Hello! I'm trying a different approach to maximizing my writing output in the struggle for psychological survival that is my life, and probably yours too if you're reading angsty Twilight fanfiction. Lots of my odds-and-ends and story starts fall into themes, so I'm going to keep trying (see "Shield-less Bella" for my first effort) to group like bits together as different chapters in a larger themed "story."
Hopefully this approach will also cut down the amount of new multi-chapter stories I add to the ridiculous number I have already started, as anyone can see my strength is in new exploration and not in disciplined completion. This is not to say I'm not trying to complete things, but I'll be first to admit a glacial pace.
I apologize if this approach seems awkward or frustrating, and also for the incomplete, delineated-holes quality of the chapters. I would love to finish them all, no shorthand needed, but I don't think I'll live long enough to do so no matter how long I drag on for…so I'm posting what I have with the attitude that it's better to share and let you decide what's worth your time to read than to have them languish on my hard drive, never to see the internet-light, on the off chance that something in them is helpful and/or comforting to one of you.
Finally, the Edward voice I've been cultivating for years has gotten a bit demanding, and insists on taking over my former podium here at the story start, and I'm too exhausted to fight him off. He thinks more of you will listen to him than to me anyway, (I agree), and is willing to threaten you all to make you pay attention if necessary—although what an imaginary Edward can hold over you as collateral, I can't quite imagine.
All right, that's not true—I just don't want to imagine. He could stop showing up in my subconscious. Please, please, please don't ignore him and wreak that horror on me.
And now, here "he" is:
"Ladies. It has come to my horrified notice that CL is churning out more impossible fantasy stories to feed the real desperation that some of you feel, being relational-emoters in a rational-object-oriented world. PLEASE DON'T BELIEVE A WORD SHE WRITES IN HER STORIES! It's all lies. Desperate lies and wishful thinking.
Don't get me wrong; the idea of me exists (and I'm every bit as wonderful—and attractive, thank you—as I sound). The problem is in the difference between the idea of me and the reality of me. You are far, far, FAR more likely to encounter a James-variant, or even more likely (God help you) a Mike, than me in human form.
I'm sorry for that, Sweetheart (yes, I'm talking to you). You deserve all the comfort you can get, and it's blisteringly unfair that the sweetest and most vulnerable of you are the most likely to be used up and bled dry (and not quickly by vampires). Sadly, it's also true.
The Bible may assert that "the meek shall inherit the earth," but the only way I can make that premise hold true is by taking an "ashes to ashes" perspective of the word "inherit," meaning more or less "the meek shall die." Yep. You will die, probably after being worn to the bone and having all your hopeful expectations and desires snuffed out, one by one.
Of course, selfish bastards will die too, as will those in the middle ground having some nicety of feeling but more cognitive protection around their egos than you have been born with or been lucky enough to develop, but the process will likely be less excruciating and misery-laden than it is for you. Life is by no means fair, Sweetheart, and you are living proof.
Now, don't panic, and for God's sake don't get hysterical (yes, I am talking to you again). You CAN learn to cope such that life isn't as miserable as it may be for you right now. CL's done her neurotic best to outline her techniques, and though she's a crazy one, I will say that she seems to be moving in the right direction, and occasionally is truly joyful in her life—and almost always grateful it isn't any harder or worse (smart girl).
But she's not very direct, is she? So now I'm going to have at it…which is to say, I am now going to tell you what to do—and what not to. I expect obedience, and though I'm a little- how to put it? constrained- in the reinforcement-and-consequence department, you know that somewhere, in that wonderfully feeling-full brain of yours, I'll be watching. And listening. And just generally checking up on you.
So be good, which means be gentle with yourself; at least try to ignore the assholes; and when you go to a nightclub:
1.Why the hell are you going to a nightclub? Seriously, little girl, what are you hoping to accomplish? It will be full of everything you hate: loud noises; aggressive people—make that drunk aggressive people; the expectation of public display of the most self-promoting kind. Yes, I know you're adorable shaking your booty in the kitchen, or your dorm room, but that isn't going to equate to comfort on the dance floor. Do you know who is comfortable on the dance floor? Exhibitionists and narcissists, with the occasional resilient extravert thrown in.
Are you an exhibitionist? Narcissist? Resilient extravert? Thought not—so stay home.
2.If you must go, (and be prepared for a big fat "I told you so,"), go with someone you trust, who knows you—I mean really understands your limitations and vulnerabilities, like your difficulty saying "NO!"—and is prepared to defend you if necessary.
It's not enough to just head out with "friends," or to rely on any of the male members of your party for chivalrous behavior. Chivalry may not be dead, Sweetheart, but it's on a ventilator—and for some very valid reasons. But you're someone likely to really need a little chivalry, from either men or women, so try cultivating some honest conversation with the most assertive person you trust who's planning to go out with you. Like this: "Hey Thor, I tend to do stupid things when I get overwhelmed by loud noises and aggressive people, so would you and Mjollnir [Thor's hammer; he named it—guess what else he named ;)?] keep an extra eye out for me tonight?"
Don't know Thor, or a reasonable human facsimile? You know what I'm going to say: stay home.
3.Alright, I'm well aware that your difficulty saying "No" means you're probably going to be dragged along with your idiot and equally naïve friends anyway, despite all the good advice I just gave you. So here's your last stand, and the enormous valley I've drawn for you in the sand: DO NOT LEAVE THE NIGHTCLUB, OR ANY OTHER PLACE, WITH SOMEONE YOU'VE JUST MET.
I'm not joking here, and neither is CL. If you do do something that reckless and stupid, and you get hurt—which would be HIGHLY LIKELY, because you are an absolute magnet for selfish assholes who will recognize your malleability and PURPOSEFULLY EXPLOIT it and you—then realize that in addition to making yourself miserable, which may not be new, you are saddling CL with the guilt of it for the rest of her pitiful life too. Reading romantic bullshit is DANGEROUS, because your animal self can't tell the difference between reality and fantasy. And when you're in an emotionally-threatening situation, like being talked into leaving a nightclub with someone you've just met, it's your animal self who's in charge, not your best-judgment cognitive self.
So, do all of us a favor, including the collection of sad and desperate people that your loving nature will be a blessing for if you last long enough to meet and care for them: harness your animal self with enormous guilt for allowing reckless decisions, or going along with someone else who's behaving harmfully towards you. It may not sound fair (nothing new there) that you, who are already so shame-prone and wrongfully self-blaming, need to feel MORE guilt—but it is the relational counter-weight you may need to push back against someone else who wants to take advantage of you, with no thought for either your well-being or that of the rest of the world.
Shall I recap?
Don't pretend to be "normal" – you're not. You're beautiful, loveable, and exactly right the way you are—but you're not normal. Embrace the pain of being different on your own terms rather than the shame of failing to be what other people and society in general dictates.
Try to find and surround yourself with people who understand, or at least can see, your unique challenges, burdens and gifts. This is harder than it sounds, and if you are feeling completely alone, know at least that you're not alone in your aloneness.
Take heart in your own knowledge that you're doing the best you can with what you've been given. Hold on to the universal love you are unusually able to see, generate and share, and use it—whether you call it "God" or "Goddess" or "Allah" or "Jehovah" or "compassion" or "enlightenment" or just plain old love—to stand up against human frailty and fear, your own and others'. And know that when someone hurts you, they're also hurting all the other people you won't be as able to love because of the damage that's been done to you—so protect those people by protecting yourself.
Much love to you, Sweetheart. I'll be watching. XON (N=love nip) Edward"
And now, on with the really bad role-modelling and totally unrealistic scenarios revolving, at least in the beginning, around nightclubs…
With thanks to Stephenie Meyer, who managed to take an almost-ridiculously unrealistic scenario and turn it into food for both our souls and psyches, (which tend to go pretty hungry in popular culture today), and who of course owns all things Twilight, but has enough good sense and graciousness not to rub it in.
Be well! And listen to Edward. xo liza
The Commune, Chapter 1 (Repeated with editing from Sharks in the Swimming Pool, Chapter 9)—Scroll down past the italics for the brand-new material in Chapter 2:
20-something Bella lives in an urban commune, a living community in a large, old house in which everyone agrees to participate in and contribute to communal life, including meals, house upkeep and outside chores. Bella is of course a gold-mine of willing housekeeping and cooking labor for the group, good-naturedly exploited after one of the members (Jessica) meets her at work and talks her into joining. Soon Bella finds her spare time dominated by unremunerated and oftentimes unappreciated household work and mother-like nurturance (she bakes everyone elaborate birthday cakes, for example), but since she needs to feel needed, it is largely a mutually-satisfying situation as the community members also regularly express affectionate appreciation for her.
However, the community's balance shifts when two of the founding members (Peter and Charlotte) leave to establish their own private home life together, and are replaced by Victoria and James. Now there's more shared social emphasis on drinking, illicit drug use and club-scene partying, and far fewer instances of the college-style intellectual debates about the meaning of life held at the kitchen table with Bella's brownies sharing pride of place with a bowl of marijuana. There's also now far less emotional security for Bella, and she is starting to feel ill at ease in her home.
She still has close friendships with a couple other house members (especially Jessica), however, and they talk her into trying to blend in a little better with the new regime, getting her to come out one night to a club party for the first time. Of course, Edward happens to be there with friends too.
Edward is experiencing his own changing social environment, as one by one his womanizing party buddies left over from college or made in the adrenaline rush of wealth-accumulation during his work as an investment banker form lasting attachments and move on to marriage and a more sedate social life. As a result, the group Edward is left going out with is getting more hedonistic and debauched, and Edward is getting more and more discontent, though he doesn't yet let himself understand why.
Meanwhile, one of his oldest friends—Jasper, by now also his brother-in-law—calls out Edward on his consistent and demeaning (of himself and those he "dates") taste in women, and dares him to take home someone more interesting/less "easy." Jasper looks around the club and picks out Bella (an action he will later have to answer for to an outraged Alice, though his defense is significantly assisted by the fact that Edward never would have found Bella without this "despicable act," as Alice terms it). Edward is pissed because he realizes Jasper has a point, and haughtily agrees to seducing Bella as a cover for the blow to his ego and the underlying fear and dissatisfaction it has uncovered.
So Edward successfully talks a confused and uncertain Bella (who is so grateful to be able to escape that loud and noxious place) into leaving the club with him, with Edward expecting just another one-night stand. Instead, he ends up falling in love with her, after first being shocked and horrified at the degree of her naïveté and vulnerability.
During the awkward car ride from the club, Edward breaks a growing silence by telling Bella she shouldn't have taken a ride with someone she doesn't know-meaning him. She gets scared for the first time in Edward's presence, and breathlessly asks, "Are you going to hurt me?"
This makes Edward even madder, and he says "Of course not, but if I was you just said exactly the wrong thing. You should make up something about not being worried because your Dad's a cop, or you're packing heat, or know judo, or anything besides what you just said!"
"I'm sorry," a repentant but clueless Bella answers back with sincerity.
"Christ! You're not listening! You don't have anything to be sorry for! I'm the asshole! You are the victim! Victims don't say sorry!" Edward yells back, and that is the end of their conversation in the car.
When he stops in the parking garage of his condo, Edward apologizes to a tearful Bella for scaring her, and coaxes her into his condo with the promise of watching a movie. Even after the scotch he throws back immediately upon entering his home, Edward is still feeling his agitation growing-so he shows Isabella to his den and tosses the media system controller onto the leather sofa, inviting her to "Watch whatever you want; I'll be right back," then heads in to his bedroom and attached bath to take a bracingly cold shower and try to clear his head.
Bella just stands there, on the threshold of the den, staring at the TV in front of her and wishing herself home in her own bed, but feeling bound by good manners to stay and watch the movie she agreed to. From down the hall, she hears the shower go on and feels a little reassurance at Edward's absence for the time being. So she tentatively enters the room, moving over to the sofa and sitting down on its edge, then picking up the giant remote she has no idea how to work.
A few experimental button pushes later and the sound system comes on at deafening levels, and Bella's panicked attempts to turn it down or better yet off just result in the sound getting louder. Finally, with a stressed-out shriek of fearful defeat, she drops the remote like it's on fire and buries her head under a sofa cushion to try and escape the noise.
Edward hears the blaring speakers from down the hall and exits the bathroom quickly, dripping wet from his shower and only wrapped in a towel. Moving fast, he grabs up the remote from where Bella dropped it on the coffee table and turns off the system with one press of a button.
Bella was still hiding from the loud sounds, crouched over on the sofa and burrowing under a cushion, her arms wrapped around her head and covering her ears. When the horrible noise finally goes away, she slowly pulls back from her hiding place and peeks up at Edward, who is standing, dripping water, holding the remote and staring at her incredulously.
She stares back, trembling. Finally he drops the remote back down on the coffee table and says, "We're not going to have sex tonight." It's a matter-of-fact announcement, and he's telling both himself and her.
Her eyes widen, and she says, breathlessly, "We were going to have sex?"
He laughs once, hard, and starts to say "You have no idea—" but stops himself before going any farther (he was going to say "why I brought you home, do you?") and changes tack.
He doesn't speak another word, just marches forward, grabbing her hand and leading her back with him into the bathroom, where he turns the shower back on, gets the water running hot, then turns around and starts undressing her, very matter-of-factly. She's too shocked to move or protest, so soon he has her stripped down to panties and bra, which he leaves on and then shoves her, gently, into the shower. While she's in there, letting the water run over her and starting to feel a little safety from the combination of the shower's warmth and the fact that Edward isn't invading her space or asking for things from her she doesn't know how to give, Edward gets himself dried off and dressed in sleep pants and a t-shirt.
When he's ready, having dried his hair a little bit but cutting short his usual grooming routine to focus on her, he gets another two thick white towels out, sets them down on the closed toilet lid, and reaches in to turn off the shower. Isabella squeaks at that, and starts to feel afraid again, only when Edward pulls her out of the shower by the wrist, he pulls her into the large towel he has draped over his chest and tucks it around her before he starts drying her off with the other one.
His hands are all-business again, so Isabella closes her eyes and by the time he's worked down to her feet, sitting her down on the toilet and crouching on the floor next to her to dry them for her, her eyes are closed and she's half-asleep.
She comes to a little when Edward pulls one of his t-shirts over her head, then removes her wet bra and pulls the shirt down to her waist. Next he removes her underpants, leaving the towel wrapped around her waist while he does so, then pulling up a pair of his boxers before he removes the towel completely. The boxers are loose on her, so he leads her by the hand out of the bathroom and into his home office, where he sits down on his desk chair and pulls her to stand in front of him, digging through the drawers until he finds a binder clip that will hold the waistband up against her hips.
When that's fixed to Edward's satisfaction, he nods, then looks up at her face as if he's just remembering that she's a witness to all this, a person, not just a problem to be solved. What he sees is a mixture of incredulity and uncertainty, and it leaves him with the strong desire to add some happiness to the mix.
So without further ado, he rises and grabs her hand, leading her into his kitchen. There, he sits her down on a bar stool, then begins pulling food options out from the fridge and setting them down on the counter in front of her. Gauging her nonverbal reactions to the food he presents, he selects a couple items—leftover homemade macaroni and cheese (courtesy of Esme) and a fruit salad—and replaces the rest, then heats up the casserole while dishing up one big bowl of the salad. He places the two dishes, along with a glass of water, on a tray, adding one knife and one fork and a cloth napkin, then picks up the tray in one hand and grabs Isabella's closest elbow with the other.
Towing her along behind him, Edward leads Bella back into the den, where he settles in on the big leather couch before pulling her down on top of him. He feeds her from the food on the tray, alternating feeding himself too from the same utensils and the same bowls, as he pretends to watch the news but really watches as her eyelids get heavier and heavier. She falls asleep there, curled up on him, and eventually he switches off the TV and turns off the lights, and they sleep there on the sofa, Bella tucked tightly against him.
She sleeps more soundly than she has in years, maybe ever, but he keeps waking up with a start, surprised again and again to find another person sleeping in his space, for Edward Cullen has had an active sex life, but has never slept with anyone before. Not since passing out in college, anyway.
So they both sleep in a little, and the sunshine is streaming in brightly when Bella finally stirs. Her stirring wakes up Edward, and he sits up bringing her with him. She's all wild hair and wild eyes as she looks up at him from against his chest, cradled in his arms, and when he says, "Good morning," with a wink, she yelps and hides her head in his chest. He laughs, and holds her closer to him for a moment, then helps her stand as he does before leading her by the hand back to the bathroom from the night before.
He turns her around to face the shower and pats her on her behind as he teases, "Don't peek," then lifts the lids and takes a piss. As he's washing his hands afterwards, he looks over to her and says, with warm humor, "You can turn around now," and she does, albeit slowly and with her eyes fixed to the floor. Next he pulls out his own toothbrush and a spare from the vanity drawer and gets them both wet and fixed up with toothpaste before handing her one and saying, "Brush." She does, as does he, and they take turns spitting in the bathroom sink.
When she's done, he wipes her face with a warm washcloth, then starts to lead her out of the bathroom. She hesitates, pulling on him just a little, and when he turns back, surprised at her hesitation, to check on her, he sees her eyeing the toilet.
He laughs lightly, "Oh! I forgot about you! I suppose you want a little privacy?"
And she manages a shy, "Yes, please," so he leans in and kisses her on the cheek before exiting the bathroom, pulling the door closed behind him but stopping short at the end, leaving a small gap because already he is unwilling to put unnecessary barriers between himself and his strange new acquisition, whom he hasn't yet but will soon acknowledge as "his girl."
Edward drives her home after breakfast. She turns to say good-bye to him in the car, but he's already getting out to walk her up. He eyeballs the building where Bella lives closely; it's run-down and not in a good neighborhood by Edward's standards (some would call the area "arty" and "up-and-coming," but Edward just sees poor people trying to feel good about themselves and their meager bank accounts, something he's glad to let them do as long as they're independent about it, but doesn't want anyone he cares about living there), so he's soured on it well before they run into a half-naked James who is leering at Isabella—and glaring at Edward—on the way to her room in the attic.
Even worse, James moves into Bella's personal space, cutting her off on her way to the attic staircase, one arm stretched across the doorway, saying, "Come see me when rich boy's gone, beautiful," lifting his eyes to stare threateningly at Edward as James finishes the sentence.
Bella shrinks back against Edward, being terrified of James and normally avoiding him at all costs, to the point of going on late-night shopping trips when previous circumstances have led to her and him being in the house alone (luckily that has only happened once so far, although unbeknownst to her, James has plans to engineer its reoccurrence soon and in such a way that he will be free to take full advantage of the situation, and of Isabella, now that he feels confident she won't fight or prosecute him afterwards).
Edward responds by wrapping his arm around her torso from behind and glaring balefully at James, not saying a word, just waiting until eventually James responds to a repeat summons from his girlfriend Victoria and walks away yelling viciously "I f$%^ing heard you, back the f$%^ off!" as he goes, with one jealous backward glance at Edward as James moves down the hallway and out of sight.
Edward is now certain that there are no circumstances under which he will leave Isabella there with the cretin who has "intent to commit sexual assault" written all over him in large block letters. There is one shivery moment in which Edward's subconscious sends him a message, just a fleeting thought, about how close he came to being precisely such a cretin with Isabella himself, and the anger and self-disgust of that just makes him push her faster up the stairs, with more commanding assurance that he has every right to tell her to pack up so he can move her out of there.
Which he does by marching to the closet of her attic room, throwing open the door, and pushing past the hanging clothes until he finds her old suitcase, garment bag and duffels and drags them out in one armful before throwing them all on her bed. "Start packing," he says as he pulls out his cell phone and dials Alice, moving towards the window to hopefully get better reception and make the call, needing to cancel his participation in a family cook-out that afternoon in order to get Isabella settled. He hasn't yet allowed himself to think consciously about what that will mean.
Isabella, meanwhile, is standing stock still, dumbstruck, just staring at this terrifyingly wonderful man before her. Edward notices this as he's listening to Alice's phone ring, so that when Alice answers, he is distracted by his efforts to get Isabella in motion. These attempts include vigorous arm gestures towards the luggage on the bed combined with meaningful stares into her deep brown incredulous eyes. None of them work, so that after initial greetings are past, as Alice launches into an inquisition of why Edward is bailing out at the last minute and whether the reason is worthy, suspecting it is hangover-related and therefore not but intrigued by a new quality in Edward's voice that she's having a hard time pinning down and feels very hopeful to hear, Edward has to give up for the moment and concentrate on throwing his meddlesome psychic pixie of a little sister off his trail.
Because there's one thing Edward is sure of right now, and that is when it comes to Isabella, he doesn't want to share.
CHAPTER TWO:
I can't shake the feeling I've had since last night at the club, when the most handsome man I've ever seen walked up to me and introduced himself. I can't remember what he said, I'm not even sure I registered the words at the moment so surprised I was to be talked to by such a person, so I had no idea what his name was when I left the club with him. I only found out his last name because of the security guard at the underground parking garage where he keeps his car. It's Mr. Cullen, and it fits him as well as the clothes he wears, which look so smooth and tailored exactly right for his lean, strong shape that it's like he walked out of a magazine ad. It scares me.
He scares me, although I can tell he's been trying really hard to be kind to me. Which scares me even more, because why in the world would someone like him bother? That's the source of the feeling, that's even stronger now as he finishes up on an apparently-exasperating phone call with someone named Alice, that he's sure to realize at any moment that he's made some sort of ghastly mistake, and I'm not who he thought I was, and he's been wasting his time and energy on someone who couldn't possibly matter to him at all.
I've tried to work up my courage to tell him this myself; really I have. This morning, at breakfast (which he made for me; he's a really good cook), I tried to explain. We were sitting on bar stools (which were a little frightening themselves, they were so high; I was afraid I'd fall off) next to each other at the breakfast bar in his fancy kitchen. I hadn't taken a bite yet of the scrambled eggs, pancakes and bacon on my plate, or the mango and pineapple in the little bowl beside it. He was so fast with a knife, it was fun to watch him cut up the fruit—although like everything else about him, that scared me a little too.
He was already digging in, eating with the same elegance he seems to have in all his actions. I stared at his head, bent towards his plate just a little, and tried to find the words to start.
"Um, Mr. Cullen?" I asked, proud of myself for remembering the name the garage attendant used when we entered last night.
The man choked, and I felt badly for startling him, and started to apologize as he swallowed down some water. I only got out "I'm so—" before he set the glass down, kind of loudly, and said, "For God's sake, Isabella, I gave you a shower last night, I think we're on a first-name basis now."
I always seem to make him mad. That's part of why I feel so badly about the misunderstanding that's under this situation somewhere; it's not like he's been enjoying our time together. I tried again to apologize, but this time only made it as far as "I'm—" before he was saying "Edward. Say it after me. Ed-ward."
I was staring down at the moist yellow-and-white heap of my scrambled eggs, watching the steam rise and trying really hard not to cry, when I felt his hand under my chin, and then felt it pull.
I've seen that move used in movies and books before, and it has always seemed wonderful to me—but I think that's because it had always been used by someone safe to comfort someone scared. I was sure scared, but there was nothing safe about Mr. Cul—I mean, Edward. So when I reluctantly let my head move, because I couldn't fight him and didn't want to be rude, I felt a shiver of fear, not relief, when my eyes met his, just for a moment. I quickly looked away, down at the countertop and the sink and the stove top against the opposite wall and just anywhere but him, but I still felt on fire with fear and shame and…something else.
It's not that he was unkind; he was too kind, and that moment was no exception. He was silent for a little while, but his thumb gently stroked my cheek, as if he, I don't know, cherished me or something. For one amazing moment I felt how wonderful it would be to be loved by him; to be someone worthy of being loved by someone like him.
Then with my awareness of the utter ridiculousness of that idea, the wonder dropped away and was replaced by terror. I didn't belong in this gourmet kitchen, being fed and caressed and cared for by this terrifyingly handsome man, and surely I was going to have to pay some sort of penalty for allowing myself to be in this fraudulent position.
Luckily, he dropped his hand then or I would have had to just run away, and that would have been rude. Instead, I picked up my fork with my trembling hand and tried to eat as much as I could, which wasn't very much I'm afraid.
Of course he noticed, and I tried again to apologize when he said, so gently I thought I would break, "Aren't you hungry, Isabella?"
This time I got both words out, "I'm sorry," although it was kind of a whisper, and then I started crying.
Even after all he had done the night before, and all he had done this morning, I was shocked when I felt his arms come around my back and under my legs and he lifted me off the stool and into his lap. I froze for a moment, and part of me tried—I swear I tried—to find the words to tell him I wasn't who he thought I was and I would just leave now before taking any more of the unbelievably wonderful affection I knew I had no right to.
But instead, I was weak, and greedy, and selfish, and I'm ashamed to say that in the next heartbeat—his and mine—I turned into his chest and pressed my cheek against him and reached my arms up around his neck and held on for dear life.
And the miracle of it was that he didn't seem to mind. If anything, he almost seemed to…like it. Which is how I know that something is very wrong, and somehow, somewhere, I've let him believe I'm someone or something I'm not.
And I don't know how to fix it, which is obvious, because the man is now standing in my bedroom—MY BEDROOM—and he's finished his phone call and put his phone away in his pocket and is staring at me. With some sort of expectation in his eyes; his eyebrows—the same golden-red-brown color as his beautiful hair—lifted; and he's saying…
"Isabella, I don't want to waste anymore time in this rat-trap you used to call 'home.' Just pack what you need for the immediate future, and I'll send movers for the rest. I presume the furniture's yours?"
And as he asks this I can't help but wince as I look around, surveying the humble contents of my really rather spacious attic room. Sure, the ceiling's a little lower than in the rest of the rooms, and I have to go downstairs to use a bathroom, but it has windows on two sides, which I love, and a little window-seat under one. It's my favorite place in the whole house.
Which is lucky, because lately it's been the only place that feels safe for me to be. I don't know why James won't leave me alone. At first, he totally ignored me. Which is fine; most of the guys around here do, and it's better that way. Peter was good to me, though; I really miss him and Charlotte. They visited the other day, and Char said if I wasn't happy here anymore, I should move out.
I hadn't meant to complain, I had just said how much I missed them, and how things haven't been the same since they left. Char was really great, and seemed to understand about James and Victoria without my even mentioning them, and she even told me she was sorry that she hadn't been able to talk the others out of letting them take her and Peter's place, and that there's an open apartment in her and Peter's building, and they'd help me move!
But of course I can't afford the rent on my own, and I've been shy about asking the other girls here if they want to move out together because most of them are paired off already. I am checking the roommates-wanted sites though, and hopefully I'll find something before my contract here is up in two months. I can last two more months.
I kind of have forgotten about the man standing in my room right now, so when he speaks I jump. "Isabella, are you listening to me?"
His words sound a little angry, but his tone isn't mad, it's more curious. So it's surprisingly easy for me to shake my head "No," because I've forgotten already what he just said, though of course I can't look him in the eyes while I do so. "I'm sorry," I add, because really I'm being quite rude, though I don't know how I could possibly show him the same hospitality he's shown me. I try though, raising my hand towards the rocking chair next to my lone bookshelf, and asking, "Would you like to have a seat?"
That seemed polite enough to me, but it doesn't have at all the effect I anticipated. Instead of moving to sit down, he laughs once, kind of hard, like it isn't really funny so much as unbelievable, and as I turn towards him to try and figure out why he's so surprised by my trying to be a polite hostess, he's walking towards me and shaking his head, like I've exasperated him somehow.
I flinch as his hands land on my shoulders, then turn me back towards the rocking chair and start pushing me forward. "Sit," he says when we stop in front of the chair, like he's talking to a dog, and of course I do it. I always do what I'm told, even when I'm mad about it later. It's one of the things I hate the most about myself.
I plop into the chair most ungracefully, which starts it rocking a little. Looking up at him, my confusion obvious on my face I'm sure, I see him staring intently back down, the same look on his face that I've seen several times since we arrived at his condo last night. Sort of like he's trying to read something in my face, but it's written in a foreign language or is in a script so small he can't quite make it out. I have no idea what is written there either, or how it's even possible for him to think there's anything there for him to read, so I can't help him. I can only stare blankly back, trapped in his intensity and totally overwhelmed.
He leans in, his smell pushing the overwhelmingness towards emotional break-down. It's like nothing else I've ever experienced, the smell of Edward Cullen. It's soapy-clean, but with a masculine undertone that reminds me rather improbably of pick-up trucks and flannel shirts. Layered over the top is a subtle richness that makes me think of the gifts of the Magi, gold and frankincense and myrrh, though I know it's ridiculous to imagine that gold smells. I think the richness has something to do with his cologne, which I'm nowhere near experienced enough to name, and the lavender smell of the laundry soap his cleaning service uses and that permeates his towels and washcloths, as I found out earlier.
Anyway, smelling Edward Cullen makes me simultaneously want to move closer and run away, and the closer he gets the worse the conflict becomes. Finally, when I feel like I'm about to explode, he rests his hands on my hips and says quietly, right in my ear,
"Isabella, I'm going to pack for you now. You sit right here and watch me, all right?"
And of course I nod, my head hitting against his arm as I do so, though it doesn't feel all right at all. Why is he packing for me? Where was I going to go?
As he started to move away again, I found the courage to ask. "Um, Mr. Cull-I mean, Edward?" I say, catching myself just in time.
He grins at me, and winks, then melts my spine like butter with what he says next. "Good girl; that's my name. What is it, Isabella?"
And he stands there, right in front of me, his hands off my hips now but still holding the arms of the rocking chair, keeping it from moving and keeping me in place.
"Um, I was just wondering…" I trail off, losing my concentration and my courage in the lines of his perfectly-creased trousers and the pearly-white of the buttons marching up and down his oxford shirt.
He gives me a moment, then crouches down and dips his head to look up into my face and ask me, "Yes?"
I blush fire and turn away, asking my question quickly before I start to cry, which I know is going to happen any second.
"Where am I going?"
It sounds absurd as it comes out, and I flinch, almost snorting at my own idiocy. I try to correct it, saying quickly, "I mean—", but I don't know what I mean, or what he's doing, or why, so I don't add anything else and instead the tears start their embarrassing trickle down my cheeks, still hot even against my flaming face.
I hear Mr. Cullen say a bad word, then I feel him for the second time that morning reaching under and around me and lifting me up, then settling me back down in his lap. And just like before, exactly like before, instead of behaving like a normal human being, I curl up on him like a lonely cat, and grab around his neck like a lost two-year-old who's just been found.
Which is, I am horribly embarrassed to admit to even just myself, exactly how I feel inside.
He doesn't help my dignity any, the way he pats and tucks and kisses and whispers, but I'm beyond caring. Like light years away. I would be happy to call it quits right now, because I can't imagine that there will ever be anything after this that will feel as good and safe and loved as being sheltered in this almost perfect stranger's lap.
I stop crying, and the rocking almost has me asleep, when he speaks again. "I'm tempted to just leave your things, Isabella, and get us home. I have business to take care of, and you can clearly go straight back to bed for a nap. That's the answer to your earlier question, by the way. You're going with me, because there is no way you belong on your own. How you've lasted this long is beyond me, though there's plenty of time to figure that out later. Right now, I just want to know what you need to bring back with you to get you through the next few days, until I figure out what to do with you in the long-term."
What to do with me?
Panic shoots through me. What is this man thinking of? I didn't ask him to take me home with him last night! I didn't ask him to bring me to my home today! I offered to get a cab; I even thought about insisting, because he'd done too much already, but he ignored me of course and I went along the way I always do. But that has to stop now. I have to go to work on Monday; I have household chores I'm responsible for today; I promised Maureen and Jenny I'd bake blueberry muffins tomorrow; it's my turn for the weekly grocery shopping; I can't just…disappear into this man's shadow!
I don't realize I've started struggling until I hear him, through my panicked haze, shushing me and telling me to settle down. This only makes me struggle harder.
"Isabella!" His voice is all command, and it brings me up short. Panting, I lift my head and look at him, staring down at me, his eyebrows furrowed and his eyes the most serious I've seen them.
"Listen to me, little girl. If you don't want to go with me, that's fine, but then you have to give me someplace else, someplace safe, for you to go. I categorically refuse to leave you here with that menace lurking outside your door. I have never, and I do mean never in all my years, Isabella, met someone as appallingly naïve and hopelessly clueless as you appear to be, and though I find those qualities surprisingly endearing in you, I do not imagine for one moment that the rest of the world will be as…" he pauses at the end of this speech, seemingly searching for a word. I cower, waiting to hear the rest of his condemnation, though when he speaks it, the word seems out of place, and his tone is uncertain. "Kind as I have been."
He's right, of course; the world isn't kind. But I've survived, and I will keep on surviving, no thanks to Edward Cullen. I try to tell him so. "I don't need kindness!" I lie through my bloody teeth. "I can take care of myself just fine."
But he's already lifting me up and off of him, placing me back down in the chair, and striding over to my bags on the bed. After opening my suitcase, he surveys my dresser then pulls out the top drawer and unceremoniously dumps all its contents into the suitcase. Of course, it's my underwear drawer, and I cover my face with my hands in my embarrassment to have this man now shoving my underwear over to make room for the contents of the second drawer.
By the time I manage to peek out from behind my hands, he has my dresser emptied, the suitcase sitting by the door, and a garment bag lying on the bed. I don't see Mr. Cullen at first, and feel a little relief, but then he sticks his head and shoulders out of the closet and asks me, "Is there anything in here you're really attached to, Isabella? Because I'm not seeing much that's worth packing in here."
That does it. Of all the rude, obnoxious, arrogant, entitled, ignorant commentary I have ever heard, that takes the cake, prize and every blue ribbon I could ever hope to bestow. Those are my work clothes, and I tell him so as I shoot up off the chair and march towards him, my own hands on my hips, finally mad.
"Edward Cullen," I spit it out with no hesitation whatsoever, "that is my professional wardrobe you are rifling thru, and you can just leave those clothes be. I'll be needing them Monday morning, as well as the contents of this—" and I march over and grab the suitcase, finding it quite heavy and having to use two hands to hoist it back onto the bed, "thank you very much." And I stand there, breathing a little heavily, staring that excruciatingly wonderful, totally insufferable man down.
XxXxXx
I had to swallow a laugh at Isabella's adorable trudge with the suitcase half her size and probably on a par with her body weight from the doorway back to the bed, and enjoyed very much the angry kitten tirade that came mewling forth meanwhile. I swear her hair even stood on end a little, as if in true kitten style she was puffing it up to make herself look bigger and scarier than she could ever hope to be.
I take that back. Poofy hair aside, she looked more like an aggrieved puppy, one that's just been kicked perhaps, but disgustingly ready to ignore that fact and jump all over the kicker again if given the slightest encouragement. I sighed. I don't like dogs, so what was I doing with a puppy?
Maybe it's my frustration with myself as I realize I've inadvertently acquired a pet much more problematic than the tropical fish Alice is always trying to saddle me with as part of her decorating dictates ("You need more life in here, Edward") that makes me not take her feelings as carefully into account as I should have, or certainly as I will wish I had later, as I leap on her laughable characterization of the worn-out rags in her closet as a "professional wardrobe," and tweak her a little with my retort: "So what is that profession then, dear Isabella; nursing home hooker?"
Alright, it goes beyond hurt feelings; I was a cad, even an unmitigated asshole. But just for a second. A second in which I saw myself clearly for the first time in years, and realized how much my covering bravado had become my true nature, and hated myself for it.
It took Isabella a few moments to fully comprehend my barb; you could watch the thoughts moving across her face as she puzzled out what I had just said to her. Then understanding dawned, and I felt the pain as hurt erupted in her eyes and her cheeks flamed red once more. Never had I wanted to take words back more.
But of course I couldn't. I couldn't do more than move quickly to her side, and pull her crumpling body into me, catching her round the waist as she bent over as if the thoughtless, unkind, absolutely untrue words I uttered had delivered an actual physical blow. For a moment I had a thought that perhaps I had died and rightly landed in my own version of Hell; having at last found someone to feel some inexplicable caring for only to wound her myself, over and over again.
Sitting down with her in my arms on the bed, I was amazed once more at how willing she was to embrace me after I had caused her pain. I wondered if she really was that big a masochist, drawn to someone who would do nothing but hurt her, or if she saw something in me that gave her hope I would eventually leave behind the hurting and learn to be only a comfort. I rather hoped it was the latter, even as my rational mind assumed it was the former and started plotting out how to get her the psychological help she so obviously needed.
I hadn't made much progress in soothing her rather loud sobs when there was a knock on the door. She froze when she heard it, then moved as if to pull away. I wouldn't let her, but tightened my arms around her and leaned my head down to kiss her quickly on the cheek and say quietly, "I'll handle this," both of us expecting I suppose the half-naked cretin from earlier.
Instead, when Isabella had burrowed her face into me and I had splayed my hand across the back of her head, holding her there, and had my other arm wrapped tightly around her form to keep her sheltered in my lap, I barked out "Yes?" and saw a female face peek around the slowly-opening door.
"Bella?" the voice asked, curiosity and concern in equal measure in the high pitch, the matching blue eyes alight with interest and humor. The more I saw of the petite woman now slipping over the threshold and closing the door behind her, the more she reminded me of Alice. A cut-rate, bargain-basement Alice, but an Alice nonetheless. This put me on the immediate defensive.
"May I help you?"
XxXxXx
Later, after Jessica leaves, her curiosity nowhere near sated but biding her time in reward for being promised a visit to Bella's new living situation with that unbelievably hot investment banker…
"I feel very…protective of you," Edward observes quietly, as surprised to say it as Bella is to hear it.
Still curled up on Edward's lap and feeling unusually brave and temporarily secure, Bella laughs and teases, "You sound like that vampire."
"Oh—you mean, this vampire?" And Edward pulls out one of the well-worn paperbacks shoved spine in on the top of one of her bookshelves.
Bella blushes, not having meant to admit to being rather obsessed with "that vampire," and that [imaginary] vampire's family. Embarrassed, she immediately changes the subject. "I'm planning on moving out of here; I've been looking at want ads for roommates." She's being purposefully obtuse in ignoring everything Edward told Jessica, refusing to believe it's possible that he really wants her to move in with him, for any amount of time.
Edward knows she's being purposefully obtuse, and smiles, playing along. "Oh really? Which sites?"
She tells him, and Edward pulls out his smartphone, creates an account at one of the sites, places an ad.
"Why, Isabella; here's a listing you should check out."
He hands over his phone, and Isabella reads the listing.
Wanted: Sweet young woman with questionable taste in literature to keep controlling rich asshole company. Immediate opening. Apply to person staring at you impatiently waiting for you to get it.
Bella drops the phone on her lap and turns into his chest, wrapping her arms in a tight hug around his neck. "Thank you, Edward."
XxXxXx
Interaction with Alice and Jasper later that afternoon as Alice tracks them down to find out what Edward is up to and what Isabella (Jasper had confessed what he knew of the night before) is like.
Back at his condo…or house? Where would he have a house? His parents old house—yes!
"You always were shit for strategy, brother," Jasper says to Edward as he arrives at the front entryway where Jasper was lounging, waiting for him, and, Edward now realizes, baiting him as Edward turns and sees Alice coming out from behind some shrubbery to pounce on Bella in the car.
XxXxXx
A few weeks later…
In the cardiac observation wing that Carlisle managed to transfer Bella into, throwing all his administratorial weight around to do it, from out of the hospital psych ward, Edward comes in to her room as soon as the nurse has her settled.
"I really hurt you, didn't I sweetheart?"
She starts to cry; nods yes.
Edward wants to make sure he understands the situation precisely, so he doesn't repeat it.
"Was it because I tricked you?" (Edward had told her that morning only that they were going to "the doctor," knowing full well she would assume it was a medical appointment. Once they were in the psychiatrist's office, Bella had been speechless with surprise and shame, and Edward had made the mistake of answering the doctor's loaded questions honestly, not realizing that mainstream psychiatry had no helpful category in which to classify the woman he loved, and would only be able to pathologize the most beautiful aspects of her being. As a result, instead of being reassured as to her fundamental well-being, which is basically what he was looking for, he became panicked that she was actually severely mentally ill and he was only making her condition worse. When Bella herself panicked and tried to flee the room, he stopped her, gathering her in his arms, and then reluctantly allowed the psychiatrist to talk him into allowing her admission for an observation period on the inpatient psychiatry ward, the psychiatrist cornering him with Edward's own best intentions of protecting Bella from himself when Edward initially resisted the idea.)
She shakes her head "No."
"Was it because I let them take you away from me?"
She shakes her head "No" again, although that of course had hurt her almost as much as it had hurt Edward to allow hospital staff to wrench her out of his arms, and start to forcibly remove her arms from around his neck. Finally he had asked them to stop, trying to reverse course and say they wouldn't need to hospitalize her after all but being told by the psychiatrist that given what Edward had told him, he couldn't "in good conscience" allow Bella to leave without treatment as she could be considered a suicide risk. Edward knew at that moment he had accidentally and totally ignorantly sold the woman he loved to the medical devil, and immediately started plotting how to get her out as he gently coaxed Bella into letting go of him and going with the staff, asking her to trust him and promising her he wouldn't leave the hospital without her (at which the psychiatrist failed to hold back a self-satisfied smile and made a mental note about the "codependent pathology rampant in the presenting dyad" for future recording in Bella's medical record).
Edward is at a loss. "What was it then, Isabella? What makes you hurt so badly?"
Bella moans, "You don't want me to call you 'Daddy'!"
Edward's eyebrows go way up as awareness finally dawns. And he's in control again.
"I can see we have some things to talk about, sweetheart. Scoot over."
And with a little help from Edward, Bella moves over enough so he can climb into the hospital bed with her, pulling her on top of him once he's in.
She immediately curls up on his chest, and he pulls the blankets up and over her, stroking over her head and down to the end of her hair over and over. After she's calm again, he says, "First off, I LOVE that you call me Daddy."
She sits up on him and stares. "But you took me to a psychiatrist because of it!"
"True, but that doesn't mean I don't like it."
Now it's Bella's turn to be hopelessly confused.
Later…
Carlisle comes in to Bella's hospital room; they're still in the bed together. "Well, I'm glad to see you two are making up, though I think if I were you Bella I'd make him suffer a little longer."
"Oh no, Carlisle; he didn't mean to hurt me, it was just a misunderstanding."
"Hmmm. Well, I'm glad you've got the misunderstanding cleared up, and he can come beg for your forgiveness again first thing in the morning. But right now, visiting hours are over."
Edward's immediately outraged. "What? But I'm family; I'm her—"
Bella interrupts, thinking he's going to say "Daddy" (he's not; he was about to say, "fiancé, for Christ's sake"), blushing as she begs "Don't say that, Edward, please!"
Edward realizes immediately what she was thinking, and can't help but tease her a little. "Oh really, and why not?"
"Because it's private! And embarrassing!"
"And how exactly am I supposed to take that, baby girl? You're embarrassed by me?" he knows that's not the case at all, of course. There's a fair degree of mischief-making in this Edward's character.
"Daaad-dy!" Bella responds with exasperation, then claps her hand over her mouth and goes a darker shade of red as she realizes what she just said.
Edward laughs lightly, pleased with himself. "I knew you would out yourself if given half-a-chance, Isabella. That's one of the many things I love about you: no verbal filter."
Carlisle meanwhile has put his hands on his hips and is staring Edward down—looking remarkably like Alice in the moment. He knew this whole incident started with something upsetting to Edward that Bella spontaneously said, and he thinks he knows now what that was. And he's not impressed.
"That's what caused this melodramatic interlude, Edward, not to mention eating up a day of my work? She called you Daddy?"
Edward, chagrined, nods his head.
"Overreact much, Edward?" Carlisle asks, his incredulity obvious.
Then he looks at Bella and continues, "Now this yahoo may be your Daddy, Bella, but I am your father—the on-site version anyway, no disrespect to Charlie. So let me ask you, honey, are you ok with me leaving Edward here for the night?"
Of course, Bella nods.
Carlisle nods back and says, "Alright. And I promise you there will be no further attempts at dramatic medical intervention without my say-so, okay, sweetheart?"
Bella nods again, completely speechless. Having one powerful man taking care of her is a dream come true; having two powerful men fighting over how best to take care of her is her idea of heaven.
"Good." Returning his gaze to Edward, Carlisle says, "Son, do you think you can avoid calling 911 if she sneezes, seeing as she's already in a hospital and all?"
Edward rolls his eyes, but realizes he's earned the jibe, so says, "Yes, Carlisle, I think I can manage."
Carlisle raises his eyebrows, and stares Edward down a moment, enjoying having the upper hand with his remarkably difficult adopted son, as well as seeing this new, softer, kinder, better Edward surface. Finally, he says, "I think that's a rather optimistic assessment, Edward, but I suppose I'm willing to let you try. As long as you're sure?" and he looks to Isabella again, who nods her head vigorously.
Carlisle smiles at her, grateful and proud of her loving nature, and its ability to resurrect the vulnerability and affection in his dead best friend's son. Patting the blanket over her knee, he says, "I'm so glad he found you, sweetheart. Will you join us at brunch tomorrow? I'm reasonably certain I can have you discharged in time."
Bella blushes, then looks up at Edward to see how she should respond. Carlisle looks at him too, and Edward says, "Of course we'll be there, Dad. Wouldn't miss it."
XxXxXx
The next morning, Carlisle is in the hospital room again getting things ready for Bella's discharge.
Edward asks him, "Does she need any drugs? To manage her anxiety, or something?"
Carlisle responds, "The only thing it appears to me that she needs for her anxiety, and everything else that worries her, is you. The more pressing question is what do you need to manage your anxiety over her?"
Edward smiles down at the brown head nestled against him, two fingers running down strands of her hair. "I think I have that covered now, Carlisle. I just…lost it for a little bit. I'm not used to anyone needing me quite so much."
"It's an overwhelming feeling, isn't it?" Carlisle empathizes.
Edward nods.
"But better than anything else you can imagine?"
Edward grins. "Much."
Leaning back, Carlisle crosses his arms over his chest and says, "I'm going to tell you two a story from a long way back. I expect never to hear it mentioned again."
"Sounds like a good one. We're listening," Edward answers for both of them.
Looking at Bella, or rather at the side of Bella's head that was visible, Carlisle began. "Just after Emmett was born, I was on baby-monitoring duty while Esme rested. To my initial horror but eventual satisfaction, she had insisted on a home-birth, so we were in our own home, and the midwives had just left. Feeling like I was quite the modern man, I picked up the baby when he started to get restless, figuring I would change his diapers before tucking him in next to Esme to nurse."
"What I hadn't counted on was how black his…fecal matter was going to be. I'm talking tar-black, and it had that consistency too, which I know now is absolutely normal for the first couple of days, but somehow I'd missed that info in residency. I mean, back then, doctors weren't attending to the nursing and homecare needs of new babies. I knew how to clear Emmett's airway, perform CPR, and evaluate his neural functioning and heart rate, even how to correct cardiac abnormalities with a few tests and a surgery suite, but I had no idea what color his poo should be."
"So, when I saw a sticky black mass, all I could think was 'hemorrhage' and I did what any responsible parent would do when suspecting their baby has a massive internal bleed." Edward interjects at this point, "You didn't," to which Carlisle just nods as he concludes: "I called 911."
XxXxXx
At the wedding rehearsal, Alice separates an increasingly-anxious Bella (all of Edward's gorgeous, rich, high-powered friends and relatives are overwhelming her, and making her feel even more inadequate than usual) from a reluctant-to-let-her-go Edward, who instead of thinking less of Bella in comparison with the beautiful people comprising the rest of his universe, is feeling ever more grateful for how lucky he was to stumble across her before getting stuck for the rest of his life with one of the high-maintenance harpies most of his friends are towing around. And of course, he finds her far more appealing than Carlisle's cousins or Alice's and Rose's unmarried friends or the wedding planner's assistant, who is more or less throwing herself at him at every opportunity.
So they both protest when Alice comes up to lead Bella to the back of the church to practice walking in with Charlie and the bridesmaids and tries to shoo Edward towards the front. In a huff at Edward's refusal to be shooed, Alice turns towards him, her hand gripping Bella's wrist tightly, and says, her other hand on her hip, "Do you want her to feel humiliated tomorrow when she's overwhelmed by all the people here and has no idea what to do?"
Edward bites back a tide of rage and feels whole-heartedly regretful that he allowed Bella to give away free rein over the wedding planning to his over-the-top sister, wishing very much that they were only going to a justice of the peace with immediate family in tow and knowing that Bella wished the same. A deep breath and a reminder to himself of how upset Bella would be if he yelled at Alice in front of her, and he was able to respond, "All right, Alice, I see your point; just make it fast, would you please?"
Then he turns to Bella, whose chin is quivering dangerously, and pulls her in to him for a moment, pressing her head against his chest and leaning down to whisper in her ear. Several happily-chatting groups nearby stop and watch the sweet scene, so there's a hush as Edward finishes his comforting. "I'll be waiting for you at the end of the aisle, sweetheart; let's get this over with so we can get you home to bed." (One of the concessions Alice had made to Bella at Edward's insistence was not to require her presence at the Grooms' Dinner before the wedding, and not to foist any bachelorette activities on her that night. Alice had insisted on a wedding shower a few weeks prior, and it had grown quite boisterous enough for poor Bella. Indeed, most of the people hanging around the rehearsal were guests for the grooms' dinner, waiting to board one of the fleet of limos that Alice had hired to transport people out to the private yacht where the dinner, and what would definitely pass as a bachelor's party, was being held.)
After Alice had dragged a faltering Bella back to Charlie and reminded them both of the cue in the music at which they should start walking, and how they should walk, and exactly how Bella should hold on to Charlie's arm (something they'd been practicing for days because both Bella and Charlie were horribly awkward about it), Alice clapped her hands for quiet and got all the early dinner guests seated to act as the wedding guests they would be (though considerably more hung-over) the next day.
Finally, Alice flitted back to take her place as the Matron of Honor, following Jessica from the commune and Bella's best high school friend and college roommate for two years Angela. The flower girls (Rose's two girls) and the ring bearer (Rose's little boy) go down the aisle next, the girls having a little too much fun practicing strewing rose petals—even Alice isn't quite so extravagant as to use real rose petals for the rehearsal, but they have two baskets full of fabric ones—and the boy stomping down the carpet, mad as all get out that he doesn't get to throw anything.
Finally, the music changes and Bella and Charlie move reluctantly into position at the back of the church, taking a couple uncoordinated moments to get their hands and arms positioned right, neither one risking looking at the other for fear of breaking into tears. As they wait for their cue, Bella looks up—and sees a room full of frightening faces, the rich and beautiful and elegant people she's been feeling so intimidated by, staring right at her.
There's only one thing she can do, of course. And she does it.
The organist plays the melody that is supposed to send the bride down the aisle, and instead it accompanies the bride's flying exit out the church door.
Charlie just stands staring after her, in shock, but Edward is in motion as soon as he sees her turn and flee. Indeed, he realizes after he curses and takes the altar steps three at a time that he has been waiting for this moment; he has known this would happen sooner or later, and had only been unsure as to whether it would be sooner, or later.
As he flies down the aisle in pursuit of his bride, the onlookers open-mouthed in speechless surprise, Edward laughs and feels lighter than he has in weeks, feeling grateful that the break didn't come any farther along in the proceedings, as he knew he could fix it now and save her much greater stress and embarrassment tomorrow. After all, despite all his protests to Alice, Edward is a bit of a romantic at heart, and he wants his bride to have a beautiful wedding day, and to enjoy the process of becoming married to him.
Bella is enjoying nothing at the moment, however, standing lost in the middle of the parking lot, trying to think what to do. She didn't drive there, and doesn't have her purse, and most of the people she could conceivably call for a ride are back in the church, no doubt hating her for running out on the most wonderful man on the planet (or so she chastises herself—in fact, most of those who don't already know perfectly well why she ran away are thinking she finally saw Edward for the pain in the ass he is, and the few who aren't are those who never dated him, or watched him date someone else, which mostly just means Jessica, who is all too happy to imagine maybe she's finally going to get a chance at him herself).
Edward spots her right away and calls out, "Bella!" He realizes his mistake immediately, so he's yelling again before she has the chance to run farther in her terrified reaction to his arrival. "Isabella Swan, sit down right now!" he tries again, and Bella freezes mid-stride, turning to look at him over her shoulder, a little incredulous at his instruction but extremely relieved he is still speaking to her and, even better, is sounding like he intends to take back control of the situation. And of her.
Which he does by scooping her up, and throwing her bodily over his shoulder, as if she were a bag of flour and he was the careless peasant tasked with carrying it into the church. The peasant takes his time, frequently adjusting his load as he goes, gently slapping it or swinging the front or the back of it this way and that or inching the burden back up his shoulder with little heaves. Bella's face is red with embarrassment and pleasure as well as from her upside-down position when they arrive back at her starting position, more or less. Refusing to set her down yet, Edward gives her a particularly loud and heavy slap on the rear as he yells, "Alice! We need to talk."
Alice had already been on her way over, having been in urgent consultation with the hired wedding planner as soon as Bella made good her escape. She has plan B in motion already, evidenced by Charlie's absence at the back of the church and red-eared presence in the front row, having retreated there only after watching Edward's capture of Bella from the church doors and then being instructed to his new spot by Alice.
Now, Alice starts in before Edward gets a chance to make demands she doesn't want to meet. "Edward, put Bella down!" she shrills from ten feet away, garnering several snickers and a snort from the rapt audience of family and friends.
"Not until we're clear that I'm her aisle escort," Edward responds, giving Bella another pat on the behind for good measure.
"Of course you are, you Neanderthal, now stop slapping her on the ass and put her down before she breaks blood vessels in her face and impossibly complicates her make-up design for tomorrow."
Edward immediately sets Bella carefully down on her feet in front of him, more for the fear of causing her injury than for the sake of pleasing Alice, and says, "Make-up design, Alice? Tell me you're not planning on caking her gorgeous face with that crap. She's perfect the way she is."
If Bella hadn't already been impossibly red-faced from recent effects of gravity, she would have been then, hearing Edward's matter-of-fact assertion.
She tries to turn to look up at him, but finds she can't move because he has one hand locked on her shoulder and the other clamped on her hip. His hold is so tight it's almost painful, but not quite, and that means it's heavenly because it is tight enough to send the clear message to her psyche that she's not getting out of Edward's grasp again that night.
Relieved that all choices have been taken away from her by the person she trusts most to take care of her, Bella relaxes in his hold. He feels this and looks down at her and smiles, pulling her even closer to him as he half-listens to Alice demur that she is only going to accentuate Bella's beauty and not cover it.
Edward interrupts Alice then, saying, "All right, all right, Allie; I trust you, more or less. Now let's get this over with so the wedding girl can get some rest," and as he says the last part, his thumbs are stroking Bella, back and forth in little loving lines, and then he leans in and kisses her on the back of her neck, just below her hairline.
Bella whimpers, and another chorus of onlooker giggles and guffaws breaks out, luckily drowned out for Bella by Alice's new instructions. Edward is to walk Bella down the aisle with one arm around her waist. Alice tells Bella to hold her bouquet with two hands now, and to keep her eyes on the carpet 15 feet in front of her.
Bella does as she is told, holding on to the artificial flower practice bouquet Alice has thrust in her hands and remaining still while Edward adjusts his position, coming around to stand at her side and removing his hand from her shoulder, circling his arm closest to her around her back and grabbing tightly once more onto her opposite hip.
Alice, satisfied after a couple of tugs and shoves on Edward's arm and shoulders, is shouting up to the organist to start at the bridge when Edward leans down and whispers in Bella's ear, "See? I told you I had you. This isn't so bad, is it?"
And Bella has to agree, shaking her head gently side to side to indicate that it isn't so bad at all.
"That's my good girl," Edward says in return, meaning every word and looking forward with elation to tomorrow, and all the tomorrows after that.