Happy Saturday, people!
Usual housekeeping first:
1. Thank you, thank you, thank you for all your reviews and alerts. You propelled Ivories past 1,3k reviews and EditorWard is thankful and humbled. I love hearing your thoughts and theories, even when y'all aren't all too happy with EditorWard (but I mean, he's kinda asking for it right now).
2. Also thank you to Team Momo, who work tirelessly to help me make this readable. My stories wouldn't exist without them and I'm so grateful they're in my corner. Alice's White Rabbit and Midnight Cougar are in the editing chairs. AGoodWitch, IAmBeagle, Driving Edward and RobsmyyummyCabanaBoy pre-read.
3. I still don't own - SM does. But I do own a collection of mugs. I usually don't throw them against walls, though.
Blanket warning still applies. Hold on to your hats.
BEHIND THE IVORIES – CHAPTER 23
On Monday, Mac enters my office unannounced around nine o'clock. He stands in front of my desk for a solid minute, gawking at me.
I'm hiding behind my computer screen, but I see him there, lurking in my peripheral vision. I keep typing the umpteenth email of the morning, hoping he'll figure out I'm busy—or purporting to be—and leave of his own accord.
"You look like a misshapen patty of cow shit."
In ordinary conditions, I'd laugh at his characterization. But these aren't ordinary conditions. I feel like a deformed bovine turd.
"Did you eat the thesaurus just to tell me I look like shit?"
He plonks on the visitor chair, which means he does not intend to leave any time soon.
"No, I am naturally creative. With curses and insults in particular. But you're deflecting, Ed."
"I'm not. I'm just busy as hell."
Leaning his elbows on my desk, he levels me a disbelieving look. "I'm not buying that."
"Well, I have a magazine to edit and a gazillion emails to write. So, yes, I'm busy."
He sighs. "Suit yourself. Dinner tonight?"
"Not today." Which is code for "leave me alone to wallow."
He leaves, shaking his head.
An hour later, my phone chimes with a text. Dread fills me when I contemplate who the sender might be, and I'm trapped between wondering whether it's from Bella and knowing it's from her. Both feelings carry a distinct level of dread and uncertainty.
But deep down, I'm still a wretch who can't do without her—or with her, apparently—so I give up and take a peek.
Lunch, friend? Bella
There's no smiley, and it's signed. Somehow, that hurts me more than seeing the word "friend." But she's still out there; she's still in my life—or wants to be. And she's starting with keeping up our traditions—our Monday lunch.
Dots start dancing in my vision, and my breath turns shallow. No. I can't do this. I can't meet her, even on neutral ground, and pretend nothing happened. Yet I can't face what happened. Because I'm not ready. The thought alone terrifies me. And the giant shards of pack ice around my heart collide and freeze all over again.
Sorry, not today.
&&&IVORIES&&&
On Tuesday, Alice drops by my office to discuss budgets and figures.
I don't know into what kind of turd I've graduated today, appearance-wise. Mac would know better than I do. I haven't slept since Saturday, other than tossing and turning without pause. I've hardly eaten because my stomach turns at the mere thought. I'm running on caffeine and regrets at this point.
"I think that does it, Ali. We're set for the next quarter. Thank you for looking through this crap for me."
"Anytime, Edward. Can I ask you a personal question?"
I raise an eyebrow. Alice normally doesn't ask if she can ask questions. She just blurts them out. It's part of the advice columnist persona. She's never seen a problem she didn't want to fix.
When I nod, she pounces. "Are you sure you're doing okay?"
What do I tell Alice, who's been happily, enthusiastically married for close to ten years? What do I tell the woman who helps people for a living? She's a friend. She'd help. She'd prod. She'd push.
But I don't want to be pushed or prodded. I want to wallow in my fortress of solitude. The pack ice around my heart is rebuilding comfortably at this rate.
"I'm doing as okay as I can be, Alice."
Vague, non-committal but not an outright lie. She can take it or leave it.
"As long as you're aware of it, sweetie."
She's the only person other than Mom from whom I tolerate endearments such as "sweetie." Mom gets a pass; Alice is just built that way. It's her love language. Even Mac has been "sweetie" at times. I think he exploited that as an excuse to twirl her around the room once.
Then she leaves, nodding at me from the doorway.
Why do I feel like I just stole from the cookie jar and got caught?
&&&IVORIES&&&
On Wednesday, I meet with Jasper to fine-tune the slant of the feature he's writing for one of the summer music festivals in town.
When I yawn for maybe the twentieth time through our half-hour meeting, he catches on that something's rotten in the state of Denmark.
"Ed, what the fuck is going on with you?" And unlike his wife, he has zero qualms in going for the jugular. Must be a side effect of being an accomplished interviewer.
"Having a craptastic week, that's all."
He leans his head to the side, narrowing his hazel eyes at me. He nods, but he's not assenting or agreeing per se. He's scrutinizing my words; I know how J operates by now. He mulls shit over in his head, then he'll tell you if he's buying the bridge you're selling or not. He does the exact damn thing in interviews, and it unnerves the fuck out of me that he's treating me as a "subject."
"You mean, that's all you're willing to say on the matter," he comments.
Game, set, and match. But I'm not about to dispute his assessment. He can take it or leave it, just as his wife did yesterday.
"If you need to talk or vent, you know where to find me."
I grimace at his offer, not because it's unwelcome, but I wish I had the wherewithal to take him up on it. Right now, I don't. It'd mean unleashing on Jasper a subject I haven't broached with anyone around me—my relationship with Bella.
It's obvious Mac and Ross know. Jake must know too. But I didn't discuss it with anyone else. Not explicitly, that is. No one other than Tanya ever made a hint of a comment on Bella picking me up for lunch these past weeks. No one in the office mentioned my viral Twitter thread, by some miracle.
"Thank you, J."
&&&IVORIES&&&
On Thursday morning, Tanya finally comments on my mood when I enter the office. It speaks to her restraint that she waits until past mid-week to be inquisitive.
"Who peed in your Cheerios, boss?"
I grunt in response, throwing her a thunderous look.
"Okay, fair enough. Not my damn business. I'll steer clear. Let me know if you need anything."
I nod and hide in my sanctuary. Shit stays reasonably calm until late morning. I already asked Tanya to order me a sandwich so I can eat a turkey with a side of feelings at my desk.
When the lunch hour strikes, and a stream of people file down the hallway and to the elevators, my cell rings.
It's Esme's ringtone. Fuck. I ditched Sunday dinner without telling her. There is no dilly-dallying with Esme Platt-Cullen. No room for maneuver. No excuses that'll hold water. My only choice is to answer her call.
"Hi, Mom. I'm sorry about missing Sunday dinner."
She hums. By pre-empting the probable main reason for her call, I may have blunted her intended opening blow. If I'm metaphorically wearing sackcloth and ashes, she might be inclined not to be too nosy about my actual whereabouts on the night in question.
After a solid five-second span of silence—a rarity for her—she finally responds. "You could have called, at least."
She has a point. "I wasn't … I wasn't thinking, Mom. I'm sorry."
"It's not like you not to show up without warning, sweetie."
Fuck, she unleashed the endearment too. She's about to get inquisitive. Why do I have to be surrounded by people who ask questions for a living? Oh, wait. I'm one of those too. Crap.
"Well, it's … I'll just cut to the chase, Edward. You didn't come on Sunday night, and that's fine; you're not obligated to come and see us every damn Sunday. But not like this, not without calling. And not without being incommunicado for close to five days in a row. This is not … this isn't you. Not anymore."
And now I feel even more like a schmuck. Thanks, Mom. I know what she's alluding to. The last time I behaved like a full-time recluse was … after. After Syria, after I first came back to Boston and was independent enough to live on my own again. I had to move back in with the parental units for a few months while I went through physical rehab. When I finally stood on my own two feet again, I blew them off for weeks. And, yes, as my therapist rightly pointed out at the time, I was overcompensating for all the lost independence and personal space I'd had to endure while living with them.
Mom took it personally, and for weeks, she called and pleaded with me to come over at least for Sunday dinner. I couldn't. At the time, solitude was safer. My father understood me to an extent. But he still had a few choice words for me because I'd upset Mom.
It's understandable that Mom would construe a missed Sunday dinner as a huge red flag on my part. She's right, though, because she knows me, and my patterns of behavior.
But I'm not ready to spill the tea about Bella and me. I don't even know if there's a Bella and me anymore.
"Mom, I'm sorry. I should have called. I'm—"
"I'm not going to ask you what's going on because it sounds like you're not ready to tell me. But you know you can talk to us, sweetie. Or call Dr. Maggie."
And for good measure, she brings up my therapist. Covering all her bases.
"Yes, Mom. Thank you. I'll … I'll think about it."
"But I can tell from your tone that you'd rather I didn't stick my nasal appendage where it doesn't belong. Not yet, at least." She sighs. "Look, you're a grown man, but I'm still your mother, and worrying about you is in my job description. Regardless of what happened, of what you're going through, I'm here for you. We're here for you—both your father and I. I need you to know that."
As I absorb her words and ponder how to answer, my voice breaks when I try. "I-I know, Mom."
"Oh, sweetie."
"I need time, Mom. Please."
She sighs again. "All right. But don't let it go too long, Edward. I love you."
"I love you too, Mom." My voice breaks again, and all I can do is to disconnect the call.
&&&IVORIES&&&
Friday drags, but at least I have two solid days of uninterrupted solitude ahead of me.
After my lackluster answer to Monday's text, Bella sends a couple other messages. At one point, the smiley comes back. But it's a fleeting occurrence since my answer is, well, lackluster again.
I'm still hiding from her. I'm still trying to make sense of that kiss. I'm still trying to picture in my head how to move forward after that. And I still can't find any damn answer that keeps her in my life without shadows, without misunderstandings, and without distance.
At times, I wonder how things would change between us if I took a leap of faith and went for "more," as she described it. But the last time I went for more didn't end well for me. The last time, "more" got my heart trampled on and thrown in a dumpster, along with my life.
When I unlock my front door around seven o'clock, the only things I see in my immediate future are a long-ass shower and a beer. In that order. Food is still iffy—my intermittent nausea could make a repeat appearance at any time.
I make a beeline for my bedroom after dumping my jacket, phone, and assorted work papers on the breakfast bar. The haphazard pile of laundry sitting beside the hamper, but not inside, reminds me not only my courtesy and social skills went to shit this past week. Because clutter positively irks me, I spend a few minutes picking up after myself before I step into the shower.
The steaming hot water manages to relax my tense, overwrought muscles, but my ever-worrying, overthinking mind can't help but play those ten minutes with Bella on a loop. Her warmth, her fragrance, the feel of her skin, her hands through my hair, the taste of her lips, the sounds she made. And wretch that I am, I responded then—just as my body is responding now. My fucking traitor of a dick clearly has no clue about ethics or etiquette. And the fact that my body's and my heart's response to Bella has become a muscle memory with only one kiss fucking terrifies me.
Cold, frigid water it is. Better head this off at the pass. There, more deflated than Tom Brady's footballs.
I've barely had time to put on sleep pants and a T-shirt and rummage around my fridge for the last fucking beer when a knock on my door startles me.
I stand straighter, turning toward the front door. Maybe someone got the wrong door, and they'll realize it and go away.
No such luck. Another knock comes along with a distinct rhythm I know by heart.
Jesus fucking Christ. The end of my reprieve. Well, time to find my backbone because Bella's at my door.
I glance at the security camera to double-check, but it's her. I'd know that mane of riotous hair anywhere, even if the grayscale, blurry image doesn't do her a lick of justice.
When I open the door wide, she stares at me, no doubt surprised at my attire.
"Hi. Can I come in?"
Without a word, I step to the side and let her in. She looks around like the first time she came here, only tonight, she doesn't appear engrossed by the contents of my bookshelves or the heaps of vinyl records. She's looking anywhere but at me. Anywhere but at my chest.
In a possibly futile quest to put a wall between us, I walk around the breakfast bar and surmise alcohol might not be a good accompaniment to the impending conversation, so I switch on the coffee maker and fill the electric teapot.
"Tea?" I ask, trying to keep my tone neutral. Since we started our cooking lessons, I've started stocking the herbal tea she likes.
"Yes, please." She's back to speaking in those shy whispers I first noticed when I met her.
Five minutes later, I push a hot mug of lemon and ginger tea toward her across the breakfast bar. I lean back against the kitchen counter, arms folded on my chest, waiting for her to speak. This is her show; after all, she's the one who showed up at my loft unannounced.
"I know you've been avoiding me this week."
I grimace and hide my face behind my coffee mug. It's not nearly enough to conceal how much of a douche I've been to her this week. But at least, I find enough honesty to nod.
"Look, I'm sorry about that. I just didn't …"
"Want to deal with me? Or with the fact you've been a gigantic jerk? Or that I threw myself at you thinking you reciprocated my feelings, and you rejected me? Or that you fled so fast you didn't even say goodbye? Or that you're so afraid of changing our relationship that you haven't stopped one second to ask what you really want? Or what I really want?"
With every question—all of them rhetorical because she knows as well as I do that I didn't have the guts to face any of them this week—her voice rises, the shy whispers quite forgotten.
"We have to face this change in our relationship. Whatever lies on the other side of that, we have to face it. Otherwise, I can't continue to be in your life and wonder what might have been, Edward."
The fight leaves me at this point because she's right. I unfold my arms and set my mug on the counter. When I close my eyes, I try to gather my wits and come up with a way to articulate my feelings.
"I don't know how to … I don't know how to navigate what comes after. I don't even know what the fuck comes after last week for us."
She pushes her mug to the side, then leans her face on her forearms. When she sits up to look at me, there's a determined look in her eyes. It's the same look I remember from her interview when she laid down the law and told me where to shove it.
"Then I'll do it first. I'll tell you what I see. We can be more, Edward. You saw it; you felt it last Saturday. I'm not alone and delusional in feeling the connection we have. There were two of us on that damn couch. And if you deny what we shared, you're doing far worse than lying to me. You're lying to yourself." Her words may be harsh, but her voice sounds as tender as last week.
And that tenderness, bestowed on my undeserving self, is my undoing.
"Ladybug, you want more, and that's … that's fair. But I don't know that I'm even built for 'more' any longer."
"Bullshit, Edward. Give me the real reason. It's me you're talking to. Give it to me straight."
"I'm terrified, all right?
"I'm fucking petrified that one day you'll see how broken and emotionally stunted I am. That I was married to my job for years because I was too scared to go out there and get hurt again. I'm terrified that the things that don't seem to matter now will become stumbling blocks later. That you'll want someone who's free to be on the road with you. That you'll want someone younger who doesn't have to battle with gray hair, mounting blood pressure, or watching his cholesterol, or his recovery time."
I grasp at my hair and blow out a breath before continuing.
"I'm fucking petrified that all this love and devotion I've bottled up for years will rain down on you, and I'll end up scaring or suffocating you.
"I'm fucking terrified that I won't be good enough. Because I wasn't … for her. And it nearly killed my spirit."
By the end of my tirade, as much as I'd like to avoid it, I'm in tears, and my voice is breaking. I try to take a deep, steadying breath, but luck isn't on my side. I hide my face in my hands, hoping, wishing there were somewhere more substantial for me to hide. Like under a rock.
After a long beat of silence, Bella walks around the island and approaches me. She blinks at me a few times, then cradles my tear-stained cheek into her small, graceful hand. "Edward, I'm not … I'm not her."
"I know, Ladybug. My head knows. But the rest of me … I can't do this. Don't ask me to do this, please."
She sighs. A long, drawn-out sigh that trembles with her own brand of anguish. "Then what? What are we now?"
"The same as we were last week? Can't we still be friends?"
And that's when she steps away from me, as if I pierced her with a hot poker. "No, that I can't and won't do."
"Why?"
She shakes her head and walks back to her seat, effectively retreating behind the barrier that separates us in more ways than one.
"Because I can't stay, pretend everything is fine and dandy while knowing you didn't want me. While feeling in my heart that I wasn't enough for you to try for more. You don't have a monopoly on self-preservation, Edward. I have to walk away now, for myself."
Bella's eyes meet mine, and her voice is soft but filled with emotion.
"I'll have to learn to unlove you. And I have to do that now while I'm still just falling in love with you. Not a week, not a month, not a year from now when loving you is all my heart knows, and suddenly, you'll wake up and you'll realize you can't do this anymore, or that your fears rule you more than your will does. I have to learn to unlove you now. So if you know you can't and won't ever love me, please let me go now. Let me go so I can unlove you. And only return when you know you're in this with both feet. With your whole heart.
"Because I deserve nothing less. And so do you."
When a long, fraught span of silence stretches between us, and I can't muster the backbone or balls to grace her with a reply, she relinquishes her perch on her favorite kitchen stool—the one to the side of the island because it doesn't confine her, and it's easier for her to step on and off.
She circles my kitchen island one last time, stands on her tiptoes, and kisses my cheek. "Goodbye, Edward. Please don't call until you've made a decision. I need space now."
And she walks out of my life.
When the door clicks shut behind her, I fling my mug away, coffee and all.
It's going to be a long fucking night.
Yeah, I'm not too happy with EditorWard either. And I wrote the damn thing.
He's in a bad spot right now. He'll claw his way back out, but give him a couple chapters.
Also, someone asked why he's not in therapy right now, and that he should be ... and well, Esme agrees, as you can see from today's chapter. The main reason why he's not been constantly in therapy is because it all depends on why you go, and what you agree to work on when you start. Edward went right after Syria, and his main focus at the time was, predictably, to work on his PTSD. Of course the therapist, if they were doing their job, must have brought up other areas to work on, but ... in my understanding, it's a give and take, and if a patient won't consent to working on a certain topic, it's not like the therapist can force them. So, he worked on his PTSD and anxiety triggers enough to work and live independently. His sentimental trauma? Not so much. He found coping mechanisms around it - living like a monk. Of course, that unresolved trauma is coming home to roost now.
Will he get out of it? Give him time. And don't throw too many mugs at him, please ;-)