Eighteen/Twenty
July 2006
From the moment he left for college, Edward was always lonely, but he was never alone.
Before Edward left for Europe, his grandmother gave him a Black Amex and made it clear that money was no object. Edward used his extra cash to pay for champagne showers in nightclubs. "You're my only son's only child," she'd say dotingly. "It's all yours."
His trip was measured by flings, not weeks. There was an India Willoughby-Jones - introduced to him by a friend of his grandmother's - who hosted him in the Lake District. There was Lucía in Spain, a waitress whom he met at a wine bar in Madrid. He slept with Lucia on a train to Sevilla and in a bathroom stall in a club in Mallorca. There was an Amélie, who slept with him in Paris, and whom he kissed under one of the bridges by the Seine. Amélie was studying to be an accountant, despite a talent and a passion for tattooing. Amélie was followed by Halley from Wisconsin, who he slept with in Italy: first in his hostel in Florence, then on a beach in Sicily, and then in the St. Regis in Rome.
Halley dumped him in Vienna. Edward, while wounded, understood. "You're obviously in love with someone else," she'd said simply.
The St. Regis was his grandmother's hotel chain of choice, and Edward always felt strangely scrutinized there. When he stayed at the St. Regis hotel, he wasn't just Edward: slightly-fucked-up 19-year-old who liked alternative rock and thought it'd be cool to be a doctor one day. When he stayed at the St. Regis, he was Edward Cullen III. As strange and uncomfortable as hostels were, Edward preferred staying in hostels - living off cash, backpacking off schedule, without his grandmother up his ass.
Edward licked his wounds with one last fling another aristocratic type - an Ingrid von Strauzen - whose family owned horses in a sprawling state in Bavaria.
In London, India introduced him to a nightclub called Bougie, frequented by British aristocrats. Bougie introduced him to Molly - powdered ecstasy - for the first time. Legally and heavily, he drank a lot. Wine, beer, heavy liquor. For the very first time in his life, he snorted coke lines – and they came off Ingrid von Strauzen's stomach.
Somewhere between London and Majorca, he realized that he naturally gravitated towards brats - to kids just like him. That, or brats gravitated towards his Black Amex. Wherever he went, his circle became kids that could spare a thousand bucks on Dom Perignon, or kids that liked to pretend they could. Kids that had too much on a silver platter. Kids that had so much power that they learned cruelty and practiced it regularly. Kids that would inherit the earth and felt entitled to it. Kids that pretended they found Paris at nighttime boring because they'd seen it too many times.
Edward hated himself when he was with them.
Edward knew, at his core, that his mother would have hated him for it, too. Elizabeth, his mother, had run off to France to the Paris Conservatory because she was passionately in love with Chopin. She had been a concert pianist who taught the recorder in Chicago public schools. His mother, who adored Isabella, had been beautiful because she was unusually kind. His mother, his first playmate, had been an adventurer to the last second of her life.
"They're showing a movie on Elephants at the MSI Giant Dome. Wanna come, kiddo?" she'd offered, the day she died. As ever, her eyes had been sparkling with playful excitement.
"So?" Edward had asked, arching an eyebrow, bored.
She'd flicked his nose. "So, Miss Paula and I want to take the 5th graders to see it, but l wanna go see it with you."
"You're a music teacher," Edward sneered. "What do you care about elephants?"
Hurt, Elizabeth had glowered at her only child. "Wildlife is beautiful, Edward. Besides, it's got a lovely score. A composer from Mali did it, using the kora."
Edward had rolled his eyes disdainfully. "What the hell is a kora?"
His tone had made Elizabeth's eyes water.
"You're becoming awful, Edward," Elizabeth had murmured, her voice laced with disappointment.
Thirty minutes later, Edward had had the brilliant idea that had destroyed their lives forever. I'll go if you let me take the BMW.
A wreckage and several months later, Edward had heard almost the same sentiment - from a person his mother had adored. "There's this French documentary called March of the Penguins," Bella had said, always with a very sweet squeak, blushing. Edward's first impulse had been to cackle out his disdain.
"Penguins?" Esme had wondered, bemused but not mocking.
"They're really kind of...beautiful, I think. Wildlife is beautiful," Bella had said sheepishly, tugging at her sleeves. Inadvertently, she'd cracked at the first piece of ice in Edward's heart. "Plus, they're very funny."
In his loneliness, Edward thought about Isabella all the fucking time. Isabella was fucking everywhere Edward saw her in pastries and in museum paintings. "Reinassance babies look like little ugly adults," she had told him, tongue-in-cheek, when Esme took them to the Met in New York one summer. So Edward laughed in museums - in one of his few moments of genuine laughter. He didn't laugh much outside of them, because the people around him were cruel, and he didn't see the fun in cruelty.
When he needed background noise to sleep, he missed her, because her voice had lulled him to sleep when so much else had failed. (The cadence of her voice reading a novel was fucking lovely - a fact he would never admit out loud, because it made him sound like a pussywhipped bastard, or an idiot, or both). She thought she was unintelligible because of the trembling, but Edward found her – frankly – excessively self-conscious.
Edward thought about Bella whenever he saw birds, for fuck's sake, because she was fucking enchanting like that. "That bird is so stylish. Could be on a runway. That bird looks like it's wearing a top hat. A feathered boa. A mink scarf." Because of Bella, he could tell the difference between a robin, a jay, a sparrow, a tit, and a chickadee (which made her giggle). Because of Bella, fucking birds made him smile. He'd think of her - and how she'd imagine birds on runways.
When he was with Isabella, he felt like a version of himself that would make his mother proud. When he was with Isabella, he felt wonderment again - at the feel of the ocean, at ice-cream flavors, at the guitar bridges in songs. Isabella made him feel like maybe - just maybe - the best parts of him had not died with his mother. Isabella made him feel like his mother - the person that was kind, and passionate - lived in him.
That part of him became a burden. A burden when he was surrounded by people he did not like. Kids that would never see the beauty in a robin's feathering.
August 2006
"You're Edward Cullen?"
The asking boy was blonde, wearing a polo shirt, and not unattractive. Like Edward, he wore an expensive wristwatch. Edward's stomach flipped with a mixture of dread and low-grade anxiety. The truth was that Edward fucking hated meeting new people and making small talk. His shyness served him well when it came off as casual indifference.
Lips taut, Edward nodded and raised his Ray Bans. He'd been lounging casually in the Yard after his Intro to Neurobiology class, flipping a textbook, fascinated. The teacher had attempted a couple of light jokes, and Edward had been reminded of Bella. Bella always smiled at all awkward teacher jokes with her big doe eyes sparkling – in a way that always elicited relief – because Bella was so genuinely kind.
"And you are?"
"James Hunter."
Edward arched an eyebrow in self-defense. "Doesn't ring a bell," Edward said stiffly, slamming his book shut.
"You might know me as Jamie?" James said, with a smirk. "Spencer Flynn-Hastings introduced us. Spencer went to Phillips Exeter."
Edward's father fucking despised 95% of his graduating class at Phillips Exeter, so that wasn't a very encouraging character recommendation.
"Did you go to Exeter?" Edward asked, drawing a blank on any Jamies.
"Did you?"
"No. Both my grandfathers and my Dad went. More than enough fucking people," Edward retorted dismissively, not bothering to hide his disdain, and James' eyes sparkled with thinly-veiled admiration.
"It's good to meet you, man," James said. "You should join our table for lunch." Edward had been having lunch with different assortments of people, preferring to stick to his roommate, Emmett. Unfortunately, Edward never knew what to say to Emmett, though, not without sounding like an idiot.
September 2006
There was a girl Edward always spotted on his way to the Northwest Building Biology labs. She walked with a scissoring gait, heels raised, knees bent slightly inwards. Her stiff right hand clutched to her stomach, wrist dangling.
"Want an arm?" he offered one day, catching up to her. He moderated his pace, walking slowly, so that she wouldn't feel pressured to rush.
The girl looked at him, mouth slightly agape, completely befuddled.
Edward held out his hand for her to shake. "I'm Edward," he added, in his best attempt to sound kind. For the first time in months, he smiled at somebody and meant it.
"Carolyn," she said.
"Carolyn," Edward repeated, friendly. "You're taking Biochemistry classes, aren't you?"
"Nice to meet you, Carolyn," Edward added.
The next time he offered his arm, Carolyn took it.
Carolyn had a less severe form than Bella's - Bella couldn't walk without crutches - but Edward recognized cerebral palsy when he saw it.
December 2006
"Dude, you're back! You scared the shit out of me when you left."
Exhausted, Edward threw his lone backpack on the floor. He had haphazardly put it together a week earlier. With a deep sigh, he fell on his springy, uncomfortable cot-like bed. His knuckles were aching, bruised from beating Yorkie within an inch of his life, and there were dark bags around his eyes. He had been so fucking worried about Isabella that he slept fitfully, if at all.
Exactly a week earlier, Edward had received a harrowing phone call from his father. "I don't want you to freak out. It's nothing to panic about," Carlisle had said with great care, as if soothing a skittish horse.
In the pit of his stomach, Edward had known something had happened to Bella."But Bella's been - ah, as a somewhat precautionary measure – hospitalized with pneumonia," Carlisle had explained.
Edward had cried. Once the crying was out his system, Edward had stuffed five clean pairs of boxers, sweatpants, and socks, into that backpack - and the one textbook he needed for his Biochemistry midterm. Then, Edward had made a split-second decision to leave his computer in his dorm room - and then he had rushed out to the airport, to have his flight bumped up. (Later in the week, he'd run out of clean socks and t-shirts).
"You OK, man?" Emmett asked, standing behind the desk. Edward had put both of their desks together and fashioned a wall out of stacked textbooks.
"Yeah," Edward groaned tiredly, rubbing the heels of his hands against his eyes. "I'm just really fucking tired's all."
"Is she OK?" Emmett asked.
Uncharacteristically, Edward caught himself blushing. "Who?" he asked, in a voice dripping with condescension - his go-to tactic when he was caught off guard.
Emmett gave him a nasty look of irritation tinged with disappointment. "You mentioned your Bella was sick. Your girl," Emmett clarified.
"The one that's not your girlfriend," Emmett added, biting his lip to keep the amused smirk off his face.
Edward buried his face in his hands at the question, tugging at his hair as if stretching the skin on his forehead. "I don't fucking know, man. She's out of the hospital but - "
"Bro! Who'd you beat up?" Emmett blurted suddenly, catching sight of Edward's bruised, swollen knuckles.
"It's a long story," Edward mumbled.
"Well, we got time," Emmett said. " And we need to ice your knuckles, dude. Come on."
January 2007
On their very last moment together, Isabella had given him a parting glare. Isabella was brave, and she wasn't a crier. Edward had seen her joke around while a doctor removed stitches from a surgical incision – after she survived weeks with both legs in casts, to help with her spasticity. He had seen her be bullied more than he could count, and she had handled it with more dignity than anybody in that situation should have mustered. When she did cry, Edward could not stomach her tears.
Edward would regret how complicit he had been, watching her be bullied, well into his sixties.
Isabella's parting glare had been inscrutable but for her doe eyes. Bella had these big brown eyes – doe eyes - and they were so fucking expressive. When it came to Isabella, Edward was a pussywhipped idiot, and her eyes reminded him of honey in sunlight. Despite how icy her entire expression was, despite the stiff line of her lips, her eyes were glistening with tears she would not shed.
The regret created a real, dull ache in his chest, like a physical pain. It was a sensation he knew intimately well, like an old jailor. Immediately after the car had been crushed like an accordion, Edward had rarely wanted to die. He'd bargained with God to turn back time, to undo five fucking minutes – five minutes of an impulsive, split-second decision after a minute of panic.
On his very last day in Oyster Bay, Victoria had given him a parting pep talk. "You remember who you are, Edward," Victoria had warned very sternly. At that moment, Edward felt like dog vomit was at the very core of his being. "Don't let anybody pretend otherwise. You do not need a single connection for money or prestige. You are the son of senators that forged this Republic. You are a Cullen. You are a Hockley. You are a Masen. They need you. You do not need them."
"Hey! You're back," Emmett said happily. He held a steaming cup of Ramen in one hand. Emmett had returned a week earlier: he worked shifts as a receptionist in a Cambridge gym, selling membership cards to the wider Massachusetts community. Edward marveled at the fact that Emmett managed to work a part-time job and manage the course load. "Thanks for having me again, man."
"Don't mention it," Edward said grimly, tossing his duffel on the floor. "Sorry. I exposed you to that flaming ball of crazy."
Emmett grinned. "Your Dad's cool. Hell, your family's cool. And Bella's amazing."
"Yeah," Edward said softly, feeling like Emmett's words had pierced him. "She is."
Exhaustedly, he fell on the springy cot Harvard had the gall to call a bed. Emmett kept standing by the desk, peering into Edward's side. His huge arms were folded across his chest. Usually cheery, his expression was unusually inquiring.
"I mean, you're a real douchebag, but she's just a doll. She's really pretty, too," Emmett said with feigned casualty, and Edward – who recognized prying when he saw it – felt his heckles rising. "Hell, gorgeous."
"Yeah, she is," Edward agreed tartly, with a glare meant to indicate the conversation was over. He wasn't blind – like most people seemed to be – and sometimes, he did feel fucking struck by how very beautiful Isabella was. A part of Edward had was relieved. He'd trusted Emmett with Bella, and Emmett had proven himself worthy. but Emmett was getting on his fucking nerves.
"Honestly, she's like … hell, she's like a princess, you know? Your Aunt's up her ass, sure, but she's just like, a lady. That's it. She's a lady, my Pop-Pop would say. Very fucking sweet, too, and bright. Asked me things about Tennessee that I hadn't thought about."
"Yeah, she read The Color Purple, and she is a fucking doll," Edward said testily. "What's your point?"
Emmett smirked knowingly. "For a second there, I thought the two of you were – you know, together."
Edward glared at Emmett, brow furrowing, completely befuddled. "Together?" he repeated.
"It's obvious you love her," Emmett said softly, his voice growing uncharacteristically serious.
"Yeah, I fucking adore her," Edward snapped. "But it's not like that at all. She's – " Edward sputtered, defensively, heatedly. Edward had never thought about Bella like that. Sexually. One time he'd seen her with a bikini, and Christ, he'd imagined she'd have beautiful tits – but it had been a split second because -
"That'd be fucking sick. She's so fucking innocent, and fragile," Edward sputtered indignantly.
"What kind of sick sex do you have?" Emmett inquired, arching an eyebrow. "Actually, never mind. I do know, and it was disturbing shit. You sounded like a cow on my grandpa's milking machine."
"You fucking pervert. I overheard you, too, you dipshit, and you don't sound so hot."
Emmett laughed, and then Edward – despite himself – threw a pillow in Emmett's direction.
It was his first lunch at Annenberg Hall after winter break. He and his "brothers" – fellow Fly Club members – were sitting on one corner of the dining hall, with a handful of girls. Some of them were hot, and Edward had already slept with one. Her last name sounded roughly like Lunavitch, and she was the ugliest girl at the table. Edward had not minded pounding into her as if drilling into a wall, and she had not minded either.
With all the vile glee of a Chuckie doll coming to life, Jamie found an opening in the conversation. "I bumped into Cullen in January," Jamie announced delightedly. "With a girl."
"You embarrassed, Cullen?" Jamie Hunter goaded. "She's actually very pretty if you ignore the spasming -"
The spasming. Edward was so used to it that he felt uncomfortable around people who stood too still. It was like a light staccato that was always with Isabella, except in sleep. It wasn't painful for her, but he knew it made her self-conscious. Sometimes, when she was agitated and its intensity grew, the spasming scared the shit out of him – mostly because Isabella was fragile. Isabella always felt like the most vulnerable part of him - as if his breathing and living outside his body.
Edward felt like a match had been lit under him, and in a split second, he was murderously furious. This bastard had somehow wrangled the power to make Edward drink cum from a handful of other losers, and Edward had been scared shitless – and of what? This dickhead, who had wrangled enough power by terrorizing freshmen. Jamie Hunter had cost him Isabella's trust, and Edward was fucking alone, and it was all because he'd fucking cowered to this fucking cretin.
"- And the crutches. What's up with that, Ed? What's wrong with her?"
The regret coursing through Edward's veins was like an accelerant to the rage he felt at that second . His teeth snapped shut, and his entire body tremble. Hunter had the good sense to turn pale under the intensity of Edward's fury. Good. In that moment, Edward savored the image of punching him in the mouth – knowing that he could have easily broken teeth.
"Are you fucking five?" Edward snarled – cold, controlled, but lethal. "Making fun of something like that. I don't fucking know how they let you into this university. It's like your parents fucking bribed Admissions, but they don't have the money for it."
Edward had struck where it hurt.
Edward had marveled at the fact that people's net worth and property portfolio were as well-known as their names among Fly Club members. Some frat brothers had a better Edward's inheritance than Edward did himself. Voting stock in the largest American shipping company, courtesy of Carlisle Cullen IV, even though some of it was controlled by Edward's practically inbred second cousins. Voting stock in Pennsylvania Steel, courtesy of the Hockleys. Millions in the bank, and millions in property up and down the East Coast. He was Edward Cullen III, and old money to boot.
Hunter slammed his hands against the table, so hard that the cutlery rattled and the conversation around them lulled.
"My father is the CEO of Purina," Hunter seethed.
Edward laughed a cruel, cold laugh, tapping into a vein of cruelty – of power – that had laid latent inside him.
Edward stood, and finally – finally – felt taller and stronger than Jamie fucking Hunter. "He makes fucking dog chow. You're fucking nothing, and you'll be fucking nobody, and you bully people to feel like you'll be worth more than a bag of fucking dog kibble."
"Cullen!"
Edward slowed his speedy power walk to the dorms. A blonde-haired young man was trailing after him, walking briskly. He wore a long trench coat above a Harvard sweatshirt.
"Alec Voltaire," the young man said. "We met in the Hamptons."
Edward fought back a cringe. His grandmother had introduced him to the Voltaire family over the summer. Alec Voltaire was a senior, who had a yacht, but no personality.
"Yeah, I remember," Edward said curtly, eyeing the Alec kid suspiciously.
"What happened with Hunter today?"
Edward gave Alec the stink eye. "Hunter's a prick," he said simply. Edward picked up his pace, desperate to get to class.
Voltaire laughed, and it was that laugh tinged with cruelty that Edward had found himself able to master. "He punches above his weight," Alec acknowledged. "Did you say he was 'worth a bag of dog shit'?"
"Dog kibble," Edward corrected indifferently, and Alec laughed a laugh like ice water down the back.
Taking two large steps, Alec Voltaire cut in front of Edward. "Listen, Cullen. I live off campus," he explained. "My father owns a boat. I'll be taking it out Friday night on the marina. You sail?"
Frankly, Edward was rusty. His grandfather had a sailboat in Maine, but Edward had been on it less than three times, all of them as a child. Elizabeth hated the boat: the first time Edward had seen his mother vomit had been on that very boat. William Cullen IV had not been impressed – with his vomiting daughter-in-law, or his son's indifference to the boat.
Edward had never sailed but didn't want Alec to think the Cullens did not own a boat. "Can't your people sail it?" Edward asked, peppering his statement with a sneer. "I hate sailing."
March 2007
"The upper middle class," as Edward's grandmother called it with light disdain, spent Spring Break in Los Cabos. Alec Voltaire invited Edward – and a handful of friends, excluding Jamie Hunter - to his family's place in Mustique. "My father owns the only shithole in paradise," Alec Voltaire had said, tongue-in-cheek. "But it's a fucking blast with enough Molly and rum." The shithole in question was a six-bedroom house facing the ocean.
It was the last place Edward wanted to be. First, he'd tried desperately to weasel his way into whatever Esme – and Bee – were doing. When that had failed, Edward had invited Emmett. "That sounds as nice as shitting a porcupine," Emmett had said immediately. "Plus, I can't afford the ticket and there's no way in hell I'm letting you give me a handout for that." His Dad had been no less reticent. "Mustique? In the Caribbean?" When Edward had admitted to the price – 3,000 – Carlisle had sputtered out a long-winded speech about the value of money. "Christ, Edward. Mom and I tried to raise you better than this."
At Logan Airport, waiting for his connecting flight, Edward thought about Isabella again. Isabella was inescapable – Edward thought about her all the time. He picked banana muffins over blueberry because she liked the former more than the latter. When he picked out apples, for fuck's sake, Bella guided his hand, because she thought "Honeycrisper apples" were friendlier than Gala or Granny. Edward thought about her when he went into a Blockbuster because she made him realize that they smelled funny, in a good way. He used random things as bookmarks - like strings, picture postcards, or receipts - because dog-earing pages "hurt" the books.
Hi, he had tried to text her. His eyes started to burn, and that familiar ache in his chest returned.
I miss you. I'm at Hudson News. Any book recs?
Bee. That was the worst thing I've ever done. I'm so sorry.
16 hours later, Edward found himself drinking a rusty nail cocktail while overlooking an infinity pool that seemed to merge with the ocean. Alec had offered Cohiba Cuban cigars, and Edward – who had only smoked cigarettes with European girls – was working his way through one, trying not to cough.
Keeping a blank face and wearing square Ray Bans that complimented his jaw, Edward was feigning boredom. Inside, he was fucking panicking because he didn't understand the conversation "It's a bull market year," one Fredrick saying. "My father's plays golf with Corporate Council at Lehman Brothers. Every other salaried hick in Cornville, Ohio's getting a mortgage for peanuts. Good year to get into the housing market."
Edward took a long drag and tried to remember how to blow smoke rings.
April 2007
"Hey, kid." Talking to his father was an exercise in masochism. Ever since Elizabeth had died, Carlisle sounded perpetually on the brink of depression. Bella had once said he sounded like Eeyore, an observation whose accuracy gutted Edward.
"Hey, Dad."
"What's up, sweetheart?" Carlisle asked. He'd never been one to skimp on terms of endearment for his boy."Everything OK?"
"Uh-huh," Edward admitted. "I, uh… I wanted to ask about our stock investments?" His voice squeaked at the end of the sentence, and his statement ended up sounding like a question.
Carlisle sucked in a breath. The silence on the line gave Edward chills.
"Dad?"
The exasperated sigh on his father's end, and Edward imagined his father pinching the bridge of his nose. "Why would you like to know?" Carlisle asked suspiciously.
"I'm getting all of it," Edward retorted, smirking. "Eventually."
"I swear to God, Edward, lately, I've been wanting to leave it to charity," Carlisle muttered irritably. "Besides, we've talked about this before. You know I have 33% voting stock in Cullen Corporate Holdings, and then Allistair and Lawrence -
"Allistair! Right, I knew that fucker had a very British name."
Carlisle did not sound amused. "Yes," Carlisle said coldly. "In any case, Allistair and Lawrence – my late Aunt's children – got 16.5% each from their mother."
Edward went for the kill. "Yeah, yeah, yeah, that's fucking fascinating. But how much do we make?" he demanded.
"That detail about stock ownership is essential," Carlisle barked. "As for how much the stock I own makes in dividends, let me be crystal clear. These are all my assets until you grow up and prove yourself worthy of managing them!"
"Christ. Would you calm down? "
"I don't know where you're getting this sense of entitlement, Edward, but it's ugly," Carlisle continued raging.
Carlisle took deep, steadying breaths, muttering something that sounded eerily like "...give me patience…"
"My assets aside," Carlisle grumbled, emphasizing the possessive noun so stridently that Edward rolled his eyes. "How are you, son?"
"I'm fine," Edward said nonchalantly.
Carlisle's voice softened. "You're still taking the Zoloft?"
"Christ, Dad. Yeah. I'm still taking the Zoloft." Drugs aside, Edward felt crushingly lonely.
"I saw Isabella on Sunday, you know," Carlisle said defeatedly, his voice gentling. "For your grandfather's birthday."
That familiar ache in his chest, the pain that felt real, returned. Edward felt like Carlisle had squeezed his innards. "She asked how you're doing," Carlisle continued. "You two are still not talking?"
"No," Edward bit out aggressively. "She won't take my calls."
For once, Carlisle sounded impossibly sad. "You asked for forgiveness?"
"I fucking begged, Dad," Edward snapped. "I'm not an idiot."
"I had no idea she was so resentful," Carlisle sighed sadly.
"Or that I fucked up that badly," Edward muttered.
May 2007
Edward had gone to a book talk. He went almost covertly, sat alone in the back, and waited quietly for the author to finish his talk. The author talked about the women of Afghanistan after the US invitation, during Taliban rule. Something inside him – something that had been dormant and rusty – awakened. A Thousand Splendid Suns. When the talk was over, Edward purchased a copy and waited in line for thirty minutes. "Can you make it out to Isabella, please?"
The day after, he shipped it as an overnight package. For about forty-eight hours, he resigned himself to the fact that he'd tossed a glass bottle into the raging sea of Isabella's sense of betrayal. He went to eat pizza with Alec to cram for Equilibrium and Analysis, a chemistry requirement. Then, he'd gone for a swim. When he re-emerged, there was a missed call and a voice message.
"Hey. Hi, Edward. It's Bella. Gosh, you're right – It is awkward to, ehrm, send voice messages. I wanted to eh.. thank you. Thank you for my book. I can't believe you managed to get your hands on a signed copy. I loved it so much. I loved it more than The Kite Runner, but I – I guess you know I like that author already. So, eh, thank you. I – and I'm - I'm – " Her voice broke. "I'm doing well, and I eh – I hope you're doing well, too. We're all doing well, I guess. Thank you so much. That was very sweet. I – eh. I do miss you."
As had been the case, all of his calls had gone directly into Isabella's voicemail. Eventually, he stopped calling.
In April, Edward had started sleeping with a junior girl – Sabrina North- at least twice a week. That led Sabrina to the delusion that they were dating. Edward didn't mind walking around with a junior's fingers in his pocket, and so didn't bother to correct her. It made him feel less lonely.
Carlisle was fuming because Edward purchased 500 dollars' worth of Duty-Free rum before leaving Saint Vincent, and then a nice jacket in men's apparel at Massimo Dutti.
"It's Massimo Dutti," Edward had explained in self-defense. "It's not like I bought designer, Dad. They sell Massimo Dutti at suburban malls, for fuck's sake." The fact that Edward had blown a grand on both items did not cross his mind for many months.
Carlisle had hung up the phone at that very instant, without so much as a goodbye. The following morning, Edward had woken up to an angry email and a bank notification limit on Edward's credit card expenditures. Immediately, he called his grandmother – who funded his lifestyle without any limits. The caveat had come later: Come join me in Maine for a couple of weeks. "I know your father" - Victoria had scoffed – "wants you to go to Washington for the summer, but there's nothing there for you." In the end, Edward went to his grandmother's. It was almost soothing to be around somebody that he hadn't hurt or disappointed.
"Your father called again," Victoria informed him tartly. They were having brunch on a Sunday in the Portland Golf Club, an hour away from the Cullen estate in Maine. Victoria was glowing as she introduced Edward to an assortment of people. Victoria had ordered eggs Benedict and Edward had ordered a Greek-style omelet. Edward gave a noncommittal grunt, glad he was wearing his sunglasses. He had lost his last pair of Ray Bans somewhere between Saint Vincent and Miami. Victoria had purchased a new pair. "He's very insistent that you go home for your birthday."
"I don't mind," Edward said flatly, feigning indifference. Inside, he was scared shitless. Isabella was still either deeply hurt or fucking furious.
"Did you apply to a summer program? There were – are - so many summer programs available for bright young undergraduates. Poppy went to Egypt during his summer study abroad program in 1964, you know." Edward did not have the heart to tell her he had flunked two courses.
In his last two months at Harvard, Edward flunked a Chemistry requirement - Equilibrium and Analysis - and an introductory Philosophy course. In theory, Edward was fascinated. In practice, he had crammed a half-assed essay on his clunky laptop on his return to Mustique, nursing a hangover.
Again, Edward grunted noncommitantly. "I applied to the Kenya program," Edward said.
"Kenya? Good lord. What in God's name do they have in Kenya, aside from political unrest and a swathe of angry natives?"
Edward stabbed his omelet particularly forcefully, feeling oddly offended. "Lake Victoria, Mount Kilimanjaro, stunning nature reserves?" Edward mumbled. "But it doesn't matter. My Dad's not in any mood to pay. Says I haven't earned it."
Victoria's gunmetal blue eyes widened slightly. "Your father's being silly, my darling," Victoria said soothingly.
"It's a twenty-thousand-dollar trip, Grandma. Eight credits plus expenses," Edward felt compelled to add. Until Victoria had forcefully re-entered his life on his college graduation, Edward had been somewhat intimidated by four-figure sums. Victoria had introduced him to the idea that the Cullens were wealthier than Edward had ever imagined.
"I never understood this fixation he and Lizzie had on raising you so middle class. This trip sounds lovely. I'm happy to pay for it."
"In any case, Edward," she continued after a bite of smoked salmon. "I told Carlisle you'll be spending a couple of weeks with me in Maine before you head out to Tanzania –
"Kenya," Edward corrected.
"In my day, it was all a British protectorate," Victoria said derisively, with an amused snort.
"Esme wanted to see you for your birthday, but I frankly think that's time better spent doing something more interesting on this side of the country. You mentioned Alec – Lottie's boy – sails. Wouldn't you like sailing lessons? Golf, perhaps?"
To quote Emmett, Edward would have rather shit a porcupine.
"I eh – tennis, maybe," Edward said lazily, growing irritable. "Tennis sounds fun."
"Poppy was partial to tennis, too, over sailing," Victoria all but glowed, growing tear-eyed. She reached out with her fine-fingered hand to cup his cheek. "You so remind me of him, Edward."
Uncomfortable, Edward cleared his throat. "Eh, yeah. Thanks, Grandma."
After a beat, he added: "I'd like to go. Spend my birthday in Washington."
Victoria grimaced sharply, then neutralized her expression. Sharper under the weight of expectations, almost jaded, Edward understood he was being scrutinized. His grandmother was studying every crevice of his face for any insight into his thinking. Her expression was inscrutable until –
"Is it that crippled little girl? Isabella?" she blurted, despite herself, then seemed to regret it.
For the first time, Edward felt a sharp stab of dislike for his father's mother, whom his father so reviled. "What do you mean?" he snapped accusingly. "And don't use that word, grandma."
"Oh. What's the politically correct term?" Victoria asked fretfully. "Whatever it is, Edward, all I mean to say is – I don't think you should make big life decisions about somebody so… so very unlike you. Unlike us."
Gritting his teeth, Edward glowered at his grandmother.
Caught off-guard, Victoria raised a fine-bone hand to her neck. "Don't get me wrong," she tittered, startled into stumbling into an incoherent monologue. "I … was very pleasantly surprised by her this winter. Esme has …raised her impeccably. She's… charming, really. Enchanting, even. And she's undoubtedly a very pretty girl, like the mother. But blood will out, Edward. And surely you must be – I don't think your pity for the handicap – is that the right term? – should drive you to feel obliged -"
"I don't pity her," Edward spat. "She's really important to me. She is – was - is my best friend. She… was there through a really dark shit storm. After my mother died."
Victoria had regained the upper hand in their tete-a-tete. With her eyes like ice daggers, Victoria scrutinized him again. "I see. Say no more, sweet boy. If she's important to you, then she's important to me."
"I'll make arrangements with Esme," Victoria added, appeasingly. "She wants to throw you a lunch for your birthday."
June 2007
Seventeen/Twenty
When Edward finally saw Isabella again, he was struck dumb and mute.
In a matter of months, Isabella's features had grown sharper, looking strikingly delicate, as if time had sculpted the hollows under her cheeks. Her eyes met his. For a split second, she looked a little dumbstruck. Those big doe eyes of hers had always been so fucking expressive. So fucking beautiful. She went from dumbstruck and breathless to uncomfortable in under three seconds. Edward forgot how to breathe, wondering how anybody could be so beautiful.
"Hi," Edward said with an exhale, feeling like an unstoppable moron. He stuck his hands in his pockets.
"Hey," Bella breathed back. Shyly, she lowered her gaze and she peeked at him from underneath her eyelashes. Her cheeks had turned a light pink. As ever, she was trembling lightly – a vibration that accompanied her every word.
"Hey," Edward repeated stupidly. "It's – um. How are you?"
"I'm good. You?"
"Good. And you?"
Truly, Edward was a bald-faced idiot.
"Thank you for my book," Bella said softly. The color in her cheeks deepened. Bashfully, she offered him the first smile of hers he'd seen in a whole year, and Edward fucking wanted to weep.
"Don't mention it, Bee," Edward said, grinning crookedly. Hope flared inside his chest, and the space between them felt unbearable.
"And, um… Happy birthday," she added perkily. "Big two-oh. Big deal."
"Thanks."
Edward and Carlisle had just arrived - late - to his birthday dinner. Esme was fretting over Edward's birthday cake, and Charlie had excused himself. "Too much work at the office," Esme had claimed. Edward was convinced otherwise. Early in January, Charlie had been enraged: Isabella had, after all, returned to the house in a yellow cab all by herself. Edward had been convinced they would both get the satisfaction of a punch. In the end, Carlisle's anger – rare but intense – had assuaged Charlie's fury.
"Sit down, boy," Senator Masen barked. "We're just waiting for your grandmother. She's late."
Startled, Edward scurried to his seat. His grandfather was glaring at Edward with what could only be described as seething disappointment. Edward was under no obligation to share his grades, but since he'd received a scathing email requesting them, he had caved. The returning email had been overflowing with disappointment. You seem to be laboring under the misapprehension that you can squander opportunity, money, and time. The privileges you have now will not carry you through all your adult life. I hate to see you spiraling away this way.
Then he noticed, and his heart skipped a beat. Bella was sitting in her wheelchair, not on the couch. She wore an orthopedic boot below her right ankle – the weaker leg, the one that was more affected by the palsy. His stomach filled with dread. "Fuck, Bee, what happened?" Edward asked, cringing.
"Um, it's really – silly," she said dismissively, smiling sheepishly. "It's just an overuse injury. I've been – eh – I've been walking a lot more in the new school. It's not a huge deal."
Fondly, Carlisle smiled at her. "It's not minor, darling," he corrected.
"Yes, well, I didn't break anything," Bella pointed out, good-naturedly, snorting.
An awkward silence befell the living room. Edward Senior continued to glare daggers at his younger namesake, eyes hawkishly sharp, and Edward felt nauseated. His father had taken out his phone, looking like he wanted the sweet relief of death. Uncertainly, Isabella was studying two wrapped packages, which she had placed on a stand next to the couch. She wouldn't meet his eyes, fixated on the patterns on the silvery wrapping.
"Uncle Edward?" Bella piped, as if to break the awkward silence.
Edward was filled with dislike for his grandfather. To this day, he had never acknowledged Isabella as Esme's daughter, and Isabella had felt the sting of that rejection in so many ways. Something had shifted over the last year, and he looked at Isabella so lovingly, almost gratefully. "Yes, sweetheart?"
"I was – I was watching the Daily Show, with Jon Stewart – "
"The comedian?"
"Yeah, the one that goes on Comedy Central."
"I've only watched it once or twice. He became – popular, I suppose - after I retired, I'm afraid to say," Edward Senior said kindly, a hint of apology in his voice.
"Right," Bella continued, lighting up. "So, Jon Stewart he has guests over every show, and then last week he had a gentleman on – I forget his name – who wrote a book on Big Tobacco. I haven't read it but – "
"I'm shocked, Bell," Carlisle teased gently, and Bella grinned sheepishly.
"I ordered it already," Bella admitted guiltily, playing with her sleeves, and Edward smiled to himself, indulgently, tenderly – and then growing faintly annoyed – because statements like that made him feel so protective.
"Well, I mean – I – Mr. Brandt, I think, was the name - he's saying it took federal Congress a million years to act, and I was wondering … why."
"Lobbyists," Edward Senior said crabbily, after the interruption. "It always goes back to K Street."
Then the doorbell rang, twice and loudly. Esme re-emerged from the kitchen wearing makeup that covered every inch of her skin, and a dress. Looking at her as intently as he was, Edward did not miss Isabella's flash of a grimace.
Victoria materialized into the den. "There's my birthday boy," she cooed sweetly, ignoring everybody else in her living room. She ran straight to Edward and planted a wet smooch on his stubbled cheek. "I have your birthday present for you already, darling boy."
"Oh, and Isabella," Victoria added in and afterthought. "I took the liberty of buying something for you, too. A little end-of-year gift. I hope your stepmother doesn't mind."
Still crushed inside his grandmother's perfumed embrace, Edward winced. He'd hated – and complained about – the way his grandmother spoke about Isabella's bitch of a birth mother, quietly denigrating Esme's place in her life. Over his grandmother's shoulders, Edward peeked at Isabella. Her mouth had fallen into a little O. Startled, she blinked in quick succession.
Esme looked downright offended. "I don't mind at all," she said icily, in a tone that negated her statement.
"Here, Isabella, dear," Victoria said. She fished a velvet case out of a Tiffany shopping bag.
"Thank you very much, Mrs. Cullen," Isabella said immediately, offering a lovely smile that Edward knew was unusually stiff. "I'm sure I'll love it." Edward found that puzzling because she hadn't inspected the gift.
"It's just a little bauble. Edward, darling, open yours."
Edward did as he was asked, opening the wrapping with nimble fingers, feeling a flare of excitement –
"Oh."
"You don't like it?" Victoria whispered as fatalistically as if Edward had admitted to a terminal illness.
"It's an iPod shuffle," Edward pointed out, hiding none of his disappointment and faint disgust. He couldn't run around with that shit.
"You should've waited to get me an iPhone. This is just – How much was it? 50 bucks?" Edward asked, with a mild sneer.
"The boy at the store said it was the latest generation," came Victoria's answering moan.
"It's not your fault. It was that incompetent at the store," Edward mumbled, growing irritable. "He should've known better than to push this crap."
"Edward!" Carlisle yelled furiously, and Edward looked up at his father. Like a compulsion, his eyes flashed to Bella's face. She was looking at the scene with incredulity, her nose wrinkled, and Edward did not understand her reaction. "What the hell is wrong with you?"
"Everybody has an iPod nano," Edward explained to Carlisle. "I can't go around with a shuffle like some salaried suburban hick."
Carlisle slapped his hands to his face. "I really don't know where I went wrong," he mumbled, sounding almost dejected.
"I'm so sorry, darling," Victoria said fussily, stroking Edward's arm soothingly. "We'll return this nonsense tomorrow, and I'll wait to buy you something better."
"Honestly," Edward insisted grumpily. "The shuffle is a waste of money."
"There was a pre-sale for something worth 600 dollars. That's a much better present for my little prince," Victoria cooed, as if speaking to a baby. "Was that the thing you wanted? It was a little television thing, like a little screen."
"An iPhone," Edward said tartly. "They're coming out in July."
"No, mother," Carlisle yelled volcanically, regaining his composure. Like a compulsion, Edward's eyes shot to Isabella. She was shaking her head lightly – so lightly a casual onlooker might have mistaken her for tremors – and her eyes were filled with disgust. He saw her sticking the two packages she'd purchased in between her legs and the armrest of her chair.
"What is that, Bee?" Edward blurted, his tone and expression gentling, and Bella raised her gaze.
"Nothing," Bella said coldly, hugging her waist. "Really."
"It doesn't look like nothing."
Bella was shaking her head still, as sadness and disgust battled in her eyes. "I'd be embarrassed to give you this now, Edward," she sneered coldly. "I spent way less than 50 dollars."
Edward was woken, as if from a reverie, by something that felt uncomfortably like shame. "Bee, I didn't mean – "
Bella pursed her lips. "I just saw you throw a tantrum over an iPod," she sneered icily, with a snort. "I'd hate to see how you react to the crap that I got you."
An awkward, icy silence befell the living room. Esme cleared her throat very delicately. "Bella, open what Mrs. Cullen got you."
Bella blinked, startled. "Oh, um. Thank you very much, Mrs. Cullen, I'm sure whatever it is beautiful."
"You can call me Aunt Victoria, sweetheart," Victoria cooed, and Carlisle's mouth fell open as if his mother had slapped it so. He looked at his mother with befuddlement, and then with suspicion.
"Oh, uh. That's very kind of you," Bella mumbled, but then she offered Victoria her loveliest, pearly smile.
"Open it," Victoria egged her on.
Bella did as she was told, and the velvet Tiffany box revealed a thin, silvery wristwatch with a diamond-studded clock as its centerpiece. Bella's hand spasmed, dropping the wristwatch on her lap. "Gah," she blurted.
"You're too generous," Esme said immediately, snatching it from Bella. "We can't accept this."
"Nonsense," Victoria said, waving a hand. Then she looked at Edward sharply, and pointedly, and Edward understood.
Esme looked overwhelmed and flustered. "Right. Um. Bella, put the watch inside the box. And, uh, shall we? It's a very simple dinner, I hate to say. We're having burgers on the terrace."
The adults filed out, and purposefully, Edward waited. Delicately, he touched a hand to Bella's wrist. Sharply, immediately, Bella looked away. Please, he wanted to say. Please hang back. Arms crossed over her chest, she waited for the adults to file away. Edward inched closer.
"Bee?" Edward whispered gently. "Bee, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
"Why are you apologizing to me?" she retorted snappishly. Each of her words was punctuated by a tremor, like she was shivering in the cold, and Edward felt so protective that he was angry at himself.
"Bee, I'm sure whatever you got me – I'll love it. I swear to God," Edward said pleadingly, fervently.
Dejected, exasperated, Bella shook her head. Her big doe eyes looked almost glassy, and Edward feared that he had made her cry. She held herself stiffly, almost uncomfortably. Sighing, she shoved the gifts into his arms as roughly as she could, and the movement made her body spasm lightly. "It's – a book called Dune," she said curtly, turning a beautiful shade of pink. "And a Japanese puzzle box."
"Bella. That's – way cool," he said, hoping the sincerity in his words would ring true.
Derisively, Bella snorted. A single tear rolled down her cheek, and Edward felt like animate dog vomit. I'm sorry, he wanted to beg, to grovel, prostrate at her feet. I know I'm an idiot. That was the worst five seconds of my life, and I've made Jamie Hunter pay for it several times over. But I love you. My head's been stuck up my ass this entire time, but I've loved you since I was fifteen.
"The box says it takes ten moves to find the secret compartment," Bella said through gritted teeth, wheeling away.