CHAPTER SEVEN: HE DIES

The Country

After

I am a man with nothing left to lose. I feel numb, like I'm plied with liquor and pills.

The sun is too bright in the sky and my mind is too sharp for what has just happened.

I spin my wedding ring around my pinky finger in my pocket. The hours I spent searching for it in the star thistle last night were completely and pathetically worth it.

With my other hand in a tight fist, I knock twice, three times, with such force that it burns. I don't stop. I can't. The fire in my knuckles spreads up my hand in sharp jolts with each knock. Each one telling me that I shouldn't be here, that I should go. But I can't fucking stop.

The door swings open and it's not who I want. Who I need.

She is startled by my presence. On her front porch next to a pot of daffodils.

She reaches her hand out towards me, as if I might be a ghost. But she stops, remembering her manners.

Shifting from foot to foot, I force the words out. "Is Bella home?"

She doesn't answer right away. Her eyes study mine. Her expression is confused, but it's the pity that suffocates me. She doesn't look at me the way I expected her to. The way a mother should look at a man who did what I did to her daughter. Maybe it's because she doesn't know. Maybe she's a liar too.

"I'm afraid she's out."

I squeeze my eyes shut, because I don't know what else to do. "I shouldn't have come here."

"Edward..."

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Swan."

I turn away from her as she shakes her head. I walk the stone path that leads back to the street, careful not to disturb any of her flowers.

I can feel her eyes on me.

I walk until the dirt under my feet is familiar. I stand by the tall pine in the front yard, the one I always wanted to cover in Christmas lights when I was a boy, and stare at the house.

I don't want to go in there. I walk around the side and up the stairs of the back deck that spans the entire length of this house. I wonder who built it. How many trees these boards came from. What a fucking waste.

There is a spongy, rotten spot near the railing. Each time I pass over it as I pace the upper tier of the deck, I hope that I fall through.

Staring out into the field, I press on the soft spot with the toe of my shoe.

A vulture sits on the fence post, wings spread wide.

When I was a kid, deer used to come here to die. I don't know why. I don't know why anything would want to die here.

It might be a deer out there now. Or maybe the nasty bird has simply made this place its home.

My father would see the vultures out there on the fence posts, warming their wings, and he'd go cursing through the tall grass with a shotgun to put the dying animal out of its misery. At least that's what I told myself then. Years later I found out that he needed to know the exact location of the carcass before it was nothing but bones, scattered by coyotes. That way, he could collect the bones before they got caught up in his riding mower.

Black, black wings. The beast is staring me down. Even from here, it's menacing.

I want to scream at the top of my lungs I don't care what died out there. You can have me too.

This feeling, this ache, I want to smash it away. Swallow it. I want to fucking swallow it.

I throw the heavy sliding glass door to the kitchen wide open, shaking the house's frame. I rifle through the cabinets, contents falling to the counter, to the ground, to dust.

Until I find it.

There are a hundred screaming voices telling me to listen, to stop, to remember who I am now. But there is one voice screaming louder than the rest. Sneering that this is exactly who I am.

My back against the kitchen cabinets, I sink down to the gritty floor. The scratched, yellowed hardwood isn't as cold as I want it... need it to be.

I unscrew the lid, pressing it into the palm of my hand. I hold the bottle of amber sin in the other, inches from my lips. It smells so fucking good. The voice is screaming, begging, pleading. Fly away. Swallow it down. Suck it dry.

I let the mouth of the bottle rest on my lips, the slightest hint of tequila on my tongue. And it's done. It's already fucking done.

I tilt it up. Just enough. To feel the scream in my throat. One sip. One fucking sip. Swallow it. Do it. It's in your blood.

I do it. I swallow it down. Like the fucking coward I am. I feel the scream. I can feel it hit my stomach. The coat and burn that is so familiar and foreign.

But it's the wrong kind of scream. And all I can see is the blue-eyed man and eyes that won't close.

And now I'm really screaming. Shouting him away.

Bottle in one hand, I crawl over the dirty floor to the sink. I pull myself up, fingers resting in the rough grout of the tile, forcing myself to stand. On two feet.

I hold the bottle over the drain. I tilt it just enough for the contents to begin to drip. And then I lift it, rage in my lungs, high up into the air.

Spinning around, I throw it with everything I have. I swear I can almost hear it, hurtling through the air, flying like a bird into a window pane.

It hits the glass door with a shattering smack. It's piercing for only a second before the silence settles in. And then the glass of the door starts to crack and pop. Like little land mines exploding. It's almost comforting.

The alcohol seeps along the floor, amidst the grime and shards of glass.

For the longest time I can only stare at it.

I should walk away right now. Walk to the bus station and leave forever. Leave those boxes of memories and get the fuck out of here.

But I can't.

In the pantry, I find the plastic bucket and orange sponge that my dad used to use to wash his truck. And I clean up the mess.

I clean up every last shattered piece, cutting my fingers in the process.

And then I scrub the floor. Until it shines. Until the sun is low in the sky, bright orange fire. And the vulture has disappeared from its post.

That's when I see her. Standing at the fence line. The wind tangling itself up in her hair.

I want to go to her. I want her to come to me. I want to turn back time.

I can see the indecision in her posture. And then the rational part of her loses as she swings her legs over the white, white fence.

She hugs her arms around her chest as she makes her way through the grass.

I watch her survey the land, the house, raking her eyes over all of it. This is the closest I've been to her in over a year. And yet it's not close enough.

I'm not sure if she assumes I've seen her or if she's praying that I haven't. But she came here.

I look away for just a moment. To catch my breath. And when I look back, she's sitting on the old tree stump of the willow tree. Our willow tree. What used to be, anyway.

The tangled roots still sit in the ground, spread all over this land. The only reason it remains is because my father didn't believe in paying anyone to do anything for him. To do anything he could do himself. Even if only in theory. And so the stump sits, roots rotting in the soil.

I stand in the window and watch her. Until I'm sure she's seen me. Until there is no doubt.

And then I'm no longer in the house at all.

I take the stairs of the back deck slowly. I push against the old swing set as I pass it, the swing catching the tall grass. I give her every chance to see me coming.

The weather has turned in the span of a day, the air cold and biting.

I don't know what I'm going to say to her or how I'm going to look at her or if she'll even let me.

I stop when I'm close enough to hear her, to see her, but not to touch her.

She picks at the smooth wood of the old tree stump and I wish she'd say something. I wish she'd be the one.

Her hair flits around in the wind. I want to grab a strand and wrap it around my finger. I want to tell her everything. I want her to forgive me. I want, but I have nothing to give.

"Bella, it's freezing out here." Those are the first words I say to her. Out loud.

She doesn't answer, but she looks at me. The way her mother looked at me this morning. I wish she'd stop. But I'll take what I can get.

"Edward, are you okay?" And her voice makes me want to get closer.

"Edward?"

I wrack my brain for the question. Are you okay?

"No." Because it's true.

"Edward..."

But I don't want her pity. "You look good, Bella."

She appraises me for a moment. I know exactly what she's doing. She's trying to see it. To see what I hid from her for so long. Her voice is calm and unforgiving. "Edward, you look... tired."

I am so much more than tired. "You moved back here."

She acknowledges me with a nod, the words too strong to speak. I want to ask her if she got my letter all those months ago, but I'm too much of a coward to hear the answer.

"What are you doing out here?" I ask instead.

She shrugs. "I don't know." I lose her eyes. "I've been coming here sometimes."

"To do what?"

I get them back. "To think. To sit on a tree stump and remember."

To remember.

I want to touch her. To hold her hand. I never held her hand enough.

She hugs herself tighter, tucking her hands into her sleeves for warmth.

"Bella, do you want to go inside?"

"Edward..."

We keep saying each other's names. Like we're trying to remind each other who we are. Or maybe who we were.

"Bella, please." I reach my hand out to her but she doesn't take it. She scoots off of the tree stump and I want to grab her and beg her not to walk away.

I don't touch her. I don't dare.

It's nearly impossible to keep my hands at my sides as she walks past me. But she's not walking away. She's walking towards the house. She doesn't turn around to see if I'm behind her.

She doesn't hesitate before walking up the back steps. She opens the door and disappears into the dark kitchen.

I find her in the living room, running her fingers over a picture frame.

I don't want to watch her remember.

I start a fire in the old wood-burning stove that does a terrible job of heating more than this room. We sit in front of it, on the pink carpet, warming our hands. And not speaking.

For several minutes the only noise in the room is the crackling, spitting wood. I leave the door to the small stove slightly open to get the fire going, the way my father taught me.

I watch her hands, as she rubs them together in front of the orange glow of flames.

And now I watch her face. I watch her lashes and I can't help but remember the way they feel against my cheek. The way they feel under my lips.

She worries her lip for minutes before speaking. "I heard your dad isn't doing well. Edward, I'm so sorry."

That's why she's here.

"He died."

"What?" she asks, her voice a harsh whisper.

"I said he died. Today. He died today."

"Edward..." She reaches for me, her fingertips barely touching my skin. The lightest touch of those familiar hands is almost too much to bear. I want to grab her and hold her to me. More than that, I want her to hold me back.

I reach for her other hand and she lets me.

I hold her tight as she tries to let go. I hold her tight until I remember that I shouldn't, that I can't, that she's no longer mine. Letting go of her feels like dying.

But she's still holding on. Her fingers are still curled around mine. I chance a peek at her face, and she's staring too. At our hands that are touching and holding on. I can see the battle in her features. And then I can see the decision being made. I look away from her face before it destroys me.

I watch her hands as they slowly release me. But she's not letting go at all, as her fingers trace up my arms and her eyes settle on mine.

The sob in my chest and the tears on my face barely register over the touch of her hands.

"Shh." I can feel her breath on my face. She smells like everything I want.

And my touches are not featherlight. My hands grip her hips. I don't know if I'm pulling her to me or if she is the one crawling into my lap.

Her thumbs brush the tears away. Stupid fucking tears for a man who doesn't deserve them.

Is that what I am to her also? Am I a man who doesn't deserve?

I'm afraid to breathe as she presses her forehead to mine. As she wraps her legs around me and holds on to me like I'm the man she loves.

I remember her kisses. The best kisses. The only kisses.

I want to steal them. All of them. Just one.

She's so close, I may not even have to be a thief. But I'm too afraid that she's going to pull away. I'm too afraid that this second will be the very last.

Before she has another second to think, to run away, I kiss her lips. Just once. I kiss her soft and gentle. I kiss those lips that used to make everything better.

They still do.

I don't move and she doesn't pull away. Our lips are still touching, just barely. Until they aren't anymore.

And it's torture. Because one kiss isn't enough. I need more. I need to take. To swallow her whole.

Tell me to stop. Tell me it's okay. With our lips so close, so very, very close, I'm going to take one more. Just one. And I'm at the point where it doesn't matter if she's letting me because of pity. I don't care.

Before I can take what I want, she's kissing me. She is the one who is deepening the kiss. Needing me. Opening her mouth and giving me what I want but don't deserve.

For one fleeting moment, she is kissing me with everything she has. Until she pulls her lips from my lips and my hands from her hips, quick and violent, like she's just realized what is happening. Like she's just remembered how much she hates me. I open my eyes to a look of utter disgust and betrayal on her face. For a second, I think she's going to hit me.

"You've been drinking." The way her lip curls up and her shining eyes accuse me of something that is almost true.

"No. I..."

"Don't fucking lie to me. I can taste it."

Lie, lie, lie.

"I took a sip. One sip. Bella... please." My voice isn't even there. My mouth says the words that she won't hear. "Please, please, please."

I reach for her, grabbing hold of her arm. But she jerks it away.

She's standing up, walking away from me. She's leaving.

I let her the last time. I let her.

I run after her, slamming my hands on the front door before she can open it. Caging her in.

Her expression shifting to one of fear as her chin quivers. "I can't. I can't do this. Not anymore."

"Please don't leave. Bella, please."

Her eyes close.

My lips hover over her face. "I won't touch you."

Her words fall from cracked lips. "You're touching me now, Edward. You're touching me now."

I back away immediately, hands in the air. Surrendering.

"I won't. I'll stop. I promise." And as much as it hurts to promise, I mean it. I'll do it.

Don't leave me. Stay.

She turns away from me, her hand on the door knob. I stand motionless as she slowly opens the door, as she pushes the old screen door open, and steps over the threshold, onto the dead front porch.

She doesn't look back.

I fall to my knees, my fingertips to my lips. The front door wide open.

This time she runs.

-HL-