.
"He made an awful lot of money."
"Well, it's no trick to make a lot of money...if all you want...is to make a lot of money."
- Thompson & Mr. Bernstein
June 11, 2010
Edward
I shut down my computer, waiting until it's definitely off before I stand to leave. It's one of my quirks, thinking that technology won't obey if I'm not there to fend off any last-minute pop-ups.
Grabbing my suit jacket, I check my desk for anything I might need to bring home. Happy to leave empty-handed, I turn toward the open door, stopping when I notice someone standing at the entrance to my office.
"Hey, Alec," I greet questioningly. "I was just heading out..."
Alec shuffles his feet, appearing apologetic yet excited as he rubs his receding hairline.
"The Smiths just called. It sounds like they're ready to make a deal - tonight. They asked if we could talk over dinner. Can you make it?"
My heart leaps in my chest, excited by the long-awaited sale.
"Yeah, of course. We should jump on it before they change their mind," I half-laugh.
He smiles in reply, pulling out his cell phone.
"French or Italian?"
I climb our steps easily, thanks to the porch light illuminating the area with an unnatural brightness. My body also feels lighter, enthused by the night's success.
Bringing my eyes up after I close the front door, I instinctively focus on the staircase when I spot something there.
Isabella is sitting on one of the lower steps, dressed in a deep blue dress I haven't seen before.
The fabric on the left side is bunched up slightly, while waves of the airy material cascade down her opposite thigh. Isabella stands, making the longest ruffles brush the top of her knees. She looks absolutely stunning.
Shit.
"Isabella..." I murmur repentantly, my mood taking a nosedive. "Why didn't you call?" The impulsive question is both breathless and hopeless.
"I did," she argues in a small voice. "Your cell was off, and you weren't in the office. I didn't want to go alone..."
I walk closer to her cemented form as I speak. Her curled hair is pinned up high on her head, except for a few escaped tendrils.
"I'm sorry; it's completely my fault that I forgot." Obviously, this is what I should have started with. I didn't even remember to tell her I'd be home late. It's been just me for so long that sometimes, I forget there is someone out there who might worry.
"I promise we'll go to the gallery another time, for a similar event," I vow, now remembering that this was the last day. "I know you said you were curious about it."
Isabella looks down with a grimace, but it doesn't seem aimed at me. It's the same face she made when she first introduced herself as Isabella.
I close my arms around her waist, hugging her to my chest in hopeful apology. But her body is too stiff, and she resists my hold with a step back.
She starts up the stairs without an added word, leaving only the soft swish of her dress and the echo of her ballet flats as remnants of her presence.
A few minutes pass after the revealed skin of her back disappears from sight. When obscenities stop indiscriminately slurring in my mind, I follow her path to the second level of the house.
Isabella is not in the bedroom, but the door to our joint bathroom is closed. When I get closer, I can hear a slight sniffling noise.
My chest stings with unrestricted regret - a million little pinpricks of mistakes and shuffled priorities.
I expected to find her angry, not crying.
I close my eyes and place my forehead against the surface of the door, sighing without taking a breath.
The image of her wide, sad-flat eyes is burned into my mind.
I've caused many emotions to cross her face: lust, excitement, adoration, sympathy. But never such severe...disappointment.
I want to know why she is so upset. Is it the event itself, or mostly the fact that I forgot? She said she was just curious...
My first hovers over the door, poised to knock. Poised to beg.
Isabella lets out a particularly loud sob, startling me and my tentative plan. My hand drops, too fearful to announce its presence. I've never felt so helpless and inadequate.
Maybe I should just know. Maybe she'll push me away again. I don't think I could bear that.
I stare down at my shoes, at the natural creases that branch off like trees. One hopeful thought crosses my mind, and I cling to it like it's a life raft.
Maybe everything will be okay in the morning.
February 14, 2010
Edward
My lips turn up against my pillow when I remember that Isabella is here, just like she has been for the whole weekend.
I reach my hand out expectantly, only coming in contact with cooled sheets. Surprised and more than a little disappointed, I open my eyes and see that the other side of the bed is empty. Sunlight is slipping through my curtains, politely suggesting that maybe she simply wanted to start her day at a decent hour.
Glancing at the bedside clock, I'm momentarily confused when I hear a high pitch chirping coming from somewhere else in the apartment.
The fire alarm.
I quickly look around my bedroom, just in case I somehow missed Isabella the first time. Her absence is now even more disconcerting.
Where is she?
I hurry out of bed, my bare feet slapping against the hardwood in a panicked rhythm as I follow the shrill sound to its source. The noise disappears as I enter the dining room, leaving as suddenly as it came.
By looking through the open section of the divider wall, I can see Isabella walking in the kitchen with a baking sheet in her hand. She must have fanned the smoke detector with it. That, or she is an appliance murderer, but I don't seem to be upset by either option.
She sets down the metal sheet, leaning her back against the counter before she hides her downcast face with her hands. Even from here, the trembling of her shoulders is visible.
As I get closer, I notice that smoke has made the air a little hazy. There is also an unpleasant burning smell coming from the stove, but I don't care. I'm just so relieved that there is no fire, and that Isabella is okay.
She doesn't look okay.
New worry fills my head as it comes up with all sorts of causes for her dismay.
Is she hurt?
"What's wrong, love?" I ask softly.
She doesn't startle when I speak, but she doesn't reply, either. A small part of my mind wonders if she even heard me.
I place my hands beneath her arms, lifting her up onto the counter. Isabella's palms are still covering her face, smothering her sniffling as I stand between her knees. I ghost my hands over the skin of her raised arms, checking for burns, scratches - anything - for an explanation.
"Isabella?" I ask worriedly, the silenced sound of the alarm still ringing in my ears. I comb my fingers through my hair, tugging on it out of frustration. It's too early in the morning for this kind of bafflement.
"Please," I whisper above her ear. "Tell me what happened."
She uncovers her tear-glossed face, still avoiding my eyes.
"I wanted to cook you breakfast. I know how to cook - I cooked for Charlie all the time, but I wasn't used to your pan, or maybe the stove...I just walked away for a minute!"
This is about food?
"Calm down, sweetheart," I implore, rubbing her back soothingly. "I know you can cook. I'm not mad. Actually, I really appreciate that you tried."
My mind runs over the many times Isabella has made us lunch or dinner while staying in Forks, noting that we have always eaten cereal or Pop-tarts in the morning. In fact, this is the first time any girl has ever cooked me breakfast.
Deciding that maybe she'd feel better if we distance ourselves from the kitchen, I lift her off the counter, encouraging her to cling to me. I walk into the dining room before setting her back on her feet. She immediately burrows her face into my faded T-shirt.
"I'm sorry about the smoke alarm," she mumbles.
"That's okay. It's very sensitive," I fib. Well, it might be. I don't cook enough to know.
"What will we eat?" Her question is anguished, as if we're lost in the Sahara with only a Snickers bar between us.
"Don't worry about it. We can order a pizza," I suggest flippantly, smoothing her hair with my hand.
Now please stop crying, angel.
Her confused voice is muffled by cotton. "At ten in the morning?"
The holes in my logic are putting a serious damper on my comforting skills.
"Oh, right. We'll go to IHOP, then."
I release her reluctantly, since I'm pretty sure we can't drive anywhere if I don't let her go.
Isabella looks up at me, still not seeming convinced by my nonchalant, pardoning words. Or maybe she just can't picture me in a restaurant liable to have screaming children.
"I hear it's the International House of Pancakes," I report optimistically, trying to reassure us both.
She cracks a smile, and I grin back in relief.