Hello guys!
I love my job, but it really keeps me busy. So I can't update as often as I would like to. But here is the new chapter. Enjoy and cookies if you review!
Thanks: go out to Kristen, my wonderful beta, who spent her night revising my mistakes. Hug, hug, and another hug!
December the 15th - Edward's perspective
As soon as I've ended the call with Jasper, I turn around to face Will. He's leaning against one of the posters of his bed, wearing only black pajama pants, looking annoyingly smug.
"What the hell was that?" I raise my hands inquiringly.
He does the whole nonchalant-routine by looking down and examining his fingernails with an air of self-involved innocence. "Just playing a little tune." He gestures laxly and without looking in the direction of the stereo.
I groan impatiently. "Don't be childish! You know what I mean."
He's still contemplating his damn fingernails. "I thought it would only be fair to give Jasper a heads-up about your current emotional state. Actually I wanted to do you a favor, mate. So don't get your knickers in a twist."
I lift my arms in desperation. "You consider this a favor?"
Fortunately he finally cuts out his English dandy demeanor and lifts his eyes to look at me. He sighs. "'Course I do. You're not able to tell him that you love him. Instead of taking into account that doing that might cause him to reconsider his relationship with the grandpa, you beat about the bush and flirt with him over the phone. I couldn't bear to witness it any longer. And since you don't have the balls…" He shrugs his shoulders. A gesture so innocent and nonchalant that I am almost not offended. Almost.
"That is your great explanation? That I don't have the balls to tell him?" My voice is vibrating with anger.
To his credit he actually seems to feel a little guilty, judging by the slightly sheepish look on his face. "No. Look, I assume that you have another reason. But you haven't told me a whole lot about the situation and you have to admit that cowardice seems to be a likely explanation. I mean we're not talking about a little crush here, are we? We're talking big business and if you told him that you love him, you would expose yourself completely. Because of his present commitment, hurt and suffering could ensue."
I sit down on the sofa and grab the mug with my coffee. "Well, smart-ass, that's not the reason," I scowl.
Will comes over, sauntering – by my observation his usual way of moving. He sits down on the edge of the black coffee table in front of the sofa and looks at me, not really remorsefully, but at least decently non-complacently. "Then tell me. Maybe I could be of some assistance and I'm deadly curious." He rubs his chin and adds after a small pause, "I'm sorry about the whole ball part."
My anger and, okay, my headache forbid me to let him calm me down that easily. I grumble, while staring darkly into my cup, "That was absolutely uncalled for."
He grips my chin and forces me gently to lift my head, so I have to look at him. His steel blue eyes are mischievous and impatient. "I'll blow you for that later. Can we please move on, peaches?"
Again, his bluntness catches me off guard. I blink and make a silly sound like "err".
He laughs and lets go off my chin. "Gosh, you're such an innocent little puppy."
I clear my throat and comment laconically, "You wouldn't be so sexually offensive, if you lived in a town with only 3,274 other people. As quickly as this kind of behavior would make the rounds, there would probably be a mass in the local church just for you."
"I would like that." He grins and gazes deliberately into the distance, looking like he's having a vision. "Yes, I can almost see it. The priest is preaching gravely about sin and quotes Colossians 3:5-6: "Put to death, therefore, whatever belongs to your earthly nature: sexual immorality, impurity, lust, evil desires and greed, which is idolatry. Because of these, the wrath of God is coming." The crowd shudders in disgust. The altar server fights tears. The mob grabs their pitchforks after church to finish me off."
I pat his shoulders. "Yeah," I drawl," sure. You know that "The Crucible" is set in 1692, don't you?"
He waves my objection aside with a gesture of his hand. "I will die bloodied and beaten. A martyr for blow jobs and promiscuous boinking."
I just sip at my coffee.
He focuses his eyes back on me and winks lasciviously like a bombshell from the 30s.
I lift an eyebrow. "Will, that doesn't look sexy, just incredibly swishy."
"Fuck you." He grins. "So will you tell me what the problem with Jasper is already?"
I deliberate the matter for a moment and decide that it would definitely be indiscreet to tell Will about the issues I presume Jasper has. On the other hand, it would be a relief to talk to somebody about it. Especially Will. Indeed, he could be of some assistance. At least 80 percent (give or take 5 percent because I was drunk while some of his comments) of what he said about the matter so far was illuminating or perceptive. I could really use another perspecti…
My train of thought is interrupted by Will clearing his throat. It irritates me enough to focus my attention and my eyes on him and see that he is looking at me with knitted brows.
"Hey, peaches, my attention span is short. At least tell me what you're thinking about."
"Well, I'm not sure if I should tell you about Jasper. I think it would be indiscreet."
He leans back, bracing himself by placing his hands on the table behind him. "I don't know him and I doubt that I will ever get to know him. So there is no danger of awkward, unsaid knowledge between the two of us. Furthermore, I don't know anybody who knows him. I don't have or intend to create a Twitter account where I could publish whatever you tell me about him. Let alone that I know anyone who would care. So what harm could it do?" He shrugs.
His logic is simple, yet convincing. I take a breath. "I don't want to tell him that I love him, because I don't wanna stress him out." Will makes no move to say anything, but just looks at me expectantly with his steel blue eyes, so I continue. "Okay, so the situation is this: I think Jasper had some pretty rough times in the past, though the only thing I know for sure is that he lost a very close family member through cancer." I hesitate for a moment, then I add, "And I think Jasper is slightly self harming."
Will furrows his brows. "What do you mean by slightly?"
I lift my hands. "Don't get me wrong, I'm not even sure. But he has a tendency to hurt himself when he's annoyed with himself. One time he broke his cell and then he smashed his fist so hard against the wall that the skin of his knuckles split. All this time I thought that he just had a temper and that these things happened in the heat of the moment. Now I believe that it might be semi-intentional."
He nods and drives his fingers thoughtfully through his bleached blond hair. "I see." Then he asks, "But why do you think that it would stress him out if you said that you love him?"
I sigh and rub my forehead. "The grandpa said he loved him and Jasper wants to believe that that's true… badly. So if I told him about my feelings, I would complicate things for him. I assume that he couldn't help but brood over it. It could even cause a moral dilemma, because depending on how he feels about my revelation he wouldn't know how to treat me after this. Also, if we hypothesize for a moment that his feelings towards me are more than just amicable, my confession could have a severe impact on his relationship to the grandpa. The situation is even more messed up and confusing, because we're still roommates. So avoiding my presence to think about it alone is difficult. And aside from the fact that I hate complicating things…" I fall silent when I realize something. I secretly hope that Will doesn't…
But then realization seems to dawn on him, too, and he lifts an eyebrow. "… you're afraid to open up, because your feelings might not be returned."
God, I feel kind of embarrassed, so I just nod. I half expect Will to smirk and yell "told you so, told you so", therefore I'm a bit surprised when he leans forward, places his hand on my knee and pats it.
"I get it. That isn't cowardice, it's self-protection." His deep voice is soft and sympathetic.
"Now you're contradicting yourself," I mumble.
"Just call me Prince Paradox." He smiles slightly, but then adds in a serious tone, "But don't you think it might be a good step to complicate things? That it might turn out in your favor if you bring him to muse about his relationship with the grandpa? Hell, after what you told me in the bar about the grandpa being married and having kids, I reckon it won't last long anyway. So it'll surely be better for Jasper to start thinking about it."
"Maybe…" I sigh and massage my temple with one hand. "Every possible action on my side seems risky. I wish I could make up my mind."
He gives my knee a firmer pat. "Just do what I've told you." He grins light-heartedly.
I grimace. "You make it sound so simple. But it is everything but!"
"Yeah, yeah…" he stretches and it seems as if his attention has run out now. Accordingly he changes the subject and asks, "Did you lie to Jasper or do you really have to meet up with Mary soon?"
I look at him indignantly and reply, "Of course I didn't lie. I have to be at Mary's in half and hour."
He smiles with a crooked brow and squeezes my thigh slightly. "Just enough time to keep my promise and redeem myself to you."
"Mary, you're looking so beautiful. The gown is perfect." I examine the platinum-colored wedding dress Mary's wearing while she is turning from one side to the other in front of a high wall mirror. As if the sun knew that Mary would try the wedding gown on, she fought her way through the clouds. My sister's bedroom is lit in bright golden light.
The dress is indeed perfect, consisting of a pearl beaded, strapless silk corsage and a voluminous silk taffeta skirt with lace underneath.
"I'm fat!" She examines herself from the side, her brows knitted in anger.
God, another wedding stereotype that I don't need and an unjustified one for that matter. But I put a good face on things and try to assure her, "No, you're not. You've lost at least 9 pounds and even that was absolutely unnecessary."
She looks at me, still more angry than depressed. "Don't be ridiculous! The dress will only look good if I lose another three."
"If you try to lose more weight before Friday, I'll call mom," I threaten semi-seriously.
She scowls for another moment, then she smiles and laughs quietly. "You wouldn't dare!"
"Yeah, I would!" I grin and stand up from her bed, my glass of Champagne in one hand. Mary insisted that Champagne was part of the ritual of showing your wedding dress to your brother, sister or friends. So despite my hurting head, I agreed to drink a glass with her. Now I can see another hangover coming. I definitely drink too much these days.
I go over to her, holding the Champagne as far away from her gown as possible, when she throws me a warning glance. I look at her in the mirror and feel a wave of sentimentality roll over me. "I will call her. But only to tell her how beautiful you look in your dress."
Mary turns to me, her brown eyes find mine, her tense posture loosens a bit, then she gives me a soft kiss on the cheek, her eyes wet, and whispers, "Thank you. You're a great brother."
I kiss her cheek as well and we stand in silence for a moment, shoulders softly leaning against each other. Then the tautness finds her again, she turns towards the mirror and examines her backside. "And now tell me why you were late again!"
I sip at my Champagne. "I was delayed."
She passes me a strict, almost schoolmarmish look. "By whom?"
"A friend."
"Jasper?"
"No. His name's Will."
She turns around again to face me directly. "Will he accompany you to my wedding?"
I clear my throat. "Yes. Now stop questioning me. The only thing that is missing is a bright light aimed at my face!"
She ignores my demand and sarcasm. "Is he your boyfriend?"
Both my eyebrows slip up. "No!"
Fortunately she doesn't dwell on my very hasty tone. "But you like him?"
I nod.
"Does he know how to mind his manners?"
I roll my eyes and sigh. My voice oozes with irony when I respond, "Oh darn, I don't think so! He habitually dips his head in other people's soup before rubbing himself against their behinds. I thought you were okay with that."
She looks at me angrily, then her face softens. "I'm sorry."
I pat her back gently. "It's okay."
She smiles, then sighs after another look in the mirror, walks over to her bed and sits down onto it very carefully. "I'm happy that you kicked Jasper to the curb after he disregarded you by not showing up. He doesn't deserve you."
I wander over to the bed and sit down next to her, taking a deep breath. "I'm not so sure if I really kicked him completely to the curb. Or maybe I just want him to come get back up by himself and say something like "I love you"." Well, today seems to be "Edward confession day".
"Really, Edward, take my advice and forget him. A man with such ill manners isn't right for you." Her voice sounds firm and certain. She's the second person today who tells me to mark their words. If only the words were the same! But they're not in the least. To be precise, if Will's words are on 90 degrees, Mary's are on 270. To call that confusing and complicated wouldn't do the matter justice. While some part of my mind tries to convince me that "complete disaster" is the suitable expression, Mary takes my hand and adds, "I'll monitor Will very closely at my wedding. And if he can really mind his manners and proves himself to be adequate in every other regard, I'll advise you to take him instead."
Her words make me grin and I squeeze her hand lightly. "Good to know. But I think you shouldn't watch anyone closely except your husband. I really couldn't bear a fight between you two in your first few hours of marriage."
"Me neither," she admits. Then Mary looks at me, fear lurking in the corner of her eyes. "I'm so nervous."
"I've noticed," I smile slightly and squeeze her hand firmer.
"Is Simon the right choice?" Her eyes are big and round.
"Yes, he is. He is kind, good-looking and smart. He can calm you down and make you laugh, when you're upset. And he loves Puccini." My voice sounds sure, because I am.
She throws her arms around me in an impulsive movement and I put my arms around her as well. Another long moment passes, then she whispers, her voice shaky, "I wish Sam was here."
I gulp. "Me too."
"Okay, mom, see you on Wednesday. Remember to call your daughter and tell her that another weight loss is not an option. Love you. Bye." I grin when I hear my mother chuckle, then I hang up, put the cell back in the pocket of my coat and place the key in the lock of our apartment.
I think everybody knows these moments where you look into a room or about a park or down a street and everything appears to be normal and expected, but there is something odd and unusual, what you don't actually see, but notice unconsciously out of the corner of your eye. I experience one of these moments when I enter the living room. Everything seems to be as usual: Jasper's chocolate brown Budapest shoes are lying untidily under the hall tree, the heater under the window is gurgling quietly, the goldish, greenish Tiffany pendant above the Chesterfield is keeping the muddy darkness, so typical for a New York winter evening, from entering our apartment. The only slightly unusual thing is that the TV is running on mute with nobody on the couch to consume the flood of pictures. However, this is not the thing that irritates me. I still have this strange sensation. Something in the living room is out of place. While I try to figure it out, I take off my coat and hang it up. Then I take a moment and look around more mindfully, still standing at the door.
I blink. There is an open first aid kit lying on the coffee table, its content spread across the wooden surface. Immediately, there is an unpleasant tingle running down my spine. I make a few steps forward and when I have the right angle in proportion to the couch, I discover that it isn't empty, but has an outstretched, seemingly asleep, Jasper in it. The upper part of his body is naked. And since my attention magically directs itself to this region of his body immediately – I'm quite glad that Jasper's asleep so that he can't witness this superficial carnal reaction, it's bad enough that I have to notice it myself – I spot not only the well defined muscles under the skin of his abdomen, but also a huge, purple-colored bruise on his right side, just above his hip bone. The hematoma looks pretty nasty. While my mind reels at where he got the injury from and I'm simultaneously starting to really worry about him, I notice that his right hand seems to be injured, too. It's lying motionlessly on his chest, bandaged up in a rather messy way. I stare at him.
Maybe I breathed in too loud, maybe he wasn't really asleep or maybe (also a likely explanation) the gears in my head creaked while circling around his bad condition and him in general, but whatever the reason, Jasper opens his eyes, looks at me, standing above him at the armrest of the Chesterfield, and croaks, "Edward. Hey."
I flinch and stammer, "Hey." In a desperate attempt to distract myself from the bare skin of Jasper, I turn my eyes to the TV screen, then I ask, "What the hell happened to you?"
"I got into a fight with 50 Cent." He chuckles.
I look back at him, perplexed. "I beg your pardon?"
He sits up a bit by supporting himself with one elbow and reaches out with his left hand for a half empty bottle of Southern Comfort that sits next to the first aid kit. Well, the bottle surely explains the blurry intonation of his voice. God, seems as if always at least one of us is drunk.
"You know," he slurs and then suddenly starts to sing," I take you to the candy shop. I'll let you lick the lollypop." He chuckles again and takes a big gulp out of the bottle.
Thank God that Jasper's occupied with drinking, because I can feel myself blush heavily. "What are you talking about?" I use that harsh tone again that I just don't seem to get under control.
He lowers the bottle and peers up to me. "50 Cent is a rapper," he explains with drunken earnestness. "An' I chose this allegory 'cause the guy that tried to whop me looked and behaved like a wannabe gangster rapper." He grins.
I nod and rub my temple. "I see. But instead you whopped him?"
"Yapp. Got 'im good." Jasper doesn't seem to be proud of that, but just states what happened.
"But apparently he got a big chunk out of you too along the way. Should I fetch some pain killers?"
"Thanks, but not necessary." He waves uncoordinatedly with the bottle.
I pull a face. "To resort to alcohol instead of proper medication is bad enough, but Southern Comfort?"
He takes another gulp and then murmurs, suddenly looking forlorn and serious, "Why? I'm from the south and I need comfort."
I don't know why, maybe it's because of that sentimental, emotionally agitated state I'm currently in, but his words and the expression on his face really strike a chord with me. I gulp and blink, then I kneel down on the parquet in front of the couch and take his bandaged hand into mine. "It's probably good that you didn't choose to become a doctor. You did an awful job with your hand. Mind if I have a look?" Since Jasper doesn't voice an objection, but just stares into space, I begin to remove the bandage.
I furrow my brows, when I've completely unwrapped Jasper's hand and am able to examine it. Aside from the fact that he indeed did a terrible job with the bandage, his hand is a total mess. The knuckles as well as his fingers are swollen and badly bruised and his skin is grazed in varying degrees of depth. I notice that Jasper is now watching me silently with his grass-green eyes, while I carefully scrutinize his hand, but I'm too wrapped up in what I see to react to it in any way. Especially his middle finger is severely battered. As thick as it is, it resembles more a stick than a human finger. Just that I've never seen a purple / dark-blue stick. It must hurt as hell.
I lift my eyes – he looks at me steadfastly – and say, "Of course I'm no expert myself, but I think your middle finger is broken. We should go to the emergency room."
"Yeah," he murmurs, but judging by the moony expression on his face he hasn't really listened to what I've said. There is a moment of silence and at least on my side it is an awkward one, because Jasper just continues to stare at me without saying a word. And when I realize that I'm still holding his hand, it gets even more awkward. But I just can't seem to convince myself to let go, even though I know it would be better. I mean, come on, the whole situation is a recipe for disaster. The way that he's looking at me, the fact that he's drunk as hell, the unfortunate circumstance that I'm undeniably in love with him… And in addition I'm kneeling in front of him, holding his hand like I'm about to propose. God… I know I'll do something very stupid and rash in the next second, I can feel it building up in me. But suddenly, before I can do anything, he reaches out with his left hand. All of his fingers are closed around the bottleneck, except for his index finger, which he extends to touch my cheek bone with its tip. Another tingle runs down my spine, but this time it's not unpleasant, just very, very confusing. Our eyes meet, he looks at me with a strange, almost fervid intensity, which I can't really attribute. I stare back at him, totally addled. What the hell does this mean? What? WHAT? His finger traces down my cheek, a little bit uncoordinated, while I'm rooted to the spot. I take a nervous breath.
And then Jasper blinks, furrows his brows, obviously in pain, groans and sits up hastily, spilling half of the bottle of Southern Comfort over me and the coffee table. I let go of his hand – finally –, he lets go of the bottle and then he rushes past me, tottering like a sailor during a storm, gagging heavily, toward the bathroom.
Later on, when we're leaving the emergency room of the Roosevelt Hospital, I have a lot more information: a) Jasper has a concussion. b) Jasper has a broken middle finger. c) Jasper has a partially fractured rip. d) Jasper has mild alcohol poisoning. e) Jasper has no idea about what he did on the Chesterfield.
"I really spilled Southern Comfort on you? Am sorry. Know ya hate this stuff." His voice is weak and shaky, he's pale as a ghost, but he still tries to smile.
I aid him down the stairs that lead to the main entrance of the hospital by holding on to his elbow lightly. As soon as he has covered this obstacle, I release his elbow immediately.
While he stops, rummaging around in the pockets of his coat for his cigarettes, I look up in the night sky. "It's okay."
He lights a cigarette with trembling fingers. "I'll make it up to ya," he drawls.
I nod.
f) I have no idea how my life got so confusing.
