It's been awhile since we've heard from Bella. Let's check in with our girl and see what she's been up to since walking out on Edward.
BPOV
As quickly and quietly as possible, I dart around the heavy, velvet curtains that pool on the stage floor. Leah, Emily, Claire, and Lizzie all offer whispered praise as Jake and I rush to exit the stage and move out of their way. The music begins again, a happy, tinkling melody, and all four girls simultaneously plaster dazzling smiles on their overly made-up faces.
"Break a leg," Jake whispers, slapping Lizzie's butt as she charges onto the stage.
With both of his hands firmly attached to my hips, I lead Jake through a maze of thick cables, scurrying around stressed-out crew members as they bark orders into their headphones and sugar-plum fairies finishing their warm-up. Jake is too busy bantering and joking with our classmates to pay attention to where he's going, so I hold his hands securely to my sides and guide him back to our dressing room.
"Yeah, we nailed that," he boasts. He plops down on the ratty couch against the far wall, and tosses his legs across the cushions.
I take a seat at the dressing table, grabbing a handful of tissues to blot the sweat from my forehead. The bright, blinding lights framing the mirror accentuate every flaw the beads leave behind on my caked-on face. I grab my cosmetic bag and dig for my pressed-power, hoping it can salvage the damage to my stage makeup.
"You think they'd notice if we skipped the finale?" he asks.
I chuckle. "Ah, yeah. I think they'd notice a solid four eight-counts with no one on stage."
Jake wines like a child. "But I'm hungry. I wanna ditch this place and go eat."
"Here." I reach into my gym bag and pull out a meal-replacement protein bar, tossing it to him. He catches it effortlessly, but then his cheeks flush a bright red.
"Shit. I'm sorry, Bells. Here." He leans forward, stretching out his arm to hand the package back to me.
I roll my eyes. "Jake, don't be ridiculous. Eat it."
"No, it's yours. You eat it." He nudges the bar toward me again.
I turn my back to him, focusing on my reflection in the mirror. "Don't be like this," I mumble.
"Like what?"
"Like this." I gesture toward his outstretched hand in the reflection. "Like you have to watch what you say or do around me. Three weeks ago, you would have taken that protein bar and eaten it without a second thought. You probably would have asked why I only brought you one." Jake chuckles and drops his hand. "I'm still me. And if you really want to help me, then I need you to still be you, OK?"
He nods and looks down at the bar in his hand, flipping it over and over. After a few seconds he tears the wrapper open and shoves half of it in his mouth.
"You only brought one?" he asks sarcastically.
I smirk and narrow my eyes at him. "Yeah, for you." I reach into my bag again and produce another bar. "This one is mine." I rip the package open and take a bite.
Jake walks to me and kisses the top of my head. "Sorry," he murmurs into my hair.
"Deeeelivery," Carmen sings from the hallway. She twirls through the open door, a small bouquet of flowers obscuring her face. "I have a delivery for Madame Isabella Swan," she says, her words twisted up in the worst French accent I've ever heard.
She dances over to me, folds herself forward in an elaborate bow, and presents the bouquet with a flourish.
"Thanks, Carmen." I take the flowers from her, searching the brown paper wrapping for a card. "Where did these come from?" I ask when I can't find one.
"Some super hottie at the backdoor."
My eyes snap to Jake's, and he smiles. "Well someone's been doing his homework."
"Yeah, he's serious eye-candy. Way to go, Bella." Carmen turns and pirouettes out the door.
Jake takes the flowers from me, lifting them to his face and inhaling. "I gotta give it to him. That boy is clever," he says with an amused tone.
"Cause he sent me flowers?" I deadpan.
Jake points the blooms at my face. "Primroses. Red ones." He stares at me for a second, like I'm missing some glaringly obvious fact, before rolling his eyes. "I thought you girls were born knowing this stuff. Like it's ingrained in your DNA with the ability to remember birthdays and shop for accessories."
I scowl at him.
Jake lifts the bouquet to his face and inhales again. Gently, he traces the petals on the largest bloom as he explains. "Essentially, primroses symbolize love and devotion, but red primroses symbolize eternal and everlasting love."
My eyes snap to the crimson bouquet as Jake places it gently in my hands. "How – how do you know that?"
"I gave some to Sam for an anniversary once," he says wistfully. "I spent hours looking up flower symbolism online, trying to find the exact sentiment I wanted to convey."
My eyes remain locked on the flowers in my lap.
The exact sentiment he wanted to convey.
Everlasting love.
Jake kneels down in front of me, placing his hands on my knees. "He loves you, Bells. He really does. Yeah, he screwed up, big time, but he did it because he loves you. He was only doing what he thought was right. He told me once that you're everything to him, and when I saw him the morning after you left, I knew it was true. He was so broken that it was almost hard to look at him. He would do anything for you, and you know that. Even if that means letting you go. I'm not saying things will work out easily, but neither of you have to keep hurting like this. You could be happy again. Talk to him."
The speaker mounted to the far wall crackles. "Curtain call. Five minutes. Act two to the stage."
Jake stiffens. "But not right now. Now we have to fix your mascara."
I wipe the wetness from under my eyes with one hand, still clutching the bouquet firmly to my chest with the other.
~o0o~
As soon as my plane touches down in Phoenix, I send Charlie a short text. He's meeting me in baggage claim, so I want to let him know I'm on my way, but that I need to make a quick stop in the ladies room first. I don't need to use the facilities; I need a minute to collect myself before seeing him.
I drop my book sack next to my feet and scowl at my reflection in the mirror.
This is a bad idea; a very, very bad idea.
Even after gaining back half the weight I lost, I still look sickly thin. Mrs. Lillian is right, the new hair cut does make my face appear fuller, but 'detective dad' isn't going to be conned by some long layers and wispy bangs. He's going to take one look at me and flip out. I can kiss any plans of returning to Seattle goodbye.
Stupid Bella. What are you doing here? What are you thinking?
Thinking, I remind myself. That's what I'm doing here.
I need time to think.
This is the right thing to do.
Get some space.
Take some time.
Really think.
Yes, this is good.
This is what I need to do.
I roll my eyes in the mirror. Who am I trying to fool? I should have gone home with Carlisle and Esme after the performance tonight. I should have never run away from him in the first place. But at the time, I just felt so horribly fragile, like one more word from him would shatter my sanity. I felt completely overwhelmed. I didn't know how to deal with flood of emotions that surged through me: hope, anger, bliss, rage, shock, relief, devotion, fear, happiness, resentment, loss, joy – love. It was too much.
So, I ran.
I'd spent the better part of the past week trying to rationalize those feelings. He said he loved me, but yet he still felt the need to push me away. He loved me, but he lied. He loved me, but he didn't have enough faith in me – in us – to work together and face whatever obstacles his reputation would cause. He loved me, but he made that choice without me.
I thought what we had was solid, so why didn't he trust me enough to share the truth? Did he think I wouldn't understand? That it would change the way I feel about him? That I wouldn't be willing to give him a chance despite everything he'd done?
He loved me, but – but…
As I argued every point over and over again in my mind, I kept coming back to that… truth. No matter how hard I tried to discredit that essential fact, I couldn't. He left me, he lied to me, he pushed me away because he loved me, because he was trying to protect me.
He loved me.
Jake was right. Edward would do anything for me, even if that meant sacrificing his own happiness and letting me go. I knew without a doubt that was true because – because I would have done the same for him. If I had been forced to choose between Edward and sacrificing my dreams of becoming a dancer, I would have picked him. He must have known that. He knew I would always choose him, no matter what the cost.
Edward loves me.
How could I be so blind? I had been so stubbornly sure that he didn't want me. I had convinced myself there was nothing genuine about his words or his actions. But looking back over these last weeks, replaying every conversation, every gesture, but seeing it with new eyes this time, I couldn't silence the truth anymore. It was there in every word he said, in every touch, in every look.
He loves me. He has always loved me. He will always love me.
And I will always love him.
So what am I doing here? In an airport bathroom a thousand miles away, no less. Why am I still running from him? Why haven't I gone back? What is stopping me? What am I so afraid of?
Am I trying to punish him? I don't think so. I may be stubborn, but I'm not vindictive.
Did I doubt the sincerity of his confession? No. Everything he told me last week was the truth.
Could I trust him again?
My eyes snap up to the reflection in the mirror.
Ah, is that it?
Do I feel like I can't trust him anymore? Is that what is holding me back? Is my faith in him damaged beyond repair? No, no I don't think so.
Is it that I'm afraid of trusting him with my heart again - my shattered, grieving, broken heart? Am I scared to let him back in? To let him try to heal that part of me? Sure, I trusted him with my body, allowed him to help mend my physical wounds, but would any amount of investment on his part put my heart back in working order? Could his love do that?
Out of everything I'd been through in the last month, the one thing I learned above everything else was how love gave someone the power to break you. I knew it in the center of my bones, knew it from the crown of my head to the soles of my feet, knew it deep in my empty stomach. I believed it with every fiber of my being. Until –
Until the day Carlisle showed me how love gave someone the power to heal you too.
Could I trust Edward with that task? What if he failed me again? What if I failed him? What would happen to us then? How many ways could our hearts be mangled and still be expected to keep beating?
The bathroom door swings open forcefully, and a burly woman pushing a bright yellow janitorial cart staggers into the room.
"Buenas noches," she says robotically without even looking up.
"Buenas noches," I repeat as I scoop up my book sack. I slide my body around the cart that is now blocking most of the exit and slip out the door quickly. The last thing I need is for her to alert security about the crazy woman in the bathroom having a silent conversation with herself in the mirror.
The baggage claim corridor is more crowded than I expect for this time of night - or morning, technically. Travelers gather around the conveyors, scouring a river of identical black bags. With a quick stop at the electronic arrival board, I note my flight is assigned to carousel seven. I scan the crowd as I approach, recognizing several passengers from my flight, but no Charlie. I walk slowly around the raised carousel, weaving through the gathering of people making small talk or scolding their kids for not staying put.
Finally, I spot him.
People always tell me I favor my father more than my mother, but seeing him now, for the first time in five months, I can really pick out the similarities. Our hair is the same color, and my nose is almost an exact copy of his. Even his stressed expression seems familiar.
Of course, there is one physical attribute – one I've never seen before – that I hope I never emulate.
Seriously, dad?
He rises up on his toes, shoving his hands in his pockets at the same time, as he searches the crowd for me. Slowly, I walk to him, biting my lip as I try not to laugh out loud.
He spots me a second later, and when his eyes widen and his mouth falls open slightly, I'm reminded that I look different to him too. All the amusement I felt a moment ago fades away. He snaps his mouth shut and swallows forcefully, clearly fighting to rein in his alarm over my altered appearance.
Keeping his hands buried in his pockets, he takes a few steps forward. "Hey, kiddo," he says solemnly.
I lower my eyes to the floor. "Hey, Dad."
I fiddle with the hem of my sweater, just to give my hands something to do, while my eyes remain trained on the ground. I can feel him examining me, and I assume he plans on saving the 'I knew something like this would happen' lecture for when we're alone.
"Your hair's longer."
My eyes snap up as I automatically touch the tendril dangling over my shoulder. "Actually, I cut it since the last time I saw you."
"Oh. I guess it grew out again."
A piercing buzzer sounds over the carousel, and I jump. "Could you help me, um - " I jerk my thumb toward the luggage conveyor.
We shuffle along with the crowd, moving closer as the conveyor comes to life. Charlie bumps my shoulder, and I look up to see him smiling sheepishly at me.
"It's good to see ya. I missed ya." His expression puts me at ease again.
"I missed you too, Dad."
His smile widens, emphasizing his new… accessory. "So, Dad, are you going to introduce me to your new friend?"
His eyebrows draw together, deepening the wrinkles along his forehead. I touch my upper lip, running my thumb and finger across the space between my mouth and nose.
"Oh." He strokes his mustache proudly. "Yeah, just trying something new. Makes me look tough, right?"
"Yeah, Dad," I chuckle. "Very Smokey and the Bandit."
"Well, Sue likes it," he defends with a shrug. "This you?"
He points to the conveyor that I haven't been paying attention to. Sure enough, both of my mother's hot-pink suitcases are barreling toward us.
"Yeah, that's me."
He lifts the bags from the carousel and sets them on the floor. We each take one, dragging them through the crowd and out the automatic doors.
"You brought the cruiser?" I scold when I spot the marked red and white car parked in the fire lane.
"What did you expect? You know it lets me park anywhere I want."
We hoist my luggage into the trunk and weave our way out of the congested airport traffic. "Geez," Charlie grumbles. "You'd think it was the middle of the day."
Being up at this hour of the morning must be a shock to his system. Charlie is more of an in-bed-by-ten type.
"Holiday travel, I guess."
Once we make it to the freeway, Charlie relaxes into his seat. "So, how've you been, kid? I'm not gonna lie, I've been pretty worried these last few weeks, but putting eyes on you makes me feel better."
"I'm OK – better," I amend.
"Yeah, you don't look that bad."
"Gee, thanks," I spit sarcastically.
"No. I ah, I mean… geez, sorry, Bells. I didn't mean it like that. It's just… well the Doc had me kinda freaked out there for awhile."
"It's OK, Dad. I know what you meant."
Charlie lets out a deep breath. "Look, kid, I know people have been talking to you about this 'til they're blue in the face, so I'm gonna spare you the lecture. That doesn't mean I don't care. I'm here if you wanna talk about it, or anything else. You know you can talk to me about anything, right?" He glances at me quickly before focusing on the road again.
"Yeah, I know."
He nods. "So I'm not going to harass you about it, at least, I'm gonna try not to. But I will be keeping my eye on you. The Doc told me how much you should be eating and stuff like that, but I'm no expert on this. I'm trusting you to tell me if there's something you need, OK?"
"OK. I will. You don't have to worry, Dad. I'm fine."
He glances at me again. "Sorry, kid, but I've heard that before. The Doc said you're doing good so far, but if you want to go back to Seattle then you're gonna have to show me that I can trust you to take care of yourself. Understand?"
I stare down at my lap, fiddling with the hem of my sweater again. I feel like I'm twelve years old, being scolded for riding my bike in the street - again. "Yes, sir," I mumble in a small voice.
Charlie sighs and shifts his weight in his seat. He leans toward the window as he switches hands on the steering wheel. I can tell he's on the verge of that lecture he just promised not to give, and he's fighting to suppress what he really wants to say. I wonder if Carlisle also told him to cut me some slack.
"Look, it's been really hard for me… and your mother, to know you've been… sick when you're so far away. It was hard to step back and let someone else take over. But it sounds like the Doc is taking good care of you."
"He is. Carlisle's been…" As I search for the right words, my mind flashes back to our last conversation.
On Wednesday morning, when I stumble from the guest room of the Hale's home, rubbing my sleepy eyes on the way to the bathroom, a familiar voice catches my attention. Carlisle is sitting at the kitchen table, sipping coffee and chatting with Mrs. Hale. This is the second time this week I've found him in this exact spot. He's starting to become a regular fixture in the Hale's home. Kind of like me.
"Good morning, Bella," he says cheerfully when I emerge from the hallway.
"Morning." I glance around the room, my half-asleep brain looking for someone.
I don't know why. That someone has never set foot in this house.
"Rose is still asleep," Mrs. Hale informs me. I nod, pretending like she's answered my silent question.
"I was hoping to visit with you this morning," Carlisle says.
I cover my mouth to stifle a yawn as I nod again. "I'm just going to…" I gesture toward the hallway with one hand while tugging on my pajama top with the other.
"Sure, take your time."
I drag my body back to the guest room. Once I change out of my pajamas, brush my hair and teeth, and make myself generally presentable, I return to the kitchen.
Carlisle hasn't moved from his seat, but now a crumb-filled plate sits in front of him, likely the remnants of Mrs. Hale's amazing coffee cake.
"Here you go dear." Mrs. Hale sets a plate down at the seat next to him; my standard breakfast of eggs, toast with peanut butter, fruit, and yogurt. I thank her and begin to eat while she and Carlisle resume their conversation.
Apparently, Mrs. Hale has volunteered to help with the latest hospital fundraiser. Carlisle rambles off the names of several people who have expressed interest in helping with the event as she frantically scribbles them into a spiral bound notebook.
For the most part I tune them out and concentrate on my breakfast. When I've had my fill, I scrape the uneaten bits and pieces into the trash, rinse my plate, and load it into the dishwasher.
"Thank you for this," Mrs. Hale says, holding up her notebook. "If you'll excuse me, I think I'm going to go make some phone calls right now and get the ball rolling."
They both chuckle at her lame joke.
"Sorry, that was bad, but I just couldn't help myself." She disappears down the hall, leaving me and Carlisle alone.
He stands up and walks into the living room, gesturing for me to follow. I take a seat on the deep, leather couch, folding my feet under my body and pulling a heavy blanket across my lap. Carlisle sits in the matching recliner next to me, leaning forward with his hands clasped between his knees.
"How are you?" he asks.
"Good, thank you."
"Still cold?"
"Yes," I admit. He explained before that my constant chill would ease as I put on more weight.
"Esme says you had a nice time yesterday at the spa. I like your hair cut."
I run my finger through my hair. "Oh, thanks. Yeah, it was fun."
Carlisle nods and rubs his hands together nervously. He obviously isn't here to discuss the details of my spa day. He glances at the coffee table and I follow his gaze. An old, beat up shoebox sits on top of a large, brown envelope. He reaches for the stack, sliding the envelope out from under the box and hands it to me.
"Here are the copies of your records from Dr. Webber's office. He also sent you a list of specialists he recommends in the Phoenix area and refills for your medications."
I nod and lift the flap on the envelope, peeking at the papers inside. I had discussed the possibility of remaining in Phoenix with Carlisle on Monday, and he said he would get everything I needed from Dr. Webber's office.
"Thanks." I close the envelope and return it to the coffee table. Carlisle shifts in his seat, his eyes cast down to the floor. It's clear he has something else to discuss with me, but he doesn't know how to start. I decide to help him out.
"What's that?" I ask, jerking my chin toward the old shoebox on the table. A small smile plays on his lips, and he leans forward again, lifting the box into his lap. His runs his hand lovingly across the top. Clearly, he treasures whatever is inside.
"I wanted to share these with you." He hands the box to me, and I take it carefully, studying the worn out cardboard. I idly wonder how many times this box has been opened.
Gently, I lift the lid and set it on the couch next to me. Pictures, a hundred or more, fill the box from one end to the other. The photo on top immediately grabs my attention, and I snatch it from the stack.
"Oh, my gosh!" I cover my mouth as I start to giggle.
The little boy in the photo grins back at me with a blinding smile. Wearing nothing but a pair of dirty blue jeans and a superhero cape, he flexes his arms, trying to elicit bulging muscles that aren't really there.
I scoot over so Carlisle can sit next to me on the couch. "I think he was five, maybe six," he says, taking the photo from me to study the image.
As soon as he moves the picture from my line of sight, another smiling face stares up at me from the box. It's the same shirtless Edward, but instead of blue jeans he's wearing swim trunks. He stands next to a pile of sand - his version of a castle, I assume - while a vibrant, blue ocean sparkles in the background. He's older in this photo, but not by much, and a proud smile lights up his entire face.
I pass the picture to Carlisle and reach for the next one. This time, I'm not able to contain my laughter. Carlisle glances over to see what has me in such hysterics before joining in with his own loud guffaws.
Perched on Santa's knee is a very pissed-off little Edward. With his arms folded tightly across his chest, he glowers at the camera. Behind him, Santa and a short, stocky woman dressed as Mrs. Claus, have their heads thrown back and their eyes squeezed shut, obviously unable to contain their amusement.
"What happened here?" I ask though my giggles.
"I – I don't know," Carlisle presses out, fighting to compose himself.
How could he not know? These are photos of -
His words from before repeat in my mind, "I think he was five, maybe six," and it all clicks into place. I realize then what I'm looking at. These photos were taken before Edward was adopted by the Cullens. Pictures of another life. These are photos taken by proud parents – his parents – documenting the milestones and priceless moments of their child's life. The significance of what Carlisle is sharing me sinks in, and my laughter fades away.
I pass the picture to Carlisle, studying his face as he smiles at it. "Did you ever ask him?"
Carlisle shakes his head, his eyes still fixed on the picture in his hand. "Edward didn't know these photos existed until a few days ago. When we first brought him home, the child psychologist told us not to force these things on him if he didn't want to see them. It was like he couldn't handle any reminders of his parents except - except his mother's piano. That was all he wanted, all he could bear."
Carlisle reaches into the box and flips the stack, pulling out the photo tucked into the very back. He hands me a portrait of a happy family and points to each person as he names them. "Edward Senior. Elizabeth. And Edward Anthony Masen."
Elizabeth is undoubtedly beautiful. Her face is a soft oval shape, with high cheekbones and porcelain skin. Her emerald green eyes, the same shade as Edward's, glimmer with love and happiness. Edward's father, perched just behind her, is a handsome man. He clearly passed on his amaretto hair to his son, along with his dazzling smile. The child seated between them is a blend of the best parts of his mother and father. Especially the huge smile that lights up his entire face.
I can't help but smile back at the happy little boy in the photo, and I trace my finger over his beaming grin.
"I know this smile," I murmur. "He still makes this face when he's really happy."
Carlisle reaches into the box again, pulling out the photo filed just before this portrait. As he holds it next to the picture in my hand, my breath catches in my throat.
It's the photo of Edward and me from the sculpture garden. Our arms are wrapped tightly around each other as we smile happily at the camera. Edward's smile matches that of the little boy in the portrait in my hand, and I have to fight back the lump in my throat and the tears that fill my eyes.
"I saw this when I was in your room Friday night. It's been so long since I've seen him like this, I almost didn't recognize him."
My heart aches as I stare at Edward's blissful expression. It's been a long time since I've seen him like this too.
"I thought I had lost him," he says somberly, pulling the photo back to examine Edward's happy face. "Then, one night, I almost did."
"What happened?"
Carlisle stares at the picture of his son, searching it like the answer to my question is written in the image. For the next hour, he doesn't move his eyes from the photo as he described a side of Edward I can't even imagine. The disobedient, rebellious, defiant son he speaks of is not the person I know at all. It's hard for me to envision Edward doing or saying the things he describes.
As the story progresses, and Carlisle talks about how their relationship continued to disintegrate, his pained expression breaks my heart. In that moment I realize that, while I've been missing Edward for weeks, Carlisle has been missing him for years.
"But even when all that was going on," he says, "even when I thought our relationship was irreconcilable, I knew his compassion, his goodness, and that this," Carlisle nods at the picture, "this bright happiness that shines out of him was still there. He just needed someone to remind him of it, to remind him of who he was – who he is."
Carlisle looks at me then. "You did that," he says confidently. He hands the photo to me, and I stare at the image again, seeing it with new eyes.
"Esme and I, we tried to show him how much we loved him, but his heart was too mangled to accept it, too mangled to accept us - until he met you. You made him whole again. You gave him a purpose in this life. You brought my son back to me, and I will never be able to express how truly grateful I am to you for that."
I can't look at him. I can't move my eyes away from the picture in my hand. I don't know what to say. His confession has left me utterly speechless. All I can do is nod as a flood of tears blurs my vision.
"I never knew how much he was struggling after the accident, how much guilt and remorse he was carrying with him. I can't imagine where he would be today if you hadn't come into his life."
I wipe my damp cheeks with my sleeve. "I – I didn't do anything," I choke.
Carlisle shakes his head. "You've done more for my family than you'll ever know."
He twists in his seat, tucking one leg under the other while throwing his arm across the back of the sofa as he turns his body to face me. "Bella, I know Edward explained to you the circumstances of why I demanded he end the relationship. I hope now that you understand our… history that you can see how I thought I was acting in your best interest."
I lower my eyes and fold my arms into my lap, trying to fight back the bitterness that boils in my stomach.
"I am so deeply sorry for that, and I hope, one day, I will be able to earn your forgiveness."
I hesitate before nodding slowly.
"I didn't understand the true nature of your relationship. Even when he told me he loved you, I didn't give his words any merit. It wasn't until we – well, that morning when he discovered you were sick that I started to see what you mean to him. And I've seen it every day since. Once my eyes were opened, it was so easy to see how deeply he is tied to you. It's in the way he talks about you, in the way he fights for you."
My eyes snap to Carlisle's face; I'm sure my expression reflects my confusion.
"I don't think you realize what an integral part he's played in your recovery these last few weeks."
I know Edward helped me thought that first day, but when Carlisle begins to describe the conversation they had earlier that very morning, the missing pieces of the puzzle begin to fall into place.
It was Edward who convinced his father that it would be better for me to stay in Seattle than be sent off to the treatment center in Arizona. And that first day, when Edward wouldn't let me out of his sight, he was scouring the internet for information on my condition, texting back and forth with his father about my progress. Then, when the torment of watching me suffer all day overwhelmed him, he punched his car and almost broke his hand. And when I lashed out at him, told him I couldn't be around him anymore, Edward hadn't given up trying to find ways to help me. He spent that time reading every available textbook in Carlisle's study about my condition. By the time Carlisle describes Edward's meeting with Dr. Weber, my mouth is hanging open.
"Bella, I know you're going to have to make a choice, and I want you to make the right choice for you. If you feel you need to stay in Phoenix, if you need time away from all of this, then you should do that. Don't let what I've told you today influence your decision. I'm not here to try to convince you to come home or to absolve myself or Edward for what we've done. I know you're hurt and confused, but I needed to make sure you knew why – why this happened, and that you're not alone in this fight. He is fighting this battle right along with you, and he will support any decision you make, as long as you choose what is best for you."
Charlie's hand shakes my shoulder. "Bells, did you fall asleep on me?"
I snap back to reality. "Huh?"
"I asked if the Doc was taking good care of you, and you zoned out on me."
I shake my head to clear my thoughts. "Oh, sorry. Yeah, he's been great. I couldn't have done this without… him."
"That's good to hear."
I lean my head against the cold window, staring at the dark city that flies past, and try to let go of the sting of that memory.
"That boy of his give you those?"
I twist my head to look at Charlie, and he nods toward the book sack tucked between my feet. My bouquet of primroses sticks out the top. I couldn't bring myself to leave them behind.
"Edward," I clarify. "And yes, he did, after the performance tonight."
"Yeah, I figured," Charlie huffs. "Well, that's one topic we will be discussing if you go back."
~o0o~
Unsurprisingly, I sleep later than usual the next morning. I need the rest, obviously. It's been a long few days with the added rehearsals, the performance, and the late flight last night. When I finally roll my stiff body out of bed, it's well after eleven in the morning.
"Well, look who's finally decided to grace us with her presence," Sue teases when I enter the kitchen.
She pushes her chair back from the table, the wooden legs making a familiar scuffing sound against the tile floor, and crosses the room. She wraps her arms around me in a tight hug. "It's so good to see you, sweetheart."
"It's good to see you too," I mumble, my words muffled by her shoulder.
Charlie started dating Sue about two years ago. She's just as tall as I am, and almost the same build, but no one would ever mistake me for her daughter. Her tawny skin and jet-black hair are an extreme contrast to my features. Even though we haven't spent that much time together, we get along pretty well. She always treats me more like a grownup than Charlie does, and I think that's because her own children are much older than me. Overall, she makes Charlie happy, and that's all that really matters.
Sue releases me from her embrace and steps over to the coffee pot. She pours a steaming cup of coffee into my favorite yellow mug and hands it to me. "Still take it with milk?" she asks.
"Sure."
I slide into the empty chair at the table while she fetches the carton from the refrigerator. While I busy myself with adding sugar and milk to my coffee, Sue grabs a basket of muffins, biscuits and rolls from the counter and sets it between us. The assortment of baked goods looks like a spread from the pages of a Martha Stewart magazine. No doubt she's been keeping Charlie well feed while I've been away.
"These are beautiful." I select a huge blueberry muffin from the basket and immediately tear off the paper wrapper in one swift move.
"You know your father only keeps TV dinners in the house. I had to make sure my girl had something decent to eat."
"Hey," Charlie calls from the living room, "I bought some fruit."
"Because I made him," Sue whispers. I chuckle around a mouth full of muffin.
"So, Bella, I came by this morning to see if you wanted to do some shopping with me since your dad has to go down to the station. I know it's the day before Christmas, but I only have a few things to get. If you're feeling brave and want to tag along, I'd love some company."
"Sure, I'll go. I need to pick up a few things myself."
Charlie staggers into the kitchen, his eyes focused on securing his gun holster to his hip. "Well, I've got to head out, but I'll be home early. You girls be careful out there. People are too busy thinking about what to buy Grandma instead of focusing on the rules of the road."
"Yes, Chief," Sue teases.
Charlie walks over to her and kisses her quickly on the cheek. He turns to me next, holding out his hand as if he's offering me a handshake. I place my hand in his automatically, trying to understand his strange gesture by studying his face. He leans down and kisses the top of my head. "Watch out for that one. She can shop like nobody's business."
"I heard that," Sue mumbles.
Charlie releases my hand, and I feel the crinkled bills he snuck into my palm.
"Dad," I protest, but he dismisses my objection with a wave of his hand and walks out the door.
I finish my breakfast, dress quickly, and hop into Sue's pickup truck. Within a few minutes, we're fighting through the crowded mall traffic, trying to find a place to park.
"Every year I tell myself I'm going to finish my shopping before Thanksgiving," Sue reprimands herself.
"Hey, at least you've started. I haven't bought a single thing."
"Well, don't you worry. I happen to know your father has his eye on this new tackle box over at Dick's Sporting Goods."
I whip my head to the side and stare at Sue. "Seriously, another one?"
She laughs. "He says the same thing about my shoes."
"All right," I concede. "Tackle box it is, I guess."
We park the truck and go off in search of the coveted box. Once I've made my purchase, we head to the new bookstore next door.
While Sue scours the shelves of cookbooks, looking for a specific chef for her mother, I mindlessly wander over to an isle filled with stationary, elaborate calligraphy sets, and expensive fountain pens. My fingers idly trace the spine of a beautiful, leather-bound journal, and I pull it from the shelf. When I flip through the silky pages, I notice the book isn't filled with lines for writing, but empty stanza for music.
"That's beautiful," Sue comments over my shoulder.
"I wonder if Edward would like this," I murmur, thumbing through the empty pages again.
"Does he compose?"
My mind flashes to the morning when I found the crinkled sheets of music in his trashcan. I didn't know what it was, if it was something Edward had written himself or one of Jasper's songs they had worked on together, but something told me that whatever it was, it shouldn't be thrown away. So I tried to salvage it as best I could, flattening the wrinkled pages and stacking them neatly on his desk.
"I've never heard him play. I know he has a guitar, and I think he used to play the piano, but he gets together with his friend and they write stuff sometimes."
"Well, I think that would make a great gift. You should get it for him."
My shoulders slump as I set the book back on the shelf. "I don't know when I'm going to see him, so what's the point."
"The point is that you thought about him." Sue pulls the book from the shelf and holds it out toward me. "And you can give it to him when you go back next week."
"But I haven't decided when I'm going back yet."
"Bella," she scolds. "Do you honestly think you're going to spend the next semester here in Phoenix, piddling away at the old dance studio?"
I shake my head slowly.
"Then what's the real issue?"
"It's just – it's…" I let out a deep, aggravated breath. "I don't know. I don't know what I'm doing. I don't know how to start over. I don't know how to go back after walking out on him like that."
Sue nods toward an empty seating area in the corner, and I follow her. I sink down into the plush chair across from her.
"Bella, I realize I don't know the whole story, but it's obvious that you've been hurt. I know it's hard to trust someone after they've broken your faith. There's no magic machine; you don't put in a quarter and a fresh can of trust drops out. It has to grow over time. It can be scary to take that first step, but once you do, you can work together to rebuild what you had, if that's what you want."
I cast my eyes down to my lap, suddenly feeling very small in this oversized chair. "That's all I've wanted," I whisper. "More than anything."
Sue places the journal in my lap. "Then take that first step. I have a feeling, once you do, you won't be walking that path alone."
~o0o~
Christmas day is considerably calmer than the fiasco of thanksgiving with my mother. Charlie and I have a quiet breakfast together, exchanging gifts right there at the table. Sue was right; he's thrilled with the new fishing gear we picked out. I suggest he go try it out, but he decides to spend the morning lounging in his recliner in front of the TV.
Sue joins us around lunchtime, and I help her prepare a gourmet meal. When lunch is over, I retreat to my bedroom, curling up in the middle of my bed and flicking on the TV. The opening credits of "It's a Wonderful Life" flash across the screen, but just as the movie gets started my eyelids grow heavy. I roll to my slide and close my eyes, listing to the dialog and picturing the actors in my mind.
When I wake up several hours later, the house is dark and quiet. I find a note from Charlie on the kitchen table. He and Sue went to visit her mother and should be back in a few hours. That reminds me that I haven't called my mother since I left Seattle, so I plop down on the couch and dial her number. When she doesn't answer, I leave a brief message letting her know I'm doing well and wishing her and Phil a Merry Christmas.
Next, I decide to give Jake a call to see how his holiday is going. Once again, I'm greeted with a recording, so I recite almost the same message I left for my mother, sending my best to him and Sam for a happy holiday.
I curl up on the couch, pulling the orange afghan over my legs and stare at the white lights on the Christmas tree as they twinkle in the dimly lit room. The house is eerily quiet, and with nothing to occupy my mind, my thoughts automatically turn to Edward. I wonder what he's doing right now. I wonder, if things had turned out differently, what we would be doing right now. Would I be in Seattle, celebrating the holidays with my new family? Or would I still come home? Maybe I would have drug Edward with me this time.
I glance around the living room, trying to picture him in the space, but the existing memories in this room overpower my imagination. I close my eyes, shutting out the visual and try to imagine him with me instead. It works better than I could have hoped, and suddenly I'm curled up in my hallucinatory Edward's lap. I shift in my seat, nuzzling further into the couch cushions that I imagine as his chest. He wraps his arm around me tighter, stroking my hair and kissing my head.
"Merry Christmas, Bella," he whispers.
His voice is so clear that my eyes snap open. I must be going insane, because I fully expect to find him standing in the room. The moment I realize I'm alone, a huge sob rocks my chest.
I can't do this anymore! I need him!
I snatch the phone from the table, mashing the numbers on the keypad. I have no idea if I'm even dialing the right number, my blurry, tear-filled eyes and my shaking hands make it impossible to tell.
"Hello?"
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. Or maybe something did, and I just can't hear it over the pounding of my heart.
"Hello?" he repeats, clearly annoyed that no one is answering him. I wait for the click, anticipating he will hang up any second now.
"Bella?"
My hand flies up, covering my mouth as more tears pour down my cheeks.
"Bella?" he asks again. His voice is even more hopeful than before.
"Bella, please - please talk to me."
Slowly, I lower my hand, fighting to pull myself together.
"I miss you," he whispers. "God, I miss you so much."
My eyes fill with more tears at his desperate tone. I miss you too. So much it hurts.
"It just – it gets harder every day. I – I don't know how to do this. I don't know how to be without you."
I squeeze my eyes shut, forcing the tears to spill over. Why is this so hard? Why am I'm doing this to him? I'm hurting him. Say something!
"Please," he begs.
The anguish in his voice is more than I can bear. I tilt the phone away from my face, covering the receiver with my hand so he can't hear me as I begin to sob again. After several long minutes, he clears his throat, and I wonder if he hasn't been able to hold back his own tears.
"Aunt Tanya is here… and my Uncle Felix," he blurts out. "You know, Esme's sister from Port Angeles. They drove in yesterday, and they'll probably go home in the morning. I'm sorry you won't get to meet them."
I shake my head slightly, feeling my eyes narrow in confusion. What is he doing?
"They have a little girl. Her name is Jane, and she just turned five last month. She's pretty cute. Last time I saw her she was still a little baby, but now… well, she's like this little person now. I swear she doesn't sit still. She's got Emmett totally trained. He's pretty good with kids, ya know? Santa brought her a tea set, and she setup this elaborate party with all her dolls and Emmett. She even got him to wear this huge pink hat and some of Esme's pearls."
The image of big, burly Emmett dressed for high tea and scrunched into a child's table makes me smile. I wipe my cheeks with the back of my hand as I slide down to lie on my side. Pulling the blanket up over my shoulder, I snuggle into the couch cushions and allow his voice to soothe me.
"Jane got so many toys this morning. It looked like a wrapping paper bomb had gone off in the living room. Esme gave her one of those, ah... those fancy skirts that you ballet dancers wear … um, they're big and fluffy… shoot, what are they called…"
"A tutu," I mutter.
"Um, right – right a tutu. It was bright pink, and she wore it over her Christmas dress all day. I hope you don't mind, but we brought her upstairs and let her take a test drive in your studio."
I smile again, picturing a little girl dancing excitedly in front of the mirror. In my mind, the child I envision has chocolate-brown, ringlet curls and emerald-green eyes. She spins around and around, her tinkling laughter filing the room.
"She's so tiny she can only reach the bottom rung of the bar. I don't think she cared though. All she wanted to do was dance in front of the mirror. We put on some music, and I don't think she stopped dancing for an hour. Mom showed her a picture of you, the one on the cover of that dance magazine from last year. She told her that a real ballerina lives here with us. Jane wanted to meet you, of course, but we told her you had gone to visit your dad for Christmas. We promised to bring her to a performance when you come back."
A lighthearted feeling washes over me. He hasn't given up. He said when –not if – when.
"Jacob came by today. He brought Sam. I'd never met him. He seems like a nice guy. They ended up staying for dinner. Jazz and Alice stopped by too, and Rose was here, of course. They all wanted to know how you were doing and when you're coming home."
I bite my lip, fighting back the smile that threatens to break through. He thinks he's so clever, trying every way he can to coerce me to give him the answer he wants.
He sighs. "OK. OK. I get it. I'm sorry."
My amusement fades. I can tell he's getting upset, and that's not what I want. This is exactly what I needed tonight. Just to hear his voice. Just to pretend, if only for a moment, that everything is how it used to be. I wish I could share that with him, give him some tiny measure of reassurance, to let him know that everything's going to be OK, but I can't right now. I just pulled myself together and I don't think I'm ready for a heavy conversation. Not tonight.
"Merry Christmas, Edward."
"Merry Christmas, Bella," he says. I can hear the smile in his voice.
I hang up before he can mistake the sound of my happy tears for something else.
Author's Note:
So, this chapter was a flashback from BPOV. The next chapter will pick up right where left off and move forward. It looks like there are 2 or 3 chapters left + an epilogue (but don't hold me to that, these characters like to run away with the story).
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