SM owns. Thank you to Sunflower Fanfiction and Mari, as usual.

So... Surprise! (Yes, there will be an update next Wednesday as well.)

Stripped Desire – Chapter 7: Blue

"In human intercourse the tragedy begins, not when there is misunderstanding about words, but when silence is not understood."

Henry David Thoreau.~

"Your father is flying to New York tomorrow," she says.

I try not to let the panic of the news show in my voice. I'm not sure if I succeed.

"What? Why?"

"Why do you think? Business."

I sigh into the phone while she starts telling me what I should do to entertain him in his free time. She dismisses the typical touristic outings with a groan and a complaint about the city. I wonder if this is all part of her plan to get me to move back to Virginia.

"He tells me he's free on Tuesday night. Take him out to dinner," she says.

"I have a conference call with a client," I say right away.

I check and write down my schedule so often that I have it memorized.

"You have work that late at night?" she asks, outraged. As if this is a new thing. As if my father hasn't uttered those same words to her in the past.

"Time difference," I say, swallowing down the annoyed remark.

"Right. Well, Friday, then."

"Fine. What time?"

"5:00 o'clock."

I freeze. That's when I'm supposed to meet with Edward.

For a brief moment, I wonder if they know what I've been doing. I've been quite discreet with my meetings with him, but the panic is there nonetheless. They have their ways, after all.

"What? That's too early for dinner," I tell her before I can analyze my words. The tone of my voice is light and casual, but I know it's not about how I spoke, but about what I said.

"I don't know what kind of life you're having there," she starts, "but we still eat dinner every day at 6:00 here." She speaks in hushed, angry tones while I look at the delicate manicure I had done yesterday. "The only reason your father will have this dinner at five is because he has an early flight the next day."

I try to apologize for my inconsiderate and out of place remark, but she talks over me.

"You know he needs to go to bed at least eight hours before flying or he gets sick. Has it been so long that you don't remember how things work around here anymore? It wouldn't surprise me. You barely make time for this call once a week. You've thrown everything I taught you out the window."

And there it is, the reason she calls at all, to remind me what a horrible daughter I am.

Silence envelops us, tense and tiring.

I sigh, and run my hands through my hair, soothing myself.

"Friday at five works just fine, Mother," I say in an even voice. "Tell him I'll see him then."

She hangs up after that without saying anything else.

Five minutes later she calls and leaves a message with the address of the hotel he'll be staying in, and the list of restaurants I can take him.

I spend the rest of the day planning—practicing—how I'll cancel with Edward.

The thought intimidates me more than it should.

After much deliberation, I decide to visit Edward at the gallery during lunch hour on Monday. A phone call seemed way more intimate than meeting him face to face for some strange reason. And a text felt like cowardice.

With a package of sweet treats in my hands, under the heavy humid air, I walk with purposeful strides toward the gallery. I ordered the treats yesterday as soon as I made the decision to stop by the gallery to tell Edward of my change of plans. I just picked them up ten minutes ago.

I was taught to have some type of present when giving unpleasant news to people.

I haven't forgotten everything, mother.

I shake my head and walk faster.

A cold drizzle starts to fall as soon as I reach the art gallery. I walk inside just in time to avoid getting wet.

Edward is the first thing I see. He's coming down a ladder with a hammer in his hand and nails on his mouth.

His eyes widen and his steps falter when he notices me looking up at him.

"Well, this is a surprise," he says when he's back on the ground.

"Hello," I say.

"Isabella." He acknowledges me with a nod. Then his eyes flicker to the small box on my hands. "Is that for me?" he asks as if I've been bringing him food all my life. I extend it to him without speaking. He smiles. "How thoughtful."

"Yes. I'm selflessness personified," I say, looking away from him.

"Funny," he says, walking into my line of vision. He directs me toward the small stage where he sits down on the wooden stairs.

I remain standing a few feet away from him.

"So why are you here?" he asks, taking a bite out of a sweet roll.

"I won't be able to make it this Friday,"

As soon as the words leave my mouth, his entire demeanor changes, he stops eating and his body goes rigid.

He places the box next to him and stands up. His movements are slow and measured, until he's finally standing in front of me.

"Why not?" he asks. The question is simple and understandable, but the way he says it rubs me the wrong way.

I look up at him, defiant.

"I can't. Something's come up," I say. It's not what I had practiced saying. I had an entire speech about my father's inconvenient visit. But now, talking about my family at all feels like more than he needs to know.

He shakes his head and runs his hands through his hair. "Un-fucking-believable."

"I was civil enough to come here and let you know with a lot of time in advance," I say, crossing my arms.

He laughs without humor. "Right and the pastries are supposed to make me… what? Agreeable?"

"You don't have to agree with anything," I say, ready to end this conversation. "I'm not asking your permission not to come. I'm telling you I'm not going to be there."

"Message received."

He stares at me, annoyed.

I refrain from stomping out of the room. Instead, I give him a condescending nod.

Then, I walk with my head held high out of the gallery.

Tuesday and Wednesday pass me by in a haze. I have a lot of work to do in the office, and a dinner with my father looming on the horizon.

On Wednesday night, I make a reservation at one of the restaurants that my mother listed. I also make an appointment at the beauty salon for Friday morning.

On Thursday night, Alice calls me to invite me to go to the gallery with her, but I decline.

The mere thought of seeing Edward after our altercation on Monday throws me off balance.

His reaction wasn't what I was expecting at all.

I understand he takes his job seriously, but I still think he was out of line with me.

He behaved in a way that wasn't acceptable. It's like he doesn't get that the fact that my agreeing to pose for him is a miracle. He could cut me some slack.

Thinking about Edward makes me restless and I need to get some sleep. I try to push him out of my mind, but it is without success.

Ever since I met him, it seems like he's the only thing I can focus on.

I take a shower and start my nightly routine, but the ringing of my cell phone interrupts me.

The ID doesn't identify the caller, but I answer anyway.

When I do, the voice from the other side is the last one I'm expecting

It makes me smile.

I don't usually have room for spontaneity in my life, but sometimes, like tonight, I welcome it.

Thanks for reading.

See you soon.