Twilight belongs to Stephenie. I cannot fucknig believe that there is a fucking thing on this site for E.L. James' stupid books! GAH! *bangs head on table repeatedly*
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The next two weeks go by in a hazy blur.
We spend all of it in New York, doing interviews nonstop and signings. Rosalie called to let me know that the third and final installment for Traffic Lights went to final editing the other day, and would be ready within the next few weeks; I couldn't find it in me to care much, though. I wasn't getting enough rest, and to top everything off, I had an interview today. I'm back at the studios of Alec Volturi, waiting to go on live. The make-up guy is trying his best to cover up the dark circles underneath my eyes, but he's making faces as he dabs liquid cover-up onto my skin.
"Honey," he says, frowning. "How much sleep are you getting?"
I sigh and shrug.
"Not enough, obviously," I mutter.
He clucks his tongue and puts down the makeup-covered sponge. He picks up a cup and hands it to me; I look at him, raising an eyebrow.
"Drink it," he tells me.
"What is it?" I inquire.
"Caffeine. Coke with a splash of a little something-something." He winks.
I manage a smirk for his sake, but I set the cup down.
"Thanks, but I honestly can't stomach anything at the moment," I say quietly.
I haven't been eating much, either; just enough so that my stomach doesn't go crazy, and I don't pass out.
Sam—the make-up dude—sighs.
"Break-ups are hard, I know," he says casually, going back to fixing my face.
I think I flinch, because he curses.
"What—um, h-how do you know?" I ask.
He steps back and I look up at him. He rolls his green eyes at me.
"Please, sweetheart." I bite my lip at the name he calls me. "It's written allover you; in your body language, your face especially. 'Sides, anybody who's been through a freakin' break-up knows the signs, pretty girl," he says.
I nod slightly.
"Oh," I say.
He does a few other things to my face, and then calls it good.
"I think that's about all that I do."
"How . . . how do you get over it?" I ask him as I step into the too-high black stilettos.
He shakes his head.
"You don't, not really. And don't you believin' that nonsense about time heals all wounds, 'cause it don't sweet girl. Sure, it gets better, easier to cope, to deal with, in time; but you're always left with that feeling of the break-up caused. It does help if you meet somebody along the way, though, like I did. They take ya mind off of it for a bit, and if you're lucky, you can eventually give yaself to 'em," he tells me.
"So, welcome again!" Alec Volturi greets me as I sit down.
I manage a smile and wave.
"Thanks," I say.
We talk about my books for a bit, what I've been up to recently, how the tour is going, and then he brings up my life—of course he does, everybody wants to know. They already know—it's ridiculous.
"Break-ups are hard," he says with faux sympathy.
I sigh.
"Y'know what man," I say, getting fed up. "I'm kinda getting tired of these questions. I didn't come on here to talk about my personal life; I'm here to promote my books, and so that the people who support me can have the chance to see me in person."
In this life, you have to speak this way; it's the only language that these blood-sucking, nosy pricks speak and respond to.
"Isabella," Angela calls to me as I walk into my hotel room.
"What," I snap as I take off the stupid too-high shoes.
"I cannot believe you did that, is what! Alec Volturi is VERY prominent in Hollywood, and you should be honored to have been selected to be appear on his show! Not everyone is!" she rants.
I laugh sardonically at her, her stupid fucking words.
"Honored, I should be honored? Well, guess what then – Alec Volturi can go motherfucking fuck himself for all I care!" I say to her.
Her eyes go wide.
"You have absolutely no idea what you're messing around with here, do you?" she asks. "Well, let me clue you in: I've been in this business a hell of a lot longer than you have, and I can tell you that you're playing with fire, sweetie—fire that you do not want to play with! Alec Volturi is very high up in this world, and he can ruin your career if he so chooses!" she hisses the last part at me.
"So what, let him fucking ruin me!" I yell, breaking. "Let him get his punk-ass, childish way! I. Don't. Care," I tell her.
Her eyes burn with fury.
"Sweetheart, let's get one thing straight here, okay? You don't want to ruin your career—which is what you're busy doing—by doing this! I have been trying to help you focus, and you need to focus on your work and NOT on some addict whose life is already over and ruined!" she spits out.
Her words rub me the wrong way; my mind goes back to what Edward had said on the phone two weeks ago. My mind begins to reel, spin.
"What the fuck are you talking about," I say lowly. "Do not speak of him in that way, do you hear me?"
She rolls her hazel eyes.
"Sure, sure—Isabella, I have been trying to help you, as I just said, and in order for me to do that, I need your mind away from that addict, and on your work! It's a good thing that he broke-up with you, although I'm beginning to regret it just a bit, because it seems you're worse now," she says.
I look at her, trying to gauge her, and what she's saying.
My brain is trying to connect the pieces.
"That's the thing that I still don't get," I say. "It's almost like somebody made the decision for him—forced him into breaking up with me."
She smirks.
"Well, you're not stupid, apparently; you're actually catching on—albeit, a little late in the game, yes, but nevertheless you've sort of caught on."
I sit on the bed.
"What . . . I don't understand what you're saying," I tell her.
"Think, Isabella. You yourself said it didn't seem right," she says.
I think, think, and think until my head hurts.
Angela stays in the room but goes to the table to work on something, and I lie on the bed, trying to work this out in my mind.
Edward wouldn't just break-up with me. . .
His text, his words, made absolutely no sense. . .
"I've been trying to help you,". . .
"It's a good thing that he broke-up with you, although I'm beginning to regret it just a bit,". . .
"I'm beginning to regret it,". . .
Regret it just a bit . . .
Regret it. . .
"You're actually catching on,". . .
"It's almost like somebody made the decision for him—forced him into breaking up with me,". . .
The conversation, the words replay over repeatedly in my mind until, finally. . .
It clicks.
It's a sickening, hurtful, deceit-filled, torturous feeling that fills me up inside, and I feel as though I want to puke from it all.
"Oh, my God," I say aloud.