Chapter Two
Got a long list of ex-lovers
They'll tell you I'm insane
'Cause you know I love the players
And you love the game
~ Taylor Swift, Blank Space (Taylor's Version)
BPOV
Carmen sat across from me, the quiet purr of the jet engine in the background as she typed away at her computer. Seth kept sending me googly eyes and hand hearts from behind her back after he affectionately informed me that he saw that fateful change in my follower count on instagram.
Carmen informed me the internet was well aware of it too, but I didn't have it in me to care. Mostly because I already felt like I cared too much.
I reread our conversation when I woke up this morning. Analyzed it as I showered and packed. And tried to tell myself the odds were good that I would never hear from Edward Cullen again.
And that was fine. Just because I had suddenly realized I wanted to finally put those failed years with Jacob behind me, didn't mean I had the time to start dating right now.
"Video rehearsals this week, then four shows in Los Angeles Thursday through Sunday. Shooting the video in LA that week then the last run of shows in Chicago and tour is done, " Carmen told me.
And then album promo started immediately.
I was equal parts excited and terrified about the whole thing. Is It Over Now? was an album completely different from nothing I had ever done. It was entirely pop, not a lick of country found anywhere. It was produced by Peter Clark which was mind blowing on its own. It was also probably my favorite thing I had ever made.
But actually putting it out into the world for people to dissect and judge and listen to had me fighting a panic attack on the spot.
I grabbed my phone and impulsively opened my message string with Edward.
B: If I ask you a question will you promise not to judge me for it?
I didn't expect a response. Definitely not immediately. I just needed the moment of distraction to help my brain move past the panic.
It was less than a minute later that my phone buzzed in my hand.
E: Bella?
B: Yes?
E: Shit.
B: Is that your reaction to everything?
E: Where you're concerned, yes. I thought you might have changed your mind and changed your number on me by now.
B: No number changing here. This is my personal-personal phone.
E: "Personal-personal"?
B: I have three phones. One strictly work related. One is work acquaintances and friends that aren't actually my friends. And then my personal-personal. Which is basically my brothers number and a few mindless apps to entertain me when I can't sleep.
E: Is that where you picked up your instagram stalking habit?
I chuckled to myself, looking up to see if Carmen or Seth caught it. Both were thankfully distracted by their own electronics in front of them.
B: Yes. I'm usually more adept and don't make that fatal accidental double tap mistake.
E: About gave me a heart attack with that. But, no, I won't judge. What was your question?
B: What exactly does a quarterback do?
E: I promised not to judge but I do have to admit that made me laugh.
B: I'm not a sports girl. I'm great at googling, though, if you're too busy laughing to answer, hotshot.
E: I lead the offense and get the ball to an open receiver.
I was hoping for something more in depth that gave me a clue to anything football related, but it was better than nothing.
B: Huh. Okay.
It had been a genuine question. I couldn't say I had ever watched a full football game. Growing up Charlie would watch them sometimes, when he was home, but I never saw more than a minute or two before I left. The most I knew about the sport was that the goal was to get a touchdown. Who did that or how or what the rules were… all of that was way beyond my knowledge.
E: Are you still in Seattle?
B: No. I'm landing in NYC in about an hour.
E: Season starts in the beginning of September if you ever want an in-person lesson.
I felt my cheeks heat up as I read and reread his text. This entire thing was out of my comfort zone. I had kept myself in a somewhat safe little bubble, relationship wise, the last two years. As much as my instincts were telling me to overthink the situation and talk myself out of it for the hundreds of reasons I knew I should, I just didn't want to.
B: Deal.
—How You Get The Girl—
The first time I had a panic attack was when I was twelve. It was on the anniversary of the last day I saw my mother, six years earlier. I was six when she left. Old enough to have blurry memories of the woman, but young enough to not understand what was going on.
That came later. And brought with it panic attacks.
There was nothing quite as soul-crushing as realizing that the woman who was supposed to love you unconditionally, the woman who carried you for nine months and gave birth to you and raised you for six whole years, just decided one day that she didn't care anymore.
Those first few panic attacks were mild, especially when I looked back on them now. They were probably the scariest, though, because I had no idea what was happening. How to handle it or what to do.
Now they were a thousand times worse. But I understood them.
I saw my first therapist at fifteen and she had an easy time diagnosing me with panic disorder. No amount of therapy in the last ten years had managed to completely get rid of them. I had meds and techniques to calm myself down, but they always came back. Usually during stressful times. Like when I was staring down the barrel of releasing an album that could make or break my career.
Funnily enough, my newest distraction whenever I was starting to get overwhelmed was attempting to understand football. I got sidetracked from it easily and didn't usually have enough time to actually understand anything, but it was a nice distraction.
Edward…I still wasn't sure what to make of him. We didn't talk everyday, but it was often enough that it was the highlight of my day whenever it happened. His honesty was a breath of fresh air I never knew I needed.
He didn't pull any punches. He said how he felt and he went after what he wanted without a second thought.
That was what I got through his messages, at least.
I smiled to myself, looking down at the cute little cheerleader outfit I had just changed into. We were knee deep into shooting the music video for the first single off of the album for Shake It Off, and the cheerleading section was the last thing we had to shoot. It was a segment we had been planning for months, but I enjoyed the irony of it enough to snap a picture of myself in the cute little top and skirt and bravely send it off to Edward before I was called back out to set.
I was only slightly disappointed that I didn't have a message waiting for me a few hours later when I checked my phone again. The disappointment festered as I sat in the back of a dark SUV and started second guessing every word I had ever said to the man.
It was better in the long run and I knew it. My life wasn't easy. Behind the scenes of the entertainment industry was a bloodbath, one I was still figuring out how to survive. One I couldn't in good conscience ask someone else to brave.
Then, as I walked into my cozy house in Beverly Hills, my phone rang in my hand.
I froze, seeing Edward Cullen flash on the screen.
Phone calls were new. But I answered immediately.
"Hello?"
His voice was smooth but had a gruff undertone that had my body tensing in all of the best places. "Shit," he huffed out.
I couldn't help but laugh. "Fuck."
I heard his own breath catch over the phone. "You're fuckin' killing me, Swan."
I dropped my bag on the landing by the stairs and wandered into the kitchen to make myself a glass of water. "Me?"
"That picture nearly did me in."
Turning on a few lights on my way, I plopped myself down on the couch. "Are there cheerleaders in the NFL or is it more of a high school and college thing?"
Edward laughed and it had my heart fluttering in my chest. "There are still cheerleaders."
"Hmm," I grumbled. "Have you ever dated a cheerleader?"
As I had hoped, Edward's unwavering honesty still came through, even over the phone. "In high school. And college."
"Where did you go to college?"
"Northwestern."
"Fancy," I mumbled.
"Bella?"
"Yes?"
"I'd take you in that photo over any other cheerleader any day."
I wanted to swoon. To believe every word he said and not have that little voice in the back of my mind telling me I was setting myself up for heartbreak. Setting both of us up for nothing but misery.
Dating in general was messy and complicated. Dating when the entire world had eyes on you and opinions about your relationship and cameras shoved in your face was nearly impossible. Dating when you were the kind of girl nobody had ever had a problem leaving behind was just fucking miserable.
"It was nice getting to know you, Edward," I said softly.
"Shit. Was that too much? I–"
"No. It was nice of you to say."
"I meant it."
My teeth dug into my bottom lip. That undiluted honesty and confidence to say or ask whatever he wanted had quickly become my favorite thing about him. Besides the lopsided smirk I spent plenty of time admiring on Instagram.
I decided to take a page out of his book.
"For now, maybe."
I heard him take a deep breath over the phone. "You can tell me, you know. What actually happened between you two."
"Spilling my guts to a man I've never met over the phone has never worked out well for me in the past," I tried to joke. Failed miserably, but tried. "It was nice getting to know you, Edward," I repeated, hanging up quickly before he could say anything else.
—How You Get The Girl—
I had one day of rest before I flew up to Chicago for the last string of shows for The Eras Tour. I didn't get out of bed until noon, only wandering downstairs when my stomach got too annoyingly loud to ignore any longer. I had never been one for cooking, but Angela always made sure wherever I was had plenty of Bella-proof food on hand.
Her words. That she constantly threw in my face because of my ability to burn boiling water.
I could bake my little heart out, but I had been told by many, many people that living off of pastries and baked goods was not a good life decision.
Angela and I grew up together. We met in kindergarten and never looked back. And when I set my mind to making music for the rest of my life, she never laughed or told me it was a pipe dream or asked what my plan B was. She just smiled at me and said she'd keep me grounded when I was winning Grammys one day.
She had been my assistant since she turned eighteen and could travel with me. And had been keeping me well fed ever since.
I spent my afternoon curled up on the couch binge watching a show that I had only been half paying attention to all day. It was just a distraction. An attempt to get my mind on something other than the utter silence screaming at me from my phone.
It was the right decision, but it didn't mean I liked it.
Edward, at least what I had learned of him from our few weeks of conversation, seemed far too good and kind and fun to be dragged down by a life of cameras and tabloids and panic attacks.
I was fine on my own.
That's what I constantly told myself all day.
What I repeated to myself as I absentmindedly made myself a cup of tea as the sun started to set.
The doorbell rang, nearly giving me a heart attack.
My doorbell didn't ring. My house wasn't just in a normal neighborhood where any solicitor could come up and try to sell me a complete set of encyclopedia's for the low low price of what-the-fuck-ever.
You needed to be on a list to get in the neighborhood. Then you needed a code to open the gate to my driveway, or to have me buzz it open myself. Not to mention the guest house full of security that made sure anybody who managed to get through those obstacles didn't actually get to the house.
I froze for a moment before turning toward the security system monitor that was around the corner of the kitchen. Seeing Edward Cullen standing on my porch was more of a shock to my system than it would have been to see one of the various stalker's whose profiles I had memorized.
I hesitated some more, watching him run his fingers through his hair as he waited. Then, once I was finally able to move, forced myself to take slow and steady steps toward the door.
After slowly opening the front door, I was face to face–chest–with him. I had to actively tilt my head up to get a good look at his face. He looked big in pictures, but those did not do him justice.
"Shit," I gasped out, chuckling in spite of myself.
Edward grinned down at me. It was lopsided and perfect. "Fuck."
I had a lot of questions. But as my eyes scanned the front yard and the man who somehow managed to just walk up to my door I asked, "How did you get here?"
His grin turned sheepish. "Seth might have helped me," he said, holding up a bag before I could say anything about my brother. "But he also gave me word for word instructions on what you like from your favorite Mexican place down the street."
I rolled my lips, eying the familiar bag. There would be time to reprimand Seth
later. "Did you get–"
"About a pound of guacamole? Yes."
I sighed, stepping aside and holding the door open. "Then come on in."
I held my breath as he walked by, eyes widening at the sheer size of him beside me. I had been on the taller side my whole life, always towering over most girls in my grade growing up and clocking in at about 5'9" these days.
Edward towered over me. Had to be at least 6'5" if not taller. Not to mention the muscle.
My mouth spontaneously filled with saliva I had to actively swallow back. I led the way to the kitchen, taking a moment to grab two plates and take a deep breath.
"Bella?"
I turned, breath catching in my throat as I took in the sight of him in my kitchen.
Edward ran his fingers through his hair again, an anxious habit I was irrationally jealous his fingers got to do whenever they wanted. "You can tell me to leave if you want. I know showing up on your doorstep is… presumptuous. I–"
"I don't want you to leave," I said quickly. Desperately.
Edward accepted the plate out of my hand with a smile. Trading it for the tub of guacamole he had fished out of the bag. My fingers brushed against his in the trade off and I froze.
His eyes blazed down at me, a vibrant emerald green no artist would ever be able to do justice. "I don't care, Bella," he said softly but firmly.
"About what?"
"About whatever it is that you think is too much for me to handle. I know your life is vastly different from mine. I know there will be paparazzi and tabloids and fans speculating about our every move. And I don't care."
"You should. That kind of attention is… fucking awful."
I'd lived it since I was seventeen. And it had only gotten worse as time went on.
It was a double edged sword and always would be. Because while I wanted people to talk about my music or shows, the line between artist and object had become irreversibly blurred these days. To some people I was nothing more than a headline. I was a sitting target waiting to be beaten and bruised to their own liking while they tore apart every little aspect of my life and personality.
But I chose it. I made the very conscious decision to go into an industry I knew was notorious for its lack of privacy. Because, for me, the pros outweigh the cons.
I got to write music for a living. I got to go on stage and sing those songs to tens of thousands of people who sang the words back to me. Who related to the music and made me feel like, no matter what, I always had a friend out there in the world.
Just because I had come to terms with the lack of privacy, didn't mean I could expect anyone else to willingly sign on. Especially when my role in the industry tended to lean toward human punching bag these days. Anyone associated with me was opening themselves up for constant hounding and ridicule.
Even as I hoped he took the out I was giving him, I was shocked he knew exactly what had happened. That he read so perfectly between the lines. It made me more sad than I'd ever admit that this was probably the only time I would ever spend with him.
A ridiculous way to feel when I barely knew the man, but it was still there.
"My entire life, I've gone with my gut. Every game, every split second decision I have to make when a three hundred pound linebacker is running toward me, I go with my gut. And the second you called me out for thinking Seth was running your Instagram my gut has told me not to fuck this up."
Pretty words that would be my downfall.
"You barely know me, Edward," I sighed softly. Even though I was somehow able to talk to him as if I'd known him for years, I didn't expect it to be the same for him.
"No. But I'd like to."
"I don't…" I shook my head. "I don't understand why."
"I told you. I've got a good gut," he smirked, lopsided and flawless.
"I don't," I admitted with a shrug. "Mine's never been very reliable. It can barely handle too much dairy on a good day."
Edward shook with laughter, eyes beaming over at me. "But it can handle a pound of guacamole?"
"Well, guac never hurt anybody."
I stared up at him. The man flew here on a whim and showed up at my doorstep. He was obviously in cahoots with my brother. And he had this undeniably good aura about him. Like he radiated positivity and a smile from him could solve all of my problems.
It couldn't. Would likely create a whole hell of a lot of problems for me. But even though I knew there were hundreds of reasons for me to say no, all I wanted was to say yes.
Because I already wanted to do whatever I could to see that lopsided smile a minimum of five times a day. And I knew, if given the opportunity, running my fingers through his hair would be an easy thing to get addicted to. And I wanted to know him. Through more than Instagram pictures and text messages.
I put the tub of guacamole and plate I had been awkwardly clutching to my chest the entire time down and held my palm out to him.
"It's nice to meet you, Edward," I said with a small smile.
His palm devoured mine. It was covered in calluses and sent my nervous system haywire. "It's nice to meet you, Bella."
My eyes stared at where his hand completely covered mine and an errant thought about palm size correlating to the size of other parts of the male anatomy floated through my mind before I could stop it.
I huffed out a gasp.
"What?"
"Nothing," I squeaked, turning back toward the counter full of to-go boxes.
"You can't leave me hanging."
"It's post third date kind of conversation. At least."
I rolled my lips together as I watched Edward gracefully slide himself into the cozy little nook in the corner of my kitchen. Then, unfortunately, realized I was still in the faded black leggings-sports bra-cardigan combo I had been wearing since waking up this morning.
"This can't count as a date," I blurted out.
"Of course not," Edward shrugged. "I accosted you on your doorstep and bribed you with guacamole."
"All of that is fine, but I can't have our first date be me looking like this," I hissed, motioning toward myself. "After I spent all day moping on the couch."
I hadn't even showered, but I was going to keep that tidbit to myself.
"If you hadn't tried to break up with me, you wouldn't have had to mope."
"I think 'break up' is a bit of an exaggeration."
"Well," Edward sighed, grinning over at me from across the table. "If this isn't our first date, when can I take you out on one?"
My eyes scanned the room, catching sight of my work phone haphazardly thrown in the corner of the kitchen. I hopped up to grab it, ignoring the influx of messages flooding the screen and opening the calendar app as I sat back down.
"I'm flying to Chicago tomorrow, then tour is done after the weekend. I've got the VMAs at the beginning of September, and rehearsals the week before, but I have all of next week free. I could fly out to Seattle–"
"I don't want to make you travel more," Edward grimaced.
I shrugged. "I'm used to it. And, I mean, I have a private jet," I said hesitantly, waiting for his ego to come out.
It didn't. Unless the snort was his ego.
"You called me going to Northwestern fancy when you've got yourself a private jet, princess?"
My breath caught in my throat. Ninety-nine percent of the time when a man called you princess it was dripping with sarcasm and degradation. But, as the word slipped out of Edward's mouth with nothing but a playful chuckle and a hint of innuendo, I was frozen in place for a few seconds too long.
"Well, I mean, I didn't have a private jet when I was eighteen if that makes it better," I said, once I remembered how to breathe again.
I got it when I was nineteen.
"Fair enough," he grinned. "You make it up to Seattle whenever you can, and I'll be waiting. The season starts in the middle of September, though. It's a pretty strict training and game schedule, but I'll make it work whenever you can. Sunday nights are the busiest," he added with a grin.
My head cocked to the side, my question popping out of my mouth before I could think it through all the way. "What's Sunday? Shit. No. Fuck."
I sighed. Edward fought against his laughter.
"I'm not a sports girl," I sighed.
"That's okay," he chuckled.
I didn't let myself second guess his willingness to work around both of our busy schedules. I enjoyed the moment for once, and tried not to think about the hundreds of different ways it could end badly.
After we finished our dinner I ended up on the same couch I spent all day sulking on. Only this time Edward sat beside me. It was a stupid decision, considering I had a show tomorrow night, but I didn't care.
We sat side by side on the couch until the morning. Talking, laughing, having the most relaxed and normal and enjoyable night I'd had in years.
