I should stick with writing pain, huh? Appreciate those reading and leaving some love.
3
"I'm a little disappointed you don't have any Christmas decorations," I tell Edward.
We're still sitting on his couch, and any time he gets up, he sits a little closer to me than he was before. I didn't notice earlier, but it's all I can focus on now. I'd call him out on it, but I'm worried he'll move.
"Why are you disappointed about my lack of Christmas decorations?" he asks. "So you can have yet another thing to make fun of me about?"
"I don't make fun of you," I lie, but I've made fun of almost everything in his apartment. He joked that his "kink" is nice girls, but I secretly think he loves it when I'm mean to him because he's been laughing a lot tonight.
The tequila might have something to do with his good mood, too.
"Why do you have a VHS player?" I ask, glancing toward Edward's media console.
"I have it to watch vintage porn videos," he quips, and I choke on my margarita.
"Get with the times, weirdo," I say after I recover. "There's a vintage category on most porn websites nowadays."
He's too fucking smug. "So, you're admitting you watch porn."
"No. Whatever. What does it matter? I'm a very visual person, and this isn't about me. Now tell me why you have a VHS player."
"I have a recording of a Cubs game that I like to watch sometimes." He shrugs. It's definitely more of an appropriate reason to own a VHS player.
He rattles off the year the game took place, 1998, and explains all of the details as to why it's so amazing. None of it makes sense to me, but I like that he's at he's so passionate about it.
"You watch the same game over and over again? Isn't that boring?"
"It's not like I watch it all the damn time, Swan. And it's sentimental. It was the first and last game my grandpa and I ever attended before he passed away. I was only three but going with him sparked my love for the game."
"Fuck. I'm sorry. Baseball isn't boring, and that's really sweet of you." I sigh, my heart aching because I know all too well how loss can affect someone's life. "I'm a dick."
"You're not a dick." He takes a drink and then crunches on some ice. "You didn't know."
"But still. You can totally spit in my next margarita."
"How do you know I didn't already spit in that one?"
I fish an ice cube out of my glass and stick it down the back of his shirt, making him hiss out in laughter.
"I take back my comment—baseball is boring," I spitefully tease.
"If Jane promotes you, how do you expect to write sports articles with that attitude?"
"It's called faking it 'til you make it, baby," I snark. "And I have you to help me write the boring stuff I don't care about."
He looks at me like I'm crazy. "It's more than just a boring game. It's complex. It's… nuanced."
I mimic his astonished tone. "It's… baseball."
"Exactly!" he exclaims and throws his hands up. "Stadiums are like cathedrals, and every fan is worshiping the sport."
"Sounds a little romanticized," I tease, poking his side.
"It's the Church of Baseball. It should be romanticized. It's passion. It feeds your soul and tugs at your heartstrings."
I can't help but smile because his candor and his love for the game are so incredibly fucking attractive, and so is the way he's speaking animatedly right now.
Or maybe that's still the tequila talking.
"The Cubs are it for me," he simply says, swallowing the last of his drink.
I feign shock. "Over the Mariners? Your home team?"
"They're not my home team. I'm from Chicago, remember? Moved here when I was six."
"Oh, so it's a loyalty thing."
"It's a lifestyle," he corrects.
"Seems boring." Pushing his buttons is my favorite hobby.
"It's not boring. It's…" He thinks about it for a second, leaning in. "Hear me out. It's not even just about the game and the smells and the… the fucking excitement in the air. It's—"
"You're drunk."
"No shit." He laughs. "Baseball is about coming together."
"Coming together," I echo. My mind is in the gutter because it's been a while since I've been intimate with someone, but I let him continue his cute little speech.
"My grandma still has season tickets, and the folks who sit in that section become family. I still go to a few games a year, and it's fun getting to see those people and hear about their lives and whatnot."
"That's right. You're a people person." I say it with so much disdain, and he laughs lightly.
"I have to be. People are the heart of the stories."
I can't even feign annoyance because his words make me smile wider. It's his passion and addictive energy that makes him a great fucking journalist.
This is why I read the sports articles he writes.
I'll never tell him this though.
Eventually, we move from the couch to sitting around the coffee table to play cards.
"I can't believe I'm whooping your ass," I gloat as I shuffle.
"Whooping my ass?" he repeats, amused. "And you tell me to get with the times?"
"You're just salty I'm winning. Don't be a sore loser."
"Don't be a gloating winner," he says, tugging on my hair.
I swat his hand away. "Don't tell me what to do."
He smiles. Tugs my hair again. I swat him away… again. And then I tug on some of his hair to see how he likes it. Unfortunately—or fortunately—I think he likes it a little too much because his smile falters and he licks his lips, his eyes bouncing to my mouth.
"Bell—"
The front door flies open and in walks a tall guy with a full beard, wearing a denim button-down and one of those wide-brimmed fedoras that make him look like he's in a folk band.
He's cute.
Really cute.
Just add a banjo, and he's a member of Mumford & Sons.
"Yo, man," he says, his eyes flitting to me.
The guy nods our way then drops a backpack by the front door and disappears down the hallway, out of sight.
"Who is that?" I ask.
"Garrett. And you're drooling," Edward mutters, and I swat at him, craning my neck to see where Mumford went.
I smile. "Introduce me."
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because Garrett has a girlfriend."
"I'm not trying to date the guy." I'm definitely not interested now. I'm not a fucking homewrecker. To be honest, the only person I'm kind of interested in right now is Edward. But we work together, so he's off-limits. "Is Garrett your roommate?"
"Yeah, and my cousin."
I don't have time to push for more information because Garrett wordlessly walks back into the living room, plopping in the armchair next to the couch. The hat is gone, revealing dark, disheveled hair.
I'm not drooling.
But I am staring.
"I thought you weren't going to be home for the week," Edward says to him, an edge to his tone. I'm not even sure if the tone is obvious to Garrett, but I can pick up on it. It's the same tone he gets when we go out to eat, and he tries ordering something only to find that it isn't available. It's an entitled tone. The "but-I-wanted-it-my-way" Sullen Cullen tone. It's bratty, but I love it, and I make fun of him for it all the time.
I just wonder why he has that tone now, regarding his cousin being here.
"Why wouldn't I be home?" Garrett laughs. "I live here."
"No shit, but I thought you were heading to your mom's in Oregon for Christmas," Edward explains.
"She booked a last-minute trip to London."
"Must be nice," I mutter, and Garrett looks at me.
"You must be Becca," he says, and I raise my eyebrows.
"Actually, no. I'm Bella. Who is this Becca you speak of?" I glance at Edward who looks like he wants to strangle his cousin.
Garrett chuckles. "Nobody. Sorry. My mistake."
I'd be willing to bet money that Edward's been talking about me, and his cousin mistakenly thought my name was Becca.
"Hmm." I drop it for now, but file it under "things to bring up later," and subcategorize it as "never letting Edward live this one down."
"What are you two doing? Other than killing that bottle of tequila?" Garrett asks, pointing toward the bottle on the coffee table.
"Just hanging out," Edward says vaguely.
"Can I join?" Garrett points toward the cards now. He seems to be a pointer.
Edward frowns. "No."
"Where's the love?" Garrett asks smugly.
"What? It's a two-player game," Edward defends.
"We can switch it up," I offer. "Maybe choose a game you'll strive at?" I say, teasing Edward.
Garrett laughs. "You're funny," he says to me.
"Gare." Edward clears his throat while they exchange an awkward, not-so-subtle glance.
"Never mind, it's all good. Don't deal me in. I'm beat anyway." Garrett stands and stretches his arm above his head, then leaves without another word.
"What's your deal?" I ask Edward when we're alone.
"What?" he stands and gathers our empty glasses, taking them into the kitchen.
I follow.
"Do you and Garrett not get along?"
He coughs and sticks the dishes in the sink. "We do."
"Okay. 'Cause you're looking a little Sullen Cullen."
Usually calling him that name sparks some fun banter. Tonight, though, he doesn't bite.
"I'm tired," is all he says.
"Okay, okay. I can take a hint."
He stops what he's doing and looks at me. "What?"
"You're kicking me out."
"No. Just…" He scratches the back of his neck. "I want to keep hanging out. I liked that it was just us for once."
He says it softly, and it makes me feel… things.
Things I probably shouldn't feel.
"I mean… it's still just us?" I point out, but he seems on edge. "I can go, though. I have to be up early anyway."
"For what?" he asks, leaning against the counter.
"Baking two pies for Jane's early Christmas celebration with her family for her to pass off as her own. You know, stuff that's gonna further my career."
Edward scoffs. "You do too fucking much for her."
"I have to."
"No, you don't," he says pointedly.
My chest squeezes. "You know how it is. You used to work as an assistant to an asshole, too. I do the shit, and then I get promoted."
"I wasn't baking pies for him, picking up dry-cleaning or doing his niece's fucking science project. He was a dick, sure, but he was a mentor for me. There was a method to his madness."
"Lucky you," I say morosely.
"Tell her no."
"And get fired? Pass."
"If standing up for yourself gets you fired, Bella, then maybe working for Jane isn't the job for you."
I eye him. "Do you want me to get fired? Be homeless? Live under a bridge?"
"Obviously not. I just… you're better than all the shit she puts you through."
"That's sweet and all, but…"
"Have you even pitched her the article you're working on?"
"No," I admit. He doesn't know what it is either, just that I'm working on something. Technically, it's not even an article. It's turning out to be more of a memoir of sorts that I'm pretending is fiction. It's been therapeutic. And fucking emotionally draining.
"Does she even know that you want to be a journalist?" he pushes, and it's kind of fucking annoying.
"Yes! I mean… yes? She knows what my long-term goals are. They came up in the interview."
"The interview you had over a year ago, the one where she was barely paying attention? The one during which she took a phone call but told you to keep talking to get the interview over with?"
I groan. "Why do I tell you everything?" I ask, and he just smiles. "Fine. I get it. I'll subtly mention my goals to her. Soon. After I make the pies." I shake my head and pull out my phone.
"What are you doing?"
I look up from my screen. "It's after one, so I should probably go home."
"Calling yourself a Gruber?" he asks, and the mood lifts a little.
"I hate you," I say with a soft smile.
With a small smirk he says, "No, you don't."
He's right.
I don't.
It's yet another thing I'll keep to myself.
"You don't have to go yet. We can watch a movie," he suggests.
"You sure you don't want to kick my ass out?" I ask teasingly.
I expect a snarky response or some joke about how I've overstayed my welcome, but all I get from him is a soft and sincere, "Never."