Writeontime makes me think, and I don't like it, but I appreciate her hard work. Ciaobella27 is invaluable as a prereader. I wish I'd gone with her suggestion for a title when I first started this story.
I don't own Twilight.
Googling "Port Angeles taxi" yields very few relevant results. I stare at the first and only number that comes up, thinking about my options. Any second now, the waiter will be back with our meals, all wrapped up and ready to go. He recognized me when I told him something came up and we had to leave. He looked back twice on his way to the kitchen. I wish I could hide behind my hair, like I did back in high school and the first few weeks of college. The first time I wanted to stop hiding was when Jasper Hale sat next to me during an early morning lecture. I pushed my hair out of my face and smiled. My heart was beating so fast, kind of like it's beating now, but that was the best kind of fast, and this is the worst.
I don't want to be standing outside this restaurant in five minutes with nowhere to go, but I think at this point, it's pretty inevitable. I can call this number and ask if they'll take me to Forks, or I can call my parents and ask them to pick me up. Either way, there will be some time spent outside this restaurant waiting for a stranger to pick me up. A few minutes, an hour, something in between… it really doesn't matter. I've been waiting for months. I'm fine now, because I have to be until I'm alone. And then it will come—soul crushing disappointment, and my smart inner voice telling the silly one, "I told you so."
"Here you go ma'am. Anything else I can do for you?"
"Oh. Um, just the check, please."
He has it ready, and he hands it over to me with the brightest smile.
I give him my most polite smile back as I remove my credit card from my wallet and place it inside the receipt holder. He's back a minute later, and continues to hover over the table while I sign the receipt and put away my wallet.
"Miss Swan…" he starts.
"Yes?"
"Do you think… would you mind signing your autograph for me?"
His face is red and his eyes are focused on something behind me. I can tell he feels bad, that he possibly already regrets asking. Well, he shouldn't have asked.
"No."
He says things that don't matter as I walk out.
I walk out and walk straight into Edward.
"Where are you going?"
My shoulder moves and tells him it's none of his business, I don't know, why does he care, it's not important, but he doesn't let me walk past him. I thought I was fast, but he's faster, and he's stronger, too.
"You don't want to cause a scene here, do you?" he asks.
"No, which is why I smiled, paid the bill, and left."
"Come on."
"What?"
"I was coming back," he says. His hands in his hair and huge, wild eyes tell me he's upset. "I never thought you'd assume I left. I needed a minute."
"It was closer to ten, maybe even fifteen minutes."
He apologizes, placing his hands on my shoulders and then moving them down my arms. I let them move like that because it doesn't matter. I feel nothing.
"It's fine," I tell him before he has the chance to start a new round of apologies. "Do you mind dropping me off at my parents' house?"
"You don't want to eat something?"
I show him the bag in my hand.
"Do you want to eat that before we leave?" he asks.
"No."
"Fine, but I owe you dinner," he mumbles. I follow him to his car and once I'm inside, that thing I've been waiting for finally arrives. Anger is gone. I close my eyes, and I see myself sobbing. I hear the pathetic whimpers. This is going to be me soon. Hopefully not until I'm in my room, door locked, with my face in my pillow.
"Are you cold?"
"No."
"You're hugging yourself like you're cold," he says.
"I'm just sad."
He takes the deepest breath. In, out.
"You said all these things—"
"I apologized," he starts, but I cut him off.
"No, not in there. I'm talking about all the things you said that made me want to be with you. That you liked me, that you'd do whatever it takes… I'm sad that you didn't mean them."
"You can't do this, Bella."
"What?"
"Go from… whatever that was at the restaurant, to this. You can't be two different people."
"I'm not," I insist. "I'm allowed to get angry. I was angry in there."
"I'm not talking about anger."
"You do the same thing."
He shakes his head, saying nothing. I don't think he wants to have a conversation. He apologized and he's driving me back, but that's only because he has good manners. I sit back and try to not hate myself for my pathetic declaration of sadness.
"I meant what I said," he tells me, "but I don't know what to do now to make you happy."
"Make this last hour disappear."
"Would rewinding time help?"
"I'd be less sad, yeah."
"How far back would you like to go?" he asks.
"Right around the time Jasper called."
"That's it? Not last year? Not before that?"
I know what he's asking. I can't think about changing history right now.
"No."
"So, what would you change?" Edward wants to know.
"Nothing. I don't know."
"You can't take back honesty."
"No."
"I'd go back to five minutes before my mother walked in on us," he tells me.
"Yeah?"
"We could've been in my room."
"Hmm, and I wouldn't have said any of the things I said because my mouth would've been too busy."
He covers his face with his hand, laughing into it, no longer composed and in control.
"Don't do that. You can't tease me with something I've been thinking about every day for an entire year."
"What? A blowjob?"
He's laughing again. These little boy moments are the cutest. He's being unfair. I like them too much.
"Is that all you want?" I ask. "Because you and I both know that's like shaking hands for me. A casual 'hello'. Just pull over right there. Consider it a 'thank you' for the time you put into our 'relationship' over this past week."
"You probably hate doing it."
"What? Why?"
"I don't know… don't you associate it with everything that's happened?"
"I certainly don't want to describe the act again in front of really disgusting old men who probably wanted to touch themselves or ask me to demonstrate, but… stop laughing! It was awful!"
"You know they did," Edward says.
"Oh man, you should've seen their faces when they played the tapes. There were—"
"I was so curious about that whole thing."
"The tapes?" I ask.
"Yeah, but go on, sorry."
"As unpleasant as the whole thing was, there were moments when I'd stop and observe the people around me, and I'd have to stop myself from giggling or cracking a joke while I was being questioned. The looks on their faces—you could tell some people were just extremely curious, like, given the chance, they'd invite me over for dinner and get me drunk enough to spill more details."
My heart needs to stop pounding in that good way. Saying these things to the man I want to be with, sleep with, shouldn't feel this exciting, but the way he's listening to me, always grateful for the little bit I give him, lips slightly parted, memorizing each word… I can't help but continue.
"I remember being questioned about one particular encounter, and they made me go through it in excruciating detail, so I had to say that I had an orgasm, and this one woman looked so shocked, so surprised. She kept shaking her head 'no', like how is that possible? That's unheard of! Who comes from that? And I really wanted to laugh and pat her on the back and tell her that it's okay, she shouldn't kill herself because no one has made her feel that way. I'm such an asshole."
"You're not."
"I bet you're wondering what I'm talking about."
"I've read the report," Edward says. "I think I have an idea of what you're talking about."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." He nods. So serious. I bet he wants to try.
"It's very long, did you just read the good parts?"
He chuckles. "No, all of it."
"Liar."
"You're the liar. You know there were no good parts," he says.
When I don't answer, he reaches out and grabs my hand.
"It's pretty cool that you're able to laugh about it now."
"Well, you make it easy," I tell him. "I don't feel like you're laughing at me, or judging me."
"I'm not."
"And it's better than talking about the bad parts."
He nods.
"I've shown you too much sad Bella," I continue with a tiny smile.
"You can be sad."
I've been sadder. I've been the saddest. Abandoned. Ignored. Forgotten. Once you're there, at that place, and those closest to you are nowhere to be found, you no longer need confirmation. They don't care, or they don't care enough, or they've never cared about anything, so why start now? I'm having trouble reconciling their indifference with Edward's compassion. I want to come up with excuses, explain away his behavior, but his hand is too warm. I don't want to question it tonight.
"I'm sad all the time, but you're not my therapist."
"I'm your friend."
He squeezes my hand and I squeeze back, and then I bring our hands to my mouth, and kiss our fingers. His are bigger, so I mostly get his, and this is good, because it's what I was trying for. He doesn't stop me. He's not holding my hand because he's my friend. Despite when was said inside the restaurant, he's willing to waste more time, and so am I. I'm willing to waste days and weeks and maybe even months if he lets me touch him with my mouth like this. I rub my lips over his hand, I make his fingers touch my face. If I want these touches to last, he needs to know that I've been trying, too. Hopefully that will make him start trying again.
"I want to say things that will make the mean ones I said back there not count," I tell him.
"Is that how it works?"
"Yes."
When he smiles I know I've won this round, and I can speak, and he'll listen. It's the smile that tells me he'd listen forever if I spoke forever. It's the one I saw last year when I suggested that we leave the party. I do something to him. He's acknowledged this, and accepts it, so I don't feel bad about taking advantage of this fact when I bring his hand to my lap, and run it up and down my thigh.
"You're the most intelligent person I've dated," I confess. "You don't have to prove it every second, and that's the best. I love talking to you, not only because your voice makes me shiver when it goes very low, or when it surprises me after too much silence, but because I appreciate every word. I fantasize about hiding in the back of your classroom, listening to your words, watching you teach. I fantasize about the smile on your face when you tell me you aced the GREs, and how we celebrate. I reward you a thousand times, and you love it. That's the kind of stuff I think about the most, right before I go to bed, or in the bath… You're so good. I can't wait."
I move his hand again, up, up, and why am I not wearing a skirt, or a dress? I want to see his fingers digging into my thigh, skin against skin.
"You're wonderful," I continue, "and I can tell you a secret."
"Yeah?"
I nod. "Just keep your eyes on the road, okay? Once or twice—not more than that—I've imagined staying here with you, for a long time, just in case you decide to stay and continue to teach. It wouldn't be so bad, because your lashes are long and I love lying on the floor in your room. I love the things I see when I lie like that and close my eyes. See? I can be nice…"
"I'd never make you stay," he tells me. "You hate it here."
"But you agree that I'm nice?"
"Sometimes."
"I want to be the nicest for you. I'll fail, and I'll make nasty comments about your hometown and many, many other things, but…"
He stops me. "And I'll want to punch you in the face."
"Ouch." I frown.
"Don't make that face."
My frown deepens. He laughs and squeezes my thigh, making me squeal.
"We're good?" he asks.
"I said nice things, but you didn't."
"I can do nice things."
"No, your family's back," I remind him.
"So?"
"I'm not going back there, Edward."
"Back entrance."
"Like last summer."
"Like last summer," he repeats.
"Is sex going to solve all of our problems?"
"We don't have problems. Listen, Bella, we thought defining things and making decisions early on was a good idea, but we don't even know what this is yet. I think it can be something really big, but—"
"If you shut up right now, I'll probably still sleep with you. If you continue, I'll be the one throwing punches tonight."
"I was only trying to say that we should relax, and not overthink things," he tells me.
He's right. It's been a week. This is supposed to be the best part. The beginning, the newness. I can't control everything he does. If he wants to walk away two weeks from now, or next April, he's going to do that, no matter what he promises, or what we decide. So I hold his hand and watch him as we drive back to Forks. And when we're not holding hands, he's touching me a lot, but not enough. So when I notice that we're driving to his house, and not mine, I say nothing. I'm quiet and trying to hide a big smile until he makes too much noise, slamming the car door and speaking in the loudest voice. He wants to let them know he's here, and he's not using the front door, and he's with someone, and he's not to be disturbed. It makes me giggle, so it's good. If it can make me giggle, I'll never complain.
I switch on the light in his room, and he switches it off. On. Off. On. Off. We play like that until I change my mind. Off is the best. I like the dark when I'm with him. I like the wall I'm pushed up against, the hand that's quick with buttons and zippers, the fingers that don't wait, so impatient, so long, so wet because of me. I squirm and sigh. Some clothes come off. I suppress moans. I don't always succeed. I know that if I look, the bite marks on his neck and shoulders are deep and fresh, and his skin is wet.
"Bella," he says, and I'm on his bed. "Bella, Isabella, Isa…bella."
"Which one?"
"Both."
I like that. More clothes come off. I find him and hold him.
"Let me…" touch you, taste and feel you, lick and lick and be so good.
"Later."
Lights off was a bad idea, because I swear I've never wanted anything as much as I want to see his jaw between my legs tonight. It's there. And I can see. But I can't see. Too dark. If I had a camera, I'd do what stupid girls do. If I had the talent, I'd paint it later, because it must be so beautiful. Messiest hair and pinkest tongue and prettiest face. My fingers pulling, then playing, then pulling again, because I want him closer, closer and I can't stop moving and grinding.
"Your legs are strong. Let me move," he says when I try to keep him there even after I'm done. Why am I done? He can do that again. He should do it again. Right now. But when he licks up and down, I push his face away. Not yet.
He kisses a lot. He doesn't care that I'm impatient, that I want him on me, heavy and warm, until it's hard to breathe under him. He kisses my stomach, he kisses my hips, he goes back to where he was and kisses and kisses again.
"Kiss my mouth," I tell him. This way, he'll be up here, and his chest will be against my chest, and his body will be between my legs, and he'll be perfect and ready.
He laughs, because he knows. Kisses are hot and wet and deep. He's so, so ready for this. My hips, my ass are off the bed, because I want and want. I want it against me, rubbing all over. It's so good. I love, love, love his cock. I tell him that, choosing new words to sound less crude, and he moves again, and this time I say it. I repeat it while I wait for him to put on a condom, between more bites and kisses.
He pushes in. Quick, fast. I wince. His palm is over my mouth. I try to bite. My tongue touches his skin, and he laughs and fucks. His lips are on my neck. They're on my throat. It's so intense when they're on my mouth. Crazy intense. Scary intense. I need to breathe, so it's forehead against forehead. His breath and mine. More and more, and he's on his back. Up and down, and again and again. Fast, fast, faster until I swallow my scream and oh, oh, oh I can't anymore. My thighs. I'm a tired mess in his arms, my face in his chest, so lazy now. He still feels so good. His hands grip my hips, move to my ass. I kiss him and smile; he doesn't stop. I close my eyes and let him move how he likes, waiting for the strength to move with him again. I love that he's not done.
I hope you guys enjoyed the chapter. Thanks so much for reading, and if you liked it, please let me know. In the spirit of the holiday season, I'll be sending a little something your way.
xo