Hello, people!
Happy Canada Day to all Canadians out there and Happy 4th July weekend to people in the US (and US peeps abroad)!
Usual housekeeping first:
1. Thank you, thank you, thank you for all your reviews and alerts. You propelled Ivories waaaaay past 1,4k reviews and EditorWard is thankful and humbled. I love hearing your thoughts. Keep it up.
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.
Some fiddling occurred. Momo fiddled. Momo is the fiddler. Not on the roof, though.
3. I still don't own - SM does. But I still own a collection of mugs. One of them is shaped like Barbapapa.
A few points of order after "rock bottom" last week.
- Between "getting on a plane to LaGuardia" and "relocating to NYC" there's ... quite the leap. I'd call this a classic case of 2 and 2 make 5. One, we only know what Jake says in the message. Who has a 100% guarantee that he's being 100% truthful? He might be bending the truth to get Edward out of his funk. Even so, who said Bella is relocating? Nobody did.
- Somebody commented that Edward is "so in love and so conditioned by Kate" that he could never "really" love Bella and if he does, it won't be believable. I think confusing love and trauma is not a good idea here. Edward is very clear that he has zero feelings for Kate right now. He's very aware that he was used. But his entire response about her dumping him and his fear about a NEW love is a trauma response. This man has PTSD - it doesn't go away overnight. You can't take a magical pill and make it go away. It'll linger under the surface and manifest around his vulnerabilities. Around his triggers. And a new, possible love is DEFINITELY a trigger. Who said Edward still loves Kate? Nobody did.
I love hearing all your thoughts and your questions - and remember, most of your doubts can be solved by looking at the text. If it's important, chances are I put it right there on the page. :)
Are we ready? EditorWard is done brooding.
BEHIND THE IVORIES – CHAPTER 25
I'm rushing through the loft like a madman, running into my bedroom for clothes. Actual clothes, not loungewear.
I left Dad in the kitchen, abandoned my omelet and my herbal tea—Bella's herbal tea.
I've been a fucking idiot. But I love her. Damn, I love her.
I should have known it from the little things. I should have fucking known. But hiding my head in the sand seemed like a good idea at the time. Or, as Mac put it, denial is a river in Egypt.
The zinger I feel through my skin every time I touch her. The warmth that spreads through me every damn fucking time she smiles at me. The way her embrace grounds me. All the tiny, seemingly inconsequential and yet monumental things I let her get away with. Shit nobody else would ever be allowed to do or say around me. The damn selfie the night of the dinner here at the loft. The Cake Fairy—I unwittingly assumed a covert identity to keep her stocked in chocolate cakes.
It wasn't penance. It was her, even then. It was my instinct to take care of her. To be near her. The cooking lessons. That time I ran to her house because the fucking idiot James made her cry. Well, a bloody article about him, but semantics. The googling. The tweeting. Fuck, the tweeting. I debunked an article to protect her. The PTSD flare by the construction site. She pulled me back. She saved me. Damn.
"I'm a fucking idiot, Ladybug. Please forgive me. Please, please, please. Don't let it be too late."
When I'm finally in acceptable clothes for public consumption, I almost run out the door. Then I turn back and look at the man who pulled me out of my funk.
"Dad. Thank you. I mean it."
He smiles indulgently at me and stands from his stool. "Go get your girl. I'll lock up here."
I nod and run out of the building. This time, my ass is definitely on fire. For an exceptionally good reason.
&&&IVORIES&&&
Once I step out of my building into a late Friday morning in Cambridge, I notice two things.
One, it just started raining. Minor inconvenience but not insurmountable.
Two, there are exactly zero taxis at the stall on Kendall Square. Zero. And I don't have time to manifest one with my brainwaves or wait for an Uber. Decision made. I'm going to Wisteria House on foot.
While I run over there, everything else but Bella disappears for the good twenty minutes it takes me to arrive. I should be rehearsing a speech in my head. At a minimum, make a list of pros and cons—like Bella does. Figure out what the fuck I'm going to tell her. But I can't because I have to throw every damn speck of energy I have into getting there as fast as I can.
When I turn onto Chestnut Street, an attack of the nerves ensues. It's not panic. I don't feel short of breath—other than what a two-mile jog did to me. I don't see dots in my vision or feel my heart pounding in my head. I just feel like I ran two miles. And I'm drenched.
But, at this moment, I don't give a shit that rain is pelting down on me in a torrent of drop-shaped zingers. I don't care that I'm standing here in front of her purple door, drenched to my core, with rivulets of frigid water obliterating the layers of clothing I'm wearing. Too bad none of them are waterproof.
The only thing I care about is that she's behind that door. The minute it takes her to answer it is the longest of my life.
Then the door opens—she's here. She's here. She opened the door and doesn't look ready to pummel me until I'm black and blue. God knows I deserve it. But she's here. Still here. For once in my life, I'm not too late or too early. I'm exactly on time. Right where I should be.
"Edward, what—"
"You were right."
She scrunches up her brow in that adorable way of hers. Befuddled and adorable.
"What do you mean?"
"I made a decision. That's why I'm here. But first—you were right, and I was wrong. I was scared. I was fucking terrified. I still am."
"Then what the hell does that change?" she asks.
She blinks at me, owl-like, with those deep eyes of hers—pools of whiskey and chocolate. They're red-rimmed, and she has dark shadows around them. I did that. But I'm here to remedy all the shit I put her through, if she'll let me. I don't begrudge her the irritation in her voice. She doesn't know yet that I've had the biggest epiphany of my life.
"I've changed."
"Great, that's good to know. Can I go now?"
No, no, no. "Am I too late? You told me to come back only if I was willing to go into this—us—with both feet. I am—now. Can I please talk to you about that? If you've changed your mind, I'll respect it. But please. There are things that need to be said."
She runs a hand over her eyes as if to rub off her frustrations. "Fair's fair. I did tell you that, and I can't go back on my word. I'll listen. That's the most I can do right now."
I nod. It's more than I deserve. "I'd never ask you for more than you were willing to give."
She opens the door wide and steps to the side. "Might as well come inside out of all that rain."
I do as she asks and follow her inside. There's a roller bag lying open on the couch. A few odds and ends strewn over the coffee table. It's clear she's been packing. Damn.
Focus. I came here to say my piece, and that's what I'll do. I don't sit, because a) she didn't invite me, and b) I look like a drowned rat. I don't want to leave soggy imprints of my butt on her furniture. But I can't be still while I'm saying my piece. So, I pace back and forth in front of her while she stands a few feet away from me, fidgeting.
"I've had … a lot of time to think this past week. I realized that fear isn't a good enough reason not to live my life. Fear isn't a good enough reason to lose you, lose us. Because we are worth it. Fighting for us is worth it. Being more to you, with you. You being more to me. All of it—jumping in with both feet, being vulnerable, not knowing what the next day will bring, being unable to hide, never alone in my head or with my thoughts. But never being lonely another day in my life because you're there. Because you ground me and make this damn life worth living at the same time. You see me. All of me. The scars and nightmares. The self-loathing and insecurity. The second-guessing. The wall I've built around myself all these years. Yet, you see me without judgment. All of this is worth it. We're worth it. I don't want the sedate, orderly, predictable, monotone life because … you wouldn't be in it." I pause and take a deep breath in, then blow it out.
"Because I love you. I fucking love you, Ladybug."
She's sniffling now and plonks on the couch like an empty sack. I still don't know if this is a good or bad development, and I have a few more points to drive home, so I go ahead. I've hit my stride in laying my heart on the line.
"I love everything about you. Every pair of Chucks you own. Every slab of chocolate cake you eat. Every time you ransack my kitchen and my record collection. Every time you throw food or flour at me while we're cooking. Every time you put your arms around me as if you want to keep me together when I'm about to fall apart. Every time you've hummed music to me because it soothes my anxiety. And even when you throw my life into chaos, like that time you put all of Pearl Jam's catalog out of order. When you walked out of that interview because I was an ass to you. When I baked you chocolate cheesecake. I loved you then. I just didn't know. And I love you now, Bella."
She's sobbing loudly now, almost wheezing from it. It scares the crap out of me that she's in that state because of what I've said.
Thinking it might be acceptable to check on her, I kneel in front of her, and with excruciating slowness, I move to caress her shoulder in an attempt to comfort her. When my hand lands on her clothed skin, the familiar zinger courses through me.
Then she raises her gaze toward me. "Edward, I—"
"You don't have to say it back. But you deserve to know."
She leans her forehead to mine, then punches my shoulder.
"Ouch! That hurt."
"It was meant to hurt," she answers with a snort. "I tried so hard to be mad at you—"
"I'm sorry. I was a monumental jerk. Are you still mad at me?"
She rolls her eyes. "I tried to be mad at you. I didn't succeed. Look, you said your piece. Now let me say mine, please."
I nod, withdraw my hand from her shoulder, and sit back on the floor with my back against the coffee table. She deserves some space.
"Your behavior hurt me a lot. It wasn't fair—kissing me, then avoiding me, then rejecting me. All of it. It—you hurt me deeply. I tried to be mad at you, but I couldn't do it. Because I know what you've been through, and when I started thinking about it, I realized I'd played a part in that huge fiasco. I pushed you too far, too fast."
"My therapist recently reminded me that always blaming oneself is not only untrue, it's also ineffective. You didn't push too far. You had a right to say what you wanted. What you want …" But then the thought hits me. "That is, if you still want it. Otherwise, me being here … well, that would be embarrassing."
I feel it before I see it. The warmth, the zinger. She's touching me. She just threaded her fingers through mine.
"I still want it, Edward."
That's when a ball of hope surges through me. It's so warm it's almost scorching, so tangible it is its own entity in the room, and it takes over my whole being. I grab both her hands and pull her onto my lap. She's too far away over there. Too far away for what I have to say now.
"You do? All of it? All of me?"
She nods, biting her lip and smiling. "I think I can handle you, Cullen."
"Still. I want to apologize, again, for how I treated you. I hurt you, and it's one of the things that has tortured me most these two weeks. All this time I spent feeling sorry for myself; I thought I deserved it because I'd made you cry. You were gone from my life, and it was my fault. It took me a while to figure out why I felt like crap for fourteen solid days. But I did. Now I know. I love you, Ladybug."
There's a lone tear at the corner of her eye, but she's still smiling. She's wound her arms around my neck, and after I speak, she hides her face in the crook of my neck. When I feel a shiver humming through my collarbone, one look tells me it's because she just kissed me.
"I love you, too, Edward."
With her chin in my hand, I turn her face toward mine. "There's a bunch of other shit I want to talk to you about. So many things. Things you need to know. Things you deserve to know. It's not because I'm not all in, but—"
She pinches my lips shut with her fingers. "You're rambling, Cullen. How about you kiss me now and explain shit later?"
I laugh. A full, liberating, exhilarating laugh that shakes off all the fucking angst I've been carrying on my shoulders. "Yes, ma'am. I can do that."
When my lips touch hers, it feels different and familiar at the same time. I've tasted these lips. I've felt her in my arms. But this time, she's mine. This time, she loves me. I lose myself in her. Her fingers grip my hair, then come down on my shoulders, but she doesn't let go of me or break the kiss. As our breath mixes and our tongues tangle, I feel what's new in this kiss.
Me.
I'm not tentative, feeling guilty that my body and heart are responding to her. Not anymore. I've jumped into this, feet first. Both feet, as she said.
"Ladybug, my Ladybug," I whisper into the riot of her hair. Today, the scarf is emerald green.
"You're all wet." It's a matter of fact, clinical statement. But she looks at me with questions dancing in her eyes.
"I ran here, but it was raining."
"You couldn't wait for a taxi or an Uber?"
"Nope. When I realized I love you, I had to tell you. I couldn't waste one minute. Wait—are you still going to New York?"
She snorts. "Someone tipped you off, huh?"
I roll my eyes before replying. "Do you blame him?"
She shakes her head. "No. Ross isn't happy with you, however."
"Tell her to get in line. I wasn't happy with myself either."
Another snicker. "What's all this stuff you need to tell me?"
"Important stuff."
"Can't you just kiss me some more and call it a day?"
I graze my nose to hers. "There will be more kissing. But you've been responsible and mature about our relationship, and until earlier today, I was being a whiny, terrified bastard. So, in the interest of being more mature about shit … Yes, there are things I want you to be aware of."
"We should get you some dry clothes before staving off a bout of pneumonia climbs to the top of our priorities."
"I don't think your clothes would fit me." But the squelching cotton on my skin does feel chilly and sticky.
"I have some spare clothes of Jake's. As long as we don't tell him your legs were in his pants. We might not live that one down."
I burst out laughing again. "Oh, love. The shit you come up with. But, yeah, I could use dry clothes."
"Let me up then. I'll leave some clean clothes for you in the hall bath. Then throw the wet ones in the dryer. You know where everything is."
I notice she's making a point of giving me privacy to change. It's another thing I'm grateful for: she seems to know what I need instinctively. But I wouldn't change in front of her anyway. Not before she's seen the scars I usually hide underneath clothing and a slightly overgrown beard.
After I've changed into Jake's running sweats and a T-shirt, I find Bella in the kitchen. A pot is heating on the stove for tea, and she's rummaging around the fridge.
"I'm feeling a bit peckish. Nibbles?"
I can't suppress a smile. Nibbles is her code word for "let's eat something we don't need to cook."
"Yeah, I could eat. You making herbal tea?"
She nods. "Do you want coffee? I have a bag of your beans."
"I'll pass, love. My stomach can't handle it these days."
She gives me a once-over. An appreciative once-over. "Jake will be furious that those clothes fit you better than him."
"He's bigger and taller than me."
"Yeah, but he likes to show off his assets," she replies, waggling her eyebrows.
We both laugh, and it hits me that we're back to our relaxed, fun interactions. The way we were before I fucked it up, only now with the added bonus that we know where we stand. We're in love. It goes with the territory to be a little silly and have fun together. I haven't been this relaxed with anyone in years. That should have been another clue to my clueless, panicked ass—I haven't loved anyone like this in years, if ever. I haven't allowed anyone this close in years. Only her. Only my Ladybug.
A few minutes later, we have bowls of "nibbles" on the kitchen counter—olives, chunks of ham and cheese, pita chips, hummus—and we're sipping herbal tea.
"I like this one. What's in it?" It doesn't taste like lemon and ginger.
"Lavender and chamomile. I figured we could both use some relaxation." Then she clinks her mug with mine. "Now, these serious things you wanted to discuss?"
We're sitting side by side at the breakfast counter, so I set my mug on the countertop and turn toward her.
"What I went through in Syria has left some long-term repercussions. You've seen what one of my PTSD flares can be like."
She lowers her gaze, but not before I detect a slight grimace, a frown between her eyes.
"I don't like remembering that day either. But I'm grateful for one thing: you were there with me, and you brought me back. Somehow, you knew how to soothe me out of it. Thank you."
She grasps my hand. "You don't have to thank me for that. But you're welcome."
I nod. "There are other things. I have nightmares sometimes. Bad ones. They've abated over the years, but they can hit out of nowhere. If we'll share a bed, spend the night together, you need to know about that." I can't be modest and reticent about this shit. It needs to be out in the open. "And you need to know if you can deal with it."
"I can deal with it," she replies. Her tone is firm, certain, brooks no refusal.
"I have every faith in you, but you've never seen me—"
She interrupts me, then squeezes my hand again. "I have."
"When?"
She keeps caressing circles on my hand with her thumb, and I'm mesmerized by how soothing that touch is. "You fell asleep after your flare last month. You woke up shouting after a while, almost tumbled off the couch. Thankfully, I had the idea to sit close by in case you needed me."
A faint memory resurfaces. More humming. "You sang me back to sleep, didn't you?"
She only nods.
"We're going to be that couple where she serenades him to sleep, and not the opposite."
She scoffs. "Screw gender roles. Fuck the patriarchy."
And there she is. My non-conformist, screw-the-rules, free spirit. And she's mine. I kiss her forehead, and she sighs, leaning into me. I revel in the closeness for a minute, but we have more serious stuff to go through. My scars.
"It's not just the PTSD and nightmares. The bombing left visible, long-term effects … and you need to know."
"Okay. Lay it on me." She relinquishes my hand to grab her mug and take another sip of her chamomile.
"My left femur broke in multiple places; a titanium rod has been keeping it together ever since."
She furrows her brow, then interjects, "Does that hurt? Affect your daily activities in any tangible way?"
It's an intelligent, legitimate question. I expected nothing less from her.
"Not in any way that stops me from being active or independent. I carry a card for TSA in case I travel, and I have to be mindful of the workouts I do. But it doesn't hurt." I shrug. "Sometimes, it bugs me in winter if it gets really cold, but not that often."
"Then I'm glad you don't have any complications to deal with. Next?"
Now I'm the one reaching for her hands. I need to feel her while I tell her this.
"The worst is the scars, Ladybug. My leg and my left side are littered with them. They're gnarly and ugly. I have some on my face and neck, too. I don't want you to be … disgusted or repelled by them. I love you, but I can't in fairness trap you in a relationship if you don't have a full grasp of what being with me entails." That's when I stop and take a deep breath. "I want you to see them. I need you to see them. And, if you decide this is too much to take after you see all of me, I'll let you go."
She starts shaking her head. "No, no, no. I won't hear any of that."
I pull on her hands, then lay my head on her shoulder. Breathing her in helps me relax. I sit up straight before replying. "I can't make that choice for you, and I won't force you to make it. But you need to have all the information before you do. You need to see all of me. I couldn't bear it if you … if we …"
She hops off her stool and comes to stand between my legs with her arms wound around my chest. "You're worried we'll make love and the sight of your scars will turn me off? That I won't be able to bear it?"
There. She's said it. Out loud.
"Yeah."
She pulls back to look me in the eye. "Oh, Edward." She caresses my bearded cheek, and I lean into her touch. "That's why you keep this gorgeous, thick beard of yours. You're hiding the scars, aren't you?"
I nod. "At first, shaving was painful. Then the beard became … I don't know, armor? Staves off people's stares, their questions …"
"You are more than scars or titanium rods to me, but I recognize this is important for you. It's part of your healing." She stands on tiptoes to kiss me on the lips. It's a light, chaste kiss, but it's a balm to my soul anyway. "I love you."
"I love you, too, Ladybug. Thank you for understanding. How do you … when do you …?"
I've voiced my concerns, but I'm feeling bashful all of a sudden. Nobody but my doctors has seen me in skivvies for the past six years. My mirrors don't give starred reviews on my appearance.
"Are you trying to ask me when and how I'd like to see you naked?"
I end up chuckling. Going out on a limb, that's exactly the reaction she's going for. Defusing tension.
"Sometimes, you speak like Mac, but I love you all the more for it."
She shrugs and gives me a smile and a wink. "The big lug has a way with words. Sometimes. But, if you'll let me, I think I have an idea for your disrobing."
I raise an eyebrow at the term. Of course, she has ideas. She's caring and smart that way. "My girl has an idea. Let's hear it."
"There's a private swimming pool in that swanky development where you and Jake live, right?"
"Yes, and?"
"How do residents access it? Do you just show up and take a plunge?"
I snort. "If only it were that simple. There's an occupancy limit. You sign up for a time slot online, then access the pool area with your resident keycard. After all, we pay through the nose in condo fees for a reason."
"So, there's a way to know in advance if there'll be a lot of people on a certain day and time? How do you reserve slots? Are there any time limits?"
"I'm starting to see where you're going with this. Rules require advance bookings only on weekends and cancellations within an hour of the booked time slot. They're less obnoxious about weekday reservations. But management sends you a prickly letter if you misbehave. So, yes, you can absolutely land a deserted slot. Or as deserted as it'll be."
"How about we go swimming? We can just float on the water, or splash each other, or swim laps. But we can be alone, or close to alone, if we're lucky. I used to swim a lot. It can be meditative. The water, the silence. It's calm—"
"Soothing. Yes, that would definitely work."
We can make it as clinical and non-sexual as we want. If it ends badly, I won't have the sight of her rejecting me while we're making love branded in my memory.
"Let's go swimming."
She runs off in a flash. "I'll grab my laptop so we can pick a slot!"
We've been talking for hours, and meanwhile, the weather has turned. It's a sunny, warm Friday afternoon. We luck out—with such nice weather, and with it being a workday, no other residents made bookings for the pool area today at three p.m.
An hour later, we're headed to Kendall Square, and this time, we order a rideshare. It suddenly dawns on me that Bella's supposed to be on a plane roughly … now?
"What about your flight?"
"What about it?" she asks back. She's tucked into my side and is looking up at me.
"You're not on it."
"Oh, that. Yeah, Ross canceled it."
Figures. "Perks of being your manager, I guess."
"That and many more. I'm not really cut out for practical stuff. I live too much in my own bubble of … sounds."
"Being a genius composer and all," I quip.
"Stop it." She looks bashful, but there's mirth dancing in her eyes.
"It's true. You're my genius composer."
"Now that's a title I'll take happily."
The Uber stops at the side entrance of my building. I help Bella out of the SUV and hook her duffle bag with swimming necessities over my shoulder. We cross the threshold together and wander up to the loft so I can grab my own swim trunks and a couple towels.
Ten minutes later, we're standing at the door to the pool area.
She threads her fingers with mine and picks the access keycard out of my free hand. "Together. We're in this together, Edward." She hovers it by the transponder, and the lock clicks open.
When we close the door behind us, the wide blue expanse of the pool lies in front of us, the water barely breaking on the surface, mussed here and there by the filter jets. It's a huge, cavernous space, and yet, it's completely silent. Nobody's here, just as we planned it. It's also warm enough we only put on T-shirts over our swimwear after we changed in the loft—me in my bedroom, and Bella in the guest bathroom. The rubber of our flip-flops clacks on the tiled floor.
"Pick a spot, Ladybug."
Lounge chairs dot the longer sides of the pool, especially on the garden side of the building. The wall there is floor-to-ceiling glass panes coated with a privacy film. People out in the garden can't look inside.
Bella walks off and dumps her towel and phone on a cluster of two lounge chairs on the far side of the room near the shallow end where the steps dive into the pool. I follow her and set my own things on the chair next to hers.
A shuffled noise attracts my attention. Bella just took off her cover-up—an oversized Ramones T-shirt. She stands there wearing a rather modest navy blue bikini. One of those high-waisted affairs that wouldn't look amiss in a vintage Marilyn Monroe photoshoot.
"What are those pink things on your swimsuit?"
"Flamingoes. It's pink flamingos. Ditch the shirt, Mr. Editor. I was promised a dip in the pool." She's playful but not unkind. Never unkind. She's letting me know this is okay. She's still defusing tension.
Time to face the pool. I look at her, at the love and acceptance in her eyes, and it's enough to dissipate most of my inhibitions. I close my eyes and move to pull the T-shirt over my head. I'm expecting some kind of comment from her, but none comes. I toe off my flip-flops and walk toward Bella, who's standing by the steps.
"Let's sit on the ledge first. I never dive head-first," she offers.
I'm acutely aware that she can see about ninety percent of my bare skin right now. Most of my scar tissue is on full display. The surgeons' fine handiwork minimized my surgical scars, but the ones caused by debris were a different matter. In the explosion, I got cuts and scrapes a dime a dozen, and those weren't minimized. I refused to consult with plastic surgeons at the time. I had enough on my plate without adding cosmetic surgeries to the lifesaving, medically necessary ones I couldn't avoid.
I take a deep, steadying breath and walk to the edge of the pool, taking a seat. Then I turn toward her and pat the space beside me. "Join me?"
She nods, then sits. She's so close that her leg touches the side of my thigh.
I can't muster a single word. It's not my job to speak now. What I can do is sit here and give her time to look at me. All of me. Then wait for her verdict, whatever it may be.
An untold span of time elapses, but a covert glance at the wall clock above the door tells me it's barely a couple minutes.
"May I … may I touch them, Edward?"
I answer her while my heart hammers in my ears. "Yes."
Her hand traces the long scar on my thigh where the orthopedic surgeons put me back together like Humpty Dumpty. Her fingers and her gaze follow the jagged, whiter line, but her lips land on my shoulder where a few other scars radiate like a stroke of lightning along my deltoid. She follows those grooves, inch by inch, millimeter by millimeter, kiss by kiss. Her reverence, her love in every touch is so palpable it's almost overwhelming.
"God, Bella …"
I didn't imagine it would feel like this, sitting before her and letting her map her way through my bare skin. It was meant to be a non-sexual way for her to see me, experience the extent of my injuries before we got intimate, and yet … yet it feels more intimate and erotic than anything else we could do in private. In a room where no other residents of my condo complex could appear at any second.
"Should I stop? Am I making you uncomfortable?"
"No, but, um, I need to cool my jets."
She tries to avert her eyes from my lap, but I catch her wry smile. "Oh. That."
"Yeah, that," I reply, bumping her shoulder. "Shall we?"
"Together?" she asks.
"Together."
We slip into the water slowly and float a few feet away from each other. With graceful movements of her arms, she propels herself into yards and yards of backstroke down the longer side of the pool. Because I want to give her some space right now, I just float, letting the water lap over me.
It's peaceful, silent. Only the noise of her arms cutting through the surface of the water resonates through the space around us. It's a rhythmic sound that helps regulate my breathing. Even if I do understand her need to ponder this on her own before voicing her thoughts, I don't know how to take this distance between us, and it's killing me.
Until, a few minutes later, a splash of water beside me alerts me to her presence.
"You're back," I call out. I swim back toward the edge of the pool so I can stand in the shallow end.
She floats closer to me, then cages me in, surrounding me with her arms.
"Have you ever heard the word 'kintsugi', Edward?"
I shake my head. "No, but it sounds Japanese. How far off base am I?"
"Not at all. It is Japanese. It means 'golden joinery.' It's the art of using powdered gold or other precious metals to repair broken pottery."
"I may have come across a few memes about it on the Internet, but I never knew whether it was legit or not."
She kisses me chastely before continuing. Her lips taste like Bella and chlorine. "It is. I bought a kintsugi bowl during my last tour there. The concept spoke to me. Breakage and repair are part of an object's history. There's life after disaster, and life is made of second chances."
"Like 'Sea Glass'?"
She nods. "I've made my choice. I choose you. Because you're not broken, you're a survivor. Your scars aren't blemishes. They aren't wounds. They're not ugly reminders of trauma. They're the gold thread that binds you together. This is who you are today. As much as I wish you hadn't gone through all that pain and suffering, that experience in Syria made you the Edward I know. The Edward I love. I wouldn't change a thing about you. I love you exactly as you are. Scars and all."
I see the bone-deep truth of that in her eyes. I gather her to my chest, squeezing her as close as she'll let me. "I love you, Ladybug. Thank you."
I kiss her eagerly, without restraint. She falls into me and winds her legs around my waist. At this point, I no longer care if she feels how much I want her. Water splashes and crackles around us for minutes while we forget ourselves until we break apart for air.
"I never knew it could feel like this," she whispers.
"This intense, you mean?"
"Yeah," she murmurs against my wet skin.
My thoughts wander to what she just said about the past trauma in my life, and I realize we've had parallel experiences to some extent. Granted, hers didn't land her in a Jordanian, then French, hospital, with multiple surgeries and months of physical therapy like mine did, but we were both under a media microscope at our worst. Our rock bottom chronicled by the press, with all the attendant fanfare of it. I want our second chance at love and life to blossom away from the public eye, but it's an unrealistic expectation. I can fly under the radar in my hometown, and so can she. But her job—her calling—is to share her talent, her creations, with the world. We'll have to learn to navigate that together, too.
With that thought fresh on my mind, I segue into my next words to her. I know she'll understand. "When you've been through a traumatic experience, people think they know what happened to you because it all gets splashed out in the news and in the tabloids."
She snorts. She knows all about it, probably much more than I do. My fifteen minutes of tabloid fame evaporated rather quickly, but it wasn't any less brutal.
I continue when she doesn't comment. "But people don't know how it felt. No matter how close they are to you, they'll never know. Everyone tells you they understand, but they don't. Not really. What they mean is they're trying to empathize, at best. At worst, they're pitying you."
"Yeah. Been there, done that," she says at last.
"No one knows what it is, what it feels like to live in your skin. I want to know you until I live in your skin. I want you to know me until you live under mine." I kiss her, craving to lose myself in her again.
She kisses me back. "I want you, Edward. All of you." She means it.
"Stay with me tonight, Ladybug?"
"Where else would I go?"
Soooooooooo, how are we feeling?
Catch you next week, peeps!
