Hello people, and happy Saturday!

Thank you also for all your reviews and alerts. Ivories passed 900 reviews last week. WOW. Thank you.
I treasure every single one of them, even if I can't reply to all of them.
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 taking one second to brag this weekend because my journalist friend-the one who inspired this story-won a prestigious award for directing a documentary (Italy's equivalent of Golden Globes/Peabody awards). Go Anna!

So, the consensus is that Everybody Hates the Caulfields and Everybody Hates Ross. Both with very good reasons.

Below we finally cap off EditorWard's VERY busy Friday. On with the show!


BEHIND THE IVORIES – CHAPTER 17

My meeting with Cheney goes off without a hitch. We cross everything off our list, and now he's ready to launch the new and improved website design for the Tatler's homepage.

After I've dismissed him, my gaze lands on the manila envelope delivered after lunch. The envelope. The one from Curtis Brandon. My new contract. I hit Tanya's speed dial on my desk phone.

"Tanya, what did Shelley have to say about my dad's availability?"

"She was atypically non-committal," she replies.

"That's weird."

"Try abnormal, uncharacteristic, catastrophic—"

"I wouldn't go that far, but it is unusual."

Shelley's M.O. is to know my father's whereabouts every minute of every working day. Non-committal answers, especially wherever I'm concerned, are not the norm.

"She said you might have better luck calling him directly. I told her it was work-related, but nothing else." Tanya's a paragon of confidentiality. I trust her implicitly, but I appreciate her transparency.

I'm about to dial my father's cell phone when Mac appears in my office. Downtrodden doesn't begin to describe him.

"I know you're busy. I'll cut to the chase. No fucking way in hell I'm subjecting myself to Rosalie Whitlock tonight. I already texted Bella and apologized, but I can't do it. If that's how she wants to play it, fine. I'll deal with it, but I need space. Use my plus one for whoever the hell you want. I ain't coming."

I nod, mulling over his words. I didn't know how he'd react to Rosalie's attitude. The old Mac would have made a point of showing up to goad Ross into more drastic comebacks. This more mature, more deliberate version of him seems to know that sometimes quitting is healthy—which seems to be a running theme here of late.

"You do what's best for you; don't worry about the rest. Want to grab something to eat over the weekend?"

He hesitates, then frowns. "I don't know. Can we touch base tomorrow?"

"Yeah, don't worry about it."

He nods back at me, then leaves without another word.

Then my cell buzzes from its spot on the desk. The text preview taunts me from the lock screen. It's from Bella.

You're still coming to the show tonight, right? Please :)

The smiley face at the end is, somehow, such a Bella thing. It fits. Because I hate having text conversations for topics like this, I call her back instead.

"Edward?"

"Hey. I got your text."

Silence. Then a faint huff. "I'm so pissed with Ross right now."

How do I respond without overstepping my bounds and without badmouthing Ross? "Would I sound too much like a therapist if I said your emotions are valid, whatever they are?"

She answers with a chuckle. "Oh, I get it. I do. It's just … This time she exaggerated."

"I think we all made it abundantly clear." Ross did piss outside the litter box, and I don't know her well enough to figure out why.

"So, back to my original question. We are still on for tonight, aren't we? Please?" Trepidation seeps through her voice.

"Yes, but as you might suspect, I'll be flying solo."

She sighs into the line. "Thank you. I tried to convince Mac, I did, but …"

"He needs space. I don't know what kind of sick games Ross is playing, but she has to stop. Mac doesn't deserve it and, frankly, neither does she."

Bella makes a little frustrated noise before answering. "I told her she comes across as a rancid bitch when she behaves like that. She's so used to guys falling over themselves whatever she does. The world doesn't revolve around her. Jeez."

Ah, so that's why. She was fine with rebuffing Mac's advances while he worked his repertoire of tried and trite pick-up lines because it validated her ego, but now that he's behaving decently to her, she can't handle it. Do we have another commitment-phobe in our midst? Food for thought—for another day. I'm not about to spend time dissecting her behavior. I hope Mac can still walk away unscathed at this point.

"Well, Mac is guaranteed not to offer any help to her ever again."

She breathes a little adorable growl into the phone. "I just feel so powerless. There's nothing I can do to fix this, and it frustrates the hell out of me."

"Well, have you considered that it might not be your mess to fix? They're both adults—let them sort out their own shit. Or, how about you go pound some piano keys and vent that frustration, maestro?" Something catches my eye, and I react with a groan. Duty calls. "Tanya's doing weird gestures from the doorway, and I need to check what's going on with her. I'll see you tonight, all right?"

She sighs again. A deep, relaxed sigh this time. "Okay. You're right, I suppose. I'll try to go get rid of this ball of frustration. I'm sorry for interrupting your work. See you tonight, Edward."

"You didn't interrupt me, Bella. I called you. I'll see you tonight, okay?"

"Okay. I'll let you go now. Bye, Edward."

My name leaves her lips in a reverent whisper, and my brain goes on the fritz for a second, reveling in that thought. Nobody's ever spoken my name that way.

When the line clicks off, Tanya steps inside. "I hated interrupting, but—"

I wave her off. I don't make a habit of making personal calls throughout the workday. Not that I make many personal calls ever. "What's up, T?"

"Shelley pinned down your dad. He's on line two."

Finally. Just when getting a hearing with the Pope looked easier by the minute. "Put him through."

My eye wanders to the pile of shit growing stale and stinky in my inbox. And to the fat manila envelope Curtis Brandon messengered over this morning, which I still haven't had time to open. At times like these, launching the local chapter of Procrastinators Anonymous seems like a good idea. It would take off, too. At some point.

"Hi, Edward. Shelley ordered me to call you back," Dad quips.

"Hi, Dad. Thank you. And please don't tell Mom I talked to you before I spoke to her, or she'll put me over her knee."

Dad snickers. Mom repels violence in any form—except verbal tirades—but I still wouldn't hear the end of it. "Well, it sounded urgent. Anything wrong, son?"

I grab the manila envelope and slide a finger under the flap to open it. I have to do battle with the security tape on it for a second, but manage to get the bundle of papers out without slicing myself open. "No, I'm fine. It's a work-related thing, though. Do you have time to talk now?"

"Sure. What's the matter?"

"Curtis is proposing early renewal of my contract. Would you please look over the draft for me, check that there are no pitfalls?"

Carlisle whistled his surprise through the phone. "Good old Brandon. He must be happy with your work."

"Well, there's also the fact that something spooked him into doing it."

"Uhm. Something or someone?" Dad isn't a lawyer for nothing.

"The Caulfields have been unavoidable for comment."

"Jesus Christ, will we ever be rid of that meddlesome family?"

It doesn't surprise me that Dad is quoting medieval history to me. Henry II's rant against Thomas Becket, to be precise. He collects biographies of historical figures; he even reads them. I'm just hoping this feud doesn't end in the same gruesome manner, especially because I don't want to devote that much energy to the Caulfields.

"Tell me about it. Anyway, how do you want to do this?" I have zero inclination to rehash the sordid side of this story. Knowing Carlisle, he'll get me to dish it out anyway at some point.

"Email me the docs?"

"I only have a hard copy, and I'm leery about making copies of this in the office."

"Well, we can meet somewhere. Are you coming to the house this weekend?"

I was planning on it. But then another idea starts forming. "How about tonight? Are you busy? I have a plus one for Isabella Swan's last show at Sharps & Flats."

"Just one? None of your people are claiming it?"

"Yes, just one. It's okay if you can't make it. I'll swing by on Sunday as usual."

The noise of rustling papers filters through the line. Then Dad comes back. "You know what? I'll take that plus one. We haven't done anything fun in ages, you and me."

It's true. I've been focused on me and my own bubble for so long that this—meeting my dad for dinner and a show—hasn't been on the agenda in months, years even. Months ago, I wouldn't have offered him the plus one. Months ago, I wouldn't have been about to spend a Friday night in a jazz club. It takes me only a second to realize that the driver behind this—the common thread—is Bella. I'm not sure I'm ready to digest what this means for me. For us.

Friends. We're friends. Friends go to each other's shows.

I almost hear her voice in my head. Not chiding. Encouraging. Nudging me out of my bubble, to kick against the confines of my comfort zone. Then I remember Dad is still on the line.

"Edward? You there?"

"Sorry, Dad. Spaced out for a second. Mom okay that you're ditching her on a Friday night?"

The two lovebirds have weekly date nights. Only, with their crazy schedules, there's no telling when this week's date night might be.

"She ditched me first! Something or other for one of her charities. So there," he replies with a chuckle.

"Let's meet at the club and have dinner."

"Sure, what time?"

"Show's at seven. Six-ish? Gives us time to get some grub. Do you want me to pick you up? You're on the way."

"You drove your own car into town?"

Dad knows of my keen distaste for traffic. I don't do well with noises either.

"Hell, no! I'll catch an Uber."

"How about I meet you there? You know what my schedule's like."

This time I don't hide my snicker. "Oh, yeah. You're a hard man to pin down, Dad. Even for your own son."

"I'm sorry, Dedwa. It's been a hell of a day."

Dad's use of my childhood nickname—which mimics the way I distorted my name at the ripe old age of three—stops me dead. He never uses it. Hasn't used it in years. The last time I heard it was when I came back from Syria. My voice cracks when I answer, and I'm hoping he won't notice.

"Not a big deal, Dad. I know you're busy."

But he does. "You are a big deal to me, son. You've always been. You do know that, right?"

I try to camouflage a sniffle that breaks through unbidden. "Yes, I do."

"Let's have a good talk tonight, you and I."

"Yes, Dad. Thank you for coming along."

"No, thank you, Edward. For asking me."

I don't remember the pleasantries we exchange before ending the call. They're inconsequential. What's monumental is the mixture of pride and guilt that seeps through my jumbled thoughts. Pride at my father's earnest thanks and acknowledgment. Guilt that I've shut him out for so long because it was easier. Because living behind a wall of my own making spared me from confronting the loss and pain that still simmer below the surface.

But maybe I'm ready to get rid of all that. One brick at a time.

&&&IVORIES&&&

We meet in front of the club a few minutes after six. Dad gives me a one-armed hug but lingers, squeezing my shoulder. It's one of those gestures that speaks more than a thousand words. I grew up in a family that doesn't shun displays of affection, but like a lot of other things after the accident, I've shied away from them for years. Another wall around my heart. Dad's hug now chips another crack through it. I squeeze back, letting out a shallow, shuddering breath.

"Hey, Dad."

"I didn't keep you waiting long, did I?"

I shake my head. When work doesn't throw a wrench in his plans, the man is a walking Swiss watch. "I just got here. Let's go inside."

The bouncer barely nods at me and ushers us in. "Evening, Mr. Cullen."

I tip my beanie at him in salute and lead Dad inside to "my" table, as Jake has dubbed it for the past week.

The man himself appears, taunting me with a wink and a suggestive expression. "You got me flowers? I'm touched, Edward."

I return his fist bump and his quip. "Keep dreaming, Black. Does the resident star receive guests before the show?"

With a smile and a pleased twinkle in his eye, Jake points to a door marked "Private" to the side of the stage. "Go through that door and follow the sound of Ross's voice."

"Is she howling at the moon?"

He snorts. "Nope. Vocal exercises."

"Now I'm intrigued."

He winks again. "You'll see. Meanwhile, can I get your drinks, gentlemen?" he asks both me and Dad.

We rattle off our orders for pints and appetizers to share, then Jake runs back to the bar.

"Is he always like that?" Dad asks, pointing to Jacob's retreating form.

"If you mean a likeable smartass, yes. We had lunch together today. Until Miss Whitlock decided to blow a gasket."

"Ouch. Sounds problematic and fascinating at the same time. I sense a story there."

"Yep. That's the reason for the available plus one. Mac was supposed to tag along, but he and Ross … Let's say they're a bit like oil and water at the moment. Ross threw one zinger too many at him, so he bowed out."

"Are they dating?"

"That would be a solid no. Mac would love to try, at least. But figuring his shit out while she bites his head off at every turn isn't healthy."

Because Mac's reputation precedes him, Dad raises an eyebrow at the news that Mac is contemplating dating. But then he nods sagely. "I'm so glad I no longer have that kind of problem."

He's won the relationship lottery around here, hands down. "Dad, you and Mom have been joined at the hip for almost half a century. Give us poor schmucks a break. Not everyone is that lucky."

He shrugs. "That might be the case, but still. I'm going to rejoice in my marital bliss and leave all the dating woes to you lot. Now, about those flowers?"

"They're for Bella. Let me go deliver them before they wilt."

"Go ahead, but don't tarry. I might end up drinking your pint, too."

"That bad of a week?"

"You have no idea, son."

I roll my eyes in response and make my way through the increasing crowd in the club. After a bit of elbowing, I reach my destination and cross the dark door to the mysterious land behind the curtain. While I try to listen for Ross's voice to orient myself, she runs smack into my chest.

"Why don't you look—oh, it's you. I'm so sorry, Edward." Her contrite expression and subdued voice are more than an apology for momentary clumsiness.

"Hi, Rosalie." I don't feel like giving her a pass for bad behavior. Even if it's not me she's wronged.

"Hi, Edward. Looking for Shock?"

At my puzzled expression, she rephrases her question. "Looking for Bella?"

Fuck, I still have to ask Bella where that damn moniker comes from.

"Yes. Is this a bad time? Before the show?"

She shakes her head, and her flaxen hair bounces around her shoulders in the dim light of the dingy hallway. "No. She won't complain if it's you. Plus, you brought flowers. Smooth move," she retorts, gesturing to the nosegay of blue flowers I grabbed on the way.

"So, where do I go?"

"The third door to the right, down there. Her name's on it; you can't miss it."

I thank her with a silent nod, and she slithers away to parts unknown. When I knock on the door of Bella's dressing room, her voice resonates from within.

"I told you to piss off, Ross," she hisses. When the door wrenches open, she stares at me, blinking like an adorable, pint-sized owl. Her scarf tonight is periwinkle blue.

"Hello, maestro. Should I go?"

She grabs my forearm and pulls me inside. "So not Ross. Nope, you're definitely staying. Hello there." Then her gaze lands on the flowers, which I haven't even tried hiding.

I'm so rusty at this social interaction thing that I have no "game" whatsoever—at least, that's what I think Mac would call it.

"Uhm. These are for you. My congratulations for a successful opening week."

She blinks again, but then cradles the flowers in her arms, taking a deep whiff of their fragrance. "Lavender, violets, hyacinths, and purple asters ... and they're all blue. Or thereabouts."

"I figured I'd stick to the designated color scheme."

She reaches for my hand, twining her fingers with mine. Again, something in her touch grounds me and soothes me. For a second, I feel like I'm ten feet tall.

"Thank you, Edward. They're lovely."

"I'm sorry for intruding on your pre-show prep. I can go."

"No," she interrupts, agitated. "Please, stay. I have a few minutes. Take a seat." She gestures to a two-seater Ikea couch that has seen better days.

"I hope you negotiate a better rider when you're touring," I joke. This dressing room looks more like a broom closet.

She waves me off. "I can do with spartan surroundings. It's all about the headspace. So, did anyone take Mac's place?"

"My dad."

With a surprised look, she sits beside me after sticking the flowers into a makeshift vase. "Do you often do fun things with your dad?" Her emphasis on the word "fun" is not lost on me.

"It's … new," I hedge.

"Good new or bad new?"

Damn, this girl is perceptive. There's no hiding from her. "Good new. I'm trying new things."

She levels me a shrewd look. "I'm doing a few new things tonight with the show, too. Let me know what you think later."

"Is that my cue to leave?"

She throws a glance at a gigantic, utilitarian wall clock in a corner. It marks just past six-thirty. With a sigh, she says, "Yes, unfortunately. I'm sorry, but—"

"Don't apologize. I'm the intruder. I'll leave you to your rituals. How's the chocolate cake?"

She breaks out in a delighted smile with a hint of mischief. "You know about that?"

She doesn't know about my obsessive googling or covert baking operations, but I have a cover story for my insider info. "I read your interview, maestro."

She slaps her forehead, but her voice remains playful. "That Jasper. So damn nosy."

"He must have asked the right questions. From personal experience, I know you have no issues fending off the press."

I mean it in jest, but a shadow falls over her eyes. "Oh, Edward. I didn't—"

"Don't apologize." I'm turning this phrase into a mantra. "I was a jerk to you that day."

"Fair enough. Someday?" she asks, referring to our pact of future full disclosure.

"Someday. I'll see you later."

When I rise, she follows and loops her arms around my waist. And because reaction follows action, my arms encircle her. Before I realize what I'm doing, I'm pressing a lingering kiss to the top of her head. A mix of thrill and trepidation courses through me in an electric tingle that buzzes underneath my skin and down to my fingertips. I haven't embraced anyone not related to me in years. Let alone a woman. The last one was Kate—fuck her to the fiery pits of Hades. I dispel the thought because that goddamn social climber will not sully this moment. I breathe in Bella's scent—chocolate, cinnamon, and lavender. Must be the flowers. Then I release her, still reeling from the tangled web of emotions I've woven for myself.

After I close the dressing room door behind me, my hands are still tingling.

&&&IVORIES&&&

A few minutes later, I'm back in my seat beside Dad, who's halfway through his pint and nibbling away at the platter of wings Jacob must have brought over.

"Where's my pint?"

With his customary golden manners, he dabs at his mouth and fingers before replying. "Jacob said he'd bring it out when you returned. He didn't know how long you'd be and didn't want you to be stuck with lukewarm beer."

Just another point in the plus column for Mr. Black. Sure enough, a minute or so later, he appears and plonks an ice-cold, foaming pint of beer in front of me.

"Thanks, Jake."

He waves me away and grabs an empty chair nearby, sitting astride it beside me. "It's kind of slow for a Friday, so I can sneak away to talk to you for a second. You gonna be around tomorrow?"

After a long pull of my beer, I nod. "Yeah. I was thinking of having a lazy Saturday."

"How about a non-lazy one? Come running with me?"

I throw him a sidelong glance. "In the building gym or outdoors?"

He snickers, shaking his head. "Jeez. You're a local; you're supposed to be primed for this weather. Come on; live a little."

"I won't live a little if I get pneumonia," I retort. I'm only half-facetious.

He narrows his eyes at me. "I thought you liked me, Cullen."

"Fine, fine. I'll come running with you. Bring coffee, though."

"What time? Ten okay?"

"At least you don't want me up and around at the ass crack of dawn."

He cracks a mischievous smile. "Now, there are dozens of woefully inappropriate ways I could dissect that, but I won't because your dad's here."

I punch Jake's shoulder. "Behave, you smartass."

"You love me," he quips.

"I tolerate you."

An employee flags Jake from the bar. "Well, I'll see you later, gentlemen. I still have a club to run."

"He's an interesting fellow," Dad comments after he leaves.

"He's a successful businessman. Did you know he co-owns the label that releases Bella's music?"

Dad whistles appreciatively just as the lights start flickering and dimming. "Well, I guess we'll defer the chit-chat until later."

"Including the work-related chit-chat."

Dad shakes his head. "No, not even then. Just hand me the papers. I'll look them over tomorrow and tell you what's what at home on Sunday. Away from any prying ears and eyes."

I barely have time to slide the envelope in his direction when the lights go out.

"For her final show of our opening week, from Sharps & Flats in Boston, I give you Isabella Swan."

&&&IVORIES&&&

I recognize bits and pieces of the show. Some of the tunes are familiar and comforting to me. "Sea Glass" is one of those.

After a string of her own works, Bella takes a break; a cup of steaming liquid appears on top of her piano when the lights come back on. It must be her usual herbal tea.

Then, the lanky guy with skinny jeans and the man bun from her first show walks onto the stage.

"Who's the guy?" Dad whispers in my ear.

"If memory serves, he's some sort of hip-hop, alternative artist. A friend of Bella's. They played together before."

He nods, then the lights dim again until only two spotlights remain, bathing Bella and man-bun guy in soft, mellow light. Like the last time I saw them on this stage, he stands behind a stack of keyboards. Bella's piano has been angled in such a way that they can take cues from each other while they play.

When the song starts, it's a wall of sound. It's a beat you could dance to, hypnotic and evocative at the same time. His voice does it—it's mellow and soothing. Bella's piano resonates through the melody of it all, and it's haunting, enchanting even. Then, when a new verse begins, another voice joins in—Rosalie?

It takes me a fraction of a second to reconcile what I'm seeing with what I'm hearing. A third spotlight shines on her—golden hair, cornflower blue eyes, and ball-busting attitude. And this lady that steamrolls through life in armor-clad glory has the voice of an angel.

Why does this entire song feel like she's talking to Mac?

Feels like something's special but it never felt like love
Wonder what we could be living in another life
Catch us in the mirror and it looks a lot like love
Then you stop me talking as you kiss me from above

Oh, she's definitely talking to someone. Now, if it's more Mac or herself, I can't know. I don't know her well enough to speculate. But the chorus hammers the final nail in the lyrical coffin.

So don't make promises to me that you're gonna break
We only ever wanted one thing from this
Don't paint wonderful lies on me that wash away
We only ever wanted one thing from this
Oh, in another place
In another time, what could we have been?
Oh, in another place
In another time, what could we have been?

When the music subsides into silence at the end of the song, Bella rises from the piano bench.

"This was 'Another Place,' a special treat brought to you by musician extraordinaire DJ EY2, and reluctant singer Ross Whitlock," Bella announces. She's using the mic in front of Ross.

Applause and cheers roar through the club. In uncharacteristic fashion, Ross bashfully takes a bow. Dad gives a standing ovation. I'm not sure he does that when Mom takes him to see the Boston Philharmonic. Somehow, rowdy standing ovations don't jibe with Rachmaninov. Methinks Dad has a crush.

Man-bun guy also hazards a curtsey, then clears his throat. "Thank you, wonderful people. And now, I give you Bella and Ross, unplugged from Sharps and Flats!"

I can't figure out what the "unplugged" part of a piano performance could be. But when EY2 disappears into darkness, and Bella resumes her seat at the piano, the first chord she plays clears the mystery for me. I'd recognize those notes anywhere, except Ross's voice sounds nothing like Michael Stype's.

Bella's playing the song slower than the original. It sounds more poignant; the lyrics resonate with both hope and longing.

You, I thought I knew you.
You I cannot judge.
You, I thought you knew me,
this one laughing quietly underneath my breath.
Nightswimming.

"I had no idea Miss Whitlock could sing like that," Dad murmurs in my ear when the song ends.

"Neither did I. But her double major at Julliard was business and vocal arts, Bella tells me."

Dad whistles in appreciation. "Beauty, brains, and talent. What a trifecta."

"With an occasionally barbed tongue, I'm afraid."

He shrugs. "Perfection doesn't belong in this world."

The chap sitting a table away shushes us just when Jake sidles by to deposit two fresh pints on our table. I barely have time to thank him, and he's already gone to join Bella and Ross on the stage.

"For our last song tonight, we have a special guest. Jake, come on! Don't be shy," Bella entreats.

Jake reappears from stage left, now armed with a bass guitar. There are surprise musicians popping up like mushrooms around here. He and Bella exchange looks, he taps a beat on the body of a well-loved Fender Jazz Bass, and then … magic ensues.

As free as the wind
Hopefully learning
Why the sea on the tide
Has no way of turning

I wasn't even in kindergarten when this song came out. But my dad has a thing for some music from the '80s. Roxy Music included. He's tapping his fingers to the beat of the bass and mouthing the words while Ross sings. They couldn't have picked a better song than this to entrance him. Ross's sultry voice, while not an obvious pairing, makes for a surprisingly apt match.

After the last, lingering note, the lights dissipate the earlier darkness throughout the club. Ross and Jake leave the stage while a couple of club employees act as impromptu roadies to disconnect and remove EY2's gear.

"I'm glad I accepted your invitation," Dad whispers, leaning into me.

I barely hear him. I'm too mesmerized by the black-clad figure behind the piano, who stands up and turns in my direction. With a smile that lights up the room without electricity.

&&&IVORIES&&&

"Do you have room for two more?" Bella asks.

The show wrapped twenty minutes ago. Her voice startles me out of the conversation Dad is propelling solo, hoping to engage me. To little avail because I'm still awestruck by Bella and her performance. When I turn to look at her, she's still sporting her all-black uniform, but now, she's wearing a Baby Yoda T-shirt. Her Chucks today are turquoise.

"Of course, we do," Dad answers. He rises in a flash, pulling out chairs for both Bella and Ross, who stands there awkwardly, casting glances everywhere but toward me.

"Thank you, Mr. Cullen," Bella replies.

Ross nods, then maneuvers to grab the chair closest to my dad. Subtlety, thy name is not Rosalie Whitlock. Dad compliments them both on a fantastic show, and with his debonair flair, he winks at Ross and praises her vocal talents.

"She could have her own career but prefers to wrangle mine into some sort of manageable shape," Bella says.

Ross scoffs. "I could never be on a stage for most of the year without killing anyone. I'm more comfortable away from the spotlight. Tonight was a one-off."

"It's a shame, Miss Whitlock," Dad counters. I wonder if he thinks flattery will get him any brownie points with Ross.

"It's Ross, Mr. Cullen, please. Otherwise, I'll think I'm back at Juilliard and someone referred me to the dean's office again."

Dad snickers before downing the last sip of his pint. "A troublemaker, huh? All right, Ross. But then, it's Carlisle. To both of you lovely ladies."

Bella thanks him, lowering her gaze. When Dad and Ross get into a discussion about business, she turns to me. "So, how did you like the show?"

"I loved it. You were magnificent up there."

"What about my companions?" she asks. Her gaze wanders to Ross, and her expression turns mischievous. But there's a shadow over all of it. The memory of Ross's outburst still stings.

"All outstanding performances. If Ross ever wanted to pursue an alternative career, she'd be fantastic."

Bella snickers. "Oh, no. Please, no. I love her to bits, but she'd be a total diva. As you can probably imagine." Her words end on a darker note. The subtext here leads back to the disastrous end of our lunch together.

"Yeah, I can picture that. So, how did the meeting with the label's bigwigs go?"

Just when Bella is about to answer, Jake's arrival interrupts us. He steals an unoccupied chair from a nearby table, then whistles at one of the bartenders, who comes to our table with a drink-laden tray. After all the drinks are distributed, including herbal tea for Bella, he pokes my shoulder in evident jest.

"Considering I'm one of the bigwigs, you should probably be a tad more deferential to me, Mr. Editor in Chief."

I almost choke on my Sam Adams—the cause: impending, uncontrollable laughter. Because I'd like to torture him a little, I feign indifference and grab another boneless wing instead. "I'm waking up before eleven on a Saturday to go running with you. That'll be the extent of my deference."

In response, he bumps my shoulder and shakes his head. He's still a smartass but a good-natured, likeable one. He's a smart, savvy businessman with determination and grit in spades. He's fun loving but caring and affectionate. Bella didn't even have to ask for her herbal tea. It just materialized here after the show—every single night of the past week. He knows her and takes care of her. I can see how the New York tabloids would go gaga over pictures of them together, especially knowing how comfortable they are with each other. If I didn't know any better about Jake's sexual orientation, I'd question their closeness, too.

"Since we didn't have time for it before the show, might as well relay the big news here. After all, we're among friends," Jake announces.

"Are you sure, Bella? We can talk about this later," Ross interjects.

She nods before answering. "I have no problem with Edward and Carlisle hearing about my future plans. And if Edward goes babbling to the industry press … well, aren't you the one who told me we needed a new media strategy, Ross?"

Ross huffs at the rebuke but concedes the point. "Okay."

"Jake, the floor is yours." Bella motions him to continue.

With a gleeful expression, he rubs his hands together and leans closer. "We reviewed sales figures, royalties, streaming rankings, download charts, the whole shebang. I sweetened the deal with the fantastic spread Jasper wrote for Mr. Editor here …" He shakes a thumb in my direction before continuing.

Ross interrupts him. "Yes, yes. That's all fine and dandy. Shock doesn't give a crap about any of that."

That nickname again. Bella rolls her eyes. "No, I don't."

"Those figures pad your bank account, maestro. Ross, I've been meaning to ask—why do you call her Shock? What's the story there?"

None too gently, Jake lands a hand on my shoulder. "Oh, that's a good story. Let me tell you," he entreats.

"You weren't even there!" Bella protests.

"So what? Can't I talk to my new friend Edward? You've hogged him way too long." The man is shameless.

Bella's reaction consists of throwing a French fry at Jake, who catches it and eats it. Like I said, shameless.

"Well? The story?"

"So, our beloved Bella is a well-known chocolate addict. It's a fact. During her stint in Paris, the word she used most often was 'chocolat,' so one of the locals dubbed her 'Mademoiselle Choc.' Ross shortened it to 'Choc' and the rest is history."

That explains it. I've been misspelling it the whole time. Not shock, but choc. Will you look at that? Choc, as in "Choc B Flat." Another piece of the puzzle falls into place. Well, well, well …

Before I can comment any further, Bella leans into me again. "See, nothing nefarious. Only my love of chocolatey goodness proclaimed for the world to see." Her smile is still radiant.

And why am I noticing it? Do friends notice each other's facial expressions? Fuck, I'm so out of practice at being a human.

"Can we get back to business?" Ross asks.

Jake turns serious. "We didn't say anything about Berklee. Yet."

Bella nods, pensively. Then, she urges them to continue.

Ross takes over. "We relayed all of your desiderata. Especially the biggie."

"You can say it, Ross. Edward would hear of it at some point. Just spit it out," Bella counters.

"Fine. They weren't pleased with your demand of a one-year break from touring. And they pressed for updates on the new album. Legally, they can do that. Pressure you to fulfil your contract, that is."

Uhhh. She said the C-word. In front of my father, no less.

And there he goes. "If I may, Ross, who's your legal advisor?"

Ross hesitates, but Bella has no such qualms. "We're in between lawyers. The guy we had in New York had been recommended by the label's parent company. He wasn't an idiot, but I'd rather choose my own people."

"That is a smart business decision, dear Bella. You should get someone else to look at that contract. Even if nothing changes, at least you'll have an unbiased opinion."

Ross flashes a devious smile. "And would you happen to know any lawyers who could provide unbiased opinions?"

He points to himself. "Good enough?"

Bella and Ross snicker. "Yeah, you'll do. Ross, can you deal with that?"

"Sure. Now, moving on. They want you to re-sign when the contract is up next year. So, my gut instinct—"

"Your shark instincts, you mean," Jake interjects.

"Semantics." She dismisses him with a wave of her hand. I catch a flash of blood red nail polish on her manicured digits. How apropos.

"Okay, you're both making my head spin." Bella huffs. "Can somebody, anybody, just give it to me straight?"

At Bella's objection, Jake reverts to business mode. "Okay, my sense is that they do want you to re-sign. Bad. They're salivating for the sales, obviously. I might have thrown in something to sweeten the deal—"

When Bella is poised to protest, Ross preempts her. "Before you put the big lug in a headlock, Choc—it's a solid idea. Hear him out."

Bella acquiesces.

"What if your next record—the last one you owe them—was a live album? You've never done one."

"Where the heck would I record a live album if I'm not touring, Einstein?"

Their banter—the same sibling rivalry she has with Mac. And suddenly, it hits me—he's not here. I shake my head minutely to dispel the thought. Unbidden, niggling doubt dawns on me that Mac might go nuclear in the face of Ross's rejection. I make a mental note to check in on him tomorrow.

Jake's resounding snort shocks me out of my musings. He spreads his arms, gesturing to the club around us. "Because this is a shack without acoustics? Here, of course. Unplugged from Sharps & Flats."

The crowd that was here for the show—unusually sparse for a Friday—has dispersed. Only soft music is playing, and the background noise has subsided to levels that allow for decent conversation without shouting in everyone's ears.

As I look around, taking in the stage area, I start seeing how Jake's idea would work. Even a grunge-at-heart guy like me can't fail to see the appeal. "You want to do an MTV Unplugged."

"Yes!" Jake erupts. "Finally, someone here understands me." For good measure, because he's that much of a smartass, he winks at me.

"It's an intimate setting. It brings you up close and personal to the performers," I reply.

Bella leans her head on my shoulder and hums to herself.

Ross enumerates the advantages. "Small venue would keep costs down. You already have basic equipment and the piano here. We could have a small audience. Raffle off some tickets to the Duckling Army?"

"Another contest?" Bella questions.

"Something like that. Are you seeing it, Choc?"

She nods and sits straighter. I feel the loss of her warmth on me immediately, and wonder why I'm feeling it so keenly.

"Yeah, I am. It could work."

"You know what would be really cool?" Jake asks. "Something like tonight."

"I'm not setting foot on that stage again, Black." Of course, Ross would have objections.

"No, I mean involving Eric, or someone along those lines. Guest performers."

Ross starts nodding rhythmically, as if she's mulling it over in her head. "Eric is on Sharp Records as well, so there would be no big legal wrangling to do. Great idea, Jake."

"So, now I'm Jake, huh?" he adds with a snicker.

Ross just shrugs. "We have a lot of things to consider if we decide to do this, but the idea is solid. Choc? Opinions?"

"Let me digest this for a while. I'm not opposed. At all."

"Which means you'll let us stew for a week, then say yes," Jake counters. "Can we at least throw a bone to the execs? We're touching base with them in two weeks. Get them off my back, Choc. If you love me."

"Fine. Do what you need to do. But plan this way out, down the road, please. I don't want be buried in rehearsing for weeks on end again so soon. I need time to write."

Satisfied they got a yes from their star, Jake and Ross step away to discuss things further. Carlisle disappears in the direction of the restrooms. A beat of uneasy silence ensues.

"It's going to feel really weird not to wait for you to sit at this table on Monday night," Bella whispers. She's leaning into me again.

"It's going to feel equally weird not to see you every night." My admission tumbles out involuntarily, but it's true. I'm not merely playing off her words in a feat of rhetoric. "What do we do now?"

"We'll do what friends do, Edward."

"I am really fucking out of practice at this human interaction thing." I don't know how to let people in, and it terrifies me. But the prospect of not seeing her—that doesn't sit well with me. "Help me?"

"I will."

Our bubble bursts when everyone reconvenes at the table.

"I hate to break up this party, but …" my dad announces, gesturing to his wristwatch.

"Don't worry, Dad. Bella and I were just saying goodbye."

Jake and Ross hover on the periphery of our little group. Then the song and dance of crisscrossing, "See you later," "Have a nice evening," and "We should do this again," follows randomly.

When Ross stands before me, I merely shake her hand. She averts her gaze, frowning. Chastened, she steps aside. Jake pulls me into a one-armed hug, reminding me of our running "date" tomorrow morning. Bella throws her arms around me for the second time tonight, and impulsively, when she disentangles herself, an idea hits me out of left field.

"Why don't you all come over for dinner one evening? You and Mom, too, Dad."

"At your place?" Bella asks timidly. She's smiling but looks surprised.

"Yes, at my place." Fucking hell, I'm surprised at myself.


Music credits:
"Sea Glass" is Giovanni Allevi's "Secret Love".
"Another Place" belongs to Bastille.
"Nightswimming" belongs to R.E.M.
"More Than This" belongs to Roxy Music, and here Bella and Jake are playing Norah Jones' cover.

EditorWard is connecting some dots. And landing himself in unknown territories. Well, well, well ...