I missed y'all!

Sorry for the delay. This week was fucked thanks to work.

We only have five chapters left *cries*

20
- every ugly truth -

Edward's honesty and kisses awaken something dormant inside of me.

There's a lightness in my chest again and a buoyant feeling of anticipation and hope courses throughout me.

It's been a long time since I've felt this way.

But then he starts to get undressed and I find myself growing nervous.

He's not taking off his clothes for any reason other than to change.

But still.

"Seriously?" I ask, raising my brows.

"What?" He fists the back of his white T-shirt and pulls it over his head, tossing it at me. I catch it, using every ounce of willpower not to put it on or smell it.

"You're just going to change in front of me?" I stare at his hard chest and sculpted torso.

He looks so fucking good.

Better than ever.

Maybe it's ironic because under these clothes—under this bravado—I've never looked or felt worse.

His hands move toward his belt. "Is that a problem? It's not like you've never seen me before."

I grow warm with desire. "Yeah, but—"

He has a playful glint in his eyes, and I think our kisses sparked something back into him, too.

"But what?" he taunts, voice low.

But I haven't seen his body in so long… too long. Not like this. And he hasn't seen mine, and I'm worried about that. He's been jerking off to the memory of me, but that's not what I look like anymore.

My boobs are nonexistent.

My hips are no longer shapely.

My ass? What ass?

Yeah.

I'm nervous. And getting ahead of myself, of course, because again, he's merely changing his clothes. It's not like he's propositioning me for a fuck.

It's just hard for my brain not to go there with him though.

I'm suddenly realizing things I hadn't considered before.

Like what happens for the rest of the night—will we sleep together in the same bed? Sleep apart? Him here, and me at the Ace hotel? A big part of me wants to stay here all night, wrapped up in the sheets that smell like him. Or if I have to go back, I want him there with me.

I don't want us to part ways and there's already a longing in my chest when I think of when we'll say goodbye.

I'm still clutching his T-shirt. I wonder what he'd do if I stripped out of my clothes and put it on.

"I'll give you some privacy," I say after a beat, needing my overthinking to just stop.

"Why?" He chuckles, his slacks pooling around his feet. Of course, my eyes dart to the slight bulge beneath his boxer briefs. "We're not strangers, Bell."

"It's fine. I need to use the bathroom anyway," I lie, and toss his T-shirt on the bed before moving toward the bathroom.

I can hear his soft laughter as I walk inside.

Taking a few seconds to collect myself, I keep my back against the closed door and close my eyes, grateful things seem to be going better than they were earlier.

Grateful we've started being more open and honest while also knowing we still have a ways to go.

"The coast is clear," I hear him holler out.

I open my eyes and smile to myself. "Yeah, right. That was way too fast," I call back.

I can hear him directly on the other side of the door now. "Come see for yourself."

He says it low and amused.

I'm about to open the door when my gaze lands on an orange pill bottle on the bathroom counter.

I immediately grab it to read the label, knowing it's ironic I came in here to give him privacy, only to invade it.

Turning the bottle in my hands, my heart sinks when I read the label.

Zoloft.

He's taking antidepressants.

His knock startles me, but the door still separates us.

"Don't tell me you escaped through a window?" he jokes, but I know him and he's using humor to cover up the fact that he still doesn't trust that I'll stay.

I didn't lock him out, so he turns the knob and walks in.

He wasn't lying and actually is dressed—in gray joggers and a black T-shirt—and he finds me standing here with his medication in my hands.

His playfulness fades.

"You're on antidepressants?" I ask quietly.

He takes them from me, avoiding my eyes. "Yeah. It's not a big deal."

No, I guess it's not. It's okay to need some extra help. And I'm not judging him whatsoever. Truth be told, antidepressants would be good for me, too. I'm just worried about why he needed them. My stomach churns with guilt and regret, knowing I was the catalyst for this crutch.

He opens the bottle, pops one on his tongue, sticks his mouth under the running faucet, and swallows.

"So, this is actually why I needed to come to the hotel," he tells me, wiping his mouth. "I wasn't worried about changing clothes. I needed to take this. I set an alarm as a reminder."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

"Why didn't you just… tell me?" Even after I ask it, I know how stupid it sounds. Until the last hour, we haven't exactly been in a place to be vulnerable with one another.

He walks out of the bathroom and won't look at me.

I follow.

The vibe between us is stilted again with no playfulness present.

He sits on the bed.

I stay just outside of the bathroom.

I'm timid but mumble, "Can I ask why you started taking them?"

Holding my gaze, he asks, "Are we really doing this? Talking?"

"Yeah." I swallow and take a few tentative steps then sit next to him. "When I asked you earlier if it was bad after I left, I meant with you. I only wanted to know about you," I quietly confess.

He opens and closes his mouth a few times. "I'm going to be very honest with you… when you first left, I was pissed. I still kind of am."

I feel so far away from him right now. "Yeah, that's not news to me."

"No, I don't think you get it. I assumed when you left you'd be back that night, Bella. Maybe even the next day. I was fucking pissed at you," he says, punctuating each word with fire. "I thought you were being unreasonable and trying to make a point, and I was so sure you'd be back. A day passed, then two. I figured you just needed more space, so I waited a little longer. A week later I finally called you," he says, and yeah, I remember that. "You sent me to fucking voicemail."

"I was mad it took you a week to reach out," I say truthfully, anger rising again when I put myself back in that moment. "I almost did come back before that. But your silence pushed me to stay away longer."

"My silence for one week pushed you to stay away for over a fucking year?" he asks heatedly. "How does that add up?"

My eyes blur.

Laid out like that, no, it doesn't add up.

But this situation isn't black and white.

It's nuanced. We both know that.

"No. Everything leading up to that… your dismissiveness, having Maria on as a podcast guest, and you going on the tour with her was what kept me away longer," I tell him, standing my ground and presenting my truths.

"You knew why I still went on the tour, Bella. It wasn't because I secretly wanted to be alone with Maria."

He's right—I remember everything he said. I remember our arguments over it more than I'd like.

The tour had been announced a year prior. Everything was set. Flights and hotels booked. Venues expecting them. People bought tickets, and it wasn't just his show. It was three different shows coming together for a tour. A lot of different people were involved and there were many moving parts. Pulling out a month before would've burned multiple bridges for him career-wise.

I didn't care.

I didn't feel like a priority.

But I do feel like one now, despite everything.

"Bell," he whispers.

I stare at my hands. "What?"

"Look at me." I don't yet. Tears slip down my cheeks. "Baby." He pulls my wrist and guides me to sit in his lap. My stomach flickers with affection when he nuzzles his face against my neck and breathes me in. He does this a few times, almost like he's gaining strength and courage.

And then he whispers a series of apologies in my ear.

"I'm sorry, okay? I'm sorry for dismissing you. I'm sorry for going on the tour and not trying to make you feel more comfortable about everything. I'm sorry for not asking you to come with me. I'm sorry for not trying harder to understand how much everything affected you. I'm sorry for not trying harder to keep you from leaving. I'm…" His voice is strained, and his candor and vulnerability soothe my sadness. "I'm sorry for what I did with Maria that night. I'm sorry for not making us talk more about the huge step we were taking in our marriage. I'm sorry for not trying to figure out why you wanted that to happen. I'm sorry for not telling you no, and that I didn't want or need to do that."

I close my eyes. Focus on his words. Let his apologies sink in. Weigh me down. Keep me here, in this moment.

"I fucking regret so many things, Bella. And I'm so sorry. For all of it. For my part in it." He kisses my cheek. "I'm sorry." The corner of my mouth. "I'm sorry." He kisses me fully on the mouth now. Just lips on lips. It's meant to be healing, not passionate. "I'm so fucking sorry."

I open my eyes and my tears fall faster now, forgiveness filling me up in the simplest way.

He's sorry.

He's sorry.

He's so fucking sorry.

Throughout this entire night, he's continually put his pride aside for me.

I can recognize it for the raw vulnerability it is, and he deserves the same from me.

He cups the sides of my face, brushing my cheeks with his thumbs and wiping my tears.

"Thank you," I sniffle, burying my face against his neck now. I have so many things I need to apologize to him for, too. But I honestly feel like I'm still wading through pain. I'm not there yet. I press a tender kiss to his neck before I pull back. "Hearing all of that means so much, and I feel like I don't even deserve it because I know I fucked up, too… but I have to ask one thing. Please don't be mad, but I know if I don't ask I'll always wonder."

His arms tighten around me, keeping me there. "Okay. Ask me what?"

"Did anything happen with Maria on the tour? Or… ever, I guess. After that one time at the hotel?"

"No," he says, and I see the truth in his fierce green eyes. "Nothing happened."

"Okay. But… I saw you hugging her, so that's why for the longest time I assumed something did happen," I mumble.

He looks genuinely confused. "What? When did I hug her?"

"Your co-host posted a story on Instagram like, after the tour ended. I saw you two in the background at some bar, hugging."

"We probably did go to a bar. We went to a lot of bars on the tour," he says matter-of-factly. "But… hugging?"

"I have proof," I say, feeling like an ass. But yeah, I screen-recorded the story because why the fuck wouldn't I? At the time, I wanted to throw it back in his face one day. I pull my phone out of my back pocket and scroll through my videos while Edward waits patiently for me to prove how crazed I am.

The short video plays, but I watch his face instead of the screen.

"Oh. That?" is all he says.

I play it again.

Still, I watch his face instead of their hug.

I'm about to play it a third time and he takes my phone from me, tossing it on the bed.

He sighs, determined to set this straight. "It was a hug. One hug where we're both sitting down, so only our arms are around our shoulders. Our bodies aren't even touching. It meant absolutely nothing and so fucking little, I didn't even remember it."

"But it happened."

"Yeah, and you've been living in LA for a year pretending you were single. How the fuck do you think that makes me feel?" he asks sharply. "That hug? She was consoling me, Bella. I was fucking gutted over you. You'd been gone for almost two months at that point and I didn't know where the fuck you were. I was sick every day. She could tell something was up—everyone could tell something was up—and she asked me about it on that last night. I couldn't hold back anymore. I confided in her about everything."

This almost feels worse than the hug. "Of course, you confided in her…"

"Listen to what I'm saying—I had no one. You left me. I couldn't talk to any of our friends or family about what happened because I was too fucking ashamed and embarrassed. Maria was part of what we did. She was safe. So yeah, I got drunk and spilled my fucking guts about how you broke my fucking heart," he says, resigned. "And I told her how I broke yours, too, by doing what I did. She felt like shit, but she shouldn't have. None of it was her fault. She kept insisting on calling you and setting shit straight. That she didn't want me, I didn't want her. It wasn't like that for us. But I told her it wouldn't do any good. Any time I called or texted you, I heard nothing in return, so why would having her reach out help?" he asks rhetorically.

I let myself really, truly think about it, and yeah. If I knew at that moment in time he had confided in Maria and she felt obligated to set the record straight, there's no telling what the fuck I'd do.

"A few weeks after that, I went to the doctor and started taking antidepressants because I just couldn't fake it anymore," he admits. "I had to be on all the time, and it was a struggle. People were noticing something was off. I mean, they knew you were gone, but I tried to downplay it like we were just getting space… trial separation… I don't fucking know. I don't know what I said to people. I was a zombie. And I didn't know you'd be gone for so long. So I eventually started going to therapy."

Remorse and responsibility overwhelm me. The urge to get up and walk out the door surfaces because I hate hearing this. Hate hearing how bad it was for him. How much I hurt him. And for what?

I push away the desire to flee, and let myself sit in this shame. Let myself be immersed in this pain that I pushed away for so, so long.

I broke him.

Us.

But someone broke me and this is history trying to repeat itself.

It's a ripple effect.

Hurt people, hurt people.

My eyes well with more tears.

"I was alone, too," I mumble as if that might somehow make him feel better. "More alone than you probably were."

I was aiming for solidarity but it just sounds like I'm trying to one-up his pain.

It wasn't my intention.

"But you chose that for us. I didn't," he says, quiet and pained. "I know I could've tried harder and been more sensitive. I've admitted that already. But anything I did say just… didn't get through to you. I couldn't reach you. And instead of staying and working through our shit together, or with a professional, you moved further out of reach for me, baby."

"Because I didn't know how else to deal," I cry. It's weak, but it's not an excuse. I literally didn't know how to navigate through my pain and insecurities.

"I know. After going to therapy, I get some of that now," he says, but his next words further twist the knife that I stuck in both of us. "But the one thing I will never understand about any of this is how you were able to leave me like that. How you were able to go four months with zero contact. Because when I think about it, if the tables were turned, I couldn't do it. I couldn't leave you like that, Bell. And the only thing I could come up with is that maybe you never loved me as much as I love you."