A/N for 2020-02-29: Hopefully no one has suffered a poetic assault of late. The poem in this chapter is by Edna St. Vincent Millay, who was one cool lady and an amazing poet, to boot. Happy reading, all.
~ Erin
"Back before ten," Bella said a little sardonically. "You do remember I am not in high school anymore, right?" The expression on her face made it clear she was being playful.
"I do." Edward grinned back. It was like having a piece of that Bella back. She'd been so much more relaxed, partly, he knew, because she wasn't dealing with acute pain, but mostly, he hoped because they were together. And now, he was standing, facing her on her front porch, the sound and light from the living room telling him that they were being unobtrusively observed by Charlie. A nice, feigned privacy.
A small breeze was coaxing her hair into her face, and he stole an opportunity to touch her, brushing it away. He wanted very badly to do more but waited on her invitation.
"Thank you," she said. "I really enjoyed tonight, and thank you especially for the books."
"You're welcome," he said softly. "Any time."
He watched her blush and look down at the floor.
As Edward debated asking if he could kiss her goodnight, he was surprised to feel her lips on his cheek. She moved away quickly, as if she was frightened by what she'd done. He smiled, his "Thank you," quiet and reverent.
Her smile was shy. "Night," she said, reaching for the doorhandle.
"Wait," he said. "Here," and handed her the keys. When their fingers touched, he dared to whisper, "I'll be close, if you want to talk, later." He fingered the top of her cast at her wrist, feeling her flesh shiver.
Inside, Bella closed the door and her eyes, giving herself a moment to recover.
"Hey," Charlie called from the couch, standing and greeting her with a hug.
"Hey, yourself," she said. "Did you find something to eat?"
"I did," he said. "You?"
"Yes," she said, putting down the large bag of books and undoing the laces of her shoes, "and a small supply of books."
"I can see," he said, clearing his throat. "So, Edward's been . . . around a lot."
By the look on his face, Bella knew that any pretense she'd kept up was done. "He has," she acknowledged, not quite sure what else to tell him.
"You look happier," Charlie said softly.
Was she? Her eyebrows pulled together, considering it. "Yeah."
Charlie's sat at the table, elbows rested on his knees, mouth pressed to his hands, which were tightly gripped together. "It's okay to go slow," he said carefully. "You've been through a lot the last couple of months."
She nodded, "I know," she said. "We are. I don't think I could do it any other way."
"Good," he said, and then said it again more quietly, "good," like he was trying to convince himself of this. "So, Moira called. She's got some fresh cases that have come up, so your visits tomorrow will only be an hour, but you'll have three of them."
Bella's stomach clenched, and she made herself take a deep, and careful breath. "Okay."
"I know," he said, hand squeezing her knee, "but you get Sarah back Tuesday morning, right?"
"So everyone keeps telling me," Bella said.
"You will," Charlie said. "And as soon as she is back, we file a complaint. Okay?"
On this, Bella was more resolved. She nodded, trying to envision Sarah in her arms, and then taking some sort of bureaucratic revenge on the clearly inept social worker, Ashleigh. The first image made her entire body relax, and the second did nothing. But the thought of another mother having her child taken from her without cause made Bella's hands clench. No, they'd file a complaint without delay.
They said their respective good nights, and Bella fished through her clothes, looking for something warm to wear to bed. She hadn't had time to really do any laundry, and resigned herself to the ridiculous pajamas her mother had bought her. The set was warm and relatively simple but it featured a far more adventurous neckline than Bella normally wore.
Renée had given them to her in the summer, saying, "Trust me. Comfortable, stretchy pajamas are your friend after having a baby. And, they're kinda sexy too."
Jacob had bent over in laughter, hearing her recount this conversation. He'd approved of the neckline though.
At least she had new books, she told herself, and picked one up from the top of the bag. It wasn't one of her own choosing. When she opened it, a note fluttered out. Thought you might enjoy a poet from my own time. - Edward
She smiled at this thoughtfulness and began reading, turning the pages in varied chunks, letting her eyes skim over the sparse verses. It was a small poem that caught her eye before she could think better of it.
I know what my heart is like
Since your love died:
. . . a hollow ledge
Holding a little pool
Left there by the tide,
A little tepid pool,
Drying inward from the edge.
She choked in the sob that threatened, a hand at her mouth, closing her eyes against any more poetic assaults.
A soft voice said, "That was not the effect I had in mind," and she felt a cool hand gently pull the book away.
Bella shook her head, but the tears had been freed, and now they trailed down her cheeks in waves.
"It's okay to cry," he said. "You've had more than enough cause."
She half laughed at this, wanting to dismiss this truth, but she couldn't. The tears continued.
She realized that her mind was reaching for the ache in her arm. But it wasn't there. Neither were the other heartaches, who were normally so well-silenced by pain or anger or Sarah's needs. Now these were loudly crying for her attention. She pushed herself out of the bed, walking, trying to get enough air into the the suddenly tight stricture in her chest.
She leant in front of the partially open window, battling for enough air to fend it all off, when she felt Edward's hand again, slowly rubbing circles on her back.
She was terrified that he was seeing her this way—that he would see what she'd meant. That he would leave.
"I told you," she gasped out. "Not normal."
"Of course you're not," he said. "You're remarkable."
He said it with incredulity, surprised that she would doubt it. Her breathing alarmed him though, and he gently pulled her to face him. "Try and breathe with me, okay?"
She watched him and tried, her lungs revolting against the coaxing of her body. It took several minutes before she felt the air easing into her without strident labour.
He'd gotten her to sit down on the bed and was trying to convince her to put her feet up. She'd acquiesced to leaning back against the headboard, but didn't want to lie all the way down.
"I'm fine," she said.
He didn't agree at all. "Has that happened before?"
She shook her head, still worried the sensation would return. She felt vaguely nauseated.
"It looked like a panic attack," he said gently. "It's totally normal. Bella. I'm surprised you haven't had one before, all things considered."
She looked down at her hands, frowning in concentration, still working to discipline her breathing.
Edward had stood and turned, as if to walk away.
Watching this, it was like her heart had thrown itself into her mouth, "No, don't!" she said, before she could stop herself, alarmed at the timbre of her own voice.
He turned back immediately, putting his hand in hers, "I'm just getting something," he said. He hooked his foot into the diaper bag across the room, pulling it back. He fished out one of the granola bars he knew she kept there. "Here," he said, "sugar can help."
She took it, not questioning him or fussing about being fussed over. She didn't want to feel this way now or ever again.
A sudden wave of exhaustion was pulling at her, and she fought it awkwardly, trying to hold onto him with one hand, eating with her other.
"I won't leave unless you ask me to," he said. He was hoping she wouldn't. He'd had his own moment of panic, hearing the sudden shift in her rhythms from outside. He'd wondered, in his own fear, if something had slipped by him, if she was being attacked. The change had been that quick.
She answered by scooting over, making room for him on the bed, hoping she could walk this tightrope she found herself on. Close, but not too close.
Just Edward in my bed. Before she could stop herself, she remembered what had happened the last time she shared this bed with a man.
Edward moved himself so his back was to the headboard, and very tentatively, slipped his arm behind her, pulling her to him.
She gave up on eating and set the food down on the nightside table, resting her head on his shoulder.
"Thank you for coming," she said softly. The exhaustion was winning, gravity pulling at her body.
"I love you," he whispered back, and kissed her forehead. He could hear the steal of sleep over her body and felt his own relax, knowing she was safe here.
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