So, I guess this is it. The last chapter. See A/N Below.
Thank you to the betas who have helped me with this story, especially FangMom, Netracullen and Jill. I love you.
Thank you Stephenie Meyer for giving us Twilight.
The Beginning and the End
I walk along the book shelf, dragging my fingers over the spines of the books. They haven't been touched in a long time, and my fingers paint lines in the thin layer of dust that covers them. Some people say they can tell a lot about a person judging from their books, and I wonder briefly what they'd think of me.
My collection is big, but contains little of the classical, romantic novels women are supposed to enjoy. You don't find books like "Wuthering Heights", "Romeo and Juliet" or "Sense and Sensibility" in my house. I've read them at school, of course, but I've never been much of a romantic and never understood why the girls in my class swooned over Heathcliff, Romeo or whoever the male leading character was. I read horror stories, thrillers, humour or sad stories. In my book shelf you find Stephen King and Douglas Adams, not Brontë and Shakespeare. When I moved in with Edward, he brought fantasy to my collection of horror and humour, adding a portion of Tolkien. Still no classics, though.
I wonder if I'm so bad at loving people because I read too little romance in my younger years, or if I never read romance because I don't have those feelings in me. I can't relate to that kind of love. It never felt that way to me, so I came to the conclusion that my feelings aren't strong enough to be called love. But then again, who's to say that what I feel isn't love? It's not like they describe it in novels, but it can still be love. It still counts.
I want it to count.
My fingers hover over two of my teenage favourites. It wasn't like me to read teen fiction at that age – I read Jean M. Auel when I was 13 – but these were special. I pull them out and flip through the pages. "The Outsiders" and "Rumble Fish." I remember them like yesterday. They're both pretty short, and I realize I'll probably be able to read at least one of them before Edward gets home with the kids from their grocery shopping.
I take both of the books to the bedroom, pile some pillows up and sink down against them, making myself comfortable under the duvet. After turning the bedside lamp on, I immerse myself in the sad stories I used to love as a teen.
My family gets home as I'm sitting with tears streaming down my face, reading the final pages. Edward looks concerned, but I explain to him it's only about the book, and he relaxes. I tell him I only have a few pages left and that I'll come out and help with the groceries as soon as I'm finished, but he shakes his head.
"Keep reading, Bella. I've got it."
I hear him rustle around in the kitchen, occasionally telling the kids to keep their voices down. My body is growing increasingly tense by the minute, and I have a hard time concentrating on the text. I feel like I should be out there, taking care of the food and the kids, and not lying around in the bed like a lazy, good-for-nothing slouch. Then I remember I haven't lain around like a slouch for several years. Maybe I can allow myself some lazy time, if Edward's alright with that. He has time for himself every week, after all, going to hockey games, playing floor-ball with his friends or PC games. I think me reading would qualify as time for myself. I just have to get used to actually taking that time without feeling guilty for it.
I finish the book and stay in the bed for a minute, drying my tears. It felt good crying, it was a relief letting it out. I cried for the book, for myself and for Edward, all at once.
When I'm fairly composed again I sneak out from the bedroom. I stand quiet in the hallway for a while, watching Edward move around in the kitchen. He's emptying the dishwasher, still unaware of me, and I take the opportunity to really look at him and concentrate on how I feel at the same time. I don't feel uncomfortable, and I don't feel anxious. He's sort of cute as he scratches his head, trying to figure out where to put some kitchen utensils he barely knows how to use, and it makes me smile.
I realize I've actually come quite far, even though I never really noticed when it happened. A lot of the negative feelings I used to have aren't there anymore. Right now I feel no anxiety, no fear, and no anger. The anxiety is still there sometimes when he touches me, but not like before. I still worry that I won't be able to satisfy him, but not like before. And I still feel unworthy of his love, but not like before. I guess he was right in his letter; I really have changed.
I still have a long way to go, I know that. Maybe this is even when the hardest part begins. I've figured some stuff out, I know a little bit more about myself, and I know in what direction I want to go. Now I face the task of actually getting there, and I realize that it will not be easy. I will have to learn a lot all over again. I want to learn how to make love to Edward, not only have him make love to me. I want to learn how to love myself, not only be loved by him. I don't have to learn how to love him, because I know now that I already do.
Edward is staring at a pair of spaghetti tongs, apparently wondering where to put it. I search for signs of tension in my body, but find none. I walk up behind him and wrap my arms around his body, catching him between them as I open the correct kitchen drawer for the tongs. He puts them down and turns around, and I keep my arms around him, shoving my hands down his back pockets. I suddenly remember I used to do this a lot, in the beginning.
It is nice to feel his ass cheeks, and I squeeze them lightly, trying out what it feels like. He groans and I feel a movement against my stomach. I pause instantly, searching inside me again, looking for signs of distress. A fleeting feeling of unease rises, so I take my hands out of his pockets and take a step back until it disappears again. I'm afraid to try again, worried that it might come back, but want to know if I can do it and take a cautious step forward, closer to his body.
He keeps his arms down, his hands by his sides, and I take them in mine, putting them around my waist. I focus on my breathing and evaluate the reactions in my body as his hands sneak all the way around and he pulls me closer. The unease makes a quick reappearance and then dissolves, and I can relax in his arms. We stand like that for a while, until Benji presses his little body between us. I give Edward a quick kiss on the cheek before I lift Benji up and carry him to the couch.
We sit down and turn the TV on, and with Benji perched on my lap I recap what just happened in the kitchen. It's apparent that my body still has weird reactions to his touches, but also that I can overcome them if I try. Maybe it's like what they say about falling off a horse: you have to get back on the horse that threw you, because if you don't do that, you'll be forever scared of riding. I've been scared for some time, but I'm slowly getting used to being around the horse again.
I think I can do this. It'll take time, but I think it'll work. The jokes I made about exposure therapy a while ago weren't that far off.
When night falls and the kids are tucked into bed, I ask Edward to come with me into the bedroom. I turn my back to him as I undress, uncomfortable with showing myself naked. I know it's stupid, because he's seen me naked a million times and I know he thinks I'm beautiful, but still I feel an urge to hunch up and hide from him. I make a mental note about adding that to my private exposure therapy experiment. I want to learn how to feel better about showing myself naked.
I sit down on the bed, briefly debating putting on my pajamas, but decide not to and slide down under the duvet. I keep my eyes on the ceiling as Edward undresses, making another mental note about daring to watch him naked. This is something I don't really understand at first. I like seeing him naked, so why does it bother me sometimes? It's not until I put 'me watching him naked' together with 'him knowing that I watch him' that it makes sense to me. It has to do with expectations, again. I have no problem with watching him in secret, or when his eyes are closed, but if he sees me watching him, I worry that he'll think I want sex. I shake my head at myself, irritated with my strange way of thinking, but comforted by the fact that I finally understand some of it.
As Edward lies down on the duvet, I turn to him, trying to look at him. I know it works fine when we're both dressed, casually talking and hanging around the house, but like this, naked in bed, it's a lot harder. He's not covered up like I am, and he's still in his boxers.
"Can I watch you for a while?" I ask quietly. "Just watch, nothing else."
"Sure," he says and shrugs.
I'm a bit jealous of how comfortable he is with it, that he's able to just lie there, relaxed and smiling, not worrying a bit about me watching him. I want to feel like that, too. My eyes dart over his body, and I decide to be methodical about it and start at his feet. He hums quietly to himself, and I let my eyes drift over him. I feel him watching me, and I instinctively press my eyelids together. I'm instantly thrown back in time, to that night when I was touching him like it was the first time. I remember that it worked out fine, even if I had to ask him to close his eyes.
This time I want to do it with him watching. Taking a deep breath, I open my eyes again, looking at his knees and thighs, deciding to skip his crotch this time, and instead I watch his chest as it rises and falls evenly with his breathing. Finally I will my eyes to his face, and meet his eyes. They are smiling.
"Hey there," he says lightly. "See something you like?" He wiggles his eyebrows at me, and I slap his head, letting out a nervous laugh. My body is tense, but I feel it loosen up in the relaxed atmosphere he's creating.
"Nah, I don't know…" I tease him. He gasps in mock horror and pokes my shoulder, and I giggle before I turn serious again.
"You know, I've been thinking… I still worry too much about sex. I'm still not even sure how I'm supposed to touch you. I really appreciate when you take charge, and I can just submit to that, because it takes the pressure off. But I'd also like to be able to take charge. Now you touch me, and you make love to me, but I don't know how to touch and make love to you. I want to learn that again."
"Okay…" he says, hesitating a bit before continuing. "How do you want to go about that?"
"I don't know. Do you remember I told you how I worry that you'll expect sex if I touch you? I think maybe we have to take a step back. I think it will be easier if we agree from the start that we're not going to have sex. I want to touch, but without having to worry."
"Like… a temporary sex-embargo?" he asks.
"Yes. I want to get used to the feelings again, and my body needs to understand that touching doesn't automatically leads to sex."
"Sure, as long as we're not talking months of no sex."
I snort at him. "No, I was thinking more like deciding from time to time."
"Oh. That, I can do. But I have one condition," he says sternly.
"Uhm… okay?" I ask, confused.
"I want to make sure that we keep talking to each other, like we did the other night. Sure, it wasn't easy for me to hear, but it was necessary. I don't want you – or me – to go around thinking about things and making assumptions that aren't true. I want you to tell me what you think so I don't have to wonder or make unnecessary mistakes, and I have to learn to ask you what's wrong, instead of making up stupid scenarios in my head."
I nod slowly. That makes sense. We do need to communicate more.
"Deal." I hold my hand out and shake his.
"Deal. So, you wanna touch some? No sex?" he asks hopefully.
I lay my head down on the pillow, and laugh softly with him. We spend the evening taking turns touching each other.
I touch his arm, and he touches mine.
I caress his face, and he caresses mine.
I stroke his chest, and he strokes mine.
I graze his nipple, and he grazes mine.
I skim his thigh, and he skims mine.
I hold his hand, and he holds mine.
He falls asleep eventually, but I don't. I practice watching him, pretending he's still awake. Then I think that I also need to practice watching myself.
I rise quietly and pad out to the hallway, switching the lights on and stopping in front of the full-body mirror. I look intently at myself, trying to remember all the beautiful things he said about my body. I still don't agree with all of them, but beauty lies in the eyes of the beholder, and I'm happy I'm beautiful in his eyes. I turn my side to the mirror, watching my body in profile. My back is hunched, making me look like an S. It's not pretty, so I straighten my back. It feels odd in the beginning, like I'm exposing myself when I'm jutting my chest out like that, but I have to admit it looks better.
I stroke the soft skin on my stomach. It's a bit loose, but when I think about it, that's to be expected. I did carry two babies in there. I hold my hands out to where my pregnancy-belly used to end, and marvel at the difference. It's really amazing that this small body managed to expand like that. The loose skin on my stomach is a reminder of the pregnancies and the wonders that came from it. In a way, that's beautiful.
I raise my eyes to my breasts. They are small and flat, not perky and soft like before. That's to be expected, too. These breasts swelled with milk and nursed two babies. They don't look the same, but the importance they hold makes them beautiful anyway.
My hands skim down to the hairy triangle between my legs. I stroke it gently, thinking about how it is now compared to how tight it used to be. Then I think that it doesn't matter. This vagina pushed two full-sized babies out, and even if it's not pretty, it should be respected.
Maybe my body isn't what it used to be, but it changed because it carried, birthed and nursed children. And when I think of it that way, I see that it is beautiful. Not in the way Edward thinks, but in a way that makes sense to me.
The house is calm but not quiet in the night. I hear light snoring from three directions – Edward's, Kate's and Benji's. Sometimes Kate mumbles in her room, random words with no meaning at all. The air is chilly and I shiver in my nakedness, but I don't feel like going back to bed yet. I have too much in my head, good things that I need to make sure I remember, and strange things that I need to figure out. I sneak back into the bedroom and grab my robe, before I head out to the living room.
I find a fleece blanket to put over my legs before I sit down and fire up the computer. I close my eyes, trying to wrap my head around all those years; the fears, the feelings, the guilt and the pain. I want to write about it so I don't forget, but I don't know how to start. I search my mind but it's empty and quiet. I want it to be good; I want to write something meaningful and poetic. Then I realize that it doesn't have to be good. No one is going to read it and grade it anyway. I'm doing this for myself, not for anybody else. It doesn't have to be coherent. There's no need for poetry. It doesn't even have to mean anything.
This is just for me, and its only purpose is for me to have an outlet, to remember and to find some sense again. I shake my head, open my eyes and decide to stop thinking. I let my fingers start typing, making my thoughts appear on the screen before me at the same time as they form in my head.
"I don't know when it happened. I only know that at some point, somewhere along the line, things had changed."
A/N It was a lot more emotional writing this chapter than I had anticipated. Parts of me want to continue, to go on writing about them, but I've told what I wanted to tell and that means I should stop. I guess some of you will want to know what happens to them, if they get their "Happily Ever After." I can't tell you how it ends, because I don't know that yet. But a marriage never "ends happily" unless you divorce. You have to work on your "Happily Ever After" every thay, and that's exactly what they are doing. Sometimes they do well, sometimes not so well, but the point is that they are still trying, and they are still together.
I am so grateful to you all for reading and reviewing this, it has meant more than you can possibly imagine. Maybe in the future there will be outtakes, meanwhile I hope you enjoy my other stories.
