A/N: Hello! Thank you to SunflowerFran for correcting my numerous errors, and thank you so much for reading. Also, thank you to those who have left reviews. I love hearing your thoughts about the story and my characters.
Now, let's see how Bella's doing...
TO THE LIGHT
CHAPTER 32
"Are you okay?" Angela asks over the hum of her Volkswagen.
"Yes, I'm fine," I lie. Leaning heavily against the door, I stare out the darkened window at the hazy images passing, my eyes catching nothing.
And I keep my hand curled around my wrist, my thumb resting where Edward touched me.
Music fills the background rather than conversation, and I appreciate Angela's ability to read me. She drops me at my door, and we make an arrangement that I'll pay her on our next payday. I also make sure to thank her properly, even though I feel troubled.
And I can't get Edward's expression out of my head.
He had every right to respond like that. I felt so sure in my decision. I knew what I was doing was best for him, but his reaction carved a small hole in my chest. Maybe my decision was what was best for me instead of him. I keep holding him at arm's length because I need my space. I need a gulf between us, a barrier, to keep him distant. The closer I get to him, the closer he gets to me, and the closer he gets to the hidden cracks and shards and splinters in the darkest parts of my heart. He can't know the cuts and oozing wounds I still bandage daily; bandages I never want to strip off, never want to expose to the light.
It's so hard to believe that there once was a time in my life when I welcomed attention, desired it even. Sometimes it feels like that person never existed, like I imagined her or somehow created that other life.
I blink, and a memory flashes before my eyes...
We're at the cabin. Aqua skies, sun-kissed skin, tiny bikini. I laughed with delight as he chased me to the bedroom and pressed me into the cool sheets, our bodies becoming one.
But in the next blink, I grab my temples and squeeze my eyes shut tight when another memory hurls into me...
"Where are the knives?" Jacob shouted in my face. His neck was red, and his eyes were bulging. I nearly dropped his plate before I somehow managed to place it in front of him.
I kept all the knives way up high on top of one of the kitchen cabinets for safety. "I already cut your steak for you, see?"
"Are you treating me like a two-year-old, you bitch?"
"Of course not, I would never—"
"I said mashed potatoes," he shouted, and I shrank back. "You can't remember shit, can you? You're a worthless piece of shit."
Staring at the baked potato I had prepared, my shoulders sagged. I swallowed, and it felt like I just swallowed the knife I used to cut his steak. I coughed through the tightness of my throat.
"I'll … I'll make … some mashed potatoes."
Picking up his plate, I set it on the counter and felt a sob forming in my chest. But I would not cry. My hands shook as I started a pot of water on the stove. I pulled out the vegetable peeler and started working on some potatoes.
"You know what?" Jake said. "I think I want a baked potato, but I know for certain I told you mashed. Are you upset?"
"No, no, I'm fine."
"Good. You're a good wife sometimes. You know that, right?"
"Yes."
"I'm glad we're married. You take good care of me. I appreciate that."
I nodded as I poured the water from the pot into the drain and wished I could somehow go down with it.
Painful breaths surge from my lungs. I wish I could grab those images, cork them in a bottle and toss them out to sea, but I know they'll always wash back to shore. I wish I could hit delete. Yank the ugly ones out like a file folder and shred them, but I know they'll never go away.
It's who I am now.
Rubbing my eyes, I stare at the ceiling for a while. The nighttime goes by like an eternity. I count the number of thorns on each rose Edward gave me. I try to count the petals, but find it harder than I thought it would be. I sit and watch the minutes on the clock bleed into hours before I finally doze off and get a couple of hours of nightmare-free sleep.
I get ready for work, and Angela arrives to pick me up. And I try to prepare what to say to him. "Do you want to do lunch?" she asks as we pull into the parking garage.
"Uh..." I stall, having no idea what to say. Yes, my lunch is tucked away in my bag, but will Edward show up? Is he still angry with me? Is he done with my screwed-up self? How I'm hot and cold and won't let him in?
I have this nauseating turmoil going on in my gut because I know if he doesn't show, I'll be wrecked.
"That's okay," she says. "You don't have to."
"No, it's not like that. I'd love to have lunch with you it's just—"
"Is it that man you were with yesterday?"
I hesitate.
"You don't have to tell me anything. I'm just available if you are."
I don't know why I've never talked to Angela before other than casual conversation. She's tried to offer more of a friendship, but I've always brushed her off. I guess I've been stuck in this impenetrable bubble, not allowing anyone to pierce it.
"I'd love to do lunch sometime," I say. "I'll let you know when."
We exit the garage on foot and round the corner. I immediately see Edward standing next to the building, straining his neck, worried eyes searching the masses. I'm short and moving in a big crowd, so it takes him a moment to catch sight of me. He settles. Relief gently lifting his lips.
We get close, and Angela looks from me to him and back to me before giving me a small wave and walking off.
His eyes run paths from my eyes to my mouth to my cheek and everywhere in between like he's checking things, making sure I'm here and intact.
"Bella, I need to apologize for the way I acted yesterday, I—" he begins, and I cut him off.
"No, I'm the one who needs to apologize."
"No, I need to—"
"Edward, please let me speak."
He presses his lips together tightly like he's holding his breath. "Okay," he says with a burst of air, "but I'm next in line." It strikes me funny, and I laugh a little, and he chuckles, and it helps ease the tension a bit.
"I'm sorry I made you angry. I totally deserved it, and I know I'm being stubborn. It's just that I haven't let anyone get close to me since ... I lost ... him, and even way before that. I mean no one. You overwhelm me, and I want to let you in, but it needs to be at my own pace."
"Of course, and I completely understand. I hate that I got pissed off and walked away like I did. That was just my frustration showing. I know I'm overwhelming and pushing you and—"
"Overwhelming wasn't the right word. I said that a little hastily. It might be more like ... wonderful."
"Wonderful?"
I bite a smile and give him a little nod.
"Really? I had no idea I was wonderful, but Bella? I'll take whatever you can give me."
"I promise to give you what I can."
The wind tunnels through the buildings and launches me forward straight into his chest. My heart thumps heavily as he grabs my upper arms to steady me. I clear my throat and step back. "Well, I better get to work," I say, rushed.
"Wait a minute. About that promise thing you just said ... can you give me lunch today?" he asks, and I start laughing.
"You're my official lunch companion, and I won't be able to eat without you," he says grinning. "Does that bother you? That I might starve?"
"Okay. I do not want to be responsible for you starving."
"Excellent, and I appreciate your concern for my well-being. I'll see you at noon."
Over the next couple of days, we fall into a happy, safe pattern, at least for me. No more wrist touches, although I might like to have that one repeated. We have morning and afternoon meet and greets with lunch in between. Angela never asks about him, and she waits patiently in the afternoons while we talk for a few precious moments.
And my mother continues to blow up my phone from jail, but at least I know where she is.
On Friday morning, I find Edward in more of a chipper mood than usual.
"The boxes from that estate sale are being delivered today. Are you still up for helping me sort them? I'll throw in some Chinese with it," he says with a quick waggling of his eyebrows.
"Sure."
"I'll pick you up at seven. Make sure to wear something casual. The boxes will be dirty and dusty."
Later that evening, as I'm rummaging in my closet, I pop open a few containers I haven't opened in a long time. I've dressed like a librarian for the last several years because why bother? I've had no one to impress.
I pull out a pair of brown, lace-up combat boots and a faded, navy-colored baseball cap I haven't worn in a few years. I slip on some jeans and an old hooded college sweatshirt and lace up the boots. I decide to put my hair up in a ponytail. The snow has melted, so the temp is above freezing. My ears might get a little cold, but I shouldn't be out in the weather for very long. Instead of grabbing my long wool coat, I reach for a short quilted one the same color as my hat and take one last look in the mirror. A few strands of hair have broken loose, so I quickly tuck them behind my ears just before I hear a knock.
Even though my mother is still locked up, I check to see who it is before I even touch the door handle.
I open it, and he's looking down the street. When he turns, he starts to smile, but it falls. His eyes trail down my body and back up to my face, and he just stands there staring.
"What's wrong?"
He continues to stare, and I begin to worry as I tuck one of the wayward hairs back behind my ears.
"You just ... you look ..." he stutters. "You're … you're really ... cute."
I smile, and his words warm my cheeks. "Um, thanks. You said casual."
He glances all the way down to my boots and back up. "Casual suits you. Very well, in fact."
Turning, I lock the door and hide the pleasure I feel.
When we arrive at the bookstore, he parks in a different spot this time and takes me in through the rear alley entrance. "Sorry it's a mess, Sue's a packrat, and I'm a bit of a slob," he says chuckling. "All I really need is my laptop."
Exposed piping and electrical wires hang from the dark beams above, and the floor is concrete. A huge, beat-up mahogany desk sits in the corner with books stacked haphazardly several feet high, leaving only a foot or so of actual desk space. Tall, open industrial shelves surround the room overflowing with boxes and books. Two swivel chairs are pulled off to the side with countless boxes piled near them.
I tug off my gloves and hand him my coat.
"Are you allergic to dust?" he asks as he slips off his light brown knit cap and fluffs his hair with his fingers. "I forgot to mention it."
"Not that I know of."
He pulls out one of the chairs for me. "Good thing because this is like an allergy red zone."
I laugh and glance around. "I do a lot of reading, but I don't know much about the value of books."
"Oh, I'll teach you," he says with a wink. Pulling one of the boxes close, he brushes some of the dust off and uses a box cutter to open it.
"Achoo!" He suddenly sneezes loudly into his elbow. "Achoo!" He sneezes again, and I laugh and laugh as he sneezes a total of eight times.
Chuckling, he rubs his watery eyes and fights the urge to sneeze again. "I swear to you that I'm not … not … allergic to dust," he says loud and quick, his voice all funny before another one erupts.
"I'm going to have to burn this sweatshirt."
I can't stop smiling and giggling. He finally gets it under control, and we start pulling out books. I lift one—dull and spotted brown—the binding torn and ragged and inhale its scent. "I love that smell," I mumble.
"It's great, isn't it? They need to make it into an air freshener."
We laugh some more before he gives me a quick clinic on how to find the gems. He shows me different books and uses terms like dampstained, edgeworm, stunned, and foxed. He's proud of his expertise, and I find it all to be completely fascinating.
I finally get the hang of it, a little, but I still have to consult him on every book I touch. I have one open in my lap, gently touching the gilded edges when I feel him staring. I bow my head more so that the bill of my hat blocks his gaze, but I can still feel it. His boot nudges mine, and I look up.
"I've never seen you like this before," he says, his eyes dragging over me again. "I really like it. I like seeing this side of you."
"I'm trying," I say, loving his words. "I guess this is my way of letting you get closer. A little bit."
"I accept it. This is a gift for me," he says with the softest eyes. "It really is."
Swallowing hard, I immediately turn my attention back to my book.
Several hours later, with half-eaten Chinese boxes strewn about, I pull a book from the box I've been working on. "Hey, isn't this the same book of poems you have? The one you read to me?"
His brows pull together curiously as I hand it to him. "Oh, yeah," he says. "Mine was originally my mom's. She loved poetry. She would make me sit for an hour each day while she read to me, and I absolutely hated it. None of it made sense. I wanted her to read me Spiderman."
"I had it worse," I say, my mouth twisting.
"How is that possible?"
"My dad would make me sit at the kitchen table and look through Bass Pro Shop Catalogues with him. I had to help him pick out rubber worms, salamanders, and frogs."
He throws his head back, laughing crazily, and I join in, breathing in his beautiful sounds, cherishing them. "You've got me beat, Bella, by a mile."
With an unshakable smile on my face, I get back to work on my book. This one is easy and has no significant value, so I set it to the side. I'm reaching for my next book when I glance at Edward and stop.
"What's wrong?" I ask. With brows pulled tightly together, he's staring at the book of poetry I handed him. It lays in his lap, open to the first page.
"This is a first edition."
"Oh, wow," I say excitedly because this is the first one we've come across.
He looks up with the oddest expression on his face. "I have the strangest feeling."
"What is it?" I ask as I scoot my rolling chair closer to his.
He picks up the book. "Read this."
Leaning into him, I see a beautiful, hand-written inscription in calligraphy. It's faded, and the ink has seeped into the paper, but it's still stunning.
June 20, 1918
"To My Beloved Clara," I read out loud, but when I see the next part, I read it silently.
"Even though we are apart, my love for you flourishes. It's immeasurable, unending, and will follow you even into the life beyond. If our time is cut short, always remember that I will still have a millennia left to love you."
Yours,
Edward
My eyes shoot to Edward's.
"Eerie, isn't it?" he says.
"Oh, my goodness," I mumble as I glance down at it again.
He hands it to me, and I'm so moved by the words as I run my fingertips over Edward's name. "It's beautiful."
"I wonder what he was like?" he asks.
I rub my fingertips over her name. "I wonder what she was like. She must have been so special. He obviously loved her very much."
I look up and lock eyes with Edward and my blood rushes. Something about his ... there's a change—something more, something deeper.
We stare at each other for the longest moment before he finally whispers, "He did. He loved her very much."