September 2014
Twenty-Five/Twenty-Seven
In September, the leaves started to turn. A persistent chill settled into Isabella's bones. Edward found a duplex in Springfield. The days started to blur together. Her wardrobe began to change, courtesy of her mother. Her small closet was replete with bespoke, elegantly tailored suits. Coats and blazers in tweed and wool. Fitted dress shirts and silk blouses with bows at the neck.
Edward's schedule became unforgiving. Their weeks were dotted with on-call rotations that lasted 30 hours. Isabella understood that in theory but found gruesome to witness it in practice. Edward could leave home on a Tuesday evening, return home in the early hours on Wednesday morning try to catch up on sleep, and return to the hospital in the evening. Some days, he was gone for almost thirty hours.
His general surgery internship began with a four-week rotation dedicated to emergency care and trauma surgery. In the middle of the day and the middle of the night, Isabella would get texts that made her stomach plummet – selfishly not for the patient, but for Edward. She had been privy to details about how her Aunt Lizzie had died, all in flashes that were as gruesome as they were heartbreaking.
During his trauma surgery rotation, Edward spent entire nights resuscitating people with critical injuries and on the brink of death. Gunshot wound to the chest, fall from a height with spinal cord injury, cardiac arrest, overdose on an unknown substance, industrial accident, motorcycle accident with abrasions and fractures. She imagined him in a trauma bay, underneath fluorescent lights, surrounded by a cacophony of beeping.
The rotation would have terrified her, but for the satisfaction he wore when he came home – but for the fact that would always be defined by a quiet confidence in the face of pressure, by an ability to compartmentalize.
They managed to catch each other at the crack of dawn. Bella would spend the night in the Springfield duplex. Those days, she would be up at 5:00 AM, ready to welcome him home. Some days, he was exhausted but satisfied. On those days, he kissed her hello and they spent a few stolen moments in bed. Other days, he collapsed onto her lap, numb and pale, like the injuries had struck a chord. "I need you here," he croaked in a whisper, against her pant leg. She would stroke his hair, rhythmically massaging through the tresses, and her heart would thump violently in her throat. Invariably, she left at 7:00 AM to make it to work at 9:00 AM.
Isabella's mother made the same sentiment quite plain, quite frequently. "Edward needs you in Springfield," she would say with fussy and pointed displeasure. "You're not going to work when you have your babies, are you, darling?" The message was as crystalline as if it had been made explicit: Your job is not a priority.
The unforgiving schedule of Edward's general internship forced them to prioritize – and Edward's priorities were a revelation.
Invariably, no matter how exhausted Edward was – and there were circles around his eyes that looked like bruises, and he forgot certain words – he found time for her leg exercises. It made her melt that he acted like it was his main priority in life. His hands were always gentle but vigorous on her creaky joints and flaccid legs. He was so devoted that he could forget to oil his car or to buy toilet paper, but always seemed to remember how her knees and hips were doing on the previous stretching session.
Edward carved time – in those precious moments that they could have spent resting together – for social engagements. They were bombarded with invitations, to Alec Voltaire's wedding, to go golfing with Ryan Synclair, to have breakfast with the Thorne and the Cavanaugh families. These were Very Important People who Isabella had never met.
A hitherto invisible family resemblance - between her boyfriend and her mother – burgeoned. "Gerald Thorne was my father's law school classmate, part of my parents' wedding party, and he was attorney general of the state." "Cavanaugh was my grandfather's business partner." "Ryan Synclair and I spent a month backpacking through Eastern Europe." That these excuses had more to do with connection than affection left a bad tase in Isabella's mouth.
They spent Sunday mornings and Saturday afternoons – ones that Edward could have spent resting – having brunch with people Isabella had never seen in her quarter century of life. Often, they brunched with older couples. These friends of the family – of Victoria and William Cullen, or Grace and Edward Masen – often pried for wedding invitations, promised to introduce them to their grandchildren, and invited Isabella to join charitable auctions and boards.
Those days, she wore her hair in a half-updo, with Masen family pearl earrings. Isabella learned to wear tailored shirts with structured belts. Isabella found herself plastering a smile on her face to politely explain that she was not terminally ill. Increasingly, she bought wide-legged outfits that concealed the orthoses that reached from the tip of her shoes to her hips. Nothing could hide how fucked her gait was – that her right leg and knee twisted inwards with every move, that she couldn't really fully extend her knee.
Edward never seemed to mind or notice – he had just integrated it naturally into their lives. The pressure of being with people who scrutinized her gait, as if with opera glasses, fell with the force of another atmosphere on her shoulders.
It made her grit her teeth with irritation that Edward crucified them both at the altar of social expectations – especially when it came to the graduating class of Phillips Exeter and the legacy students of the Ivy Leagues.
Their time alone became increasingly rare and increasingly precious. During those stolen moments in the Springfield duplex, they were themselves again. Edward cooked for her and played Halo. Sometimes, they played Mario Kart together, and Edward laughed. Nose-to-nose, Edward asked what she wanted for her birthday. Isabella wore his thick pajama flannels and a medical school hoodie that reached her knees.
She lived for those moments when they were alone, and he cooked for her – and she was free to tremble away without debilitating self-consciousness, and he was free to be hers – dorky, possibly lactose intolerant, and a wonderful pianist.
"What do you want for your birthday?"
"Just a small birthday dinner," Isabella said. She stroked his cheek rhythmically, rubbing her hand against his stubble before kissing the corner of his mouth. "I'll organize it. All you have to do is show up."
"I'm sorry I'm not organizing anything special," he hummed apologetically against her forehead, but Isabella shook her head.
"You've been busy," she said, burrowing closer.
For her birthday, Bella invited her people to a small Italian eatery. Bella invited colleagues that had turned into friends – Noah, her co-worker, and Angela Webber from the Children's Policy Lab. Angela Weber – and her boyfriend Ben – had become incredibly important to her, because Angela was a wheelchair user. Angela had become a paraplegic in High School. A handful of friends from college drove up from New York, and she reconnected with friends from the Boston Area.
Rosalie drove up from Georgetown, where she was completing her LD. "McCarthy and I are fucking," Rose explained flatly. "Can he come?"
It started, like parties often did, with the first people to arrive – Rosalie and Emmett. They drove up in a Honda Civic that Rosalie had owned since college. Rosalie walked two steps ahead of Emmett, in a crop top, Doc Martens, and a knit sweater. "Swan, baby, you look so thin," Rosalie spat out bluntly, before pecking Bella sweetly on the cheek.
Isabella took it as a compliment and smiled brightly, without acknowledging Rosalie's concern. Bella was thrilled to see Emmett, felt comforted as Emmett squeezed her with great sweetness.
"I've missed you, Emmy."
"I've missed you, too, Belly-Bear."
"Where have you been?" she asked with a pout, and she gave his large hand a gentle squeeze. She was reminded of Edward's sardonic comment about Emmett's chosen specialization.
"The same place your candy-ass boyfriend's been," Emmett chuckled, and Bella did not miss the tightness in his eyes. "On the other side of the bedpan."
Bella laughed.
The soft hum of chatter filled the cozy Italian restaurant as candles flickered on the table, casting a warm glow over Isabella's birthday celebration. Plates of steaming pasta, fragrant garlic bread, and colorful salads adorned the table. Rosalie put her arm around Bella and squeezed with almost maternal care. "Can I see the rock Cullen put on you?"
Rose kept her arm around Bella for most of the evening, releasing her only when Edward made it – an hour late. Edward arrived with a gigantic package, wrapped and adorned, under his arm. Bella did not miss that he and Emmett barely spoke to one another.
The laughter and chatter continued to fill the restaurant, creating a warm atmosphere as Isabella prepared to blow out the candles on her birthday cake. The waiter, a teenage boy with a nervous smile, approached their table, balancing a tray of wine glasses.
Just as the waiter reached Isabella, his foot caught, sending him stumbling forward. A glass tipped, and rich red wine cascaded down Isabella's back. The glass tumbled after the liquid, but her shoulder blades cushioned the fall.
Bella squealed at the strange, tickling sensation. Then she laughed. "Oh, God."
The waiter's face turned crimson as he stammered an apology. "I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to—"
Before the teenage waiter could finish apologizing, Edward sprang to his feet. "What is wrong with you?" he snapped, his voice icy and his eyes thunderous with disgust. He towered over the brown-skinned kid, looking lily-white and powerful. Bella shifted uncomfortably, and her butt squelched wetly above her soaked wheelchair cushion.
"Edward," Emmett cautioned, putting a hand on his shoulder. "Edward, let's not escalate this."
Edward shoved Emmett off. "Your job is to be careful, for God's sake," he spat.
The waiter flinched, his eyes darting to the ground and growing glassy, clearly overwhelmed. "I—I'm really sorry. I'll get some napkins—"
"Napkins," Edward sneered. "That's brilliant. I would have never thought of napkins."
Bella was frozen in shock, because it was like watching a wolf mauling a piglet. Edward huffed, and Bella recovered. She tugged on Edward's other forearm and dug her nails into it.
She spoke to the teenage waiter gently, and she noticed his nose was shiny with acne. He looked nearly a decade younger than Edward, and like he was trying hard not to cry. For her part, Bella trembled all over like she was shivering in the cold. "It's OK," she said smilingly. "Honestly, it was even refreshing. Those napkins would be a treat."
The teenage waiter scurried away in horror. Edward snorted and dropped his napkin, dunking it against the table, and his lips pursed. He sat back down, and they spoke to each other in low voices. "Are you OK, sweetheart?"
Bella spoke through gritted teeth, in a very low voice. Her anger was belied by her tremors. "I'm fine."
"Baby, you're all covered in wine."
Angela spoke wryly. "I think the poor kid was just stressed out of his mind," she snickered. "Two girls in wheelchairs. You don't see that every day."
Bella grinned at Angie, and then plastered her auction-gala smile on her face. She directed it at her guests, and it made her feel like her mother. "Help me up?"
Edward did that very expertly. He helped her stand by leaning all her weight against him. Her legs wobbled without orthotics, and Edward helped her swivel onto the wooden chair he occupied earlier. Her wheelchair's customized cushion was pressurized, and it was soaked in red wine – just like her white t-shirt.
Edward wiped the wheelchair studiously with white napkins, glaring at the waiter. The manager approached looking ashen with genuine shame. "We're very sorry," she began, but Edward – Edward wouldn't have it.
It was almost impossible to recover from Edward's display of raw entitlement.
When the bill finally arrived, Isabella's mood soured further. Edward insisted on paying the $450 bill singlehandedly but without tipping.
"Edward," she hissed. "Please."
Edward only relented once she put a bill on the table out of her own wallet.
October 2014
Twenty-Five / Twenty-Seven
Isabella's mother was all but convinced that they were behind in wedding planning, especially if they were aiming for a June 2015 wedding. That imagined delay caused Esme Masen more distress than her chemotherapy treatment. With that in mind, Ms. Esme Masen packed a set of elegant turbans and pantsuits and flew to Boston.
For the last time, Isabella made a faint plea. "I really wouldn't mind a small wedding," she said hopelessly.
"The idea of an outdoor wedding is preposterous."
Bella winced. "Just the other day, I thought maybe – getting married in the Church where Edward's parents did would be really meaningful."
Esme scoffed. "Did Carlisle tell you where it was? The rationale was melodramatic and childish. Our event is going to be different."
In Esme's mind, there were only a handful of venues that were worthy of a Cullen wedding. One such venue was the Crane Estate in Ipswich. "I distinctly remember my mother telling Elizabeth the Crane Estate would be perfect," Esme said, and her eyes grew fond with nostalgia. "My mother would be thrilled."
It was mid-afternoon on a Saturday, and Edward was midway through an on-call shift at the ER. Esme and Isabella were visiting it.
The Crane Estate sprawled majestically across the Ipswich countryside. Beyond perfectly manicured lawns, Ipswich Bay sprawled a deep blue underneath a stormy sky. The air was crisp, and the leaves had turned. The stately Georgian mansion, with its white-columned facade and large, paned windows, stood proud against the backdrop of pale gray.
From her wheelchair, Bella admired the meticulously manicured gardens that displayed an autumn palette—golden marigolds, deep red dahlias, and vibrant asters intermingled in a riot of color, inviting visitors to explore their winding pathways.
A manager met them at the parking lot. Her mouth fell open at the bride-to-be, in her wheelchair, and she guided them to a single back entrance with a ramp.
Inside, the estate was just as captivating. The spacious foyer welcomed them with polished marble floors that gleamed under the soft glow of ornate chandeliers. Richly adorned walls in deep burgundy and cream damask housed portraits of long-gone ancestors, their gazes seemingly watching over the festivities yet holding their own stories. Isabella imagined herself in a flowing white gown, twirling beneath those sparkling lights, though doubt lingered just beneath the surface.
"There's a wheelchair-accessible porta-potty in the parking lot," the manager explained. "The ramp in the back is the only accessible entry into the venue."
Esme made a face. "That's entirely inappropriate," she snarled snippily at the manager, and for once, Bella was comforted by her mother's sniping.
Her mother walked alongside her, the air of elegance she carried seemed to enhance the estate's grandeur. Dressed in a tailored pastel pink blazer and crisp white blouse, Esme surveyed their surroundings with a critical eye. She wore a matching, lavender-colored turban. "This could be quite perfect, Isabella," she remarked, her voice a blend of enthusiasm and reserved expectation. "Elegant without being gauche."
Isabella nodded, though a flicker of uncertainty tugged at her. "Although the bride would have to pee in a port-a-potty."
Esme cast a disgusted glance at the manager. "That's most unfortunate. But sweetheart, you can walk with crutches."
Bella felt instantly defensive. "I'll have guests – on my end – that are not ambulatory at all." She hated the idea of forcing Angela to pee at a porta-potty.
Esme tsked and decided to disregard this at all, and it reminded Bellla that her guest list – however small – was steadily being dwarfed by the Masen-Cullen one. Esme moved deeper into the estate, her heels clicking rhythmically against the marble. "Picture the ceremony here," she mused, gesturing toward a grand staircase that spiraled upward. "We could line the aisle with lilies and roses, leading right to that archway."
Isabella's gaze drifted to the tall windows, where the soft light of early fall filtered through sheer curtains, casting a warm glow. She could envision the garden outside, bursting with seasonal blooms and guests – 150 of whom were completely unknown to her – mingling under a marquee.
It still felt wrong.
"Isabella, darling?" Esme called, her voice drawing her back. "What do you think?"
"It's beautiful, Mom. But..."
Esme's expression tightened ever so slightly, an indication of her impatience. "But what?" she pressed sweetly, though her tone was laced with exasperation.
"I just… I worry about the accessibility. The stairs, the outdoor space…" Isabella trailed off. "It also doesn't feel right."
For a brief moment, Esme's expression softened, a flicker of understanding crossing her polished features. "We can inquire about accommodations. It would be a shame to let such a breathtaking venue slip away over a few details. My mother wanted Elizabeth's wedding to happen here, and … Well, I …It would be my life's greatest satisfaction to see you have the perfect wedding."
At the manager's office, Bella came face-to-face with the budget in question. "The baseline price for a Saturday night event would be at least $69,000."
Bella's eyes boggled with incredulity. She made less than that a year. Later, Esme would inform Bella perkily that it was quite a reasonable price. It includes catering. We have yet to think about the cake, the florist, your dress, the sommelier, the string quartet…
The manager continued. "That includes the price of renting the venue, a small police detail, and the bare minimum in catering–"
"We'll be hiring private security. My father is a former Senator and the event will be attended by quite a few VIPs." Esme turned to Bella, and her eyes were bright with excited pride. "Senator Grinnell and Senator Rooney will be attending."
Isabella could barely nod. With every passing day, the guest list became more and more unmanageable to her.
Like a baseball bat, the realization hit Isabella. The aisle Esme had imagined – in the Great Hall of the Crane Estate, surrounded by ornate wainscotting and tasteful pastoral murals – would be crowded with Very Important People. Bella imagined tripping on it in her crutches and cringed.
Like a cartoon character, she wanted to breathe into a paper bag.
Isabella and Esme returned to Boston in a chauffeured town car. They had both been given sample canapés as a courtesy from the catering team at Crane. During the ride, Bella was consumed by thoughts of what she had eaten. For weeks, Bella had been abiding by a strict diet of pure lean protein – chia seeds, whole eggs, chicken, and fish. She allowed herself low-carb green vegetables, like kale and cabbage. In the Crane Estate, she'd had an amuse-bouche – a tartlet and a pumpkin crème brulé.
Somewhere between the town of Ipswich and the Newburyport Turnpike, her mother – her poised, refined aristocrat of a mother – had been struck by a bad case of diarrhea.
It would have been funny – a sonorous fart, followed by a stench that spread across lavender-colored trousers – but for her mother's abject humiliation. Tears slipped down her fragile, hollowed cheeks. "My body's breaking down," Esme whispered mutedly, her voice filled with self-disgust and bitterness.
Esme Masen clapped a hand to her mouth and sobbed.
For the first time in her quarter-century, Isabella saw her mother weeping. At a loss, Bella rubbed her mother's back and willed herself not to cry. "No. No. Mom, we'll figure this out. Do you want to stop?"
"No," Esme hissed, collapsing nauseated against a half-open window. The cold air whipped against them both.
Edward had hired a car with a privacy screen, and Isabella had never been so thankful for her boyfriend's innate snobbery.
Descending from the car was an operation. A chauffeur helped Bella to get out of the car and into her wheelchair. Esme would have rather died than parade through the Mandarin Oriental with shit-covered pants, so Bella had rushed up to her mother's bedroom and found a pair of silk pajama pants. Weepily, her mother had changed from her soiled underpants in the back of the car.
Bella's heart was pounding in her chest. They had timed the visit to Boston, aligning it to the mildest days in Esme's chemotherapy cycle. The chemotherapy and its ravages, however, were unpredictable.
Her mother reemerged from the bathroom in a silk pajama set. On her head, Esme wore a cotton nightcap in soft pinks. Bella's eyes watered at the sight of her mother's chest. The left side was smooth and flat, a stark contrast to the right, where the uneven contours of her partial mastectomy were visible.
"Can you stay with me tonight, Bella?" Esme asked, and her eyes were swollen fom crying.
Bella nodded. "Of course I'll stay, mom," she said, and her nostrils burned. "Of course I'll stay."
Bella ordered tea and prepared a cup of peppermint Twinnings for her mother. Later at night, after struggling with the bathtub – which had no grab bars to accommodate for the weakness in her legs – a showered Bella slipped into bed next to her mother. It was mid-afternoon on a Saturday, and the light pouring through the gossamer curtains was gray.
Lovingly, Esme stroked her hair with reverent possessiveness. Her eyes were closed. "Your hair has always been so beautiful," she whispered, affectionate and dreamy. "Even when you were a baby. People would tell me my baby was a doll."
Bella burrowed closer, afraid to put her head on her mother's chest the way she once might have. It broke her heart that her mother's chest had become the site of tumor beds. "I never thought this would happen for us," Esme said, and her voice sounded wistful. "I dreamed that it would happen, but I just never imagined you would get to have a wedding."
November 2014
Twenty-Five / Twenty-Seven
The fall faded away with a regatta that took place in the Charles River. As the coxswain at the helm of a boat, Alec Voltaire was racing for charity. Isabella's mother dished out a monthly salary. Isabella wore a knee-length A-line dress in rich navy blue, its three-quarter sleeves adorned with delicate lace trim. A wide-brimmed straw hat with a navy ribbon completed her look. Though it was an unnaturally warm day for late, overcast October, Bella was so cold that Edward had to lend her his blazer.
Rosalie texted her a picture two days later.
"You looked very Carolyn Bessette and JFK Jr.," Rosalie snickered, commenting on a photo that, to Isabella's immense shock, seemed to have been taken with a wide-camera lens.
"Rose, shush. That's bad luck."
"It's true, though," Rosalie said, and Bella could hear her smirking.
She studied the picture with growing dread.
"Where did you find that?" Bella croaked.
"Facebook, Swan. I added Cullen years ago."
Though nobody was watching, Bella felt her cheeks grow pink. She had not been a sociable teenager, and her Facebook was rather embarrassing.
"Edward has a Facebook account?"
"Sweetie, you didn't know?" Rosalie said, and she grew somber. "I thought you two were Facebook friends."
"We're not," Bella mumbled.
"There's… A lot of shit in there. I imagined you knew. I don't think he really gives two shits. He doesn't answer posts to his wall or upload anything. But there's a lot of shit in there."
Deliberately, Bella avoided thinking about the topic of Edward's Facebook.
The pants from her mid-twenties had become so loose on her frame that she had started to wear trousers from her college years. That month, she virtually skipped a period – facing a delay of two weeks in mid-October - and she worried that she was pregnant. When her period arrived, it came in sputters and stains.
One day, Edward woke her up in bed with a cup of warm apple cider and French toast. In her heart of hearts, she thought he had improved as much as a cook as she had improved as a baker. It looked scrumptious, with two globs of butter melting into goo atop crispy browned bread.
It stretched her nerves thin. "I can't have bread," she growled.
"What?"
"Just eggs and lean protein," she insisted forcefully, feeling oddly teary.
Edward looked hurt, even offended, but he worked past it. He kissed her cheekbone, and he looked at her almost playfully. "I made these with old brioche," he said, to sound convincing. "Just like Esme."
"They look great," she admitted, wondering why she could not cry over her mother's chemotherapy, but this made her weep. "But I think I have celiac disease or something. I'm not reacting well to bread."
Edward took the lie so seriously that he began to buy gluten-free pasta, gluten-free bread and pasta. Stealthily, Bella began to hide the packages in her backpack to give them away.
In early November, they spent a weekend in Maine. That Saturday, they made plans to go to a pumpkin patch.
That Saturday, Bella put on a mustard-yellow corduroy overalls. She paired them with a white long-sleeved t-shirt. Carefully, she headed down the stairs in her forearm crutches, clinging to the banister.
At the foot of the stairs, Edward grinned, and his face was full of light. "You look adorable. Like a banana."
He said it so affectionately that Bella laughed. "I really thought I could be an overalls girl," Bella said bashfully.
"You can," he said, dropping a kiss on her on the lips.
It was their last, stolen good day. Edward wrapped her up in a woolen red trench coat and an infinity woolen scarf the color of burnt orange. "Now you look like the world's cutest scarecrow," he commented. He smiled as he kissed her cheek. In the car, she played indie folk songs on his iPhone, and it was the last time she used the device with blind trust. Later, she would look through his phone – combing through his text messages and his e-mails with blistering but well-founded paranoia.
In the pumpkin patch, wobbling in her crutches, Bella would have tripped twice but for Edward steading her. Bella bought an assortment of differently colored gourds and a bright orange Jack-O-Lantern. Edward carried the loot to a carving station.
"Can you carve me one?" she asked brightly, and her face was full of light.
She had been asking every year since she was thirteen. Bella wasn't the best at carving. Her trembling acted up with anything entailing fine motor skills, and her hands rattled and shook. Aware of that, Edward kissed her knuckles, and he looked pained – as he sometimes did.
Sweetly, Edward smiled sheepishly. "Anything?"
"Anything."
Every year, she watched him with enraptured fascination. Watching Edward concentrate and work with his hands was captivating. Edward was so good with his hands, and his hands were so agile and limber with a carving knife. Every year, he seemed to get better and better at the rhythmic motions that pierced the pumpkin's hard shell. She was so in love with his hands.
It was the twelfth pumpkin he ever carved for her – almost one for every year in their very long relationship. There had been a cat, and a cartoonish owl, and a bookworm. That year, perhaps because Halloween had passed, he picked a stencil and carved her an intricate pattern of swirling vines. The very first time, when she was fifteen, Edward had carved her a Winnie the Pooh Jack-o-Lantern.
It was also the last pumpkin Edward Cullen carved for Isabella Swan in many years – until he carved a pumpkin for Bella's son, many years later.
"Thank you," she murmured, and her eyes glistened. She kissed his cheek gratefully, feeling absurdly in love. "It's gorgeous."
When they got home, Edward grabbed her gently by the hips. She squealed as he lifted her onto the kitchen counter. Glowing, she cupped his cheek, feeling so privileged that someone so special loved her so deeply. She felt so close to him. "I love you. I love you so, so much."
Edward pulled her closer.
"You look like the world's sexiest banana," he said, and he said it so hotly and breathily that she burst out laughing. He dropped soft, fluttery kisses on the crevice between her ear and jaw.
"You're just saying that," she mumbled playfully. "To get into the banana's pants."
"What gave me away?" He grinned crookedly as he pulled away. Edward pulled down one of the straps in her overalls, pulling down her shirt by the neckline to kiss the tip of her shoulder cap.
Bella shivered. As Bella grew colder and colder, a downy sheath of fine hair started coating her skin. Edward seemed to notice it. Curiously, he stroked the lanugo with his fingers, and he was always so gentle when he touched her, and Bella sucked in a breath. He rested his forehead against his shoulder.
"I'm worried. I've noticed you're not eating," he murmured, and she felt his breath hotly on her skin. "You are getting very, very thin, and I don't want you to think – "
His phone rang insistently in his back pocket. He groaned and closed his eyes.
His phone had saved her from a conversation she did not want to have. Her body was so ugly, and so broken, and finally, she could control something.
"Answer it," Bella said quietly against his hair."What if it's the hospital?"
Edward glanced at the screen. "It's Felix Musgrave."
Bella bit the inside of her cheek and glared. She slammed her hands against her face and tugged at the skin with her hands. "Edward…"
The warmth was leached off Edward's face. He stiffened, standing to his full height. He squared his shoulders. Bella pulled up her overalls and her shirt, covering her exposed chest.
"Hello?"
"Brother," she heard Felix Musgrave say in greeting. Even through the tinny speaker, his voice sounded like deep bass. Bella gritted her teeth. In the past year, she had heard half a dozen men that she had never seen in her life refer to Edward as brother.
"Felix," Edward replied, and his lips twisted into a rictus grin. "To what do I owe the pleasure?" Edward said, and there was a hint of evident irony to his words.
Uncomfortably, Bella shifted atop the kitchen counter. "Edward."
Edward pressed a finger to his lips and put the iPhone on speaker, even as he silenced the microphone. "Business and pleasure, brother," Felix said. "Business and pleasure. Did Demetri send you the audited statements for last quarter?"
"Yes."
"We have a lot to celebrate, brother."
Edward didn't respond and kept the microphone muted. Felix chuckled to himself. "The yacht is just waiting for you and your fiancée."
Bella's eyes bulged, and she shook her head in warning. Mordantly, she spoke into his shoulder. "The last thing I want to do is get on that yacht," she hissed.
"Darling, I can't say no a third time."
"Edward."
"I promise I'll make it up to you, my love. Please. Please. I need you there. It's a sign of trust to introduce him to my wife."
She shook her head against his shoulder.
"I'll make it up to you," he insisted.
Bella's agreement was silent.
He spoke into the phone. "We can figure something out," Edward said dryly to Felix Musgrave, and Bella caught the ecstatic glint in his eye. "Isabella and I might be available in December, right before the holidays."
Edward hung up, and Bella squinted at him suspiciously. "Isabella and I?" she snickered. "How are we going to find the time? I know it doesn't seem to matter these days, but I have a job."
Edward smiled smugly, with a hint of relief. "I traded shifts and I can speak to my supervisor. I can trade in Christmas Eve, Christmas, New Year's Eve and New Year's Day so that I can take off three additional days during December – "
Bella's hand fisted. A nearby mason jar looked enticing, because she felt like she could have lobbed it at his head. A few months later, at breaking point and wet with snot, she would throw a perfume bottle that would land near his shin.
"You can trade shifts and skip shifts to go on a fucking yacht, but you couldn't do trade shifts for my mother's chemotherapy?" she seethed, so angry that spit foamed at the corner of her mouth.
Edward took two steps back, looking frightened. "Sweetheart…"
"Ugh! Ugh!"
"Bella, angel –"
"Get out," she snapped. "I don't want to get on that stupid yacht with some shady tech bro. You can get on it by yourself and sail, sail, sail."
"Sweetheart – "
"Out!"
It took Bella a day to calm down enough to have a civil conversation. Edward managed to convince her, by the skin of his teeth. He enticed her by shortening their stay on the yacht, The Azure, and promising they would depart from Oaxaca – a place on her bucket list.
December 2014
Twenty-Five / Twenty-Seven
Isabella's favorite thing in the world had become her job - and her favorite part of work was shadowing play-based cognitive development assessments. As a part of that effort, the team Bella worked for would visit several Head Start grantees in Massachusetts. The team staged games with the children participating in the study every month, to measure their development.
That day, like she had dozens of times, Bella was participating in a quasi-experimental field study, lead by the director of the Children's Policy Lab.
Dr. Frances Welch was the founder of the Children's Policy Lab, and she was a titan in the field of childhood development. With piercing blue eyes and many turtlenecks, she blended professionalism with warmth, making her both approachable and intimidating. As a tenured professor at the University of Massachusetts, Fran dedicated her career to studying educational interventions like the Head Start program.
Fran Welch had hired her and believed in her when nobody else did, and Bella was enormously thankful.
Excitingly, after nearly a year of shadowing the work, Bella was conducting several assessments by herself. Fran watched from afar, with her coke-bottle-shaped glasses. It had felt so exciting and momentous that Bella had enjoyed a particularly heavy breakfast – a blend of whey protein and eggs in a single milkshake.
As the session was about to begin, Isabella noticed the first child – a little girl named Mia - lingering near her wheelchair, her head tilted curiously as she observed the shiny wheels and the single footrest. The child's big brown eyes sparkled with genuine interest. Bella was used to repeating this routine relentlessly whenever she participated – but it never bugged her. It even helped her build rapport with the children.
"Do you want to know about my wheelchair?" Isabella asked kindly, her tone inviting. Mia nodded enthusiastically, stepping a little closer. "Okay! Well, this is my wheelchair, and it helps me move around. Just like how you use your legs to walk, I use this to get from place to place."
Mia reached out tentatively, her fingers brushing the rigid frame of the chair. "But why do you need it?" she asked, her innocence shining through.
Isabella chose her words carefully. "My legs don't work like yours do. So, this chair helps me go wherever I want to, just like your legs help you run and play."
Mia's brow furrowed slightly, her young mind trying to process the information. "Does it go fast?" she asked, her eyes wide with curiosity.
Isabella chuckled softly. "It can go pretty fast, especially if someone pushes me! I can even race with my friends sometimes." She gave Mia a playful grin, which made the girl giggle.
"Can I try?" Mia blurted out, her excitement palpable.
"Of course!" Isabella replied, adjusting her position slightly. "But let's make sure we're safe. I'll stay in the chair, and you can help push it while I sit here."
With careful guidance, Mia took hold of the wheelchair's handles, her small hands gripping tightly as Isabella settled into the seat. "Okay, now just push gently," Isabella instructed. Mia took a deep breath and pushed, a look of determination on her face. The chair rolled forward smoothly an inch or two, with Bella nudging it forward. Mia's laughter filled the room as she felt the thrill of moving Isabella around.
"See? It's fun!" Isabella encouraged, her heart swelling at Mia's excitement. "And it helps me go everywhere I want to go, just like you do."
Mia nodded thoughtfully, her face beaming. "You're like a race car!" she exclaimed. Bella grinned, happy to turn Mia's curiosity into a bridge of understanding before they transitioned to the sorting game.
The sorting game was a method to measure cognitive development among under-vives. Isabella adjusted the position of her wheelchair, ensuring she was comfortably close to the low table where the sorting game was set up. The brightly colored toys—red blocks, blue circles, yellow stars—were laid out in an inviting array, each piece gleaming under the warm overhead lights of the small playroom. She glanced over at Mia, the five-year-old participant, who was perched on a plush mat, her wide eyes darting between the vibrant objects, a mix of curiosity and excitement dancing across her face.
"Okay, Mia," Isabella began, her voice gentle yet encouraging. "Today, we're going to play a fun sorting game! Can you show me what you can do with these toys?" She gestured to the sorting trays, each labeled with simple drawings: one for colors, another for shapes, and a third for sizes.
Mia's small fingers hesitated for a moment, as if weighing the options. Then, with a determined grin, she reached for a bright red block, holding it up triumphantly. "This one!" she declared, her voice filled with pride.
"That's right!" Isabella replied, smiling brilliantly, her heart warming at the child's enthusiasm. "Where do you think it goes?"
Mia's brow furrowed in concentration. She leaned forward, her little arm extending towards the red section of the tray. "Here!" she exclaimed, dropping the block with a soft thud. Isabella noted the child's ability to categorize by color and the excitement that lit up her face when she succeeded.
As they continued, Mia picked up a yellow star next. "This one is a star!" she announced, her eyes sparkling as she placed it carefully in the shape tray. Isabella recorded her responses, noting the child's verbalization of the sorting criteria. It was fascinating to see how Mia grasped the concept, her small hands moving deftly between the objects as she sorted and categorized with a growing sense of confidence.
After a few minutes, Isabella decided to introduce a new challenge. "Great job, Mia! Now, let's mix things up a bit." She slid a small green triangle into the mix, watching closely as the child's expression shifted to one of curiosity and confusion. "Can you find a place for this one?"
Mia stared at the triangle, biting her lip as she thought it over. "It's… green," she said slowly, her finger hovering over the colors tray. But then her brow knitted again as she picked it up, turning it in her hands. "But it's a triangle!"
Isabella smiled, heartened by Mia's critical thinking. "Exactly! You can think about both the color and the shape. Where do you want to put it?"
Mia's eyes sparkled with understanding, and after a moment's hesitation, she placed the triangle in the shape tray, exclaiming, "With the stars!"
"Perfect!" Isabella cheered, her spirit lifting as Mia beamed with pride. This was more than just a game; it was a glimpse into the young girl's developing mind, a window into her cognitive growth. The goal was to observe how quickly Mia sorted the toys, and how well she articulated her reasoning. "Good job, Mia!"
As Mia gathered her toys with a triumphant smile, Isabella glanced at the clock. It was time for the next participant, Lucas. He had just turned five. Isabella recalled the notes from his intake session—he was shy, often hesitant to engage, and had struggled with tasks that required categorization.
When Lucas entered the room, he clutched a small stuffed dinosaur to his chest, peeking at Isabella from behind it. "Hi there, Lucas," she said softly, her voice inviting. "Are you ready to play a sorting game with me?"
The little boy nodded slowly, his eyes darting to the colorful toys spread out before him. Isabella shifted her wheelchair slightly, making sure she was at his level as she gestured to the sorting trays. "Look at all these fun shapes and colors! Do you want to help me sort them?"
Lucas approached cautiously, still holding his dinosaur tightly. He knelt beside the table, his fingers brushing against a blue circle but not quite reaching for it. Isabella sensed his hesitation and decided to start with a gentle nudge.
"How about we pick one together?" she suggested, leaning slightly closer. She was belted to the wheelchair, which was helpful in situations like these. "Let's find something we both like. What do you think of this red block?" She picked it up and held it out, hoping to spark his interest.
His gaze flickered to the block, then back to his dinosaur. "Red," he murmured, almost to himself.
"Yes! Red!" Isabella encouraged, her excitement palpable. "Can you say, 'I want to sort the red block'?"
Lucas chewed his lip, then took a deep breath. "I want to sort the red block." The words came out in a rush, as if he were relieved to say them.
"Great job!" Isabella beamed. "Now, where do you think it goes?"
Lucas stared at the trays, his brow furrowed in concentration. After a long pause, he tentatively reached for the colors tray but pulled his hand back, fidgeting with the edge of his dinosaur. "I don't know."
"That's okay, Lucas. Let's look together." Isabella placed the block in his hand and guided his arm toward the tray, her voice soothing. "What color is this?"
"Red," he repeated, now with more confidence.
"Right! So, let's put it in the red tray." She helped him place the block down, and his face lit up, a flicker of pride breaking through his shyness.
Encouraged, she continued, "Now let's find another one! Can you pick a toy and tell me what color it is?"
Lucas looked at the toys, his gaze lingering on a yellow star. "Yellow," he whispered, but when he reached for it, he hesitated again, the uncertainty creeping back in.
Isabella noticed the struggle and decided to break it down further. "You're doing so well, Lucas. Let's say it together first. 'I want to pick the yellow star.' Can you say that?"
"I want to pick the yellow star," he repeated, slightly louder this time, his eyes sparkling with the challenge.
"Perfect! Now, go ahead and grab it," Isabella encouraged. He reached out and grasped the star, a small grin forming on his face as he held it up.
"Now, where does it go?" she asked, guiding him gently through the thought process.
"The yellow tray!" he shouted suddenly, the confidence bursting forth as he placed the star down with a satisfying thud.
"Yes! You did it, Lucas!" Isabella clapped her hands, feeling the joy radiating from him. "See how easy that was? You're a sorting superstar!"
With each successful sort, Lucas's confidence blossomed, and Isabella could see him relaxing into the activity. Though it took more time and encouragement, Lucas' bright smile grew as he sorted a blue circle and a green triangle. Bella was genuinely thrilled, and she smiled at the little boy accordingly.
As they wrapped up, Isabella felt a deep sense of fulfillment. Her job had always been to capture the data – scoring how the children performed in the sorting game and how they articulated their reasoning. The data was fed into a model, and the model would measure the effectiveness of Head Start and pre-K among children in low-income families.
Happily, Bella was humming to herself as she sanitized their props with Lysol – a standard procedure for every participant – and arranged them neatly into a box.
"You did very well," Fran said in her no-nonsense tone, with a hint of a smile. Bella lit up. "Your undergraduate coursework on human development really shows."
"Thank you," Bella said bashfully, staring at her trousers.
"You've done very well with the entire study – with inputting data, with picking variables, with the interactions with children. I think it's time to talk about a postgraduate degree, Isabella."
Fran smirked at the way Bella's mouth fell open. "I'd be happy to write you a recommendation letter to any grad program. Tufts, Stanford and Columbia have wonderful Schools of Education."
December 2014
Twenty-Five/Twenty-Seven
To his very great credit, Edward had arranged two days of vacation Bella loved – one in Oaxaca City, and the other in Mazunte. Bella had loved the ethnobotanical garden, sampling moles and buying black pottery. She had been awed by the Church of Santo Domingo, with ornate altars and vibrant frescoes, their colors as rich as the history that enveloped the city. In a major highlight, she and Edward had visited a beach dedicated to the conservation of Mexican sea turtles.
That had ended rather anticlimactically.
A small army of staff was waiting for them on deck, past the gangway. Isabella tried to smile politely and make eye contact. Overwhelmingly, the army of staff was brown- and dark-skinned. Bella's stomach flipped a little with discomfort, and her first thought was to wonder about these people. She would make friends with a deckhand and a stewardess – both from the Philippines, both leading hard lives, as ghosts in international waters.
"Dr. Cullen." A taller, bald-headed man with beady eyes walked forward and bowed his head respectfully. "Welcome to the Azure. I'm Pablo. Chief Steward at your service."
"Mrs. Cullen." Pablo turned to Bella with a bowed head, in an oleaginous tone.
"I'm not Mrs. – "
Edward winked. "Come on, Mrs. Cullen."
"We will show you to your stateroom, sir, and then show you upstairs for lunch. We'll set sail in twenty minutes."
Grinning shyly at her husband, she followed him. She was relieved the staff seemed to be prepared for the fact that she used a wheelchair: Pablo led them down an elevator and through narrow corridors adorned in beige, faux marble floors, and modern art paintings. They were led into a stateroom room that was far larger than any stateroom on a commercial cruise.
"I promise you're going to love it," Edward murmured brightly against her neck. "I promise."
"I did love it," Bella said, through gritted teeth, "until we got on this boat."
Keeping her teeth gritted together, she opened her suitcase and felt a stab of disgust.
A Head Start program invested roughly 10,000 dollars per child. Bella had spent that much money on a wardrobe for a week-long trip. Recurringly, Bella found herself in the predicament of fishing out money – out of rocks – to dress as Edward's wife. Her mother and Rosalie had been right. "You can't get on that yacht with your regular clothes, Swan," Rose had barked. "They'll eat you alive." Her mother had funded her wardrobe but with a warning. "I think you should learn to ask your husband to pay for the clothes you need for social engagements."
Her husband.
The thought of asking Edward for money for clothes that she couldn't afford made her want to vomit.
Resigned and upset, trying not to snip at Edward, she changed. Edward was faster: he had changed into linen beige trousers and a white polo shirt. For the millionth time since they had become engaged, Isabella remembered that she was marrying a former frat boy. She felt absurd but confident. She wore a fit-and-flare dress with nautical stripes. On her head, she wore a floppy wide-brimmed hat adorned with a massive ribbon.
"You look gorgeous," Edward said softly, and he kissed her hand. She pulled it away, feeling something not unlike revulsion.
They reached the upper sundeck for lunch.
The mega-yacht's sun deck stretched vast and uninterrupted, more like a private terrace than a boat deck. The floor was cool, pale teak underfoot, contrasting with the plush white sun loungers scattered around the perimeter. A large, rectangular infinity pool shimmered in the center, its edge seamlessly blending with the horizon. Further aft, a covered dining area offered shade and comfortable seating. The only sounds were the gentle lapping of waves against the hull and the soft hum of the yacht's engines.
In person, Felix Musgrave was an incredibly tall, burly and pale man with black curly hair and blue eyes – like Emmett, bleached of all personality. Isabella recognized him immediately.
"Brother!" Felix Musgrave cried out immediately, and Bella shifted uncomfortably. It struck her as horribly disingenuous, and she worried. "At long last."
Then, no less theatrically, he bowed his head with the same oleaginous respect as the head steward. "Felix Musgrave at your service."
Bella smiled thinly, unable to muster the brilliant-but-fake smile she had perfected in her six months as Edward's fiancée.
Isabella was introduced to two more people: Amir al Amun, and Demetri Vanderboss. Edward was behind her, literally and figuratively – like a solid sentinel, with both hands cupping her shoulders protectively.
Around them, very young women lounged in bathing suits, and Bella's stomach squeezed with disgust. Finally, Bella no longer felt inferior or shy – and not because she wore Edward's engagement ring on her finger. If the men on board were older than Edward, these girls were much younger than Isabella herself. The bikini-clad girls terrified her. She saw herself at fifteen – awkward, slightly disproportionate and bearing remnants of adolescent pudge.
The feelings that haunted her since Esme insisted on an engagement announcement in the Times, returned. With a growing sense of dread, she realized this was going to be like that Alec Voltaire brunch, and Edmund Beckett's wedding, for three entire days.
She wanted her husband off this fucking boat, and away from these fucking people, and she wanted to scream it out loud.
In that frame of mind, she lost all her appetite for lunch. A dark-skinned waiter served plates of octopus ceviche. Isabella sat in her wheelchair. Edward, seated beside her, stroked her arm. He felt so foreign to her, eyes doused in aristocratic arrogance. This wasn't the man who carved her a pumpkin every year, read her to sleep, and scratched Pancake behind the ears until he purred.
"Isabella?" Felix said, in a tone that dripped with sycophantic respect.
"Mmh?"
"If I may, you look just like that actress, from the 80s. From Lolita. Renée something-something."
Isabella smiled a thin, sparkling smile. "I get that a lot."
"I mean it as a compliment," Felix said, and he bowed his head again.
Bella's false smile widened without reaching her eyes. "Thank you," she said demurely, and she took a sip of sparkling water.
The Chief Steward announced the opening course. "Tender octopus marinated in a citrusy-spicy achiote sauce, served with pickled onions and cilantro," he said smoothly. "Paired with Sauvignon Blanc from the Valle de Guadalupe."
Bella, who had not eaten in 24 hours, bit into the tender octopus and relished the explosion of flavor in her mouth.
"We're sailing away from Mexican waters," Felix explained, leaning back with a self-satisfied grin, clapping Edward on the back. "The damned beaners want to charge me for damage to a fucking coral reef."
Bella's mouth fell open in horrified shock – at everything about that statement, from the casual racism to the admission of ecological damage. Incredulously, her head whipped to Edward. Edward seemed so perfectly at ease: cold, crisp, and wearing a practiced expression of aristocratic disdain.
Edward snorted amusedly but made no further comment.
His reaction shattered Bella, so painfully that she felt it physically in her chest.
Edward saw the look on her face, and his mask cracked. His eyes swirled with panic, and he looked completely at a loss.
Bella was shaking her head. "You damaged a coral reef?" she asked, grimacing, and she couldn't keep the sadness out of her eyes.
Felix raised his hands and chuckled. "It was my captain's fault," he chuckled. "Set anchor in the wrong space. But the eco-warrior beaners are acting like it's a tragedy."
"It is a tragedy," Bella said sharply, finding a reservoir of courage she didn't know existed. She felt the tragedy in her bones, and she thought about the turtle hatchlings. "Those ecosystems take thousands of years to form, and you destroyed them in less than a day. They can't be rebuilt."
Felix Musgrave's eyebrows shot to his forehead, and he looked at her with a strange, perplexed expression. "I'll be sure to apologize to the starfish," he said pleasantly, clearly wanting to avoid a fight.
"Musgrave," Edward snarled in warning.
Bella cast a disgusted look at Edward, because she neither needed nor wanted his half-assed protection.
Bella smiled back acidly. "Not just the starfish," she sneered. "But the anemone, and the coral fish, and the reef itself, and the kelp. The whole cast of Finding Nemo."
Felix kept a pleasant smile on his face. "Did you study Marine Biology, Isabella?"
She shook her head. "I wish I had," she said, hiding none of her wistfulness. "I loved Ecology courses in college."
It was a pivotal moment in her life – because of what it showed her about her mettle, and what it showed her about Edward's.
Edward followed her back to their stateroom like a kicked puppy.
The moment they stepped into their stateroom; Edward changed. It was as if the switch that flooded their stateroom with light could also alter Edward's personality. Isabella felt a little nauseated, even claustrophobic with Edward in the room. She couldn't shake the feeling of discomfort that had taken root at dinner, and it frightened her.
"Bella, love?"
Her Edward was back. The contrast made her want to cry. He sounded so achingly sweet that he sounded vulnerable. Her Edward. Her Edward, who laughed at racial slurs and had a smaller backbone than an octopus.
"Bella, Felix means well," he said quietly. "Did he offend you? I won't let him speak like that to you again."
She felt a hundred percent certain that Edward would lash out at anybody that so much as looked at her wrong. What was gutting her slowly – like thousands of little paper cuts – was that Edward had laughed. The damned beaners want to charge me for damage to a fucking coral reef.
"That's not the problem," she said flatly.
"Did I do something wrong?"
"Yes, Edward. Yes, you did." Her voice was even despite her anger and panic. "We shouldn't be on this fucking boat."
"Christ, Bella. Felix isn't a fucking saint. You can't be, not if you want to succeed."
She growled in frustration. "I don't want to talk about this right now," she snarled, because she'd contemplated the possibility that their room was wire-tapped. "But those girls look fifteen years old, and he just admitted to… defrauding the Mexican government, and I…"
"Babe, I think you're spiraling."
Deep inside, Bella felt Another Crack, and her heart wobbled without a foundation.
Bella bit her lip. "I'd like to suntan. Do you think that's OK?"
"Of course it is."
For dinner, she wore a midi red cocktail dress by Armani. It had cost nearly 3,000 dollars – and she was insanely thankful she had thought to buy it.
"Isabella," Felix began, swirling his glass of wine. She and Edward had endured a six-course dinner with matching liquor-and-wine pairings. "I saw that book you were reading."
It was a book about fixing the economy to work for all, not just for a handful of millionaires.
"The Reich book?" Bella said, and though her smile was radiant, there was a sneer in her voice. "Reich is brilliant."
"Who is Reich?" Demetri Vanderboss asked, and Bella's irritation flared. Demetri Vanderboss barely spoke.
"The midget that's on ABC," Felix retorted.
Bella's face turned into a grimace-like smile. "The Rhodes Scholar and PhD in Economics, yes."
It hit her with absurd clarity that she was worth ten thousand Felix Musgraves.
"Do you agree with his ideas?"
"Musgrave," Edward cautioned again. "Stop interrogating my wife."
Bella felt something beyond disappointment. His attempts at protecting her were almost as pathetic as his admiration for these people.
"Yes, I agree."
"I really think social programs are a waste of taxpayer money. If we put those funds into the private sector instead, we'd see much better returns. People should be responsible for their own outcomes."
Isabella's fork paused mid-bite. "Social programs and benefits, and federal block grants, provide essential support for those in need. They help lift people out of tough situations. They level the playing field for kids."
Felix waved a dismissive hand. "But isn't that just enabling dependency? If people keep getting handouts, where's the incentive to improve their lives?"
"You're overlooking the real issue," she replied, her voice rising slightly. "People don't choose to be poor. Many are born into circumstances that severely limit their opportunities."
Felix leaned forward, a mocking smile creeping onto his face. "But there are so many success stories out there, people who started with nothing and built something. They didn't rely on anyone but themselves."
"Those success stories are exceptions, not the norm," Isabella snapped, her cheeks flushing. "For every person who pulls themselves up, countless others work just as hard but can't escape their circumstances."
Felix leaned back, crossing his arms with an air of superiority. "Far be it from me to question the future Mrs. Cullen," he said mockingly, a smirk plastered on his face.
Bella smiled again, radiantly, like her mother had taught her to do under duress. After all, Felix's barbs did not hurt as much as her husband's silences.
"Bee? Are you alright? Sweetheart, I'm sorry."
Locking her wheelchair by the bed, Isabella pulled out the XL t-shirt she was wearing as pajamas. She had been excited to buy it - $50 bucks to support a turtle conservation project. The logo on the t-shirt was a cartoonish turtle walking away from its eggshells. Holding it up, she felt crushingly silly - crushingly mismatched with her husband-to-be.
She twisted an arm to wiggle out of her dress.
"Do you need help with the zipper?"
"Thanks," she said quietly, even morosely. Standing behind her, Edward pulled down the zipper to the dress. He pressed a tender kiss to the nape of her neck.
"I know this isn't easy, Bella, and I'm sorry," Edward murmured. The apology in his voice sounded so crushingly honest. It sounded so genuine. "I hadn't – I hadn't realized…"
He trailed off hopelessly.
She snorted.
Something in her brain was short-circuiting. Half-naked, with the dress removed, she was left only with the shoes on her feet. She lifted one ankle to undo the clasp. As she worked, she was beset by tremors in her arm. It was the mix of a long day of sun, socializing, and an exhausting five-course dinner.
"Do you need help?" Edward asked gently, in his softest voice.
"It's fine," Isabella blurted, so quickly she sounded snappish.
There was something instinctive in her recoiling from Edward. A tiny part of her – festering like a virus – was sowing doubts.
As obsessively as she did every night, she removed her engagement ring from her finger and put it carefully in its velvet box. Then she slipped on her comforting and comfortable turtle t-shirt, hating how it made her feel pathetic. Her mother's words were ringing in her ears.
He'll marry you eventually, and you will be deeply unhappy because it's a terrible match.
Edward stripped down to his boxers. His Rolex glistened in his wrist and he placed it carefully back in its leather case. When their eyes met, his were swirling with shame and regret, like he was rethinking the entire trip.
Oddly, Isabella did not regret the trip.
Tenderly, Edward caressed her delicate cheekbones. "I know it's late," Edward said softly. "But do you want to catch up on some Game of Thrones while we do your exercises?"
"Not tonight," she said, low and serious, letting her every pore exude her exhaustion.
Everything in her recoiled. The problem was not that she was tired – and she was. The problem was not that she was embarrassed – she wasn't. She couldn't shake the discomfort that had taken root. Was this Edward, too? This cold, aristocratic type looked like a more elegant version of a frat boy?
The problem was that she didn't trust him.
Edward tucked hair behind her ear. "Is it – is it OK if we do them tomorrow morning? We've been skipping your stretches."
We. The ice inside her melted a little, and she nodded gratefully. "Of course we can," she said softly.
"I love you," he said quietly, his voice burning.
