September 2011
Twenty-Two / Twenty-Four
Edward woke her up with a cup of coffee and a kiss to her cheek. Blinking sleepily, Isabella peeked out from under the covers. On Friday night, the weather had taken a turn and plunged into wintery temperatures. Isabella had slipped into his old flannels and one of his heavier sweatshirts. Comforted, she had nestled into his bed and fallen asleep on her side. It was the first time they shared a bed without cuddling, and it wouldn't be the last.
"Morning, baby," Edward murmured. There was a tell-indicative crease on his brow, revealing a smidge of guilt. Despite that, his gaze was searing and direct, boring into hers – a bright bluish-green.
Bella sat up, and the chill in the air singed her nostrils and clawed at her face. "Thanks," she said softly. Hands trembling, she took the mug with both hands. Edward had added a generous splash of milk, knowing that she liked it.
She didn't want the birthday incident to gnaw at her, to bother her, but –
For minutes, they spoke without exchanging a single word. Honeyed doe eyes wide, Isabella conveyed how important his answer was, how much she wanted to put this behind them, and that she was desperate for it to be a non-issue.
"Should I be worried?" she asked finally, out loud. She took a sip of her milk and coffee. "Did you – you didn't do that?"
Isabella had never been the object of Edward's trademark look of searingly cold fury. It was tinged with offense, and his eyes flashed with hurt. "That? Cheat, you mean?"
Bella bit her lip, peeking at him through her eyelashes ruefully.
"I have never, and I would never, do that to you," Edward swore, and his voice burned with frosty intensity. It would take Isabella nearly a decade to realize how true that was – how faithful he would be from the moment they kissed for the first time.
Edward's eyes were pleading but transparent. In a blink, his expression shifted, and he looked like a wounded puppy. "Don't you trust me?"
At that moment, she trusted him blindly. The questions at the tip of her tongue – Don't you trust me? Why won't you tell me what happened? – melted into air.
"I do." She touched a hand to his face, and he flinched away.
"There's nothing to worry about," he said. His voice was so fervent and his gaze so crystalline and honest that she put it behind them.
For three entire years, Isabella forgot about her birthday weekend. There would be no doubt in her head about Edward's devotion: Edward would give her every reason in the world to trust him. To trust them.
For three entire years, the birthday incident slipped into the dumps of her memory, until Victoria Cullen née Hockley wielded it like a cudgel and broke her heart.
October 2011
October arrived in red-and-gold hues, with a chill in the air, and they fell a little deeper into a relationship that was enthralling and homely all at once. Seeing each other every weekend became almost untenable: the rigors of medical school became visible in lines and circles etched underneath Edward's eyes. Isabella put her foot down. "I'll come see you every two weeks," she instructed with authoritative bravado. She punctuated her statement with a very indulgent kiss.
With time, she settled into Edward's Boston apartment as comfortably as she slipped into his coziest sweatshirts and old flannel pajama pants.
Edward had found his apartment after fleeing the dorms in his junior year of college. The building sat at the very boundary between Boston and Cambridge. The building had a private pool and a parking garage. Rent was prohibitive. "I don't charge Emmett the full rent amount," Edward admitted quietly later that autumn.
The apartment itself had floor-to-ceiling windows, making light bounce off the polished concrete floors and illuminating the open-plan living space. The kitchen flowed seamlessly into a spacious living area, anchored by a plush sectional sofa facing a flat-screen TV. It had two generously sized bedrooms and a large bathroom with a rainfall shower. The apartment had a private balcony.
It was a boy's apartment, but it was far from grimy or dirty in the way of college dorm rooms. The first time she curled up on the sectional, she felt it needed pillows and blankets. Bella found and dragged a tartan blanket that she kept on that stiff leather sectional. The bathroom shelves were lined with products that smelled like sandalwood and pine. After every shower, she would giggle at her dude-man scent – so, rather presumptuously, she bought lavender-scented toiletries.
Edward's apartment became a buoy in an increasingly overwhelming campus life. Isabella found the creature comforts of a clean kitchen and fridge a huge relief. Students were not technically allowed to have a mini fridge. Rule-abiding Isabella had kept some food of her own in the communal fridge in her dorm – an invariably disgusting and sometimes even risky decision.
After a weekly routine of relative discomforts and of working herself to the bone, Isabella liked going home.
Occasionally, Isabella worried. With her most self-deprecating musings, she imagined Edward traipsing through nightclubs with a heel-wearing Jane. She imagined them playing couples' tennis and sailing past the Boston Marina. In her darkest dreams, she visualized Edward leading a life Isabella would hate.
It was the opposite of the life Bella and Edward built together. Edward bought groceries, and Bella found herself texting homey sentences like "Don't forget to buy dish soap." They ordered takeout. Edward would buy boxed wine and six packs. Edward tried to cook, and Isabella discovered baking. In that apartment, Isabella began to experiment with ripe bananas and day-old zucchini. Her first attempts were nothing short of catastrophic – even though she used a measuring cup. Even Emmett spat out her first attempt at a brownie. It crunched like potato chips on the outside: the edges were charred and holed.
"Christ, Bee. Howd'you manage to fuck up brownies?"
Together, they watched Game of Thrones with matching enthusiasm. "That plot point is different in the books," Edward would point out, and Bella would glow with self-satisfaction.
A decade later, Isabella would think back with wistful poignancy about that moment in time. A decade later and jaded, Isabella would realize how much it meant to them to build their home together. Too late, perhaps, she would realize that Edward needed it as much as she did.
In that apartment, Isabella learned to fuck. They were too busy to miss each other during the weeks they were apart, but Bella almost devoured him when they reunited. Though she'd sworn against it, she palmed his ass and pulled down his zipper in the space between the kitchen island and the living room carpet. "I want you to fuck me," she said throatily, with her hand on his cock and her hands clawing into his thighs. "Fuck me, Edward."
In that apartment, Edward fucked her doggy-style for the first time. It wasn't easy for her, but it wasn't as difficult as she had imagined. She learned to use pillows to support her when her legs failed her. They learned to use pillows. Her legs couldn't hold her up until she orgasmed: Edward did a lot of the work by holding up her hips. Edward fucked her so hard that she bellowed into the pillow that first time.
It was hard for her to look at Emmett in the face the next morning.
As October merged into November, Edward finally brought a question that had been hanging over Isabella like a proverbial sword. Sue had delivered a baby boy – Charles Junior, or Junior for short – in late October. Isabella had video-called her father and looked at pictures of her wrinkly, red-faced baby brother. A week later, she had gotten an achingly bittersweet family picture, featuring her father, Leah, Sue, and their two sons.
"Bee? What do you want to do for Thanksgiving?"
Bella froze with a grilled cheese sandwich near her mouth. Buying good cheese had become one of their quirky couple things. They had spent minutes debating the merits of buying real Gouda or real Manchego in a supermarket aisle.
"There's a standing invitation to join my Uncle Gary at his hunting lodge," Bella said sardonically, smirking playfully. She laughed a lovely, bubbly giggle. Edward grinned, playful and relaxed, and it was a beautiful sight.
Edward knew that her parents weren't necessarily a viable alternative. Their one fight that autumn sprung up over Esme. Esme was still refusing to take any of Bella's calls. "You should stop calling her, Isabella," Edward barked, so roughly that she cried.
"What do you want to do, sweetheart?" Edward repeated, and he said it so tenderly that Bella melted. "We're both invited to – you know, the usual. The usual Masen stuff. Grandfather, Dad, sociopathic Aunt – "
"Did she – Is my Mom OK with me going?" Bella asked squeakily, burrowing into her chair.
Then his voice turned earnest and painstakingly gentle. He tucked hair behind her ear.
"We want you to be there," Edward said. "M'Pop, my father, and I. Esme'll probably give you the cold shoulder, but you are always welcome. You know that, right, love?"
"I do," she said, and her smile was loving. A tear slipped down her cheek, and it was a strange tear of bittersweetness. Despite months of estrangement, Bella's eyes still watered still at her mother's frosty rejection.
Edward wiped a tear from her cheek and carried her to bed. Because she needed it, they slept cuddled up together.
The first weekend of November dawned so icy that it hurt every joint in Isabella's legs. It was her most embarrassing secret: November made her as arthritic as a woman four times as old. Even in the wheelchair, her movements were slow and creaky, like she was the Tinman in desperate need of oil. To add insult to injury, her period came that weekend, slamming into her uterus with the force of a jackhammer.
There were tears – a good cry – lodged in the back of her eyes, but it would not come. She was more stressed than she had been in her entire life. Isabella was double majoring. One of her theses was due on the first day of December. Though she loved the topic - The Economic Implications of Different Early Childhood Education Funding Models -, the stress of stringing together 40 pages was becoming excruciating.
The worst stressors came from her parents. Her father had called to ask her to come home for Thanksgiving – shortly after losing the Seattle mayoral race by a wide margin. Leah Clearwater had sent a text, which in turn had sent Isabella into a tailspin. Leah's text was brutally blunt. You could have shown up to one event, but you had to ruin everything. Her motherhad broken up with Richard and was planning a move to New York. The information had come not from her mother – who still refused to speak to her – but from Edward.
Edward picked her up at the train station, and she burrowed close, wanting to be held.
"I'm on my period," she revealed grumpily. Her period had never been such cause for relief. She wanted to go on birth control so they could forgo condoms. The relief was always short-lived though; the moment her period hit, with a wave of sleepiness and pain, she forgot it signaled she was not pregnant.
With her joints creaking, Bella felt like her body was breaking down, and she was barely twenty-two.
At the apartment, she changed into one of his sweatshirts, and one of his thickest pajama pants. They spent their weekends together as mirror images of thick wool socks and sweatshirts, and Bella loved it. She climbed into bed almost immediately.
Edward had grown to know and love everything about her body – in its brokenness but also its beauty. He had kissed every inch of her skin and had run his hands over every stretch of bone and muscle. Steeped in intimacy, Edward noticed how she moved slowly, like a rusty tinman left out to the elements.
With lazy contentment, Edward joined her in bed. Moving stiffly, she sprawled on top of him. Her cheek was pressed to his chest. They were so close, and she hated that reality would force her to move one day. She had missed him so much. She kissed his cheek and rubbed her hands on his upper arm.
"Bee, baby?"
"Mmh?"
Edward sounded reticent. "Have you been going to physiotherapy?" he asked, uncharacteristically shrill. "Here in the East Coast?"
Bella stiffened. "No."
A wall went up, concealing the last part of her body – of her disabled body– that Edward could not see.
Physiotherapy was one of the few aspects of CP that she kept close to her chest. Many aspects of her crippling were unavoidable – like the mobility aids and the many barriers she navigated on a day-to-day basis. Physiotherapy was the one thing she could hide. Because it was under her control, the physiotherapy still felt strikingly intimate. On top of it, Bella associated physiotherapy with pain. All her childhood, Esme had sworn by a method called Vojta. It was an Eastern European technique that made her associate physiotherapy with pain.
Isabella had not sought it out as an adult.
"It's really important," Edward explained shyly, quietly. "For contractures, and spasticity management, and range of motion for the joints, and bone density, and... Yeah." His sputtering evinced his nervousness.
Normally, she found Edward's medicalese endearing. This time, she felt irked.
"I know," she snapped dryly.
Suddenly, she felt stifled. Edward watched with a puppy-like expression as shifted off him.
"Are you mad?" he asked, sounding dejected.
"No," she lied curtly, forcing an acid smile. "I just – I want tea."
"Do you want me to get it for you?" Edward asked gently, almost meekly.
Slowly, proving his point, Bella climbed into her wheelchair.
"I'm not useless," she snarled, spinning away, and Edward's expression twisted painfully.
The apartment felt minuscule as she wheeled out into the hallway. She rolled decisively towards the electric kettle. With tremors shooting up her arm, she grabbed one of the mugs the boys kept on the counter for her. Still feeling defensive and even grumpy, she let her tea brew and seep for five minutes. Her tremors made the boiling water spill down her wrists and onto her thick flannel pants.
Emmett found Bella on the sectional watching a cooking competition with a grim look on her face. Bella's bad mood dissipated that very instant. Bella felt awful because her presence had invaded and disrupted their apartment. Edward had gutted the bathroom to accommodate Isabella's grab bars; the boys had rearranged their kitchen so that she could reach everything.
"Hey, button," Emmett said warmly.
"Hi, Em," she said, offering a lovely smile.
"Sorry," she felt compelled to squeak, gesturing at the burrow she made of the sectional.
"Don't say sorry, gorgeous," Emmett said, eyeing her quizzically. "Why the heck are you sorry?"
Bashfully, Bella shrugged. "I don't know," she admitted blushingly. "Did you want the TV?"
"Nah," Emmett said. "We're prepping for a Homeostasis I final. No time for TV."
Bella grimaced, and Emmett snorted.
When Bella returned to their room, Edward was studying. With his glasses, he was hunched over a textbook, and Bella felt herself softening marginally. Edward cast a hurt, wary glance in her direction. Slowly, Bella wheeled towards him.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, and he wouldn't meet her gaze. She inched forward and kissed his shoulder blade. Instead of relaxing into her kiss, like he always did, Edward held himself stiffly.
"It's OK. It's your period making you moody," Edward muttered, and it was the wrong thing to say. Bella inhaled like an enraged bull – though later, on the train on the way home, she would conclude it was her period. It always was her period.
It would take her thirty years of periods to realize a simple truth. Whenever she felt like the world was collapsing, that she was disgusting, that Edward's breathing was irritating – her period was always the culprit.
"It's not my period," she barked, unaware that she was effectively lying, feeling both angry and tearful. "Just take my apology, Edward."
"Christ, Bella," Edward said, eyes wide. He raised both hands like a suspect at a crime scene. He was looking at her with that expression he would wear often: like he thought she was crazy but was resigned to obeying. "I'm sorry, too."
His expression infuriated her. "Ugh," she growled. "Stop meddling. I'm crippled, and it's none of your business."
Edward looked like she had kicked him, and he recoiled as if her words had hit his chin. He gathered his books quietly, looking almost teary, and left the room without slamming the door. Isabella had seen him explosively or icily angry: she had never seen him raw with pain. Older and wiser, she would understand the power she wielded.
"I let you take care of me. Why won't you let me do the same?" he said, wounded and quiet.
Because his body wasn't crippled, or broken, and because he had decades of flawless mobility ahead of him, and because she felt so inadequate some of the time, and because sometimes she felt like her disability was a lead anvil dragging him down.
When Sunday dawned, an icy and beautiful day, the bleeding and cramping stopped. As if on cue, Bella realized she had hurt her sweet boy. His side of the bed was empty. Almost tearful and sniffy, she approached him over the kitchen counter. He was making scrambled eggs.
"Edward?" she said softly. "Morning, baby."
"Hi, sweetheart," Edward said punctiliously and sighed. Bella suspected there was a hint of sarcasm in how he intoned his term of endearment. Bella wheeled up closer, glad for the vast space between the kitchen island and the stovetop. She wrapped both arms around his middle and rested her head against his hip. Tenderly, she kissed his stomach.
"I'm sorry," she said, earnest and guilt filled. "You didn't deserve that yesterday."
"You were right," Edward said, resigned and wary. "It's not my business, Bella."
Unsure of what to say, she kissed his hipbone gently. "It was good advice," she said lightly.
Have you been going to physiotherapy? Edward's question had been a very gentle nudge: Isabella decided to go to physiotherapy because her joints were killing her. Her body felt like it was made of eroded, sharp edges of wood.
It was the first winter of the rest of her life, and winters would always be a little painful.
Edward had quietly and expertly, but shyly, recommended one Dr. Stella Ramirez. After much agonizing, Bella made a handful of decisions on the day of the appointment. Edward offered to drive her. Bella was reticent. In the car, Edward was subdued, like sadness was weighing down on his broad shoulders. Bella was so embarrassed she could barely string sentences together.
The physiotherapy gym was located on an unassuming lot at the front of a strip mall. She and Edward spoke in perfunctory, dry statements – both overcome with shyness. Edward was afraid of overstepping; Bella, of opening up.
Inside, the physiotherapy gym felt achingly familiar, and it stirred up an age-old sense of trepidation in her. The scent of disinfectant and liniment hung heavy in the air, a familiar scent from countless visits. Unlike sterile hospital rooms, though, the physiotherapy gym buzzed with a different kind of energy. Sunlight streamed through large windows, illuminating rows of parallel bars, brightly colored therapy balls, and a curious contraption resembling a giant spiderweb of bungee cords.
In her embarrassment, all Isabella could see were the older folks or the injured younger people. Cheeks flaming with embarrassment, she chanced a peek at Edward but couldn't bear it. It was the final frontier: Edward would see her crippled body in a new, vulnerable light. Bella lowered her gaze.
"I – uh. Hi," she said to the receptionist with a subdued but polite smile. The reception counters were lowered for wheelchair users, and it was a deliciously welcome relief not to strain her neck. "10 AM for Isabella Swan, please."
"Dr. Stella will be with you in a minute."
"Thank you."
Bella spun the chair and peeked at Edward through her eyelashes, focusing on a freckle by his nose. "I – uh. Sorry. You don't have to wait the whole session," she told Edward, wheelchair squeaking over the linoleum. "I can take a cab back."
Edward looked oddly hurt. His eyes swirled and his shoulders drooped. "Bee, I – If that's what you want."
"Do you want to wait?" Bella asked incredulously, hugging her waist.
"If that's what you want," Edward said awkwardly, looking like she had pierced him again. He started to fidget, looking like his skin was too tight for his body.
Instinctively, Bella wheeled forward and took his hand in both of hers. "Come sit with me," she said, tugging towards an open, flowery chair.
When the moment came and the receptionist called her name, she dropped Edward's hand. She was too nervous to look at him – and in any case, didn't need or want him to see her sweat through a leg raise. Physiotherapy always made her feel pathetic.
"Isabella? I'm Dr. Ramirez. Welcome to the jungle gym," Dr. Ramirez teased, gesturing to the bungee cord contraption. Isabella managed a weak smile, her gaze lingering on the others in the room.
"Hi, Doctor," Bella said softly.
Dr. Ramirez guided Isabella to a closed-off cubicle with a desk, a raised plinth, and diagrams of muscle groups. "Let's get you settled over here," Stella said warmly, patting the plinth.
"So, young lady," Stella said enthusiastically. "What brings you here today?"
Cerebral palsy. Spastic diplegia with symptoms of ataxia. "My parents and I did everything popular in the nineties," she explained, with a subdued, tongue-in-cheek grin. "Adductor lengthening, tendon transpositions, hamstring lengthening, serial casting."
Stella whistled.
"Anything in particular bringing you in here today?"
"I feel like the Tinman these days," Bella admitted sheepishly. "Like the character in The Wizard of Oz before he gets oil. Everything hurts."
Stella looked at her quizzically before bursting out laughing. "Right, honey. Let's take a look then."
Dr. Ramirez began by examining Isabella's ankles and knees, gently manipulating the joints to assess their range of motion. Bella gritted her teeth, the familiar tightness in her hamstrings pulling uncomfortably. Each bend, each twist, sent tremors through her legs. Unflinching, Dr. Ramirez's touch was reassuring, devoid of pity or judgment.
"Hmm," Dr. Ramirez murmured, her fingers lingering on Isabella's right hamstring. She repeated the movement, this time encountering a stubborn resistance. A slight frown creased her brow as she manipulated the muscle further. "There seems to be a bit of a party going on in here," she said, her voice kind.
Bella sniffed out a knowledgeable, rueful smile, sensing exactly what was coming.
"A hamstring contracture," Dr. Ramirez explained. "These muscles are a little tight, which can limit your range of motion." With a warm towel draped over the area, Dr. Ramirez began a series of gentle stretches, guiding Isabella through each movement with clear instructions. The tightness remained, a dull ache, but there was a subtle difference. The resistance wasn't absolute.
"This won't be a one-time fix," Dr. Ramirez said, sensing the shift in Isabella's demeanor. "But with consistent stretching and exercises, we can loosen that party up and help you move more freely."
Studiously, Bella nodded.
"Let's see how much power you have in those legs." She positioned Isabella with her back against the wall and instructed her to raise one leg, braced by Dr. Ramirez's hand. Isabella focused, pouring every ounce of energy into lifting her leg. It rose an inch, two inches, then wobbled precariously before trembling back down. Frustration welled up inside her, but Dr. Ramirez simply offered an encouraging smile.
"That's a great start, Isabella," she said, her voice sincere. "We'll build on that strength, bit by bit."
The next test was simple – a straight leg raise. Dr. Ramirez asked Isabella to extend one leg out in front of her, keeping it straight. Isabella focused, willing her leg to rise. It inched upwards, a tremor running through her quadriceps. The effort made Bella breathe heavily, but she pushed on, the leg reaching a shaky parallel to the floor. Dr. Ramirez offered a silent encouragement, holding her gaze steadily. Then, slowly, deliberately, Dr. Ramirez added a weight – a small, soft sandbag – to Isabella's ankle. The added resistance was immediate, a pull dragging the leg back down.
Gritting her teeth, Isabella fought to keep it elevated, the muscles in her leg screaming in protest. Seconds stretched into an eternity before Dr. Ramirez gently removed the weight. The leg sank with a sigh of relief, leaving Isabella trembling.
Dr. Ramirez positioned a small, inflatable stability ball under Isabella's right thigh. "Okay," she instructed, "I want you to press down on this ball, trying to straighten your leg as much as you can."
Isabella took a deep breath, focusing all her energy on the task at hand. Her leg trembled as she pushed against the ball, the familiar tightness in her hamstrings screaming in protest. She managed to extend her leg a few inches, but it felt like pushing through molasses. Frustration bubbled up, hot and prickly.
Dr. Ramirez, however, didn't seem discouraged. "That's good, Isabella," she said, her voice encouraging. "Hold it there for a few seconds." She counted slowly to ten, each number a small victory. As Dr. Ramirez gently removed the ball, Isabella sank back against the table, her muscles quivering with exhaustion.
"Now, let's try something different," Dr. Ramirez continued, her optimism unwavering. She helped Isabella scoot to the edge of the table and placed a Theraband – a flat resistance band – around her ankles.
"I want you to try and spread your knees apart, pushing against the band," Dr. Ramirez explained. The exercise seemed simple enough, but the moment Isabella initiated the movement, her legs spasmed, sending the band flying across the room.
Bella was weak with relief, because Edward couldn't see any of this.
Dr. Ramirez retrieved the band with a smile, her movements unfazed. "It's okay, everyone starts somewhere," she said gently. "Let's try again, nice and slow." This time, Dr. Ramirez held the band steady, offering just enough resistance to challenge Isabella without overwhelming her. The movement was jerky, but Isabella managed to separate her knees a few inches, the band pulling taut against her efforts.
Dr. Ramirez offered more praise, her enthusiasm infectious. Face hot with sweat, strands of hair frizzy with static, Isabella swiveled back into the wheelchair and put on her pants. "Good job, honey," Stella said. "If you wait at the reception, I'll print out some stretches and exercises that you can do at home. Joints and muscles are like cars, kiddo. You need to use them or they rust up."
"Thank you so much, Doc," Bella said earnestly, doe eyes sparkling. She was exhausted, but it was nice to feel exhausted after hard work. "I'll be back."
She wheeled past the carpeted gym, into the linoleum of the reception. Faithfully, devotedly, Edward was outside when she re-emerged with Stella in tow. Bella melted a little. In his hand, he held a Styrofoam cup of hot chocolate and a paper bag from her favorite bakery. "Hi," she breathed, her throat knotting with emotion.
"Hi, baby," Edward said ruefully, wearing that expression he wore at the ice-skating ring all those years ago. The expression he wore when he was trying to show her how much he loved her.
"Cullen?!" Stella cried out. In her wheelchair, a startled Bella spasmed. With every bone in her body aching, she spun towards Stella. Her mouth hung open in shock.
Edward had recommended Stella Ramirez because he knew her.
"Hey, Doc," Edward said, with a shy, self-satisfied grin.
"What brings you here?" Stella said, friendly and proud.
Isabella imagined him pointing his chin in her direction. She felt his hands cupping her shoulders – warm, strong, and very gentle.
"This your girl?" Stella gasped delightedly, and Bella looked up to see Edward's neck warming. "That's great. Oh, that's fabulous. Isabella, I'm sure Edward can give you a hand."
Bella pinkened. Stupidly, she fell back on her every polite instinct. "Thank you, Doctor," she sputtered, at a loss for words.
Edward helped her into the heated car because her legs were still quivering like jelly. When they were both inside, she took a sip of hot cocoa and loved him so much.
"Baby? I'm sorry I've been such a bitch." Her doe eyes were warm and earnest.
Edward sighed. "You have been a little bitchy," Edward said carefully. Then he grinned. "But you're my bitch, and I love you more than anything."
"You're so wonderful," Bella all but glowed, reverently touching his cheek.
They drove in silence, and Bella sipped at her cup of warm Spanish chocolate.
"Howd'you meet Dr. Ramirez?"
"I know Stella from when I did work on my undergraduate thesis. She was kind enough to let me shadow her. She's one of the best specialists in neurological rehabilitation in the country," Edward had explained. "She used to work with kids with CP at Boston's Children, and then she opened up her clinic."
That quickly, Edward had taken a wrecking ball to the last wall between them.
On the third week of November, Bella sneaked into a Wednesday session before Stella's clinic closed for Thanksgiving.
Dr. Ramirez greeted them with a warm smile that crinkled the corners of her eyes. "Ready to conquer those hamstrings today, Isabella?" she asked, her voice a gentle lilt.
Bella offered a furtive, small smile. "Conquer might be a bit ambitious," she mumbled playfully, her gaze flickering to Edward.
Edward sat with a leg crossed, ready to settle in for another hour of waiting, the picture of polite detachment. Bella could see his eyes burning with care, with interest.
"Is it OK if Edward joins us?" Bella squeaked, pinkening, on the verge of regretting her question. Her stomach was twisting with anxious anticipation because physiotherapy was so intensely private.
"It'd be great," Stella said cheerfully. "These stretches are always more effective with someone to assist you."
Bella's mouth fell open with a small thud; Edward shifted awkwardly.
"Come on, baby," she said to Edward, gesturing with her hand.
Hesitantly, Bella wheeled after Stella.
The night before, Edward had fucked her in three different positions. That was less mortifying – seemed less intimate these days – than this. Helping her with this. Seeing her like this.
With practiced ease, Isabella transferred from her wheelchair to the padded mat. Once she was settled, Dr. Ramirez kneeled beside her, her voice gentle yet firm.
"We're doing a butterfly stretch. Isabella, bring your feet together, soles of your feet touching, and gently push your knees down towards the mat."
"Edward, this might be a good one for you to learn," Dr. Ramirez said, glancing at him.
Bella's cheeks flushed a warm pink. The idea of Edward touching her in such a vulnerable way sent a shiver down her spine, not altogether unpleasantly.
Edward's brow furrowed in concentration as he leaned in for a closer look. "So, are we targeting the iliopsoas or the rectus femoris here?" he asked quietly.
Dr. Ramirez chuckled. "Both, actually, Edward. The butterfly stretch works a range of hip flexor muscles. But remember, this isn't just about the anatomy. It's about feeling the resistance, knowing when to push a little and when to back off."
She turned to Isabella, guiding her through the proper form. "Okay, beautiful, feel that slight pull in your hips? That's good. Hold for thirty seconds, breathe deeply, and then slowly relax."
As Isabella focused on the stretch, Dr. Ramirez offered Edward a knowing smile. "You can give it a try, Edward. Here, guide her knees down gently, but don't force it."
Hesitantly at first, Edward reached out.
"May I?"
Bella nodded once.
Edward's touch surprisingly gentle as he mirrored Dr. Ramirez's instructions. Isabella, surprised by the warmth spreading through her, relaxed further into the stretch. His focus softened, his touch becoming more confident with each passing second.
"There you go, that's perfect," Dr. Ramirez encouraged. "See, Edward? It's about a balance between support and gentle pressure."
"You OK?" Edward asked Bella. "Am I hurting you?" Their eyes met, and Bella's eyes swirled with trust. At that moment, she was certain that Edward would never hurt her again - not willingly.
"Not even a little bit," she said reassuringly, glowing with love.
Stella cleared her throat. "Right. For this next one…" Stella positioned Isabella in the mat and took her leg in her hand, cupping the back of her knee.
"The key is to keep Isabella's back straight and her leg extended," Dr. Ramirez explained, guiding Isabella's leg gently. "You'll feel a slight tension in the back of her thigh, but it shouldn't be painful."
Edward watched intently, then carefully mimicked Dr. Ramirez's movements, his touch surprisingly gentle as he reached for Isabella's leg. Bella felt a warmth bloom in her chest, a mix of gratitude and a thrill at the unfamiliar intimacy.
"Right, kiddo," she said, speaking directly to Isabella. "You know the drill. Stretches for the hamstrings, calves, and inner thighs are crucial. The more you do them, the better. Ideally, you should go through your stretching routine once a day."
Edward took it to heart. From that moment on, Edward would help her daily with her stretching routine, with religious discipline, no matter what happened. He was only stopped by circumstances beyond his control – first in his twenties, by an excruciating separation, and later in his mid-eighties. By then, the very elderly Dr. Cullen stopped tending to his wife, undaunted by a bad case of rheumatoid arthritis, because of his wife's increasing fragility.