A/N: This was meant to be the final chapter, but there's one more after this. This bloody story just seems to take on a life of its own.
With Edward's discussions with Garrett, it's all from wiki, so don't expect it to be exact, and finally, this chapter is very close to me, because during it my youngest son was diagnosed with Autism. I also have an older son with Aspergers. William and Saxon in this chapter are my boys, and I have written them as they are in RL. To put this out in the world is very hard for me, so go easy on me.
Chapter
52
Story of My Life Part 2.
Edward's POV
After five days at the camp I discovered my mother's motives ran deeper than just giving me a break from Bella.
I was standing in the line in the mess tent waiting to be served the shitty breakfast of undercooked eggs and bacon, when a British accent spoke from close behind me, "You must be Edward."
A hand extended over my shoulder before I was able to respond; I turned, taking it briefly as I did, to see one of the psychologists before me.
I recognized him immediately. He was the guy all the kids called "Cool Mr. Denali." The one who played Call of Duty, and World of Warcraft with them every night. He could bring down a screaming kid in seconds by telling them these weird-ass riddles, and had the biggest collection of Star Wars, and Marvel and DC in his office that even Jazz almost lost his shit when he saw it.
"I'm Garrett. Rumor has it that you're not exactly here voluntarily."
I was immediately cynical, a smirk inching across my face. "Something like that."
"Well … if you ever want to talk about it, you know where to find me." He threw me a quick grin, that didn't fucking disguise the fact that he was observing me closely.
I snorted, openly, knowing I was being an asshole, but not finding it inside myself to give a shit. "Here's the thing, my mother thinks I have some kind of disorder, but the reality is she just can't accept that this is who I am. So I'm here—unwillingly—to get her off my back, and no, I don't need to talk about it."
His grin didn't falter; in fact, it increased with what looked like secret amusement. "That was a pretty strong reaction, Edward. I'm guessing you're pretty pissed off at your old lady?"
There was something comical about his accent that I found myself relaxing, and old lady reminded me of something Bella would say—unconsciously that is, before she'd tell me to shut up before I was able to react.
I grinned to myself quickly, exhaling past it. "Pissed off? Not breaking the camp rules there are you, Cool Mr. Denali?"
My Uncle had told me the minute I arrived that swearing was prohibited. If the kids heard anyone of even remote authority cussing, it'd be a free for all, and apparently these kids are pretty inventive.
He leaned in slightly closer to me, his smirk growing canny. "Fuck the camp rules; come by tonight and I'll let you telephone that little girlfriend of yours."
Little girlfriend?
I tensed, feeling the pissed off indignation crease my brow, knowing this fucking psychologist was in on whatever arrangement my mother had laid down without my knowledge. Yeah, my mother had refused to let me take my phone, and had apparently told my uncle to make sure all communication for me was on fucking lock down. She even intimidated Jazz into promising her that he wouldn't let me use his phone.
Apparently, I needed no distractions.
I huffed sarcastically, before I replied to him, in a low, measured voice, "If you want to be buddies, do me a favor and shove the patronizing up your ass."
Garrett stepped back from me, rubbing his chin as if giving it weight—giving me fucking weight. "I heard you'd be a hard one to crack."
I stepped closer to him, pissed off at this assumption—which was becoming more of a fucking realization—that I was here for therapy. "Am I one of the fucking campers?"
"Watch out of the way, Edward Cullen. I'm trying to get my fucking breakfast!" William—the ten year old Aspergers kid—exclaimed from beside me.
Garrett turned to him, grabbing him in a headlock and ruffling his hair. "Ducking—he said ducking, you little ducker."
Pushing William ahead of us, who was now only concerned about smoothing down his hair, he pulled me aside. "Look, mate, your mother insisted on this. Just come and talk to me. I'll let her know you're complying, even if you insist on not saying a word. We got a deal?" He rose his brows, gauging me, his smile almost turning sincere—almost, because there was something really shrewd about this guy.
Releasing my breath, I turned my gaze from him, rubbing the back of my neck, my tone sarcastic. "If it's one of my mother's conditions I guess I have no choice..."
"Good man," he slapped my back, bringing my attention begrudging back on him. "I'll see you tonight at seven."
I couldn't deny that the prospect of talking to Bella did make the proposition more appealing. I hadn't spoken to her since the night before I left; I kind of expected Alice would let her speak to me from her phone after one of her calls to Jazz, by now. So far, there'd been nothing, and since I couldn't even ask Jazz to use his phone to call my sister—the pissant was a pussy whipped bitch, too scared that my mother would find out—I was left in the fucking dark.
. . .
After I was served my bacon and runny eggs over easy, I made my way over to where Jazz was sitting trying to hold off a food fight at the table. Though on closer inspection, I noticed it was just Patrick, getting over-excited by Jazz's Forks jokes and jumping up and down at the table with half an egg sandwich in each hand.
"Dude, I am never having kids," he said lowly to me as I set my tray down beside him.
I smirked, making an effort not to laugh. "Jazz, you have egg in your hair."
"Son of a—," Jazz snapped, jerkily raking the food from his hair with his fingers in repulsion.
I smothered my laughter behind a cup of really fucking disgusting tasting coffee.
"What did Captain Cool want with you anyway?" he asked, looking up at me after he'd finished cleaning himself off.
"He wants to talk. In other words my mother set up fucking therapy for me," I explained to him in a low voice so the little fuckers wouldn't hear me.
"HOW DO YOU KNOW YOU LIVE IN FORKS—CAUSE EDWINA AND JAZMINA ARE MARRIED!" Patrick suddenly yelled out, flapping his arms in excitement and showering me in Jazz—and the rest of the kids at the table—with more particles of egg as the entire mess hall erupted into laughter.
"I hope beating up Newton was worth it, douche-bag, cause you owe me a shit ton," Jazz muttered as he swatted at the food on his shirt for a second time, oblivious to the fact that he had a huge glob of egg yolk between his eyes.
. . .
Jazz and I, as well as two psychology majors, Benjamin and Randall, were in charge of the seven year olds. I was guessing they figured we'd have the most amount of energy to handle them. When they had an iPad in front of them the little shits were happy, but get them into the great outdoors and they scattered like roaches.
There was seven of them, and that morning Jazz had the bright idea of playing a game of tee-ball. They were generally up for it—in theory—but as soon as we got them outside and more than ten feet from some kind of computer device, two of them went into meltdown mode by way of high pitched squealing—that we quickly realized wasn't so much a fit, but a moment of sensory overload—three went into Apple App withdrawal—to which the commotion caused Saxon to promptly clamp both hands over his ears and turn to stone, and Logan done the Harry—as Bella would say. I had to take off after him while he flapped his arms as though he was a fucking albatross on the runway preparing for take-off.
It took forty-five minutes to calm everyone and get the game set up, but what Jazz nor I—and who am I kidding, the psychology majors as well—didn't realize was that what you said to a seven year old Autistic kid, they took literally. So when Jazz told Saxon to hit the ball and then run as fast he could without stopping until he made it, that's exactly what Saxon did. He took off, bat in hand, straight down the middle of first and second base, and towards the river with Jazz and Benjamin running after him, while I bolted after Logan again who was going for a second attempt at take-off, due east.
This was what a usual day entailed, and by the time dinner rolled around that night, Jazz and I—not even close to being used to it—were fucked. Not literally, for us. That would have taken a miracle, and since Bella wasn't even contacting me through the little rat, I wasn't holding out for much hope.
We let Saxon and Logan skip up and down the aisles of the mess tent, Stromboli in hand, while we attempted not to pass out cold; though, the growing edginess I was feeling over my appointment with Mr. Cool made for a good distraction, and the fact that he was going to let me call Bella.
"HOW DO YOU KNOW YOU LIVE IN FORKS—WHEN EDWINA AND JAZMINA HAVE A BABY AND CALL IT 'PISSANT'" Patrick yelled across the room, thankfully not at our table, just as Jazz face-planted the table, and I didn't know whether it was because he was exhausted or agro—as Bella would say.
"Dude, I fucking hate you!" he muttered.
. . .
"Glad to see you didn't stand me up, Edward," Garrett said lightly holding the screen door to his cabin open for me as I trudged up the stairs.
Grumbling beneath my breath, too shattered for sarcasm, I walked passed him into his office and practically collapsed into the sofa that sat alongside his desk.
He followed me in, chuckling, before he sat at his table. "I heard you and Jasper had fun with the sprogs today."
"Fun … yeah…" I uttered, laughing once, humorlessly.
"Imagine if you had them fulltime," he added, putting a cigarette between his lips, and grabbing something from his desk and tossing it to me, before flicking his lighter.
Scrambling to catch it, I quickly realized it was his IPhone.
"You've got fifteen minutes, lover-boy. Now, get the fuck out of here."
With a sudden burst of energy, and a stealthily growing erection at the mere idea of hearing Bella's voice, I bounded back out of the tent, dialing as I went.
She picked up after the fifth ring, with an uncertain, "Hello?"
"Heeeey, baby cakes," I said, my tone going immediately warm, while a grin quickly spread subconsciously across my face.
"Edward—oh my god, you sound buggered!" she burst, her voice tender and seeped with concern, but fuck me, did I miss that accent.
"Fuck, I am, baby. These kids are crazy," I replied, taking a jaded breath, continuing to walk further into the dark to be sure Mr. Cool couldn't overhear.
She chuckled softly, before there was a brief pause. "Whose phone are you on?"
"One of the counsellors," I answered, omitting the fact that he was a child psychologist who'd been hamstringed by mother into giving me therapy.
"Oh … yeah, Alice said your mother heavied Jazz into not letting you use his," she admitted, her voice becoming almost a mumble, and beginning to sound disheartened.
"Yeah, fucking pissant won't relent, either." My tone was bitter; I always knew he was a pussy.
I only heard Bella's breath wash out over the receiver as I chewed my bottom lip, working myself up to ask her a moment later, "The little rat hasn't offered to let you phone me?"
I mean, if Bella used Alice's phone to call Jazz, and ask him to put me on, my mother would never fucking know.
"N-no," she stammered, and she sounded guilty! "Edward…?" she breached and all of a sudden I was hearing the same tone she'd used when she'd came to tell me, in no uncertain words, to fuck off and leave her alone, after my accident.
"Yeah?" I said in a resigned tone, sitting down on a log built retaining wall, as my heart faltered.
"Your mother ... she came and seen me..."
"Fuck me—what now!?" I ran my hand back through my hair stiffly, feeling fucking weary through my growing anger.
"She asked me not to contact you—that you needed ... a break." Her tone was near identical to mine, only she wasn't angry, she was fucking defeated, and what was worse was she had listened to my mother over her own judgement.
Bella knew me; at least, I thought she did...
"Bella, Jesus fucking Christ!" I burst. "I'm not a baby—I'm not a fucking psychopath. I can handle talking to my girlfriend. There's nothing the fuck WRONG WITH ME!" I ripped the phone from my ear, inhaling the anger back through my nose, as I lunged to my feet, kicking backwards against the log wall.
"Fuck it," I muttered, and as I brought the phone back to my cheek, I second guessed myself and hung up instead. I was too pissed to talk, and I didn't want to say anything to Bella that I'd later regret.
I set out back towards Garrett's cabin, my feet kicking up the dirt angrily as I walked, when the phone rang. It was some lame-ass Homer Simpson ringtone, and it was Bella.
I switched it off; this phone call had been fucking anticlimactic, and I just wanted to go to bed.
Opening the door to Garrett's cabin, I threw the phone on the sofa, and left, slamming the screen as I went; without saying anything to him.
. . .
Inside the rec room they were playing Finding Nemo on the projector. Most of the kids were either watching it laughing, reciting it, or glued to their IPads.
I made my way over to Jazz, who was out cold on a bean bag, his head back, his mouth wide open as Saxon whacked him repeatedly in the head with a half-full two liter bottle of soda—that he'd obviously swiped from the kitchen.
Jazz didn't even flinch.
"Do you want a drink, bud?" I asked him.
"Can I have some Pepsi-Max please, douche-bag," he asked in that weird, low monotone voice of his, a cup in his other hand, while his eyes looked everywhere but at me.
Yeah, thanks to fucking Jazz, douche-bag was what Saxon thought my name was; I never bothered to correct him.
I opened the bottle without another thought—I too was fucking tired and agitated to remember if Saxon was even allowed to have soda—only for it to spurt everywhere.
Saxon didn't walk, he skipped—everywhere, and no matter what he was carrying.
In reflex I pointed it toward Jazz, who got showered in it.
"Mother fuck!" he burst, violently bolting awake and sucking in his breath.
"Mother fuck!" Saxon echoed, clamping his hands over his ears, cup still in hand.
"MOTHER FUCKERS!" Patrick yelled out, from fuck knows where in the room. The kid had better hearing than Emmett.
And with a loud bang of the door, Logan had escaped the room; I'd forgotten to lock it behind me on the way in.
"I fucking hate you, douche-bag," Jazz muttered before going after Logan, whose squeals of mother fuckers grew fainter the further he ran.
My internal groan was halted by Saxon who suddenly whacked me in the forehead with the cup he'd been hanging onto. "Excuse me, douche-bag, can I have some Pepsi-Max, please?"
. . .
Despite how fucking exhausted I was that night, I lay awake in the bunk below Jazz, pretending to sleep until I was confident he was. As soon as he was snoring, I snatched his phone that was charging in the corner of the room and quietly left the cabin, calling Alice.
"Jazzy boo…" she fucking murmured into the phone on the third ring, her tone fucking seductive; making my skin literally crawl.
"Jesus, Alice!" I burst, pissed off and repulsed simultaneously.
"Edward—what are you doing with Jazz's phone?!" she demanded, and I suspected she was just as mortified and was covering with anger.
"What the fuck does that matter—just tell me what Mom said to Bella!"
She scoffed impatiently. "Nothing. She went to apologize and then told her that you and Bella needed some downtime after Australia—."
"What bullshit—" I interjected, but Alice quickly cut me off.
"It's not bullshit, and Bella agrees! Now shut up and listen! You need to talk to someone about your anger, Edward. Everyone thinks so—and Bella most of all. She's really worried about you—that you'll do something stupid, and that's the last thing she needs at the moment. And you are worse than you have ever been—ever since you got back from Australia. It's a fact!" She was deadly serious; in fact, I'd never heard the little rat use that tone with me before. She was pissed with me and impatient, but at the same time she was ... anxious.
I opened my mouth to respond—cynically, sarcastically, but shut it again. My mind was racing, trying to process it, but I couldn't even begin to grasp what I thought about it—what I felt about it. "Fuck me..." I whispered into the phone, to no one in particular, as I pushed the front of my hair back from my brow.
"Edward, Bella is pissed at you. I mean, really. You ring her up, scream at her and then hang up?! What the fuck is wrong with you? If you don't get whatever it is that eats away at you out, you are going to lose her," she began with impatience, but again her tone turned somber, almost pleading.
I sat down flat on my ass, bending my head between my knees. I had no fucking idea where I'd walked to, just that I couldn't take another step. Resting my forehead in my hand, I listened to Alice blabber on about how much Bella loved me, without a word in response; there was nothing to say. She was right. Bella was right. My fucking mother was right.
What I had witnessed Bella go through in Australia, of her past, her mother, her grief over losing her best friend, had brought shit back to the surface that I had long buried.
. . .
"I spoke to Bella last night. What a tender little thing she is, but very perceptive," Garrett said to me the next night, as I slouched begrudgingly on the sofa, while he sat chain smoking his way through scrutinizing me.
I sat immediately upright, annoyed and indignant. "You fucking called her?"
"No, she fucking called me," he mocked me, before half smirking and taking another drag of his cigarette. "Well actually, she thought she was calling you."
I took a deliberate breath, releasing it into a sigh. "What did she say?"
"At first she was just ranting; I let her." His smirk grew with amusement. He thought it was real fucking funny. "She said"—he paused, using his fingers as quotation marks—"fuck you, asshole, no one is ganging up on you, and grow the hell up."
"Great," I muttered, feeling myself almost instinctively tense. Having Bella pissed off at me made me as uptight as I could get, and I was always two breaths away from convincing myself she was over me, at the best of times.
"She's Australian," he said, as if I didn't know already.
"No shit, Sherlock."
"You're a testy little prick, aren't you?" He quirked an eyebrow at me, before lighting up another cigarette. "You mind?" He emphasized his lighter.
"Sure, I enjoy secondary smoke as much as the next guy."
"Do you want to call her first, and then whack off? Seriously, do what you have to get it out of your system so we can talk," he said with the cigarette between his lips, holding up his cell.
I moved my hands for him to toss it to me.
. . .
"I'm sorry, Baby," I blurted to Bella the minute she picked up. She obviously recognized the number; her tone was stand-offish. I knew it well; for most of our Bio classes together that's how she'd spoken to me.
She sighed, long and wearily. "Edward—bloody hell. What am I going to do with you?"
"Forgive me, belly welly, muffin cakes…?" I tried the charm, knowing it would fail regardless.
"Seriously, Edward? I may puke." She never disappointed.
I sat down on the same log wall that I had the night before, rubbing the back of my neck. "I really am sorry, baby. I'd just found out about this therapy my mother had set up for me without my knowledge, and I'm a fucking asshole. I ... I dunno…"
She exhaled again, lighter this time. "You'd refuse to go along with it if you knew, that's why."
"You think I need it?"
She paused, before answering with a tentative, "Yeah."
"Fuck."
"Hey…?" Her voice was soft.
"Yeah?" I mumbled.
"Do the therapy, and for your birthday I'll give you my body for whatever you want to use it for," she said all fucking coy like, but her voice reacted in me like a reflex.
"I thought that was a given," I teased her, suddenly more alert.
"Don't push it, Edward," she replied wryly, and I could see that cynical smile fighting off the affection in her tone.
I laughed softly. "Okay, deal—and I'm going to hold you to it, too."
"I bet you will."
I walked back to Garrett's cabin with a massive boner and goofy smile nailed to my face; I was as horny as all fuck, but I was a lot calmer.
For the next several nights we talked about my reaction to Bella's pain in Australia, and how it had manifested so much anger in me afterward. During the nights that followed we talked more about Bella, and then about Alice's illness, and finally to my father's death.
At first it made me uneasy to talk so frankly about shit that was close to me, but after a few days I began noticing how lighter I was feeling; unburdened. Talking about Bella especially. I almost felt as if it made a lot more sense after talking about her and I; as if, I was seeing it from a new perspective.
Garrett didn't make me feel stupid even as I cringed when the words crossed my lips at how fucking ridiculous they sounded. For instance, when I admitted that I didn't think I could even breathe if I lost her, because she'd become so ingrained in every aspect of my life. She made me feel like it had relevance—like I had relevance. Someone who knew all the bullshit I'd done and was capable of, and loved me anyway, and who wanted to be with me; who'd cried and hung on to me when I told her I was leaving, as if I gave her that same sense of relevance.
"I know that makes me sound like a fucking pussy … or whatever…" I muttered, almost subconsciously reaching for his packet of cigarettes, and pulling one out.
He held his lighter out to me, before pausing. "Just this one time, and only because you're so fucking wound tight, you need something to relax you."
He lit the cigarette for me and I inhaled deeply, almost fucking choking instantly after. He smirked, but waited until I could take a lungful without practically asphyxiating, before he continued. "You know, it's interesting, you obviously lead with you heart, but at the same time you're embarrassed by it."
"Well it's not the sort of shit guys chat about, is it—how my girlfriend is the fucking sun and the moon to me," I replied sarcastically, taking a too hasty drag and coughing violently again. "This really is a filthy fucking habit," I muttered, butting it out in the ashtray.
Garrett shrugged, inhaling back his cigarette as his eyes drifted to the ceiling. "I don't know. My girlfriend, Kate, the stuff I could say about her—what a woman. She is definitely the sun and moon to me."
I smirked shortly, coughing the remains of smoke from my lungs into my closed fist.
He sat forward, looking directly at me, his expression turning sharp. "What I think, Edward, is that this … emotion you feel for Bella, it scares the shit out of you. You don't know how to handle anything so strong, and which in turn makes you feel so vulnerable. You hate feeling so helpless, that she could crush you in a second and you can't do anything about it. You, my friend, need that control, and when you feel like you don't have it … well in walks the moody, angry little shithead you're so good at being."
I scoffed, feeling my brow bunch, but I didn't say anything, and I wish I hadn't butted out the cigarette because I needed to do something with my hands—other than fucking reef them back through my hair.
"But this need for control—that's all apart it…" He leaned back in his chair, blowing the smoke from the corner of his mouth, toward the open window.
"Apart of what?" I asked, skeptically.
"I'll get to that tomorrow." He waved his hand at me, crushing out his cigarette with the other, before grabbing his phone and tossing it to me.
It had become the new ritual. Talk first, call Bella at the end.
. . .
The next day I was edgy and distracted. I was still convinced there wasn't anything wrong with me, but I was more concerned about what Garrett was going to conclude than what I let myself believe. I was worried that whatever he was going to say was going to create consequences in my life when I got back home. With my fucking mother mostly, but with Bella primarily.
It rained all day, so we were stuck inside with the kids—which wasn't so bad considering they were happiest sitting in front of a screen of some kind. The only consolation was watching Jazz get his ass handed to him by William on Xbox. No matter what they played he got bitch slapped, and half the time William's attention was divided with his IPad.
I wasn't stupid enough to take the kid on, but Jazz became determined to win at any cost; even to the point that Patrick went into loud hysterics over his tactics, and Saxon slapped himself in the head, saying to himself lowly, "Oh no, pissant, you're gonna die again."
That's what Saxon thought Jazz's name was. I never contradicted him on that one either.
"Okay, you win this time, you little smart ass," Jazz muttered throwing his controller down, and getting to his feet.
William smirked to himself, snorting as he switched his full attention to his IPad. "Denial aint a river in Egypt, Jazmina."
He was only half mocking him; I don't think William knew what Jazz's name really was. He called Jazz whatever I last called him.
These kids really didn't get sarcasm, even when they were dishing it out.
"JAZMINA LOVES EDWINA!" Patrick suddenly hollered, to which even Saxon laughed—while he blocked out all sound out with his hands.
"Edna Krabapple?" William turned his attention to me, holding up the controller. He knew my name, but Edna Krabapple was what he'd decided to call me after I started calling him Mr. Burns—from the Simpsons. The kid was just as scrawny!
I held my hands up. "Hey, dude, I'm crap at those games."
He shrugged. "Well, do you want to watch The Spy Who Loved Me? I have it on disc and USB."
"Err..." I struggled to come up with a response fast enough.
He looked down at his IPad again, and added while fiddling around with it, "It's got Roger Moore as James Bond. He drives a 1977 Lotus, and carries a Walther PPK. The bond girl is Major Anja Amasova played by Barbara Bach—she's okay, but I prefer Denise Richards. She's in The World is Not Enough with Pierce Brosnan as James Bond in 1999. Her character's name is Christmas Jones."
I had no fucking idea what the kid just said.
"Sure—douche-bag would love to watch it with you, dude!" pissant Jazz answered on my behalf.
So, I spent the next two hours getting the entire freaking Encyclopedia Britannica version of 007. I swear the kid didn't take a breath, but apparently in the rec' tent, Logan had decided to launch his next take off carrying a tube of red paint in one hand and a vial of glitter in the other. When I saw Jazz at dinner I almost puked up my lungs from laughing.
"JAZMINA IS A SPARKLY VAMPIRE FROM TWILIGHT!" Patrick yelled out every two minutes.
"I fucking hate you, douche-bag," Jazz muttered, the twenty-second time he'd told me that day. "I'm never having kids," he added, as he shoveled a forkful of food in his mouth just moments before he was showered in baked beans by Saxon's arrival at the table.
. . .
"Here's the thing, Edward," Garrett began when I sat down on the sofa, resigned by whatever he had to say, "I don't think you have any disorder. When you say this is who you are, I believe you." He flicked the ash from his cigarette in his ashtray before elaborating, "Let's be frank, you're a short tempered little fucker, and there's no excuses for that ... but you're also a product of the circumstances that happened in your life. Though, I did initially think you had some kind of stress disorder."
"Stress disorder?" I repeated.
"PTSD," he answered.
"In English!" I snapped.
He took a drag of his cigarette from the corner of his mouth, his eyes narrowing me as he surveyed me. "Jesus, you're a testy little prick! Post. Traumatic. Stress. Disorder."
I snorted sarcastically. "So you thought I was stressed and traumatized, did you?"
"Initially," he retorted in a patronizing tone, "but now I think you're a pissed off bastard because that's how you've learnt to deal with any stress that comes your way."
I felt my brow crease, my only reply an indifferent shrug. I wasn't indifferent; I just wasn't sure how to answer.
"You're not going to be a petulant little shit now, are you?" he asked, with his cigarette still between his lips.
"Just get the fuck on with it," I muttered, exhaling wearily.
He gazed at me for a few more moments, in between his chain smoking—though he did have the fucking courtesy to blow it toward the open window away from me—before shrugging a shoulder. "Hey, anger is a natural response, but it's a double negative, and it only suppresses the issue. Eventually you will have to deal with it in a conducive way or—well, you know what happens, don't you?" He raised his brows, sitting forward in his chair to fold his elbows on the table.
I was immediately suspicious. "Who else have you spoken you?"
"Everyone, my boy—that's my job." He fucking winked at me.
I only took a breath, releasing it shortly with impatience.
He butted out his cigarette, and leaned back in his chair. "You just have to learn that anger will only take you so far, and unless you learn to release any stress and anxiety you're feeling in other ways, your friend, anger, will get you into a lot of trouble. Though," he reached for another cigarette," from what I've been told, it has already..."
I reached up and rubbed the back of my neck, pissed off, but only because this entire conversion was making me feel fucking infantile. "Yeah, I don't know; I guess."
"And you don't like talking about shit that's happened in your life either. Out comes Mr. Hates-the-world-and-his-mother." He smirked, lighting up.
"What's your point?" I demanded with a sigh.
"You, Mr. Cullen, have been hurt—and badly—and now the fear of being hurt again scares you more than you can comprehend," his tone softened, turning serious. It made me uncomfortable; I dropped my eyes to his packet of cigarettes, if only to look somewhere other than at him. "Anger is an easy emotion; it makes you feel like you still have control, but in reality you've already lost it—what's the matter, do you want another one?" he asked, referring to his cigarettes.
My eyes snapped to his; I shook my head. "No."
"Your step-father had a very good idea getting you to write in a diary"— I huffed, my eyes narrowing; he only rolled his—"yes I spoke to him as well. The fucking point is, if you're not comfortable talking about your emotions to anyone, write them down."
"Yeah," I half-shrugged, conceding.
"Bella tells me she can get you to open up to her—only after you've thrown a few hissy fits." He smirked. "Talk to her; she's going to be very good for you, I think."
I laughed shortly, humorlessly. "Yeah, she doesn't take any of my shit."
"So she shouldn't, but she's been through enough in her own life to give you a few concessions. I don't think anyone else would be as patient…" He brought the cigarette to his mouth, inhaling it in as his brow steadily ridged the longer he gazed at me. "For Christ's sake, what now?"
"What the fuck does that mean?" I demanded. This shit was beginning to confuse me, and it was pissing me off that he was making me feel unsure of myself where Bella was concerned.
"Well, come on, Edward. How many times have to tried to push her away?" he sounded impatient, or fucking exasperated; I wasn't sure, but it made me falter.
"…None."
"Really?" he quirked an eyebrow, unconvinced. "You told me yourself that the only reason you pursued Bella initially was because she couldn't stand you. You don't get emotionally involved with girls—isn't that what you said? Bella was a conquest, until you realized it went a lot deeper than that, and you didn't like how vulnerable she made you feel. So," he leaned back in his chair, with an overconfident fucking expression on his face, "a few times you tried to pull out of it. You told her you didn't know what it was about her, but in reality, you just didn't want to face it."
I only stared at him, shaking my head slowly, trying to process what he was saying. Bella had had an impact on me the first day I met her—she was never a conquest. He'd got it wrong. "No!" I said firmly. "Bella was always different."
"Still didn't stop your instincts from trying to sabotage it though, did it?"
I raked my fingers through my hair, flustered and becoming more and more irritated. "No, I just never know what to do with her, because she never responds to me like other girls. Everything I do she's suspicious of—fucking everything! I mean, the first time I paid her a compliment she told me to fuck myself, the second time she told me I was cheesy! Even now—it's her that pushes me away. I tell her I love her and only a quarter of the time she says it back. She fucking tells me I'm corny—or fucking sappy!"
He started laughing, his cigarette smoke blowing out through his nose. "I'm liking Miss Bella more and more—are you fucking blind, Edward?" He sat forward and slammed his hand down on the table. "That girl has had to be guarded all her life, you've had to earn her trust—fight for her. But the real question is, is she worth fighting for, or do you just want someone to fuck on a regular basis?"
I lunged to my feet, fucking affronted. "Fuck you! You know what, I'm fucking done."
He rose out of his chair immediately after me. "Sit your short tempered ass back down!"
I ignored him, and turned toward the door.
"You have no idea how close that girl is to being done with you!"
A/N: Don't stress; this will be a HEA. If it isn't I'll throw myself off a cliff.
And what a great time I had writing Garrett, and I did make him British. Don't kill me =P