Chapter 11

Friday, July 20, 2012

I arrive at Edward's room at four and find him busily drawing just like yesterday. I try to creep into the room quietly, but that damn squeak gets me. His head snaps up from what he's doing, and the sketchbook snaps shut. Fuck, I wanted to peek at what he's working on! He grins at me … nervously? He looks like he's been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. It's the black sketchbook this time. Could he possibly have filled the red one up already?

He's wearing a midnight blue nightshirt, and somehow it brings out the red highlights in his hair. He looks good today, compared to most of the days I've seen him. There's a bit of color to his cheeks, and he seems to have some energy. Granted, he's not about to jump off his bed, but he seems to be less a part of said bed than he usually does. As if he could get up, if he wanted to.

"Hi, Edward. How are you today?" I ask as I settle into my chair.

"Not bad. I'm still amazed at how much better I feel since the procedure on Tuesday. I didn't think it would help that much, but it really has."

"That's fantastic! I'm so glad to see you've got some energy today."

He grins and shrugs, wincing a bit, but the smile doesn't leave his face. "So … can you stay for a while?"

"Of course I can, Edward. How is today different from any other day?"

"Well, I just thought … It's Friday night, you know …"

Oh! Since I broke up with Peter, I haven't really noticed when it's been Friday night, other than thinking about sleeping in the next day when I'm sitting in my jammies watching a movie. Wait, did he just ask me if I have a boyfriend? It was kind of roundabout, but … No, he's dying of cancer. He's not thinking about me that way.

"No, I don't have any plans tonight. I'm … not dating anyone right now, and I don't go out that often. So you're stuck with me," I tease.

He blushes, and I think I see a bit of satisfaction in his smile. Actually, we both seem to be blushing, so it must be time to change the subject.

"Can I ask you something?"

He tenses, as if he's ready to draw his walls around himself in an instant if I ask the wrong question. Damn, Edward, relax! If I really want to know something that I know you don't want to tell me, I'm never just going to ask you point-blank!

"Sure," he replies, starting to trace the squares on his afghan.

"How did you learn to paint the way you do?"

He relaxes immediately, releasing the breath he was holding and stilling his fingers.

"I didn't. I just … knew. Same as how one day you just start walking and talking. I started drawing and painting. I didn't learn that much in art school. I went because I had to, but it was easy because I somehow just … knew already."

"What you do is amazing."

Edward blushes, shaking his head and smiling. "See, now I find what you do to be amazing. You talk to people and help them sort out their lives—make them feel better. You have an impact on people, and they're better off for knowing you."

My mouth drops open, and my eyebrows shoot up. He thinks what I do is amazing?

I'm pulled back into the present as he continues. "What I do is selfish. I paint because of how it makes me feel."

"Oh, but, Edward, your work makes people happy! When I walked into your apartment, I loved that picture of Seattle, but when I got close enough to realize it was actually a painting, I was completely floored."

"Really?"

"Yes, it's breathtaking. And the fact that you're able to do that without even thinking about how it affects other people makes it even more amazing."

"I never really thought about it that way. I paint what makes me happy, and I guess I just hope there's someone else out there who sees what I see in it."

"And what is it you see when you paint a skyline like the one that hangs in your living room?" His brilliant green eyes pierce me, as if he's trying to figure me out, and suddenly I'm unsure. "You don't have to tell me," I say quickly.

"No, I … You're the first person to ever ask that question. I wasn't expecting it." He takes a deep breath—because he can now—and his stare is unfocused, as if he's picturing the painting in his living room in his mind.

"I see … life. There's nothing more alive than a city. It teems with it. And there's an energy to it. An excitement. When I paint all the windows in those buildings, I imagine the lives that are playing out behind them: family dinners, first kisses, birthday parties. It's like there's a whole world in each one, and they all just sit side by side, going on day after day.

"It also reminds me of … home. I grew up on the streets of San Francisco, and when I look at my skyline paintings I can hear the sounds of the city in my head."

I smile, remembering my own thoughts from when I was in his apartment. "You seem to paint mostly nighttime skylines."

"Yes, I have a few reasons for that. Aesthetically, I think it's prettier to paint all the bright lights, but it goes back to what I said about energy. The feel of a city is different in the evening. People are home from work, some are going out—the evening is when most people truly live their lives. And I like the smell of the city in the evening. I have so many memories of being outside on summer nights—the smell of people grilling, seeing people out and enjoying themselves—that's the place I go when I paint a skyline."

I stop breathing as he's speaking. Edward is as beautiful on the inside as he is on the outside. He's just so … deep. I can't believe he just shared that with me after all the time it took me to get him to answer a simple question. But I realize that the Edward I saw before wasn't the real one—this is the real one. The real Edward is much more open—I can tell he's as willing to wear his heart on his sleeve as he is to paint in onto a canvas. We just met under the wrong circumstances—in a situation where he felt he needed to protect himself and his decisions. My chest tightens and I swallow audibly.

"Wow," I breathe.

His eyes snap back to mine and he blushes. "Well, you asked."

"Yes, I did, and now I understand so much more about your work. Thank you."

He smiles this bashful little smile and ducks his chin a bit.

"I just can't imagine doing what you do. I'm so left-brained; I don't have a creative bone in my body."

"Oh, I'm sure that's not true," he says with a disbelieving grin. "Everyone is creative in some way. Maybe you just don't know what it is yet, or you don't realize that something you're doing is creative." He pauses for a moment in thought. "Your knitting is creative."

"Not really," I object, shaking my head. "It's just a bunch of yarn I weave together. Anyone can do that."

"But are you the one who picks out the colors of the yarn, and do you decide what pattern to use?"

"Yes—"

"You see? That's creative! You're making something no one ever has before, and using your own ideas to do it. That's the definition of creativity."

Warmth fills my chest and I blush. How in the hell did he take my knitting abilities and raise them up to the same level as his incredible artistic skills? On a rational level, I know it's complete bullshit, but on an emotional one? He just made me feel talented and special.

"I still think you're a hell of a lot more creative than I am. Have you been to all the places you've painted?"

"Most of them. There are one or two skylines I've done from pictures, but I don't think they're as good as the ones of places where I've been. Every city has a distinct feel to it, and I try to capture that when I paint. And the only way to get that feel is by going there and feeling it for yourself."

I think back to the paintings I looked at in his studio—not all of the cities were in the US. "What about the paintings of Paris, and the castles?"

"Actually, most of those were painted on location," he admits, and I gasp.

"Really? Wow! When were you in Europe?"

He hesitates, pursing his lips, and a shadow of pain crosses his face.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. We can talk about something else."

"No," he says firmly. "I … feel like I should tell you …"

"You don't have to tell me because you feel like you owe me something. You don't owe me anything, Edward."

"No, it's … more than that. I want to tell you. I don't have a lot of … choices left to me, and if telling you about my life will make you happy then I want to. And … I want you to know me. You've given of yourself every day you've come here, and I want to give to you too."

I'm … stunned. He really has been doing a lot of thinking, and it seems that ever since I stayed with him this week, he's decided he at least wants to get to know me, and for me to know him. We're not all the way there, but I'll take it.

I reach over and cover his hand with mine, and this time he doesn't seem overwhelmed. His skin is warm underneath my fingers; he's probably running a low-grade fever, but at least it doesn't seem to be bothering him. I rub my fingers over his knuckles and feel the softness of the skin there. "Thank you, Edward. I do want to get to know you."

"So, you asked about Europe," he begins.

I nod my head, and although I stop rubbing my fingers over his, I leave my hand there.

He looks down at our hands, then turns his underneath mine and laces our fingers together so he's now holding my hand. He glances up at me, saying "Is this okay?" with his eyes, and I nod as I smile at him. He squeezes my fingers and my chest tightens.

"I stayed in San Francisco after high school and went to the California College of the Arts for my art degree. While I was there, I made a lot of good friends, and after graduation, a bunch of us decided to go bum around Europe before we really started on our careers.

"It was fantastic. Paris, Milan, Venice, Florence, Rome, Madrid. We went wherever the wind blew and saw all there was to see. We went to the Louvre, the Musee d'Orsay, the Uffizi Gallery, the Prado. I can't even remember all the galleries we went to. And when we were done, we settled in France to paint. My friend, Jasper, and I rented a house and stayed there for almost a year. His specialty is painting landscapes, so he had plenty to work with, and I traveled around and painted the castles. It wasn't until a bit later that I discovered my true passion was cities. Toward the end of our time there, I painted Paris, Milan, Madrid, and Vienna, but I know so much more now. I'd give anything to go back and paint London, Frankfurt, and Rotterdam."

I hear the hunger in his voice, and I bite my lip, knowing he's never going to get there. He'll never see those places, and they'll never flow from his brush onto a crisp, white canvas. Fuck. Time to move along. "Where did you go after Europe?"

Edward closes his eyes for a moment before he answers, and I wonder if he's thinking the same thing I just was or if we're approaching whatever he doesn't want to tell me.

"Jasper and I came here, to Seattle. That was … six years ago now? I can't believe it's been that long."

"Is Jasper still here?" I ask, latching on to this guy's name because he seems to be the key to Edward's current discomfort.

"Yes, he's still here. He's … pretty pissed at me about now, I'm sure."

I hadn't mentioned it to Edward, but when I'd used his phone to take the picture of Sebastian for him, I'd noticed several missed calls from Jasper.

"Is he the one who helped you during your chemo?" I probe gently.

Edward looks over at me with sorrow in his eyes. He purses his lips, and I know the exact second when he decides to tell me everything. "Yes, he was. The first time, I had a lot of help. When Jazz and I moved here, we met a lot of great people in the art community. We had lots of friends—we went to lots of parties—and everyone was just really supportive and encouraging of one another. When I was first diagnosed, everyone rallied around me. They all took turns driving me to appointments and staying with me when I was too sick to take care of myself. I felt very … loved, and I got better."

"What about the second time?"

Edward looks down, his fingers tracing the weave on the blanket again. "The second time was different. Everyone was just … busy. Some of them helped a bit, but I could tell they were put out that I was sick again. I don't blame them. Hell, I was pretty put out that I was sick again, and I knew how much effort it took to take care of me. Jazz stayed with me, though. He took me to almost all of my appointments, and he even lived with me for the last month or so of my treatment. I couldn't have done it without him."

Now we are at the heart of the matter. I hold my breath, too afraid I'll break the spell if I ask the question, so I wait, hoping he'll push himself to continue.

He stares at his fingers as they trace the squares in the basket weave over and over again until his eyes become unfocused, lost in memory or regret, I'm not sure which.

I wait a few minutes, but I know he's stuck. "Edward," I call softly, and his eyes rise slowly to mine.

"Bella, I … I just can't talk about this right now. I'm having a good day today, and—"

"Edward, it's all right. I understand."

"No, you don't. I do want to tell you, and I will; I just don't want to get upset today. I just … feel like I need to pretend that things are normal for a little bit while I'm feeling well. Does that make sense?"

"Yes, of course it does," I tell him, squeezing the fingers of our joined hands gently. I should push him now that he's gotten this far, but as I stare into his warm green eyes, I just can't make myself do it. I know I need to work quickly, but he wants this, and I'm finding it hard to deny Edward anything he wants lately. "What else can we talk about?"

"Well," he says hesitantly, ducking his chin. "I was thinking … maybe we could … do something tomorrow night?"

"Do something?"

"Yeah. There's this cart-thing with a flat screen and a DVD player that the patients can borrow. I was wondering if … you wanted to watch a movie with me tomorrow night."

I almost laugh out loud because he's trying so hard to do something normal in a situation that is anything but, but I bite my lip to hold it back, afraid of offending him. His smile is tentative, but oh so hopeful, and I swear it's the sweetest thing I've ever seen. The words are out of my mouth before I can even think clearly. "Of course I will! That sounds like fun!"

He beams at me, and that warmth fills my chest again.

"Good! I'll ask Alice about it when she brings my dinner in tonight." His eyes shoot down to his afghan. "Um … can you bring a movie for us to watch?"

I chuckle, and he chuckles right along with me. "Of course I can."

"And … will you bring popcorn?"

Now I just fucking laugh and shake my head at him. "Can you even have popcorn?"

"Sure, I have no diet restrictions. And I could certainly stand to put on a little weight."

"Well, if I really can bring you anything you want to eat, is there anything else you'd like to have?"

He ducks his head, but his smile is mischievous as he looks up at me through his eyelashes. "Raisinets? I kind of have a sweet tooth, and it's been more than three weeks since I've had any chocolate."

"A guy with a sweet tooth? I thought it was only women who crave chocolate every day," I tease.

"Are you saying I'm a girl?"

"No …"

"Because I eat my Raisinets in a very manly way. By the handful! No pinkies involved!"

I double over laughing as I picture him gobbling handfuls of candy.

"Seriously! I always keep a bag of them in the studio when I paint. Or sometimes Hershey's Kisses. They're great energy boosters, and chocolate just makes me happy."

God knows I'll do just about anything to see him happy. I shake my head again. "Yes, I'll bring you candy so you can get your fix. And I'll bring popcorn, and a movie. It's a date—"

My eyes widen as the words leave my mouth, realizing an instant too late what I've just said. If he wasn't thinking that way, he'd just continue on with the conversation. But he doesn't. He looks away, and suddenly his cheeks are flaming red. If I wasn't thinking that way, I'd laugh it off and just keep talking. But I don't. I swallow thickly and look up at him, knowing my cheeks are a mirror of his own.

He can't date, Bella. He's dying. He knows it. You know it. The only thing this will do is hurt you both, and interfere with you helping him.

"So, you'll be back tomorrow, then?" he asks, recovering from the awkward moment.

"Yes," I answer, finding my voice. "I'll be here with bells on."

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I go home and try not to let myself think about those last few moments in Edward's room, but I'm failing miserably. After heating up some leftovers, I curl up in my bed to watch some TV, but I'm really not paying any attention.

Sebastian leaps up next to me, giving me an accusing glare. "What?" I ask, reaching a hand out to stroke him. He stares back at me, stone-faced. "All right, all right! Yes, I'm thinking about him. Are you staring at me because I shouldn't be thinking about him or because I should be?"

Sebastian cocks his head to the side and cuddles up against me, purring softly as I continue to pet him. Disgruntled feline notwithstanding, I am thinking about Edward and what happened tonight. I'm definitely attracted to him. I've known that since the first moment I laid eyes on him, and there's nothing wrong with that. Hormones make no distinction if someone is dying, so I can't fault myself for that one.

I also care about him. Watching him go through what he has to with his cancer is hitting me very hard—is it because he's so young, or because I care about him more than I have about any other patient I've helped? Fuck, I don't have the answer to that, but it doesn't matter. I already care deeply for him and I'll do anything I can to help him.

But the part that's scaring me is how my caring about him is changing. I want to help him get to the point where he's ready to face what's coming, and that means he'll need to contact his friends and family, or at least make peace within himself with not contacting them. But I find myself wanting to be someone he cares about. He's opened up to me quite a bit this week, but is that because I'm the only one around?

I sigh in frustration. I shouldn't be thinking this way. My focus should be him and what he needs, not what I'm needing or feeling. Fuck. Somehow, I've managed to complicate this for myself, but I can't let it interfere with helping him. What we're doing tomorrow night is not a date.

I pound my fist on the bed hard enough that Sebastian jumps. I have to stop this. It doesn't matter. He's dying. Even if he cared about me the way I do about him, soon, he won't be here, and the closer we get, the more it's going to hurt us both when we reach the end. I swipe angrily at the tears streaming down my face and cry myself into a restless sleep.

A/N: So is it a date, or isn't it? Hmm … Teaser in Shadow Fics on Thursday, and Chapter 12 posts on Monday. Thank you for reading, and for the lovely conversations we have through reviews and PMs!

Music for Chapter 12: If the Moon Fell Down by Chase Coy and Colbie Caillat. The link can be found in the Come Back Tomorrow playlist on YouTube and in Shadow Fics.