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Spirits of the Audience
"PIANO, n. A parlor utensil for subduing the impenitent visitor. It is operated by pressing the keys of the machine and the spirits of the audience."
- Ambrose Bierce
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Rosalie's POV
Three weeks pass and though I'm marginally better, my heart still feels sad. The first week was utter torture.
After my father found me and all but threatened to kill whoever hurt me, he carried me back to the awaiting car. I barely squeaked out "it was a situation of my own making. No one to blame but me." He hardly believed me, but I was firm in my story. I held the ultimate blame. How could I fault Edward for thinking I had played him a fool? My split personality proved it perfectly.
Father was very protective of me. When my mother went to make a comment, he shut her down immediately. He didn't even allow her anywhere near me the first week. I wept with thankfulness to him. I couldn't stand her scorn on top of his. It would have been enough to render me mad.
As the second week progressed, I started to pull myself together. I had been given enough time to ache, to be helpless. I had only known Edward for two months, yet it felt infinitely more, my heart betrayed me. I tried valiantly to ignore my traitorous heart. Most of the time I succeeded, behind the thick fortress of my mask. It kept me the most rational.
But like all parts of us that often fail and were hidden pain seekers, I went to the library. I had to know for a surety he was finished with me. My mind knew the truth, but my heart refused to believe. My eyes had to provide to be the literal witness.
Two hours passed in which I sat and waited impatiently. I shifted continuously. I bit my lip repetitively. I didn't focus on the take home assignments from my classes or any book that lingered on the table where I sat waiting.
My concentration was nonexistent. I wanted for only one thing, one conclusion to be achieved. But like I had expected already, it was an exercise in futility. Edward never showed. And the small part of me that burned bright with hope dimmed even more. Would it eventually burn out completely?
The third week passed without any connection to Edward. I truly started to believe all was lost. I had ruined everything and the small part of me that repeated the mantra, 'don't lose hope', was all but silent.
I was running out of faith and anything good which related to my one-time friend. I didn't want to continue. I didn't want to be without him any longer.
Couldn't he sense me at all? Couldn't he hear my heart that still called out to him in the late hours of the night? Couldn't he smell the salty tears that wet my pillows and left them ruined?
Did he even think of me?
I had no answers and only long lists of imperfections about myself. But even though I regretted him seeing me as Rosalie Lillian Hale, I couldn't regret the act I put on. It was all I knew and what people expected of me.
I could only give so much, and I never wanted them to see all of me. They didn't truly matter; only those who would eventually give me my little golden-haired little babies mattered. Once upon a time . . . reason reminded me.
On the third Friday of our ruined friendship, I sat once again at the library. I was listless and all but despondent. Time slowly crept by and mocked me maliciously. It made no secret that it rejoiced in my pain.
In my hands was a letter once pristine and now well-worn. Tears had stained the page, but the words were seared into my heart. They were the words that held up my last shreds of blind optimism.
Rosalie Darling,
I pray this missive finds you well. In my mind, I can see many words that want to be written, anything that would give you a bit of happiness. Some may think me simple and childlike, but I only want for happiness, for everyone. I know it isn't to be, at least not in this lifetime, but it is a fervent inclination of my heart. And above all, Rose, I hope for your and my families' gratification in this life.
My eyes haven't seen you in three weeks, but I don't need to see how you may be fairing. I don't mean that in spite or scorn, darling. I mean it in the simple terms of knowing you.
In the time we have been acquainted, I've come to hold you in high regard, Rose. I don't need to know the intimate intricacies of your heart to see the beauty that lies deeply and abundantly within. Your beautiful eyes tell me the truth so wonderfully.
I've seen you at parties and the front you put on for everyone. What some may perceive a poser is wrong. They don't see the work and sadness behind the mask.
Don't be alarmed, darling. I don't believe others see it. I can sense it because I put on a similar front. I don't think any less of you. How could I without being a terrible hypocrite?
Why am I writing you these declarations, you may be pondering? It's quite simple; I don't want you hurting any longer. Be assured, I don't know the details of your misunderstanding with Edward or the hurtful words he spewed at you, but I do know it occurred.
Though I am not talking to him at present, I am terribly disappointed in Edward. The ugliness he said to you was untrue and wholly unprovoked.
I would tell you more, but it isn't my place, darling. But allow me to share this, Edward suffers from many things. He is quite confident in certain areas of his life, but he is also prone to deep introspection and wrong conclusions. He puts too much on himself and expects perfection. Not in those around him, but in himself.
I love Edward dearly, so very deeply, but I'm appallingly disappointed. He should have never put his insecurities on you, darling. I also take part of the blame.
I knew Edward was going to attend and I'm sorry for any falsehood I may have led you to believe. What his ultimate purpose was in attending without your knowledge, I'm not quite certain. But if his sullenness and unhappiness are anything to go by, it ended horridly.
I can see the pain he tries to hide courageously, but little escapes the eyes of those who see him as a son. His pain is my pain, and his happiness is also mine. He may think he suffers in silence, but I feel it with him, regardless if he wants me to or not. It isn't his prerogative to tell me how to feel.
But in writing this, I have spoken to him. He refuses to discuss that night, but he does listen. And when he looks at me after I've gone silent (when I'm actually speaking to him), I can see regret in his gaze. I don't know if he realizes, but it's there all the same.
I want you to know that truth, darling. I want you to know that what regardless he may have led you to believe, I know he thinks differently. I see the reality in his eyes. I feel it in my soul. I beg of you to believe me. I would never give you false hope. It is too cruel.
I ask that you only give him a little more time. Let him stew a little longer in his guilt. Let him feel the remorse in the pain he caused. It was unfair and his hurting introspection is deserved, no matter how much I despise seeing him in pain.
If and when you can ever forgive him his shortcomings and terrible mistakes, I beg of you, Rosalie, to please do so. I know it unfair of me to ask such a favor, but I've witnessed your influence in his life and outside of it.
I'm confident in writing you make him a better person, darling. He may even have the same effect on you, too. But what does an old meddling hen know?
I find I've come to an end of bothering you. Please, take to heart what I've written. If you can look past your hurt, please do so. If not, it's understandable. Only you know how far your heart can extend.
Take care of yourself, Rose, darling. And if you and Edward should keep things severed, I still hope to continue our acquaintance. My friendship has no bearing on Edward (the stubborn boy!).
Keep up the faith and remember to smile. The world would be quite bereft without it. You are quite glorious, both on the outside and within. Never wavier on such a truth.
Affectionately yours in friendship,
Esme Cullen.
Her words had been the confidence that led my every foot step to the library. And when the bells in the tower finally rung the six o'clock hour, I knew the hope was lost. Edward had not shown.
It was over, and once again I felt like mourning the closet thing I ever had to a true friendship. Edward had seen me at my lowest, at my most unrefined moment and still wanted to befriend me.
However much I missed and craved him, I wouldn't be defeated. I had been all but unresponsive the first week of our forced separation, and I couldn't survive that way. If there was anything positive mother had instilled in me with her harsh lessons and unfair criticisms, it was my will-power.
I could look at the bleak things in life and make the best of them. It was a direct reflection on my tepid relationship with the Madam. In my own way I loved her. She had given birth to me, life. But I didn't love and respect her the way I did my father.
He reared me in love and patience guidance. Lillian was quite the opposite. She demanded much from me and gave little in return. Yes, she was terribly unpleasant as a mother, but she had sharpened my will-power.
When I detested having tea with my "friends", I sucked it up and powered through. When I only wanted to lie in and rest for a night instead of attending another social gathering, I got up, dressed and put on my happiest party face. When I only wanted away from my mother's overbearing presence and harshness, I pretended to love and accept everything she dished out.
I was quite skilled in doing things that didn't always please me, and this situation was no different.
Edward was finished with me, and as much as my heart ached to be near him again, I knew it wasn't to be. He had spoken his peace and meant to stick by his proclamation.
I gathered my belongings, situated my hat and gloves, made sure my bag was comfortable on my shoulder and walked out of the library with all the bravado and grace I could afford.
It would seem you are good for something, mother, other than telling me how disappointing I can be.
My mask was in place and bitterness was feeding it a healthy dose of audaciousness.
. . .
I lay in bed and contemplate the last three weeks. The sheets are cool and feel comforting around my aching body. The tears haven't come yet, and I can only hope it holds true. I don't want to weep any longer. I simply want to be numb until I can safely say my infatuation with this virtual stranger is done with.
Its extreme, thinking of Edward as a practical stranger, but the fallacy helps with my healing heart. Even ice queens, such as myself, need time to unwind from it all.
I can't help but see how much Edward has me at a disadvantage. I can't quite decide if it's a good or bad thing. I can wholly decide it's something so very new for me.
Social games, masks and dances are something I'm significantly more comfortable portraying. I know what's expected and how to keep face effortlessly. The entire social arena has been my main stage for years.
And along comes a breathtakingly beautiful man and simply pulls me from center stage, completely unintentional. He causes me to observe things that usually escape my notice. It's nothing he profoundly says, but the way he listens and points out the small intricacies to me.
Edward claims I've caused him to once again notice the little things, but I find it so very difficult to believe. He's entirely insightful without a word ever uttered from me.
.
"You're wrong, Rose," he says seriously, turning the light mood into a more earnest one.
I tease him about how I'm really forgettable. When one strips away the hair, fashionable clothes, cultured attitude and artfully applied makeup, there's nothing really profound about me; unlike him. Edward could be wearing a flour sack and still be the refinement of elegance. The attention of every lady would still be drawn to him. Nothing ever needs to be added to him.
"I'm all about smoke, mirrors and shadows. A magician could learn many tricks from me." I want to argue, but he holds up his hand gently, giving me a soft, wobbly smile. "It's true, love." I melt at his incredibly sweet endearment. I don't even guard my thoughts or expressions as mother taught me.
"You're beauty personified. Even in what you perceive to be your weak moments, Rose, you're different than any other I've encountered. Since my parents passing, nothing has truly interested me. I go about life, not living but existing. But you . . . you, appear and pull me from the blank aura –"
"Edward, please," I implore, uncomfortable with his praise. He has me entirely wrong. The side he sees of me is special, someone who materializes only for him. He must realize the difference.
However, he halts me, refuses to let me explain the truth to him. I should fight harder, needing to explain the true Rosalie Lillian Hale, but I find I like being someone different for him. Edward is above the rest and pulls out a side of me that is somewhat worthy of his attention. I fear what he would think of the true me.
.
In remembering the discussion, I find we both hid some part of our true selves. It's like something amazing happens when we're together: all the strife and normal worries of life are stripped away. We are allowed to exist in a world and reality where all that matters is our fragile friendship and the tender sides we cultivate in each other.
Instead of being angry at Edward, I find myself only sad. He found me special enough to come outside of his comfort zone and befriend a person who only knew how to thrive in society. He allows me to be someone else, even if for a few hours a week.
And now that it's lost, I find myself floundering within. Oh, I put on the perfect debutante persona in public, never disgracing my mother, training or family name. But inside . . . inside, I become a little more numb each day.
The girl, who thrived under Edward's attention, slowly makes her way back into the recesses of my subconscious. She doesn't know how to be without him. Or perhaps, I don't want to be her without him.
It only shows how weak and easily mandible I truly am. Not that I ever thought differently.
In the end, it doesn't make a bit of difference. Edward refuses to associate with me, and I can scarcely blame him. When one plays a role, and eventually forgets one's act, he or she is bound to be sacked. It was only a matter of time.
Yes, only a matter of time, I remind myself tiredly.
. . .
August settles upon me, and as the summer begins to wind down, so does my hope of an eventual reconciliation with Edward. I shouldn't be surprised, he was quite adamant in his refusal in still wanting to be my friend.
It's easily understandable.
I lean my head against the window and enjoy the feeling of the cool glass against my forehead. My hat pushes back on my head, but I can't find the will to care. I'm in the car and a little bad decorum never hurt anyone. If mother heard such statements leave my lips or even filter in my thoughts . . .
My fingers are sweating inside my gloved hands, but I ignore the uncomfortable situation. I find I've become quite good at uncomfortable situations. They are my new forte.
A delicate yawn leaves my lips as I raise my head from the window. Classes were indeed long today, and my paper due in English Literature is gruesome.
I take in my surrounds and start to become a little confused. The view outside the car window, though familiar, is entirely wrong. We aren't heading in the direction of home.
"Clar," I question, confusion thick in my voice.
"Yes, Miss. Rose," he answers innocently. I know it's an act. The man can't play coy very well, except around mother. He seems to have such a talent around her which surprises even himself.
"What are you doing?" I look at him from the rearview mirror, watching the candor of his eyes.
"Well, I'd say driving, Miss. Rose, but you never know." I find myself giggling, despite my annoyance with his dreadfully obvious answer.
"Such insight, Clar. Pray tell, how will I ever survive without your pedantic brand of practical knowledge?" I tease.
"I suspect with that sarcasm, Miss. Rose," he volleys, not missing a beat. I do enjoy our wit matches.
I shake my head and try valiantly to hide my wide smile. I fail spectacularly. It's really the first genuine smile I feel in a while. My adoration grows for my big friend.
I maintain my smile, but inquire once more as to where we are heading. He only gives me a sly smile before diverting his attention to the road. The afternoon is quite blustery, and fat heavy cloud drift low in the sky. It looks as if the heavens want to open up and release replenishing rain.
Our location doesn't come to mind, and I know Clar isn't about to tell me. So instead of freaking out as I'd like to, I sit back and simply enjoy the ride. Things lately have lost their frivolity, but I will myself to bask in this simple task.
A song comes to mind as I hum it aloud. Clar gives me a quick look. A seemingly happy smirk turns the corner of his lips. However he doesn't linger for long but I could be mistaken. Whatever he's up to isn't to be known by me until the last moment. Men and their eternal need for secrecy. Not that women are any better, I think fairly.
I look at my wristlet and see the time is approaching three in the afternoon. It's an odd time for whatever Clar may have up his sleeve.
I sigh a little, contemplating what could be happening. No idea is forthcoming.
I suddenly jerk forward as the car to an abrupt stop. My breath is a little shallow from the start I receive. Too lost I must have been in my mind to notice we arrive.
Recognition immediately comes to me. I've been here several times, but occasions were entirely different and never during the mid-afternoon hours.
While it is cloudy outside, the building stands proud and stunning. I feel my heart palpitate unsteadily, not knowing what to expect and from the sheer surprise of being here.
Eastman Theatre looms white-grey, almost as grey as the skies. It's odd triangle fan-shaped structure is quite beautiful and unique. It was built as such for the acoustic quality. It's a building unto its own.
As we pull around Gibbs Street and turn onto Main, I see the front of the building. Inscribed into the marble is the sentiment, "For the Enrichment of Community Life". And so the building thusly stands for that. Several orchestra productions I've seen inside. The ambiance is elegantly regal.
I've also taken in several films here. The experience is quite superb.
Of course my father is a series ticket holder and we are granted our private entrance to the right side of the theatre. There are indeed wonderful perks to being a Hale. But as I've come to realize in the past three weeks of my separation from Edward, many things fail in comparison to his lack of presence.
For shame, Rosalie, I scold myself. Have some decorum and pride. He wants nothing else to do with you and for good reason. Keep the mask from slipping.
Clar stops the car at the entrance I normally enter while visiting. My confusion only duplicates by leaps and bounds. I have no idea why I'm here or even the purpose of this queer visit.
I take in my surroundings and notice no one else is entering the grand building. People are milling about, passing on the sidewalk, but no one is entering.
Clarence comes around and opens my door. He extends his hand and helps me out. He is quite the gentlemen, regardless of what he believes. I cherish him all the more for it.
"Thank you," I whisper to him, not sure what else to really say.
"Don't worry, Miss. Rose. It's always a pleasure." I give him a tremulous smile, thinking how blessed I am to have such a stable person in my life, regardless if he is compensated monetarily or not.
"Go inside, Miss, Rose. Someone will be there to greet you." A nervous look filters sneakily onto my face and he must see my apprehension. "You'll be fine ma'am. You trust Old Clar now," he joshes me. I feel my heart lighten yet the tension still raids my stomach.
I shakily let go of his hand and walk the length of the entrance. Before I can even reach for the side door, it opens and reveals an attendant in full uniform. My mask instinctively falls over me. It's a defense mechanism.
How else am I to react in the face of such uncertainty? Is this some odd test from mother? Has father given me a surprise to cheer me up? He has also suffered from my terrible withdrawal.
"Ms. Hale," the attendant greets me officially, bending over cordially. I give him my most confident Rosalie Hale smile and watch as his cheek pinken. It's quite adorable.
"I-If you'd follow me, please, mademoiselle." I reward the kind boy with another smile, but hide my giggles. It would be most improper to let them loose.
"Certainly," I answer and watch his prominent Adam's apple bob in his skinny neck. He can't be any older than fifteen.
My feet follow behind his as we enter fully into the main lobby and though the reception area. The grand doors open without even a squeak. It is a testament to how well taken care of the building is.
My eyes take in the beautiful, splendid décor. It is fit for a literal king. As the grand doors part, sweet, almost peaceful music serenades my ears. The playing is exquisitely profound. It's like nothing I've ever heard.
For all I know it could be the fingers of God himself playing the sinfully aching tune.
As I continue down the long left aisle and into the main Mezzanine, I'm all but blinded by the dazzlingly light highlighting the stage. It's all empty except for a grand piano in the center and the master seated at the bench.
I squint several times, trying to become adjusted to the low lights of the theatre, yet the brilliant light giving prominence to the performer on stage. Even the splendid chandelier hanging over me seemed to be outshined by the stage lights, the impossibly haunting music being played and the mysterious beyond-talented maestro outplaying even the instrument itself.
I want to laugh at the silly thought, but can't find the justification. How is someone able to outplay an instrument, Rosalie? I question myself teasingly.
Errant, surprising giggles tickle the back of my throat, but I don't let them surface. This impractical and mad behavior is quite unsettling and so unbecoming. Have I finally cracked under my numbed depression? Not likely!
The music once again captures me and refuses to let me slip away. Each note sounds as if it's caressed by angel's lips. The highs of the notes threaten to carry me over the impossibly tall precipice, but scarily, I know I'll be fine, for the low haunting notes will surely catch my exhilarating, freeing fall. There is no doubt to cloud my judgment.
Each step seems destined, as if bringing me to something I've had an appointment with since my soul was first created. My heart threatens to spring from my chest as my skin turns into waves of gooseflesh. I continuously shiver from the unknown, yet I feel safe. It's as if I'm placed in an existence where only oxymorons thrive. Or perhaps they're simply half-truths.
And then my rendezvous is upon me. My nerves continue to act intermittently, refusing to release me and bring a calmness I so very desire.
Everything around me seems to be spinning and I can't figure out the root cause. I know the evocative music is a definite factor, but there's more, something just out of reach, only waiting to be discovered.
My eyes become adjusted to the closeness of the stage and I can see the defined outline of the music-god.
He is in perfect synchronization with the instrument. It is finely tuned and sings for him so memorizing. His shoulders are straight, in command of his every move. However, I can see he is so beautifully lost to the swells and combers of the song.
I've never heard this composition. Is it a creation of his making? Is there anyone truly that talented? How is he not a world famous artist of music . . . or perhaps he is?
So many notions pass through my mind, one as insane as the next. I don't even remember to put up my mask. For surely this music would tear it to useless and invisible shreds.
I tilt my head to the side while closing my eyes. I feel my body fall so gracelessly into the first available seat. I find my knees will no longer support my weight. I have been truly rendered incapacitated.
I can think of no one who has ever had such a profound, such an overwhelming result over me.
Except one, my mind soundly argues. Edward . . .
Tears spring abundantly to my eyes. The sting is immediate. With my lids closed, the prickle feels more acute. I want to open my lids, but I'm afraid. Afraid it will disappear; afraid that Edward will surely not be here; afraid my mind has truly perished and invented such a welcoming mad world; afraid that the music will stop and the only thing left will be cold indifference.
How is one able to contend with such chaos?
My worst fears come to realization as the music finally ends. The last note seems to reverberate forever in my ears. So badly I want to see in front of me, take in the eventual sense I'll have to ultimately see, but there is no strength in me. The muscles controlling my face have failed. Could this be classified as a stroke? I feel as if it is. I don't even remember the last time I took in a breath.
So much time passes that I can't even remember how long I've been here, how long I've occupied this chair and how long the last note has rung in my mind.
The pounding of my heart is the only sound I can now hear. The pulsing of my blood through my shocked veins is all I can feel. That is until something lightly grazes my left hand clutching the arm rest.
Tingle after exquisite tingle mixes with my blood and shoots so much awareness through my already overactive body. I start terribly as a gasp rips from the back of my throat.
I sorely want to open my eyes, but simply can't. I'm tremendously scared of what will greet me.
This isn't the Rosalie Hale that entered the theatre. She deserts me for greener pastures. The one left sitting, uncomprehendingly petrified is Rose. I haven't seen her for a while. Except in dreams.
She is still peeking out from my subconscious, weary of what may capture her. And like the rains nourishing the dry, barren grounds, she comes out in her full glory as she finally hears. "Rose," he eloquently says. And nothing of me is the same.
How is it, that one moment, one insignificant word can bring such a torrent of emotions to a system? How is it, that one innocent act of goodwill can change a person so irrevocably?
The answers are not forthcoming. I'm only left to my utter bewilderment.
"Rose," I hear spoken magically again, with such a silky texture.
My eyes refuse to obey me; my body refuses to cooperate with me. But he gently caresses my listless hand and it moves. He tenderly, achingly calls out my name and my eyes open for him.
It seems almost wholly unfair.
As soon as my eyes open, the flood of tears which have accumulated fall over. The water is cool to my heated cheeks. It's a decidedly strange feeling. Everything before me is blurry and I make no move to reconcile it. Seeing the world in shadowy colors helps my mind to cope with the vast pressure.
His unbelievably gorgeous visage comes into view, and though I can't make out each definite feature, he is still the most sublimely beautiful person I've encountered.
Copper hair all but shines in the dim light of the chandelier. It is in unspoiled disarray, as if refusing him the ultimate perfection. His gemstone orbs, though slightly guarded, are threatening to break any moment. There is a glassy appearance to them, but no liquid falls. His artfully sculpted lips are pulls tight, but they look no less inviting. His chin is tilted downward and his jaw clinched. The remorse is rolling off him in waves.
I may not be able to read his thoughts, but I can sense his remorse, as if it's leaking into my skin and traveling to my heart.
I lean back into the cushioned chair; his beauty is somewhat blinding, especially with him bent in front of me, as if in supplication.
He stops stroking my left hand and I feel bereft without the attention. I have little time to think about it, for his gaze captures me so fully.
I want to tell him to get up, to not kneel before me. It sends strange emotions to the pit of my stomach. His face becomes hurtful for a moment and I wonder what the cause is. Regardless, it so unfair for him to be kneeing before me; it should be the opposite.
I have yet to say anything to him, but he still seems to know what I'm contemplating. How is he able to read me so easily? One would think I have no control around him. They'd probably be right, I admit painfully to myself.
"We are in the correct positions, Rose. It is I who has caused you rehensible pain. Our last meeting, Rose . . ." his voice breaks and many tears flood my eyes. I hate what I've reduced him to.
So confident . . . collected . . . not fair . . . should always stand so very tall. Many broken thoughts flood my mind, making little to no sense.
"It's painful to think on. So many cruel things were uttered by me. You didn't deserve the censure."
"Why here," I blurt out, not really understand the abrupt interruption.
He gives me an understanding look before answering my random question.
"I chose this venue for several reasons, Rosalie." My name has never sounded so lovely. Does he know how it affects me so?
"Firstly," he starts, distracting me, "I wanted a building that would be worthy of you. I wanted somewhere that would show how much you've come to mean to me as a friend. I could have staged this apology in our first meeting place, but I wanted it to be grand and truly meaningful."
My heart pounds at his eloquent, heartfelt words. I know they aren't just a pretty cover-up.
"Secondly, I wanted to show you aren't the only one whom performs. We may not constantly be on a stage, but that doesn't preclude us from acting the parts which are required of us. This place is quite impressive, but it's not the only place to demand productions, and I understand that."
"Thirdly, love, I wanted to truly impress you. Because I know I failed royally. The things I accused you of were so unfair."
I go to argue with him, but he doesn't allow it. It is evident there is much on his chest, the gaping emotions in his eyes speak so hauntingly of his suffering. I wonder if the same look is plastered onto my own face.
"It's the truth. You're so very like this edifice. Stunningly appealing, yet offering so much emotion to be felt and seen. How can you be blind to it, Rosalie? You think most of your reactions are rehearsed, practiced to perfection, and though some of them may be, not all are. I can see beyond the production. Those angry words I yelled at you were not truth. They were a reflection of what I feel about myself. I took my severe insecurities and made them about you. For that I'm exceedingly, exceedingly sorry. Words mean nothing, only my actions will."
I am taken so very far aback by the heartfelt articulation of his apology. I don't know what to say or even if I can properly move. He renders me immoveable.
"Are you able to forgive me, Rose?" he whispers. He delicately reaches up and wipes the rolling tears from my skin. I wonder if my skin feels extremely hot to him. I lean slightly into his comfort.
I allow myself the luxury of becoming lost in his darkened eyes. They are so very expressive and change with his staggering emotions. My head nods of its own accord, too busy am I trying to see into his heart.
A soft sigh leaves his parted lips and fans over my features. The coolness feels like beautiful relief on my hot, flushed cheeks. I can hear the release of his illogicality regarding me and my reaction. How could he doubt I'd not forgive him?
"Even after the show ends and the stage become quiet, the show continues, Rose. It's only not seen by the patrons. The spirits of the audience is too deeply rooted for there to be utter silence."
His words ring strangely true to me. I am speechless at his cadence, the absolute ease in which he can explain something so philosophically, attentively.
"You're so very like that. Even when no one is around to experience your splendor, doesn't mean you stop shining. It is impossible." My throat is so tight that I feel if I even attempt to swallow it will shatter. I'm left with so much overflowing.
"E-Edward," I eventually rasp out. "I never meant to lead y-you on. I'm sorry if you t-thought differently," I stutter horrendously. Is he even able to understand my in-articulation?
"I know, Rose. You were correct. It was a misunderstanding on my part. I had just never seen your public side in action. It threw me momentarily. On top of everything else, I was fighting my own demon. It whispers viciously to me, Rose. It tells me regardless of everything I try to become, it is all a mirage." He stops momentarily and evens out his breathing.
"Unlike me, you know your limitations and play to them in public. You're so beautifully refined. Almost untouchable. I couldn't equate that with the person I came to know. It was unfair of me to even try. We all have different facets to our personalities, and I should have given you leeway." I nod, listening to his solid reasons.
"It's no excuse, Rose. I only ask you have patience with me. I've never encountered a friendship such as this," he whispers, gesturing between himself and me in the space that separates us. "It's scary, all but forbidden to me." I don't understand his last explanation, yet I can see it's the truth.
Strange . . .
However, Edward has become my friend again and the patience he asks for will be given in abundance. Rose would not refuse him. Who could refuse him?
"You have it," I answer his amiable request.
We stare at each other for a bit longer, catching up on the time that separated us. Yes, Edward is still new to me, but is still profoundly important to me. One cannot truly understand the heart and what it craves. We can only hope to withstand the barrage of emotions it pelts us with. Dr. Cullen himself probably couldn't even explain the immense mysteries of the heart.
One lone finger trails the length from the corner of my right eye to my chin. His finger is cool, but gives me blessed reprieve.
I give him a tremulous smile and will the tears to stop. I can only imagine how frightful I look. However, I find it doesn't matter. There will be time to freshen up before leaving.
He nods his head in good will before unbending and taking the seat next to me. His knees must feel stiff from kneeling for so long.
A playful smile turns the corner of his lips and I'm confused by its origin. What has you smirking, Edward, I ask myself in a moment of welcome lightheartedness. The burden of our separation is no longer threatening to weight me down. Breathing seems almost effortless again.
"Are you accomplished on the piano, Rose?" I giggle for entirely no reason, but he doesn't disparage me. I hear his soft laughs filled in with mine. It's amazing how purging one's deepest poison can give a new lease on life.
"Not really. It's something I've always aspired to learn; along with fixing cars." I bite my lip at the forbidden confession and bask in his mirth.
"I shall teach you then, love. It's the least I could do. I'm told it's what friends do," he explains so seriously, it's beyond adorable.
"Then we shall have to do it," I affirm. "We are friends, right, Edward?" I inquire, truly needing his support and validation. I feel terrible with the uncertainty tingeing my voice. I don't want him feeling guilty.
I turn in my seat at the same time he does. His gaze is piercing, beyond sincere.
"Yes, Rose." And I'm happy once again.
"Did you compose the piece you were playing?" I ask out of curiosity, wanting desperately to change the subject to something lighter. Though the song was anything but, the topic of his potential talent in music-writing has to be.
"That's a secret for another time," he jests. "Suffice it to say, I dabble."
And on our seemingly light conversation continues.
I am drained of heavy emotions. I start the day with much ambiguity, depressed in the knowledge I've lost something inexplicably special. I could survive without Edward, but the prospect is daunting. His is a friendship I had yet to experience and having a slight taste was never enough to satisfy my palate. Now, I have him back and don't have to contemplate the other reality.
Whatever will happen with us in the near future, I know I will forever be happy to have known him. No matter how long our acquaintance may last, or how painful it will seem if ending.
". . . and I only hope you are up for the challenge," he finishes.
I may have become lost in my wondering mind, but I answer him with full assuredly, resoundingly, "Absolutely."
The meaning is even deeper than intended.
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Author's Notes: Hi, darlings, and welcome to the end of chapter ten. Goodness, I can't believe I already have ten chapters. It was only meant to that long, but now looks as if it will be twice that size.
Anyhow, I wanted to thank you, thank you and thank you some more for all the wonderful reviews and PM's. My eyes truly teared up from the overwhelming response. To those reviews I couldn't respond to, they were so wonderful and endearing! You made my entire week!
I had anticipated this chapter for sooner, but computer problems had a different idea. I tried to edit this, but with the problems, it's making it difficult. Please excuse the mistakes.
Well, I think that's it. Please, loves, if you have the time, could you leave me a review? You've completely spoiled me! I welcome all.
Hope you all had a nice weekend. And for those in the path of Isaac my thoughts and most sincere well wishes are with you! Until next time, much love!
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(1) Eastman Theatre opened in September of 1922. The Eastman Theatre has the largest marquee in the world—367 ft on Main and Gibbs streets. Carved in granite near the top of the theatre are the words "For the Enrichment of Community Life"
The exterior is shaped like a triangle with the stage at the apex. It is said to be acoustically perfect and was designed to provide the same comfort and enjoyment for all patrons regardless of the ticket price. It cost 6.7 million to build in 1922.
Google Image "Eastman Theatre" to see the gorgeous pictures. It's well worth it.
Updated: Monday, 3 September 2012