Every little moment of mending is just bringing them closer to starting that painful conversation. See you Monday for the start of that!

As always, thanks for being here.

19
- i miss you, i'm sorry -

I'm assaulted by Edward's scent when we walk into the hotel room he's been living in.

"I see you're still a slob," I say, poking fun at his messy space, pretending as if I'm not dying to drown in his smell.

He tosses a lazy smile my way. "What can I say? I'm consistent. Loyal. Dependable."

I fight a smile. "Funny. Cute."

"Some people think that about me, too."

"Oh?" I sit on his unmade bed, willing myself not to get jealous. I've spent so much time over the last year feeling this way. I don't want to anymore. "Who exactly are these people who think that about you… women, I assume?"

He shakes his head and moves toward his suitcase on the floor that's overflowing with clothes. "I mean… don't you think that about me?"

"Sure, but I don't get the feeling you were talking about me."

He looks tired. Tense. Like he knows he fucked up. "It was a joke, Bella. Said in bad taste. We were bantering, I got caught up. I didn't mean anyone in particular, okay? I'm sorry."

I want to let it go.

I really do.

"I thought we were going to be honest with each other tonight," I say, watching him for any sign of a lie as he does with me.

He's bent over, digging through his bag, but he pauses what he's doing and straightens.

"I am being honest," he tells me, eyes wide and round, his face open.

To really drive his point home, he slides a palm into the pocket of his slacks and tosses me his phone. It lands on the bed next to me.

"Go through it. Texts, DMs, photos. My browser history, whatever the fuck you want. Keep it for the rest of the night. In fact, keep it all day tomorrow, too. I have nothing to hide from you," he says, looking and sounding aggrieved. "My password is still your birthday."

It's fucking bold. It's not just his words that are brazen, but his actions, too. Giving me full access to his phone.

I'm so fucking tempted about what I would find. Or not find, I guess. According to him.

I'm about to grab it, when he says, "I'm not your dad, Bella. I never fucking will be."

This admission—this ugly, heartfelt truth—makes my eyes burn with tears.

He's not my dad.

He won't hurt me.

He won't ever go looking for better or more because I'm enough for him.

He watches and waits, and I hesitantly pick up his phone.

And then I pause when it lights up because it's a picture of me.

Me.

His lock screen is a photo of me in Greece. It's the same photo that was on his phone before I left.

He never changed it.

My throat constricts, more emotion creeping in.

Greece was our first trip together. He had proposed just minutes before he snapped the picture. It wasn't over the top, just both of us wine drunk and in love, and his whispered words in my ear.

I fucking want you forever. Be my wife, Bella.

No dropping to one knee.

No audience.

Just us and the sunset and him slipping a diamond ring on my finger that fit perfectly.

It was one of my favorite days ever and I couldn't feel further away from that time.

I can feel his eyes on me as I admire the photo now. I've seen it countless times but maybe didn't appreciate it enough back when it mattered.

Santorini and the burning sunset behind me. The water in the distance, the surface glittering and glowing. I wasn't showing off my ring. I was just smiling sweetly at my soon-to-be husband. But I was glowing. I was so fucking happy in the most subtle, calmest way.

I remember the caption he added along with the photo on his personal, private Instagram: bagged myself a fiancée.

The memory makes my eyes burn with tears.

Right now I'm not glowing or subtle or calm.

But I'm here.

And I'm finally trying. We both are.

I stand up and hand him his phone but he doesn't grab it.

"It's fine," I tell him, moving closer, invading his space. "Take it."

Determined green eyes search my face. "I'm serious, Bell. Go through my phone. I don't give a shit. I—"

My fingers brush his lips and I look up at him. "I'm sorry I was being unfair, okay? I know you didn't mean anything by that comment. I'm trying to trust you."

He doesn't look as thrilled as I thought he would after I say it. "Don't say that if you don't mean it." I realize his uncertainty is because he doesn't believe me. Both of us are working through trust issues. "I'm not trying to have you rush any of this only for it to backfire on us later."

His use of the word later sparks hope. Like he thinks we'll truly be able to move past all of this. Or wants to, at least.

"I mean it. I trust you're not talking to any other women," I clarify.

"I'm not talking to any other women or fucking them or secretly want them," he adds hotly, seriously.

I smile sadly. "I trust that, too."

He pockets his phone and grabs my face with both hands, his fingers splayed along my neck and forcing me to focus on him. Bending his knees a bit so he can look me in the eyes, he makes his point very clear.

"I fucking hate walking on eggshells with you. I hate not knowing whether or not whatever I say or do will trigger something in you." His words are hard, but his eyes are soft like he's trying to convey a different point.

It's not the sweetest sentiment and he doesn't have the gentlest touch but it's him and it's real and I can take it.

"I know, I hate that for us, too," I agree. "I'm sorry."

He shakes his head and straightens. "You don't need to apologize, baby. I'm not blaming you. I'm just… telling you, I guess, since I didn't get to say shit for so long." He sighs and his thumbs caress my cheeks. "Even if I hate so much about our situation right now, I want to work through it because I fucking love you, Bella," he says fiercely. "I love you."

He still loves me.

My heart beats and beats and beats for him.

Only him.

His words of affection and devotion give me strength and hope and fill a part of me that has been empty for a very long time.

I smile through my tears but I can't speak.

"I'm trying to understand your way of thinking, okay?" he murmurs. "And I'm trying to be patient. I'm not always going to say or do the right thing, but I'm trying. The very last thing I want to do is hurt you."

I appreciate his honesty. I appreciate how serious he is, how unfiltered and raw he's being.

"Thank you for saying all of that," I whisper.

"You're thanking me for… loving you?" he asks, a hint of a smile appearing.

A small, relieved laugh escapes from my mouth. "Yeah, I guess I am."

His hands reluctantly fall from my face.

I'm still staring at his lips.

My honesty is out of my mouth before I can overthink it: "I miss kissing you, Edward."

It's only the tip of the iceberg.

I miss his soft, insistent mouth. His firm hands. I miss the weight of him on me. His hard cock. I miss lazy sex and passionate sex and quick sex.

I miss feeling wanted.

Feeling loved.

I miss the small things, too.

How he'd call me on his drive home to talk about nothing.

The gentle squeeze of my shoulder when he'd walk by while I worked at the computer. No words were needed, just a simple touch to let me know he was there and loved me.

I guess I just miss every fucking thing about him.

And I know he misses me, too.

He misses me and still loves me and he's trying to understand me because he's everything he said he is—consistent, loyal, and dependable.

"You miss kissing me?" he whispers, his eyes darting toward my lips.

I nod. "Desperately."

He leans closer and I think he's going to press his mouth to mine.

But he doesn't.

"If I kiss you, I won't stop," he murmurs. "And there's still so much we need to say."

This must be what dying feels like.

"Yeah," I say, clearly deflated. "Yeah, we shouldn't."

He sighs.

I sigh.

I'm about to move back toward the bed and wait for him to grab whatever the fuck we came here for when he abruptly grabs my face again and says, "Fuck it."

And then he dips his head and kisses me.

He

kisses

me.

Our eyes fall shut.

Our hearts open.

My pulse picks up. Like he's literally sparking life back into me.

Our lips stay pressed together and unmoving until he parts them. I part mine, too, giving him access.

And then we're really kissing. For the first time in… too fucking long. I can't even remember the last time this happened and that realization makes me want to cry.

But I don't, because now is not the time for tears.

Now is the time to worship his mouth on mine.

To savor it.

Now is the time to tell him with my kiss what I've kept so long from saying with words: I miss you, I need you, I fucking love, love, love you.

He shifts closer so his body is flush with mine.

Soft, soft, yearning blooms within me.

Our tongues brush.

I whimper because I've missed it.

His chin and cheeks are stubbled, and I've missed that too. Missed the combination of his scruff on my inner thighs when I'd sit on his face and he'd fuck me with his tongue.

My lower belly tingles and aches and I'm getting ahead of myself but it's all I want right now.

That connection.

I want to know if we still have it.

That even if part of us is still broken, our intimacy will never need mending.

I lift my hands to grab his forearms, my way of keeping him here.

Don't pull away.

Don't stop kissing me.

But he does because he's him and stubborn and can't read minds, apparently.

I want more kisses, but I wait, taking his lead again.

The way he's staring at me kills me.

Dark, lustful eyes.

Swollen mouth.

Equal parts concern and elation are clear on his handsome face.

He pecks my mouth once more, and with our lips barely touching he whispers, "I don't just miss kissing you, Bella. I fucking miss everything about you."