The Way I Wanted

by iambeagle

It was a fantasy that never should've been a reality.

34. past tense

Thank you! Big thanks to Hadley for looking over this, but the mistakes are still mine. See you next weeeeek, I hoooope!

34
- past tense -

I always hated my birthday until I met Edward.

I used to downplay the day, saying I didn't like or need the attention.

But that was because my parents never made a big deal about it growing up, so acting like I didn't care about my birthday was my way of keeping myself from being disappointed.

If I didn't expect much, I couldn't be let down.

Once Edward and I got together, though, he made a point to let me know birthdays were a big deal to him, and even if they weren't to me, he wanted to celebrate the woman he loved.

So I let him.

He'd always make my birthday last an entire week.

Dinner and drinks and dessert dates with different friends and his family. A week of flowers. A romantic dinner out, just the two of us. And a less romantic, more stressful dinner at home that he'd accidentally fuck up, forcing us to order takeout instead. It was always that dinner I looked forward to the most.

On the day of my actual birthday, I'd wake up to a card and breakfast in bed. The card always read the same: I love you more than you know. Happy Birthday, baby. And then he'd climb back into bed and show me without words how much he loved me.

My gift this year comes in the form of signed divorce papers.

I don't even know why it hurts.

Shouldn't I have expected this?

I initiated the divorce process last October by filing.

I convinced him we were better off apart.

It's not like some stranger showed up and blindsided me on the street or at work to serve me with divorce papers like they did to him.

No, him doing it this way—finishing what I started—makes the most sense.

But the news still rocks me.

I listen to Sue's voicemail three more times before I leave my lunch untouched, grab my keys and purse, and climb into my car.

I drive without a destination but I think deep down I know where I'm going. It's actually not even that deep, though. It's on the surface, at the forefront of my mind.

I'm going to the bar, of course.

It's instinctual. Familiar. It's a coping mechanism of choice.

I want the burn of liquor to take away the ache in my heart. I want alcohol in my blood to dull my depression.

I haven't drunk since that shameful night at North Star with Peter. I don't go there now because of said embarrassment. Instead, I go to some bar I drive by all the time but have never gone to.

It's a dark dive and perfectly acceptable to imbibe on a fucking Tuesday at two in the afternoon.

I order a gin & tonic, but I don't touch it. I just stare at the lime wheel floating in my drink.

After a couple of minutes, the bartender asks if I want something different.

Yeah.

I do.

A different life.

A different heart.

A different brain not haunted by insecurities, mistrust, and memories of my parents' toxic marriage.

What the fuck am I doing?

I'm on the verge of tears, sitting alone in a bar, on my fucking birthday.

It's not the lowest point I've ever gotten to, but maybe since I'm sober, it feels glaringly pathetic.

I glance around the dimly lit space at the other patrons. It's quiet here, just low music playing and people sitting by themselves.

This is where hope comes to die. To drown.

The bartender asks me again if I need anything else, and I shake my head before he walks to the other end of the bar to help another customer who just sat down.

I watch the wordless exchange between the two of them. The bartender doesn't even ask the man what he wants because he already knows.

He's a regular.

That small exchange creates alarm within me. It makes me worried about who I'm letting myself turn back into. Makes me feel so incredibly sad to imagine myself alone in thirty years, sitting at a bar, still drinking away my pain.

My chest feels tight. Too tight.

On instinct, I pull out my phone and start to call Edward, then stop.

I can't do this to him. Rely on him. He signed the papers. Reaching out now because I'm scared and panicked would only be cruel and pointless.

So, I send an email to my therapist instead.

Yes, it's sad the only person I have to lean on right now is someone I pay, but I can't focus on that too much, or else I will cry, and the bartender is already shooting me strange looks.

I keep the email short, asking Jane if she has any time to squeeze me in today or tomorrow. I don't even need a full session, maybe just fifteen minutes to talk me off the ledge and remind me that just because I'm alone right now, doesn't mean I will be forever. I can build a new life. I can make new friends. I can maybe even be Edward's friend one day, although… no.

I can't ever be his friend.

We never were friends.

We were strangers then lovers then husband and wife.

We were Edward and Bella Cullen.

We just were.

Past tense for a past love in a past life.

I leave my phone on the bar with my email open, staring at it, willing a reply from Jane.

When the ice in my untouched drink melts, I finally get an email.

Only it's not Jane, it's an email from a local yoga studio.

One of the first jobs I accepted after moving to LA was photographing a new wellness studio. The owner was kind and offered me a month of free classes. I thanked her but never took her up on it. At the time, I didn't want to engage in anything healthy for myself because that wouldn't have been conducive to my wallowing.

I've received weekly emails from them ever since, but usually ignore them.

Until now.

I skim the email, reading about a new series of classes that starts next week, then go to their website to look at the calendar.

There's a class in an hour.

It's something to look forward to.

Something to do.

I throw cash on the bar for the cocktail I never drank, and I leave.

XXX

I haven't done yoga in a long time, but the class is fairly easy.

It feels good to move my body.

It's harder to leave my mind.

At the end of the class, there's a moment for stillness and meditation, and I find my thoughts wandering to Edward.

It's natural.

He's always there.

In my subconscious.

In my fucking soul.

I wonder what it will be like one day to not think about him.

The thought makes tears burn my eyes, but I hold back because I don't want to scare the people around me.

The class ends, and I wait in the hallway for the bathroom to become available. I check my email to see that Jane replied and said she has some time to chat with me tomorrow unless I think this is an emergency and we need to speak today. I'm about to reply when the bathroom door opens, and out walks Rosalie, Edward's co-host.

We're both stunned for a second at this random run-in and stare at one another.

I haven't seen her since the day I met her at the ESPN studio for the photoshoot I was tricked into doing.

I'm convinced maybe she doesn't actually recognize me, but then she says, "Bella. Hi."

Then I'm convinced maybe Edward's been talking to her about me.

"Hi," I tentatively offer.

Her blonde hair is down, she's make-up-free, and wearing a baseball cap. Maybe she's going for lowkey, but she's still stunning.

The longer I stare, though, I notice her nose is red, and her eyes are puffy. She was likely crying in the bathroom—a much more private and appropriate place to be emotional than on a yoga mat.

"Is everything okay?" I quietly ask though I'm not sure why. I don't know her, and it's none of my business. But if I were standing here with tears in my eyes, I'd want someone to check on me, too.

Rosalie shakes her head, more sorrow slipping down her cheeks.

I don't know what to say or do.

On TV she's so poised. So on.

Standing here now, all she seems is broken.

I think about what Maria said last night, about being able to turn it on for the camera, and I wonder if that's the case for Rosalie, too.

"Sorry, I just… yeah," she mumbles and steps out of the bathroom, motioning that it's all mine.

I hesitate.

"Do you want to talk?" I ask her. Maybe it's bold and maybe it's not my place, but I don't care. "I know you don't know me or probably even like me, but yeah. If you want to talk…"

With sad, glassy eyes, she looks at me. "There's a coffee shop next door," she suggests.

I nod, then use the bathroom, and less than ten minutes later, we're sitting at a table with our lattes cooling.

"I haven't seen you around the studio," she says.

"Yeah, I was just there the one time, for the photoshoot."

She looks confused before a small smile graces her mouth. "Not ESPN. I meant the yoga studio," she corrects, almost apologetically.

Embarrassment creeps across my cheeks. "Right. Today was the first class I've been to. Do you go there often?"

She sips her coffee. "A few times a week. My husband and I live just around the corner, so it's convenient to walk."

She says it simply, but I feel expectation tied to it. Or maybe this is what it's like to have a normal fucking conversation with someone. Give and take. Sharing things about your life.

"I don't live close by, but I did a shoot for the owner before it opened. I got an email from them today and figured I'd check it out."

Rosalie's focus is stolen when a woman walks into the coffee shop. She has an infant strapped to her chest and a chaotic toddler running around her. The small family of three makes their way to the line. I look away before Rosalie does and find her eyes are still on them.

"Do you have kids?" I wonder as she stares fondly.

Her gaze lingers, and I realize it's not fondness radiating from her, it's longing.

I wish I could take my question back or even amend it, but she speaks before I can.

"No, I don't have any kids." She pauses momentarily and stares at the table then she whispers, "I recently had a miscarriage."

"Oh, God," I mumble, bringing a hand to my chest, covering my heart.

"I don't even know why I told you that," she says, shaking her head. "Maybe it's because I don't know you, and it feels easier? Or maybe I don't always want it to feel so taboo. Honestly, that's the first time I've ever even said the actual M word aloud. Miscarriage. I usually just say I'm no longer pregnant."

"I'm so sorry, Rosalie," I murmur.

"It hit me harder this time than any of the others. I guess because I was pregnant longer than I ever had been, and I thought… I hoped…" She sighs, then discreetly motions toward the family she was staring at. "Reminders are everywhere. Today I overheard a woman at the studio switching her hot yoga classes to prenatal ones because she just found out she is pregnant. I kind of broke down after hearing that."

I nod, knowing some of her pain. When I was trying to get pregnant, there were always constant reminders that it wasn't happening for me. Pregnancy announcements on social media. Invites to baby showers. Family and friends always inquiring when we were going to start a family.

Sometimes the reminder that hurt the most came from seeing Edward stare fondly at a newborn or family.

He said he didn't need a baby to be happy with me, but…

I don't know.

We both said and did a lot of things.

"Are you able to take some time off and clear your head? A getaway for a week or so with your husband?" I suggest.

"It's football season, so no. Between my work and Emmett traveling for games, the next few months are going to be crazy," she says. "And I know this is going to sound weird or unemotional, but sometimes I can't do that."

"What?"

"Take time to process. It's almost like if I wallow too much or give in too easily to my emotions, I won't come back from it. I'll just succumb. So I keep going. Always back to the grind."

Her grace and strength are as admirable as they are inspiring.

I debate whether to share anything about myself because there's a fine line between wanting her to know I can relate to her struggles and not wanting to make her hardship all about me.

"Edward and I… we couldn't…" I pause. "We tried for a baby for a while, but yeah."

She looks curious. "You guys want kids, too?"

I don't correct her present tense.

"Yeah." I swallow a lump in my throat. "We did, but it never happened for us. Ever."

Recognition flickers in her gaze, like she's understanding that I never suffered from loss the same way she has. I was never given hope only to have it taken away.

"I'm sorry," Rosalie sighs. "Infertility is a bitch."

"It's weird. I've never actually used that word. Not even to Edward."

"Infertility?" she asks.

"Yeah. It was just easier to say it wasn't happening or it wasn't our time. Not meant to be. Maybe like… if I just left it up to fate, it wouldn't be my fault. I don't know."

"The things we tell ourselves—and others—to cope," she muses.

"Yeah."

We drink our coffee in silence for a few beats, but it's comfortable. Like this small bond has started to form between us. Though our common denominator stems from the kindred heartbreak of infertility, it's the first time in a long time I haven't felt alone.

"Can I ask why you said I probably don't like you earlier?" she wonders.

I hold her gaze. "I just figured since you work with Edward, and we're getting a divorce… yeah."

She looks surprised and a little sympathetic. "Oh, wow. I didn't know that. Like, wait… actually divorced?"

I press my lips together in a melancholy smile. "I just heard from my lawyer today that he signed the papers, so…"

"I'm so sorry, Bella."

I have no idea what to say to that.

Thanks?

It's fine?

Really, it's okay, and this is for the best? Maybe we can take some actual time, and I can focus on my broken self and not my broken marriage?

"Is it official?" she asks, appearing somber.

"I filed in Washington and there's a ninety-day waiting period, so… after that, it will be, I guess."

"How do you feel? Are you okay?" she wonders, and I just shake my head, unable to voice that right now. "I've asked Edward about you a few times, but he doesn't share much at work. Or talk much, really. Honestly, he's a bit moody when we're not on air. But I'm sure you already know that about him."

No, I didn't know that. It doesn't sound like him at all.

He's always been warm, open. Personable.

He's always been the light.

I was the darkness.

But he's changed.

We both have.

"Maybe it's none of my business but what was the deal with you doing the promo shots for us?" she wonders. "I knew something was up. The tension between you two was…" Her sentence hangs in the air, unfinished.

"Palpably toxic?" I offer, and she grimaces a little. "Edward had someone set all of that up. We hadn't seen each other in a year. I didn't know he'd be at the shoot, and I didn't know he was working for ESPN. Otherwise, I probably would've said no."

"That was bold of him."

I offer a small, unamused laugh. "That's one word for it."

"Well, I was actually going to say it was a pretty dickish move, but I wasn't sure how you'd feel about that."

I'm surprised by her candor, so I offer some of my own honesty. "Bold or not, he wouldn't have felt like he needed to blindside me if I hadn't been avoiding him for an entire year," I admit guiltily.

"Y'all were separated, right?"

"Yeah, but it wasn't something we agreed to. He didn't want me to leave, but I did anyway. He didn't know where I was for a while. I filed for divorce and moved here on a whim."

"Okay, so it's a little more complicated than your average separation," she aptly observes.

I almost laugh. "Um. A little, yeah."

"Well…" She looks at her phone. "I have some time if you wanna talk about any of it?" she offers, and I hesitate.

"We don't have to," I say noncommittally. "You have enough going on than to sit here and listen to my crap."

She waves me off. "I'd be happy to listen."

I can feel myself caving, desperate to have someone to talk to. "I would hate to say something and have it make it back to Edward, you know?"

"Anything you say will stay between us," she promises, and when I search her face, all I find is fierce, protective honesty.

With a vulnerable heart, I spend almost an hour opening up to her and telling her everything, starting with my parents' fucked-up marriage, and ending on my divorce. I don't leave out any ugly truth, not caring how strange or unrelatable any of it might make me seem.

Opening up to Rosalie is somehow easy, maybe because she listens without judgment and asks a few questions here and there.

When I finally fall quiet, she says, "So, it's safe to say you've got a lot going on."

"Sorry to unload on you like that. You can tell I have a lot of friends to share with, huh?" I chuckle self-deprecatingly, worried I overstepped and overshared.

"Friends are great sounding boards, sure, but if they aren't willing to understand what you're going through, sharing isn't always beneficial," she says, and I can't help but think of Allie. "I don't tell many friends about my infertility stuff because they can't relate. It's why Emmett and I go to couples therapy."

"I just started therapy yesterday, so."

"That's really great," she says, with all sincerity and zero condescension.

"Sometimes I wonder if my shit is too messy, even for a professional. Especially all of the stuff with my childhood."

"Don't think that way. At least you're trying?"

"Yeah."

She watches me for a second. "So, I saw this video on TikTok."

I'm not sure where she's going with this. "TikTok?"

She chuckles. "I know, I'm obsessed with that stupid app. It sounds weird maybe, but the video had a compelling message, and it reminds me of your situation. Can I show you? I don't know if I'll do justice if I tried to retell it."

"Sure."

She queues the video up and hands me her phone.

I watch a TikTok of a guy telling a story about cows and buffalo.

Apparently, they both sense when a storm is coming. The cows run in the opposite direction of the storm, whereas the buffalo run toward it.

The cows eventually get tired, and the storm catches up to them. Instead of stopping to rest, they just keep going, the storm accompanying them on their entire journey. They can't escape it. They're just stuck in it.

But the buffalo push through the storm, so while they deal with some challenging moments for a while, they eventually make it to the other side.

I get what the story is trying to convey.

It resonates with me.

Do I want to face my trauma or let it consume me?

It is a powerful message.

But I can't get past the use of animals in the metaphor.

"So… you… think I'm a cow?" I ask carefully, handing over her phone.

"No. God, no, I—" The horrified look on Rosalie's face makes me lose it.

Laughter bubbles out of me.

It catches me off guard.

This lightness.

This ease.

It must be contagious because Rosalie joins in, too, laughing with me.

Strangers glance at us crying from laughter, but I don't care.

"A cow… really?" I choke out, wiping tears from my eyes. "Fuck."

Another fit of laughter begins between us, and we just let it take over as an overwhelming surge of gratitude and joy washes over me.

"Don't worry," Rosalie eventually says when we catch our breath. "Being a buffalo isn't all it's cracked up to be."

XXX

I don't get home until close to dinner time.

I feel a little better, a little lighter after my unexpected afternoon talking with Rosalie. It's different from how I felt after my therapy session yesterday, though. That was draining in a way, and this was uplifting. It was fun and almost felt like friendship, something I have been missing for a very long time.

Before we left the coffee shop, we exchanged numbers and made plans to attend a hot yoga class together next week. I'm unsure if we'll keep our intended plans, but for now, I feel hopeful.

That feeling halts when I walk up my porch and find an envelope partially wedged between the front door and threshold.

I grab it and find my name written on it in Edward's familiar scrawl.

I can only assume it's a birthday card.

I glance around, expecting to find him even though I know he's not here.

I'm slightly nervous to read this because I have no idea what he has to say. Part of me contemplates not reading it at all and saving it for another day. The other part is dying to know what he wrote.

I worry if he wrote something too sentimental, I'll feel guilty and fully responsible for our divorce. And I fear if he didn't write enough, I'll irrationally assume he never loved me as much as I did him.

Putting my uncertainty aside, I slide my finger under the seal and pull out the card to find a watercolor painting of pink peonies on the front.

With a softening heart, I open it and read.

Happy Birthday, Bell. xxxx E

Seeing my shortened name plus the familiar four kisses accompanied by his initial hits me hard with nostalgia.

My fingers trace over his words.

No big confessions of love. No apologies. No pushing boundaries or begging for reconciliation or placing blame.

Just a simple acknowledgment of my birthday.

It's all I need right now.

Once I'm inside, I secure the card on my fridge with the magnet I bought him while I was away in Oregon once for work. We'd exchanged I love yous for the first time before I left, and I thought about him the entire trip, daydreaming about forever with him.

We'd only been together for a month, and we were already in deep.

When I'd spotted the 'someone in Oregon loves you' magnet in a local gift shop, I couldn't help but send it to him because it was true.

I was in Oregon, and I loved him.

I stare at the wooden magnet supporting my birthday card.

Now I'm in California, and I still love him.

The past and present collide.