-:-
I was stalling. Even the cartoonish turkey decorations around me seemed to be ogling me with cocked heads and quizzical, beady eyes, waiting for me to make a move. As desperate as I was for the comfort of a coffeehouse atmosphere and to get my hands on a sweet, creamy chai, there was something holding me back. That something was about someone who was sitting patiently to my left as I perused the lobby bookcases.
It really shouldn't have been so difficult, working up the nerve to ask Edward if he wanted to come home with me for Thanksgiving (yes, meeting my family and probably friends included). Sure, there might be a bit of judgment on Charlie's part, because I knew he would inevitably shift into officer-mode at some point. And there was a possibility that more embarrassing stories about me would be told, like the time I'd gotten my jeans stuck in a mall escalator and security had to cut me out of them. The story had ended up on the news and haunted me all through the seventh grade.
None of those reasons were my main fear, which was that he would say no or he wasn't ready. We'd known each other for months (sort of) but still had only been officially together for a few weeks. It was reminiscent of high school insecurity, getting flustered like I was about to ask him to the prom. I briefly considered persuading him to go to the bar instead of a cafe. He might be more inclined to say yes to accompanying me home and playing meet-the-parents and very possibly overhearing the beginning of their wedding planning if he was a little drunk.
"What would Frost say about your switch to Harlequin romance?"
I glanced up and turned toward Edward, raising my eyebrows. "Huh?"
"You've been staring at that book with the beefy guy in a haystack for two minutes," he said with a grin.
I hadn't really been paying attention to what I was browsing, but sure enough, I turned to find a hulking Fabio look-alike splayed over a battered, red cover that read Farm Frolics. Jessica Stanley's fingerprints were probably all over that.
"Um," I said, shaking my head and averting my eyes, "no. I wasn't. I was just thinking."
"About rolling in the hay?"
I couldn't help but smile. "No."
"Me, naked with a pitchfork?"
I giggled. "Someone's going to hear you."
"Are you going to tell me what you need to ask me?"
He'd already pressed me about the unasked question three times, having overheard me tell Renée, 'I'll ask him'. I shrugged my shoulders and replied, "I'll ask you when you write down that pie recipe. Charlie's expecting me to bake one for—"
Oops.
"Christmas," I tried to cover. "Or whenever. So it would help if I knew what to add."
"I can't give away more," he complained, looking charmingly boyish as he slumped against the couch pillows. "I'll have nothing to dangle over you."
I snorted. "I could think of something."
He straightened. "I'd like to think you'd have a better portrayal than dangling for my—"
"Finding everything okay, Isabella?"
Doris had suddenly appeared behind Edward on the other side of the couch, holding a large, bright-colored, leafy wreath. I snickered as Edward snapped his mouth closed and tried to appear innocent.
"Thanks, Doris, I'm getting there," I said. "There's a lot to choose from."
"Oh, I know, it's packed fuller than a stuffed turkey!" she said cheerily. "I could speed through a library, picking out armloads. But ask me to choose just one and I'd be there for hours!"
Edward and I shared an amused look as Doris made her way to the fireplace.
"I've been so busy planning a menu with Tom for Thanksgiving, I got behind on finishing my decorating," she prattled as she stretched to hang the wreath above the mantle, just out of reach. "I swear I get shorter every year. Mr. Masen, would you mind giving me a hand?"
Edward had already jumped up to help. "Sure," he said, taking the wreath. He was so tall, he barely raised his arm to hook it over a protruding nail in the wall. "Is that okay?"
The way she smiled at him, you would have thought he'd just used that arm to part the Red Sea.
"Yes, it's perfect. Thank you, dear." She gripped his hand and squeezed my arm, giving a sentimental sigh. "Oh, you kids… I'm going to miss you both so much. I was hoping to keep you two around for the holiday, but I'm sure you'll have so much fun together in Florida!"
A mental screeeeeeech sounded in my head like brakes contracting to keep from rear-ending a car. Only an adorable, unaware grandma-like lady was behind the wheel of this revelation. When Doris noticed my wide-eyed expression, she patted my hair and laughed.
"Don't look so shocked, dear, I'm no mind-reader. Your father called to ask me to sign for your plane tickets when they arrive," she said lightly, pausing to admire the autumn wreath one more time before turning back to me. "Just in case you aren't right in the lobby when they show, of course."
I nodded quickly, trying to tone down my alarm. I tried telling myself that she had just done me a favor, like ripping off a Band-Aid.
"Thanks, Doris," I said, avoiding Edward's eyes.
"You two have fun wherever you're heading," she said, patting my coat with a chipper smile. "I'm going to have to restrain myself from pulling out the Christmas decorations next!"
In true Doris-fashion, she walked away with a spring in her step, completely oblivious to the secret she'd just exposed. I stared straight ahead, right into Farm Boy's suggestive eyes, before tentatively glancing at Edward. He seemed bemused, one eyebrow slightly raised in a questioning arch.
"That's, uh… that's what I was going to ask you. My mom—well, Charlie brought it up, actually." I exhaled, feeling a little lightheaded. "They want me to bring you home for Thanksgiving. I didn't even realize it was time for Thanksgiving until my dad said something. And they sent plane tickets. For Jacksonville. For both of us."
I cleared my throat, half expecting his eyes to turn into little x's, having scared him to death with talk of getting on a plane and heading to meet the guy who had once blatantly torn into his personal records.
"But you don't have to come if you don't want to. I mean, I'd like you to, but you don't... have to."
"You're kind of adorable when you're nervous," he enlightened me, smiling.
I furrowed my brow, trying to appear otherwise. "I'm not nervous."
Hello, Bella. These are your pants speaking. We're on fire.
Sheepishly taking his hand, I pulled him away from the bookcases to the hallway that led to the dining room, away from the eyes of everyone else. "So… do you want to come to have Thanksgiving with us? Because I should probably get down there and save my father from having to eat tofu for dinner… and I'd really like you to be there. I mean, unless you have plans," I added quickly, wiping my sweaty palms on my jeans.
I'd had it wrong, before; I was the one who needed the drink, not him.
"Plans?" He narrowed his eyes in thought. "Well, I did have some pretty important things to do," he said hesitantly. "I've been spending all my time with you, so I've had to push my schedule to the side."
I wrung my hands together, curious and uncertain.
"I haven't washed my car in almost a month, I have no idea what the Bears' standing is, and you keep taking all my shirts so I'm running low on clean laundry." He sighed. "And look at my hair. If I don't cut it soon, I'm going to have to start wearing flannel and live in a van."
I gaped at him.
"My God, it's so easy," he said, laughing. "You look like you're waiting for a prison sentence. Are you kidding?"
"Um," I murmured. "No? Yes. I don't know."
"I probably shouldn't joke around when you're in need of caffeine, huh?" He pulled me close and rested a hand on my hip, tucking a lock of hair behind my ear with his other. "I love you. You know that, right?"
I nodded. "Yeah. But what?"
"There is no 'but'," he said. "You're asking like I wouldn't want to go with you."
"I don't want you to feel pressured."
"Pressured?" He found this funny, chuckling as he kissed my forehead. "Give me some credit, woman. Do you see a leash around my neck?"
"N-no," I stammered. "I didn't mean—"
"Hey," he said. "It's okay. Joke with me."
I could plainly see the playful look in his eyes, so I honestly didn't know why my insides were about to go into a flat spin. And behind that, I could see the spark that revealed he wasn't planning on turning me down either.
I finally smiled, letting it sink in. "Fine. Your balls aren't wearing pink 'I Belong to Bella' bows. You're free to do whatever you please."
"Well, thanks," he answered with a smirk. "So if I say that I'd love to come with you, you'd believe me, right?"
I brushed his hair (which really could use a cut) away from his eyes. "Really?"
"Well, of course," he said, looking a bit self-conscious. "Not to pull the sympathy card, but I haven't spent a holiday with anyone since my parents died. It will be nice to be with someone's family. Be with you."
I curled my fingers into his hair and pulled his head close to mine. When he spoke like this, it found new heartstrings to pull each time. "You realize that by coming, you are part of the family."
He put his head against mine, sighing softly, and was silent for a few moments. I pulled back a bit, but then he kissed me before I could see his face. His lips were gentle, speaking in motion instead of words.
"Thank you." His voice sounded strange as he tucked me tightly to his chest. After a few moments when I loosened my arms, he didn't release me. "Just a minute," he whispered, sniffling.
Knowing I would turn into the poster child for Kleenex if he cried, I kept my head against his shirt, letting him hold me, and I hugged him back. We stayed still until he said, "So if I'm part of the family, that means I should treat you like my sister?"
Horrified, I wriggled my way out of his arms. If he'd needed a moment to compose himself, he'd clearly done so, because the smirk on his face proved that he was completely fine and, once again, acting like a goofball.
"Ew! You'd kiss your sister like that?" I exclaimed.
"That's the point, actually," he said. "I'm just thinking about your father and how he would react to seeing us like this. So maybe I should just pretend you're my sister around him. Right? No touching? Less chance of me getting shot?"
"Well, as long as you can restrain from making out with me at the table, I'd say you're safe," I laughed. "We can hold hands, though. Maybe even play footsies."
"What if I accidentally brush your dad's foot?"
"Oh my God. Fine. I won't sit anywhere near you. Charlie will probably insist on eating on the couch anyway. You guys can bond over football."
Edward stretched his arms and gave me one last peck on the lips. "Great. I'll have to talk up the Jaguars. That'll earn me points with him, right?"
"Seahawks," I corrected him. "He's from here, remember?"
He nodded, pursing his lips. "Maybe I should make a list."
"Ha. You can make one on the plane—that is, if you're sure you want to do this," I teased. "It is a red-eye flight: almost ten hours. Bad airplane food. Dry air. I might snore."
He shrugged his shoulders. "I might wake up screaming." My expression fell, but he added, "What? I told you, those Care Bears really do terrify me."
"Maybe you could use some aversion therapy," I offered, lightly punching his arm. "It's simple. You say things like that and then I hit you."
"You're so insensitive," he said, pretending to be hurt. "Arcotophobia is real."
I stared, incredulous. "There's an actual name for the fear of Care Bears?"
"Well, no. Arcotophobia is just regular bears. But it's already rubbing off. Sometimes I get the feeling that the bear figure at the door is watching me."
I held my fist close to his face. "I'll do it."
"You wouldn't dare."
I lowered my hand, nodding. "All right, I wouldn't. But I would do this." I jabbed my hands under his arms and squeezed, causing him to gasp and almost fall to the floor, wrenching away from me.
"Stop," he said, laughing. "That's not even fair. Go pick out your book, you bully."
He pinched my waist and I quickly bounded back into the lobby and to the bookcases before he could retaliate.
"Now I'm craving coffee, too, so please try not to take until midnight, okay?" he said. "Actually, when do we leave? I bet you I could have my bags packed before you choose a book."
"Ha ha," I said, returning my attention to the shelves. "We leave on Wednesday at nine-twenty AM. Crap, that gives us less than a week. We should call Angela and Ben and see if they'd like to go out one more time. It's already the nineteenth."
Edward was quiet for a moment, then straightened, raising his eyebrows. "What did you say?"
"It's the nineteenth—we only have five days left. You know, I think today might have been my parents' anniversary before. I wonder if Charlie chose today on purpose." I trailed my finger over a line of books, feeling the bump of the unleveled hardbacks. "And another thing, can you believe Renée actually had the balls to ask when it was going to be my turn to get married? I should have told her we already had."
I turned back to him, the beginning of a laugh on my lips, but the stunned look on his face made me stop.
"What'd I say?" I asked, frozen for a moment. I waited for him to grin, but his expression didn't change. "Oh God, I was joking. I wouldn't really say—"
He looked ready to vomit.
"Uh, I—just because my parents are taking a second trip down the aisle doesn't mean I'm suddenly in a hurry for that."
He simply stared at me, still silent and unmoving. Oh, crap. Right after he agreed to go home with me—right after we'd had such a great moment, I had to go and scare him with the M-word.
"Yes, Edward, I'm so going to pressure you into promising me all of eternity with you." I playfully rolled my eyes and walked back to his side, bending to kiss his cheek, but his eyes were suddenly confined to the carpet.
"I'm kidding," I said weakly. "I don't want to get married. Well, not now. Maybe not ever."
He finally snapped out of it, peeling his gaze off the floor and appearing confused. I wasn't sure if now I had just insinuated that our relationship would forever remain stagnant. "Well, I don't know, maybe not never…"
"Sorry, I—" He trailed his fingers through his hair in the slow, signature way that he always did, and cleared his throat. "I got distracted for a minute."
"I really don't want to marry you," I blurted, a little too desperate to make him forget, and in doing so, I'd made it worse. "Okay, that wasn't what I meant. I didn't mean—I just meant—fuck. Jesus lord. Help me out here."
"It's okay," he said, taking my hand, a feeble smile on his face. "I know you're not thinking that far ahead."
I nodded quickly and reached out to pluck the nearest book from the shelf, not even bothering to check the title. "Okay. You just looked… never mind." Time to go and change the subject. "I'm ready. You?"
Edward seemed hesitant but stood anyway. "Yeah."
He was silent as we walked to the car.
"Did I really freak you out that badly?" I asked, frowning as I watched his eyebrows knit tightly across his forehead. He only gave me a small shake of his head.
The ride to the coffeehouse was mostly quiet, except for when I made small talk, commenting on the weather, the beauty of the falling leaves, and the spot where I'd practically smashed into a fire hydrant on one of the days I'd joined him for a run. When I turned on the CD player to erase the silence, and the sophisticated melody of piano and cellos filled the car, he abruptly switched it to a radio station, one that was heavy on the electric guitar.
"Sorry," I mumbled, putting my hands in my lap.
"I'm just not in the mood for that," he replied. He kept his eyes on the road even though we were stopped at a red light.
This was beyond weird. I'd been teasing him. We'd been kidding around all day, even moments before in the hallway—the entire couple of weeks we'd been together, too. Even Ben had made a joke the other night, saying we should all drive to Vegas and get married in a drive-thru chapel so we could get a free stay at the MGM Grand. If Edward hadn't seemed horrified then, why now? Hell, we'd been laughing over a baby joke earlier.
When he parked at Mocha Motion, he fumbled with his keys and I opened the car door, lifting my right foot out and onto the pavement, then turned to look at him. He hadn't moved: he was merely gazing straight ahead, one hand still curled over the steering wheel.
"Coming?" I asked, watching as he pressed his lips together, only to remain silent. I reached out and rubbed his shoulder, worried. "What's the matter?"
It took him a few seconds, but he finally muttered, "I think it would be better if you go in without me."
If I had been a cartoon, a little bubble of jumbled question marks would have hovered above my head. I stared at him, mouth parted, trying to think of what to say. He seemed intent on not facing me but eventually did after I silently refused to turn away. Or maybe because I was letting a ton of cold air into the car.
"It's just… I'm sorry, I know it seems like my mood took a one-eighty," he said. "But you should go in. I know you wanted to."
I narrowed my eyes for a few moments then slanted them back to him. When I didn't move, he added, "Look, it's hard for me to say this to you, but I need to be by myself for a bit."
Slowly, I pulled the car door closed, shutting it with a soft click to block the wind. I studied him carefully, trying to figure out if he was mad or sad, or just anxious about something. "Tell me what's wrong. It had to be something I said."
I wanted him to assure me that I was being silly, but he surprised me by nodding.
"Okay," I said, picking apart my thoughts. "The marriage thing? You know I was kidding, right?"
"It's not that."
I played with my coat's zipper. "Is it my parents? Are you having second thoughts about meeting them? I mean, I know they just got engaged, but—"
I was grasping at straws, trying to understand, but felt like an inconsiderate ass as he gave me a wounded look.
"That's what you think?" he asked, sternly creasing his brow. "That I'm jealous of your parents being alive and happy?"
"What—no!" I stared at him, defensive. "I just thought maybe you were nervous that they'd bombard you with what your intentions are with me, now that they're all ring-happy." I sighed. "God, Edward, I don't know. Just tell me."
He was biting the inside of his cheek, looking as though he was holding back a flood of words, and finally said, "November nineteenth."
Confused, I said, "Today's date?"
He sighed, rubbing his hand over his eyes. "It's my mother's birthday."
"Oh," I breathed. Shit. That was why he'd asked me to repeat the date earlier when I first mentioned it. "You forgot?"
Last year, I hadn't remembered Renée's birthday until almost ten o'clock at night, and she'd smiled with a slightly sad expression when I showed up on her doorstep with a crappy store-bought cake. She'd waved her hands in dismissal, cheerfully saying it was no big deal, that she didn't need to be reminded of being another year older, but it was also the first birthday she'd spent without Phil. The entire day, she'd had no one to distract her, and her own daughter had forgotten about her. I'd felt like the shittiest person ever.
Although Edward's situation was completely different, now I understood his change of disposition. It read so clearly in his eyes that I couldn't believe I hadn't recognized it immediately. He felt guilty.
"Forgot? Yes," he answered coldly. "Yes, I forgot. Completely." My fingertips had barely brushed his shoulder when he flinched. "No, don't."
"Don't be upset," I began softly, which was clearly the wrong thing to say.
"Don't be?" he repeated, glowering at the windshield, but the glass may as well have been a curved mirror, bouncing his glare toward me. "What would you know about it?"
I sat still for a few moments, pulling at my sleeves. "Nothing."
"Right."
I figured a time like this would come when I'd have to remain understanding instead of getting defensive and starting an argument. I knew the real reason for his anger wasn't because he'd forgotten his mother's birthday, just the thought that he'd forgotten her, even if it was only for a moment.
"But you remembered," I gently reminded him. "You didn't miss it. I know you've said you're not big on prayer, but you can still—"
"She's dead, Bella, it's not like I can wish her well," he scoffed.
I rubbed my eyes, internally scolding myself. I had no idea what to say in a situation like this. Maybe I should have kept my mouth shut, but remaining silent wasn't my strongest suit. "Well, should we do something else, then? Something she would have liked to do?"
He gave me a strange look, his hand still tightly curled over the steering wheel.
"To honor her memory?" I tried to clarify. "What did she like to do on her birthday?"
Edward's eyes seemed to soften and then harden, and it repeated a few times before he finally said, "Why? So I can be reminded of what she can no longer do?"
He sounded like he was on the edge of tears, so I reached out for his arm and said softly, "You shouldn't take it out on yourself."
"Shouldn't I?" he said bitterly. "For spending all of my time with you and forgetting them? Right. I'm Son of the Year."
After that mental kick in the gut, I was frozen. Spending time with me and forgetting them? That was never what I wanted him to do. He hadn't spoken of his parents in a while—not deeply, anyway—only in brief, passing conversation. He hadn't brought them up, so I hadn't pushed. I figured he would talk about them when he wanted, but maybe I was full of all the wrong assumptions.
I didn't realize I was crying until I felt a tickle on my neck.
Discreetly, I pretended to play with my hair so I could swipe my cheek with the sleeve of my coat. No sooner did I raise my arm, Edward glanced over just in time to realize what I was doing. I felt embarrassed and stupid, and I quickly brushed a tear away with my thumb.
"I'm sorry," he said in a small voice.
I took a deep breath to steady my voice. "No, it's okay," I said, doing a surprisingly good job of sounding normal. "I…"
I didn't want to say that I understood and have him misinterpret.
He sounded weak as he spoke. "This isn't your fault and I know that, but I'm just angry. I—I can't help it."
I nodded, willing my watery eyes to not spill over. "It's understandable." I decided that might be a better way to phrase it. "We can go back."
"You should go in," he said again, resting his head in his hand. "Get a drink, read your book for a little while. I'll go take some time."
I wasn't really sure I could go into the coffeehouse without tearing up once I was alone, but I didn't know what else to do. Without protesting, I slipped out of the car, shuddering at the chill, and walking to the Volvo's tail end. Edward did the same and held out the book I'd left on the dashboard.
"Thanks," I said, taking it, finding it hard to look at him. "I'll call Angela later and see if she can pick me up. She worked last night, so she might be sleeping until—"
"Of course not, I wouldn't just leave you here," he cut in, holding out his keys and slipping them into my hand. "Are you okay with driving yourself back?"
"Yeah, but... Where are you going?"
"I need to take a walk. Maybe a run. I just need to clear my head."
I nodded, tightly gripping his keys, making my hands sting. "Will you call me if you want to be picked up?"
"Yeah. You might not have to. I might go back and talk to John if he's around. I'm not sure."
I swallowed thickly, feeling a clichéd, invisible lump in my throat. It hurt, even though I knew he didn't mean anything by it. Like I told myself so many times before, at least he was talking to somebody, even if it wasn't me.
"It's cold. You should zip your coat," I told him faintly, then shut my eyes, feeling even worse. That was the most motherly thing I could have said. Great timing.
He tugged at his zipper until it was closed mid-chest, reached over and squeezed my shoulder, and began walking away before I could say anything else.
"Hey," I called softly. He slowly turned, looking like the same broken boy he was when I first met him. "I'm sorry."
Edward shook his head. "You shouldn't be."
I watched him walk until he was out of my sight.
-:-
If I'd been in a bar, I would have drowned my sorrows. If I'd been in a diner, I would have played crappy, sad music on the jukebox. But for over two hours, I'd been in a cheerfully decorated, warm coffeehouse with smiling baristas, paper-reading patrons, and studious people bent over their laptops. Since I hadn't felt crappy enough to cry, I indulged in chai and chocolate mocha cake to pass the time.
Two lattes, two pieces of cake, one black coffee, and one sympathetic stare from the cashier later, I was over-caffeinated, sugar high, and shaky. After all, I'd had pie for breakfast and had consumed nothing but sugar since. A headache was building behind my eyes, so my book was no longer worth the annoyance, but I wasn't ready to leave. I'd kept my phone right next to me the whole time, hoping Edward would call or text, even if it was just to say, "I need more time." But he didn't.
I couldn't blame him. We'd spent almost every waking moment with each other for a long time—we would have needed space eventually, even if his mother's birthday hadn't been until May. I told myself this over and over, but a small corner of my heart wouldn't stop aching. I hated seeing that familiarly injured, lost look in his eyes, the one I'd hoped would stay away. It was inevitable, though. He still had struggles to deal with and so did I. That was life.
"Bear claw for your thoughts?"
I jumped, almost spilling the remains of my coffee. Jacob Black was standing at my booth, smiling and half-naked, reminding me of the muscle maniac on Farm Frolics.
"Jacob," I said in shock as he slid his way into the booth, across from me. "Where in the hell is your shirt?"
"Shh!" he hushed me and gestured to the front counter. "They'll toss me out if they see. But seriously—will you go get me one of those bear claws? And a hot chocolate? The biggest one?"
Before I could answer, he dug a crumpled bill out of his pocket and slid it toward me, a grin fit for a million dollars on his face.
"Uh… sure. Hi, by the way."
"Hey, what's up?" he said casually, leaning back and sighing contentedly.
Befuddled but amused, I walked up to the serving counter. "Can I have one bear claw, please?" I asked the barista. "And a large hot chocolate?"
"Sure," the girl said, tapping the order into the register. She looked surprised, considering I'd already eaten almost a quarter of a cake, but didn't comment. "Would you care for two? Bear claws are today's special. Buy one, get one."
"Um, okay," I said. Jacob was huge; I was sure if I could handle two pieces of cake, he could handle two bear claws.
Bear claws. Bears. Arcotophobia. Jesus, I was pathetic.
I carried his order back to the table and his expression grew positively joyous as I explained his bear claw luck. "Awesome," he said, reaching for the pastries. "Thanks."
I put his change beside the plate and couldn't help smiling. "Sure. Hungry?" I asked, watching nearly half of one bear claw disappear in one of his bites.
"Starving," he said with his mouth full. "I saw you through the window and thought, hey—bear claws and Bella. No better combination on a Thursday morning."
Snorting a laugh, I wrapped my hands around my mug to warm my fingers. "I don't know, I'm kind of a downer right now. You might want to keep your distance."
He raised his eyebrows. "Wanna talk about it?"
"No, that's okay," I said, feeling stupid for even bringing it up. "How's everything going with you?"
I was grateful that Jacob was a chatterbox; anything to take my mind off of my own angst was very welcome. I asked questions and he answered dutifully, from spilling stories about Billy and his new lady friend to a mountain lion attack on some poor hiker, to details on his upcoming wedding. When I brought up my parents' engagement, he hooted like a hyena.
"Dad's been waiting for that one," he said, licking a dot of icing off his finger. "He's all about planning the bachelor parties these days. First my pal Sam, then me, now Charlie. At least the old man has something to do."
"Yeah? What do you guys do for bachelor parties around here? Catch fish? Cut down trees like the big, bad men you are?" I teased.
"No, we rain dance," Jacob joked, rolling his eyes. "Actually, we have a few drinks and go cliff diving."
"In that order?" I asked, eyebrows raised.
"Only if you're tossed over the side," he said with a smirk. "Nah, we go easy. Sit around, have some food, be among good company. Nothing crazy. Worried we'd take your old man to the strip club?"
"I'm not one to mess with guy code or anything," I said, laughing. "Just spare me the details. They haven't even set a date, but I'm sure Charlie will be up sooner rather than later. He always says how much he misses this place."
"No wonder, we're a fun bunch, " Jacob said with a toothy grin, proceeding to stuff the last piece of the second bear claw in his mouth. I snickered as I noticed a piece of almond had stuck to his lip.
"Yeah, you're real charming," I said, pointing to my own lip. "You have a piece of claw on your lip."
"Whur?" he said, garbled from the mouthful of pastry. He swiped at the wrong side of his mouth.
"Charming," I giggled, reaching to brush it away. "Right here."
He chuckled, swallowing and taking a swig of his hot chocolate. "Charming? I'm irresistible."
"Yeah, I'll bet you are."
Then I froze—because as I casually glanced toward the door, I saw Edward standing there, watching me and Jacob with an expression I couldn't read. My smile fell and even though I didn't frown, his eyes grew forlorn as though I had.
Jacob, oblivious, smiled and beckoned him over. "Hope he doesn't think I'm trying to steal his girl," he joked.
Tentatively, I waved, too. Edward gave us both a small, acknowledging gesture, then walked straight out the door.
"Shit," I muttered, feeling my stomach drop.
"Is he okay?" Jacob asked in concern. "Crap, he doesn't really think we're flirting, does he?"
"No," I said quickly, eyeing Edward as he walked further away from the café. "I'm sorry, Jake. He's not usually like that. It's—he's having a rough day."
He gave me an understanding nod. "Hey, I'm not judging. Everyone has bad days. Go talk to him."
"I'll be right back," I promised, getting up and hurrying outside.
Edward hadn't gone far. He was leaning against his car, scuffing his shoe over the pavement. I approached him slowly, uncertain of how he was going to react.
"Hi," I offered.
"Hey," he said, eyes his flitting from the ground to me.
"You didn't call. I would have—"
"I didn't think I needed to," he interrupted, looking offended.
My mouth dropped. "I was going to say I would have come to pick you up if you wanted me to. You didn't have to walk all the way back here."
He didn't answer. He only creased his eyebrows and continued toeing at the concrete.
"You're mad," I blurted. "Because I was sitting with Jacob? He's engaged and an old friend. I wasn't flirting with him."
"I never said you were." He was calm, but there was an edge to his voice.
"You saw me touch his face, didn't you? Is that why you're upset? He had a piece of pastry on his lip, that was all." I knew I probably shouldn't be so defensive, but I'd be damned if he was going to get the idea in his head that I would be stupid about my own relationship just to get cozy with someone else's fiancé. "And I have absolutely no idea why he's not wearing a shirt. He showed up like that."
Edward looked up, suddenly seeming vulnerable. "Okay."
I took a breath and hugged my waist, feeling uncomfortable. "Sorry," I said softly. "So, I guess you're mad at me for actually going in there without you."
He shook his head. "No."
"For not coming after you?"
"No."
"Then… why did you walk out?"
His breath was sharp as he inhaled, but his face gave away his defeat. "I didn't think that you'd be with someone. I don't mean I think that Jacob's not a nice guy, I just… I don't have the energy to put on a happy face in front of anyone." I opened my mouth to speak, but he scoffed, adding, "That's the most selfish thing I've said all day."
"No, I get it," I stressed, reaching for his hand. He let me take it, but his fingers were unwilling to squeeze back. "You wanted a private conversation between you and me, not you, me, and someone you barely know."
He sighed, looking torn. "I'm just going to go back."
"I'll go with you."
"No, you should go back and have some good company. My mood's shitty right now, anyway."
"Hey," I said gently, not letting him walk away. "I don't buy it. You're the one who came looking for me." I could tell by the rueful look in his eyes that I had him there, and he knew it. "Let's go talk."
He rocked on his heels, hunching his shoulders as the wind blew. "You should probably go tell Jacob, then."
I nodded, glancing toward the coffee shop. "Promise you'll be here when I get back?"
I didn't think he could look any worse, but my stupid mouth helped to prove otherwise. I mumbled an apology before walking back inside, collecting my things, and saying a quick, apologetic goodbye to Jake.
-:-
Even though I tried, Edward wouldn't talk on the ride back to the lodge, except to tell me he didn't feel like it anymore. We didn't talk over sandwiches in the lobby's café, either. Determined, I planned to drag him up the stairs to talk as soon as our lunch plates were cleared, but then a blissfully ignorant Doris whisked her way through the tables and asked Edward if he wouldn't mind giving her sons a hand unloading firewood in the parking lot. He complied, giving me a soft "See you later," before leaving me standing in the middle of the lobby.
I took out my restlessness in the kitchen, kneading fresh bread dough, rolling pie crust, and slicing cubes of cornbread for stuffing. Tom kept giving me things to do, eyeing me with what was probably curious sympathy, thankfully not asking too many questions. After a considerable amount of time, I thanked him for letting me distract myself and brushed off my clothes, and when I walked back into the lobby, I couldn't believe that it was already five o'clock.
Edward wasn't around, but Doris was sitting behind her desk, scribbling away on a pad of paper. I walked over, quietly clearing my throat so I wouldn't startle her. "Hey, Doris?"
She looked up, giving me a warm smile. "Why, Isabella, did you fall into the mixer?"
I laughed shyly, well aware of my flour-spotted clothes. "Almost. I was just wondering if you'd seen Edward? I completely lost track of time. Do you know if he finished helping with the firewood?"
"Oh, yes, honey, he did," she said, placing her pen to the side. "My boys can get pretty chatty—they take after me, after all. I think they talked him into going to the pub down the street. You know men—manual labor and beer!"
I chuckled along with her. "Yeah, my dad is all about that, too."
Good. Guy time. Edward needed some of that. And if he was feeling social, that was a good sign, too.
"I'm sure they'll be back soon," she said, glancing toward the door. "My sons are in their thirties and I still pester them not to stay out late after dark."
"Oh, it's fine," I said, cracking a grin and gesturing to my clothes. "Gives me some time to go clean up. Thanks, Doris."
It was wonderful to finally immerse myself in the steaming-hot water, and I sighed heavily as my muscles began to relax. I washed my hair, scrubbed dough out from under my fingernails, and lathered myself in lemon crème body wash, willing myself not to think too much. I lingered, shaving my legs and drawing pictures on the fogged glass until my fingers started to prune.
After I dressed and dried my hair, I put on my earphones and stared at the ceiling, counting the small cracks in the paint until I started to go glassy-eyed. I got up, slipped on my coat, and grabbed my keys. I needed a drive. Maybe Angela was home; if Edward was having guy time, I sure as hell could use some girl time.
As soon as I took my earbuds out, I heard thumping, followed by a muffled curse coming from the other side of the wall.
Confused, I hurried to Edward's room, not even bothering to knock as I opened the door.
My eyes bulged as I took in the scene. His normally tidy room was covered in clothes, scattered magazines, and other personal trinkets of his. The dresser drawers were open and the bedspread was hanging off the side, and even more surprisingly, his black bags were overturned and spilled onto the floor. The only thing that wasn't visible was him.
"Edward?" I called, glancing toward the bathroom. Sure enough, he poked his head out from behind the door, giving me a guarded look before eyeing me up and down.
"Going somewhere?" he asked.
"I was," I said, sticking my keys in my coat pocket. "What the heck are you doing?"
He seemed unfocused as he blinked, surveying the room as though he hadn't realized it was such a mess. "I was just… looking for a shirt."
"Which one?" I asked doubtfully.
"This one," he said, stepping out, bare-chested, with a green t-shirt in his hands. "I found it."
"Oh… well, good," I said, taking a deep breath. I cut my inhale short, though, as I was met with a wave of unpleasant odor, a mixture of sweat and… liquor? I didn't hide my shock very well, because he sighed shortly and grumbled, "I know, I smell terrible. I was sweating, okay?"
"Are you drunk?" I asked. This wasn't like the carnival; he wasn't simply warm and fuzzy, he was heavy-lidded and irritable. I didn't know what to make of it.
"Yeah," he answered without looking at me. He scooped up an armload of clothes from the floor and threw them on top of a bag, including the one he'd claimed to be searching for. "I kind of felt like letting go. Forgetting." He shook his head. "Like I haven't done enough of that today, huh?"
I was silent as he kicked his belongings out of his way, nearly tripping in the process. He seemed distracted as he glanced around, almost confused.
"Are you okay?"
He gave me a pointed stare, annoyance suddenly painting his face. "Do I look okay?"
"No, you don't," I said honestly.
"Well, there's your answer."
He grabbed another handful of clothes and tried to brush past me, into the bathroom, but I reached for his wrist, stopping him. "Can we just… talk? I can't stand that you're mad at me."
"I'm not mad at you, Bella, I'm mad at myself," he muttered, tossing the clothes onto the sink. "And I really need a shower."
I managed not to argue and backed up to the bed, hoisting myself to sit on the shambled covers. "Okay. I'll wait."
He took a slow breath. "I might go to bed early. I drank too much and don't feel that great."
I nodded. "All right."
"All right," he repeated, then closed himself inside the bathroom.
As he showered, I picked up his clothes, tossed the still-folded clean clothes back in the dresser, and stuffed anything rumpled and dirty in one of the empty bags he used for laundry. I shook out the sheets and spread the comforter, smoothed the pillows, and stacked them according to size, doing what I could to straighten the room back to its normal order. When I was done, I placed my coat and keys by the fireplace and sat on my side of the bed, playing with my fingernails and waiting for him to emerge from the bathroom.
When he finally did, he paused, surveying the now-neat room. "You didn't have to do that."
"Well, I figured you didn't feel up to cleaning right now."
Edward ran his hand through his wet hair, looking exhausted but a little more sober. "No, I guess not." When he climbed into bed, he slouched against the pillows, still seeming upset. "So, you're staying?"
"Is that okay?" I paid attention to his eyes, looking for truth.
He shrugged his shoulders. No other answer. I closed my eyes for a moment, squeezing my temples. He'd never been so standoffish, so quick to rebuff my company. I felt invisible and it stung.
"I'm not really sure what you're thinking, but I'm sorry if I—"
"Bella, if you say you're sorry one more time," he said, chuckling humorlessly under his breath, "I might jump out the window."
I puffed my cheeks, fighting the urge to demand to know what the hell he wanted me to say then. Honestly, the air in the room was so tight and awkward, I felt like maybe I was missing something that I should be sorry for. "You know there's an actual word for that? Defenestration. Weird, right?"
I had a shred of hope that he might crack a smile and give us both a break from this tense suffocation, just for a second to let me know that we were okay.
"That's not what it means. Defenestrating is throwing someone out of a window. Jumping out a window would probably fall under suicide."
Ouch. So much for a smile.
"Oh." I stared at my hands, thinking that he sounded like he kind of wanted to throw me out the window. "Sorry."
I realized my mistake just as he laughed bitterly, and the sound made my stomach hurt. Apologies were an impulse when I felt insecure; I couldn't help it. He got under the covers and turned toward the wall, leaving me to face his back. I chewed on my lip, feeling the urge to cry rise and retreat; my emotions couldn't make up their mind. When I couldn't take the silence anymore, I offered glumly, "I'll leave."
"You don't have to," he responded, listless. I watched him tug the comforter further over his shoulder as if he was trying to hide himself from my view. "But you can if you want."
Well, that was confusing.
"Don't you think it would be better to talk about this first?" I asked, wishing he would just give in and help me out. Being on the other side of this was not only baffling but laborious.
He sighed audibly and was quiet for a long time. Internally, I argued with myself, wondering if coaxing him to talk was the right thing; maybe I had already pushed too hard. I was curious how Mr. Miller would have handled this.
"I'm tired," he finally said, breaking my spinning thoughts. "Whether you leave or stay, will you turn off the light?"
A handful of seconds passed before I could find my voice. "Okay."
Reluctantly, I stood up and walked to the other side of the bed, feeling torn. I felt horrible just leaving him, but it seemed like he genuinely wanted me to go—only he didn't want to say it outright. Why he still wanted some distance from me, I didn't know. What I did know was that I was wide awake and it was still early; if I tried to go to sleep now, I'd only lay awake for hours and then get hungry, and it started to seem like a good idea to listen to my head instead of my heart for once.
Edward had closed his eyes and kept them shut when I placed my hand on his arm, bending down to kiss his cheek. His damp hair was cool against my forehead and he smelled familiar again, all traces of sweat and liquor washed away. If only his obvious internal ache had been, too.
"I'll come back later, okay?" I said quietly, kissing him again. "Can I get you some water before I go or anything?"
He didn't answer, and as I straightened, I saw that his eyes were still closed, his mouth still set in a slight frown. I wasn't stupid enough to believe he'd fallen asleep so fast; he was ignoring me.
I turned off the light and left hastily. Once I was behind the cover of the door, I breathed through some tears I couldn't hold back and walked to my room.
After I'd taken some time to get myself under control, I ended up eating a quiet dinner alone, watching the rain patter against the café windows, and sat with Doris in the Entertainment Hall to watch The Da Vinci Code. Thankfully, the film made it so we didn't have to talk, lessening the chance that she could realize I was barely keeping up a cheerful countenance. It was after ten o'clock when the credits started rolling, and I quickly bid her goodnight before she could pull me over to a group of ladies for some late-night tea and gossip.
Halfway up the stairs, I nearly reconsidered the tea when a little ball of tension grew leaden in my stomach. Even though Edward hadn't told me not to return, I couldn't help feeling like part of him wished I would just leave him alone for the night. I wasn't about to do that, though.
I quietly entered his room and gently closed the door, making my way through the dark to the bathroom. I cracked the door and reached inside to turn on the light, providing me just enough to see what I was doing. Edward thankfully hadn't stirred—he was nearly hidden from view, curled into the blankets. As softly as I could, I tiptoed to the dresser to grab some nightclothes. I changed silently, folding my clothes and gently placing them atop my keys and coat that I'd left there earlier, afraid to even breathe too loudly; the only sound came from the floor, creaking softly under my footfalls.
As soon I slid into bed, he sighed in his sleep and moved toward me. I froze, afraid he would wake up and tell me to leave, but instead he reached over, draping his arm over my stomach and nestling himself against me.
"Are you awake?" I whispered.
No answer came, and his soft, slow breathing told me he wasn't. The action wasn't as reassuring as it should have been—he was unconscious and so were his movements. He very well could still be angry when he woke and further withdraw himself, and I would have to be ready to deal with that if that was the case. But then, as I reached to smooth his hair and kiss his head, whispering how much I loved him, I felt his heartbeat against my chest.
No. I knew everything would be all right tomorrow.
-:-
The swirling clouds were sharp with color, painting the sky in dizzy strokes. A storm was just in the distance, peeking through the gaps with glowing eyes, bolts of lightning waiting to flare. It was coming for me—no matter where I turned, it was there, watching. Waiting for its chance to hurt me. The white-hot light buzzed in impatience, piercing further through the fog and burning its way toward me, even though I ran as fast as I could. I was its target and I felt it on the ends of my hair like static. It seared through my eyelids, so bright it hurt. I tried to look away, but I was consumed, pinned by its glare. The charge was pointed and quick, crisscrossing across the sky like a crack in an earthquake. The thunder roared with a growling laugh as the electric jolt struck me between the eyes.
I gasped as I woke, wincing immediately at the pain shooting through the bridge of my nose and across my forehead. My hands shot to my head, feeling for the burn mark that my dream would have left as a token, proving that nightmares could be real. I felt nothing, just my skin, but the sting was still there. How—
Something struggled beside me and I yelped in surprise as another blow came crashing onto my chest. Instinctually, I grabbed at what was touching me, trying to push it away when I realized what was happening.
I wasn't still caught in a dream, Edward was. He was writhing, moaning low in his throat, slashing the silence of the night with a tortured, muted scream.
Letting go of his arm, I scrambled to sit up and reached for the light, shooting my hand out so fast, I knocked it right off the table with a crash. Cursing, I turned toward Edward, reaching blindly to stop him from thrashing.
"Edward," I said, taking hold of one of his hands. His arm felt locked and solid, and barely gave in to the pressure I put on it. "Wake up. It's a dream, it's—"
The sound he was making was terrible, as though he was being ripped apart. I shook him, desperate now, and felt for his face. It was wet, covered in sweat or tears, or both.
"Please, sweetheart," I pleaded, trying to calm him, smoothing his hair and tapping his face in the dark. "Please wake up. It's not real, you're just dreaming. Wake—"
It happened so fast, so fast, I didn't even have time to cry out. As I leaned over him, his hands suddenly dug into me, one into my arm, another grabbing a hold of my shoulder. I felt like I was somersaulting as he yanked me out of bed and pushed me against the wall. The handles of the dresser clanked in echoes, starting over each time I lost my footing and slammed into it.
"Edward!" I almost screamed, my voice caught in my throat. "It's me! It's Bella! Can you hear me?" He could have been sleepwalking for all I knew. "It's me. You're okay."
I couldn't see him, so I knew he couldn't see me, but with every word I said aloud, I felt his grip slowly loosen. He was shaking so badly I could feel the vibration through my entire body.
"It's Bella," I repeated, reaching up to stroke his cheek. "It's me. You were dreaming. It's okay. It's all right."
His breath began to come in gasps, only inches away from my face, but he still didn't let go. I gently encircled my hands around his wrists, tentatively lowering his arms, his pulse racing under my fingers.
"Bella?" he whispered.
"Yeah," I whispered back, letting go of him to grasp and pull the curtain, praying that the moonlight would flood inside and let him see. It was barely enough, but it allowed me to make out his face and the heartbreaking trails of tears that covered it. "Can you see me?"
He stared at me for a few moments, studying me, and my heartbeat was hammering so hard, I felt dizzy. Without warning, he yanked his hands away and stumbled to the side, hitting the corner of the wall.
"Oh, my God," he gasped, panting loudly, his face crumpling.
I quickly pulled the other curtains open so we could see better. "Come here," I said when I finished, holding out my hand. "You're okay."
Instead of taking my hand, he held out his own. "No. N-no. I had you b-by the throat," he stammered, leaning against the dresser, his knees buckling as he started to slip on the bed sheet that was tangled around his leg. "I was choking you."
"No, you weren't. You had me by my shoulder," I interrupted, stepping closer. "It was two seconds and you didn't know it was me. I'm not even hurt."
"I don't care," he choked, trembling as he slid to the floor. "Get out."
I cringed, exhaling shortly. "Get out?"
"Yes, now," Edward said quickly, digging his fingers into his hair. "Go to your own room. You can't stay here."
Go to my room. Right.
"What are you talking about?" I dropped, sitting on my heels and reaching out for his arm. "I'm not leaving you by your—"
"Jesus Christ, Bella, go," he growled, and the rise and fall of his chest were much too shallow. He was already losing it. "Don't make me yell. Please. Please."
He was begging, sounding on the edge of sobbing.
"You would never leave me alone like this," I spoke firmly, knowing better than to be scared or cower under his words. I was familiar enough with his disorder now to understand that he would be okay—no matter how distressed he got, no matter his pain and wheezing, and anger and fear—he would calm, sooner or later. "And I won't leave you. Don't even try it."
He rammed his fist against the wall with a sharp bang and even though I flinched, I didn't move. I didn't dare touch him, either—this was the bad kind, the heavy, heart-wrenching type of panic that terrorized him. And right now, he wasn't seeing me, not with the way he was harshly rubbing his eyes, moaning and recoiling over flashes of something only he remembered.
"It's okay," I said carefully, giving him space. "It's not real. Open your eyes and look at me."
"Stop," he panted, whispering. He brushed at his shirt and arms as though he was covered in something, keeping his eyes tightly closed and fighting the nightmares that were clawing behind them. "Stop, stop… I can't—I didn't mean—oh, my God."
I shakily raked my fingers through my hair, barely resisting the urge to take his hand or pull him into my arms. "Edward, open your eyes," I repeated, trying to keep a steady voice. "Can you—"
He was scrambling away from my side before I could finish. The bathroom light lit the room for only a moment before the slam of the door, leaving me in darkness again. Moments later, the sounds of water and creaking pipes made the walls come alive. I crumpled the discarded sheet between my fingers, staring up at the bed where only hours ago, I'd been listening to the sounds of his peaceful breathing. Sighing, I stood up and remade the bed, which was unnecessary, but it passed some time. I knew he needed a few minutes to collect himself before I could attempt to talk to him.
I counted to sixty a few times before I quietly entered the bathroom. His clothes were haphazardly scattered, leaving a very short trail to the enclosed shower. The glass panes were already clouded with steam, speckled with few water trails, and Edward's flesh-colored shadow stood, hunching inside. Over the raucous rush of water in the pipes and the spray coming from the wall, I could hear his guttural, groaning pants.
"Edward…" I assumed he was already aware of my presence, but I couldn't help breathing his name in sympathy. There was no calculation of the pain that rippled through him during times like these, but it always seemed to be more than he was capable of handling. It wasn't fair. "Are you okay?"
He didn't answer and I understood. He didn't have words to give me—not yet. I sat on the closed toilet, pulling my knees to my chest and letting my heels rest on the cold porcelain. And I waited. I waited for his breath to slow and for the right moment to try again. Eventually, a blanket of misty steam swirled throughout the bathroom, creating a calming thickness. I could feel my porous hair begin to frizz and curl from the effect and after a few minutes passed, I realized that Edward had become silent.
I stood up and stepped to the back of the shower, leaning my forehead on the warm glass. The thumping echo of the water was prominent, but my heartbeat was resounding, urging me with every beat to recover the pieces of his heart that had broken and relapsed. I pulled off my pajamas, letting them fall atop his discarded ones, and slid the shower door open.
It was almost ghostly seeing him standing in the vapors, nearly obscured by the humid fog. He was facing the stream of water, which was pouring over his shoulders and back, painting a rosy flush down his skin. He had one hand on the wall while his other was tucked to his chest, maybe—I couldn't see.
Tentatively, I reached out and lightly stroked his shoulder blade, only to promptly yank my hand back. The water was much too hot for anyone to stand under comfortably—in fact, it was painful—and yet, he was.
Wincing, I stepped closer, reaching around his waist to grab the nozzle. I turned it with a twist of my wrist and carefully tested the water with my fingers, waiting as it slowly cooled to a moderately warm current. Instead of bothering him with useless questions about why he had the desire to blister the skin off his shoulders, I gently grasped his waist and leaned over to press my lips to the center of his back, and the water rushed over my head, wetting my hair.
"Talk to me," I pleaded. I wanted him to pour the hurt into me because if I could carry it, I would. His head shook, giving me my answer, and I wrapped my arms around him, begging with a gentle clutch. "Please. It hurts to see you like this."
I could feel his chest rise and expand with ragged breath, and he still didn't speak. "Will you tell me what it was about?" I asked again.
"Rainbows," he snapped.
I tried not to sigh, keeping my cheek against his back and letting the water run over my face. I was naïve when it came to situations like this. And given the iffy atmosphere before he had gone to sleep, I wasn't sure if he wanted me anywhere near him. Then again, he probably wouldn't stand still and let me put my arms around him if he didn't.
"It doesn't matter," he continued, his frame shaking as he inhaled. "Saying it out loud won't make it go away."
"I don't expect it would," I said, running my hand up his back. "But it might ease… something."
"I told you. If I tell you, you'll wish you never—"
"I'm asking, anyway."
He turned, finally, and I realized he was breathing through tremors of building sobs that were threatening to burst free any moment. "You want to hear everything, then? That when I fall asleep, the dream that's been gutting me, making me sick—the one where I see myself killing you? That you scream, scream for me to stop, but I tear into you, shredding you to pieces with my own hands, biting into you—"
"Shh, stop." I put my hand to his mouth, shushing him as his voice rose, thick with distress. "It was a nightmare. It wasn't you."
Edward shook his head, his chest hitching with short, reflexive gasps. "It's too real," he said, leaning against the wall and sliding a hand over his eyes. "I feel it after, like there's—blood all over me. I'm not—I have no control."
He lost it then, his last bit of restraint shattering, and he slid to the floor of the shower, burying his head in his arms. "I can't handle anymore," he cried, his shoulders shaking. "I just want it to stop."
Water sprayed over us both as I knelt on the floor and pulled him against me, wrapping my arms around him. It felt so familiar to the first time I'd witnessed him locked in such panic and anguish, when he'd collapsed in my arms and the rain had poured down on us; I couldn't think of which was worse.
"I know," I whispered to him, slicking his hair away from his dripping face.
"I'm so sorry," he sobbed against my neck, and I couldn't speak because I was crying, too. I had dreamt of it before—the horror of waking and thinking my hands were covered in his blood. But in my dream, I hadn't been the one to do it. I couldn't even imagine what it would be like to see myself hurt him, even if it was only a delusion.
I continued to soothe him, gently kissing his head and murmuring that it was okay when I could find my voice, and listened to the echoing splatter against the floor. Eventually, when he did calm, he straightened, angled awkwardly in the small space, and sighed in exhaustion. "If only I would have—"
I waited. "What?" I asked, tucking my wet hair behind my ears. As I moved, he reached for my arm and gently turned it, revealing dark pink finger marks, each crowned with a little, red half-moon. His nails had gotten me, too; I hadn't even felt it. His fingers trailed over to my opposite shoulder, gently touching similar notches across my skin.
"I did that," he said in a thick voice, clotted with shame.
I placed my hand on top of the marks on my arm, shaking my head gently. "It's fine," I assured him, cupping his cheek when he started to protest. "Edward, come on. I've given you worse when we… you know. This is nothing."
He wasn't buying it. His eyes sunk deeper into sorrow and his poor, lovely face crumpled all over again as he cradled his head. "No. It's not nothing."
"You said it yourself. You didn't know it was me."
"I'm sorry."
"It's okay."
"It's not." His voice broke like a rip of silk, tearing my heart in two. "Just leave me alone."
I lingered, stroking his dripping hair, and he suddenly rolled onto his knees, saying, "Oh God, go. I'm—" He coughed and turned away, his back arching as he became sick.
I kept a hand on his back, biting my lip through my tears, listening to Edward sob through his retching. It was most likely a mix of the alcohol he'd had earlier and terrible anxiety, but seeing him like this was almost unbearable.
Finally, when it seemed like he was finished, I stood up and turned off the shower. I grabbed two hanging towels from the rack outside the glass door and wrapped myself in one, and placed the other around him. He was still as I rubbed the soft fabric over his skin to dry him, soaking up the rivulets of water that seemed to keep falling.
"Come on," I said softly.
"Please," he rasped. "Just give me a minute."
Nodding, I reluctantly stood and gathered my discarded pajamas, and even though I didn't want to leave him alone, I did. I managed to find my way to the wall and pick up and turn on the lamp, then towel-dried my hair, leaving it damp, and redressed. Feeling sad and fatigued, I sunk into the armchair by the window and pulled my knees to my chest, draping Edward's coat over me. Ducking my head and breathing in the scent of him that lingered there made me feel a little better.
Even though I was still, my thoughts tumbled in turmoil. I felt terrible for him; his day had been awful, and I couldn't help but feel like it was all my fault. Sure, he would have realized it was his mother's birthday in time, but I had brought it up. Then, I wallowed in the coffee shop when I probably should have gone after him, no matter what he said. Then I'd left him again afterward—I'd thought he hadn't wanted me around, but what if he'd been too proud to admit that he had? And now, I was the one haunting him while he slept.
Although I had no control of it any more than he did. Somehow, that still didn't make me feel better.
I stayed in the chair, staring out the window until a creak sounded across from me, and I turned as Edward came out of the bathroom. He stared at me covered in his coat and I felt stiff, unsure of what he was thinking, of the meaning behind his unreadable gaze. He didn't speak and I slowly stood, placing his coat on the chair and taking a step back from his belongings. With his cautious eyes watching me the way they were, I suddenly felt like I was intruding.
Letting out a small sigh, I went to him, my feet causing the floor to creak in low, even beats. I put my arms around him, pressing my face to his chest and squeezing tightly but gently, trying with all of my might to silently speak, I'm here for you. So when I felt his hands grasp my shoulders, I relaxed—only to immediately stiffen as he pushed me away.
I froze, a cold, awful air in the space he'd just created, and I looked up at him, still clinging to his arms.
He inhaled shortly and said, "I can't have you in here."
I took in his statement, trying to assess his face, but couldn't find a reason. I wanted to ask him what he meant and why he would say that, but all I could do was inwardly damn my throat for the weak, choked sounds it was making instead of speech.
He focused his gaze over my head for a moment before releasing my shoulders and sliding my hands away from him, too. "I mean it, Bella."
I didn't know what to say. What could I say? My feet wouldn't cooperate, wouldn't let me step forward or back, and my mouth couldn't form words, either. I simply stared with wounded eyes, my shoulders taut, yet his expression didn't change.
But he had no problem speaking. "I appreciate you being here for me, but I want to be alone."
I hated this. His voice was solid, aloof, formal… and so achingly familiar of before—times of heartache and hidden meaning. I hated when his eyes became vacant, the emotionless words that spilled from his mouth, the glass-shattering pain he was trying to hide—all of it, I loathed.
Slowly, I shook my head. "No. I'm not leaving you."
"Please, don't make me ask again," he said coldly.
He stepped to the side then, as if giving me room to leave, to walk away. He took another short breath, translating a nonverbal 'get out.' Seeing him look so stoic and callous was gut-wrenching. It took me a few moments to realize I wasn't going to win, so I finally nodded. I still felt like I was abandoning him when I knew, deep down, that was one of his worst fears.
I slowly slunk to the door and stopped, turning back, my stomach painfully tight. "I'll see you in the morning, then?"
He narrowed his eyes, running a hand over his face and allowing it to settle on his chest. I counted twelve beats of my heart before he spoke. "No," he confirmed in a whisper, refusing to face me. "I can't do this anymore."
"Can't… do what?"
I felt my hands begin to tremble. I knew he could just be venting—I knew how tired he was of waking up in the middle of the night, stuck in a torturous haze. But I followed his gaze straight to the corner of the room—the corner where his bags sat, untouched—and a knife went straight to my heart.
"Don't you dare," I choked, and it was my turn to feel as if the room was collapsing upon me. "Don't act like you're going to leave. You wouldn't. Right?" He didn't respond, and after a gap of chilling silence, I felt like I had my answer. "Edward. You can't."
He was looking at me now, his eyes menacing. "Don't tell me what I can't do."
If there was a way for him to silence anyone, it was with that voice: bitter, cutting, malicious. Gooseflesh prickled across my arms and I hugged my waist, horror-stricken at what he was insinuating.
"You just had a bad night," I said warily. And it was true! He'd been okay—not perfect, but okay—and this was the only time since the first time that I'd ever seen him lose such control. "You're getting better—"
"I'm never better, Bella! Not ever!"
"Look at me, please?" I pleaded, reaching for his hand. "I know you're upset, but please don't feel like you have to run away. You mean everything to me. You—"
"Oh, save it, Bella. I'm your fucking charity case and we both know it!"
It was like being stabbed. My breath left my lungs in a painful exhale and I had to swallow a few times before I could speak. "You know you don't mean that."
"Right. Because I don't know a goddamn thing."
"Edward, I've never said that. Stop it."
He ignored me. I hated my eyes and my tear ducts, and everything about my emotions to make me look and sound like I couldn't handle this. I knew this wasn't for real, not really. How could I blame him for being upset? I couldn't.
"This morning, you—" I stopped to swallow. "You were happy. We were, both of us. And I didn't expect a bump-less road, you know? Rough patches happen to everyone."
"You can't even sleep next to me without me hurting you."
"Oh my God, I already told you, it—"
"How do you put up with this?" he interrupted, and I wasn't sure if the grate of his voice was due to anger or sadness or both. "Why do you even bother with me?"
"Because I love you." I put my hand on his chest, feeling his pulse underneath my palm. "I love everything about you."
In a voice I hardly recognized, he sneered, and lashed out with, "Love? Let's not fool ourselves. We don't love each other."
I felt as though he'd punched me, his words reverberating through me in an aftershock.
"Stop it," I whispered again, my throat constricting. He wouldn't go there. I'd felt it inside him that morning when he'd held me in his arms, every single time we kissed or made love, I knew it was for real. "You don't mean—"
"I do mean it."
Over the past two weeks, his eyes had crinkled with smiles and the sweet lilt of his voice had harmonized I love you's and whispered worship, body and soul. I shook my head, unwilling to accept what he just said, but even so, I felt my lips begin to shake.
"Well, I don't believe you," I said, my voice breaking.
"Believe what you want. But I'm telling you, you were my distraction. That's all you've ever been. And it's been fun, but I'm done."
Time stopped then and so did my breath, turning my chest to stone.
"And I—"
A vicious slap of skin upon skin interrupted him, and my palm felt scalded as it left his cheek. Edward barely moved, merely blinking at the force of my hand, before turning his gaze to the windows, not bothering to finish his thought.
"How can you say that?" I finally demanded, barely hanging on to my composure. "You know what those words mean to me! Say it again, I dare you!"
I knew he was distraught—maybe so much so that he would say it, but not mean it. But each second was like the scorch of a match sizzling into my skin, and then he simply shrugged his shoulders and said in such an icy voice, "I already said it. Are you going to go, or what?"
An inferno took over the match and I felt something invisible rip away from me: a piece of my soul maybe, or just the empty parts of me I'd allowed him to fill—gone, just like that.
My eyes blurred with tears and I stood in silence before I forced myself to speak. My throat felt raw and shredded as I rasped, heaving with oncoming sobs, "Fuck you."
Barely able to see or breathe, I ran. I slammed his door and instead of bolting down the stairs or barricading myself in my room, I grabbed a hold of the railing and squeezed tightly, seething. I didn't want to lie in bed and bawl my eyes out or flee to the comfort of the lobby or the cold, shadowed Entertainment Hall. There were too many memories and moments of us, and right here wasn't much better, but I really had no choice unless I decided to stalk to the gross, possibly-STD-infested dark hallway that led away from our doors.
I couldn't believe what I'd said to him—that I'd hit him—but his declaration had been a devastating shock, far more piercing than anything I could have ever conjured up. If he wanted to throw words around of what he thought he was to me, then fine—it hurt, but I knew what I felt, and that was nothing but love. But for him to call me that?
Tears were right on the verge of pouring down my cheeks and I felt sick. I wanted to believe that he was lying, that his emotions had detonated and poison had filled the air between us, and it was so thick and excruciating for him that he just wanted to scream things out of frustration and agony. But how could he have managed to utter those words? They were terrible and untrue.
Maybe to me, they were. For him, maybe they were the truth that he'd been holding in.
I had a decision to make. I could go back in there and scream a bit more or plead with him to take it all back, and probably cry until I no longer had a voice. I could go to my room and lose my shit there. Or I could run.
One, two, or three. Three. Yes. Running. I could do that.
I was not going to cry. I was going to leave. Not for good, but I needed to get out of the lodge, away from everything—from him.
I needed keys. My coat. And they were in his room.
I didn't waste time debating whether or not I should go back in and retrieve them. Instead, I started down the stairs, taking two at a time, and when I bounded into the dark, empty lobby, I headed straight for the Lost-and-Found box behind Doris's desk. Thankfully, it was still there—a bulky, cat-printed parka that I'd found a few days ago, left behind by one of the guests.
I yanked it on over my pajamas and stormed into the kitchen, grabbing a pair of old boots that Tom always kept around when we had to take the trash to the dumpsters on rainy days. They were big, but I couldn't go anywhere in my bare feet, after all. Once I had tied the laces as tight as they would go, I tramped through the café and to the door, outside into the misty night. And then, I went straight to Edward's car, bent down to retrieve his spare key and let myself in.
Grand theft auto or not, I didn't fucking care. He could report me all he wanted, but he could wait a few goddamn hours before leaving Forks. Before leaving me.
I drove to the beach without a thought. I figured it would be cold, quiet, and abandoned, and it was. Perfect.
The wind cut through my pajama bottoms as I walked over the squishy sand and I thought about doubling back to grab a blanket out of the car, but I settled for tucking my legs under the bulky coat, swaddled and folded like a padded package. I sat, listening to the crash and swell of the agitated waves and blustered air above and around me. Everything was so dark and unpromising; even the moon was veiled by thick and fluctuating clouds. The moment a small moonbeam would peek through, it was sucked back into the sky.
I restlessly wiggled my toes inside the ill-fitting boots, having too much anxious energy that was desperate to be burned. Bundled up, I wasn't cold, so I didn't shiver, but my lips still moved and twitched in silent unease, in wretched grief, asking why, why, why.
As my eyes adjusted to the night, I focused on the water that was surging in the distance and lapping at the surf. Swell, spray, slosh. It was raw, rhythmic music. Innate poetry in motion.
The heart can think of no devotion—
I sucked in a breath, the biting air invading my throat like a knife.
Greater than being shore to the ocean.
"Stop," I told myself aloud, barely whispering.
Holding the curve of one position—
Counting an endless repetition.**
I pressed my knuckles to my mouth, unable to stop repeating the poem in my head, the one Edward had printed at the bottom of my letter to him. The one that had given me the extra push to return to him that night, almost a month ago. So fitting, then—so painful, now. He'd loved me then, maybe—or he thought he did. But that still didn't change that I was just someone who made him forget. I was a Band-Aid over an old wound that, sometimes, still bled. And he didn't need a bandage, he needed stitches.
I wasn't good enough.
I lost myself, then, sobbing into the sleeves of the parka and feeling my heart sink into my stomach, swallowed whole by anguish. With every aching breath, freezing air slashed through my lungs and into my chest, carving additional pain to the internal wound with its phantom, icy knives. Hours could have gone by, for all I knew; the only thing I heard was the pound of blood in my ears and the ragged cries from my throat. Not until—
"My dear girl, why are you crying?"
The smooth voice cut through all sounds, making me gasp in surprise and whip my head to the left. I peered blearily through my tears, frozen to the spot, and suddenly, scared to death. Who—
A man. It was a man, tall and dark, looking as menacing and magnificent as a demonic statue, and he was standing right next to me. I knew it was just the black of night that we were cloaked in that made him seem so threatening, but a stranger suddenly appearing out of nowhere—on a deserted beach, no less—didn't exactly comfort me.
Goodbye, Bella. Hello, Investigation Discovery.
I was too shocked to speak. It was too dark to make out much of what he looked like, but I watched the shape of his head cock slightly as if silently asking me a question. He had, but I couldn't recall what he'd just said.
"Are you all right?" he tried again. He didn't sound as intimidating as his appearance made him out to be, but my stomach felt like lead. Something in my gut was telling me to be afraid of this man. It took me a few moments before I managed to rasp, "Yes."
He hummed softly, drawing out a smooth 'm' in tandem with a whistle of wind. Furthering my alarm, he suddenly lowered himself beside me, fluidly dropping into the sand with not even so much as a sound. My mouth hung slightly ajar as I watched him with narrowed eyes, afraid to move or glance away. How long had he been watching me before approaching, and what the hell was he doing here in the middle of the night?
At first, he simply drew in a breath and stared at the black ocean, but then abruptly turned to me, gazing at me with ghostly eyes that reflected strangely in the almost-moonlight. I couldn't make out the color, but they seemed… off.
"Oh, how rude of me," he said glibly, offering me a hand that seemed to glow in the darkness. "I'm James."
-:-
**Devotion by Robert Frost
