Thanks for still being here and sharing your thoughts.

Some answers. Not all. We'll get there...

16
- for better or worse -

We move back into the room.

I don't know what I'm expecting to happen now because I haven't thought about this scenario. This didn't seem possible. I never once entertained the idea that he'd be here, in person, and pretend to sign the papers. I never once imagined confessing to him that I still love him.

I'm stuck on what's next.

Will he pick me up into his arms and kiss me?

Tell me he loves me, too?

Carry me to the bed and fuck me slowly for the rest of the night?

None of those things happen.

We keep our distance.

I'm nervous, waiting for his lead.

I'm hanging on now.

For as much as I wanted to leave earlier, I don't want to now. I want us to stay here, to never leave, and I dread the timeline we have.

Sixteen hours left until check-out.

I sit on the couch.

He rummages in the desk drawer for something.

I wait patiently and realize his suit jacket is still where he left it, draped over the armchair. He walked out after he signed the papers and didn't even bother to grab his jacket because he never intended on leaving.

He was testing me.

Waiting for a reaction.

Desperate to ignite that spark that's been there this entire time. The one that was dormant, just barely flickering.

My eyes burn with tears. As much as I hate that he did that, it was what I needed.

He glances over at me, noticing my emotion.

"You okay?" he asks so, so tender.

I just nod.

I want to ask him if he still loves me, too, but I think better of it.

I know he does. He has to in some capacity; otherwise, he would've signed the papers months ago and been done with me.

He has to love me; otherwise, we wouldn't be here right now.

But I replay every word he said earlier, dissecting it all. He merely said we needed to hash shit out… not work it out.

I feel sick all over again.

Feel even more desperate now for us to make it through this night.

But I'm scared. With my fury faded and my pride perished, all that's left is a pathetic, unrecognizable shell of myself.

He doesn't deserve this version of me.

I don't deserve it, either.

But he's here.

It has to mean something.

He moves closer and hands me a small, black book that he grabbed from the desk.

I open it to find a menu inside.

"When was the last time you ate?" he asks, removing his tie completely and tossing it where his jacket is.

"Last year," I joke, my tone small and flat.

He doesn't laugh, but that's fine because it wasn't meant to be funny.

I scan the food items, but nothing sounds good.

"What do you want?" he asks, sitting next to me. His thighs are spread, and his knee brushes mine. I doubt it's purposeful, but that small contact makes me yearn.

"I don't care."

He watches my face and takes the menu from me, grabbing the phone on the table next to him.

He orders a shit ton of food. Two burgers and a chicken sandwich. Fries. Salad. Fruit. Tiramisu. A bottle of wine.

When he hangs up, awkwardness lingers.

Again, I'm taking his lead.

"I need to make one more call," he tells me.

My insides twist. "Okay."

"If I step outside, are you going to leave me?" he asks, holding my gaze, his sincere green eyes willing the truth out of me.

I shake my head. "No. I'm not going anywhere."

The thought of leaving him now makes my bones ache with weariness. I'm tired of fighting him. I'm not as strong as I've pretended to be.

"Good," he murmurs, standing and moving to the terrace.

I shamelessly watch him on the phone again because he purposely stays where he can see me, too, his eyes never leaving me.

No laughs, no smiles. Only business.

When he comes back in, I ask, "Is everything okay?"

I'm nosy. I don't even care.

Getting comfortable in the armchair, he says. "I was canceling dinner."

"With Rosalie."

"Yes."

A pang.

An ache.

I don't know what to say, so I choose to stay silent. It's safer.

Then he adds, "And her husband."

I blink. "What?"

"Rosalie is married to Emmett McCarty. He plays for the Denver Broncos. I doubt you picked up on the name when she told you… you never did pay attention to sports, even though you tried for me," he murmurs.

He's right; I did try. We'd attend games together. Football, baseball, basketball. None of it really interested me, but I loved being there with him. Loved seeing him in his element. The games didn't matter to me, but he did.

He still does.

"Emmett's in town, and I was going to officially meet him tonight. I was never going to have dinner alone with Rosalie. Our relationship is strictly professional."

"But you said—"

"No. You assumed," he says, putting an end to my chaotic, irrational thoughts.

"You let me think—"

"Bella," he says firmly. "You were going to think whatever you wanted. I know you, baby. I am surprised you didn't notice she was wearing a wedding ring, though."

"I was too focused on you to notice too much about her," I sigh, my embarrassment simmering. I was giving him shit, thinking he was into his co-host, and she's fucking married. "So… no dinner," I mumble.

"No. I'm not leaving you tonight."

I soften and whisper, "Okay."

I want to sit on his lap. Bury my face against his neck again like I did earlier, but I want it to be real. I want that connection. But I stay firmly planted on the couch.

"I guess I should also tell you Rosalie knows you're my wife," he says after a beat.

My body goes hot then cold but part of me is also glad she knows. "How?"

"She didn't know about that when you were at the studio earlier. But on the phone just now, she said she couldn't shake the strange feeling after we left, so she scoured my personal Instagram and found pictures of you. Of us."

"That's… awkward."

He shrugs. "It is what it is. People were bound to catch on at some point."

"What did you say to her?"

"I just told her we've been separated for a year and are working through some things."

"And what did she say?"

"She thought we were doing some kinky roleplaying game," he says before his mouth presses into an unamused line. "We ended up at a hotel after all…"

The fucking irony.

Neither of us comments on it.

"Will you tell me why you're really here?" I push, desperate to keep this honesty flowing.

"At the hotel?" he clarifies, brows pulling together.

"In LA. You said it was an opportunity you couldn't pass up. They offered you the job and… I mean…"

He scrubs a hand over his mouth. "I'm here for you, Bella."

My throat tightens with emotion. "Me?"

"You."

Tears slip down my cheeks. "Oh."

He smiles softly. "Yeah. Oh."

My heart beats faster, encouraged by his candidness. I don't know whether to laugh or cry, but I do neither because I'm just stunned.

He's here for me.

He's fighting for me.

For us.

He's sticking by his vows.

He said for better or worse, and he meant it.

This is definitely worse. The absolute worst, and I'm scared about where we go from here. Scared about how to salvage this broken and battered relationship.

"What about the podcast?" I ask softly.

He sighs. "You really want to know?"

More than anything. "Yes."

"My contract was up three months ago and I didn't renew it."

I'm even more stunned now and my tears pause. "What?"

"The network was pissed. Thought I was trying to negotiate my pay. They offered me more than double what I was making to stay on. But I said no."

I look at him like he's crazy. "You said no?"

"For you."

For me.

For me.

For me.

"I heard about this opportunity with ESPN, so I figured why the fuck not? It took a couple of months of flying from Seattle to LA for interviews and screen tests before they offered it to me."

Since the beginning of summer, he called and texted every time he was in town. He always said it was for work, but kept his reasoning vague. I assumed he meant the podcast. I never once guessed it was for a new job.

Sometimes I'd straight up tell him no when he asked to see me.

Other times I ignored him completely.

I can't look at him now. "I wasn't ready to see you, okay?"

It's the lamest truth.

"As much as I hated it, I know," he says softly. "I want you to know that this job wasn't just handed to me. They made me work for it," he explains. That's one of the things I've always loved about him—his tenacity and perseverance. "Coming to LA wasn't a choice of convenience. It was one of purpose. I fucking busted my ass because if it meant being in the same city, closer to you… yeah."

"And if you didn't get the job?" I ask, wanting to know all of his plans, even the ones that fell through or were never made.

"If I didn't get the job, I would've come here anyway. I would've found any job to get me by because being here, near you, was important to me. And I knew you wouldn't come back to me if I was still working with Maria in any capacity. So…"

His honesty overwhelms me. But it also frustrates me.

"Why do you look upset?" he asks. "I thought you'd be glad."

"Because… because over a year ago, I begged you not to work with her. Begged you not to let her go on your podcast. And yet you let it happen. You told me I was being unreasonable. Now you're suddenly switching careers because you realized I was being serious?" More tears stain my cheeks. "Why couldn't you have just figured that out back then? Taken me seriously?"

"You're right. You are. But back then I didn't know just how badly you were hurting, Bella. I didn't know because I… I didn't want to accept that." He looks down at his hands, his ring. When he meets my eyes again, all I see is genuine remorse. "If you were hurting, I knew it was because of me. Because of something I did. And regardless of whether or not you wanted it, or that we both agreed… in the end I'm the one that did it. The blame was on me."

I wasn't expecting that.

At all.

He keeps going.

"I didn't want to keep talking about what we did because I was fucking ashamed, Bell. I needed you to just move on, forget it. It was insensitive. I know it was. I hate myself for how I acted afterward. Knowing how much you hated what I did, and knowing I couldn't take it back, I just wanted us to forget. That's all. And I stupidly thought it was something we could both eventually get over."

He was ashamed of doing something I wanted him to do.

That truth doesn't just hurt—it wrecks me.

"Trust me, you don't know how badly I wanted to forget," I sniffle. "Or to take it back entirely."

He reaches for my hand, squeezing it twice. I can't tell if he's offering me comfort or seeking it for himself.

We've only just scratched the surface of our pain, and I have so much more I want to ask and say, but I don't know if I'm ready to fully talk about everything yet.

"What happened to our house?" I ask, suddenly missing it.

Our house.

Our life.

Our marriage.

"I'm renting it out," he says, pulling his hand away.

I already miss his touch.

"Where are you living?" I wonder.

"Out of a hotel right now."

"Where is all of our stuff?"

"Well, you have some of it," he says gently. "The important stuff, anyway. The rest is in storage."

Even our belongings are in limbo.

"What kept you from coming to LA weeks ago, like you said?" I wonder, and he looks worried. "Tell me."

"My dad got into an accident," he mumbles. I'm about to panic when he says, "He's okay, but my mom needed help with him after he got released from the hospital. Between helping them out and trying to pack up our house… yeah. Shit got delayed. I'm sorry I didn't tell you but, for as much as I wanted to believe you were putting on a front every time you said you didn't want to see or hear from me, sometimes I did wonder if you meant it."

He exhales after he says it, and his knee bounces.

For the first time tonight, I realize he's anxious.

I swallow the lump in my throat, about to tell him that I didn't mean half the shit I said. But there's a knock on the door, interrupting us.

Edward stands to answer it, and our food gets wheeled in on a cart, the room filling with the most delicious smells that make my stomach grumble. He pulls out his wallet and hands the young man some cash before we're alone again.

"All right," Edward says, lifting the metal domes that keep the contents warm. "Let's get some food in you."