See you Tuesday! (edited: sorry, not updating Tuesday after all, thanks for reading.)
46
- slow burn -
Bella POV
My clients don't seem curious about who Edward is when we show up outside the trail's entrance at Runyon Canyon, but I still introduce him anyway.
"This is Edward. He came to help me."
It's vague because he's so much more than just Edward, but I can't get into that with these strangers, and thankfully they don't make me.
Edward politely nods to greet them before my clients introduce themselves as Emily and Sam, and their two kids, Bree and Jake.
"Oh, no shit," Sam suddenly says, eyeing Edward and lighting up a bit. "Edward Cullen? Right?"
Emily shoots Sam a look, then discreetly glances toward their kids, who both have to be under ten years old.
"Language," she mumbles to her husband.
"Sorry, sorry," Sam amends, but he really doesn't seem apologetic. He just seems excited to be meeting Edward. "I went to the podcast tour last October when you were in LA. Really great shit, man."
"Sam," Emily says sharply, laughing a little, covering her face like she's mortified by her husband.
"I've followed your career for a while," Sam continues, "ever since you stopped playing for the Seahawks."
"You're a Seahawk?" their son Jake exclaims, looking at Edward in awe.
"Ah, no," Edward laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. "Just played for one year, a really long time ago. Nothing to brag about."
Sam scoffs and starts listing off stats to Jake, and I swear if it was lighter outside, Edward's cheeks would be pink.
"Really loved the podcast, though," Sam tells him. "Wish you were still doing it. Not really the same without you."
I'm watching Edward too closely to not see the way his face falls a bit after Sam says that.
"I'm so sorry about his fangirling," Emily says to me. "Are you done yet, babe?"
Sam laughs unapologetically. "Not fangirling. Just a big fan."
"Me too," I say teasingly, giving Edward a soft smile that he returns with only his eyes.
Even though Edward does seem embarrassed by the compliments, he takes it in stride, nodding and thanking Sam.
It's been a while since I've seen someone react this way toward him. Mainly because we haven't been around each other casually like this in quite some time. But it's nice to see. And it makes me proud of him.
"You're in a time crunch, right? Wanting to shoot right before sunrise?" Edward mentions, and I know it's his way of saying let's put an end to this moment and move on.
"Yep," I agree, shifting back to professional mode and telling the family my plan for their session and how all of the photos will be captured once we reach the top of the mountain. "It's a thirty-minute hike, so by the time we get up there, the sky will be lighter, don't worry."
"Oh, I'm not worried. I've seen your work," Emily says kindly.
"Who's the fangirl now?" Sam snarks, which makes Emily laugh.
"Whatever. Let's go," she says, and the four of them walk ahead of us while Edward and I keep a little distance from them.
"Give me that," Edward says gruffly, but gently grabs the camera strap that's hanging from my neck and puts it around his.
"So heavy. I was struggling," I joke. And then say softer, more appreciative, "Thank you."
He stays quiet, gravel crunching beneath our sneakers, faint chatter from the family filling the silence, even though we're not a part of their conversation.
I'm pretty sure I hear Sam say Edward's name again.
Pretty sure I hear Emily shush him.
"You have fans," I tease.
"Shut up," Edward says quietly, but his voice is light.
"It's sweet, though. It's nice."
"Yeah, maybe. But…"
"What?"
"I don't know. I…. kind of… miss doing the podcast," he reluctantly admits. "I think I'm over ESPN. God, it feels good to say that out loud."
I laugh a little, only because he's smiling wryly. Hearing him say this doesn't surprise me. He was so involved with the podcast, and I'm sure he has zero control over SportsCenter.
"Why are you over it?" I ask, wanting to hear it from him, anyway.
"Maybe I didn't give it enough time. But life is fucking short, right? I don't think I'm going to suddenly love it or feel like it's where I'm meant to be. Especially with the baby coming." He steals a glance my way. "I don't want to have to prioritize one over the other. I don't want to be with our baby, feeling guilty for turning down a work event. And I don't want to be at a work event, feeling like a shitty dad for not being with my kid."
"No one would ask you to choose," I insist. "And if you had to work and miss something, I would never blame you. Ever."
"Maybe not. But the thing is, I don't want to miss anything or even be put in that position."
"Is someone giving you a hard time?" I ask. "Does anyone at the network even know that we're having a baby, other than Rosalie?"
"No. Not yet. Not because I'm not excited, but our situation is…"
"Unique?" I offer, and he laughs once.
"Sure. Unique. I know there will be more questions than congratulations, and it's no one's business other than ours."
I hum in agreement. "So, if you're not feeling it anymore, what are you going to do? Look for another job?"
"Fuck if I know. I'm just kind of venting. I don't need a solution or whatever. Not yet. Sorry."
"Don't be sorry. I miss talking to you like this," I admit, then lose my footing a bit, with the trail slightly uphill and rocky.
Edward immediately grips my elbow and waist, steadying me.
He's slow to remove his hands.
I'm slow to breathe normally.
"See?" he says, his voice a little harder. Like he was just waiting for me to almost get hurt so he could justify being here.
"Maybe you're distracting me," I challenge, my pulse spiking from his touch. "I wouldn't be talking to someone right now if you weren't here. I'd be focusing. So… see?"
"So, it's my fault you tripped?" he says, but his tone isn't accusatory, it's playful.
"No, but you had a part in it," I insist, slightly teasing.
"Fine. I'll accept my responsibility in this."
"Fine. I will, too."
"Fine." He smiles a little. "I'm glad you're not hurt."
"Me too," I murmur. "Thank you for saving me from a scabbed knee."
He laughs, making my heart soar, and we walk in silence again, but it's not weird.
It's comfortable.
Comforting.
I knew I'd appreciate having him with me today, but I think I love having him here.
I love the soft, honest moment we had in the car earlier.
I love the protective way he tells me to look out for this and watch out for that while we hike.
When we reach a part that has steep, uneven wooden steps, I love how he takes the lead and reaches behind him to offer me his hand. It's instinct. I don't think he realizes he does it because once my fingers lock with his, he turns to look back at me, uncertainty passing over his expression before he faces forward and keeps going, holding my hand tighter.
I've never been more aware of my fingers or how they work; how they grip his. How we so effortlessly link digits, like it's nothing, but it's everything.
Once we make it past the stairs, he immediately lets go.
Like it's nothing.
So many emotions hit me at once.
Desire, longing. Loss.
I miss him, and he's right here.
When we finally reach the top of the mountain, I compartmentalize how I'm feeling toward him, take my camera back, and begin doing my job.
Edward gives me space to work, but I feel his gaze on me the entire time. It's not distracting though. It's encouraging. It helps me focus because, in the same way that hearing others admire him, I want him to be proud of me, too.
After forty-five minutes of capturing candids and posed photos of the family, I show them a few of the shots I took. Emily gushes over them, thanking me for my time and coming all the way out here. Sam apologizes to Edward for making shit weird earlier, then apologizes to Emily for cursing… again.
With goodbyes said and promises to send them their edited photos in two weeks, they hike back down without us.
Edward and I linger behind on the highest part of the mountain.
"Show me some?" he asks, nodding toward my camera.
He moves closer. Arm brushing mine. He leans in a little to look at the display screen as I scroll through some of the photos I took.
"They're good," he compliments, face still close. I can smell his familiar scent—pine and soap and him. "I wasn't sure, with the whole—" He straightens and takes a step back, waving his hand toward the view like it's lacking. "It's nice out here but I thought the background might be too much. But I like what you did. The focus was on them."
"The family is the most important part. Everything else is just… extra. Background noise."
His gaze softens—no, hardens—before smoothing into an unreadable expression.
"How do you do that?" I blurt.
"What?"
"Feel so many things and just… just stand there and say nothing. It makes me wish I knew what you were thinking. And then other times you say the worst things, and I wish you hadn't said anything at all."
"What can I say? I'm an enigma. Or just an asshole," he jokes but doesn't smile. "I was thinking about you, okay? Us. Photos. Being a family. All the background noise that distracted us from… us."
I feel like crying because it's such a simple way to explain how we fell apart, but I know it's more complex than that.
"Edward…"
"Don't make me say anything else, please. That's enough for now. I'm worried I'll say too much and make it worse, like you said."
I frown but nod. "Okay."
"Okay."
"Just so you know, it's not enough, not for me. I want to know more, but I know I don't deserve to. At least, not right now."
He huffs out a laugh, but it's not amused. "What I wouldn't have given for you to want to know what I was thinking months ago. A year ago. And yet… nothing."
It sounds like he's saying too little, too late, and it creates an alarming ache in my bones.
"I did want to know what you were thinking. Always. But I told you, my brain came up with what you were supposedly thinking on its own. And it was wrong. So fucking wrong. I see that now," I sigh, feeling helpless to make him understand. "But I guess I get it."
"Get what?"
"Why you'd feel like… resentful toward me."
"No, I don't think you do get it," he insists. "But I don't really, either. Sometimes it feels safer to hold back, even though I don't want to. And I feel like there are things you're holding back from me, too. But that's why we're gonna go to therapy… right? So we can feel safe to say whatever?"
The knot in my stomach loosens a bit, and I murmur, "Right."
He holds my gaze. "I don't think we should do it. The paternity test," he clarifies. "I don't need proof, okay?"
"We already talked about this," I remind him. "I told you why I thought we should."
"I know. But it's bullshit. I only suggested we do it because I was hurting and didn't trust you. Then you insisted we still do it because you didn't trust that I wouldn't throw shit in your face. And I just… I think we should move past that and not do it."
I'm both torn and so appreciative. "Okay, but…"
"Have you really thought about it? Because I looked into it. You'd have to go get your blood drawn. And then mail it to some lab and… what, you're gonna go to your doctor, ask for them to fill a vial of blood, and walk out with it?"
When he says it like that, yeah, it's weird. And I don't really want my doctor or any of the nurses to know that my estranged husband—my child's father—is questioning paternity. That's just embarrassing and not necessary.
"No, I don't actually want to go through with it. But I thought it would be better. Safer. Smarter?" I sigh. "Now it just feels… cheap. And depressing."
"I know," he agrees. "It shouldn't be like this. So, maybe this can just be our first, uh… step. Toward… trust. I guess."
The way we're tiptoeing around this. We're hesitant to speak openly, but both push through to try to stay honest and say what we mean. Even if we're still slightly holding back, I take comfort in knowing there's truth behind every deliberate word.
"Trust," I echo, my voice so, so soft. It almost floats away from us.
"I don't want or need a paternity test ever," he reiterates, staring down at me. "Do you believe me when I say that?"
"Yes," I whisper, the urge to hug him strong, but we stay apart. "Thank you."
He laughs humorlessly. "You thanking me for not getting a paternity test is in the same vein as you thanking me for buying one. It feels shitty, Bella."
"It's fine. I'm not mad about your initial reaction or the fact that you suggested that, okay?" I mumble, moving closer, my fingers brushing his stomach, tentative and daring.
My small touch urges him on, and he reaches for me, his fingers curling around the back of my neck and pulling me to him so we can hug.
My arms wrap around his torso, clutching him as close as I can with my camera between us. My cheek presses against his chest so I can inhale him. I'm not even discreet about it.
With his arms caged around me, he squeezes me.
"I'm sorry," he breathes out, his chin on my head.
"I'm sorry, too."
We stay like that, wrapped in a hug for another beat before some people and their leashed dogs join us.
It feels reluctant for both of us when we break apart. Instead of moving away entirely, he stares down at me, still close.
"Can I…" he starts to ask, and I already know what he wants. Because I want it, too.
"Yeah," I whisper.
His palm covers my stomach, gently caressing the slight roundness of my belly.
His eyes don't leave my stomach, but my eyes never leave his face. There's wonder in his expression. Awe. His gaze meets mine, light and soft and excited.
"Our baby is in there," he murmurs.
"I know."
"I thought your stomach would feel harder, but it doesn't," he says with a small smile.
"Yeah, me too. Everything has been different than I thought it would be."
I meant pregnancy in general, but catch the double meaning—this isn't the way we imagined our lives would be at this moment.
He uses both hands then, running them over the roundness as if he won't have another opportunity to do this.
The realization that this is the first time he's touched my stomach while pregnant overwhelms me. Even if this moment feels healing and heart happy, everything else feels slightly tinged with bittersweet regret.
I want to do something to memorize this moment, this core memory.
I want to tip my chin up and kiss him.
Murmur how much I love him.
I want to hug him again, but with my arms linked around the back of his neck so I can tangle my fingers in the soft hair grazing his hood and tell him, mine.
Mine.
Instead of indulging in what I want, I hesitate and start small. While he's still touching my stomach, I cover one of his hands with my own.
He pulls away, abruptly ending the moment like he's been shocked back to reality.
It hurts, but I shake off the sting of rejection, grateful I chose to merely touch his hand over my other options.
What I want might not be what he needs right now and I need to accept that.
"Thanks," he says, too cordial for how intimate things just felt between us. "Should we head back down or what?"
"Do you have some time to stick around?" I ask quietly, needing some space before we're trapped in the car again. "I wanted to stay and get some shots of the view since it's still early and the trail isn't too crowded yet. But if you need to go we can."
"Do your thing," he says, squinting out toward the glowing sunrise, pulling his hood up over his head and shoving his hands in the pockets of his navy Seahawks sweatshirt.
So, I do my thing, snapping shots of the pink and red sky. The smog and early morning fog serve like natural filters. Some parts of the scenery are light and gold, but on the other side of the mountain, parts are shadowed and untouched by the sun.
More early risers begin to show up on the trail, and that's our cue to go.
I look at Edward.
His hood is still up and he's staring out into the distance, his presence calm. Serene.
I want to memorize the moment. Freeze it in time.
I want access to his mind, to know exactly what he's thinking and feeling and wanting and more importantly, needing.
But I can be patient.
Instead of pushing, I snap a photo of him.
He must hear the shutter because he looks at me, right at the camera.
I take another.
He offers a half-smile, almost embarrassed, sliding his hood back and revealing a mess of hair.
I take another photo just before he speaks, his mouth pursed, eyes curious.
"What are you doing?" he asks, his voice low and taunting.
"I don't have any recent photos of you," I say simply. "And I wanted one."
He stares at me for what feels like a very long time. But it has to be only seconds.
That hardened, probing gaze somehow feels new yet nostalgic.
"You seem different," he murmurs.
"Different how?"
He shrugs. "I don't know yet."
The word yet sparks hope.
"Yet," I echo.
The glint in his eyes is curious and cautious but also considerate. And maybe the slightest bit captivated.
"We should head out," he says, and then he leads us down the mountain, offering me his hand again, not bothering to let go until we make it to the car.