Chapter 18.
I wait in line at the cashier, grocery basket in one hand, when my phone starts ringing. Edward's name flashing on my screen brings a smile to my face.
"Hey," I answer, while I move up the line. The store is rather crowded, for six on a Thursday afternoon, but it's the only one that's on my way home from work.
"Isabella, hi." He greets me in his traditional fashion — it makes my stomach tingle. "How are you?"
"Okay, just stopping for some groceries on my way home. You?"
"So... I'm in Munich," he says nervously.
I subconsciously take a look around the store. "What do you mean?"
"What do you mean what do I mean?" He chuckles. "Munich, the Bavarian capital. I'm here."
"Why?" I'm surprised, confused even, but an involuntary smile spreads on my face. He's here.
"Uhh… Just have some things to deal with."
"How long are you staying?" Will I get some time to see you?
"Leaving tomorrow afternoon."
"God, why didn't you tell me sooner?"
"It just sort of happened... I didn't want to impose. Are... are you busy tonight?"
He sounds shy. It's the most adorable thing ever.
"Yes. I have very important plans tonight."
"Oh..." He sounds deflated. I stifle some giggles into my hand. "It's okay then, no worries."
"I mean, I guess I could cancel my eating-in-front-of-the-TV date... but just for you."
He laughs through his nose. I can hear it through the phone. It's his shy laugh. I could bet my first salary he's staring at his feet.
"Do you want to hang out? It's nice out, we could-"
"I'd rather keep a low profile."
"Oh, well... I was going to make dinner at my place. I guess I can add an extra plate."
"That sounds great," he says, and he sounds... relieved? Excited?
I give him my address and we agree he'll be there in an hour.
Edward is in Munich, and he'll be at my place in one hour!
One look at my sparse grocery basket has me rushing right back into the store.
~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~
I have the chicken cooking in a skillet, the water boiling for the fettuccini, and the Alfredo sauce simmering, when he knocks on my door.
I check quickly, making sure I haven't spilled anything on myself, before I open the door and there he is. I barely had time to get out of my work clothes and take a quick shower, so jeans and a t-shirt is, unfortunately, the best I could come up with for tonight.
Edward stands at my door, all leather jacket and perfectly gelled hair and bright eyes and smile lines stretching on his face. He looks good — pristine as usual — but more importantly, well rested.
"Isabella." He nods, lifting his hand where a wine bottle and a baguette hang from.
"Hi..." I take the bottle and bread from him. "Thank you."
"Smells delicious," he says as he comes in, unzipping his jacket.
"Are you hungry?" I set the wine and the bread on the counter, turning to look at him.
"Starving," he replies instantly, his eyes boring into mine, weakening my knees.
It takes me a few seconds to be able to look away from his eyes. "It will only be a few more minutes." I distract myself giving the sauce a little stir. Through the corner of my eye I see his hands reaching for his hips as he takes a look at my tiny apartment.
"Nice place," he says, folding his jacket over the couch. "Can I help with anything?" He comes closer to the kitchen island, the black v-neck he's wearing fits him just perfectly... stretching just a bit over his chest... it's very distracting.
"Sure..." I shake my head. "Want to take care of the wine?" I fish in the drawer for the corkscrew and then around the counter, on my tiptoes, reach for two wine glasses, which I set on the counter in front of him. His eyes are intently on me, and I self-consciously push the hair that has come out of my ponytail behind my ears.
He smiles — my smile — making me impossibly more flustered still.
"I also have some cranberry juice, if you prefer," I tease, needing the distraction myself.
He rolls his eyes at me, shaking his head, but the corners of his lips stretch anyways. "Wine is fine."
I busy myself in the kitchen, finishing up dinner, and he takes a seat on the stool in front of the counter. He sips at his wine, his eyes on me. I have no choice but to give him something else to do, otherwise I'll end up burning myself, or dinner, or both.
Once he's slicing the bread, I take a sip of my wine and try to relax.
He sets the table then, while I serve the plates, and he makes small chit chat about Jacob Black also being in Munich receiving treatment for his injury. Now that Bayern Munich has qualified for the Champions League Final as well, it will be Jacob's current and future teams playing against each other in the final. Edward says the media is going crazy and that is why he wanted to just stay indoors for the time being. He's still very neutral about the whole Jacob drama, but he's afraid things are starting to get ugly within the rest of the team.
"I think," he continues, folding the napkins on the table. "They won't let him play for the final."
"Who's they?"
"Bayern..."
"Oh..."
"And that would definitely change things for some of the guys." He takes another sip of his wine, his eyes never leave mine. "I personally think his head won't be in that game anyways, so even though it would be a huge loss for us, if that's the case, I'd rather he doesn't play."
"Wow..." I set the plate in front of him, and then mine next to him.
"Okay, enough about football," he says, taking his seat. "This looks delicious, Isabella." He grabs his fork excitedly, I could almost kiss him.
No one's ever been this eager for my cooking before. And it's just Fettuccini Alfredo!
I sit next to him, and eye him carefully as he digs in. He gets a forkful of pasta in his mouth, and after a couple chews, he looks up at me. I realize my fork is still in my hand but my food untouched. His eyes wide, his eyebrows raised.
I search my brain and try to remember if I even tasted the thing... did I forget the salt?
He swallows, and I watch his thumb swipe at the corner of his lips, cleaning the smudge of sauce there. I swallow hard, my throat going instantly dry at the sight of his tongue peeking out to lick his finger.
He lets out a little groan, and as I'm still moronically staring at him, he frowns. "Are you not eating? You're missing out."
"Do you like it?"
"Do I like it?" He seems appalled by my initial question. "Best spaghetti I've ever had!"
"It's fettuccini." I can't help but laugh and shake my head at him, which helps to release some tension.
"Right..." He smiles. "So, tell me about your job," he says, before digging into his plate again. He's either very hungry, or he really liked it, because I only get a few sentences about work in when he's already finished his plate, and is cleaning it dry with bread.
His eyes make it to the stove behind me and then back.
"Would you like some more?" I ask through a giggle.
He nods apologetically, and I smile. As I start to get up to get him seconds, his hand is on my arm. "Let me," he insists and he's off his chair and into the kitchen.
He gets another plate of pasta and has more salad after that, while I still finish my plate and tell him about work.
He leans back on the chair, his hands linking behind his head, and exhales, looking at me. "That was delicious, thank you."
"You might need a nap after that," I joke.
"Nah, I'm good." He smiles at me, and I can't help but reciprocate. We stare at each other for a few seconds until the intensity of his gaze proves to be too much.
"So, what are you doing in Munich?" I blurt out. I've been thinking about it since he called me. Why would he be here all of the sudden without mentioning it to me at all yesterday?
He takes a deep breath, his face turning serious immediately. He sits back up, and with both elbows on the table now, stares right back at me.
"Okay..." he says, I'm not sure if to himself or to me, but then he stalls. He drops his head as his hand scratches his neck.
Oh, this is bad. His shoulders tense as he struggles to tell me this.
"Is everything okay?" An uneasy feeling starts creeping through me. What could this possibly be about?
"I'm meeting a specialist tomorrow," he finally says.
"A specialist?"
"Yes, because Dr. Braun will not clear me to play for the final." There's an edge to his voice... anger... frustration.
And then I know.
"Your hip's gotten worse," I guess, and he nods.
When his eyes meet mine, they scream apologies at me.
"You said everything went fine," I say accusingly, but now that I think about it, of course he would say he was fine.
"I didn't want you to worry," he confirms.
"You should have had that surgery months ago!"
"Isabella, I won't miss the final." His words are as hard as his resolve.
"This is insane!" I feel my eyes fill with tears. He's putting himself through excruciating pain for this one chance at greatness and it terrifies me to my bones.
"Hey, listen… I can do this." He reaches for my hand over the table. "I've made it this far... I can hang on for three more weeks. I will be fine."
"But you don't have to. There will be other chances."
"Will there? I'll be 28 in June, Isabella. This could be my one last chance. When are we going to reach the Champions League Final again?"
"It's possible... I don't know... You're putting everything on the line for this."
"I already need the surgery, and I'll probably be out for months after that." He lets go of my hand, sitting back on the chair. "That's not going to change."
"But it's been getting worse... You were in so much pain yesterday and-"
"Please, Isabella." He rubs his forehead, closing his eyes. He breathes hard a couple times. "I need to do this. I'm not going to give up. I need... I need you... I need you to believe I can do this. I can't... I can't convince you too."
I can see that he won't change his mind. Nothing will keep him from Wembley. And if I try to sway him, it's just going to make everything harder on him.
He needs this. He'll deal with the consequences afterward. And he needs someone to go through this with him. How can I not offer him my hand?
"Okay..." I reach for his hand on the table and run my fingers over his knuckles. "It's okay."
He peeks at me from over his hand as he holds his head up. It takes him a few seconds and a couple of breaths to get rid of the vulnerability on his features. Clearing his throat, he straightens his pose. He's about to shut me out, but I won't let him.
"I'll back you up on this, but..." I say, tightening my grip on his hand. "You have to be honest with me, okay?"
"Okay." He nods in approval.
"Are you scared about tomorrow?" Is my first of many questions.
"Only about not being able to convince him," he answers concisely but sincerely.
I can accept that. "Are you okay right now?"
"I'm not in any pain, if that's what you're asking. I have good days and bad days that are of course made worse with activity. Today definitely counts as a good day. Only a dull discomfort... but it's way in the back of my mind at the moment."
He's very clinical about what he's saying, but it's the most he's ever told me about his injury, so I take it.
"But you're not playing this Saturday, are you?"
"I'm not... but I can't just not play or train until the final. Three weeks is too long. I need to keep my match fitness."
I sigh. He'll still play two more games before the final.
"I'll take it easy on those two, I promise."
"Does that help?" The question slips from me before I'm even sure I can bear the answer.
"Sure it does. The more intensely I work, the worse it is the next day."
I stare at my hands, unable to find any comfort in his words.
Although I'm glad he's now talking to me about it, thinking about how much pain he was in yesterday, and the fact that he is purposely prolonging this to make it to the final, it's a bit overwhelming.
To think he'll do it again, for two more games, and then the final...
I can't even think about it anymore...
Sensing I need a change of subject, he gets up from the table. "I think I should be on dishwashing duty. Given how hard you worked on dinner."
"It wasn't that hard..." I say as he takes my plate from in front of me.
"Still, I insist."
"Okay..." I get up, taking one last sip of my wine. It's started to warm me up already, and I am thankful for the bit of tension it takes away from me. "I soap, you rinse?"
"Deal."
We work side by side in front of the sink; the half in front of me filled with soapy water, his half with the water running as he rinses the dishes. I can't help but look at his forearms as I pass him the skillet, and how his muscles tense when he grabs it.
In my distraction, the glass slips through my fingers into the soapy water, splashing some foam and bubbles on me. I laugh as some of it gets on my face. I try wiping it with my arm since my hands are covered in soap.
"Here," he says, drying his hands with the kitchen towel, and then using his thumb to wipe the foam from my cheek. "Let me..."
My laugh dies in my throat as his thumb lingers on my cheek longer than expected, while his eyes bore into mine.
He slowly leans forward, the distance between us disappearing. I'm paralyzed, my skin burning under his touch. Wetting his lips, he closes his eyes, inching closer to my face.
A breath comes out through his nose as he touches his lips softly, so softly, onto mine.
He pecks my lips a second time, before pulling back. His eyes search mine, testing me, trying to figure me out — asking if this is okay.
It's not.
But I'm not strong enough to resist him any longer.
I'm not even surprised at myself when my hand closes around the neck of his tee, and I pull him down to me. A moan escapes his lips when my lips connect with his. I don't manage the softness he achieved before... I'm on my tiptoes, pressing myself on him as he grabs onto the counter for life.
A whimper erupts from my chest as he slips his tongue into my mouth, and I melt in his hands as he holds me even tighter.
A part of me is screaming to finally allow myself to feel this. He's been here... all of this time. Right... here.
But the rational part of me knows why this is wrong.
As soon as I think of his name, I'm paralyzed.
Emmett...
The fist that is still grabbing onto Edward's shirt is now pushing him away. It only takes a single, soft nudge and his lips are off mine immediately, as if he was waiting for me to stop him.
He drops his forehead on mine, breathing hard. His right hand back on the counter next to me, while the other one moves up to cup my face.
"Do you want me to stop?" he asks, his voice strained, still panting. His heart feels like it will jump out of his chest and into mine.
"No... but I need you to." I try to be as honest as I can.
He pushes off of me completely and takes a few steps away. He now has both hands on the counter and his head drops between his arms.
"We can't do this..." I whisper, a finger on my lips, which still burn for him, while my other hand is at my stomach, trying to convince myself that I'm still in one piece.
He remains quiet. His arms tense with the force he's using to hold himself up.
"Edward, you're his best friend." Just hearing me say the words feels dirty.
How could we do this to Emmett? He does not deserve this.
Finally his head snaps up. "I know that..." he starts, pushing himself off the counter and looking at me. "I've fought this, Isabella. You don't know how hard... or for how long. But I did... I have... But…" He groans, running a hand through his hair. "He knows."
"What do you mean he knows?" My voice is barely a whisper in horror.
"He knows how I feel... about you."
"What?! How... when?" My eyes are filling with tears again, to the thought of Emmett thinking we've betrayed him like this.
Edward walks closer to me, his eyes full with worry.
His hand reaches for my face but it doesn't even meet my skin before he drops it back to his side. "I swear to you, this is not what I came here to do. I... I've carried this world of regret on my shoulders for what I should have done four years ago."
The well-rested, relaxed Edward that arrived on my doorstep about an hour ago is gone. In front of me now is a troubled man, torn... a reflection of how I feel inside.
"If I'm too late… Isabella, I understand... If you're still in love with him, I promise you, I'll stay away..." His hand makes it to his hip again before he adds. "I've had a lot of practice."
"I don't want you to stay away." I can't lie to myself anymore. I feel alive when I'm with Edward. That kiss is the first time I've burned like a woman in months. "But... I love Emmett."
Edward shoulders slump, his head drops as he looks down, and his hand makes it to his chest.
I take a step closer to him, but he shuts his eyes tightly, turning his face away from me. "I'm not in love with him anymore," I say, reaching for his face. "But I don't want to hurt him."
My hands cup his face as I make him face me, but when his eyes peek at me, the pull to kiss him again is so strong, I drop my hands at my sides.
This is wrong... so wrong.
"I don't want to hurt him either," he says after taking a deep breath. "But this… what I felt when you kissed me…. If there's any chance that you feel the same way, then I won't be able to fight it anymore."
"This is crazy, Edward. How would it work? You're his friend, his teammate. You two work together!" Tears threaten to fall from my eyes, and I wipe them before they do.
"Isabella..." He moves closer, but I take a step back.
"I don't think I can do this," I say, refusing to look at him holding one hand up. I feel split in two, one half needing to just wrap my arms around him, the other needing him to go.
He listens... to one half at least.
"I'm so sorry," he whispers, turning around and heading for the couch.
"Edward, wait..."
"I think I should go." He grabs the jacket from the arm of the couch and turns to look at me. He's done a great job composing his face, all trace of hurt and worry gone. But when he weakly smiles, I can see it... that's not my smile.
"You don't have to," I say, even though I don't know how I would survive if he stays.
"I do," he says from the door. "It's okay." He tries for another smile, but it looks worse than the first. He knows it. He knows I know it, so he desists. "Thank you for dinner." Then he disappears behind my door, only leaving behind the lingering weight of his absence.
~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~
A/N: * hides *