All things belong to their rightful owners.
Friday, November 17 – outside on his back porch
I'm sitting on the top step of Edward's back porch, silently and mindlessly staring at the waves crashing onto the shore. My stomach is sick with twists, flips, and turns of heartache and anxiety, and the only person who can take it all away is the one who caused it.
I glance over at Emma and Edward, who are on the swing that sits a few feet away from the steps; she keeps looking over at me, and I know that she's worried.
"Is she OK?" she asks, worried.
Edward lets out a long sigh, and in my peripheral vision, I see him stand up.
"She's sad Em; it doesn't take a genius to figure that out," he says, and he's not being mean; it's just a statement.
It's quiet for a moment, and then, "You mean depressed?"
Yeah, no shit it's depression, I quip to myself.
Edward nods.
"Yeah . . . I wish I could take it away—help her in some way."
Yeah, so I do.
Emma snorts.
"Yeah well, you're the one who brought this round of it on, so that's pretty much outta the fucking question."
"I know," he snaps. "I just. . ." His voice is quiet, low, again. "That's what hurts the most, the worst part of it."
I try to tune them out again, instead focusing on the water and dark sky again. I need someone, somebody just to hold me. I hug my knees to my chest as best I can, trying to hold in the tears, and tug the too big black hoodie around myself that Edward gave me. I guess I'm not doing a good enough job because Edward is suddenly behind me, wrapping me in his arms; he always seems to know what I need, even when I don't voice it. I manage to stand up and turn around, and reposition myself so that I'm straddling his lap, and I wrap my legs around his waist and my arms go around his neck, clinging on without choking him. It's definitely not the most comfortable position, but fuck, I need this, and he's not complaining—he never does. I'm twenty-fucking-seven, but it all feels like too much; my mind drifts back to a fight that occurred during May right before the summer that senior year started.
I hide my face in Edward's neck-shoulder as the fight from before replays in my head.
(Flashback) – Her house
"You're not going," my dad said with finality.
I bit my lip and huffed, which earned me a disapproving look.
"Enough with the attitude or you're grounded, young lady!"
I bit back a snappy remark and mentally rolled my eyes.
"I . . . I wanna go though," I said quietly, staring down at the floor.
He shook his head.
"Absolutely not; he's no good for you, but you don't see that. No, you just continue letting him make you depressed—what, you think I don't know that you're depressed? Don't think I don't see how you walk around the house like a freaking zombie when he starts his shit Isabella, 'cause I do. I ain't blind kid, and I'm not stupid; neither are you, but you're making stupid choices," he told me.
I tried to hold back the tears that wanted to fall.
"I . . . he loves me—I love him Dad," I whispered.
He shook his head.
"Nuh uh, that isn't love, Bella; it's more like . . . what's the word I'm looking for? Addiction—it's like an addiction, and guess what; we gonna cut you from your addiction, starting now; over my dead fucking body will you continue to see that kid Isabella!"
I let the tears fall freely after he left my room, not before telling me that I was grounded though.
(End flashback)
I ignored Edward for three weeks after it—the hardest three fucking weeks of my damn life. Nobody realized—maybe they didn't care to—that they were taking away the only person worth not giving up for. My dad was vehement on me not seeing or having any contact with Edward, and I stayed away for three weeks. Those few weeks were hell; every time I saw Edward, he would try to talk to me, asking me why I was ignoring his calls. I told him that I wasn't allowed to see him anymore.
"Fuck what other people think!" he'd told me.
I turned eighteen that September, and when I went back to hanging out with him, my dad pretty much just gave up on me, saying that I was 18-years-old, an adult, and could legally make my own choices. I cried when he told me that, and Edward had a shit fit when he found out.
I'm brought out of my thoughts when I feel Edward rub my shoulders.
"What'cha thinking 'bout, Mama?" he asks quietly.
When I don't answer, he lifts my head from the crook of his neck, and tries to gauge my thoughts.
"Tell me," he murmurs. "Please."
I bite my lip and he frowns but doesn't say anything.
"Jus' the fight that happened the summer before senior year started," I mumble.
He nods in realization and his hands rub up and down my back soothingly.
Saturday, November 18 – Edward's back porch – party time
I'm sitting on the second step of the porch, watching the bonfire party that Emma arranged in lieu of her thinking I needed some 'cheering up'. I stuff my hands into the pockets of the black hoodie that is Edward's—the same one I've been wearing for two days—and it causes the hood of it to pull down more on my head. Edward is hanging out with Jessica, a girl we both knew in school; somebody whom he has history with, but Jess is a nice girl and I'm not worried; she's happily married to Michael Newton—or his money I should say. She wouldn't do anything to jeopardize losing the massive bank account and endless credit card he set up for her. Whatever, it works for them; she gets what she wants—a daughter—and he gets whatever he wanted out of it. Jess waves at me and all I can do is offer a small smile back; it hurts even to smile, and I hate it. She frowns a little and asks Edward a question that causes him to look at me, and he too frowns. She says something and they both nod, and then Edward makes his way over to me, stopping in front of me.
"'Sup—what's going on?" he asks, looking down at me.
I shrug.
"Just watching the bonfire going on—why?"
He sighs.
"You jus' look lonely is all. Hey, come with me; come say hi to Jess, she's worried about you—actually, so am I," he says.
I smile for his sake.
"Don't worry about me, and go have fun."
He's not stupid though, so he's not fooled by my forced smile and cheeriness.
"Yeah, right; telling me not to worry is like telling you not to upset, hurt, and worried sick when an episode occurs." He snorts.
I manage to hold back the flinch-wince that is almost automatic to his words.
"Do whatever you want," I say, trying to reassure him. "I don't wanna hold you back."
"Hold me back?" He stares at me incredulously. "You're insane!"
I roll my eyes.
"Thanks for the clarification on that," I say sarcastically. "I think I've heard that somewhere before, though."
He smirks, climbs the steps, and then sits down so that he's behind me, and I'm between his legs with my back against him. We stay like this for a bit, unmoving, until I feel him get closer, and he kisses the back of my neck; I shiver involuntarily.
"You wanna go inside for a bit?" he asks into my hair.
I nod without thinking, and he helps me up.
We're lying in his bed.
The window is open and I can hear the party still going on in full swing. Edward rolls us over—I was lying on top of him—and hovers above me, smirking. I look at him curiously.
"What?" I ask.
He doesn't answer with words, but he leans down and presses a soft kiss to my collarbone. He travels to both sides of my neck, pressing feather light kisses to my skin; I can't help the giggle that escapes when he gets to underneath my ear—I've always been ticklish there for some reason. I feel him smirk against my skin, and then he does the unthinkable: He reaches down and fucking tickles me at my sides. I squeal and squirm underneath him, and try to get hold of his hands, but that only lets him succeed in grabbing mine and pinning them above my head.
In just a short time, I've finally felt happy again; carefree and happy.
Which leads me to asking him to do the one thing we haven't in so long.
"Love me?" I say through a whisper, uncertainty lacing it.
They're words that haven't dared been spoken in a while, but are always on my mind.
He looks me in the eye, once again gauging me.
"Um—are—are you s-sure?" he asks, his own uncertainty showing.
I nod.
And he does finally.
He loves me like I've wanted ever since we reconnected almost three years ago; he loves me thoroughly.
He loves me even though the window is open and the door is unlocked.
He loves me deeply.
Sometimes slow and sometimes hard.
His whispered words fill my ears and make my heart soar like a shooting star.
Our grunts, groans, and moans combine and fill the room.
And this is what I've always meant by 'he's the best and worst thing to ever happen to me'.