'Twilight' belongs to Stephenie; this plot belongs to me.
"She finds color in the darkest places
She finds beauty in the saddest of faces
For such a clued in, headstrong city girl
Could've had the world but she's fallen in love in the worst way." Walk Away – The Script
Two days after – his house
"I wonder if your place is still swamped," Emma comments as she makes lunch.
I shrug from where I sit at the island, watching her.
"It depends if Angela's said—released—anything yet or not," I tell her.
She hums and asks where her brother is.
"Is he ever gonna get outta there if it's not to piss?" she quips.
I cover my mouth to disguise the giggle.
"I dunno . . ."
"Would you please go tell his royal High-ass to get down here if he wants to eat?"
I nod, but it doesn't escape me that she said 'high-ass' in reference to him. I take the stairs slowly, and then open his door. The fact that he's actually up and doing something surprises me; he's on the computer.
"Oh . . . you're up," I say quietly.
He looks at me and nods.
"Yeah—I got tired of laying around; did enough of that all week." He rolls his eyes.
I nod and tell him that lunch is almost ready.
"I'm not hungry," he says.
I bite my lip. "You need—you should eat. When was the last time you ate something? Actual food."
He sighs, leaning back in his desk chair.
"I don't wanna eat," he says quietly, closing his eyes.
Wow, something truthful for once, I quip to myself.
I clear my throat, getting ready to go back downstairs.
"Well, you know the kitchen is," I say and turn away.
When I get to the stairs, he calls my name, making me pause. Slowly, I turn around and go back to his room to see what he wants.
"Yeah," I say, popping my head back in.
His mouth opens, but nothing comes out.
"I . . . I guess I'll try to eat something," he finally says.
I nod and wait out in the hallway for him. Why, I don't know; I guess it's because it's what I've always done—wait for him. He comes out after shutting his door, and we walk down the stairs one at a time together. I don't do anything when he reaches out and takes hold of my hand—I don't stop him nor do I lock my fingers with his. When we reach the landing I release my hand to go sit down, and he sits next to me; Emma gives me a look of surprise but doesn't say anything.
"Here," she says, giving me a plate of Mac 'n' Cheese.
I thank her and I look at Edward.
"Um, I'll get you some," I mumble.
"Psh, what, are his hands broken?" Emma snips.
I glare at her.
"Emma," I say with warning.
She rolls her eyes.
I know why she's acting this way; she's hurt and pissed, just like I am.
"It's fine, ba—B; I can get it," Edward says quietly.
My stomach twists at the name that he caught himself using; baby. Suddenly, I'm not so hungry either. I push the food around on the plate and nibble at it. Emma grabs a second plate before I realize how much time has passed, and Edward is still working on his first serving. When I can't stomach any more of the food—and being at the island—I stand up to take my plate to the trash.
"I'll take care of it," Emma says.
"Just save it for later, please?" I ask.
She nods and I take the stairs two at a time, and then walk quickly to the guest bedroom where I've been staying.
One week later – B's house
It's been almost two weeks since Edward was in the hospital.
Against all better judgment, I offered for him to come back to my—I guess it's still our—house, since I know that Emma wants time alone. We got back here late last night, and Edward crashed out almost immediately. I stayed on the couch, letting him have the bed.
(Flashback) – Last night
I just got Edward situated in bed, and I grabbed some clothes out of the dresser that holds my pajamas. I went into the bathroom and changed quickly, then asked if he needed anything else; he shook his head.
"You're not . . . you're not gonna stay in here?" he asked, frowning.
I shook my head.
"I uh, I've got some work I gotta do—I don't wanna keep you up," I said.
He nodded, said goodnight, and I shut the door behind me.
(End flashback) – Present
I'm pretty sure that he knew I was lying, because the look on his face part sadness, and part disbelief. After spending so much time around him at Emma's house, I need some time away from him—even if it's just a room or two apart. Glancing at my phone, I see that it's 11:30am; I sigh and get up to stretch. I had a hard time falling asleep, not doing so until well into 7am. A part of me wonders if Edward is up yet; he's been sleeping a lot lately since he got back from the hospital. My thoughts are answered when the bedroom door opens and out walks a still half-asleep Edward. My eyes follow him at he walks to the couch and sits down; he only has on a pair of boxers, nothing else. With my legs pulled up to my chest, I keep my eyes trained anywhere but at him.
"How'd the work go?" he asks, breaking the suffocating silence.
I shrug.
"Umm, it went alright; not much left to do," I say quietly, still keeping my gaze averted.
He doesn't respond, and I don't push conversation.
It would most likely only lead to an argument, anyway.
"Umm, ar-are you gonna sleep in the bed tonight?" he asks quietly.
It's 10:30pm, and I'm exhausted; both mentally—emotionally—and physically. I hadn't exactly planned on sleeping in the room tonight, but from the look of uncertainty and forlornness on Edward's face, I can't find it in myself to say no, even though it kills me inside when I'm near him.
"Uh, sure," I answer.
Edward slips into the bed after I do, and I reach over to turn out the light. I stay still, as does he, and just listen to the silence; I'm afraid to even exhale too loudly, it's that tense in here.
It's his fault, he did this, I remind myself.
Yet for some reason, I still blame myself partly for what happened; it's as if I'm the one who cheated and then overdosed, and not him.
I turn onto my side, facing away from him, and curl into a ball—as though that might somehow protect me from everything going on.
"Baby," he whispers.
I flinch at his tone; it's uncertainty again, but there's longing in it.
"H-hmm," I say quietly.
He doesn't reply; instead, I feel his fingers skim my forearm, running them up and down it slowly. I want to move away from him; his touch burns me, but I can't find it in me to move even an inch.
"I'm sorry," he whispers.
His mouth right there, near my ear—so close that his breath tickles-touches it.
His apology is loaded.
What is he sorry for, though?
For cheating, for overdosing, for believing Angela's lie, maybe? I want to ask him, but I can't—my voice gets stuck in my throat.
So, I continue to let him touch me, because it's what he needs. He needs this from me, and he needs me to his whispered apologies in the tone of a tortured soul who has lost his way again—or maybe he never found it at all. I sacrifice everything because he needs me, needs this, even though it makes my stomach roll and twist, and do flip-flops when he touches me; and when his words of confession of cheating enter my mind nearly every time he speaks and looks at me, I feel like I'm going to throw-up. And I'll let him think that maybe I've forgiven him, but even I don't think that he's stupid enough to believe I forgive that easily—at least not anymore.
I could have had the world but I've fallen in love in the worst way.