Hello people of the internet, welcome back to my little story.
Took me forever to finish chapter three but it's finally here, two months later! Yikes. Sorry about that. But I love this one so much and hopefully you do too!
Disclaimer - I don't own Twilight but this story idea as well as Tate belong to me.
CHAPTER THREE: Remember Me
Bella
September 13, 2004
I woke up to the smell of bacon sizzling. It wouldn't have been alarming if I didn't know how terrible of a cook my mother was, and my eyes snapped open as my sleepy mind jumped to conclusions. What if she burned the entire house down?
I tossed back my thick lavender duvet and swung my legs over the edge of the bed, shoving my numb feet into my pair of fuzzy Elmo slippers. I stumbled out of my room, following the meaty scent wafting through the house. The bright Arizona sun streaming into the kitchen from all the open windows blinded me momentarily.
"Good morning!" my mom sang cheerfully when my vision adjusted and I could see again. Confused now, I looked for a fire but neither saw or smelled one. There was only Renée, standing at the stove in her pale blue sundress, her green and yellow gingham apron tied around her skinny waist. She glanced up from the pan to beam at me, outshining the sunlight, and for a moment all I could do was stare at her petite, unharmed frame, bewildered. Then I raised an uncertain eyebrow.
"Oh, don't give me that look," she grumbled, rolling her big blue eyes dramatically. "I can cook without ruining anything." Very rarely. Even making mac and cheese proved to be a challenge for her, so how could I trust that bacon wouldn't be?
"Do you need help?" My raspy voice was still thick with sleep, and I yawned as I shuffled over to give her a hug, burying my face in the hollow beneath her shoulder. I breathed her in, inhaling the sweet perfume that clung to her dress and skin. My mother always had an appealing aroma about her, and I can't think of a time where she ever smelled bad or gross.
Mom laughed quietly, a chiming sound, and caressed the back of my head with her free hand, planting a kiss to my hair.
It wasn't until I remembered the date that I became worried again. I pulled away, startled by the realization, and exclaimed "Oh!" before giving Renée a wide-eyed look of disbelief. "It's Monday!" I continued incredulously. "I have school today!"
But she was shaking her head. "Nope," is all she said, lifting the pan from the stove and sliding the crisp, sizzling bacon strips onto a yellow plate. "I called your teacher to let her know you came down with a stomach bug over the weekend so you're still in bed recovering." As she spoke, she dumped the pan in the sink and brought the plate of bacon over to the round, bright green kitchen table, where she had painstakingly laid out place settings for the both of us. "So no school."
She seemed so proud of herself in the way she smiled at me then, popping open the microwave to get a heated bowl of scrambled eggs, placing it on the table beside the bacon. (I guess that was her way of keeping them warm until she was done with the bacon.) I simply stood in the middle of the room, unable to speak.
"Um," I managed to blurt out, "you—you lied to my teacher?" My brow furrowed and a frown tugged at my lips. What the heck did she think she was doing? I had literally just started fifth grade only three weeks before and so far had a perfect attendance record; I really didn't want to tarnish that, even if Ms. Hudson believed I was sick—which I sort of doubted. It appeared too good to be true, that I were to "get a stomach bug" right before my birthday. If Ms. Hudson was the smart and attentive woman I thought she was, it wouldn't take long for her to figure it out. Dread hit me in the pit of my stomach.
Mom didn't answer my question. She pressed her lips together and suddenly became very intent on fixing our silverware to avoid meeting my disapproving gaze. A tense silence settled between us; the kind of silence we were too familiar with since this type of thing happened periodically. It was a pattern that kept weaving itself together, always growing.
I walked up behind her and said, low and critically, "Mom, you can't just pull me out of school to celebrate my birthday."
She nearly knocked over the empty glass sitting at my place. She repositioned it and I saw the blush creeping up her neck and into her freckled cheeks. Her jaw clenched. "I know, Bella," she whispered, sounding guilty and childlike.
"Then why did you?" My tone bordered on angry now, as years of pent-up frustration at her irresponsible choices started to boil. I didn't want to be upset with her—on any day let alone my birthday—but this was going too far. She knew that it was unethical and dishonest to keep me from school for no reason except to make my birthday special, and as much as I appreciated her desire to be with me, I couldn't condone her actions. You just don't ever do things like that.
"Please, Bella, let's just—let's be happy today," my mother begged me, finally turning to face me, cupping my jaw in her smooth, gentle hands. Her baby blue eyes were pleading, wet with tears. "It's your birthday. Let's not think about school, or anything else. Today's your day." It sounded like she was trying to convince herself that what she did wasn't that bad.
She scurried away to retrieve a carton of orange juice from the fridge. Stiff with outrage, I couldn't say any more. I didn't think arguing would make her change—not just her mind, but her entire irresponsible self—but I wanted to try and explain why continuously making rash decisions for herself (because, ultimately, this was about her and what she wanted) would eventually get her into trouble. Imagine that, a twelve-year-old attempting to teach her mother about thinking before doing—although it wasn't surprising we had reached that place when pulling me from school on my birthday was the last straw.
"C'mon, let's eat before the eggs get cold," Mom chirped, pouring our drinks and then taking her seat. My hands, aching from being curled into fists for so long, twitched at my sides in resentment. That was my mother for you; always trying to change the subject.
I sank into my chair, biting my cheek to keep from snapping. Along with exasperated, I also felt conflicted; she'd gotten up early to tidy the house and set the table flawlessly and actually make breakfast without any accidents, for me, for my birthday. She did all this to surprise me, to start my morning off with a kind gesture—she was trying to be a good mom.
But you can be a good mom and not sabotage your child's daily education or set them up to be uncomfortable in class. There was no doubt my teacher would confront me sometime tomorrow, and I'd get stuck between a rock and a hard place.
How do I explain to Ms. Hudson that you lied to her about my health just so you could spend my birthday with me? She will blame me for it and think I faked being sick to get out of going to school on said birthday. This isn't going to go over well. It wouldn't make sense for the parent to lie, parents don't do that. Not unless you were my mother, of course. I was screwed.
Needless to say, breakfast didn't turn out as carefree as Mom had planned. It was downright awkward. I glared when she wasn't paying attention and stabbed at my eggs to show her how mad I was. The silence hung above us, thick and loud.
She finished first, gathering her plate and utensils and glass and carrying them over to the sink. My heart beat fast like a bird trapped within my ribcage, panicking as it struggled to escape. That's kind of how I felt—confined in a life of having to be the responsible one, to apologize for my mother's mistakes, to handle things children my age shouldn't have to. A never-ending cycle of being the grownup while standing next to the woman who had birthed me. I basically raised myself if I'm being honest—she was like the slightly annoying, ditzy sidekick and I was the protagonist in our own cartoon show.
"Thanks for breakfast," I muttered, setting my dishes in the sink as she scrubbed hers. "I'm going back to bed." As mad as I was, I couldn't bear to see the pained look of sadness that surely crossed her delicate features when I walked away.
She found me curled up under my covers an hour later. I heard the creak of my door and hurried to flip my pillow over—I didn't want to her to see the stain of tears and know I'd been crying. I acted like I was half-asleep and trying to get cozy again. She padded across the floor and crawled warily onto my mattress, quietly making herself comfortable behind me.
"Sorry," she murmured softly, resting her hand on my stiff shoulder. I closed my eyes and tried not to move an inch. "I'm so sorry, Bella, really. I didn't mean to upset you, I just…wanted to surprise you. It's your birthday so I figured you would want to stay home instead of going to school." Of course I did, any kid would. It's the fact that she called and lied to my teacher and told her I was sick that made it a problem. Why couldn't we have celebrated when I got home like we always did? What was it about my twelfth birthday that she had to go and do what she did? Why was she so impulsive?
"I've got presents for you," Mom carried on, optimism seeping into her voice. "I mean, not many, I know you don't like to be spoiled, but…I can go get them if you wanna open 'em. I figured we'd wait until later after we had cake and ice cream but it—it's your choice." I couldn't even bring myself to respond to that. I wanted nothing from her except some maturity.
When I didn't answer, Mom sighed and slowly got off my bed. She knew I was awake and giving her the silent treatment. She left my door open just a crack, something she'd done since I was a baby. I listened to her light footfalls as she left.
Hours later, I still hadn't emerged from my room. Mom peeked in to check on me from time to time but I never moved—I simply kept burrowing deeper beneath the bedspread, falling in and out of consciousness. Eventually I dozed off; being sad and disappointed in a loved one really takes its toll on you. I woke up around four and by then I couldn't stay in bed any longer. Groaning, my joints popped as I unwillingly exited my room. I stepped on something smooth; eyes widening in surprise, I looked down and saw a piece of paper on the floor under my foot. Confused, I bent over to pick it up.
Bella, my mother had written in bold blue pen, your dad called while you were sleeping so I told him you'd return the call when you woke up. I'm going to take a nap myself so just wake me up if you need anything. I love you, Bunny.
Despite my animosity towards her at that moment, the lifelong nickname brought a wistful smile to my lips. Tears pooled in my eyes and my chest suddenly felt tight. I sucked in a breath and kept walking, folding up the note and taking it with me. The house was quiet; she actually was asleep, then. I'd look for her after I was done talking to my dad. I plucked the home phone off its base unit and went back to my room, kicking the door shut behind me and putting my mother's note on top of my dresser. I dialed my dad's number and flopped onto my bed; I heaved a sigh and rubbed my sleepy eyes.
He answered, warily, after several rings. The line crackled, then his rumbly voice spoke into the phone. "Swan residence."
"Hey, Ch—Dad." I wasn't allowed to call him Charlie to his face. Or whenever I spoke to him. "It's Bella," I sighed wearily.
I could almost picture the smile lighting his face at the sound of my voice, as monotone as it was. "Bells!" he exclaimed, too cheerily for my liking. Even on a good day, I was never a ray of a sunshine like my mother. "Happy birthday, kiddo."
I couldn't help but roll my eyes. "Thanks, Dad," I mumbled, absentmindedly snapping the elastic of my pajama bottoms.
"How've you been celebrating? Did your friends at school remember to wish you a happy birthday?" I don't have friends.
I had to think fast—obviously Mom didn't tell him I wasn't at school since she lied to keep me from going, and I couldn't either. As much as I didn't approve of that, I wasn't exactly prepared to be shipped off to Forks after Charlie discovered the mother of his child was doing a half-assed job at raising their twelve-year-old. If I informed him she kept me from my education for the sake of my birthday, he'd get concerned and sooner or later CPS would arrive and take me away when he filed a neglect complaint. Well, that seemed a bit far-fetched for Charlie, but he'd certainly be worried about me. Mom did a lot of irresponsible, flighty things and I had to be here to take care of her. So now I was being forced to lie to him. A kind of domino effect, one thing lead to another.
"Yeah, they did," I replied, fighting back tears of guilt. "Um, we haven't really celebrated yet, since I've been taking a nap and all, but—but I think we might go out to dinner later. And then I'll open presents before bed." I sounded so lackluster.
Charlie noticed. "You don't seem too excited about any of that," he remarked. There was the concern. "What's up, Bell?"
I struggled to keep the truth hidden under my tongue. "Huh? Oh, nothing. I'm fine. I just woke up. I'm still tired."
"Hm. Okay." He didn't believe me, and I could tell. Panic bloomed in my stomach and my resolve shook. What do I say?
"Enough about me," I blurted before he had the chance to say anything more on the subject. "What've you been doing?"
"Oh, you know, the usual. Work and solitaire, work and solitaire. Had a beer. Took a five-minute nap. So, nothing much." He chuckled, pleased with himself. I smiled at his dry humor, an aspect of him I'd inherited. At least his day was going all right.
"I wish I could be there with you," I heard myself murmur wistfully, and my face twisted in regret a second later. Whoops.
"Me too, honey," Charlie said sadly, longingly. The tears assaulted my eyes again. "Maybe next year, if—if you want, you can come up here to Forks and celebrate your birthday with me then. Your mom can come, too," he added. Oh God, no.
I cringed, the moment ruined. "Aha. Yeah, maybe." Yeah, maybe not. "Orrr, you could come here. To Phoenix," I teased.
"Oh." I envisioned him shuddering at the equally awkward suggestion. "Ah, yeah, perhaps. I would have to make room in my very busy schedule to fly down for a few days, though. Dunno how I'd manage that since this town needs their king," he joked.
I laughed then, loud and genuine; I had to cover my mouth so I wouldn't disturb my mom, wherever she was. Charlie was a king, truly, and still is. The people of Forks—at the time, all three thousand, two hundred and six of them—need him and respect him like he actually is royalty. And like any father to a little girl, he was my first love and my first prince.
"Good point," I giggled. "I don't think anybody would be able to survive two minutes without you there." I know I haven't.
"Eh, they'd figure it out," my dad chuckled, sounding pleased that he made me laugh. It was a rare occurrence back then.
The moment of amusement was only fleeting. I quickly settled back into wistful quietness as I thought about how much I truly missed being with Charlie. Summer dragged on in rainy Forks but now I was missing it more than ever, as well as the delighted look on his face when I came down the stairs every morning to have breakfast with him. We'd plan our day over cereal or eggs and bacon (I would make the eggs and bacon, sometimes pancakes, because he was a worse cook than my mother), or I'd tag along with him in his police cruiser and hang out at the station all day. I made friends with the other officers—since I've always gotten along better with the older crowd—and would play those old-fashioned Windows games on someone's computer. So as depressing as Forks could be a good percent of the time (at least to a kid), trips up there during the summer weren't as bad as I grew up—I realized the time I got to spend with my dad was a yearly gift.
Forks wasn't so bad as long as Charlie would always be there waiting for me. It occurred to me then I didn't feel at all the same about my mother; my final days in Forks that year had been filled with dread that I struggled to fight off, unsettled by how differently I felt leaving this time. I suppose going back to Phoenix to be the parent to a nearly thirty-one-year-old woman suddenly didn't sound as normal and acceptable as I'd originally thought. I wanted to stay in Forks and be okay. I didn't want to go home and have to take care of someone anymore, the way she should have always taken care of me.
"Dad?" I croaked, throat swollen and tears escaping the corners of my burning eyes. "Forks will always be home, right?"
He seemed taken aback by my abrupt change in mood. He was silent for a second, then said, gruff with emotion, "Yeah, baby, Forks'll always be here for you." I was truly asking about him and if he'd always be my home—I needed a real one, a stable place to return to.
I didn't want to be the grownup anymore. Even if it was too late to salvage a proper childhood, I still desired to be a kid.
"Good," I sniffled. "Y'know, I used to think it was weird having two homes. But now I don't mind it so much. Seeing you, every summer in Forks, it—it gives me something to look forward to. It can get boring around here in Phoenix, but Forks always seems to have stuff to do, places to go, people to meet. It's actually not that bad once you get used to the rain."
Charlie laughed then, and the vigorous sound filled me with warmth. "I can't argue with that. I've lived here my whole life."
And I've lived there a good portion of mine, I thought pensively. Forks really was my other home; maybe my one and only.
We talked about random things for a while longer. I wound up laughing again, forgetting Mom and our current situation. I had sore ribs by the time I glanced at the clock and noticed how dark my room had gotten. I sighed glumly, knowing my mom might be awake by now and that we'd inevitably have to talk about why exactly my birthday was so monotonous. I have never been one for confrontation of any sort so as much as I hated the thought of seeing my mom again, I had to.
"Hey, Dad, um…" I scratched my ear, loneliness already beginning to creep into my chest. "I'm gonna go check on Mom and, um…get some homework done." But I don't have homework at the moment because she kept me from school today.
"Oh, alright," Charlie responded curtly, exaggerating his disappointment. But he laughed and said kindly, "Okay, kiddo."
"Thanks for talking to me," I murmured, absentmindedly tracing a line in my bedspread. "I had fun—I like talking to you."
There was another smile in his voice when he replied, "Me too, Bells. We can talk anytime, you know. I'm…here for you."
It's almost sad how he was basically my only other "friend" at the time. I was too awkward and shy to approach anybody at school and spent most of my days alone. I didn't mind, though, I enjoyed being by myself. I felt out of step with kids my age and always had a hard time finding someone who I connected with. Eventually I realized that wasn't happening—I'd just be one of those people for the rest of my life, it seemed. Which scared me since I didn't want to be totally alone. I hoped to marry and have kids and a dog someday. Live in a nice house with a family I would love with all my heart. So it was difficult for me when I had those moments of panic, wondering if my inability to socialize would prevent any of that.
I cleared my swollen throat and blinked back tears. "I know. Thank you, Dad. And I don't say this enough, but…I love you."
"I love you too, Bells." He seemed slightly surprised I was being so sentimental, especially towards him. We're so similar that sometimes it felt weird to say I love you without it being uncomfortable, even if we meant it with everything we had. "I'll let you go now," Charlie said with a sigh after a short pause. "Again—happy birthday. That's the last time I'll say it."
I playfully rolled my eyes. "Until next year," I giggled, not knowing I wouldn't want to hear it come next year, not knowing I wouldn't want to hear anything about my birthday come next year. How I began loathing the day and totally dreading it.
We said goodbye and I ended the call, my thumb hesitating over the button for half a second. There went my lifeline, my only source of positivity on this awful day I no longer wanted to celebrate.
I cracked my stiff joints and neck, wincing as I noticed the dull beginning of a headache behind my eyes. I let my body lie still for a moment, but eventually had to get up like I said I would. Golden rays of light slanted off the walls and the floor, the orangey beginning of the sunset visible through the kitchen windows as I passed. I reached my mother's bedroom at the end of the hall and stood there forever.
My hand twitched at my side, knowing it should knock but couldn't. I really didn't want to talk to her. I didn't want to look at her childlike face, see those sad baby blues fill with remorse. I didn't want to do the comforting anymore. Not one bit.
It angered me that I had to, that it was basically my responsibility to fix the problem. To patch up and heal the wounds—wounds that shouldn't be there, scrapes and bruises that hurt to touch, gashes that would inevitably fade into scars. And it scared me, then, realizing she'd never change, that this was just another repetitive injury. I started to wonder how many scars were already on me and if my mother would ever notice them. No, of course not. Renée liked to ignore bad things.
I rapped on the door sharply and waited. I heard the shift of her body in the sheets, a fleeting second of confused quiet, and then, "Bella?" Her voice was sleepy-soft and disoriented. I wished she hadn't woken up. "Oh, you can come in, hon."
I reigned in my fury, taking a deep breath to relax the tension that was building in my body, and stepped into her room. I found Renée curled up alone in her queen-sized bed, lying on her side with her legs tucked beneath her small figure. She was rubbing her eyes, yawning. I stood at the foot of the bed, waiting for her to say something. I was too mad to speak.
She gazed at me wearily for a long time. Then she raised a pale hand and gestured for me to come over to her. Like she had done earlier, I unwillingly crawled my way across the mattress, collapsing next to her on my back. She turned toward me, throwing her arm over my chest and hugging my shoulder. She pecked my cheek and snuggled against me. Again, I noted the childlike behavior, and gritted my teeth. But, as usual, I didn't have the heart to disrupt the moment with reality.
Ultimately I couldn't enable her any longer. "I just got off the phone with Charlie," I informed her quietly, closing my eyes.
"That's nice…What did you guys talk about?" she murmured groggily, sounding like she was ready to fall back to sleep.
I shrugged. "Lotsa stuff…I told him I miss Forks." I paused, gauging her reaction. But she didn't so much as flinch at the confession. "Maybe we can spend my next birthday there. I'll be thirteen," I mused. That certainly got her attention.
She fidgeted uncomfortably at the reminder. "Don't say that," she mumbled. "I don't want my baby to grow up. Stay tiny forever." Translation: stay young and live with me and take care of me forever. She sighed a moment later, propping her torso up on her elbow. She looked at me through the pale waning light from her window. "I hope you don't grow up to be like me."
Startled by her words, my eyes flipped open and I stared back at her incredulously. Then my expression instantly soured and my veins grew too hot as my anger set aflame once more. I bolted upright, my jaw dropping. "Yeah, I hope so, too."
She flinched, taken aback. There was a fleeting few seconds of confused silence on her part, heavy breathing on mine. I wanted her to get mad at me, simply because I was sick and tired of her regular disposition. I wanted her to treat me like I was the child she needed to discipline rather than it being the other way around. She had to finally grow up. I was done.
"I hope growing up with a woman who depends on me for almost everything doesn't somehow damage me in any way," I continued ruthlessly. "I hope being the parent—your parent—all these years doesn't affect my future when I'm actually an adult instead of pretending to be one to keep your head above water. I hope feeling isolated from my peers because my mother's erratic, immature behavior and choices keeps me on my toes amounts to something one day and never feeling like I had a childhood doesn't completely screw me up. I hope you're happy living your silly little carefree life as a stupid excuse for an adult while your twelve-year-old daughter has basically raised herself since she was old enough to count."
Renée was horrified. Honestly, I was too, but it had to be said. I've always been good at hiding my emotions and putting on a brave face. So she had to know I meant it, and was seriously hurting because of her. I never screamed at anybody.
We stared at other, petrified, for what felt like many hours. Eventually I was the first to move; I dropped my head into my hands and began to sob. I let the mental barrier crumble and the waterworks started flooding relentlessly. One too many years of neglect and her bad decisions and being alone were finally taking their visible toll on me, and for once I did not want to hide my tears and pretend to be okay for her sake. I couldn't do that now; there was no going back at this point.
"Why do you have to be you?" I wept hysterically, shoulders heaving. "Why can't you be like other moms? How did I get stuck with you? You're not even a mom, you're just a child trapped in a grown woman's body!" My voice was venomous as a snake's fatal bite, my harsh words cutting through the air like sharp knives; the truth really does hurt. It hurt us both.
"I don't know what to say, Bella," my mother whispered weakly several minutes later when the dust settled. I wept harder.
"I can't be the adult anymore," I bawled into the sheets, for I had toppled over. "I just wanna be a kid. I'm so sick of this."
I felt her trembling hands touch the back of my head hesitantly, smoothing down my tangled hair. For a second it felt as if we were in a Disney Channel movie where the young girl just had her heart broken by her crush at school and her mom was trying to comfort her. I almost wished that was the situation—that would mean we could at least relate to each other.
But no, my life, even then, was not a movie, let alone from Disney Channel. I couldn't predict a happy ending here. I had just fully realized how irresponsible my mother was a good percent of the time—if it wasn't easy, it became my job to do it. If it wasn't fun, I still did it anyway. There was no compromise. The older I got, the less she bothered to be an adult. A movie like that would depress anyone who saw it unless, somehow, some way, my "happy ending" magically happened.
I stopped believing in happy endings that day. I accepted that if I couldn't hope for it, it wouldn't occur. No use in trying.
I needed to cry and get my anger out. Truthfully, I did feel better when I managed to stop sobbing. Renée had laid down next to me and I could see tear tracks on her own cheeks. Suddenly she looked ten years older. How I wanted her to be.
"How can I fix this?" she murmured. Of course she sounded like a child afraid of discipline. "How can I…make it better?"
I dragged my hands across my wet face. "Well, for starters, don't pull me out of school on my birthday ever again." She grimaced at the reminder. I sighed. "In all seriousness, I don't really know. I'd tell you to get your act together. Get a new job and start paying bills on your own. Focus less on all the fun you could be having instead and just be an adult. I can't be the grownup anymore, Mom. That always should've been your job. I'm done with parenting you—I have to be the kid now."
Mom gazed at me with those heartbreaking puppy dog eyes, swimming in tears. "Okay," she said after a while. "I get it."
"Do you?" I mumbled suspiciously, but she nodded and grabbed my hand, squeezing it reassuringly. "Okay," I repeated.
We didn't talk about the future for the rest of the night. Renée tried to lighten the mood by bringing out my presents; she got an impish look on her face and snuck off into her closet, returning a few seconds later with an armful of gifts. She'd wrapped them each with different paper but all had a big curly bow slapped right in the middle. I laughed into my hands; always with the theatrics. She laid them out individually beside me and straightened the tissue paper in the singular bag.
"Mom," I groaned, "this is too much." My cheeks were turning pink with embarrassed gratitude but on the inside my heart was bursting. My fingers trailed over the satiny boxes and I wondered what was in them, unable to recall what I'd wanted.
"Which one do I open first?" My eyes were on the little purple bag but I had a sense she wanted to save the best for last.
"You pick, sweetheart," Mom whispered eagerly. Naturally, she was willing to give me anything after what just happened.
I chose the tiniest box and carefully tore off the blue paper. At first it appeared to be a miniature vintage book, but upon further inspection I gathered it wasn't a book at all, but a gift card holder—I opened the lid to reveal a card for Old Navy.
"I remember you saying you wanted some new shirts," Mom explained shyly. "I wasn't sure what exactly you had in mind so I figured I'd just let you pick 'em out. Is that okay?" She bit her lip expectantly and I bobbed my head. She smiled. "It isn't much, but it's enough to buy a few. We can go shopping tomorrow after I pick you up from school. If you want to."
"Yeah, totally. Thank you!" I was touched that she recalled my desire to get clothes—I thought she hadn't been listening.
My next gift was in a medium-sized box that contained a silver picture frame with a photo already in it. Tears immediately smarted at my eyes and I was taken completely by surprise. A photograph of me and my dad from my most recent visit to Forks was nestled in the square frame, smiling at the camera held by Charlie's friend, Harry Clearwater, who had tagged along on our annual fishing trip. We actually managed to not look awkward for once—instead we were happy and beaming.
I smiled in a bittersweet way, memories of that day swimming around in my head. That was the second to last day on my stay with Charlie and I remember clearly wanting it to stretch out for as long as it possibly could. Delaying the inevitable, so to speak.
"Charlie sent that to me. The picture." Mom fussed with her hair and let it fall over one shoulder, perpetually uncomfortable with mentioning him to me.
"I really appreciate this," I said quietly, blinking my tears away. "Truly, I do. I can't wait to hang it up. Maybe over my bed or something." I traced the shape of the frame with my fingertip, trying to swallow around the lump in my throat. It meant so much to me that Mom actually contacted my father for something other than to find out when I was going to see him.
I gently placed the frame next to me with the gift card, then reached for the last and biggest box. Renée seemed to love this one the most; she squealed and clapped her hands like an overexcited two-year-old. I bit back my natural inclination to find that annoying and instead focused on unwrapping the damn thing. The paper crinkled under my fingers and it felt like something special was inside the box. I lifted the top off to reveal a neatly folded blanket and I gasped, stunned.
"What is this?" I breathed, pulling it out to study the various colorful designs neatly stitched together in perfect squares. I recognized several of the prints, and after I felt the material I finally realized the quilt was made from t-shirts—her shirts.
"These are from your shirts," I exclaimed in surprise. "The ones you used to get when you went on road trips. Holy crow!"
Mom was beaming. "Yes!" she laughed. "Yes. I thought the next time you went up to Forks with your dad, you could use something extra to keep you warm. And, y'know, if—if you wanted a piece of me with you." She averted her damp eyes.
Poignant sadness bloomed in my chest and crawled up my neck. Blinded by her typically flighty and immature behavior, I always assumed she was glad to be rid of me, just a little bit, during the time I was away in Forks, so she could run off and wreak more havoc, make more messes for me to clean up. I thought she didn't care not having me remind her to do this or that. It never occurred to me that maybe she missed me more than I believed, more than she ever let herself show.
"I love it," I murmured, holding the quilt up to my face and breathing in the familiar scent of her that still clung to it. "I will definitely be using this. Not just at Charlie's but here, too. I'm sleeping with it tonight. Thank you." We exchanged smiles.
We sat in silence for a while. I admired the quilt and thought about how much time it must have taken for her to make it. I liked the softness and how it felt to the touch. It reminded me of the baby blankets I still had in a drawer somewhere. My throat got tight again and I started to feel guilty for being so downright vicious earlier; it amazed me how calm I was now.
"Okay. Last one." Mom reached for the bag and handed it to me. I gave her a curious look—it was heavy. She shrugged innocently and gestured for me to continue. I pressed my lips together and slowly began taking out the tissue paper. My eyebrows raised and I made a small animated sound, taken aback by the sight of the book. It was a real book this time; Lord of the Rings, to be exact. I'd complained about my school's library never having it when I wanted to read it; that was way back in May, though, and I forgot about it when I went to Forks. Mom had clearly searched for this specific version; it was in mint condition but the hard cover appeared to be dated, an older style from many years ago. It was gorgeous.
"I found it in an antique store last week while you were at school," Mom told me softly. "I hunted around for a while but it didn't look like this at any of the bookstores I went to. I don't know why I wanted it to be vintage. I guess it reminded me of you—too old for its time, but still beautiful." I blushed and looked down at the book, overwhelmed and wanting to cry.
I sniffed and put it aside. I lurched forward and threw my arms around my mother's neck; she hesitated a moment before pulling me close and holding me like she used to when I was tinier. She kissed my forehead and squeezed my shoulder.
"I love you," I told her. "I know I don't say it enough. But I do. Even if you drive me nuts. I got mad because I love you—that probably doesn't make any sense, but whatever. I love you so much and I don't wanna lose you. I don't want you to lose yourself. I just wish we could be more like mother and daughter, okay? You take care of me more than I take care of you. You be the mom now. Please?"
Mom nodded. "I know. I said I'd try harder to be better for you, and I will. I promise. Cross my heart. You won't lose me."
I believed her. With every fiber of my being, I trusted her, and envisioned things finally turning around for the both of us.
Present Day
I still have the gifts I received on that fateful birthday, minus the gift card—we actually did go shopping for clothes and I got several cute shirts that unfortunately I've since outgrown, but still have somewhere back at Charlie's. Maybe Tate can wear them one day if they're her style. I brought the picture frame, the quilt, and Lord of the Rings with me when we came to Seattle, none of which have been unpacked and instead sit in a box tucked in the back of my closet. Safe—invisible.
My mother and I spent the rest of the evening going over my presents and later ordering pizza to eat while watching bad romantic comedies. I laugh now, reminiscing on those cringeworthy films with the cheesy soundtracks and silly dialogue. I wouldn't have wanted to watch them with anyone else, though.
I wake up desperately clinging to the final shreds of my bittersweet memories, disturbed from sleep by my cell's sudden and highly unwanted ringing. I fumble blindly for the dumb phone, trying to wake up so I can properly speak to the caller.
"Hello?" I grumble, answering without looking at the screen first. When the person starts talking I immediately regret that.
"Bella!" a relieved Jessica gasps on the other end. "Oh, thank God you picked up! Oh, Bella, I don't know what to do—" She starts rambling a mile a minute.
"Slow down, Jess." I pull myself into a sitting position, fighting a grunt of pain when my joints collectively protest. "Start over, tell me what happened." Not that I really care at the moment. I rub my eyes and try to pay attention to the full story.
"Okay, well—um, you remember my situation with Mike? And how, uh, I thought he was sexting? Yeah, well, that's just it, I thought he was doing that but it turns out he actually wasn't. See, I took your advice when I went home last night after the—well, you know—and I confronted him about it. I mean, I didn't yell at him or anything, I told him I knew what he'd been up to and asked if there's a way we can move past it, like you said. So he was really confused, of course, until I showed him the texts, and by that point I was a mess, I thought our marriage was over, but then he told me this phone wasn't his and that he'd accidentally picked up someone else's. That's why I'm calling you, because, um…" Jess pauses to suck in a huge breath then continues uneasily, "Well—the phone actually belongs to Tyler Crowley. Who is, um…dating Lauren."
My mouth falls open and I stare blankly at the wall for a good thirty seconds. I swear, my life should be a TV show. This shit only happens on soap operas. "Seriously?" I say incredulously. Suddenly I am very, very awake.
"Yeah," Jess says slowly, and I realize I sound happier about this news than is morally acceptable.
"Damn," I whisper, leaning back into the couch cushion and running a hand through my hair. I can't fucking believe this. I know it's incredibly wrong for me to wish anybody ill will, but after what that bitch did to my daughter yesterday I am not going to pretend this doesn't make me the tiniest bit pleased. I can blame it on my relief that Jess didn't get cheated on.
"So that's why I'm calling you," Jessica carries on impatiently. "You gotta help me figure out how to tell Lauren the truth!"
Who in their right mind would think I'd do anything to indirectly help Lauren Mallory? My blood boils, and I snap before thinking it through. "Are you delusional? I'm never opposed to helping you, Jess, just not where she is concerned." The only thing keeping me from screaming is the sleeping four-year-old right down the hall.
"Look, I know you're super mad at her or whatever but please, she's my friend and I can't keep this from her," Jess begs imploringly. "I'm not asking you to magically forgive her for ruining your daughter's coloring book, just tell me how to tell her that there was a—a mix-up between Mike and Tyler and that Tyler is the one who cheated. Or sexted. I dunno. Please!"
My tongue rolls around in my mouth and I gaze up at the ceiling in mute fury. Lauren can burn in hell for all I care. Jess is just gonna have to deal with this on her own. "Sorry, Jess, I really can't," I mutter, and she whimpers. "I don't know how."
"Sure you do!" she persists. "R-remember when you told me how to handle this when I thought I was being cheated on?"
I roll my eyes. "Yeah, but that was, like, really spur-of-the-moment. I gave advice I pieced together from bad movies I've seen. And I like you, so it was easier. I have no clue how to help you now," I explain dismally. I know I'm being a shitty friend, but I don't want to do this.
"Bella. Please. I can't keep this from her," she says again. "And I feel like if I tried telling her without consulting you first, I would undoubtedly make things worse, and I can't make her feel more terrible than she's going to be." She sighs. "Bella, please. What do I say? How do I tell my best friend that her boyfriend sexted with someone else? That's all I'm asking."
Obviously she'll leave me alone if I just get it done and over with, but if it's to aid Lauren in a way, I'm not interested. And yet, if it's not my problem, if I'm not the one who has to tell Lauren her boyfriend's a lowlife, what does it matter? I argue with myself, wondering if I should just suck it up and give Jess advice or continue to be bitter. Jessica keeps begging—I put the phone down momentarily to drag my hands over my face and reconsider every single one of my life choices. A good person would help Jess, but I think we've established that realistically I'm far from being as good as I like to think.
What would Tate do? a teeny voice suddenly whispers in the back of my mind. I almost roll my eyes. I'll tell you what she'd do—she would help her friend.
Be more like Tate. If I want to go far in life, I should be more like Tate. That's the lesson learned today. Sighing in defeat, knowing that pesky voice has a point, I pick up my phone and say to Jessica, "All right, fine, I'll try to help you fix this."
Besides, doing this will set an example for Tate. I can tell her that Mommy helped her friend and Tate will be all inspired.
"Just be honest with Lauren," I advise Jessica, although that part is quite obvious. "But if you're at work, wait til you both are done for the day and tell her you have some bad news. Don't sugarcoat it or leave out any detail. And try to be calm while you're talking, blubbering and crying in remorse isn't going to help. Be truthful. Offer moral support and a couch to sleep on if she needs it. And as much as you both are gonna hate Tyler after this, don't be teenagers and plot revenge. Not yet, anyway."
"Okay," Jess replies. "Okay, got it. Be honest—calm—supportive…Ugh. I can't believe I have to do this. Laur's gonna be crushed." She sniffles. "And Tyler! Oh my God! That jerk. We all just went on a double date a couple weeks ago. They're so in love. Well, I assumed they were, at least. Tyler is not the guy we thought he was. I am so disappointed in him right now."
I barely remember Tyler Crowley. He was part of our group at school but I never paid much attention to him since he was always trying to hit me up and it made me uncomfortable. (Of course I never told him off, I was afraid to. Girl things!) He stopped flirting with me specifically when he met Lauren in tenth grade and ever since then she was the apple of his eye. She slept around with other guys throughout high school but never with him, but apparently they wound up together. In a way I'm surprised he turned out to be scum—he looked at her like he could never want anyone else again in his life. They were having a good time at Jessica's holiday party and I briefly saw them dancing before you-know-what happened. It is a sad occurrence when somebody you barely knew in the past winds up fucking over the person you thought was irrevocably theirs.
"Yeah, it really is too bad," I mutter halfheartedly, fiddling with the string on my sweatpants. "Sorry you lost your friend." This doesn't just affect Lauren—it affects anyone who Tyler is close to and calls a friend. He's gonna have nobody now.
"Me too," Jess exhales. "Mike was pissed when we figured it out. I'm kinda scared to ask him what he's saying to Tyler."
"Should I be concerned if you call me back saying Tyler's in the hospital with a broken nose or something?" I say warily.
She laughs once, unamused. "No. I don't think Mike will get violent, but he'll surely give Tyler a piece of his damn mind."
"Good for Mike. I'm, uh, I'm glad he's—well, I mean, I'm glad Mike didn't do this to you. You were so upset; I felt awful."
"Thank you again for being so nice yesterday," Jess murmurs shyly. "I really appreciated it. And—and thank you, now. I-I'm sorry for putting you on the spot, but I didn't know who else to call…You're so good with words. Thanks for helping."
I shrug even if she can't see me. "You're welcome. I, um, I hope Lauren can—can get past this. And dump that asshole."
Jessica giggles. "I won't let her forgive him," she promises ominously. "I'll look after her." She sighs. "Well, I have to go. I gotta finish my shift and then I need to tell Lauren her boyfriend cheated. So fun. Wish me luck," she adds cheerlessly.
"Good luck, Jess. Call me if—if you need to talk. Or if you wanna tell me how it went. Whatever. Just call me whenever."
She thanks me again and we exchange goodbyes before hanging up. I toss my phone onto the coffee table and rub my eyes, intending on going back to sleep. What an interesting turn of events. It does make more sense that Tyler did it and not Mike; I'm actually relieved, just a tiny bit, for Jessica's sake. I couldn't care less about Lauren. Karma sure is a bitch.
I decide to check on my daughter before continuing my nap; I have laundry to do but that can wait. I knock lightly on her door, asking if she's awake. Instead of a verbal response, I hear the hasty sound of a bin full of toys being tipped over.
"Where is she!" Tate is yelling, frantically looking through the colorful pile of small plastic animals when I burst in. "Mama, I can't find Twilight!" she shrieks when she sees me standing there, wide-eyed and startled. "I can't find Twilight! Help me look!" She runs to me and tugs hard on my hand, pointing to the other side of her room. "Go look over there, Mommy!"
I shake my head, confused. "Wait, wait—" I bend down to her level and grab her shoulders, forcing her to stand still. She gives me an exasperated look but I ignore it. "What's the matter?" I ask firmly. "Who's missing?" Who the hell is Twilight? I feel like I should know that. Oops.
"Twilight Sparkle," Tate insists, annoyed that I don't know. "My pony! You gave 'er to me on my birthday!" Oh, right. Her.
Her pout is so endearing. "Okay, thank you for reminding me." I nod my understanding. "Tell me when you last saw her."
"Ummm…yesterday," she says uncertainly. "I think. But—but she has to be here somewhere, Mommy. You have t' help!"
"Okay, baby, I will. Where did you see her yesterday, though? Are you sure she's still here in your room?" I press calmly. She shrugs, starting to look panicked, and is going to start having a fit until I say, "Don't cry, it's okay. I'll help you look. We'll find Twilight, I promise." I kiss Tate's forehead reassuringly. "Go on, you look in that pile of toys. I'll go over here."
She continues searching while I help on the opposite side of her little bed. I dig through a few more of her toy containers and hope I can be the hero and find the damn thing before she has a tantrum. I vaguely remember that Twilight is purple.
I sit back on my heels and think for a long moment, trying to picture what the toy actually looks like. It's about the size of my palm and the character has indigo-colored hair streaked with pink. She's got wings and a horn, I believe. I remember, quite clearly, seeing her both on our television screen and the miniature toy version in Tate's hands. But when did I see it last myself? Think, Bella, think. She has lots of toys and figurines like that I see cast around the apartment all the time—I'm always telling her to pick them up and put them away or else either one of us could step on and break them. So if the little Twilight figurine isn't in here, where could she possibly be? I bite my thumb nail and wrack my brain for possibilities.
For some reason my mind darts back to last night's disaster and focuses on what Tate was doing before her life flashed in front of her very eyes. She'd taken something out of her backpack and placed it on the table by her drink; I recognize the figurine in my memory and have to physically fight back a groan of horror. Oh shit. She left her pony toy at the diner.
She fucking left Twilight Sparkle at the diner. Where it's either been accidentally thrown away or taken by some other kid. Is this real life? Is this actually happening to me right now? Are you kidding me? What are the chances that it didn't and it could still be there underneath a counter until someone claims it? Probably not very high chances. But even if it was, it'd be my job to go back and get it. Just my luck, the person to hand it over would be Edward the waiter. Uh, yeah, no way.
Sharing a brief moment with the guy last night does not mean I don't want to keep avoiding him.
"Tate," I sigh in defeat. She's still looking through her toys and doesn't seem to hear me. "You left it at the diner, honey."
That grabs her attention. Her head whips around so fast that her dark curls whip her in the face. "What?" she says, perplexed.
"I just remembered," I say, crawling over to her and giving her an apologetic look. "You took it out of your backpack and put it on the table. It's probably still there." One can only hope. "We can go back and get it," I reassure her, touching her chin when she visibly deflates, crushed. As terrible as that sounds, I'll do anything for my girl. I'm just gonna have to suck it up and deal with it. I am the adult, sadly.
Tate's doe eyes bug out suddenly and she looks at me, startled. "What if somebody takes my Twilight?!" she screeches.
"They won't!" I say quickly before she can panic. "They won't. That's not gonna happen. You'll get her back, baby." I pull her into a hug and kiss her forehead. "Mommy will take care of it. And I'll buy you a new one if the diner somehow lost it. But you don't have to worry about that because I'll go over there tomorrow before I head to work and pick it up for you. I don't wanna bother them now if they're busy." Good excuse, Bella, I think sarcastically.
Tate nods but still looks upset. Her nose is turning red and I fear she's going to start crying. I cuddle her close and keep telling her she'll get her pony back safe and sound. Eventually her bedroom floor starts getting uncomfortable for me to sit on, so I offer to make her a snack; she bobs her head and glumly untangles herself from my arms. I ask her to put all those toys back in their bin while I work in the kitchen, and she gives me a tiny "Okay, Mommy," and I thank her politely.
Tate toddles out of her room right as I'm done chopping up pieces of celery and putting them on her favorite pink polka -dotted plate. She holds on to my leg and nuzzles my thigh while I spread peanut butter in the green stalks and then add some raisins on top. ("Ants on a log," as the Mommy bloggers call it.) I pour Tate a sippy cup of apple juice and give it to her; I notice she's more intrigued with her snack than the fate of her precious toy. Maybe I'm just good at distracting her. She chirps her thanks when she takes the plate from me and skips off to sit in front of the TV. I tell her to put on Paw Patrol.
I decide to get the laundry done while she's occupied, so I fill a basket with our dirty clothes from this week. I feel waves of anxiety starting to slosh around in my stomach and will undoubtedly spread to other places, momentarily draining me of energy. I have to get out of here before Tate notices how red my face is getting and asks questions. She doesn't need to worry about her mom now, too.
"Hey. I'm gonna go do some laundry downstairs, okay? Look at me." I pause her show so she will have to pay attention. "I'll be gone for fifteen to twenty minutes," I continue, and she nods. "I'm gonna shut and lock the door behind me. Remember what we do when I come back? I knock three times so you'll know it's me. But if there's another knock or someone rings the bell, do not answer it. Understand?" She nods. "Good. And if they try talking to you or whoever they think is in here, don't talk back. If they say they have candy or a puppy, they're lying to you. I'm gonna leave you my phone so you can call 9-1-1 if there's an emergency." She hears me go over this every time I leave her here alone but I need to be sure she still gets it. "And I want you to stay right here, okay? You sit here and eat your snack and watch your show. Don't go bouncing off the walls while I'm gone. All righty?"
Tate nods one last time, clearly agitated that I'm keeping her from her show. But she leans forward to give me a kiss and I'm confident that she'll do as I say. I tell her I love her and make sure to grab my keys and wallet before I leave. Even if I do this every other Sunday and nothing has happened yet (so far, praise God), of course I get apprehensive—my four-year-old is in charge of holding down the fort while I do laundry three floors below. At the last second I turn around and I say, "Oh—and don't eat too much at once. Take tiny bites. Be careful with those raisins, you could choke on them."
"I'm careful, Mommy," Tate responds airily, eyes focused on the television, and I sigh. I walk out, closing the door and locking it firmly like I said I would and heading for the elevator at the end of the hall. I hear voices inside some of the rooms I pass. Luckily there's no sex. I'm not in the mood to explain that to my innocent kid.
This apartment complex is generally smaller—and cheaper—than most. It's pretty quiet, too. I don't really know anybody and obviously never went around introducing myself to the neighbors when Tate and I first moved in. I think there's a cat lady two doors to the left of ours and a really chill biker dude lives across the hall from us. (I spoke with him when I went to do laundry a couple weeks ago. He was coming in after a ride on his motorcycle and carried my heavy basket for me on our way back. He struck me as very gentle and compassionate despite his menacing appearance. Don't judge books by their covers, kids.) Overall it's a decent place with little to no disturbances from anybody.
I make my way to the laundromat, thinking about Tate and reflecting on the past three weeks of our life. My anxiety does not help my already present guilt when I remember, again, how stupid I am for moving us here to Seattle and messing up basically everything. My nerves have gotten to my hands now—my fingers are shaking as I sort whites from darks. It's a debilitating thing, knowing what causes my anxiety but not being able to instantly get rid of it. It sucks knowing I've done it to myself—that I'm feeling this way because of the decisions that led me here. I can only point fingers at my reflection.
I lean against the washer next to mine as my first load starts tumbling around. I rub my temples, hoping to fight off what can only be a stress headache. I remember the incident from last night and how it's brought up another issue: getting my daughter's pony toy back. It wouldn't be such a daunting task if I wasn't afraid of returning to that cursed diner. Well, it's not the diner I want to avoid, it's Edward. He's nice and all but every time I see him, something bad happens and it's too much for my anxiety-riddled brain to handle. If I go back to the diner just to retrieve Tate's toy, with my luck he'll be there and we'll have yet another mildly awkward conversation that's going to keep me up at night, reliving the embarrassment.
"I wish I'd stayed in Forks," I whisper to no one in particular right when the washer dings. I wonder if Tate feels the same.
I get the laundry washed, dried, and folded under twenty minutes like I promised Tate. My mind is still spinning; honestly I feel kind of nauseous. I'll take something for that in case it could turn into something else and I have to take a sick day.
I cringe at the thought of being contagious around my daughter. Although it can't be worse than her daycare friends. Ha.
I'm so distracted that I don't notice the tall figure walking into the building—until I literally crash right into him. The basket on my hip goes tumbling to the floor and the sharp clatter of his phone against the tile is quite possibly the worst thing I have ever heard. Instantly I'm babbling, a stream of frantic apologies falling from my lips as I hurry to pick up my things.
"Oh my God, I am so sorry," I insist hysterically, blood pulsing so fast I can hear it. "I did not mean to do that—"
"It's alright, I know you didn't," a startlingly familiar voice reassures me quickly, reaching for a sock instead of the phone.
"I am such a dumbass, I swear." I'm too on the verge of tears to fully recognize him. "I'm really sorry, it was an accident."
"Don't sweat it, I wasn't looking where I was going either. Here—" He hands over the sock and then Tate's pajama pants.
I'm finally forced to look at him when our hands grab the same red shirt and skin touches skin. I feel the color drain from my face and my jaw drops in surprise. Green eyes, wide and remorseful, meet my watery chocolate brown, and in a very cliché manner we stare at one another for an immeasurable period of time.
A tiny sigh escapes me before I say, my tone bordering on exasperation, "Hello again, Edward." Saying his name is odd. It almost feels prohibited.
"Hi," he whispers, half a smile tugging at the corner of his full mouth. I momentarily forget how to breathe. The fuck, am I sixteen? Bitch, get it together.
"Uh—oh, I'll take that." The blush returns to my cheeks and I snatch up the shirt we're both holding. I grab what's left and get back onto my feet, bringing the full basket with me. I toss my hair out of my eyes and blink the tears away hurriedly.
Is this going to become a thing between us? I marvel vaguely as he seizes his phone and stands up as well, inspecting it.
"Oh no, is it broken?" I ask timidly, biting my lip. I lean forward to see if it's cracked, hoping it isn't. I can't afford repairs.
"Nah, it's good." Edward shoves it into his back pocket before I can get a closer look. He smiles at me again, a bit shy.
"I'm—I'm sorry," I mumble, looking down at my feet. Those eyes of his are so mesmerizing. "I should've been looking…"
He's shaking his head before I've even finished talking. "No, no, I was the one texting and walking. It could've waited."
I press my lips together, charmed by his willingness to take the blame even though we both know I'm the idiot in this situation. "Well, we can both be in the wrong, then, I guess."
He laughs once and nods. The piece of auburn hair on his forehead bobs up and down. "Yeah, okay, maybe." He winks.
Oh, geez. My face turns a slightly darker shade of pink and I shuffle my feet. Something occurs to me and I look at him, arching my eyebrows in confusion. "What are you doing here?" I blurt out before I can compose my accusatory attitude.
"I live here," he replies innocently, looking as if I'm supposed to know that by his unexpected entrance.
Of course you do. "Oh." I blink once, a little flabbergasted. "You live—you live here? In the same apartment building as me?" What a shocker.
"Yup." Now he looks like he's trying not to laugh. "Yeah, I have since—since this past January, I think," he says patiently.
"That's why you look so familiar," I mumble without realizing my thoughts are connected to my mouth all of a sudden. His brow furrows and I struggle to explain myself. Fuck. Why did I say that out loud? I mean, it's true—I must've seen him at one point during the entire time I have been here. I recognized him on Tate's birthday because I had to have spotted him walking around, albeit briefly. "Um—well, you just—you looked familiar, that's all," I tell him. Why am I so nervous? It's the truth. "You're my neighbor."
"That I am," he says with a grin. "I guess that's why you look familiar to me, too…I've probably seen you around as well."
I don't notice we've started walking together until we reach an elevator and he presses the up button. I don't want to think I've seen him elsewhere, aside from the diner, because then it'll turn into a thing and I'm too awkward to ask if we've ever actually met at any other place. What if he says no? Then what do I say? So I bury the desire to ask and the thought that I'm wrong, even if deep down inside my explanation doesn't feel right. But when have I been right? I'm most likely mistaken. This time is no different.
"How's Tate?" Edward inquires politely, hitting the yellow three button before I can. He's on my floor, too? What the hell?
"She's good," I reply airily, still thrown off by how coincidental and ironic our situation is. "She, um…She almost had her first panic attack earlier because she left her pony toy at the diner, funnily enough. It's a birthday gift so she was upset."
My words seem to remind him of something because he hastily reaches into the front pocket of his jeans as the elevator doors slide open. I shouldn't be as surprised as I am when Edward casually pulls out the Twilight Sparkle figurine for me to see. "You mean this little thing?" he asks, and I hurriedly place my wallet on top of the clothes in order to take the toy.
"Oh my God!" I exclaim, gazing at it, walking alongside him slowly. "How did you—? Oh, right. You work there." A smile grows on my face and I can't contain it. "Thanks," I say gratefully. "Tate's gonna be so happy. Oh, thank God…"
He chuckles, but doesn't say anything else. He rummages around in his jacket for a pair of keys and now I see that he is right down the hall from Tate and I, only several feet from the elevator. Keys in hand, he turns to me and says, "Well, it's a good thing I was the one who found it since I'm not too sure if my coworkers would have been kind enough to keep it."
Smartass. "Yeah, really. You're Tate's hero," I giggle. "I will tell her you've valiantly kept Twilight Sparkle safe from harm."
He salutes me like a soldier. "Yes ma'am, and I would do it again in a heartbeat," he promises. I know he really means it. He's that type of person.
Without thinking, I put the toy aside and reach for his hand, squeezing it. "Really, thank you," I say sincerely. His fingers are very warm. And long. They make mine feel incredibly tiny. "Not—not a lot of people would've done what you did. Nobody…cares enough to carry around a plastic pony toy with them all day."
He blushes and studies at our entwined hands, stunned. I quickly let go, ashamed I actually did that. Why did I do that?!
"Sorry." I tuck my hair behind my ear. "Um—again, sorry for, you know, running into you like that. I need to pay attention to where I'm going. Sometimes I just…get lost in my own head and I—yeah. A lot of people do that, though, I suppose."
"I do," Edward says, nodding in agreement even though he probably doesn't relate to a total loser like me. "All the time."
We stand in comfortable silence for five seconds before it starts to get uncomfortable. I'm the first to say, "Well, see you later. Thanks for, um, helping me pick up my shit, and returning Tate's pony. Oh, and I'm glad I didn't break your phone."
He laughs lightly. "Me too," he responds warmly, winking at me again. "Good night. Catch ya on the flip side, neighbor."
A smile curves my lips. He's quite the charmer. "Good night," I say softly with a quick nod. "See you around sometime."
I head down the hall towards my door. I feel his eyes on the back of my head, but don't get the sense he's about to turn on me or anything—it's more like he's waiting to be sure I get home safe, even if there aren't any threats in this…hallway.
I look over my shoulder to let him know without words that I'm fine. He raises his chin once, smiles, and then disappears inside his apartment.
I knock on my door three times before I unlock it and tell Tate that it's just me. I hear her little voice greet me happily and the relief that fills me is indescribable. She's still sitting on the floor by the coffee table where I left her, every last bite of celery gone and not a drop of juice left in her cup. I set the laundry basket on the counter and she stands up to meet me halfway; she runs right into my arms, throwing hers around my neck and nuzzling my cheek with her bitty nose, laughing.
"What's so funny, honey bunny?" I murmur against her hair. My mother's nickname for me has resurfaced after a decade. How fitting that I'm now using it for my daughter.
"Nothin'," Tate says, still giggling. I decide that it most likely is nothing; sometimes Tate just likes to laugh.
"Hey, I got something for you," I murmur, taking a step back and reaching for Twilight Sparkle, still in the laundry basket. She leans out of my arms to see what it is, and her demeanor upon seeing her beloved toy should be showed alongside the word "euphoria" in the dictionary. I hand it to her, smiling, and she clutches it to her chest, kicking her legs in delight.
"Where'd you find her, Mommy?" she demands to know, looking over the pony to make sure it isn't damaged or broken.
"You know Mr. Edward?" I begin carefully, testing her reaction. She nods, intrigued by the mention of his name. "Well—I was coming back from washing all the laundry and I bumped into him." Literally, but she doesn't need to know that. "And so we started talking and he asked how you were, and when I said you were sad about losing Twilight Sparkle, he put his hand in his pocket and pulled her out! He rescued her from the diner before anybody could sweep her away. Wasn't that so nice of him?" Her eyes are alight with gratitude and awe, bow lips forming a cute O shape of exaggerated surprise. "And guess what else?" I say in a low voice, and she waits breathlessly for me to finish. "Mr. Edward lives here, on our floor."
"Really?!" Tate gasps, dramatically incredulous. "Mr. Edward lives here?!" She looks like she can't believe her ears. I'm having a hard time comprehending it myself.
"Yeah!" I nod animatedly. "Right down the hall. Isn't that fun? He's been here this whole time and we didn't even know it!"
"Wooow," Tate whispers, staring at her pony again. "Can we go see 'im?" she pleads a moment later. "Please, Mommy?"
My heart sinks a little at having to say no and disappoint her. "No, baby, not today," I say apologetically. "Maybe soon."
"Awww." She pouts and genuinely looks saddened at not being able to visit her—our?—new friend. I'm bummed too. Just a little. Or a lot.
What are the odds of this guy living in the same building as Tate and I and neither of us knowing until now, only after we've seen each other twice—three times now—under unfortunate circumstances? It's kinda strange. I still have that itchy feeling about wanting to ask him if there's a chance we've met before somehow but not being brave enough to try. I can't shake the thought that I don't recognize him from where we are now—a voice tells me the scenario just isn't…right.
But if I'm wrong—and there's a chance I am, of course—why does it irk me so much to believe I don't remember Edward from anywhere else? Why can't he just be the kindhearted waiter at the diner who also happens to be my neighbor?
Okay, so what happens if you have met him before? the person in my head ponders. Yeah, what if? I didn't consider that. Depends on the situation, too.
I don't know what will happen if I'm right, but I decide to leave my reaction to whatever he has to say. I can't predict fate. Only time will tell.
I'm quite excited about this chapter. I ship it already.
Quick note, when I first started writing this story I hadn't mapped out the details, I was just writing it for fun and didn't think it would go anywhere. But now that I'm actually continuing it, let me just clarify a few things. Charlie, Renee, and Bella's birth years have all been bumped up four years. Charlie is now born in November 1969, Renee in August 1973, and Bella in September 1992. Charlie is currently forty-four and obviously Bella just turned twenty-two. Renee and Phil died in March 2005 when Bella was twelve. I wanted to include the flashback to Bella's twelfth birthday because it was the last one she ever spent with Renee, so naturally she'd remember it more clearly and the events that took place have more significance to her.
Also, everyone you've seen so far is important and each have their own stories that will be fleshed out and explored as time goes on. Bella, Edward, and Tate might be the "main" characters but I'm not the kind of writer who throws in background characters but doesn't give them a second thought. They aren't just plot devices to get Bella and Edward in the same room! ;) That being said, Jessica and Lauren will be making frequent reappearances. Trust me when I say I have ideas for them and how they can become a part of Bella's life. I want to challenge myself with this story and see where I can take it!
One more thing, I changed my mind about who Tate's father is and no, it's still not Edward, but it isn't James like I'd originally planned either. That's too easy! Like I said, I'm challenging myself to be creative and try things I haven't done before, so what's harder than figuring out who the baby daddy is? If Bella doesn't know, I don't know. If I don't know, she doesn't know. Get it? I think I'll be able to connect with her more if I have no clue myself. Fun fun. Let's see where this goes.
Sorry for blabbing too much. Hope y'all enjoyed! Favorite, follow, maybe leave an encouraging review? Your thoughts on chapters gives me motivation!
See you next time! Happy Easter!
- Cherry