Ah, Bella, Bella, Bella…how difficult you get to be! And how people like me—stuck dealing with others' difficult-ness while having to relinquish ever more of our own—envy you.
Maybe in the end people like me are the lucky ones though, because most Edwards die. But it wouldn't stop me from picking a Bella life in an instant if I had the chance for a re-write do-over.
Except…maybe I wouldn't. Maybe I'd stick with this tired middle-aged life of loss and overwhelming responsibility. Maybe anything with less suffering would be too easy, and therefore not satisfying.
Maybe.
And that's a big accomplishment, right there. That "maybe" is the best development in my psyche since I figured out that the damage of almost any parenting failure can be counteracted by admitting, owning and apologizing for the mistake, thus teaching one of the most important life skills: forgiveness of self and others. And modeling both compassion (for ourselves) and empathy (for our children).
Here's to your big accomplishments, and to our shared pleasures. May they feed each other in an upward cycle of hope, love and positive change. To us!
xoxo liza
XxXxXx
Once Isabella was safely in her room with his own body leaning against the only exit door, Edward was willing to let her pull away from his grasp. Dropping his hand that had been holding hers, he watched to see what she would do when left to her own devices.
He didn't watch long. Separated from Edward, Bella, most predictably, began to panic. Standing frozen in the middle of her room, wanting to run but having nowhere to really run to, she began to hyperventilate, too torn between crying and hiding to do either.
Finally, she decides to retreat to the bathroom which at least has a locked door and the shower to give her some semblance of privacy, for she is hyper-aware of the quiet strength of Edward Cullen still leaning against her bedroom door. Raising her trembling chin to try and at least appear like she is in control of herself and not about to fly into a thousand sobbing pieces, Bella starts walking towards the bathroom, but stumbles and leans in to the bed to keep from falling.
As she steadies herself, one of her hands brushes against the stuffed leopard Edward had tossed on the bed during his search for her earlier, and surprised at the feel of it, she stops and looks down. Picking it up, she smiles at the stuffed animal's sweet expression and the softness of its fur.
Holding it out in front of her she turns back towards Edward, the stress of the moment forgotten in the pleasure of the unexpected present. Smiling hesitantly, afraid she might be misinterpreting the unfamiliar object in her space, she asks shyly, "Is this for me?"
As soon as the question is out, Bella blushes, feeling she's overstepped and made assumptions and acted self-centeredly—of course Edward Cullen didn't bring her a stuffed animal! It must be something he bought for someone else in his life, a niece or nephew maybe, and he just left it there by accident and…
But Edward is grinning back at her, unspeakably pleased at how much she likes his spontaneous present and saying a silent word of thanks for the mercenary 5-year-old no doubt asleep on a floor above them at that very moment. Breaking into her inner monologue of shame, Edward answers simply, "Of course. Do you like it?"
Bella blushes anew, tucking her head down again and turning away from Edward, but nodding vigorously in reply. She runs her hand over the back of the stuffed animal several times as if it were alive and in need of comfort, though it is really her own self she is trying to soothe with the motion.
She has forgotten about retreating to the bathroom, and instead sinks into a well of emotion, a potent mixture of hope and fear and happiness and embarrassment and shame leaving her blinking back tears once more. Soon the blinking isn't enough, and the tears spill out and run down her cheeks, and soon after that she is sobbing—but by then she is sobbing in Edward's arms, for he had started moving towards her as soon as she turned away from him, wrapping his arms around her waist from behind and turning her into him as soon as he hears—and feels—the sobbing begin.
"I'm—so—sorry!" Bella gasps out in between her crying, and Edward is quick to shush her.
"Shhhhhh…you have nothing to be sorry for."
"But—" Bella tries to object.
"No! Absolutely nothing," Edward cuts her off, then continues, "I have just enjoyed one of the happiest nights of my life, and I would appreciate it if you would let me end a perfect evening by helping you get ready for bed. You—and Mr. Snow Leopard here—would be doing me a great favor. And then I'll tuck you in and say goodnight, and you can go to sleep so that tomorrow can come and we can do it all over again. What do you say?" and as he asks this, he's leaning into her, one hand stroking the back of the leopard and her hand holding it, his lips brushing against her cheek and bestowing small kisses along her hair line.
Bella can't find her voice to say anything, and Edward brings his hand up from the leopard to rub his thumb along the contours of her face, savoring the emotionally fraught silence and her inability to say "No" to him as well as her inability to say "Yes."
Finally breaking the silence himself, Edward whispers, "You are exactly right the way you are, Isabella Swan; I think I have been waiting my whole life just for you." At which incomprehensible statement Isabella bursts out in even noisier sobs than before, her knees going weak and her body sagging into his, leading him to pick her up under her knees in a cradle hold before moving to the bathroom and shutting the door behind them.
As soon as he started moving, Bella had wrapped her arms around Edward's neck and tucked her head in against him, leaving Edward exultant at her newfound trust in him and Bella luxuriating in the smell of Edward's skin. Both of them are loathe to leave their positioning, so Edward stands a few moments on a throw rug in the white-tiled bathroom before forcing himself to proceed to the shower, lean down, and turn it on as hot as it will go.
As the steam starts to build, Edward toes off his shoes and then reaches around to remove Bella's before remembering they were off already. Smiling, he sets her down standing on the rug between him and the shower, gently pulls the stuffed leopard out from under her arm and sets it on the vanity behind him, then without further ado pulls her blouse over her head.
Bella's eyes go wide with embarrassed shock, and she wraps her arms around the old-fashioned camisole she's wearing underneath, but Edward is done on top and goes for her skirt button instead. Pulling the skirt down, he crouches down with it, keeping one hand on her waist while the other gathers the skirt material near her feet.
"Step up," he tells her, and she obeys, lifting one foot and then the other as Edward works the skirt off her body.
Leaving the rest of her underthings in place, Edward stands and says, "Now strip down and hop into the shower, little girl; I'll be back in a minute to help you dry off and get into your nightgown."
Isabella tries to say "OK," but it just comes out as an incoherent squeak, making Edward smile again as he wraps his arms around her for a quick hug and kiss on the top of her head, before just as quickly letting go and moving back to the bedroom, closing the door partway—but only partway—behind him.
Edward reflects as he moves towards Isabella's bed that in other relationships, with other women, he would be hoping for an act of defiance—an action such as closing the door all the way behind him, or even locking it, so as to give him a reason to deliver the punishment for which both he and his previous partners hungered. Now, with this woman—this girl—he is relieved to hear only the sound of hesitant footsteps into the shower, and is glad, grateful even, to save the pleasure of her open defiance and his remedying it for a future time when she is secure enough in his affection and intentions to enjoy first testing and then experiencing the assertion of his dominance and control over her.
Almost as much as he will.
Edward doesn't hurry in searching out her nightgown, taking a few moments first to survey the room and observe the decorating tastes of Miss Isabella Swan. He sees his flowers, and notes for the first time the card face down on the carpet; reaching down he scoops it up and looks it over, smiling as he guesses how flustered she must have been when reading it.
He moves on to the battered chest of drawers to his left, idly opening each one, unsurprised by the contents but enjoying every confirmation of her simple, innocent, unfashionable tastes.
Guessing that Isabella might have stashed her nightgown under one of the ruffled pillows on her bed, which is covered with a comforter displaying a pattern of blue-and-white china dishes surrounded by daffodils and tulips, Edward pokes around underneath and comes up with both the nightgown and a book. He smiles at the book, and sets it gently on the nightstand, feeling certain for the moment that Isabella is too young, too sweet, too innocent for him to do anything but help and protect her.
This thought makes him angry, whether at the universe or himself he doesn't care, and he picks up the long white gown from the night before impatiently, chastising himself for wasting so much time on someone he cannot ethically pursue.
Any ethical objections are forgotten, however, when he knocks at the still part-way open bathroom door and hears her nervous squeal from the other side of the opaque shower curtain, the predator inside him completely over-ruling the moral guide attempting to thwart his own pursuit.
Instead, he closes the bathroom door firmly behind himself and rolls up his sleeves before grabbing two towels from the bathroom closet and stalking towards the steaming shower. When he reaches the spot where he knows—absolutely knows—she is trembling on the other side of the curtain, shivering in the warm water from what he hopes is combined fear and desire but what he must yet admit may be only fear, he reaches around the curtain and turns off the water, careful to keep his head on his own side of the curtain.
With the water off, he soundlessly hands her a towel, and waits a few heartbeats before instructing, "When you're covered, come on out and I'll help you dry off." He says this gently, the predator relinquishing control for the moment to the tender heart Isabella has unearthed so quickly, and so thoroughly. He knows he will do nothing more than help her dry and dress and tuck her into bed tonight; he pragmatically decides to postpone any decision-making about what may come afterwards to later, after he's had the unexpectedly sublime pleasure of seeing her safely off to sleep.
He smiles at his own weakness for the girl now cautiously sticking some toes out from behind the curtain; prior to Isabella he has never happily anticipated or even passively watched a woman falling asleep before. It is a boundary he has strictly upheld in his previous intimate relationships, and he marvels briefly at how easily he's crossing it now.
Soon Isabella is fully exited from the shower, a towel wrapped around her torso and held with a still-trembling hand. Quickly she casts a shy and worried glance up to read his face. He catches it in time to shine a beaming smile down, and follows up with: "Good girl, Isabella; good girl doing what I tell you to. Here, let me dry your hair."
And grabbing up the second towel after gently positioning her by her shoulders in front of him, Edward proceeds to do so with surprising skill. At least, Isabella is surprised, and so distracted by his agile, gentle hands she forgets to be worried and starts to relax under his touch. She is helped along in this by Edward's running patter, going over the events and stories of dinner, and making her laugh with his imitation of Mrs. Cope and Rosalie obliquely insulting each other.
When he has toweled off her hair, shoulders and arms, Edward kneels on the floor in front of Bella and lifts her hands, one at a time, placing them firmly on his own shoulders. "Lean on me while I dry your legs and feet, sweetheart," he instructs as he starts in drying one of her legs at the highest exposed spot.
As he's about to begin on the other leg, having worked his way down to the littlest toe on the first, Edward pauses. Gingerly, he reaches out and traces around a bruise he's discovered on her knee.
"How did this happen?" he asks, enough anger in his tone that Bella draws back a little, taking an involuntary step backwards as her shoulders round in instinctive effort to protect herself from the intense pain of Edward Cullen's displeasure towards her.
Edward, of course, feels this immediately as her knee leaves his fingertips. He moves swiftly to standing, reaching for Bella's waist as she turns away. Catching her body half-way turned, he pulls her in to him once more, wrapping an arm snugly around her lower back as his other hand goes to a now familiar place cupping the back of her head and pulling her tightly against him.
He has already figured out that the tighter he holds her the faster she calms; he's so quick this time she doesn't even have a chance to start crying.
Edward stands there, holding her, holding the person he is now mentally referring to as "my girl," feeling again the incredibly pleasurable rush of possessive affection that Isabella brings forth in him—has from the first moment he saw her but more and more so with every interaction that lets him know both how much she needs a protector and how afraid she is of him.
He loves the contrast, the tension between those two deep feelings of his girl: her desire for the safety he offers and her fear of what it will cost her. Edward's self-aware enough, and conversant in psychotherapy-speak enough, to recognize the predatory quality to his enjoyment—no, his rapture—in this tension, and he's finding it repugnant in himself.
But not so much so that he can make himself do anything but bring on the tension all over again. Besides, he consoles himself for the moment, she clearly needs his intervention right now.
Or someone's, and he's the only one apparently available.
He wonders briefly if he knows someone in his circle of acquaintances who would know someone who could help this girl without falling victim to enjoyment of her vulnerability. But he gets rageful at just the thought of this, and pulls her even more tightly against himself, deciding easily there is no one else in the whole world who would be safe enough, and good enough, for her.
If he suffers the same insufficiency, so be it; he'll figure out later what to do about that. Perhaps his own therapist could help her lose her apparent reflex of self-abasement…and then he's rageful at that thought too, and pulls her in more tightly again.
The almost-painful hold he has her in now makes Bella sigh in contentment, and surrender entirely to the loveliness of the moment by relaxing completely against the strength and power of Edward Cullen's chest.
He feels the sag against his arms as her own muscular control gives way, and grins—then nuzzles into the hair on top of her resting head and repeats his crooning commentary of earlier: "You're such a good girl, Isabella; you're my good little girl."
Inside, Edward's repeating one sentiment over and over again, simply "Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine!"
Bella's brain has melted past the point of conscious thought, but if her feeling-state could be summarized, it would be simply, "His. His. His. His!"
They stand like that, in perfect, blissful synchrony, for time out of time. Or more precisely, for 15 blissful seconds before Rose knocks, tries to open, then starts banging on the locked bedroom door. "Bella! Bella, are you okay in there? Edward Cullen! Open up this door!"
This snaps Edward out of his reverie and makes Bella cringe against him, something he both loves and hates. He directs the love towards Bella with firm hands petting her hair and squeezing her momentarily impossibly-more-tightly still; he directs the hate towards Rose with a growling reply, "She's perfectly fine, Rosalie. I'm getting her ready for bed. I told you I'd check in with you later, and I will!"
Ignoring the panicked rapping that continues for a little bit afterwards, Edward starts talking to Bella in a deep, authoritative tone, trying to keep her from thinking about her roommate out in the hall and feeling embarrassed about the situation. "Let's finish drying your leg, sweetheart," he starts in, moving both hands to steady Bella at the elbows as he drops cautiously away from her body, watching carefully for signs of panic or a new attempt to flee.
Seeing neither, for Bella is feeling uncustomarily calm, having been somehow soothed by Edward's unashamed and unapologetic rejoinder to Rosalie's concern, he returns to the tender area upon her knee. "So, Isabella, did you injure yourself recently?" he asks carefully, keeping the renewed flare of anger and frustration that she should have been free to hurt herself or, worse, be hurt by someone else out of his tone this time.
Encouraged by his matter-of-fact demeanor, Bella easily nods her head "Yes" in reply. Edward notes the movement out of the corner of his eye, then looks up at her, catching her fully in the face for a moment, and smiles his approval. "Good girl for answering me," he says with amused and affectionate warmth before reaching up a hand to press against her blushing, smiling cheek, his thumb brushing softly under her eye, one finger stroking down her nose.
Then back to business, he picks up the towel again with both hands and rubs below her knee, asking, nonchalantly, "What happened?"
He waits, one heartbeat…two…He keeps his hands on business, the business of her, and by five heartbeats past he hears her intake of breath; by seven he hears her whispered words. "Um, I…fell?" she says, as if she's giving an answer to be graded, hoping she's correct but terrified she isn't.
Smiling at this, his head bowed away from her unguarded view, Edward answers, matter-of-fact and encouraging, "Fell how?"
There's a longer pause now, and some flinching and twisting of feet, though the latter stops as Edward circles the nearest ankle with an unbreakable hold and continues to dry off her foot—communicating through manacle that she is both safe and bound, or rather, safe because she is bound, by him, and by his absolute insistence on her protection. He's past debating himself on this point, and they both feel it.
This time she answers quickly, almost easily. "Um, I was, running away from you?"
Puzzled for a moment, Edward pulls his brows together as he tries to figure out when she had the opportunity to run away from him. "When was this, sweetheart?"
"Tonight, after you…um…called?" Her voice is getting faint at the oblique reference to the series of phone calls between them, and Edward grins at her embarrassment.
"You mean, after you dropped the phone on me?"
Her face flushing crimson, tears pooling in her eyes, Bella barely nods. Edward sees her distress, and stops his laughing at her expense, rising quickly and tossing the towel he's been using to the side in order to wrap both arms around her waist and shelter her against him once more. "Hey, there, baby girl; there's nothing to cry about. I wasn't mad at you."
"But I hung up on you! And ran away! And-and-I didn't do what you told me to!"
"And what happened then?"
"You…you…" There is a pause as Bella thinks about what happened next. Then, cautiously, carefully, like she's presenting a revolutionary new theorem to a panel of skeptics though really she's the one who is skeptical of what she's about to say, "You came and got me?"
"Exactly. I came and got you. Which is precisely what I'm going to do every time you run away or hide from me, until you give it up altogether and just let me take care of you."
"But…but I don't need to be taken care of. I'm…I'm an adult!"
Edward tips his head back and laughs at her adorableness.
Bella's not feeling adorable, but insulted and a little angry, in addition to the ecstasy that courses through her at someone powerful and safe seeing her the way she really feels inside and wanting her just that way, even though she doesn't think it possible he could want her that way for long. And so the defensive, angry part has to insist, "But I am!"
Edward grabs her chin and holds her head steady as he captures her gaze with his own, deadly serious stare. "Isabella Swan, you will never be a grown-up."
"But… but that's not fair!"
"I know, sweetheart; I know." And in that moment, they really do understand each other: the boy who'd been forced to take on adult responsibilities and attitudes as soon as he could walk and talk, and the girl whose brain was wired like a naïve, trusting child's no matter how hard she tried to change it and make it match the expectations and assumptions of those around her. In opposite ways, they were both victims of a world that needed them to be something they weren't, and they were both very tired of the effort required to navigate the growing distance between who they were inside and the roles they played every day.
At least, Edward understood. Bella's understanding was still clouded by misperceptions of both her own nature and Edward's—thinking she was a terrible person, and Edward was a saint, when the reality of his behavior had been very much that of a committed and highly-skilled sinner. But in Bella, he had found the saint he couldn't be and the vulnerability he'd been forced to relinquish—and as this all became clear to him, looking down on her beautiful, open face as he wiped a few more tears away from her eyes, he realized that he was never going to be able to let her go whether that was for the best for her or not.
Smiling ruefully at his own selfishness and her total ignorance of his complete realignment of her future, Edward cups Bella's cheek for a tender moment, leans in and rests his forehead against her own, kisses her once gently, chastely on the lips, then moves into business mode, pulling away except for one hand left at Bella's waist as he digs under the vanity for a hair dryer then wields it with expert skill.
A few minutes pass in heavy silence, as Edward's hands control Isabella's body and they both steal looks at each other in the bathroom mirror while Edward dries her hair. Finally Edward stares at Isabella until her eyes fall on his and she is locked there in his gaze until he reluctantly looks away to return the hair dryer to its place under the sink.
Standing back up behind her, Edward cheerfully says, "Arms up!"
Edward grins when one of Isabella's arms instantly shoots straight up in the air, and he pulls the nightgown on over that arm, her head, and her shoulders and then over the towel that she's still holding tightly closed against her chest with her other hand and arm. When the nightgown reaches a modest location past her waist, with Edward adjusting and straightening it as he pulls it down, he reaches up and removes the towel from below, letting the nightgown drop as he does.
Edward turns away for a moment to hang both towels up to dry while Bella works her own arm through the empty sleeve, and when he turns back he finds her looking at him in the mirror with a huge smile on her face. She surprises him by turning around and rushing in to hug him with great enthusiasm, adding a whispered "Thank you."
She tries to pull away again as quickly as she moved in…blushing and looking down, of course.
But Edward doesn't let her pull away and instead catches both her hands, holding them tight in his own in front of him; bending his knees he lowers to catch her eyes and, once finding them, holds onto her gaze by moving til there's only inches between her face and his. "You're most welcome, sweetheart," he answers, followed quickly by, "Thank you for trusting me."
She smiles and blushes some more at this, merely nodding in return, and Edward laughs lightly at her shyness. Throwing an arm around her and pulling her into his side, he says, "Now we need to brush your teeth and get you into bed. It's far past your bedtime."
Bella's face is aflame at this commentary, for she knows it is insultingly juvenile and highly inappropriate given her age and their social standing to each other, and yet—and yet!—he is treating her exactly how she has dreamed of being treated by someone male and strong and safe and caring for as long as she can remember. She is ashamed of this, but cannot help but soak up Edward's attention and hope for more.
Edward reads this all as he watches her exquisite expressiveness play out across her face and in the actions of her body; the trembling, the foot wiggling and hand shaking but the stillness at his commands and the joy in her eyes at his praise. He cannot quite believe how whole-sale trusting and unjaded she seems to be, and he realizes that Rosalie must have been quite the protector to keep her that way so long in New York City, not to mention college.
Reluctantly realizing he had better not cut Rosalie entirely out of whatever plans he develops for the girl in front of him, he distracts himself from that frustration by focusing on getting Bella's toothbrush ready for her and holding it out to her with the simple instruction, "Brush."