A/N
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—
I watch the front door for a long time, the loud thud as it closed behind Edward echoing in my ears. He's left me alone, in his house.
"Bella?"
Spinning, I come face to face with Esme, my eyes widening. "Sorry," I splutter. "I was just … leaving."
"Is everything okay?" she asks, taking a step closer, looking worriedly between me and the door, no doubt having heard Edward leave.
I nod, unable to speak.
"Come on," she urges politely. "I'll make us some hot cocoa."
"Oh, that's okay … I should get going, I guess."
She's not buying my feeble attempt at acting strong; like the caring woman she is, she can see right through my false nonchalance.
With a nod of her head, she motions to the kitchen, leaving me standing in the large foyer, watching her go.
Maybe it's the desperation not to go home, knowing I've nowhere else to go, but I follow her quietly, twisting my hands together nervously.
In the kitchen, she's standing in front of the stove; large pot, milk and chocolate on the counter beside her.
We're silent as she works, me standing awkwardly in front of the long table.
"Sit," she commands gently, pouring the warm chocolate into two mugs. I comply.
"I heard Edward leave," she tells me, taking a seat across from me, her hands cupping her mug.
I nod, swallowing hard, looking down into the thick, warm liquid.
"Do you know where he went?" she asks.
I shake my head, releasing a breath through my nose. "I have no idea. I upset him."
Nodding, she sips daintily from her mug. "It doesn't take much to upset him." Her expression is pained, her soft smile faltering, unable to maintain its conviction. She can't even joke about it.
Something about Esme's demeanour makes me trust her. Maybe it's her motherly warmth, maybe it's her kind eyes and unassuming curiosity.
"My mom came back," I tell her quietly. I know she's watching me closely, but I keep my attention on my hands. "She's been gone for … over two years, almost three. She just … left one day, without a word and now … she's back."
Nodding, she smiles timidly, softly. "Let me guess? That hit a nerve with Edward?"
I nod, taking a sip of the cocoa. It's delicious, soothing. "He can't understand why I don't want to hear her out."
"Ah." Her lips purse, her face so painfully understanding. "Moms are a very touchy subject with Edward. He can't quite see past his own hurt where mothers are concerned."
"I can understand that."
"But it doesn't diminish your own feelings, Bella. It shouldn't."
Biting into my lip, I meet her eye. She's right, I know she is, but my instinct is to find Edward, to explain, to apologise, to help him … at the expense of myself? I'm not sure how I feel about that.
Taking a deep steadying breath, I sit back in my seat, rubbing my hand over my face.
Where is he?
"I don't know where he went or what I can do …"
For a long time, Esme doesn't respond. The kitchen is silent, the large house creaking around us, an eerie stillness that's out of place in such a modern home.
"When he's upset," she starts, taking another sip of her drink, "he hides himself, pushes people away. He's always done it, no matter how much we tried to help." Her voice is sad, flat, so full of hurt. "Therapist after therapist tried to talk, tried to get him to open up but he's a master of manipulation, pushing back harder and harder each time, flipping the questioning on its head and redirecting. The only reason we were given, was that it's always been his coping mechanism, since he was a young boy … at first, it was probably a way to escape his dad, and the pain he was subject to." Her eyes water, blinking rapidly as she looks out the window. "It became instinctual, and he had eleven years to perfect it." I watch her silently, feeling as though I'm intruding on a part of Edward's life he doesn't yet want me to know about. But I can't look away, I can't change the subject. I need to hear this.
"What about his mom?" I ask, my voice timid and unsure.
Esme sucks a deep breath through her nose, her attention still directed towards the window.
"When … when Edward turned fifteen, he was … hard work. He started fighting, he started taking drugs and hanging out with questionable people. Carlisle and I didn't know what else we could do for him —we got him involved in sports, enrolled him in piano lessons … we wanted to find something that was a suitable outlet for his anger and his pain, but it all seemed futile. He made three therapists cry, his first four piano tutors ran from the house in tears. And then he purposely broke a kid's leg during football practice. We didn't know what else we could do. So, I approached him, asking how he felt about finding his mom. I hoped it would give him the answers he sought, the answers he needed. Closure. Maybe I hoped it'd give him some form of … peace."
"Did you find her?" I ask, leaning forward, invested, desperate for answers.
Esme shakes her head sadly, looking down at her hands. "It took a private investigator three months to find her. Edward and I turned up at her door … in hindsight, we should have given her some warning but … he was so excited. He truly loved his mom."
"What happened?" My voice is barely a whisper.
Another steadying breath, more blinking to clear her eyes. "She made it perfectly clear she wanted nothing to do with him. I'll never forget the look on his face when she slammed the door. She … looked at him like she didn't even know who he was, like he was nothing."
Fuck.
"He didn't tell me that part."
She smiles sadly. "I don't think he ever would have, sadly. Some things, like the details of Emma's death, he keeps deeply hidden, locked away tight."
I need to find him.
"Where would he go?" I ask, standing, my voice shaking, desperate.
So full of compassion, she stands and rubs my arm. "If he's not with you, my only guess is … Jacob." The venom in her voice as she speaks his name doesn't escape me.
I nod, thanking her for the hot chocolate, and run from the house, on a mission, hoping to find him before he does something stupid.
—-
A/N
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