6-day hiatus... the saddest hiatus ever. I'm bored without y'all, what can I say?
Updating will be less frequent than before, though. Every 4 days? Once a week? We will see!
Thanks for sticking with me, if you are. Means a lot. And thanks for all of the kind, supportive words. Y'all keep me going!
9
- modern love -
I think about calling Allie over breakfast while I stare at pale pink peonies.
They really are my favorite—right down to the very shade. Tightly wound shut, they seem like a visible representation of how I'm feeling.
Allie doesn't answer, but seconds later, she calls right back.
"Hey," she says, sounding distracted. "You good? It's kind of early."
I decide to come out with it and blurt: "Are you coming to LA tomorrow because Edward is here?"
Allie stays quiet.
I spoon yogurt into my mouth while I wait for her answer. I don't want to eat it, but I need to be better. About taking care of myself. About a lot of things.
"Yes and no," is all she says.
"Allie." Impatience coats my tone.
"Jasper and I wanted to take a trip for his birthday. He's never been to California, and Edward's there for work. So, it made sense."
Huh.
So I guess his plans to be here weeks ago changed, and that's why he's here now.
That makes sense.
He probably didn't tell me because why the fuck would he? Why would he think I'd care? Why should I care?
Maybe with plans changed, he didn't have enough time to drive, which is why he hired the movers to drop off my shit. Or maybe he didn't want to see me at all.
That also makes sense.
"I don't want to see him while he's here," I tell Allie, and it doesn't even sound close to the truth.
"I wasn't going to blindside you, Bella. I really just wanted you and me to meet up. I wasn't even going to tell you about him being there..."
I believe her.
She's been good about keeping all information regarding her brother from me.
"Wait. How do you know he's there?" she realizes after a beat.
It sounds like the most absurd sentence coming out of my mouth as I say, "He left flowers on my doorstep in the middle of the night."
"How do you know they were from him?"
"His handwriting was on the card."
"He knows where you live?"
"I gave him my address weeks ago. He said he would drop off my shit, but he sent movers instead."
"That's why you have his chair?" she wonders, and I realize she's still in the dark regarding her brother and me.
"Yes."
Allie's silent. "So… you two are talking."
Talking.
Fighting.
Blaming each other and refusing to take any responsibility.
"Sure, if you want to call it that," I say simply, pushing my nearly full bowl of yogurt away.
"What did the card say?" she asks.
"That he signed the divorce papers," I lie. "I'm a free woman. Got anyone to set me up with?"
"Bella."
I pick up the card Edward left me, tapping it on the table.
I miss you.
I miss you.
I miss you.
"It says he misses me."
Allie sighs.
I sigh.
I'm sure somewhere in LA, Edward is sighing, too.
XXX
When midday hits and I haven't heard a single thing from Edward regarding the flowers, I cave and text him.
Bella: I got the peonies.
He immediately responds.
Edward: What peonies?
Bella: Don't do that.
Edward: Maybe they're from the other man who sent you roses?
Bella: I know you're in LA. Allie told me you're here for work.
Edward: Yeah? That's not fucking cool of her. She isn't supposed to tell you shit about me.
Bella: Why is that?
Edward: Because if you want to know what I'm doing or how I'm doing, you can ask me yourself, wife.
I almost smile.
Bella: Okay. How are you doing?
Edward: You don't want to know.
I actually really, really do.
I downplay it.
Bella: Maybe I kind of do.
Edward: I'm doing better than I was. It's kind of nice having something to look forward to.
Bella: And what's that?
Five minutes pass and no reply.
Bella: Fine. Regardless of Allie telling me you're in town, the card was in your handwriting. I figured it out on my own anyway, so don't be upset with her. She just confirmed it for me.
Edward: You can recognize my handwriting?
I think of every card he ever wrote me. The sentimental ones for big occasions. The quick ones jotted on Post-its or on the back of junk mail. No matter how important or meaningless, they'd always end the same, with four kisses and his first initial.
xxxx E
Bella: I would fucking hope I could recognize your penmanship? We were married for ten years.
Edward: We're still married, and it's been eleven. You forced us to spend the last anniversary alone, so maybe you lost track.
Bella: Wouldn't be eleven if you'd signed the papers.
Edward: Fine, you want me to? I will.
His agreement sends a sickening punch to my gut.
I don't have time to fully process this before he calls.
"Why are you calling me?" I ask, trying to keep the tremble out of my voice.
"Just wanted to hear how loudly you were celebrating," he says, voice too low.
"I… I think I'm more in shock, honestly."
"Since I'm in town, meet me tonight. I'll sign your precious fucking papers and give them to you."
I clench my eyes shut. "Just leave them on my doorstep."
"Not happening. You don't get to call all the shots, baby."
My eyes open, my heart closes.
Baby.
His tone drips with sarcasm.
"An old term of endearment that now sounds like an insult. Cute," I quip.
"Things change, I guess."
"Yeah, I guess they really do," I mumble morosely. "Just last night you were leaving flowers on my doorstep, and now you're willing to divorce me."
"I can still miss you, but give you what you want," he says simply.
"Give me what—flowers?"
"A divorce."
He's bluffing. I know he is.
I hope he is.
But maybe he's not.
I think of other reasons why he might be so quick to agree now.
"Let me guess," I say. "You met someone, and you're ready to move on."
I give him an opportunity to be cruel, but he doesn't bite. He doesn't offer any insight or reassurance either. I guess it's fair—I don't offer those things to him, either.
"So, are you meeting me tonight or what? Dinner and a divorce. How modern of us." His tone is light and buoyant. Like he's… excited.
Maybe he is excited. To divorce me. To see me?
I have to admit—as nervous as I am, I'm curious to see him, too.
"I actually can't. I'm doing a shoot around six, and I don't know how long it will go," I say, telling him the truth.
I got a call last week from a cable network and was offered a shocking amount of money to do a promo shoot for one of their television shows at the last minute.
"I'll see you after," he suggests.
I'm nervous. "How long are you in town?"
"A while."
"Why?"
"Work."
"That's vague."
"What—I agree to sign the papers, and suddenly you're interested in my life?"
"Forget it," I sigh. "I'll text you after the shoot."
My stomach clenches and tingles at the idea of potentially seeing him.
With a smug, satisfied tone he says, "I'm looking forward to it."