AN: life is busy, writing is slow (I'm almost done with 27 though!)

Shall we?

Chapter 25

Edward

Blue sky, tree-lined streets, sun bouncing off passing cars. The Windy City isn't bad in the first week of July.

The taxi slows, pulling up outside a brownstone.

"Just here?" the driver asks.

"Yeah, just here's fine. Thanks, man."

I take out my wallet, rifling through bills, handing them through the little window.

"Keep the change," I tell him as he scrabbles in his money belt.

He eyes me in the mirror like he's about to say something funny, but his eyes slide from my busted face to my tattoos and he just nods. I guess I don't look like someone he'd argue with right now.

I don't dwell on it. I'm already out of the taxi, slamming the door and heading to the trunk. It pops open and I haul my suitcase and spare decks out onto the sidewalk. The driver pulls away thirty seconds later, leaving me alone on the street, looking up at the place I grew up in after the group home.

It's home.

My first proper home, anyway.

The curtains move in one of the huge bay windows before dropping back down. Seconds later the green door opens wide, Esme coming down the steps two at a time, dressed in jeans and a blazer, a huge smile on her face.

"You're here!"

And even though I tower over her now, she still hugs me like I'm a little kid—tight, squeezing the air out of my lungs.

"Hey, Mom."

She steps back, examining me, but she doesn't comment on how much I look like shit. Instead, she takes my decks out of my hands and walks me up the steps into the house.

It looks the same: family pictures on the wall, coats hung up near the stairs. It smells the same too, and there's the unmistakable sound of CNN drifting through from the front room.

"I put clean sheets on your bed, and your dad's just gone to pick out some takeout. I know you could really do with something home-cooked, but I only got back from the hospital a half hour ago and I'm running on about six cups of coffee as my clinic overran…"

"Couldn't tell."

She laughs, and I've really missed that. Mom.

"Oh, I've missed you. Coffee? You look dead on your feet."

I dump my bag and suitcase at the bottom of the stairs, ready to take up to my room later.

"Yeah, please."

We walk down the hallway, into the open plan kitchen at the back of the house. I can still see mini ramps at the bottom of the backyard through the patio doors, my old BMX rusting against the shed. For a second there's a pang of nostalgia, of late nights at skate parks and people's houses, of running late to school and getting high behind the bike sheds at lunch. High school was okay—better after I got into a fight and got suspended for a week. No one really bothered me after that.

I sit myself at the breakfast bar in the kitchen as Esme busies herself, flitting around.

"How was your flight?" she calls over, standing on her tiptoes, taking a mug from the lowest shelf of the cupboard and putting it under the fancy chrome coffee maker.

"Good, yeah. Not long enough to sleep though."

I yawn on cue, slowly slipping my sneakers off aching feet so they land with a thump on the floor. Not that I could sleep even if I wanted to. Not after this morning.

My gaze drops my hands, eyes tracing over dark lines etched into my skin. From there they shift to the marble worktop like it has the answers to all of my problems.

"Want to talk about it, kiddo?"

Esme passes me a steaming mug, leaning toward me over the counter until her chin is resting on her hand.

"Wouldn't know where to start."

"At the beginning helps."

I give her a look, reproachful almost. But we do this; have these frank kind of discussions. It was part of years worth of therapy before and after the adoption went through. It's been a while since I answered anyone honestly though, so it's hard. My words stick in my throat and for a minute I contemplate just keeping everything bottled up.

Esme waits patiently as I take a gulp of coffee and look around the kitchen. I spy a picture of Jasper, Emmett, Auntie C, and Uncle Al above the fireplace and my stomach turns. What my Aunt and Uncle wouldn't give to be able to talk to Jasper at all. What I wouldn't give.

"My skating sucks," I tell her, my shoulders slumping. "Everyone's telling me how bad I am now. Messages on my Facebook, on MySpace, on forums. They think I've got a drug problem…" I frown thinking about the phone call I got this morning. It's there, ready to blurt out but Esme speaks before I can.

"Do you have a drug problem?" she asks quietly. "You need to be honest with me, because we can help you if that's the case."

I pull a face at her. "No. You know I—I do stuff sometimes but it's mainly weed. It's not like I'm off my face on coke or whatever. I'm not an addict."

I take another mouthful of coffee, avoiding her eyes. They've always been open with me about drugs and drug use, I've had the D.A.R.E. lecture from them more than once but the bottom line was always that if I was going to experiment to do it safely. I think I've stuck to that.

An image of me and Bella rolling together surfaces in my mind: blown pupils ringed with brown, her dancing on the boat, kissing every part of her I could get my mouth on. My jaw clenches and I shut it down.

"Jane contacted me from the PR firm." My voice wavers, knee bouncing. "They've been approached by a magazine that's gonna run a story on it. My fall from 'grace'." I use air quotes for emphasis.

"When did you find that out?" Esme looks alarmed.

"This morning."

She's quiet.

"Do you want to counteract that then? Maybe you could use it for mental health awa—"

"No." My voice is sharper than I intend it to be, and I wince. "Sorry. But I'd rather people thought I'm an addict than—than fucked in the head."

I laugh, but it's not funny.

"Edward," Esme sighs. "One. Language. Two. That's not a great view. There's nothing to be ashamed of. Depression is epidemic. You're really not alone."

I eye her warily, flexing and unflexing my hands. I feel alone though.

"I don't want people to know," I tell her stubbornly. It's no one else's business anyway. "I don't want to publicize it—I'm not a spectacle or someone people should look up to. I'm just making a fucking mess of everything."

I run a hand through my hair as Esme chooses her next words carefully, every one of them measured.

"Okay. Alright. That's your choice… as it should be. But this article is just going to make all these claims, and you're not going to set them straight? Edward, this could ruin your career. Your sponsors—"

"I know," I tell her frustratedly. "I don't know what to do."

"Maybe you could limit it to the non-specified truth? You've had to come to terms with a lot this year."

"You sound like Alice," I mutter.

"She has a point," she says.

"She usually does. Whether it's right or not…" I grimace.

"How is she?"

I shrug.

"Edward."

"Nagging me to get back to Vancouver," I mumble.

"And you don't want to go?"

I expel my next words slowly.

"Not really."

Esme crosses her arms and I know I'm about to get lectured, the expression on her face is confused but it's nothing like how I feel inside. "Isn't she your girlfriend now?"

"I guess, but—"

"Then why don't you want to go and see her?" She's challenging me, eyebrows raised.

"I don't know."

She doesn't believe me, I can tell by the look on her face, so I relent.

"We fight. She said and did some stuff before I headed to Europe..."

It still irritates me now. I don't know whether she's jealous or insecure of both, but like I told her, it doesn't excuse her shitty behavior even if she is.

Esme studies me for a second. "This shift in your relationship is new, right?"

I dip my head, frowning, wondering where she's going with this. I speak to my hands. "She's just… really been there for me this year, and we got closer. She wanted to try—"

"And you didn't?"

"No—yes. I don't know."

"That's the problem, Edward," Esme interrupts, gently. "She's been through a really tough time and so have you. You can appreciate what she's done without feeling obligated. I know you've only been together a little while, but the impression I'm getting—not just now, by the way—is that you're just going along with it because it's what she wants. That's not really a good reason to be with someone. It's not fair on her."

I'm quiet, thinking over everything. I do feel like I have some kind of fucked up sense of moral duty to thank Alice for picking me up when I was at rock bottom. She cared, and she was there, looking out for me. She lost her dad and Jasper and still made time for me and all my bullshit. She made it clear she wanted me and that was… enough for me to try. To kiss her back this time. It made sense. Or I thought it did.

And I should've known it wasn't enough. It couldn't be. That my heart and my head weren't in it—isn't in it, not really. Not if I was being honest. But I needed to try.

"I think you're right. I just… it sounds pathetic. Just wanting to be wanted, y'know?" The tightness in my chest grows. Because Bella didn't. She made that clear. Eight months of silence, and it still tears me up.

"She's seeing someone," I mumble. "Bella." I swallow thickly as I meet her eyes. "And I dunno. I just… why not me? I don't get it. Still. I don't fucking understand—"

"Hey," she says, gently, hand reaching out to take mine. "Breathe."

Esme squeezes my hand, smiling at me sadly.

"I know it's hard. It's hard to understand why, especially for you. You've always had such a difficult time with rejection, Edward. It plays on your worst insecurities. No matter how grown you are, part of you will always have that same deep-rooted fear you had as a little boy." She rubs her thumb over the back of my hand, nothing but unconditional love for me, even though I've been worrying her and Carl sick this year with my choices and behaviour.

"Everything changed the day we lost Jasper. And for Bella, it probably changed the most. She not only lost one of her best friends, but there's the psychological trauma that happened—it's not just the physical injuries and complications from the accident that are in play here—it's the hospital, it's the appointments, the constant probing and tests—scans. The anxiety that goes with all those things… she's had to focus on one thing at a time, one day at a time, at points, especially in those early days, an hour at a time. As doctors, we see it a lot. She had to put herself first. There might not have been any room for anyone else in her head. You're not the only one she pushed away, remember."

My head dips, thumb scratching my forehead. We've talked this over before. Bella. But I wasn't… I didn't listen. Well, I listened, but I didn't take it in. Not really. I sniff, blowing my cheeks out. Because what am I supposed to do? What was I supposed to do? I tried my fucking hardest to be there.

The front door opens and closes, heavy footsteps coming down the hall. Dad whistles, the sound of car keys being swung and caught as he gets closer.

"Think about it, honey. Especially about Alice. It's not fair on either of you if you're this unhappy. You should want to be around your girlfriend."

Appearing in the doorway, Dad has a paper bag of takeout in his hands. He smiles broadly when he sees me. Dumping it on the counter, his hand finds my shoulder, his smile matching Esme's from earlier.

"You been fighting again?" His hand comes up to tilt my head toward the light.

"Hey, to you too, Dad." He looks at my eye closely. "If a railing counts then, sure."

"Looks a bit red… might have an infection. We'll have to keep an eye on it."

"It's fine," I tell him. "Just hurt a lot when I did it." My stomach growls and my head nods at the bag. "Hope you got something good, I'm starved."

…

Being at home is strange. Everything is the same and yet I feel completely disconnected; even when I go upstairs to unpack I feel like a stranger in my own room. I don't stay in there long before retreating downstairs to watch a few episodes of Jeopardy with Carl and Esme.

We spend the rest of the evening looking through my pictures from Europe; I took some shots on an old disposable and had the film developed at one of those one hour places in the airport.

"You look happier here," Carl comments about one of the pictures. "Barcelona suits you."

"It was fun. Skating all day, good people, food, weather. I felt better out there," I agree.

"Better's good," he nods, approving.

When I show them the latest video Embry has of me base jumping, Esme squeaks, her hand clutching her chest, as they watch me hurtle to the ground

"But you're not feeling suicidal?" she quizzes, concerned, peering at me like I might have a neon sign on my forehead telling her so.

"I like the adrenaline rush. Makes me feel alive." It's the only way I can describe it. There's something freeing about it. It makes me feel less numb.

She doesn't look convinced, her and Carl having some kind of silent conversation between them over the top of my head before they suggest therapy. Again.

Staring at the back of my door much later, I examine the poster of some blonde chick from Maxim tacked up to the back of it: the swell of tits and naked flesh and memories of jacking off over it more than a handful of times. Now, it doesn't really do much for me. Nothing does, really.

Only my laptop is on, lighting up my face in the dark room, casting the walls, posters and drawings still tacked up, in a blue glow. The window is open, the sounds of the city at night drifting through, a sticky heat that clings to my skin. It's just past two AM and I'm getting drowsy.

My eyes close and I fall into a weird half-sleep until my cell vibrates next to me. Picking it up, I'm expecting to see another text from Alice; but it's not her.

My thumb runs over the screen until the light dims and fades to nothing. Rubbing at my eyes, I'm suddenly not feeling so tired anymore. I push my tongue against my lip ring before sitting up against the headboard. Pressing a random button, the screen lights up again. And, for a minute, all I can do is look at the word in front of me.

Hi

Hi. Hi.

I'm stuck on it. But I can't help but think it's an invitation—an opening to something. Hi is the beginning of a conversation.

Bella said friends, so maybe this is her trying. It's what I told her to do, but even still, it's caught me off guard. After so long, I didn't think she'd ever do it.

Hi I mimic her, hitting send seconds later.

She replies almost immediately.

Are you back?

Yeah, I'm back. In Chicago with my parents atm

Minutes pass, feeling like hours. The longer it takes for her to respond, the more desperation kicks in. Having a conversation in any capacity with her is what I'm grasping for right now.

You're up late. I text again, jaw tense, figuring a change of topic might get a response.

Five, maybe ten minutes later she replies.

Can't sleep. You're up even later? Jet lag?

Nah, got over that a while ago. Why can't u sleep?

Can't switch off.

I smile as I type.

I heard counting sheep helps

Lol. If only.

Have u tried?

That and everything else…

David Attenborough documentaries work for Carl

Not a bad idea. A British accent… where can I go wrong?

You can't… I pause. She should sleep. I should let her, but I don't want her to think I'm shutting this down. Let me know if it works.

I will. Enjoy Chicago and seeing your 'rents. Isn't it 2 am there?

Yeah, it is :)

I didn't even think. Sorry

Don't apologize.

:) Night, Ned.

I hesitate. I wonder whether I should put something cheesy like sweet dreams, but… If her dreams are like mine, they're not the least bit fucking sweet.

Night, Turtle x

The screen goes dark on my laptop, plunging my whole room into darkness. I move it to the floor, settling on top of my sheets, my arms behind my head.

It's not much… it doesn't mean much, really. But it's something. And something is definitely better than nothing.

...

Time with Esme and Carl is rare, but with them both off work for the rest of the week, we take advantage of the sunny weather and spend a day on the shore of Lake Mich, eating ice cream and swimming. The next day Carl gets called in to consult on a complex surgery, so Esme and I head to the Museum of Contemporary Art.

"This is…" Esme furrows her brow as she gazes at the installation before us: streams of newspaper and rope, a smashed television heaped in a pile of soil.

"Garbage?" I offer.

Her hand slaps against my chest gently.

"I was going to say interesting, but you're right. It's like a giant hamster's gone to town. Maybe a gerbil." She finds the little plaque and reads it aloud.

"'A commentary on being influenced and bound by the types of media we consume'. Of course… Well, there we have it."

We both laugh and move on.

The last part of the day I spend skating in the sun as the summer heat really kicks in. I don't know the faces that frequent the haunts I did only a few years ago, but they know me. Some are friendly, others just huddle and watch. I try not to care. But I kind of do. The stuff said about me recently is under my skin. It's hard not to take it to heart. And worst of all is they've got a fucking point. I throw in the towel after a couple of hours, fed up, skating home with my shirt off and the setting sun still warm on my back.

Fresh from the shower, I sit with the towel wrapped around my waist, air drying in the heat as the faint sounds of Esme cooking in the kitchen filter upward. I scroll through my newsfeed on Facebook, only pausing on a picture Rose has put up from today. She's sitting with Bella on a hospital bed. Bella's wearing a hospital gown, her hair up, ear piercings missing, her tongue poking out, tongue bar gone.

It's another difference. Another change between then and now. I wonder how she feels about it. I wonder whether she cares at all about the little things like that.

MRI scan with this little warrior today, Rose's caption reads.

My pulse rushes loud in my ears, worry settling in my stomach. What now?

I reach for my cell, but instead of texting her, I call.

It takes the longest of time before she finally picks up, the line crackling.

"Hi?" Her voice is kind of breathless, a little faint and unsure. "Hello? Ned?" Now confused when I don't answer.

I clear my throat, realizing I haven't uttered a word yet. "Hey. Ah—Sorry, hope I'm not interrupting anything."

"Oh, um. No. Not really. I left my cell in my room. Still not moving very far, very fast," she says. I hear her inhale deeply. "Did—are you okay?"

"I'm okay. I, um, I saw the picture Rose posted on Facebook… I wanted to check whether you were okay."

She groans. "I told her not to post it," she sighs.

But even her annoyance makes me feel... something. Weirdly happy.

"My neurologist wanted to look for scar tissue to see whether they can pinpoint the damage that's causing my seizures."

"Did they?"

"I don't know yet, the radiologist says he'll send the results, and then Dr. Snow reviews them and will give me an appointment some—"

The sound of the doorbell ringing and Oz barking up a storm cut Bella off.

"Oz, no! No barking. Sit! Sit. Good boy! Shit. I've gotta—um, hang on."

I hear muffled sounds, rustling, the faint sound of voices, a door closing. She's even more breathless when she picks up.

"Sorry, it was the UPS guy. Dad discovered Amazon, and now he's getting parcels every day. It's ridiculous."

"What's he buying?"

"Ugh. Fishing stuff and books on World War One, specifically the Battle of Dunkirk, and then completely random things like candy with insects in them and dog toys. Mom is horrified—about the fishing stuff and the insects," she amends.

I laugh. "Fishing sounds like a good idea for your old man, it'll get him out the house. Your mom could look at it as a bonus."

"Until he starts bringing the fish back? Mom will be—"

"Which movie? Die Hard or The Departed?" A voice asks Bella. It's distant but distinctive and instantly the elation I felt before evaporates. Ben.

"You got company?" My voice is flat. I can't hide it; the bitterness curling around my stomach.

"Edward—"

"I hope the results come back okay. Really. The Departed's great, you should watch that."

I hang up abruptly, and throw my cell at the wall.

Even if she is talking to me, she's still seeing someone else.

But… so am I.

My face in my hands, I lie back on my bed. I've been thinking about what Esme said a lot. Playing it over in my head... how I'm going to tell Alice that I don't think we should be together anymore.

That we shouldn't be together anymore.

It's not what I want.

And it's not fair on either of us, trying to pretend that it is.