Happy Saturday, people!
TFMU was awesome, but I came home with a little unexpected guest called Covid-I knew the risk, got luck and had a mild case, and I'm definitely on the mend already. All in all-thanks science.
It was worth a couple days of ickies to see a ton of you in person and get to hug you (virus notwithstanding).
Usual housekeeping first:
1. People, you propelled Ivories THIS CLOSE to 1,7k reviews! EditorWard is thankful and humbled. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
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. Still not on the roof.
3. I still don't own - SM does. But I still own a collection of mugs. One of them is new, AGoodWitch gave it to me and it has an artist's rendition of my cat Dr. Bishop as she pours her #LongCat form over my desk while I work.
Who's ready for to meet the parents? Here we go.
BEHIND THE IVORIES – CHAPTER 28
The ten days between our lunch and my birthday tumble toward us at a frightening clip.
I tried to argue my way out of having a birthday dinner on a Wednesday night, but I lost the argument when Bella and Ross ganged up on me. They insist we'll be fine with everyone bringing something, and Bella has even forbidden me from lifting a finger.
After I've sorted out the logistics of the party, I get to Wednesday in relative peace. Before my mom calls, that is.
"What is this I hear, Edward Anthony? You reconciled with Bella?"
"Hi, Mom. I'm sorry I didn't call earlier. It's been hell going back to the office."
When she hears that, her tone mellows out. "How are you coping, sweetie? Are you feeling better?"
"Yeah, I am. Thank you for sending all that food. I washed and saved your containers."
Mom is particular about her Tupperware stuff. No Tupperware left behind.
"I don't give a fig about the containers. When are you and Bella coming to dinner?"
That reminds me, I need to extend my invitation to the parentals for the birthday shindig Bella is throwing for me.
"So that's how it is, huh? Bella and me?"
From my tone, she knows I'm pulling her leg. She knows me, period.
"Well, yes. I'd like to see you anyway, sweetie. It's been a while."
Here's how Esme Platt-Cullen goes for the kill. She doesn't throw shit in your face; she subtly reminds you of your past offenses, which is why she's on the board of trustees of the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum and I'm not. I'd tell that bunch of dusty, pearl-clutching, designer-wearing old biddies where to go. With geographical exactitude. Repeatedly. She hints at it in such a way they all look forward to the ride.
"Yes, Mom. You're right. Look, I'll check with Bella and see what works for both of us. Also, she's throwing me a birthday party. I'd love it if you and Dad came. It's going to be at Bella's house."
She squeals through the phone. She's channeling her inner Triple A. "Awww, that is so sweet. So, so lovely of her to do that for you. Of course, we'll be there. I'll finally get to see the interior of the Wisteria House!"
"I'll arrange a two-cent tour for you. How's that?"
"I'm more astonished that you let anyone throw you a birthday party. But I'm sure the organizer's identity has everything to do with it. Let me know about dinner, okay? I'm looking forward to seeing you both."
Which is Esme's code for "sooner rather than later."
After we exchange some more pleasantries and random gossip about other journalists we both know, she says goodbye. And I go back to work, sorting out the disaster area also known as my email inbox.
&&&IVORIES&&&
That night, I'm at home waiting for Bella to join me for dinner. Only, she's forty-five minutes late. Without a text. Without a call. Homing pigeon. Coded message. Note in disappearing ink. Skywriting. Tweet. DM on Instagram. Zilch. Nada. Niet. Rien.
Nothing.
It's not like her to be late. In fact, she's much more prone to being freakishly early. My latest texts and calls to her have gone unanswered. Worse, her voicemail doesn't even kick in for some unfathomable reason. It leads me to believe either her phone is dead or switched off, but it doesn't ease my anxiety by any means.
I'm starting to worry. When I call Ross, she picks up after one ring.
"Hey, Ed. What's up?"
"Hi, Ross. Do you know where Bella was supposed to be tonight?"
"Uh … dinner at your place? Isn't she already there?" She sounds as befuddled as I feel.
"That was almost an hour ago. She's not answering texts or calls."
"Shit, Ed. That's unusual, way too unusual for her. I know for a fact she had a meeting at Berklee this afternoon. Let me see if I can call around and get a hold of whoever she was meeting, okay? And don't panic. I'm sure she's fine."
We say goodbye a second later after she's reassured me again that there's a reasonable explanation to this and that Bella is most likely on her way to Kendall Square.
"Don't panic." Easy for Ross to say. I haven't had to worry about another person in years, but for Bella, I'm worrying.
I don't know what sets off the downward spiral of wayward thoughts. Maybe it's the fact that we haven't had a meaningful talk, just the two of us, since last Sunday. Maybe it's because I haven't seen her since our lunch on Monday. She's been so busy with Berklee that tonight is supposed to be a sort of "date night in" for us. Maybe it's just that when I jumped into this with both feet, we started by spending seventy-two hours together. And now I've had to spend the good part of another seventy-two hours without her, I'm finding I don't like this at all—not being with her. It's as if my emotional metabolism runs on Bella, and without her, everything goes haywire. It's also the very first time she's been late since I met her, and maybe a pessimistic, paranoid recess of my subconscious is associating shit it has no business associating. Correlation is not causation, Mr. Freud. Shut the fuck up.
The fact—because that's what journalists like me deal in, facts—is that I fucking miss her. I miss everything about her. I miss the way she looks at me, the warmth of her touch, the way she first smiles at me when she arrives, the way her skin flushes when I kiss her, how she fits perfectly in my arms, how she burrows into my side to cuddle when we're talking. I miss her. I miss her kisses. I miss her hugs. I miss her down to my marrow.
She's taken up residence in my heart and soul.
And her not answering calls or texts, being uncharacteristically late, triggers a deep-seated insecurity I still harbor.
What if I'm not enough? What if she forgot about me? What if I'm too much? What if I stifle her?
Just when I'm pondering another slew of half-baked "what-ifs," a key turns in the lock—I gave Bella a key on Sunday before she left. Another thing that felt monumental and natural at the same time.
When the door opens, she tumbles into the room in a cascade of words and windswept hair.
"God, I'm so late. I'm so, so sorry, Edward. My stupid phone died on me. I couldn't even call an Uber. I tried to find a payphone. Can you believe there are no more payphones in all of fucking Boston?"
Her voice is a balm to my worried, terrified soul. I'm in front of her in a flash. I end up on my knees before her, hugging her to my chest, for once burrowing my head into her womb.
"Ladybug, thank God."
The familiar fragrance of her—citrus and sea breeze, laughter and home—filters into my nostrils, the shape of her fills my arms and hands. And that's my undoing. Tears—fat, petrified tears—fall. Sobs I can't control or swallow back.
"Oh, Edward. No, no, baby. I'm here. I'm safe."
How does she know what I need?
"I was so fucking worried. You must think I'm nuts."
She kneels down, cradling my face in her hands. "No, baby. You're not nuts. You lost people you cared about in a harrowing, traumatic incident. The fear of losing the ones you love never goes away. I'm here. I'm sorry; time ran away from me."
A shuddering sigh shakes me to my core, but when she kisses me, all that fear and worry disappear. She wipes my tears off with her fingers, slowly caressing my face all over.
"I love you; you know that, right?" she asks.
"Yes, I do. That's why I was terrified something had happened to you. God, Bella. I love you."
Her lips meld with mine once, twice. Her mouth, her hands are on me. They're all velvet, and yet, the familiar tingling sensation courses through me, rekindling my heart and my passion for her. And that fear, that overwhelming fear, goes away.
We keep kissing over and over, for untold minutes, until one of her moans sounds more like "shit, I've been kneeling on the floor for twenty minutes" rather than "yes, Edward, do that again." I break the kiss and pull her onto my lap.
"You just got here, and we're already on the floor. Not a great beginning," I say with a wry smile.
She shrugs and, instead of replying, plants a kiss on my neck. "It's fine. We haven't done it on the floor yet."
We both chuckle like idiots at her comment. She said that on purpose.
"Still, I'd like to think I'd feed you first, and then ravish you on the floor. How's that for a plan?"
She looks up at me with such tenderness that all I can do is hold her closer, squeeze her in my arms. She giggles. It's a carefree sound; there and then, I realize I need more carefree things in my life. And I thank whatever deity made it happen for sending her on my path.
"Let me take care of you for a change, Edward. Please?"
"I can't refuse you when you look at me like that. Thank you."
She unfolds herself from my lap, using my shoulders as leverage, then walks into the kitchen, no doubt looking here and there to survey our dinner situation.
By the time I'm up and by her side, she turns to me with an apologetic expression. "Did I irrevocably ruin dinner?"
I wave her off. "No, Ladybug. Warming drawer."
She slaps her forehead. "Of course. I'm all out of whack tonight. You'll have to bear with me. Sit," she orders. She even points to the stools at the breakfast bar.
I already set two places an hour ago, so I plop in my usual spot and watch her do her thing in my kitchen.
Without prompting, she finds our dinner of poached salmon and steamed veggies in the warming drawer, plates it, then sets the two portions on our placemats.
"This smells delicious, baby. Thank you for dinner and for your patience."
"You're welcome. What the heck happened to get you so off-kilter?"
After careful selection, she spears a broccoli floret and munches on it for a few seconds before replying. "And off schedule, you can bloody say that. Let's put it this way. Imagine Murphy's Law and multiply it."
"If anything can go wrong, it will," I recite from rote.
"Exactly. I had a department meeting this afternoon. One of those big affairs to meet everybody and their dog. I'm not starting to teach until the fall, but because I'll be working with some of these professors for my PhD, the dean thought it'd be a good idea to meet them. The meeting ran over by almost an hour. One of the bigwigs in the composition department isn't pleased that a maverick like me took a teaching spot from someone he deemed worthier. Or so it seems."
"Idiots. I hate that this fucking false perception of who you are and what you do follows you everywhere. It's infuriating, and it's unfair."
She snorts. "Welcome to the club. These people are a dime a dozen frankly. If I let their opinion of me rule my life, I'd never leave the house." She shrugs. "I mean, there are factions in every corner of the music industry. It's full of backstabbers. I know it. Now, do I give a shit?"
My turn to snort. "In a recent interview of yours in a magazine we won't mention, you made your opinion of these people fairly clear. Didn't you?"
She smiles because she knows I'm referring to Jasper's piece. "I still remember when you brought up the same thing that day. You were belligerent—because you didn't want to be there—but I could tell it was all bullshit to you."
I scowl for a moment at the bad memory, but I'm glad she saw through me that day. We probably wouldn't be here otherwise. "That was the one thing I'd researched. To me, those criticisms were all … well, you said it. Bullshit. Lots of sour grapes there, if you ask me."
She nods and moans around a mouthful of salmon. "Yep, nailed it. So, that was the meeting from hell. Afterward, the department head—the guy who brought me on board—wanted me to meet with one of their students he wants me to tutor. I still had time, so I went with it."
"How's the student?"
"Well, his style is a bit scattered, but with some direction, he could do really well." Her expression turns apologetic. "That's what made me late. When I'm playing with somebody like that, I tend to forget myself. By the time I thought to check my phone, it was dead. The student would have lent me his, but I don't remember one single phone number. Can you believe that?"
"These machines have made us all very lazy." It's a fact. The only number I can rattle off without hesitation is my parents' landline because it hasn't changed in the last forty years. "You're here now. Was it worth it? Devoting your time to this student?"
"Oh, yes. It was." Her eyes sparkle with pride and joy. She has that same expression in her online videos when she dispenses advice for aspiring musicians. The more I watch her journey up close, the more I know she was born for it.
"Then it was time well spent. But I'm getting you a portable battery."
She chuckles at my antics but leans her head on my shoulder. "Thank you for understanding. And for rescuing my tech-averse ass."
"Anytime, my love."
&&&IVORIES&&&
That Saturday, I wake up with Bella in my arms. In my bed. It's only been a week, but what a week. It feels like a lifetime. It's not without hiccups, though—courtesy of one overanxious reporter, me—but we talk them over.
She wakes slowly, with a few cute, little grunts as sleep recedes, then she stretches like a cat, rubbing her naked leg along mine. Finally, after she's shaken off the last yawn, she lays a hand on my chest and rests her head on it.
"Hi."
"Morning, sleepyhead."
"Have you been awake long?"
I shake my head. "No. Minutes, at most. I slept like a log, though. You did me in last night, young lady."
A rosy, enticing blush blooms on her cheeks, concealing her pillow-creased skin. "Last night was … something else."
"You were something else."
She playfully bites my pec, then kisses my nipple. Her gaze never wavers away from me. She knows what she's doing.
Impulsively, I capture her hands in mine and roll over until she's underneath me, gazing up at me with those wide, deep eyes of hers. They look more like whiskey than chocolate in the morning light.
"I got you, and I'm not letting you go," I whisper between kisses.
"You better not."
&&&IVORIES&&&
An hour later—after more canoodling and a very, very satisfying shower—we're on our way to my parents' for brunch. Because what my mother demands, my mother gets. After comparing our calendars, hearing all about Bella's dietary preferences, and declaring that a dinner wasn't enough to get to know her, Esme opted to throw us a brunch at their place.
I opted to drive us, so we'll have a getaway car if things get hairy.
"You're being pessimistic about this whole brunch thing, Edward."
"Ha! Pessimistic is my middle name. Don't you know that already?"
"Oh, come on. I've met your parents. Your dad is charming, and your mom is the sweetest thing ever," Bella counters.
She looks at me while I'm driving the two miles or so between the loft and my parents' house. Skepticism oozes from her every pore. It'd be comical if she didn't doubt me.
Then again, I might be exaggerating. Might.
"You don't believe me, do you?"
"I think you're making a mountain out of a molehill." She shrugs. "But you know them best, so I'll defer to you. I've met them. How bad can it be to have brunch with them?"
I suppress the temptation to hurl a curse at the idiot who just cut in front of me, and instead snicker, pondering my answer. "You're coming onto the scene with an entirely different job description this time. If you think my mom won't be all over that like white on rice, you're delusional."
"There has to be some backstory there that I don't understand. Fill in the gaps for me, please, Edward? If I'm about to walk into a trap, I'd rather be well armed." She's humoring me, but at least, she isn't telling me I'm nuts.
"One, this is the first time I'll see both of them since I blew them off for Sunday dinner twice and had a big ole' meltdown. Big no-no in Esme Platt-Cullen's book. Two, you're one of her favorite musicians, and you're going to have brunch at her house. She's breaking out the good china as we speak. Three, you're now my girlfriend." I enumerate all my points on my fingers as I speak—thank goodness for automatic shifts.
"Now, are those in chronological order or by importance? Because if that's the case, you seem to think my worst offense is being your girlfriend," she quips. She even has a raised eyebrow to go along with her disbelieving tone.
"It's not your worst offense, at all. Some people might question your judgment or taste, but since I benefit from your lapses in both, I'm going to punt on this one. My mother can be … enthusiastic; let's put it that way. She's been on my case for ages because I wouldn't date or meet anyone."
She doesn't answer but appears to take in all my words carefully. I've learned over the months that Bella won't speak just to talk. She'll say something when she means it, so it doesn't worry me that she's not commenting.
By now, I'm turning onto my parents' street, and it only takes me a minute to stop the car in their driveway. How good of Dad to leave me his parking spot.
"You know what I always admire the most in you, Ladybug?"
"No, what?" she asks with a smile. I just rounded the car to open her door.
"Your optimism." For good measure, I kiss the tip of her nose.
When we emerge from the car, my mom and dad are waiting by the front door. My mom hasn't smiled that wide since the results of the 2008 Presidential Elections. Dad is his usual, relaxed self.
"Come in, kids! We've been waiting for you."
Covertly, I elbow Bella and lean down to whisper in her ear. "See, we're kids already."
"Oh, hush, you. Let her have her fun."
"That's exactly what I'm worried about."
We step into the foyer and a tense silence reigns after Bella greets my parents. My mom steps in front of me and grasps my hands.
"Let me see you."
"Hi, Mom." She looks gorgeous, but if I comment on her looks, she'll know I'm trying to deflect.
Esme is five-eight—a bit taller than Bella—but when she looks up at me, and I see the lingering concern in her eyes, she feels smaller. Fragile. And I feel awful. Without a second thought, I embrace her and remember how loved and protected her hugs made me feel when I was a child. The feeling is still there—boundless love and protection, regardless of size.
"I'm sorry, Mom. I won't put you through that again. I promise."
She heaves a deep sigh of relief, then caresses my cheek. "You're happy, and you're fine. That's all I've ever hoped for you."
I merely nod because words fail me.
"Do you love her?"
"Yes."
"Have you told her?"
"Yes."
She pats my cheek affectionately. "Then it's all good. Let's go have brunch before your father starts flirting with your girlfriend."
"Thank you, Mom."
&&&IVORIES&&&
Brunch goes off without a hitch. My dad is his usual suave self. My mom embraces Bella like a long-lost child. And my amazing girlfriend takes it all in stride. She trades bad puns with my dad and recipes with my mom.
I drink it all in, throw in my two cents every now and then, and stuff my face with Mom's fantastic food. It's richer fare than I tend to cook for myself, but what the heck. I'm learning to let the women in my life spoil me.
Bella returns from a tour around the house and garden that are my mother's pride and joy. She's sporting a knowing smile that would light up Fenway Park.
"I know, I know. You told me so."
She chuckles but plants a kiss to my lips before taking a seat. "I wasn't going there, but thank you for seeing the error of your ways."
"I'll show you error, you …" I move to tickle her, but she escapes my grasp, then ends up on my lap. "Now I've got you where I want you."
She laughs, throwing back her head. On a whim, I pull her scarf from her messy bun, and it breaks loose, falling into my hand in a cascade of turquoise silk. When I bury my nose in it, the fragrance of Bella from it is so intense that I forget myself for a moment and kiss her with abandon.
That is until I hear two distinct chuckles on the other side of the patio table.
"Shh, Es. You'll embarrass them."
"But they're so cute together."
When we break the kiss and turn to face my parents, we're both blushing, but I'm too happy to care.
"See, Carl? They're so happy."
"Yes, they are."
My dad's eyes and faint nod convey much more than his words do. It's an acknowledgment of my healing. I reciprocate his nod with a true smile that has nothing of the polite, perfunctory smiles I've plastered on over the years. It's a true, unbridled testament to happiness.
&&&IVORIES&&&
On Saturday night, Bella and I are cuddling on the rooftop of my building, enjoying a glass of wine, some nibbles, and the surrounding quiet.
"You said something that made me think today," she says. Her fingers are playing with the buttons of my shirt, as she's wont to do when she's in my arms like this.
"What was it?"
She's lying draped over me like a blanket, and it's no chore at all to punctuate my question with kisses to her temple, her forehead, and lastly, her lips.
"You mentioned my optimism. Do you truly admire that about me?"
I cradle her face in my hand, tracing the contours of her cheek with my fingers. She blushes under my touch, but her loving smile doesn't waver.
"I do. Especially because I'm not the most optimistic person around, as you may know." I flick her nose with my finger, and she leans into my touch.
"Well, I'm glad it serves a purpose."
I roll us over so we're lying on our sides and thread her fingers with mine, bringing them up to kiss them.
"I have a confession of sorts. When you came here and told me you wanted more, I was terrified." Her regard turns tender, and she's about to protest, but I stop her. "I couldn't help it at the time."
"It doesn't matter now; we're here. We're together," she pleads.
"Yes. But what really terrified me at the time … it wasn't the 'jumping in with both feet' part. My heart was already there, but it was my bloody head that refused to follow. And the crux of it was that if I dropped my defenses, I already saw it—you and me together like this. I saw it all. And a tidal wave of want hit me. I wanted you, plain and simple. But I was afraid to want things for myself for so long that it paralyzed me. So, thank you for kicking my butt out of my comfort zone. It's so much better out here in the wilderness."
By the time I've blurted out my entire confession, Bella's shedding a few tears, but her smile burns brighter than the stars above us.
"I'm so happy you're not afraid anymore. I love you."
We make out like teenagers for a while, laughing and kissing, with our hands roaming over and under our clothes.
"Come away with me," I whisper, nipping at her lips. "For July fourth weekend. Come away with me."
I want to shut the world out again, bury myself in her and her only.
"Where?"
"Cape Cod."
"Yes."
They're settling in with their "more", little by little.
Next up, Edward's birthday.
See you next Saturday!
