Going on hiatus for a while. It's nerve-wracking writing something different! Leaving you with the next 5 chapters.
8
I didn't know exactly why this kink of mine existed or where it came from.
It seemed to appear out of thin air when Edward and I were trying for a baby. Trying to build a family.
It was almost like my failure to give him a child made certain insecurities come out that I hadn't experienced in a very long time.
Like I wasn't enough for him.
Like maybe one day he'd leave me and want more.
Instead of digging deeper into my abandonment issues, I found my insecurities morphing into strange arousal anytime Edward and other women interacted.
Maybe in a fucked-up way, my kink was to gain control of my situation and to let Edward explore without straying from me or leaving me for good.
The problem with sharing him with Maria was that I didn't gain control—I lost it. When round two started, I had no part in it. Zero connection. Edward had total control of that situation with how he reacted and what he did, and I was left helpless.
Part of me wanted to assume the kink was because we needed to spice things up. After being in failed baby-making mode, sex needed to be fun again.
It needed to be spontaneous, dirty, and raw.
Not clinical with the end goal of getting pregnant.
But deep down I think I knew these strange, erotic thoughts I had stemmed from something more. I just didn't want to delve into the why too deeply.
The first time I ever entertained the idea of Edward and another woman, we were out having drinks with Allie and Ben.
"Are we ready for one last round?" the attractive waitress had asked when she came over for the last call.
Everyone agreed, but Edward.
"Could I actually see the drink menu again?" he asked her.
"Oh! You didn't enjoy the last drink that I suggested?"
She practically pouted. I regarded her.
"Oh, no. It was great," Edward told her kindly. He was lying, though, because, after his first sip, he told me it was too bitter. He still drank it though because that's the appeasing man he was. He was never one to complain about food or drinks that were prepared for him. If a waiter brought him the wrong entree, he'd happily eat it, thank them, and overtip. "I just want to switch it up a little," he added to his lie.
"Of course," she said. "Let me go grab a menu."
She walked away. I don't know why, but I had the sudden urge to look over at Edward to make sure he wasn't looking at her ass in her tight skirt.
The strangest, most twisted pang of disappointment sunk in when I saw that he wasn't.
I should have been relieved.
But I wasn't.
It made zero fucking sense, but maybe I was looking for something to get mad at him about later.
When the waitress returned, she handed him the menu. I watched too closely and saw her fingers brush his.
It was nothing.
It was fine.
I mentally scolded myself, and I chalked it up to too much alcohol and hormones because I started my period days prior after getting back from Joshua Tree. Maybe I was feeling a little insecure because there had been some distance between Edward and me over the last two months. Between our schedules and my periods and not being on the same page about the future—there was some strain.
Edward quickly scanned the menu. "Which cocktail is your favorite?" he asked her, looking up.
My stomach twinged with delicious jealousy because he'd asked her that.
It was stupidly confusing.
He did that all the time—asked waiters and waitresses what their favorite item on the menu is. He did it earlier in the night at dinner, and the waitress gushed about the lobster ravioli with truffle sauce.
Edward ordered it.
He loved it.
Practically salivated over it.
This wasn't any different, but I'm not sure why it felt different.
Or maybe I did.
It was shallow of me, but maybe it was because this waitress was attractive, and the other wasn't. There wasn't a sense of jealousy because I felt no reason to be threatened. This waitress was young. Maybe mid-twenties. She was lean, and her legs were long, and we could see a lot of them.
Again, I'd stolen a glance at Edward to see if he was noticing her long limbs, her cleavage.
Yet again, he wasn't. His eyes were on her pretty face, waiting expectantly for her to share her favorite cocktail.
I realized after a beat that I didn't want him to be looking, so I could get mad. I think I wanted him to look because… I liked it.
"I can tell you my favorite, but maybe you can tell me what you like first," she replied, her eyes too intent on his face.
Yeah.
It felt coy.
Flirtatious.
She could've just said the drink she recommends and been done with it.
"I kind of like everything," Edward said in return, unfazed like he usually was about shit like this.
"Spicy? Bitter? Sweet? Dirty?" she wondered, and I watched her fingers toy with the hem of her tiny skirt before brushing her bare thigh. Maybe she did it to get his attention. Maybe she did it so he'd be fazed by her because this time his eyes did go there. But why wouldn't they? She purposely made him look. Fuck, I'm pretty sure we all looked.
I kept my cool.
I shifted on the couch a little. Felt confusing, sinful lust creeping in that this woman could steal my husband's attention.
"Hmm, I'm not that picky, honestly," Edward replied coolly. Unfazed again. Not falling for whatever she was playing at.
"If I had to pick something, I'd go with one of our añejo tequilas. They're smooth and sweet and meant for sipping, for taking your time with. My favorite." I knew she was saying the tequila was her favorite, but she was making it sound more suggestive than it needed to be, and I wanted to fucking slap her.
But then I also started to wonder how much more flirtatious she'd be if I weren't sitting here next to him, and a strange part of me liked it.
Edward looked at the menu.
"Oh, our tequila is listed on the back," she said, and instead of letting him flip it over himself as any normal person would, she leaned over, her chest fully on display, and she turned it for him.
He didn't look at her chest, but still.
I burned and burned and burned.
Because what the fuck?
Leaning over and flipping the menu for him was unnecessary.
So disgustingly seductive and blatant and… twistedly hot.
I squeezed my thighs together.
He picked her favorite tequila.
He loved it.
Practically salivated over it.
That was the first night I imagined Edward fucking another woman.
I pounced on him the moment we got home. I didn't tell him about my wicked thoughts, just used them to fuel my desire. I dropped to my knees and pulled down his jeans, sucking him off in the entryway.
I thought about the waitress doing it for him, growing wetter and wetter. His head was tipped back, and his eyes were clenched shut, and with his hand on the back of my head, he goaded me on.
Fuck yes. Fuck yes, that feels so good, baby.
I wondered if her mouth felt better. Could she go deeper? Could she do things with her tongue that I didn't even know about? Would he come in her mouth? Or maybe he wouldn't make her suck his dick at all. Maybe he'd make her keep her tiny skirt on and fuck her from behind like the dirty, needy slut she was.
Fuck.
Why did I want that? Why did I feel like I needed it? That carnal desire felt so fucking deep.
Edward pulled me off before he came from my mouth. He kept my dress on, frantically yanked my underwear down my thighs, pulled me up into his arms, and fucked me against the wall.
Hard, hard, hard.
With my legs tightly wrapped around his waist, he thrust up into me, pulling down my top, sucking a tit into his mouth, and rubbing my clit.
"Fuck, Bella," he said, low and breathy and strained against my neck.
He was thinking of me.
I was imagining he was fucking someone else.
It was sick and twisted, but I couldn't stop.
There was more passion between us than there had been in a while, and I loved it. Loved being close to him that way. I needed that connection, craved it, and it finally felt like we had it back.
After we both came, we were at it again half an hour later, this time slow and languid on the couch until we were crying out in unison.
And that time, I didn't think about anyone else but us.
9
At least I loved you.
Loved.
Past-tense.
I stew about it for days after our phone conversation. Well, if you can even call it a conversation. It was one-sided with Edward spewing venom and then hanging up.
Could I really expect him to love me after all this time, though? After everything we'd been through?
A week after he hangs up on me, a moving truck shows up at my rental house.
I'm confused and a little stunned.
"Bella Cullen?" the young man asks, consulting a clipboard and standing on my porch.
"Yes?"
"We're here to drop off some of your items."
I look past him, expecting to see Edward. Maybe even hoping to see him. But I see two more guys walking up the path and carrying boxes.
"Where should we put these?" one of them asks, peeking around the stack in his hands.
"Um… anywhere. Thanks," I tell him and they head into the house. I walk toward the truck and peer inside. Everything is perfectly piled up in the very back. Some furniture. A floor lamp. Boxes filled with unknown items that once meant everything.
Did Edward pack all of this up?
Did his hands touch my things for one last time?
Or did he pay the movers to do it all, uninterested in seeing everything I left behind?
Is my ring in one of these boxes?
Our wedding photo book?
Why did he send furniture? None of this is technically mine. I mean, we bought it together, but maybe he didn't want it anymore.
The movers walk up the ramp and grab more boxes, disappearing again inside my house.
I walk into the truck and head toward the back where all of my belongings are.
I find a coffee table we found at a consignment shop.
A mid-century desk we paid too much for.
And in the corner, I see it—an oversized, caramel leather armchair.
My heart stutters.
It's Edward's.
His chair.
It took him a year to find the perfect one. It had to be large enough. Deep enough. It had to be just the right amount of that already worn-in feeling while being new. He wanted a mixture of brown and orange. Tan? Cognac? No, make it caramel. I gave him so much shit over it, telling him to just choose one. But I secretly liked that he took his time. I loved that he didn't settle.
So, why is he giving it to me?
Memories rush in.
Edward lounging in it most nights. Me sitting with him, in his lap. Laughing and sharing our days and being brutally honest the way we once were.
This was the chair we sat in together when we decided we didn't want to try for a baby anymore. I said I just couldn't. It was taking a toll on me, on us, and he agreed. But he offered up options—fertility treatments? Adoption? If I wanted a baby, he wanted to make sure I had one. He wanted to give me whatever I wanted. But I told him I didn't want this to become us, and I didn't want it to overcome us. Another year of feeling distant from him didn't interest me. Another year of failed tests and doctor's appointments. It was time-consuming, and soul-sucking.
My honesty sparked his.
He said he didn't need a baby.
He just needed me.
With some tears and a kiss so tender and deep, it was settled.
If it happened, it happened.
If it didn't, it didn't.
We'd be okay either way.
So much pressure was taken off both of us at that moment, it felt palpable.
That chair was also the place I felt safe enough to mention my strange, erotic thoughts of him being with another woman. I was hesitant and worried to be so vulnerable. But I wanted to talk it out with him, to just… be honest. He listened without judgment as I talked about this fantasy of mine. He asked questions I tried to answer truthfully.
"Do you want me to actually have sex with someone else?" he nervously asked. "Because… I don't know if I could do that."
"No, I don't actually want that," I told him. "I just like the idea."
He looked relieved. "Do you want to sleep with another man?"
"Fuck no."
"The idea of me with another woman doesn't make you angry?"
"Surprisingly no."
"Jealous?"
"Yes, but… I like it. It's confusingly arousing."
There was a glint in his eyes when he asked the next question.
"Do you want to sleep with a woman, Bella?"
It hadn't crossed my mind actually. In the fantasies I was never participating, only watching. And I was okay with that. It was the voyeuristic aspect that I found intriguing and sexy. The idea of another woman pleasing him was what turned me on… not me with another woman.
So I told him that.
And then after many moments of hesitation, I gave him some examples of what I thought about.
Him and the waitress. The way she purposely brushed his hand and toyed with the hem of her skirt made me think of her dropping to her knees and sucking him off before he fucked her senseless from behind.
Him and his attractive hairdresser, Lauren. He'd gotten a haircut earlier that day, and the idea of her doing something as intimate as cutting his hair drove me insane. Her fingers, soft and delicate and lingering. Her, straddling him in the chair. His face pressed against her tits. And then fucking her right there.
Him and his colleague Maria. The way she kept him interested in sports conversation when we were all at a basketball game weeks prior. He tried to include me in the convo, but a lot of it was over my head. Eventually, all I could think about was the two of them disappearing to the public bathroom and fucking behind my back. Her back against the door, skirt pulled up, and legs around his waist while he fucked her hard.
Eventually, I got turned on telling about all of the things I thought about.
But he looked genuinely shocked by my words. And maybe even a little uncomfortable.
"I know it's weird…" I'd tried to excuse it, feeling worried. "I just… like it…"
After a beat, he slid his hand down the front of my jeans and felt how wet I was.
"Fuck, you actually do like this," he groaned.
"I do."
He started touching me, and then he got turned on, too, by how much I enjoyed imagining everything.
We undressed each other, and I straddled him before slowly sinking down onto his cock.
And that's how dirty-talk of him with other women became our kink, not just mine.
My eyes sting with tears now remembering everything. From realizing how stupid and naive we were.
Is this what he wanted? To send me this shit so I'd be assaulted by memories of us?
It feels cruel.
But maybe I've been cruel leaving him in our house alone, every corner haunted by me.
The movers come back onto the truck, laughing and goofing off. I move out of the way but stay in the back.
When I'm alone again, I sink into the leather chair.
It feels like butter.
It feels like home.
For a split second, I entertain the idea that Edward is moving. Is that why he sent me some of this stuff? Does he no longer have space?
But no. No, he can't. He can't sell our house because I'm still a co-owner.
Part of me feels satisfied he can't leave. That he's stuck, just like I am.
The other part of me feels deeply somber. Completely heartbroken. Just… fucking miserable.
If he wanted to not be stuck, he'd divorce me. We could deal with the house. We could separate our assets. We could move on.
It's the same way if I wanted him to sign the papers, I could make him.
But I don't.
I tell myself that it takes time and effort and energy. I don't want to deal with the court and lawyers.
In reality, I just can't stand the thought of not belonging to him.
So we'll stay stuck.
We'll stay apart because that's how we stayed tied together.
10
"So, I have some news," Allie says over FaceTime.
Your brother told you he was going to hire movers to drop off my shit? Yeah, I know, they arrived earlier today, and I've been in a funk ever since.
I think about it but don't say it.
Not everything is about me.
I told the movers to leave Edward's chair in the garage—I didn't want it inside. Three hours later I was struggling by myself to move it into the living room.
Now I'm fucking sitting in it.
"Good news or bad news?" I ask Allie because if it's going to be bad, I'm not sure I want to know.
She smiles. "Good. Really good."
We talk occasionally. Like once a week, maybe less.
When I first left Seattle, she was understandably upset. Her texts and voicemails and emails started off worried and progressively got more and more pissed. I avoided her for a couple of months. It was shitty but necessary for me.
When we did finally talk, she laid into me, and I took it. Listened to her yell, listened to her tell me how miserable and worried she was, and how I left her during the worst possible time of her life.
The timing of everything was kind of bad, I'll admit that.
I don't remember everything we talked about during that first phone call, but I do remember I asked about Edward. I just had to know how he was doing after I'd left.
But Allie just said, "I'm sorry, but he told me not to talk to you about him."
Well, that made me want to talk about him more. But he likely knew that. He likely told her to say that so I'd come crawling back.
Maybe I would have if he hadn't gone on the podcast tour with Maria.
According to my head and my heart and my pride, he'd made his choice. And it was her.
But that was fine because Allie said regardless of whether or not Edward and I were together, I was still family.
I was still her best friend.
And she was sorry for whatever happened between her brother and me to make me run away.
She had nothing to be sorry for, though.
I did.
It was all me, all me, all me.
But also… Edward, too.
In the beginning, Allie made many guesses as to why I left, and I could tell even as she asked that she didn't believe any of them could be true.
Edward cheated?
No.
Did you meet someone new?
No.
Did you fall out of love?
Fuck no.
Ugh.
That was the worst part—walking out on him with my heart ripping in two. But staying meant feeling sick to my stomach whenever I looked at him.
Or maybe the worst part was afterward. After he fucked Maria.
None of us had thought it through enough. We hadn't set real boundaries or expectations. That was the problem. Edward and I spoke about it privately, but the excitement and newness of what we were going to do overshadowed reality.
I knew the exact moment when he came. He didn't announce it. Didn't call her baby, like he did with me. Didn't compliment her, saying her pussy felt so goddamn good. I just heard his breath go ragged and watched his ass contract, his body going rigid as he spilled into her.
As sick as it was, I couldn't look away.
Would they kiss once they were facing one another? They hadn't before, not even once. I liked that. As stupid as it was, I liked that their lips never touched. That wasn't even a boundary we set, but it still didn't happen.
Knowing he didn't want to switch positions to see her face or kiss her kept me grounded for the time being.
It was what would help me walk out of the hotel room with some dignity.
Edward immediately pulled out of her, leaving no time for them to have a moment. And with the condom still on, he walked into the bathroom.
Maria sat up. She looked flushed. Beautiful. Freshly fucked by my husband.
He made her come first during sex. That was another thing I was grateful for, that they didn't come in unison. That was something only we did. A connection only for us.
I was looking for any silver lining to this black mark on our marriage.
"God," Maria sighed, stretching her arms above her head, her tits perky, her waist curvy.
I wanted to hurt her.
Wanted to stride across the room, roughly grab her by the face and tell her she'd never fucking see or touch him again.
But that would be an overreaction to something I agreed to, so I sat there naked and stunned.
Edward came back into the room, gently grabbed my face with both hands, and kissed me.
It brought me out of my stupor.
But he was still naked, and Maria was staring—at him, at me.
Edward searched my face. How could he not see? How could he not see in my expression that I wasn't okay?
"So, what now?" Maria asked, stealing his attention. "We could order room service."
On unsteady legs, I got up, reminding myself he didn't kiss her, he didn't kiss her, he didn't kiss her. I started getting dressed.
Thankfully, Edward took my lead and did, too.
"Um…" I started to say. With shaking hands, I'd gotten my underwear and bra on. Maria made her way over to me, still naked. "I'm not hungry," I told her.
"Are you leaving? I was hoping for another round later," she said, not even coy or flirty, just honest. Her eyes drifted toward Edward who was almost dressed. "We have the room for the night. Might as well make use of it?" Her gaze was on me again. "I'll share him with you, I promise."
My cheeks burned. I burned. But not with that delicious feeling of arousal. I burned with hot, vicious jealousy. The fucking audacity that she'd think about sharing my husband with me—his fucking wife.
Could I even blame her, though? We asked her to be a part of this. She was getting a good deal—getting fucked by an attractive man and walking away, no strings attached. Now I wondered if she wanted more. I mean, she was asking for a third go with Edward. That wasn't part of the deal. This entire fantasy was such a turn-on before when we all talked about it. Now I couldn't cut the string fast enough.
"Or maybe we can share you?" Maria prompted, her fingers brushing my arm.
Edward looked at me for… approval?
"We could stay a little longer," he suggested.
I felt sick.
And I was pissed.
But then he added, "I'll only take care of you, baby…" He must have noticed that I wasn't able to touch myself at all when they were fucking. Maybe he did look at me.
"Or we can both take care of you," Maria chimed in, smirking. Weasling her way back into the scenario.
"You can stay," I told Edward, fuming. "I'll go."
He looked shocked for the first time tonight. "That's not happening, Bella. If you're done, I'm done, too."
"I definitely don't want either of you to go," Maria said huskily. "I mean… aren't you a little curious to be with a woman?" Her eyes dipped to my chest.
"I don't think so," I muttered, fighting the bile that rose in my throat.
"We're gonna call it a night," Edward said to her, only looking her in the eyes, maybe finally catching on that something was wrong.
That was just the beginning of our problems, though.
I let the memory fade away and wished it'd stay gone for good.
"Is that Edward's chair?" Allie asks now, forcing me to focus on our conversation.
I'm quiet. I stare at her on the screen and swear her eyes light up.
"Yes," I say, daring her to call me out. Daring us to talk about him when we're not supposed to. She doesn't bite. "Sorry, I zoned out. What's your news?"
"I met someone." Her eyes are sparkling even more so now. "His name is Jasper. He's thirty-three, an architect, funny, charming."
I'm taken aback for a moment. "How and when did this happen?"
"I joined a dating app like, a couple of months ago. We were taking it slow, but he asked if we could only see each other, no one else. Which, let's be real, I wasn't even dating anyone else to begin with."
Allie and Ben divorced almost a year and a half ago because she found out he cheated on her basically the entire time they were together. Before they were even married, too.
That's the other reason why I refuse to tell Allie what happened to my marriage. How do you tell your best friend who was cheated on that you willingly let your husband—her brother—fuck another woman… in front of you?
You don't.
You stew in your misery and mistakes alone.
But at least now I have Edward's chair to wallow in.
11
The chair becomes a safe space of sorts… again.
I eat my one meal a day in it.
Drink wine in it in the evenings… which leads to passing out in it.
It's not super comfortable to sleep in, but it's not like I sleep any better in my bed, anyway.
I'm productive in it, too, though. On my laptop, I edit photos, reply to clients, and book future flights. Make future plans.
What I don't do is cyberstalk Edward.
I've had his chair for two weeks, and I still haven't reached out.
But neither has he.
Allie, however, does.
It's not FaceTime or a call, but a text.
Allie: Jasper and I will be in LA next week, from Thursday to Sunday. Would LOVE to see you.
I "heart" the message, but that's it.
I sit on it for a day.
It would be great to see her.
But why will she be here? It seems soon in her relationship to be traveling with Jasper. Feels too soon for me to be face-to-face with her again, too.
Despite my instincts, I tell her that I'll be busy next weekend with a few shoots, but since I'm not traveling out of town, we can probably find some time to meet up for dinner or drinks.
Keep it vague; leave it open.
The less she knows, the less she can report back to Edward if she does at all.
I never gave her the stipulation of keeping my name out of her mouth while speaking to him. But for some reason, I get the feeling that she offers me the same respect that she does him—silence.
It should be golden, but it just feels dark. Lonely.
I both love and hate it.
Allie replies right away with a pink heart emoji.
I send her a black one in response.
XXX
Bella: So you're just going to have movers drop off my shit (and yours?) and never reach out to me?
Okay, so it's not the most subtle way to start a conversation.
But Edward and I have never been subtle with one another.
And maybe I'm in his chair again.
Drinking wine.
Edward: Yeah.
That's it?
Yeah?
Bella: Why'd you send your chair?
Edward: It was ours. I bought it for us. And I sent it because I fucking felt like it.
Ours.
Us.
My stomach hurts.
Bella: You're a liar. You said you were dropping my shit off.
I'm still clinging to that hope for whatever reason that he'll be here.
Edward: You're a liar, too, I guess.
Bella: How am I a liar?
Edward: I did something we agreed we both wanted, and you solely blamed me for it.
I'm so close to blocking his number.
Bella: Trust me, if I knew you were into Maria, I would've gladly avoided all of that, baby.
I type the term of endearment to be patronizing. It just feels… pathetic.
Edward: You're right. I was so fucking into her. Still am.
My grip on my phone tightens. Every tap of my thumbs as I type a reply feels like an assault against him.
Bella: I hate you.
Edward: She's actually here right now… in my bed.
Bella: Fuck you, Edward.
I really am going to block him now. I'm in the middle of doing it when a longer reply from him flashes at the top of my screen, and I can't stifle my curiosity.
Edward: What the fuck ever, Bell. This is what you think, anyway, right? That I want her? That I still see her and fuck her? You hold shit against me that isn't even real. It's all in your head. Might as well play into your little fantasies.
Bella: Trust me, none of that shit gets me off anymore.
I barely even get off anymore. That might be part of my problem.
I drink more wine.
That… also might be part of the problem.
Edward: So, what gets you off now?
Bella: Ummmmmmm. Not doing this.
Edward: What? Not sexting with your husband?
Bella: lol. My husband.
Edward: You're still mine.
Bella: Legally.
Emotionally.
Mentally.
Edward: Just tell me. I won't judge you. You know I never did. What gets you off when you fuck other men? Do you ever think about me?
I probably would think about him.
His broad shoulders.
Strong back.
Lean, toned body.
His arms that held me tightly and pinned me down as he fucked me slowly, slowly, slowly.
I start to feel myself growing warm. Start to feel that familiar sensation that hasn't been present in so long. But I dampen the burn between my legs.
Bella: You're fishing.
Edward: For what?
Bella: To see if I'm sleeping with men.
Edward: I assume you are.
Bella: Are you?
Edward: Fucking other men? No.
Bella: Women, you asshole.
He takes
too
damn
long
to reply.
Bella: Whatever. I'm going to bed. Enjoy whatever slut you're fucking tonight.
12
Two days later, I come home to find a dozen red roses on my porch.
They look expensive.
I bend over and grab the nameless card.
I'm sorry.
My heart softens… minimally.
But it softens more than it has in a very long time.
The roses are obviously from Edward. I don't know who else owes me an apology.
I slide the tiny card into the back pocket of my jeans and leave the flowers on the porch before I head inside.
I type out a reply as I move into the kitchen.
Bella: You know, offering a sincere apology works just as well, if not better, than roses.
I silence my phone and plug it into the charger, not wanting to wait around for his reply.
Two hours later—after I cook dinner that I barely eat—I'm glad I wasn't waiting because he still hasn't replied. I pile the dirty dishes in the sink for later and open a bottle of wine before peeking out the window, glaring at the flowers.
I call Allie. She doesn't answer.
I call my mom. I'm sent to voicemail.
I try to distract myself, but eventually, I pour another glass and settle into Edward's chair.
I mindlessly scroll on my phone.
Instagram.
Facebook.
My photos… or more specifically, photos of us—of Edward and me.
I stare at earlier snapshots, from the beginning. We were always close. Always touching. Laughing. Most of the photos from the first year are candids taken by other people because we were so caught up in each other, we barely took enough time to look at anyone else.
The others taken were selfies by us or me using the timer on my camera.
Sunsets. Sunrises. Concerts. Date nights. Road trips. Soft smiles and loud laughter and flipping off the camera. My need to document every occasion was probably annoying then, but I knew we'd be grateful to have all of this to look back on.
Maybe that's ironic—I'm looking back on it all… alone.
With perfect timing, Edward finally replies to my text.
Edward: What do you know about sincere apologies?
Always fucking hostile.
I'm not so different, though. I know this.
Guided by his gentle gesture with the flowers, I keep it tame.
Bella: I got the flowers you sent.
Edward: What?
I shouldn't expect much, and I know he has every right to be mad at me for my lack of replies in the past… but I'm sick of these one-worded texts.
Bella: The roses? With the card that says "I'm sorry."
He calls me.
I answer on the second ring.
"What the hell are you talking about?" he asks, voice rough. "What roses?"
I realize a beat too late that, maybe, just maybe the flowers weren't from him.
"Um…"
He laughs once. It's dark and bitter and laced with I fucking knew it.
"Someone sends you flowers, and you really expect me to think you're not fucking them?" he demands.
But I'm not.
I haven't let anyone touch me.
The thought revolts me.
And yeah, it's also fucking ironic that my fantasy for so long was seeing him touching someone else. But that wasn't real. It wasn't meant to be real. That's where we fucked up.
"I thought they were from you," is all I say.
"Fucking… roses?" he asks, sounding disgusted.
"Yeah." It's my turn for the one-word responses.
"First of all, I'm not going to apologize for finishing something you started. Sorry, baby, not happening. Second, if I were going to send you flowers, I wouldn't send you something you hate. I'd send you peonies because they're your fucking favorite." He sounds agitated like he's pacing and fisting his hair. "Who the hell sent you roses, Bella?"
"I don't know."
"Tell me."
"A client, as a thank you," I lie. It's a shitty lie, too, because he already knows the card said I'm sorry and not thank you.
His bitter laugh fills my ear again. He doesn't believe me.
I close my eyes.
I guess I do know who sent them.
But it doesn't matter. I'm certainly not going to tell Edward about my life here.
We don't do that.
If I tell him about mine, then he has to tell me about his, and it might break me.
"It doesn't matter," I finally say, opening my eyes.
"You do this shit on purpose? Text me, trying to rub it in that you're fucking someone?"
"No," I say sharply. "I honestly thought the flowers were from you. We had a shitty fucking conversation the other night, and I thought…" I hoped.
That's my problem.
I hoped.
We're both silent.
He exhales heavily.
"I should go," I finally say.
"Hey."
"What?" I sound annoyed… put out.
"Hey," he says again, firmer.
"What?" I say, just as tough.
"I'm fucking sorry, okay?" He says it so… gruffly. So angrily. So desperately. But then softer: "I'm sorry for taunting you with that shit about Maria the other night. That was really shitty of me. It was uncalled for, considering everything. I know how much everything hurt you. So. I'm sorry."
I stall. I just don't know what to say. I'm stunned, I guess.
"Okay."
"Okay," he echoes, defeated.
A beat of silence passes and then the line goes quiet.
Of course, I replay our conversation the entire night, thinking of all of the different things I could've said. His different responses. Maybe if we were both… different, this would work.
I leave my dishes.
Bring the roses inside.
I don't sleep.
I drink.
In the morning, I find a dozen peonies on my doorstep.
The card attached says I miss you in a familiar scrawl I'd know anywhere.
I miss you, too, I think, desperate and damaged.
My fingers trace over the letters, and then it dawns on me.
Edward wrote this.
The flowers are from him, but the card is, too.
Which means my husband must be here.
Edward is in Los Angeles.