28.
I throw up in the toilet and rest my cheek on the ring, forehead dotted with sweat, the plastic cooling my overheated skin. I've been at Carlisle and Esme's for over a week, sleeping on the lumpy couch in the living room, tossing and turning, listening to the sounds of the house, its creaks, its groans, its whimpers, its sighs. Outside, rain patters against the small glass window to the bathroom, its texture clouded for privacy though cracked open slightly, letting in a waft of much-needed fresh air. Though I've felt relatively okay for the majority of the week, I am still unable to pace myself when it comes to the massive amount of food Esme prepares on a near-nightly basis. It is my ritual to over-indulge, to eat as much as possible as quickly as possible, even though there is no fear here of running out or of needing to share and ending up with too little. And then, as if to revolt my ill decisions, my stomach folds in upon itself, wrenching the undigested food back up the way it came, rejecting the overload while, at the same time, leaving room for more.
A defense mechanism, I think, my stomach having shrunk from years of too little now unaccustomed from an assault of too much. I feel myself locking up in the same way, my small and protected shell rejecting the influx of kindness and warmth, needing it to survive but spurning it at the same time. An automatic, unchangeable response.
I return to the kitchen slowly, hand resting on the banister as I descend the stairs from the upstairs bathroom. The photos of Carlisle and Esme's life line the walls, professional shots of their wedding, crinkled polaroids stuck to frames, a collage of a holiday trip to a tropical location. I can spend hours here, perusing the photographs, looking at the hidden details within each one. The way the sun caught in the lens, creating a flare across Esme's squinting eyes, her hand over her forehead, shading them from the rays. Carlisle's arm draped over her shoulder in a restaurant somewhere, something with a vaguely Mexican theme, painted flowers on the back of the wooden booth, his sleeve rolled up to his elbow, his smile loose, a goblet of margarita on the table before him. What looks to be a high school prom, frilly and poofed bell sleeves billow up from Esme's shoulders, Carlisle's suit one size too large, dangling around his still-growing frame, his expression pained, his smile tight, Esme's stiff arms around his waist, the corsage on her wrist that matches his tie. I press my finger to them, the oily pads leaving impressions on each frame, tracing the small parts, the inconsequential bits. The little things that make up a life.
"You okay up there?" Carlisle's voice echoing from the kitchen. The scrape of his chair as he extricates himself from the table, clearly on his way to check on me.
"I'm fine," I call back hastily, taking the last two steps double time. And it's true. I am fine. I feel immediately better after vomiting, my stomach asking the question for me: ok, moving on, what's next?
Tanya sits across from my empty chair, her plate nearly clean. Mine is still half-eaten, as are Esme's and Carlisle's. I can sense that they waited for my return before continuing, and a pang of guilt ricochets through my gut. Still, at the sight of the food I am ready to continue, digging back in to the assorted vegetables, potato, and roast chicken once more. Esme strikes up a conversation with Tanya as I eat, asking her questions about whether she would like to work a bit at the coffee shop Esme owns, earn some spending money. Just casual chat, I think, expecting Tanya to immediately turn down the offer. Instead, she surprises me, jumping quickly at the opportunity and offering to start the very next morning. Esme is pleased as punch, filling up Tanya's glass with water like a waitress at a restaurant. In just under a week, they've become thick as thieves, like mother and daughter. They even look alike, Esme's pride like a living, shining thing when she looks at pseudo-daughter.
After dinner and well into the evening, I knock lightly on the door to the guest bedroom upstairs where Tanya is staying. I hear her shuffling around inside. She opens it just a crack, her hair wild as she peers through the allotment.
"What is it?" she asks, a harsh whisper. Esme and Carlisle have gone to bed but the light still shines beneath their door. She glances that direction warily as if worried about getting caught sneaking around in the house. She is not like me. She never grew small and hard, never closed herself off to kindness. She seeks it out and thrives within it, she wants to preserve it, her cheeks aglow with life, the hard lines of her softened, the gentle rubbing of a dull eraser on harsh strokes.
"Don't you feel like we should leave soon?" I ask, voicing my tempered concerns, shifting on my feet, the carpeting soft beneath my toes. I angle to enter the room but she shuts the door ever so slightly, just a smidgeon, just a hair. Just enough to tell me to back off.
"Leave here? Why? I'm not ready and they're being so nice. They're helping us," she whispers back, vocal cords intermingling.
"Because we're taking advantage of their kindness. Their food. Their… house." I flail my arms out, gesturing at the cream-colored wall of the hallway as if I were conjuring it with my own hands.
"We need this. Don't throw it away because of your pride," she replies, her lips downturned at the corners. I know she is right, but they aren't the words I want to hear. She lets herself soften slightly, an exhale of her body, slumped shoulders and tilted chin. "I need this," she confesses.
"I won't mess it up," I promise. For as long as Tanya wants to stay, I will stay. When she wants to go, I, too, will leave. It's what's getting me through this, that I'm not burdening the Cullens by my own selfish greed. Tanya needs this and, for that, I will make do and exact reparations where I can and when I can. She smiles then, a muted version of the sharp, reactive one I'm used to. When her lips were painted red and she used that smile to get us wherever we needed to go: into clubs, bars, restaurants, back alleys, apartments, hotels. Her smile, a weapon. And now, without the poisonous lips, she is peeled back to something more feminine and, somehow, breakable. It is simple. I owe her. If this is what she wants, this is what I will try to maintain.
"Thank you," she replies, opening the door once more, slipping out into the hallway to join me. Her hands are warm within mine. I trace the lines of her palm with my finger, the way they web, connect, separate. Her nails are short again, bitten to the bone, but their color is a healthy pink. I brush my cheek against hers, reminding myself of the texture of it, the gentle rub. She leans against me, her form solid and sure, soft and hard, head beneath my chin, breath washing across my chest. When she leans up to kiss me, I don't expect it. I haven't felt her, truly felt her, in weeks. The insistent press, the soft reaching. I want more but that isn't what this kiss is. It is a beginning, but not in the way that I want. That I hope for. It is the beginning of the end.
x
Bella sips on her coffee, her legs curled up in the bed beneath her. I replay her story in my mind, how it reframes her, gives new context. She stands in the foreground of the painting, her face on the dotted line, the wedding ring still in the pocket of my jeans, the background shifting behind her like the dunes of the desert in a sandstorm, constantly adjusting and rearranging, a nearly imperceptible dance. I lean over and kiss her on the forehead. She wraps her hand around my wrist, warm from the coffee.
"Are you sure you understand?" she asks, her face so close to mine. I take a deep breath and hold it, the potent scent of her, so unlike anything I've smelled, something I want to covet and own and keep and hoard. Downstairs, Esme has left the television on. A news reporter's voice booming from below. Breaking news! If he could, he would bottle her perfume and wear it!
I consider her careful plotting, her maneuvering. It feels as though she has written me into her narrative, somehow. As if I didn't exist at all before driving up to her on that highway, as if she created me from the ether, built me out of sticks and stones and bones just to appear when she needed me, waiting there on the dotted line, entry hole exit wound no bullet. Before I can move away, she pulls me down to her and I allow it, rest my head in the warmth of her lap, the sheets bunched up around us both. It is peaceful this way, the quiet between us a heavy quilt of tranquility, her fingers brushing through my hair and I imagine there has never been anything so good or so right. I remember another kiss with another girl, a photograph hidden beneath a dresser drawer, an escape, two people who want just a little bit more than I can offer.
This time, I see the signs. What she wants and what she needs. The moments before a storm hits, that eerie quiet. I hear it now and I refuse to walk blindly into it again. This time, I will prepare. I will batten down my hatches, dig myself into the ground, wait it out until it all blows over, until the power lines have fallen and the cars upturned, until the road becomes nothing more than a suggestion. This time, I am prepared. This time, there will be no unintended consequences, no accidental civilian casualties. This time, I know how to rebuild.
At some point, I must've drifted, for when I awake I am alone in the bed and the sheets are cold. I sit up and rub my eyes, wandering around the house like a ghost, speaking with it in conversation, each step of my foot a creak, the tap as I place my mugs on the counter, the insistent buzz of the reporter crying out for attention. My phone rings and it's Carlisle, offering to pick me up and give me my new route, a smile in his voice, easy and free. There is no hint that he has seen the empty couch, that he knows I spent the night with Bella instead.
It begins to rain when we drive to the lot together, Carlisle's arm casually resting on the steering wheel, his thumb and forefinger tapping along to the beat of the soft rock playing out of the speakers. I stay quiet and watch the scene outside, the wash of gray and cream-colored houses and buildings, strip malls with their barber shops and florists, their mini-marts and art shops, their ice cream parlors and boutiques. The lot is active when we arrive, drivers ambling toward their trucks, taking a break both before and after their hauls. Many of Carlisle's employees don't go far: just a short trip to Spokane or Boise then back again, quick assignments that land them in and out of the city within the day, transporting potatoes or cardboard boxes or piles upon piles of orchard apples. I'm one of the few long-haulers, and my route reflects that.
"First to Austin then up to Boston?" I ask, reading down the list slowly, raindrops dampening the paper with unobtrusive splatters, staining the ink into splotches.
"I couldn't get any of the boys to do this one since it'll be a couple of weeks at best. Figured you wouldn't mind," Carlisle replies off-hand, shifting through a stack of other routes in his hand. Two drivers shove past us into the office, hands deep in pockets, shoulders tucked up near their ears to defend themselves from the rain.
"It sounds fine," I say. And for the first time, Carlisle's easy actions morph into something stiffer, something closer to surprise.
"Bella know your route starts tonight?" he asks.
I clear my throat, shuffle my feet around before responding.
"I'm going to go tell her now. Can I borrow your pickup?"
"Sure," Carlisle says. "And if anything changes, if you need a shorter route… you let me know."
"Thanks, but I've overstayed my welcome already."
Carlisle scoffs, waves a hand in rebuttal.
"You're always welcome," he says. There is truth in his words, of course. There always has been. But I am preparing for a storm that cannot be faced head on, not again, not when the same collateral damage is at stake as the last time. In Carlisle's car, I pray. Not for me, but for Bella. Even though I was never the devout child I was meant to be, I pray for her more.
The coffee shop is still open when I arrive, but only for another hour or so. A few patrons linger at the front tables, the ones closest to the window. Angela stands bored behind the cash register, tapping messages into her phone. She looks up when the jingling bell above the door betrays my arrival, carving a perfectly-maintained customer service smile onto her face.
"Bella here?" I ask. I notice then that I'm still carrying my route, the sheet of paper now crumpled up in my fist.
"She had to run to the pharmacy for a second, she'll be back soon I'm sure."
"Is she sick?" I ask, concerned.
Angela raises her eyebrow at me and laughs slightly as if in disbelief.
"No," she replies, laugh gone, deadly serious.
I'm about to change tack and try the closest Walgreens when the bell rings once more and Bella shuffles inside, a closed paper bag clenched in her hand, the hood of a rain jacket falling off her head. She looks surprised to see me and smiles tentatively, wet tendrils of hair framing her face. I decide to remember this moment, to take a picture with my mind and preserve it perfectly, the tiny details of her, the blank spot on the wall beside the stairs, the last step in the descent, the face on the milk carton. This is what she would look like the moment before I say goodbye.
"Edward," she grins, unzipping her jacket. "What's up?"
The words stick in my throat and I have to swallow the resistance before I can speak.
"Hey," I say, and even that simple thing seems to come out wrong. "Can we talk?"
x
thank you for your generous response to last chapter