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37
- time should've stopped when you left me -

Edward POV

I can't fucking breathe.

I'm on the treadmill at the hotel gym, and I'm going, going, going.

Lungs burning. Muscles aching. Sweat dripping.

Six in the fucking morning and I've already been at this for an hour.

This shit isn't unfamiliar. It's how I spent the last year of my life—in a stress-induced state of over-exercising.

I don't hear the door open because I have earbuds in, but movement in the mirror catches my eye, and I see two women walk in.

I prefer having the gym to myself so that's my cue to leave.

I jab at the screen to slow my pace until the conveyor belt stops and I unscrew my water bottle to chug.

One of the women gets on the machine next to me.

I can feel her eyes on me and see her mouth moving when I glance over.

I pull out an earbud and the music automatically pauses.

"Oh. Hey," she laughs like she didn't realize I couldn't hear her. I lift the bottom of my T-shirt to wipe my face, staring blankly, breathing heavily. "You were here yesterday morning, right?" she asks.

All my days bleed together right now.

Gym, shower, studio, meetings, filming my live segment, obligatory work shit, hiding in my dressing room until I can leave, then back to the hotel for whiskey and wallowing.

There's an occasional sports game or evening event that I have to be present and "on" for, but other than that—same day, different shit.

So yeah, I was here yesterday morning. I've been at the gym every morning for the last two months. I'm basically a resident of the hotel at this point.

The network stopped covering my living expenses weeks ago because enough time had passed and I should've found somewhere more permanent to live by now. I've been paying out-of-pocket to continue staying here because I just can't deal with that.

Not yet.

Finding a place to live in LA without Bella is low on my priority list and yet another reminder my life has to move on without her.

I'm gonna put it off as long as I can.

"Uh… yeah, I was here yesterday," I confirm, not sure why this random stranger is asking.

"Cool," she says breezily, smiling at me, and I realize she's younger than I initially thought. Maybe early twenties. "Can I show you something?"

"What?" I ask more out of confusion about why she's talking to me rather than wanting to know what she'll show me.

"It's this crazy hack, let me see your phone," she says, reaching for my cell that's still on the treadmill.

Before I can stop her, she takes it and starts typing away. It was already unlocked, and I hastily grab it back.

"What the fuck are you—" I pause when I see she opened the call log and started adding a phone number.

"It's a really easy hack on how to get a girlfriend," she tells me, uncaring that she overstepped. "That's my number and my name is Tori."

She sticks her chest out a little more.

I blink.

It's bold.

Annoying.

Desperate.

She looks hopeful and a little amused like this will work in her favor and I'll take her up on her offer.

I can't do it though.

I can't fuck Bella out of my system.

I'll be honest—I've thought about it. But I tried that once before and look where it got me? I hated myself. Felt empty. Missed her more.

Someone behind us stifles a laugh, and my eyes bounce toward the mirror to see the other girl sitting on the bench press and watching this exchange.

"I told her not to do this," her friend says to me, amused, lowering the phone in her hand. "It's a dare on TikTok."

"Emily, shut up," Tori says under her breath.

I don't save the number she typed before locking my phone and sliding it into the pocket of my athletic shorts.

Undeterred by her friend, Tori looks at me and says, "We're in town for a show and I saw you yesterday—"

"I'm married," I say bluntly, uncaring about how cold I sound.

It's not the full truth, but I'm not about to give this stranger insight into my life.

I'm sure as shit not about to take her up on whatever she's offering because I'm not fucking interested. She's too young and all wrong. She's not Bella. I'm not about to fall into this trap of giving into my loneliness again only for Bell to decide she's changed her mind and wants to stay together.

Because yeah, for some pathetic, deluded reason, I still think that might happen. I'm going to continue believing that until our divorce is actually finalized and the waiting period is over.

"Oh. Sorry…" Tori's cheeks burn after my admission, her eyes bouncing to my left hand as I put my earbud back in to ignore her.

She won't find a gold band there, though. I took it off weeks ago after Bella and I spoke on the phone.

I'd asked her if we could talk and said I wanted to know what the hold-up was because my lawyer hadn't heard from hers, but that was a stupid, immature excuse on my end.

I don't know why I couldn't just tell her that I missed her. That I'd been thinking about her non-stop since that morning I left her house.

Pride, maybe. Fear that she couldn't or wouldn't reciprocate.

She sounded different that day on the phone, though.

Hesitant, but lighter.

Self-aware and calmer.

Just… different.

Even though I don't know exactly what she's been doing, from the brief conversation we had, it seemed like our time apart has been good for her.

That was further confirmed when I asked her if she thought we were making a mistake, and she couldn't say no.

So I took off my ring.

Not because I wanted to move on but because if we do see each other in person, or if she somehow watches the show and catches the gold band on my finger, I don't want her to feel guilt that I'm still holding on.

I don't want her to feel like I'm holding her back.

I want her to have everything she's ever fucking wanted.

I want her to be happy.

I want her to feel like herself again.

I want her to be able to focus on whatever she needs right now and not worry about me.

And if that comes at the cost of being nonexistent on her priority list and letting her move on… then that's what I have to accept.

XXX

A week later, I hear Bella's name as I'm walking by Rosalie's dressing room.

The door is half-open and I pause just outside of it as I listen to Rosalie's conversation.

She's telling her makeup artist about some farmer's market she and someone named Bella went to yesterday. How they found the prettiest dried bouquet that they picked up for Rosalie's Thanksgiving centerpiece.

She doesn't say anything to identify if she's talking about my Bella before the conversation shifts to the company gossip everyone's been buzzing about.

A few days ago, Alistair, an esteemed ESPN anchor, got fired after sexual harassment allegations made against him were proven true. It's all anyone around here has been talking about. Well, that, and I guess farmer's markets with women named Bella.

Alistair's been with ESPN for twenty years and worked out of headquarters in Connecticut. His coveted segment is up for grabs, and I'm sure the network has someone in mind to take over, but I don't know. The urge to go for it is strong. Maybe I should start some conversations, and see if I could transfer. It's a long shot, but what the fuck do I have to lose? What do I have here in LA other than a half-life?

If I'm being really honest, a fucked-up part of me just wants to know what Bella would have to say about me moving. Would it spark some fight in her? Make her change her mind about our divorce?

Maybe it'd backfire on me, though. Maybe she'd be grateful for the space.

I move away from the door and continue walking down the hall, annoyed with myself for being low enough to eavesdrop on Rosalie.

But hearing Bella's name threw me.

I'm hyper-aware.

I'm stuck.

Bella.

Bella.

Bella.

As if on some sick fucking cue, my phone vibrates in the pocket of my slacks, and her name flashes on the screen, along with the picture I assigned to her contact at least five years ago.

It's a candid photo of us at a friend's party on New Year's Eve.

I'd walked over to Allie and Bella and overheard part of their conversation with Bella saying something along the lines of "when Edward and I have kids one day."

I remember sneaking up and sliding my hands around her waist to hold her from behind, accidentally startling her. She shrieked, her head falling back against my chest in embarrassed laughter. I smiled and took advantage of her exposed neck, dipping my head and kissing her collarbone.

There was a flash from Allie's phone as she took our picture.

"You talking about babies, huh?" I whispered in Bella's ear, nipping at it.

She just spun around in my arms and kissed my smug grin. "Wouldn't you like to know?" she taunted.

"Yeah. I would," I'd said earnestly, my palms smoothing down her dress and squeezing her hips twice.

The New Year's countdown interrupted our conversation, but later that night in the comfort of our bed, I brought it up again and Bella admitted she wanted us to start a family. That she forgot to refill her birth control prescription the week prior and got to thinking… what if?

She confessed it like a secret.

A deep yearning.

That was the night we started trying for a baby.

It was an abstract idea, but a concrete want.

I wasn't sure we were ready to be parents but I knew we'd figure it out together.

I don't let myself think of what would've happened or where we'd be now if we were successful that night, or any of the other times that followed over the next two years.

I stare at our photo until it disappears and I realize I missed Bella's call.

She tries calling again.

I hesitate, finger hovering over the green answer button.

I don't know why she's calling, and could easily find out by answering the phone, but my chest aches from that memory. Will it feel better if I hear her voice? I doubt it. It'll hurt worse.

So, I send her to voicemail.

We're about to go on-air.

I need to stay focused and not further stuck in the past.

And truth be told, a spiteful part of me doesn't want her to have easy access to me and my emotions whenever she wants. She's not manipulative—I know that. But she still has a vice grip on my fucking heart, whether she knows it or not.

A call from Bella isn't just a call. It's a fucking time machine, a trip down memory lane that I can't afford right now.

I stride into the studio with ease, but it's a façade. I'm barely holding it together, but I'm not about to let any of these people know. I'm not close to them like that, and even if they try, I keep them at arm's length. Work is work, that's that.

Once I sit down in my chair under the bright, hot lights, guilt from sending Bella to voicemail gets the best of me.

I text her.

Edward: Going on-air soon, call you after.

I don't call her baby.

Don't say I miss her.

I keep it simple, the same way I kept her birthday card simple.

I smell Cecily's perfume before she approaches me, and I clear my throat. She's Rosalie's jet-black-haired, ball-busting publicist, and anytime she's near, it's almost like I can taste her overly floral scent.

That's one of the things I loved most about Bella—she never wore perfume. The sweet, herbal smell of her shampoo was enough to mix with her natural scent and drive me crazy.

I'm pathetic.

All thoughts lead to Bella.

I need to get a fucking grip.

"Hey, you," Cecily greets, standing next to the podium, a determined look on her face. Her features are as sharp as her personality.

"Cecily."

"So?" she prompts, leaving it at that.

She's been urging me to sign with their agency ever since I started. She corners me a few times a week and says I need proper representation. I need help building my brand. My lifestyle. And she's just the person to do it.

"So," I say, echoing her lone word and not giving her much more. "I'm still undecided."

"This isn't the rinky-dink podcast network you were working for before where you're left to your own devices," she reminds me with a hint of distaste for what I used to do before as if it were lowbrow. As if I didn't create a following all on my own without the help of a team. "This is the big time. It's fucking ESPN." She's so passionate that I almost expect her to break out into song and dance.

"Yeah, I get it. But part of me just doesn't care enough to keep up a persona," I tell her honestly.

"That's exactly what we are here for," she stresses. "We do all of that for you. I noticed you've been slacking on social media lately, too. We can cover all of that for you, and you won't have to do anything."

"Other than paying you a hefty amount," I shoot back.

She smirks. "Yeah, well, I have to make a living somehow." She pops her hip out and places her sharp, manicured hand on it. "Don't make me play dirty, Cullen."

I almost laugh. "And what would that entail?"

She gives me a coy look and I suddenly realize how my words might have been perceived. Like I'm coming onto her. That wasn't my intention but I don't take it back because I don't want to draw any more attention to it.

"Listen. I'm not one to throw anyone under a bus, but if you would've signed with us when I first asked you weeks ago, we could've gotten that TikTok video removed before your lawyer did," she points out. "It would've been hours, Edward. Not days."

Okay, so maybe Cecily makes a good point.

Last week, I didn't realize Tori's friend was recording our awkward encounter to post it on TikTok. The video went up and after a couple of days, some people started recognizing me and it almost went viral.

My lawyer eventually got the video removed but not quickly enough for my liking. In the girls' defense, they didn't actually know who I was or that the video would garner that much attention. I'm not sure why they'd post it anyway, since it showed Tori getting shot down, but maybe in their Gen Z minds, any attention is good attention. With everything going on with Alistair's sexual harassment case, I'm just glad I didn't say or do anything in the video that could get misconstrued or used against me.

"Fine," I tell Cecily, mostly to get her off my case. "I'll sign."

Cecily's dark eyes light up. "And I didn't even have to bring out the big guns," she says, a satisfied smile on her lips.

"Yeah, yeah. Just tell me what I need to do and I'll do it."

Beyond Cecily, I see Rosalie walk into the studio.

"We'll talk later," Cecily says, rushing in Rosalie's direction where they exchange some words.

I turn my focus back to my phone. Bella hasn't texted back yet, but I turn it off anyway and slide it into the pocket of my slacks.

My eyes cut to my co-host once she sits. "Rosalie."

She regards me. "Edward."

We're not unfriendly. We're professional. When the camera rolls, you'd think we were close friends. When it's off though, we're nothing. It's the same way I am with everyone in the studio. I don't have the capacity or energy for anything or anyone.

Rosalie and I tried being friends when I first started. I was going to meet her husband at dinner but that got hijacked by my night with Bella at the Ace Hotel, and days later my marriage imploded. Things like dinner and being friendly with co-hosts didn't quite matter after that.

Nothing mattered after that.

We still have five minutes before we go on-air. The showrunner, Eric, comes over and gives us notes and highlights for today's episode, even though I already looked through all of this.

He leaves, and I'm still agitated, still curious about hearing Rosalie say the name Bella. I try to shake it, but I can't.

"Hey," I say with intention, and Rosalie looks at me, surprised that I'm talking to her.

"Yes?"

"Excited for the weekend?" I'm stalling. Fishing.

Again, I'm met with surprise. I don't ever ask about her weekend plans because I don't care.

"Yeah. Just trying to get everything squared away for Thanksgiving next week. You?"

I realize I don't actually have time for this so I cut the bullshit.

"Look, I heard you say Bella's name," I tell her.

I can sense Rosalie's hesitation, and catch something in her eyes like remorse. Like she feels bad for me or some shit.

We have two minutes until we're on the air.

"Just tell me," I mutter so no one else can hear. "Were you talking about my Bella?"

"Fine. Yes," she says simply. "I was talking about your Bella. We're friends now."

I was suspicious, but I wasn't actually expecting that. "Since when?"

"Well. The first day we hung out was her birthday. So a little over a month I guess? I ran into her after yoga. It wasn't a secret but I also didn't feel like I needed to tell you," she explains.

I'm stunned. I've been stuck in memories and wallowing, and Bella's been making new friends, going to yoga, and… the fucking farmer's market?

I don't know why that part stings the most.

I'm imagining her having fun, laughing, perusing different booths, and buying flowers and fruit like we used to in Seattle.

I'm imagining my Bella… happy. Carefree. The way she used to be.

Not thinking about me, but thinking about her future.

I'm her past.

It fucking hurts.

Just a week ago I was convinced this was okay and for the best. I wanted her to be happy and healthy and move on if that's what she needed. But it feels different having concrete evidence that it's actually happening.

I guess that's the point, right? Of divorce. Of… whatever the hell we're doing.

But I don't know what I'm supposed to be doing.

Bella's trying to better herself. She's trying to move on, and I've shifted backward. I've cut myself off from others. I do the bare minimum with work. I'm drinking more, sleeping less, running my body into the ground by over-exhausting it.

I realize I've turned into her.

When I was trying to keep my head on straight last year, I was doing it all for Bella. The therapy, the meds, the new career. I was doing it to get her back. To show her things could be different. I wanted things to be different. For us to be okay.

As of a month ago I've stopped taking Zoloft and quit going to therapy.

Without her, what the fuck do I have to prove?

Without her, what do I have?

Nothing.

I have nothing.

"Are you mad?" Rosalie softly asks me. "Because—"

"I'm not mad," I tell her, a blunt bitterness in my tone which makes my next words sound phony. "Good for her."