Chapter Four
BPOV
Edward's quiet today.
He never interrupts as I read aloud from the textbook. His answers are scrawled across the blanks in his own workbook. The handwriting is wide and loopy, elegant and sure, written by deft, thoughtful fingers. Those fingers … they're long and move with precision with everything he does: flipping the pages of the Bible, running them carelessly through his unruly, rust-colored hair, absently stroking the scruff on his chin.
I blush as he raises a questioning brow. I haven't even realized I've ceased speaking in my enthrallment with his fingers, with his movements. Clearing my throat, I quickly glance down at the textbook and begin reading again, feeling slightly off-kilter by his silence. During our last visit I confessed that I felt things for him, things that I continue to not quite understand.
Then I spoke of my mother, of how she hates him, which is the truth. Although the police investigation proved that Edward wasn't speeding that dreary rainy day, my mother refuses to believe it. She blames him … but I guess we all have blame someone when life goes awry. We blame others … we blame ourselves.
Edward quietly answers a few questions, reading his answers aloud as we finish the subject of forgiveness. I feel a weight lifted from my chest. I'm anxious to move on to another subject. Hopefully it will be a lighter one.
"Is something wrong?" I ask Edward, glancing over his shoulder at Seth, the guard, who's slumped in his chair in the corner with his eyes fluttering sleepily.
Edward nods, then takes a deep breath as he begins to speak.
"I've been thinking about our last conversation …"
Dread curls in my stomach. I learned long ago to never get my hopes up, to never have high expectations out of life. I should have known to hang on to that belief, because I see nothing but rejection in Edward's piercing green eyes.
"I understand," I interrupt, gathering my things, my skin on fire.
"I don't think you do."
Those long fingers wrap around my wrist ever so gently. My eyes travel from his hand and to his face. The rejection is no longer there. There's a struggle in his eyes. It's a struggle for understanding.
"We should ease into this. You said you want to take things slow, yeah?"
"Yes."
"Your mother … maybe she'll be more understanding of our friendship if we slowly ease into it."
"Is that what this is, Edward? A friendship?"
Confusion plays in his eyes, then slowly turns into a soft forlornness.
"I won't disrupt your life anymore than I already have. Your mother … she's your mother. I won't get between the two of you. So, we'll be friends. For now."
My wrist remains ensnared in those fingers. His thumb presses against the vein that runs on the inside of my wrist.
"Your heart's beating so fast," he murmurs, running his finger across my skin.
"I'm surprised it's beating at all," I mumble, breaking free from his grasp, and ignoring the sadness etched across his face.
"I'm not trying to upset you."
His voice is quiet. Thoughtful. And I know. I know he's not trying to hurt me, but still.
"This was a mistake," I mutter, shaking my head. "I don't know what's come over me. I thought, I mean. I felt something that I've never felt before. Not even ... and … I went with it. I'm so stupid."
"Stop," he begs, standing.
Seth's eyes come alive. He's suddenly awake, and awkward as he watches Edward's lanky frame stand tall, rising from where he's perched on the gray, metal chair. Seth's unsure eyes dart from Edward and back to me as he silently contemplates interrupting our unethical exchange.
"Will you come back?" he asks, his voice full of panic.
I swallow the guilty knot, because I've thought about it. In the past dozen or so minutes I've thought about leaving and not returning to this dreadful place. I'm embarrassed and ashamed of putting myself out there. And angry. I'm so angry that he's said the things he's said to me, touched me, made me believe something only to back off. He's hot and cold and I'm on fire. I'm burning for the first time in two years. I feel alive.
"I told you I'd come back," I muttered, forcing back the tears. "I always keep my promises."
He says nothing as I leave the room. He's silent and I'm struggle to stop the gasps, not sucking in a good breath until my feet exit the building.
The tears don't fall until I'm in the parking lot, cursing my car door that just doesn't want to cooperate with my armload of books. They slip to the ground, the pages now soaked and tarnished with the recent rain water that's pooled in the cracked potholes of the parking lot.
I sniff and dry my eyes, muttering under my breath about talking to someone about the horrible condition of the parking lot. Tossing my books in the backseat of the car, I slide quietly inside and stare at the building. I stare at the building where the beautiful, broken man dwells. I'll return to this building in a few days, just as I promised. I'll return with my heart no longer on my shoulder. I'll guard it more carefully from here on out.
Little do I know that when I do return to the county jail … Edward will no longer be there.
The torrid clouds hang overhead in a smoldering gray mass. The sky is etched in lightning, streaking across the sky. I fight with my old umbrella, silently willing it to open without a fuss. The metallic, skeletal frame on the inside doesn't want to cooperate, and the wind is its willing partner.
Stumbling down the sidewalk from my home, I abandon my struggle with the inanimate object. I allow the whipping wind and pelting rain to beat against me as I slide into my car, cutting off the storm outside with the swift movement of my door.
I'm jittery today. My hands shake as I cling to the steering wheel, carefully pulling from the drive. It's been days, just a handful of days, but stilldays … since I last had a drink.
It took everything within me to reach out to someone after my mother ignored my quiet plea for help. Swallowing my pride, I called Dr. Gerandy, the man who treated me for anxiety after the wreck. He penciled me in for a rushed appointment, much to my relief.
"The panic attacks you had after losing your loved ones won't be much different from the ones you may experience now that you've decided to stop drinking," he said, on the fateful day of my office visit. "Are you a heavy drinker, Isabella? Be honest."
"I drink every day."
"How much?"
I hesitantly explained how much I drank, and how often during the day I did so. He nodded and murmured, carefully explaining the weaning process, then thankfully dismissing my question of in-house treatment.
"We can try this without rehab, but if this doesn't work … that's the next step. Do you understand?" he asked, his pale, watery eyes speaking volumes behind his thick spectacles. "You coming forward and asking for help speaks volumes."
I nodded and took the written prescription which he ripped from his pad. The brown bottle full of benzodiazepines, or 'peace pills' as Dr. Gerandy had so jokingly called them, now rest inside my leather purse, along with a handful of pamphlets Dr. Gerandy pressed into my hands. The pills help with the tremors and the anxiety, but they don't alleviate the constant burning at the back of my throat. It's a never-ending thirst that I just can't quench, and I wonder if the desire will fade over time, or if it will continue to plague me for the rest of my days.
I'm drawn from my thoughts at the sight of the jail. The building matches the sky. It's dark, forlorn, and edged with sadness. I gather my new bag, the one that's filled with my Bible and dog-eared workbooks.
Darting through the rain, I smile at a woman emerging from the building. She holds the door, but doesn't return my smile. She's busily engaged with her teenage son, pulling him from the building by his ear, and loudly cursing him for his new DUI she's having to pay for. An officer chuckles at the expression on my face as I pull my clinging hair away from my neck, then pencil my name into the visitor's log.
The air in the lobby is cool and unnerving, and it's much too quiet. The tap, tap, tap of my foot against the metal leg of the chair in front of me is the only sound. That and the heavy sighs of the bored female officer behind the desk. A door opens and I smile broadly at Seth's familiar face, but the smile quickly fades at his somber expression. He's wary. His dark eyes travel my facial features as I stand and cross the room. I'm silent as I gaze at him expectantly.
"You're ministering to a new inmate today," he explains.
"Wh- what about Edward?" I ask, the concern in my voice lost on no one within easy earshot.
Seth gives me a dry smile, then says, "He's gone. Left the same day you were here. Just after you left, as a matter of fact."
I stand in stunned silence, a mouthful of words tilting on the edge of my tongue. They're not only words, but questions. Who bailed him out? Where did he go? Do you know where he lives? Doesn't he have to return for court? When is court?
But I ask none of these questions. There's only one question of importance now.
"Did he leave a message for me ...to where he's going or how to get in touch with him?"
Seth's silence is the only answer I need.
With a heavy heart, I follow Seth back to that little, gray room. The room should feel wider now ... more roomy, now that he's gone. But it doesn't. It's smaller, if that's somehow possible. The air is suffocating, choking me and my weakening spirit … what little spirit remains.
I try to focus on my hands … my hands and the shakes, but all I can think of is him. Why didn't he leave me a message? Does he think so little of me that he doesn't care to disappoint me? Hurt me?
I fight back the tears as I pull the Bible and workbooks from my bag. This is silly. I feel silly and small and ridiculous for allowing myself to fall for this man, only for him to so easily walk out of my life.
But really … what did I expect?
I ask myself that question, unconcerned with the sound of shuffling feet as Seth returns with a new inmate. What did I really expect to happen? Did I expect Edward to post bail, pick me up for a date, then sweep me off my feet? It could never be that easy. Nothing about our lives or our situation was that easy.
Edward did the right thing. He understood that this ... thing between us ... could never go any further past these four walls. The decision he made wasn't a selfish one. He did it for me … for us. It was a decision to escape further hurt from the ones we love … from everyone, really.
"Ms. Swan?"
I glance up and meet the smiling, placid-blue eyes of a man who looks to be in his early twenties. The blonde hair on his head is a pitiful mess of limp, once halfway-decently arranged spikes. His enthusiasm at my presence should be contagious, but instead I'm leery of it. I'm leery of it and of the smile on his childlike face.
"Or should I call you'Bella! Oh, Bella! You taste so good … so beautiful!"
I'm sure my eyes widen with horror as I watch this man moan my name, then begin gyrating his hips. He pumps the air, his face drawn in eerie ecstasy. My stomach churns at his antics, and I let out a startled gasp as Seth slams him against the table in front of me.
The inmate's face twists in pain. A sliver of blood paints his face, trailing from the corner of his mouth from his newly acquired busted lip.
"Hey, man. Take it easy," the inmate grumbles. "I'm just showing Ms. Swan what I've heard every night from Cullen … every fucking night since he first met her. I haven't had any good rest since you started showing up here!"
I'm gathering my things before his words even settle in. The tremors have increased, and I find myself dropping my Bible three times before I manage to slip it inside the bag. A quiet apology concerning my abrupt departure is murmured through my pursed lips as I excuse myself. I return a nod as Seth bids me farewell. His eyes dwell on my heated cheeks, and his hands remain on the inmate's restrained form.
"Tell Cullen Mike says 'hi' for me, will ya?" the inmate barks out with a laugh as I step from the room.
I suck in the fresh air as soon as I escape the suffocating confines of the jail.
The rain has stopped.
The relentless pelting disappeared. The sun hangs high in the sky and the clouds part, casting that rare post-shower sun-show on the slick roads. My mind and body is numb as I drive home. My hands leave the steering wheel occasionally to sip from the bottle of water I keep nearby. There's so many empty bottles littering my my car.
It's a new addiction.
The numbness ebbs away as Mike's stomach-churning display flashes through my mind. It's obvious Edward dreamed of me while in jail … and those dreams … those dreams.
That's as far as my mind travels. As I climb the small, steep incline of hill near my house my jaw goes slack. The bottle of water slips from my fingertips. The cool fluid soaks through my already dampened dress, causing the material to cling to my skin.
A white pickup truck is parked on the side of the road near my front yard. A lean, lanky fellow with rusty-colored hair sits on the wide steps leading to my home. His elbows rest on his knees … his hands are tugging at his hair. He's staring at the ground as he tugs, muttering to himself. The clothing he wears is no longer orange. The fabric of his jeans is soft, worn. The white tee he wears hugs his upper body, exposing the sharp planes of muscles lying beneath. Paint-splattered work boots grace his feet.
This man is beautiful … and he's sitting on my steps. His head lifts. His piercing green eyes raise as well, and now stare at my slowly moving vehicle as I pull timidly up the drive.
The drive and walkway in front of my home is a dark stain, evidence of the rainstorm that has since parted ways with the lush, green, Kentucky countryside. Droplets of water rest of blades of grass. The sun filters in through the departing wisps of smoky-gray clouds. The door of my car gently closes beside me. My purse strap rests on my right shoulder.
Yet, I feel none of this … I see none of this.
All I see is him, Edward, sitting on those cold, hard, damp steps leading into my home. I see him and the dilemma on his face; the uncertainty of the decision he has made, being here at my home and away from the monitored confines of the county jail.
The expression never melts from his face, not even as I approach him, the damp air filled with the sound of our mutually bewildered breaths. It remains in place as I pause just inches from those paint-spattered boots, vaguely reminding me of the shutters in front of my home that are in dire need of a touch-up.
"You weren't there."
They're my words that are spoken, causing him to raise his eyebrows, that trepidation ebbing away from his face and replaced with something entirely different. I'm not sure why my statement surprises him so. Did he expect some other words to fill the humid air? Did he expect me to uncaring of his disappearing act?
"No, I left," he finally speaks up, pushing himself from the steps.
He's suddenly close; very close. The hum of his warm body radiates from him, and I want to step away from it. I want to flee from this man, and from the strange emotions that have been brewing in my mind.
But, for one of the few few times in my newly rediscovered life … I don't run from adversity.
Because it's a lie. I'm lying to my heart by trying to convince myself that I should rebuke these feelings he's stirred up inside of me.
"I bailed out yesterday," he admits, his minty breath washing over me. "I came by here this morning hoping to see you before you left for the jail, but I got lost. I've never been on this side of town before. I would have stopped by last night, but I thought you'd find it inappropriate … me ... stopping by … so late at night. I didn't want you to think … I mean …"
Edward's voice wanders off, his cheeks tinting slightly. He watches the whirling storm of emotions clouding my face, never looking away, never easing up on the intensity of his stare.
How could I ever deny this man … this dusty ray of sunshine who's managed to filter his way through the torrid rain clouds of my dismal life? What can I say, other than ...
"Would you like to come inside?"
Reviews makes him come inside. o.O