Mistakes are mine, as are these flawed, imperfect, messy AF characters. Thanks for reading.

Chapter Nineteen

Bella

We move into the living room and Edward sits on the couch, assessing the space while I grab him a glass of water, and something for his head.

"You've changed things," he muses.

"Just a little," I reply, setting the water on the coffee table. "Put this on your head." He takes the bag of peas wrapped in a dish towel and places it over his wound. "Give me your phone," I say, and he eyes me.

"Why?"

His reluctance catches me off guard, and my mind immediately travels back to the last time his phone was in my hands, when I saw a text confirming every bad thought I've ever had about him.

"So, I can charge it for you," I offer, and he hands it over.

"You don't have to do this," he says quietly as I move across the room to plug it in.

"Do what?" I ask, sitting on the opposite end of the couch.

"Be nice to me. Especially after everything."

"Trust me, I know." I'm not being harsh, just honest. "But I'm also not about to send you out there, potentially concussed and wasted without a charged phone."

"I promise I've survived worse circumstances," he says, like he's amused. I don't find it funny though.

"Why do you do that?" I ask, frowning.

"What?"

"Treat yourself like garbage? Put yourself through shit like this?"

"It's not that big of a deal," he mumbles, pulling the bag of peas away to rest his head on the back of the couch. His eyes close after a second, and I move closer but not enough to actually touch him.

"Dude, don't close your eyes," I warn.

Tilting his head in my direction, he cracks open one eye at me, the smallest hint of a smile on his lips. "I'm not gonna fall asleep. I couldn't even if I fucking wanted to."

"Why not?"

"Don't sleep a lot," he admits, lifting his head now and opening both eyes.

"Is that because of any particular reason or…" I'm curious about his drug use, but I'm worried he's gonna shut down the conversation or grow defensive if I ask.

"Long nights." He coughs. "I don't know. I usually have a lot on my mind. Writing helps, though."

"Writing songs?"

He watches me for a second. "Yeah. I won't do anything with them, but yeah. Songs, I guess. Half of them don't usually add up to anything."

I find an opening to poke fun at him, and take it. "How badly do you hate not being the lead singer of Shiver?" I tease.

He smirks. "Fuck off," he says too softly.

"How'd that happen, anyway?"

"What?"

"Joining that band."

His knee bounces. "I met Pete, one of the band members, through NA."

This surprises the hell out of me, especially because I'm pretty certain Edward showed up here high. "You go to Narcotics Anonymous?" I ask, then add, "Wait. Isn't it supposed to be anonymous?"

He avoids my eyes, but breathes out a small laugh. "Yeah, well. I used to. Not anymore."

"Oh." I don't really know what to think about this. On one hand I'm grateful he tried to stop, and was able to admit he has a problem. On the other, it worries the hell out of me that he didn't stick with it. "Can I ask why?"

"Why I went is pretty obvious. Why I stopped going is… less so. Just wasn't for me," he offers vaguely and clears his throat.

"Why wasn't it for you?"

"I don't…" He takes off his jacket and drapes it over the arm of the couch. "Listening to people's stories… I didn't feel like I was on that same level."

"You thought you were better than them," I say, quiet and accusing.

"No," he says quickly, but I don't believe him. "The things I'd hear… things never got that bad for me in comparison, I guess."

"Isn't the point of going to the meetings and getting clean to make sure you don't reach that level of addiction?"

His expression falters when I speak the last word.

"I guess." The way he says it holds zero weight, and his fidgeting lets me know he's uncomfortable.

"So, you met Pete and he was like 'yo, join my band'?"

He cracks a smile. "Sorta. We became buddies. Started jamming. They were looking to replace their guitarist, so it kinda fell into place. And it's not like I had anything else going on so…"

I assume Pete is in recovery, but it feels too nosy to question. Instead I ask, "He's okay that you stopped going to meetings?"

"Meetings don't work for everyone."

"Does he know you're using again?" I ask boldly, hoping I'm wrong.

He avoids my eyes, and it takes him so long to answer I nearly think he's going to avoid my question, too. But then he says "no" and leaves it at that. As crushed as I am to hear this, I appreciate his honesty at this moment. But it makes me greedy for more truths.

"Why didn't you try to get clean when we were together?" I blurt.

"Why didn't you ask me to?" he fires back. It makes me think about that time when we had a similar, but more heated, conversation. I asked why he never broke up with Tanya before we got together, and he tossed out his own question: why didn't you make me?

"Because I shouldn't have to tell you what to do. I shouldn't have to make you do things that are common sense, or hold you accountable," I mumble, swallowing back the heartbreak I've worked so hard to forget.

I avoid his gaze and abruptly stand from the couch, then move into the kitchen to fill a glass of water. I chug it, desperate for space from him. Desperate for a breather. When I return, he watches me curiously, almost apologetically, but doesn't say anything. I pick up where we left off, before the topic switched to our relationship and how we failed each other.

"You're pretty lucky," I tell him.

He raises his eyebrows. "Why's that?"

"Most people don't go from having nothing else going on to being almost famous."

"I'm not famous," he insists. "Not even almost."

"No? Y'all have a pretty big following. Weren't you touring in Europe?" I ask, thinking of the photos and videos I've seen over the last year.

"We were like, six months ago. It's different, though. Just because we have a bigger following over there doesn't really mean anything over here. Not yet, anyway."

I smile and shake my head, caught off guard by his modesty and the way he's downplaying his newfound popularity. The vibe he's giving off right now is completely different from the vibe I've picked up on social media. It disarms me, almost. Like he puts on a front for everyone else, but is showing me the real him.

"You're an idiot," I say quietly, pushing away the overwhelming and inappropriate feeling that I just… miss him.

He laughs, eyes squinting. "I mean, I don't disagree that I'm an idiot, but what makes you say that?"

"Just admit it. You're a rockstar."

"We're regionally well-known, I guess." His smile is almost shy. "We are going back to Europe in a couple of months to tour the new record, so that'll be cool."

"See." I roll my eyes. "You're making it big and it's everything you've ever wanted."

His smile falters, and he opens and closes his mouth a few times before he says, "I mean… it's not everything I could've wanted. But… yeah. It's close."

I shoot him a look of disbelief. "What else is there?" I ask, and I immediately regret it when his face falls. He looks down between us, the silence almost deafening.

"Don't make me say it," he nearly begs, still avoiding my eyes.

My heart starts racing, palms sweaty. I don't know what he's thinking or what else he could possibly fucking want, but in this moment it feels like it's… me. It feels like he wishes he still had me.

"All you've ever wanted is to be famous," I remind him.

His dark eyes pierce me. "That's not all."

"You didn't prioritize anything else." He didn't prioritize us.

"That's not… entirely wrong," he admits, looking sheepish. "I was an ass."

I laugh once. "That's not entirely wrong," I repeat, and he falls quiet. Once again, our conversation has steered to the past, so I redirect us and try to break the tension. "Having your own driver would be cool," I offer up, thinking of other things that being famous is good for. Thinking of things that he could want, that are attainable. "Then you wouldn't have to Uber, or bike drunk like an idiot."

A small, gentle smile plays on his lips. "Yeah," he nods in agreement. "If I had a driver I wouldn't have ended up here tonight, concussed and making myself sound like a… fucking pathetic pussy."

"Hey! I thought you said you didn't have a concussion," I accuse with playful, narrowed eyes.

"I probably don't." He grins wider, eyes never leaving my face. It feels intimate. It feels like it used to. "Hey."

"What?" I ask too quietly.

"Be real with me for a minute."

I blink. "Okay."

"You were cyber stalking me the other day, right? That's why you accidentally liked my photo?"

I roll my eyes. "Come on."

"What? I wanna know," he says, voice dripping with sincerity.

I hold his gaze. There's no use in denying it. "You already know that's what I was doing."

"Say it," he teases. "Out loud."

"Why?" I laugh, refusing him. "So you can get off on it?"

He raises his eyebrows, but thankfully doesn't fire back his own inappropriate joke. "I'm not judging you. I would've done the same if your profile wasn't private."

"Not much to see on my profile. My life is pretty boring."

"That's because you're dating Ben," he says automatically.

I flip him off. "Don't be rude."

He smirks. "Are you gonna tell him I was here?"

"Yes," I say honestly.

"And what will you say?"

"The truth," I admit. "I already told you, don't worry about him."

"I mean, I'm not worried about him. I couldn't give a fuck less about the guy actually. But I don't want him giving you shit. So."

"He'll understand," I say, though I don't know if it's even true. But it's not like anything is going to happen between Edward and me, so even if Ben is mad, I'll deal with the consequences.

"Ah. Ben, the understanding boyfriend," Edward says dryly.

"Don't."

"How'd that happen, anyway?" he asks, echoing the same question I asked minutes ago about the band.

"How'd what happen?" I ask cautiously.

"You and Ben. Not that I'm surprised. I always figured you'd end up with him. And it drove me fucking insane. Still does, kind of. But you spent so much time telling me he wasn't what you wanted, and now you're with him, so… how'd it happen?"

"We just…" I stare at my hands, avoiding his eyes, and ignoring the satisfied feeling of knowing he's jealous.

"Wasn't he engaged to that chick?"

"Angela? No. They were never engaged."

"But he immediately ended it with her when he heard we broke up?" I can hear the accusation and animosity in his voice.

"No. Angela ended it, actually. And their breakup had nothing to do with me," I say defensively as I glance up, and Edward gives me a look that reads loud and clear. He doesn't believe me. Or rather, he doesn't believe Ben, I guess.

"Guarantee the dude was just biding his time until I fucked up."

"Then maybe you shouldn't have fucked up," I say without thinking, past hurt rising in my throat.

"Ouch." Edward runs a hand over his mouth. "Guess I deserve that."

An awkward silence lingers.

"It's not like that with Ben," I clarify. "It's not like I got back with him immediately after you and I broke up. He and I became friends again for a while. We didn't even start dating until two months ago."

"Why him, though? Like… I get it. You were gonna move on eventually. And that's fucking great and all," he mutters, sounding anything but great. "But… him?"

"I don't know. I guess, I just…" I trail off, but I do know. It's because Ben is the complete opposite of him.

"Forget it." Edward releases a small, humorless laugh. "I shouldn't have asked. It's none of my fucking business."

I don't agree or disagree, but instead go for humor. "We've never been good at the whole talking thing." Even as I say it, though, that doesn't feel true for tonight. We've talked almost candidly. We've been open within reason, and without pretenses.

"That's fine. We don't have to talk. Was there something else you had in mind?" he asks, his dark eyes blazing. I can't help it when thoughts of what we used to be good at fill my head. Him moving between my legs. Making me cry out. Both of us knowing how to make the other feel so fucking good. Sometimes right here on this very couch. As much as I know Edward and I are compatible that way, it was all of the other ways that we screwed this up.

"We can watch TV or play cards," I suggest. "Just until you're good to go, and I know you're not gonna die."

He laughs lightly. "I'm not gonna die. But I am down to watch something." He shifts to grab his leather jacket. "I'll be right back," he says, and my heart immediately halts.

"I don't want you doing that."

"What?"

"Coke," I whisper.

"Oh." Uncertainty takes over his features. "I wasn't—"

"I'm serious. If we're gonna hang out, you can't do that," I say, more demanding now. "If you do it, you need to leave."

We stare at each other. Please, I want to beg. One night. I know I have no right to ask him this, though. We aren't anything to each other. But I'm asking anyway.

"Okay," he finally says, voice quiet and determined. "None of that."

It feels weird to thank him, so I don't. Instead, I grab the remote and start scrolling through various shows on Netflix. After a few minutes of bickering about what to watch, we finally agree on the season of Ozark we started watching together over a year ago, but never finished. I click through the episodes, find the one we need, and we pick up right where we left off.