I have to preface this chapter with mad props for several people. First of all, four readers were good enough to preview Chapter 16 for me, and in my preoccupation with the heartfail to come, I completely neglected to thank them for their input. Mozzer0906, Tallulah Remiter, DefinitelyStaying, and Touchstone67 all agreed to preview Chapter 16 before I posted it. I was so friggin' nervous, bbs, about doing this to our boys; and completely freaked out that all of you, who love them too, would never forgive me for it. Their input and their assurances were – are – hugely important to me and I am very grateful. They helped make it a better chapter.
Another thanks goes to vampiricpen, a reader who has given me valuable help with the small amount of German language I've attempted to inject into the story. It's hugely appreciated, especially since I am far out of my depth. Thanks, bb.
Finally, and at the risk of turning this a/n into a saga in its own right – thank you, a thousand times, to everyone who read and reviewed Chapter 16. Having faith was something that I had to learn myself, in posting this chapter; and your overwhelming response to their harsh breakup shamed me with the knowledge that I underestimated you. Seriously - you are all amazing. Thank you for loving these boys and for sticking with me as I put them through the wringer.
Disclaimer: I don't own Twilight. I own very little. You all, on the other hand, own me. Completely.
-o-
Jasper
After I collapse to the floor, it becomes my home for many hours. I weep for him until I literally cry myself to sleep, right here on the floor. Even asleep, I am somehow still conscious of my loss; and when I wake up, stiff, sore and cold from the hardwood, the pain in my body is still nothing compared to my heartbreak.
I don't want to move. I don't want to speak. I just want my beautiful Edward. I'm forced to get up, though, by the discomfort of the floor; and so I manage to pull myself upright, standing on shaky legs. It's 8:30 a.m. It occurs to me that I should be starving, since I ate almost nothing yesterday; and of course, we didn't eat dinner last night. Instead the thought of food turns my stomach, and, with no time to make it to the bathroom, I stagger to the kitchen instead. With nothing in my stomach, I dry-heave over my kitchen sink, relying desperately on the counter to keep me from collapsing again.
When my stomach has settled somewhat, I'm able to make my way to my bedroom, and I collapse onto my bed. I'm still clutching the picture frame that holds the proof that all this was real – for a short time, I was Edward's and he was mine.
Except he has decided not to be mine anymore. Edward has punished my lack of candor, by cutting me out of his life. I'm broken-hearted. And I'm terrified. Afraid to face a life where I don't wake up with him every morning; share sweet kisses and impish grins and dances; make love to him; fall asleep with him.
But I'm also afraid for Edward. I know, now, the awful truth. He shut out his parents, his sister; he closed himself off from having friends; and now he has excised me from his life as well. Everyone he loves, he has pushed away. He loves me; I know he loves me. I know why he's angry with me – I'm furious at myself – but I had hoped, desperately, that he would realize and understand how fiercely I would protect his privacy. But he chose not to trust me. Now, he has no one.
How can he live that way?
He did it for ten years before he met you.
I was so sure he loved me. Maybe once he's had a chance to calm down, he'll call me – we can talk about it...
At that moment my phone rings, and the suddenness makes me jump. I roll quickly to my nightstand and grab the cordless. "Hello?" I answer breathlessly. "Edward?"
"Heehee, who's Edward?" I hear my sister Rosalie's amused voice on the other end, and my heart sinks to my stomach. The disappointment grabs me by the throat, strangling a fresh round of sobs out of me. "Jasper? Jasper, what's wrong?" Rosalie's tone abruptly shifts from amused to deeply concerned. "Are you okay? Who's Edward?"
"Rosie..." I lament, unable, for the moment, to continue. When I can speak again, I go on, "Edward is someone I was seeing. We broke up last night."
"Oh," she says, "I'm sorry to hear that, sweetheart. But you've only been there a few weeks. It couldn't have been that serious in that amount of time?"
Her words make the sobs rack my body even more violently. Two weeks. Two weeks is all I had with him. I had hoped for so much more.
"Uh-oh," she says, her concern growing. "Jay, what happened? Did he hurt you?" The protective older sister in her surfaces quickly.
"No," I whisper.
"Then...I'm having trouble understanding how it's got you so upset, sweetheart, this early on. Were you already seeing him before you moved to Seattle?" She sounds confused, and a little hurt, to think that I would have kept something so important from her.
"No, but..."
"What? Please tell me, Jay," she implores.
"Rosie, it was Edward Cullen," I rasp.
"Holy shit," she murmurs under her breath. She knows who he is, that I had a crush on him – I told her, shortly after I came out. It was when she asked me who I'd had a thing for in high school, since no girls' names had ever come up, for obvious reasons. I told her there was only ever one; and her steel-trap memory retained that detail. When I told her I was going to move back to Seattle, she joked about it then. She had no idea that I actually planned to try to find Edward again.
So – she gets it. Rosie knows how hard I fall, how whole-heartedly I give myself to the ones I love. How strong my attachments are.
"Oh, Jay," she murmurs after a moment. "Tell me all about it, sweetheart."
So I do. I tell her about Spin, and about Edward's place, and breakfast at the diner. I tell her how closed-off Edward was, and how I managed to gradually chip away at his walls so that I could see the tender soul hiding inside. I tell her about Carlisle Cullen, and a bouquet of crocuses and snowdrops, and dancing with the sexiest boy I've ever known. Rosie being Rosie, she asks about the sex; and I tell her, honestly, that it's the best I've ever had. And then she asks me what went wrong. And I break down again, sobbing out the rest of the story to her. "I know he loves me, Rosie. I fucked up, and he's hurt. But I know he loves me."
"Jay," she sighs, "can I be honest with you?"
"You always are," I sniffle.
"Sweetheart, dishonesty is always a detriment to a relationship, and I know you know that. But can you understand that with most guys, you wouldn't have felt as though you had to hide the fact that that you work with his dad? And the simple fact that you do work together should have been an interesting coincidence - not a fatal flaw in your relationship."
"I don't know what happened when he came out, though, Rosie," I tell her. Maybe they were awful to him. Maybe his parents are the 'not in my family' type of people."
"If that's the case," she retorts, "then they're homophobes, and Edward was right to get away from them."
"The thing is..." I struggle for the right words. "Carlisle didn't seem angry about Edward when he mentioned him. He just seemed sad." Even mentioning the word "sad" makes my eyes prick with tears again, and I feel completely defeated. "God, maybe this was a mistake – moving here."
"Jay, I wish you were closer – everyone does, even though San Diego to San Francisco was already too far," she replies. "But don't make any quick decisions, okay? Maybe Edward will call you when he has had a chance to calm down. You say he's very sensitive despite his facade – give him a day or two to mull it over, and I'm sure he'll realize it's not the end of the world. And that you're the best thing that ever happened to him, and he'd be crazy not to call you and beg you to take him back."
Her love and her confidence in me warm me slightly, and I manage a little smile, in spite of myself. "Thanks, Rosie," I whisper.
"You bet, sweetheart," she replies. "And Jay?"
"Yes?"
"After he does, be open with him about everything. Tell him all the things you're feeling, ask him your questions, share your concerns. So he can't get blindsided again; or at least, not by you," she advises gently.
"I know," I sigh. "I know you're right."
"Duh." She says it gently, teasingly; but I can almost see her smirking on the other end of the line. Because Rosie is still Rosie, even when she's filling the role of nursemaid for the wounded soul.
"So, how are my nephews?" I ask, a little pang in my heart as I think of the sweet boys who are now that much farther away from me.
Rosie's voice quickly becomes animated as she updates me on what the boys are up to. The oldest, Brandon, is four and a half, and is the energetic, fearless one. Much like his dad, he has a big heart and an even bigger voice. He's taking kinder gymnastics; and Emmett and Rosie are no doubt sprouting several new grey hairs every time they take him to a session and witness his feats of bravery. The younger, Gabriel, is quiet, thoughtful and sensitive. He loves hard too, but he expresses it gently, through his actions; whereas Brandon expresses his at the top of his lungs. Gabriel is almost two, and he and I have had a special bond since the first time I held him, the day he was born. The way he regards me is almost akin to hero worship, and, well, it's difficult to resist that kind of guileless admiration.
All too soon, Rosie tells me that the boys are awake now and asking for breakfast; so I tell her to go look after her family. Before she lets me go, she tells me she'll call me again this evening to check in. And then we end our call the way our family always does, with I love you. It doesn't matter if we talk on the phone three times in the same day; we always, always end with love.
After talking with Rosie, I lay for a while longer on my bed, thinking about the things she said. It's true that the magnitude of Edward's reaction to my working with his dad is extraordinary. Edward has decided that it's a deal-breaker for him. But what if he could forgive my dishonesty? Last night, in my panic, I'd promised I would support his decision about his parents, no matter what. But could I? Could I truly stand by and be supportive if he decided never to get in touch with them again – particularly knowing Carlisle now? Would it be too difficult for him to be around my family if he didn't have his own? Would I be able to leave it alone, or would I try to convince him to talk to them? Would our relationship be doomed from the start because of his refusal to see them? And how would I continue to work with Carlisle?
So many questions - not a single answer. And the only person who can help me begin to address them isn't talking right now; at least, not to me. As much as my heart aches with that knowledge, I'm convinced that I don't have any more tears right now. My head hurts, my body aches, and I'm exhausted. I am starting to drift off when my phone rings again.
I answer more cautiously this time, with a simple, raspy, "Hello?"
"Jasper," I hear a soft voice say. And, impossibly, I burst into tears again at the sound of my mother's kind, comforting voice. Hearing her makes me feel like a little boy again, makes me feel sorry for myself. "Jasper, dear, Rosie called me."
"Mama," I whisper. Rosalie and I have called her 'Mama' since we first learned to say the word. As teenagers our friends would tease us for it – me especially – even after we explained the German influence in our affectionate name for our mom. When I still lived in Austin, I didn't get nearly as much flak about it as I have at other times; Rosie said it was because southern boys knew how to respect their mothers.
"Rosie told me what happened with this boy," she says in her gentle way. "I'm so sorry, dear. You knew him in high school, did you?"
"He was my crush, Mama," I whisper. "Kind of my first love; even though he didn't really know I was alive then."
"Oh, my darling," she murmurs compassionately. "I wish you were here, so I could give you a hug."
"I wish I was there too," I sniffle. How desperately I wish I was with my family now. In my entire life, I have never had to face anything, good or bad, without them around me for support.
"I suppose it wouldn't do for you to take time off work after you've only been there for two weeks," she muses.
"Certainly not," I agree.
"Well, then, I see no other option. I'll just have to come to you, dear," she says resolutely.
"Mama," I shake my head, "I can't ask you to drop everything to come here. I can take care of myself."
"Nonsense, dear. Mothers are supposed to drop everything when their children aren't well. I know you're not a little boy anymore, but you need your family with you when you're this upset. Besides, it's been a few years since your father and I visited Seattle. I can see your new place and fill up your freezer with your favorite foods. And I have friends in Seattle I haven't seen in ages; I can get in a visit with them," she concludes.
It sounds great, having my mom come and stay with me for a few days, like her taking care of me when I was sick as a little boy. It doesn't take much convincing to get me to acquiesce.
"Will Dad come too?" I ask.
"No, dear; he can't get away from work on such short notice. It'll just be me." And though I'm disappointed I won't see him as well, I know she's right. My father has to book his holidays months in advance as so many other people depend on his schedule.
We chat for a few minutes longer, until I feel like I can't keep my eyes open any longer. "Mama," I say, "I'm exhausted. I didn't sleep much last night. I think going to try to go back to sleep."
"Of course, dear," she agrees. "I'll send you an email with my flight information. And Dad sends his love," she adds.
"Tell him I love him," I reply, choking up a bit. "And you too, Mama."
"I love you too, darling," she murmurs. "Bye".
The phone slips from my hand onto the bed, and I sigh, tired and defeated. Two calls...neither of them Edward. I wonder what he's doing now. Is he prostrate on his bed, as I am? Does he feel as though the world upon which he stood, has shifted below his feet, leaving him off-balance, staggering to keep upright? Does he regret ending our relationship?
Does he miss me?
Yesterday morning, the answer to that question would have been an emphatic yes. I believed that he missed me when we were apart; his trip to Vancouver had convinced me of that. But now...
You changed your mind.
The words of Chris Isaak's mournful song descend upon me, and I can't shut them out. If I thought my made-up song about being called an angel, was an appropriate love song for my Broadway play; then surely this song is the emotional heartbreak scene of the play you didn't realize was a tragedy.
Over where the rainbow meets the darkened sky
I pretended there was hope for you and I
Now too late, I guess, the real world I find
You changed your mind, you changed your mind
Over where tomorrow chases clouds away
I pretended that somehow you'd really stay
Now I'm left here with those dreams you tossed away
You changed your mind, you changed your mind
I can't stop myself from gazing again at the photo collage Edward did. Of course, it's flawless; the individual photos fused together to surround the two of us with a riot of images and colors. So many memories created in such a short, intense time. A fire that blazed up quickly, hot and intense; but couldn't sustain itself.
Are the embers still there?
The tears threaten again, but with a valiant effort I manage to fight them off before they breach the dam of my eyelids. I'm fucking exhausted. I just need to sleep. I need to escape this waking nightmare for a few hours. Just....sleep...
-o-
Edward
Jesus Christ, I think as I wake up. What the hell. For one long, oblivious moment I wonder why the fuck I feel like my mouth is fur-lined and my head lost a stand-off with a speeding bus. Cautiously, groggily, I lift my head and open one eye enough to survey my room.
And then I remember. The broken glass on the floor of my room reminds me – both the glass from the smashed photo frame, and the shards of the drained Glen Livet bottle that shattered against the wall at some point in the early hours of this morning. They remind me of what happened here last night, like some pathetic, blatantly obvious metaphor for my splintered relationship. I fight the memories – I don't want to think about it – but the alcohol has weakened my control, and against my will it all floods back.
I sink back to my bed with a groan. I feel like I'm going to be sick, and not just from the alcohol that has not yet left my bloodstream entirely. Scenes of last night flash through my memory; scratchy negatives exposed to betrayal and anger. Jasper smiling at me from across the table; seeing him talking to my parents; the look of horror on his face when he realized I was watching them. The brief glimpse of hope I saw in my mother's eyes...but this I push aside immediately. Jasper's soft voice, pleading with me...then stabbing me in the heart with his words...What kind of person doesn't have a picture of the people they love?
Those words...they're the ones that make me jump out of my bed and run for the bathroom. I vomit the remaining contents of my stomach; then crawl directly into the shower, reaching up to turn on the spray and letting it wash over me as I sit on the tile of the shower floor. The water washes away the grogginess, washes away the nausea; and what I'm left with is anger. Vitriol. Bitterness.
Clarity.
Obviously he believes me to be as much of a freak as everyone else does. Well, maybe I am. Freak or not, though, I was just fine for ten fucking years before he came along trying to convince me that he knew me better than I knew myself. I certainly never got any complaints from any of the many guys I was with; and what's even more important, I wouldn't have fucking cared if they did complain. When did that change? The night I met Jazz with his green eyes and his blonde curls and that line of bullshit he sold me. If it's with the right person, you can give up control without losing yourself.
I should have thrown him out the first night he spewed that shit. I should have listened to my own words to him...dangerous...subversive. I didn't lose myself, but I came fucking close. I was going to tell him...even under the hot shower spray, I shudder as I realize how close I came to truly putting my feelings on the line. I was minutes away. Minutes. And he fucking lied to me. I believed his talk about honesty; I trusted him when he asked me to. And what has it gotten me? A slap in the face; and painfully, laughably weak claims about how great my father thinks we queer boys are. Can I believe anything he told me? He told me he loves me. Is that a lie too?
My heart pangs for a moment with the memory of the first time he told me, when we were together in his bathtub. Following quickly in succession is a flash of the last time he said it – with tears in his eyes, telling me he loved me even as I kicked him out of my apartment last night...but with a shake of my head, I quickly push the memory down. It doesn't matter, I decide. Even if it's true...one truth in the midst of a sea of lies is not enough. Not even close. Lesson learned, Cullen.
My fingers and toes have turned to prunes as the water has washed over me at the bottom of the shower. It's time to pull myself up from the floor, and get on with my life.
I towel off, and then, placing my hands on the vanity, I lean closer to the mirror to study my face. My eyes are red-rimmed from the alcohol and the late night; my jaw has a slight growth of stubble. I look rough, definitely worse for wear. But nothing that a shave, a few glasses of water and a couple of ibuprofen can't cure.
I don't have to be anywhere until Monday, when I'll be going to Chicago on an assignment. I reflect, as I shave, that maybe it's time the boys at Spin were reminded who's king. They need a refresher course, I think; especially after that ludicrous display on Tuesday night.
Indeed. I do believe it's time.
-o-
So this chapter took a different format. This is the first time a chapter has covered more than one POV. I anticipate maintaining this format for a few chapters, at least.
I am proud as punch to let you know that Over The Top will be the featured story next week on the Perv Pack's Smut Shack. Their review will be posted next Friday morning, May 15. You can find the PPSS at pervpackssmutshack(dot)blogspot(dot)com. I highly recommend a daily visit, bbs; because so much more happens there than just the weekly review!
Please remember to visit my blog – the link is in my profile.
Reviews are love, bbs; and an amazing 183 of you showed the love for Chapter 16 – almost 70 more than the second-highest reviewed chapter!!