March 10, 2013 – Reflection Day
March 11, 2013 – Word Prompt: Finesse. Plot Generator—Binding Blurb: In 500 words or fewer, write a blurb or a short entry about "preconceived notions."
. . .
The spine is cracked, the pages dog-eared, the cover soft and worn from the countless number of times I've thumbed through it. Scoured it for every single trace of Bella.
Songs About Summer. It's a beautiful, meaningless title. Meaningless to me, anyway. To us. We were always about snow days and blanket forts and hot chocolate; there is nothing of "us" in Bella's book, and I spent years wondering if it was deliberate, or if she'd simply moved on so completely, so wholly, that I wasn't even worth mentioning.
The first time I opened it and read the dedication page made out to her father, I felt ridiculous for the swell of disappointment that crested behind my breastbone. I had broken so many promises to her; I have no idea what made me think she might have kept hers to me. After all, what would that dedication have said, anyway?
To Edward. Thanks for nothing, asshole.
To Edward, who broke me.
To Edward, who broke everything.
I should be grateful I was spared the wrath of writer-Bella; after all, what's that quote about the permanence of the written word? It would really suck for the transgressions of a horny eighteen-year-old to be cast in ink forever. Then again, if it meant she'd forgive me, I'd happily type the words myself.
I had always thought that Bella and I would be in each other's lives forever. I was so certain that her presence in my life was a guaranteed; even before I realized I loved her, I just took her as a constant, an ever-lingering presence. A given. What I didn't realize at the time was this: a "given" is, in fact, a "gift." And as easily as it is given, it can be taken away.
Then I fell in love with her. I had all of these ideas about what love was, and I just assumed I'd be good at it. Loving Bella was the easiest thing for me, the thing that came the most naturally, even easier than baseball and polynomials and French conjugations. I figured I'd hit it out of the park.
I never could have imagined that loving Bella was the one thing I'd fail at.
. . .
Please, God, no. There's no way she could possibly know what happened Friday night, right? The only people who know are me and Rosalie, and even if Rose told someone, the likelihood that she'd tell someone who even talks to Bella is remote. Bella can't know.
But she won't look at me.
In the hallways.
In Trig.
At lunch, she doesn't even show up in the cafeteria, and neither does Alice.
The uncertainty is making me anxious, paranoid, desperate. I don't want to even think about what it would mean if she found out, but the possibility is at the forefront of my mind and refuses to be ignored. I'm such an idiot, and I don't even know how it happened.
And I know exactly how that will sound if I do, in fact, have to say those words to Bella: like an inadequate excuse. Like a lie. I've never lied to her. There's no way to finesse an explanation out of what happened on Friday: that I was horny and stupid and buzzed and too slow on the uptake to realize what was going on until it was all but over. Does that count as cheating?
I know the answer. It's simple, and I know the answer without a doubt because it's the first time in my life I'm tempted to lie to her, the first time in my life that telling her the truth scares me. But losing her scares me even more, which is why I didn't say anything when I was sitting next to her on Chief Swan's couch yesterday afternoon, studying trig notes and trying not to feel like a heathen.
But I didn't mean to.
And I can't bring myself to believe that something so meaningless, something I didn't even want, could cost me the one thing that matters the most.
When I catch her by the elbow in the student lot after school, she goes rigid beneath my touch; not a new reaction, but the situation is entirely different. She's never tensed away from my casual touches before, and a spike of fear pierces my chest. "Bella, what the hell? What's wrong?" Brown eyes meet mine, and for the first time, she looks like a stranger. The fear mounts. "What happened?"
"You tell me."
Oh, God. "What?"
She squares her shoulders, and for a brief, fleeting moment, I want to run away from the truth I know is coming. "You tell me, Edward. Tell me you didn't kiss someone else." She's so brave, so strong, and I realize the irony in the fact that while I always wanted to protect her from everything, I'm the one who holds all the power to hurt her right now. Before I can say anything, those brown eyes are swimming with tears, and she turns away.
"It didn't mean anything." Just as I thought, it sounds empty. Hollow. Meaningless. Like the experience itself.
"It does to me."
"Bella."
"How can a kiss with me be 'enough,' and a kiss with someone else mean nothing?"
"Your kisses are more than enough," I try, realizing even as I say the words that we're talking about a kiss, and even Bella – beautiful, innocent, inexperienced Bella – isn't that naïve. She doesn't know. Not everything.
"Apparently not." And I know. I know, as she starts laying the foundation of a wall between us, that I'm losing her.
"Please," I beg. "Let me explain." Even though I have no idea what I'll say. How I'll explain anything.
"No," she says, her voice colder than I've ever heard it. And then, for the first time I can remember, she walks away from me.
. . .