March 29, 2013 – Word prompt: Shower. Plot Generator—Phrase Catch: Back to normal.
. . .
It took me six years and then some to find my way back to Bella.
It takes Charlie Swan seventy-six hours.
I guess I have a lot to learn about unconditional love.
After tearful hugs and kisses, reassurances that he'll be okay, a day of listening to doctors' reports, surgical summaries, recovery prospects, long-term prognoses, Charlie orders Bella back to Forks under the guise of getting him some of "his things." But I see what he notices when she isn't looking: the dark circles under her eyes, the bone-deep weariness that has settled into her slight frame, the gauntness of her face that belies the fact that she hasn't eaten anything more substantial than coffee in days. When he suggests that I drive her, I don't miss the look in his dark eyes: warning, pleading, trusting.
All these years later, we're still speaking the same language.
I'm opening the passenger door of my car when it happens: she breaks. Great, heaving, body-racking sobs that shake her entire frame and transport me to a moonlit yard years ago and a crying girl illuminated by headlamps. The difference is, this time, I reach for her and she comes willingly into the circle of my arms.
"It's okay, Bella. He's going to be okay." I press my mouth to the crown of her head, breathing in the scent of her, all traces of shampoo or perfume eradicated by the undeniable scent of hospital. I feel small hands clutching the fabric of my coat at my lower back, and I tighten my grip, content to hold her for as long as she'll let me. And as I murmur, "Everything's going to be okay" into her hair and feel her hold on me tighten, I'm relieved to find that I believe my own words.
She's asleep in the seat beside me before I even make it to the highway, and three hours pass in silence, save the steady, even cadence of her breath in sleep. And it hits me that despite our shared history, despite everything that we went through, everything we did together, I've never seen this girl sleep. The faint crease of worry hasn't entirely vanished from between her eyebrows, and her eyelids flicker with some unknowable dream, and her chest rises and falls peacefully beneath a navy blue sweater, and for the first time ever, she seems like a new person. And I realize in an instant, listening to the simple sound of her breathing: I love her even more than the old one.
Back in Forks, I order her into the shower while I attempt to make her something to eat with the meager supplies Charlie has in his kitchen; in the end, I settle for grilled cheese and a mug of coffee. When she slips into the chair across from me, damp-haired and doe-eyed, my heart lurches.
And gazing at her over Charlie's tiny kitchen table for two, it hits me that for the past six years, I've been trying to get back here. Not back to Forks, not even back to Bella, but just back to normal. Back to an even plane, back to the point where I feel whole, complete. Back to a place where I don't hate who I am, even if I'll always hate what I did.
I never could have hoped that finding my way back to Bella would lead me back to myself.
. . .
"Bella's going to be there."
I freeze, spoon halting in its circular motion within the just-poured mug. "What?"
"Mom and Dad invited Charlie, and when he said Bella would be home for Thanksgiving, they sent her an invitation, too." Jasper's voice is cautious, and I wonder if Alice is in another room, phone pressed to her ear, issuing a similar warning. In my case, it fills me with anticipation. In hers, I wonder if it will be something more akin to dread. Or if, six years later, I'm nothing more than an unpleasant memory. "I thought I should give you a heads-up," my brother finishes, clearly uncertain as to what to do with my silence.
"Yeah. Thanks." Jasper is the only one besides Emmett who knows what happened all those years ago; unlike Emmett, his information didn't come from Rosalie. That it was offered from Alice's perspective sometimes makes me wonder what my brother thinks of me.
For hours, my brain is swirling around the simple idea that I'm going to be in the same room as Bella Swan; what I'll do when I get there is a mountain I feel ill-equipped to scale.
A six-year-old apology – stale or necessary?
Do I approach her like the lovestruck teenager who still can't believe his own stupidity, or a man who can look back on his mistake from a distance? I know which one is the truth; would she? Would she even care?
And what will she be like? Will she still be the girl I hurt, or a woman wearing a thicker skin? Which would I want, if the choice were even remotely mine?
. . .