One step closer, people!

/hides

14
- let it burn -

We take some necessary space. It wordlessly happens, both of us separating and calling a silent truce for now.

I choose the terrace.

He stays inside.

I'm sitting on the outdoor couch, and the golden hour burns above me while I look at the shots I got of him and Rosalie.

At one point, he takes a phone call. I can't hear what he's saying, just hushed conversation floating my way.

I wonder who he's talking to. I can see him through the open balcony door, and at one point, he smiles and laughs.

Those smiles used to be for me.

His laughs? Mine.

The laugh I got from him earlier doesn't count. But I'll cherish it and keep it locked away for a long, long time.

I wonder if he's talking to a woman on the phone.

It's ironic that back in the day something like this might have thrilled me. The fantasy of him talking to someone else and flirting would've led to some sensual, kinky sex between us.

Now the idea just kind of makes me sick.

He comes outside a few minutes later and tosses a bottle of water in my lap.

I think about making a snide remark about him poisoning it, but I decide not to. Because he's right—sometimes this is exhausting. I want to be able to drink this water without trying to spark a fight.

He doesn't look at me as he walks toward the balcony and stares out at the city. With his back to me, I stare freely at him. The sleeves of his white button-up are rolled to his elbows. He's fitter than he was when I last saw him. Harder. Broader. Stronger.

He's still undeniably sexy. He always has been. It's no wonder he was offered a job on television—he was fucking made for it.

After a minute, he turns around to face me, and my eyes are everywhere but on him.

"I got some great shots of you and Rosalie," I tell him. "You two look good together."

"I know," he says, and I'm unable to place his tone.

Jealousy ignites. "You know you look good together?"

"I know you captured good shots, Bella," he clarifies. "Although, yeah. I doubt the producers would pair Rosalie and me together if we didn't have chemistry."

"It's just natural for you, right? Connecting with women you work with."

He scrubs a hand over his mouth and sounds defeated when he says, "Yep."

"Okay." I crack open my water and chug. "So, what is the point of this whole thing? Don't you and Rosalie have dinner plans? I overheard her mentioning it."

"I didn't commit to anything."

"So, you two actually had plans."

He holds my gaze for far too long. "We talked about getting dinner, yes."

I want to hurt him because I'm hurting. "Why the fuck am I here, Edward?"

"Because this needs to happen."

"So you can move on with someone else?"

"I mean… maybe, yeah," he says truthfully. "It's not like you want me, right?" I refuse to answer him. "Honestly, this limbo isn't good for either of us. You fucking know it."

Angered, I stand up and walk into the hotel room. He doesn't come after me. Doesn't follow like I thought he would. Like I secretly wanted.

Instead of leaving entirely, I lock myself in the bathroom. I close the toilet lid and sit. And wait. And breathe.

It's a predicament.

I don't think I can do this.

Can't sit here with him and try.

Can't entertain the idea of him moving on with someone else.

Can't imagine leaving this hotel room tomorrow with his signature next to mine.

It's what I've been pushing for, but now that he's here and offering it to me, I just want to run again.

Because you don't want this. Not really.

Tears blur my eyes, but I don't let them fall. I'm tequila buzzed and sick to my empty stomach. A wave of nausea passes, and I stand, placing a washcloth under the stream of water and pressing the damp rag against my chest and my neck.

Edward is standing there waiting for me when I open the bathroom door.

His eyes are blazing.

His face is concerned.

I push past him.

He takes his time following.

"Why are you pretending like you suddenly care?" he asks.

I sit on the couch. "I'm not."

I'm not pretending.

I do care.

It's easy to pretend I don't when we're hundreds of miles away. But now that he's here and I have to see him and smell him and have him mere feet away, it's different.

"Why did you move to my city?" I mumble.

He laughs humorlessly and sits down on the same couch, right next to me, only inches apart now. "I didn't know LA was your city."

"You know what I mean. Why are you here?"

"I told you, it was an opportunity I couldn't pass up," he says evenly.

"So, you didn't come here for me. You came here for the job."

He shakes his head and looks away. "I don't fucking get you, Bella. You push me away, ignore me for months. Then taunt me, call me when you're wasted. You want a divorce. Now you're acting like you want me to have moved here for you," he fires off. "That's what I'm talking about—pretending as if you care. Is it all a fucking game? To keep me under your thumb? To make us both miserable? To keep either of us from moving on?"

"If you want to move on so badly, then why the fuck won't you just sign the papers?" I blurt, raising my voice, annoyed at him for calling me out so accurately.

"Because I want to know why the fuck my life is being turned upside down!" he shouts angrily, roughly pointing a finger at his chest.

"You know why!" I spit in exasperation, throwing my hands up.

"Then humor me and tell me again; talk it out with me," he says, calmer, not meeting my temper. I stare down at my lap, but he crouches in front of me and grabs my face with both hands, forcing me to look at him. "Tell me you don't love me anymore." With his palms still cupping my cheeks, I try to shake my head but he holds tighter and won't let me. "Tell me, Bella. Right now, and I'll sign them."

My chest feels tight. Aching. His eyes are sad and agonizing, and maybe he wants to move on. Maybe he wants this. I'm keeping him from that. Keeping us both from that.

He deserves so fucking much.

He deserves so much more than me; than my fucked-up shell of a self.

"Do you still love me?" he asks again.

I can't say it.

I can't say anything.

But I can give him his freedom.

I can finally let him move on.

Let him become a healthy version of himself again, no longer a shell.

Without saying a word, I just shake my head, unable to look him in the eyes.

Tears fall down my cheeks the same moment his hands fall from my face.

When I look back up, his expression hardens.

"You're a fucking liar," he accuses, low and harsh.

And he's right.

But I don't take it back.

Standing, he walks over to the papers and pulls a pen out of the desk drawer, flips to the last page, and signs it.

I sit, stunned. Sickened.

When he's done, without so much of a glance my way, he walks out.