Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight and all character names. This plot belongs to this author.
No copyright infringement is intended.
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Romance is a food that all hearts crave. ~Theda Bara
**BPOV**
3:45
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3:48
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3:55
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3:59
And I'm gone. So is the Jag. I drive home in a blur, pull into my driveway and kill the engine. My warpath leads me right into the shower, where I brutally scrub my hair and every crevice of my body. I shave. Twice. I chastise myself.
I set my hair in big red Velcro curlers to get it to dry faster and shinier. I powder and lotion and slip into my nicest matched underwear, throwing an old tattered wife-beater over it while I berate myself outside the closet door. I should have bought something new. I should have cancelled this date. I should have told him. I should have had my ovaries and all the rest of my plumbing taken out so that I wouldn't want to fill it up with Edward Cullen's fucking cock.
I am so stupid.
Revealing… he said. I have nothing to reveal. Except, maybe, something deeper than physiognomy.
I don't know how to pick an outfit that is revealing while deceptive. I don't know how to pick out an outfit that says, I'm dying for you to fuck me, but not tonight. I don't know if I own a stitch of clothing that even qualifies to be considered for this evening's clusterfuckery.
I am so, so stupid.
I need an outfit that says, I'm vulnerable, so don't fucking fuck with me. I need an outfit that won't add to my feelings of rejection should his reaction stop the evening in its tracks. I need an outfit that is not in the mood to take shit from anyone.
I need the outfit of a warrior, not a virgin sacrifice. I need something that looks good with a sword.
I flip on the light in my spare bedroom and pull some of my mom's stuff out of the closet. Her box of wigs, which I keep for the simple fact that I may need them. Her journals. Her keepsakes. Her power wardrobe. Leather and lace, blacks, reds, indigos. I know what I'm looking for. A dress she wore to a holiday party when I was fourteen. It's black, it's floor length, it's one shouldered with the excess material draping down the back. I remember putting it on once, trying to imagine an event that warranted a dress like that. Trying to imagine a Hollywood Premier or some Black Tie Affair where I would go and be very, very important. Magical, even.
I pull out a garment bag that holds all kinds of promise and unzip it. There it is. I pull it out and take it under the light. Not moth-eaten, not dusty. I sniff it and check the tag. Machine wash, lay flat to dry. It's not the majestic Auntie Mame dress I remember. It's light in my hands. It's simple. It's perfect. I throw it in my dryer with a dryer sheet and set the tumble to low.
I peruse my shoes. I scour my jewelry box. I agonize over my lack of fancy.
I adjust the straps on my bra and put in my prosthetic.
I breathe. I brush my teeth.
Fifteen minutes later I am looking in my full length mirror and feeling like an imposter. The slit of this dress goes all the way up to my fucking panties. My tattoos are ALL on display, save those on my right shoulder. I look like false fucking advertising, because the dress actually squeezes my left breast into a tiny swell.
There is no way I can pair this dress with Chucks. This dress needs shoes I don't understand.
I raid my photo albums, looking for the picture of my mom in this dress. I find it right as my phone rings. I look at the display. Jasper. I swipe to accept the call and put it on speaker.
"Yo."
"Hey Bells."
"Hey. What's up?"
He chats me up for a few minutes about work before asking me about tonight. If I need anything. I wonder if that is the real reason for his phone call. I'm appreciative.
"Actually, I could use your male perspective for a minute, if you're available. Can you come over?"
"Sure. Ten minutes, kay?"
Thank God. I study the photo of my mother. She has silver clasps on her forearms. Her own hair is pinned back in a French twist and her shoes are these strappy things there is no way I could pull off.
I'm sitting on the floor, cross-legged with my knee sticking out the slit in the dress, flipping through the album when Jasper lets himself in and finds me. I set the book to the side and stand.
He goes all Paleolithic on me, sticking his lower jaw out and saying, "Damn." He pulls his earlobe. "Nice dress."
"I feel like a fraud, Jasper."
"Bella. You don't look like a fraud. You look like a woman who knows how to wear a dress. Where did you get that?"
"It was my mother's."
"It looks like it was made for you. The shoulder is even on the right side."
"I feel like I should change."
"No, you shouldn't. You just need to take a few minutes and get comfortable in this. It's not that different from the dress you wore to On the BrInk. In fact, it covers way more of you, and it's elegant." He takes my forearms in his hands. "Bella. You look beautiful."
"Thank you."
"What shoes are you wearing?"
"I don't suppose Converse work?"
"No chance. What else do you have?"
I head into my bedroom with Jasper in tow. I gesture at the small pile of shoes in my closet that are mostly sneakers, my big boots, and a couple pairs of sandals.
"That's it?"
"Well, yeah."
"Alice has a whole room of shoes. What size do you wear?"
"Seven and a half."
"Hmmm. Are you wearing nylons?"
"I wasn't planning on it. Do you think I should?"
"Only if they're thigh-highs. Give him apoplexy." He laughs.
"That's not funny, Jazz. My heart is going a mile a minute."
"Chill, Bells. Breathe. Good. Look. It's just Edward. It's not a big deal. You've faced more intimidating situations that this."
"Yeah, but I didn't have to do it in formal wear."
"You can do this. You can." He steps back and snaps a pic of me with his phone. Then he's dialing. "Allie? Shoes. Seven and a half. Okay?"
I can hear Alice chattering through the phone. I roll my eyes at Jasper. I'm not at my best right now, and my attitude could use improvement. Jasper gives me a look that says as much. Then he goes and raids my fridge for a beer while I get busy on my eyes, drawing out careful cat-eyes with liquid liner. My hand is shaking though, and I smudge one side. Fuck. I say it out loud.
Jasper comes into my bathroom and hands me a mug. I look in.
"No cherries?"
"Just drink it, Bella."
I do. I feel my cheeks light up like lamps, warm and glowing. "Nice. Thank you."
"Better?"
I nod.
I turn back to my reflection. I get a rubber-tipped smudger and work both eyes into a haze of smoke. I opt for an iridescent, plum-colored shadow and comb mascara through my lashes. My eyes glow with a reddish tint, brought out by the purple. I like it.
"What are you doing with your hair?"
"I don't know… probably just down. What do you think?"
He nods. "I'd say, either all up or all down. The dress makes me think you want something classic, like a bun, but with that watch…" He gestures towards my watch and other wrist accessories, a couple of small leather bands with polished wooden beads, and a friendship bracelet that I helped Katie make for me. She has a matching one.
"These don't come off."
"They clash with your overall look."
"I don't care. Fuck it. I'm wearing sneakers." I head into my closet and pull out a pair. Jasper just watches me.
"You know what would be good?"
"Hmmm?"
"Remember a couple of years ago when you did that fallen angel costume for Halloween? How you had your hair, like braided, in a crown-thingie?"
"Yeah. Leah did that, though. I think she's working."
"Who's working?" Speak of the motherfucking devil. Leah is standing in the doorway to my bedroom. I didn't even hear her come in.
"Hey Lee. Remember that braid thing you did to Bella's hair for Halloween a few years ago?"
"What are you doing here?" I ask.
"Nice to see you, too."
"Seriously though."
"Sam and I were talking and, well... I brought you these." She hands me a Costco sized box of Trojans. Jasper is grinning like a dolt from the blue.
What in the ever loving fuck?
"I'm not sleeping with him."
Jasper and Leah share a yeah right look.
I snarl and throw the big blue box on my bed. "You people."
"You probably shouldn't wear that dress, then," Leah says with a nod at my slit.
"Fucking-A," is all I have to say.
"Yes, she should."
Jasper and Leah look at each other. Leah's spine straightens as she comes to her full height in order to look Jasper right in the eyes. "I've seen the way that man looks at her. If I want to rip the dress off of her… well. He is going to be in pain."
"Good. It'll be empowering for Bella," Jasper replies.
"Empowering? It demeans her power."
"So says the lesbian. Look. I'm the man in this room. I say… she should wear the dress. Besides, I've spoken with him. At length, unfortunately. He deserves a little pain."
"And what about B? Does she deserve what she is going to get out of this?"
"Hello. I'm standing right-fucking-here, you guys." They both look at me. Leah's face is a portrait of feminine strength. Jasper looks equally determined.
"Lo?" Alice peeks around the corner into my bedroom.
I sigh. Gangs all here.
"Hey Allie. Ok. Tiebreaker is here. Should Bells wear this dress? Or is it too much?"
"Whoa whoa. I'm not wearing this outfit by committee," I interrupt.
"We're not a committee."
"You sound like a committee. Look. All I need to know is… is the dress too fancy?"
"No," Alice chimes in. "I know where he's taking you, and that dress is perfect. Especially with these shoes." She holds up a pair of T-Strap Mary-Jane heels that actually make me feel a little relieved. Small favors and all that.
I thank Alice and put them on. Everyone hangs out while Leah pulls the big curlers out of my hair and works it into a braided halo around my forehead, letting the extra length flow down from behind my left ear in soft waves.
The three of them are chatting like the clock isn't zeroing in on the end of my existence. Like we aren't standing in line for a rollercoaster that flips you upside down, a roller coaster with questionable locking mechanisms. I fill my lungs and slowly empty them. I think I need more Bourbon.
Leah puts a hand on my bare shoulder and squeezes it, like she can read my mind. I look up into her dark eyes. There is a world of words there. I believe in you, I worry for you, I love you. He better not hurt you or I will kick his ass. I slide my cold, nervous hand over her warm one and squeeze it. She flips her hand so that we are palm to palm and returns the squeeze.
There's a knock at my door. A casual authoritative knock that serves as the harbinger of my doom.
When Alice springs up to go answer it, followed by the growling foo dogs that are Leah and Jasper, I can't help but feel like my life suddenly shifted into some sort of sitcom-reality; one that would actually be improved by a laugh track.
Check that. It would probably be improved by the laugh track only when I trip over this dress. I am not going to trip. I am going to round the corner and meet Edward Cullen head on, like the motherfucking prom queen. Like motherfucking Auntie Mame herself.
I check the mirror. "Life is a banquet," I tell myself. "And most poor suckers are starving to death."
I'm not entirely Bella Swan in this dress. It's too late to change now. Instead of pink, my whole complexion looks a little ghostly. I pinch my cheeks.
I quickly transfer my shit from my messenger bag to a clutch. I grab the crushed velvet duster out of my closet, take one last breath of independence, and head out to the living room.
Whatever I thought I looked like, the words I used in my head to describe myself in this dress: Okay. Fraud. Façade. Faker. They evaporate when I see myself reflected in Edward's eyes.
They change. His mouth changes. His posture changes.
His eyes find mine, and for the briefest of moments, I feel that something indistinguishable is shared between us. Something that is not about sex or its pursuit. Something kindred, something like going home, like sucking into my vision all the things I most long to see. Something like victory. Like we ride into battle together. Like both our hearts are marching to the same war-drums.
Then I lose him as his gaze drops from my face, travels leisurely down to the floor and then back up again. He exhales sharply and gives me a smile I've never seen.
I thought I knew what his intent looked like. I was wrong. I have never seen this animal before. This animal is wild. This animal is hungry. I don't know where we're going for dinner, but I do know that this animal has decided that I am dessert.
"You look… stunning."
"I'm not sleeping with you," I blurt out.
Three pairs of eyes pivot from me to Edward for his reaction.
His thick brows arch, and smooth as silk he asks, "Ever?"
Like we are the only two people on the planet.
And we are. As usual, when Edward is near me, the volume on everything else is turned down. I hear only him. I feel only myself.
"No. Just. Tonight."
His smile changes. It's tight, but genuine. And his voice is soft when he says, "Okay."
"Okay?"
He holds his hand out, casually. "Let's go, Bella."
I put my hand in his and he pulls me into him, turning me slightly so we face the three people who have suddenly sprung back into existence.
Leah looks wary.
Jasper looks mischievous.
And Alice.
Alice looks like she might cry.
I slide my arms into my coat as Edward leads me out the front door. He opens the passenger door of his car for me… and then he closes it. I turn to watch him as he walks behind the car, swinging his keys around one finger and catching them.
Riding with Edward in his car is so easy now. It's comfortable, despite the heavy atmosphere clinging to us. He pulls out of my neighborhood without saying anything, hitting the freeway and pushing the Jag up to a cool eighty-five MPH.
The G-Force I feel has nothing to do with his speed. It has everything to do with the way he looks in his charcoal colored suit, his hair a controlled mess, swept up from his temples and flaring down into his face, the easy motion of his body as he shifts, the way one hand relaxes on the stick, the other on the wheel.
He is usually so blatant, and I find it interesting how surreptitiously his line of sight keeps tracing the slit down my left leg. Sideways glances keep dancing over all my exposed skin like so many iron filings pointing the direction of a magnetic field.
I tilt my head and shift my position, turning towards him slightly.
"I hope I'm not overdressed."
"No."
Silence.
He turns up the volume on the stereo. I turn it down. He gives me one of his cocky half-mouthed smiles.
"Where are we going?"
"Bella Italia."
"I've never been there. I've heard of it, though."
"It's good."
"You eat there often?"
He is still smirking, and I know why. Because of my name. "Often enough."
I feel a stupid question coming. I ask it anyway. "So. Do you remember how many women you've taken to this restaurant, at least?"
"Yes. I do."
"More or less than ten?" I ask, mimicking him.
He laughs. "I don't see why I should tell you."
"You're being evasive. Five?"
"I'm being evasive? That's the pot calling the kettle black."
"Yep."
The car is quiet, save the light sound of rubber barely meeting blacktop as we fly into the heart of the city.
"More than five," he says quietly. Then he looks at me, pointedly. "Less than ten."
The words more than five strike me a little bit. I've worked in food service for a long time. Before I worked for Olympian Real Estate, I waited tables. I know this type, the handsome successful male who changes women like he changes his sheets. If not weekly, then close to it.
Part of me is wondering how I let myself get into this situation. The feminist in me is outraged with myself. But there is something else. Some other part of me, that feels triumphant that, for one night at least, I am the accessory this man decorates himself with. It's stupid, it's empty, it's shallow and it's vain. And I don't give a fuck. I feel like a woman. The way he looks at me... it makes me feel wanted. The fact that he is shallow, oversexed, and probably already working out his exit strategy does little to detract from that. What is between us is temporary, we both understand that. I think I do. I have my moments where I forget, but he always reminds me.
And that is good. I need to stay clear here.
"I always, Edward, appreciate your honesty."
He turns to look at me.
"I'm so tired of people saying things they don't mean. At least, when I'm with you… I feel like I know exactly where I stand."
He directs his attention back to the road and is quiet a moment before saying. "Where do you think you stand?"
I chuckle. "Some ladders have four rungs, some have thirty. There is always a bottom step. It still enables you to climb to the top."
"Bella. Are we talking about sex?"
"Isn't that the only language you speak?"
"That isn't fair. I haven't even mentioned it. In fact, you were the one who brought it up. With your declaration of non-participation."
"You don't have to mention it. Your eyes speak for you. And… I don't want any preconceived notions. Tonight."
"So, you're firm then?"
"I am."
"And I repeat. Okay. Let's just enjoy the evening."
Whatever I was expecting, it sure as heck wasn't this. This chill, relaxed man who 'just wants to enjoy the evening.' He measures my look of semi-astonishment.
"Since you appreciate my honesty, let me make something very clear, Bella. To use your analogy. I don't step foot on a ladder I'm not going to climb to the top. You get me? I'm an impatient man, by my nature, but I'm tempered. The climb may take ten minutes, it may take ten days. It's the view from the top that I'm after. I can climb as long as I need to."
"What if I take my ladder and go home?"
"You won't."
"How do you know that?"
"You are careful, but fair. When I think about it objectively, I can appreciate that. But you don't seem like a game-player, Bella. You don't seem like the girl who is going to uninvite me to her birthday party as a playground power play. I made it clear what I wanted from you. You made your terms clear. And here we are."
"I sort of insinuated that… well. I think I set the expectation for tonight incorrectly."
He nods slightly before turning to me with an amused expression. "I don't hold it against you."
We pull up in front of Bella Italia before he goes on. "I'd like you to relax, and let's just see how the evening turns out. I discarded my preconceived notions. I think you should, too."
"So, what you're saying, really, is game on?"
He just smiles. Fucking man.
But I'm smiling, too. I don't even know why.
"Are you hungry?"
"Starved," I say.
He smiles his half smile and gets out. A valet opens my door and Edward is there offering me a hand. His fingers wrap around mine and I grab my clutch as he pulls me out of the car, onto my feet. An indistinguishable amount of money is placed into the hand of a spotty-faced attendant, and we head inside.
I am so out of my element.
This place, in one word, is swanky. In two words, pretentious douchery. I know these people. I've waited on them for years. Men with coiffed salt and pepper hair are swirling wine in crystal glasses and sticking their pompous noses just inside the rim. Sniffing, passing judgment, leaning into wives that are aging painfully, bottle blonds with the struggle to remain wanted written in every line. Men with mistresses, with time to work on their golf swing, time to take yachts out on the bay. Everywhere, the glitter of jewels and silverware. Everywhere, the polish of disposable income.
Everywhere I look, a Viagra commercial. Every person, an actor selling some kind of bullshit. The bullshit of I'm still young, I'm wealthy, the lie thinly masking the desperation. Faces of denial, stretched around the thought, Is this all there is?
Or maybe, I'm the cynical asshole here.
Edward helps me out of my coat and hands it off for hanging. The upper class all turn to watch as I walk by; I can almost hear the riff-raff alerts going off all around me. The dress, the hair, none of it disguises the obvious fact that I don't belong here. I should have kept my coat on. I should have picked the location. I should have worn something with long sleeves. I should have moved to the Yukon as soon as I opened that fucking collection notice.
The waitress sticks a menu in my hands and all I can think is that this food better be fucking phenomenal. I've seen prices like these before, but usually not unless I'm shopping for car parts. I must make some sort of noise because she gives me a look.
"Um. Can I have a glass of water please?"
"Still or sparkling?"
Oh yeah. I'm in hell. "Sparkling, thank you."
She turns hopefully to Edward. He nods and says, "The same. And a Laphroaig 25. Neat. Thanks, Jenny."
Edward is gesturing towards me, like I might want a cocktail, but it's too late. Our server is gone. She got the order of the only person at this table that matters.
I watch her go. I can feel Edward watching me. I turn my attention to him. I feel, momentarily, like I'm outside myself, like I am looking down on this cream cloaked table with its gleaming silverware and black napkins, the burgundy and gold menus, the incredibly stylish male model, and the tatted up, dark haired pretender with unpainted nails and an aura of self conscious hesitation.
If this were a movie, I would be this awkward ugly duckling who turns out to be really cute under it all. Turns out to be a swan. We would hump like hormonal bunnies on Spanish Fly, and then he would fall madly in love with me because I am mysteriously different. Special. But this isn't a movie, and under it all, I'm not special, only scarred, and I'm probably also a biological dead end.
I start my zen cycle. Lather, rinse, repeat. Lather… rinse.
Edward smiles at me.
He gives me his slow blink as he unfolds his menu, gives it the most cursory of glances before folding it back up and setting it in front of him. Now he's watching me, as I try to decide between a thirty-six dollar braised chicken or a thirty-four dollar plate of Pasta Puttanesca. I shit you not, the cheapest fucking entrees on the menu.
My eyes creep over the top and find Edward, looking highly smug. I fold up my menu and set it down.
"Thank you," he says, his voice confidential.
"For what?"
"That menu was blocking my view."
Ping ping. Pink cheeks.
"And for obliging me."
"Obliging you?"
"With your outfit. I was afraid I would pick you up and you would be in some high necked, full-sleeved garbage. Your shoulder, your skin. You look like a siren. Barely tamed by that dress."
I think I am going to die. If my whole evening is going to be about Edward Cullen seducing me with words, I am in fucking trouble.
"I feel a little out of place."
"I like it. It's…. a juxtaposition."
"You talk like an artist."
"And you look like a canvas. I want to know what it all means, but I sort of love the speculating. Like the apple blossoms. Is this the original sin or something else?"
"I'm not really religious. I don't buy into original sin. Do you?"
"There's that evasiveness. And yeah. Maybe. But more as the parable it's meant to be. Don't eat from the tree of knowledge. Remain blessedly ignorant."
I'm about to answer him when our waitress shows back up with two tall stemmed glasses full of water that spritz as she sets them down. She places the scotch in front of Edward. I watch her. She watches Edward. She is a beautiful woman, a mere minute past her prime. Her pressed white shirt and tie do nothing to diminish her ample bosom, or detract from her sparkling blue eyes. I get the feeling she knows Edward. I wonder if he always gets this table. I wonder if she is always his server.
I wonder how much of a joke I am.
She runs through a battery of specials and what wine should be paired with them. After she asks if we need more time to decide, Edward makes a questioning gesture at me. I order the gold-plated pasta and a diamond-crusted house salad. He orders lamb. He orders a bottle of wine. She compliments his choice.
She leaves. And it's just us again. I sip my water.
"So. You're not religious? At all?" he questions.
"Not in the classic sense."
He looks studious. "In what sense, then?"
"I don't know. I feel like there is something… bigger than me. I don't know if it's God, or energy, or an alien race with Earth as a really fucked up science project. I guess, if I believe in anything, it would be the soul. I believe that after this life some part of me will go on. I believe some part of my mother went on, or lingers here. She IS… somewhere. And I feel like one day, I will see her again."
"In Heaven?"
"Well, I don't know if it's Heaven. I sort of think of it as a different plane of existence. Or a different state of consciousness. You know? And if I'm wrong. If there is nothing, who I am in this incarnation will never know it. What about you?"
"I believe in nothing."
"You're an atheist?"
"Well, technically, I'm Catholic. But I firmly believe Carlisle would have been ex-communicated long ago if it weren't for his money. Fucking hypocrites."
"You were raised in the church? Like, you went to mass and that kind of thing?"
He nods. I think about his dog tags, tucked away in my hope chest, and the indication of No Religious Preference where his religion should be stated. "When did you lose your faith?"
"That's kind of a personal question, don't you think?"
"It is. But tell me anyway."
He sighs. A gentle melancholy sigh that shows me a glimpse of the boy he must have been. A boy who must have loved music. An awkward gangly boy who grew into the sturdy man before me. Back then was his hair half so wild? Did a different kind of mischief light his jade eyes? Did he whine about being dragged to mass? Did he squirm in his seat while being preached at?
"It was a long process. It probably started when I was around twelve. When I was a kid, I didn't question theology. I just believed it. I don't remember exactly what started me questioning. I remember Alice gossiping about our Youth Minister and how he was having an affair with one of the congregation. Broke up a marriage, ultimately. Anyway, everyone eventually knew all about it, because they got married."
"Wow. Sounds kind of scandalous."
"I don't really know. I was a kid at the time. He was… well, he was a very opinionated man. I still think, if he had been more of a contemporary spiritual leader, someone who imparts the stories and the guidance, instead of telling us what to think… I don't know. He used to lecture us all the time, about morality, how there is none without religion. About homosexuals and pornographers and alcoholics. Even in the face of his own immorality. He was so judgmental. I didn't get it. Still don't. We read the same words, but they meant something different to him."
"Maybe he was just a hateful man."
"Maybe. Anyway, I grappled with it, argued with him, with everyone… about everything, for a long time. I finally, just… didn't really care anymore. Then… I spent four long years cursing every God. Now, I believe in dirt. I came from it, and one day, I will return to it. Nothing changes that. Not money, not faith."
His eyes harden with this last statement. Four long years. Cursing every God. I know how despair feels, in my own way, and I feel his, acutely now. More and more I get the impression of a thoughtful boy, a music lover, introspective, crushed at every turn. Looking for meaning, looking for nurturing, getting the opposite. Getting lost. Giving up.
"Your turn. How many men have you slept with?"
"That was quite the change of subject."
"I answered your personal question. Now you can answer mine."
I think my guts just turned into a swarm of bees. Kamikaze bees trying to depart this body by force. "Two."
His brows jump in disbelief. Then his eyes narrow. "Are you divorced?"
"No. I've never been married." The quiet tone of my voice says more than my words. In my own ears, it sounds pathetic. I need to change the subject again.
He really looks so perplexed in this moment. It would almost be funny, if it wasn't sad. I can almost see the thoughts churning in his brain; considering if I am a psycho, if I am diseased. Asking himself why he is pursuing me, if no one else wants me.
I open my mouth to speak, to say anything that would steer the conversation in a different direction, but I'm too late.
"What's wrong with you?"
I don't think he means to insult me, he honestly looks confused.
"I'm discriminating," I say haughtily.
"That's bullshit. If you were, you wouldn't be sitting here. And don't give me some wall-flower crap. You stand apart, Bella. And I want to know."
Here we go.
The room is pulsing inside my ears. I thought I knew how these words would come out of my mouth. I thought I had this speech down. I thought I understood this moment.
But I don't.
All this show, all this dress and this make-up and this hair. It doesn't change anything. Aside from getting the actual words OUT, my biggest worry now is how we get through this meal. And why I didn't drive myself. And why the hell I am even sitting here.
I am so stupid.
I'm looking at my lap. I'm not going to get emotional. I am going to do this. Somehow though, every opening statement for this story sounds wrong. Sometimes the hardest thing you can do is tell your saddest, most pathetic tale, in a way that demands no pity. Sometimes, it's a matter of preempting the reaction you don't want, and that ruins the telling. I don't want drama. I don't want sympathy. I don't want the discomfort of his reaction. Honestly, I really just don't even want to have this conversation.
I meet his inquiring eyes. "I'm not… whole. I…"
"Salad." The perky voice of our server interrupts me and I lean back so that she can place my plate in front of me. And one in front of Edward. "Cracked pepper?"
I nod absently. Edward and I just stare at each other as Jenny grinds away between us. His green eyes are a complete puzzle. He sips his scotch. I wish I had one.
I decide to take a different approach. Something a little more philosophical. "My dad has this expression that he likes to use. 'Put your paddle in the water.' He likes to fish. A lot. Anyway. He believes that the river will take you to where your fish wait. You just… put your paddle in the water, so to speak, and you end up where you're supposed to be."
"Your paddle doesn't lead you to fish then?"
"My paddle is… broken."
"I see."
I'm about to go on when he speaks. "I think my paddle is broken, too." I watch his face. It's thoughtful. "Your dad is a cop?"
"Yeah. He's a Captain for King's County. How did you know?"
"I think Rose told me."
"Really? She wouldn't tell me a thing about you."
"You asked Rose about me?" I feel a little sheepish. Like I've been caught prying into his business.
"Maybe. I mean, she was at Carlisle's wedding, so I figured she must know you."
"Yeah, she knows me all right."
"Did you guys… date?"
"Whatever gave you that idea?"
"You didn't seem too happy about her dancing with Emmett. I just assumed there was some animosity there."
"Yes. There is animosity there, but no. If my sister wants to fuck my brother, that's their weird business."
"Your sister? Wait, you and Rosalie are related?"
"Much to the surprise of all of us, yes."
"So. Your mother… is also…"
"Rosalie's mother. Correct."
Rosalie's strong husky voice floats through my memory. I know him. Understatement of the year.
I study Edward's face. He looks at me like he knows that I'm looking for the similarities between them. Both tall, solidly built, thick hair, although Rosalie's is blonde. She has green eyes, too. Intense and secretive. And their teeth are similar, gentle lips. And the next thing I'm wondering is how it is that that isn't really weird for Emmett.
"How did that happen?"
He picks up his fork and pokes at his Caesar salad. He takes the philosophical route, too. "Do you ever notice how artists often draw themselves into their work? In some way? I'm not talking about a self-portrait, I'm talking about how all the subjects will ultimately resemble their maker, to some degree. I don't know… that was me and Rose. I was… away for a long time. When I came back to Seattle I went to work with Em. I just needed, I don't know, a job, really."
He pauses as our server shows up and sets down an aerated carafe of a deep red wine at our table with two glasses. She makes to serve us, and Edward gives her a gesture of I've got this. Her lashes bat unmistakably at Edward before she leaves.
"You NEEDED the job?" I ask, as he pours me a generous glass of wine.
"I needed... occupation. And yeah, I needed income."
"Rosalie did tell me that you guys have to meet an income threshold to inherit."
"Alice and Emmett do."
"But you don't?"
"I got mine already. When Carlisle paid me to stay away from Miss Hale."
I choke on some lettuce and take a sip of water to clear it. "What?"
"I met Rosalie through a car accident. Her insured ran a stop sign. She made an impression on me. I didn't know she was my sister. Nobody knew. Nobody except Carlisle and Liz, our mother. No one wanted to inform us either. Carlisle, as per usual, thought the answer was in his wallet."
I give him a wary look. He looks back at me. His eyes are cool and detached, like his voice when he asks, "Are you an only child, Bella?"
I nod.
"Would it shock you, if you were to learn, at this stage of our relationship, that we are in fact, siblings?"
I try to imagine what it would be like to learn NOW that Edward Cullen is my brother. It would kind of suck, big time. I nod again, understanding his point.
He nods too. "You would be shocked. You would scour every touch, every interaction, every similarity. You would look at me and see yourself. It was, unreal. Rose doesn't like looking at me anymore. Honestly, I don't know what I feel when I look at her. I was really angry, for a long time."
I wonder how much of each other they touched, before they learned of their shared parentage. But I don't ask that. Instead I ask, "Aren't you still?"
He looks contemplative. "I don't know, anymore."
"I don't know if I can understand, but I can imagine, how… I don't know. Duped is the word that comes to mind. Bait and switch. I like Rose. My dad always calls her 'good people.'"
"I really liked her. I really admired her. In retrospect, something was a little off between us. I mean, I think, when we found out the full truth, it sort of, made sense in a way."
"How did… you end up with Carlisle… and not with your mom?"
He looks more than ready to change the conversation, and I understand that too. "I was never… a child to Liz. I was a pawn. A play for money or… I don't know. But Carlisle doesn't play those kinds of games. I guess, by the time Liz met Trevor Hale, she had grown up a bit. I don't really know."
"Have you met her, your mother?"
"Yes."
He doesn't elaborate. I take that as a sign that he doesn't care to.
"I read once, I don't remember where, maybe in an article about the Red Queen's Hypothesis, that birth control pills can cause women to choose incorrect mates, from a genetic perspective. I guess, in a study or something, where women were given the sweat soaked t-shirts fresh from a variety of males, those on birth control preferred the t-shirts of men who were closely related to them or who were too alike in their DNA. While women free from the influence of hormones picked the t-shirts of the stronger genetic match. I mean. That could be an incredibly tasteless thing to say. I don't know, it's all lower brain function, and I don't know anything about what Rose takes or… anything." I'm blabbering now. I don't know why I even brought this up.
Edward looks interested, though. "Is that so?"
I hide behind my wine glass.
"What do you take?"
"Nothing. Actually."
"And how do I smell, to you? Or should I soak my clothes in sweat and then ask?"
My brain just clouded over. "You… you smell good. Really, really good, actually."
"Well. Good. Maybe we aren't related then. That's good news."
"And it's not like we plan to procreate or anything. I mean." I shake my head. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to make light of whatever happened between you and Rose. It sounds like it was, well, for lack of a better word, shitty."
He nods. "Well, just so you know, because I'm sure you're wondering. I didn't fuck her. Thank God."
"Wow. You are so cavalier about sex. Is it always 'fucking'?"
His brows arch.
"It just seems like… a wall you put up between yourself and your partner. Like 'fucking' is what animals do. What prostitutes do. It sounds so… emotionless."
"The wall of 'fucking,' huh? Do you prefer that I call it something else? Because I feel like that would misrepresent my attitude about it. I see it as fucking. I don't 'make-sweet-love' or cuddle… or do any of that shit."
"I appreciate your honesty. I guess it just seems sort of… empty."
"Because you're a woman. You're emotionally driven."
"And you aren't? You are certainly intense. I don't think that stems from lack of emotion."
His attention, which was focused on me, shifts. I think he IS emotional. I think he tries not to be. I think he knows he tries not to be. I think he is done with this line of conversation.
"Okay your turn. Is one of the men you slept with Jasper?"
Spit-take.
I laugh. He doesn't.
I clear my throat and push my nearly empty salad plate away.
"Why does it matter if it was Jasper?"
He considers. "I guess it doesn't. You two just seem really close."
"We are. But there is no interest there."
"On either side?"
"You've never… just been friends with a woman?"
"Not a woman who looks like you."
I don't really know what to say to that. So it's a good thing Jenny shows up to clear our salad plates and run a crumb catcher over the table cloth. I sip my wine as she makes eyes at Edward. He seems like he notices it, but it doesn't faze him.
"Have you ever… been in love?" Stupid question, I silently berate myself.
"I don't think so. Puppy love, maybe. Why?"
"I think you'd know. Right? I love Jasper. I love Leah and Sam. But that is different from what I imagine BEING in love feels like. Being IN LOVE is passion and something deeper."
"You imagine? You've never been in love either then."
"Does Jimmy Page count?"
"Not really."
"Okay, then no."
He laughs. "Okay, easy question. Favorite Zeppelin tune?"
"That's not easy. It depends on my mood, really. I guess my all time favorite would be Kashmir. Especially live. As incredible as it is in a recording, it stops my heart live."
"You… can't have seen Zeppelin live."
I wave my hand. "Oh… no. I haven't. Covers."
Jenny is back with our entrees. She carefully sets down our plates, and asks us if we need anything. Well, she asks Edward. I'm starting to get kind of annoyed with her actually. Edward has to point out to her that my water glass is empty. Then HE asks me if I would like grated parmesan. Because, I, apparently, in all my bright skinned glory, am invisible. I wonder if she ignores every woman who sits opposite him. I shake my head. After she leaves I ask.
"Is Jenny always your waitress?"
"No, why?"
"She seems sort of, dazzled by you. I don't think she even realizes you're not here eating two meals on your own."
"Mmmm."
"You didn't notice? She stares at you with an open mouth, for Pete's sake. Doesn't that, I don't know… get old? Do I behave like that around you?"
"Are you asking me if you ogle me? No, Bella. Although. Sometimes your eyes, suggest things… I've only ever read about in Forum. But now – I just chalk that up more to your own sexual drought, then my desirability."
Now my mouth is gaping. "I can't believe… you just said that. How do you know I'm not currently 'fucking' someone? Guy Number Two, we'll call him."
"Give me a sweat soaked t-shirt. I bet I could smell it on you."
"You are a fucking primate. You know that?" My voice is serious, but I know my eyes are laughing.
He laughs. He chews. He watches me. He smiles around his fork. How is he so fucking adorable to me, despite the shit he thinks and says? Maybe it is the drought. I'm dehydrated in my sex brain. I pick up my own fork.
"How long… HAS it been? If you don't mind my asking." He doesn't talk with his mouth full. I like that.
"As if my minding would stop you."
"Fair. Tell me though, Bella. I'd like to know."
I shake my head and use the spoon on the side of my plate to wind my pasta around my fork. I go for a small bite. I wish I had ordered something that could be cut into pieces instead of this. There is no dainty way to eat this. I lunge in.
I look up at him. He is smiling lopsidedly. "Watching you eat… is… very erotic. Like watching everything you do."
I am never going to get through this meal. I slurp the strand in and cover my mouth with my napkin.
"All bent over your plate like that. Hot."
I roll my eyes at him.
We munch quietly for a few minutes, him, sawing into his lamb, me swirling spaghetti and scooping it in sauce. We both drink wine, our eyes dart from table to each other. I like watching him eat. But I knew that already. It's a slow, considered, thorough affair. He looks like he enjoys his food, and he doesn't rush. And he doesn't tuck a napkin into his collar. And he doesn't need to, because his bites are neat.
And when he smiles at me, it's with his whole face. His eyes crinkle.
I feel my eyes crinkle back.
He hands me a slice of bread when he gets one for himself. He tops off my glass. He doesn't look at anything but me and his food.
We talk comfortably, about music and other topical things. Tucked away inside, I know I've failed in my mission, which was to tell him tonight. I know now that I won't. Not tonight. Not yet. Something, call it instinct, call it intuition, is telling me that tonight is not the right time. I'd like the rest of our evening to be light… and not about his service, his family, or my baggage. We skirted all these things, but I don't think we are ready to really address them.
And yeah, maybe this is me being a coward. I don't care. I get the feeling he is having a good time. I am, too.
Our server stops by and removes our plates, looking at me like she's never seen me before when I request a doggie bag.
Yeah. Hi. Remember me? And then she returns with my little cardboard to-go box and places the bill directly in front of Edward before walking away. He thanks her and I grab for it.
"I've got this," he says casually, fishing his hand inside his jacket for his wallet.
But I didn't snatch the bill so I could pay.
In big bubbly script, on a piece of scrap paper tucked in the sleeve, is Jenny's name and phone number with a solicitation to let her know how her service was.
Seriously?
I hold it open and show him. "I think you may get lucky tonight after all."
"That isn't luck. That's a crooked hand where I always win."
"Aren't you smug?"
"When I win with you, Bella, that will be luck," he says, but he pulls the billfold out of my hands and sticks a shiny Amex in the slot. He pulls out the scrap paper with Jenny's number on it and looks at it. "Should I keep it?"
"I have no idea why you are asking ME. Do you want to call her?"
"I want to CALL you. But you don't pick up the fucking phone."
"Because I think call-waiting is rude."
"Oooooh burn." His shakes his head, his smile is heart-melting.
Jenny's back, her voice sweet and hopeful. "All set?" She holds her hand out for the billfold and I can tell the moment she sees the note with her number on it lying out on the table in the open. I almost feel bad for her. Then I feel a little angry.
I pick it up and hand it back to her. For the first time all night she really looks at me. Something in her face deepens my anger. What happened to the sisterhood of women? My tone is a little nasty when I say, "What? Do you think I'm his business partner? You think I'm dressed like this for some OTHER man? Take your number back."
"You aren't the only woman he comes in here with," her voice is a little shaky.
"Wow. You are… so indiscreet," I chastise.
She blanches a little.
"Furthermore, you aren't the only woman who already knows that. This isn't your night. Please play again."
She glares at me. I glare back. I'm not a big girl, but I can be very intimidating. Despite my blush. Maybe it's the tattoos, or having a cop for a dad, living alone in a big city. Maybe it's just the bravery lent to me by the half bottle of Nebiolo I just consumed. I'm just about to push back my chair and stand when she breaks and walks away to ring us up. I turn to him.
"There's that angry blush." His tone is amused.
"I can't believe you encourage that."
"I didn't."
"Pshaw. She obviously thought that would work. She graded me, graded you, and found herself to be more in your league."
"I can't help the way I look."
"You can help the way you act. You frequent this restaurant with several different women. Let me ask you… have you ever been hit on by anyone else who works here?"
"Maybe."
"And how did that pan out?"
He smiles at me. It's pretty lecherous.
I shake my head. "You are an easy mark. There is no luck involved because you are a man-whore."
He gets a false wounded look. "My pride, Bella."
I scoff. "Yeah, you should be worried about it."
"But I'm not. I don't really care what people think about me. The only thing bothering me, if I am honest, is that it bothered you."
"How gentlemanly of you. You're a little tardy with your concern."
"I've never felt it before. It's a compliment to you."
"I don't feel complimented. I feel like, when I walk around with you, people think I'm a flavor of the month. And not a very appetizing one."
"Whatever. To me, you are delicious. My opinion is the only one that matters here."
"Wrong. Mine is what matters. I live and breathe in this body and will, long after you are done with it. I don't like being made to feel inferior at every turn when standing next to you."
"Bella, you are far better than anyone in this room. Do you understand me? What that waitress did… is something that is not my fault. Women barter themselves like it's all they have to offer me… and sometimes… they try to spend what they don't have. I can't change that. Not tonight, not until they lose interest in me. Or I them."
"As if that would ever happen."
He rolls his eyes at me as a busboy brings him his credit card and slip. I guess Jenny decided she was done with us. Good. I was done with her.
Edward scribbles a tip and his signature and flips the book closed. He's very generous, I notice. And left handed.
"I didn't realize you were left handed."
"Despite the Sisters repeatedly whacking my hand with a ruler, yes, I am."
"I didn't know they still tried to break kids of that."
"I don't think they do, anymore. But they did when I was in school." He stands and holds his hand out. "Ready?"
"Where now?" I take his warm hand and stand. He grabs my to-go box from the table.
"I thought, maybe, Paragon. They have live music on Fridays."
"Okay. I've never been there either."
He leads me to the front where we collect my coat. As I slide into it, I see Jenny watching us from her position by another one of her tables. It's silly, and immature, but I smile and wave, before Edward takes my arm and leads me from the restaurant.
(((High Fidelity)))
SURPRISE! My A/N is at the bottom this time. See how I mix things up? Anyway. A couple of quick things:
I know a lot of you are shaking your heads, thinking: She needs to tell him. Let me be clear - I AGREE WITH YOU. She should've told him. But she didn't. It's not time yet. Sit tight. :D
Also - The teaser I posted at ireenh. blogspot. com ended up falling into Ch.12, which will be up this weekend. EPOV.
I would like to send a shout out to TheManiacalMuse for lending me her perspective on this update. THANK YOU!
As usual, thanks to my beautiful Beta: Dragonfly336. Have I told you lately... that I love you?
And finally... thanks to ALL of you! You guys rock.