Apologies for the delay! I'll try to be better about updating next week in a timely manner lol thanks for being here - appreciate you all! :3 I've been thinking about reposting and continuing my xmas story Afterglow... gulp.
49
- fever dream -
Bella
The day before my ultrasound appointment, Rosalie and Em come over to help empty the spare room.
There isn't much to do, but Em moves the computer and desk into the dining area, then puts the secondhand dresser that holds camera gear into the walk-in closet of my bedroom.
I make lasagna after that, and it feels good to have the company of new friends. To have a couple of hours to distract myself from the loneliness that usually accompanies me at night.
After they leave, I move through the house, locking up and turning off lights.
When I get to the spare room, my hand pauses on the light switch. If I hadn't talked to Esme a couple of days ago, seeing the empty room and not having Edward here would make me incredibly sad. But our conversation afforded me a newfound patience and the desire and confidence to fight for what I want, which is my husband and my family. Instead of just an empty room, I see the potential for so much happiness. And I see it all with Edward.
I delay showering and getting ready for bed, and instead curl up in Edward's chair with a blanket and watch The Family Stone, yearning more than ever for a Christmas with the Cullens again.
Halfway through the movie, I decide to text him. Nothing that holds pressure, just a gentle reminder I'm waiting.
Bella: I know you still need time because if you didn't, you would have reached out by now. Please know whenever you're ready to talk, I am, too. I can't wait to see our baby tomorrow.
Less than a minute after I send it, he replies.
Edward: I love you.
It's all he says and it's all I need for now.
I don't stay awake long after that, falling asleep in the chair. When I wake up sometime later, I'm disoriented and drowsy and my body aches from not being able to stretch out.
I'm about to get up and move to my room when I feel it.
Just a flip.
A flutter.
At first, I assume I didn't eat enough dinner. Like my stomach is panging with hunger.
But then I feel it again—the distinct, gentle movement of my baby moving inside of me.
Startled, I fully sit up and cover my stomach with my hand, trying to feel the movement. But as quickly as it appeared, it's gone.
I want to laugh and cry but I just sit here with tears in my eyes and my hand on my belly, whispering, "Hi, baby. Hi."
The sensation in my stomach is gone but the ache in my chest is still present. It's somehow full and empty all at once.
Hating that I'm alone, I grab my phone, eager to share this moment with Edward.
I text again instead of calling because it's close to ten and I'm not sure what he's doing.
Bella: Are you awake?
Seconds later, he calls.
"I'm awake," he says. "I'm actually outside."
"What? How?"
Confusion hits me hard and I stand, peering out the large front window and spotting his SUV parked outside by the curb.
I immediately move toward the front door and open it.
"Will you come inside?" I ask over the line but watch him through his windshield, locking eyes with him. "Please?"
After a beat, the call ends and he walks up my sidewalk until he's standing near the bottom step.
We stare.
He's in a white button-down and navy slacks. He must have stopped by on his way home from the studio.
I try not to think about the last time he was here or the toxic moments we spent on this very porch.
We don't say hi.
We don't hug.
I just open my front door wider, and he wordlessly walks in.
"Am I dreaming?" I ask him, and he cracks a smile. "I fell asleep in your chair and suddenly you're here."
"Would it be a dream if I showed up here or a nightmare?"
"Please don't. That's not a funny joke and you already know the answer to that. I'm happy you're here, okay?"
He just nods but says nothing else.
I toss my phone on the couch and then pull the sleeves of my sweatshirt down over my hands.
"I texted you because I felt the baby move for the first time and I was just… wishing you were here for it," I tell him.
A flash of regret passes over his handsome, tired face. "What did it feel like?"
"I don't know. Like… the weirdest, coolest rolling flutter sensation."
His expression smooths out just a bit. "Will you let me know when it happens again?"
"Of course, I will," I promise. "Do you want to sit?"
He shrugs, glancing around. "No Christmas tree?"
"I don't know. Doesn't feel like a time to celebrate. Not yet anyway."
In the corner of the dining room, he spots the computer desk that wasn't there before tonight.
"Please don't tell me you were moving furniture by yourself," he says, looking concerned.
"I didn't. Em moved some stuff out of the spare room earlier tonight, so you and I can start setting up the nursery eventually."
"Em?" Edward echoes, his expression darkening. It feels protective and slightly jealous.
"Rosalie's husband."
The clarification doesn't help because he says, "You're on a nickname basis with the Broncos' tight end now?"
I know he doesn't mean for it to come out patronizing, but I'm slightly defensive of my friendship with Rosalie and Em.
"He's not an NFL star to me," I insist. "He's my friend's husband and a genuine guy."
"I'm sure he is," Edward says, gruffly but not rudely. After a small pause, he adds, "I've always heard good things about him. I didn't mean to sound like an ass. I'm glad you have them as friends. I know I've been taking space, but I want to be the one to do that stuff for you. For us. So don't let him do anything else, please?"
"Okay." I nod in understanding, my heart squeezing with warmth and affection. "So, how long have you been sitting outside my house?"
"A while," he says, and I give him a look, needing a real answer. "Like, half an hour."
"If I hadn't texted, were you going to let me know you were here at all?"
"I don't know," he says honestly. "I wanted to talk, but then I got in my head about it. And then I couldn't make myself leave, so… yeah. I can go if you want."
It's the last thing I want, but I can tell Edward's not here to talk.
He's not here to pick up where we left off in couples therapy.
He's not here to talk about us at all. Not yet, anyway.
It will strictly be the topics we entertain the most: baby, weather, work.
"I don't want you to go," I say, achingly true. "Maybe you can make some food with me? I fell asleep in your chair and woke up hungry."
With a solemn, accepting nod, he follows me into the kitchen and we work seamlessly around each other to make breakfast at ten p.m.
He fries bacon and scrambles eggs.
I make toast and pour orange juice.
My part in this is less involved so I sit on the bar stool and watch him cook while the sizzling of pork fills my kitchen with its savory aroma.
"Do you like that it's warmer here than back home?" I wonder, staring at his profile. "They're expecting snow soon in Seattle."
"It's different," he hums. "Snow makes everything worse anyway."
I think back on the past and stifle a laugh.
"What's so funny over there?" he asks, tossing a casual glance my way.
"Just thinking about when we got snowed in at Leavenworth the first winter after we got married."
Our past accompanies the silence.
It was a frenzied weekend of heat and sweat despite the frozen temperature outside.
The snow made us slow down. Cancel plans. Extend our stay in the Bavarian village three hours outside of Seattle.
"That was…" Edward clears his throat, flipping the bacon one last time, letting the crackle and pop fill his lull. "A good fucking week."
"Yeah." My brain is mush, thinking about us shacked up in the cabin, hardly leaving the king-sized bed. "I guess that was a case of snow not making everything worse."
"Touché." I watch the corner of his mouth tug upward a little. "Also, that wasn't the winter after we got married. That was two years after," he corrects. "Our first winter we didn't travel anywhere since we'd just moved into our house."
"That's right," I muse, cherishing how he remembers. I'm curious what we'll do with our house now that the tenants have moved out. "Have you thought about what we'll do with the house?"
"Not tonight," he whispers. "Please."
He doesn't say it dismissively, but desperately.
"Okay. Not tonight."
"I'm…" He pauses, still staring down at the skillet before he looks over at me, his face intense and fierce. "Over the last week, I've talked to my therapist twice, okay? I promise I'm not just sitting around, ignoring you and purposely avoiding our shit. I'm trying to make it make sense, and figure out where I went wrong and failed you, too."
"Failed me?" I echo, heart panging because I wasn't expecting him to feel that way. "You didn't fail me, Edward, and I hate that you think that." He stays quiet, transferring bacon to paper-towel-covered plates. "Do you want to talk about it?"
"Not tonight," he says for a second time, eyes meeting mine. "Can we just... be?"
I nod, wanting to know so much more, but allowing him this.
Shifting gears to keep him talking, I ask, "How's work?"
"It's work. Cecily wants me to work Christmas Day," he says, filling our plates with food.
"Doing what? Playing Santa?" I'm joking but don't feel good saying it because I'm still unsure about her role in his life or her intentions.
His eyes flick to mine. "I'd be covering the Rams game after they play. Doing some interviews."
"It sounds like a good opportunity," I admit, pushing down my initial reaction of fuck Cecily, who gives a shit what she wants you to do. "Do you want to do it?"
"It's not my first choice on how I'd spend the day, but it'd keep me busy."
I think about what Rosalie said, how I should just tell him I want to spend Christmas with him. But now that I know he has a work opportunity up in the air, I want to let him decide on his own what he wants to do since he already gave up one event for me.
I get back to the task at hand and slide off the stool, slathering toast with butter and raspberry jam. We orbit around each other in the kitchen as if this late-night meal is our normal.
With our plates filled, we stand at the counter and eat, even though we have plenty of places to sit.
I fork some cheesy eggs into my mouth.
He holds his plate with one hand and chews on a piece of bacon.
"So. I talked to your mom the other day," I say. "On her birthday."
"I know. She told me." He holds my gaze. "She was really happy you called, so… thank you."
"You don't need to thank me. I got a lot out of our conversation, too. She's just… the best," I say quietly.
"Yeah," he agrees. "She is."
"She told me you passed up on hosting College GameDay to go to that photoshoot with me. Did she tell you that, too?"
He pauses mid-chew. "No. She conveniently left that out."
I can't help but smile. "Thank you for doing that. You didn't have to."
He clears his throat. "I wanted to."
"I know," I murmur. "I miss your mom. Maybe we can call her together after we find out what we're having tomorrow."
"We should. I bet she'd love that."
Our conversation naturally stalls.
I've covered the weather.
And work.
I'm about to ask him about potential baby names when I feel it.
The flutter.
The flip.
Maybe it's from the food or the hour or just a coincidence.
Maybe it's fate.
Maybe this baby is just desperate for its father's attention the way I am, too.
"The baby's moving," I blurt.
His plate is on the counter with a clank and he closes the distance, hands immediately on my belly with zero hesitancy.
"Right here," I tell him, moving one of his palms to where I feel the baby moving the most.
I watch his face and love the excitement and eagerness that take over while he waits.
"I can't feel anything," he mumbles after a few seconds.
"No?" I add more pressure to his hand.
"Maybe it's too soon to feel the baby from the outside?"
Disappointment sneaks in. "Maybe."
With the moment gone, his hands leave my stomach, taking the magic and comfort with his touch.
"I'm sorry for just showing up out of the blue," he murmurs like he's suddenly self-conscious for being here at all.
"What? Why? Don't be sorry for that. I've been waiting for you."
"I just wanted to make sure you were okay after everything."
"By lingering outside of my house and not telling me you were here," I say with a faint smile. "Calls and texts work. Letters are a little outdated, and so are faxes, but I would've accepted those, too."
The corner of his mouth tugs a little. "You have a fax machine," he deadpans, disbelieving.
"I don't, but for the sake of this scenario, I could."
"I'm not good with words," he mumbles. "You know that, Bella. It's why I've been trying to get my thoughts in order."
"Words can be good," I muse. "But I can try being okay without words for now. You being here is enough."
His gaze softens and maybe he gets what I'm saying—his actions are speaking louder than he ever could. With a low exhale, he breathes a rumble of acceptance.
"Let me clean up," he offers. "You can get ready for bed."
"I can help."
"Don't," he insists, moving toward the sink and turning on the water. "I got it."
I could protest but it's no use. I'm tired and he's willing.
I start to leave, then pause in the doorway to watch him. He cleans up my kitchen. Like it's his. Ours.
Without a second thought, I move closer and hug him from behind, resting my cheek against his back. He doesn't tense from my sudden affection but relaxes into it.
"Thank you," I murmur, hugging him once more before disappearing.
I shower too quickly so I don't miss any more moments with him, then change into pajamas—one of his faded college T-shirts and a pair of soft sleep shorts that are stretchy and fit over my slightly swollen stomach.
When I exit the bathroom, I find him in my dark bedroom, sitting on the edge of my mattress.
This night is more intimate than we've had in a while, but not in an outright romantic way. It's been intimate in its normalcy. It's domestication.
This night is a fever dream.
A glimpse of what could be.
Cooking and cleaning and connecting.
I want this again.
Every day, every night.
I'll be patient.
"I'm glad you came over," I say softly as I sit next to him.
His voice is barely a whisper. "Me too."
"I guess what I'm saying is thanks for stalking me," I can't help but add.
He groans but it turns into a deep, throaty laugh. The sound is my favorite and so is the way it makes me feel—like an electric spark is warming me from the inside out.
With an affectionate squeeze of my shoulder, he lets his hand linger there.
I lean into his touch, and he doesn't shy away.
"Please get some sleep," he begs, pulling back my blankets and unmaking part of my bed. "It's late. I'll lock the door on my way out."
It's tempting, and I love being taken care of by him, so I do what he says.
He stands to let me climb under the blanket.
"You don't have to go," I offer softly.
I swear his eyes blaze, even in the darkness. "Yeah, I do."
"Can't we just talk a little longer?" I ask, and I get the sense he's nervous. "Not about anything in particular. Just, whatever."
He hesitates, then says, "Okay."
My eyes track him as he walks around the other side of the bed as if he's gonna change his mind and make a run for it. He doesn't, though. He sits on the mattress, takes off his dress shoes, and then lies on top of the covers.
I shift slightly to lie on my side, getting comfortable as I face him.
We stare at each other, the darkness and silence enveloping us.
"What are you thinking about?" I ask, yawning.
"Honestly? The last time I was here. How I woke up alone to divorce papers on your pillow."
I hide my face with my hands. "Ouch," I say, voice muffled. I'm so embarrassed and ashamed of myself. Of the people we were months ago.
"Don't," he insists, gently pulling my hands away, his face earnest and open. "I know we still have a lot to address, and it's not going to happen tonight but… there's one thing that I can't stop wondering about, and I think I need to ask you about it if that's okay."
I'm nervous but say, "Ask me what?"
"Do you want to get back together just because of the baby?" he asks, his voice low, the rough rawness scraping my heart. "Be honest with me."
"No," I say with as much conviction as I can muster in that one word. "I don't want to just get back together because of the baby."
"You understand how it looks, though, right? How it makes me feel. We didn't have any real contact for months and then you showed up to tell me you're pregnant. And now… all this. It's like whiplash for me."
"I know," I agree. "But I started therapy before I found out I was pregnant. I was trying to get to a good place and… I'm still not there. There are days where my insecurities slip in and I don't feel deserving of any of this. Of you or the baby."
"Don't say that," he says firmly, moving the blanket out of the way so he can grab my hip and give it a gentle squeeze. He leaves his hand there, creating contact between our bodies, relaxing me.
"I'm just trying to say I know the timing looks bad, and if I hadn't gotten pregnant I can't say exactly when I would have felt ready to reach out to you and fight for us. Yes, the baby brought us together sooner than we probably would have. But I want to believe we would've eventually reconnected, with or without the baby. I know once I felt confident enough, I would have tried because my life without you doesn't make sense, Edward."
My words hang in the air, and the slight tension that was crackling between us fades into something softer.
"That's what I've been trying to tell you all along," he whispers.
I try scooting closer to him but it's difficult since he's not under the blanket. "Can you get in here, please?"
He fully gets in bed with me and resumes our position, but our bodies are more flush now and his hand rests on my lower back instead of my hip.
"Before I knew about the baby, I was in a bad fucking place," he murmurs. "I'm slowly getting myself out of it, but… I just…"
"Tell me."
"Maybe it's pointless. It's one of those what-if situations my therapist tries to keep me from entertaining. But sometimes I can't fucking help it," he says with a tortured exhale. "I don't know where my head would have been if you showed up one day all healthy and ready. You know? I feel like I wouldn't have been able to give you what you wanted. And that makes me fucking sad."
"I hate that scenario. It sucks. It's the worst alternate universe," I mutter, petulant to think about us never being together again.
He smiles a little. "Yeah. I need to stop. I know you said you wanted to talk, but… maybe we shouldn't."
"Why?"
"Because clearly, I can't keep from thinking about the past. We can't change what happened, so… what's in my head is better left there for now."
"I love knowing what's in your head. I could spend all night talking to you, but if you'd rather not…" I trail off, and he just stays quiet. "I selfishly don't want you to go yet. So. Please stay?"
"Just close your eyes. I'll leave after you fall asleep," he says carefully.
"And what are you going to do while I try falling asleep? Stare at me like the stalker you are?" I tease.
Another smile tugs at his lips, but he closes his eyes and breaks our contact, moving to lie on his back.
"I'll rest," he says simply.
I watch him for a second to see if he opens his eyes again, but he doesn't.
My eyes fall shut.
I listen to our steady breathing, too aware of him lying right next to me. I want to curl closer to him. I want him to lift his arm and invite me to cuddle, but he doesn't. So I turn onto my other side, facing away from him, keeping myself from the temptation of my husband.
After a few minutes, he scoots closer so his front is to my back, and wraps an arm around my stomach to hold me.
"Is this okay?" he whispers, his mouth brushing my shoulder.
Through the cotton of the shirt, I feel his lips. It's not a kiss, they're just there. Speaking. Existing.
I shiver.
"Yes." I cover his hand with mine. "I think I snore now, so don't laugh." He does, all breathy and amused. "Hey. Rude."
"It's fine," he murmurs, but it sounds like he's smiling. "Just sleep."
I relax with him pressed behind me and eventually doze.
I dream about him. Us. I dream we're having a baby girl, but then one kid turns to five. We buy a house. Live by the water. I think the scenery changes to Greece, but it's vague. What's certain is that it's a beautiful, beautiful life.
I'm woken hours later by him whispering he has to go to work.
"What time is it?" I ask, finding the room is still dark.
"Too early," he says, voice thick with slumber. "Just after five."
"Did you sleep?" I whisper, closing my eyes again.
"Yes. Not well, though. Someone snored all night…"
I sleepily laugh, loving that he stayed.
He tells me to go back to sleep.
That he'll see me later today for my appointment.
And just before he leaves, his lips brush my cheek.