Thanks to my beta, Tiffanyanne3
Chapter 9
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"What are you doing here?" I grab Edward's arm just above the elbow and spin him in a half circle so that his back is blocking my view of Kathy's prying eyes.
Jesus Christ. I withhold an exasperated eye roll. Even his elbow is firm.
His eyes are light and playful as they bounce between my face and the hand I've yet to remove from his arm. "I wanted to see you." He shrugs, all cute boy and innocence. "You said you were working, so..."
When he lifts his head to scan the diner, I'm suddenly embarrassed to see what he sees. Through his eyes the faded country decor and old mismatched Fiestaware must look haphazard and depressing at best. The clunky cash register on the counter is probably older than I am, and the jukebox by the door predates us both. Kathy's pretending to dry glasses behind the cracked and chipped formica counters, her frizzy brown hair half in, half out of its twisted bun. Her lips are in a constant state of pucker, having spent years wrapped around the end of a cigarette. She looks rough, much older than she actually is, and she's full of the stories to prove it. Beyond all that, though, she's one of the kindest, most generous people I know, and I'm instantly defensive of her and the little diner that has put a paycheck in my pocket and food on our table since I was eighteen years old.
"Right," I hiss. "I'm working. So what's with the unexpected drop-in?"
I'm fisting my faded apron and gesturing wildly, which is equal parts embarrassing and, well, weird. I gently drop the fabric and smooth its creases before stuffing my fists in the apron's oversized pockets where they're sure to behave.
Edward's eyes continue to dance as though he's the sole teller of some secret joke. He finds my discomfort funny, I observe. He finds me funny.
I narrow my eyes and am preparing to tell him just how entirely unfunny this situation really is, when he lifts his hands in mock defeat and takes a sarcastic step back. "Whoa, take it easy. I just want a bite to eat."
"Right," I mutter. "A bite to eat." Grabbing a menu and a roll of utensils from the basket near the door, I jerk my head toward the furthest booth in the back, near a corner window. "Right this way, then."
He follows too closely while I lead him through the diner to his seat. Kathy's all grins and giggles as he passes, and I shoot her my best look of exasperated wariness. He's used to this I'm sure—women falling all over him—and although he remains silent behind me, I know he eats it up. Or, well, he used to anyway.
I wish I could say I didn't understand what all the hype is about, but I'd be lying through my teeth. He's beautiful, that's what. But it's more than that, too. He carries himself well, confidence that borders on cocky, as if he knows exactly where he's going and precisely where he's been. His lopsided half smile and sheepish hair-tugging only adds to his appeal, and while I once thought them rehearsed, I'm no longer convinced they aren't genuine.
So, yeah. I fucking get it.
I slap his menu down on the table and wave my arm widely, a sarcastic please, have a seat.
He pauses to unbutton his suit jacket before grinning widely and folding his long body into the sticky plastic bench seat. Seeing Edward Cullen—wearer of fancy suits and hair so perfectly coifed—perched behind a faded yellow, plastic-topped table is a contradiction so strong that a frantic giggle threatens to erupt from my throat. I tamper that shit down.
I dig my order pad from my apron pocket and pull one (of three) pencil's from my bun before giving it a swift and impatient tap tap against the paper. "What can I get you?"
His smile is wide. "What do you recommend?"
"It's probably easier for me to list what I don't recommend," I drop my voice to a whisper and throw a cautious glance over my shoulder. "Stay away from the fish."
I see my Ava in the way his eyes crinkle at the corners when he chuckles. "Duly noted," he says.
It knocks the wind out of me, these unpredicted moments when I see her in him. This thing that we're doing, whatever this is, is so, so real. He's like two separate people: the Edward from my youth, back to tease me and flirt his way under my skin, and the Edward of today, exactly one half of what makes up my baby girl. I want to fall to my knees in front of that Edward and beg him to explain. How could you reject us? How could you turn your back on her?
It's irrational, this thought process, and it's an unwelcome voice in my head. I don't want to feel tied to him this way, and yet I do, because I am. And forever I will be. Rejection or not, he looks like her. He made her. She's here because of him.
He'd likely label me crazy if he could hear what a simple deterrence of fish could do to my head. Better that I keep those thoughts and emotions under lock and key, in the deepest parts of my heart where they're protected.
"So," I raise my eyebrows in question. "What'll it be?"
He folds his menu shut and begins unbuttoning and rolling the sleeves of his blue dress shirt. "I'll start with a sweet tea." He pauses to look at me for approval.
"It's safe," I say.
His laugh is deep and friendly, and with his sleeves rolled up and one knee crossed over the other, he is the picture of complete and total relaxation. I envy him.
"So, sweet tea, then, and an order of the smothered steak with brown gravy. Mashed potatoes and green beans," he continues.
"Good choice," I compliment him. "I'll get it right out."
Turning on my heel, I head back to the kitchen to drop his order off. Kathy, of course, is waiting just behind the swinging double doors, ready to accost me at first glance.
"Who" —she drawls the word out like a reverent sigh— "is that?"
Snapping Edward's order into the ticket holder, I address his "title" publicly for the first time. "An old friend from high school," I lie.
Kathy gives my shoulders a squeeze and lets loose a throaty, nicotine-laced cackle. "Well, lucky you!"
I offer her a shrug of indifference. "He's an ass," I say.
"The pretty ones usually are," she calls on her way back to the counter.
I let Edward eat his meal without many interruptions, checking on him occasionally like any good waitress would. Other than a gracious smile when I refill his tea, he keeps to himself in his corner booth. I make it a point not to stare at him, although, like a magnet, my gaze is drawn to his corner section. Aside from the occasional check and re-pocket of his phone, he simply alternates between eating quietly and gazing out the window toward the diner's cracked and pot-holed parking lot. His presence in this place looms large, and he's on my mind as I multitask my way through each of my mundane waitress duties. I'm wiping down counters while I wonder if he's lonely. I'm re-plating pie as I berate myself for caring. I'm topping off coffee while I ponder where he lives, and refilling ketchup bottles as I wonder if it's alone.
He stretches and rubs his stomach in contentment when I clear his empty plate. "That good, huh?" I inquire.
Wiping his hands on his napkin, he folds it in half and tosses it on the table. "I don't get many home-cooked meals," he says through a grin.
"Trust me," I snort. "That wasn't anywhere close to 'home cooked.'''
He shrugs sheepishly. "It wasn't pizza, and it wasn't Chinese takeout."
I'm oddly at ease standing next to Edward's table, my hip resting against its edge, one leg crossed over the other. He's friendly, I realize, and talking to him is easy when I allow it to be. There's an air of humility surrounding him now that was never there when we were younger. He's confident, yes, but also...humble?
The words are out of my mouth before I can give them permission. "You don't cook?"
His cheeks flare pink momentarily. "Beyond the occasional grilled cheese and Bagel Bites?" He shakes his head. "No."
"Ugh," I wrinkle my nose in disgust. "Bagel Bites? Gross."
"This from the girl who eats instant grits for more than just breakfast," he says, grinning.
I'm embarrassingly pleased that he remembered. "It's good stuff," I laugh, shrugging.
He gestures toward the empty booth across from him. "Can you sit?" he asks.
I'm torn. While, admittedly, I'm enjoying this light and easy back-and-forth, sitting down across from him seems alarmingly intimate. I'm terrified of how easy it is to let my guard down with this new version of him. It's been years since I've been silly and girlish, yet he reduces me to a giggly puddle of goo in a matter of minutes.
Three months ago, if I'd been told I could say anything I wanted to Edward Cullen after these long six years, it certainly wouldn't have gone anything like this: "I'd better not. Work, you know? Maybe some other time."
We stare awkwardly at each other for an uncomfortable beat before I smile and turn to go grab his check.
"Hey, Bella?" he calls softly just as I start to step away.
"Yeah?"
I turn halfway and look at him expectantly. His pressed shirt and tailored pants look strikingly bizarre when paired with his boyish posture. I can't help but grin at the lopsided smirk on his familiar face. This boy introduced me to my own heart, promptly broke it, and then left me with a constant reminder of how full to overflowing it'd once been for him. Now marred with scars and hardened by grief, still the powerful organ recognizes him. His smile; his familiar quiet-yet-teasing demeanor. And a new addition: his kindness.
"Can we talk?" he asks, heavy and serious this time.
I feel less like a parent and more like a little girl, vulnerable in my sudden shyness, as I make my way back over to where he sits.
"Okay," I say quietly. "About what?"
He runs his fingers roughly through the hair at the back of his head before lifting his eyes to mine, eyebrows furrowed, face so serious. "Everything..." He gives a short laugh of exasperation. "Ava. Me, you...the past six years. Just...everything."
The desire to finally be honest with him bubbles up in me so quickly that I scarcely recognize the words as they pour from my mouth. "I'm scared," I whisper.
Our eyes dance back and forth as the weight of what I've just admitted settles upon us both. The hum of the ancient light hanging over his head does little to drown out the sound of my own blood rushing through my ears.
There's no crinkly eyes this time. No sarcastic laugh or teasing comment. His eyes simply continue their dance with mine, the smooth expanse between his eyebrows creasing up in concentration.
"Of what?" he asks softly, his voice so quiet I have to watch his lips to match them to his words.
It's hard for me to admit the hold he has on me. The hold he's had on me. He's obviously accomplished quite a bit in the time he's been away, likely more than just whatever degree got him in that suit and tie. He didn't trade his youth for a nap schedule or delay his college education in pursuit of a GED. He can't possibly understand what I've sacrificed for the honor of rocking my baby to sleep or witnessing her first words and steps and feats.
"You," I tell him, feeling bold in my vulnerability. "I'm scared of you, and what you're capable of. Ava can't ever know how it feels to be unwanted by you."
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It feels so good to be home later that evening, out from under the weight of my conversation with Edward. We parted ways at the diner on friendly terms, but things seemed heavy and uncomfortable. No amount of regret or change of heart could undo the events of the past, and I think Edward is finally starting to understand that. I agreed to talk with him, though, and admittedly, I'm anxious to hear what exactly his "everything" entails.
I trade my apron for a pair of cotton shorts and a tank, then let my hair out of its high knot. Ava and Emmett are playing a board game on the living room floor, and I'm so bone tired and grateful that it's Friday night that I give myself permission to throw our routines and schedules out the window for a bit.
I slide in next to Ava, choosing her as my teammate over Emmett due to his tendency to be both a cheater and a sore loser.
"How was work today, Birdie?" my brother asks, moving his tiny plastic person forward a space. An extra space, I notice.
"The usual," I say, helping Ava nudge him back to the correct square. "You?"
"Same."
"Where's Rosie, Uncle Em?" Ava asks, counting out spaces for her turn.
"She's staying at home, Bug. It's just us Swans, tonight." Emmett does this ridiculous beak-pecking thing that he's done ever since we learned how to sign "Swan" in one of Ava's baby sign language classes.
She giggles uncontrollably, always prepared to be the fuel for his goofy and lovable fire.
"Why doesn't she sleep here always?" Ava asks after catching her breath.
I watch silently as Emmett throws the die and counts out his spaces. "She has a house, Bug. She lives there."
"Yeah," Ava continues, having forgotten about her turn. "But don't you miss her when she's not here? With you."
Emmett glances up at me with a wary look. He's never really enjoyed the heavier aspects of living with an inquisitive six-year-old.
"Sure, I do," he says simply, turning his attention back to the game.
Undeterred, Ava moves ahead with her relentless questioning. "So why don't you stay together always?"
My attempt to rescue Emmett is direct and to the point. "Ava, sometimes even when people love each other very much, they still need time apart," I say.
Ava ponders what I've said and then looks back at her uncle. "Are you going to marry Rosie and live with her forever?"
Although he's trying to busy himself with re-adjusting the timer, I see the blush creep up the sides of Emmett's neck. "Maybe," he pauses to glance briefly at me. "Probably. Someday."
Ava seems satisfied with his answer and returns her attention to the game. She and Emmett are bickering over whose turn it is, but my mind is preoccupied with digesting everything Emmett has just said.
I love Rose like a sister, and I'd welcome her into our family with open arms. She's the perfect person to counterbalance Emmett. Add to that the facts that our mom and dad love her and she's always been great with Ava, and there's no question that Emmett would be lucky to have her as his wife.
I'm disappointed in myself, though, for the twinge of insecurity I feel when I think about Emmett leaving our home in pursuit of his own family. He's been here every single minute of my walk through parenting Ava, and he's excelled at being her uncle. He'll make a great daddy someday, and he deserves nothing less than a family. A real family.
I wonder if I've ever told him that? Have I ever let him know that he has my blessing to spread his wings and go? That I couldn't be prouder of him or more honored to be his sister? I wonder if he feels trapped here with us, with me, because of how much I've always leaned on him in the past?
I steal a quick glance at him from over the game board and meet his questioning eyes. Everything okay? they say.
Giving him my biggest, most encouraging smile, I nod once and shrug my shoulders in nonchalance. Everything's fine, I tell him silently.
And it is. It will be.
Thanks for reading.