I've received lots and lots of requests to please let the boys be happy again, to please make it happen soon. Thing is, bbs, I want that too – of course I do; but reality has to prevail. As utterly effed up as Edward is, it's going to take some time. I promise this chapter is going to nudge/hurl Edward in the right direction.

Disclaimer: I don't own Twilight.

-o-

Edward

"Mr. Cullen?" The softly-accented voice of the woman on the phone persists. "Sir – are you okay?"

"Thank you," I choke out, and hang up the phone. My heart pounds, my body trembles. I feel as though I could pass out. Slowly, I swivel my chair away from the desk and manage to lurch to my couch; it catches me as I collapse. The memory of that phone call takes hold. The wave that lapped at my feet has suddenly swollen to a tsunami, and I am drowning in the mind flood.

The sweet pleasure of talking dirty to him on the phone while we each sought our mutual release…the raw, exposed feeling afterward…the expanding, hollow balloon, pressing on the walls of my chest till it felt like I could burst from the inside out…the loneliness plunging me into a brief, horrible anxiety attack…begging Jasper to stay on the phone with me while we fell asleep.

I don't care if it costs me a thousand fucking dollars! Please, fall asleep with me.

And…Jesus Christ…he did. God damn it, Jasper did what I asked. He stayed on the phone with me that night. And then, the next day when I returned to Seattle and joined him at his apartment, he took me into his arms, and he held me, and he danced with me, and he kissed me, and…he loved me.

An anguished cry rips from my chest. Oh my god. I have spent so many years sequestering myself, barricading against any emotion that could threaten my solitary existence. I protected myself when I ended things with Jasper; and when I saw his name on my caller ID, I had a moment in which to steel myself against his entreaties.

But this…this mundane thing – a fucking cell phone bill…how could I have anticipated that it would be a Trojan Horse, gliding easily through the gate I opened when I expected the danger had passed? And now, after an unsuccessful ten-year siege, the Greeks have plundered the city and lain waste to the walls that protected the fragile heart within.

Every memory I tried to block, every conversation I thought I'd been able to forget; every soft caress and tender look; the softly-whispered I love you…they never went away – they were waiting until the city fell. All the things I didn't want to think about – now I have no choice. They are hurling themselves at me, again and again, demanding contemplation.

He loved me. Of course he loved me. Despite the fact that I have barely a redeeming quality; despite that I am moody and uncommunicative. He wasn't open with me about my father, but nor did I ever mention my parents to Jasper, even once, although he had made small passing mentions about his family numerous times during that weekend we spent together at his apartment. I could have told him then, even the briefest details, to trust him with that small amount so that he wouldn't have to fly completely blind. But I didn't. When I broke up with him I accused him of asking for my trust and not giving me his; but honestly, I never truly gave it to him.

When I came into the hallway of that restaurant and saw Jasper talking to my parents, it was one of the most surreal moments of my life, like a slap in the face when I expected a kiss. I'd been ready to tell him how I was feeling about him; instead, confronted by the opprobrious sight of him with my parents, I went a little crazy. I felt so fucking foolish, as though I'd missed something that I seriously should have known all along. Of course it was too good to be true; of course I was being set up for something. Of course this could never really happen for someone as completely fucked up as me.

I told him, didn't I…that first night…I am the asshole, Jazz. I'm self-centered, and I'm cold. I don't have friends… But he just couldn't leave it alone. That boy gently, assiduously, burrowed his way in, bit by bit, until he had my heart resting in his beautiful hands. And then, he took my heart and threw it in my face, pointing out to me how truly screwed up I am because I have no family photos in my apartment.

Those words…from anyone else, I'd have ignored them entirely. Hearing them from Jasper, who had been so gentle with my flawed soul, took my breath away. I slid into a wintry lake, plunged into frigid water beneath a layer of ice. I couldn't breathe, I couldn't scream; I was numb. And then I fought back, kicking my way through that ice, shattering it with the glass in my bedside photo.

I flinch now as I remember the light of understanding registering on his beautiful face; his horror as he realized that I did, in fact, have a photo of my loved one in my apartment. His panic as he apologized, as he pleaded, crying, asking me to believe him. The memory of his tears, his entreaties for forgiveness – they plunge me from shock into utter despair. Though I was shocked at finding he worked with my father, I'm forced to admit to myself that my real motivation was retaliation towards Jasper for his hurtful words. I wanted him to feel the sting I felt.

And I believe he felt it – his face when he left my apartment that night haunts my memory now. His pleading eyes, red and swollen from crying; the remorse and regret so plainly written across his entire demeanor; and his final words before he left, uttered quietly, faithfully, despite the brutal and unceremonious manner in which I evicted him from my apartment and my life.

I love you.

I grab a pillow from above my head on the end of the couch, and pulling it to my face, I scream into it, my regret and frustration forcing the air from my lungs in a wail of utter torment. Oh god, oh god! My Kas – what have I done? When no air remains, I draw in a sharp breath, and it becomes a sob. Painful sobs overtake me, racking me as though to tear the fabric of my soul from my body. I weep for the loss of my sweet angel; bitterly I curse the weak, terrified moral fiber that made me push him away – made me push away the boy I love.

Because I love him, too; of course I love him. In these days since I kicked him out, I've barely allowed myself to think of him, telling myself that he was entirely to blame, that I could, and should, just go back to the life I had before him. The life where I got everything I thought I wanted – maximum gain with minimal risk to me. But now, with the flood of memories rising fast around me, his face is all I can see; I want to smell his musky, chai scent; feel his warm, strong arms wrapped around me; his delicate, soft lips on mine. I want to feel. The life I had before – it wasn't really living. It was some strange sort of half-life, a bare minimum of existence.

And now, I feel; but what I feel is a complete despair that threatens to swallow me whole. Desperately I pull the pillow back to my face as another cry of anguish escapes me; a stone would cry out from this torment.

The leather couch cushion beneath my face is slick with my tears; my face feels swollen and my arms ache for him. For an instant, I consider reaching for my phone to call him, apologize to him and beg his forgiveness; but almost immediately I discard the idea. I am so flawed, so imperfect in my makeup – how can he ever consider forgiving me? Especially since I hung up on him when he asked for my forgiveness. He must know, now, that for all my attempts to prove otherwise, that I am unworthy of him, too weak and afraid to forgive.

Because Jasper is strong. He's not perfect, I know – he should have told me he worked with my father. But otherwise, he is a strong person. When he told me what he must have realized would be very difficult to hear – that my father knew he was gay and didn't care; wished him well, in fact – I flipped out on him, accusing him of lying. Jasper could have backed down or left it out entirely, given how upset I was. I'm sure he'd rather not have risked upsetting me further. Instead, he stood his ground, quietly and steadfastly sharing the difficult truth with me although he must have known it would only add fuel to the fire.

My father.

Accusing Jasper of colluding with my father was grasping at straws. It didn't take me long, no more than a day or two, to realize that a plot between them was rather far-fetched; though I swear it seemed entirely plausible at the time. Jasper wanting to know more about my past, my parents wanting information about my current life...together they could work out something "mutually beneficial". It would have been a good reason for Jasper to keep secret his work relationship with my father.

The truth is, I don't even know what I should believe my father capable of. I don't know him; I have barely conversed with him in the past ten years, and not at all since I graduated college. I don't know to what extent he would go, particularly where my mother's happiness is concerned. Unfailingly, she has tried to contact me several times a year, leaving messages on my voicemail in that soft, barely-pleading voice; telling me how much they miss me, how she loves me and wishes I would call. Of course, I haven't; and if my father has observed my mother becoming despondent about the state of our relationship, he may be tempted to bow to questionable tactics in the hopes of mending fences for her sake.

But Jasper is not a recreant. Now that I am allowing myself to acknowledge the truth about him, I feel embarrassed that I considered him capable of such an arrangement, and mortified that I actually came out and accused him of it. When I listen to my heart, I can admit this to myself. No, he wasn't immediately straightforward about his work relationship with my father; but aside from that, he's brave. He pulled up roots and followed his heart back to Seattle, seeking out and taking a chance on what he hoped would bring him happiness.

But what about me? Can I say I have sought real happiness for myself? I have avoided any true human contact, aside from the pursuit of fleeting sexual pleasure. I've cut my parents out of my life, timorous for their disapproval and disappointment. At age twenty-six I have no friends and no prospect for actual happiness, save what fulfillment I find in my career. If there are any cowards in this equation, it's me.

And now I'm alone in my apartment, crying my heart out late on a Thursday night, imprisoned in a barren wasteland of my own construct; realizing that I don't want to be here anymore. I want to live. I want to feel. I want to love.

But this prison is secure, and aside from my few weeks with Jasper, love has not penetrated the fortress walls. In its absence, I have been turned into stone. I'm terrified that I don't know how to love anymore; I mean, I can feel it – I know now that I feel love for Jasper – but I'm afraid that I don't know how to be in a loving relationship, even as a son or a friend. I don't know how people have friendships. I knew once; I starved the knowledge until it died.

I need to learn again. I want to learn again. I need to go where I can learn again.

And now I'm up, off my couch, grabbing my cell phone and my keys; throwing on my jacket, snatching my wallet from the kitchen counter. I'm out the door and running down the stairs. In seconds I'm in my car and racing out of my parking lot, crossing the dark wet streets that will carry me to my destination. The pavement slips away beneath the wheels, and I'm afraid I can't possibly get there quickly enough, no matter how fast I drive.

At last I arrive, pulling my Volvo up to the curb; my heart at once feels as though it has been seized by large unseen hands. Torturously they squeeze, and I must brace myself, one hand on the steering wheel and the other on my chest, attempting break free from the pressure that threatens to incapacitate me. Eventually I'm able to breathe my way through it, and the feeling subsides. I sit a couple of moments longer, agonizing over what to say.

Finally I can put it off no longer. A moment later I am standing in front of the door, my heart thudding in my throat and the blood rushing through my ears as I knock on the door. The tears, which have abated slightly during my drive, start to flow more freely again as I await my fate.

The door swings open, and he stands before me. For a moment neither of us speak; I am unable because of my tears, he is unable because of a state of abject shock. His mouth opens and closes several times, but no sound is produced.

Finally I wrest back enough control that I can manage to collect my breath; and then I straighten and look him in the eye before speaking. Still, I manage barely more than a whisper.

"Dad…"

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Not a terribly long chapter, this I realize. It *felt* long, though, when I was writing it; and I hope you agree that its length is not in correlation with its importance.

I've posted links for this chapter's musical inspiration, on my blog. starfish422(dot)blogspot(dot)com

I am just ridiculously excited to announce that I've been interviewed by AngstGoddess003 for an article that will be posted on The Lazy, Yet Discerning, Ficster. The article will be published on Thusday, May 28. Please check it out at discerningficster(dot)blogspot(com). The link will be posted on my blog once the article is up.