A/N All Twilight character's belong to Stephenie Meyer
I know there was a question about this being bella and embry...patience please, patience....the stories called Full Circle for a reason (wink wink) in case your confused many months have passed...its now almost Christmas...
Embry
The train woke me this morning. The six thirty to Boston. I'd fallen asleep, yeah right; it was more like passed out, with the bedroom window wide open. The blaring sound of the horn, mixed with the cold winter morning air, woke me.
I rolled over, my body stiff from drink and the icy climate. My arm reached out, traveling out over the vacant sheets. She was gone. It wasn't a big surprise; I knew she would be. Bella never stayed for long; especially when I'd been drinking.
She'd appear like an angel in my drunken haze, lean against the table or window sill, whatever flat surface was closet and always in that dress I'd last seen her in, and laugh mockingly at me.
It didn't matter that I held superstar status in the NFL or made millions of dollars each year, and I highly doubted she cared that my face was plastered all over every box of Wheaties in grocery stores nationwide. She always laughed at me, always sat in the corner, a figment of my imagination, mocking me.
It had taken too many years to realize that she stopped caring when I stopped caring. I wish I could've told her that I never stopped caring, that instead I just lost track of the things that were truly important. I was so focused on the big picture that I forgot all about the man running the projector. It was something I regretted everyday for the last five years and I'd do anything to get it back. At least now in the last throws of my drunken haze. Ask me again when I was sober and you'd probably get a much different answer.
I rolled out of my bed, my head pounding and my vision swimming, searching for a pair of sweat pants. I found a pair that were clean, at least I thought they were, and pulled them on, then stumbled to the window and slammed it shut.
From the other room a bell tinkled, the soft chime a cacophony of gonging in my alcohol induced haze. I walked toward the door, the slap of bare feet on the wooden floor amplified. I needed some god damn ear plugs or something, all this noise - it was killing me.
I grasped the frigid brass knob and turned it. The door swung open slowly and I padded down the hall.
"Embry?" a feeble voice called.
"Coming, Mom," I called back softly then wondered if she'd be able to smell the bourbon on my breath and oozing out of every pore of my body.
Two years ago I bought this house in Boston for my mother. It was the kind she always wanted; large, airy, looking over the ocean, well in this case it was more like the bay, but I suppose the kind of water the view offered didn't really matter. The house was my mother's dream house; 4,000 square feet of panoramic view of the bay, gardens to die for, more bedrooms and bathrooms than any normal person would know what to do with.
Too bad for her she hadn't been healthy long enough to appreciate it. She was dying at that was all that really mattered. It wasn't a surprise, not after the lifetime of misery my father put her through. But that didn't have shit to do with what was wrong with her. She was fighting a losing battle against diabetes, her kidneys had shut down and she needed dialysis daily, that's how bad it had gotten. I pushed open her door, crossing the room and sitting down on the edge of the bed. She glanced at me through half closed eyes.
"Hi Mom," I said softly.
She smiled weakly, her trembling hand reaching up to caress my face. "My boy," she murmured. "I am so proud of you."
"Thanks Mom, but it's all because of you; you raised me, you made me who I am."
She waved her hand feebly. "Now you listen to me," her voice trembled. "I'm not going to be around much longer. Take care of yourself, work hard and play fair. You understand?"
I nodded, she said the same thing every morning. Downstairs, the front door opened. Soft soled shoes squeaked quietly across the gleaming hardwood floors. Water began running in the kitchen. A few minutes later the fragrant aroma of fresh brewed coffee floated through the house.
On the bed next to me, my mom floated back into unconsciousness. I stood and turned to face the hospice nurse, Francine, who stood in the doorway, a pale blue washcloth and a steaming pitcher of water in her hand.
"Morning, Mr. Call," she said coming into the room. "Coffee's brewing and I picked up some of those onion bagels you like; the ones from the bakery on the corner."
I stood beside the bed glancing down at my mother once more. "Thanks Francine. I'm gonna head out for the day. I'll be back around noon."
Francine Cope nodded; tucking the blankets in tightly around my mother's sleeping form. I walked down the hall, gently closing the door to my room. Outside the sky was dark grey, the clouds plump with the promise of snow before nightfall.
Quickly pulling on a Tampa Bay Buccaneers sweatshirt and my cross trainers I headed out for a six mile run around the city.
The frigid air burnt my lungs as my feet slapped the sidewalk. Frost bloomed across my brain, freezing it, blocking away the unwanted memories, chasing away the hangover.
This was the one time I didn't have to think, couldn't even if I wanted to. Running was my respite, the one escape from reality that I still had a grip on. My body, and the hangover, fought me for the first mile, but halfway into the second mile my head started to clear and the only sound I heard was the quick draw and release of my own breath, and the barking of the occasional dog. I followed the trail into, then all the way around Squantum Point Park. Despite the early hour and brisk weather, the trail was full of people running or walking their dogs.
I dodged a pair of blue haired old women in neon pink nylon jogging suits. The taller of the two cat-called as I jogged by. I suppressed a grin and kept going. I passed the marker signaling the six mile mark, my brain came off autopilot as I passed it and all the worries and stresses of being me came rushing back, like a wave to the shore.
Up ahead was a woman, tall and thin with legs for days. She was walking with a man. He said something, touching her forearm with his left hand, motioning flamboyantly with his right. She laughed, tossing her head back, the musical sound echoed out over the air. I stumbled, the simple movement, the laugh - the way she gently grasped his arm as he continued his humorous tale; it all reminded me of Bella. It was something she would do, toss her head back and laugh, gently touch my arm as she did on the rare occasion I said something funny. Bitterness and bile bit the back of my throat. I rarely made her laugh; it was always Jake that made her laugh. It was still enough to make me see red.
No matter how many times I told myself I was over her I saw her everywhere. In the coffee shop around the corner from my house in Tampa, in the crowd at the game in Houston. She was the makeup girl at the photo shoot for the deodorant campaign, or the check out girl at the grocery store. The kid's mom who asked me for an autograph as I was leaving the airport in Boston. She was everywhere and nowhere and I would give anything just to see her once again.
It was sad and pathetic; trust me, you're preaching to the choir, to still be in love with her. I loved her and hated her all at the same time. I guess that old saying a thin line between love and hate was true because I could hardly choose which one I felt more.
When I got back to the house, sweaty and exhausted - mentally and physically, Francine was sitting by the fire reading a Nora Roberts book. She looked up, book marking her page as I shut the door.
"There was two phone calls while you were out," she said softly setting the book down on the end table.
"Who was it?" I asked figuring it would be one of my coaches, trying to touch base with me to figure out what was going on.
"A man." She consulted the notepad on the table beside her. "Jacob Black. He called to talk to your mother, but I told him she was indisposed, and he asked if I knew how to get a hold of you. I told him I did, but I'd have to speak to you before giving out any of your personal information. He left a number and asked me to have you call him. He said it was urgent. And your agent."
I saw red. Fighting the urge to hit something I curtly thanked Francine and stalked off to the bathroom to shower. What the hell did that bastard want? Wasn't it bad enough he screwed my girlfriend, then married her and started playing house out there in Jacksonville. What the hell could he possibly want from me?
I ripped off the soaked sweatshirt and sweatpants, tossing them in a heap in the corner of the bathroom. I turned the water on then stepped into the scalding spray. Urgent, what the hell could be so urgent? I hadn't talked to him in almost five years. He was in the bar with Bella that night, what four years ago, but he stood off to the side looking smug. I felt sucker punched again, just like I did when Bella looked at me with those watery brown eyes and confessed to sleeping with Jake.
All the desire to see her, hold her, touch her suddenly left me. She was my own personal demon. Chained to my ankle, hell bent on driving me mad with longing and desire. The devil in a white dress.
I hated her.
I loved her.
Once the hot water was depleted I shut the stinging spray off and stepped out, wrapping a towel around my waist. As I got dressed I decided that I didn't care about what Jake wanted. He could rot in hell for all I cared.
I never called him back.
Three days later the phone rang. Francine was in the other room giving my mom a bath so I answered it, immediately regretting it.
"Hello?" I said biting into an apple and flipping through the channels on the TV in the living room.
"Embry?" a feeble voice asked.
"Yeah, who's this?"
"It's Jake," the voice said.
I hung up without another word. A few seconds later the phone rang again. I silenced the ring and let it go to voicemail, whatever the fuck he wanted, or had to say he could tell it to the robotic answering machine because I did not give one flying fuck. The message sat on the voicemail for two days before I finally listened to it.
It was a Friday night, I was heading back to Tampa the following afternoon and couldn't sleep, curiosity was starting to get the best of me. Anytime I walked into the kitchen the red blinking light on the phone would flash mockingly at me. Quietly I climbed out of bed and went into the kitchen. Picking up the phone I sat down at the island and dialed the voicemail, unable to keep the curiosity at bay any longer.
After following all the instructions, Jake's voice greeted me. My stomach twisted into knots as he spoke.
"Look, Embry. I know you don't want to hear from me, but there are things I need to talk to you about and I don't have much time."
Why are you dying? I wanted to ask.
"I'm dying. The doctors keep saying I don't have much time, but what the hell do they know. That's beside the point. Look I really need to talk to you before it's too late." Jake paused, it sounded like he took a deep breath. He exhaled shakily into the phone. "Please, just call me back. Please."
He left the number he could be reached at. Glancing at the clock I decided it was too late to call. I jotted the number down and promised myself I'd call in the morning.
The following morning I dug my phone out of my carry-on bag and carried it into my room. Sitting down on the edge of the bed I stared at the slip of paper that had his phone number written on it. I felt like the weight of the world was on my shoulders. The dam that held back all those emotions was breaking; all those feelings were beating against it as I stared down at the number.
Fuck it, I finally decided. If he was dying maybe he had to say some things to absolve his soul or some other religious mumbo jumbo. I dialed the number, listening to it ring three times before chickening out and hanging up.
A few seconds later the phone vibrated in hand. I jumped, dropping it. The phone clattered to the floor where it buzzed across the hardwood. I bent down at picked it up.
"Hello?" I said, pressing it to my ear.
"Embry?"
"Yeah."
"Its Jake, how are you?"
I snorted. "You didn't call to find out how I was," I sneered. "What do you want?"
"Look, I know you're probably still pissed because of the past-"
"You're goddamn right I'm still pissed. You fucked my girlfriend, then married her. Jesus Christ man, why shouldn't I be pissed off?"
"Because it was five years ago!" Jake exploded. "Put your damn big girl panties on and get over it!"
"You know what, whatever Jake. Thanks for calling but I don't have to time to deal with this bullshit." I stood up and went to the window. It had snowed the night before, a fresh white coating to make the world look new again.
"Well let me ask you if you have time for your son," Jake said. "Do you have time for your son?"
My heart stopped. My son? I didn't have a son. "I don't have a son," I said. Panic seized my throat. I had the distinct feeling that he was about to drop a bomb on me.
"Yeah you do, you asshole. He's four years old. His name is Avery and he loves Scooby Doo."
I sank back down onto the bed. I had a son. I had a four year old son that I knew nothing about. "Why? How? I mean-"
"Come to Jacksonville, please," Jake asked. "At least let me apologize for the past before I die."
I numbly agreed. I flew back to Tampa that afternoon in a state of shock and denial. How could I have a four year old son? Jake and Bella had been together that long, well longer. There was no way he was my kid. How could he be?
It was some stupid ploy; Jake was supposedly dying, so Bella was going to need money to raise her kid. Of course, blame the successful NFL star for knocking her up four years ago. Fucking classic. Well we'd just see about that.
Monday morning I headed out of Tampa, heading northeast to make a surprise trip to Jacksonville. I had no trouble finding her address, daughter of an ex-NFL player; of course someone had tabs on her.
I pulled into the driveway of a pleasant and brand new looking house in a Jacksonville suburb. A big wheel sat parked in the middle of the lawn. A little tyke's basketball hoop was set up at the top of the driveway.
Christmas lights were tucked into the bushes and stapled around the front door and windows. The front door was open. I peered inside as I rang the doorbell. A Christmas tree was set up in the corner opposite a large TV cabinet. There were toy trucks scattered all over, a large and extremely furry dog dozed by the fireplace.
A woman's voice yelped, then hollered, "Avery Nicholas, get your tiny heinie in here and pick up these trucks before Mommy throws them out. I don't think Santa would be too happy about that!"
My heart skipped a beat, then another. Bella's frame filled the door; her face went from happy to shocked in record time, her hand fluttered to her throat. "Never mind, Avery, finish watching Scooby Doo, Mommy will be right back."
She pushed open the storm door and stepped onto the porch, pulling the wooden door closed behind her. "What do you want?" she hissed wrapping her arms around her middle.
I wanted to kiss her and throw up all at the same time. "I- uh, um, I talked to Jake. He said he's sick and that my son is going to need a father once he's gone. What the hell Bella?"
Her brown eyes darkened in anger. "I don't know what you're talking about," she stated blankly, her eyes narrowing.
"So the boys not mine?"
"That's what I'm telling you," she said angrily. "Now if you don't mind, I have chicken nuggets to cook and an episode of Scooby Doo to go watch."
She pulled open the door and stepped inside. I stood frozen on the spot, relief flooding me. Bella turned to close the front door, saw me still standing there.
"Get off my porch," she muttered slamming the door in my face.
I walked stunned, back to my car. What the hell was going on? Jake says the kid is mine, Bella says he's not.
Jake's probably lying, just trying to use me as a meal ticket for Bella and his kid once he's gone, if he's even sick.
Fuck the both of them. I got in the car and drove. Something told me to stay in the city, the reason for me being here wasn't over yet. I found a hotel and checked in. Night fell over the city and I waited.
So there ya have it...Embry now knows he has a son..even if he is a pompous ass who can hold onto his anger for five years...wow someone needs some therapy..
WTF by Ok Go