It's been a hot minute. I was in the phase of hating just about every single thing I wrote... and in my last year of uni (I'm so stressed I can't even). So here it is. Thank you for every reader, every review, favourite, and follow. It gives me the motivation to update and go on with my story.
Enjoy!
Saturday
Chlorinated water lapped at her forearms, the combination of coldness and faux warmth from the skin's familiarity with the temperature was always something that felt like home. She had known how to swim most her life, introduced through dog-style swimming until an instructor was hired to teach her how to do it properly. The high-pitched squeals and laughter were also familiar – she was a part of it once, before she understood it only made her energy depreciate a little faster. They came all the way from the shallow pool area, one of three, with a horde of guards and nannies standing around making sure their heads stayed above the water level.
Insistent beeping interrupted her nostalgia, her head immediately snapping up to look at the source – the bag she left by the chaise lounge. Swimming closer to the side, she placed her palms down shoulder width and heaved the rest of her torso up. Cold water trickled down her stomach, hips, and thighs, navy swimsuit quickly repelling the liquid as she automatically swiveled in place to sit herself, knees to toes still in the water. Morning air viciously attacked her bare skin, biting and nipping her drenched form sending shivers down her spine. It would probably be another week, or two, if lucky, before the weather got too cold to swim.
Bridget's eyes followed that of her boyfriend's lean body as he swam from the opposite end, watched his feet pulling up to the surface for a moment before quietly slapping down, diving under the water. His butterfly strokes were mesmerizing, compelling her to ogle with unabashed admiration; his kicks expertly streamlined, propelling him forward with seemingly little effort since his breathing was controlled and quiet - a result of tenuous practice and exercise. The muscles in his arms contracted each time it appeared above the waterline, the tendons in his back and stomach following suit before they bent down again. The speed he was reaching her at was impressive.
She listened to the ringtone cycling twice more as she dried her hands on a towel before picking up. "Bridget Wilson."
"Good morning, Ms. Wilson, this is Jennifer calling from Rachel Clarke's office. I'm calling to remind you that you have an appointment today."
Charles reached the end of the pool by the second sentence, heaving himself up to sit and have a breather out of the water's pressure. His aquamarine eyes found hers quickly, head tilting to the side. Everything fine? She waved her hand dismissively, turning around to continue the conversation.
"Yeah, 3 p.m. right?"
"Actually, she might be running a little late today so I'm moving your appointment to 3.30, is that okay?"
She wracked her brain for any extra activities she might have planned after four o'clock. "It's okay, I'll be there."
"Great, thank you for confirming. Have a good day, Ms. Wilson."
"Thanks, have a good day." She pressed end, jumping slightly when a shadow settled above her, Charles proceeded to take a seat on the lounge, stretching himself on the chaise and beckoning her to join. Raising an eyebrow, she peered around the deep-end area, finding the audience group diminishing by the second as the sun started to rise - a time-up for all the early swimmers, stuffed her phone back to the side pocket of her bag before crawling over his body, careful not to trample anything - not that he would mind since they've done much more than 'trampling' in the twelve months they have been together. Charles' hand reflexively wrapped around her waist, the other gently taking in her face, brushing his lips against hers. Chest to chest, she took notice of his heartbeat, still strong from the swim, thrumming out of sync with hers. Her eyes drooping, she placed her arms on his sides hugging him, resting her head on his shoulder facing his neck, breathing in the scent of chlorine and feeding off his body heat as much as she knew he was. Swimming, like any other sport, always left her feeling lazy and tired, and she couldn't resist Charles' suggestion of a power nap. Combined with early sun shining down her back, it was a pack of efficiency.
"Have you been sleeping well?"
"Mmhm, I've been good." She lightly hummed in remorse, dreading the looming fact that this was what she would lose when they broke up; the familiarity and understanding of each other's character, knowing tics and tact, the openness of talking out problems, matching up schedules to meet in-between. She loved their dynamic, the convenience and relief of having someone on the beck-and-call, subtly filling in the spot her parents vacated and her close friends couldn't fit into.
It was her most grown-up relationship as of yet, and as a level-headed being, she was reluctant to let it go. On the other hand, they were born and bred a trust-fund baby, a mystical species that always, always had the 'wait' option. They could afford more time when it came down to it; to wait a year or five after school for college, to enjoy recklessness of youth for a bit longer before settling down in the office, and even to have a life partner. If not now, then maybe in the future they could reconsider the relationship. That was how they were raised to think.
Her belief in the 'wait' option had cracked ever so slightly under the pressure of her parents' untimely death, but didn't erase the principle she was brought up with. She could afford the breakup physically - not having a definite date to take to formal events or not having someone to help take care of her car, but mentally? Knowing that she didn't have the right to call him at three a.m. because her bad dream gave her paranoia was quite a sad thought.
"Are you thinking about Jade's request?" Charles' voice lowered to a whisper, tugging a strand of damp blonde lock behind her ear.
Her musing was abruptly cut short.
She placed a hand on his chest, looking up, blinking and forcing herself to focus on the blue brilliance of his eyes. Her eyes narrowed. "What?" her voice hardened even though she knew Steven would be the ever good cousin and told Charles what had been going on.
"You've been contemplating." His fingers traced her open back, soothing the stiffening muscles. "I've been doing the same." His tone was even and light, not like discussing the weather, but in control of a situation that could very easily get out of hand. He had given this conversation a thought – something she deeply appreciated about Charles. They both stood on the more serious end of the spectrum of personality, and Bridget found early on that not many boys she'd met were on the same boat. Most teased her relentlessly – and though she understood it was one technique of flirting, and it was nice when they gave just the right amount of jest to show their attention, they didn't realize it didn't bode well with her when it kept going on and on. Her person had gone through a change of understanding when she was orphaned that she tended to read into things a little too deeply. Being upset and uneasy over simple things were just a couple of the ramifications.
Her stomach tied in a knot as she thought forward. She could easily and readily admit that Charles had been a pyre she leaned on from the first time they met and recognized their mutual interest. He was good, and Pa liked him for treating her right. Taking that away was a little more complicated than ripping off a Band-Aid.
Living in a suburb where people sailed and played golf to socialize, wore argyle daily, and gossip ladies group were tight was an ample condition for news mill to run like wildfire. Bridget had no doubt that she would be put on sale by Monday like a catalogue. Mr. and Mrs. Hearst would chip in a good word of what a daughter-like girlfriend she had been and how she had changed their son's ways, they just unfortunately couldn't get through this one, Mrs. Hearst would say. In their society, a year was a respectable length to end a relation and shush any third-party gossip surrounding the breakup. It was what 'professionally single' stood for in Jade's dictionary.
The lazy cloud that hung over her had completely blown away now. She finally said, "And the conclusion you've come to is...?"
"We can't move forward." The apologetic tone in his reply was so familiar to her that she knew his lips was going to turn down at the corners and he would say, "I'm sorry."
"Don't be." Cupping his chin with her forefinger she said, "We tried." With a defeated sigh she plopped back down, kissing the side of his jaw that said what she couldn't say. Thank you. "We didn't even fight," she murmured.
Charles chuckled. "We're a tad too intelligent to resolve to that."
She snickered. "True."
"Come on, I'll drive you to the center." He sat up, leisurely hoisting Bridget up by her waist and leading them to the shower area.
Turned out, she did have something to talk to Rachel about. Albeit it hurt like hell.
Monday
A multitasker on a subconscious level. That's what she is, Edward decided.
She was… confusing at best. Hyper-critical with details and a closet genius when it came to scenario-making. He had a partiality for intelligent people – which was nothing surprising, given the knowledge he had acquired in time. He was almost basking in her singularity, especially when she would suddenly disappear from his radar and he couldn't track her down, as if he was on a bicycle and her a Mustang. Way too quick. His mind's feet would scramble in consternation to look for her. Then he would find her music, mostly a full rendition of Mozart or Beethoven with near-perfect accuracy, and he would find her exactly where she'd always been. Just there.
The worst part would be when she seemingly 'wake' and asked herself, where was I? in her humorously dry tone, and a distant nevermind would follow.
He'd feel like pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration because he pondered on the same thing, and it wasn't daydreaming. He could see daydreams. Bridget's consciousness seemed to go 'poof' and then pop back whenever convenient with an orchestra drill.
Singular, indeed.
"Good morning, Edward." The dry tone came back, now in a tangible form of expression. His eyes flickered downward to find green – no, they were more blue today, eyes looking back. Brown, lime green, and azure blue were constantly fighting for dominance in Bridget's stare.
"Good morning," he replied.
"What are you here for today?" Her mind filled with various meetings with him over the past few weeks. They didn't usually meet this day this time. He hummed.
"Turning in assignments." He pointed at his bag, feigning annoyance. She nodded in understanding. "How about you?"
"I have a class to assist." She jiggled the stack of paper and files in her hands. They were piano music scores.
His eyebrows raised. She did have a job. "You're a TA? But you're not a music student."
She grinned and lovely was the only adjective that came to mind. It offered a rare sight on her countenance and he couldn't help himself from reciprocating, even if it paled in comparison. "I grew up under Leroy's apprenticeship – my technique is pretty much his, so he asked me to assist when I applied here; Mostly to play examples and coach privately sometimes." Her tone painted a clear picture of her fondness of the man and reminiscent of her childhood. He didn't need to peek to confirm that.
Philippe Leroy, now Professor Leroy was an admirable performer, especially during his prime touring days in his thirties. For reasons unknown to the public but clear as day to Edward, Leroy preferred sharing his knowledge this past decade. Another layer of information to add to one Bridget Wilson, who could apparently afford hiring a professional classical pianist to teach her from zilch. His surprise must be clear on his face. He knew her family was well-off, but to that degree…?
"Do you play?"
He paused himself from responding with an automatic 'yes'. He'd been asked the same question dozens of times before, and it always signified a beginning.
It occurred to him, as it always did, that there was an idealistic relationship he had a direct hand in building right this moment. The chance opened up with the phone number exchange, an affirmation to his request, but the information-digging started here. He felt cornered for a moment, which was an incredibly hypocritical and selfish thought since he was the one demanding for her company like an adolescent child demanding for their mother. He had won a chase, so what happened next? There had never been a next before, since the day he woke anew. Edward Masen was forever a teen-aged boy in that sense, unwilling to return the favor other people showed him after he got what he wanted.
His phone beeped. Sending a sheepish look to Bridget (which she responded with a playful eye roll) he flipped it open. A text.
'Say yes.'
Alice. He heaved a huge internal sigh.
Another came in.
'For me.'
He snorted inaudibly. Something Emmett said flashed inside his head. When in doubt, let Alice decide. Emmett said it should be their family motto.
It seemed that his sister was still seeing a future of him entertaining false ideas about himself because another beep came.
'They couldn't, or you wouldn't?'
Now that was plain rude.
Edward distinctly remembered the one of very few moments Carlisle openly questioned his virtue. The balance was heavily skewed: Edward could order the best three-course-meal, from open to finish, for any human, yet they couldn't tell of his strict liquid diet. They couldn't, or you wouldn't? Edward hadn't provided an answer in the two decades it had been proposed.
If he was being honest and slightly self-degrading, the answer was: he wouldn't. And because he wouldn't, they couldn't. Was this meant to be a hint from Alice? After all, she was the one who peer-pressured him into going back to New York.
With his resolution solid he finally answered, "Yes. The piano." The dreaded personality reading through his music might not happen now, but if this did go the way Alice wanted it to, it might.
"Cool," Bridget replied nonchalantly. The length of her yellow skirt swished when she turned to him. Her eye-contact was very telling; as much pain the tragedies in her life caused her, her confidence when directly addressing people never wavered. "Is there any chance you'd be interested to see me assist? It's romantic era today."
He smiled at her offer. Bridget was trying, too. He could sense her discomfort at handing him an incorporeal ticket to witness one of her quirks, and yet she did it without a tell in her expression that she was anxious. "Of course." She returned his smile and went back to guide him to said class. "When did you start playing the piano?"
"When I was six. I'm Leroy's first student after he stopped performing professionally." They started their hike up the stairs. "I wasn't interested in performing, so that's a waste of good teaching, but it's still a hobby."
A hobby. He could relate to that. "It's not a waste if you're still playing."
She shook her head, breath coming in pants from the exertion. "You're sweet, Cullen. But you're not my boyfriend." You don't always have to be nice went unsaid. There was lingering bitterness in her smile.
If only he was privy to that information without brutally invading her privacy. The plan she formed in her mind estimated that the ladies' gossip wouldn't reach Esme until at least this afternoon, so he would have to wait until at least tomorrow to bring up the topic of 'cheering up'. Human society rules of propriety was tedious and time-consuming.
"Anyway…" She broke him out of his human-demeaning thoughts by sharply pulling on the sleeves of his left hand. "Welcome to Music History." She pushed open the double-doors that led into the auditorium.
Thank you for your reviews:
BarbyChan4ever, Youthless
Youthless: I completely agree with you on the OC preference, and thank you, I'm flattered. Xx