The sun in the kitchen is bright this early Sunday morning. I'm only in here because while in bed I caught the scent of bacon. It's the singular smell on Earth which can summon me from eternal sleep. My eyes are red, heavy, puffy. I've cried most of the night. Tossed the remainder. I ruined my pillow, beating it against the headboard, ripping a hole along the seam causing feathers to fly onto the floor, bed, lamp, everywhere. I'm upset I've done something so stupid.
"Good morning, Sunshine," dad says, bacon in one hand, folded newspaper in the other. "We left you some bacon. Eggs are in the pan."
"Thanks," I say rounding right for the plate. There are six strips left. I stick a piece in my mouth, holding it, savoring the flavor and scent while pouring a glass of orange juice. Mom bought the 'lots of pulp' kind. I like the 'no pulp'. She knows this. I officially hate her today. Just another strike on my list. I carry my juice and the whole plate of bacon and the rest of the eggs into my room where I don't resurface until I'm hungry again, carrying the empty plate and glass downstairs, knowing how shitty I still look in my pajamas at two o'clock in the afternoon.
Mom is sweeping the foyer. Dad is on the couch watching some game, a beer in hand. He turns around when he hears the stairs creak. "Hello again," he says over his shoulder. I say nothing, just shuffle along, emptying my dirty things into the sink. I make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, poor a glass of milk, then scuffle back upstairs.
"What are you?" he asks. "In hibernation?"
I grumble. "Yes."
I hear mom say something to him or me, but I don't really care. I don't care about today. I worry about tomorrow: what he will say, what I will do, and most importantly what should I wear? Should I take time to put makeup on? I contemplate all this under the sanctuary of my sheets, taking small bites of bread, jelly, and peanut butter until it's all gone. Eaten by some monster living inside my head. I hate feeling this way. Out of control. In silent persecution. Dormant with all the feelings of some crummy, wanna-be, poor excuse of a relationship loitering over my head, a crummy excuse for lunch in my stomach.
Angela texts me, but I don't respond until nine, when I'm still laying in bed. Five hours later. I tell her I was studying and turned my phone on silent. I'm full of lies and excuses. She tells me we're going shopping for gowns next Saturday in Port Angeles. Immediately, before I respond I think of Edward, how he'll be at home with his wife this upcoming weekend. I throw my pillow onto the floor. Feathers explode.
I agree to it, truly needing a day to myself with my friends. This time I won't be lying to mom.
I'm productive before I slip off to a dreamless sleep. I decide to wear a skirt tomorrow with a tank top since the high is supposed to be eighty degrees. The Weather Channel isn't always accurate, but it doesn't matter. I search websites for hairstyles, making a plan to get up early and conquer my waves.
This, however doesn't happen. I don't hear my first alarm set at five thirty, but I hear my usual. Today of all days. Oh well. I don't care. I take my time. Fluffing eyelashes with black mascara, twirling my hair and pinning it so it's up, yet hanging slightly down. Mom tells me I'm going to be late. To soothe this reminder I inform her I'm about to leave. Yet there is a void within me, a voice telling me to stay in bed, sleep the day away. I know this voice. It's nothing to do with logic or reason. It's fear speaking through my gut and into my head, coiling my insides into submission. I lower my fingers from my hair, thinking I should stay home. If I'm here and he's there, his mind will be unsettled. He'll experience what I do. He may even come here again. I can pretend to be sick.
No. I can't allow myself to skip. We have a few more weeks left. I have finals coming up. Classes I must study for.
Downstairs, Mom is sitting at the table with her coffee. Nothing in front of her. Her eyes cast out the window to the front yard. I'm curious what she's staring out. She looks nice today. Her hair is curly with purpose and her clothes are straight and clean.
"Where are you going today?" I ask because she's never this well put together.
"Running a few errands." She turns her head and gives a half-smile. "You look beautiful."
"Thanks. So do you."
She regards herself then dismisses my compliment with a flutter of her fingers on her cup. She's not used to it. There's a vague air about her, always has been. A selfless consistency where her family and volunteer work are concerned. She never takes time to herself, never involves herself in matters more than she has to for her appearance. Today is the first day in a long time I've seen her with the slightest hint of makeup.
Outside, on the way to my truck, I fall on my ass. I wonder if I'm cursed, or if this is what people are talking about when they think of Monday. The most hated day by the swell of humanity. I've never been particular about singling out one day to be the worst, but now I must concur with the large percentage that accumulate vast memes of cats with cups of coffee, glasses, and snarls, complete with incredibly snarky, bold text.
Mondays must be the worst.
I'm late to school. I suppose it's for the best to avoid any contact with him in the halls or front office. I travel the long way to second. Forget my chemistry book on purpose, and without asking permission from Edward after he begins class, walk out the door and stay absent for ten minutes to wallow in self-pity in the girl's bathroom because he's intentionally gorgeous today in all black. His hair is perfectly coifed, and he isn't wearing glasses! Those eyes are for all the world to see, completely visible and unarmored. Fuck him. He's playing unfair.
Then again, I'm wearing a skirt.
And I never wear skirts.
So maybe we've both come prepared today. To battle our resolve against one another. Who will cave first?
When I come back into third with my book tucked into my arms, it's dark. The overhead is lit against the whiteboard and Edward's hands perch on his hips. "Welcome back, Miss Swan," he says with a dominant, teacher-like tone. "Next time you need to ask permission before leaving this classroom, especially during a lesson."
I turn at my desk, beginning to sit. "Oh, are you being a teacher today?" I ask.
His lensless eyes narrow, darken, and point words I can't begin to fathom as the class erupts with a senseless series of 'ohs'. If they only knew what this man said to me forty-eight hours ago, they would understand. But they don't. They simply think I'm being a bitch. My skin is hot with my words, his stare. He points to the door.
"Miss Swan, I need to see you in the hall."