speak directly into my ear. "A most fascinating mix of poems you assembled, Bella. Let's see, what was my most favorite and least expected selection? Ah yes, Neruda, **Sonnet Eighty-One. Now how does that go?"
I hold my breath, thinking of how much I debated whether or not to rip that page out, once I had decided to give the book to Edward. I remain silent, and he speaks again.
"Oh yes. I recall now," his voice gets deeper and silkier.
"And now you're mine," he quotes.
My eyes roll backward into my head from the sensation of his voice on my ears. I have to bite my lip to keep from moaning as he continues to recite the words that make me think of every dream I have of him, night after night.
"Rest with your dream in my dream.
Love and pain and work should all sleep, now.
The night turns on its invisible wheels,
and you are pure beside me as a sleeping ember.
"No one else, Love, will sleep in my dreams. You will go,
we will go together, over the waters of time.
No one else will travel through the shadows with me,
only you, evergreen, ever sun, ever moon."
As cold as it is, I feel as though my blood has been replaced by lava. He takes my hand and strokes it softly against his cool cheek as he continues to torture me. I reach higher and thread my fingers into his wild hair, my breath hitching.
"Your hands have already opened their delicate fists
and let their soft drifting signs drop away;
your eyes closed like two gray wings, and I move
"after, following the folding water you carry, that carries
me away. The night, the world, the wind spin out their destiny.
Without you, I am your dream, only that, and that is all."
He leans in and kisses my neck, right below my ear, and I turn my head towards him. Our foreheads touch, and his nose grazes mine as his lips come so close to mine I can feel the vibration when he speaks next.
"Do you know what poem always makes me think of you?" he asks instead of kissing me, as I completely expect him to by now. I'd do it myself, except I seem to be thoroughly hypnotized.
I shake my head, wondering why I seem capable of that, but incapable of closing the gap between us.
"There's one by e.e. cummings"he says, and dips his head back to my ear.
I wonder if everyone's ears are a major erogenous zone or if it's possible that only Edward can connect the nerves of my neck and ear with every other nerve in my body. I feel like a vibrating string, every cell pulsing, chanting Edward.
He begins:
"somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience, your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near
"your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully, mysteriously) her first rose
"or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;
"nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture —"
Here he pauses to kiss my neck softly, repeatedly, right where I feel it pulsing. He groans and stops, leaning his forehead against my hair, and continues to speak. I can't help but moan as his lips graze my ear with every other word.
"compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing
"(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands."
"You said that last part in the bookstore," I remember somehow after a long, breathless moment.
His lips find my forehead, then my nose. He hesitates again, just shy of kissing my mouth.
"What is it, Edward?" I ask in frustration when he pulls away again. "You're driving me insane. Is it my breath?" I wonder if the sweetness of his breath indicates some foulness of my own.
"No, Love," he promises, pulling even further away. "No, your breath is perfectly fine, smells like cinnamon."
Yes, well, I damn well try to make sure it does.
"Then what? What is it I'm doing wrong?"
He seems so sad.
"I'm not —" he pauses, looking gloomily at the water. "I'm not good for you, Bella. I'm a horrible person in some ways; I've done things I can never take back. You'll probably get hurt, just by being around me. I know I owe you an explanation, but I can't even explain myself. The right thing to do would be to keep your distance."
"I don't want an explanation, and I don't want to go anywhere," I argue, getting annoyed with his emo tendencies. I'm finally feeling frustrated enough to speak plainly. "I just want you. Can you please stop telling me what you should want and tell me what you do want? It would really help keep me from losing my mind right now."
"Bella, I want what you want, more than you know," he says, making my heart race. "But it's more complicated than that. I wish I could find some way to explain it to you without making more of a mess than I already have. Let me talk to my father. I just need Carlisle's perspective."
Click.
"Oh," I say lamely, omitting the three very unladylike words that follow silently in my mind.
"Come on, we'd better get going. It's getting late."
He gets up and offers me his hand. I take it because honestly I have no fucking clue what else to do at this point.
~oЖo~
I randomly push buttons on my iPod as I watch Edward's retreating form. I had kissed his cheek goodbye, numbly noticing his smooth, cool skin, sweet scent, and gentle smile. I had noticed these things before. As I drive home, the iPod genius decides I need to listen to some spooky hung drum music. Well played, genius.
I stop at a gas station to refill my tank and buy a hot cup of sickly-sweet truck-stop cappuccino, cut with decaf coffee and some skim milk. It's an unholy concoction, but if I ever get to sleep tonight it will be a miracle anyway, so I might as well stay alert on the road.
I get back into Bertha and praise her for her trustiness. Eisley's "Marvelous Things" plays as the shock wears off, and I can hear the nearly audible sound of many small puzzle pieces clicking together in my brain, thanks to the unexpected, wholly accidental appearance of the final piece.
Carlisle.
It makes no fucking sense whatsoever. It's just a legend, right?
Yellow-orange dashes from the center of the road register in my peripheral vision as I re-examine my collection of moments with Edward in light of what I now know him to be. My rational mind strains under the weight of all those pieces coming together, of what he saved me from in the alley, what I know from observing him. Every piece fits now, but it still doesn't make any sense.
It makes no sense whatsoever. But it's undeniably true.
And it absolutely makes no fucking difference to me.
~oЖo~
I finally get home, and Charlie looks at me in surprise. He was long gone fishing when I had left for Port Angeles.
"Find what you were looking for?" he asks, looking at my package from the bookstore.
"And then some," I reply truthfully. "I'm exhausted. Good night, Dad."
"Good night, Bella," he calls after me.
I trudge up stairs like my feet have weights tied to them. I take a shower to try to relax, washing my hair twice and shaving everything once. The hot water finally runs out, and I give up. When I come back into my room, I hesitate in my normal routine.
Still in my robe, I set up my speakers and find what I want to hear. Only Nina Simone can help me figure this shit out.
Everyone has gone to the moon, Nina, I think, and manage to smile.
I catch myself smiling in the mirror. I look very much as I do in the photo from the party. It's lying on my dresser, so I take it and stare at it, touching Edward's image. He's still the same man he was when he played Debussy for me as I read under his piano. He's still the same man who saved me from that … other one.
That other vampire… I force myself to think the word.
He's the same Edward who watched over me, holding my aching head and waking me up every hour to make sure I didn't die. He's the same Edward who kissed me and told me he wasn't good enough for me. I close my eyes, remembering how odd I used to think his hunting fixation was. Suddenly, his deer hunting has become the least creepy thing about him. Now it's downright noble.
"Yes, you are a bad, bad boy, Edward," I whisper. "But you're trying to be good. That counts for something, doesn't it?"
Nina Simone finishes begging in heartbreaking French, and her voice gains an amazing confidence in the next song. I envy her. Could I ever be like that? Like Nina, or Renee, or every French woman I've ever met? I wonder if there's any Renee in me at all. I look in the mirror. Charlie's serious eyes, Renee's full lips. Charlie's deep brown hair, Renee's cheekbones. Renee's figure. I could do worse. I've always noticed the way men look at her. Edward's attentions have added something else to my appearance, but I couldn't say what. In spite of the shower, my body is still on fire from Edward's voice, his kisses, his touch. My usual t-shirt and shorts sleepwear seems to be all wrong for tonight.
Renee's "extra" gift is lying still unopened in my suitcase. I tear off the shiny paper, and gasp when I lift the lid on the box. This isn't what I expected. I'd seen bits of Renee's lingerie collection in the laundry room on occasion, and it always embarrassed me. No, this nightgown was definitely more my speed. I take it out of the box and marvel at the vintage silk and lace. It reminds me of something Rita Hayworth wore in a 1940's era pin-up photo. It's elegant. I can't resist and put it on, looking in the mirror again. My hair hangs in damp, slightly curling locks, and I can almost see the kind of woman who could say what Nina's singing.
I put a spell on you, because you're mine.
Take that, Edward Cullen. You might be a vampire, but I'm yours, anyway.
Sink or swim time, once more.
Either that or I've lost my mind.
I change the music to Edward's lullaby, and lie back in my bed, letting his song be the one to lull me to sleep in spite of everything.
~oЖo~
I am walking down a long road, and it forks into two well-worn paths.
Signpost says, Someone goes on a trip meets a stranger coming to town.
I'm the stranger on the journey, coming to town.
I meet myself.
I look down both paths and see copies of me, walking away, coming back.
Hundreds of Bellas.
Edward.
Edward comes to me; my heart races. He comes closer, walks right through me. I turn to see him greet another Bella and take her hand, tenderly.
Another Edward comes, with yellow tyger-eyes. This is not my Edward, either. He sees a Bella, this time a slightly younger version of me. He runs away. She walks relentlessly in his direction. She will catch him, I can tell. I know that look.
Another Edward runs to me, races nearly right through me, and I feel the force of this one as he finds his Bella right behind me. He picks her up and swings her around so that they pass through me. I step into their joyful twirl. They are pure love, bright bliss, deep kiss.
He takes off her clothes, ripping fabric as he goes.
And
I
am
naked.
You are mine, he says to her through my ears.
Yes, she answers. Yours, always.
This is enough for him, finally. I must remember this.
His lips are warm, devouring her mouth.
Yes, she says, yes. I've waited so long for you.
No waiting now, he says, meeting flesh in pale peach jubilation.
I move my face to meet their kiss,
And slide, shiver-sided to reach for his hands with my hip
he takes hers, bracing, his tongue slides down
to taste her, and I arch as she does,
Yes, Edward, yes
I feel the whisper-tangle of their ghost tornado as he thrusts inside her. It is not enough for me. It is everything to her. She cries out again, and I feel the echo of her quake —
She moans. I shiver.
I cannot feel enough, but still I take it in.
I envy them.
They swirl around me, and I feel them as one now, circling faster, now invisible, now inside me, vivid as a memory, tickling my understanding.
More Edwards walk by:
Red eye, Black eye, Cat Eye.
A fight, a chase, a murder: Scenes shift so quickly, I almost miss his arrival.
Finally he is here. I know him by the buzzing,
I know him because the volume gets turned up, my senses sharpen,
His scent spirals, lilac branches meet clover bees, sunshine-sweet.
This one is for me.
I know him by his black eyes burning right into mine, not that of some other Bella.
All other Bellas and Edwards fade away as he approaches, save the memory of still-thrusting specters in my memory.
They shiver. I moan.
"The voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses." I tell him, and mean it.
My Edward stops, arms' length away. His arms' length, not mine.
"Nobody, not even the rain has such small hands." He has come to worship, from afar.
I must close this gap. My limbs are heavier than they look — these ghost Bellas have it easy to move so lightly in this thick air.
A force of will, and I move forward. The ripped clothing of earlier Bellas falls away from me, and my Edward gasps.
I move into his cool hands, my limbs like slowest sea-creatures.
His hands swirl in coolest whispery feathertips, gliding.
I arch into the flowing movements, my lucky-slick motion catches him, a slippery glide into my own tremor, a slow shaking low on the Richter, but deep in other magnitudes.
"Edward, love. Let me touch you."
"Bella," he whisper-moans. His black coal eyes glow, and I've got him.
"And now you are mine," I tell him, but I think he knows.
He runs away.
I will catch him, I can tell.
~oЖo~
A/N: Edward wants you to read his EPOV of the end of this chapter before you read chapter 10. It's the first one in the outtakes.
**The original Neruda:
SONETO LXXXI
Ya eres mía. Reposa con tu sueño en mi sueño.
Amor, dolor, trabajos, deben dormir ahora.
Gira la noche sobre sus invisibles ruedas
y junto a mí eres pura como el ámbar dormido.
Ninguna más, amor, dormirá con mis sueños.
Irás, iremos juntos por las aguas del tiempo.
Ninguna viajará por la sombra conmigo,
sólo tú, siempreviva, siempre sol, siempre luna.
Ya tus manos abrieron los puños delicados
y dejaron caer suaves signos sin rumbo,
tus ojos se cerraron como dos alas grises,
mientras yo sigo el agua que llevas y me lleva:
la noche, el mundo, el viento devanan su destino,
y ya no soy sin ti sino sólo tu sueño.
* Flow, Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi. (Pronounced "Chicks send me high") Excellent book, I highly recommend it, and any other book that gets mentioned in this fic.
All the music videos and the Rita Hayworth pin-up in question are up on the Canzone threat in the Twilighted forums, link in my profile. Come play!
