I am so happy with the response to Jack in Chapter 25. I had many requests for Jack to find someone of his own; and as I told many of you, I will happily write a Jack smuttake chapter, once the story arc for OTT has been fulfilled.
You were a bit worried about what Jack's last words to Jasper meant; here, we will find out.
Disclaimer: I don't own Twilight. I do own Jack. Neener, neener. :D
-o-
Jasper
Buzzzzzz.
The intercom of the security intercom echoes in my head, as loudly as if I slept on Big Ben at noon. It occurs to me that I should ignore it; just stay where I am on my couch, and nurse the hangover I brought upon myself.
Buzzzzzz.
Whoever is downstairs, however, has other plans, and slowly, I push myself up, feeling the floor buck slightly beneath my feet as I stand. I amble to the door and push the "talk" button.
"What?" I ask ungraciously.
"Pacific Florists; I have a delivery for Jasper Whitlock," the disembodied female voice replies.
I push the "unlock" button, allowing the delivery person access to the building. While I wait for her arrival at my door, I look around for my wallet, stumbling from the kitchen to the living room and back to the front hall, before realizing it's in the pocket of the pants I still wear.
The knock on the door has my head protesting; and I curse under my breath before opening. The delivery woman, a short, pleasant-looking woman in her fifties, says, "Mr. Whitlock?" I nod and she hands me a wrapped bouquet. I give her a tip and she says, "Thank you, sir. Enjoy your flowers."
I thank her quietly, grimacing a bit at her use of the word "sir", since she's easily twice my age; and close the door as she heads for the elevator. Back in my living room, I unwrap the paper from the bouquet. Inside is a profusion of pink camellias, dark pink freesias and greenery. The scent of the freesia is heady, and even in my less-than-ideal state I hold the bouquet to my face to inhale the scent.
A small envelope is tucked among the blossoms; setting the bouquet on my coffee table, I open it to read the card.
Loving you, longing for you.
Forever,
Edward
I gulp and lay the card on the table beside the bouquet. Edward. He'll be returning from San Francisco today; and, true to his word, he has left me alone with my thoughts since he was here Tuesday evening. I am closer now to a decision than I was yesterday, my conversation with Jack last night having given me much positive insight. However, I can say with certainty that as of shortly after dinner last night, I was in no shape to give serious consideration to anything. I'm glad I asked Edward to give me until Sunday to think about this.
Carrying the flowers to the kitchen for a vase, I think back to Jack's words last night. If you're in love with Edward Cullen, you need these a hell of a lot more than I do. I was thoroughly confused, and a little annoyed, at first; but realized quickly that Jack, like many, many gay men in Seattle, knows Edward by reputation.
"Just about everyone knows him," he tells me after I down my shots, "and the ones who don't, wish they did. You two caused quite a stir a couple of weeks ago at Spin, I understand," he adds, chuckling.
"Yeah," I nod. "The youngling you had thrown out was one of the 'stirred', so to speak."
"I gathered that," he nods sympathetically. "Well, I had a few friends who were there. They don't get involved with the 'drama society' that goes on in the clubs, and even they were surprised that Edward had arrived with someone. That was a first," he chuckled.
I groan, imagining the gossip and chin-wagging that has gone on without my knowledge since that night. I'm sure my haughty attitude towards the others at the club has endeared me to them all.
"You held your own, though, from what I hear," Jack adds, as though reading my thoughts. "Put the little ones in their place; and Edward only had eyes for you the entire night."I don't answer, staring into the empty shot glass in front of me. Suddenly I'm not feeling well.
"Jasper," Jack says, placing his hand on my arm, "it's pretty well known that Edward doesn't show up to bars with people; he doesn't let them stay over; he doesn't apologize – ever. I think it's reasonably safe to say that you are infinitely more important to him than anyone, at any club, in Seattle or elsewhere." When I still don't answer, he leans closer and quietly says into my ear, "He loves you."
I nod, and he slips an arm over my shoulders, pulls me closer to his chest, and places a kiss on my cheek. "You deserve happiness, Jasper," he says. "Don't let it get away from you."
Sitting in my living room, looking at the blooms, I mull over Jack's words, both from the bar and from earlier at dinner. I know he loves me. I don't doubt it – not at all. Jack told me that if I could picture a life with Edward, even a little bit, that I owed it to myself to give it another try. So I try to picture it.
I get comfortable, stretching out the length of my couch and closing my eyes. I imagine myself in this apartment – moving around my kitchen, starting the coffee pot, making breakfast; and in my imagination, I feel two strong arms slip around my waist, a soft kiss against the side of my neck and a chin resting on my shoulder. I hear a velvet voice say, "Good morning, angel." In the here and now, I sigh at the nickname; how I miss Edward calling me angel, calling me Kas – despite my reaction to his using it earlier this week, I would be so gloriously happy to go through life hearing those words from him every single day.
Returning to my fantasy world, I think about coming home to Edward each night, as he talked about when he came to see me. Or waiting here for him to return from an overnight trip somewhere; feeling the anticipation of him coming home – to our bed, to my arms. All the things I've tried to avoid thinking about since I decided to move on...now I'm seeking out those images, letting them play in my mind like a shaky, hand-held home movie – perfect in its imperfection.
Upon my idyll, another image intrudes – an argument between us. Edward reacting badly, storming out the door; me in tears, wondering where he's gone, whether he'll disappear for days...who he's with. The series of images breaks me from my reverie and I quickly sit up, forcing the thought from my mind. He says he's not the same person he was before. If only I could be sure of that.
I head for my bedroom, removing my physical clothing as I toss aside the mental imagery. I get into the shower and wash away the remains of the previous day – work, dinner with Jack, the club, the encounter with that fucking prick Cody – all of it is cleansed from me and vanishes down the drain. When I emerge, I feel a thousand times better, with one exception – I'm ravenous.
I decide to go out for – I check the clock – a late lunch by myself. There's a deli down the street, and they have great soup and sandwiches. Some comfort food sounds great. I throw on some soft, comfortably-worn jeans and a black sweater, my shoes and coat; and taking a book, I walk down the street to get some sustenance and some quiet time by myself.
Two hours, a ham and Swiss sandwich and a bowl of cream of mushroom soup later, I am feeling relaxed and peaceful. I pay my bill, giving the server a generous tip for leaving me more or less alone when she saw I was absorbed in my book, and head out. The day is grey and damp, but not raining, so I take my time making my way back, veering off by a few blocks to wander through a gallery I've been meaning to check out. I spend an hour or so there; and by the time I leave it's starting to get dark out.
Coming home, I decide to turn on the gas fireplace. I'm about to curl up again with my book when the phone rings.
I answer, to hear Mama's voice. "Hello, my darling!" she greets me.
"Hello, Mama!" I answer her warmly. "How are you?"
"I'm very well, dear," she replies. "How are you? You're sounding so much better than last time I talked to you!"
"I'm feeling better," I answer honestly. "I went out with a friend last night, for dinner and to a club. Today I slept in and then I took myself out for lunch and to a gallery; and now I'm about to sit down with a book."
"Jasper," she replies, with a voice that sounds thick with emotion, "My dear, I'm so relieved. I was worrying about you so much..."
"I know, Mama," I murmur. "But I'm holding up okay. Better than okay, actually."
"So the friend you went out with..." she asks, "Is this someone new?"
"Just a friend," I clarify. "He's a friend of Kathleen, actually; I met him when I went for lunch with her friends last Sunday. His name's Jack."
"I see," she replies vaguely. I tell her more about the Indian restaurant I went to – as it turns out, it was one of her favorites when they lived here – and then we just chat, catching up on the everyday things that have fallen by the wayside since the more pressing issues took priority in our conversations: the renovations they're planning to make to their house this summer, her latest project at the Centre for the Homeless where she volunteers, their debate about where they'll go for a vacation next winter.
She hesitates for a moment after telling me about Dad wanting to try scuba diving; then she says, "Rosie tells me Edward came to see you."
I wince a bit, wondering whether she's upset that I didn't tell her myself. The truth is I didn't want her to worry about me making this decision until after I'd already figured out what to do.
"He came over on Tuesday night," I reply, going for the straightforward approach. "He apologized for his reaction, told me he wishes he hadn't broken up with me, and he told me..." I pause, clearing my throat. "He told me he loves me."
Mama is silent for a moment, and then asks, "How do you feel about that?"
"I was angry at first," I admit, deciding not to tell her about him sleeping with other guys; knowing Rosie won't have spilled that part of it. "I wish he'd told me sooner, instead of waiting until he was trying to convince me to take him back."
"Maybe he didn't realize it then," she remarks.
"That's what he said," I concede.
"So what did you tell him?"
"He was going to be out of town till today," I reply, realizing as I do that, as he had said he'd be back in Seattle this afternoon, he's likely home now. "I asked him to give me until tomorrow to think about it."
"And?"
"I'm...I'm having trouble deciding, Mama," I admit. "I mean, I can picture us together, sharing a life, being happy. And it's great that he has re-established contact with his parents...did Rosie tell you about that?" Mama confirms that she did, and I continue. "So hopefully having them in his life again will help him be a bit more grounded; but he's been so damaged for so long, Mama. He has to learn how to be in a relationship...I don't know if I'm up for being a guinea pig. I still love him, so very much; and I desperately want to be with him. But if something happened again, that set him off..."
"Jasper," Mama says seriously, "let me tell you something about love. Love is a truly wonderful thing; and when you find the person you're supposed to be with, the damaged parts of one person fit into the damaged parts of the other, and they make a whole. Love isn't perfect, and it's almost never easy, but if you can help fix each others' broken pieces so that they fit together, it's worth the effort. But before you can do that, you have to have faith. I know Edward broke your faith once; but he's already made huge changes in his life, to begin to heal. If you truly love him, I believe you owe it to yourself to give him another chance."
I sigh, and my eyes light on the vase of pink camellias that sit on my coffee table. "He sent me flowers today," I remark.
"That's lovely, dear," she replies. "What did he send?"
"Pink camellias," I reply, adding, "and dark pink freesias."
"Pink camellias!" she replies. "He made a very distinct choice in those, I think. What a coincidence!"
"Wait...what about his choice?" I repeat. "What coincidence?"
"Jasper, don't you remember what your father used to send me, every single time he went out of town, back when he was travelling so much?" she prods.
I think for a moment, and then a long-buried memory resurfaces, of a bouquet of pink camellias being delivered to our house here in Seattle for my mother. "Pink camellias," I answer automatically.
"I don't suppose you know anything about flower meanings," she remarks. "You young people are so prosaic. A pink camellia means one of two things: it means either, 'take care of yourself for me,' or it means, 'I long for you.' That's why your father used to send them every time we were apart."
"But do you think that's why Edward sent them?" I ask skeptically.
"I can't say for sure, of course," she replies; "but pink camellias are a rather specific floral request. Plus – for a man to send pink flowers to his male partner? Yes, I believe it's quite deliberate."
"Yeah...I guess," I muse. The more I think about it...Edward does so little by random chance. Besides that, what did the card say...? Loving you, longing for you.
"Mama," I say suddenly, "I have to go."
"Yes," she replies with a smile in her voice. "I would say so." I can only smile at how intuitive Mama is, how she already knows without me telling her, where I'm going. "I love you, dear," she says.
"I love you too, Mama. Bye," I reply, and hang up the phone. I toss my book on the couch, turn off the fireplace, and put my shoes back on. I pause briefly to look into the hall mirror, making sure my curls aren't too out-of-control; and then I throw on my coat, grab my keys and I'm out the door.
In my car, I tap the steering wheel nervously as I make my way south, across the bridge, to the Capitol Hill neighborhood. I find a parking space not far from Edward's building, and sprint to the door. Pushing the intercom button, I wait to hear his voice; instead the door buzzes, letting me in.
I quickly mount the stairs to his apartment. At the top of the stairs, I knock on the door. It opens and in front of me is Edward. He is dressed casually, much as I am, in old jeans, a comfortable long-sleeved t-shirt and bare feet. His bronze hair, gleaming in the halogen lights that are far overhead in the high ceilings, is tousled as always. His green eyes are wide, betraying his surprise.
"Jasper," he says softly. "I didn't expect you tonight."
"Am I interrupting?" I reply, trying to keep my voice steady.
"Of course not," he says, smiling almost shyly. "Will you come in?"
"Thanks," I say, and he steps back to allow me to enter.
"May I take your coat?" he offers, and I can't help but smile to myself at how formal we've suddenly become. Considering that the first time I was at this apartment, his comment to me was, "Bedroom's that way," things have changed significantly.
He hangs it in the hall closet, and then holds out his arm to usher me to his living room, following behind me.
"It's really good to have you here again," he says quietly.
"Thank you for the flowers," I tell him. "They're lovely. Pink camellias...for longing?"
A small smile breaks on his face; his eyes shine. "You knew what they were for."
"I had some help," I admit. "I didn't know if that was what you meant, or if they were more random than that."
"I had some help too," he grins. "Took me a while to find out what was blooming in San Francisco right now, and then find something with an appropriate meaning. Those ones, though..." he says in a heartfelt voice, "were perfect."
Our eyes hold each other for a moment, until I feel self-conscious. Dropping my gaze, I ask, "How was your trip?"
"Productive," he says; and I know for him, that is the highest praise he can bestow upon a business trip. He hates to waste time – something that unfortunately ends up happening a lot when you consider the number of people required to carry out larger-scale photo shoots.
"Good," I reply lamely. Again our eyes find each other, and the gaze is held for a long moment. This time when I look away, my eyes light on something new, something I've never seen in this apartment before.
"What's this?" I ask, striding over to the desk and picking up a photo frame. In it is an older photo of the Cullen family – much older, in fact; Edward and Alice are children. The entire family appears to be on a camping trip.
Setting it down, I look around for others; and suddenly realize that the room is filled with photographs. On walls, on the bookshelf, end tables...framed photos are all around. Most aren't Edward's professional work – they're snapshots, candids, family portraits. But a few are his work, and these are the ones I gravitate towards first...
...because the photos are of me. A couple I've already seen – being the ones Edward gave me – but there are several I've never seen. They are all from that day in Canal Park; and as always, Edward's work makes the subject sparkle.
"Edward..." I murmur, moving around the room much as I did earlier today when I was at the art gallery. Edward, remaining where he is, follows me with his eyes; not offering any commentary, not interrupting my viewing. After looking at the pictures of me, I take in photos of various members of the Cullen family, the seniors and the juniors.
Finally, having given them each at least a perfunctory viewing, I turn to face Edward where he stands in the middle of the room. I'm wondering about one very particular photograph. Feeling a little breathless, I ask, "Your night table...?"
Wordlessly, he gestures towards the bedroom, inviting me to look for myself. He lets me leave to look on my own. The photo is there, in a different frame, glass intact...and with friends. Two smaller photos of me now flank it. I study them all for a moment, then slowly turn and return to the living room.
Edward waits for me there, his eyes inspecting the floor several feet in front of him, his hands clasped behind his back. His body language conveys his vulnerability. Softly, as though he's speaking to no one in particular, he says, "I call it 'Project Recalled to Life.' I had them custom-framed; they were all finished and waiting for me at the framing store when I got back from San Francisco this afternoon. I've been putting them up since I got home."
"This is beautiful, Edward," I offer, and he smiles and gives me a small nod of thanks.
"Would you like a drink?" he asks, and I nod, following him to the kitchen. There are a couple of unframed photos on his fridge door, and alongside them is a business card; the kind you get from your doctor's office telling you the dates of your upcoming appointments. I peer at it. Dr. Heather Matson; Edward has weekly appointments with her for the next several weeks.
"Dr. Matson?" I blurt out without thinking. "Edward, are you sick?"
He smiles gently, shaking his head. "She's a family therapist," he replies. "My parents and I are seeing her together; and, well, on Tuesday she suggested I see her on my own as well. I agreed."
"You're seeing a therapist?" I ask, incredulity coloring my tone.
"Yeah," he says, putting a glass of Scotch into my hand. "I have, uh...stuff I need to figure out."
I can only stare at him, my mouth open, as I process what I've seen and heard in the very short time I've been here tonight. Edward, content to let me work through this in silence, leans against the counter opposite me. Finally, he reaches slowly for my hand, threads his fingers through mine; pauses to see whether I will object to his action; and then, saying, "Let's talk," he leads me to his couch.
Edward
As soon as I get home, I get to work placing the framed photos throughout my apartment. A family grouping on the wall, a few of my grandparents on the bookshelf, individual photos here and there; and throughout them all, Jasper's beautiful face casting his brilliance into every corner of my home.
I take a break for dinner; and by the time darkness falls over Seattle, I'm settled into my armchair with my laptop to catch up on the emails I put off while in San Francisco. I have an email from Pacific Florists letting me know that the flowers I ordered have been delivered to the recipient. I try to imagine Jasper's face as he received them; but I don't know how he'll feel about it – whether he's leaning towards giving me another chance, or if he has decided not to risk it again.
Sighing, I tell myself not to think about it; I know he'll keep his word and get in touch with me tomorrow. I focus on my emails, working my way through them. About an hour later, I jump when my front door intercom buzzes. Figuring it's Alice or my parents stopping by – no one else visits me – I jump up, cross the living room to the intercom panel, and hit the button to release the front door lock.
While I wait for the visitor to arrive at my door, I put my laptop on "sleep", and put it on my desk. By the time I'm snapping it shut, there's a soft knock. I cross the room back to the door, and pull it open without bothering to look through the peep hole.
And then all other thoughts are abandoned as my eyes alight on the form before me. My angel, beautiful Kas – I will call him Kas – is standing at my door.
-o-
By the time I take his hand and lead him from the kitchen to the couch, my heart has climbed from somewhere down around my ankles, to my throat, and is threatening to lift me off my feet. I'm feeling more optimistic, more positive, more genuinely happy, than I can remember ever having been, my whole life. He loves the flowers, he loves the pictures; he's concerned about me. And now, he has done me the honor of allowing me to hold his hand – such a simple act, but it makes my heart soar. I never held anyone's hand before Jasper, not since I was a child. It hasn't been the type of physical contact exchanged in the liaisons I've had. I never realized how intensely intimate it is.
Now, sitting on the couch side by side, we talk about so many things. "I've pictured us together, Edward," he says. "I've thought about it, even when I tried not to; I visualized what it would be like for you and me. I see us just living life, the day-to-day stuff, and I think it would make me so happy to have that life with you." He hesitates before continuing. "But then I think about...getting into an argument, or having a misunderstanding...the way you reacted to that, Edward – that scares the shit out of me. I know people fight, and I know that if we were together we'd have arguments; but I can't work anything out with you if you don't stay and give us a chance to talk about it."
"The way I acted that night, Jasper," I reply, "it was reprehensible. I am mortified at what I did; there's only one thing I've ever regretted more deeply." He doesn't ask what; I'm sure he already knows I'm talking about the boys I was with while we were apart. "I was angry at you, and angry at my parents; and I became cold, and cruel...and just horrible. I'll never forgive myself for becoming that person, for hurting you the way I did." A lump grows in my throat as the memory of the way Jasper looked that night flashes into my memory.
"I forgive you," he whispers. "Like you said, you have...stuff...you need to work out. I understand that."
"Everyone has been much better to me than I deserve," I murmur, thinking of my parents and Alice. Jasper asks me about what happened when I came out, and I relate the whole story to him – the communication breakdown, my refusal to discuss my life with my parents, and the way I extracted myself from their lives until my existence became almost completely solitary.
"Your parents must be beside themselves now," he muses. "Especially your mother."
We chat some more about my parents until he asks me something else he's clearly been thinking about. "You said when you were at my place, that it only took one little simple thing to make you remember the times we had spent together. What was that thing?"
With a wry smirk, I answer, "A $300 cell phone call."
"What?!" he says incredulously.
"Yeah," I nod. "Remember when I was in Vancouver?"
Recognition dawns on his face. "Oh, my god - $300?" He whistles a low whistle. "Well, you said you didn't care if it was a thousand dollars. I suppose you should have been more specific," he says with a little chuckle.
"It was worth every penny, Jasper," I aver, "because you got me through that night; and that memory...it was the means by which you restarted my frozen, dead heart and brought me to life. I saw that bill and every single thing, every memory I'd tried to pretend didn't exist – they were all right there. Just like you were that night, for me." He looks down, his eyes resting on our joined hands. "Jasper..." I whisper, leaning closer to him. "I don't want to live without you."
"I..." he hesitates, then looks back up at me. His eyes are the most brilliant shade I've green I've ever seen them. "I want to give us another try. I'm still afraid to open myself up to it again; but what I've seen tonight, the things you told me, the little bit your dad told me...I know you – we – are worth it. I want to give us a real chance this time; because before, we never really had a chance. We were both hiding too much. We didn't talk about the things that were really important."
I shake my head. "No, we didn't. But I know you were following my lead. I never opened up to you, I never talked about my family..."
He holds up a hand to stop me. "You're right, I was following your lead – and I went against my own character, Edward. I knew that what I was doing was dishonest, hiding that stuff from you; and I was afraid."
"I made you afraid..."
"Stop – enough," he insists, and places his free hand on my cheek, looking into my eyes. "No more placing blame, even if it's on ourselves. Let's start with a clean slate."
"I don't have a clean slate, though," I say sadly, looking away, and his hand falls from my face.
"The other guys," he murmurs, and I nod. "Yeah," he sighs. "I've had a hard time dealing with that. I still am. I wish I could say, no problem, it's in the past, and just forget about it. I think it'll take me a while to get past it completely." Again he reaches to my cheek, gently turning my face back to him. "But I will. I'm going to have faith; we are going to take a leap of faith together." He stares into my eyes searchingly, and I nod silently, unable to verbalize the relief I feel, the overwhelming sense that Jasper's love has sanctified me and that maybe, someday, I'll be worthy of it.
His hand still on my face, he leans towards me; I lean in to close the distance between us, and for the first time in much too long, our lips touch. I never, ever want to lose the sense of wonder I feel right now – the knowledge that I am blessed with the love of my life. Our lips move gently, sweetly against each other, rediscovering. His lips part; mine follow and our tongues meet again, his delicious warmth inside me. For several moments, we slowly revel in our return to the center of the universe.
Gently, I pull away to tell him again, the most important words I've ever spoken in my life. "I love you," I whisper to him.
"I love you, too," he murmurs back.
-o-
YAY. Writing this chapter made me so happy. But it's not over yet, and if you review, I will send you a teaser of what's next for our darling boys.
I will be posting an entry in the Age of Edward contest, within the next few days. To be automatically notified when the story is posted, add me to your Author alerts.
Mama Whitlock's words about love, hearts and broken pieces, were taken from a review left by a reader named twilightbloom. What she said was so lovely and wise, that I had to include it in the story; it fits our boys' situation very well. Thank you for allowing me to use this, Sandi. :)
New on the blog this week – starfish422(dot)blogspot(dot)com:
Fan art by C-Me-Smile
Over The Top mentioned on the inaugural Twigasm podcast