Chapter 17

"This is Emmett." My brother's voice is professionally sharp in my ear. If I didn't know him, I might be impressed by the authority I hear there, but I do, so I'm not.

"I'll never understand why you say that," I pretend to ponder. "I mean, I called you, so it obviously is you."

I hear the sound of leather shifting through the line, a clear indicator he's reclining in his office chair. Most likely he's placed his gargantuan feet on the corner of his polished desk. "Are your feet up?" I tease, grinning widely. "Because that's so…douchey." Leather speaks again, followed by the distinct clomp-clomp of my brother's feet as they drop back to the ground. "No," he scoffs. "I don't do that shit."

Laughing outright, I place my own, bare feet on the corner of the tiny IKEA desk in our den. The early morning sun throws anorexic slats of light through the blinds, warming the top of my pale toes. My navy blue polish is chipped at the corners, a wiggle-worthy observation. I prefer them chipped; perfection has never been my thing.

Tapping the touch-pad on my ancient laptop, I lift my shoulder and squeeze the phone against my cheek. "Sorry I missed your call," I say. "I was taking a timed test for school. I couldn't pause until it was over."

"No worries," Emmett replies. "I figured you were busy with school stuff. Listen, I'm heading to Rose's after work, so I won't be home for dinner. You and Ava good without me?"

I snort. "I think we'll manage." Ava's and my time alone has been more and more frequent lately with Emmett spending most nights at Rose's. It's fine, really, and I'm happy for my brother. It lessens the guilt I feel over his life being so entwined with ours, and—if I'm being honest—it means there's less mess for me to deal with around the house on a daily basis. He's still there for Ava in the evenings when I'm at the diner, which is when I need his help the most, so I really can't complain. Not that I would, anyway.

"Rose's landlord's been giving her shit about her water meter, and I want to go over there and check it out," Emmett continues. He's annoyed about the situation and feels like Rose is being scammed, a frustration he explains to me in great detail. I flick through the tabs at the top of my screen, acknowledging him when it's necessary and grumbling when it's appropriate. I'm scrolling through emails when Emmett's story takes an abrupt left turn…

"Wait." I push away from the distraction of my keyboard. "What'd you say about Edward?"

"I knew you weren't listening!" my brother accuses. "I said Edward came up here today."

"To the bank?" I question, sitting up straighter. "Why?"

"Well fuck you, Birdie," Emmett grumbles. "Maybe he wanted to see me. Or maybe he wanted to hang out, like old times. Maybe it's not all Bella, all the—"

"No, really. Why?" Something's up. Emmett's usually all business on the phone when he's at work. This long, drawn out conversation has been a lure; an avoidance tactic. "Why'd he come by?"

My brother takes a deep breath and asks me if I'm sitting down. I was, but the sudden anxiety bomb he's dropped on me has me lurching to my feet and pacing the tiny den, thumbnail to teeth. A long, heavy sigh rattles the speaker against my ear as Emmett thinks over what he's going to say.

"He brought a check by," he murmurs. Pausing, he delivers his next words with practiced precision. "For you."

Trading pacing for confusion, I halt my steps and fall back on my abandoned desk chair. "For me? Why?"

Emmett's confident banker voice long forgotten, his answering response is low and cautious. "Well, for…um, school. I think."

I'm still not following. "Edward brought you a check for my school?" I pause, running the scenario through my head once more. Even though he can't see me, I lift my shoulders in exasperation. "I don't get it."

"I think he was jus—"

"How much is the check for, Emmett?" I interrupt him, suddenly feeling tentative. I can't wrap my head around any situation that involves Edward bringing Emmett a check for me.

I'm able to doodle a few dozen circles on my nearby notebook in the time it takes Emmett to squeak out his answer. "A few thousand," he finally answers.

Still baffled, I doodle faster. "How many thousand?" I question, my eyes shut tight against the potential impact of his answer.

"Umm…twenty?"

Emmett stays quiet on the line while I grapple for breath. Twenty thousand dollars. Twenty thousand dollars? This makes absolutely no sense. When Edward left the diner on Thursday he seemed happy and upbeat, a change of pace from his earlier, brooding mood. He'd felt guilty after Rose's harsh comparison of our school careers and…

Oh.

Oh!

School.

"I'll call you later, Em," I bark at my brother, hammering the disconnect button on my phone until it eventually responds. Biting my lip, I navigate through my list of contacts, my flustered fingers scrolling past the one I need. Overwhelming feelings battle for dominance in my head as the phone rings softly against my ear.

"Bella. Hey." Edward's smooth voice raises goosebumps on my arms and draws heat to the apples of my cheeks.

Unprepared, my voice is a stuttering mess. "Um. Yeah…hi. I'm calling because my brother told me you dropped off a check for me—a twenty thousand dollar check—and, well…what the hell, Edward?"

He chuckles. "I wondered how long it'd take you to figure it out. It was supposed to be a surprise, you know." He says it like it's cute. Like it's no big deal. Like he left a cup of my favorite coffee on my desk or dog-eared a page in my favorite book.

"A surprise," I mutter. Then, louder. "A surprise? Edward, one friend does not leave another friend a check for twenty thousand dollars!" I realize I'm yelling and take a few deep breaths to maintain my self-control.

Hesitation replaces Edward's previously jovial tone. "Are you…mad?"

"Can you just explain this?" I beg, rubbing my forehead in frustration. "Why are you writing me checks?"

He laughs again, softly this time. "Not checks, Birdie. Just this one…for now. It's for school. I…" He pauses to clear his throat self-consciously. "I just feel like it's the least I can do, you know? Help you out with your school payments…so you'll have one less thing to worry about."

His gesture is genuine and thoughtful and, quite honestly, probably the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me. It hurts me to hurt him, but my pride is delicate, and its maintenance is crucial to my well-being. I've come too far and done too much to start accepting his handouts now. I chose to cut all ties with Edward seven years ago, when he chose not to be involved in his daughter's life and, in doing so, I denied her his name, his existence, and his money.

I'm capable and strong, and I'm proud of all that I've accomplished. Edward's money is the last thing I want from him. It's the last thing I ever wanted from him.

"Edward," I say, gently. "That's so thoughtful…"

He sighs wearily. "But?"

"But," I agree, softening my voice. "It's not really appropriate for you to pay for my schooling. I'm appreciative, but this is something I need to do for myself. Does that make sense?"

I can hear the sound of his hands scrubbing harshly through his stubble, a sure sign of his frustration. "Not really, no. I just want to help, Bella. I didn't help for years. Please, just…let me help. I have more than I need…more than I know what to do with."

"Thank you," I reply, mustering up my inner strength. "But we don't want your money."

"Well what do you want, Bella?" I can hear the exasperation in his voice, and there's a part of me that wonders if I'm unintentionally making this harder than it has to be. What's the harm in just taking his—

No.

No. I refuse to feel like he bought his way back into our lives.

Picking up my pen again, I return to my doodling, lighter now. "The last thing Ava…or I… need from you, is your money. Being in Ava's life—being her dad—is about so much more than that," I pause, thinking he'll want to argue his point, but the line remains quiet, save for his soft breathing. "Right now, I'm able to provide for all of Ava's monetary needs. I'm able to be her mom and…so much more. But, Edward, I can't ever be her dad. And, despite my past efforts, neither can Emmett. That's your role…if you're willing to take it."

"I am," he says, calmly, his soft voice making my mind drift to thoughts of where he's at. Is he at work, behind a wide desk? At home, barefoot and reclined against the soft leather of his couch? "I…just…I don't know how."

There's honesty and vulnerability in his admission; a reminder for me that this is something I've taken for granted. I've had seven years to learn how to be a mother to Ava, and I can't expect him to understand how to be a father overnight. He's going to need guidance and instruction; patience, most of all. From me, from himself. From Ava.

"Well," I say. "I think that's something we're going to have to figure out together. The three of us. I think the first step is going to be talking to Ava about you, and I think, if you're alright with waiting a bit longer, that's something I need to do alone."

His laugh drips with self-deprecation. "I'm good at waiting. I've waited years."

His words remind me of a question I've wanted the answer to for several months now. "When did you…" I trail off, suddenly insecure in my scrutiny.

"When did I what?" he presses.

"I just…I wondered when you…you know, changed your mind. Or whatever." The words rush from my mouth, anxious to escape. I've spent years perfecting the art of not caring, and it's suddenly freeing to admit that I did; that I still do.

"About being a dad, you mean?"

"Yeah."

He clears his throat softly as he considers his words. "Despite my actions, I don't know that I ever didn't care. I won't lie, though…it took a few years for me to really start regretting my decisions; to wonder what I'd given up. My first two years of school were…intense. I didn't allow myself much time to think about anything beyond where I was going to party, and how I was going to scrape by in my classes." His words are painful, but also expected. I obviously didn't think that he'd spent the past seven years abstaining from typical college clichés.

"My grades were suffering, after my second year," he continues, "and my dad threatened to cut me off financially if I didn't get my shit together, so I…did. I cut out the partying and buckled down on my schoolwork, which gave me a clear head and a lot more time to think. I didn't know how old Ava was, exactly, but I had a pretty good idea, and I knew she was growing up without me. Quickly."

Those years—the ones he's referring to—were some of the hardest of my life. But they were also some of the sweetest. "So, you…what? Just—"

"So I got serious about school and followed my dad's footsteps into law. It had been his plan for me since I was a kid, and I wanted to impress him. I wanted to impress…you, when the time came. But, along the way, it also became something I wanted to do for myself. I enjoy practicing law…I just don't like bankruptcy law." He sighs heavily, confirming what I'd expected all along: he isn't happy doing what he does.

"And did you?" I ask, curiously. "Did you impress your dad?"

He seems to consider his words carefully before replying. "I think so, yeah. In that one regard, anyway. I'm just not going to spend anymore of my time trying. Despite my past choices, I don't want to be like him."

It's a lot to process, right now, all this new information about Edward. It's a glimpse into a large piece of his past that we weren't a part of, and that hurts. But I'm glad he felt comfortable enough to share it with me, and I know it needed to be said. It's the first of many, many questions I have for him.

We spend the next few minutes discussing the best way to approach the topic of Edward with Ava, agreeing that I should talk with her alone, and that I should give her only as much information as her six-year-old heart can handle. What happens after that, we'll play by ear.

"So, about the check," Edward says, just as we're wrapping up our call. "Will you take it? Please."

Sighing heavily, I prepare to delve back into my list of reasons why I won't accept payment for my schooling. "No, Edward, I—"

"For Ava," he interrupts. "Will you keep it for Ava? You can use it to start a small savings fund for her…" he hesitates, navigating the delicate topic carefully. "Unless you've, you know, already done that, or whatever…"

Speechless, I take a moment to consider what he's offering. I've never had enough to put anything back toward savings for Ava, instead having exactly enough to get by. I'd be crazy to deny her the opportunity for a future with less college debt and more options. Alternately, what am I agreeing to if I accept money from Edward on her behalf? Does his money buy his entrance to her world? Does it come with strings and stipulations?

"I'll think about it," I say honestly.

"Sure," he agrees. "Just let Emmett know what you decide. He's got the check, and it's not going anywhere. Okay?"

"Okay," I reply. "And Edward?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks."

-0-0-0-

I give myself permission to shelve thoughts of Edward's money, and instead spend the next several weeks planning and preparing for the heavy moment I've known was coming for some time: telling Ava about Edward.

I had one, major stipulation for Edward before we could move forward: there's no out once you're in. Ava's life will not include a revolving door father. If he chooses to know her, there's no turning back.

It's a big decision and an even bigger commitment, and I'd been prepared to give him as much time as he needed to come to terms with what it could mean for his future, but he assured me he's had plenty of time to decide—the last seven years, he said—and he's not changing his mind. Not now; not ever.

There's no easy way to have a conversation of this magnitude with your six-year-old. I've skimmed library books for topics about separated parents and absentee fathers, and I've accepted advice from my family. But our situation is unique, and there aren't many books of the "How to Tell Your Daughter Her Father Finally Decided to be a Dad" variety.

Edward and I have discussed how we'd like the conversation to go, at length. He seemed delighted to be included in the planning, and his enthusiasm made it surprisingly easy to allow his input. Our first time working together as co-parents was, seemingly, a success.

We'd agreed that the less information I dump on Ava, the better. She's too young to understand the details, and her self-worth is the most important factor in all of this. As the time for me to talk with her nears, my fears seem to grow stronger. I worry that she'll realize she was unwanted, even temporarily, and that she'll feel the first pangs of an abandonment that she didn't even realize she was a part of.

As is the case with most things in parenting, no amount of over-analyzing and extensive planning can prepare you for a child's questions. It may have been for the best, in fact, that our conversation happened organically one Saturday, without much fanfare at all.

"Cora's dad broke his leg," Ava announced, out of the blue. We were side by side at the kitchen counter, chopping veggies for chicken noodle soup (her favorite, not mine). Emmett was out with Rose, leaving Ava and me to fall into a quieter, calmer time of togetherness in his absence. I pressed my free hand against Ava's back, a silent reminder to practice caution when standing on a step-stool.

"That's awful," I said, moving a pile of washed celery sticks over to her cutting board. "How'd he hurt his leg?"

Her tongue peeked from the corner of her lips as she concentrated on making perfectly spaced cuts down the length of the crunchy stalks with her kid-safe knife. "I dunno," she shrugged. "He was playing with her brother or something, I think."

"Well that's too bad," I replied. "I hope he's okay soon."

"Cora's brother is funny. He never wears pants!" She covered her mouth to giggle, and I placed my hand against her back again, keeping her from falling. She regained her balance, and I returned my attention, once again, to the carrots on my bamboo board.

"I want a brother," she announced.

If she noticed the way my knife jumped, she didn't mention it. "A brother, hmm," I acknowledged, allowing her to carry the conversation.

Her tiny fingers pushed her pile of chopped veggies off to the side as she shook her hair from her face. "Yeah. Just like Cora, except I want my brother to wear pants." I lifted my shoulder to hide my smile; she hates being laughed at.

"Well?" she pressed. "Can you get me one?"

"One what?"

She giggled again. "A brother!"

"Grab that pot, will you, Bug?" I guided her to the cabinet under the stove, an attempt at buying myself an extra moment of time.

Once the pot was on its burner, we settled ourselves in front of our chopping boards again. "A baby brother would need a mommy and a daddy," I told her gently.

"Nu-ah," she argued. "I don't have a daddy and I used to be a baby." Her words implied that she's far beyond babyhood, and my heart tugged a little at the reminder.

I put my knife down smoothly and turned to face her, propping my hip against the counter. My hands gentled her hair back from her face, and her innocent green eyes pinned me down, awaiting my explanation. "You do have a daddy, sweet girl," I smiled at her to show her that I was okay. She was okay. We are okay. "All children have a mommy and a daddy. It's just…sometimes, they can't be there."

She grabbed the dishtowel sitting on the counter and began twisting it in her hands. I recognized the gesture as her way of processing what I'd said and busied myself with my chopping again, allowing her as much unscrutinized time as she needed.

"Why can't they be there?" she asked finally. Her voice was strong and clear, and for that, I was grateful. While she was obviously giving our conversation plenty of thought, possibly even comparing it to her own situation, she didn't appear to be upset about anything I'd said.

"Well," I said, popping a piece of chopped carrot between her tiny pink lips. "Sometimes they might get sick and die, like Great Grandma Swan. Or sometimes they might have to go away for work."

"Like Cora's Uncle? He's at the war."

I smiled at her softly. "Exactly."

"Did my daddy die?" she asked, quietly. I knew where this line of questioning would take us, and being prepared didn't make the actuality of it any easier.

Bending, I gathered her up and sat her on the counter so that we could see eye to eye. I wanted her to know she had my complete attention. "No," I answered her. "He didn't die. And he didn't go to war. Sometimes, mommies or daddies might feel like they don't know how to be good to their babies. Sometimes they might be too young to know how to take care of them."

She played with the small, green birthstone I wore on a chain around my neck, sliding it back and forth through her small hands. "Did my daddy know how to take care of me?" she asked.

"He didn't." I told her, placing my hands on top of hers. "Your daddy was so young when he heard that you were going to be born. He wasn't sure if he could be a good daddy to you, and that scared him." I released her hands and tapped her tiny, upturned nose. "But do you know what?"

She giggled and swatted at my hand. "What?"

"The very first time I saw your sweet face, do you remember what I said?"

Her giggles turned to full-blown laughter, but still, she played my game. "What?"

"I said, "Oh what a sweet little girl, I wish she was mine.""

"I am yours!" she squealed, as though we hadn't done this a million times.

"Oh yeah!" I pretended to remember. "You are mine!" Tickling her sides, I lifted her from the counter and tucked her small body into mine. "And do you know what else?" I whispered against her head.

"What?" she replied, her little girl voice muffled from its place in the crook of my neck.

"I will never, ever stop loving you."

"I love you too, Momma."

Giving her one, last squeeze, I placed her back on her stool and we returned our attention to the pot on the stove and the pile of chopped veggies nearby.

We busied ourselves with soup making for a bit, and when the lid was in place and all that was left was to wait, I followed Ava to the sink so we could wash our hands. "Hey, Bug?" I said, as we were waiting for the water to turn warm. "Are there any questions you'd like to ask me? About your Daddy?"

She rubbed her hands together vigorously, lathering the soap until the bubbles spilled out from between her slender fingers. "Hmm," she said, lips pursed, a facial expression I recognized in myself at times. "Did he have a name?"

I bit down on my cheek to hide my smile and helped her rinse the bubbles from her hands. "He does have a name," I told her. "His name is Edward."

"Edward Swan?" she said, rolling it around on her tongue as though it had a taste.

"No, Edward Cullen," I corrected her casually, choosing to save the baby/father name explanation for another day.

Her hands were pink and soft as I dried them between a plush kitchen towel. "Where is he?" she asked suddenly, a question so broad in its directness that it momentarily took me aback.

"He's here, actually," I told her, and then quickly adjusted my statement. "In town. He lives here, like us."

Her little eyes went wide with surprise. "Is he still too young?"

"No," I replied, shaking my head. "He's not. He's all grown up now." I bent down to her level, and held her clean hands in mine. "He'd like to meet you, Bug. What do you think about that?"

She shrugged her shoulders and bobbed up and down on the balls of her feet. "Sure," she said, already preoccupied. "Is Rose coming over tonight? She said she'd play Blokus with me." Her abrupt change of topic was typical, leaving me pleasantly surprised that I had managed to get as far with her as I had.

"Grab my phone and we'll give her a call." She gave me a quick nod before spinning on her socked heel and skipping out of the room.

Edward blows out a breath as soon as my run-through comes to a close. "Whew," he says softly, and it occurs to me that he's nervous. "Was that…good? Her reaction?"

We're sitting across from each other in a booth at the Mexican restaurant down the street from my house. Ava's unexpected early bedtime—the result of a full day of swimming at my parents'—left me with several hours to kill this evening, the perfect opportunity for me to finally fill Edward in on yesterday's conversation with Ava.

"I think so," I shrug, swirling my chip in the bowl of salsa that sits between us. "She didn't seem upset, but she also didn't seem…obsessed, which is a good thing, I think."

He frowns. "So what's next?"

"We'll give her some time," I say. "A week or so to see if she brings it up again. If she doesn't, and everything seems okay, then we can set up a time for you to come over and meet her." I pause, chip halfway to my mouth. "If that's what you want, I mean."

"It is," he says simply. "I can't wait to meet her."

I return my eyes to the basket of chips between us, half of which I've already eaten. Alone. "You're not eating?" I ask, nodding at the still-clean tabletop in front of him. My side is littered with salt flecks and chip crumbs. Casually, I brush them aside and dust off my hands.

Edward shakes his head. "No. I don't do spicy."

I snort. "You're kidding."

"I'm a huge wimp," he chuckles, shrugging.

"This stuff is tomato sauce," I scoff, pointing to the small bowl of watery red between us. "Come on. Try it."

My hand extends half way to his mouth before I even have a chance to think about the level of intimacy that feeding another person entails. His thick eyebrows shoot up as my salsa laden chip nears his lips, and his mouth falls open, likely from habit, but possibly from shock. Embarrassed, I shove the chip into his mouth and retreat to my side of the table. "There," I gesture toward the bowl again. "See? It's nothing."

Edward's brows pull together in distaste as he chews with unnaturally exaggerated force. "'S mwful," he mumbles, mouth still full. Finally, he forces the chip down with an audible gulp and reaches for the bottle of beer sitting near his napkin. I try not to stare as he takes several, deep pulls, his stubble-covered throat bobbing as he swallows.

"That bad, huh?" I laugh.

He winces once more and nods his head, squeezing my knees between his own beneath the table. "I'm gonna have to pay you back for that," he says, playfully. "It's in the rules."

"Mmhmm," I grin. I'm just about to ask him for a copy of the rule book when our waitress appears at our sides, tapping her order pad and asking us what we'd like.

I stifle a laugh when Edward orders the most bland thing on the menu, earning me a playfully narrowed glare. While I prattle off my order, he collects our menus and hands them over to the waitress, thanking her as she departs.

"So," he grins, his hands folded across the tabletop, his knees pressed gently against mine.

I raise my eyebrows at his silliness. It's so rare—and fun—to see him laid back and smiling.

"So," I laugh.

"How's school?" he asks, lifting his beer to his lips and taking a pull, his eyes tracking mine even as he drinks.

I shake my head. "Nuh-uh. No school talk tonight."

"No?" he chuckles. "How 'bout work, then? How's that?"

I crinkle my nose in distaste. "None of that, either."

His lips twist into a smile. "What's safe?" The boyish way he reclines in his seat, coupled with the spark in his green eyes, reminds me of how he used to tease me when we were younger. The progress we've made recently is slowly numbing the pain of those memories, and I happily welcome the flutter of butterflies housed in my belly.

I purse my lips in concentration while I consider his question. "Anything but school and work," I reply, leveling his intense gaze with one of my own.

Smirking, he raises one brow in silent inquiry.

I squint at him in confusion. "What?"

"Boyfriends."

"What about them? Wait…no. What?" I blush and shake my head. His line of questioning is clear, and my inexperience must show in the flush of my cheeks.

I frown and he grins. "Is there one?" he says, smile widening.

I snort. "Hardly."

"Me neither."

"No boyfriends for you?" I tease. "I'm shocked. You're so pretty."

The tips of his ears turn pink, but he laughs good-naturedly.

I rush to fill the silence with questions of my own before he can turn the tables back on me. "So the hot blond at the sushi place that night…what about her? Girlfriend material?"

He takes a sip of his beer. "God, no."

"No?"

Frowning, he picks at the edge of the label on his bottle. "No. She was just a nameless face in a long line of nameless faces."

I wince. "Nice."

We sit staring at each other in awkward silence until he reaches across the table to grab my hand, his fingers cold and slightly damp from his beer.

His green eyes, so like his daughter's, bore into mine. "She meant nothing," he says, voice low and controlled. "They all meant nothing."

Suddenly uncomfortable with the turn this conversation has taken, I pull my hand back from Edward's and busy myself with unrolling my napkin and arranging my silverware. "So they're all just a means to an end for you," I clarify. "Got it."

"No," he says sharply. "Well…yes, but…not anymore." His leg, still pressed against mine underneath the table, begins to bounce rapidly. "Bella." He's silent while he waits for me to stop my needless arranging and look up at him, and when I do, his expression is both eager and genuine. "What I'm trying to tell you, is that all that…stuff? It's not who I want to be anymore. I want to be good for Ava." He gives me a small, sad smile and reaches back across table to grab my hand again. "And for you."

I shake my head. "That's nice to hear, Edward, but you should know right now, I'm not a…uh, nameless, faceless kind of girl." Embarrassment colors my cheeks when I think of the things Edward must remember about me that disprove the point I'm trying to make. "Not anymore," I amend. "So whatever your expectations are with me, you should probably lower them significantly."

"I wouldn't expect that of you, Bella," he says softly. "I was wrong to take advantage of you back then. That won't ever happen again." He squeezes my hand once, his warm thumb rubbing circles over my knuckles. His words are powerful, and they cut right to the heart of my biggest fears and insecurities. If what he's saying is true, then my biggest hesitations about letting him into Ava's life have been alleviated. Maybe he really is prepared to turn his life around, and leave his less than desirable actions in the past.

The real question is, am I prepared to let him?

Thanks for reading.

Many thanks to the wonderfully selfless Rochelle Allison, for her kindness and for her time.

Thanks also to those who take the time to review. I'm grateful for each one.

Best,

RF