Construct between us a wall of not brick or stones, but iron and steel. It's built into the clouds only to crash onto my chest. A million smothering pieces. I'm quiet, regarding the answer and our purpose together, for which we serve none. He moves from under me, propping onto his elbow, looking into my tear-veiled eyes. I hold them back, clear my throat, soothing the ache away. They're reined and I'm not yet exposed to how deep I allow myself to be in this hole.
"I'm sorry," he says swiping fingertips along my hair, pushing it away. "See, this is what I mean. I don't want to hurt you."
"Then the real question is, what do you want from this? You love her, then why are you doing this to her? To me?"
"I don't know."
"If you loved her, you would be home waiting." I look away at the distant grass, swaying with the bare breeze. "Not here with me."
"I know, but Bella, I feel for you, too. I tried to hide what I felt. What I feel now..."
"What do you want from me? I have to know."
"Like I said, I don't know. This situation is new for me, too."
I sit up from under him. He's made my face hot, blood boil with his half-answered responses. "Tell me now, Edward. Tell me now or take me home."
"Bella-"
Just my name. My name with a sympathetic tone, begging me to understand causes me to swell. I interrupt. "No. I need to know."
"I'm not sure what I want from this. Neither do you, right? Let's just take it slow, get to know each other."
"Almost fingering me through my jeans is taking it slow?"
He hangs his head. We linger in silence until he climbs to his feet. The grass reaches just under his knees, bending as he walks through, around the spread. I hate that I've asked this question, but I don't regret it. It needed to be said. It needed the air, the confrontation, the words and fight. My position with Edward is insecure and tumbling. Quite suddenly I wish to be in my room, my face tucked into my pillow with screams erupting from my throat. I want to cry, but not here. I can't afford him that power.
With a steady breath, I stand. "Take me home. I don't want to be here anymore."
He faces me, says 'okay' then begins to gather the blanket, folding it so he may tuck it underneath his arm to carry the cooler. Leaving the meadow with our hands to ourselves is strange. Heaviness presides where happiness once strangled our minds. There is no entering again, not the way we came. We will never feel the joy that beautiful place deserves. It's tainted with my question, with his answer, with our uncertainty. Doubt and strangeness. No peace or love. The car is warm, stifling. Dark leather. He opens and closes my door, and I don't say thank you. I don't speak or look at him while he starts the car or begins to drive us home. Not when the air conditioning blows cool air against my flush skin to cool me off. No. My attention belongs to the outside of the car, the trees passing in long streaks of forest blur.
Tension is thick. I can feel his eyes on me every few minutes. Hope bubbles in my chest, curious who will be the first to break the silence. I think it should be him, but I'm not innocent. I asked the question. I expected the truth. It's what I received. I can't change his mind about his wife. There's no way to compete with her beauty and perfection. I call defeat before I even begin the race for his heart.
I give up the window and look ahead, sighing and throat burning with unshed tears. The music is soft. I can't tell what it is, so I can't sing along in my head to help forget about the moment. He holds out his hand over the center console, palm up, surrendering. Does he expect me to hold his hand after what we've said? I ask, "What?"
"Take my hand, please." It's a gentle request, soft like the music.
"I don't know if I want to."
"We're ten minutes away from your truck. I at least want to hold your hand."
"I don't know if I want to hold yours," I say coolly.
"Please, Bella. You would make me a happy man."
I look at his hand then at mine resting in my lap. "You sort-of broke my heart today."
He's defeated, lowering his offer with a sigh, placing it back on the wheel of his sporty car. Stupid, shiny Volvo owner.*
He parks beside my truck at five minutes after three, according to my cell. I open my own door and climb out. He follows me to my truck, hands in his back pockets until one strokes the back of his neck. Up then down.
"Thank you for coming out with me," he says while I'm unlocking my door.
"You're welcome." I turn and squint into the sun. The look on his face, the heartbreaking look he has. I don't want to leave him. Not on these terms. Not ever. I feel I must forgive him, or I must apologize. He's everything I want with urgency, even though he is unaware of how much I hurt inside right now and nothing he says will ever make up for it.
He shifts once. "I'm so sorry how today ended. It's not what I envisioned."
"Me either."
"And if you give me a chance I'll make it up to you. I love spending time with you. I hope you don't mind me saying that." He steps forward, steals the beats of my heart, and any hope of coming out of this alive is gone.
"You can say it," I say. "It doesn't change anything."
"I know. I only ever want to be honest with you."
I nod. I understand.
"When I asked you about love at first sight," he says, "I was talking about you. You know that, right? You've completely flipped my entire world on it's back and if I told you that I didn't want to see you tomorrow then I'd be lying. I want to see you every day." He reaches and sets his palms against my hips, anchoring himself to me in ways I crave and need. I miss his touch when he's not against me, his eyes when they're not upon me. I don't want to leave on this sour note.
"You're a beautiful woman, Bella Swan." His lips touch just under my eye, on my cheek. "I'll see you on Monday, okay? Drive safe." Once more, the touch of him on my face sends chills through me. I want to wrap my arms around his neck and bury myself in his skin, smell his cologne and feel the lines of his chest against mine. There's no other place in the world I'd rather be, but I'm solid and never changing while he moves away from me and toward his driver-side door. He looks back once, throws a small wave and he's driving away, kicking up pebbles from his back tires. The sun gleams on his roof, and I watch as he disappears onto the road back to Forks, blind to what he's done to me while I stand there next to my truck. I miss him already and I hate it.
*thanks, SMeyer, for the classic line.