Chapter Twelve
Newton's First Law of Motion: A body continues in its state of constant velocity (which may be zero) unless it is acted upon by an external force.
The occasional clap of thunder outside muffles the low hum that carries through my apartment as the dryer warms the water out of Edward's rain-drenched clothes. I sit on the edge of the sofa, sliding my fingers along the seam of the sheet that covers my makeshift bed, wondering how it's only been a few weeks since the two of us were last here like this.
I can't help but be jealous of how easy Edward had it then. When I was sick, he had the benefit of medical training; of knowing exactly what he could do that would make me feel better. Here I am, flying blind, with nothing but hands he can hold on to, and ears that are ready to listen. I'm lost, because I know that it'll take more than chicken soup and cold medicine to soothe his ache. Physical pain is so much easier to heal.
I hear the water in the shower stop running, and all the time I took to calm my nerves while Edward washed the weather off of him goes to waste as my heart speeds up. I can't stop staring at the light under my bedroom door—a long, narrow strip of amber—waiting for the shadows that will tell me he's coming.
The rhythmic scraping of the button on Edward's jeans against the inside of the dryer distracts me as my knees bounce with anticipation, and when my bedroom door finally opens, my whole body is electric. Edward walks out, barefoot, wearing a pair of Emmett's old sweatpants and a threadbare t-shirt that shows off the tone of his upper body. Everything about him sags: his shoulders, his lips, even his damp hair that kisses the nape of his neck and curls around his ears.
Edward takes a deep breath before looking over at me, and he reaches up to rub his right shoulder with his left hand, his arm crossing over his chest like a shield. My eyes meet his, and we're worlds apart, even here in this small room. The distance between us now almost seems insurmountable, even though I could take six steps and wrap myself in his arms in a heartbeat.
He slowly walks forward, his feet shuffling against the carpet as he moves. Now that he's near me, it feels like everything else has just fallen away; the only noise I hear comes from him. He lowers himself to sit on the coffee table, right across from me, then scoots up to the edge, his long legs spread so that his knees are on either side of my thighs. It's as if he wants to block me in, because he thinks I'm going to run away. The funny thing is that before he showed up, I was afraid he would do the very same thing.
He leans in toward me—so close—wet hair splayed across his forehead, smelling like my shampoo. His fingertips trail along the sheet covering the sofa, and this sad kind of smile lifts the corner of his lips. Does seeing that I did this give him as much comfort as doing it gave me?
My hands rest on my lap, all twisted up to keep myself from reaching out for him. I want to, so badly. I wonder if he knows? Can he see how hard it is for me not to touch him? Can he feel it?
He must be able to, because his fingertips reach out and tentatively graze across my skin, over the backs of my fingers, unraveling the knot that they made all twined together. His fingers lace through mine now that they're free, and he's so slow about it; warming me up to him. It works, too, because I feel warm, the way I always do when he touches me. I get a thrill from this one simple gesture that makes my insides go crazy, but now that we're in uncharted territory, it scares me to realize that I can't turn this feeling off.
I shift my body toward him, because his hands in mine and his legs on either side of me just aren't enough, even though I wish they could be. He moves forward too, and when his forehead touches mine, I close my eyes. It'd be so easy for me to just melt into him; to climb onto his lap, wrap my arms and legs around him, and let my body make me part of his.
I'm so far gone that it scares me, even now. Especially now.
"Are you mad at me?" he asks, looking at me through tired, heavy eyes.
Am I mad at him? I thought I was at first, but now that he's here, where I am is so far from where I was yesterday that I don't even know if I could put a name to what's going on inside of me. Whatever I'm feeling makes my stomach churn and my nerves rattle, but I don't think it's anger.
"I didn't lie to you," he says, squeezing my fingers. "It's important that you know that."
Now I am mad. It's strange how a few simple words can give a name to the nameless, and whip everything inside of me into the worst kind of frenzy. I pull away from him, and Edward puts his hands on my thighs to hold me in place long enough for him to qualify his statement.
"How can you say that-"
"I didn't," he pleads, reaching out for me, palms up. I dodge his touch, and sit back, far away from him. The distance is better; it makes it easier for me to think clearly.
"You might not have lied, Edward," I say, folding my arms over my chest, because now I'm the one who needs a shield, "but you weren't honest, either. There's a world of difference." It's a difference that will either make or break this thing between us, and he knows it. It's in every move he makes, every look he gives me.
He takes a deep breath, and nods. "That's why I'm here."
Ugh, how does he do that? He makes me crazy and calms me down, all at the same time.
I grip the backs of his knees with my hands. Not tightly; just enough to give me something to hold onto, to let him know that I'm not a hostile audience. It's better if I have control of this situation, and now I feel like I've got it.
"You can trust me. I mean, I know we haven't been together that long, but-"
"I do trust you," he says. He runs his fingers through his hair, and his head hangs low. "I'm just nervous. Or…scared, I guess." He says that so reluctantly it's like I've pried the words from his lips.
"Of what?"
He sighs. "Of losing the bubble that I feel like I'm in when I'm with you."
He's alluded to this bubble before in roundabout ways, and I've always been glad to be able to give him some kind of escape. Now, though, whether it's from the tone of his voice or the look in his eyes, I don't know, but I'm starting to realize that this bubble isn't altogether a very good thing.
"That goes both ways, you know," I say, gently rubbing the backs of his calves before my hands move up to the sides of his thighs. His muscles are so tense, and I want him to relax, especially when he's with me.
"What do you mean?"
"You're scared you're going to lose the bubble, and I'm scared of what's going to happen when you don't need it anymore."
He quickly sits up, as if I've startled him. "You think that's the only reason I'm with you?" His eyebrows are all scrunched together, and he almost looks...hurt?
"No," I say, trying to reassure him. "This feels like too much to just be a distraction, but...you're not the only one with something to lose here. The only difference is that I've already laid myself out on the line, and you just don't want to, or-"
"I do want to, it's just that-"
"I know, I know. You need the bubble."
"No. No. That's not it. I just...I don't talk about this stuff. That night you were sick, that's...it's the most I've shared with anyone. Ever."
The small surge of pride that rushes through me at his admission makes me feel selfish, and a little braver. "I'm not asking you to tell me your life story right now, Edward. But I can't let myself fall for a guy who won't be honest with me about who he is."
He lets out this sardonic little laugh. "I thought I'd learned how to be a man when I was fourteen; taking care of my mom and all that, but over the past month or so I've started to realize that I don't know shit about it."
"What do you mean?" I ask, confused.
He sighs. "I've always thought admitting that you have a weakness makes you weak, and that asking for help makes you helpless."
"That hiding your problems makes them go away?" I know that much is true based on what little bit he has told me.
"How can you always see through my bullshit? I don't even think you realize you're doing it half the time." He sounds awed, and it makes me want to smile.
"It's not as hard as you think it is," I say, giving him a gentle squeeze. His fingers slip between mine and our hands rest on his lap. "Besides, there are some things that words can't cover up."
"Maybe." He turns his head toward the window for a moment before looking back at me. "I think you're just the only one who ever thought it was worth your time to really try to see me."
"It's because I care about you, in spite of your initial attempts to make me feel otherwise." He smiles halfheartedly, and even that's the best kind of victory right now. "There are a million reasons why. Maybe one day we'll get to the point where I can tell you all of them, and by then there might be a million more. But not a single one is because I pity you, or because I think I can fix you."
"I was mad when I said that."
"I know, but that doesn't mean you weren't thinking it."
The dryer buzzes through the quiet, and it's a long while before Edward speaks again.
"I never knew what it was like to be happy," he finally says. His head is hung low, and he's looking up at me through the fringe of his lashes. "You're the good part of my life, and I feel like if I mix this," he motions between the two of us, "with everything else, I'll lose it. Lose you."
"I'm not going anywhere," I say, even though it's a promise I know I can't keep. I mean it now, because, God help me, at this point it'd take everything in me to walk away from him. "We don't have to do this tonight."
"Yes we do." He's got this look in his eyes that I've never seen before, all fire, and resolve, and determination. "I've been thinking about what I was going to say for the past day...I just don't know where to start."
My chest tightens, because if he can't even find a jumping off point, there's no telling how far the fall's gonna be.
"Start wherever's easiest."
"Easy," he whispers bitterly, looking down at our laced fingers. I can't tell where I end and he begins. We're all tangled up together, there's no denying it now. It gives me comfort to see physical proof of it, as the silence between us hangs heavy as an anvil over my head. The seconds tick past, and I make a list of all the things he could tell me now that would make me want to end this. Unsurprisingly, it's very small.
Then he slowly slips away from me. He slides back on the coffee table until we're no longer touching, until our jumble of fingers and hands are separate and defined. I feel like he would move to the other side of the room if he could, the other side of the city, or the state, even.
He doesn't, though. He stays just out of reach, and my heart sinks as I rest my elbows on my knees and wait for him to tell me his secrets.
"I lost my house," he finally says, as his worried green eyes find mine. They're just words—groups of letters—but the way they slip through his lips, dripping with shame and regret, they're everything. "It belonged to my parents. Well, my mom, now. It's where I grew up, and my dad..."
I can see the muscles in his throat flex as he swallows, and he takes a sip from the glass of water I'd forgotten I poured for him while he was in the shower.
"How?" My voice is soft, careful, even though I'm not exactly surprised. He told me yesterday that he didn't know where he'd be living at the end of the month, but if this is the easiest thing for him to tell me, I can't even fathom the rest of this conversation.
He tilts his head back, and rubs his cheek with his palm. "There are a few reasons, I guess, but the one common denominator is me. It's...complicated."
"I have all night," I say gently.
He takes a deep breath, and my lungs ache like I'm holding mine.
"Have you ever tried to be something for someone, just because they wanted it so badly?"
After years of living with my mother, I could be asking him the very same question. "Yes," I whisper.
Edward exhales in one long gust of breath. "How do I say this?" He picks at a small hole in the hem at the bottom of his shirt, and his eyelids shut tight before he rubs the skin above his eyebrows with his index finger and thumb.
I feel like I'm about to jump out of my skin.
"Eight months or so after my dad died, my mom started to come out of it, but she still had her days," he says, rubbing his hands across his thighs. "When I was about sixteen, I came home from school one afternoon, and she was cleaning out the hall closet. There was shit everywhere. That closet probably hadn't been touched in years. She was just sitting on the floor with an old t-shirt that belonged to my dad in her hands, and one of his med school textbooks open on her lap.
"She had to have been sitting there for most of the day, crying. She didn't even look up at me; she was just flipping through the pages of the book. I'll never forget it, she said, 'I would've been able to save him if I knew what any of this meant.'" He rests his elbows on his knees, and clasps his hands together, rubbing the pads of his thumbs against each other so roughly that the beds of his fingernails turn white. He seems far away, lost in this bad place he doesn't want to remember, but too caught up in to forget.
"Once I got her to bed, and I cleaned up the mess, I took every one of those books." His eyes snap to mine, and he's back here with me. "I was determined to learn every damn word on every page of those books, even if it killed me. For her, for my dad..."
"You did," I say quietly, gently resting my palm on his knee. He doesn't flinch or move away, so I slowly glide my thumb across his soft cotton pants.
"Yeah," he says with this small laugh. "It would've been great if medicine just involved memorization and comprehension. There's that pesky practical application part of it, which I tried and failed miserably. All on her dime."
"What do you mean?"
"When I started middle school, Dad sat me down in his study to talk about my long-term goals. He was always saying things like, 'Make big plans for your life, Edward. Don't let anyone tell you that you can't do something.' The man was a walking motivational poster," he says, with this sad, beautiful smile. It's the kind of smile that makes me wish I could've known the man he's talking about. "He told me that the most important thing a person could invest in is his mind."
"That's a very 'dad' thing to say," I tell him. My father told me something similar, although he was far less eloquent about it.
"Yeah," he replies, his eyes a little glassy. "That's the kind of guy he was. He and his father were estranged, and he wanted it to be different for us."
The way Edward talks about his father—all pride, love, and adoration—there's no doubt in my mind that it was.
"He told me he was putting money away for my education, because he didn't want me to be saddled with debt like he was when he first started out. He asked me what I wanted to be, and all I told him was that I wanted to be just like him. He never pushed me," Edward says, tilting his head back to look at the ceiling. "But he wanted it, I could tell.
"After he died, when I told my mom that I was seriously considering becoming a doctor, she just...lit up. I couldn't remember the last time I'd seen her so happy," he says, with this ghost of a smile on his lips. "But since Dad was gone, I didn't want to take the money. Not for undergrad or med school." Edward's voice has this agitated edge to it that I can tell he's so desperately trying to dull, but it's not working. "I took out a loan behind her back for my freshman year, and when she found out, I'd never seen her so pissed. She was adamant that I take the money Dad had saved for me, told me that all he wanted was for me to have it. She knew that'd get me."
"You think she manipulated you?" I'm afraid this is starting to sound like an interrogation, but I feel like he needs me to guide him. I'm so far in the dark that I'm grasping at any bit of light I can see.
"No, I know why she did it." He sounds angry at first, then kind of resigned as he glides his thumb across the back of my hand. "There was a time when she…she couldn't be my mother, and she thought I gave up my childhood to take care of her. Maybe I did, but I would do it all over again," he says emphatically, trying to convince me of something I already believe. "I would."
"I know," I tell him, squeezing his fingers.
"She felt like she owed me something." He practically spits the words out, like they're poison, like-
I finally put two and two together.
"You didn't have a college fund, did you?" I ask.
Edward's breathing steadies as he traces this nonsensical pattern along the back of my hand with his fingertip. It makes all the tiny hairs on my arm stand on end, commanding my nerves while the repetition seems to be calming his.
"I did," he says, his memory-dulled eyes looking into mine. "But it wasn't nearly enough. I guess my dad, he...he thought he had more time."
Of course he did. Because Edward's father probably didn't think he was going to die in his forties, leaving behind a son who thought the world of him, and a wife who obviously did, too.
"I don't understand how that-"
"He loved us," Edward says, pressing his hand against his chest. "He didn't leave us with nothing, he wouldn't have done that." He takes a deep breath before he begins again. "He just...made a few bad investments, and my parents were in debt. My mom was overwhelmed, and she never told me. She was too goddamn proud to let anyone know she was in trouble."
I reach up to touch his face, and the stubble that shadows his chin scratches my fingertips. Like mother, like son, and he doesn't even see it.
"You were fourteen, Edward. How could you have known any of this?"
His green eyes turn brilliant in his anger, cold and narrow. The feel of the pattern he was tracing along the back of my hand is burned into my skin, even though he's stopped. I take my hand and clasp it over his to remind him that I'm not his enemy in this, hoping he'll stop the self-flagellation.
"Yeah, I was fourteen, Bella. But then I was fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty. Things didn't get really bad until the past couple of years, but we could've gotten a handle on it if I'd known back then. I just went off to college and left her behind, because all I could see was a chance to not have to worry all the damn time. To be normal."
"You were just a kid-"
"I was off partying at school, and she was alone, paying for things she had no fucking business paying for. My life was different from other kids my age. I had accepted that."
"It's okay if you wanted to forget it for a while."
He slides his hand out from under mine, and threads our fingers loosely together. We're not as close as we were before, but we're closer, and that makes this feel a little less uncertain.
"Besides, your mom's heart was in the right place." I don't even know the woman, but I ache for her. How can I not feel for a mother who wanted to find some way to relieve the crushing burden that life put on her son's shoulders? That she thought she added to?
"Her heart would've been in the right place if she'd had the money to give. And what did I do? I spent two years in med school when I knew after the first semester I wasn't cut out to be a doctor. Do you know how much a year at Dartmouth costs? She might as well have set that money on fire."
"I don't know how much it costs."
"Over fifty thousand dollars," he says slowly. Or maybe it just sounds slow as I let the number sink in. "I had scholarships, but they barely covered a fourth of the cost."
"Jesus," I whisper.
"I never should've taken that money. I was so fucking stupid."
I clasp my hand behind his knee, and pull him closer to me. I feel like if he's close to me now, he'll feel what I'm about to say to him. Like the words will be marked on his skin for him to see whenever this guilt tugs at him and threatens to pull him under.
"You took what she offered you, Edward. You took what your father told you was yours, what she wanted you to have because he wasn't there to give it to you," I say, gripping his hand. "I would've taken it; my brother would've taken it. I don't know a single eighteen-year-old who would turn down an offer to graduate scot-free."
"It's not that simple," he says, shaking his head.
"It is that simple. It's easy to see now that you know what you know. You couldn't have seen it back then."
"Sometimes I think it's better if I don't see things."
"What do you mean?"
He rubs the back of his neck, and takes a deep breath as the hand I'm holding tenses up. The look on his face makes my stomach roll, and I know we're moving into the less-easy part of the story.
"My mom got laid off about six months ago," he says, pressing his lips together. "She never told me. She kept having me over for Sunday dinners like she didn't have a care in the fucking world; smiling, acting like the worst part of her day was burning the crust on one of her goddamn pies."
Even through the anger that's pulsing through Edward's lips, I'm stricken by the love his mother has for him, how all she seems to want is for him to have a normal life. The method probably wasn't the greatest, but the affection behind it is overwhelming.
"How did you find out?"
"I accidentally knocked a pile of her mail onto the floor. When I picked it up, I found a letter from the bank about the mortgage on the house."
When he looks at me, all I can see is the fourteen-year-old boy who grew into the twenty-seven-year-old man sitting in front of me, who still carries the weight of the world on his shoulders.
"What did she do when you found it?"
"She was upset, but she finally came clean about everything she'd been hiding: her job, her debt. And…she's my mom, you know? I couldn't just let her struggle. My lease was up in a couple of months, so I paid it out, and moved in with her," he explains. "I wanted to help her, but…I really wanted to save the house. That's...that's all I could see."
"Edward, I don't think you give yourself enough credit-"
He cuts me off, because when he's ticking off his failings, he doesn't want to listen to reason.
"She sent her resume out everywhere, but she couldn't find a job. She'd always been a good cook, so I suggested she do some catering on the side, because we needed the money. We really needed the money."
"It was a good idea." I'm trying to give him something, anything. But he doesn't want to hear it.
"She had taken this job out in Tacoma, but she didn't want to do it. The drive out there versus the money she'd make…she didn't see the point. I think she was just tired…she needed a rest, but…I convinced her that we weren't in a position to turn it down." He slowly shakes his head, and swallows. "She called me before she left to let me know she was on her way home. She was running late, and it was raining pretty hard. I meant to wait up for her, but I was tired, and I fell asleep."
My heart is pounding from this ominous feeling that slips over my shoulders and gets heavier and thicker with every word he says.
"A cop knocked on the door a little after five in the morning. She fell asleep while she was driving. Hit a tree, and…"
"Edward," I whisper, brushing the backs of my fingers across his cheek. He leans into my touch, but keeps going. Somehow, he has the strength to keep going.
"She's been at Northwest Hospital ever since."
I wrap my hands around his, kissing his knuckles as I pull him toward me. I want to wrap myself around him and hold on tight.
"I had a fight with her that night," he says, his voice wavering. He squeezes my fingers, and tilts his head down to rest his forehead against them. "She didn't want to go, but I laid a guilt trip on her."
"It's not your fault," I whisper.
"Her whole body was broken: her legs, her arm, her ribs." When his red-rimmed eyes meet mine again, there's a little bit of hope in them that makes my heart feel lighter. "She's doing better now. She's learning how to walk again."
That revelation seems to ease him a bit, make his shoulders relax and his muscles loosen.
"When did this happen?"
"The accident happened a month or so before you started. She's going to be released soon, but she's got piss-poor insurance, and a long road ahead of her. And you know, after all that, who gives a fuck about a house?" he says, a new wave of anger making his eyes blaze. "I did. My mom's recovering in a hospital room, and I couldn't stop fighting for a goddamn house."
"I thought you said you lost the house."
"I did. We did. But I fought like hell to keep it," he says. He twists his fingers out from between mine, and they feel cold now without him. I want to touch him, to reassure him in any way that I can, but if he needs his space, I'll give it to him. "Remember that day in the copy room?"
"When the toner vomited all over your shirt?" I'm trying to make him laugh, and it works.
"When you made me realize that I was acting like an asshole," he replies, tracing a finger across my wrist. The tickle on my skin and the man who puts it there make me feel like we're anywhere but here.
"When you made me realize you weren't such an asshole after all." He grins, but it's short-lived.
"I was making copies of my financials to take to the bank, to see if I could get a loan to buy the house. I'd been turned down countless times; it's way more than I can afford. I don't even know why I bothered, but it was this guy Garrett knew, so I hoped-"
"Garrett knows?"
Edward shrugs. "He knows the bare minimum. I had to tell him something, since I needed him to help me out with my leave. He's done a lot for me."
I feel this surprising surge of affection toward Garrett; one that wells up in my chest and makes my throat tighten. "His friend couldn't help you?"
"No," he breathes. "It's amazing how far busting your ass for fifty plus hours a week and working two jobs on the side won't get you."
"The house-"
"Sold," he says quickly. "I couldn't let it go into foreclosure. Selling it made me feel like we had some kind of say in the matter. And you know what the most fucked up thing is?"
"No."
"All of this? My mom's accident, me busting my ass…it was for nothing."
"Why nothing?" I'm so scared to hear the answer to this question.
"Once she was out of ICU, I'd sleep in her room some nights," he says, resting his elbows on his knees. His hands are clasped together, gripping one another so tightly that his skin's an angry mix of red and white. "I was scared I'd get a call in the middle of the night, and not be able to make it in time. One night I was there, and I don't know…I must've been so exhausted that I just konked out right by her bed. When I woke up, she was running her fingers through my hair, and she looked so peaceful. She told me she didn't want the house. She didn't want to live there anymore, and she didn't want me fighting for it."
"Why not?" I ask, touching his knee.
"Because she saw him everywhere," he says, running his fingers through his hair. "She said there were too many memories in every room of that house, and that she felt like she couldn't move on. She felt like she was stuck there living in the past, loving someone who wasn't ever going to come back."
"That's understandable," I whisper.
"There's this ugly spot in the upstairs hallway, right outside of my room. He patched the wall after I kicked my soccer ball through it, because I was playing in the house when he told me not to." Edward blinks his wet eyes quickly, and brushes the back of his hand across his nose. "He wrote measurements for the patio he never finished on the drywall next to the sliding glass door in our basement. His handwriting is still right there," he says, holding one hand up, his palm flat. "He built me a tree house in the back yard. The ladder is creaky, and the third step broke off when he chased me up there when I was seven. I used to wonder what it would feel like to see my kids to play up there some day."
I swipe at the hot tears that fall down my cheeks, and hide my face so that he can't see me crying.
"So, I understand where she's coming from," he says. When I look up, he's rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. "She can have ten more husbands if she wants to, but he'll always be my only father. The thing is…those were my memories, too. And I wanted to keep them."
He's just sitting in front of me, sad eyes watching mine, with his shoulders straight and his head held high. How does he do it? How does he breathe in and out, and keep moving and living like his whole world hasn't fallen apart? I can't imagine all the strength he has having lived through that, when just hearing the story makes my chest ache. And what can I tell him? That he can make more memories in a strange house with perfect hallways, and patios, and tree houses in the back yard?
I can't tell him that, because I go home to Forks and walk into a house where my height throughout elementary school is marked in my mother's handwriting on the back of the pantry door. Where I still sleep in the bed I slept in when I was ten, and still swing on the swing that's hung from the porch for as long as I can remember.
There's nothing I can say to make it better.
So, I lean forward and thread my fingers through his, because his hands have been empty for far too long. I pull myself onto his lap, because he shouldn't be alone anymore, and he needs to feel the weight of a person he doesn't need to support. And I kiss him. I kiss his cheek, and his neck, and his soft, warm lips, too, because I want them to know that someday they'll have so many wonderful stories to tell.
"I have to find a place for us to live," he says, his breath hot on my cheek as he holds me close. "She needs home health care, and therapy, and fuck if I know how I'm going to pay for it. I take each penny that comes in and I hold on tight, because...what if I don't have enough?"
"You will have enough," I say, because I refuse to believe otherwise. When someone goes through something like this, and has such a pure, giving heart, things have to turn around for them at some point. Edward's time will come, I know it.
"I feel sick half the time, and I can't sleep. But I can't be mad at her, because I came so close to losing..." He can't even say the words.
"Is she the one you talk to on the phone all the time?"
"Yes. Would you believe this has made us closer?"
"I believe it," I say, kissing his cheek. That just goes to show what kind of people they are; things like this usually tear families apart. "I wish you didn't feel like you had to hide this from me."
"I hid it from everyone, but...once I started talking, it was kind of hard to stop."
"Therapeutic word vomit?" I tease, mostly because I want to see if he can still smile.
He can, and his smile makes me smile right back. "Exactly," he laughs. "Thank you for listening to it."
"Thank you for letting me listen."
He holds me as I trace the deep lines that crisscross his palm, from his thumb to his pinky and back again. It's peaceful like this, and I wonder if he feels it as much as I do.
"I have so much baggage, Bella," he says, before pressing his lips to my temple. "A relationship with me is probably more than you bargained for."
"I don't recall bargaining for anything." It makes me so sad, the way that he's trying to talk me out of falling in love with him. I want to tell him it's too late, but he'll think it's for all the wrong reasons, so I kiss him instead.
We sit like this for a few more minutes, until Edward fights back a yawn, and I'm surprised when I see that it's nearly midnight. Once I've looked at the clock, my body starts to realize how late it is. My eyes get heavy, ready to sleep off the day.
I peel myself away from Edward and stand, stretching the tension out of my muscles. He puts his hands on my hips, then rests his head against my belly, as his thumbs tickle the skin that's exposed between the waist of my pants and hem of my top. I run my fingers through his hair, so soft and smooth after his shower, then take his hands in mine and pull him to his feet.
"C'mon," I say, leading the way into my bedroom. Edward follows close behind me, and his feet shuffle across the carpet as I turn the lights off in one room, on in the next.
I can't bring his father back, and I can't heal his mother. I can't save his house, and I can't pad his bank account. What I can do is offer him a soft place to lay his head, and a warm body to hold him while he sleeps. So, that's what I do.
My open curtains cast soft moonlit squares across my bed after I flip off the light switch that's next to the door. Edward gravitates toward the right side, the one that was always his, and I climb my way up to my pillows, not even bothering to get under the covers.
Once we're both comfortable, I tuck myself into Edward's side, underneath his arm. I rest my head on his chest, and his hand finds my shoulder, where there's too little fabric, and not enough nerves to do the feel of his skin justice.
He yawns again, a deep, hollow breath that makes his chest rise like a wave, that pulls his shirt up just a few inches at the bottom. Even in the dark, I can see the small patch of hair there that disappears into gray cotton. I bring my hand up to that spot, warm and smooth, his muscles hard beneath my fingers. I don't trust myself to leave it there, so I slide it up beneath his shirt, where Edward rests his hand on top of mine.
I didn't think the first night Edward Cullen was in my bed would be spent like this, but as his breathing steadies and the curves of my body melt into his, I realize there's something to be said for just sleeping.
I close my eyes as Edward's fingers swirl lackadaisical patterns on my bare shoulder, and let much-needed sleep pull me under.
When I wake up in the morning, the sheets on Edward's side of the bed are wrinkled, but cool from the absence of his body. I sit up and rub my eyes, to see if I'm as alone as I feel. The clothes Edward wore to bed last night are neatly folded on top of my dresser, and I look around to see if there are any other traces of him. I smile when I see one of my red tea plates on my nightstand with a rainbow-sprinkled donut on top.
That smile gets even bigger when I find the note he's written on the corner of the napkin that's folded underneath the plate.
I have an early meeting-I wish I could've stayed. I'll be Lincoln about you all morning. –E
It's such a lame and cute little joke that I can't help but let loose this bubble of laughter that bounces around in my chest. I never thought a message written on two-ply throwaway paper could make me feel so giddy, but since I've been with Edward, I'm starting to recognize the potential in even the smallest things.
After I tuck the napkin into my drawer, I sit up and lean back against the headboard, grabbing Edward's pillow as I go. The teenage girl in me can't help but bring it up to her face so she can press her cheek against it. So she can smell the smell of the boy who slept in her bed last night. I'm all fluttery inside, and it seems wrong to feel this way when everything about Edward's life is so heavy. Then again, maybe this is what lightens him up, what buoys him. There can't be anything bad about that.
With the pillow clutched tightly to my chest, I take a bite of the donut, savoring the sugar as I lick it from my lips.
I swear this one tastes sweeter than the others.
The morning traffic passes like it always does, slow and tedious, because it doesn't care how anxious I am to step foot into my office. It doesn't recognize changes in relationships, either, or understand how badly I just need to see his face. Rush hour can be such a pain in the ass that way.
Apparently the universe doesn't care about my hurry, either, because when I walk through the door a few minutes earlier than I usually do, Edward's nowhere to be found. My stomach sinks with the sharp weight of disappointment, but I say my good mornings, trudge over to my desk, and get started with my day.
I wish I could stop my eyes from looking at his empty chair every few minutes, because it makes the time he's not sitting in it seem like an eternity.
When Edward finally comes in at quarter after nine, the worry lines that crease his forehead melt away as he looks at me, and I have to grip the bottom of my desk to keep myself from getting up to go to him. He makes me want him too much, and I think this place increases all of that tenfold, because I know I can't have him here. I have to watch myself. Some days it's thrilling, like part of a game; others, it's nearly torture. Today, it is torture.
Edward grins at me when he sits down at his desk, and this warmth wells up inside of me that spreads beneath my skin. I know that some morning soon, we'll open our eyes all tangled up in sheets after a long night of doing everything but sleeping. Somehow though, lying together all bundled up in each other's arms, after Edward shared things with me he's never shared with anyone else before, almost seems more intimate than anything we could've done with our clothes off. I feel it now when he looks at me, even here, across desks and beneath fluorescent lights.
I'm thinking about the way Edward's fingers brushed the side of my hip last night, just a ghost of a feeling that still lingers on my skin, when an email from him pops up on my screen. The message is short and completely benign, reading a simple: Coffee?
Shelly mumbles morning greetings as I follow Edward out toward the elevator. When he reaches forward to press the call button, the sunlight hits his face, highlighting the small, purplish bags underneath his eyes. I don't know why I'm surprised to see him look so tired; it's not like I thought one night in my bed would magically heal him, but there's something off.
"Did you sleep?" I ask. I reach out to touch his face, but a creaking door somewhere behind me stops me short. I have got to be more careful about controlling my reflexes; the closer we become, the more I automatically reach out for him. Doing that in a meeting or in front of one of my coworkers would be a very bad thing.
He shoves his hands in his pockets, and looks down at the floor. "Not really," he says, shaking his head.
"I'm sorry."
"It's not your fault. Maybe I just can't anymore. If I could've, I would've last night." He gives me this cute, sleepy grin that calms the nerves in my stomach.
The elevator doors barely have time to close before I stretch up on my tiptoes to press my lips against Edward's. It's nothing more than a quick peck, because we stop on the next floor, but it's enough to put a huge smile on his face.
A friendly-looking old man steps in, and Edward and I move back against the far wall. I rest my hands on the railing as we descend the last few floors, but when Edward's pinky finger slides against mine, and he smiles that smile that brings out my dimple, I feel like I'm on my way back up again.
A few minutes later, with our cups in hand, Edward and I begin our retreat back to the tenth floor. The two sips of coffee that he's taken seem to have woken him up a bit, and he's a little more talkative than he was before he'd had a hit of caffeine.
"Thank you for breakfast," I say, smiling against the lip of my cup.
"It's the least I could do." His soft eyes say more than his words ever could, and I shove my curled-up fist in my pocket so I don't reach out to hold his hand. I long for the feel of his fingers between mine.
"Are you busy later tonight?" I figure if my mouth's moving, it'll make my hands forget they have more important places to be.
"I have an apartment to look at, and I'm going to go visit my mom." The last few words come slowly, like he's still not sure he wants to tell me these things. I frown, and turn my head so he doesn't see. "Why?"
"Well, I was just wondering if you might have time for some dinner? Nothing fancy or anything...at the park maybe? It's nice outside, and it'll be fall soon, so…" Why can't I shut up?
"Bella," he says, laughing. "Dinner sounds good."
"Okay."
We keep walking, and the conversation dies. I try to pretend like nothing's wrong, but there's definitely something wrong. I start to panic a little, worried that maybe he's regretting last night, or this morning, or something in between.
"Is everything all right?"
"Yeah, why?"
I shrug, and trace the edge of my coffee cup. "You're upset."
"I'm not." He gives me this forced smile that makes his face seem all wrong. "I have to go get something out of my car, okay? Go ahead, and I'll be up in a bit."
"Okay," I say, my voice wavering. I look down to hide the tears pricking at my eyes.
He wraps his arm around my waist, and pulls me close. "I'm fine," he whispers in my ear, before kissing my cheek and disappearing into the throng of people crowding the building's front doors.
Surprise freezes my muscles for a second, because I can't believe he just did what he did here in front of everyone. It's not long before I feel a hand on my shoulder that startles me so much my coffee sloshes out onto the floor.
"Bella," Mike says. He looks toward the door before he takes my elbow and leads me out of the foot traffic.
"Mike," I say, pushing a strand of hair out of my face. I sound breathless, because I'm scared of what he just saw, and I'm trying to calm myself down. "Hey."
"You all right?" He leads me to the elevator, and presses the 'up' button. I politely pull my arm away from his grasp.
"Yeah, just have a bit of a headache is all." I don't like the lie. It's small, and weak, and I wonder if it'll be able to hold all the others that I might have to pile on top.
"I think Jess has some Tylenol if you need it." His eyes shift down to the ground, and when he looks back up at me, I know he knows what I'm hiding. When two people share the same secret, it's easier to see.
"Thanks," I reply with a tight smile. "I'll find her if I need some."
When we're in the elevator, my foot taps nervously on the ground, and I avoid Mike's gaze. He steps aside to let me out when the doors open on our floor, and as I pass him, he gives me a smile that's all him: boyish, and playful, and sincere. It feels like a trick, so I speed up my pace to get to the door before him, because I don't want to see what he does next.
I like Mike, and I don't want to watch him go to Jessica's desk, and lean over the counter. I don't want to worry about what he's saying to her when he leans in close, or have to decipher the smile and the laugh she replies with. When she gets up from her desk, I don't want to think about where she's going, or who she'll talk to, or what she'll say.
So, I push Jessica and Mike out of my mind, and dive into my work.
Throughout the day, I catch glimpses of Edward as he's catching glimpses of me. Slowly, he comes back to me. His smile becomes easier, and his eyes get brighter. Maybe what happened this morning was some kind of a glitch, and he's trying to make up for that now. I like the way Edward sits up straighter, and grins when he knows I'm watching him; so I don't tell him about Mike. I don't want to push one more worry into his crowded mind.
When the office empties out and I'm shutting my computer down, Edward's BlackBerry rings. He cradles it between his shoulder and cheek the way he always does when it's early in the evening and he's trying to finish up for the day. The ring tone is the same, and the soft smile he wears as he talks is the same.
What's different is the way he winks at me when I look in his direction, and how he doesn't try to hide anymore.
I grin, feeling like I've just been let in on some special secret, and I rip a piece of paper out of my spiral-bound notebook. The thick black Sharpie I use squeaks against the page as I write, and I get a whiff of the ink as I hold it up for Edward to see.
6:15?
Paper rips, and Sharpie squeaks, and he holds up a piece of paper that looks like mine, but with different writing.
Our park?
I smile, and nod. Our park.
I pick up my bag, and race out the door.
Later, beneath the cover of an old spruce tree that anchors the far corner of our park, Edward and I make up for lost time as we sit, all sprawled out on a blanket, touching, and kissing. It's semi-private here—as private as things can get in a park, at least—so I'm leaning back against Edward's chest, sitting between the 'v' that his stretched-out legs make.
"I don't think you brought enough mayonnaise, Bella," he laughs, as he digs through the paper bag full of condiments that I hastily pulled out of my kitchen drawer.
"I was in a hurry, so I just took whatever I could get my hands on." I like the way he teases me, and he knows it.
"Duck sauce?" He tosses the packet across the blanket, and hooks his arm around my waist when I move to get it.
"Hey!"
"What do you need duck sauce for?" He pulls me against him, and I don't even pretend to struggle. I want to be closer to him, not further away.
"I don't know, there could be a duck situation. You never know when one of them will need to be sauced."
"You're crazy," he says, before his lips find this spot on my neck that makes all my muscles feel weak and tingly. One of his arms is wrapped across my chest, and his hand rests gently on my shoulder. I'm tracing small hearts on his forearm, smiling like a dopey teenager writing her boyfriend's name on the front of her binder.
I'm not sure if he feels exactly what I'm doing, but when he pulls me closer and tucks his chin into the crook of my neck, I pretend that he does.
"You seem better now," I say, before popping a grape in my mouth.
"Was I bad?" He knows he was, I can tell.
"This morning you were. I thought maybe you regretted last night."
"I don't regret it, Bella." He hugs me tight, and I know that what he's saying is true. "It's just hard for me, now that you know."
"Oh." I hate sounding so disappointed.
"I think it'll just take some getting used to is all. I keep waiting for you to run away screaming."
"It's not like you kick puppies, or do something really creepy, like…Civil War reenactments."
He laughs, and leans in so close that I can feel his lips on my ear. "Well, there is something I've been meaning to tell you."
"Eat," I giggle, shoving a slice of cucumber in his mouth.
I can feel his stubbly chin graze across my shoulder as he chews. "You can't keep doing this, Bella."
"Doing what?"
"This," he says, holding his half-eaten sandwich up in front of me.
"What, you don't want me making sandwiches?" I'm sure he rolls his eyes, and part of me is glad I can't see it.
"You can make all the sandwiches you want." He licks his lips, which I will be kissing later. "I just don't want you feeding them to me."
"You don't like them?"
"Bella," he warns.
I shake myself out of his grasp, then turn around to face him, folding my legs underneath me.
"You need to eat, don't you?"
"That's not the point," he says, tossing the crust of his bread on his plate.
"Okay, then. What is the point?"
He rubs his hands together, and looks to his right, where the normally crowded field is empty. "I know you mean well." He looks down at his lap, tracing his finger along the crease in his jeans. "But it makes me feel pitiful. Small."
"Are we on this pity thing again?" I try not to sound exasperated, but I can't help myself.
"No. I just don't like it."
"You don't like me sharing with you?"
"This isn't sharing, it's..." His eyebrows knit together as he searches for the right word, which I'm sure will wind up pissing me off.
"It's what?"
"It's charity."
I roll my eyes. "I thought we'd been through this."
"Well," he says, smiling. He knows that smile makes my knees feel like jellyfish, and it's a pity that he can be so underhanded. "We kind of yelled it at each other. I don't think we ever worked anything out."
"Look," I say, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. "If I needed it, you'd give it, wouldn't you?"
"Yes. I already told you I would, but-"
"But nothing. Being together is give and take, Edward."
"I feel like a leech," he says, because he's not looking past material things. He tosses his napkin in the trash bag, then plants his hands along the edge of the blanket, stretching his long legs out in front of him.
"You give me more than you realize."
"Like what?"
"Like...comfort when I'm sick."
"That was just time, though. You paid for the-"
"Ugh," I groan, smacking his knee. "You've got to close out your mental ledger there, Accountant Cullen. I know you like your checks and balances, but not everything is going to be equal all the time. You picked up my snotty tissues, and showed me the beauty of the couch bed. You brought me soup, and you kept me company."
"That's nothing."
"Maybe to you, but it wasn't to me. I was in a relationship with a guy for six years, and not once did he so much as buy me a bag of cough drops. There'll be times when I have to take, too."
"Like when?"
"Like when I force you to be my date to my brother's wedding, and you have to keep me away from the booze so I don't have it out with my mother on the dance floor."
"Oh, shit," he says, sitting up.
"What?"
"I didn't even ask you how your weekend with your parents went," he says. His eyes are soft with regret, a look that makes me sad it took me over six years to find this man.
"Well, I came home early, so..."
His fingers brush my arm. "Do you want to talk about it?"
"Not right now. Later," I say, leaning over to kiss him. "Thank you for asking." My hand slides down the side of his neck, and over his collarbone, coming to rest in the center of his chest. "You have a good heart, and you're a thoughtful person, Edward. Don't worry about any of this, please."
He closes his eyes, and puts his hand over mine. "You make me thoughtful."
I kiss his chin. "You make me want to share."
His lips turn up into this slow, lazy grin that makes me feel like everything is right in the world.
"I saw a candy bar in there," he says, nodding toward the canvas bag that I packed our food in. "Are you gonna share that?"
I swing my leg around to straddle his thighs, because life is good right now, and I love to tease him. I lean back, stretching far to reach the bag. Edward's fingertips welcome the skin below my belly button that peeks out where my shirt rides up. I grab the bag's handle, but linger just a little longer than I need to, because I like the way Edward's eyes look when he sees me like this.
"This candy bar?" I ask, holding it between my fingers.
"Yes," Edward says, as his light touch tickles my stomach.
"No." I slowly peel the wrapper back, trying my best to concentrate on my motor skills as light touches turn into something more, something that makes my stomach muscles tighten, and my body want to bend toward him. It's not indecent or anything, it's just that Edward's evil, and he knows what he's doing. "I don't share chocolate," I say, my voice kind of shaky. "Sucks for you, and I'm sorry about that."
"Damn," he says, and because he plays dirty, he brings out the dimple, and takes advantage of my moment of weakness.
"Hey!" He's taken my chocolate hostage, holding it just out of my reach.
"Possession is nine-tenths of the law. Sucks for you, and I'm sorry about that." He brings the candy between his lips, and takes a long, slow bite.
My eyes get wide, my face hot. He can't just do that and get away with it. Now I have the added dilemma of deciding what I want to taste more: his mouth, or the candy.
"You should see the way you look right now," he says, with this smug Cullen grin that needs to be kissed off of his face. That grin calls me to action.
I grab his wrists and put a little power behind it, pushing him back into the grass. I wrestle the candy out of his hand, and we laugh when it flies and lands near the fence, forgotten in a frenzy of small yelps, and tickles, and touches. I thread my fingers through Edward's, and I straddle his hips, my arms holding me steady above him.
"I win," I say, breathless, as my hair falls down in a curtain around us.
"You lost the candy," he says, laughing.
"You did, too. So, I win."
I lower myself down to kiss him, and denim rubs against denim where our hips are touching in all the right places. I shift my weight, I can't help it, and Edward lets out this small groan as his eyes flutter shut, then open again. His breath comes warm and fast, as his hands grip mine tighter, and his thighs push him back up into me. It feels good, and my heart is racing because this is so not the place to do this, but he's always the one making me weak, and seeing the barely-controlled, frantic look in his eyes makes me feel powerful. It makes me wonder what kind of noises he'll make in the dark, when it's just the two of us tangled up together on a soft bed, wrapped in soft sheets, on some warm, endless night.
Because time and privacy are both things we don't have a lot of at the moment, I rotate my hips in one small figure eight, and memorize the way my name sounds in his breathy voice, how his eyes are green as the grass he's laying on, and the way they watch me, like I'm the thing he wants most in this world.
I lower my head to give him a soft, slow kiss, and whisper in his ear, "You should see the way you look right now."
He presses his lips to my neck as he pushes us upright, and wraps his arms around me once we're in a more respectable position. His fingers memorize the waves in my hair, and his chest gets familiar with the feel of mine as he holds me, so tight. His lips help my lips find the rhythm they're used to, and our mouths melt together, all wet, and warm, and chocolaty.
As his hand slowly traces the path of my spine, and I lose myself in a world full of him, I finally realize how it feels to be in this bubble with Edward. Because when he and I are like this, there are no houses, and no hospitals. There are no sick or overbearing mothers, no lost fathers, no expectations, no coworkers, and no restraint. It's just the two of us, floating, and holding onto each other, and just being together.
Our words are quiet, and our kisses tender, until the shrill ring of Edward's cell phone pulls us apart.
That's the bad thing about bubbles. Eventually, they burst.