..::.. Chapter 34 - A Boy ..::..
Young - high school, continued ...
"What's wrong?"
That's been the question all morning from everyone I run into.
I don't know how to answer that.
Mom asked. Bree asked. Even the science teacher.
I watch the dark clouds rumble out the windows in class making everything gray, slow, and quiet.
What is wrong? Why did my windows at night glow with the lights from the Cullen house at three in the morning?
I was tossing and turning like I have been for weeks—Edward far away, me trying to keep away. But I noticed movement next door.
I peeked and witnessed chaos starting from Edward's room. The lights were on, he was pulling on a shirt and jeans. Emmett's silhouette was at the bedroom door waiting.
They left. The car revved and off they went.
So, what is wrong? I'm not quite sure. But there's a pit in my stomach that tells me everything is wrong.
The next day he wasn't there, nor the next. Still, he's not back. People quit asking me the question. I'm desperate inside. I don't know how to reach him and ask him that question myself.
A week, then a second one passes. I want to crawl at walls with anxiety.
Dad comes home one night, and his eyes say it all. There's news from the Brandon's house where Alice and her mother went to live. It was like a release for their mother, peace from the heartache, the pain, and the mourning. While she was there, just weeks, her heart gave out. The Cullen's had another funeral, merely months after they had Senior's.
I was speechless for a day. There was nothing I could do.
When he was finally back, I saw a man simmered down to a boy who needed comfort.
He showed up at our door. Dad answered. I was in my Sunday, fresh-start sweater and PJs.
The morning sun cast a glow over his face. Edward was a softened, sobered gentleman with a sore heart. We stood there on the porch when his hand reached out. He ghosted a few fingers over the soft cotton of my sleep dress, right over my chest. Head down, eyes cast, not a word was uttered. He was pale. Eyes bloodshot with no sleep.
Just like for his father's funeral, he wore a suit, polished shoes, a silk tie around his neck that was loosened, as if he ripped at himself to catch a breath.
His thumb skimmed my cheek idly as tears brimmed his eyes. One escaped, and I took him in my arms with all my might.
My condolences came in whispers by his ear as he shook in laments. I could barely hold him up. This was a punch. His mother; the unsung hero who kept him docile and whole. I couldn't even fill that vacant hole in him. This, he'd have to live with unhealed for the rest of his life.
That seemed like hours ago. Now we sit silently on my porch after I've asked him for the details. He answered through sniffs and sighs as he calmed and ran his fingers through my hand. He caught it and didn't let go. I've never seen him like this. Maybe when we were kids, and definitely not when his uncles could see, even now. He hides behind the porch railings, our legs stretched out over the floorboards by the flower pots.
He describes the horror he found when he got there. The rush to get there. He says, "I didn't know why, us speeding down the freeway, when she was already gone. Like I could catch her in time, or fix it myself," he muses, a new tremble to his chin, a new sliver of tears brimming his eyes.
The Brandon's barely let them see her. Emmett, nor the other uncles, were allowed in the house or the funeral. Only Edward. I guess it's not lost on them the terrible air that rushes in wherever Cullen's step foot. They blame them for her hard life, and I agree, but I keep that to myself. Alice stayed, destroyed nonetheless, but he says nothing more of her. I'm adamant to ask. I realize I will probably never see her again.
I watch him, with Mom out of view from the window watching, too. Both of us watch this new layer of grief over Edward that has wrapped him up.
He stands, pulls me up, and curls an arm around me to ask like he always asks, "Bella, do you love me?" Hope in his voice. I can't help but hug him. "Don't leave me again," he adds definitively.
Mom won't react. She wouldn't. Where she stands, his words are inaudible. But I hear them loud and clear as I lean on his shoulder.
All she sees is his careful approach. Like a tamed lion running his mane at the shoulder of its lioness. His lashes flutter at my temple as his lips skim my cheek. A nudge of foreheads and then a kiss of amends. The type of kiss she dreads. The type that makes her rest her head in her hand.
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