SM owns.
Thank you, as usual, to Sunflower Fanfiction and Mari for their help and awesomeness.
Thank you to LittleGreyAche | Yellowglue for inspiration.
Special thanks to Cappricorn75 for recommending the fic over at TLS.
Stripped Desire – Chapter 11: Contrast
"I believe that every single event in life happens as an opportunity to choose love over fear."
Oprah Winfrey. ~
Edward ushers me inside, and walks me to the bathroom, urging me to get out of the wet clothes before I get sick. He looks so concerned that it's kind of endearing.
His movements are rushed.
I lock myself in the bathroom and take off my A-line cream colored skirt, brown jacket and skin-colored stockings. I leave the white tank top on.
Edward knocks to hand me a black sweater from Berkley University and basketball shorts. The sweater is huge, reaching mid-thighs. The shorts get swallowed by the black fabric making it look like I'm wearing a giant, shapeless tent.
I open the door and find Edward waiting for me. He takes my crumpled, wet clothes from my hands and walks away.
I make my way back to the living room, and distract myself with a series of portraits he has lying on his coffee table.
There are detailed, pencil drawings of women parts. They look as real as a photograph. The model could be anyone, but the last one is a close up of the model's face. I recognize her right away: Victoria.
I touch the sheets of paper, but let them go when I feel his presence in the room.
"That's for the next viewing," he says, standing behind me. I nod. "That selection is called Regal."
I turn to face him, noticing he's not as close as he feels. "Why?"
He sits down on the couch and asks me to join him. I do.
"The drawings are soft and delicate, not at all what you think of when you hear the word regal. For some reason, people think women can't be all those things at the same time," he says.
I stare at him for a minute.
"Does it make sense?" he asks, searching my eyes.
I nod. "It does."
He smiles. He focuses his attention to the drawings, rearranging them on the table before stacking them to put them away.
"Why did you pick her?" I ask just as he stands up. He looks down at me, clutching the stack to his chest.
"Victoria's a firecracker. We met when I was in college," he says, sitting back down. "Not in NYU, in Berkley. We lost touch when I came to study here, but then I ran into her in France." He smiles at the memory. "I painted her there several times and sold those. Then, when she heard about the gallery she said she wanted to be a part of it, so I worked with her two more times. The first series of paintings were at the gallery for the opening. These are the second ones," he says, holding up the stack.
I nod at him and mull over this information, wondering why he choose NYU over Berkley.
It feels as if I'm putting a puzzle together with every tiny aspect of his life. The result is most likely guaranteed to vary from the picture on the box.
Edward Cullen seems to be full of surprises.
"My mom loves these paintings," he says, bringing me out of my thoughts. His face looks so peaceful. Talking about his parents is not an issue for him. It makes me smile a little. Then, I frown.
"Where is she?" I ask, aware that this is yet another area of his life I have no knowledge about.
He gives me a knowing look. Sometimes, I feel so predictable when talking to him. He makes me feel as if he knows every word that I'm going to speak before I've even thought about it.
"She lives in North Carolina with my grandmother," he says.
"And your father?" I ask, not being able to keep my curiosity in check. That question seems to surprise him a little. I give myself a pat on the back.
"That's a good question. Never met him," he says.
"Oh."
"Yeah."
In this moment, it makes sense. His appreciation for women's strength, his comments about lacking money. He was raised by his single mom.
The air is now tense with the heavy subject hovering over us. I search for a new thing to talk about but come up empty. I just want to know more.
"Do you miss them? Your family?" I ask.
He looks at me with those green eyes and smiles. It's a dangerous combination.
"Yeah. I can't wait to visit them. Or have them visit me. Whichever," he says.
"Would your grandmother come to New York?"
"Are you kidding?" he asks, smirking. "I'm living in her house."
"Really?"
"Yeah, it used to be from an aunt, and when she passed away she left it to my great grandmother, then to my grandma'. She only used it in the summers, but yeah, Grandma' Cullen knows her way around New York, which is why I'm dying for her to come."
I chuckle, while putting away the new piece of information. He kept his mother's last name. Of course.
He smiles a timid smile. "What about you? Do you miss your family?"
The smile on my face vanishes. I can feel my body clamping down, rejecting this subject.
"Um, I talk to them on the phone," I say, not really answering.
"That doesn't answer my question," he says, not missing a beat.
"It's just," I start and stop myself. Am I going to have this conversation with Edward? Do I want to tell him?
"Isabella," he says, prompting me to answer him.
"My family is just a bit intense," I say.
He frowns. "Intense how?"
"A bit controlling, I guess."
I refrain the urge to snort. A bit.
"Oh. Families are that way sometimes, but in the end, they only care that you're happy."
I look away from him. "Right."
"Isabella?" he says after a moment of silence. I face him again. "I'm sorry about what I said the other night."
I nod.
He touches my chin, urging me to meet his eyes. He must know they are my weakness.
We stand for a moment, closer than we've been before, staring at each other's eyes. I want to kiss him.
I do.
And by the way he's looking at my mouth, I'd say he wants to kiss me, too.
If he kisses me, I'm a goner. I know this.
So I move away from his hold and break the spell.
The hurt on his face matches the pain inside my heart.
He gets up and puts the paintings away while I listen the rain fall.
"Do you want something to drink?" he asks from behind the giant mural.
Feeling bold and ruled by my curiosity, I walk to the kitchen.
The room is painted in a darker cream tone. There aren't any paintings on the walls. Everything hanging in here are kitchen utensils: dish towels, measuring cups, several can openers.
It looks like the kitchens on the cooking channel.
"I wanted to make hot chocolate but I'm lacking some things," he says when he sees me, with an apology on his face. "I could make tea." He holds the little box to my line of sight.
I look at him for a moment, wondering how he can act so normal after what just happened. Isn't his heart racing like mine? Isn't his skin burning?
"Tea is fine," I say, attempting to be as cool as he is.
He gets to work, moving with ease around his kitchen. I have a steaming cup of tea in a matter of minutes.
We walk together back to the living room and sit back down on the couch. He faces me with his whole body this time.
"Did you mean what you said?" I ask, looking at him. He frowns in confusion. "About why you wanted to paint me?"
He takes a sip of his tea, smiles. "I did."
"Intelligent, beautiful, and intriguing. Is that what you see?"
He looks taken aback and I feel a sense of victory at having the upper hand.
The wind blows the curtains of one of the windows. He stands up to fix it.
"It is. But," he starts and stops himself.
"What?"
I walk toward him, standing a few steps behind, and stare at the back of his neck.
"That's not what I want to portray on my canvas," he says, facing me. I take a step back, terrified by the intensity of his green eyes. "Anyone can see you're intelligent, beautiful, and intriguing. I want something else."
He steps closer.
"What do you want?" I ask.
He looks at my mouth, licks his lower lip. I'm not sure how many times I can resist these types of interactions.
But then he finds my eyes again and I almost wish he hadn't.
"Something just for me," he says. "Something only I can see."
I get home at 8:00 pm on a cab that Edward paid.
The intense moment we shared was followed by awkward silence and a lot of fumbling on my part. I made myself clear that I needed to get home, even if it was raining.
So I got back into my semi-dry clothes and asked him to call me a cab.
He didn't seem happy about it, but in the end he picked up the phone and did it.
When the taxi arrived, he walked me toward it with an umbrella and payed the taxi fare up front. I had no say in the matter.
I sigh, entering my bedroom to undress. My cell phone beeps with a text.
Did you get home safe?
I type an affirmative and jump in the shower, eager to get into my comfortable clothes.
After, I eat some light dinner before settling in my bed with my agenda while the T.V is on for background noise.
Just before I'm drifting off to sleep, my cell phone chirps again.
Go to the gallery tomorrow?
I bite my lip, my fingers hovering over the phone screen.
I know for a fact I have nothing to do. Saying yes could be so easy.
My internal debate is exhausting and I'm already sleepy. Without dedicating more time to think about it, I type a response.
We'll see.
He doesn't reply right away.
I fall asleep clutching the phone to my chest.
When I get to the gallery on Saturday, the place is packed.
I look around for Edward and find him near a corner. Somehow, there's a lot of empty space around him. It reminds me of when I find him on the train, always separated from the crowd.
I start to make myself go to him, but come to a stop when I notice he has company. There's a blonde bombshell on his arm. She's wearing tight jeans, and a see-through blouse.
She laughs a loud laugh while fixing the collar of his shirt.
He looks at her with soft, green eyes, and a smile on his face. I watch for a few more seconds as it turns into a flirty smirk.
I look away but curiosity gets the best of me and I look back just in time to see her whispering something in his ear.
I make my way to the exit in quick strides, avoiding eye contact with anyone.
Once outside, the lights and the sounds of the city overwhelm me. I slow my walking to recover myself.
"Isabella, wait up!" Edward says, his voice somehow finding its way above the noise. He runs toward me, just as I'm about to cross the street. I take a deep breath and stop walking.
"Where are you going?" he asks when he reaches me.
He touches my arm, urging me to face him completely.
"I'm leaving," I say, and move myself out of his touch.
He frowns, but lets his hand fall back to his side.
"What? Why?"
I shake my head and wrap my arms around myself. "I can't stay. I have other plans."
He stares at me with such intensity. For a second, I feel lost, unsure of where I am or where I'm going.
A look of determination settles on his face before he nods.
"Okay. See you on Monday, I guess," he says.
I walk away.
The farther I get from the gallery and from Edward the more alone I feel.
Why couldn't I just approach Edward and his blond companion?
Maybe there was a logical explanation, maybe she was just a friend. Albeit a close one.
I get the urge to turn around and listen to his explanation—if he has any.
And then, the painful reminder settles on my heart.
He doesn't owe me anything.
You are all so kind and good to me. I feel overwhelmed, humbled and so thankful for the positive response.
Also, thank you for the patience with the pace of the story.
And of course, thank you for reading.
See you soon.
xo