Happy Saturday, people!
Thank you to everyone who reached out this past week and shared their memories or love of the Foos with me. It meant a lot.
Thank you also for all your reviews and alerts. I love reading your thoughts 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.
I'm also a serial tinkerer, so any boo-boos left are my responsibility.
Quick note: the Wisteria House exists, but it's not in Boston. It's in London, but it was so pretty that I just had to use it. I moved it to Cambridge by the power of Greyskull ... well, no. By the power of fiction. Bonus points if y'all are geeks enough to catch the reference.
I posted a pic of both the Wisteria House and of Ross's converted church condo in my FB Group, LaMomo's Lair. Do consider joining for teasers, bonus contents like playlists and pics, lots of Rob, and the occasional glimpse into my work in progress. Just type "LaMomo's Lair" in the search bar on FB and it will come up.
Also, have you ever attended a TFMU, i.e. a Twific Meet Up? I have, and it's been a blast. The next one is next July 14/17 in Cleveland, OH. Still time to get registered and join the shenanigans. Look for the TFMU TwiFic Meetup group on FB for more info. I'd love to see you there.
Without further ado, let's get back to Mr. EditorWard.
BEHIND THE IVORIES – CHAPTER 12
On Wednesday morning, a deluge of red, pink, and white heart-shaped confetti rains down on me as soon as I enter the office.
Right. Valentine's Day.
The thought never even crossed my mind. It's just another Wednesday in February to me. Except, on this fine, frosty morning, Tanya and Alice are standing there in the hallway, holding bags of more ammunition—ehm, confetti—to throw at me. Now, why I should be showered in paper Valentines, I have no clue. But maybe they'll put me out of my misery and tell me.
"Happy Valentine's Day, Edward!" Alice squeals, tossing another handful of confetti at me.
"Happy Val—Wednesday!" Tanya catches herself at the last minute, with an apologetic smile. Then she covertly points at Alice and mouths, "She made me do it!"
"Morning, ladies. Why the barrage of paper hearts? What did I do this time?"
Alice starts brushing confetti off my coat. "Oh, come on, you old curmudgeon. We just wanted to spread a little joy. It's a dreary day already."
"Yeah, but I'm hardly Valentine's Day material, Al." I try to convey my displeasure with what I'd like to call a stink eye, but it doesn't stick the landing.
Alice and Tanya both fail to conceal a chuckle.
"Well, no. But hope never dies, does it?" Alice asks, following me into my office.
Tanya disappears in the direction of the break room. After this stunt, if she reappears with a cup of coffee for yours truly, at least it'll mean the day is looking up.
When I sit behind my desk, Alice closes the door behind her and lands in one of the visitor chairs with a giddy, conspiratorial smile on her elfin face. The quirky attire of the day is a flaming red, flared mini-dress with a weird patch in the shape of a fried egg, of all things. Where in the world does she find this stuff? It shouldn't work, but somehow, it's an entirely Alice thing to wear.
"So, how was your Tuesday night?"
"Fine. Yours?"
Her expression veers from conspiratorial curiosity to acid-green pique. "You are deflecting, Edward."
"I didn't lie. It was a fine evening, for a Tuesday."
"Oh, come on! You know what I want to know!"
As I tinker to get my system started—and take pains to slow down each task to the motility of molasses in January—Alice sits and fidgets. First, she taps her foot on the floor. Then, she crosses and uncrosses her legs. She huffs. Last, she starts drumming her fingers on my desk, and that's when I grab her hand to stop her.
"Acting all impatient isn't going to change a damn thing, you know."
"You're …"
"Yes? I am what, Mrs. Brandon-Hale?"
"Irritating, that's what you are, Edward!" she erupts. "I know you went to Sharps & Flats because Isabella invited you. You can't hide from me!"
"Boy, does news travel fast in this joint."
She has the decency to look sheepish for a nanosecond before launching into one of her long-winded narrations. "Weeeell, Mac told Jazz that Bella was here the other day, and one thing led to another …"
I throw her another attempt at my stink eye, and luckily for me, this time it works.
"Then Jazz asked Mac what Bella was doing here. Mac told him something about going sightseeing around town. Freedom Trail, stuff like that. But it's cold—how could he keep the poor girl walking around for hours in this cold? What if her hands get frostbite? What if it ruins her career? Then Mac let it slip that Bella talked to you before leaving. I caught a glimpse of Tanya handing you an envelope yesterday morning. Then I came looking for you in the late afternoon, but Tanya said you'd left early. So, I did the math. Guilty as charged. But I only wanted to know how the show went. How's Bella?"
And she finally takes a breath while I take a slight, covert sigh of relief. Fangirl Alice is in the house. She only cares about the show; she's not fishing for personal details.
"It was a fantastic show. She changed the set list around. There was a duet, which I think may or may not have been unplanned."
"Fudge. And I missed it. With whom?"
"DJ EY2 was there. They played one song together."
"Aww, shucks. I'm so jealous you got to see it."
Since I've dodged any intrusive questions she may have been inclined to ask—for now, this is Triple A I'm dealing with, after all—I throw her a bone. "I have tickets for the rest of the week. Do you want to be my plus one tonight?"
She narrows her eyes at me, then, in a very un-Alice gesture, she growls. "You didn't."
"What?"
"You didn't just dangle before me the prospect of another Isabella Swan show on freaking Valentine's Day? Really? Jazzy is taking me out tonight."
Facepalm. Normal people who have significant others have stuff to do on Valentine's Day.
Stuff that I, the monk, as my own father dubbed me not too long ago, don't have to worry about. I can devote the evening to another Isabella Swan show at the newest club in Boston without worrying about flowers, chocolates, Valentines, and a significant other on whom I'd shower those gifts.
"Well, go have dinner with Jasper, then. I'm going to Sharps & Flats."
The tone of finality in my voice clues her in to the fact that she's being dismissed.
"Unfair. However …"
"Yes, Alice?"
"Well, is tonight the only show you have tickets for?"
I throw her another bone. Because I'm strangely feeling magnanimous. "I have tickets through Friday. But only two per night."
"Would you like me as a plus one tomorrow?"
"Deal, Triple A. Now scoot. I have a magazine to edit."
She flits out of my office, humming to herself. It didn't take a lot to make her happy.
It takes me less than a minute to recognize the tune. It's "The Essence of You."
&&&IVORIES&&&
"We are fucking pathetic, Ed," Mac declares as we drive to Sharps & Flats.
It's madness to think I chose today of all days to traipse around downtown Boston in my own car, but I had to pick it up from the dealership after a tune-up, so here we are—slogging it down Berkeley Street in almost bumper-to-bumper traffic.
"Speak for yourself. I'm not feeling pathetic. At all," I retort. I throw a glance in the rearview mirror at the idiot who's sticking so close to my ass I can see his cavities. "Get in the other damn lane, you moron!"
Mac ignores my outburst and continues his previous train of thought. "It's Valentine's Day, and I'm spending the evening with you, of all people. That's pathetic."
I start snickering, and after a while, Mac joins in. The moron behind me finally switches lanes. Mac contributes by flipping him the bird.
"Have you ever had a girlfriend long enough to spend a Valentine's Day with her, Mac?"
The question stumps him. Perhaps because he has to run through his long, mental Rolodex, cross-reference it to his calendar, and figure out if such a unicorn exists.
"You know, probably not. I avoid this holiday like the plague. It reeks of commitment."
"You're incorrigible, Mac. How's that fear of commitment working out for you with Ross Whitlock?"
He groans. "It's not. Why do you torture me? If only …"
"Well, she'll be there tonight. So she might grant me a reprieve and torture you herself."
"And it would hurt so good," he quips, waggling his eyebrows.
As I said, incorrigible.
A while later, when we've ditched most of the traffic and are getting close to the club, Mac turns to me with a serious expression. Uncharacteristically serious.
"How did the week turn from me taking Bella sightseeing on my Harley to her inviting you to her shows? How the hell did that happen?"
"She asked me to come to the shows. No big deal."
"No big deal?" he asks, his voice dripping with skepticism. "'No big deal'? Dude, she doesn't invite people to shows."
"And how do you know that?"
"Something Rosalie said at the photoshoot. That she's the one who invites 'must attend' people to the shows because Bella just doesn't."
No invites? No invites to Garrett, the stepbrother who loves her? No invites to her mother? To her father? I had Mom beating down my door for invitations when I was nominated for a Peabody. I could not have gotten away with not having any family or friends around me for the ceremony. No way. No how.
"How come?"
He shrugs. "Dunno. Since the pair of you are so chummy now, maybe you could ask her yourself."
"We're not chummy," I retort. "She invited me to the shows. I said yes."
Mac throws me a sidelong glance as I turn into the parking garage. "And just why did she invite you to the shows?"
There's no point beating about the bush with him. He's relentless.
"She said she wanted a do-over of our failed interview. On that premise, I accepted. We talked a bit after the show, and ended up sharing an Uber back to Cambridge. It was a good night."
He nods, mulling it over.
When we arrive at the club, he pipes up again. "It wouldn't be half-bad if, you know, you and Bella …"
I pretend not to know what he means. "Bella and I, what?"
"Well, you know, if you wanted to take it past the friend-zone..."
He went there. Can't say I'm surprised he did. It's the way he's wired. If a guy hangs out with a woman, it's because he has a relationship in mind—or, in his case, a roll in the hay.
"She's twenty-seven, Mac."
Another shrug. "And your point is?
&&&IVORIES&&&
The bouncer at the door waves us through without even looking at us twice—we're old friends by now.
Once we're inside, immediately, I get the sense it's not just any other Wednesday around here. If elsewhere I could have navigated the day oblivious of the reddest, touchy-feeliest, chocolatiest holiday Hallmark ever saddled us with—this is where my hopes of remaining blissfully ignorant of Valentine's Day would have crashed and burned. Jake and his crew went all out with the decorations: balloons, streamers, and red mailboxes where you can drop anonymous Valentines. To top it all off, the waitstaff are all wearing red or pink T-shirts.
The house is also a lot fuller than last night.
Still, Jacob somehow spots us in the crowd and greets us with a hearty slap to the shoulder.
"Gentlemen, nice seeing you both tonight. Come with me; your table's this way."
It's the same one he gave me last night. I'm sensing a theme here.
"Thanks, Jake. Appreciate it. Especially tonight," I reply.
Mac and I take our seats, and Jake flags a waiter to take our drink and food orders. After a few pleasantries, Jake leaves, promising to come back for a chat later.
It's early for the show, and Mac and I fill the time sipping our beers and nibbling on the appetizers Jake brought a few minutes ago—"On the house, Ed. On the house."
Suddenly, Mac's expression morphs into a disgusted grimace. "Oh, for fuck's sake."
"What's wrong? Burnt French fry?"
"I wish, Ed. Her Majesty the Ice Queen is standing right at your six o'clock."
The descriptive—if unclear—epithet forces me to ask for clarifications. "Who?"
"Kate fucking Caulfield, that's who. Behind you. By the door."
The irony of seeing her of all people here tonight isn't lost on me. I shake my head and snicker. The universe has a screwed up way of dealing with me, that's for sure.
"And you're laughing about it instead of reaching for a barf bag?" he comments.
"It's a public venue, Mac. What would you have me do? Make a scene? Ask Jake to order her to leave? Because either of those things would go over well, right?"
Tilting his head to the side, he shifts in his seat, no doubt in an effort to hide from Kate in the crowded club. If we're lucky, her self-absorbedness will prevail, and she'll just spend the night not even noticing we're here.
"I guess you're right. But you gotta admit you've changed your tune about her. A year ago, you'd have been sweating bullets."
I shrug. He has a point. Maybe by now, I've hit the watershed. "I'm past the point of caring. Who gives a shit what and who she does and where she does it?"
"The 'fiancée' is with her," he adds.
"Air quotes, Mac. Really? What are we, twelve?"
"Ugh. Allow me to be skeptical about the whole thing. The timing and publicity around the announcement are a tad suspect," he comments with a shudder.
"You're unleashing your inner Jessica, aren't you?"
"Speaking of which." He snickers and fishes out his cell phone from his pocket. In a few seconds, he's typed and sent a text. "There. Now she knows."
"Who? What?" I've known the man for close to a decade, but sometimes, I can't follow him.
"Jess, who else? I let her know we spotted Miss Caulfield and her significant other. For the society column. After all, she's a local celebrity."
"Well, I rest my case. If Jess ever quits, you're getting the gossip column. Nobody would notice the change."
"I resent that remark. It'd be even better."
Another pat on my shoulder interrupts our chit-chatting. "Ross! Good to see you." I stand to greet her.
"Edward, hey," she replies, but ignores the hell out of Mac. Figures.
"Good evening, Miss Whitlock. Nice to see you, Miss Whitlock. You look lovely this evening, Miss Whitlock." Needless to say, Mac doesn't take kindly to being ignored.
"I saw you, Emmett. I just elected not to acknowledge you."
"You wound me, Rosalie."
When I notice Mac isn't using her generally accepted nickname, I turn to look at him. He's smiling as he delivers his line, but his eyes tell a different story. Her studied indifference does sting.
"I'd sit and chat, but you know how it is before the show. Gotta check on piano player extraordinaire, make sure she gets her chocolate cake," she adds, gesturing to the backstage door.
"Now, isn't that reductive since she's a composer?" I quip.
Ross smiles. "I know, I know. My bad. Our secret?" She winks at me, then walks away.
"Damn, that woman," Mac grumbles. Taking a long sip of his pint, he shakes his head as if to dispel even the sheer memory of her.
"She sees through you, Mac. You can't fault her for that. She considers you a player and evidently doesn't want one. Accept it and move on."
He leans his forearms on the table and levels me a withering look. "What if I can't move on?"
Oh, how the mighty are falling. "You're my closest friend, Mac. I won't bullshit you. If you can't move on, it's up to you to decide what to do with yourself and your life. If you're happy with your string of Misses Right Now, then this shouldn't matter to you. But if you're not … well, then it might be time for a change."
"You think so?"
"I can't tell you how to live your life, Mac. I never have. I'm not gonna start now. But think about it. What's more important here? The thrill of the chase? The notch on your bedpost? Or her?"
"Hell if I know," he replies, running a frustrated hand over his face.
"There you have it. Sounds you like you have some shit to figure out, man."
He nods, but doesn't otherwise respond. When he leans back in his seat and draws one long, last pull from his beer, it dawns on me this is the end of our serious conversation.
"Another round?" I ask, flagging a passing server.
Mac nods. After we rattle off our orders, Mac stares at me with the keen expression he normally has when he's stewing over something.
"Spit it out, Mac. Whatever it is."
"Ever thought about taking your own advice, Ed?"
I shrug, trying to guess what he's referring to. "If it's good advice …"
"The 'time for a change' part, I mean," he adds.
Ah. That part. "I'm trying, Mac. I'm trying."
If anything, the man has good timing. Unlike whoever decides now is the right time to cast their shadow over our table and interrupt our conversation.
"What are you two fine gentlemen doing here tonight?" A soothing but diverted voice I know from birth announces.
"Mom, hi." I rise to embrace her. Dad stands by her side. "Is this your Valentine's Day date?"
Dad grins, reaching out to shake Mac's hand.
Mac quickly moves on to Mom, as is his wont. "Momma C! I get to see you twice in two weeks. The night's looking up!"
You gotta hand it to Mac; his moments of foul temper never last. He's already hamming it up for my mom and she just fawns over him like a long-lost child.
"You can always come and have dinner with us on the weekends, Emmett. You know where we live."
And he's not above taking her literally either.
"Well, guys, since this is our date night, I hope you'll excuse me for stealing my wife and heading to our table over there," Dad interjects.
"Come over after the show, will you?" I ask.
Dad nods and Mom pats my arm affectionately.
"Also, Counselor and Momma C—you may want to watch out for Kate Caulfield."
Mom frowns. "Is she here?"
Both Mac and I nod in unison. It must be a rather comical look, if Dad's chuckle is anything to go by.
"I guess they let some people go anywhere these days," Mom professes, her patrician nose duly upturned.
"They got tickets and hopefully paid for them like you lot did," I argue.
"Yes, well. I'm not happy about it," she retorts, her pique evident in her tone.
Understatement of the century. I snort into my soda. I switched after one pint because I'm driving. "Sure, Mom. And I'm ecstatic—look at me."
"Oh, sweetie. I'm sorry. Has she been bothering you?"
I wave her off. "No, Mom. We've been spared, so far," I respond, raising my crossed fingers for good measure.
Right then, the lights flicker twice, then start fading. Mom and Dad take their cue to reach their table.
The show's about to start.
&&&IVORIES&&&
The set list is different tonight, yet again. It's clear Bella likes to shake things up. After all, it must get boring to play the same tunes in the same order one night after another. She probably wouldn't do this on a regular tour with sound and light engineers depending on a pre-determined set list for their work, but the venue here is small enough she can get creative. At least, this is what Jake told me last night.
"Sea Glass" is the first piece she plays. She delivers the same backstory for it that she gave on opening night. It still fills me with hope and a weird sense of kinship.
When the show is around the halfway point, she takes a break for another of her stories. She likes introducing her pieces with these little narrations. They're snapshots of moments in time: where she got her inspiration, when she got the idea for a particular song, what kind of music theory informs her compositions. It's another insight into her universe. I love listening to her, and the more I do, the more I understand why she prefers this curated but more direct media presence than relying on industry press not to be judgmental assholes about her work.
"It's some sort of holiday today, or so I gather," she says, gesturing to the decorations above the stage. The crowd's reaction is diverted peals of laughter. Smartass that she is sometimes. "I don't have a reason to celebrate it, but if you do, hold on to your love. It's the calm in the storm. This is 'Whisper'."
The song that follows sounds like an embrace. A cocoon of silk around me. I cast a few covert glances around the room while she plays. The entire crowd is suspended in time—barely breathing, barely moving, transfixed by her music.
After two or three more pieces, she stops again, taking a long pull of water from a bottle that appeared out of nowhere.
"This is also a sad, sad day, my friends. I ate the last slice of my chocolate cake."
A murmur runs through the crowd.
"Yes, the Cake Fairy's chocolatey opus is no more. And that's a problem. A big problem because I have no clue who the Cake Fairy is or how to contact her. It's going to be a tough rest of the week without her chocolate cake, I tell you. So please, join me in mourning the loss of the best chocolate cake I've ever had. I've had a lot of chocolate cake over the years, believe me. I'm an unrecognized authority on the matter."
Another river of chuckles flows through the audience.
Sounds like I need to get busy tomorrow. Maybe I can get another cake delivered before the show.
&&&IVORIES&&&
When the show ends in a roar of applause, an avalanche of confetti and red, pink, and white balloons flood the stage, covering both Bella and her piano.
Playfully, she kicks some of them off the stage where they land on unsuspecting members of the audience. In a few minutes, the entire thing devolves into a balloon-flinging battle, which serves as the perfect moment for her to disappear off stage.
People start leaving their seats and filing to the exit. No doubt some of them have other plans tonight after the show. It's still early enough that you could go for a good late dinner in downtown Boston, if you planned in advance. And you'd probably have to elbow your way through crowds a lot less than earlier in the evening. Prime time's over.
Mom and Dad also leave their cozy table for two, and as promised, they walk back to us, snatching a couple of empty chairs from a nearby table that's just been vacated.
Mac and I scoot our chairs around to make room for them. Dad insists on paying for a round of drinks, and of course, neither Mac nor I refuse.
"I'm driving, though, Dad. No more beer for me," I explain.
"What possessed you to drive tonight of all days?" Mom asks.
"Bad planning and coincidences, that's what."
"How so?" My mother, the queen of follow-up questions.
"Car was at the dealership for a tune-up. They called around lunchtime saying it was ready. I figured I'd pick it up after work and have a means of transportation in the evening. I forgot about traffic."
"Dude, how do you forget about traffic in this city?" Mac says, with good reason.
"Because I have the bad, environmentally conscious habit of riding public transit most of the time. You know I hate driving."
Dad chuckles. He's the speed demon of the family. The chuckles, though, suddenly dry up when Ross appears with Bella in tow. Actually, both my parents are dumbstruck. Or starstruck?
"Bella, fantastic show tonight," I tell her after I rise to greet both girls.
Bella nods and thanks me with another of those shy whispers of hers. After I lean down to buss her cheek lightly—heaven knows how I decided to do that—she shuffles closer to me. Ross, who's an old acquaintance by this point, claps my back with a wink.
My mom clears her throat. Yeah, she doesn't do subtle.
"Bella, Ross, if I may?"
"Oh," Ross says, her gaze roaming over the table to take in the scene, "who do we have here?"
Did my father just blush? Mac just raised a bushy eyebrow, so I might not be seeing things. The Counselor, God love him, stands immediately—rising to the occasion, if you will.
"This is Esme Platt-Cullen, my mother," I start, indicating Mom.
She welcomes them both with a warm smile.
"And this is Carlisle Cullen, my father."
Yes, he definitely blushed. That's it; I'm calling Shelley tomorrow to spill the beans.
"And these," I continue, "are Isabella Swan and Rosalie Whitlock."
"The honor's all ours, Isabella. And Rosalie, of course." Mom, who has no complexion problems at the moment, is the first to recover her powers of speech.
Bella and Ross reciprocate, tell both of them to ditch the formal names and go for "Bella" and "Ross," and accept Mom's invitation to join our table when Dad has finally restarted his system enough to speak.
"How are you both liking Boston so far?"
"Oh, I've lived here before," Bella responds. "I love it. Being here is a bit different for me now, but I do love it."
"She lives in the Wisteria House, Mom."
Esme, who may or may not have a slight obsession for that piece of architecture, perks up at my words. "No way! How come?"
Bella gets a little shy and fidgets with the ends of the scarf intertwined with her braid before answering. "It was my grandmother's house, but I lived there on and off when I was a kid. I just moved in permanently."
"I always wondered who lived there. I love walking past when the wisteria's in bloom," Mom replies with a dreamy expression on her face.
Bella giggles at her comment. "I used to call it the Purple House when I was a kid. Wisteria was too difficult a word for five-year-old me."
"Well, the flowers are purple," I add.
"So there," she replies, fist bumping me.
A server deposits a tray with our round of drinks, and when she leaves, we distribute the variety of glasses and bottles around the table, trying to avoid a tangle of arms and spilled drinks.
"Let me guess, the chamomile tea's yours?" I ask Bella when the last drink left is, indeed, a hot beverage in a mug.
She nods, and when she accepts the piping hot beverage from my hands, her fingers graze mine for a split second.
"What a nice, merry gathering you have here. Do you have room for two more?"
And that's a haughty, cloying, high-pitched voice I hoped I'd never hear again. While hope springs eternal, tonight my spring's all dried out. Clearly.
Mac nailed it a couple of hours ago.
Kate fucking Caulfield.
Of course, her self-absorbedness won out, but it meant she had to show off. Lord it over us—over me—that she's here and demands a tribute before leaving in a puff of sulfur smoke. The tribute being my self-control. For starters.
I'm contemplating the least disgraceful course of action I could take. This is predicated on a few additional hopes: that my mother won't throttle her first, that Mac will only resort to verbal violence, that my uncle—and criminal lawyer—will pick up if I call him late at night, that Jake won't throw us out of the club, and that, for some unfathomable reason, the Ice Queen won't sink her talons into Bella.
Why was I so glib earlier by thinking I could just shove aside the thought of running into her in public? Why could I be so cock-sure it wouldn't affect me?
Maybe it won't. I'm not feeling the usual undercurrent of resentful bile rising in my throat. But I'm surrounded by people I care about deeply—yes, Bella's inching her way into that Venn diagram—and Kate is known for not being selective. If she decides to wreak havoc onto something, she usually obliterates anything that stands in her way, tornado-style.
At least, that was the Kate I used to know. The one who annihilated my job, our five-year relationship, my hopes of a future with her, my career, and any professional or personal respect I might have had for her. All of those things were gone in an instant when she chose herself over me, over us.
But her sudden appearance now begs the question. What's her motive for deciding to come and talk to us? Because she always has an ulterior motive. She doesn't do pleasantries for the sake of it. Politeness to her is a means to an end.
"As it happens, Katherine, we don't. But we wish you a pleasant rest of the evening." My mother's words are almost saccharine-sweet—with the same polished, posh accent Kate unsuccessfully aims to imitate—and yet disdain drips from every syllable with the intensity of acid rain.
"Edward," Kate says, turning to me after completely ignoring my mother. "It's good to see you." She addresses her words to me, but with a glacial stare, she takes in Bella from head to toe.
Because we're all a bunch of unwelcoming jerks, nobody has risen to greet Kate and her girlfriend, who stands by her side with a deer-in-headlights look. If she's aware of Kate's history with me, witnessing her fiancée's actions tonight must be all kinds of awkward.
"We wish we could say the same, Kate," Mac finally pipes up.
I knew he wouldn't shut up. I also knew I should have headed him off at the pass, but he's faster than I am when he wants to be. Plus, he's had a bone or twenty to pick with Kate for the last six years.
Kate stares me down now, ready for a shoot-out O.K. Corral style. She radiates hostility, which doesn't make a lick of sense. She's riding high from her very public romance, her coming out, being embraced by her newly found community, and her skyrocketing career. She's here flouting her significant other—oops, fiancée. So why, oh why, does she look like she just swallowed a gallon of piss and vinegar?
"And you still let him speak for you, Edward? How weak," she sneers at me again.
I'm tempted to throw a little of that acid back in her face when Bella's small hand grasps mine under the table. With that minute, reassuring squeeze, my irritation dissolves. There's no good reason for me to explode in Kate's face. Come to think of it, she might have hoped for it. Tried to rile me up on purpose. After all, she's always had a disproportionate love for the limelight. Good or bad publicity—she loves it all.
"Maybe I let him because I have nothing to say to you."
Damn, that was fucking liberating. And so is the lightly stunned expression marring Kate's porcelain doll features. Once, I thought she was beautiful. Now, she only looks fake to me. Too schooled, too refined, too primed, too controlled, too artificial, too constructed.
When I don't speak for close to a minute and the temperature plummets to Antarctic levels, the fiancée daintily elbows Kate. "You promised me, Katie."
Kate nods, but doesn't otherwise react.
"I think you should leave, Kate." There's no tremor in my voice as I utter those final words.
Jake—who no doubt caught sight of the standoff from his perch behind the bar—walks closer and lets his gaze roam over the uneasy crowd around the table.
"Is there a problem here?" he asks, clearly addressing Kate and her companion.
Color rises on Kate's cheeks. Embarrassment is not an emotion she does well. Nobody asks Katherine Caulfield to leave. Until now.
"No, Mr. Black. Lauren and I were just leaving," she responds, her voice defeated but steady. After all, she has an image to uphold.
A good minute of tense silence follows while Kate and plus one walk away and head out the door.
"Well, that was some ass-kicking!" Ross exclaims, slapping her hand on her thigh. "I thought her perfectly coiffed head would explode."
"Who was that?" Bella asks, turning to me.
"That, my dear," my mom begins, "is the Wicked Witch of the East."
"Otherwise known as Edward's ex," Mac says, unbidden. Thank you, pal, for divulging my unfortunate dating history to the masses.
"Wait a minute," Ross interrupts. "Isn't she some hot-shot reporter?"
"Oh, she's also the daughter of a senator," my dad adds with a mischievous smile of his own.
Mom's grumbling against the senator's political flip-flopping starts soon after, and Mac's curses intersperse Dad's entreaties for both of them to calm the hell down.
I'm grateful for the moment of uncoordinated mayhem. It allows me to gather my wits.
Otherwise, I would have missed Bella's words. "I know her kind. She revels in stirring up trouble."
"She does."
"You're well rid of her, Edward. She's bad news." Bella runs her thumb over my hand she's still holding.
"That she is."
Uh-oh. The She-Devil is (or was) in the building. Well, well, well ... how's that for not taking a hint?
Links to the pieces Bella plays at the show are in LaMomo's Lair. Come for the RobP0rn, stay for the conversations ;-)
See you all next weekend!
