Thanks to Nina and Tracy.
I don't own Twilight.
Dad says he can drive me to the parade, but Edward is waiting outside, so I tell him I'll just see him there later. He reminds me again that he'll be with his buddies.
"Do they usually blindfold you?" I ask.
He doesn't get it, so I explain. "You'll still see me there."
He grunts, or something. Then, "Sure, sure."
I run to the bathroom for one last look at the dress I'm wearing. I turn on the light. Green. Perfect shade. Near-perfect length, because it's too short, but never short enough. Pretty. Feminine. Simple. Buttons. Lovely. Who am I trying to impress? Oh right. Him. Always him. Never him. I don't need to. I want to. I want, want, want. He wants even more. Or less. Depends. Right now, he just wants me to go outside. I'm ready. Or not. No, definitely not. So what? He's outside. Just go. Light off. Door closed. Breathe. Be calm.
XxXxX
"The one in the denim skirt?"
"Yeah."
I crane my neck. I squint. Let's see who Edward dated for eight long months. It's actually a knee-length denim skirt she's wearing. With silver flats. Her dark blonde hair is long and curly.
"Is she... religious? Like, Ortho—"
"Huh?"
"Never mind. She seems..." Boring? I need to work on building up my vocabulary, but it could also be that no one bothers to come up with words to describe something you don't notice, or just shrug away.
"Nice," I finish.
Edward nods.
"Dude, there's no one around our age in this town. Everyone's married. So many kids..."
"Dude," he repeats with a smile, "I'm telling you, it's boring."
"Am I boring?"
"You're the opposite of boring."
I grin. "Is my dress pretty?"
"I don't know," he says. "Is it?"
He laughs at my pout. "All I see is a pair of legs and..."
"Shhhhhh."
He's laughing again, and I feel his hand very low on my back. I shoot him a look and move away.
Edward sighs.
"I'm doing this for you," I remind him. Stop pretending you want to show me off.
Ugh. I think things like this and immediately want to apologize to the man standing next to me, even though he can't read my thoughts.
"I didn't ask—"
"You're only here for another year. You don't want gossip, you don't want drama. Low profile, okay? At least for now."
He disagrees with me—Edward thinks that while people will undoubtedly talk about him, and us, they'll never actually come out and say anything. He doesn't think he could lose his job over this, and to be quite honest, neither do I, but why take that risk? It's not a fun risk to take.
"My dad—"
"Needs to back off," he snaps.
"Relax. Don't be mad."
He doesn't say anything. He keeps his eye on the ugly float that doesn't seem to be moving. I see Denim Skirt turn around a few times, and I guess when Edward is finally looking in her direction, she waves. She's pretty. Nice eyes. Too nice.
But when she smiles I can see her gums. Oh.
Smiling, I lean closer to my boyfriend, not touching him, but getting close enough to tell anyone who cares that we're in the middle of a conversation, and they need to wait, or better yet, stay away. There will always be people who don't notice these things, the people who create awkward situations and then spend their lives whining about them. Observe. Think. Learn. It's not that difficult.
Denim Skirt isn't one of those people. She's taken a few steps in our general direction when she stops for a second and really looks. She pretends she's searching through her bag for something, and when she looks up again, I begin to speak, smiling my words, leaning into him so that only my hair is touching him. It looks like I'm flirting. This town, its people, and the world would expect nothing less.
"Tell me," I whisper, "what can I do to make that scowl disappear?"
He looks down at my face, sort of raising an eyebrow, not trusting me, so smart. Always.
"I'm serious. Maybe we should leave. I feel... I like it when it's just us. So do you. Take me back to the place with the flowers. You said no one goes there. We'd be alone. We could do stuff. You could do stuff," I tell him.
He doesn't say anything, but his hand is in his pocket. He pulls out his phone and looks at the screen. Edward needs a watch.
"This is boring. Let's have fun. Anything you want..."
His smirk is the most delicious thing I've seen all day. Forget all the pie and the hot dogs and even the juicy-looking watermelon. I want to lick it, not just once, but so many times.
"We haven't done it outside yet. Don't you want to unbutton this?" I ask him, and my fingers undo the top button of my dress.
This type of behavior always gets me in trouble, but it's the kind of trouble everyone should get into at least a few times in their lives. The rush. The thrill. Everything being alive all at once. Knowing he's hard, knowing he's imagining you doing things he wants to do, running all the possibilities through his mind. He catches my eye and I give him the sweetest smile. He's not sweet or smiling right now. He's a man who's had enough, who knows he's being teased. But also one who wants it. Edward wants it so much that it makes him a little scary sometimes. It's like this man who was made to be passionate, to love, to fuck wildly and often and in the best, most perfect, most wrong, most depraved ways has been waiting for something... and I think he sees it in me. But he's also the kindest, most loving, most sincere and real, so I can't deny the part of him that wants to tear me up, because all the minutes and hours and days when he's not doing that, he's building. He's given me a reason to wake up to a grey morning and not want to close my eyes again. I don't want to turn back time. I think that if given the choice, I'd keep everything as is, if it means I get to play with his hair, touch the tip of his nose with mine, punch his number on my phone to hear his voice and his laugh and the breaths he takes. They're different.
When he breathes, it's different.
So I want to give him the thrill he so desperately wants. I know he wants it. I see it in his eyes. They may be green, but they're no different than mine.
"What do you want?" I ask him. "It's yours."
What does Edward Cullen want? A blow job? He'd probably love one, but it hasn't happened yet. I think about dropping to my knees, opening my mouth, but it makes me think about what he will think, and there's too much thinking about something I've thought about too much already.
I also hope he doesn't ask for the obvious... ick. Not outdoors. Not indoors, either, unless I'm drunk, or so stupidly, deliriously horny that I let dirty words come out of my mouth, asking for things in places I don't even like.
"Okay," he finally says.
Another wide grin. I know he loves them. When I half-smile sometimes, he pushes my cheeks farther apart and tries to make my smile bigger.
He takes out his keys, his eyes on my face, making me feel silly and tiny and weird, instead of all the things his stare usually does to me, and my face is pink.
"Anything," I tell him. I want to give him the girl he wants. She doesn't stammer and blush and squirm under his gaze.
Edward's smile is big and bright and perfect, and he's a boy again. I can't help but give what he's giving me right back. He's smiling like it's Christmas, and he just saw all the presents, but it's his birthday too, and his parents are the kind of people who treat them like two separate occasions, giving him everything and anything, and celebrating both.
So he's smiling like that, and his smile is so close, and I'm on the verge of becoming very confused, but his smile meets mine. I'm surprised, but I let his mouth stay on my mouth, and I move my lips, because you can't help but move your lips when Edward's are right there.
My heart pounds at the sweetness. This simple kiss he just gave me, standing on the street, on the parade route, surrounded by people who know things. But none of those things are important right now. They don't matter. He's a tall, handsome man who kissed his girlfriend—so small next to him, cheeks so pink, heart beating so fast that it's louder than the sounds of the parade. I reach up and stroke my fingers through his hair, then wrap my hands around his neck. I gently place a kiss on his mouth, and when I look at his face, it's beaming. He's so surprised. Did he expect resistance? Anger? Did he know I'd love it and is he just pretending? Who cares? My cheek is against his chest, and his arms are holding me. When I close my eyes I see us. The way we're standing—my cheek against his chest and his arms around me—it's how any girl who longs to fall in love dreams of being held.
This is completely crazy. It's the opposite of what I wanted, but it's exactly what I've dreamed of. I dreamed of something like this, this feeling, when I was a little girl, and then as a teenager, and even if I don't want to admit it right now, it will always be this vague thing in my head—the perfect man, the perfect moment, the perfect love. Except now, I think I'm living it, or just lived it, here, in this town I despise, with someone who thrills me and terrifies me and calms me with each breath I take around him. But that's not even it. This has nothing to do with the fantasies of a little girl or a ridiculous teenager—it's definitely that feeling, that dream, but it's something else, and I can't quite put my finger on it, and it's right there, waiting for me to remember, to realize, to find it, but I can't. There's something big about this moment. My hand is in his hand, and I stare at it. I stare at it for so long that it's no longer my hand. It's this thing I'm looking at, and it's telling me something.
He wants to be seen with me.
My last "relationship" involved stolen moments and words and kisses and other things with a man who most certainly did not want to be seen with me, despite his promises of a future far away from his wife and obligations and responsibilities. It's funny how the excitement you feel at the beginning of an affair lies in how wrong it is, and it's only enhanced by the need for secrecy. But when you're the other woman, as much as you convince yourself that he's here because you're better, hotter, smarter, more exciting, blah, blah, blah, you have these thoughts that refuse to leave you alone. They're there, in your head, and they grow, and you want to punch and kick and get rid of them, and you keep reminding yourself of your awesomeness—you're the sexiest, the most desirable, the best, best, best, but... you're a secret. And sometimes all you want to do is talk. And hold onto his arm and walk down a hallway. And tell everyone. You get sick of being the other person, especially when he's all you have. You'd never admit that to yourself, until you do, and then what happens? So many different outcomes; none of them that great.
Mine was an extreme case. Not everyone ends up where I did, because not many people have done what I've done. Back then, and even now, there's only one thing I knew for sure—no matter what, this would stay with me forever. My relationship with the President and the subsequent scandal meant that no one would want to hold my hand or kiss me in public, and as much as I hate to admit this, I knew I'd eventually have to accept that. It has only been a year, but what about five, ten, fifteen years from now? I'd probably take anything, just for a touch, a look, just for a chance to feel something.
This is where my darkest thoughts lie—in a place I think about when I'm being completely honest with myself. There, a girl exists who is a little older, a little sad, and very lonely. Men like Edward don't exist. Streets are dirty, and when I look up at the sky, I think I'm reading Dickens and got lost in one of those long, grey, boring novels, and I get that thing in my throat that tells me I'm going to cry. Women are taller than me, better than me; they smile a lot. Men want me, want me hard and rough and often, but always behind one of the dark, dirty buildings. Always somewhere I don't want to go, don't want to be. I still think I'll probably end up in that place, but right now Edward is handing me the sun. And he's not doing it because it makes him feel like a man, or because he wants to be a good person... I'm not a charity case. He just wants this, and maybe he knows about the place, and he doesn't want me to end up there. Or maybe he lives in a world where darkness like that doesn't exist, and the light he's giving me is nothing extraordinary.
I swing our arms between us. I giggle and whisper and lean in and grab. I see my father looking at us, and I think Edward does too, and his arm brings me closer to him, and it stays around my waist. People stare a little, I could swear someone took a picture, but lots of people are taking pictures, and I need to stop thinking that everything is about me. But it is, but it's not, but I know better, but I don't. Stop thinking. Stop thinking. But I've stopped for too long. I've given this man too much. I might as well be naked now, standing here in front of the world, but especially standing in front of him.
Humiliation and shame are things I'm used to, and I think I can handle more, and I'll shrug and maybe someday I'll be able to flip the world off again. But a broken heart? Can anything compare to that? If anyone says "yes", it just means that they've never experienced it. Because terrible tragedies befall us. Things happen that we never thought we could survive... but a broken heart? It makes the worst seem better, good, almost welcome. It makes the unbearable seem okay. Yes, you can survive a broken heart, but nothing is ever the same after, and while it's still lying there in your chest, in thousands of tiny and midsized and bigger pieces, nothing is worse.
Edward is giving me many things. Smiles, laughter, sex, friendship, love. He's holding my hand in front of everyone who remembers him as a little boy, a bigger boy, everyone who knows him as a man they're proud to be acquainted with. And I don't care how that sounds—I don't care if it makes me pathetic that I love that, that I need it. This is life. And what he's giving me out here today is huge, even though I hate that it's within his power to give it to me. But that's the thing, right? When someone chooses to love you, when someone chooses to give you these intangible things that they own the rights to, such as approval, acceptance, adoration, whatever, it's theirs to give. There's nothing wrong with accepting them, but when you do, you need to remember what taking them means. You're feeding their power. I'll take your love, thank you, I'll let it make me happy, I'll thrive on it, I'll enjoy every second of it, until...
Until you decide it's not mine to have anymore.
And then that big thing so full of love, the one we draw on thighs and in the margins and make prettier because it's really not that pretty to look at... it's in pieces.
So yes, Edward can give, I can take, and by taking I'm just giving things I never thought I'd share again. I relax against him, feeling the sun on my skin for a few seconds before it's hiding behind the grey again. He says things, but I'm not really listening. I don't know how I feel about being held by the one person who is capable of doing what everyone who's tried so far has failed to do. Edward can break me.
He can do this because he knows I'm so far from broken. I'm whole. I'm so whole that it's scary. I trusted. I cared. I touched. I smiled. Everything about me, inside me, is soft when it comes to him—my thoughts, my words. The darkest, the ugliest parts are pretty because of him. This makes me hate him a little, it makes me see him as a monster, a demon who came into my life just to take and take. But I'm so willing to give.
"Are you okay?" he asks.
"Yeah."
"You sure?"
"Yes."
"Stop thinking," he tells me, and his hand is messing up my hair. I grab it and I'm about to bite, but I'm outside, and there are people here. I'm an adult. I frown. Lame. I want to bite.
"You make me think. I'm... I'm losing my mind."
"Relax. You're doing great."
I'm doing great? Is he serious? What does that even—
"Bella, stop."
I take a deep breath and let it out. I'm not calm, but I don't want to punch him anymore. Or I do, but I can't be bothered to lift my arm.
"When did it get so crowded?" I ask him. There are people all around us, almost touching us, everywhere.
"When you were ignoring me and not paying attention to the parade."
"Shhh. I never ignore you."
"Come on, let's go stand there. Less crowded," he says.
He always walks half a step behind me when he's not right there with me. His hand is always on my lower back. He's always hunched over just a bit, because I speak, and he wants to hear. His laughter always surprises and delights me, and I turn back, look up, and want to eat him up.
This time he speaks.
"I love your face."
Yes, Edward Cullen can break me, but I love taking risks. Whether they involve decisions to move across the country and attend schools my family can't afford, among people who terrify me, or guiding a hesitant hand to the place between my legs, in a white building anyone can recognize. I love them. They make me feel like I'm on fire, alive, capable, perfect, the best. I can't change that about myself. I refuse. I need to try. I tug on his sleeve.
"Let's get out of here. I want to tell you how I love you."
XxXxX
I want to be with him in the dark, so when we are back at the house, in his room, I play with blinds and curtains, and make the room look like it did that first night, and the second, and every other night I've spent in his arms.
He never takes off the dress. The buttons stay buttoned. Maybe not the top few, but definitely the rest. Hands go under fabric. Over it. Fingers touch through it, through the little spaces between buttons, because they want to touch everything they can, so the tiny bit of skin there will be touched, because it's there.
So there's a lot of touching. Kissing. There are words. So many. I want to write them down. On these sheets. On my skin. Never wash them off. Never, ever wash them off, or his touch, or his smell. He takes me back and I'm fifteen. Shy young girl. Blushes and giggles and dreams and pink. Then I'm old, ancient, I get it, I know, I've lived. Then I'm me, and it's perfect, and this moment is the best moment of all moments, and if he stays with me, and I stay with him, I'll look back at it and think "meh" because the ones that come after it will be even better.
I ask him to repeat the same thing over and over again. I joke (well, half-joke) about writing them on me, and out comes a Sharpie, and the black letters in my palm and on my stomach make me blush, grin, shiver, laugh.
(Isa)bella swan, I love you.
bs, I love you
bella bella bella
It tickles, so I pull down my dress and cover my stomach, but his hands disappear under it again, and he's pulling now, but not my dress. If I take that off, I'll be so naked. If I take it off, I won't be able to play like this, covering his head with the skirt, then snatching away the fabric, staring at pretty hair I want to pull. So I pull. And pull. And his mouth is wonderful. And his fingers are long. And I scream. I swear the fireworks aren't loud enough to drown it out.
Thanks so much for reading.
mwah