Chapter 18

~Edward~

I waited until the next morning to make my way between our houses, shuffling on the green grass in my bare feet. The sun was high and hot. It was already over eighty degrees, and the man on the transistor said it would get to a record high of ninety, if not over. I thought of Bella, realizing I was going barefoot as much as she was, but after the weight of military boots, having nothing— not even socks—made me feel like I was floating on air. Something maybe I hoped would rub off on my inner self.

On my approach, I eyed the house. All the windows were yawning on the old thing. All its eyes open with lace curtains fluttering limply out of the windows, picking up what little breeze there was crossing through the halls and rooms. It was almost… pleasant to look at.

Knocking once, twice, making the door flap, I called with a tentative voice through the screen when I heard no sound of her or the clip of hooves. "Bella?"

No answer returned to me, so I turned to go, regretful I wouldn't be able to get out my apology before too much time passed, and it would just be an awkward gesture. I stood on the front porch, trying to see if she was hidden in her garden, and I missed her, or maybe at the stream, bathing again. That second thought made me clear my throat, the memory of her body, lithe and supple, as the stream supplied a peaceful backdrop. It wasn't something I wanted to relate to her, especially since I had now seen how beautiful she was up close and had almost lost control when she'd practically pressed herself up against me.

The sound of a crash from inside made me jump to the door and pull it open instantly, crossing the kitchen, and searching the downstairs rooms for signs of something broken, most likely Bella bloodying her hand in a second clumsy accident.

"Bella?" I called again, up the stairs this time, my mind imagining worse things like slipping on slick bathroom floors or falling out of flimsy second floor windows. "Bella, I heard a crash. Are you all right?"

My feet began to climb, a bit of worry in them as I heard a second crash. Panicked, my feet jumped up two at a time and raced to the landing where I started looking into each room, anticipating seeing her body lifeless on the ground. Images of bodies and blood and chaos made me blink my one eye rapidly, but I kept searching the dusty rooms until I found what I was looking for.

Two crystal vases were shattered on the floor of the farthest bedroom, water seeping through the knotholes in the wood and yellow daisies sprawled out and bent. I stepped slowly over them and felt the stronger breeze from this side of the house. Relieved Bella wasn't involved, I picked up the pieces and collected them in their broken bases, leaving the daisies propped up on the sill.

After mopping up the water with a towel from the bathroom, I felt the floor to make sure I'd gotten everything. As I did, I took a wider look around the room, half-expecting it to be covered in a dust blanket much like my second, unused bedroom.

But this room was filled with life. Great big, beautiful life.

Massive, hand-painted murals graced two walls: fluffy pink flowers blooming against the greenest leaves and darkest bark of a forest of trees. An antique birdcage jutted from the wall to look like it was perched on a branch, filled with fairy lights that extended out the side and trailed the way up the inside of a thin wisp of a canopy that hung from the ceiling and crowned the four poster bed underneath.

I turned in a circle, mesmerized by how… girly it was, with pink quilts laying on a bench at the foot and fluffy pillows strewn next to an oversized, oval mirror with more fairy lights wrapped around the top, intertwined with scarves and bits of lace.

Feeling monstrous in the overly feminine room, I realized I was violating her privacy much as she had mine and made my way out, only to have a group of books—large, voluminous books—catch my eye. It wasn't the pile that made me stop; it was the subject matter.

She had at least twenty-five coffee table books neatly stacked in a white bookcase, some on their side, some being used as a stage for knickknacks, and some facing forward to show off their covers.

Nepal. Bangladesh. Africa. The Great Pyramids. Thailand.

I knew without looking at titles where each photo was taken as I knew some of the people behind the lens responsible for their beauty. My fingers touched the shiny paper covering one of them, and I felt a knife in my gut, much like the one I felt yesterday in my attic, of dreams and me and landscapes long gone. But I also felt curiosity and maybe a bit of sadness for Bella. I was pretty sure she'd never been to these places but to know she was interested—possibly dreamed of them—made me mourn the fact that she'd been stuck here. Her room made sense, its forests and fairy lands taking her from the fields and blankness of home.

Flashes of her in other places flew before me, and I could see her in my mind dressed in a ruby-gilded sari on top of an elephant or maybe in khaki holding a koala. She'd be lovely floating in a rice boat down the Mekong Delta, a Non La sitting atop her head at a quirky angle as her hand rippled the water while it skimmed the surface.

Opening the front cover of a book about Cuba, I envisioned a photograph of Bella sipping a Cubanito at one of the outdoor coffee stalls in Havana, legs elegantly crossed, as she perched on a stool, then I blinked and saw myself sitting next to her.

I slammed the book closed like it bit me.

Leaving her room before it sucked me in, the floorboards creaked and my stomach rolled. Seeing those books after looking at all my photographs hit me hard, making me feel sick and sweaty. Stopping to brace my hands on my knees, I closed my eye and let out a breath.

I chose to settle here. Chose to find the most boring place on earth and live out the rest of my life planting my feet so deep in soil, I'd begin to sprout. I couldn't let myself go down this slippery slope, remembering what life was like before. Before, when I did it for me, until that wasn't enough.

There was no going back. Innocence was lost, and years of decay had made me rot inside. How could I shoot pretty images when I knew how much black was out there? When I knew exactly what my camera could capture?

Against my will, I let my deepest fear see a swatch of light I hadn't given it freedom to do since I'd received and accepted this small, inadequate punishment for my sins. I fiddled with my eye patch as I made my way to her stairs.

Even if I found something worthy, would my mangled eye allow me the joy of being able to shoot it? Or would it mock me and justify all I'd done by not being able to see the beauty before me?

Would I be a surgeon who has lost feeling in his scalpel hand?

Through the open second-story window in front of me, I saw the field flutter and the movement of a brunette head over the grasses. I thought to call out to her, but I ran down the stairs instead, not wanting her to find me in her house. I wouldn't be able to handle her yelling at me as I had done to her the day before, for the same exact offense.

When I burst out the screen door to make my way towards her, it took me a minute to process what was in front of me. There she was, deer at her side, walking towards me without a stitch on, save for a scant scrap of underwear that barely qualified. Hair covered one breast over her left shoulder, but the rest of her was white and bright, glowing in the sunshine pouring down on her. I glimpsed yellow fabric in her hand before I looked down instinctively, hoping she hadn't caught me ogling as my eye raked down her body.

As I was shuffling and staring at my bare feet, the grass went from listless sound to quick rustling, and suddenly, she was there, bounding towards me. Too quickly, she was right in front of me, jumping up. My arms caught her and wrapped around, her body fitting perfectly against mine.

She placed her fingers on my mouth as I opened it to speak. "I'm sorry," she sighed, breathless and wild.

She was apologizing to me? That was all wrong, but before I could correct her, her fingers slipped up over my cheek, along my nose, and dusted the eyebrow just above my good eye, her palm falling flat against it, blocking all sight.

"I'm sorry," she repeated, the word ending just as her lips touched mine. They were still at first, just a soft pressure, and I inhaled whatever soap she'd used deep into my lungs. Very gently, she ended that kiss but began another, her mouth opening slightly as her head tilted just the faintest bit to the right. It was tentative but not unsure. My grip on her tightened as her legs squeezed back. Her smooth skin was damp and clean under my palms, and they kneaded the skin of her back, before slipping steadily down to support her and brace her against me.

She felt good. Like summer and memories of popsicles melting down your hand. She was hot under my fingers like sand on an orange Australian beach. She tasted like ponds and streams and creeks with butterflies buzzing lazily in the distance, and I drank from her like I'd been lying in the desert for days, full of thirst.

Maybe it was my own apology, letting her kiss me like that without telling her to stop, without pushing her away. But maybe it wasn't.

My hand went to her hair and tangled itself in its dampness, my fingers clutching her neck and moving her head the way I wanted. She felt like a fairy doll, so light and small in my strength, but when I tried to loosen my hold, she clamped herself tighter around me. I knew that if I let go of her completely, she'd stay right where she was, climbing me like a tree. Like a girl being pulled by the wind and clinging to life.

I found myself clinging right back.

Mad love to LayAtHomeMom, Hadley Hemingway, and CarrieZM for making us pretty.

Enjoy, and leave us your thoughts!

HB&PB