Chapter 10
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It's been one week since I watched Edward with Lauren in our pool. The two of them have been back at our house several times since then, but I've already seen more than enough of the Edward & Lauren Show, so I try not to come out of my room unless it's absolutely necessary.
My mother is worried, I think, as much as any distracted mother can be. "You're not getting enough vitamin D, Birdie," she tells me on a regular basis. "You're too skinny," she says. "Eat!"
She hurls these critiques at me on her way out the door to antique shop for some rare Airsteam "gem", or from her perch in front of the computer. Whatever. It's not like I'd actually confide in her anyway, even if she really did care.
Well, see...I shared a kiss -my first, not his- with Edward. You know, my brother's best friend? He's acted like it didn't happen and that I don't exist and, the icing on the cake, I get to watch him hook up with other girls in our pool. Help, Mom! What should I do?
No way. Never.
I wish it were as easy as counting down the days until Emmett left for college, thus taking Edward with him, but it's only just June, so they're not going anywhere anytime soon.
So I read. And when I'm not reading, I sleep. Sometimes I fall asleep reading. It's depressing, and not at all the way I envisioned spending my summer vacation. Angela comes around on occasion, but I get the feeling her parent's aren't all that comfortable with her being at our house. And why would they be? I have a Neanderthal for an older brother and parent's who care more about camp life than they do about their own kids. I mean, come on.
My brother thrives off my misfortune, which is a normal part of my life and something I've been dealing with since he was old enough to talk. Which, for the record, wasn't until he was three. Despite being a full two years behind him, I had the nerve to speak first and that is a grudge, I believe, he holds against me to this day. I still throw a "use your words, Emmett" at him on occasion when his ego gets out of control.
What was once a normal, albeit annoying, part of sibling-hood is now humiliating and intolerable because it's all done in the presence of Edward. Edward, who's in the kitchen when I go to get a snack. Edward, who's in the pool if I feel like going for a swim. Edward, who's splayed out on the living room couch flipping through the channels when I'm in the mood to watch television.
He is everywhere. My room is the only safe place.
"Don't you ever go home?" I ask when I find him in the laundry room, transferring his clothes from the washer to the dryer.
He pauses sorting to shoot me a cheesy grin. "Not if I can help it."
"Don't your parents wonder where their son is?" I ask him, bluntness making my words sound harsh.
He shrugs a shoulder and pushes the dryer door shut. "Not likely."
I roll my eyes. His dad's a lawyer-the most popular in town-and his mom works in the office at his firm. I'm no dummy, the 'oh poor Edward' act doesn't fool me.
"I'm sure you're so mistreated." I say dryly.
"What's with the attitude, Princess Birdie?" he asks me, crossing a leg and leaning back against the washing machine.
Ignoring him for the moment, I point to where he's standing, "Mind if I...?"
He moves out of my way and I turn away from him, busying myself with loading my clothes. "There's no attitude," I say with a bored shrug.
The silence that follows my admission is deafening, and I wonder yet again if I've succeeded in pushing him away. Is that what I actually want? As usual, I feel his heat before I register his touch. He's pressed up against my hip, both of his legs straddling one of mine. He leans over my shoulder and moves my hair back with his nose.
"No?" he whispers into my neck.
I can't control the rippling shudder that passes through my body anymore than I can control the way my head falls to the side to give him full access to my neck.
Traitorous body!
"No," I repeat, embarrassed by my raspy voice.
He runs his nose up and down the side of my neck, from ear to collarbone. "You sound a little mad."
I grip the front of the washer and, if I'm being honest, hold on for dear life. "Why would I be mad?" I murmur, rhetorically.
"I have no idea," he says against my neck, sliding his hands around my waist and rubbing my belly with his thumbs.
The sound that leaves my throat is unlike any noise I've ever made. It sounds sexual and wanton. It sounds hot and confident and as if I actually know what I'm doing. It sounds like...Lauren.
I nudge him away with my elbow. "Quit..." I whisper, but the command sounds weak and ridiculous, even to my own ears.
He steps back immediately, though and gives me several feet of space. When I turn to face, him, I'm surprised to see that he looks hurt by my rejection.
We stare at each other a beat too long, my eyes holding his until it becomes too much and I drop them to the floor. I can feel his discomfort at our awkwardness rolling off of him in waves.
"I don't like guessing games, Bella." he drops his voice to a firm whisper. "If you're pissed at me just say so. I won't dig it out of you."
In addition to standing almost a foot taller than me, he's suddenly made me feel like a properly abashed child. How dare he accuse me of playing games? This isn't a guessing game! It's not any kind of game at all. I draw a breath to tell him exactly that, but to my horror, my eyes fill with tears instead.
No! NO! I can't let him see me cry!
Too late. I can tell by the way he sighs heavily and hangs his head he's already seen my tears and he's not happy. He seems annoyed that I'm emoting and that he's burdened with the task of having to babysit this unforeseen meltdown.
"Come here," he says softly, holding out a hand to me. I stare at his upturned fingers, mortified that my tears have reduced him to pretending to care.
He lifts his eyebrows in impatience and says it again. "Come."
I walk toward his hand, but I don't touch him. I feel too embarrassed, too stupid. He tugs my wrist lightly so that I step forward once more until I'm face to chest with him. "What is it?" he says again, softly this time.
This is my last chance to tell him what I'm thinking, I know that much is true. His patience has run its limit and he's annoyed that he's had to coddle me through this. It's now or never.
Tugging my wrist from his grasp, I curl my arms around my torso tightly, as though my physical grip is enough to trick my body into thinking I'm strong.
I raise my eyes from the floor to meet his, all green and clear under dark furrowed brows. "I won't be your sloppy seconds," I tell him quietly, confidence missing from my declaration.
His eyebrows dip deeper in confusion. "What're you taking about?" he asks harshly.
"Lauren," I say, and her name sounds dirty on my tongue. "I won't do...this," I gesture wildly between the two of us, "with you while you're doing...that," more gesturing, "with her."
"Lauren's...," he tugs at the brim of his hat, lifting it off to scratch his head before tugging it back down roughly. "Nothing. She's nothing."
Maybe I look unconvinced, because he pulls his lanky body from the wall and puts a hand around my hip, pulling me into him. "Seriously," he whispers, his head dipping low to find my eyes. "Trust me."
If possible, I feel even more young and naive than I ever have before as I lean in to meet his kiss.
.
.
"I hear Edward Cullen is back in town," my mother says nonchalantly, popping a stray cheese cube in her mouth.
We're all at my parents house for our weekly family dinner. It's less of a family dinner and more of a let's drink wine and grill Bella party. "Hmmm," I hum noncommittally, concentrating with false intensely on the crackers I'm arranging on an appetizer tray.
"That's right," she continues, unperturbed. "I ran into Esme Cullen at The Market this week and she mentioned that he'd just moved back."
The Market is what my mother calls the overcrowded antique store that houses a leased booth of Airstream memorabilia and other...well, complete shit that she and my dad deem valuable enough to sell to others.
My lack of response seems to fuel her on further. "She was looking for an antique desk for Edward's office at the firm," she pauses to sip her wine dramatically before continuing. "That poor woman has the most dreadful taste. I'd never tell her that, of course. Anyway, yes, he's back in town and working with his father now. Did you know that?"
It is physically painful for me to withhold an eye-roll. I focus instead on opening the jar of olives I've just pulled from the fridge. "No," I say distractedly. "I hadn't heard that."
Technically, what I say is true. I really hadn't heard that Edward is working for his father, and I'm pretty shocked to hear it now. I didn't think he liked his dad much, an assumption made evident by how much time he avoided his house in favor of ours during his high school years. Of course, people change, I remind myself. Things change.
My mother makes a disdainful face around the rim of her wine glass as she gulps down the last drops. Finally, she sets it down with a flourish and stares at me for an uncomfortable amount of time.
"I wonder why he's back?" she hums, fake smile wide and perfectly practiced.
The olives didn't take as long as I'd hoped, so I move on to perfecting the stack of napkins nearby. "I don't have any idea, Mom. You should have asked Esme."
I can feel her glare burning into the back of my head. It's a game we've been playing for over six years. The why-won't-you-just-admit-it game. It always goes exactly the same: she and my dad find some way to worm Edward's name into a conversation while I avoid the topic and ignore their insinuations. As does Emmett, upon penalty of death.
I never meant for the secrecy surrounding Ava's paternity to last this long. What started out as fear for Edward's safety from my father, became shame in being left pregnant and unwanted. After Ava was born, and it was clear that we were going to be a team of two, it just no longer seemed relevant. I didn't need anything from him, I didn't want anything from him.
Despite our stupid game, my parent's know Edward is Ava's father. You'd have to be blind not to notice how little she looks like me and how much she looks like him. That, coupled with how much time he spent at our house that summer, and my preoccupied mother had all the pieces put together by Ava's first birthday when her eyes were bright with Cullen green and her hair was long enough to show its sameness to Edward's copper.
It's sort of an unspoken secret now, aside from the name dropping and the guessing games. My mom and dad don't address it, but I can, obviously, sense their confusion and their disapproval at my unwillingness to talk about that summer.
"The nicest woman, that Esme Cullen," my mother says with an exaggerated sigh. "I'll never understand how she puts up with that pretentious husband of hers."
Here we go.
"He ain't so bad, Ma," Emmett declares, striding into the room with Ava at his side. His voice cuts through the tension in the kitchen like a knife, making me straighten my shoulders and raise my head from its defeated droop. He reaches past me to grab an olive, then pops one in his mouth and one in Ava's. "For a lawyer," he snorts.
My mother stiffens and pulls her cardigan tighter around her shoulders. "I can just tell," she says haughtily. "I have a way with people."
"Mother, please," I nod my head toward Ava, a silent plea to change the subject on her behalf.
It's Emmett who comes to my rescue, as usual. "How long until supper?" he asks. "I think we need to get some bike practice in before we eat."
I smile graciously at him and nod my head. "Wear your helmet, Bug." I call as they make their way, hand in hand, their absence plunging the room back to tense and uncomfortable. My mother sighs heavily three times before she finally clears her throat to speak. I want to stop her before she's even begun, because experience tells me this can't end well.
She pretends to check the roast through the glass window on the front of the oven. Her reflection mocks me over her shoulder; brow tense, lips puckered in distaste. "You're going to have to tell her eventually, Isabella." she says with an air of frustration.
It's the first time we've ever directly addressed the proverbial elephant in the room and I'm taken aback by her sudden forwardness. "I know that," I say quietly, but not unkindly, fully aware that by not denying what she's said I'm admitting something huge.
Standing up and straightening her blouse, she turns to face me and I'm surprised to see a softness in her eyes. "She'll start asking questions soon. She'll want to know why she's different-"
"She's not different," I interrupt, bristling.
"No, she's not," my mother says with a shake of her head. "But her family is. Emmett isn't her father, Bella. She's going to notice that role is unfilled eventually."
She's right, I know she's right, but it doesn't make what she's saying any easier to swallow. Emmett has always been such an involved part of her life that she's likely assumed all kids had a mommy and an uncle living in their home.
I hide my fidgeting hands behind the dish rag I'm clutching. "I know," I say softly. "You're right."
She must sense my vulnerability, because she crosses the kitchen and comes to stand in front of me. I'm shocked when she hesitantly raises her hands to my shoulders, a gesture from her so intimate it's almost foreign. "And you need to tell him," she urges gently. "He should know."
The weight of her hands on me is so much that I'm afraid I'll crumble. I can't bear her touch and I can't meet her eye. The overwhelming feeling of shame at being rejected returns and wraps its arms around me like a wet blanket. It's doubly painful since it extends to cover Ava, too. It's been years since the anger replaced the shame, and to feel shame's return is physically crippling. My heart races, my heads sweat, my breathing intensifies.
It's on a wispy breath of shaky air that I tell her the secret that has wedged itself between us these past six years.
"He knows," I whisper. "He's known all along."
Thanks for reading.