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Stripped Desire – 19: Hue
"When we seek to discover the best in others, we somehow bring out the best in ourselves."
William Arthur Ward.
"Are you going to go?"
"Where?"
"Mars, dummy."
"What?"
"Michael's wedding. Are you going to go?"
I look up from my notes to stare at her. "Of course not."
"I think you should go," she says. "And take Edward. And maybe have really hot, loud sex in the bathroom." She winks at me, but I know she's not joking.
"You're insane," I tell her, shaking my head.
She shrugs. "It would be a great revenge."
I look at her for a moment, considering her words. In a way, my relationship with Michael feels like a lifetime ago, yet at the same time, it seems as if it happened yesterday. It's a strange sensation, one I haven't bothered to dwell on at all.
"I don't want revenge," I say.
Alice sighs and the way she looks at me makes me feel small.
"Maybe you're a better person than I am."
"I know the Flaming June one has something to do with your love for arts, and the map is pretty explanatory, but what does this one mean?" I ask, tracing the pentagram on his wrist.
I've been waiting for the opportunity to tackle this subject. It's Saturday night and Edward and I are lying on his couch, side by side. My head rests on his shoulder and he has his arm thrown around my shoulder.
He takes my hand in his and kisses my palm.
"Do they have to mean anything?" he asks. I turn my head from his shoulder to look at his face.
"I don't think you would do something this permanent without it meaning anything." If I've learned something about him, it'show passionate he is about everything. Edward cares too much. From the way his eyes light up when we talk about Rosalie's project, to the content look on his face while discussing a favorite book or movie.
It continues to surprise me because he goes against the norm of every guy I've met, and it's clear he's not the cliché artist I once called him.
I've been curious about every tiny aspect of his life, and the stories behind his tattoos are one of them.
"Tell me," I say when he sighs for the third time. He doesn't meet my eyes right away, allowing me to admire his profile for a few more seconds.
It's a nice view, but it doesn't compare to green.
"Jasper has been such a good friend to me. When I came to New York, I was crushed. I guess losing a scholarship would do that to you." He laughs without humor. I squeeze his hand, encouraging him to continue. "He was the first person who gave me a chance, getting his boss to hire me even when we didn't know each other. And then, he helped me learn the ropes of bartending five nights a week while studying. His passion for music reminded me of my own, so…"
"That's so sweet," I say.
He ruffles my hair.
I already knew Edward and Jasper became friends while bartending at a bar. It makes me glad to know that they helped each other out in more ways than one.
The conversation takes me back to my own college memories and the time I flirted with danger. I gave myself a chance to go out to parties I shouldn't have and meet people I wouldn't have.
That tiny bit of freedom felt like heaven, and I knew I wasn't to be trusted with it. I was still trying to meet my parents' standards.
I lost my virginity to Michael Newton on what I thought would be a one night stand. Later, I found out he looked for me because my mother had told him to. Later, we decided to try to be together as our families wanted us to. The rush it gave me made me euphoric at the time.
Now, as I feel Edward's fingers caressing my bare thigh, inching higher and higher with each pass while his nose runs up and down my neck, I know I was a naïve fool back then.
The way my breath falters when he reaches the edge of my underwear, and the tingles on the back of my neck when he kisses my throat are enough to drive me crazy.
This is what euphoria feels like.
"Is there anything new going on with you?" my mother asks after we run out of pleasantries. My heart rate increases while I wait for the angle she'll go with.
I look at the sea of notes from Edward cluttered on my desk and smile. "No."
"Nothing?"
Looking down on my agenda, I reread the time I'm supposed to meet with him later today.
"Not a thing," I say even though I know she doesn't believe me.
"When are you planning to visit?" Her tone sounds bubbly. It takes me a bit by surprise.
I hold in my groan, but I can't help my words. "Is this your way of asking me if I'm going to Michael's wedding?"
"No," she says, and I can picture her feigning indifference. We stay silent for a second, waiting for the other to break. "Are you?" she asks, annoyed.
It seems like I'm getting all three of her range of emotions. I sigh. "Mom, if I never see Michael Newton again, it'll be too soon."
She doesn't reprimand me, so I wait for the bomb to explode. I know it's coming.
We play the game for a bit, hearing each other breathe through the phone.
"Who's Edward Cullen?" she asks. I can hear the smile on her voice.
There it is.
I take a deep breath. "He's a friend."
"I see."
"Did Aro tell you anything else about him?" I ask.
"I don't like the tone of your voice."
"There are a lot of things we don't like about each other."
Silence falls between us for a moment, and for a second I consider hanging up. "He's a nobody, Isabella," she says before I speak.
I greet my teeth.
This is what it boils down to. Dating someone like Edward doesn't bring any benefits to my family, rendering him useless and inadequate on sight. Maybe if Edward were a famous painter who made millions of dollars for a frame of his, this conversation wouldn't be taking place.
This ancient notion is how the Swans live their life, and I can't help but roll my eyes each time I remember this is what I'm dealing with.
It's so pathetic.
I could feel sorry for her, but my anger is stronger.
"What makes you think I'm someone?" I ask, tired of hearing the same. "Because I'm a Swan? What have we ever done in life? Becoming friends with the right people is not a talent, Mother. It doesn't make us special." The fact that I have to include myself doesn't make me feel any better. This is my background.
"Do not speak of your family that way," she says, covering her anger with resignation. She thinks her disappointment in me hurts more. It allows her to feel powerful.
I take a deep breath, aware that I screwed up this conversation. I don't know why I bother getting angry. It never leads me anywhere.
"I think we should hang up now," she says.
"Me too."
I say goodbye but the words get lost under her next sentence. "Thank God you're not coming to the wedding after all. Just… Thank God."
I hang up, and Alice words sound more appealing by the second.
"One more time, girls," Rosalie says in a soft voice. I've been watching her direct the girls for an hour now, and she hasn't raised her voice once.
The girls listen each time she commands them without complaining. They all look just so thankful. When Edward and I walked in, they greeted us with such enthusiasm. Their hurried hugs and praises for my hair warmed my heart.
It deleted all of the poison my mother left inside me earlier.
"They're amazing," I say, unable to hide the awe in my voice.
I haven't been to a live show of anything—except for the bands that perform at the gallery—for a long time. It makes me appreciate the girls' dancing even more.
Rosalie nods in agreement with my statement and looks at me with a curious expression on her face. "Where's Edward?" she asks.
I frown. "Outside, taking a call."
She smiles and claps her hands. "Okay," she says turning away from me to face the stage once more. "Girls, come play with Bella for a while."
"What?" I take a step back and shake my head. "No."
The girls are in front of me before I have a chance to reason with Rosalie. They gather around me, the older ones looking less frantic, but still curious.
"Is it true that you were a ballerina?" a girl named Allison asks.
"Um, yeah," I say, looking down on them.
"Do you know how to do a passé?" another one asks.
I smile and nod because I do know how.
"Show us!" they yell in unison.
It starts with that one, but soon I'm in a circle twirling with them and laughing at my mistakes when they correct me.
They become my teacher for posture and details, explaining much better than my old teacher ever did.
They get me on the stage, and attempt to teach me some moves from their routine. Rosalie just looks at us with a smug look on her face.
I hadn't felt so light and carefree in what feels like forever. The girls are laughing, not at me, but with me. It fills me with warmth.
When Rosalie calls them again, I take the opportunity to get some air.
I'm all sweaty.
"Hey, you okay?" Edward asks, looking up from his phone when he sees me walking toward him. "You look flushed."
"I'm okay," I say, coming to a stop once I'm in front of him.
He pulls me to him by my waist, and I wrap my arms around him.
"I'm sorry I invited you to come and left you alone," he says.
I look up at him and shake my head with a smile. He relaxes right away.
"Don't worry," I say. "I wasn't alone."
After the rehearsals, I accept Edward's invitation to watch a movie at his place. We lay on the couch, paying more attention to each other's bodies than the television.
He's kissing down my neck when I get distracted by familiar red hair on a canvas.
"Did you sleep with her?" I ask.
"What?"
"Victoria… Did you sleep with her?" I repeat, pointing in the direction of the paintings.
He sits up to look me in the eyes. "Why are you asking?"
"I'm just… curious."
"About who I've slept with?" he asks, arching an eyebrow.
"No."
"Or whether I sleep with my models?"
I look away from his knowing eyes, decided not to voice my curiosity. "Do you?" I ask, annoyed at myself for wanting the answer.
"No," he says, smiling because he knows me too well. Then, "And I didn't sleep with her."
"Okay."
He goes back to kissing me.
"Do you feel better now?"
"I'm not sure."
"You're the only woman who has made me feel this way," he says, pulling me closer to him. I take note of how he said 'woman' not 'model'.
"I don't believe you."
"Why not?"
"Because I'm sure you've had…others," I say, trying to mask the insecurity in my tone with nonchalance.
Edward pulls away. There's lust on his face. He should be mad. He should be urging me to shut up so he can get laid. But there's no anger on his face.
"I've had girlfriends," he says. "Good girlfriends. It's just never been serious."
"And this is?"
He takes a moment, running his nose down my neck. He plays with my fingers, moves away a lock of hair. I stay still, letting him touch me, enjoying the warmth of his fingertips as they move over my body.
His breathing is slow and I try to match it. But my heart is beating fast. His touch, his scent, coupled with the conversation we're having are enough to set my adrenaline through the roof.
As if sensing my weak grip on control, he stops touching me once again to look me in the eyes.
And then he answers.
"It is to me."
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