All characterizations, plot lines, backgrounds and details belong to the author. Plagiarism is theft. No copying or reproduction of this work in any language is permitted without the express written authorization of the author. Stephenie Meyer owns all things Twilight. Thank you. April 2010.

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Thanks to all those reading, reviewing, and recommending. As ever, let me know what you think.

On with Edward…

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EPOV

Chapter 12

I watch her ass as she walks away from my loft, and I fight with the urge to race after her.

Holy fuck, I'm going to dinner at Bella's.

I lean against the door after I shut it, and try to come to grips with this massive breakthrough.

So many emotions from this encounter have me reeling, and I can't even paint right now because I need more supplies. Fuck, I'm an idiot. Why didn't I stock up on what I needed before now? Right, because I haven't painted in months, and didn't have the need for paint until three days ago.

I grab my keys and head out to the supply store. I need to get back here so I can get this raging emotion onto the canvas before it decides to disappear.

"Cullen, wow. It's been a while man." James smirks from behind the counter at me as I fly into the store. James is a budding artist himself, and while he's waiting for his big break, he decided to open the only high quality art supply store I ever buy anything from.

"Yeah, I need some stuff," I mumble. I'm a man on a mission right now, and I really don't want to stop to chit chat with James.

"You haven't needed stuff for months. What happened?" he asks, looking way too interested.

"I got inspired," I say as he joins me at the oil paints.

"You got inspired? Tell me about it." He watches me in fascination as I scan the paint tubes, studying them closely and carefully select what I need.

"You know how it works. One day, something just hits you," I explain.

He nods his head. "Yeah, I know what you mean. Hey, Jane's going to do a showing for me, you know, try to sell some of my pieces." I tear my eyes away from the paints and look back at him.

"She is? That's great, man. Jane is good. She knows what she's doing."

"Yes, she most certainly does," he says, snickering. He waggles his eyebrows at me, and I shake my head.

"You know what I mean," I say. I move into the brush aisle and take my time selecting. I usually am pretty fucking anal about my brushes. But the amount of work I've been doing has taken a toll, and I may need to actually break down and use new ones soon. I don't want to be stuck without any when that happens.

"Yeah, I think I do know what you mean," James says. He stares at me and raises an eyebrow, and I feel slightly nauseous again. Apparently, Jane has decided that fucking the artists she represents is on the checklist of things for her to do.

"I think that's everything." I turn to him with my arms full and head to the cash.

"Hey, about the whole Jane thing," he says, looking up at me from behind the register as he narrows his eyes. "I don't want it to be weird or anything. I mean, I know you guys fuck."

"No, we don't, James." I stare back at him as he smirks at me. He finishes ringing the order through, and I hand him my credit card.

"It's alright, man, just keep it covered that's all I'm saying. I mean, that shit is hot, and we gotta do what we gotta do, right?"

"You can have Jane all to yourself. I'm not interested," I say definitively.

"Right, whatever you say. When do you think this is going to be ready? Looks like a big piece you're working on," he says as he bags the massive amount of supplies.

"I'm not sure exactly. A month or so probably."

"That's around the same time as my showing. Hey, you should come. It's at Jane's gallery. I'll email you with the invite." He looks excited, and I know that feeling. I miss that feeling. Your first exhibit of new work is a total rush. The excitement of people seeing what you've created for the first time, wanting to know every single thing they're thinking, watching them as they study the brush strokes.

"That sounds great, man. I'd love to go," I say. Maybe I'll take Bella. The thought awakens my dick…again. I grab the bags, saying a quick goodbye to James before launching back to car.

Three hours later, as Sibelius' Symphony No. 5 blares through the studio, I stand in front of the canvas. This time, the strokes are calculated, less frantic, filled with promise and hope. Contrasting, vivid colours that blend together and meet in the middle of the canvas, exploding into a burst of brilliant burgundy.

I cock my head to the side, stare back at it, and marvel at just how far she has allowed me to come. In such a short amount of time, this woman has transformed me, awakened me, made me want more from her and myself. She doesn't have a clue, and now I feel that I need to finally tell her, or better, show her.

Wait a minute. Am I actually contemplating showing her this before it's done? I don't do that. Ever. But she's already seen part of it, and this is all because of her.

A persistent knock on the door stirs me from my thoughts. I leave the brush on the desk and take the stairs to the door. I'm pumping with anticipation thinking that maybe she's back. I'm disappointed when I open the door to some young freckled teenager standing in the rain with a delivery box.

"Mr. Edward Cullen?" he asks.

"Yeah, that's me."

"This is for you. Sign here, please." He hands me the box, and I sign his little sheet on the clipboard, and shut the door.

What the hell is this? I don't remember ordering anything. I take a look at the label, and see it's from The Foundation. Oh, maybe it's the final rendering of the logo. I mean, the box doesn't weigh very much for it to be anything substantial.

I rip it open and lift out a folded note. My face takes a downturn when I see that the fucking hyacinths are cut up in the box. I open the note as my blood boils.

Did you know that cut up hyacinths mean you're an asshole?

I'm not sure if I should be livid or turned on right now. That I've managed to produce some sort of reaction is something, I guess. But what the fuck? I mean, I thought this morning we had crossed over from me being a mere annoyance to her tolerating me, at least. I fist the note into a ball in my hand as I feel the adrenaline course through my veins.

What the fuck does this mean? How am I an asshole all of a sudden?

I think over the few minutes that she was here, and can't for the life of me figure out how I was an asshole. The woman is insane. One minute I'm being invited to her house for dinner, and the next, I'm an asshole? And as I sit on the stool at the counter, staring at the cut up flowers, wondering what the fuck is going through her head, inspiration hits.

I haul the flowers upstairs to the studio, and begin frantically painting a new piece. This time, there is nothing calculated about my strokes, because quit frankly, I'm mad as fucking hell. I know exactly what I'm going to do with this.

A swirling kaleidoscope of vivid violet and rich red, each bleeding into the other, mixing confusion, anger, bitterness. It provides the backdrop as I permanently fix a few of the petals from the hyacinths to the canvas so they cascade down the side and off the frame. Then I paint them black. That should make for a nice hostess gift when I go to her house on Sunday…if I go to her house on Sunday.

As I stand, practically hyperventilating in front of the canvas, my cell phone buzzes from the desk. I drop the brush and pick up the phone, looking at the display.

"Carlisle. You're timing is impeccable as always," I sneer.

"Hello, Edward. Just checking in to make sure we're still on for tonight?" he asks hopefully. I can't remember the last time Carlisle double checked his plans with me.

I take a deep breath and turn away from the canvas. "Yeah, Carlisle. I'll be there."

"I'm looking forward to seeing you, Edward. It's been too long," he says.

"You think?" I half snort into the phone.

"Edward, I'm trying. You're going to have to, as well," he says quietly.

"I'll see you later." I hang up the phone, and then move back to the canvas, studying it, hoping that somewhere in here I'm able to find the answers to why my life is so Goddamn complicated.

xxxxxx

It's just after seven o'clock when I leave the car with the valet at the Wedgewood, and wander into Bacchus restaurant. I've taken a few women here; it's expensive, intimate, fresh flowers on the table, dim candlelight illuminating the room. Most women love this type of shit. I, of course, immediately think of Bella, who of course is not most women, and therefore would probably hate this place.

I scan and find them quickly, sitting at the back of the restaurant, their heads bowed together. He's stroking her hair, looking at her like she's the only woman in the universe. He hasn't looked at a woman like that since mom. I watch for a moment as they read over the menu together.

He looks different. He's relaxed, and not the gaunt figure that he was the last time I saw him. My eyes fall to the mystery woman, who is nothing like any of the countless one night stands I've seen him with over the years.

She's older, probably almost as old as he is. She's beautiful in a girl next door kind of way, rather than a skank in tight clothing willing to give you a blow job if you buy her a cheap drink kind of woman that he usually is with.

She has shoulder length, curly ash blonde hair. She looks content, and so does he. He kisses the top of her head, and then looks towards the doorway. He rises up and waves at me, motioning for me to join them.

I nod my head to him before making my way over. He stands and walks around to the front of the table to meet me.

"Edward, it's so good to see you, Son," he pulls me into a hug, which I of course push back from as I stiffen.

"Carlisle," I respond, issuing him a skeptical look.

"Sit, sit. This is Esme." He grabs her hand and grips it tightly, like he's holding on for dear life or something.

"Nice to meet you," I mumble.

"Oh, Edward. It's so nice to finally meet you. All Carlisle talks about is you," she says. Her voice is soft and soothing, and makes me think about mom for a minute.

"He talks about me all the time?" I raise my eyebrows to her. "You do realize I haven't seen him in two years, right?"

She glances over at Carlisle briefly and then back to me. "Yes. I know, Edward. It's been a complicated couple of years," she says quietly.

I let out a huff and lean back into the booth. 'Is that right?" I ask lifting an eyebrow to her. "So complicated that he can't see or call his only son?"

"Edward!" Carlisle snaps at me.

"What, Dad? What do you want me say? Do you want me to lie to your girlfriend? Tell her we have a close relationship? I think you and I both know that's not the case."

"Edward, listen. I know I haven't been here to support you and your career…" Carlisle starts to offer me some lame explanation, but right now, I'm in no mood to listen to him.

"What the fuck do you know about my career?"

"I know everything I can, Edward. I have all the articles from when you sold your work. I have photos from the web of your paintings. I have everything I could have, given the circumstances," he says forcefully.

"What fucking circumstances, Carlisle? You know, it would have been nice to have someone from my family acknowledge the fact that I sold something. Something that you should know I did for mom."

"Edward, I couldn't be there," he says.

"Couldn't or wouldn't?"

"Couldn't. I was having chemotherapy." His voice drops to almost a whisper.

"What?" I feel the blood drain from my face. "What the fuck are you talking about? Why didn't somebody call me?"

"Edward, the last time I saw you two years ago, I was sick. Really sick. I know you probably thought I was thin from drinking too much, and not taking care of myself. That's partially true, but it was more than that. I didn't even know what was wrong, until I finally went to my doctor in Toronto. I had testicular cancer," he explains as Esme rubs his back with her hand.

"What? Jesus Christ, Dad! Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because, I knew you were creating and painting, and that was a way for you to deal with your mother's death. I didn't want this to prevent you from realizing your potential, Edward. I wanted you to finish what you were doing for her. I didn't want to be the reason you didn't finish. And look at what's happened to you because of it. You're a successful, talented artist. I'm so proud of you, son," he says, and he actually sounds sincere, but right now, all I can think about is how I've been lied to for two years.

"That's bullshit, Dad. I could have helped you. I should have helped you! You had no right to keep this from me!" I scream at him.

"Keep your voice down, Edward! Let me finish."

A nervous waiter drifts by and tentatively asks if we'd like a drink.

"Double Crown Royal on ice," I bark at him.

"Just club soda for us," Esme answers.

"You're not drinking?" I ask, looking at Carlisle skeptically.

"No. Not any more," he says. Esme squeezes his shoulder staring up at him adoringly. I feel like I'm going to throw up.

The waiter disappears while I lean forward and narrow my eyes at Carlisle.

"I'm waiting," I say sharply.

"Edward, I know how hard it was for you when your mom got sick. I also know how hard it was for me. Look at what it did to me…to us. Look at who I turned into because I didn't deal with it. I didn't seek out help for me or for you. I completely failed you, but even after all of that, you found a way to survive. I just drowned," he admits as he stares back at me. "When I found out that I was sick, that I would have to go through the same hell that your mother did, I knew I couldn't let you watch it happen. I was petrified that you would turn out the way I did. So, I cut you off to try to keep you from having to go through this again."

"Dad," I shake my head at him and shut my eyes.

"Edward, I'm ok now. They got all of it. I'll have to do yearly tests and keep an eye on things, but I'm ok, and I owe most of that to Esme." He looks down at her, and she quirks a nervous smile to him.

"She was a volunteer at the hospital. She came to see me every day while I was being treated. She gave me hope. She helped me find myself. She taught me to really love again. I had to do that before I came back, Edward."

"I should have been there. I could have helped you. I've spent the last two years thinking you were off fucking the entire population of Toronto, Carlisle! Thinking that you didn't give a damn about me! Do you have any idea what that's done to me?" I ask him as I feel the tension roll off of me in waves.

"Edward, I'm sorry. I thought it was for the best. I didn't want you to see me go through it. You were thriving and becoming successful, and I couldn't take that away from you."

"Maybe you should have asked me first," I seethe.

"Sometimes, when you're a parent, you do things that you think are best for your children, to protect them, to make sure they grow the way they should," he says.

Oh, so now, I'm getting the 'I'm a parent and so I know everything" speech.

"I'm not a child, Dad. And I wasn't a child two years ago, either. You should have told me," I say through gritted teeth.

The waiter reappears, thankfully, with my Crown and their sodas.

"I'm telling you now. I'm here now, and I want you to be in our lives, Edward. I wasted so much time after your mom died. Time is something you never get back. I can't do anything about the past. I can't change it, but I can make sure that I don't make those mistakes again." We stare at each other for an immeasurable period of time, and I see his pain and regret, but mostly, I see hope. I finally break from his stare and down the Crown. It feels exceptionally good as it coats my throat.

"It's really gone?" I ask, my voice a mere whisper as I set the glass back onto the table.

He nods his head. "Yeah, it's gone."

I rest my forehead in my hands as I try to digest this. Everything I thought I knew about him was wrong. I feel guilty, so guilty about not bothering to call him, thinking the worst, believing that my own father didn't give a shit about me.

"We should eat," Esme says softly. I raise my head and stare at her blankly as she lifts a menu to me.

I nod and take it from her while Carlisle smiles down at her.

"Tell us about you, Edward," Esme encourages. "Have you been painting anything new?"

I stare back at her. "I just started painting again recently."

"What do you mean again?" Carlisle asks.

"I haven't painted in months. Not since Angela and I broke up."

"What happened to change that?" Esme asks.

"I found my inspiration," I say quietly as I think about Bella, although I'm not sure she's anything anymore.

"Is it anything that we could see while we're here?" Esme asks hopefully.

"I don't show my paintings until their finished."

"Oh," she looks down at her glass and twirls it in her hands.

"I'm donating a piece to a fundraiser next month. That will be ready before my next collection is." Her eyes grow wide at this information, and suddenly I feel the need to have them see my work; to watch Carlisle's face as he sees it unveiled. "You guys should come back for that. It's an auction to raise money for the Boreal forest." I look at him eagerly, and his face lifts.

"We'd love to come, Edward," he says. I nod my head and open the menu. The waiter returns, and I order the Wild Applewood Smoked Coho Salmon. I don't even hear what they order because I'm still trying to come to grips with this fucking life altering turn of events. The waiter takes the menus from us and I sit back, feeling drained and exhausted.

"So, have you been seeing anyone, Edward?" Carlisle asks.

"I've seen a lot of people," I answer him, curling the corners of my mouth up.

He chuckles and takes a sip of his club soda. "No one special?" he presses.

"None of them have been special. I did meet someone recently though, who I thought was maybe different."

"You thought?" Carlisle asks.

"Yeah, I thought she was. Now, I'm not so sure," I admit. I'm still trying to figure out what fucked up motivation is behind trashing the flowers. Part of me doesn't even know why I'm bothering.

"Did you talk to her? Maybe it's something you can work through. I mean, if this has taught me anything it's that there's always hope, Edward, even when it seems like that's impossible." I stare back at Carlisle, unsure of what to do with his attempt at giving me advice for the first time in years. I don't know if I should feel pissed off of the time I've lost with him, angry for him lying to me, or just grateful that I get another chance.

"So, you guys are here for a couple of weeks?" I ask, deciding to change the subject.

"Yes, I thought maybe we could spend some time together, if you're free?" Carlisle asks hopefully.

"Sure, I mean, I need to paint, but we can figure something out," I say. He nods his head and Esme looks relieved. As our meals arrive and we engage in polite conversation about Esme's work at the cancer treatment centre, I begin to feel something I haven't felt in a very long time.

I feel hope.

Hope for me, for him, for salvaging our relationship. There is a whole hell of a lot of work to be done by both of us, but I feel that tonight we've taken a massive step.

It's almost nine o'clock when Carlisle decides to call it a night. He agrees to call me in a couple of days, recognizing that I'm going to need some time to digest what's happened tonight.

I check my messages on my phone as I wait for the valet to pull my car up. I listen to Emmett complain at the top of his lungs, and ask why I'm not at The Den already. I had totally forgotten about meeting him tonight.

He's celebrating the launch of his new website. I had provided him with new designs, which were a vast improvement over what he had. He's also offered to give me free personal training sessions for the next year on the basis of the new clientele he's garnered since I revved his pathetic first logo, which I think he drew himself on the back of a bar napkin.

I don't much feel like going out right now, but I also know that he's just going to hound me until I do, so I may as well get it over with.

I take the short drive to The Den, and park the car. I cringe as I walk in. I'm assaulted by some sort of wretched, blasting hip hop mix which I absolutely loathe. The place is full of scantily clad women who are, as I've unfortunately found out, are easily amused and therefore, easy for me to fuck. It's really tempting right now. I'm not going to lie.

I'm so confused about everything that's happened today. Maybe all I need is a good random lay. I scowl to myself because I know that's not what I really want. What I really want is Bella, despite everything that's happened.

I think about what Carlisle said tonight, about talking it out, and I wonder if that's possible for us. I mean, even after everything she saw with Lauren…yes, Lauren, she still came to the loft. Doesn't that mean something? But what about the flowers? What happened today that made her revert back into ice queen mode? I could spend a lifetime trying to figure this woman out.

I scan for Emmett and find him standing up at the bar. He motions to a small booth to the side of the dance floor, and I make my way to it. I sit down and survey the room. Some of the women gyrating on the dance floor have already taken notice of Emmett. He tends to attract attention; he's massive and boisterous, and funny as hell.

He returns to the booth with a tray full of beers, and a few fruity drinks with umbrellas in them. I eye them curiously. "Into girly drinks now, Emmett?" I ask, laughing at him.

"These are awesome! Have you never tried a green apple martini?" he asks seriously. I shake my head at him and watch as he downs one. "Here, go ahead. You'll thank me for it, trust me."

I reach for the drink and take a sip. "Is there even any alcohol in here?" I ask.

He smiles and nods his head, "Oh, yeah. Double shots in each. It's how Bella likes them."

"Then I'll be sure not to have any more." I frown at him.

"What the hell dude!? I heard that you're painting her. What's going on? I thought you liked her?" he asks, looking confused. Join the club, my friend.

"She's insane, Emmett. That's what's going on," I say forcefully.

"Bella is not insane. I mean, she has her issues, who wouldn't with what she's gone through. Guys have treated her like shit. But she's not crazy, Edward." His voice is stern, and I know better than to argue with Emmett about this.

I just shake my head at him and down the martini before turning to the Sleeman's Honey Brown, and chugging it back.

"Just give her time, man. That's all I'm saying. From what Rosie says, she likes you," he says, tilting his beer towards me.

I just about spit my beer out, because if this is how Bella likes someone, I'd hate to see it if she didn't. "I don't think Bella likes me, Emmett."

"We'll just have to wait and see." He smirks at me, and suddenly I think I know exactly where this night is going.

"She's coming here isn't she?" I ask as I scowl at him over the beer bottle.

"Maybe."

"Fuck, Emmett!"

"What?"

"Why don't you tell me stuff like this? If I'd known that, I wouldn't have come here," I say loudly.

"Too late, dude." He nods his head towards the door. I turn and see Rosalie saunter in, her head held high as the entire male population of the bar stops and stares at her.

A little, petite woman with dark spiky hair follows her in. She seems to be dragging along some poor soul who looks like he'd rather be anywhere but here. I actually feel sorry for him.

And then I see her. She's biting her lip and looking around the club nervously. Her eyes fall to the dance floor, and she scowls and hits Rose in the back…hard. I stifle a laugh. It appears I'm not the only one she chooses to unleash her wrath on.

My eyes travel down her body which, of course, means my dick is immediately hard. She's dressed in black jeans and a black tight fitting sweater that makes me just want to rip it off of her and take her right the fuck here in the middle of the dance floor.

I feel my heart begin to race as they scan the club. I do a double take as I see Chef Mike from the cafeteria, following behind Bella, his eyes fixated on her ass.

What the fuck is this? I can't imagine that this is Bella's idea. She looks annoyed by his presence as he moves his hand to the small of her back and coaxes her towards the dance floor.

What is he doing? She hates dancing. I stiffen in my seat. He seems intent on getting her to the dance floor. She whips her head around and says something to him. He recoils looking like some sort of wounded animal. He looks as if he's apologizing, and I chuckle as I watch his pathetic attempt to save this little disaster.

Little Spiky says something to Bella, and her eyes grow wide for a minute as she listens. Then, to my utter shock, she puts her hand on Mike's shoulder, and whispers something into his ear. A smile fills his face.

What the fuck? What is she doing? Is she seriously interested in Chef Mike? And then, she turns deliberately back towards our booth, locks eyes with me and issues me the raised eyebrow.

Holy fuck. Game on.


Chapter End Notes

Sibelius' Symphony No. 5- Pure genius

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