The phone call I receive during the middle of lecture shocks me, and not just because I thought I had turned off the volume.
It shocks me because the name that turns up on my phone is not one that I recognize—or, more precisely, not one I would have saved to my contact list.
Securus-WA pops up and I know, from having a police officer as a stepfather that this is a direct line from the prison. Second to that, I know that if I answer the call, a voice will ask me to hold because an inmate is trying to connect. Third to that, I know there is no way in hell I can answer this call because there is no way in hell I can handle what is going to come out of the other line.
I don't even let the call ring out because I don't know how the system works, so I swipe along the disconnect bar and fidget in my seat until the lecture is finished.
I'm practically hyperventilating as I leave the building and hole up beside a planted tree. My hands shake as I stare at the small screen of my cell phone and there's a widespread feeling of remorse, but also a tinge of relief.
Remorse, because I could have heard him, I could have spoken to him; relief, because I would have and I shouldn't, nor should I want to.
But then my mind is racing through the reasons for why he would have tried to call, for why he would have had this number memorized, for whether he would have thought I would have answered.
And then, the thought so normal, so basic to me: what if he had needed me?
And, so what? I was no longer his, and he was no longer mine. He didn't get to need me, and I didn't get to feel bad if he did.
At least, that's what I tell myself.
It's another theory entirely as I dial Emmett, my pulse feeling like a freight train throughout my body.
He answers on the second ring, almost as though he was waiting for a call.
"Bella," he greets, and the tenure to my name makes me thinks he knows.
"I didn't answer, and I—" I break off, my shaky hand coming to cover my mouth because there are tears evident in my voice even though I hadn't even realized I was crying.
"What?" It sounds like he is moving to a different place than he was when he had answered. "What's wrong, Bella? What happened?"
"I…" I blink rapidly, staring down at the bright pink flowers on the bush by my feet. The color seems off, like I can't understand the world correctly.
"I had a call from the jail," I try again. I swallow thickly. "I didn't answer. I don't know why," I do know why, "and I thought you knew he called."
Emmett sighs and then doesn't make another sound and suddenly I'm remembering him as the eighteen-year-old kid, fresh out of high school. Unlike Edward, he's never had a care in the world. He took his dad in small strides, and his mom in even bigger ones. It was like nothing could ever phase him; but here, now, he's a man who's been through it all.
"I—I'm sorry," I say, because I don't know what else to say. None of this is his fault; none of this should concern him.
"No, I'm sorry. I told her not to do it. I told her to let me talk to you first."
His words don't register with me, though I'm sure it's an easy explanation.
"Her?" I ask.
"Beth," he responds. "The psychologist."
The air leaves my lungs and I feel like I've been kicked in the stomach.
"Whose psychologist?" I ask, though I don't need to because it's obvious.
"They're trying to help him, Bella. They really are." His voice doesn't sound as hopeful as his words.
There's another class hour starting and the pathway that I'm standing off of is no longer quiet and hidden. I block one ear and turn into the tree, trying to listen closer. I feel like my head is going to explode; the blood rushes through my ears in a frenzy, making it hard to hear.
"Wh…" I shake my head quickly, dispelling myself of the confusion. "Why did she call me? And why was she using a prison line?"
"She has an office in the jail; her number probably correlated with that—but, Bella, I'm really sorry she called. I told her not to. I told her to let me talk to you first, but she thought it best coming from her…" he sighs again and I can picture him shaking his head, in complete disarray.
"But why would she call me?"
I know, in the back of my mind, that the answer is simple. She's calling because she wants me there, but I need to hear it. I need someone to say that to me, because otherwise I would never believe it.
"She…she thinks it would be beneficial," he lowered his voice on the word as though he didn't completely agree, "for you to join in on a session."
The words are there, but I'm still grasping for meaning.
"Do you go to the sessions?" I ask.
"I have, to the last few."
"How is it?" I don't ask out of curiosity, and I think Emmett knows that.
"It's…rough. He hardly says anything."
The pulsing through my head has stopped and now I just feel empty; light. Like I could float away and no one would ever know.
I remember the last, and only time, Edward went through any kind of counseling. It was our senior year in high school, after his fight with Tyler. The guidance counselor had tried to get through to him, but he wouldn't speak, only clench his jaw and grit his teeth.
He's not good at that, speaking. He's not good at emoting.
I feel a sudden wave of protectiveness as I had that day, too, when I had barged into the room after listening from outside of the door. It had been a difficult month for Edward, but the counselor hadn't seemed to take that into consideration.
Edward had only spoken up when the counselor had turned the situation on me, as though I had had something to do with it. As though I had had something to do with any of the fights. And maybe I did.
That's what I am still trying to figure out.
I sigh and respond to Emmett with a soft, "Yeah, I'll go to a session," because there's a fluttering sensation in my stomach that tells me if I don't go, if I let Edward handle this on his own, he will drown underneath the weight of all he has done.