Chapter Eleven
Parallax: The apparent change in position of two objects viewed from different locations.
For the week that follows our first kiss, Edward and I discover what it's like to be Mike and Jessica. We orbit each other, rarely crossing paths as we steal short glances, and share few words between nine and five.
While we keep ourselves busy not standing too close, or looking too often, or talking too much, we wait. We wait for those few seconds in the privacy of the elevator that takes us to get our morning coffee, where I pull on his tie, and he locks me between his body and the wall. Where his lips and hands make me feel like gravity is just some myth made up by lonely people who have never felt anything like this before.
We wait for the fifteen minutes it takes for us to make our way to the cafe and back, during which Edward tells me how pretty I am and that he can't wait to kiss me again, and how I smell so, so good. We talk about little things and bigger things, but always avoid the biggest. Sometimes doubt starts to creep into my mind—when he leaves early, or cradles his phone to his ear as he speaks soft words with a gentle grin—but I chase it away by thinking of how peaceful I feel when he's holding me. Only then does that doubt settle down deep, buried beneath layers of hope. How can it not, when he smiles the way he smiles and makes me feel like I'm floating?
He smiles, I float, and we wait. We spend so much time waiting, that when the waiting stops, we cling to that time like it's weighting us down to the earth. That time that stops and speeds up all at once when we're together like this, just walking side by side, holding coffee cups that warm our hands, and speaking flirty words that warm our bodies.
"I like your dress," Edward says, brushing the back of his finger across the fabric that covers my thigh before he remembers that we're in a hallway full of people. He gives me this look; fierce green eyes with a fervent smile that let me know he's thinking about what's under this clothing he likes so much.
"It's a skirt," I say, smiling. It doesn't really matter what it is, because I'll let him take it off of me if he wants to. I think about that often.
"It's short," he replies, tilting his head back a little, just enough to make it obvious that he's checking me out.
"It is not." I smooth my free hand down the side of my leg to make sure I'm not walking around looking like a hooker.
"That color looks nice on you."
"It's just blue," I say, looking down at my old sweater. It's nothing special, and I'm pretty sure I've had it for years.
"It makes your skin look like it tastes good."
This is my favorite sweater.
"You can't say things like that," I tell him, and my whole body is buzzing. I'm a liar though, because those words could be on a continual loop falling from his lips, and I'd listen to them for hours.
"I'm pretty sure I can," he mutters, raising an eyebrow. He's so cocky, but it doesn't matter, because he's right, and there's my dimple. I wish all these people would go away so I could just kiss him and touch him for a minute, even though that wouldn't be nearly enough. "I think you like it."
I look at the floor for a few steps before my eyes meet his again, and I let my grin answer for me.
He smiles.
I float.
On the elevator back up to the tenth floor, we're not alone. The small room that we occasionally get lucky enough to have to ourselves is packed with men in suits and ties, cluttering the space with their rolling briefcases and BlackBerries. Edward's cramped in the back corner, and I'm standing in front of him, my left side smooshed against the wall. It's too hard to be this close to him and not turn around, not put my hand somewhere on him to make him mine.
He must be thinking the same thing, because his fingertips slide down the back of my hand until they're loosely twined with mine. Here, between our bodies and the gold rail that lines the perimeter, is our secret. I casually look right to see if anyone around us notices, but they don't. They're too busy talking, and typing, and looking at the rising number by the door to pay the two of us any attention.
Edward squeezes my fingers, and it makes my heart trip and slam into my rib cage. I tilt my head down and waste a perfectly good smile on my coffee cup.
For a change of pace, I'm the one who's leaving early this afternoon, so I can get on the road and be in Forks in time for Dad's birthday dinner tonight. I can feel Edward watching me as I pack up to leave, and I debate whether it would be a good idea for me to chance walking over there to talk to him before I go. I feel like we're too obvious, like people can just see everything we do when they're not around. Even when I'm not looking at him, there's this energy crackling in the air that makes my whole body want to move toward him. Before, our polar sides repelled each other, but over the past couple of months we've flipped, and now it's nearly impossible to stay away.
But we have to.
It's not a good idea for me to push things too far this soon, because the urge to reach out for him when we're so close together is too strong. I'll just get up and leave, and smile at him as I go. That'll have to be good enough for the next couple of days.
With my bag in my hand on my way out the door, I wave, and he winks. I stop, I can't help it. Maybe I'm hoping that everyone will disappear, or that the two of us will magically slip away into some private place. Edward fidgets restlessly in his seat, and I know he wants to come to me, too.
"Bye," I say quietly, then he does the same. This heavy disappointment settles across my shoulders as I walk away, because it feels like too little to have to last us for so long. I know I'm being ridiculous. It's only two days—it's not like I'll never see him again—but now the time I spend with him seems too short, and the time apart ticks away like an eternity.
"Have a good weekend, Bella," Jessica says in her sing-song voice, with a cheery grin that I don't buy for a second. Maybe she's onto me. I might as well have a neon sign over my head that reads, 'I lust after Edward Cullen.'
"You, too," I reply quickly, before the door shuts behind me.
I make my way through the parking garage with heavy steps, where the damp air that's blowing a swirling mist outside seeps through the cement and brushes my skirt against my legs. It reminds me of the way Edward touched me earlier, and I shiver.
I open the trunk and exchange my heels for more comfortable slip-ons. It's when I go to open my door that I notice a small piece of paper tucked in between the windshield and the wiper. I'm grinning before I reach over to get it, because I already know it's from him.
Have fun in Mayberry. Call me when you get home. Or if you get bored. Or if you need some biographical information on Abraham Lincoln, and you don't have access to Google. Or if you want me to make you smile.
Just call me.
Be safe.
-E
One folded-up piece of paper, and Edward's so-neat-it-should-be-a-font handwriting are all it takes to feel bright again, and I slip the note into the side pocket of my purse and toss it onto the passenger seat.
Then, I hear footsteps. Running, pounding footsteps.
"Bella, wait!" It's one of those whisper-yells, the one people use when they're trying to be discreet and failing miserably.
I know the voice, just like I knew the note, and when I turn toward him, Edward's in front of me. Breathless, smiling.
"I thought you might be gone by now," he huffs. "I'm glad you're not."
I'm glad as well, but I'm too dumbfounded to say anything, so I slowly shake my head.
"I just wanted to say goodbye." He steps forward, I step back, and my door closes with one small click that feels like it echoes through the garage.
"Okay."
It happens quickly; the way warm, unyielding Edward presses me against unforgiving glass and steel. There's a dangerous look in his eyes as he wraps one arm around my waist, and plants his free hand somewhere on my car, holding himself up above me. He bites his bottom lip between his perfect teeth as he grins, because he gets a thrill out of thrilling me, and he's becoming an expert at it.
He's kissed me a hundred times by now, probably more, and each one makes me want another, and every another makes me want ten more. This one is no different. It's soft, and slow, with my hands in his hair, and him holding onto me for dear life. It's his nose pressed against my cheek, and those quiet noises he makes when he's happy, and just enough to make sure we won't forget what our lips and tongues feel like when they come together like this.
It's just enough, but it's really not enough at all.
"I'm gonna miss you," he says, grinning.
"I'm gonna miss you, too." I grin back, how can I not? "Are there cameras in here?"
He laughs. "No."
His fingertip glides along the collar of my sweater—I've noticed this is something he likes to do. It's a promising little tickle that makes my eyelids grow heavy, and he goes so slow, almost as if he's testing his will, to see if he can resist pulling a little to see what's underneath.
When he tilts his head and his lips brush the side of my neck, I'm reminded of what he said about my skin earlier. He kisses my collarbone, and I feel his tongue. It's just for a second, so quick, really, but this high-pitched noise finds its way out of the back of my throat. Embarrassing.
Edward steps back, with his bright smile, and dimple, and perfect teeth. "I was right," he says, licking his lips a little, and sounding out of breath.
The cement below me feels like it's melting, and I sink. I sink, sink, sink. Or maybe my knees are giving out, I don't know. I don't particularly care.
"I should probably go," I murmur, voice ragged. Oh, look. I'm forming coherent words. If I don't drive out of this garage now, I'm going to grab his tie and pull him on top of me into the back seat. Not that I think he'd mind, based on the way he's looking at me now.
"Yeah." His hand slides across the small of my back until it reaches the door handle.
Once I'm buckled up and the car is running, I roll down the window, and Edward leans in to kiss me one last time.
"Have fun with your friend," I say. He told me he was just going to be hanging out with someone he knew in high school this weekend.
"I will. Send me a text or something to let me know you got there okay, all right? And if it gets to be too much, call." He brushes my cheek with the backs of his fingers, and I close my eyes.
"All right, I will."
"Bye," he says, stepping back as I roll up the window.
I wave as I pull out, and watch him in my rear-view mirror. As I turn onto the main road and merge into the flow of traffic, I can't get rid of the smile on my face. It's a huge pain in the ass, but there really is something to be said for sneaking around.
I don't know if it's because Edward left my brain all mushy, or if time and space have just made things feel different this go round, but my drive out to Forks isn't really filled with dread or loathing, and I'm not nervous or scared. My hands are steady on the wheel, and I listen to music and sing along as the evergreens disappear into a blur as I pass, and the sporadic drops of rain stop altogether.
Emmett's not waiting at the end of the street to greet me like he was last time I was here, and even though I hadn't really expected him to be, the fact that he's not puts me at ease. When I talked to him yesterday, he told me that Rose was visiting her family in New York, so she won't be here to get all caught up in our messes. It's just the Swan family, left to our own devices. I know from experience that's rarely a good thing.
I pull up behind Emmett's gargantuan SUV, shoot a quick text to Edward, grab my bag from the trunk, and head toward the porch. There's no hesitation, no butterflies in my stomach, and no urge to run the other way. This Bella is a far cry from the one who last stepped foot inside this house a couple of months ago, and I never knew such a short time could make such a big difference.
It seems like life is trying to tell me that a lot these days.
The smell wafting through the screen door makes my mouth water as I purposely step on the creaky floorboard and let myself in. I drop my bag at the foot of the stairs, and turn toward the kitchen. As usual, Dad and Emmett are sitting at the table, and Mom has her back to the door. She's got cool indifference down pat, because even though we have no air conditioning, the atmosphere is ice cold.
"Hey, kiddo," Dad says, as he stands up from his chair. His eyes are all soft and welcoming. They crinkle at the edges when he's happy like this, and his hug is the easiest thing in the world. It's warm and enveloping, his flannel shirt soft against my skin. It's everything my mom's hugs never are. At least, they haven't been for a long, long time.
"Happy birthday." I stretch up on my toes to kiss his stubbly cheek.
"Hey, Em," I say, wrapping my arms around his neck as I rest my chin on his shoulder to see what he's looking at. He hasn't even turned around, because he's all engrossed in a Sudoku. Once he gets his mind wrapped up in one of those things, he's all but gone. "I said hi." My voice is loud in his ear as I pinch him, and he grabs my upper arms and bends forward, lifting me off of the ground before he stands and starts spinning me around. When I squeal, pots rattle against the stove top.
I come down to earth in more ways than one.
"Hi, Mom." I try hard to sound friendly. I succeed a little.
She turns to look at me, but I only see her profile. Her eyes narrow and her mouth is in a thin line. She doesn't say anything.
"Jesus, Renee," Dad says, shaking his head. "Stop with the bullshit." I have to admit, it feels good to have him on my side.
My hand trails across Dad's shoulder as I scoot around him to grab a chair, and when I sit, he looks at me with understanding.
'It's okay,' I mouth. I don't want the two of them fighting on his birthday.
He sighs, and shakes his head, but his smile warms me up.
"Whatcha been up to?" he asks, before taking a sip of his beer.
"Not much," I say, shrugging. "Just work and stuff."
"Stuff," Emmett says under his breath, with kind of a snort. I kick him under the table, and when he looks up at me, I glare.
It's not a subtle gesture, and Dad sees it.
"Stuff," Dad says, twisting his fingers around the neck of his bottle.
"Yeah. Hanging out with friends, you know."
This time Emmett has the good sense to keep his huge pie hole shut, but he tears himself away from his puzzle for long enough to let me know that he sees through me. He knows as well as I do that bringing Edward up now is just...a really, really bad idea.
The three of us chitchat about mundane things. Uncontroversial, trivial things. Sudokus, the weather, the tree that fell across Main Street last week and held up traffic for two hours. Mom's contribution to the conversation is the banging of cookware, and plates crashing together as she pulls them down for me and Emmett to set the table.
When the roast comes out of the oven, the conversation stops. Mom busies herself with putting food on our plates, and making sure all the condiments are out. And avoiding my eyes. She's great at that, a real pro.
Dinner passes uneventfully. It's full of 'this is really good's and 'can I have some more's, and 'please pass the butter's. It's forks scraping against plates, spoons stirring, sips of water, and beer bottles coming down against the table. It's a well-orchestrated symphony of passive-aggressiveness, with my mother as the seasoned conductor.
When the last bit of gravy's been sopped up by crusty bread, and the leftovers are wrapped up in the refrigerator, Mom lights the candles on Dad's favorite cake. We sing him Happy Birthday, and those few lines of melody bring out the most life I've seen in my mother all day.
"This is really great," Dad says once his plate is clean, then he scrunches up his napkin and throws it on top of the table. "It's exactly what I wanted."
"Speaking of what you wanted, hold on a sec," Emmett says. He goes out into the hallway and comes back in with a huge box that was obviously wrapped by Rosalie.
Dad's face lights up when he sees it, and just when he rips into the paper, Emmett says, "Bell and I got you a new rod and a tackle box."
I groan, and reach over to smack the back of his head.
"Ouch," he says, rubbing the spot. "What was that for?"
I roll my eyes. "The whole point of wrapping something up is so that the person who gets it is surprised. You kind of ruin it when you tell them what's in the box, you moron."
"There's a rod in here?" Dad asks, pulling at a cardboard flap.
"We took a picture of it and put it in the tackle box. It was hard to wrap, not that it matters with Fort Knox over here," I say, pointing at my brother.
Dad laughs, and Emmett promises to take him out on the lake first thing in the morning. Maybe I'm imagining it because I'm a little desperate for something, but I swear I see Mom smile.
Once I've cleared the table, and the dishwasher is running, Dad takes Emmett out to the shed to show him the new lawnmower he bought. Not wanting to feel the pressure of making conversation with my mother, I head into the living room.
My eyes are drawn to a new photo there, one that anchors the left side of the mantle above the fireplace. The frame is made of rich wood, in a simple, classic design that I know Rosalie picked out. It holds a photo of her and Emmett, sitting under a tree that I recognize from Olympic National Park. Mom, Dad, Em and I used to have picnics there when I was little.
That place always felt so magical, the way the woods made everything quieter, and the branches of ancient trees stretched so high in the sky, like they were made to make the world feel like a more peaceful place. Mom would make us sandwiches with the crusts cut off, and when Dad and Emmett stalked off across fallen leaves and tree roots, she'd read to me. I'd sit on her lap with the back of my head resting against her chest, and I'd close my eyes while she ran her fingers through my hair.
Those were the best days. All that good between us is gone now.
I slide my fingers along the edge of the frame, smiling at how alive Rose and Em are. They're not even looking at the camera—Emmett's looking at Rose, while Rose looks at their hands—and both of them practically jump off of the paper. It's the way they make each other smile, and how I can hardly tell whose fingers are whose. I can practically feel what they're feeling. I can see it.
"That's a beautiful picture, isn't it," Mom says. Those are the words that actually come out of her mouth, but the woman can say so much without ever having to actually say it.
I turn my head and see her leaning against the doorway before I look back at the frame. "It is. I've always thought that spot was pretty."
"When you were younger, you wanted to get married there, remember?" With anyone else, it's just a fond memory, a path into a pleasant conversation. With my mother, it's an arrow poised and ready to strike. What she doesn't realize is that I have armor now. She can't hurt me.
There are a lot of things I wanted when I was younger that aren't turning out the way I planned. I used to think it was a curse, a bad thing. Now I'm beginning to realize that not following a plan can lead you to some great and unexpected places. Not all of them are great, of course, but enough of them are to make it worth the risk. I think life's trying to teach me that, too.
"Mom, don't," I say. There's no attitude or annoyance there. Just firm, well-rounded words that are rooted in some newfound confidence inside of me. I can't see it, but I know it's there. I think that sometimes those are the strongest things, the ones that are invisible to human eyes.
"You could've had that, just like Em and Rose." She's not angry anymore, I can tell. She's just giving me her version of the truth, with a little sadness mixed in. The melancholy tone of her voice makes me look over at her. For the first time in years, I see concern there, not judgment or anger. Just concern, and it moves me. "You and Jake were good together."
I set the picture down on the mantle, and walk over to the couch.
"Come here."
She looks skeptical, and completely unwilling, like her shoulder is glued to the doorway. She comes, though. She walks slowly, but she comes.
When she's finally in front of me, I reach out to hug her; I wrap my arms around her, and hold her tight. Because I miss it, because I love her...because I want her to know that I'm not trying to start a fight. Because I want to make things better. Because I want to be the bigger person.
My hands slide down her arms, and we sit. I hold her hands in mine and rest them on my lap, looking at them while I figure out what I'm going to say. She's impatient, and I can tell she's dying to say something, but for once she stays quiet. She listens.
"If you want me to be a part of your life, you have got to stop this," I say, looking at the diamond on her wedding ring.
She sighs, and starts to argue with me, but I cut her off before she has the chance.
"You're happy with Dad for the most part, aren't you?"
She looks at me like I have two heads, probably because she doesn't understand what I'm getting at.
"Do you know what it's like to love someone for years, to give him your whole life, and realize one day that you don't even know who he is anymore?"
Her eyes are steady as they look into mine, blue as the sapphire ring she gave me for my sixteenth birthday.
"I loved Jake, Mom. Our breakup is not a referendum on the kind of people we are. He's a good man, but we are not good together. We were, but we hadn't been for a very long time. We were so unhappy. We hid it from you, from Dad, from the Blacks. We hid it from ourselves, until there was no way to hide it anymore."
"It's not always easy, Bella-"
"Just..." I hold my hand up to stop her from talking, then I take a deep breath and continue. "Do you know that I used to dread going home every day? Sometimes I'd drive around the city until it was dark, so that I'd make it home after the Mariners game was on." Tears fall down my cheeks, because I've never told anyone this, and the very last person I ever thought I'd admit it to is my mother. "That way, when I walked in while he was busy watching, it was easier to accept the fact that he ignored me.
"I'd go into the bathroom every night and I'd cry in the shower. And I stayed because he was the first man I ever loved, and I was scared that if I walked away, I'd never find that again."
Mom's eyes are glassy, and I feel like maybe I'm finally getting through to her. I hope I am.
"I sat on the edge of the tub, and I convinced myself to stay. I thought, tomorrow will be the day he'll kiss me like he used to. Tomorrow he'll ask me how I am. Tomorrow he'll look at me and really see me. Wonder about me. Want to know about me.
"And you know what, Mom? All of those tomorrows turned into a week. And then a month. And then the next thing I knew, a whole year had passed. A whole year of waiting for tomorrows that never came.
"I see Rose and Emmett, and how they make each other smile, even after all this time. How good they are for each other." I pause, and take a deep breath. "Do you remember when he broke up with Angela?"
She nods, sniffling.
"After seeing that picture of Em and Rose, could you have looked him in the eye and said, 'Stick it out, Son, don't be a quitter. You and Angela are good together. You just wait around for things to get great, okay? Don't you dare try to find the person who makes you smile so wide you can make a piece of paper come to life.' Could you have let him settle for anything less than that?" I say, pointing at the mantle.
"No," Mom replies. She's full-on crying now; red cheeks, a runny nose, and ragged breaths.
"Then why are you always asking me to?"
"Bella, I don't want you to settle." She does sound angry now.
"Yes you do, Mom. You do. You wanted me to settle with Jake, my job, my clothes, even my hair. I'm never good enough for you-"
"You are, Bella," she says, squeezing my hands. "All I want is for you to be happy, to see all sides of a problem before you decide how to solve it. I don't want you to make my mistakes."
"You say that all the time, but do you even know what it means?" My voice is so shaky that it's hard for me to control. "It's like you're telling me to be happy splashing in puddles, when there are oceans in the world. And I should just accept the limitation, because you tried swimming once, and got pulled under by a wave."
Mom shakes her head as she pulls a Kleenex from the box on the coffee table, and sniffles before she blows her nose.
"Are we ever going to understand each other?"
After tonight, I'm not sure the outlook is so good. I shrug, because...I don't know. I really don't know. I can't believe that after all I've laid out tonight, that's the response she has. "Did you even hear anything I just said?"
An exasperated sigh is the only answer she gives me, and we sit in an uncomfortable silence for a long time.
Mom breaks first, and walks into the kitchen, and up the stairs. I know she's going to her room, where she'll sit and cry over her awful daughter. It's her standard routine. Mine is to retreat to the porch swing when things go wrong, so that's exactly what I do.
I sit listening to the creaking chains as I go back and forth, and pick bits of rust off of the links that get stuck beneath my fingernails. Nearly thirty minutes pass before Emmett and Dad come back, and Em sighs as he sits down next to me.
"Aw, hell," he says, tucking me under his arm. "What happened?"
"I just had a talk with Mom," I say, wiping my cheek with the sleeve of the sweatshirt I stole from the coat hanger on my way out the door. I don't know who it belongs to.
"I didn't hear any yelling."
I nudge him with my shoulder. "There wasn't any."
"Then why are you crying?"
"I'm not."
"Bullshit," he says, kissing the top of my head.
"I'm not!" I was, but it doesn't matter anymore.
"Don't want to talk about it?"
"Not really."
"All right," he says, brushing my hair off of my shoulder. "So...how's your boy?"
"My boy?"
"Yeah, your boyfriend or...whatever."
Is Edward my boyfriend? I guess he is. I want him to be. "He's fine. He's visiting with a friend this weekend."
"Bella and Edwin sittin' in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g," he sings.
"Every time you call Edward something other than his name, I'm gonna call you Emmay for a week." Ha, I've got him now.
"Ugh, I forgot about that." He's such a liar—he forgot no such thing. "Freaking Mrs. Dratch."
"She sought you were a wee Franch boy when you came to zee middal school. Zay hallo to zee clazz, Emmay. Entroduze yourzelf."
"Shut up," he says, laughing. He tries to pinch my side, but I'm too quick for him. "You know, that really should've clued Mom and Dad in to the inferiority of a Forks education, that my seventh-grade homeroom teacher thought my name was French."
"Maybe you just had what the French call a certain...I don't know what."
"Yeah," he laughs. "Maybe."
We swing for a while, smiling, before Emmett speaks again.
"Has Alice met him?"
"Met who?"
"Edward," he says. When I look over at him, he's grinning.
"Once...sort of." Back when he was still acting like an ass. "She knows about us, but, like, we haven't done anything official yet. You know Alice. As long as I'm not doing drugs or heading an international prostitution ring, she's happy that I'm happy. It doesn't matter to her who's putting the smile on my face."
"I noticed the smile. I mean, not today, but...I can hear it when I talk to you. I like it."
"I like it too."
"So, he's good to you?"
"He is."
"Am I going to get to meet him?"
"You already did," I say, laughing. "Or did you forget that you threatened to send the Forks Police after him?"
"What a threat that was. Dad and the fat deputy who accidentally shot Mrs. Peterson with a tranq dart a few years ago. That's the full force of the law comin' down on ya, right there."
I laugh. "I forgot about that."
"What I meant was that I want to meet him properly."
"Oh, well...I was thinking about inviting him to the wedding..."
Emmett, he can hear the if in my voice. The one that goes deeper than just hoping that we stay together that long. The if that I've been drowning out at every turn. If he can afford a tux, if this works out, if he's not hiding something huge from me. If, if, if.
"If what?" See? He's my brother, he knows me.
"It's nothing," I lie.
"Don't pretend like I didn't just hear what I heard," he sighs.
"What did you hear?" For someone who's usually so oblivious, Emmett sure picks the most inopportune times to start paying attention.
"I just heard a person who's been non-stop happy have a little doubt creep in. What is it? Is he married or something?" He sounds panicked, like he's about to go ballistic if I say yes. We Swans like to jump to conclusions.
"What kind of person do you think I am? No, he's not married," I say, trying to keep my voice down. "I'm not some home-wrecking whore."
"I know," he says quickly, sounding contrite. "I just got worried for a minute."
"You don't have to worry, it's...he's got something going on, and I don't know what it is," I admit.
"What do you mean, he's got something going on?"
"I don't know, he...leaves work early sometimes, and...he seems to have some kind of money trouble." I cringe when the words leave my mouth, because every one of them feels like a betrayal.
"You can't just ask him about it?"
"He opens up to me bit by bit, Em. He's had a rough life, and he doesn't seem to want talk about it very much, so I don't want to push him. He's proud, and he doesn't want to accept help or admit to any kind of a weakness. Even if it's not really a weakness, you know?"
"And you have no idea what it is?"
"No. Maybe he's helping his mother," I say, remembering how Edward told me she shut down after his father died. "Or, maybe he's just having a rough time. The economy is shit, so-"
"You're just gonna sit around and wait for him to tell you?"
"Well, no, but..." I sound so naive.
I know Emmett's thinking the same thing, but luckily he doesn't say it out loud.
"I'm your brother, Bell. I love you, and I'm worried. There are some crazy people in this world, and...I don't know..."
"You watch too many Lifetime movies. Don't worry about me," I say, even though he has me doubting myself a little bit now.
Emmett pulls me close, tucking me against his side. "Remember when we were kids, and you used to make those animated cartoon flip books with Mom's Post-It notes?"
"Yes." I don't even begin to try to figure out where this is going.
"You were drawing one day, and in the middle of the pad, someone had scribbled-"
"Help, I'm stuck in a paper factory," I say, laughing. "And what do you mean, 'someone'? You did that."
"One of my finer moments, I must say. Anyway, that's not the point. By the time Mom found you, you'd already called God knows how many numbers to get to the police so they could send someone in there to save the guy."
"So?"
"What I'm trying to say is that you have a really big heart. If Edward needs help, I don't doubt that you're the best person to help him."
"But..." Emmett can hear my ifs, and I can hear his buts.
"But...sometimes you jump into things feet first, without thinking everything through beforehand."
"I care about him, Em. It's not because I have some Miss Fix-It complex, I...want him. The problems are just an obstacle."
"I know you care, I don't doubt that at all. Just...look out for yourself, okay?"
"He's a good guy." No matter what Edward has going on in his life, I know that. It's an undeniable truth.
"If you trust him, then I do too," he says, patting my leg.
"I do," I reply. What I don't trust is this feeling I have in the pit of my stomach. It's small, but it nags and pulls at me, making me think of things I don't want to think about. Making me feel like maybe, just maybe, Emmett might be right.
I stand up and stretch, trying to force it out, but it grips me tightly, and won't let go.
"I think I'm gonna go change," I tell Emmett, then charge up the stairs into my room.
That creeping, uneasy feeling. I can't even outrun it.
I lie on my bed and try to read. Try to rest. Try to sleep.
After midnight, I decide to go to the kitchen for a drink. I open my door, and faint blue light cutting through darkness leads me down the stairs.
When I see Dad sitting on the couch, I smile. So many things have changed over the years, but this is exactly the same. I walk over and sit down next to him, and he doesn't even flinch. It's like he's been expecting me.
"I was hoping you'd come down here," he says, as I snuggle into his side. He kisses my forehead, his mustache scratchy against my skin.
"I wasn't sure if you'd want me."
"I'll always want you." Somehow, I know he's not just talking about having a movie watching partner, and that makes me curl up tighter against him. Dad mutes the TV while Lethal Weapon goes on a commercial break.
"That's good to know," I say, as he spreads the free half of his blanket across my legs.
"So, you have a new boyfriend, huh?" He just shoves a handful of popcorn in his mouth, like the question is absolutely nothing at all. Why can't Mom be this easy?
"How did you know?"
"Father's intuition," he says, with this self-satisfied half-smile.
"Lies."
"I overheard you and your brother on the porch," he laughs. I hope he didn't overhear everything, but I'm too scared to ask.
"Oh. You didn't say anything to Mom, did you?"
Dad looks at me like I'm crazy. "No. I want to meet this kid though. Make sure he's not a punk."
"He's not a kid, and he's not a punk," I say, trying not to sound too exasperated.
"I'll be the judge of that." He takes a sip of his beer. "You and your mom all right?"
I shrug. "I don't know. I want us to be."
"If it's too uncomfortable for you to stay, you can leave tomorrow, baby. It won't hurt my feelings."
It's a tempting offer. "But it's your birthday."
"Yesterday was, and it was great. But me and your brother are gonna be on the lake most of the day, and Sunday you know we're supposed to go to some lunch thing with the Petersons."
"Brunch," I correct him.
"Brunch," he sighs. "I think maybe you two could use a little more space. Baby steps, and all that."
"Okay, I'll go."
"I didn't mean that you had to leave, I just thought you might want to, and I didn't want you to feel obligated," he says, in some kind of a repentant rush. "I want you here, Bells."
"It's okay, Dad. I understand where you're coming from." I kiss his cheek, just so he knows that I mean it. "Maybe it's a good idea."
"I'm gonna be in the city in a couple of weeks for some kind of State-sponsored training thing. I could stop by and visit for a while." He hasn't been to visit me in a long time. A year or more, at least.
"I'd like that."
When the movie comes back on, I close my eyes and rest my head against his chest. I sleep intermittently until he wakes me up at the crack of dawn, so that he can go get ready to go to the lake. I make him and my brother breakfast, and when Mom comes downstairs complaining about the smell—bacon and eggs—I know it's best for me to take my dad up on his offer.
I kiss him and Emmett goodbye on the porch, then watch as they drive away.
Less than an hour later, I leave, too. Mom is holed up in her room, and doesn't say goodbye. I try not to think of her on my way back to Seattle, and I succeed about half of the time. I think about calling Edward, but I don't want to interrupt his day. When I get home, I collapse on my bed, exhausted, and sleep until early afternoon.
I'm a little restless, the way I usually am when I come home from visiting my parents, this post-confrontational buzz rolling across my skin. What makes it worse is that I still can't shake the creeping, uneasy feeling Emmett made sure to plant in my gut yesterday.
It rattles around inside of me, and pushes me out the front door and down the steps, where the sun is bright, and there's a warm breeze blowing. Maybe I can just walk it off. My feet carry me across the sidewalk and two streets over, where I squeeze through some overgrown hedges and into the park.
The same park where Edward and I started becoming more than friends and coworkers, just a few weeks ago. Kids are on our swings now, giggling and yelling as the wind blows their hair across their faces in wild, carefree streaks. I walk around the perimeter of the park, through blocks of shadow and light, until I find an empty bench.
I sit and stretch out, enjoying the open space around me, because all the action is happening elsewhere. One crowd is gathered by the playground, the other on the far side of the park, where chirping whistles and feet thumping against soccer balls announce the game being played. Parents are huddled in small clusters; some hanging back and observing, others yelling their encouragement, all while the sun beats against their backs.
There are all kinds of unfamiliar bodies over there, but there's one, standing on the edge of the crowd, that stands out. He's tall and lean, with sun-streaked bronze hair, wearing low-slung khaki shorts and a faded blue t-shirt; an outfit I know I've seen before.
That's because he is Edward.
I reach into my pocket and pull out my phone, ignoring the light, nervous feeling that pulsates down to my fingertips. It makes that creeping, uneasy feeling roll through my stomach, where it gets bigger, and gains strength.
"Hey," he says, his voice warm as the sunshine.
"Do you always spend your Saturday afternoons at pee-wee soccer games?" That's not at all the way I'd intended to greet him, but I guess the need to know is stronger than anything else right now.
"What?" He's looking around, confused.
"To your left," I say, as I stand up. When he sees me, he holds the phone away from his ear, his mouth open. Then his eyebrows knit together as he makes his way over, and I recognize those fierce green eyes. So different now than they were when they looked at me yesterday.
"What are you doing here?" he asks, his voice urgent. I can tell he's trying not to be so defensive, but he's failing.
"Shouldn't I be asking you the same thing?" I say, crossing my arms over my chest. "I live down the street." I'm sounding pretty defensive, too.
"Aren't you supposed to be with your parents?"
"I came home early. Aren't you supposed to be with your friend?"
"I..." He slowly looks over at the field, then back at me. "I am."
"What, a six-year-old?"
"No," he says, pointing to some redhead on the edge of the crowd. He might have been standing next to her, I can't remember. She waves and smiles, and I feel like I want to vomit. "The six-year-old's mom. Tanya."
"Oh, Jesus." Panic grips my chest, and I hunch over, unable to breathe.
"It's not what you think," he says, touching my shoulder.
"Well, why don't you tell me what to think." I straighten up, and his arm falls to his side.
"Tanya's husband's a doctor, and she's a nurse. They just moved nearby, and they work crazy hours—I babysit their kids sometimes. We practice kicks in the backyard, and I promised I would come to the game."
"That's it?"
"That's it." He nods, and I believe him.
"Why couldn't you just tell me that?"
He hesitates, kicking a patch of dirt with the tip of his shoe. "Because I didn't want you to know, okay?"
"That you babysit?"
"Yes," he sighs.
I take a few seconds to work through his thought process, and no matter how many times I run this information through my brain, it doesn't make any sense. "Are you just fucking around with me or something?" It nearly kills me to say it, but I have to know.
"What do you mean?" His brow is furrowed, and every curve of his face is set like stone.
"Well, you don't have a problem kissing me, and you have no problem touching me, but you won't even tell me that you babysit? Am I just some kind of distraction for you?"
"No," he says, moving closer. His face is so red. "Why the hell would you think that?"
"Because you hide, Edward. You tell me I make you forget about everything, and...what is it that you need to forget about? You talk to some mysterious person on the phone every day, and what little bit you do tell me, I practically have to pry out of you. Is there something going on with your mom, or...what are you hiding? Why are you hiding?"
"Because I'm fucking embarrassed, all right?" he yells. His palm rubs across his forehead, stretching his skin. "And...there are just some things that aren't any of your business, Bella."
"I thought you were my business now," I say. Because if he isn't, then what are we even doing? "I feel like I don't know you at all."
"You don't? You don't know me?" He's so angry, he's trembling from it.
"I don't know. Right now I don't know," I say, raising my arms.
"What do you wanna know?"
"You, Edward," I say, pointing my finger at his chest. "I wanna know you."
"Me?" He roughly runs his hands through his hair.
"Yes."
"You wanna know me, huh? What do you want me to tell you?" I've never seen him like this before, all raw nerves and emotion that rolls off of him with every word.
"Anything." Everything.
"Anything? All right. You wanna know that I'm not sure where I'm going to be living at the end of the month? That I bust my ass every day, and I've got almost nothing to show for it? That's what you wanna hear?" He folds his arms across his chest, like he's trying to protect himself, to keep me away.
"Yes," I whisper.
"You want me to tell you that when you're sick, I can't be the guy who surprises you with soup, and medicine, and everything you need to feel better? I have to take your-"
"I don't need you to be that," I say quickly, crying hot tears in the hot sun. I reach out for him, but he pulls away. Or, maybe I'm pushing him. I've tried so hard not to push him, yet here we are.
"You should want that kind of guy, Bella. I want to be him," he says fiercely, clapping his hand over his heart. "You don't know how fucking bad I want to be him, but I can't right now." He's so broken, and I'm cracking those pieces into even smaller ones.
"I don't want that guy. I want you," I cry. It's so frustrating that he's not really hearing what I'm telling him. Why doesn't he understand?
"I can't even take you out to dinner." His voice is loud, but full of defeat, and I hate every last word he says because of it.
"I don't need you to do that, Edward," I say, touching his arm. "I can make my own dinner. I can make yours, too."
"Is that what you've been doing?" His eyes snap up, wide, and he's full of fire again.
"What?"
"I don't want your goddamn pity," he spits, yanking himself out from under my hand so quickly it looks like I've shocked him.
"I don't pity you," I say, sniffling. "I care about you. Why won't you let me?"
He's not hearing me though, because he's fourteen again, and it's just him against the world and there's nothing to do but fight. "So you've been sneaking me food, like I'm too stupid to realize what you're doing?"
"No," I say emphatically, pressing my palm against my stomach. "I sneak you food because you're too proud to accept what I'm doing."
"What the hell do you know about my pride?" His chest is heaving from our heated words, but I'm not going to back down.
"Only what you told me," I say, my voice strong, and almost too loud. "You think I can just pretend I don't see it? What kind of person would that make me? You stand here and have the audacity to tell me what kind of person I should want? Shouldn't you want someone who notices how tired you are, and tries to make things easier for you? Someone who sees you eating peanut butter and jelly every day, and watches you save take-out to eat later, and cares enough to give you more than that? To want you to have more than that? If it were me, wouldn't you do the same thing?"
"Of course I would, but this is different," he says, shaking his head.
"Like hell it is," I say, roughly wiping my face with my hand. "Why, because I'm a woman and you're a man?"
"You don't understand." He moves away, only a few inches that feel like a mile. His head hangs low, and he's right. I don't.
"Help me then," I say, bridging that gap. "Help me understand."
"You can't fix me, Bella. This can't be fixed. I've tried, and...I can't fix it..." He looks so weary, like he's lived ten lifetimes.
"I don't want to fix you," I say, reaching up to cup his face, and his eyes close as my thumb brushes across his cheek. I don't know if he needs or wants to hear this—maybe it'll scare him—but I'm brave enough to say it now, so I do. "All I want to do is love you."
There it is. The most basic, simplistic reason why I'm here. I want to love him.
The words hang in the air for way too long, and I'm starting to regret them-
"I want that, too," he says, turning his head to kiss my wrist.
I'm relieved, and sad. "It doesn't work this way, Edward," I reply. "It can't. It won't."
He nods, but doesn't say anything. I guess maybe this is it.
My arm falls to my side because I'm feeling defeated, and embarrassed, and not at all the way I'm used to feeling when I'm around him. We could stand and yell at each other for the rest of the afternoon, but it won't do either of us any good to continue this here.
"You should go back to the game," I mutter, pointing toward the crowd. "The kids will be disappointed if they look for you and you're not there."
He's quiet for a minute. "Okay," he finally whispers. He moves a step closer to me, and then rocks back on his heel, and it makes my heart sink. "I'll call you later."
"No, don't." I swallow against the lump in my throat, because it doesn't want to let me say the words, but they need to come out. They have to. "Call me when you're ready to stop hiding."
I turn and start walking, because if I stay, I'll stay.
"Bella, wait!" he shouts.
I don't. I can't, because I only have an ounce of strength left, and I need to get far away from him before I lose it. So, I run. Across the buttery sunlight that covers the grass, away from the park, away from Edward, away from everything.
When I get home, I sit on the edge of my bed, turning my phone in the palm of my hand, because it feels like my lifeline. As the hours pass, the daylight fades, and there's no call or text.
For once, it probably would've been better for me to stay at my parents' house.
The next morning I get up, and check my phone. Nothing. Nothing at noon, nothing at six, nothing at seven-thirty. Nothing at eight. Nothing but me sitting around and waiting for a call that might not ever come. Nothing but me with my head in my hands, wishing I could take back the past twenty-four hours, all the while hoping that maybe, in the long run, this might be a good thing for us.
If an 'us' even exists anymore.
I try to go to sleep early just to pass the time, but I can't get comfortable. I try to make my couch into a bed like Edward did, hoping it'll help me rest, hoping it'll help me feel closer to him. It doesn't. All I can do is hope, and try, and wait.
And there's nothing. Nothing but the steady pounding of rain against my windows, and the rustle of the sheets as I toss and turn. There's nothing.
Nothing.
Until the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs carries over the storm, and the knock on my door breaks through the thunder that rumbles outside.
I don't even hesitate; I stand up and scurry to unlock it like I knew this would happen all along, even though I didn't. I just hoped, and waited, and now there's something.
There's Edward standing in front of me with his wet hair hanging over his eyes, clothes droopy and soaked from the storm. He slides his fingertip down the door frame, and the humid air blows my hair away from my face before my eyes finally meet his, illuminated by lightning.
"Can I come in?"