A/N: OMG this evil flu, guys. It hit my lungs, and I ended up with bronchitis, but I'm finally, FINALLY over it. No more antibiotics, no more coughing fits, no more pulled neck muscles from said coughing fits. I still sound like the possessed, pea soup puking girl from that movie, but yay. Funnily enough, in the midst of it, I was writing more Twilight AF. Sickness is the perfect state of mind to write crack I guess lol.
This year has really been a pisser, but here I am still standing. Can't complain, right?
Thank you for sticking by me during all my shitty breaks in updating. I really appreciate it, and ditto all the lovely reviews you leave me.
Anywho, this chapter is quite revealing. I hope you all enjoy :)
Footprints in the Sand
Chapter 20
"You're angry," Edward decides with a sigh, turning to me and taking both my hands in his.
We're standing in front of The Pink Door, an Italian restaurant a block from Pier 62. It's the first real restaurant Edward's taken me to outside of cafes.
"I'm not angry," I insist.
Anger is not the right word, after all. Confused as hell is closer to the truth.
He doesn't know Renee, so I can only assume in his text the night before he was referring to his wife. He's concerned Addie will grow up to be like her.
My opinion of this woman who birthed possibly the sweetest child in existence, who I love as though she were my own, is nose-diving every instance Edward alludes to her – which isn't often.
What he does do is drop hints, crumbs, as though he's leading me into what a terrible human being she was without horrifying me in the process.
"Are you sure?" he asks, his sharp eyes canvassing my face skeptically as if looking for contradictions.
"Positive." My voice softens with reassurance, but there's something incredibly anxious about his expression that's worrying me.
Without another word, he leans forward and presses his lips briefly to my brow before leading me up the stairs to the first story establishment.
We're greeted in Italian at the entrance by the host, who after flashing me a welcoming smile, asks Edward, in a very thick accent, if he has a booking.
"Cullen for two," Edward replies, his voice notably stiff.
After checking his ledger, the hosts opens an arm and ushers us to a small square table by the windows that overlook the bay.
The interior is warm and inviting with a brick-veneer feature wall adorned with variously-shaped, metal-framed mirrors, hard wood floors, and exposed timber beams with chandeliers hanging between them.
The waiter arrives before the host departs, handing us both a menu and asking what we'd like to drink.
"Iced Tea," I say after quickly scanning the beverages.
Edward orders water, as well as starters. "Bella—bruschetta?" he asks, arching a single eyebrow.
"Sure." I agree, continuing to peruse the menu, before laying it down before me. "Tell me something..." I begin when the waiter leaves.
"Hmm?" Edward lowers his and meets my eyes over it.
"Why did your mother refer to Rosalie as family? Were she and Emmett once married?"
He sort of smirks to himself. "She's the step daughter of our uncle, my father's brother—I know, it's practically incest," he responds to my quirked brow. "We grew up treating her like our cousin."
"Well, that explains it then," I tell myself, returning to the menu. I'm leaning toward fettuccini carbonara.
"Does she bother you?" Edward asks after a moment of gauging me.
"Of course she does." I'm completely honest. "I'd really like to slap her silly."
This appears to amuse him substantially, and suddenly the air between us relaxes.
"Bella..." Just my name, but for whatever reason, I totally misconstrue it this time.
"Well, what would you do if a man kept pushing himself onto me?"
Edward's expression rapidly turns hard. "He wouldn't live to see another day," he all but growls, and I can't deny how instantly turned on it makes me.
"Caveman," I decide to cover by teasing him, bringing the smile back to his lips.
"Ready to order?"
"Yeah."
Edward signals the waiter.
He orders mine first, deciding on gnocchi for himself. The waiter jots it down, and promising to bring out our drinks, he takes the menus and heads toward the kitchen. That's when Edward picks up where he left off on the street.
"Bella...?"
"Yeah?" I ask, noting the seriousness suddenly burning in his eyes.
"I didn't mean to imply I was concerned you were like your mother. I've never met your mother," he appeals to me a little too seriously, "and I'd never—"
"Edward..." I interject moving to grab his hand when he folds his arms tightly across his chest. "I'm not angry, and I know you weren't referring to my mother. I didn't say anything because... well, you told me you don't like to talk about your wife."
He holds my gaze for a moment or two before expelling a heavy breath and glancing down at his forearms. "It was... my wife I was talking about," he admits almost gravely as his frown becomes deeply etched into his forehead.
I shake my head in a feeble effort to placate him, but I've long since learned that the subject of his wife is always going to make him uptight. "You don't have to talk about it."
"I hate talking about her," he says, scoffing caustically, "but I don't want there to be any confusion between us. And I need you to know why I..." he doesn't elaborate, and I feel like I should be holding my breath.
I seem to be doing that frequently around him lately.
"Tell me what you're comfortable with," I encourage him, my voice a tad too cautious.
He sighs minutely to himself and glances out the window, his eyebrows low over his very conflicted eyes, and when he turns back to me they're burning with a large degree of resignation. "I knew her all my life—she was the daughter of one of my father's closest friends." I nod and he continues, "We spent summers together, Thanksgivings..." Again he breaks my gaze, before bringing his fist to his mouth and clearing his throat.
I sit frozen in my seat. I don't prompt him to continue; I'm almost afraid to breathe in case it shatters this moment of this very guarded man suddenly opening up to me.
"I think I was in love with her by the time I was sixteen," he confesses looking suddenly abashed. "She was older than me, and ...larger than life. I used to smoke weed with her behind the garage of her parent's house, get drunk with her, mess around with her—she lead me, this stupid, lovesick boy I was, down the path to Hell with her, but I would have followed her anywhere." He breaks again, gazing into my eyes with so much uncertainty it infects his eventual smile and completely breaks my heart in the process.
I only nod; it's all I can really do.
"I followed her to Columbia, and when I was nineteen we started dating, but not long after was when the cracks started appearing. She was constantly flirting with other guys in front of me. Sometimes I was convinced she was deliberately shoving them in my face, and there were always rumors she was fooling around with them behind my back. People would often tell me outright, and when I confronted her, she'd cry, scream, and insist everyone was jealous of her and trying to break us up. We'd fight and she'd tell me I was a stupid, inexperienced, possessive boy who was making her crazy." He quotes with the fingers on both his hands. "I always caved. Always," he mutters bitterly, scoffing to himself again, and the frown across his face is slowly giving way to a definite scowl. "I was good at a lot of things, Bella—school for example. I could maintain my 4.0 average without even trying, and while getting drunk every weekend, but with her I was an idiot. A gullible, dimwitted idiot."
"Edward..." I say with a deep-seated sigh when he falls into a moment of brooding.
He opens his mouth to say god only knows what else, when the waiter returns, places a basket of breadsticks before us, our drinks, two sets of utensils and our starters of Bruschetta toast.
In silence, Edward picks up a slice and takes an enormous bite, in keeping with how he eats.
I follow suit while trying to hide the fact my hands are trembling. I cannot believe he's being so open, but at the same time, I'm not sure I want to hear more; to hear exactly how much this horrible woman hurt him.
"There were good times between us," he continues after such a long pause I became convinced he wasn't going to say anymore. "At times she became the girl I grew up with, but they were few and far between. As I got older and her bullshit continued, I started to get fed up. I threatened to break it off with her so many damn times, and like a light switch was flipped she turned into a fucking angel, dangling the idea of happiness before me,and every single time I fell for it."
He takes another breather, finishes his toast and drinks half his water in a single mouthful.
"Edward, if this is making you un—"
"Sweetheart," he practically begs me, "just let me finish. Please."
I nod in a jerky movement, and wait, remembering to breathe evenly so I don't choke on my own saliva.
"She started getting sloppy, and I caught her cheating on me a couple of times. Of course, she claimed it was always my fault. I drove her to it with my jealousy, and she had me so convinced, I actually apologized to her and promised to change," he stops to laugh angrily this time, but he doesn't quite pull it off. "I was so busy getting my law degree, on top of dealing with her every day that I didn't realize how miserable I was, or how... messed up our relationship had become. As ridiculous as it was, I convinced myself it was normal—that we were having normal problems, and she kept me in line by becoming the world's greatest girlfriend when she needed to, and that's how I existed. Until I couldn't do it anymore. She started slapping me and throwing things at me—dinner plates, shoes, books, whatever she could get her hands on. After one fight, I got hit in the head by—I don't even know what it was, but it was heavy. I was seeing stars. I snapped; it was the first time I ever lost it at her. I grabbed her, slammed her against the wall, and told her if she didn't get the fuck out of my apartment I'd kill her. She refused, so I left. I stayed with Emmett for a few days, and when I came back, I changed the locks. We were apart for two years, and those two years were the first time in what felt like a lifetime that I could breathe again," he pauses again to drink the remainder of his water, but I get the impression he needs a distraction because he's barely holding my gaze as he speaks. He's either looking out the window, at the table—everywhere but at me.
When he finally locks his harrowed eyes with mine, I smile, but it's all I can do to stop mine from welling with tears. He returns my smile before taking a heavy breath and releasing it.
"Do you mind if we finish this conversation when we're alone?" he asks sounding a little too vulnerable for me to reconcile with.
"Of course I don't," I whisper, reaching out again to take his hand. He lets me this time, and for a brief moment we only smile at each other.
Then bringing the back of my hand to his lips, he releases me. "Bella..." he murmurs to himself, his eyes turning downcast.
Lunch arrives, and all conversation from Edward is sparse. He engages in small talk, asking me vague, inconsequential questions like how work is, and if I went running this morning, but he's quiet, and by every definition, off.
It's to be expected, I guess, but I'm beginning to suspect he's already regretting admitting so much to me. I keep subconsciously holding my breath for the punchline.
Until he notices.
"What are you thinking?" he puts to me, sounding as pained as he does frustrated.
I shake my head, offering him a small smile. "Nothing."
"Bella," he says dubiously, speaking my name in a completely different context.
Sighing, I shake my head a second time and look down at my hands still clutching the knife and fork despite my empty plate. "It's just... I feel so... wretched for you."
It's not quite the word I wanted to use, but it's all that came to mind, and it's immediately evident Edward doesn't like it.
"I don't want you feeling sorry for me," he says, his frown front and center, and his gaze, once again, everywhere but on me.
"You were in an abusive relationship, Edward, of course I'm going to feel bad for you," I appeal to him, my voice deliberately responsive.
His expression practically clouds and he tears his eyes out over the bay. "I did it to myself," he mutters so quietly I barely hear him.
"You don't have to tell me more. It's enough—"
"I can't leave it the way it is—unfinished," he says in a small voice before he glances up at me and offers me an entirely too-defenseless smile. "Want to go back to my house?"
"Your house?" I venture surprised, making the smile momentarily broaden across his lips.
"My house," he confirms.
"Sure," I say simply when it's everything but simple.
Edward signals to the waiter for the check, and after paying, he pulls himself to his feet and takes my hand. It's clammy and his grip is almost uncomfortably tight.
The short drive to Denny-Blaine is spent in silence. Edward is clearly distracted and brooding, and while he drives with one hand, the other is propped against the side of his head, with his elbow resting at the base of his closed window.
He looks so caught up in inner turmoil, I have the sudden compulsion to smooth out the frown lines from his forehead and kiss those pouty lips of his.
My focus draws his attention as a smile breaks fleetingly to the surface, but again, it's too defeated; too vulnerable.
The first time I went to Edward's house I was full of nervous energy, stemmed from my irritation at him, and this time it's not that much different. Except I'm not irritated with him, I'm anxious for him. After pulling his car to a stop in the detached garage, we walk along the perfectly hedged path to the front door, where he unlocks and opens it in continued silence.
The first thing I notice about the Hamptons-styled interior is it's clean—really clean. Until I recall him telling me he has a house keeper. The second, is it's filled with Addie's presence, either from numerous photos of her through every stage of her life until now, to her toys, drawings, and furniture.
The third—and I'm ashamed to admit I looked for it—is there isn't a single trace of his wife anywhere in sight.
"Oh my god, she was so adorable," I mumble to myself, after picking up a framed photo of Addie as a baby from a side table adjacent the stairs in the foyer. Her blonde hair was semi-curly, and practically snow white, and her huge, clear green eyes were still infused with royal blue. "How old was she?"
"Nine months," Edward answers, unable to hold off his own smile in response.
"She looks so much like you," I add, returning it and taking the hand he extends to me.
"Want a coffee?" he asks, both his brows raising.
"Sure."
The layout of his house is similar to his parents, and he leads me past a formal living and dining, and an office with a double, glass-doored entry, to the kitchen, meals and family area that overlook an almost unrestricted view of the ocean.
"Take a seat," he offers, motioning to the round, timber breakfast table. An iPad encased in a purple protective cover sits to one side where a bright pink, booster is strapped to the chair.
I take the seat opposite and turn to watch Edward move around easily in his kitchen.
His fridge is covered in Addie's artwork as well, and one is suspiciously similar to the one I have hanging from mine. The three of us, with Edward's frown just as over exaggerated.
After loudly stirring two mugs of coffee, and tossing the spoon in the sink, he picks up both and places one before me.
"Two sugars," he says, seating himself beside me.
"Thanks," I say, bringing the rim of the mug to my lips.
"Bella...?" he speaks up apprehensively after a short pause.
"Hmm?" I turn to him.
"...Now that I have you here, the last thing I want to do is talk about my wife," he admits, scoffing to himself ruefully.
"Do you need a reprieve?" I ask, my tone unintentionally coy and not nearly as teasing as I sound.
"A reprieve..." he echoes to himself as his smile forces its way back to the surface. "Yes, I need a reprieve."
"Well..." I tilt my head in feigned contemplation and hold my hand out to him, noting the way his eyes, so much like his daughter's, are already beginning to darken, "come on then."
He's up and out of his chair in an instant, and just as suddenly, I'm in his arms, being blindly carried up the stairs to his bedroom.
Like the rest of the house, it's full of Addie, but in contrast, it's not nearly as neat.
Stacks of folders and filed paperwork align his chest of drawers, clothes are strewn over a matching pair of arm chairs—both his and Addie's—a whole menagerie of dolls and stuffed toys are scattered over the floor and on furniture, and behind his partially opened closet doors is an absolute mayhem.
"House... keeper's... not allowed... in here," he utters, semi coherently against my lips in explanation.
"So, he's really messy... deep... down," I reply, as a rustic-sounding chuckle erupts from his throat.
In the next moment, he drops me to the plush coverings of his made bed—the only thing in his room in actual order—and leans the weight of his body over mine as he kisses my parted mouth with his.
He strips me completely naked, and half on his knees and half pressed against me, he takes my body in a way that perfectly emphasizes the emotions he's still so obviously struggling with. Fiery passion and a depth I'm fast becoming familiar with, and this time, he's a hell of a lot more vocal than he usually is.
In between his lips connecting and reconnecting to mine and every point of my face, neck and shoulders, he swears, apologizes to me more than once, asks me if I feel as good as he does, and tells me how beautiful he thinks I am, all the while his locked muscles quake and his expression contorts in what almost appears to be pain.
He goes longer and deeper than I've ever experienced with him, and when he reaches that peak, it's in the wake of his gasping breath and rapidly hammering heart as all words tumble from his lips, blending together in an unintelligible rush of emotion.
I get so caught up in it with him that it's the reprieve I didn't realize I needed as well, and after, as we come down together, both breathless and exhausted, our bodies wet and glistening, I very nearly succumb to tears.
Rolling to my side, I curl my legs with his and press my face to his firm, damp chest. He smells as indescribable as he always does, and for the next several moments, I breathe him in unable to comprehend the fact that any woman could ever mistreat him to the extent I'm beginning to realize.
Anger floods me, along with a protectiveness I've never quite felt for anyone else before.
"Bella..." he whispers as his breath gushes from his lungs.
Humming softly in reply, I angle my head to kiss the base of his throat.
"I..." But with a languid groan, he abandons it and pulls me further against him.
He kisses me repeatedly and a little too emotionally charged, releasing another momentous breath and closing his eyes.
"I'm sorry I was so rough," he mumbles, sounding as though he's on the verge of sleep.
"You weren't rough," I assure him, placing my palm to his cheek.
He groans again, louder this time, but it's more out of obvious satisfaction that I almost let myself relax.
Almost.
We remain like this as our bodies begin to cool, until a sense of inevitability begins to wash over me, and this time when Edward groans, it's with clear reluctance.
"I'll go make us another coffee," he says, pulling from my arms, only to pause to plant his lips gently to my bare shoulder.
"Okay," I say softly, teasingly tweaking his earlobe, and watching as he pulls his legs into his discarded jeans, sans underwear, and leaves the room.
His bedding, his whole room, smells like him, and it's so easy to lose myself in the sensation of it that I have to remind myself to reel my thoughts back to what's about to transpire.
It sobers me up almost immediately, and while Edward's downstairs, I hastily reef my clothes back over my naked body.
He returns a couple of minutes later, two identical mugs in tow, and flashes me a grin that's an amalgamation of tenderness and unease.
Sitting on the edge of his bed, I hold my hand out, not for the coffee, but for him. He drops down beside me, and passes me the mug, taking a lengthy sip of his own.
"Edward..." I break the silence we fall so easily into, "I don't want you telling me anything that will make you uncomfortable."
He meets my gaze and smiles awkwardly, and I absolutely want to cry for him. I've fallen, head over heels, hopelessly in love with not only him but his daughter, and I suddenly feel like I'm standing on loose sand, about to be sucked into an abyss.
"I don't want this between us anymore," he explains, holding my gaze intently.
I nod, and following his lead, I take a sip of my coffee. Naturally, Edward downs his in a couple of mouthfuls, and taking my still half-full mug from my hands, he places the both of them to his nightstand.
"Come here," he instructs me, pulling me back onto his bed with him, and curling an arm around my shoulders. "Where was I...?" he asks rhetorically.
"You were apart for two years," I prompt him when he appears to stall.
"Hmm... best two years of my life," he says humorlessly, and then expands on it. "I was happy, Bella. I'd passed the bar and my life was finally going forward, and then one afternoon she was on my doorstep in tears. She told me this story that to this day I have no idea if it was ever true or not. She claimed she was raped—when she was in high school at some keg party—and it screwed her up and that's why she was such a mess. She cried and clung to me, telling me how much she loved me, and begging me for another chance, promising me I'd never regret it. And I... completely fell for it, but for the next few years everything was... perfect." He seemed reluctant to use that word, but I don't interrupt, I only listen, confused and disturbed by the kind of woman she was. "It was a little too perfect," he says ironically, "but it really seemed like she'd got her life together and changed. Jesus, I was so fucking gullible..." he breaks to mutter half beneath his breath before falling back into a moment of silence.
I grab his hand, threading my fingers with his, giving him the time he needs to collect himself.
He squeezes it gently, bringing the back of it to his lips, before he resumes this almost unbelievable story of his. "Anyway, one afternoon she started suggesting we get married, and then we went shopping for a ring. That's how it happened. There was no big proposal, nothing like that, and it didn't occur to me that it was something only she wanted, while I continued to ignore the warning bells going off in my head. I knew something wasn't quite right, but I could never put my finger on it, and so we got fucking married."
"Oh god, Edward," I whisper, shaking my head subconsciously.
I know where this is going.
"Then, roughly a week after we came home from the honeymoon, she immediately switched back to who she once was. It was just like that"—he snaps his fingers—"and she picked up exactly where she left off—slapping me, throwing things at me, the mind games, the fucking around. All of it. I lasted less than a year when I told her I wanted out and the marriage annulled. Of course, she cried, begged, pleaded, emotionally manipulated—claimed she'd kill herself—all of that bullshit. I gave her an ultimatum; get therapy or it was over, and on the condition that I pick the therapist. If she didn't agree to it, there'd be no more chances; she'd come home from work one day and I'd be gone. No forwarding address, nothing. She agreed. We went together for the first few sessions, and then she went alone, and the next several months there was a sort of shaky peace between us. Then one day the therapist called me. He wanted to speak to me," cutting himself short, Edward laughs once, darkly and seeped with anger. "He essentially told me, in no uncertain terms, to divorce her before she got pregnant. He diagnosed her with narcissism and borderline personality disorder. He told me, with who she was, she would never change and she couldn't be cured, and that if I was smart, I'd get out now."
"Jesus..." I whisper when he turns his harrowed eyes to me as though gauging my reaction. "I'm so sorry."
A smile almost breaches his clouded expression before he shakes his head, but I have no idea what emotion he's trying to convey. "A week later, she told me she was pregnant. I told her to get rid of it." He frowns and again breaks my gaze, as shame very clearly overruns his expression.
"It's okay," I assure him practically without volume, and turning to him I press my nose and lips to the side of his face.
He kisses my brow, his forehead heavily knotted, and for the longest time, that's how he remains, until he reluctantly pulls himself back and continues, "She refused to get an abortion, and for the next nine months, she used her pregnancy to completely fuck with me. When she wasn't claiming the baby wasn't mine, she was telling me she wasn't sure whose it was. In the meantime, I was forced to play happy families with her for the benefit of her friends and parents. We had the gender reveal party, the baby shower, all of it, and while I smiled and played along, inside I absolutely detested her. Then one night, I came home from work to her fucking some guy in our bed. She insisted he was the baby's real father. She was seven months pregnant. I left. I was fully prepared to turn my back on both of them, even if the baby was mine, and then I filed for divorce. The next few weeks were a blur. I was completely wasted out of my mind every day, until I found myself... in Tanya's bed." He's returned to avoiding my gaze, and all I can do is nod in silent promise that it's completely okay, that I understand everything, and rubbing his forehead tensely with the tips of his fingers, he finishes, "Emmett was the one who pulled me together. I got a lawyer, and decided if the baby was mine, I wanted full custody. I didn't want that bitch anywhere near her. As soon as Addie was born, Emmett took one look at her and knew she was mine, but I still had the DNA test done. I couldn't even look at her those first few days. I couldn't... get attached to her. Then... while Kate was still in hospital"—he speaks her name for the first time, even as it restricts from his throat—"she had an aneurysm and died instantly, and I have never been so relieved in my life."
A/N: thank you for reading.
Just to add, while Kim began to edit this story, she was too far behind and it was too much for her to catch up, so I decided it wasn't fair on her. Henceforth, this fic will remain unbeta'd. This is me in all my unmitigated imperfection.