A/N at bottom, per usual :)

Now That You're Here

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"I believe that everything happens for a reason. People change so that you can learn to let go, things go wrong so that you appreciate them when they're right, you believe lies so you eventually learn to trust no one but yourself, and sometimes good things fall apart so better things can fall together." –Marilyn Monroe

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Chapter Twelve

These Spoken Words

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Sleep is a fine fickle thing.

Sometimes it graces you with its presence- cocoons you in its beautiful embrace as you drift off into the wondrous unknown. Yet, other times it leaves you stranded deep in the desert, gasping for air and nowhere in sight.

Sleep is a cold-hearted bitch that has finally evaded me.

I lay curled up on the couch, covered in a thick layer of blankets as I gaze out the rain-soaked window. I look towards the larger shops in the distance, as if they could somehow tell me what my future held.

I listen to the rain. Listen to the steady tap tap as each drop pings off the metal gutter. It was slowing down. It would stop soon, and the clouds would slowly disappear back into the endless night sky. As if they had never existed.

"Here."

I turn at the sound, gazing up as Rosalie stands over me, a steaming cup of chocolate in her hands. She hands me the cup and I grasp it eagerly, happy to hold the hot cup between my cold palms.

"Thank you." My voice scratches out.

She sits on the end of the sofa, next to my feet, and rewards me with a soft smile. "You're welcome." She fiddles with the hem of my borrowed shirt, twisting the fabric over and over again in her small hands.

The rain had been unkind to our dresses: soaking through mine entirely and ruining her own lilac gown in the process. My tears had run out by the time she'd pulled up in front of my store. I had given her some of my own clothes once we'd gotten to my apartment, and we had made quick work of changing into something warm and dry.

Mercifully, I had fallen asleep for a short while, only to wake a few hours later. Rosalie had stayed, watching out and waiting for me. A kindness: one I would never be able to repay and one that I'd always be grateful for.

"What happened tonight?"

I take a sip of the drink to distract myself and the liquid scorches down my throat. "I don't know if I can talk about it."

"Tell me something," she begs. Her gaze lands on me, pleading. "Please."

I take another sip before answering her. "Edward was at the gala. I didn't know he was going to be here, and we ran into each other." I swallow. "Then Tanya came- as his date."

She frowns. "He shouldn't have done that. You told me at the opera that you two were still sorting out what you were. You may not be official or anything, but I see the way you look at each other. But still...the way you ran out of the museum… Something else happened, didn't it?"

"We had sex, in one of the offices, before he ran into her."

She freezes and her eyes flash in anger. "That bastard."

I nod numbly, and try to keep the water I feel welling in my eyes, at bay.

"What is going on between you two?" She asks. "I know it's none of my business, and I love my brother-in-law, but whatever you two have— it's hurting you."

Setting my mug down on the coffee table, I look down, staring at my intertwined hands as l mull her words over. I couldn't tell her the truth. No matter how much Edward had hurt me; I knew I could never hurt him the same way.

The question remained then: how much of the truth could I tell her? And what did I want to tell her?

"When my father was alive," I spoke slowly, choosing my words carefully, "he took out a loan because the shop was in trouble, financially. I didn't know it, but we were barely making enough to live off of. When he died, I took control of the store and the loan defaulted to me. I was paying it every month, but I knew I wouldn't be able to finish paying it off when it was due: so, I went to his office- to ask him to give me some more time."

I pause, taking a breath; twisting my fingers harder. "He didn't want to…. I mean he told me no, that he couldn't extend the loan any more than he had. I begged him and I guess he felt...pity?" I can't tell her everything- can't tell her how I'd begged that I'd do anything to keep the store or how the way his eyes had flashed when I'd said those words; how he'd shifted in his seat when I'd uttered those stupid, stupid words. "He said if I worked for him, as his event coordinator, and attended those events with him— then I wouldn't have to worry about the loan anymore."

It is silent for a sundry of agonizing minutes. I can't meet her gaze; can't meet the hatred, the disgust, the horror that I'm sure is covering her face. What she must think of me… I wait for the slurs, the angry words that will leave her lips at any moment— words that I most likely deserve.

"You…" I tense when she speaks, "...he— he didn't f-force you, did he?" Her voice is muted, worried, but still I cannot meet her gaze.

I shake my head. "No, he didn't."

Her hand brushes my arm. "I'm sorry."

My eyes snap up to hers. Her eyes are soft, sad, and utterly, and heart wrenchingly tender. And damn me, but I can't help it as the water blurs my vision. "Sorry?"

She pulls me from the cocoon of blankets and hugs me tightly. "Of course, I am. You are the sweetest, kindest person I've ever met, and you don't deserve to be in pain— no matter how much you love my brother."

Love?

I push the thought away and embrace her as the tears silently leak down my face.

"Don't worry about the loan." She murmurs over my shoulder. "I'll talk to my husband. As soon as I tell him, I'm sure Emmett will talk to Edward. We'll figure out a way to get you out of this."

I tense and break away from her. "No, please don't tell anyone else."

She frowns. "Bella, it wasn't fair of him to put you through this. You don't have to do it anymore— I won't let you."

"I know…. I know," my voice breaks, "...but I don't know what to do yet. Don't— please don't say anything to Edward, or anyone else, until I figure it out." She opens her mouth to protest, but I push on. "Please…. please just let me talk to Edward before you do anything."

Her brows knit together. "I don't like it, but I promise I won't say anything, for now. But," she continues, "please talk to him soon. Don't let this fester— it'll only make things worse and harder for you."

I nod. "I will. I promise."

"You…you don't think Edward will come here, do you?" I add as an afterthought. My stomach churns at the idea of seeing him, and not in a good way.

She pauses for a second. "No. Edward…. He doesn't do well with the rain. Long story short, he was in an accident, and he refuses to drive when it's like this."

"What happened?"

"That's not my story to tell." She lets out a breath, "As long as it's raining, you don't have to worry. He won't show up."

xXx

She drives my truck back to the gala, to get her own car, promising to somehow return my truck to me as soon as possible. I tell her not to worry about it, but she insisted and had hugged me tightly before leaving.

I would forever be grateful to her. She had gone out of her way, had left the gala that she'd put together, just to help me. We hadn't known each other but a few months, yet she had gone above and beyond. I didn't know how to thank her, and I hoped she knew how much what she had done had meant to me.

I wander around the store, straightening books and dusting the shelves as I think over her words- over how I'd ended up in this mess to begin with.

I should have never of gotten so twisted in this mess. Should have never allowed myself to feel anything other than contempt for him. But it had snuck up on me—these jumble of emotions. I had fought these feeling; had tried to ignore the way he had made me feel; had pushed them away so thoroughly that I'd been unaware, defenseless when they had snuck up on me.

Did I love him, as Rosalie had said?

I didn't have the answer. And I think that scared me more than anything else.

He had blackmailed me, and he had been demanding and downright rude at times. I should hate him; despise him. Yet….

Why did I still want to kiss him? Hold him?

Did I love him?

"Damn-it." I slam a book down on the counter, the thud echoing faintly through the room.

There was a part of him, a large part, that wanted me as much as I wanted him. I knew there was. I had thought, at times, that it was something more for him. The first time we were together, he had thought he'd made me—had seemed to regret it. And then those times he kissed me, not necessarily to derive pleasure, but because he'd simply wanted to. And he'd been so sweet to me at the opera— had stayed with me the entire time.

How much of this was real for him?

Was I really nothing more to him than an employee of sorts; a way for him to get some…release?

He had every right, I suppose, to bring Tanya tonight. We weren't in any relationship- weren't bound to one another in any way.

I would have to accept it. Would have to detach myself, emotionally, from him. It wouldn't be easy, I know, but I would do it— I would try. If he called, I'd go to him; I'd be with him.

But nothing more. I would be friendly, sweet—the perfect date when he needed me to be, but I would stay away from him otherwise. I wouldn't even talk to him outside of events…or… sex.

I let out a huff of air. My fingers play with the binding on the book: To Kill a Mockingbird, my dad's favorite book. The cover was on the verge of falling off and likewise the pages were yellowed, curled, water-stained in some parts, and in no better shape.

"Why couldn't you just let me graduate high school?" I whisper. "Why encourage me to go to college when you knew we couldn't afford it? It wasn't worth it… I have nothing to show for this degree." My thumb rubs over the rough texture of the cover. "What am I going to do?"

I sit on the counter, lost in my own thoughts for an immeasurable amount of minutes. Time was a social construct and as long as I sat here, I could ignore it—pretend as if it couldn't reach me. I was beyond time…. Or so I could pretend.

Time has a funny way of catching up to us, usually much sooner than we'd like.

A knock sounds on the door and I slide off the counter. Had Rosalie forgotten something? Barefoot, I wander over to the door and fumble with the lock, before pulling it open.

Rain glistened down tanned skin, soaking through the expensive suit. His hair was a flat mess against his head, and he panted when he spoke, his car nowhere in sight. "Bella?"

My thoughts are a jumbled mess: they are turned upside down; a twist of tangled knots that I cannot sort through. My heart beats painfully, caged and wild, begging to be let go—demanding to be released.

"Edward."

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All the wonderful reviews were amazing to read! And a little bit scary as well. Which isn't a bad thing- it's just that, having people tell me they like my story and are excited to read more, is really nerve racking as well. It's exciting, but it puts me in this mindset of- what if I disappoint people who like this story? This is the first time I've actually written a story that was for me. My expectations aren't high, they're just interested in seeing where my story takes me- whether that be five more chapters or ten more chapters. And yes I've gotten a few flames for my characters, but the worry is that, since this story is no longer just for me, but for my readers as well, there is this sense of not being to meet expectations, and truthfully, that worries me a lot.