Playlist: Drive my Soul by Lights
Dialogue Flex: "I sure could use a cold drink right about now," he said.
Chapter 11
I wake up late Saturday morning to Dad's music blaring in the hallway. I peek out as he passes by, whistling with a pile of laundry in his hands. "Morning! You ready to clean?"
"What?" I ask groggily, scratching my stomach.
"I have a plan," he says, dropping the laundry into a basket and putting his hands on my shoulders. "But it starts with cleaning. You get to do the bathrooms."
"I get to do the bathrooms? Since when? I've never scrubbed a toilet."
"Well, it's your lucky day!" Dad opens the bathroom door, which is directly across from me, and swings his hand inside like an infomercial host. He's in a good mood. Weird.
"Great. This better be a good plan."
"It's the best. We're gonna have Sunday dinners a la Gran Swan! Your old man's sharp." He taps his temple, picks up the basket, and heads to the laundry room.
When Gran Swan was still alive and living with Charlie and Bella, she invited us over every Sunday for dinner. We all had to be present unless we were bleeding to death. No phones, no computers, no TV, no nonsense. Just food, family, and conversation. It could work, maybe. If Dad could get Mom to come. She doesn't always accept his calls.
A while later, I'm stuck outside weed whacking while my fourteen-year-old neighbor, Rosalie—who has the hots for me—watches on the sidelines. Dad and I took one look at all the cleaning products and decided to pay her to scrub our bathrooms. They look great, but now she won't leave.
The worst part is that it's eight billion degrees outside, and I desperately want to lose my shirt. If I do that then I know she'll never go away.
"Edward!" Bella calls above the roar of the weed whacker.
I turn it off and holler back.
"What are you doing? Since when do you weed whack?" she says, laughing, peeking over the fence.
"Carlisle wants everything perfect when Esme comes," Rosalie says, standing up, trying to look intimidating. She can't scare Bella. Please.
"Hey, Rosie," Bella says.
Rosalie scowls. She's been trying to get us to call her by her full name since she was ten. I can't do it. I used to babysit her from time to time. It's weird.
"New plan," Dad yells, jogging into the backyard. "Vegetable garden."
"Where?" I ask, scanning the area. We've got some rock, some grass, and some trees.
"We'll have to haul that out of here." He points to the rockbed. "You've got friends on that team of yours. Why don't you call them?"
"I'll help," Bella says, hopping the fence, and Rosalie pipes in with the same response.
An hour later, some of the guys are in the backyard, helping Bella, Rosalie, and me shovel rock out of the way.
Bella takes a water break, and Marcus scoots closer to me, whispering, "What's going on with Bella?"
I peer over my shoulder to see her sitting on my back porch, drinking. "What do you mean?"
"When did she get . . ." He cups imaginary breasts, and I smack his hands down.
"Dude, no," I say firmly.
"Has she always been so . . ."
"What are you talking about?" Peter whisper-yells from across the way then joins us, leaving only two teammates with Rosalie.
"Nothing," I mutter.
"Bella got hot, man. Like today," Marcus announces.
"Seriously," Peter says. "I thought I was imagining things, but that tight-ass t-shirt is clinging to her. It's like you can see everything." He whistles low.
"It's Bella," I say, shrugging.
Marcus slaps me upside the head. "Don't think I haven't noticed you lately. You flirt like an idiot. I'm surprised Jake hasn't leveled you yet."
"This week when he said he was thirsty at lunch," Peter says, hitting my shoulder to indicate he's talking about me, "and Bella just handed over her drink like it was involuntary, I thought Jake was going to rip Edward a new one."
"That'd be awesome. We haven't had a fight at school since the winter dance when Sam was caught kissing Emily in the hallway. Leah laid him out flat." Marcus slams his shovel into the dirt, anchoring it.
"Damn, that was so funny. And his eye . . ." Peter breaks into snickers, and Marcus joins him.
"What are you laughing about?" Bella asks behind us.
"Nothing. Just stuff," Marcus says, smile wide. His eyes dart to her breasts, and he blurts, "What size is your shirt?"
I bonk his shin with my shovel, and he hollers at me. "I gotta be in good shape for ball; don't hit me, prick."
Peter ignores us. "Hey, Bella, if Jake and Edward got in a fight who would win?"
"That depends. Does Edward have his bat?"
"Well, he's got a bat for you," Marcus says, flinching when I jerk the shovel his way again.
"Yeah, it's hard wood," Peter says, and they become hysterical. My friends are stupid.
"Oh, look, Rosie needs help," I say, pointing far away from where I am with Bella.
They both leave, slapping each other's backs in congratulations.
"Boys are gross, but really, what was that about?" she asks, laughing.
"It seems, I'm not the only one that's noticed you all of a sudden," I admit.
"Hmm," Bella says, amused.
"Hmm. That's all you have to say? They were talking about your . . ." I swirl my index finger in mid-air indicating her boobs, which do appear much perkier than normal. It's then that it hits me. She's not in a sports bra. Suddenly, I'm thinking about what Bella's boobs would look like if she wore one of those bras I saw in her drawer. Better yet, what would they look like if she played catch like that? Damn. Bella in jeans and a bra bra throwing a wild pitch. I could live off that image. It's, like, life sustaining. If I could bottle it up and—
"Well, did you tell them to shut the hell up?" she asks, eyes narrowed. Now she's pissed and sweaty, and her t-shirt is just begging me to lift it up and over her head. There's something wrong with me if clothes are talking to me. Is this heat stroke? Am I dying? "Did you?" she asks again, hands on her hips.
"Ye-yeah, I told them."
"I have great aim, you know," she yells at them. "I could smash both your bats with one throw."
I'm sure they have some great come back, but we don't hear it. Instead, we hear, "Yo, you owe me pizza, Cullen." Emmett waltzes out my kitchen door, staring at his phone.
"I already ordered," I say, wiping my brow and getting back to work. Bella's back by my side, and I hope I don't spend the whole time trying to figure out which bra she's wearing.
"All right. Let's do it." Emmett pockets his phone and loses his shirt. Rosalie lets out an eep sound. "Who's this?" Emmett asks, pointing to Rosalie.
Bella starts to introduce them, but Rosalie takes over, walking closer. "Rosalie. I live next door. I've been here all day helping. Because, yeah. Edward needed help."
"Edward needs a lot of help." Emmett nods to Bella, and she glares at him. "S'true," he says with a shrug, and Rosalie laughs this light trilling laugh.
Bella and I exchange a look but then get back to work.
We all sweat and shovel until the food arrives. We eat, and the guys take off shortly after that, except for Emmett. He hangs back a bit, guzzling down water and staring at my neighbor too closely. He asks Rosalie if she has a phone. She nods, but he hesitates. "How old are you?" he asks.
She's confident, throwing her shoulders back, saying, "Fourteen."
He takes her phone from her and inputs his digits. "Call me in four years," he says, before hopping in his truck and disappearing for the day.
Rosalie skips home, and Bella and I laugh our asses off.
At the end of the project I've accomplished three things. One, I've created a garden space where my dad will most likely kill some poor, unsuspecting plants. Two, I've gotten Rosalie off my back. And three, I have a certifiable fantasy of Bella to add to my classics. It includes a tight white t-shirt, bottle of water, and a mystery bra. And I can't wait to use it tonight.
-NSID-
After a full week of practices, games, following Bella around like a love sick puppy—and loving every minute of it, minus the occasional Jake part—and trying my best to convince my siblings to come to dinner, I'm exhausted. But totally ready to enjoy our Sunday dinner.
It took Dad until Wednesday to get Mom to agree. But really, I think Garrett was the key. I convinced him to come home for the weekend. He griped about the long drive, but I reminded him about when he used to visit home from the U every weekend to see his girlfriend, Lauren, but not Mom or Dad. Sure, it's blackmail, but it's only an hour drive. And I haven't seen him in a while. It should be fun. And Katie was in when I said she didn't have to bring anything.
Dad's in the kitchen stirring this and that while I set the table. Katie sits on the couch flipping through magazines while Caleb meanders throughout the house, playing his xylophone and rocking out to Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.
Garrett's been here since I got home from school Friday, but he's hiding out in his old room now.
The front door opens, and Dad power walks out of the kitchen only to be disappointed. It's just Greg.
No one even says hello, not even his wife. We are a pathetic family. Although, when Caleb rounds the corner he spots his dad and runs to him, slamming into his legs. "There's my big boy!" Greg says, picking him up and squeezing him tight. "How was your day, buddy?"
"Good," Caleb says, smiling wide, looking just like his dad.
"I knew you'd have a great day!" he says to his son, matching his enthusiasm. Greg's one of those people that's generally happy and never complains. I think that trait is what makes him work with my constantly complaining sister. That and he stays out of the drama. I want to be more like him.
I look up from my task and smile. "Hey, Greg."
"Hey. Mom here yet?" he asks.
"No, she's coming from work," Katie says from the couch, still flipping through the magazine.
The door opens with a soft click, and in walks Mom. She sets her keys on the side table and lifts her sunglasses onto her head. "It's smells fabulous in here."
Dad sticks his head out of the kitchen, a big goofy grin plastered on his face. "Hi!" he says brightly.
"Hi," she responds. "What can I do to help?"
"Um, nothing. We'll eat in a few," he says, folding his oven-mitted hands across his chest. It looks stupid, but I smile anyway because my parents are both home. Life is good.
"We gonna eat yet? I'm starving," Garrett says, making an appearance.
"Go back to your room, barf face," Katie says, finding her way to the table. "No one wants you here."
"Shut up, Frizzy Fro."
Katie got Dad's blond hair, but we all inherited Mom's curls. Katie took some time before she learned how to tame them. For a while it seemed like it was Garrett's goal to make her cry about her hair on a daily basis. Now it doesn't work so much, but she does smooth her hand over her hair self consciously.
She gets up and settles in Garrett's chair at the table defiantly. Greg kisses her and takes a seat beside her with Caleb on his lap. The rest of us join them, sitting in our seats.
-NSID-
"So I'd like to do this regularly, if we could," Dad says.
"Every week?" Garrett grumbles.
"You don't live that far," Dad points out.
"It's far. Gas is expensive."
"I'll pay for your gas," Dad barks. "I thought it would be something nice we could do as a family. Together. And as the garden grows we can harvest what we have and use that as part of the meal. It'll be fun."
"Yeah, Garrett, it'll be fun. You could bring your girlfriend. What was her name again? Candy?" Katie pops a green bean in her mouth, laughing.
"You're so immature.
"You're immature.
"Fine, I'll bring a girlfriend. You'll love her," Garrett says.
"Good, and Edward's girlfriend can come next time, too," Katie says. "And all of her body parts are real."
"Her parts are real, but Sex Legs is not a real girlfriend," Garrett says.
Katie laughs like he's an imbecile, but she scowls when she catches the guilty look on my face.
"What'd you do, Edward?" Katie asks, upset.
"We were never really going out," I admit.
"You were going out with Bella?" Dad asks, and Mom sighs. Cullen men are clueless 'round these parts.
"It doesn't matter. But how's Bella? I was sad I couldn't be at our dinner." Mom eats a delicate bite of apricot glazed chicken.
"She's good," I say.
"You catch her yet?" She grins, knowingly.
"Trying to. It's hard to find the time. I basically had to give up my math homework like you said. But then I wasn't doing so hot in my class, so Mr. Gallagher said—"
"Edward, I was exaggerating. I just meant to make her a priority."
"I did."
"Yes, but you still have to keep your grades up."
"I am. Mostly. Seriously, don't worry about it, Mom."
"I worry about it. All of it. I worry about all of you." She runs her eyes over ours at the table until she settles on Dad. "I worry about you, too. So how are you doing, Carlisle?"
We sit in silence, waiting for Dad to speak. Everyone's staring except for Caleb, who's trying to get into his mom's shirt.
Dad takes a sip of his drink and sets his glass down with a loud exhale. "I'm miserable. Absolutely miserable. And every day you're not here, I wonder why in the hell I'm not chasing you around town begging you to come home. To come home to me." Dad rubs his forehead with two fingers as he speaks. "I miss you, Esme. More than you can possibly imagine. I want you to move back home."
"Carlisle, I can't. I signed a six month lease, and I . . ."
"I'll pay for it. I'll do anything. Please." His hands grip the table cloth, his plate moving with the fabric.
"I can't. Not not ever. Just not right now," she says softly
"Will you stay tonight? Just one night."
Mom twists her napkin in her hands and chews on her lips nervously, while staring at Dad long and hard.
"I love you. Please say yes," he begs.
Tears fall down her cheeks, and she whispers, "Yes."
"Ew, they're going to have sex tonight," Garrett mutters.
"Gross," Katie concurs.
Greg focuses his attention on Caleb, ignoring the rest of us.
"I sure could use a cold drink right about now," Garrett says.
We head into the kitchen, giving my parents some privacy. I would like some alcohol as well, but I'm too young and while Garrett would hand over a beer, Katie would tell Mom. I'd be grounded and forced to clean the grout with a toothbrush. No thanks. Instead of drinking, I sit in the kitchen acting as Caleb's jungle gym while my parents attempt to fall back in love over their Sunday dinner.