A/N: Be careful reading this chapter in public.

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Scheduled for Friday
by Anton M.

65: Our Time

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Monday, February 27 (cont.)

Monday morning brought a surreal new reality.

Edward went to school, and I didn't join him.

Emmett and Travis thought it too big of a security risk for me to continue attending Willie W. Smith (at least for the time being), and, given the events of the weekend, my parents didn't dare to go against them. Neither did I. Peter's dad hadn't been caught yet, so one of my bodyguards was staying over, providing us with 24/7 security, but paying for that was outrageously expensive and we all prayed that Peter's dad would've been caught so that we (I) wouldn't go broke paying for round the clock security.

My parents would've rather chewed their arms off than asked Garrett to cover anything. They were already paying for groceries, (second-hand) furniture, Edward's medical bills, and everything for Riley. If on-premise security didn't have inhumane cost tied to it, they would've covered that, too. I kept telling them to use my money but my parents were the stubborn, prideful sort.

Kind of like this guy I knew.

The studio stopped paying for Emmett the moment Victoria and Peter's dad were caught (the first time), and while I saw mind-boggling numbers in my bank accounts, my financial advisor told us that we'd have to dip into the money locked in investments within two weeks if we wanted to keep round the clock security. It was sobering to find out that, even among A-list actors, 24/7 security was rare. I definitely felt Billie Eilish's words when she said that, as a teenager, she had the level of fame that required security but no money to pay for it. I did have money to pay for it (for now), and while I couldn't complain, we'd empty my coffers in less than two years if we kept this up—and Emmett and Travis weren't even military veterans (the usual background for security detail).

Dad took the discussion to Tanya and the studio to get them to pay for my security at least until Peter's dad was caught.

In the absence of a new personal tutor who wasn't Mrs. Haisley—she was booked by the studios and I needed to be home-schooled full-time—I received all the assignments from her and spent the day studying in the kitchen while mom worked. Dad handled Riley's drop-offs and pick-ups between arranging for deliveries.

Emmett sat by his laptop on our new (but old) red couch the moment it arrived. My precious cat, whom I'd sadly neglected, definitely felt my need to cuddle him because Jake arrogantly ignored me and sat by Emmett, looking like he owned the place.

Traitor.

It was a new dynamic, alien for all of us and yet too reminiscent of covid-times to feel comfortable or exciting, but we did our best.

Edward left his signed NDAs on the kitchen island, and I read and signed my new contract during lunch.

After we arrived home last night, Garrett, LaTonya, Emmett and my parents had a long discussion about how to handle my kidnapping in the media. Paparazzi had photos of the aftermath, so saying nothing might've made everything worse, but how much were we supposed to reveal? Garrett wanted to tell the whole story, to boast about how I'd escaped on my own (after fucking up so colossally) while Emmett reminded everyone that Peter's dad hadn't even been caught yet. Announcing to the world that my magic necklace had saved me would've been a bad move even if Edward deserved all the credit for building it.

We settled on a scrapped version of the truth: I was kidnapped for ransom in the trunk of a car (no mention of Edward's relations), I got out of my handcuffs, escaped on Edward's bike, and drove to a (closed) police station where the paparazzi caught on to the situation.

LaTonya took a photo of me curled up on a stool with my stitches visible and my hand reaching out of the photo, holding Edward's (he didn't want to be in the shot), and that's how my very first post on Instagram, after gaining a record 67 million followers in a single weekend, was about having been kidnapped.

The story took the internet by storm. Late night show hosts and wild speculation gave my escape such a flair I would've began to question reality had I not been there. Memes were made of me, with lots of hilarious comparisons to MacGyver and mentions of how casually I'd walked around with a gaping wound in my shin, but my favorite was a meme combining a paparazzi shot of Edward holding my neck (and eyeing me with the cutest concerned affection) and a skeleton of a person waiting for true love. The comments were wild, with, 'My pet ferret once looked at me with that kind of devotion,' 'I'd disintegrate into ash if a man ever looked at me that way 333,' and, 'A drugged, beat-up 18-year-old looks like the world ends and begins with his girlfriend and I can't get my husband to empty the dishwasher once.'

It was unreal and funny as hell and I adored the fact that Edward was seen in such a positive light.

But that joy only lasted for half a day before Edward's dad's and aunt's involvement in my kidnapping was plastered all over the news (so much for trying to keep it from the world). My stomach twisted as I saw casual comments calling Edward a white trash drug addict who'd been involved in my kidnapping. It was wild. Some of the internet defended him, pointing out his (many) academic achievements, his traumatic past, and the unlikeliness of the claim, but my heart ached at the absurd rumors.

'I'm sorry about what they're writing 3,' I texted Edward after lunch.

'It's fine.'

'No, it's not. It's unfair and it sucks and I'm sorry. Can I do anything?'

'Don't worry about it, Bella. It's nothing I didn't expect.'

I couldn't decide what hurt more, Edward expecting to be treated this way, him calling me by my name in the middle of a message, or his dismissal of my concern.

An otherworldly haze fell on the week.

Peter's dad was caught on late Monday evening when he had to seek medical help from a clinic for testicular torsion (news that allowed us to send Travis home for the night). Dad—even though he'd experienced the same injury with a different cause—was so proud of my self-defense he ordered us cake for dessert, but I couldn't quite enjoy it in Edward's absence.

I felt like dad, too, forced his cheer. Edward didn't return to have dinner or sleep at our place on Monday.

I was worried. In light of internet chaos regarding his trailer park origins, drug-addict abductor relatives and wild speculation about his own drug-use (what the hell), I wanted to hug him tight and never let go.

I missed him. I missed talking to him, making out with him, hearing his thoughts about his future, his jokes and voice and laughter… I just really missed being beside him. Wanting to make sure he was okay, I texted him.

Edward was preparing to go to sleep early after so many sleepless nights, but the distance between us made me feel uneasy, so I asked Jasper to check up on him. To his ever-loving credit, Jasper drove to Sunrise Forest trailer park and confirmed that Edward was alone and grumpy and wanted to sleep. It wasn't exactly what I wanted to hear, but it was better than imagining him being harassed by paparazzi on his front lawn.

But nobody was there. Either they didn't know where Edward lived or he wasn't on their radar to hound directly. Jasper thought it was both but more of the former given that Edward had always used a P.O. Box for his mail. Edward made sure to lose his paparazzi tail whenever he moved between our homes.

I gave him space, just like he wanted, but I hated it. I hated not knowing where we stood. I hated being unable to support him.

My heart was too full of fear to sleep well, but nothing could've prepared me for Tuesday, anyway.

I arrived at Alec's Studio bright and early with Emmett and dad. I hadn't thought much of my attire, wearing a leather skirt under one of Edward's chess hoodies (because he left it and I missed him and he wasn't there to stop me), but it was absolute mayhem in front of the studio.

Not just paparazzi, fans.

Hundreds of fans, maybe half a thousand, screaming my name, crying at the sight of me, banging their fists against Emmett's truck and stretching their arms out for autographs. They'd stopped traffic. I froze, totally unprepared for the onslaught, but Emmett guided us through the throng, making evil faces at the pushiest people and apologizing on my behalf when I only gave half a dozen autographs. I would've loved to have given more but I was scared of the sheer uncontrolled number of them.

It was absolute insanity. I could not comprehend it.

I breathed a sigh of relief when the door closed behind us. Mike tore his eyes from scrolling on his phone and chuckled at my expression.

"It'll get easier."

I narrowed my eyes. "Tell me more about how I'm just a vessel to their image of me."

Mike laughed before he saw that I was actually quite shaken by the events of the week. Between recordings and studying with Mrs. Haisley, Mike told me about his own teenage years of increasing fame, how insulated he'd felt from friends after his show took off, and how he didn't trust people not to use him for his fame or name. It felt like an eerie forecast of my future (although I dearly hoped it wasn't), but I loved the fact that I'd gotten past his work persona. His private personality was just as whiny, but he had insight and support and friendship to offer, and I had no intention of turning it down. In fact, I felt comfortable enough to give Mike (deserved) shit for asking Edward to follow him around for research.

Mike had kept an impressive measure of common sense given his devoted fanbase, but, sometimes, he was too far removed from the average person to understand the things you couldn't buy with money, and the people whose pride wouldn't allow them to be a zoo animal for a paycheck.

Dad and Garrett shared a few polite words when Garrett arrived. From the things my parents had left unsaid, I understood that they'd had a passionate disagreement with Garrett regarding their parenting of me, but I was too up in my parents' business all the damn time, so, for once, I kept my nose out of it. It would've been nice if they warmed up to each other in the future but the effort they made for my sake had to be enough for now.

I wasn't at the studio to record any of my other voices but Garrett was interested in hearing them, and he gave me such a standing, cheering ovation for switching between aswangs, abunyips, and a mountain dragon that Mike and dad had no other choice but to join in. I hid my grin behind the fingernail I chewed on.

"I can't tell you how impressed I am," Garrett gushed the moment I'd joined them in the control room. "Have you had a voiceover coach?"

"No," I replied, unable to hide my pride.

"You need one." He squeezed my shoulder when my smile faded. "They might help you achieve the same result without hurting your throat, or at least not as much."

It was then that I realized how much of my parents' pride I carried with me.

I always thought of pride as an annoying crutch mom and dad refused to let go of, but I had it, too. So much of it.

Because Garrett's comment hurt me. I was proud of doing what I did with no professional training. I'd always been afraid of losing my authenticity as I became more well-known, but wasn't it its own type of stupidity to think of yourself as above professional training?

And I definitely took pride in being above professional training, with my acting, my voice acting, and even my PR.

I felt like I'd moved mountains when I'd amazed Garrett with my (natural) PR skills, but, seeing the sheer amount of attention I had to (learn to) handle, mentally and physically, I had to stop thinking of PR as temporary, which I had. My PR team was here to stay. LaTonya was here to stay, and I did need media training. Learning tips on how to handle interviews, fan encounters, and especially the tricky ones, didn't make me inauthentic, did it? Getting trained felt like cheating.

How had I been so blind to this? I had wanted to be that child prodigy who magically knew it all and didn't need training for anything. I'd been so desperate to prove myself on set around adults, to never complain (like Mike did), to be a natural at acting and PR and everything else so that Tanya would not only not regret hiring me but would applaud my talent and good behavior.

Noticing my mood change, Garrett reassured me that giving me a coach would've been like polishing a diamond, and it was a charming, flattering comparison, but I still felt like a failure. It made no sense, but I did. Maybe I needed time to adjust to the thought.

Seeing my reaction, dad got protective and argued against the need for a voiceover coach. I was grateful for his care, and told him as much, but I swallowed my pride and asked Garrett if he knew anyone. He lit up like a Christmas tree and left to make calls while I did damage control to dad's wounded pride. It wasn't about me choosing Garrett over him, it was about learning to accept that, sometimes, I did not know best, and neither did he.

Dear God, were we the most prideful group of humans who'd ever lived?

…

Police attempted to control the near-thousand fans who'd shown up near the studio on Wednesday. I plastered a winning smile on my face for the fans and spoke to as many as I could before I had to rush in to avoid being late.

The crying and gasping and screaming continued to blow my mind.

It was our last day of (re)shooting. I'd heard those words before on multiple occasions, but this time, Tanya was so sure that she'd shaved off the other side of her hair. I envied the wicked confidence the change brought out in her but mostly kept to myself during the day. Mike sat by me in silence, subduing his happiness (his girlfriend had flown over on the previous night), asking nothing, but somehow, he knew that my anxiety-ridden mood was because of Edward. His eyes told me as much, but he didn't pry and I was afraid I'd burst into tears if I had to reveal my fears on set.

Mom cast me worried glances every once in a while, but I buried my nose in schoolwork.

During one break, I returned from the bathroom to finish a few math problems to find Emmett, the man who was struck mute around our producer, passionately arguing with her. Without a tic.

I sat down, making eye contact with mom while definitely not eavesdropping. Oh, no. Eavesdropping? Me? Not even once.

"I missed the part where your opinion matters!" Rose hissed under her breath. "You think I'm going under a scalpel for the fun of it?!"

"My experience around celebrities proves that that's exactly what most of them do," Emmett said with a nervous energy under his voice.

"Fuck you."

A pause.

"Gladly," Emmett replied. I could just feel the smile in his head, but it didn't emerge in his voice. "I am not saying this because, because—"

"Because women with big tits owe it to men to keep them that way?!"

"No," Emmett said quietly, sounding mortified. "I don't— I mean, whatever you wish to do is fine, obviously. But you're terrified of needles and knives and doctors, and I'm offering you… an alternative."

"I tried exercising. It did a grand total of jack-shit to my back pain."

Emmett paused, and I was so proud of how his voice hadn't wavered once. "I have a… friend. He specializes in— strength training but especially in core strength training."

"I'm not playing Arnold in The Terminator, thank you very much."

A quiet but sharp snicker-like gasping followed, and I realized I'd never heard Emmett laugh before. Oh my God. Emmett was laughing.

The world was officially changing.

"That is a common misconception," Emmett said, with clear joy in his voice. "It will not happen. Core strength training will not bulk you up, nor will it give you the Hollywood aesthetics. But you would gain strength, real strength, and at least you could go under the scalpel knowing you'd tried everything."

Rose's quiet answer didn't reach me, but when we drove to LaTonya's media training in the evening, Emmett could barely stop himself from squeeing if his expression was anything to go by.

Well, at least someone was getting to hang out with their crush.

…

The knot in my stomach tightened every night Edward stayed away. He came to spend time with Riley on Wednesday evening but left before I returned, and his absence chopped off tiny pieces of my heart each day. He was polite but aloof when I texted or called him (yes, really).

The way he was distancing himself haunted me.

I slept poorly. Jake returned to snuggle against me at night, but he was no substitute for my adorable pierced boyfriend.

Or maybe Mr. Bahati, too, missed his favorite human to lick.

Edward's father was given bail. Even worse, one of his friends paid it, which meant that Carl was effectively out of jail on Thursday evening.

My parents were terrified.

Garrett was furious.

The internet was outraged.

But nothing could be done after the fact. Insane as it felt to us, it was Edward's father's first offense. My testimony showed that he had not caused physical harm to me (he had not even touched me), and two of his neighbors had heard Carl furiously demanding to see his son and saying, "Don't do this," and "I will not be a part of this," over and over again. (The neighbors had witnessed enough of Edward's dad's antics and delirium not to think much of it until the police knocked on their door.) Had Victoria and Peter's dad drugged Edward's dad after the fact? It would've been effortless to lure Carl with meth. I'd seen how confused and delirious he was when high.

Had my two kidnappers taken Carl to the second location to avoid Edward's dad speaking to anyone about his concern for his son's location (if he had his lucid moments)? What had been their plan, after getting ransom? Certainly they'd intended to leave the country given that they hadn't even bothered to wear masks, but I would've recognized Victoria by her voice, too.

The whole thing was just stupid.

Peter's dad and Victoria had vehemently pushed all the culpability on Edward's dad, so much so that their testimony might've been the very thing that persuaded the judge to give bail to Carl. The two had every incentive to lie and their words contradicted the witness testimony of two impartial neighbors. Edward had no recollection of events, there was no proof of Carl having done anything wrong outside of not stopping my kidnapping, and thus, mind-blowingly, Edward's dad was released on bail with a GPS tracker.

Forums were swimming with speculation: considering that bail was denied for Victoria and Peter's dad, why was it given to a meth addict? Did someone bribe the judge? Did Carl make a deal to go to rehab? Did he show himself at his most lucid when Victoria and Peter's dad had passionately put the blame on him? The decision baffled the public, but some corners of the internet also pointed out a simpler reason for the bail: if not enough evidence proved guilt, the man was not (considered) a flight risk or a repeat offender, didn't the concept of bail exist because one was supposed to be innocent until proven guilty?

Regardless, his release scared us. We were not worried that he'd make another attempt at kidnapping me (I seriously doubted it), but he was unpredictable, and Edward was home. What if Carl went there?

Dad called Edward and spoke to him for most of the evening. Carl hadn't returned home (yet) but Edward was unconcerned with the exception of making my dad promise I wouldn't leave home without an escort.

His worry felt bittersweet.

If he cared so much, why not return home and see me with his own eyes?

He didn't. Neither dad nor I could convince him, and his reluctance to speak his mind gnawed at my heart.

Friday would've convinced me that my life was back to normal had the driveway behind our gates not been swarming with paparazzi and had my social media not been blowing up. Dad stayed home with Riley because my poor little brother had a sore throat. Travis accompanied me while I studied, and mom was, normally enough, at a live translation event for the day.

Showering after schoolwork (because I'd neglected my hair for too long), I brainstormed all the ways I could make Edward open up to me, where we could meet and how I could help him, and I was so lost in thought that my heart skipped a beat when I opened the bathroom door and saw him, here, in my bedroom.

Edward had his back to me as he chewed on gum and stared outside the window. His hands were hidden in his pockets. His posture was stiff. A cold premonition choked my insides as I knocked on my bathroom doorway, drawing his attention.

Our eyes locked, and I knew.

I knew.

He came to say goodbye.

Breathing hard, in a haze, I sat on the edge of my bed, not daring to draw my eyes from his, willing him to deny me. He blew his gum in the bin and pressed his lips in a thin line, his face scary calm but eyes full of emotion. God, I'd missed him.

His eyes traveled over my stripy bath towel. The heated familiarity in his gaze gave me goosebumps, but so did the distance in his expression.

"No," I said, refusing to hear it.

Edward walked closer to me and crouched, taking my hands. I could barely see him through the shimmer in my eyes.

"No." I swallowed the heat in my throat. "It wasn't your fault, baby. It wasn't. You know it wasn't. Ask anyone."

Edward kissed my knuckles, lingering, keeping his lips against them.

"Feather-heart," he whispered, voice hoarse.

"No," I repeated, as if saying it more would make him change his mind. I gulped and blinked rapidly to get a clearer image of him, to memorize the silver barbell on his eyebrow and the lips that transformed his eyes from intimidating to kind in a heartbeat.

"It wasn't your fault," I choked out, taking a shaky breath.

"I know," Edward replied in a gruff voice. "I know, baby."

"But why then?" I asked, voice pitched so high I had to clear my throat. "Why? Would it have been different if I'd told you about the, the series sooner? If your relatives hadn't been involved?"

Saying nothing, he shook his head, and I held my lips tightly together not to sob. Edward pressed another kiss against my hand, and his warm, unsteady breaths made my tears spill over.

"It's not our time, baby," he whispered in the lowest, gruffest voice. "It's not our time. You are… you're a star. People cry at the sight of you. You have the entire world at your fingertips."

"So do you!"

I didn't like how he kept shaking his head.

"Not in the same way. Our worlds, they don't fit, baby. You know they don't."

"I don't care. I'll make them fit!"

Edward's sigh was broken, and he had to clear his throat twice before he spoke, voice low and calm and heart-breakingly clear. "That's not how it works. I don't want this, this—public life, where everyone analyses how you walk and talk and think and breathe. I'm not cut out for it. But you, you're rich and famous and so talented the world doesn't know what to do with you. You fit in that world."

My face crumpled as I suppressed a silent sob. I could've fought his feeling of betrayal had he felt that I should've told him about my project sooner. I could've fought some stupid misunderstanding, like in a chick-flick where the main love interest ran before the girl could explain that she was hugging her cousin. I could've split my money with him, put him through college, anything.

But how did one fight 'I don't want to be a part of the life you live'?

Break-ups were supposed to happen only if someone was wrong or abusive, with shouting and blame, not when the loveliest, best boyfriend in the world didn't want to live the kind of life you'd signed up for.

And I couldn't do a thing about that. I couldn't turn back time. I couldn't move to a dungeon.

"What if— would it," I stuttered through questions, taking a trembling breath. "Is there anything," I swallowed, "anything I can do to change your mind?"

Edward's face swam in my vision as I waited, and the smallest shake of his head ripped my heart to pieces. I shut my eyes tight, allowing my tears to fall, feeling my face twist with the sobs I didn't want to give voice to.

Crushing his hand against my chest, I nodded and rubbed my wrist against my cheek.

"Okay," I whispered, voice breathy, not knowing how not to break apart in front of him. I swallowed half a dozen times to be able to talk. A few shuddering breaths later, I kissed his knuckles one last time.

"I'll make my dad, my dad send you my schedule so that, so that you can come visit Riley when I'm on set."

Heart shattering, I squeezed his hand and let it fall. One last time.

"Thank you," Edward whispered in a voice so rough I wanted to fall into his arms and beg him not to leave. I pressed my blanket against my eyes, willing my tears to subside as I wanted to memorize every hair on his head, every birthmark on his skin, every pore on his face.

Face twisting, Edward licked his lips and stared at my feet. He attempted a smile but failed to produce it.

"You're going to meet some ripped actor who's a total sweetheart and fall head over heels in love with him. You'll be so grateful I won't be holding you back."

"Never," I sobbed. "You'd never hold me back. Never, never. Never."

"You will," he insisted, eyes shimmering, tears in his throat. "You'll see."

I shook my head, knowing that, with how insulated my life was going to be, it was much more likely that he'd meet some gorgeous brainiac in college instead and forget all about me.

The thought broke my heart all over.

"I don't want some ripped actor." I curled my legs under myself and took shaky breaths. "I want you."

"No you don't," he replied, voice crystal clear and so quiet. "You'll see."

"You don't get to tell me what I do and don't want! You don't get to decide that!"

My shout echoed in the room.

Our gazes held in silence, and I knew.

It didn't matter. I could've fought him all day but if he didn't want to be in my life, I couldn't force him. Whether or not he fit in my world was not the point.

He didn't think I was worth the hassle.

I shut my eyes, face crumpling with my sobs.

"You can keep talking to my parents if you want," I whispered through my tears. "They'll help you."

"Bella—"

"I won't be nosy. I won't, won't—take advantage. Please. They'd like that."

I pressed my fist against my mouth, blinking back the tears that wouldn't stop as I heard Edward get up and gather his bags.

He'd packed during my shower.

I didn't tell him that one of his hoodies was in the wash. I wanted to keep it as proof that, once upon a time, he'd been real. Once upon a time, he'd loved me.

I wondered if he'd fight me on keeping it if I did tell him.

"Feather-heart."

"Don't." I desperately wanted to give him one last hug but knew how pathetically I'd plead with him not to leave me if I allowed myself. I'd tell him how much I loved him, how much I'd miss him, how much I needed him to want me, too, hassle or not.

I broke out in a new wave of sobs when he kissed the top of my head.

He opened the door, and I could feel him linger, looking back, even as I cried.

"I'm sorry," he said in a voice that had no right to be as hoarse as it was. I wanted to tell him to go fuck himself for not having faith in us.

"I know," I whispered instead. His body swam in my vision on the doorway before he threw his backpack on his shoulder and walked downstairs. One last time.

…