25

I picked up my black heels and walked out of my bedroom and into the living room where Michael was seated stiffly on the sofa. I bit my lip to keep from laughing. He looked super uncomfortable, not that I blamed him. He had to dress up for his art showcase that evening and had insisted on wearing his black suit and tie — even though he hated wearing it. He said, "Real mean dress the part."

Whatever that meant.

Things between Michael and I had been tense for the last two weeks. He didn't trust me, which I wasn't surprised. I'd let him down too many times. Even though I was doing my best to keep my promises, I'd also learned not to make any if possible. I kept telling myself that he needed time and space, that he would come around, but I wasn't so sure.

"You look handsome," I said, drawing his attention to me.

His cheeks turned light pink and he smiled. "Thanks. I feel stupid."

"Well, you don't look stupid. You look just like Dad."

"Just not as old."

I laughed. "No, not as old."

Settling on the couch next to him, I dropped my shoes on the floor. "You look like you're about to freak out. Are you nervous?"

Michael sighed, but nodded. "What if nobody likes my painting?"

"I'm sure they will," I told him. "Though, if you'd let me see it before tonight, I could guarantee it."

"Told you: I want it to be a surprise," he chided, playfully but turned serious. "I wish Grandpa was here."

Feeling my shoulders tense, I struggled to keep tears from falling. "He would have been so proud of you."

"You think so?"

I nodded, causing a single tear to slide down my face. I quickly wiped it away. "Oh, yeah. He'd be your biggest fan. Next to me, of course."

"Momma?" Michael whispered, tilting his head toward me. "Are . . . are you proud of me?"

"Me?" I whimpered, scooping him up and sliding him onto my lap. "I am so, so proud of you. I love you, Michael."

"Promise?" he cried, laying his head on my shoulder.

"With all my heart, sweetheart," I wept with him, not caring that I was ruining my make-up.

A cleared throat pulled our attention to the hallway, where we found Carlisle and Tyler standing, both looking uncomfortable. Unlike Michael, Tyler had refused to wear his suit, compromising with a pair of khaki pants and a red polo shirt. Carlisle, however, had embraced the suit and looked deliciously handsome.

"Everything okay?" Carlisle asked, looking concerned.

I smiled and nodded. "Never better. Just being a little sappy over my handsome boys. You three clean up nicely."

"We know." Tyler shrugged his shoulders. "There had better be food at this thing."

"Ty, do you ever think about anything other than food?" I asked, sliding Michael off my lap and slipping on my heels.

"Girls. I think about girls."

"Dude, you're five. You shouldn't be thinking of girls," Carlisle groused.

Once more, Tyler shrugged his shoulders. "What can I say? I'm a ladies' man?"

"Go get in the car," Carlisle ordered, waving his hand toward the front door. "Michael, go with him. See what you can do to keep the ladies off him."

"Okay, Dad," Michael laughed and followed Tyler out of the house, leaving me and Carlisle alone.

"That boy . . ." Carlisle shook his head and shifted his attention to me. "Are you sure you're okay?"

Sighing, I stood up and walked over to Carlisle. "You worry about me too much."

"No, I worry just the right amount," he argued, his hands resting on my hips. "I don't like seeing you cry."

"These were good tears," I told him, thinking about how many times over the last two weeks he had caught me crying.

I'd been meeting with Liam almost every day — the weekends being the only exception. Between my sessions with him, my classes, homework, the boys, and keeping up with Carlisle's constant sexual teasing, I'd locked myself away a few times and had a good cry. Liam told me that crying was good, that I was letting go of all the tension and stress that I continually placed on my shoulders, but I hated it. Made me feel out of control and overwhelmed. I'd never been one of those girls who cried over everything. Maybe that was my problem, though; I never let any of my feelings show.

"Michael's really nervous about the show. Do you think we've put too much pressure on him?"

"No," Carlisle insisted, placing his hand on the small of my back and leading me out of the house. "He's just like me: expects to be the best at everything."

"He shouldn't be putting that kind of stress on himself."

Carlisle laughed as he turned and locked the front door, giving it a good tug to be sure that it was closed securely. "No, he shouldn't, but that's why you're so important to him."

"Me?" I asked, raising an eyebrow. "Why me?"

"Because Michael is so much like me, he's always going to worry that it wasn't enough, that he should have worked harder. I know I did. Still do, actually, but my mom — she . . . Well, she always knew when I needed to free myself of everything. That's why when I was stressing over a big test, she'd make me go surfing, or dance in the rain, or something like that."

"And you think I do that for Michael?"

"Have you seen the way that boy watches you, Isabella? He wants nothing more than for you to be proud of who he is, how hard he works. That's why he gets upset if he doesn't get a perfect grade at school." Carlisle smiled. "Ty, on the other hand, couldn't care less if he's perfect. He's going to give us both a lot of gray hair."

"Ain't that the truth," I laughed and followed him to the car, where the boys were waiting for us. They'd already buckled themselves into their booster seats, but I made sure they were safe before climbing into the passenger seat and putting my own seatbelt on. Shifting, I turned back to them and smiled. "Are we ready to indulge our inner art lover?"

"What's indulge mean?" Tyler asked.

"It means to let yourself do something we wouldn't normally do, like going to my art show," Michael explained.

"That's a really good explanation," I said, shifting my attention to Tyler. "Do you understand?"

"Think so," he said, slowly. "Like, since we normally don't stop and get donuts at night, we should indulge ourselves now, right?"

"No," Carlisle said, shaking his head as he started the car. "But nice try, Ty."

"Can't blame a man for trying to get his."

"A man?" Carlisle snickered, pulling out of the driveway and heading in the direction of the showcase. "Dude, you're not a man until you have hair on your balls."

"Carlisle!" I exclaimed while Michael and Tyler both burst out laughing. "Good lord, you three are hopeless."

We spent the rest the drive with the boys laughing about having hairy balls. Carlisle tried to get them to stop, but the smile on his lips did nothing to enforce how serious he was pretending to be. The parking lot was already full when we arrived, but Carlisle managed to find a space about halfway from the front doors. Together, the four of us made our way into the school, down the hallway to the art classroom, and inside.

There were dozens of canvas lined up along the walls, grouped in threes in the middle of the room. I spotted several of Michael's classmates—the few I'd seen while dropping the boys off in the morning. Most of them were clutching the hands of their parent, or parents, but all of them looked excited and proud.

"Hello, Michael," his teacher, Alec, greeted us by offering Michael his hand, which he took. "You look exceptionally dapper tonight."

"Thank you," Michael beamed. "That is a good thing, right?"

Alec laughed. "Yes, sir. It means you look neat and clean, very elegant."

"Oh, okay, well, my mom made me take a shower before I could get dressed. She said I smelled like the ocean, like that's a bad thing," he explained.

Alex chuckled softly and shifted his attention from Michael to me. "Well, thank goodness for mothers." He smiled as he looked around the room, gesturing to the far corner. "I think your mom would like to see your painting, Michael. You know where it is."

"Okay, Mr. O'Malley." Michael tightened his grip on my hand before tugging me through the crowd of parents. He stopped a foot or so away from his painting, which had a white towel covering. "Are you ready, Momma?"

"I am," I said, unsure why I was so nervous.

Michael reached over and gave the towel a gentle tug, causing it to slip off. I gasped, my hand slipping from his as both of mine came up to cover my lips. Michael had painted me, my picture. I was seated in the sand just outside of our cottage. My hair was blowing behind me and my eyes were closed, but I was smiling.

"Do . . . do you like it?" he asked, his voice wavering with uncertainty.

"Like is a bit of an understatement," I whimpered. It wasn't a perfect painting and it was clear that it was painted by a child, it was incredible and beautiful. Michael had a real talent, just like his father. "It's beautiful."

"Thank you," he murmured and when I looked down at him, I saw tears in his eyes and reached for him, pulling him into my embrace. "That's how I see you. How I wish you were all the time instead of being sad."

"I want to be like that," I whispered, no longer caring that the two of us were standing in the middle of the room, sobbing. "More than anything."

Michael stepped away from me, using the back of his hands to wipe the tears away. "Then don't give up again. If you don't, I won't. Deal?"

Smiling through the tears, I nodded. "Deal."

"Let's, um, let's go look at some other paintings," Carlisle suggested, giving me a look that said I needed to take a minute and collect myself.

Silently agreeing, I avoided eye contact with everyone and slipped out of the room, leaning against the wall in the hallway. Michael saw me through the eyes of a child. To him, I had always been carefree and fun, spirited and playful. Where had that Bella gone? Felt like three lifetimes had passed since I last felt the freedom to just be me.

"Bella."

At the sound of Alice's voice, I snapped my attention to my right, surprised to see her, Esme, Emmett, and Rose standing ten yards away from me. "What are you doing here?"

"We came to see Michael's painting," she said. "Carlisle told us he'd like us here, so . . ."

I nodded. "Well, then you'd better head inside. Don't want to disappoint him."

"He can wait a few minutes," Emmett said. "How are you?"

"How am I?" I murmured. "I'm a hot mess, which you'd know if you hadn't turn your back to me."

"Well, maybe it you hadn't runaway, we wouldn't have to," Emmett mumbled.

"Runaway?" I scoffed, shaking my head. "You would see it like that."

"What would you call it?" Rose asked. "You just left, Bella. Left us here to handle your shit!"

I gapped at her. "My . . ." Shaking my head, I took a few steps toward them. "First of all, there are children on the other side of that wall that don't need to learn to curse. Second, this isn't the time nor the place for this. Third, none of you, not a single one, understand why I left, what I'm going through, or how I feel. If you want to be here for my children, that's great, but don't you dare stand there and judge me. When you're ready to talk, call me, but until then, just pretend I don't exist anymore."

Turning, I walked back to the doorway of the classroom, but paused and shifted my attention to them. "I miss you. Miss you so much it hurts. You're my family, you know? I just never thought I'd lose you, too."

Leaving them standing there, I reentered the room, put a smile on my face, and went to support my son. He needed me to be happy again, and I'd do everything I could to give him that, if only for one night.