Chapter 6

When I got back in my truck, I was wet. I closed the door, took a deep breath and slid my hand between my thighs, feeling the heat radiating from my desperate center. I barely knew her, but if she'd asked me, I would have laid down for her without hesitation. I felt absolutely unhinged. I drove to Seattle with my windows cracked and my radio up high. The weed was well out of my system, but Ms. Cullen had me feeling a different kind of high.

It took me three and half hours to get to where I was going. She'd given me the business card of a small boutique called Curious & Tea. I'd programmed the address into my phone and was surprised to find out it wasn't far from where I used to bartend. It said Established 1990, but I'd never heard of it. I parked on the street across from a faded red-brick building. When I got out, I stood in front of the shop windows for several moments, enchanted. The theme of the place, as it turned out, was a bohemian fairy garden. There was ivy and lights and mushroom statues covering the window sills. Inside, cottage core artwork decorated the walls, shelves of old books were crammed in every corner, and patrons sat around wildly varying eclectic table tops, sipping tea. It was the absolute perfect place- until I saw the blonde man seated in the corner.

More than likely, if I had turned right away and headed back outside, he may not have ever seen me. But there was no way I planned on returning to Ms. Cullen sans package and so I stood my ground. He lifted his face and he saw me too and I felt like throwing up.

The last thing Edward had said to me on the day we broke up was, "Go to Hell, Bella Swan," and standing there, alone, trapped in his gaze, I felt like I had finally arrived.

But there was no hostility in his expression. Instead, he gave me a polite smile and mouthed, "Hello."

"Hello Edward," I returned, hiding my hands behind my back, as though he could see the scars through the sleeves of my sweater. "I didn't expect to run into you here."

He sort of half laughed. "I'm sure you hadn't expected to run into me anywhere. You've been doing a really great job of avoiding me altogether." He took a sip of his tea, one eyebrow slightly arched and then sat it back down with steady hands. "You quit the bar?"

"I decided it was time for me to move on," I told him, hoping desperately that Penelope, my old boss, hadn't revealed to him or anyone else the reason for my cessation of employment.

"Move on," he echoed, "right. That's an understatement. You terminated your lease too, I found out."

"You found out?" I commented. "Or did you go to those places yourself, looking for me?"

"I was checking on you," he corrected in the same condescending tone I'd grown to despise over the course of our relationship. He motioned then, vaguely, to the chair positioned across from him. "Sit."

There had been a time where I would have done what he'd expected of me to avoid a fight. But my recent life events had finally severed all my marionette strings. I took a breath, deep but imperceptible as such, and then I shook my head. "No thank you. I'm here on business. I don't have time."

Then, before he had time to inquire further into my statement, I took my leave from him.

I found the counter nestled in the back of the shop, along one wall. A delightful older man dressed in an enchanting dark crimson suit lifted his face from an old ledger laid out on the desk before him. He held up one thin finger to signify I give him a moment. I did so, busying myself with purveying the trinkets adorning the table top. There were more mushrooms and fairy-esque decor, but too, a shelf that held a collection of teapots. They varied wildly in shape and size, the biggest of which was a large round white vessel decorated elegantly with golden script. The smallest one was a black pot reminiscent of a Japanese style. I resisted the urge to touch them, instead bending this way and that to see them all fully.

"Tea is a universal language," the man said after a moment, "it bypasses cultural walls and unites us in comfort and class." He smiled warmly when I met his silver eyes, his mouth surrounded by well-kept, snow white facial hair.

"Is it horrible that I'm not very well versed in tea?" I asked him, "I grew up drinking coffee."

He straightened his round spectacles and looked at me curiously. "Did you? That's a shame. In that case allow me to bring you out a cup and change your mind." He waved his pale hand at a nearby barista and as though she read his mind, she disappeared into the back rooms without another word. "I'm Mr. Wilder. Pleased to make your acquaintance Miss..?"

"Swan."

"Swan?" He chuckled. "That's entirely too fitting, isn't it? Am I a crack pot old fool to assume you're familiar with Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky's Swan Lake?"

"You're not," I said. "I am familiar. Of course I am."

"Then do forgive me for asking- are you Odette.. or Odile?"

For a moment, I was flummoxed by the shop owner's bold inquiry. Even harboring the name that I had, I'd never been asked that question. Of course I recognized the names- Odette was the white swan queen, and while she was ethereal and radiant, she was also vulnerable. Odile, in juxtaposition, was the black swan who was as seductive as she was deceptive. I wasn't sure how to respond and Mr. Wilder must have recognized my indecision because he laughed.

"Odette then," he stated, matter of fact. "So what can I do for you Miss White Swan?"

Something about his eagerness to disregard me as the pure sister from the fairytale left me feeling a little disgruntled. But I shelved the emotion in light of my real reason for being there. "I'm here on errand," I told him. "For Ms. Rosalie Hale."

An indistinguishable emotion flickered in his eyes before he cleared his throat and said, "Of course you are."

The tea was brought out then and in the commotion of the cup and saucer being placed before me on the counter, the elderly clerk slipped into the back room. I politely thanked the barista and then looked down into the steaming liquid. I'd never been one to harbor any interest in tea, but there was something enchanting about this particular beverage. The cup itself appeared to be made of thin fine China, off white in color with delicate leaves drawn on the sides in a seemingly metallic paint. I lifted the cup and inhaled the aroma, closing my eyes for a moment I was overtaken by the experience.

"It's first flush Darjeeling," Mr. Wilder said, his voice bringing me back to reality, "it's the earliest harvest of Himalayan tea leaves. It's widely considered to be the finest tea in the world." I saw that he had returned now clasping a brown paper package in his hands. I expected him to place it on the counter before me, but instead he continued to clutch it tightly and instructed, "Go on Odette. Try it."

I did so without qualm, and when the liquid touched my tongue, I mmm'ed in appreciation. I recognized the common flavor of tea leaves but too, a creamy undertone that soothed with every sip. I became addicted to the beverage without meaning to, and drank a great deal of it before I finally convinced myself to set the cup back upon its saucer.

"Well?" the shop clerk pressed, leaning forward slightly and peering at me from above his spectacles.

"It's lovely," I admitted. "I've never cared for tea but that was.. Lovely."

"I'm glad you think so," he returned, contented with my admiration. He sat the package down in front of me. "Here's what you've come for. Be careful with this- it's over one hundred and fifty years old."

I had been in motion to retrieve it but upon hearing his words, I paused and my hand hung above the counter as if frozen in place. "What is it?"

Mr. Wilder tutted at me. "A book, of course." He smiled. "Written in its natural language too. Curious. There seems to be a common theme today." When I picked up the book at long last and cradled it in my arms, he twisted the end of his mustache and he regarded me with interest. "Tell me Miss Swan- how long have you been working for the Cullens?"

"A few weeks," I told him, "Why?"

"You mustn't have taken a liking to Mr. Cullen then."

"Mr. Cullen?" I responded, startled by the statement. "I have no problem with Mr. Cullen."

He chuckled. "Ah ha! That's exactly what I suspected. You pose no threat to her. Very wise." He winked at me. "Remain white, Miss Swan, and you'll have no problems."

I glanced around me then, determined to inquire into his statement, but careful not to involve anyone else in our discussion. "I'm sorry," I began, "but I have no idea what you mean to imply."

"Oh there are absolutely no implications," Mr. Wilder stated, boldly, "I do not imply- I state fact. I've been a patron of the Cullens for many years, my dear, and the men last much longer than the women. Mr. Cullen has a tendency to draw admirers and his wife does not tolerate disrespect."

I felt my eyebrows lift as I mouthed, without intention, "Oh." Careful to keep the book safe against my chest, I used my spare hand to drink more of the enchanting tea. "I see. PAs before have tried to get with the husband then?"

"As ridiculous as the concept," Mr. Wilder stated, "yes."

"And when they hire men," I wanted to know, "they don't try the same thing with the wife?"

He laughed again and then removed his glasses, brought forth a handkerchief from his pocket and began to clean them. "Surely you're joking with me," he replied, "you must be."

"Must I?" I sat the cup back down. "Why must I be joking?"

"Because Ms. Cullen is untouchable," he said, point blank. "There is no man on this Earth, aside from her husband of course, with courage enough to even address her directly. I believe if any mortal man had the gall to even attempt an interaction, he would be smited on the spot." He gave me one last hearty chuckle and then clapped his hands together to signify a change in subject. "Now then- you've had your tea and gotten your package. Can I be of any other assistance to you? You shouldn't keep the Cullens waiting, my dear."

I shook my head, rigid with new information. "No, no. What do I owe you for the tea?"

"Nothing, of course," he replied, "I am just glad to have changed your mind."

"And the book?"

"Paid for, of course." The shop phone began to trill behind him and he glanced at it before looking back at me and offering a polite goodbye. "Pleasure meeting you Ms. Odette," Mr. Wilder said, "I suspect we'll see each other again someday. Have a good afternoon. Send the Cullens my regards." He turned and scooped the phone from it's cradle and spoke warmly into the receiver, "Curious & Tea, how may I help you?"

I had just passed through the shop door when I felt a hand on my shoulder and found that Edward had followed me out.

"Wait just a second," he said. "You can't show up after over three of months and not expect me to inquire into what you've been doing."

"I told you," I returned, "I quit the bar and moved out of my apartment."

"Right," he said, his tone gruff and irritable, "I realize that. So where are you now? What are you doing?" His brown eyes slid down my body and landed on the parcel held tight beneath my arm. "What is that?"

"A book," I said.

"A book," he rolled his eyes. "Well it's not a cup of tea, is it?" He huffed. "Bella Swan," he grumbled, "you drive me crazy."

"Feeling's mutual," I replied, "but that's probably why we broke up."

"Is it?" he countered, "because I was under the impression we broke up because you're a lesbian."

I choked on my own spit and glanced around us, wondering if anyone had heard him. "You can't just go around announcing that."

"Why not?" he wanted to know, "are you finally ashamed?"

My comeback was a stern, "No. But people aren't very accepting and I'd prefer to keep my sexuality to myself."

He scoffed and shoved his pale hands into the pockets of his designer jeans. "What a shame," he commented, bitterly.

"That I'm gay? Or that I really don't care to let anyone else know that right now?"

"That you think you'll do better than me," he said. His accompanying scowl was infuriating.

But without much effort, I managed to swallow the emblazoned ire he'd caused. "Oh believe me," I told Edward Pattinson, my tone buttery smooth with faux-shmooze, "I've already accepted the fact that there's absolutely no comparison." I leaned in to him and added, sweetly, "that's why I've decided that the next person I'm with will be nothing like you."

His following laugh held absolutely no amusement- more than likely he was astounded that I'd spoken to him with such dismissal. "Do you still have the same number Bella Swan," he asked me, "or did you change that too?"

I considered telling him that I had, but knowing that he would just call around until he found me anyways I decided against it. "It's the same," I said.

"Fine." He regarded me with stoic discontent for a moment and then said, tilting his head towards my brown paper package, "So what book is it this week?"

Up until that point, I hadn't given it much thought. But I recalled Mr. Wilder's words about a common theme and then applied that to our previous conversation regarding Tchaikovsky's Swan Lake. I knew very little about Russian composers or Russian literature aside from this work and one other. "It's Anna Karenina," I said, "First edition."

His jaw fell open. "It's what?"

I was suddenly swelling with the realization of what I held and my mind was practically on fire with what it could mean. I was done talking to him. All I wanted was to get into my truck and return to Forks. All I wanted was to deliver the book to her and watch her nimble fingers remove the brown paper packaging. "Goodbye Edward," I said. "I really have to get going now."

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