These two gotta drop their defenses before the real work can begin. Hope you stick with me! Thanks for reading :3
12
- unfinished -
"I just need to grab something before we go," Edward tells me as we walk side-by-side down the hallway, too close for comfort, but too far apart to ease my ache.
"I'll meet you at the hotel," I tell Edward, already planning on detouring to my car and getting the hell out of here.
His stride slows, and he gives me a look. "No fucking way. We're going together."
I glower. "You don't trust me?"
He side-eyes me. "Not right now, no. You've been avoiding me for over a year. I'm not letting you out of my sight now."
"I'll just wait for you downstairs."
He gently grabs my elbow and guides me into a room off the hallway.
His dressing room.
I pull out of his grip. "You're pushy."
"Yeah, well you're—" He stops himself and shakes his head.
"What?"
"Never mind."
"Just say it. Why hold back now, huh?"
He levels me with a look. "I was going to say you're a pain in my ass."
"I guess some things never change."
"And some things will never be the same," he mumbles morosely.
His words cut but he's not wrong.
I look around. The dressing room is nice but kind of bare, and there's nothing here that really screams him yet. But I guess he hasn't been here for long. He'll make it his own soon. It'll smell like him, too. I wish it already did.
When I focus on him again, I see he's grabbing a stack of papers.
Our divorce papers.
It sends a shock to my core, but my face stays impassive.
He juts his jaw in my direction, eyes fierce and determined. "Let's go."
XXX
It's a ten-minute walk from ESPN to the Ace Hotel.
It's too convenient for my liking.
It's silent between us, but downtown is loud—traffic and horns and voices surround us.
I remember a time when Edward would purposely walk on the outside of the sidewalk like he was a barrier between me and traffic.
"Not that it would do any good," I used to tell him because if a car were coming at us, we'd both be fucked.
"It's the sentiment that matters," he'd say.
He was right. I loved it, and that small gesture spoke volumes.
It's even louder now as we walk to the hotel, and I'm on the outside of the sidewalk.
When we get to the hotel, he holds the door open for me, but I wait for him to go first.
"Get your ass in here," he tells me as if I'd have him walk in before me, and I'd run the opposite way.
I walk in first, muttering pushy under my breath.
We get checked in.
Michael, the man behind the counter, knows me because this is where I come for headshots and boudoir photos.
"Hey, you. Didn't know you were coming tonight," he says, smiling at me.
"Me either," I tell him, and he laughs, unaware of the awkwardness.
"Same room? I know which one you prefer," he says kindly, maybe even a little flirtatiously.
He thinks Edward is a client.
He doesn't know he's my husband.
I can feel the tension radiating off of Edward.
"Oh, whatever room he booked is fine," I tell Michael, waving my hand dismissively.
Typically, I book the room and part of the fee is added to the photo package my clients purchase.
But tonight, this is all on Edward, I guess.
"I can reimburse you," I tell him.
"You think I'm worried about money?" he asks nonchalantly as he's handed two card keys.
Michael starts to talk to me about how the hotel is looking to update the photos on their website. He says his supervisor checked out my stuff and is hoping to hire me. I don't get a chance to reply before Edward cuts in.
"We're in a time crunch," he says icily.
Michael smiles, apologizing, and despite Edward's irritation I quickly scribble my number down.
"That was rude," I whisper harshly to Edward as we walk away.
He doesn't care.
We ride the elevator alone.
Walk the halls alone.
And then we're alone in the room.
I start unloading my gear.
"Let's get this over with," I tell him as he tosses the divorce papers on the coffee table and moves toward the minibar. "What are you doing?"
"Getting a drink."
"Why?"
"I don't know, Bella. I haven't seen you in over a year, and I kind of need something to take the edge off. Is that okay with you?" he asks, clipped.
I move closer, and he hands me a mini bottle of tequila. My liquor of choice. I accept it, but I lean over and grab a second bottle.
I down one. It burns my throat and my empty stomach. I pour the second one into a glass, the same moment he pours two whiskeys into his.
He sits down, watching me. Eyes roaming. Mouth in a straight line.
I stay standing.
I grab my camera.
"I'm not here for photos, Bella."
"That's unfortunate because that's why I'm here. So, if this isn't happening…"
He sighs, low and resigned. "Do you ever just… fucking stop?"
"Stop what?" I ask, irritated.
He sips his whiskey. "This front you put on. It's exhausting, isn't it?"
My heart clenches. I grab my glass of tequila and tip my head back, drinking it in one go.
"It's not a front," I lie.
But maybe it's not a lie.
Maybe this is who I am now.
Hard.
Detached.
Cold.
He drains his glass now. "Sit."
"No," I argue, and his jaw ticks. "What?" I ask. "I'm pissed. You blindsided me."
"You knew I was in LA."
"I didn't know you got me hired for this job today! I didn't know I was going to see you," I point out.
"What the fuck does it matter? If I tried to see you, you'd just flake. Run away. Move to another fucking state again. This was the only way."
I cross my arms. "It matters. I wasn't prepared."
"Why? You don't love me anymore. What do you need to be prepared for?" he asks.
The liquor slowly kicks in, making everything warm. Too warm. But it also makes this easier. "I needed to be prepared to just… see you. I don't know. It's a lot."
"You're acting like it's pretty damn easy," he says, loosening his tie.
I always loved watching him do that.
I can admit I even love it now.
Sometimes I'd undo it for him. Sometimes I'd undress him slowly until he was only in boxers. And then he'd undress me in a fever, too impatient to take as long as I did. Then he'd fuck me. Make love to me. Cherish me.
"I'm acting like this is easy?" I ask, laughing, swallowing back acid from the bittersweet memories.
"Yes, easy. You seem… composed," he assesses. "Cold. I don't know."
"I could say the same for you. You're acting like this is nothing."
He laughs darkly. "Yeah. You're absolutely right. This is nothing to me."
I pace a little. "How am I acting composed?" I feel all over the place. "I mean, what do you expect me to do—break down crying? Crawl into your lap? Kiss you, tell you how much I fucking miss you?"
His jaw tightens and I see his throat bob with a swallow before he sets his empty glass down, inviting me to do what I just said.
"Sure," he says neutrally.
Bold from tequila, I move closer and straddle him on the couch. His gaze darkens. My hands and legs are buzzing, shaking, but I hope he can't tell. I don't cry, and I don't kiss him, but I bury my face in his neck. Breathe him in. He smells the same as he always has—soapy, manly. Spiced from whiskey. His scent makes me dizzy.
His hands stay at his sides, not touching me.
Because this isn't real.
It's not.
"I miss you," I whisper cruelly against his skin, and even if there's truth to it, my tone is mocking to keep him from realizing it. My lips brush below his ear while I slightly roll my hips, wondering if he'll grow hard. Wondering if I still affect him. "Is that what you want to hear? To feel? Is this what you thought would happen tonight?"
He's rigid beneath me.
Still not touching me.
"Bella?" he murmurs, mouth brushing the shell of my ear, making my body tingle.
"Hmm?"
"Get the fuck off me."