Thanks for reading! We hear from Bella next time.
45
- this is what it feels like -
Edward
The morning of Bella's photoshoot, she texts me.
Bella: I just pulled up outside your hotel. Come out whenever you're ready.
She sent the text five minutes ago, but I didn't see it until now because I just got out of the shower. I call her, putting the phone on speaker and tossing it on the bed.
"I thought I was going to pick you up from your place?" I ask when she answers, and I quickly towel off before pulling on boxers.
"I know. But I woke up early and was just waiting around, so I grabbed us coffee and I'm here. I don't mind driving us."
Bella doesn't know I turned down co-hosting College GameDay to go with her today, and I'm not sure I want her to. Not yet. Our situation feels fragile, and I'm just trying to ease into being around her again.
Dr. Molina was right when he said I already knew what I was going to do. I was always going to choose Bella over work. And after talking to him, I don't feel guilty or wrong about it. If I had flown to Atlanta for the gig, I would've been stressed and worried about her the entire time, so this is better for me.
It feels right.
"If you're not ready, I can wait. We don't have to leave until 5:15, so there's still a few minutes," she tells me. "And if you changed your mind and would rather not go, that's okay too. I know it's really early and—"
"Changed my—what? Bella, I was literally about to get dressed and pick you up," I say, quickly putting on black jeans and a gray T-shirt.
"Okay. Well, no need. I'm here."
She sounds off, not like she's upset but maybe a little apprehensive.
We didn't talk much this past week. Both of us were seemingly busy, but I thought about her a lot. And when we did briefly talk two days ago, we agreed I'd pick her up and drive us to the shoot.
Even though I'm thrown by the change of plans, I go with it.
"I'll be out in five. Don't leave," I tell her, hanging up.
I finish getting dressed, stepping into my Nikes and pulling on a hoodie, then grab the bag of baby stuff my mom sent for Bella… and me, I guess. Bella and me.
On the elevator ride down to the lobby, I suddenly feel nervous.
This is why I wanted to be the one to drive. I wanted that forced focus, the distraction away from her. But maybe she does too, and this is why she switched up the plan on me.
Minutes later, I exit the hotel. The sky is still dark and it's chilly out. I spot her car on the street and jog over to her, then slide into the passenger seat and set the bag on the floorboard.
The dome light makes the inside of her vehicle glow long enough for me to see her.
She's in leggings and an oversized sweater, her damp hair tucked inside the wool collar like she was in a hurry after she threw it on.
Seeing that takes me back to when I used to slide my hand across the back of her neck and pull her hair out to free it from the collar. She used to love it when I did that. She thought it was intimate; sweet. I don't do it now, though. And it's stupid, but I'm glad some of her hair is hidden away because it means I'll be less exposed to the sweet, herbal scent.
"Hey," I say nonchalantly, as if I wasn't just stuck in the past, stuck on her.
"Hi. That one's yours." She points toward a Starbucks coffee in the drink holder between us. "I know you don't like anything fancy so I got you an Americano," she says, then lowers the volume so her music plays softly through the car speakers.
I buckle my seatbelt. "Thanks."
With her blinker on, she looks to her left then pulls away from the curb and further onto the road.
Nothing's happened, but it feels awkward between us, a strange tension palpable. I don't acknowledge it out loud, though, I just sit with it. Internalize it.
Maybe it's weird because this is the first time we've seen each other in person since she told me she's pregnant.
Maybe it's stilted because we've opened up to each other a lot recently, but it's always over FaceTime or on the phone.
Or maybe it's just because I still feel so fucking much for her and I don't know where we stand.
Yeah.
It's probably that.
"So… how's the hotel?" she asks.
Or maybe the awkwardness is because I've been living out of a hotel for over three months and it's kind of pathetic.
"It's fine for now," I say, clearing my throat. "It's close to work. I don't really need a kitchen since I don't cook anyway. And it has a gym."
"So, you just eat out for most meals?" she asks, curious.
"Sorta. There's also a cafeteria at the studio, and they have decent food. The network throws a lot of events, too, so I take advantage of those," I mumble, realizing how depressing this is.
"Free food is nice."
"Yeah."
"What's in the bag?" She nods toward the floorboard. "Free food?" she jokes.
"You wish," I say, feeling myself loosen up a bit. "It's the baby stuff my mom sent." Thankful for the distraction, I reach down and pull out the stuffed sloth. "Meet Bear. He's missing an eye and he might need to be washed before we let our baby touch him."
"Aww, you named him," she muses, voice tender. "He's adorable. And I don't mind the missing eye. It gives him character, you know?"
I smile and grab the blanket next. "It's yellow because my parents didn't want to know what they were having, I guess. But my grandma used to knit these for new babies in the family. She made one for me, Allie, and my cousins."
"I wish I could have met your grandma," she mumbles, her tone bittersweet. "Anytime I hear about her, she always sounds so amazing. Like your mom."
"Gran would've loved you."
"I don't know about that," she laughs almost self-consciously.
"She would have," I say seriously. "My mom's said that before. Multiple times."
I distinctly remember on our wedding day my mom telling Bella that she wished my grandma was there because she would've loved her and been so happy for us. But I don't bring that up now because thinking about that day isn't really where I want this conversation to go.
"Well, I seriously love your mom for sending all of this. I still need to call and thank her," Bella finally says.
"You should," I encourage, placing the baby items safely in the bag. "She'd love to hear from you."
I drink my coffee.
She sips her cold brew.
"Are you, uh, allowed to drink that?" I ask.
Straw in mouth, she glances over at me. "Because of the baby?"
"Yeah."
"A small amount of coffee is fine."
"So that's not over two hundred milligrams of caffeine?" I ask, and she laughs softly, slowing at a stop sign and turning right.
"Where did you get that precise number?"
"Google. I looked it up last week. I was curious."
"Well… I ordered a small cold brew and I didn't add any espresso shots, so it's okay."
I smile. "You mean tall?" I correct, remembering she never uses Starbucks' jargon for their sizes.
"Tall, small. Grande, medium. They know what I'm asking for when I order."
"I guess some things never change," I muse.
"You're right," she agrees. "Some things don't. But some things do, and that's okay."
I start to think of all the ways we've changed since we first met, then stop. It doesn't feel safe to reminisce like that when she's so fucking close.
"I, uh… I owe you an apology," I tell her, which might seem out of nowhere to her, but it's been on my mind a lot ever since we talked last week.
"An apology for what?"
"For how I ended our phone call when I was at the airport. You were sharing something vulnerable with me and I… wasn't sure how to handle that. And I'm sorry."
"It's okay. Your plane was boarding. I understood. It wasn't really the right time to have a conversation like that."
"No, Bella, I… lied," I whisper, hoping she doesn't read anything into that. "I wasn't boarding yet. I had to hang up before I said the wrong thing to you."
"Oh." She falls silent and I don't speak again, needing her to take the lead on this. Needing her to decide whether or not she's up for continuing this conversation. "Why didn't you just say that, then? I would've understood. Like I said, I knew throwing that at you was a lot. It took a lot for me to say, too."
I swallow hard. "I should have. I think I just… panicked. All I could think after you said that was… why wasn't the way I loved you enough? I knew it was shitty," I confess, knee bouncing, nerves increasing. "I finally went back to therapy last week after months of not going. I talked to my therapist and I realized it's more than me not loving you enough."
She bites the inside of her cheek, and part of me is grateful I'm not the one driving because I get to watch her. Before I was nervous about that, but now I'm appreciative of it.
"What did he tell you?" she asks.
"He said something along the lines of if you never loved yourself, maybe you couldn't understand or accept my love for you." I let my words hang in the air, then ask, "What are you thinking?"
"I mean…" She stalls, and it almost sounds like she's about to get emotional, but she reins it in. "He's not wrong."
"I know. It made sense after he said that. But I guess my thing is… why do you feel that way about yourself?"
"This conversation is going to take much more than a fifteen-minute car ride," she laughs, but it's laced with self-deprecation and sadness. "I'm not sure I'm ready for that specific talk. Especially now, before I'm about to work."
I want to push for more, but I don't. "Okay."
We drive for a couple of minutes in silence, and I replay everything we just said, worried I overstepped until she says, "I didn't tell you, and I probably don't need to, but… my therapist diagnosed me with depression."
I'm quiet and take a few seconds to get my thoughts in order to make sure I don't say the wrong thing.
"Did you feel… depressed?"
The moment I ask it, I know it sounds stupid. Obviously, she must have fucking felt depressed to be diagnosed with it. I guess I just hate the idea that she dealt with that. I'm torn between wanting to hear everything so I can fix it and wanting to know nothing because it makes me fucking sad.
"Did I truly think it was depression? I don't know. I mean, I felt sad a lot, yeah," she replies. "It sounds so scary and official. But having the actual diagnosis hit differently. It was almost a relief."
"In what way?"
"Like… oh, I'm depressed? So, I'm not just an alcoholic?" she asks rhetorically, and I frown, hating that she drank that much but knowing how easily it can happen. Until a week ago, that was me, too. "Depression meant there was a reason for the way I was feeling. Like, I didn't have to be apathetic toward life. Or cry most days. Or hyper-fixate on things to keep me distracted. So yeah, in a weird way, it made me feel better just having that diagnosis. And knowing there were things I could do to reduce feeling that way was a relief."
"I like hearing the way you think about things," I tell her. "I can't say I felt the same way when I was diagnosed. I felt like a fuck-up, I guess."
"Don't," she chides softly. "You're not."
"I guess hearing you explain it now, though, makes me think about it in a different way. Depression was out of my control so… I guess I can place less blame on myself now."
She glances over at me and smiles sadly in solidarity, street lights illuminating her pretty face every few seconds.
"So, what do you do to uh… reduce feeling shitty?" I ask.
"Therapy and yoga. And I started taking meds," she admits. "My doctor prescribed a low dose. It's been helpful for me and I'm able to focus better and think straighter. And it's safe for the baby, so please don't worry."
"I already know it's safe," I admit, rubbing the back of my neck. "I Googled that, too, after you told me you initially went to the doctor to get on antidepressants, then found out you were pregnant."
"Of course, you Googled it." She chuckles and shakes her head. "I love that you did that. I love that you care about our baby."
"I don't just care about the baby, Bella," I tell her before I can stop myself. It's the fucking truth and she deserves to know that.
"Well. I wasn't going to assume," she says softly. "I used to do a lot of assuming. I'd convince myself I knew what you were thinking or feeling instead of just asking you. I'd come up with scenarios that weren't necessarily real. Spin my fears into truths. My therapist, Jane, said that was part of my depression. It would lie to me, I guess."
I don't respond right away and think about that for a while, how depression lies. After Bella left me, my biggest fear was always that she didn't love me as much as I loved her, but that doesn't feel like something depression lied to me about. It felt fucking real. Still does, kind of.
"I get what you mean, about antidepressants helping you concentrate," I say instead, a safer thing to comment on. "They helped me focus better, too, when I was on them."
"When you were on them?" she echoes. "Why'd you stop?"
I just shrug, then recognize that I can't expect her to open up to me if I don't give the same effort. I'm not sure I want to tell her yet that I did all of that for her. The therapy, the meds. Switching jobs to prove she was more important. That she was everything. Even though it's true, I worry it might unintentionally guilt her and that's not what I want.
"I wasn't seeing any real progress," I say, not a lie, but not the whole truth. "So it didn't seem worth it."
"I'm sorry," she whispers, taking on guilt anyway.
"Don't be." I swallow a large gulp of coffee. "It's not your fault."
"But… I want the best for you, Edward. So hearing that you were struggling makes me really sad." I open my mouth and then stop myself. "What?" she asks. "Just say it, please."
"I mean… were you not sad after you left me? Of course, you had to know I was struggling after that. How could I not be? I was blindsided and fucking heartbroken."
She stays so, so quiet, and for a second I regret bringing it up.
"I was heartbroken, too, but I convinced myself you were better off without me," she mumbles. "And I get that way of thinking wasn't true. I get that now. But at the time it felt so real."
"Fuck depression," I mutter, and we sit in silence after that.
She slows to a stop at a red light and turns to look at me fully. We stare at one another.
There's a shift in the car. It's subtle, but I can feel it. There's something about the darkness that makes me think it's okay to indulge with her in ways I haven't for a while.
I know when the light turns because the hue of her face changes from faint red to pale green.
"I like talking to you like this," she murmurs, turning her focus back to the road and driving. "But then it's also just…" She sighs, sounding frustrated. "Confusing."
"Confusing how?" I urge, desperate to know what she's thinking.
"Confusing in too many ways. And I told you last week, I'm nervous to be around you," she confesses. "To see you."
I let my head rest against the seat and keep staring at her. "Why?"
"Because… I just am."
"But why, Bella?"
"Why aren't you?"
"I asked you first. And I am fucking nervous. Why do you think I'm not?"
"I don't know. I'm nervous because… you look like my husband and sound like my husband and feel like my husband. It feels like I'm talking to my husband."
I swallow hard and look away from her, staring out the windshield now.
"Same," I agree.
"I look and sound and feel like your husband?" she asks, boldly teasing when the last thing I feel like doing is fucking joking with her.
I don't reply.
We sit in a loaded silence, neither of us willing or daring to talk until we get on the highway.
"Thank you for coming with me today," she finally says, maybe trying to get the conversation going again.
"You don't have to thank me," I say, drinking my coffee. "I wanted to be here so I'm here."
"There was… something I wanted to bring up," she mumbles. "But I'm not sure how you'll feel about it. I think that's also partly why I'm nervous."
"What?" I ask too softly, finally strong enough to look at her again.
"I was talking to my therapist last week. About how you and I still need to talk and be honest about boundaries and expectations and… and I think maybe we should talk there. With her. Or if you'd rather us talk to someone else, we can. If you're open to that."
I'm a little stunned so I stay quiet.
She keeps talking.
"I just think it might be good to have someone else there, in case we need help. I don't know, if it sounds weird we don't have to. But you know how we get, Edward. Sometimes talking and staying civil and on track is hard. I'm worried we won't be able to have a successful conversation."
"It's a good idea," I agree, appreciating that she's the one who brought this up instead of me. Like she's putting in some effort to get us back to a good place, even if it's platonic and not romantic.
She sounds surprised when she asks, "Really?"
"Yeah. My therapist suggested that, too. I think I'd rather talk to someone new, though. Someone you haven't already talked to. Someone I haven't already talked to. Start on a level playing field."
"Okay. Someone new," she agrees.
It's like I can feel her tension fade away. And I have to admit, the nerves in my body lessen a little, too. They lessen so much that I feel a new energy. Like I'm content. Or bold. Or just hopeful. I'm filled with confidence in us—in her—that I haven't felt in a long fucking time.
I channel that newfound hope and reach over, sliding my palm behind her neck and gently freeing her hair from the collar of her sweater. Just like old times.
She glances over at me, her expression soft and somber, a slight yearning radiating from her.
"What was that for?" she whispers, eyes on the road again.
"You don't just look and sound and feel like my wife," I say in a low voice, the scent of her damp hair hitting me full force. "But you smell like her, too."