Happy early birthday, abadkitty!
Our thanks to myimm0rtal for her betaing efforts, and to Maplestyle for pre-reading!
And thank you to you for reading.
Love, daisy and phoebe (or Shell and Believey).
Chapter 2.
The weekend rushes past and Monday brings a blur of black type and snatches of conversations, invariably interrupted before they're complete. It's after three-thirty when I eat lunch, a fork in one hand and my highlighter in the other.
"Girl, put down the pen." Jacob plops into the straight-backed chair in front of my desk.
Embarrassment creeps up my neck and I press my lips together. I focus on the pages in front of me. I don't want to look at him, don't want to see the way his Oxford barely contains his shoulders and chest, or the casual way he sits in a chair, legs open, his belt buckle gleaming, almost winking at me.
I drop my fork back into the Tupperware container, reach for my sticky-notes and flag a few paragraphs. I don't need them, but I can pull them off when Jacob's gone.
"It's a quarter to four, babe. And I'm guessing that's not an afternoon snack."
Babe. I have the urge to spit the word back at him. Instead, I shrug, eyes still on my papers. "Busy day."
Babe. He probably addresses all the women in the office the same way. That little unprofessionalism isn't just for me, isn't some endearment to let me know I'm on his mind.
The cups of tea he brought me, the ones that sat on my desk going cold because I don't drink tea, hadn't meant anything other than that his office was next to mine, that he was simply being considerate to a co-worker, that there was probably just enough water left in the teapot to fill one more cup.
The pet name and the cups of tea weren't the only things that had given me the wrong impression.
He made me laugh, and he seemed to put effort into it, like my laughing was important to him. He smiled when I laughed. And he was always so interested in what I had to say. He'd stop by my office with his lunch several days a week and would ask me about my weekend, my family, my opinions on everything from where the housing market's going (It's on its way up, and I think it will continue this path) to American Idol (Do people still watch that?).
Turns out, he just likes to talk.
I waited weeks for him to ask me out, imagining how it would happen.
We'd have drinks after work. He'd sip scotch whiskey—no ice. I'd order a cocktail, something with a straw. I'd fiddle with it as he'd reach across the table, his dark eyes glinting in the low-lit room, and tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. His voice would be quiet with maybe a nervous pitch when he'd ask me to have dinner with him. I'd tease him, tell him I don't date colleagues, wait for his smile to drop, then cover his hand with mine, tell him I'd be willing to make an exception—just for him.
And when it didn't happen, though he was still visiting my desk to chat and eat lunch, I started thinking that I could ask him out. Maybe he was shyer than he seemed. I could be the one who gathered up my nerves and asked him to dinner. I mean, why not?
So I gathered my nerves the way mallards gather their young, pushed my chair back and stood up. I straightened my skirt, craned my neck to check that no runs were creeping up my nylons, and picked up my lunch. I contemplated a dash to the bathroom to touch up my lipstick, but no. Too much.
A deep breath and I knocked on the jamb of his open office door. "Hey, Jake."
He looked up with a smile and gestured toward the empty chair in front of his desk when he saw the container I was holding. "This is new. Need a change of scenery, babe?"
His term of endearment pumped through me, spurred me forward. "Something like that." I sat across from him, my salad in my lap.
Instead of picking up my fork, I grasped the dichroic glass pendant lying against my collarbone, and slid it back and forth on its fine silver chain. "So, you..." I cleared my throat, trying to drive the quiver out of my voice. "You got plans for this weekend?"
He nodded, his mouth full of sandwich. My hand moved faster, the scratch of pendant against chain vibrating through my neck.
"I..." He wiped his chin, chasing away breadcrumbs. "I finally manned-up and asked Tanya out."
Tanya? Finally?
Jacob chuckled, wiped his mouth again. "Do I have food on my face?"
I shook my head and swallowed down my disappointment. "No, no. Uh, so, where are you taking her?"
"Thought we'd check out that new wine bar downtown."
"Vini? I've been wanting to go there." I forced a smile. "It's supposed to be really classy. Intimate. I'm sure she'll love it." My voice sounded strange, higher than usual.
Jacob didn't seem to notice. "Hope so." The tips of his ears colored first.
That's what did it. The deepening of his ears followed by his cheeks, the physical evidence of his feelings. My eyes stung.
I should've acted sooner. Or shown him I was interested—flirted more, maybe.
I picked up my fork and shoveled down my salad, tasting nothing.
He changed the subject then, asking me about the television series I'd started watching on his recommendation. I answered vaguely, losing my train of thought as I tried not to compare myself to Tanya, to wonder what about her had caught his attention. How I could have misread the situation so badly.
"You okay, girl?"
"Fine," I said, closing the lid of the container. "Just got a lot on my plate." I stood, not meeting his eyes. "Better get back to work."
My attention snaps to my desk as the file of papers move. I follow the hand attached to it, my gaze running over the heavy silver watch and up the neatly pressed slate gray shirt sleeve until I register the raised eyebrows Jacob is aiming my way. I look away, fingering my necklace. It's been over a month since I realized my silly crush would go nowhere. Why am I still bothered?
It's that I'm left here, reminded of the fool I am every time Jacob and Tanya do their daily little mating dance in front of me.
"Just stop. For three freaking minutes, Bella, and eat your rice."
"It's risotto," I say.
He smiles and I swallow, reaching for my fork. Jacob really has a beautiful smile. I shake my head to chase away the thought, but he takes it as dissension.
"Eat. Take a break. You work too hard. Go… make yourself a cup of tea or something."
I start to finally tell him I don't drink tea, but he's no longer looking at me. His eyes are fixed on the blonde in my doorway, leaning into the room.
"Hey, Bella. How's it going? Can I borrow Jake?"
He's already on his feet. "Catch you later, Bella."
Neither of them hears my, "He's yours anyway," as they exit the room, their conversation a low murmur.
A forkful of cold risotto halfway to my mouth, I watch Tanya push open the door to the office across the hall. Jacob's hand rests on her lower back and she pauses, looking up at him, all pink-lipstick smiles. He sweeps an errant curl behind her ear and presses a kiss to her cheek.
.
The week drones on as though time is wrapped around my waist, towing me with it. I'm tied to its elasticity, moving as it moves but somehow feeling as if I'm lagging behind. Visits with Emily and phone calls with Maggie are all that break it up. Thursday morning I catch Mr. Crowley in his front yard, fiddling with one of his sprinkler heads. He aims a thumb over his shoulder indicating the back yard and says, "Looking good."
"It's all right. I have a landscaper coming this evening for a consultation," I say, sort of boasting or prideful of my decision to act further on his unsubtle suggestion last Friday. It's the way I used to announce good grades to my father, looking for that gleam of pride in his eyes.
Traffic congestion surrounds me as I leave the city after work. The woman from the landscaping company said they'd come by at 6:30 to take a look at the "space"—that's what she called it.
I check the clock on the dash for the hundredth time. If the traffic eases up soon, I can beat the landscaper to my house by about five minutes.
"Please move," I tell the bumper of the car in front of me. "I want to be home in time to change before the guy shows up." I don't tell the Corolla's rear end that I'd feel stupid showing the guy around the messy yard in my crisp linen and carefully pressed creases.
When I finally pull into my street, I'm relieved it's empty of unfamiliar vehicles. I rush inside, dump my handbag on the counter and kick off my shoes, leaving them in the hallway where they land.
I'm pulling on a pair of shorts when the doorbell lets out a shaky buzz. I suck in my stomach, button and zip, and head toward the front, tugging a T-shirt over my head.
"You need to replace the battery." The guy is a tall silhouette through the screen door.
In my shadow I can see the wild mess on top of my head. I attempt to tame it with my palms, but I don't dare involve my fingers.
"I know. I've been meaning to for weeks." The door handle refuses to budge as I yank on it. I shake it, a groan growing in my throat. The metal rattles but doesn't yield. "Hang on. The lock's acting up again."
I grab the key from the sideboard. "Another thing I need to replace." I shove the door and the ease with which it swings open nearly has me stumbling onto the porch. As I catch myself on the jamb, I can feel the door's satisfaction and its stubborn insistence that it never gave me any trouble at all. "Sorry, it locks itself sometimes."
I look up, and the scowl I was aiming at my pain-in-the-ass door melts from my face. Standing there on my porch, eyes on mine like they've been waiting for me to meet them, is the last person on earth I expect to see.
His eyes don't budge, deep green and deep-set under a heavy brow.
I swallow.
His hair, rich and tousled, like the wind's been fooling with it. Tan skin over what I once knew to be very pale. I remember spotting the veins in his eyelids whenever he looked down. He smiles and I don't. I near about collapse a second time and grip the doorjamb for balance. I squeeze the edge of the wood until it hurts. For a reality check. I'm here. I'm here.
I can't feel the floor beneath me.
All I can feel is that wood digging into my palm.
He looks me up and down, I notice, and when I speak my voice sounds like the wind's been at me, too, beating at the back of my throat. "Edward Cullen."
"Bella Swan," he says, deep and easy, drawing out my last name like it's got soul. His grin widens.
I try to clear my throat but that doesn't work. I grip the door even tighter. "Not fair," I manage to say, my throat full of so much more than words, full of another life and a young crush and searching for the right clothes and book bag straps digging into my shoulder. "You already had my name on your um..." I gesture with my free and painless hand toward his clipboard.
"Yeah, but you look the same," he says, and I don't know if that's good or bad. "Bella. Wow."
Wow? Wow, what? Wow, it's been a long time? Wow, I can't believe it's you? Wow, it's great to see you?
"Wow," I agree. I may not know what his wow meant, but mine? Mine means the boy I couldn't get enough of, couldn't stop thinking about, whose name I couldn't stop doodling, is standing on my doorstep, and even though I haven't seen him in years, his smile is every bit as knee-weakening as I remember.
I reach up to smooth my hair even more and I'm eighteen again, in twelfth grade drawing class, Edward beside me sketching, his eyes mischievous as his creation takes form—always beautiful but rarely following the assignment.
I'm taking the long way to US History so I can pass by him in the quad, hoping to make eye contact, only to be too shy to look anywhere but at his chest or his shoes as I actually do pass him. That's enough. Every time it's enough.
I'm convincing Angela to trade lockers with me so that mine will be near his. My locker is so much closer to all your classes, I tell her. She says, You just want to be next to Edward, and even though I won't admit she's right, she agrees to trade lockers.
Prom is getting closer and I'm scribbling in my diary about how much I both love and hate Edward because he still hasn't asked me, hasn't asked anyone. Why should he ask me? I write.
He's dangerous. Dangerous to my heart.
Was. Was dangerous. That was a long time ago. I'm twenty-five now, more experienced, more mature. I wear heels and skirts and nylons and sometimes blazers to work. I send documents off which, without my signature, would be meaningless and likely headed toward the recycle bin. This is just—this heart-pounding, sweat-gathering, teeth biting down—this is just old feelings reminding me that for a while they were an everyday part of my life. Edward was an everyday part of my life. But that was then.
Still, like an addict, this feels damn good.
"Bella?" His voice climbs up my spine, the tingles, exactly the same as I remember.
I inhale deep through my nose. "Yeah?"
"The space?" He gestures past me. "Should we take a look at it?"
I release the wood that is embedding itself into my hand, shake the burn away and then motion for him to follow me. As I lead him out back, I feel him behind me, like his gaze is touching me, brushing over my body. I walk tall, straight-backed, square-shouldered, feet striding out in front of me, affecting the walk of a dancer. My arms are inorganic to me. They're made of lead and seem to have been attached haphazardly. When my hips sway too much, I try to control that, and then I think there's no sway at all. I must look unnaturally stiff. Leave it to me to forget how to walk just by being in Edward's presence. I turn to look at him, and he's looking right at me—smiling. I move my lips, but still, I can't bring myself to smile at him. I haven't been this floored by anyone or anything since... Edward Cullen, sophomore, junior, senior year.
Outside he sweeps past me and walks the length of the yard. He bends to a squat and digs at the earth, studying it as he sifts it through his fingers. He jots notes on his clipboard. I hadn't noticed before, too focused on his face, but his arms, expanding against his shirt sleeves, are absolutely not teenage arms. With a hand under my hair at my neck, I watch his muscles flex as he works. He pushes against some branches, glances my way, and my hold on my neck tenses. He pulls off a few leaves and seems to examine them. What he's looking for, I have no idea.
His gaze trails every detail. He slides his phone out of his back pocket and snaps pictures from different angles. I'm relieved I'd lugged Mr. Crowley's lawnmower back here, strained to get it to cut the grass rather than iron it. The sore muscles that had me walking funny all weekend were worth it. The savage weeds are embarrassing enough without the added neglect of a mow.
"What are you thinking?" he asks, making his way back to me. "Simplicity? A color scheme? Just greens?"
"Yes."
He laughs, his face brightening. "Which one?"
"All of it. Anything. Just different."
"You've given this a lot of thought."
I catch the sarcasm in his tone, but I have given it a lot of thought. It's just that I can't think now.
"I-I know I want strawberries somewhere, and a place to plant some vegetables every year. A few more trees. And yeah, color. And smell. Lots of good smells. Colorful smells."
"Lilac," he says, moving closer.
I look up at him. One or two more steps and he'll be close enough for his breath to reach me. He's already close enough for his body heat to mix with mine.
"Lilac is definitely for you."
"It is?" I breathe.
"It loves this climate, too. Not too hot, not too dry."
I have the urge to touch him the way he touched my soil, graze his forearms, or even just his fingers, lying there at his side aimed at the earth. My earth. He looks away for a second, sort of smiles at nothing and looks back at me. "It's so weird seeing you now. You know, I used to like you?"
My breathing pauses. My stomach spins. Chills, enhanced by the breeze, run along my arms. I'm aware of the wind in a way I wasn't before. It wafts over me, lifts my hair, toys with me.
Is that a blush on him? His cheeks seem to redden, but not long enough for me to be certain. Maybe I imagined it.
"No, you didn't." I stroke my cool glass pendant.
He shrugs and offers nothing more.
Something has to be said. We can't keep staring at each other like this, nothing moving but the breeze.
I ask to borrow a pencil, request a 6B even though mine is nestled in my pencil case.
"Do you want—you want something to drink? Wine or something?"
He looks toward the sun, squints. "Yeah," he says. "Why not?"
He offers me the 6B and our fingers touch when I take it. Our eyes meet and he smiles. Did his heart jump at the touch, too?
I turn away and lead him inside. The scratch of ripping velcro catches my attention. He's pulling off the pieces of fabric he had wrapped around his ankles.
"What are those?"
He looks at his socked feet then back at me.
"The things… those." I point.
"Oh." He tries not to laugh, and the sound brings forward more whispered conversations at an art room table. "Gaiters. They stop dirt and rocks and crap from getting in my boots."
He shows me shading, how to hold my pencil lightly and slant it over the paper, rub at a diagonal, then another diagonal.
Can one request to be tutored in drawing?
He drops his boots and "gaiters" by the slider.
"Nice," I say.
He shrugs. "Just part of the uniform. Makes me look like I know what I'm doing."
I smile at that—at least, I think I do. I saw the way he studied the soil, the sun, the slopes and angles of my yard. He knows what he's doing.
I take a bottle of Moscato from the fridge and pour two glasses.
"It's sweet," I say, feeling like I should apologize for my taste in wine. According to Maggie, Moscato is "so two years ago."
Edward must not know this, or he doesn't care, because he says, "Cool," and swallows half of it in one mouthful.
We sit on stools at my kitchen counter, side by side. He's on my left, just like in Mrs. Molina's class.
The nudge of a sharp elbow after a cracked joke.
"Stanley's Landscape Design?"
He nods. "The name was, you know, established. People recommending us to their friends, word of mouth, we rely on that. Figured I should keep it when I took over."
"Makes sense." I twist a strand of hair around my finger. "Have you been doing this for long?"
"Worried I'll make a mess of your yard?" He snickers but doesn't wait for an answer. "Nah, just kidding. I worked for the previous owner. While I was at art school. Just hauling trash and mowing grass, carrying bags of concrete mix at first. Then I started designing with him, and I don't know, I just felt... that was me, you know? And about three years ago when he wanted to retire, the opportunity came up to buy the business. I had to act. Quit school." His eyes fall distant and his eyebrows pull together. In this moment he looks like a different Edward, like an older brother to the lighthearted Edward from high school.
I wonder if girls still swarm around him like they did back then.
His mouth opens over the lip of the glass and he swallows the last of his wine. I lift the bottle and he nods. With his fingers at the foot, he slides the glass toward me, his arm nearing mine.
He watches the tide rise in his glass. "That's enough. Thanks. So I emptied my savings, borrowed some, and bought him out."
I want to know more about his art school, about what he was studying and if it was a hard decision to quit, but even as the tightness in his expression disappears, as his shoulders relax, I can't bring myself to ask.
"What about you?" He nudges me, his elbow not as sharp as I remember it. He lets his arm rest there next to mine, warm, almost hot, like his skin has retained the sunshine that's tanned it so deeply. "You still friends with Angela?"
Of course he remembers Angela.
I refill my glass as well. "We're not not friends, but I haven't seen her in forever."
"You guys were together everywhere."
I stare at him, almost convinced that he's remembering this because of me and not because of Angela.
"She lives in Virginia. Her husband's in the navy and he's stationed there." I start to take a sip of my wine but pause before it reaches my lips. "They have three kids already."
"Oh... shit." He lifts his glass and sets it down again fast, a little hop. It lands on the tile with a clink. The wine swishes up the sides.
"I can't believe we're old enough to have three kids," I say. "I mean, that it's even possible without having triplets or something."
"No shit, man." He shakes his head. "That's insane."
.
At my front door, the screen open, ready to beckon him through, Edward faces me, clipboard under his arm and a business card stretched out between two fingers. He smiles. With a return smile, easier now, I take the card, careful not to touch his fingers. "Cell number's on the back," he says. "I'll get some ideas started. Sketch up a few for you to check out. Can you come by the office next week?"
I nod.
"Soon as the sketches are ready I'll have Gi call and set up an appointment."
I watch him walk up the path toward the street, the edges of the sky behind him stained with streaks of gold.
After I close the door I can't settle.
I've wondered about Edward from time to time, mused over what he was doing with himself, how he'd look, if he kept the same friends. But having seen him, standing here in my kitchen, drinking my wine, smiling at me... it's disconcerting. I find myself dwelling on the image of him leaning against my kitchen counter, the conversation that flowed between us. I'm already looking forward to seeing him again.
I top off my wine and, from the linen closet, I grab an old beach towel and head out back. I spread the towel over the grass beneath the maple and lean back against the trunk, ignoring the maple's shallow roots as they poke into me. To my right are the invasive poppies, long and lean-stemmed, reaching the height of my chest as I sit here sipping wine. The sunset enhances their orange color and they look rather beautiful. I wonder if I'll miss them, if I'll ever think of them when everything is done. I almost feel bad for them.
"You'll be gone soon," I say and look away, turning my face upward. Evening turns to night. The moon pulls itself free of the branches overhead, bleaching the grass silver. I watch the shadows creep across the yard in its wake, thinking of a younger version of myself, smitten with the younger version of the beautiful man who landed back in my life this evening.
My mind flips through more high school memories like the pages of a yearbook.
Edward: surrounded by a group of laughing girls.
Edward: leaning against his beat-up Volvo, joking around with guys in letter jackets.
Edward: bent over his tablet, brows drawn together as caricatures of our classmates appeared from the tip of his pencil. His brief smile when I had to stifle a giggle. He drew himself, all goofy looking. I didn't ask him why he didn't include me.
Edward: light from the bonfire on Ocean Beach flickers across his face, mystifying his features. James and Emmett on either side of him, beers in hand, hidden, not a bit inconspicuously, in paper bags. I pause here, lost in the smell of smoke and salty air, the bite of the onshore wind.
Senior year. He'd waved as I walked past, my arm linked with Angela's. Earlier that evening we'd stolen a less-than-half-full bottle of Bacardi from her sister. My cheeks burned at Edward's attention, the warmth mixing with the effects of the rum despite the shivers that coursed through me.
"I'm going to talk to Edward," I told Angela, half an hour later, the liquid-bravery amassing inside of me. Her giggles followed as I headed across the sand toward the bonfire.
We'd talked for a while, our eyes half-closed against the wind and smoke, about what I can't recall. I made him laugh, though. And I remember reveling in his smile, knowing I was the one who plastered it there.
"It's so weird seeing you drunk," he'd said through a laugh, his squinting eyes aimed only at me.
It's so weird seeing you now, he'd said today. You know, I used to like you?
It's like… like a message in a bottle, washed up onto the shore seven years too late. And like salt and sand work over time to make the glass frosty and opaque and the message hard to read, I struggle to make sense of Edward's words. He liked me? As in, he liked liked me? The same way I liked him?
"Then why didn't you ever tell me, Edward?" I say the words to the wind, trying to dispel the ghosts of what might have been. Still, they reach for me, the smoke from that bonfire with Edward and my ardent hope for something more.
I'd dated a few guys through college and after, nice guys who were there and interested and fun to be around, who it didn't work out with for one reason or another. And if I really think about it, I never second guessed ending any of those relationships, never wondered what might have been.
And yet, tonight, sitting in my long-neglected yard, a yard whose neglect brought Edward back into my life, "what might have been" seems to tail every thought I have.
What if he'd told me that night?
What if I'd told him?
And yet, I have a hard time believing he meant that kind of like. He'd obviously told other girls, dated lots of them—no steady girlfriends that I knew of because, I assumed, there were too many choices. So why settle? And why choose someone like me?
My mind is more of a mess than my hair—than my yard—when I walk back inside, my stomach complaining that I forgot to feed it dinner.
I heat the last of Maggie's risotto and tie my hair into a ponytail as the microwave whirs. Just take it as it comes, I tell myself. You'll be seeing a lot more of Edward Cullen.