Since my lovely, nasty guest has nothing better to do than to read a story she doesn't like on a Friday night, I figured I'd update again for her! You're welcome, guest! :)
It goes without saying if you're still reading a story that's 16 chapters in and purposely criticizing it, you. have. issues. I'm sorry, you just do.
Move on. Let me tell my story. Go write your fucking own.
For those who haven't read chapter 16 yet since I just updated hours ago, make sure you go back! :3 Thanks to those who are KIND and supportive.
17
- flowers -
We're too busy eating to talk.
He eats everything I don't. I devour a burger, all of my fries, some of his, and most of the tiramisu. He's not into dessert, and knowing he ordered it just for me makes it all the sweeter.
The food helps soak up the alcohol, offering a slightly clearer and mellow mind. It's a welcome feeling. Like I'm comfortable. Relaxed. Whole. I'm not sure how much of that has to do with having eaten or just being near Edward, though.
The sun is setting.
The room is dimmer.
Edward walks around and turns on various lamps, and I move to the terrace, anxiously anticipating how the rest of the night will go.
Things feel calmer.
Less dire.
Like we both lashed out and pushed one another so we could get to this point.
That's not to say things are sorted out or that we're okay. I know we still need to talk. It just feels like we aren't purposely trying to hurt one another anymore.
It's the bare minimum.
It's a start.
Edward joins me outside, both of us leaning against the glass railing overlooking the fading sky.
"This is weird, right? That we're here?" I ask.
"Of all the shit that has gone down between us, Bella, this is the least weird thing that has happened," he tells me, a hint of a smile on his lips.
I give him a long look, the breeze picking up and blowing my hair. "I guess you're right."
"I'm sorry… what did you say?" he asks, feigning shock.
"Shut up."
"Say it again."
"Shut up," I echo, knowing he's asking me to admit he's right again.
He smiles softly, then reaches over and brushes the hair away from my face. I think he does it instinctually because after tucking my hair behind my ear, he looks pensive like maybe he shouldn't have done it at all.
"Allie texted me," he eventually says, after some stilted silence. "Well, she called earlier. But she texted a few minutes ago."
"She called earlier… so that's who you were on the phone with the first time?" He nods, and I couldn't feel stupider because his smile and laughs earlier were for his sister. "She's arriving tomorrow, right?"
"Yeah." He looks over at me. "They get in late, around six. She wants to have dinner."
I'm surprised. "With us?"
He pauses. "With me."
"Cool."
It sounds dismissive falling from my lips. But mostly, I'm feeling left out while knowing it's fucking stupid because I purposely pushed Edward and Allie away.
Edward chuckles softly. "Yeah. Cool. I guess."
"Does she know I'm here with you right now?" I ask.
"No."
"Okay."
He regards me. "Do you want her to?"
"No," I say truthfully.
"Why not?"
"I just want tonight to be something for us first. I don't need her worrying, getting her hopes up, or… whatever."
Don't want to get my hopes up.
His face is unreadable. "Like you think this night won't end well?"
The desire to hug him overwhelms me. I cross my arms and hug myself instead. "I honestly don't know. I'm following your lead."
"That's a first," he says, looking surprised.
"Yeah, well." I turn around, my back against the half-wall of glass. "Do you like Allie's new boyfriend?"
"Jasper seems like a decent guy, yeah. Allie's fucking obsessed with him. But I'm glad. I was worried she'd never be able to trust again after what happened."
It's easy to smile when I hear how happy she is, but then I frown. "I still can't believe what Ben did to her."
Edward squints into the distance. "Fuck that guy."
"Yeah."
"Was it bad? After I left?" I whisper.
I can see his throat bob with a swallow. He doesn't answer me for nearly a full minute.
"Bad for who?" he finally questions.
You.
"Everyone? I don't know."
"Yeah, I'm gonna need some wine for this," he says with a grim smile.
His words worry me, but I get comfortable on the outdoor couch while he heads inside to grab the bottle of wine and two glasses. He's gone for a few minutes, but when he returns his button-up is gone, and he's wearing a white V-neck with his slacks.
My stomach flickers with attraction when he sits next to me.
I can't look away from him. How the veins and muscles in his toned forearm flex when he uncorks the wine with ease.
"So, do you work out a lot now or…"
He smiles at me. A real, genuine smile as he pours two glasses. "'Cause opening wine is difficult?"
"No, because of your arms." And shoulders, chest, and torso. Yeah. That covers it.
"I work out more, yeah. I started boxing not long after you left." The words come out easily, but he steals a glance at my face. "Not much else to do in my minimal free time. And I have a lot of pent-up energy to get out, so…" He gives me a pointed look.
"So, you're saying you thought of my face while hitting the punching bag?" I joke, grabbing my wine from him.
Staying serious he says, "I'd never fucking hurt you, Bella, nor would I pretend."
I stare into my glass, pushing away the memory of how I tried to physically hurt him just an hour ago. An apology sits on my tongue, weighing it down.
"I'm sorry for slapping you, hitting you. That was…" My eyes burn and I shake my head. "I'm just sorry."
"I'm okay," he says, and I note he doesn't say it's okay. But that's because it's not. I hate myself for stooping that low.
A stilted silence surrounds us.
"Maybe I shouldn't drink this," I say, setting the glass on the patio table near us. He looks curious but doesn't ask. I tell him anyway. "I've been drinking too much lately. And it clearly doesn't help…"
After a beat, he leaves his glass next to mine, too. In solidarity.
Like a true partner.
A supportive husband.
"You can drink," I tell him. "I just want to have a clear head for the rest of the night."
He looks so fucking appreciative that I want to take this seriously, it almost brings me to tears. "I want that, too, Bella."
Instead of leaning into the heaviness of the moment, I keep it light. Or try to, anyway.
"Maybe I should start running again, too," I say. "That always helped keep a clear head. Although I'll never be as fit as you…"
"You trying to say I look good?"
"Yeah, sure."
He cracks a smile. "Don't shower me with too many compliments," he says dryly. "My ego might inflate."
"Like you need me to tell you that you look good. I'm sure you hear it all the time from all of the women who slide into your DMs and send you sexy pictures." I don't say this as acidly as I would've earlier. I just say it matter-of-factly.
I know it's happened more than a few times. He was open about it with me, before my kink made its presence known. He doesn't deny it now, so I doubt it's stopped. If anything, he's more famous than he was before we separated.
"Maybe it's only your compliments that matter to me," he says quietly. "Maybe you're the only one I want sexy pictures from."
Sparks. Tingles. Warmth.
I downplay it. "Sure."
His eyes are on my lips. "You don't believe me?"
"I just said sure."
"Look at me," he orders, and I do. He searches my face. "Nah, you're lying. And if this is going to work, we need to be honest with each other tonight. Try again."
I want to roll my eyes, but I don't. "Do I believe that I'm the only one you want to hear from about your looks? No, I don't. Do I think you only want sexy pictures from me? No, I don't think that either."
"Why not?"
"Because… I don't know. I'm sure it feels good to get hit on. Doesn't everyone feel that way? Validation. It's flattering and fun or whatever."
His jaw ticks. "So who's been hitting on you?"
"No one—"
"The truth, Bell. Who were those roses from?"
I hesitate.
I found out who sent the roses the day after I received them.
"His name is Peter," I mumble.
His eyes flash with possessiveness. "Who the fuck is Peter?"
"We work together sometimes. He's the second shooter who helps me when I work weddings."
Edward's gaze grows distant like he's trying to place the name, but he doesn't know him. He doesn't know anything about my life out here. I made sure of that.
"Why did he send you roses?" he urges.
"Your guess is as good as mine."
"Cut the shit and tell me. Please."
"No, really. It was honestly strange he sent roses," I admit, and even if this is uncomfortable, I'll be honest with him. "We got some drinks after a wedding recently. He confessed some things to me, and—"
"Confessed what?" Edward asks before I can even explain.
My throat is dry. "That he's into me, I guess. He asked me out."
His gaze is dark. "Does he fucking know you're married?"
I want to run.
Hide.
Shrink.
"No."
Edward lets this sink in, his laugh humorless. "So, let me get this straight. I've been in Seattle this entire time, wearing my fucking wedding ring. People still knew we were together, even if they didn't know why you were suddenly fucking gone. And you've been here, ringless, having men hit on you?"
I feel so fucking small. "It's not even close to the truth, but I can see how it looks bad," I whisper.
He exhales angrily. "Yeah. Kinda looks real fuckin' bad."
"I shut it down. I told him I didn't feel the same. He felt bad that he made things awkward, then a few days later, he sent flowers. It coincided with the fight you and I had after you had movers drop off my shit, so I stupidly thought they were from you. I told him the flowers were unnecessary. He's just… he's clueless. Harmless. It's not a thing."
"Do you want to fuck him?" Edward asks bluntly.
"What?"
"Do you want to fuck him, Bella? You can call him up right now. Invite him over. Make me watch you fuck him in the hotel room to get back at me," he growls. "If that's what it's gonna take for us to move on, then just fucking do it already."
His words—his suggestion—shock me.
Maybe it should make me feel good that he's feeling even an ounce of the jealousy I've felt over this last year. But it doesn't. It makes me feel like shit. Makes me want to cry because I know how easy it is to spiral.
At this moment, the last thing I want to do is hurt my husband.
So I lean into an urge I haven't tapped into in a very long time.
I comfort him. Reassure him. Love him.
"Hey," I say softly. "Edward."
"What?"
It's my turn to say it. "Look at me."
He does. Fierce, protective, pained green eyes stare back at me.
"I don't want to fuck him. I don't want to try to get back at you. Okay? When I suggested that as a solution over a year ago, I only said it to hurt you. That's all. I never actually wanted to have sex with someone else…"
He's still fuming, still hurting.
But I guess I can't expect him to believe my words when I spent so long refusing to believe his.
"Nothing has happened with anyone since I left," I say, grateful it's the truth. So grateful I didn't give in to the urge to hurt him in the only way that would truly break us. "I haven't slept with anyone. I haven't done anything. I haven't even wanted to."
"Okay." His tone isn't gentle, but I can sense relief there when he recognizes I'm being honest.
"Can you say the same?" I ask because I just have to know.
"For as much as it felt like I hated you sometimes, I never fucking stopped loving you. Or wearing my wedding ring. Ever. So yeah, I can say the same, Bella. I haven't touched anyone. No one has touched me. I've spent the last year jerking off to the memory of you. Are you fucking happy?"
He's still angry no one new in my life knows I'm married, and that's fine.
I deserve his anger.
"Yes, I'm glad to hear that, but I'm nowhere near happy," I mutter, being painfully, brutally honest.
He just shakes his head, and with a low voice says, "Guess that makes two of us."