-:-
Naïvely, I had it in my head that things could only go uphill, as though there was a dreamlike, gravitational pull that would keep Edward and me moving in the right direction, on a recovered path where there was room for both of us—as far as Mr. Miller's wisdom went. After all, Forks was equal ground for us both—an ideal setting to be with each other, away from the distractions and obligations of our lives at home. And for the time being, I was all in favor of focusing on the present instead of worrying about what would happen once it came time for our 'vacation' to end.
However, I hadn't expected for the air around us to suddenly shift from cozy to uncomfortable, and within a span of a couple hours, it felt like we'd taken quite a few steps back. For some reason, ever since Edward woke from his nap, he'd been distant. He wasn't quite standoffish, but he avoided my eyes at all costs and only spoke when I offered conversation. At first, I thought he might have been in a 'just-woke-up' daze, but when I'd met him in the hallway after changing my clothes, he took one look at me and his expression bristled. I stared back like a deer in headlights, and though his face had softened instantly, I still couldn't pretend like it hadn't happened. When I pressed him on it, he asked—politely but firmly—for me to stop asking.
The dining hall was a distraction at least, as numerous voices buzzed around us, thankfully filling what would have probably been silence. I couldn't find it in me to care about Lauren's presence either as she moved through the tables, filling water glasses and wagging her ass so much she could have fanned the fireplace with it. At least she wasn't our waitress; we had a nice woman named Rebecca for a change.
I tore my eyes away from Lauren tapped my fingers on the tablecloth, watching Edward stack cucumber and roma tomato slices atop one another. They were then crowned once more with carrot slivers until a fully-formed pillar of vegetables in the center of his salad: a little, colorful tower amongst green waves of romaine.
"Well, congratulations," I said with a timid smile. "What do you call this work of art?"
He looked up in surprise, almost as if he'd forgotten that I was sitting across from him. He stared at his plate, then at me, and half-heartedly smiled before shrugging his shoulders and knocking the little column with his fork, causing the veggies to tumble back onto the springy lettuce. He stirred his salad absentmindedly and gazed into the fireplace, turning his attention to the amber flames.
I was confused as to why he'd turned to mostly gestures in place of words, but that was probably because he was annoyed with how many times I'd asked him if he was okay, sounding like a pesky school nurse. Or a mom, which was worse.
Another painfully long minute went by and I just couldn't help myself. "You're having second thoughts, aren't you?" I asked.
Again, he turned his attention to me, staring at me for a beat. "No," he said, sounding more concerned than surprised. I watched him curiously, waiting to see if he would say more, but he only lowered his eyes.
It was dizzying to try to discern what was going on in his head, especially when he wasn't helping me out with an explanation. I picked up my fork and, even though my stomach felt twisted, speared another piece of lobster ravioli. I chewed thoughtfully, not feeling the slightest bit reassured.
"It's okay if you are," I mumbled after I swallowed.
"I'm not," he said softly, still unwilling to look at me.
I let my breath out slowly. "Then what aren't you telling me?"
"Well, my goodness, don't you two look like a Valentine's Day card!"
We both turned to find Doris approaching our table in her usual, bubbly mood. Edward was saved by the chatty proprietor bell.
"You look lovely in red, Isabella," she said sweetly.
"Oh," I said, forcing myself to sound upbeat. "Thanks, Doris."
"Tom was just telling me how much he misses your company in the kitchen, dear," she continued cheerfully. "I'm sure he's grieving an extra pair of hands, too."
For the first time all evening, I managed a confident smile. "Maybe if he lets me in on a few of his secret recipes, I'll help him prep everything tomorrow."
"I'll pass on the message," Doris said with a laugh, then eyed Edward with his small side salad. "Mr. Masen, have you gone vegetarian on us?"
I don't know how he achieved it so quickly, but Edward actually managed to look credibly at ease—pleasant even. It was convincing enough to make me stare.
"Not exactly," he replied, folding his hands by his bowl. "I've eaten nothing but take-out for the past few days. I figured I'd try to eat a little healthier tonight."
I gave him a questioning look, considering he hadn't taken one bite in ten minutes. He merely sipped his water here and there, and if he wasn't playing with his food, he was staring into space.
"Oh, you kids," Doris chuckled, patting his arm. "You have nothing to worry about! I miss the age when I could eat pizza for breakfast and chocolate for dinner and not wake up fifteen pounds heavier. Of course, I can't say that I behave myself now. Tom's French toast is positively sinful. It has horns, I tell you!"
She animatedly chatted with us for another minute before declaring, "Well, I'd better keep making my rounds. Are you sure I can't have Rebecca bring you anything else, Mr. Masen?"
"No, thank you," Edward answered politely, brightening Doris's expression even more with one of his gorgeous smiles.
Well, finally. Maybe he had been in a sleepy funk. After all, he hadn't ordered coffee all day either, so maybe he was just in caffeine withdrawal.
"Just let one of us know if you change your mind, dear," she replied lightly. "You two have a nice evening!"
"You too," we replied.
Doris walked with pep in her step over to the table where Mr. Miller and a blond man were sitting. I couldn't see the man's face, but he seemed young, and I figured it was probably one of Mr. Miller's sons or grandsons. Doris's lively grin grew even bigger as she approached them, placing her hand on the blond man's shoulder.
"You think Doris has a little crush on Mr. Miller?" I asked, smiling as I turned back to Edward. "She always lights up when—"
The smile slowly melted off my face as I noticed that Edward had slipped right back into his previous forlorn mood. He slowly raised his eyes to mine and all traces of contentment and light he had given to Doris had completely vanished. So what the hell had I done?
"Sorry," I said, not sure what I was apologizing for. There were only so many times I could ask what was wrong, so words failed.
My appetite was gone, but I kept eating as the minutes passed, needing to fill the uncertain atmosphere with an activity. Oddly, I felt like crying—those deep, miserable stares of his always tore my emotions to pieces.
"How's your dinner?"
I looked up, silently wondering if he had just spoken or if I'd imagined it. I swallowed and tried not to seem downcast as I said, "Oh. It's really good. Tom's amazing. He makes pasta from scratch, so... can't ask for any better."
He tapped the top of his fork in an inconsistent rhythm, mirroring the mood of our table. "That's good."
I bit the inside of my lip, trying to think of what to say next. His eyes were apologetic as he tried again. "What kind of ravioli is that, again?"
"Lobster."
He simply nodded, then started poking his fork in the pile of lettuce on his plate. Maybe casual conversation was all he wanted right now. After all, there were things on his mind that I probably couldn't even imagine. I had to give him time. Yet, watching him, I couldn't help but think how he'd made it clear that he hadn't been taking good care of himself. We didn't have to talk, but I wanted him to eat because his robotic stirring of that salad was making me want to steal his fork.
Instead of bothering him further, I went for another tactic and slid my fork under one of the ravioli. "Here, want to try one?"
Before he could object, I transferred it to the small saucer where his uneaten roll was sitting. He glanced at his plate and then at me, looking a bit conflicted. "Oh, you don't have to do that. You can eat—"
"I have plenty," I interrupted, gesturing to my more than half-full bowl. "Really, I won't finish all of these by myself. It's delicious, I promise."
"I'm sure," he said, uncertainly eyeing the pasta square. "Thank you, it's just that… I'm allergic to seafood."
Oh. Well, crap.
"Really?" I asked, feeling like an idiot as he nodded. Over our numerous conversations, I hadn't remembered him ever mentioning that. Though, a lot of getting-to-know-you information had been said weeks ago. Such a detail probably slipped my mind or—
Wait a minute.
"You ate a crab cake," I countered, giving him a curious stare.
He furrowed his eyebrows. "When?"
"A few weeks ago," I said. "Remember? The night Lauren almost smashed a pot of coffee on my head for making that comment about crabs and her sna—" God almighty, maybe I could at least try to have some tact for once. "Lady place."
A gleam of recognition flashed in his eyes and he cracked a momentary smile. "Right," he answered, sighing lightly as his lips fell back into seriousness. "I did, didn't I?"
I reached over to pull his fork out of his grasp and wrapped both of my hands around his. "I know it's easier for you to brush off things that bother you rather than talk about them. But are you just not hungry or is it something else?"
It wasn't the first time he'd played this little game of hide-and-no-speaking with me, and I felt the need to wave my napkin in the air as my white flag of surrender and say, 'Olly olly oxen free.'
"I'm sorry," he said sincerely. "I've been in a weird headspace ever since I woke up."
Well, I would rather him be in a weird headspace than see him put on his lawyer face, but at least he was talking. He gave my hand a squeeze and then pulled back, picked up his fork, and took a bite of salad.
"A weird headspace?" I repeated quietly.
"It's not you, Bella," he assured me after taking a sip of water. "Sometimes I get stuck in my thoughts. It can take a while before I can snap myself out of it."
Rationally, it made sense, and he knew himself better than I did. I supposed I was still on worrywart overdrive, seeing how shaky and tired he'd been earlier in the day.
"All right," I said, trying to seem unfazed.
We returned to silence and Edward joined me in eating, finally. Although, as I watched him, his bites were almost cautious; even when he swallowed, it seemed calculated. When he caught me staring at him, I quickly ripped open a packet of sugar that I didn't want and stirred it into my iced tea, avoiding his eyes. I turned my attention to the fireplace for a while and when I started to space out from watching the flames lick the stonework, I glanced around the dining hall for something else to observe.
I was not expecting to catch Dr. Carlisle Cullen, of all people, to be staring back at me. He was the blond man sitting with Mr. Miller, who was also peering in my direction. I gave a small, surprised wave and they both returned the gesture with minimal smiles that seemed forced, barely covering their serious expressions. Whatever they were talking about, it didn't seem to be of amiable nature… So, why had they been looking at me?
I felt my cheeks flush and quickly looked away, feeling as though I had just interrupted a private moment (even though I was the one being watched), and focused on my hands. "Hey, guess who's here?" I quietly said to Edward, feeling the need to communicate like we were undercover. When he didn't answer, I glanced up, wondering if he had spotted them, too.
He hadn't.
He'd stopped eating. His fork was resting statically on the edge of his half-empty plate and he had a strange look on his face, completely focused on the candle at the side of the table. He had his fist pressed to his mouth and his eyes were boring holes at the burning wick as though he was trying not to fly off the handle about something—as if staring at the little candle would keep him from screaming.
What the hell was going on tonight?
"Edward?" I said gently, gingerly brushing my fingers against his other hand.
My touch broke his concentration and he exhaled shakily, quietly murmuring, "I'll be back," as he got up from his seat, quickly walking out of the dining hall before I could react.
A few other diners watched him go, and of course, turned to stare questioningly at me. One younger lady who had been dreamily gazing at Edward since the previous day gave me the hairy eyeball as though I had just broken up with him.
I puffed my cheeks and blew out my breath, pulling my napkin off my lap and folding it beside my bowl. At least I was finished eating, and I had a feeling Edward wasn't about to give his salad a second try. Instead of waiting for our server, I reached into my purse and put some money on the table, got up, and walked past several sets of inquisitive eyes to the front entrance.
"What did you do now, Bella?" Lauren muttered under her breath as I passed the hostess stand.
If the dinner crowd hadn't been present, I would have given her the finger. Sadly, resorting to such measures didn't seem appropriate in such dim lighting, so I gave her my best 'fuck off' face and walked down the hallway.
Once I reached the lobby, I slowed to a stop and looked around the empty sitting area, wondering where Edward had run to and why. I was used to him hightailing it after a nightmare (or from such things as hearing that my father was poring over his personal files), but running from the dining room was a first. I suspected his reason for darting out of there wasn't because he had a sudden tickle to play the piano, so I didn't check the Entertainment Hall, but as I passed the common restrooms, I stopped cold. A muted, yet distinguishable sound of someone, ill, was coming from inside the men's room.
All of the pieces suddenly fell into place and it all made sense. He was sick, not brooding.
I felt so stupid. If anything, Edward was an expert at pretending he was okay but judging from how he'd acted earlier, I should have known better. Nervously biting the inside of my cheek, I moved to one of the sofas and plopped myself down, trying to calm my own stomach into submission. I fumbled with my purse's zipper while I waited, breathing through the rising anxiety that my hands were shaking with.
Edward emerged minutes later, rubbing his eyes and pushing back his disheveled hair. I cleared my throat quietly and he glanced over, surprised to see me.
"I kind of have a habit of following you when you run off like that," I said softly, tapping my toes on the floor.
He narrowed his eyes, shrugging his shoulders. "I would do the same for you," he admitted after a moment.
I patted the sofa and he walked over, slumping next to me with fraught shoulders and tired eyes.
"You lied last night," I said quietly, stubbornly staring at him. "You are sick."
He appeared confused for a second before shaking his head. "I suppose it would seem like it, wouldn't it?"
"Stop trying to hide it," I said, poorly attempting to sound firm. "I just heard you."
He pulled at his shirt, looking embarrassed. "Okay, I was just now, but it's not what you think."
"What should I think, then?" I was near tears, thinking of the possible, horrible confession he was trying to keep from me. He could have cancer or some crazy disease that only gave him weeks to live. Oh God, maybe he needed a kidney.
"Bella, don't look so serious," he said, cracking a smile. "Trust me, you're worrying over something ridiculous."
"Well, how silly of me," I mumbled sarcastically. "Why didn't you just tell me that you didn't feel well? I mean, if you felt that bad, I would have understood if you wanted to stay upstairs and not force yourself to eat."
"It's not like that," he cut in, trailing his fingers through his hair. "Staying in my room wouldn't have helped. It's… complicated."
"That's your favorite response," I pointed out.
He sighed. "I didn't tell you because it's stupid. It's just one more thing that makes me sound crazy."
I ignored the trace of bitterness in his tone and took his hand. "You're saying that like it's a fault, not a—"
"It is," he countered. "It's me and my stupid mind. I haven't been able to even—" He sighed. "I don't want to talk about this."
"Yeah, I can tell," I said, sandwiching his hand between both of mine. "But if something's bothering you enough to affect your health, then you'd better spill it or I'm dragging you back into the dining hall to see Dr. Cullen."
He straightened quickly, peering over his shoulder. "Dr. Cullen's in there?"
I nodded. "Sitting with Mr. Miller. I was about to tell you, but you ran out pretty fast."
"Shit," he hissed under his breath, groaning slightly as he dropped his head onto my shoulder. "Just what I need."
I rubbed his arm and moved my hand to the curve of his neck. "Got something against him?" I asked, a bit confused.
"No," Edward mumbled into my shirt.
I half-chuckled. "You're going to have to help me out," I said, pausing to rest my chin against his hair. "Why don't you want to see Dr. Cullen?"
"He was my doctor two days ago," he explained reluctantly. "I wasn't able to eat back then, either. And I'm hoping he didn't notice me because I really don't feel like hearing that I should go back to the hospital. You're not the only one who doesn't like to be fussed over."
I pushed his shoulders back and he slowly lifted his head, meeting my concerned eyes. "You haven't been eating?"
"I have been," he said, rubbing his neck and stretching. "But nothing chooses to stay down. That's why I've been burnt out all day and feeling sick. I'm just out of energy."
He was saying it as casually as if remarking on the score of a football game. I grappled for the right words, and I suppose seeing my alarmed expression finally pushed him to explain.
"Physically, nothing's wrong with me, I promise. But remember how I said I didn't exactly feel stable lately?"
I nodded and he faced forward again, bringing up his foot to rest on his opposite knee. "Well technically, I've been officially diagnosed. Post-traumatic stress and anxiety disorder, and all that. Not that I didn't already know, but... I don't know, everything came to a head earlier this week, right before I left to come here. I had a certain nightmare that I haven't been able to stop thinking about."
"One of the recurring dreams?" I asked.
"No, this one was new. I've never felt so shaken by any like it," he continued, playing with his shoelace. "And I wouldn't say I'm numb to having bad dreams, but I can usually deal with them—I either panic or I don't, and then I just go on with everything. But this one stuck with me. If anything triggers a memory of it, I see it—even when I'm not asleep. And, well, God forbid if I try to eat because it makes me sick almost every time."
I thought about that. That must have been a pretty terrible dream.
"Anyway, that's why I passed out a couple of days ago... I guess eating is good for you," he said with a half smile, which I returned sympathetically. "I stopped at the hospital thinking it was some sort of weird virus or like you'd said, maybe a concussion. But I've got a clean bill of health, other than I'm slightly malnourished. They gave me some medication for nausea when the stress kicks in, but it hasn't worked. I know it's just all in my head. I'm fine until I remember."
"What about this afternoon?" I asked, creasing my brow. "You seemed okay when we had lunch."
"I was," he admitted. "I was concentrating on you. I wasn't thinking about anything else."
I narrowed my eyes, thinking back to earlier. "When I left to call my mom," I said, remembering his disappearance from our table when I was on the phone, and his haste to leave when I asked him if he was finished eating. "Was it still a success?"
"Not exactly," he said. "I started getting inside my own head, and once I was, I couldn't get out of it. Sometimes I'm just reminded of something and it happens."
"What reminded you tonight? Something I said?"
"No. Nothing like that, don't worry."
I traced the fold of stitching on his sleeve, unsure of the right thing to say. "Do you want to talk about it? The dream?"
He shook his head, his mouth set in a stern line before he said, "No. Not ever."
"Ever?" I repeated. "You don't think it might help to—"
"No," he said sharply, and I snatched my hand away in surprise. His chest rose as he inhaled deeply, the muscles tightly set in his jaw. After a few moments, he leaned forward and reached for my hand again, rubbing his thumb over my knuckles. "I'm sorry. But no. I can't."
"Okay," I replied quickly. "I understand. I won't push. I just wish I knew what not to talk about, you know?"
His shoulders lowered a bit and he turned away, looking toward the fireplace. "It's really nothing anyone says, it's just..."
"Complicated?"
He nodded. "It will be okay, I'm just a bit of a wreck."
"I don't know what I'm going to do with you and this affinity you have for breaking our rule today," I said. "But considering the week you've had, I'll let it slide."
He made a sound that barely passed as amusement, and I leaned closer, snuggling against his chest. He felt solid in my arms instead of at ease, and when I kissed behind his ear and tried to coax him to look at me, he softly muttered, "You really don't want my breath in your face right now."
I tried not to frown in disappointment and gave him one more squeeze before taking my hands away and leaning back in my own space. "So when is the last time you've actually eaten?"
"Two days ago, I guess," he said, shrugging. "I ate crackers at the hospital."
"That's it?"
Edward flinched at the high-pitched volume of my voice. He turned and glanced toward the hallway and back. "I know it's not much. But I've been trying. I just need to get over it."
"I wouldn't put it like that. It's not something you can snap your fingers at and poof, it'll be gone."
"It's just a dream, Bella."
"Yeah, one that's holding you back from—"
"I know," he said, pressing his palms over his eyes, slouching into the sofa. "Trust me, it's making me angry. I'm tired of feeling like shit... and seeing that look in your eyes."
I sighed. "I'm not pitying you, I'm worried. You were woozy this afternoon, too, and I don't want it to get worse. It makes more sense now, but that doesn't make it any better. I know you don't want to go back to the hospital, but maybe you should. You're probably dehydrated."
"I've been drinking plenty," he answered. "It might seem crazy, but liquids don't bother me; I can keep them down without a problem. And people have been known to live for months without food. I wouldn't exactly call a couple of days an emergency."
I couldn't help but snort a little. "Okay, Survivorman, but since you're not trying to endure a desert environment or a wild rainforest…"
He narrowed his eyes, casting me an inflexible stare.
"Honestly, Edward, what would you do if it was me? If I started with excuses and said, 'Oh it's no big deal,' tell me you wouldn't put me over your shoulder and carry me to the doctor yourself." He sat quietly, and I added, "And since you're too heavy for me to lift, all I can threaten you with is calling Angela. Or going to interrupt Dr. Cullen's dinner, and don't think I won't. I can't ignore it and hope that you'll 'get over it' as you say. I care about you too much."
I tapped my toes on the carpet, waiting for him to speak. When he didn't, I sat forward and gave him a once over, unable to look past the weariness in his eyes that, for once, didn't have to do with sleep.
"So, you're keeping down fluids?" I finally asked.
He nodded, lazily gliding his fingers through his hair.
I thought for a moment, then stood up and swung my purse over my shoulder. "Okay, then," I said, reaching for his hand. "I have an idea."
-:-
There was a brief period of time in college when I'd held an after-school job at a Tiny Tots daycare, where I'd built up a tolerance for snotty children and temper tantrums. I even managed to overcome the unpleasant task of changing diapers and the sporadic drool on my shoulder, or regurgitated, acidic baby formula those little beings used to spew forth at random intervals. Other than occasionally getting punched in the face by a toddler's fist or tripping over a baby gate and falling into a trash bag, I handled myself fairly well and got a new sense of responsibility—and a serious appreciation for birth control.
However, my past had come back to haunt me in a way that was almost too comical for words. The look on Edward's face reminded me of all the obstinate kids whose parents would pack them tofu and soybean salad or pureed spinach instead of peanut butter and jelly. They were always the ones who would kick up a fit at the table, throw their unwanted vegetables, and smack the person next to them to show their anger. Right now, I was deliberating the possibility that Edward might throw something, too. Or smack me.
"You're joking, right?" he asked, eyeing what I'd set in front of him with skepticism.
I pressed my lips together tightly, suppressing a laugh. He looked so childish, I couldn't stop picturing him in a bib that read, Fuck You, I'm Teething.
"It's really not that bad," I said, rolling up my sleeves and smiling. "You're acting like I just offered you something that was christened by Jessica Stanley. And since you just brushed your teeth, I wouldn't give you anything that would require a second round of mouthwash."
He reached out and pinched the cap of the bottle, tilting it on the wooden table, then twisting the top and letting it spin back into place. No answer.
After he'd made a quick trip to his room to freshen up, I'd dragged him through the kitchen and presented him with one of Doris's bottles of Ensure Plus. It was the only thing I could think of, in lieu of medical advice, and it was still a bunch of protein and vitamins in liquid form. If anything, it was a temporary solution, and if all went well, I figured I could sweet-talk him into attempting to eat something small. Though, I hadn't expected such resistance.
"It's like a protein shake," I added, stopping the container from wobbling with my finger.
"It's for the elderly," he grumbled, earning a loud guffaw from Tom, who had walked out of the pantry.
"Edward," I said. "You're being ridiculous. It's not just for seniors."
"You said this was Doris's."
"Yeah, but look at her," I said, picking up the bottle and forcing it into his hands. "She runs the entire lodge. It's no wonder she needs an extra boost."
He turned the bottle around in his hand, reading the nutrition facts, and when he turned back with uncooperative eyes, I bit my lip.
"You want me to get a spoon and play 'airplane' with you?" I asked, trying to keep a straight face. He took a deep breath, closing his eyes in agitation, and I almost burst into laughter. "I'm sorry, that's not funny," I added, turning away so he wouldn't see me smile.
I plucked a straw out of one of the massive, bulk boxes on the paper goods shelf and handed it to him. We walked out into the empty café and I nudged him into a chair. Brushing a strand of hair off his forehead, I said, "It's just—you really don't look so good and it's scaring me. I feel like it's either this or taking you to a doctor. So, please?"
He took a few moments of deliberation and finally twisted off the top, peeled back the covering, and stuck a straw inside. Being a smartass, he asked, "Do I get a prize if I finish this?"
"Like what, a lollipop?"
Edward chuckled humbly, shaking his head and bringing the straw to his lips. I studied him, trying to read between the lines of his faint smile, and it suddenly dawned on me that he was probably flirting. Meanwhile, I'd offered him candy.
Isabella Swan, Flirtation 101: F.
Edward eyed me curiously and set the bottle back on the table. "Bella, you're staring."
"Oh—sorry," I said, turning toward the kitchen door, looking around for something to do. I figured he didn't want me to just sit across from him and survey his every action. "Just promise me you'll finish that?"
He murmured his compliance and I turned my attention to organizing the buffet table, a task I was familiar with. I stacked napkins and straightened the fruit baskets, trying to keep busy. After a few minutes passed and the buffet was pristinely prepared and tidy, I finally looked over at Edward, who was sipping from the straw. Thankfully, he seemed okay and wasn't showing any signs of booking to the bathroom or the outside trashcans.
"So far so good, Grandpa?" I teased.
He swallowed and gave me a facetious smile. "I'm almost finished. What's next on the geriatric agenda?"
I walked behind him, resting my hands on his shoulders. "Are you opposed to massage therapy?" I offered, squeezing gently, denting my thumbs into the solid tension that had gathered at the nape of his neck. His head dropped forward a bit, and he groaned quietly as I firmly slid my hands over his skin.
"I won't complain," he said in a low voice, leaning his elbows on the table.
My experience in massage only went as far as kneading bread dough, but Edward, as he promised, didn't protest as my hands melded to the curve of his shoulders and back, rubbing and pressing into all the stress that was weighing him down. Gradually, I felt him relax underneath my touch, and bit by bit, the stiffness in his neck seemed to melt away. His hair swept against my arm as he reclined his head I drew my fingers through his hair and lightly scratched his scalp. I stopped watching my hands and instead was drawn to his closed eyelids, the part of his supple lips, and the slightly lessening, v-shaped crease between his eyebrows.
I could feel the subdued vibration of the encouraging sounds in his throat, and my lungs contracted as he spoke. "That feels amazing."
I let my fingertips linger, biting my lip to keep from telling him that he couldn't say things like that without causing knots of heat to tie in places I wasn't willing to admit aloud. And then, his own hands reached for mine, sliding up and over my wrists.
Damn if I didn't want to press pause and ask him if he wanted to take this upstairs.
I managed to unclench my hands and gently pat his shoulders. "If you finish drinking, I'll keep going," I proposed, gesturing to the shake he'd abandoned.
His hands left my skin, and a mere ten seconds later, a slurping sound came from the hollow bottle. Edward wet his lips and held up the container for examination. "Happy?"
"Very," I answered. "Want your lollipop now?" His brows dipped into a slight pout and I laughed, taking the empty bottle and tossing it into the bin for recycling. I smoothed the wrinkles I'd put into his shirt and let my hands remain on his chest. "That wasn't too terrible, was it?"
"Not too terrible," he echoed, and I could feel his steady, beating heart under my palm. "We are talking about the chalky, chocolate stuff I just drank, correct? Not your expertise as a masseuse?"
I grinned. "You tell me."
"Both," he said with a hint of a smile. It was difficult not to study him, subtly searching for revealing signs of discomfort. Of course, he knew what I was up to. "I'm okay. Really."
I nodded, sheepish. "I believe you. I was just thinking."
"About?"
Naturally, I was worried he wouldn't stay okay, but I figured he needed to hear something upbeat for now. "Getting you high. You know, marijuana's good for nausea and makes you crave the contents of a vending machine. Two birds, one stone."
His laugh was just the remedy for my nerves.
"Or I could get you some water for now and we can call my dealer in the morning," I joked as he clutched my hands, squeezing.
"Okay."
He might not have been able to see the strength in himself, but I could. I leaned close to him, close enough to get a whiff of that manly, aromatic scent that drove me crazy. I kissed his cheek, avoiding his lips just in case he wasn't in the mood.
I slipped away from the table and into the kitchen. Tom was busy rolling pie crust, whistling Bob Marley, and glanced over at me as I grabbed a bottle of water out of one of the refrigerators.
"Say, Bella?" Tom asked, wiping his hands on his apron. "If you aren't too busy out there, feel like peeling and prepping some apples for me? One of my wife's girlfriends ordered a pie and I told her I'd bring it home with me tonight, and I'm a little behind. Haven't even started the cinnamon glaze."
"Oh, sure," I said, turning to the sink to wash my hands. "Charlie will be calling you, next. He told me to bring him a pie when I finally come home."
"Sweet potato?"
"The one and only—what else?" I rolled my eyes in jest. "Are you ever going to let me in on your secret? I don't know if I can go another holiday without knowing. I've had seven failed attempts. There's always 'something missing,' Charlie tells me."
Tom barked a laugh. "We'll see, Swan Junior. Let's see if you can peel and slice those apples without losing a finger first?"
I'd worked in the kitchen for three weeks, and during that time, I might have been guilty of going through half of a box of bandages.
"Touché," said, washing my hands and gathering what I needed before walking back out to the café. Edward turned and scrutinized the armload of kitchen supplies I was balancing, along with a bowl of apples, and the water I had tucked under my chin.
"Don't worry," I told him, setting everything down on a cutting board on an adjacent table and handing him the water bottle. "This isn't some sort of wicked torture for you. Tom just misses my brilliant fruit-peeling ability in the kitchen."
I started to set up my space and then glimpsed the hair tie that was barely visible under Edward's sleeve. "Oh—can I borrow that?" I asked, pointing. "If Tom sees me without my hair back, he'll make me wear a hairnet."
"I think I'd like to see that." He smirked and handed over the little band, watching as I swept my hair into a quick ponytail. "So, you cook, huh?"
"Hey, some of us don't live off of fast food," I teased, securing the band with one last twist and immediately cringing at my words. I was only joking, but it wasn't like he kept a pull-out kitchen in the back of his Volvo, next to his laundry, blankets, and collection of classical music—the only constant home he'd kept in the past year. "I didn't mean—"
"I know," he said, waving his hand before I could apologize. "And even if I was back home, I'd probably still be eating frozen pizza. I've never been very good at cooking."
"For me, it was a survival tactic." I smiled as I began to peel a cold, red apple, the skin smoothly curling over the peeler's blade. "You know how most kids cry to their parents for Mcdonald's? I think I was the only one who cried for a supermarket."
I skinned a few apples, recounting Renée's exotic taste for things like foie gras, kimchee, and beef tartar, and how my mother had a section of a photo album dedicated to pictures of me falling asleep at the dinner table, stubbornly refusing to eat.
"And Charlie can't cook his way out of a paper bag, so when I visited him, it was always cereal and milk or diner food. I pretty sure he was responsible for at least a quarter of their business." I put a pile of curly apple skin to the side of the cutting board and began to core and carefully slice the bare fruit, reflecting. "This brings back memories. Apple pie was one of the first things I learned how to make. Well, sort of."
Edward vigilantly watched me finish slicing the first apple, probably afraid I was going to take off one of my fingernails.
"I'm talking too much, aren't I?" I asked, biting into a thin, crisp slice and humming at the sweet taste on my tongue. Before he could answer, I offered him one of the pieces. I expected him to decline or scowl at me for even trying so soon, but he surprised me by taking it.
"I told you before, I love hearing what you have to say. And if I'm going to attempt to actually eat this," he said, spinning the piece of apple delicately with his fingers, "I certainly don't mind listening."
It was the second time today hearing the word 'love' flow from his lips. I still wondered how he managed to say such a thing so casually, with absolutely no waver in his voice, as though his heart wasn't pulsing out of control like mine.
"Okay," I answered as nonchalantly as I could, though I couldn't hide a smile, and continued with my story as he tentatively nibbled at the sliver of fruit.
When I was younger, Charlie had taken it upon himself to make us Thanksgiving dinner, probably brought on by guilt from feeding me hamburgers all the time. And God bless the man, even though he'd tried his best, the turkey had managed to be overcooked on the outside, yet remained raw on the inside. The green bean casserole had burned to a congealed mass of green and brown, and the sweet potatoes had boiled too long and fallen apart in the pot; when Charlie drained them, they turned into a crumbled, starchy mess. Even the innocent can of cranberry sauce, which required no kitchen appliance whatsoever, was accidentally knocked to the floor, splattering burgundy goo all over. I'd been given the task of stirring the gravy, which had survived, but there was nothing to put it over except saltine crackers.
"I remember saying, 'It's okay, Daddy, we can still have dessert,'" I told Edward, sliding another apple slice in his direction when I noticed he'd finished the other. "But he was so bummed, he just told me to get my coat and we'd drive out for Chinese food. I almost had a fit—I put a beer in his hand and pushed him out of the kitchen, and told him that I was making us a pie. Me, a seven-year-old," I added, chuckling at the memory.
"It really wasn't this huge, culinary task, though," I said, continuing to chop the apples. "We had a frozen pie shell and canned apple filling. All I had to do was empty the can into the pie plate, tried my best to make the top crust look fancy like they did on TV, put it in the oven, and set the timer. But I sat there, staring through the little glass window to make sure it didn't burn, and took it out on time. I'll never forget Charlie's face when I brought it into the living room with two forks. It felt good to make him happy. He was… I don't know."
Edward looked thoughtful. "Proud of you, I'm sure."
My cheeks grew warm. I had no idea why I was getting shy about a memory that was over a decade and a half old.
"Well... I suppose he was. It was a good night. That's all we had for dinner, too—we ate right out of the pie plate and watched the Lions beat the Bears," I said, recalling how Charlie had laughed and shouted at the football game, and I had joined in with enthusiasm, even though I didn't really understand much other than a touchdown.
"If I'm doing the math correctly, I think I remember that game," Edward said, a grin spreading on his face. "My dad was pissed. He almost burned down the house."
I laughed, but Edward continued, "No, I'm serious. He and my uncle were drinking scotch and he had a moment of drunken stupidity—he threw his glass into the fireplace. It was quick, but the flames doubled and shot out of the grate, and since my mom was one of those people who decorated the house for Christmas on Thanksgiving, some of these long, swanky wool stockings she'd just hung up caught fire and set the whole mantle ablaze. I remember her and my aunt screaming and filling pots with water, and I ran outside and got the hose."
"You put out the fire?" I asked with wide eyes.
"Yeah. Luckily, the water hadn't frozen yet."
"I'll bet you were proud of yourself, huh?"
"Oh, I thought I was awesome," he admitted, laughing. "I got my picture in the paper and a plaque from the Chicago Fire Department. To an eleven-year-old, I think that's the equivalent of… I don't know, something prestigious."
"Prom King?" I teased.
He scoffed a laugh, averting his eyes. "I suppose."
I studied his enigmatic expression for a few moments as he stole another piece of apple. "Oh my God," I said, a smile spreading across my face. "Were you actually Prom King?"
He chewed silently, shaking his head, and to my astonishment, his cheeks turned a brilliant shade of bright pink. A collision of arousal combined with amusement rose inside me as I burst into laughter. "Yes, you were."
Edward cleared his throat, his lips pursed comically, and he rested his cheek on his fist and waited for me to quit my hysterics.
"Aww," I said, not quite ready to let it go. "Did you get a crown? Or wear one of those man-sashes?"
"You wore a tutu," he finally said, cracking a smile.
I was in a state of hilarity for the next minute, picturing him in a tux, wearing one of those silly, shiny, fake circlets that always made people look completely gaudy—no matter how cool they were—and standing next to some busty bombshell of a girl.
"Sorry," I giggled, transferring the sliced apples to the waiting dish. "I'm just envisioning it. From local kid hero to Prom King. Any other titles?"
"I was an R.A. and a T.A. in college," he said, subtly biting his lip. "Does that do anything for you?"
"No, but you doing that to your lip does."
I scooped another handful of apples into the bowl, and one more precious second of obliviousness went by before I realized that I'd spoken aloud. I froze, hands suspended over the cutting board, and the surprised eyebrow raises Edward was giving me made my entire head feel reminiscent of his earlier story: scotch in the fireplace. Kaboom, you whore.
Voices sounded from the corner—guests filtering out of the dining hall, I assumed—and I quickly gathered the kitchen supplies together. "I'm going to give these to Tom," I said, standing so fast, my chair almost toppled backward.
In the kitchen, Tom took one look at my face and immediately reached for the first aid kit. "Let me see," he said quickly, mistaking my flustered appearance for injury. "Which hand? Is it bad?"
"I'm fine," I said, sliding the apples and utensils on the counter. "I just—oh God. I can't believe I said that. Out loud! Do you have any secret recipes that can wipe someone's memory?"
Tom, looking baffled, chuckled and untied his apron. "Want a shot of whiskey?"
I let my breath out. "Kind of," I said, reaching for a glass to fill with water.
Tom took the bowl of apples and placed them next to the stove. "Thanks, Bella, these look great. And whatever you said, I'm sure it can't be worse than the time I asked Ms. Doris if I could warm up her buns."
I sputtered, spitting water I'd just drank down the front of my shirt. At least I was wearing red this time instead of white.
"Of course, I meant the sticky buns, but at the time it just came out and sounded all wrong." He smiled and handed me a dishtowel. "I don't think Edward will hold it against you."
I mopped my chest with the towel and managed to smile amongst the embarrassment that was written all over my face; I'd almost forgotten that Edward and I were in some kind of soap opera spotlight. When I finally went back out to the café, there were more than a few people scattered among the tables, sipping tea and coffee. I looked for Edward and spotted him by the door, talking with a blond man—oh, right. Dr. Cullen. I decided not to interrupt, as that was probably a private conversation.
I weaved my way through the tables and over to Doris's desk to wait. As I stood, I noticed Mr. Miller sitting by the fireplace, his chessboard spread out on his lap. Curiosity seemed to tug my feet in his direction and I walked toward him.
"Hey, Mr. Miller," I said as I approached, feeling a little timid.
He looked up with raised eyebrows, then smiled convivially. "Well, good evening, Ms. Bella. How are you tonight?"
"Fine, thanks. You?"
"Just fine, thank you," he answered, giving no indication that his night had been a serious one; apparently, whatever had been going on between him and Dr. Cullen had either been my imagination or not as negative as I'd thought. And then as if he'd been reading my mind, he said, "My apologies for looking so grim earlier. I hope I didn't come across cold."
"Oh, not at all," I said, pulling at the hem of my shirt. "I didn't mean to stare. I was surprised to see Dr. Cullen, that's all." I tried my best to sound nonchalant when I asked, "You two know each other?"
"Ah, well, he's an old friend," he replied easily, placing two knights on their designated squares, hesitating before he picked up the next piece. "We go back quite a few years."
I narrowed my eyes to the door, glancing at Dr. Cullen, who, if I remembered correctly, was only ten years older than I was. How far back could he and Mr. Miller have been friends? "Oh. You knew him when he was a teenager or something?"
He didn't look at me right away. He adjusted his tie, smoothing his hand over the collar of his shirt before he raised his eyes to mine, and I couldn't help but think of what Edward had told me about the possible bite mark on Mr. Miller's neck.
"Well, yes, I suppose so. The years fly by, don't they?" He grinned again but suddenly looked a bit uneasy.
Angela had said Dr. Cullen and his family had moved to Washington a few years ago. And as far as I remembered from what he told me, Mr. Miller had lived in Forks since the sixties. The math didn't add up, though I probably didn't have all the facts.
I bounced on my toes, deciding to change the subject—it really wasn't any of my business. "So, uh… can I catch you tomorrow for a game? I want to see if I can checkmate you finally."
Thankfully, Mr. Miller's eyes softened and he nodded. "Sure, missy. I'll look forward to it." He paused and added, "How's Edward doing?"
"Oh—he's okay," I said. He wasn't exactly peachy, but he was better than he had been. "He's had a rough couple of weeks."
Mr. Miller grunted softly. "I suppose the past can catch up with all of us."
He appeared pensive as he turned to the front of the lobby again, and we both watched as Dr. Cullen shook Edward's hand and disappeared through the front door. I had a nagging feeling that Mr. Miller's words weren't only meant for Edward.
"Well, missy, don't let me hold you up. Go make kissy faces at each other while you're young," he teased. "And I need to practice if I'm going to play you tomorrow."
I laughed, a bit embarrassed. "Right. Have a good night."
I heard him chortle as I walked away. I made my way over to Edward, hoping his chat with Dr. Cullen had made him forget what I'd said right before I hightailed it to the kitchen.
"What happened to your shirt?" he asked as I walked up.
"Oh, I spilled something, like always. Can't take me anywhere," I said, covering my chest with my hand. "So, what did Dr. Cullen have to say?"
Edward exhaled loudly. "Just being a doctor. Giving me some free advice. He told me I looked better than the last time I saw him, so that's a plus."
"I would hope," I said, taking hold of his arm, briefly wondering what kind of poor shape he'd been in a few days ago. I'd only first seen him yesterday afternoon, after all, and that seemed bad enough.
He nodded. "He was glad I finally ate a little. Well, the old lady shake and a few apple slices. But so far, so good."
"It is not an old lady shake," I said, pinching his side. "But I'm glad, too. Tell your mind to give you a break, huh?"
He smiled, reaching up to pull the band out of my hair. "Oh, and you're welcome, but I'd like this back now."
With that, he looped the hair tie over his hand and onto his wrist, and tiny chills rippled over my skin as he smoothed my hair. "Thank you for being so understanding," he said, his voice dropping to a lower volume. "You've been so patient."
"You don't need to thank me." My voice was close to a whisper because the way he was gazing at me was taking over my control. "Really, you don't."
His fingers tickled the curve of my neck as they swept through my hair and he kissed my forehead, letting his lips linger for a few seconds. I almost forgot where I was until girlish giggles sounded from the café, where a bunch of ladies were sitting. It was so easy to slip away from reality and get lost in his beautiful green eyes and forget that we were completely surrounded by people. Edward sighed quietly and raised his eyes to the grandfather clock, and I turned to look, too, seeing that it was a few minutes after nine.
"Are you tired?" Edward asked, studying me. "I'm actually not, for once, but I know you didn't get a lot of sleep. I'll walk you upstairs if you are."
"No, I'm not either," I said, shaking my head. In truth, if I were to close my eyes for a few minutes, I would undoubtedly fall asleep like a newborn baby, but I wasn't about to retreat to bed when I could be spending some extra time with him. "What do you want to do?"
It was a Sunday in Forks, so there weren't too many options. Edward rubbed my arms, looking to the side and creasing his brow in thought, but suddenly, his eyes lit up. "Well, if you really want to live on the edge, I could give you a piano lesson. If anything, hiding out in the Entertainment Hall will get us away from the onlookers."
I peeked over my shoulder, and sure enough, the group of ladies in the café had their ever-curious eyes on us. "So cute," I heard one of them comment and they all began twittering in agreement. Snorting softly, I turned, hiding my face from their view.
"That sounds good, but I need to go change my shirt," I said, gesturing to my chest. "I'll just meet you down here in five minutes?"
"Take your time. I need to warm up," he said, bending and stretching his fingers, and for whatever reason, I imagined other things he could do with them, and it made my entire body flush with warmth. As I hurried up the stairs, I couldn't help but think that my shirt probably wasn't the only piece of clothing that needed to be changed.
God help me.
-:-
