Hello, people!
Usual housekeeping first:
1. Thank you, thank you, thank you for all your reviews and alerts. You propelled Ivories past 1,4k reviews and EditorWard is thankful and humbled. I love hearing your thoughts, and some of you made some very good points about Edward and him being/not being in therapy. More on that in today's chapter.
2. Also thank you to Team Momo, who work tirelessly to help me make this readable. My stories wouldn't exist without them and I'm so grateful they're in my corner. Alice's White Rabbit and Midnight Cougar are in the editing chairs. AGoodWitch, IAmBeagle, Driving Edward and RobsmyyummyCabanaBoy pre-read.
3. I still don't own - SM does. But I still own a collection of mugs. One of them is shaped like an owl.
This is where we hit rock bottom, fall down the rabbit hole/tunnel and start decorating it, so to speak. But I promise it's rock bottom. The only way is up.
BEHIND THE IVORIES – CHAPTER 24
My long fucking night turns into a long fucking weekend. I can't sleep.
I replay Bella's words, her appearance, her tears, her pleas on a loop in my mind. The entire forty-eight hours turns into a blur in which I'm alternatively churning up bile in disgust or downing more coffee. I can't remember the last time I ate anything.
When the cycle of rage restarts—always directed at myself—I fling another cup against the wall. There's a pile of ceramic shards on my kitchen floor right now.
The only positive side to it is I don't have any nightmares either because with the way I'm tripping right now, they'd be fucking destructive.
At some point on Saturday morning, Jake comes knocking on my door, asking if I want to go running for a bit since the weather is so nice. He's only back in town for the weekend, to check something at the club, but then he's flying back to New York on Monday. Or so he says. His words sound muffled through the door, but I don't care to get closer or even hint I'm there listening. I wish he'd go away. At length, he does.
Sunday passes in another loop of thrown mugs, regurgitated coffee and bile, and endless loops of unanswered questions. Frustration is the name of the game.
Sunday night is when the voicemails start pouring in. The first is from my mother. I ditched Sunday dinner—again, and she's not pleased.
"Please, sweetie, don't shut us out. I don't know what's happened, but it's clearly affecting you. We only want to help. We miss you and love you. Call us when you can. Bye, Edward."
Two hours later—it's past ten o'clock, but who's counting—another voicemail comes. This one is from my father.
"Son, I don't know what's going on, and I'm not going to press for details if you're not ready, but I won't stand idly by while you're hurting, and most importantly, you're hurting your mother in the process. Please know we're on your side. Call me, Dedwa. I'm still your dad, even if you're a grown man."
Because I want to be left in peace, one might wonder why I insist on listening to these voicemails. First of all, my parents are calling my landline—and yes, I still have one—which means I can't avoid them. The answering machine plays the messages out loud in real time. Even so, I won't let messages pile in my cell phone voicemail anyway because while I'm being a whiny, misanthropic sod, I still have some work ethic left. There could be a professional emergency that demands my attention.
Work is the one thing I can control—the only thing that doesn't leave me rudderless in the maelstrom of feelings I'm drowning in. Work is safe; work is a certainty. I know what to do with work. I'm almost hoping something pops up just so I can divert my attention elsewhere.
But no such luck.
When two solid days and nights on coffee and self-loathing don't seem to sustain me, I scavenge whatever's left in the pantry, which isn't a lot. I haven't done any real grocery shopping in ten days, and it shows.
My last resort is the opened box of Bella's lemon and ginger tea. For a minute, I debate. I can't finish it. What if she comes back? I can't drink her tea. But she'll never come back, you unimaginable bastard. She told me. She's not coming back. I sent her away.
Then I roam about the house like a caged animal, searching for something, anything, to soothe my sour mood. I stalk past the shelf that holds my Peabody and other journalism accolades. It doesn't survive. With one clean, forceful sweep, and a strangled growl that resounds through the entire loft, everything on the shelf falls to the ground in a crash.
And that's when I feel it. Rage boiling under the surface. Pain bubbling inside me, burning lava that scorches me all over. Another growl, another howl, another thundering scream that devolves into a powerless, tortured wail when I crumble to the floor.
And that's where I land. On my ass, still in sleep pants and a coffee-stained T-shirt. But mostly on my ass. My unrepentant, terrified, fucked-up, tormented ass. I'm banging my head against the side of the couch and pounding my fists on the hardwood floor now that my legs have given out on me.
Another wail escapes me, this time longer, louder, and deeper. In that keening cry—an agonized sound I never thought I'd make again—I let all my regrets, all my missed chances, all my fears, all my memories of her pour out of me. But the wound is still a gaping hole, and it festers with each glimpse of her eyes, of her face that flickers through my mind.
I can't say her name. I can't think it. It hurts too much. So when another blurry image of her tear-stained face pops up in my mind, and my breath turns shallower, more frantic in reaction, I let the panic take me. I let those malicious dots in my vision dance and poke me. I let my traitorous muscles spasm under me until everything goes black.
&&&IVORIES&&&
When a new morning dawns, all bright, sunny, and cheery, it takes me a while to emerge from the fog in my brain.
My muscles ache. My back is protesting. My ass is flat and cold. And the pounding. My head is fucking pounding. After a yawn—series of yawns—and after rubbing my eyes with tired, sore hands, I look around me to survey the aftermath of my destructive bender.
Fuck.
It has to be Monday morning. I blacked out for twelve hours. A glance at the wall clock also tells me I'm devastatingly late for work. But the real question is, can I go to work? Do I even want to go to work?
Or has the news of the demise of whatever Bella and I had made the unofficial rounds through the newsroom already?
That's one thing I can determine with certainty if I check messages on my cell phone. Now, where the fuck is the blasted contraption? Did I also fling that to its demise against an unsuspecting wall?
Protesting through aches and pains, I manage to get back on my feet, even though I need to lean on the kitchen island. A quick perusal around the place helps me locate my phone. It's lying on the coffee table and looks intact, by some miracle.
Battery's dead. Obviously.
After some uncoordinated efforts to search for my wireless charging base, I find it at the bottom of the decorative bowl that sits on the coffee table.
Plug … I need a plug for it. Once it's plugged in, I set the phone on top and wait for it to wake up. It's taking a while longer to reboot the system—reminds me of myself, but the jury's still out as to whether my system will still reboot correctly.
I collapse on the first flat surface I find, trying to remember what happened last night. When I lean my head against the back of the couch and close my eyes for a second, it all comes back to me.
Bella throwing an ultimatum at me. Me rejecting her. Bella calling me out on my bullshit. Me being too terrified of life to trust her. Bella walking out of my life. Me falling into a downward spiral like Alice through the rabbit hole. Then, pain and blackness.
Just as I'm gearing up to feel sorry for myself a little longer, my phone starts pinging and vibrating. Texts and missed calls pour in at an alarming rate. I don't even look at emails, but grab the device to scan through voicemails. There are so many red dots with numbers on this thing that it looks like a Christmas tree with all its ornaments in place. And it even lights up.
Ten missed calls. Ten corresponding voicemails. Because I have a subscription for a spam call filtering service, I'm reasonably certain all of those ten calls are legit. None of that "extended car warranty" bullshit. But this means I need to check each of those calls and the respective voicemails. Texts are a can of worms I'd rather open later. Much later.
The first one is from Jake on Saturday morning. He says he came by to go for a run together, but I didn't answer. Nothing I don't already know. Delete.
Then it's Alice's turn. In her message, she trips over her words to blurt out something about budgets, but even in my addled state, I can tell it's an excuse. We signed off on budgets for the next quarter last week. Delete.
Jasper's message is next. He apologizes unnecessarily for his nosy wife and wants to check on me. Delete.
Mac's message is next. Simply put, he's telling me to pull my head out of my ass. At least he's not sugarcoating shit. Delete.
There's another call from him a while later that says the same thing, only sounding more defeated and less belligerent. "Just call me, man. Tell me you're okay." Delete.
My mother left a message early this morning. It's only two words, which I can barely hear through her sniffles. "Please, Edward." Delete.
My father comes next. Their two-pronged approach never fails. "Son, please. We're here for you." Delete.
Ross, God love her, left a voicemail that boils down to a growl. "What the fuck did you do, Cullen?"
Let's see, Ross. Where do I start? I kissed your best friend. I hightailed it out of Dodge. Then I avoided her for a week. She wants more, Ross. From me. But I'm too petrified to go for it. So I'm hiding. Wallowing in pain seems preferable right now. And I don't know what happens now. I don't know what my life will be like without her in it.
But those questions hurt too much to ponder, so I tap the next message in the queue.
It's Ben Cheney. What does the Tatler's illustrious tech wiz want from me? Normally, Tanya deals with him. Bah. "Hey, Ed. You're not in the office, and Tanya doesn't know where you are. Look, nothing serious, but I'm miffed you didn't tell me you reactivated your Twitter account. Can we talk media strategy when you come back? Thanks. Oh, it's Ben. Bye." Delete.
I didn't do it for the magazine, moron.
The last message is from Tanya. "Boss, I don't know where you are, and you left zero messages. Just let me know you're alive and if you're coming in. Nothing's exploding here, so take it easy." Delete.
Take it easy—if only she knew.
I feel too much like refried shit to put myself into some kind of shape fit for public consumption. Avoidance it is. I tap on the Slack app and send Tanya a direct message. But what the fuck do I tell her?
Ah. There we go.
Got a touch of the flu. Or maybe food poisoning. Not coming into the office for a few days. Will look at emails later. Thanks, Edward.
I don't really care if she'll believe me or not. She probably won't. I just need her to run interference at the office for me. Until I dig myself out of this mess.
&&&IVORIES&&&
I spend a day—or two?—in a limbo of sorts.
Every time the mere thought of Bella dawns on my mind, I feel the walls caving in. It's a never-ending cycle of misery.
What the fuck does she want with me? And why? And what the fuck do I do now? The same thoughts, the same recriminations linger, circling the drain of my conscious mind.
At some point on Wednesday, the banging sound of a stampede of elephants rouses me from my intermittent sleep. I'm still huddled on the couch in the front room. Still wearing the same gray lounge pants and the same coffee-stained undershirt. I reek something fierce. There's some unspeakable stuff floating in the Mystic River that looks more alive than I do at the moment.
"I know you're hiding in there, you fucking idiot!"
Mac. Nobody else would make that much racket. Nobody else would have the nerve to speak to me like that.
I don't make a move. I don't want him to see me like this.
"Come on, Ed! The flu? In May? And I have a bridge to sell you, man. What the fuck?"
Tanya obviously relayed my message. Sure as hell, Mac didn't buy it. I never expected he would. I only hoped he'd get the hint and stay away.
But since lack of luck seems to be a constant for me these days, here he is. Still pounding on my front door. How the fuck did he get inside the building? Ah, right. Codes. He has the codes. For emergencies.
"You don't want to talk? Suit yourself, you broody fucker. If you don't want to talk, you'd better listen."
I grunt in response, but I doubt he hears me from behind the front door.
"I'm not going to pussyfoot around you, treat you like a china doll like everyone else. You don't get that from me. You never will. What you do get is me, here, listening to you whenever you're ready to be human again or listening to what I think happened this past week." He pauses, and when I don't acknowledge, he continues.
"You fucking panicked, man. It ain't rocket science. And, no, I didn't go digging, or overhear shit, or play twenty questions with Bella or Ross. I don't need to. I know you. That's all I need. Something changed between you and piano girl this past month. You changed. You looked lighter. Happier. Relaxed. No bags under your eyes, even if you are, after all, a wreck who turns forty in three weeks." He chuckles.
"Then something happened. For a solid week, you looked like hell. And I dreaded that fucking look … because I know it. You think you can fool people with your brooding persona. Ha! Think again, Ed. You ain't fooling me. Now you're there, nobody's seen you or heard from you in what, five days? Get the fuck up from your puddle of self-hatred and fight, man. Fight this!" Stubbornly, I don't react. "Fucking hell, Ed. If you don't at least let me know you're alive, I'm calling the cops on you. The Boston PD will come running for a wellness check on the only son of Our Lady of the Globe."
He'd do it. I know he would.
Slowly, I stand from the couch and mosey to the front door. I haven't eaten in days, and the liquids I've ingested haven't stayed down. Run over by a Mack truck doesn't even begin to cover it.
I knock on the door once. He'll guess.
"So, you are there, you son of a gun. But you don't want to talk, I bet."
I don't reply.
"Got it. Let's go for yes or no questions, shall we?"
Knock.
"Fair enough. Are you all right?"
When I don't knock in reply, he catches himself. "Okay, my bad. You're obviously not okay. Do you need medical attention? Knock once for no, twice for yes."
One knock.
"Okay. Do you want to talk? Same rules."
Another knock.
"Fuck, man. I'm trying here. Are you hungry?"
Two knocks.
"I'll drop off some takeout when we're done here. You won't even have to look at me. I know you spy from that security camera anyway."
I try to knock on the door three times in some sort of pattern that I hope will spell "thank you" to Mac.
"Yeah, I got you, man. Now, did you call Dr. Maggie?"
One knock.
"Shit, Ed. Do you want me to call for you?"
Another single knock.
"Do you still have your anxiety meds?"
It's a valid question. Just because I elect not to medicate, it doesn't mean I don't have a prescription. My pact with my therapist—who definitely wouldn't be proud of me right now—is that I keep up with the prescription as a last resort precaution, even if I prefer not to take the meds daily. So, yes, a bottle of those pills sits in my medicine cabinet. Will I take them? Jury's still out on that, too.
Two knocks.
"Okay. Think about taking those, okay? If it gets too much."
Two more knocks.
"Look, I don't know how else to help you, brother. I'm fucking worried, and I don't want to lose you. Not after all we've been through. I need you to fight this, Ed. Whatever it is. Fight. You're not alone; remember that."
I tap my sort of Morse code "thank you" on the door again. Mac gets it.
"Yeah, yeah. I'm the best. Look, I'll be back with takeout. I'll get you enough to last you for a couple of days. Don't scarf it all down at once."
My lone knock for "no" sounds a bit more forceful.
Mac laughs. "Ah, so you still have your fucking sense of humor, you sarcastic bastard. Hang on to that, brother."
Two knocks.
&&&IVORIES&&&
Later that day, I'm spiraling again.
What the hell causes it? Bella's apron. The one she used here when I gave her cooking lessons. It falls off its hanger in the kitchen as I move around like an uncoordinated sloth, bumping into things and knocking down containers. When I pick it up and fold it, her fragrance—ocean breeze, citrus, and laughter—still wafts off the damn thing.
Again, it brings me to my knees. I try all the coping strategies I know.
The sensory exercises fall through because the thing closest to me I can touch, see, and smell is the fucking apron. It's the sensory memory of Bella in my space. Regulating my breath as I did when I meditated with more regularity is also a bust.
Then I remember the advice I've received multiple times over the last few days, from multiple sources.
The phrase "multiple sources" has an untold appeal to a journalist. It's the reported truth validated by at least three different people. Independently verified through a rigorous process.
My mother. My father. Mac.
They all mentioned my therapist: Dr. Maggie.
When I locate her number in my contacts and tap on it, I ponder whether she'll even answer my call. I don't have to wonder for long.
"Edward Cullen, as I live and breathe," she begins.
If Mac is the king of the zero-bullshit treatment, Dr. Maggie Vartanian beats him by a mile. She also has the degrees and therapy hours to prove it. She's made it into an art.
"Hi, Doc."
"Hi, Edward. This isn't a social call, I reckon?" She doesn't miss a beat either. A breath of fresh air, considering she bills by the hour.
"You don't sound too surprised to hear my voice."
"I may or may not have received a heads-up. Talk to me, Edward. You know this doesn't work if you don't talk."
I can't do this strewn on the floor like the remains of yesterday's newspaper. I pick up my carcass and plonk down on the couch. I haven't left the general vicinity of my front room in five days. Or six? I lost count.
"I met someone, Doc."
"Tell me about this someone."
"At first, I thought she hated me. I was supposed to interview her, but I fucked it up. She walked out."
"Out of the interview? And how come you're back in the field and didn't tell me?" she asks with a smile in her voice. She was perfectly fine with me having a desk job. I was the one griping about it at every session. Self-deprecating to say the least.
"Well, long story short … It was Jasper's fault. But it didn't end well for me. I thought she hated me."
She hums her assent.
I've set the call to speaker just so I don't have to hold the phone for a solid half-hour and end up like a salt statue.
"But she didn't hate you, did she?"
"I guess not. We tried being friends."
"Friends? A new person in your inner circle? That's big, Edward. I'm proud of you."
I scoff. "Yeah, well. Wait to hear what I just did."
"Let me be the judge of that, okay? But, go on, please. I'm curious about this person."
"She's a composer. Classical composer."
"No distorted guitars? And you still befriended her? She must be pretty spectacular."
I can't suppress the half-smile that ensues. Even my facial muscles groan in protest. And it was only a half-smile. Slow, Cullen. You have to take this slow. "Yeah, Doc. She is fucking spectacular. But I fucked it up."
"Can you define that for me? What happened?"
"We found some common ground after that failed interview. We tried to be friends. We had lunch every week. I taught her to cook."
"That's a great idea. You choose to share something you're good at, something that's soothing to you. How did that go?"
"She took to it like a fish to water. But after all, she's super smart. She would have learned without me."
"Maybe. Or maybe she wanted to learn with you. Have you thought about that?"
In truth, I haven't. Because that'd mean Bella had feelings for me for a long time before it all went to shit. Well, before I turned it all to shit. "Maybe."
"So you had your cooking lessons. You had lunch together, you and … Does she have a name, this spectacular person?"
Another half-smile. "Bella. But I called her Ladybug."
I should be surprised at how I'm spilling the beans with Dr. Maggie, but I'm not. The woman always saw through me, and for some reason, my soul recognized something in her. Something I couldn't escape. Something that always compelled me to be truthful with her. Talking at therapy sessions was never my issue. It was out of those that I became a taciturn bastard, even with my own family.
"Bella. I like it. It sounds like sunshine. Tell me more about her."
"We kissed, Doc."
"And how did that make you feel, Edward?" She wouldn't be a therapist if she didn't ask me that at least once per session.
How the fuck do I word that? "Happy. Warm. Welcomed. Excited. Aroused. Guilty. Terrified."
"Did you not want her to kiss you?"
"Ugh. I feel like a schmuck. She started it, but … I joined in, Doc. Enthusiastically. With too much enthusiasm, even."
"Where does that guilt come from? And the terror? Those are the adjectives I'm worried about."
"I can't fucking do this! That's why!" I'm shouting, and I'm up and pacing along the couch. "I can't be more with her. I can't be more with anyone. I can't condemn her to a lifetime of this ..."
"What is this, Edward? You? Your injuries, your fears? Or all of the above? Did she indicate at any time that your condition was in any way a hurdle, made her uncomfortable, was too much to deal with? Did she ever indicate that to you?"
"I had a PTSD flare once while I was with her for the day. We passed by a construction site. The noises threw me off."
"What did she do? How did you cope with the flare?"
"She stayed, Doc. She stayed the whole time. She hummed music to me. She … she brought me back."
"I'll be frank, Edward. To me that's not a woman who isn't willing to contend with your PTSD or thinks it's an undue burden. She helped you … and it worked. She got through to you. This is monumental."
"She's never seen my scars. What if it's too much?"
"That's a question only Bella can answer. But I'm going to guess that you retreated into your old patterns, didn't you?"
Time to own up to my shit. "Yeah. I flew out of there like a bat out of hell. Then I avoided her. When she cornered me, she told me she can't go back to just being friends. Because she wants more. I told her I can't do it."
"Can't or won't?"
"What difference does it make?"
"Intent and possibility are oceans apart, Cullen. Don't bullshit me." And there she goes for the emotional jugular.
"What is this thing I'm feeling, Doc? Do I love her? And what if … what if she turns out like Kate?"
"One question at a time. I can't tell you if you love her or not. Only you know the answer to that. But one thing I can tell you is that no two people are alike. So it's a statistical impossibility for her to be like Kate. And it would be unfair to paint both women with the same brush. Consider them individually. They are individuals and deserve nothing less."
"She still gave me an ultimatum. She told me not to come back if I couldn't or wouldn't love her. I … I don't know how to do this, Doc."
"She discussed boundaries and expectations, that's what she did. You're calling it an ultimatum because it gives you the coward's way out. But that aside, you need to think about what you want, Edward. And you need to remember that you can't make choices for other people. Talk to her. I know it hurts, but you need to be honest with her once you figure out what you feel for her."
"It hurts more to be without her."
"Then you may have your answer. Now, why don't you go and have a damn shower?"
&&&IVORIES&&&
On Friday morning, while I'm still wallowing in my pool of unanswered questions, a key turns in the lock of the front door.
Mac has a key, but he hasn't used it. He talked through the door.
My parents have a key. And they use it.
When a blond, coiffed head appears in the doorway, I'm not surprised. Strangely, I welcome the intrusion. "Hi, Dad."
I did shower when Doc ordered me yesterday, but I put on basketball shorts and a tank top. It's fucking warm today.
"Jesus, Edward. We've been so worried." He hugs me for all he's worth, and I fall into him.
That's when I feel like I'm five years old again; I've fallen off my bike and scraped my knee. Unbidden tears well in my eyes. "I'm sorry, Dad. How … how did you know?"
"Mac called yesterday after he came by. He said you needed your dad. Here I am," he announces.
No questions, no judgment. He disentangles from our embrace after patting my shoulder. That's when I notice he didn't come empty-handed.
"What do you have there, counselor?"
He sets a canvas tote bag on the kitchen counter and starts taking out food containers. "This was my compromise with your mother. She wanted to come along, but I told her you might feel smothered if we both invaded your space at the same time. So, she sent grub instead. She figured you might be hungry."
I pat my stomach as if to check it's, in fact, still there, and it rumbles, right on cue. I did eat the takeout Mac sorted out for me. I ate all of it last night, in fact.
"As usual, your mother has the best ideas. What's it going to be?"
"I could eat, actually. What are the choices?"
He points to the Tupperware containers one by one. "Chicken noodle soup, potato soup, broccoli and cheese. Or I have a veggie omelet to reheat if you're craving breakfast."
"Mom went overboard, but I'm grateful. I haven't done any grocery shopping in … well, in a while. Thank you."
Now he points at me. "You can thank her yourself later. She made me swear I'd have you call her. She's been frantic. We both have. Where's your coffee?"
I grimace at the thought of what I put my parents through these past two weeks. "I'm a jerk. I'll call her later. Promise."
"Fair enough. Now, coffee?"
I grimace again because the thought of coffee, unexpectedly, turns my stomach. "Not today, Dad. But if you want some, help yourself. It's there in a jar by the coffee machine, to your left."
"Okay. What are you having?"
"I'll have a cup of ginger tea. Coffee hasn't been kind to me lately."
We move around the kitchen in silence for a bit, both fixing our drinks of choice. Then Dad grabs mugs—because, thankfully, I didn't destroy all of them—and pours coffee for him and herbal tea for me.
"Now sit there and tell me what the heck happened, son."
We exchange a few more instructions on food choices, and where he can find kitchen implements, and in a few minutes, we're sitting side by side at the breakfast bar while Dad sips his coffee, and I'm scarfing down Mom's veggie omelet.
"I'll make a long, painful story short. I know you'll ask questions anyway," I start.
Dad's questioning is part of his M.O.; it's a by-product of him being a lawyer. He's always hunting for details.
"The floor's yours."
"I had a fight with Bella. After we kissed. She wants more … and said so in no uncertain terms. I panicked."
"Succinct and devoid of emotional details. Humor me, Edward. How did she phrase her demands?"
I bang my head on the quartz countertop.
Dad snickers. "Injuring your frontal bone isn't going to make any of this better. You're only going to get one heck of a headache."
"She said we could be more, that she wanted to try. She said that ignoring what we felt for each other wouldn't work. She wants me to make a decision and go back to her only if I'm in this with both feet. Because she deserves nothing less, and so do I."
Dad nods. He's mulling this over. "Clear statement of intent, nothing disproportionate in what she's after. Clarity and commitment. What made you panic?"
"We are … were friends. We got close, spent a lot of time together. Then, we kissed. And I fucking liked it. Maybe too much."
"What did you do?"
"I left her house like my ass was on fire."
Dad chuckles briefly, shaking his head. "Normally, women don't like that."
"Yeah, understatement of the century, Dad. I'm not proud of what I did. I spent a week avoiding her."
"Also not cool."
I raise an eyebrow at him. Since when does Carlisle Cullen, Esquire, use the word "cool" in everyday conversation.
"The thing is, I see her point, and I respect her for being honest with me about her feelings, about what she wants, but … I don't know if I can take the plunge, go for more, even with her. Yet, this hurts like hell."
"Define this, please."
A tortured sigh escapes me. "The thought of never seeing her again. Of not having her in my life. And yet, I'm terrified of giving in."
"You're afraid of the unknown, and you're afraid of being hurt again. Fucking Kate Caulfield. That woman did a number on you. What I'm more concerned with right now, more than that entitled brat, anyway, is your reaction to the situation. You went back to your old patterns, Edward. Avoidance, isolation, self-flagellation. It's not healthy."
I nod. "I'm aware it's unhealthy, Dad. I fell into a panic attack that blacked me out for twelve hours. That's how panicked I was. So don't tell me shit I don't know." I know my words are harsh—much harsher than he deserves. "I shut everybody out, and you still all checked in with me. I'm an ass."
"You were hurting, but it's not a justification. I wish you'd talked to somebody. Anybody."
"Well, I called Dr. Maggie yesterday."
"Thank fuck you still have some functioning brain cells, kid. Look, I don't mean to dismiss what you're going through. I don't. But you should know better. You've been through this before—severe panic attacks, PTSD flares. You know how to navigate all of that. And you know what not to do."
He's right. But sometimes my brain doesn't listen. Sometimes the lure of the misery I'm feeling is stronger. It pulls you farther and farther down the rabbit hole until you relish that fucking misery like it was your job. I'm an expert. That's why I built walls around me for the last six years—being numb was safer.
"This feels different, Dad."
"What, your PTSD response or the situation with Bella? Because I may not be a therapist, but I'll be damned if your entire week of avoidance and isolation wasn't a PTSD response. You've been hurt in love before; it stands to reason the mere inkling of it would send you into a tailspin again."
"It's hard to argue with your logic. For what it's worth, I think you're right. I haven't allowed myself to really feel in years. Bella is different. She makes me feel everything. It scares the fuck out of me and exhilarates me at the same time. She excites me and grounds me. She is peace and laughter. I don't know which way is up."
"You're all shook up," Dad pipes up.
"Now you're quoting Elvis. Should that mean something?"
"Yes, but that's my second point. My first point is you're going to have to learn you're not alone in this world and behave accordingly. You. Are. Not. Alone. There are a ton of people out there—and right here—who care about you. When people say it takes a village, they're not repeating platitudes. There's a whole village behind you."
"I didn't reach out to anybody. I didn't want to be—"
"A burden. I've heard that all before, and I'm calling bullshit on it again. You're not. To people who love you, you'll never be one. Do you realize how many people were worrying about you outside that door while you wallowed in self-pity? How many people would have catapulted in here if you'd only opened the door? Your mother, me, Mac, Tanya, Alice, Jasper? I'd be willing to bet even Bella worried about you."
My heart leaps at the sound of her name, but then I scowl, remembering her request to give her space. I heave a deep, cleansing breath. My father's right. I know he is. It's shit I went through with Dr. Maggie years ago, but when panic hits out of the blue, rationality goes out the window.
"I know, Dad. Remember the whole head/heart conflict? Sometimes, I can't control it."
"Then say that. There's no shame in living with PTSD, but letting it control you when you have options and outlets would be a damn shame. Find a way to communicate what you feel, what you need. If you need to be left alone, say that. But, son, you've never been a quitter."
"And yet I quit my job of nearly a decade."
"Bah. You adjusted to a change in circumstances. A ton of people switch gears after a decade in the same business. What I mean is that it's not like you to give up. It's not like you to be paralyzed by fear. Confront it, Edward. And that brings me to my second point."
"Elvis?"
"Shut up, kid. It's obvious Bella's affected you. Drop the act. You don't talk about her in friendly terms. I can't tell you what you feel for her, but you know. Deep down, you recognize it. Your souls recognizes it. Let yourself feel it."
I ponder his words, and let their meaning seep through me. What would I say to Bella if she were here in front of me right now? Would I have the backbone to tell her what I feel? To tell her that—shit, my phone.
"Do you need to take that?"
It's my standard ringtone, so it could be anybody. I amble to the coffee table and retrieve the device. It's Jake. What would he want with me right now? He's in New York.
"I can let that one go, Dad. It's Jacob Black."
The call goes to voicemail. Then, while I'm still trying to wrap my head around my thoughts and answer my father, a text from Jake comes in. A pinprick of suspicion in the back of my mind—a reporter's gut feeling that has never betrayed me—leads me to grab the phone and peek at the preview.
Oh, shit. Holy motherfucking shit. "Oh, fuck."
"That doesn't sound good. What's up?"
My immediate reaction is to pound my fist on the countertop, and the quartz slab takes another crack at letting me know who's boss. "Bella."
"What about her?"
"The text is from Jake. He told me to get my head out of my ass fast, or she'll be on a plane to La Guardia in six hours. Shit. No, no, no, no, no. Not now."
"Do you want her to leave? If you can bear her leaving you, you have your answer. If you can't fathom the mere idea of her being in another city … well, son, I hate to tell you, but you got your answer."
"Fuck, Dad. Way to go for the jugular."
He shakes his head, but bumps his shoulder with mine. His eyes shine with relief and a light that looks like hope. "What is the worst that can happen if you go there and she turns you down? Likely, you'll be no worse off than now, and you'll know. But the best that can happen is incalculable happiness. Take a leap of faith, and remember that, more than anything, Bella isn't Kate."
Fuck. It's the same thing she told me. "I'm not her."
God, Ladybug. My Ladybug. "Fuck, Dad. I love her."
"Then go to her. You have six hours to make your case."
Edward had a terrible, horrible no good, bad week but with some nudging he got his head out of his ass.
Also, reminder that I have a fanfic group on FB: it's called LaMomo's Lair. You can find a link to it on my ffnet profile, or type the name in the search bar on FB. Come and hang out!
See you next Saturday!
