Hello, people!
It's a sad Saturday for me this week. Last night news broke of the untimely death of Taylor Hawkins, drummer extraordinaire for the Foo Fighters. I've loved the Foos for more than a decade and the news just shocked me. I feel like I've lost a friend. I'm also writing my next story, and since it's a RockerWard, it requires a lot of music-related research. Needless to say, some elements of the Foos inspired that story, so this hits me particularly hard this week. Don't mind me. I'll be here in my corner playing "My Hero."
Meanwhile, thank you for catapulting Behind The Ivories beyond 600 reviews. I love every one of them and love reading your impressions and theories.
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.
The general consensus seems to be wholly in favor for these two having a second chance. So here we go.
BEHIND THE IVORIES – CHAPTER 11
After an ordinary, somnolent weekend—quite the anti-climactic segue to my Friday night—the next Monday, I walk into the office in a daze. Still cocooned and wrapped up in haunting but soothing melodies. Tanya lifts an eyebrow when I walk past her desk—humming to myself—before retreating into my domain. Without even thinking about it, I kick the door closed. I'm not yet ready to drown in the cacophony of noises and voices percolating from the newsroom.
When I've finally coaxed my computer out of its digital sleep, my Spotify landing page blinks at me from the screen. In a few clicks, I end up adding all of Bella's available recordings to my account. But because I don't want to give my game away completely, I still hit my usual Pearl Jam playlist. "Sirens" and "Even Flow" should do the trick this morning.
Mid-month or so is when work for the next print issue usually kicks into high gear. We have a mock-up going, features to finalize, social media campaigns to fine-tune, and it devolves into a never-ending line of people regurgitating into my office for a yay or nay. It takes up a good chunk of my morning and lunch hour until my last shot of caffeine wears off, and I finally decide to rectify the situation in the early afternoon.
Just as I reach my door, voices and laughter filter in from the hallway. Two of those voices I can recognize even in my sleep. Tanya's chewing out Mac for something, but what else is new? Then Mac replies with his boisterous baritone, and two feminine voices drown him out—one authoritative, self-assured, the other a whispered, shy, and melodic staccato, which, after Friday night, I would also recognize anywhere. What is she doing here today?
Time to find out.
"Ed! You're alive! Mama T is being mean to me. Again."
"Because you're a meddlesome interloper, Mac. In case you haven't noticed, Edward was working. His door was closed," Tanya retorts in a firm voice, but with mischief sparkling in her eyes. There she is, my fierce protector. And then my gaze lands on the third person present.
"Miss Swan."
She turns to face me with an unreadable expression in those whiskey and chocolate eyes of hers. After an uneasy, tense, five-second stretch of crackling silence, she finally replies.
"Bella, please. I hate 'Miss Swan'." Just as Ross Whitlock predicted.
"Bella, then. Good morning. Is Mac here being a good host?"
"Of course, I am!" The man in question protests, loops his arm around Bella's shoulder, and squeezes her into his side. She looks even tinier beside him. "What do you take me for, Ed?"
"For an uncouth oaf, Mac. Because I know you," I reply with a smile of my own.
The fact that Bella's here piques my curiosity, but I don't want to telegraph my interest to Mac, of all people. Let's just say that if Jessica ever quits, we'd have a built-in replacement gossip columnist in a pinch—so I'll just let the conversation evolve naturally.
"I bet you have no retort to that, boy," Tanya quips, kicking back her chair to stand beside me. She waves a bundle of mail at me.
"Anything urgent, T?"
"Nah. The usual fare. Desk?"
When I nod, she steps away to deposit the entire lot in my inbox. I'll look at it. Eventually.
"Now we've established Mac is, indeed, a crappy host, may I offer you any refreshments, Bella? That is, if you have time."
"Do we have time, Mac?"
"Hell, yes. But you tell me—you're the busy lady here," he says. Then he turns to me. "Any chance we got any more of your goodies in the break room, Ed?"
"Goodies?" Bella asks with a puzzled expression.
"Ed is our resident Betty Crocker. He brought in a chocolate cake last week. It was mmm …" he explains, giving his own version of a chef's kiss gesture.
That is, in fact, true. I've been known to bake random things and bring them into the office. The newsroom is entirely too happy to all be my guinea pigs. My therapist suggested it years ago, and while at first I balked, I ended up loving it. Creative enough to tickle my right-sided brain, methodical enough to soothe my anxiety, baking a batch of cookies or a cake has become a meditative ritual of sorts. It's also provided excellent cover for my attempts at making Esme's chocolate cake for Bella. Despite her plaudits for the Cake Fairy delivered from the stage of Sharps & Flats, my cover hasn't been blown. Yet.
"How unexpected. But … chocolate cake, really?" Of course, her interest would be piqued.
"There might be some left, if the barbaric hordes we call coworkers haven't obliterated it yet," I announce, leading them both toward the break room.
They follow me while Mac points out to Bella this and that along the hallways. When we walk past Jazz's office, Mac whistles at him to get his attention.
"Classy, Mac. Really classy."
"Effective. He did wave, right?"
I shake my head and chuckle. "I forget that I'm used to your antics after almost a decade, but other people, luckily, are not. Forgive him, Bella. He's not bad, he's just … larger than life."
"Oh, I'm learning that. Chocolate cake, Mr. Cullen?" she asks eagerly while Mac stops, detained by Cheney, who has an impromptu question for him.
"Edward, please."
Another beat of crackling silence—briefer, this time—passes, then she raises her gaze to look me in the eye. "Edward, then."
With a few steps, we're in the break room, and I offer Bella a seat while I rummage around to see if, indeed, there's any chocolate cake left.
"Damn. Someone got to it. I'm sorry, Bella."
Mac, like the hurricane he usually is, lands in the seat beside her with a rakish smile, again looping his arm around Bella's shoulder. "I leave for two minutes and you're already apologizing, Ed? What's up?"
"No chocolate cake for me—that's what's up, Mac," Bella protests with a pout that would look out of place on a grown woman but seems apropos on her.
"Now, that is just unfair. Who would have that kind of nerve?"
Shaking my head, I turn and wag an accusing finger in Mac's direction. "You, for example. I distinctly remember you scarfing down a slab of it this morning at the staff meeting." And that is God's honest truth.
Bella's reaction is comical—arms crossed on her chest, eyes narrowed to slits, and pursed lips. "You dangled chocolate cake in front of me, and you ate the last bit of it? I may need to rethink my plans for the day."
"She's got your number, Mac. Surrender."
Mac is pulling out all the stops—dimples and criminally innocent smile. "Come on, piano girl! How could I know this morning that you would want chocolate cake this afternoon? Do I look like a psychic to you?"
"It would have been simple courtesy. Eating the last of anything is just mean."
They look like siblings squabbling about a game gone wrong or about not sharing candy. Or, case in point, chocolate cake. Their banter is so easy that it tickles something in me. A yearning to belong. A yearning for someone to squabble with over silly things, such as who got the last of the cookies, or what show to watch on Netflix. It's a foreign feeling to me.
While they settle their differences, I find a Tupperware with the cookies I baked last week—I needed something to do while the cake was in the oven. "Pay dirt. Snickerdoodles, anyone?"
Mac flies off his seat at the speed of lightning. Bella is not amused. "Really, Mac? Again? You're a hopeless case."
"I was grabbing the cookies for you. Give me some credit."
Bella raises an eyebrow at him, showing him her thumb and index finger about a smidge apart. "That is just about as much credit as I'm willing to give you right now."
Mac starts to protest.
"Ah, ah, Mac. Zip it," she retorts again.
This slip of a girl, who was so unassuming and yet so mesmerizing on Friday night seated behind that gigantic piano, is now trading verbal barbs with Mac and coming out of it on top. Way on top. She's keeping him on his toes. It almost hurts, the ease they have with each other and what it may portend. But why should it hurt? Why should it matter to me?
I dump a few cookies on a plate, then set it on the table, making a point to slide it exactly in front of Bella.
"Guests first, Mac," I warn him when he has the gall to pout at me. "Plus, you probably gobbled up a dozen of these last week."
"Fine. Be that way, Ed. Coffee, anyone?" he offers. Walking to check our coffee machine, he dumps the remnants of the current pot after a quick sniff. It was probably stale.
"Do you have any herbal tea around?" Bella asks in another of those shy whispers of hers.
Mac shakes his head as he walks back to his seat with two mugs, one of which he sets in front of me. "Nope, not in here."
"Check with Alice, Mac," I suggest.
He replies with a broad, cheeky smile and a shake of his head. "Good idea. Triple A might have it. See, that's why you're the boss. You know things."
When he leaves, Bella's stance relaxes minutely while she savors another snickerdoodle. The third one? "Oh, man. These are …" she mumbles, trying not to give me a front-row seat to any cavities she may have.
"Please, keep that up. That's really good for my ego."
After disposing of the last bit of her cookie, she looks at me with an expression I can't decipher—again. "Well, you have a talent. It's undeniable."
"Thank you. So, not a fan of coffee?"
She grimaces. "Not this late in the day, and not when I'm performing. It makes me too jittery."
Mac returns with a selection of herbal teas pilfered from Alice's stash, and while I putz around to get hot water for Bella, they start bickering again.
"Come on, piano girl. It's gonna be fun. You said you had time, and now you're backing out."
"Because I have to be on stage in three hours, you nitwit. Maybe another day."
"When? Tomorrow?"
He sounds very keen to pursue her, which is cause for concern in and of itself. For starters, I don't know how a girl like Bella figures into Mac's M.O., which boils down to a revolving door of faceless ladies. But maybe she'll leave Boston after her stint at Sharps & Flats. Out of town. Out of sight, and out of mind. It rankles. I don't know why, but it rankles.
"Maybe. Give me a call. I'll let you know what things look like at my end."
"What are you two planning over there?"
"Bella wants to do touristy things in town. I offered to accompany her. When I'm off the clock, of course," he adds when he catches my questioning stare. "I also offered her a ride on my bike, but now she's backing out."
"On your Harley? In fucking February? Brr."
Bella's face scrunches up in an adorable scowl. "What can I say; it sounded like a good idea at the time."
"I thought you had more backbone than that."
Mac has a humongous Harley Davidson that's his primary means of transportation, even now in the dead of winter. In downtown Boston. And he's not a demure, traffic law-abiding citizen. A sudden thought sends me into a tailspin of anxiety. "They're forecasting snow and ice tomorrow. Do you think it's a wise plan, Mac?"
"I always ride in snow and ice," he retorts, undeterred.
"You do, but I bet Bella doesn't."
With a deer-in-headlights expression, she shakes her head in my direction. I figured, somehow, that she wouldn't be gallivanting around the eastern seaboard on a motorbike. Too noisy. Too boisterous. Too much.
"Well, it will be a new experience," he insists, giving her his puppy-dog eyes. Pitiful. And mildly infuriating.
"And what kind of experience will it be when you slide on a patch of black ice and she falls and injures her hands? The same hands she plays the piano with?"
Mac stares at me with a clueless, deer-in-headlights cast to his features. "I didn't …"
"You didn't think. Yeah. That much I gathered," I spit, kicking my chair back and storming out of the break room to retreat to my office—my sanctuary.
I don't know why Mac's thoughtless, impulsive behavior—nothing new, coming from him—caused me to fly off the handle just now.
A short while later—a minute or ten, I can't really tell—a knock on my door manages to filter through the angry strains of "Oil and Water." Apt analogy. "Come in."
She stands there at my door with a steaming mug in her hands. "You left your coffee behind. Tanya says you like it black," she says, stepping inside and setting the mug on my desk.
"Thank you. You didn't have to."
I capture her gaze as it wanders around the room, taking in details here and there. I wonder what she thinks of my space.
"I wanted to. Incubus?" she asks, pointing to the speakers on the shelf behind me.
I nod.
She turns her gaze to me. "I came here to talk to you because I'd like a do-over."
It's my turn to look thoroughly puzzled. "A do-over of what?"
She rolls her eyes. "Of the pitiful excuse of an interview we had months ago."
I sigh—defeat and uncertainty grip me before I can concoct a coherent answer. Why? Why would she want that? "Bella, look … I'm not an interviewer. Not anymore. It's water under the bridge. Forget about it. It's okay."
She huffs. "Can I sit down?"
I gesture for her to take a seat in one of my visitor chairs. Heaven forbid I'd be a worse host than Mac.
"I misspoke just now. It's just … I'm nervous, and I thought irony might break the ice, but clearly not. Forgive me."
"There's nothing to forgive."
She shakes her head, then pins me to my spot with those whiskey and chocolate eyes of hers. "Would you … would you like to come to Sharps & Flats again? I'll be there until Friday. And then after the show … Can we have an actual conversation? Please?"
Her voice, which comes in tentative, nervous spurts, contradicts her determined look.
"I'll be there." There's no other possible answer for me at this point.
The smile that blooms on her face is so radiant it lights up my entire office. "I'll have Ross send you tickets. For every single night."
After she leaves, it occurs to me that Mac's gluttony saved me from being outed as the Cake Fairy.
&&&IVORIES&&&
The next day, Tanya waves a fat envelope in my face as soon as I walk into the office.
"From Sharps & Flats for you."
"Thanks, T. Anything else?"
She shakes her head. "Give it time. It's barely eight o'clock. How come you're here so early?"
Again, not unheard of for me to be here earlier than anyone else—but she notices things. She's questioning more than my office hours.
"Couldn't sleep."
Her expression turns serious, abandoning any hint of ribbing she harbored a second ago. "Are you all right, Edward? Do you really need to be here?"
I stop and turn toward her just before I reach my office door. "Just one of those nights, T. Don't worry about me."
"Ha! 'Don't worry about me,' he says. Does your mother not worry about you, young man?"
She has a point. "Well, she does, but …"
"I'm gonna stop you right there. We care about you. I care about you. I know something's gnawing at you. You don't have to tell me, but please remember that I'm here to listen if you need me. You can take a day off, Ed. What's the benefit of being the boss otherwise?"
My shoulders sag. My mind's been a jumble of warring thoughts of late; this much I do know. I'm not ready or willing to talk about it to a living soul, though. I can't make any sense of those warring thoughts yet.
"Thank you, T. I appreciate it more than you know. I'm leaving early-ish tonight. I have a spot at Sharps & Flat for the rest of the week."
"Do you now?" she asks with a sly smile.
I smile back, shaking my head. All-knowing smartass that she is. "Don't you have work to do, woman?"
"Oh, I know when I'm being dismissed. Run along now," she retorts, waving me off.
When I sit at my desk, throwing the Sharps & Flats emblazoned envelope on top of it, the tickets spill out from under the flap with a light blue note card. I dump my weight onto my chair and pull the note card from the envelope.
It's etched with a few lines in an elegant, slanted script. Somehow, I imagined something more girly, less grown-up for Isabella Swan's handwriting. Another strike for my judgmental ass.
Dear Edward,
As promised, here are tickets for my shows through the end of the week. I've enclosed plus-ones in case you wish to bring someone along.
Thank you for this second chance,
Bella
A second chance. Those two words infuse me with more hope and anticipation than any of the pep talks I've absorbed lately: from Dad, Mom, Mac, Jazz, Tanya, Alistair …
&&&IVORIES&&&
Later that night, the bouncer at Sharps & Flats waves me through with nary a word. Now this organization runs like clockwork. It's clear someone let them know I'd be here. The employee at coat check receives my leather jacket with a nod and ushers me through.
On a weeknight—Tuesday, at that—the club is less crowded and rowdy than last Friday, but still buzzing with activity in every nook and cranny. I spot several tables by the stage with a "reserved" tag and let my gaze roam the room to find someone who can show me where I can take a seat.
Jacob Black appears from behind a door by the stage marked "private," making a beeline in my direction. "Good to see you again, Edward," he starts, shaking my proffered hand.
"Hey, Jake, good to be here again."
He smiles and nods. "Let me show to your table."
He stands before me in a self-assured posture that appears effortless to him from the top of his six-foot-four frame. Add to that his neatly trimmed jet-black hair and beard, his flawless russet skin, his perfectly tailored three-piece suit and white shirt, and his shiny Oxfords—objectively, the man is a knockout. I can see why the gossip press would go gaga for pictures of Isabella and him. That would be one damn fine-looking couple. And again, a pang of uneasiness hits me. But why?
He leads me to the very table I eyed five minutes ago from the entrance and pulls out a chair for me before taking a seat. He waves over one of the waitstaff on the floor. "I finally have time to sit down for a chat. First round is on the house. What will you have, Edward?"
"Pint of Sam Adams is fine, thank you."
When the server approaches, Jake rattles off our drink order and asks her to bring some appetizers, too. "Have you had dinner already?"
"No, I came straight from work. I forgot you have a functioning kitchen here."
He frowns. "Functioning is a big compliment as things stand, but that's the goal. We had to overhaul it to bring it up to our standards, but we can manage finger foods for now. By springtime, we should have a full dinner menu going."
"This place is completely transformed. I bet it was a ton of work."
"Don't remind me." He huffs, flashing me a pearly white smile. "Sometimes, I rue the day I had the demented idea to open another club in another city, but the end result is nothing to sneeze at. The timing worked well for me. And it brought Bella back to Boston."
I'm about to ask for clarification on that last tidbit of information when Ross Whitlock stops by our table. "Edward! Fancy seeing you here!" Her knowing smile says it all. Of course, she must be aware of how and why I got these tickets.
I greet her with a pat on the forearm, and when she sits on the last empty chair at the table, she leans in to kiss my cheek. It's not a liberty a lot of people in my life would take—except my mother. Not even Alice—an out-and-proud, touchy-feely hugger—dares invade my personal bubble. But this young lady, in a move that is completely in character for her as far as I've experienced, doesn't give a flying shit about my personal space. Somehow, she manages not to make me feel like she crossed a line. Maybe because she isn't making a big deal out of it.
"Hi, Ross. How's life?"
"Hectic, but what else is new? I'm closing on a new apartment at the end of the week. Which means Bella will finally have her living room to herself."
"I didn't know you two were bunking together."
She shrugs. "It was meant to be a temporary arrangement. I love the girl to bits, but I can't live with her. I'm a neat, borderline-OCD freak. She … Well, not so much."
Jake snickers at her comments. "You drive each other crazy. She's a night owl. You're a morning person. If she can't sleep, she'll play the night away."
"And I swore I wouldn't burn her piano down, so …"
We all dissolve into laughter. "I can see that cohabitation could be a problem. Where are your new digs?"
"Southie, in a converted church. I loved the architecture."
I know just the building she's referring to. It is a peculiar structure—and a block or two from one of Whitey Bulger's old haunts. And from Mac's brownstone. "I think we featured that building in a spread about gentrification. How do you like the area?"
"I love it, but I'm in interior decorator hell. The previous owner kinda stripped the place down to the floorboards."
This is where Alice would normally rattle off dozens of names. Shops. Trends. Websites. The latest gimmick you absolutely must have. But Rosalie is in luck—Alice isn't here tonight and can't lobby her way into a new pet project.
"You know, Mac lives in that neighborhood, Ross."
She groans. "No, please, tell me it's not true. Please. If you love me."
Jake snorts.
I can't help a chuckle either, but her reaction piques my interest. "Well, I don't. Love you, that is. But if I may, what do you have against our photographer?"
"His persistence. And I'm taking personal offense at your reply, Edward."
I laugh again. It occurs to me I've laughed more in the last ten minutes than in the last month altogether. All part of my new "after." "He brought Bella by the newsroom yesterday."
She rolls her eyes. "I warned him to stay away from her. The girl is too kind-hearted for her own good."
I raise my hands. "I can't argue with any of that; you know her better than I do. Plus, he ate the last of the chocolate cake and tried to steal snickerdoodles from her. I don't think he earned any brownie points."
"I don't think he's the one earning any points with Bella," she replies with a suddenly speculative expression in her eyes. "Well, it's T minus ten. I gotta go backstage to make sure Bella doesn't flip. I'll see you later, guys."
Jake notices my own pensive expression as I mull over Ross's words. "Mac isn't Bella's type at all, if that's what you're worried about," he says.
"And you are?" I don't even know why I blurt that out, of all possible comments.
He laughs. Chortles even. Openly, without restraint. "Nooooo. Absolutely not. But you're my type," he quips, winking at me.
Aaaah. Mystery solved. And yet again, proof that gossip columnists always get it wrong.
With a slap to my shoulder, Jake takes his drink and leaves me to my appetizers and pint of beer. "Still have this place to run. I'll see you later, Edward."
"Sure. Thank you for the pint."
"Anytime."
Ten minutes later on the dot, the lights in the club flicker and go dark. In a moment, a spotlight throws its buttery light on the stage, showcasing the woman who has started, against my will and better judgment, to inhabit every other thought I've had of late.
When she touches her lithe fingers to the ivories, the rest of the world around me disappears. Her music bathes me in a cocoon of peace, of dreams that otherwise elude me.
I recognize a few pieces; others are new to me. It's a mellower set list than last Friday, with compositions that spell nighttime stories into my ears. Every song is a whispered secret, a tale Bella weaves over the keyboard, one stroke of her hand after another. She never looks up while she's playing; now that I'm observing her without restraint, I notice her eyes are barely even open. She knows every single key of that piano. She doesn't need to look at them while she plays. She owns those ivories.
After almost an hour, the music stops. The last, long note still resonates in my chest—a phantom echo of my heart beating in double time.
"Good evening, folks. We're going to end tonight's show with something different. Eric, where are you? There you are. Don't be shy, come on up here."
A tall, lanky guy in skinny jeans, a biker jacket, neon green Chucks, and a purple man bun hops onto the stage. "Hi, everyone," he greets the audience from a mic stand that magically appeared on the stage beside Bella's piano. Man-bun guy lets out an awkward chuckle. His face is vaguely familiar, but I can't pinpoint where I've seen him before.
"So, for anyone who doesn't know him yet, I give you Mr. Eric Yorkie, known to the masses as DJ EY2." Bella introduces him with a flourish.
A round of applause ensues. Again, mystery solved. This is the guy she's collaborated with in the past. Now, how does a hip-hop DJ kinda guy figure into an instrumental piano performance?
Eric adjusts the mic stand and throws a glance to the side of the stage. A couple of club employees appear, bearing an electronic keyboard and its stand, and set it up as a mirror image of Bella's piano, so Eric sits with his back to Bella's.
When everything is ready, two spotlights circle Eric's and Bella's faces. "This is the first song Bella and I wrote together," Eric begins.
"In a slightly pared down version than you might be accustomed to," Bella continues.
In what looks like a practiced move, they bump shoulders before Eric announces, "This is 'Overjoyed'."
A haunting piano melody wafts from Bella's keyboard, filling the space of the darkened club. After a measure or two—I think—Eric's voice joins in, and so does another overlaying track from his keyboard. It's made of beats and fat bass lines, and while I'm no expert in the field, calling it hip-hop would be grossly reductive. A more precise definition would require Jasper's extensive chops as a music critic.
Eric sings the lyrics to the piece, and they go hauntingly well with Bella's piano melody and all the electronic overlays and effects he's playing.
You lean towards despair
Any given opportunity you're there
But what is there to gain?
When you're always falling off the fence that way.
Words are all we have
We'll be talking
We'll be talking
When the song ends, the dynamic duo stands and takes a bow to a roaring round of applause. The house may not be full, but it's certainly rowdy, and the lion's share of the cheering comes from the tables at the other end of the room. The Duckling Army strikes again—a dozen of them are standing, waving their cobalt blue scarves in the air, clapping and wolf whistling. They're also throwing flowers and handmade cards on the stage. Some make it to Bella's feet. She picks up few and reads them, clutching them to her heart as she mouths, "Thank you," to her very intense, very dedicated fans.
My biased, grunge-loving heart admits—with some reluctance—that the last song Bella played with DJ EY2 is hands-down, honest-to-God perfection. And once again, I marvel at this tiny person's immense, multi-faceted talent and her ability to bring people together.
Sometime later, when the rumbling applause has faded away, said tiny person plops down in the empty chair next to me.
"How did you like the show?" she asks in one of those shy whispers I've come to expect from her. She can still whisper and be heard because the background music in the club is at a humane, non-earsplitting volume. And it's still Bella's music.
"I loved it. You changed the set list."
She bestows me an animated, scintillating smile. "You noticed?"
"I most certainly did."
I flag a waiter and ask Bella what she'd like. After the waiter flits away with our order—a club soda for me and chamomile tea for Bella, of all things—Ross appears, pulling a chair from a nearby empty table.
She elbows Bella with a sly smile. From the few things I know about Ross Whitlock, she may or may not be about to drop a bomb of some kind on an unsuspecting Bella.
"Jake was cozying it up with Mr. Cullen here earlier," she quips. "He had his signature megawatt smile. I distinctly saw a wink."
Ah. So she's either trying to have fun at my expense or … I got nothing. Fun at my expense it is.
Bella groans and hides her face in her hands. Then she eyes me through her fingers with another of her adorable expressions. This one spells embarrassment. "Ugh. The guy's not subtle. At all."
I'm trying to connect the dots here and failing miserably. "Care to enlighten a poor guy? Ross?"
Ross snickers. "Oh, no, that one's on Bella. C'mon, Shock. Don't be shy."
I want to ask about the nickname Ross keeps using for Bella, that "Shock" I've been hearing since the first time I met them, but I lose my opening because Bella replies to Ross instantly.
"Ugh. Jake hasn't shut up about you since last week. He dropped hints after he called you at the office, but when he actually met you, all bets were off. I had to put an embargo on his waxing poetic at one point. Please, let him down gently if you must. He went through a rough breakup last year."
"I believe he's already figured out he's not my type."
Bella takes a deep, relieved breath just as the waiter deposits our drinks on the table. "He did? Oh, good."
"Yes, especially since we're neighbors of sorts," I reply.
Ross's shoulders are still shaking, but then she pipes up. "Neighbors? God, this can't be true," she says, still laughing.
"Okay, now I'm lost, Ross," Bella quips.
"Follow me, girl. Jake lives in that swanky loft development in Kendall Square," she starts.
"And so do I," I offer by way of explanation. "Different building, same development."
Ross nods, and Bella motions for her to continue. "I mentioned to Edward that I just closed on the apartment …"
"Ah, yes, the Whitlock Parish of Our Lady of Iniquities," Bella quips.
This time I can't suppress a snicker. Ross shushes me, clearly unimpressed with the interruption. "And guess who lives in that same neighborhood? By the way," she adds, turning to me, "I would have appreciated the info a week ago, Edward. Again, you don't love me."
I almost snort my club soda through my nose. Ross is completely unapologetic and an utter riot. "In all fairness, you didn't ask."
"So, it's my fault now?"
"Who lives in the neighborhood, Ross?" Bella asks with growing impatience.
"Oh, right. That. The obnoxious, overgrown child who keeps sniffing around for you."
"Mac?" Bella retorts. The definition kinda, sorta gave him away. To a T. "Really?" she asks me.
"Yep. A couple of blocks from the converted church, matter of fact."
Bella erupts into roaring laughter. "Oh, that's too good. Serves you right, Ross."
"Me? He's all over you like mustard on a hot dog."
"Ew. I could have done without the visual. Yuck. But, no. You're way off base with your assumptions. I told you."
Ross stands and fires her parting salvo, with hands on her hips and a healthy dose of pique etched all over her features. "And how come he pops up everywhere you are? At your place, here, too? 'Let me give you a ride on my bike, Bella.' 'Oh, you want to go sightseeing? Let me take you.' C'mon, Shock. Use that Mensa-level IQ of yours."
Bella tsk-tsks at her, clearly unconvinced. Ross flicks her blonde locks over her shoulder and leaves, murmuring something about returning business calls. Whose calls she might be returning at almost ten p.m., is anyone's guess.
After Ross leaves, Bella clears her throat. "Sorry about that. Ross has a way of hijacking conversations wherever she goes."
I wave off her concerns. "I don't mind. She's something else. And doesn't like Mac, for some reason. Do I need to read him the riot act?"
Bella snickers, shaking her head. "He came on to her at the photo shoot, and she turned him down flat. But I know for a fact that she likes him. She might be playing hard to get."
"Let me get this straight, he's acting as your chaperone around Boston to rub it in Ross's face?"
"It looks that way."
My turn to laugh—at Mac's expense, no less. The grip of unease that gnawed at me yesterday when he had his arm around Bella's shoulder evaporates. "Has he figured that out, yet?"
She shrugs. "He might. I told him Ross doesn't like guys who play games. And that will be the extent of my involvement with those two. But enough about them. Thank you, Edward."
"For what, in particular?"
With her elbows on the table, she leans in closer. "For coming here tonight. For giving me a second chance."
"Thank you for wanting a second chance."
Her expression turns earnest, and she averts her gaze from me. "I'm not going to ask you what went wrong that day. Not today. But if you ever feel like telling me, I'll listen."
I owe her nothing but unflinching honesty—and that is what I'll give her. "I don't know what you know about me. About my past."
She leans back into her chair. I barely notice her wince, but it's there. "Broad strokes. All surface stuff. I don't know you."
It strikes me that the same applies to me, and my obsessive googling of Bella's multifarious pursuits. Broad strokes are what I see. Words, pictures, snapshots of a life. But I don't get to experience the hows and whys, or the feelings that go with each minute incident. My information skims the surface. It's skin-deep.
"Well, your brother…" I pause and catch a half-indulgent, half-diverted expression in her eyes when I mention Garrett. "Your brother, as I said, may have told you. Or better, you know from your own experience—interviews need preparation."
She shrugs again. "I never prepare interviews."
"Lucky you. What happened that day was me not preparing an interview."
"Ah. Got it."
Time to eat a nice helping of crow. "It gets worse. As you know, it was a very last minute arrangement. I knew zilch about you. And when I say zilch …"
She looks at me with eyes as wide as saucers and a sarcastic expression on her face. "Noooo!"
I raise my hands in defeat. "What can I say? Not my typical musical fare."
She snickers. "Yes, I gathered as much."
"So, that's what happened. And well, interviews, being in the field …"
Without warning, she reaches across the table for my hand and threads her fingers with mine. My hand dwarfs hers. For some reason I can't fathom, I don't want to let go.
"Again, Edward. You don't have to tell me today. Or ever."
I shake my head, realizing for the first time today that while I may not have to tell her, I need to. "Some day?"
"Some day is good. We have time."
I throw a glance around the club. While Bella and I talked, people have been steadily filing out. It's almost empty now, and the lights are brighter. The mellow atmosphere from earlier has dissipated in the harsh light of fluorescents.
Jake comes up to our table from behind the bar. "I'm sorry, Shock. I can't take you home tonight. There are a few staff-related pickles I gotta solve."
"Eh, it's fine. I'll catch an Uber."
"Alone? What about Ross?"
"She's out back dealing with business crap. I'm not twelve. I can manage to order an Uber and get home unscathed. It's my turf, Jake, dammit."
It's not the first mention I've heard that's led me to believe there might be something more than just the club's grand opening tethering Bella to Boston.
Before I can stop myself, I've already blurted it out. "Where do you live?"
"Cambridge. By MIT?"
"Would you do me a favor and see her home, Edward?" Jake asks, flashing me one of his pearly white smiles.
With a huff and her arms crossed over her chest, Bella's answer thunders through the empty, cavernous space. "Hello? I'm right here. Can you not refer to me in the third person? Also, twenty-first century. I can damn well go home alone if I please."
Point taken. She's lived all over the world. She doesn't need chaperoning. So why is Jake pushing us together?
"Where in Cambridge?"
After a deep, frustration-cleansing breath, she turns to me. "Chestnut Street."
"Which end? The MIT end or the other end?"
"Other end."
"All right. You know where I live. It's ten minutes away from me, if that. Share the ride with me? I'd be going that way in any case."
She ponders it for a handful of seconds, during which Jake throws her a not-so-covert glance and a nod.
"Fair enough. Escort me home, Cullen."
"Consider yourself escorted, Swan."
&&&IVORIES&&&
Much later, as we sit in the back of our shared ride, our conversation drifts back to the dreadful day that brought us together.
"I didn't do my research for the interview. But I've been catching up." I wonder what she'd think of all my nighttime googling.
"Don't. Please," she pleads, leaning her head on my shoulder, with a half-hearted punch to my arm.
"How so? Most of it is stuff you unleash unto the world for public consumption anyway."
The tone of our conversation has changed. We've shifted from tentative, apologetic tiptoeing around each other to a still awkward mix of repartees, banter, and home truths. Her pleading and her huff are a good indication she's about to land one of her home truths.
"I'm not research. I'm a person. If you want to know me, don't google me. Talk to me. Ask me things."
The car stops before a building everyone in Cambridge calls the "Wisteria House." It's a well-loved, whitewashed brownstone laced with the now-dormant vines of an almost centenarian wisteria that envelopes the entire façade of the building. It's a local landmark of sorts, with good reason. It's magnificent when the wisteria blooms.
Bella tries to tip the driver, but I wave her hand and money away. She scolds me with one of her silent pouts.
"You live in the Wisteria House?" I could have figured it out when she described where she lives. But it's not as if this is the only house at "the other end" of Chestnut Street from MIT.
"It's my grandmother's house, technically. But yes."
She turns to me before walking up the front steps.
"And you'll answer?" I ask, clearly not referring to the house.
"Unequivocally."
The look in her eyes with that last word … I can't describe it.
It keeps haunting me, even after I've dropped her off. Even after I climb the stairs to my loft, too impatient and too riddled with nervous energy to wait for the elevator. Even after I collapse into bed, unable to stop thinking about her.
Baby steps, right? They're getting there.
The song Bella plays with Eric (DJ EY2) is Bastille's Overjoyed. I just borrowed it.
The refurbished church actually exists in Southie. I don't think Rosalie lives there, though ;-)
I'll catch you all next week. Be safe and be happy. Being happy in this world sometimes is a revolutionary act. :)
