AN: Long one. I just had so much flowing out of me. I hope you enjoy it!
Thanks, Purple B and May! Always taking time to read and give feedback.
SM owns everything!
Chapter Twenty-One
-My Two Greatest Enemies: Rachel Green and Complex Carbohydrates-
Even though I wasn't in the mood to enjoy the bright lights and glamour of Vegas, I knew going home early would be even worse—ten times more miserable, at least. So I stayed. I tried to make the most of the food, the shows, and even indulging in a massage, but it was like I was on autopilot, just going through the heart and mind were always elsewhere, always with Edward. Even when I tried to focus on something else, it was like a magnet, always pulling me back to him. The conversation we'd had in his hotel room replayed in my head like a song I couldn't shake off, looping over and over until I was practically dissecting every second. There was one thing that kept nagging at me more than anything else—what had he been reaching for in his bag that night?
It seemed like such a small, insignificant moment, but the way he'd paused, how serious he'd looked, it had stuck with me. Part of me, maybe the hopeful, dreamier part, wanted to believe it was a ring. I couldn't help it. The thought crept in, taking root in my mind until I started imagining it, really letting myself believe that maybe Edward had planned to propose to me.
When I brought it up to Alice and Rose, I half-expected them to laugh it off, tell me I was reading too much into things. But they didn't. They didn't dismiss the idea at all. In fact, they agreed. Alice even said she noticed something different about Edward on the trip, that he had a certain intensity, like he was working toward something. The more we talked, the more convinced I became.
Suddenly, all these little details started to line up in my mind—why Edward had gone to such lengths to get Alice and Rose on that trip, how he'd been so particular about making sure everything was perfect. The gondola ride, the lush beauty of the Venetian surrounding us, the way the lights reflected off the water like we were in a dream—it all seemed like the perfect setup for a proposal. And I could picture it so vividly: Edward down on one knee, our friends watching, the moment so unforgettable and perfect, just like something out of a movie.
But the moment never happened.
Even still, I couldn't let it go. I wasn't proud to admit it, but when I got home, I may have—or may not have—searched for the ring. If there was one, I wanted to find it. I wasn't sure what that said about me, whether it was desperation or just the need for some kind of proof that what I'd been imagining wasn't all in my head. But the search turned up nothing. No hidden ring, no secret plan revealed.
And yet, I still couldn't shake the feeling that something had been left unsaid between us that night. Something important.
Every time I saw him after that, the question burned in the back of my mind. I wanted to ask him what he'd been reaching for in his bag, to just get it out in the open. But every time I thought I might, I stopped myself. The words would catch in my throat, and I'd tell myself it wasn't the right time. Maybe I wasn't ready to know the truth. Or maybe I just didn't want to ruin whatever Edward had been planning.
I kept thinking that when he was ready, he'd tell me. He'd open up, and I'd know. I didn't want to push him, didn't want to force something that should come naturally, something that needed to come from him. If there was a ring—or whatever it was—he would bring it up when he was ready.
So, I kept quiet, letting the question hang between us like a thread, waiting for the moment when he'd finally pull it tight. Until then, I'd keep my heart and mind where they always were—with Edward.
It's been almost two weeks since Vegas, and life has shifted in other ways. I'm in my second trimester now, and next week, I'll have an ultrasound to find out the baby's gender. And today? Today is Thanksgiving.
Edward's been wrapped up in work—endless practices and games, flying out every week—but despite that, I feel…good. My energy is back, I'm eating more (a lot more), and thankfully, the crazy emotional rollercoaster I was on seems to have smoothed out. Each day, I feel a little more like myself again, and it's such a relief.
Of course, I miss Edward, deeply. There's an ache in my chest when I think about how long it's been since I've seen him, how much I want him here. But even with the distance and his schedule, he never goes a day without reaching out to me. Not one. This morning, he called me from across the country, hours before his game. It was barely six in the morning, and there he was, FaceTiming me, making sure I knew I was on his mind.
Of course, I was ready. I'd set my alarm for four, giving myself just enough time to do my hair and makeup. I wanted to look good for him, even through a screen. When I popped up on his screen, looking all contoured and polished, Edward laughed, shaking his head.
"You know," he said, grinning, "I appreciate the effort, but you're gorgeous to me no matter what."
It was so easy for him to say that sitting there looking effortlessly perfect himself—freshly showered, his hair a tousled mess that somehow made him look even better. It wasn't fair.
"What are you talking about? I wake up like this," I shot back, giving him a playful wink.
Usually, we could talk for at least an hour, enough time to pretend the distance between us wasn't so suffocating. But today, we barely had twenty minutes. He quickly updated me on his schedule, walking me through what his day looked like and when he might finally make it home. There wasn't any real break in sight—no guaranteed time off. The only chance we had for a weekend together was if they won today's game.
I couldn't remember the last time we'd had an entire weekend to ourselves, no practices, no flights, just the two of us. I could see the same longing in his tired eyes. He wanted it just as much as I did. But there was more riding on that win than just lazy mornings and stolen moments—we had a doctor's appointment on Monday. That's when we'd find out the baby's gender.
I had thought about rescheduling it, but our OBGYN was in such high demand that changing the appointment would mess up the rest of my schedule. It wasn't ideal, but there wasn't much I could do. If Edward's team didn't win today, it was unlikely his coach would let him take time off for the appointment, especially with the fallout from Vegas still looming over him. The pressure was unfair, but it was our reality. I didn't want to add to his stress by reminding him how important today's game was—for both of us.
But Edward brought it up anyway. "You can't miss Monday's appointment," he said, his voice firm as he gave me one of his sternest looks.
"I won't," I assured him, hoping we could leave it at that. But he wasn't ready to drop it.
"Even if I can't be there," he added, his brow furrowing with worry.
His intensity was why I'd wanted to avoid this conversation altogether. What was I supposed to say? We both knew I wanted him there. And he wanted to be there just as badly. But if he started putting all the pressure on himself, like he did in Vegas, and the game didn't go his way, it would send him spiraling. Edward's always been the type to brood, and the last thing he needed was more weight on his shoulders.
"How about this?" I suggested gently. "If you can't make it, I'll have Alice record the whole thing, okay?"
His expression softened, the tension fading as a cocky smile slowly crept across his face. "You know I'm going to win, right?"
And just like that, I fell a little deeper for him. "Of course, I know," I said, matching his grin. "We've got a doctor's appointment on Monday."
Thanksgiving in Forks isn't just a day—it's an entire week of tradition. My mom starts baking four days before, filling the house with the smell of pies and rolls. We visit pumpkin patches, sip hot cocoa by the fire, and gather downtown to watch the Gobble, Gobble Parade. Normally, I'd be here by the Sunday before, staying in my childhood bedroom, but this year was different. I didn't leave Seattle until Wednesday afternoon. My parents were disappointed, of course—they don't get to see me as often as they'd like—but they understood. I couldn't give up even one second with Edward. Whether it was a few stolen minutes in the morning or an hour before bed, those nights wrapped in his arms were something I wasn't ready to trade.
Besides, the less time I spent with my brother, the better.
Vegas had only made Emmett more hostile toward me. He'd given Rose the cold shoulder for a few days, but things eventually smoothed out for them. Edward had gotten off the easiest, receiving only one pouty text before Emmett started acting normal again. It left me feeling conflicted—relieved that their friendship wasn't damaged, but also angry. Why was I the one getting treated like garbage? Edward and I were equally responsible, and last I checked, I didn't get myself pregnant. The unfairness of it all had nearly convinced me to cancel coming home for Thanksgiving altogether.
But I couldn't punish my parents or the rest of my family because my brother was acting like a brat. Plus, Edward's parents were flying in to see me. Esme and Carlisle, who lived in Chicago, had spent most of their holidays following Edward's games, but once they found out we were together and expecting a baby, they changed their plans. The thought of seeing them again made me nervous. The last time I'd spoken to them was at Edward's high school graduation. They were kind people, not snobby at all, but I couldn't help but feel intimidated by them. They weren't like the people in Forks—they weren't like my parents. My mom and dad were simple, small-town folk, and Edward's parents? They were from the city.
Somehow, he and I were the best parts of both worlds.
That morning, I woke up early and headed downstairs to help with the food. Dinner was set for one in the afternoon, but everyone would be arriving at ten-thirty to watch Edward's football game. My mom was already in the kitchen, rolling out dough for her famous homemade rolls. The scent of flour and yeast fills the room, making my stomach growl loud enough to give away my presence.
"Morning, sweetie," my mom calls without even turning around, her arms dusted with flour up to her elbows.
I smile, a warm wave of nostalgia washing over me. I grab an apron from the rack on the wall and tie it around my waist. "Morning, Mom. Need any help?"
"I sure do," she says, nodding toward the fridge. "Can you make the butter?"
When I say my mom goes all out for Thanksgiving, I mean all out. Everything is homemade, from the rolls to the stuffing—everything except the turkey. We used to cook a wild turkey that my dad and brother hunted, but ever since Emmett decided he was too moody to go, we'd switched to store-bought. Still, the butter was a Swan family tradition, and I knew the recipe by heart. I pulled out the fresh cream and blender, working quickly to churn it, separating the fat before gathering the butter and molding it into smooth, golden lumps.
"You're looking better," my mom says as she kneads her dough. "How're you feeling?"
"Good, really good," I say, resting a hand on my small but growing belly. "I'm about fourteen weeks now. I think I'm past the worst of it."
She glances over with a smile. "Fourteen weeks already? The baby must be the size of a—what?"
"A kiwi," I laugh. "And she's a girl."
Mom's eyes light up. "You know already? I thought you couldn't find out for a couple more weeks."
"Well, I don't know, but I feel like it's a girl. We'll find out for sure on Monday at the doctor's appointment."
At that, my mom lets out an excited squeal and throws her arms around me in a tight hug. "Oh, Bella, I'm so excited! I knew what you and your brother were before the doctors ever told me. Us mommies just know." Her eyes misty with tears as she pulls back, cupping my face. "You're going to be such a good mama."
And just like that, the floodgates opened. I hadn't been overly emotional in weeks, but hearing her say that hit me hard. I start sobbing, the kind of ugly, gut-wrenching cry you can't hold back, and my mom gently wipes the tears from my cheeks.
"You think so?" I manage to choke out.
"I know so," she whispers, pulling me into another hug.
We stand there for a while, her rocking me back and forth as she hums Amy Grant's "Baby, Baby," the song she used to sing when I was little. I close my eyes, letting her warmth and love surround me. I wasn't sure how long we stayed like that, but the moment ends when the kitchen door swings open and Charlie walks in. He clears his throat, signaling his presence.
Mom lets me go, brushing a kiss on my forehead before turning to him. "What's up, hon?"
"Nothing," he grunts, his usual way of saying hello.
I wipe my face and refocus on the butter in front of me. "Hey, Dad."
Charlie comes over, pulling me into one of his signature side hugs—tight enough to knock the wind out of me. "Hey, kiddo. You doing okay?"
"Yeah, I'm good. Just making butter. You?"
"Yup," he says, already grabbing his hat from the rack. "Heading out to do some fishing with Emmett and Billy before the game. You ladies need anything before I go?"
"No, we're fine here," Mom says, not even looking up from her dough.
He lingers for a second, his eyes settling on me with the warmest smile Charlie Swan could muster. "It's good to have you home, Bells."
I smile back, feeling that familiar rush of warmth that came with being back in Forks. "Good to be home, Dad."
And just like that, he's gone, the old truck rumbles to life as he pulls out of the gravel driveway. The air felt lighter without him there, a strange relief washing over me. There was always something about my dad—his presence seemed to carry weight, like an unspoken expectation for me to be on my best behavior.
Rose and the kids arrive just before ten, the kitchen door swinging open as she juggles a couple of homemade pies. She sets them on the counter with a grin. Jackson and Sophie give me quick, obligatory hugs before darting out into the backyard like they've been cooped up too long. The kitchen feels warm, full of delicious smells—Mom is at the stove working on mashed potatoes and gravy while I'm slicing tomatoes and onions for the salad. My stomach growls, reminding me that dinner can't come soon enough.
The TV in the living room is tuned to the Seahawks-Lions game, and though I'm focused on the food in front of me, my eyes keep drifting to the flat screen. Edward's face flashes on the screen every few minutes as the commentators dissect the game, their voices buzzing through the house like background noise. My heart skips a beat every time they zoom in on him, his figure striking even in the outdated 1080p my parents still have. It doesn't matter. He looks incredible.
The commentators are deep in discussion about Edward's future prospects. "Cullen's talents are highly sought after in the NFL. Several teams are eager to sign him next year, but many believe he'll remain loyal to the Seahawks and commit to another five-year contract." Another voice chimes in. "Loyalty's great, Troy, but can Seattle even come close to matching what Kansas City is rumored to be offering? I've heard figures upwards of 58 million over four years."
I'm so locked in that the snap of fingers right next to me startles me back into the present. I whip my head around to find Rose standing there, an amused smile on her face.
"Huh? What?" I blink at her, feeling my cheeks flush.
She laughs. "Earth to Bella! Didn't you hear me talking to you?"
I laugh awkwardly, feeling bashful. "Sorry. I was listening to them talk about Edward."
Rose leans in to peek at the TV, watching for a moment before shrugging. "Cool, cool. Anyway, I wanted to check on you before Emmett gets here. How are you feeling? Are you going to be okay?"
"Yeah," I say with a sigh, trying to sound confident. "It's going to be awkward, but I'm feeling better these days. My emotions aren't so… on edge anymore."
She nods but doesn't look entirely convinced. "We've been better," she says quietly.
Her words set off a quiet alarm in my head, a red flag I want to ask about, but before I can, my mom rushes into the kitchen.
"The Cullens are here!" she announces, grabbing me by the hand and pulling me into the foyer. She's fussing, straightening my hair, and smoothing out my shirt like I'm a little kid. "Now," she says, eyes wide with excitement, "don't be nervous. They're family. Just act natural."
"Mom, you need to relax," I say, gently brushing her hands off me. "I'll be fine."
She steps back but keeps fussing. "Oh, I know, I know. Just… smile, baby."
I roll my eyes but plaster on a smile as I open the door. "Hello," I say, trying not to sound too stiff.
Carlisle and Esme stand on the porch, looking as elegant as ever. Carlisle's in a crisp button-up and slacks, and Esme is wearing a silk blouse tucked into a tailored pencil skirt. Both outfits are shades of gray, perfectly coordinated. They look so polished, so city, I realize how out of place they seem here in Forks. Even after all these years, I'm still taken aback by how striking they are. Carlisle's blond hair and sharp green eyes remind me so much of Edward, and Esme's warm smile and the same bronze hair color immediately put me at ease. But then the nerves hit—I must look ridiculous, standing here frozen with this plastered smile on my face. What are they thinking? That the mother of their first grandchild can't even form words? Maybe they're wondering if this level of awkwardness is hereditary.
Thankfully, my mom steps in, saving me from my awkward freeze. "Come in, come in! You're just in time for cocktails," she says, her voice warm and inviting.
Carlisle and Esme smile, their warmth snapping me out of my trance. That's what I remembered most about them—they always felt like family.
"Yeah, of course," I say, scrambling to recover. "I'm so sorry, please come in." I open the door wider, feeling the tension in my shoulders loosen just a bit.
As they step inside, my mom quickly takes their coats and hangs them in the closet, leaving me standing there in the foyer, unsure of what to do next. We all just stand there, staring at each other for a moment.
Esme, always the gracious one, breaks the ice. "You've grown up so beautifully, Bella." She steps forward and hugs me, and the scent of her—warm and familiar, like gingerbread cookies—instantly takes me back. She pulls away, smiling again. "It's just, I didn't know how I would feel seeing you again."
I laugh nervously, my face hot and itchy with nerves. "Me either." My voice comes out too high, and I cringe internally. "You both look exactly the same."
And just like that, the air thickens with awkwardness again. My mom, of course, has abandoned me to go grab drinks, leaving me wishing desperately that I could have one.
"So, um," I force another smile, my brain scrambling for small talk, "how was your flight?"
Esme skips right over the question and her eyes land on my hands, which I only now realize are resting on my belly. "How far along are you?"
I drop my hands immediately, feeling self-conscious. Carlisle must have noticed my discomfort because he steps in with a kind smile. "Please forgive us if we seem a little overexcited. We don't mean to overwhelm you."
"No, it's okay," I say quickly, not wanting them to feel bad. "I'm about four months."
"The baby is the size of a kiwi now, isn't it?" Esme's eyes light up, the poised, composed exterior she tried to maintain starting to slip. She's all in now.
I blink in surprise. "Yeah… how did you know?"
"Edward sent me a book on Kindle when you were around nine weeks," she says, beaming.
That catches me off guard. "Wait, when did he tell you?" My mind is spinning. Just last week, when Edward told me he had informed his parents, he made it sound like it was fresh news. His exact words were: 'I told my parents about the baby. They want to come see you on Thursday.'
Esme seems to notice the surprise on my face and treads carefully. "Right after you had your first ultrasound," she says, glancing at Carlisle, her tone suddenly cautious. He gives her a subtle shake of his head like he's trying to signal something.
Esme continues, looking back at me. "I wanted to call you, but Edward said you were having a tough time and needed some space to feel better."
I manage a smile, trying to keep the confusion from showing. "It's fine, really. I just didn't know he told you that early."
Carlisle chuckles softly, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "If it's any consolation, we were surprised he told us at all. Edward has a habit of planning to tell us things but rarely follows through."
Before I can respond, my mom glides into the room, holding two martini glasses with a flourish. "One dirty for you, Esme, and another for you, Dr. Cullen."
They both take the drinks with grateful smiles, not wasting any time as they down the martinis in two quick gulps. I can't help but smile. Even Carlisle and Esme, with all their grace and polish, still seem perfectly human in these little moments.
Emmett and my dad arrive just fifteen minutes before kickoff, rushing to take quick showers before joining the rest of us in the living room. My mom and Rose are in full hostess mode, bringing out platters of cheese and crackers, refilling drinks, and making sure I stay seated. I'm sipping on a Shirley Temple, trying to feel a little grown-up, but all I can think about is Edward. I know deep down he won't call or text during the game, but I can't stop myself from checking my phone every few minutes, like some part of me is delusional enough to believe he might. I miss him so much that it hurts, a dull ache that never quite goes away. How long does it take before you stop feeling like this when someone isn't around? Maybe seeing him on the screen once the game starts will help take the edge off.
Esme settles into the chair beside me, placing her third martini on the coffee table with a satisfied sigh. The tension in her face has softened now, the alcohol loosening her up. "So, Bella," she says, turning to me with a relaxed smile, "have you and Edward discussed names yet?"
Carlisle, always the picture of control, hasn't touched his drink since the one in the foyer. But even he seems interested in the answer, his body subtly angling toward me, his eyes attentive.
I smile, remembering the conversation from a few nights ago. "Actually, yes. He mentioned a couple of names—Brady if it's a boy and Peyton if it's a girl."
Esme coos, "Oh, those names are just darling," while Carlisle nods with approval.
"And what about you, Bella? Any names you like?" he asks, his tone warm.
"I'm leaning towards Silas for a boy and Sutton for a girl," I reply.
Carlisle raises an intrigued eyebrow. "And how did Edward like those?"
I laugh, rolling my eyes. "He didn't. But we have five more months to figure it out. Once we know the gender, I'm sure it'll be easier to narrow things down."
Esme perks up. "And when do you find out?"
"Monday. I have an appointment with my OBGYN," I say.
Carlisle doesn't hesitate. "Edward will be with you, I'm sure."
I wince slightly, knowing the reality. "Yes—if the Seahawks win today."
Both Esme and Carlisle tilt their heads in unison, confusion written across their faces. "What do you mean?" Esme asks.
Before I can explain, Emmett storms into the room like a wrecking ball, flopping down in the armchair across from me without so much as a glance in my direction. Despite the tension between us, he turns on the charm for the Cullens, grinning as he reaches over to shake their hands.
"Good to see you, Mrs. Cullen, Dr. Cullen," he says, his voice annoyingly sweet.
The exchange feels like a stab to the chest. I'm furious with myself for missing him, for letting him affect me this much.
"Good to see you too, Emmett," Carlisle replies. "I hear you're going to be taking the Chief's position when your dad retires next month."
I sit up straighter, eyes wide. "Wait—Dad's retiring?"
All eyes turn to me. Emmett's glare is cold, filled with disdain.
"Yeah," he says shortly.
I blink, confused. My dad, retiring? As far back as I can remember, he was Chief Charlie Swan, the backbone of Forks law enforcement. "Why hasn't anyone told me?"
Emmett scoffs, his voice thick with bitterness. "When would we have had the chance to tell you anything, Bella? You're so wrapped up in Edward-land, would you even care?"
His words hit like a slap, and my anger flares. "Of course, I'd care, Em! How can you say that?"
That's all the fuel he needs. Emmett swivels his attention from me to the Cullens, completely ignoring my question. "So, how did you guys feel when you found out your son was dating my sister?"
The tension in the room spikes as Carlisle and Esme shift uncomfortably, clearly thrown by the hostility in his tone.
"Leave them out of this," I snap, my voice low but firm. "This is between us."
Emmett doesn't even glance in my direction, as if I've completely disappeared. "Well, it does involve them, doesn't it? We're all going to be family soon, right? Edward and Bella are having a baby. Maybe they'll get married—who knows? He hasn't asked her yet. So, I'd love to hear how you two feel about this joyous union."
Carlisle straightens slightly, responding with a calm authority that deflects Emmett's hostility. "Tell me if I'm wrong, Emmett, but it sounds like you were blindsided by the relationship between Edward and Bella."
Emmett's jaw clenches, his voice cold as he says, "No, you're not wrong. I had no idea my own sister had feelings for my best friend."
He looks vindicated, like he's finally voicing what's been gnawing at him. Maybe, in his mind, someone might finally be on his side.
Carlisle remains unfazed. "And you had no idea Edward had feelings for her either."
Emmett snorts, crossing his arms. "Because he didn't."
Esme, sensing the rising tension, stands up, picking up her glass with a small sigh. "Oh, child," she says gently, offering me a sympathetic smile as she palms my cheek. "I'm going to need another drink."
She disappears into the kitchen, leaving me alone with Emmett and Carlisle. I sit up straighter, willing myself not to shrink under the weight of Emmett's bitterness.
Carlisle doesn't hesitate. "Maybe your best friend didn't tell you for a reason," he suggests, his calm demeanor unwavering as he meets Emmett's angry gaze.
Emmett stiffens, his shoulders tensing. "And why wouldn't he tell me?" he demands.
"For a multitude of reasons," Carlisle replies evenly. "But I assure you, Emmett, Edward's feelings for Bella have been there for a long time."
Emmett rolls his eyes, waving off Carlisle's words as if they're meaningless. "Bullshit."
"Not bullshit," Carlisle says, his voice firm but measured. He shifts slightly, pulling his phone from his pocket. "I can prove it."
Both Emmett and I lean in, curiosity sparked. We watch as Carlisle scrolls through his phone, searching for something specific. It takes a moment, but he finally lands on the video he's been looking for.
"How far back does this go?" Emmett mutters, his brow furrowed.
Carlisle taps the screen, and I see the answer before he says a word. The video shows Edward, younger, with his hair buzzed short and his face leaner. I'd peg it around 2017 or 2018.
"When was this?" I ask, already knowing it's from a different time in Edward's life.
"This was in Chicago in 2018," Carlisle explains. "It was just before Edward was drafted. He was… acting a little strange that week. Detached, quiet. I couldn't figure out why, so I decided to check on him."
Edward is sitting on the couch, completely absorbed in his phone, oblivious to Carlisle sneaking up behind him with the camera. The video zooms in on the screen, and as I lean closer, my stomach flips.
"Oh my God," I mutter under my breath, heat rising to my cheeks.
Emmett narrows his eyes, instantly suspicious. "Are you kidding me?"
There, in all its 6.7" display, is Edward scrolling through my secret Instagram account. The one I used to post pictures that no one—especially my parents—was supposed to see. And of course, he's staring at one of the most scandalous posts I ever made. I cringe, remembering that phase of my life. It was the summer I moved out of my parent's house when I'd gone through what I liked to call my "wild streak," the kind of phase you'd bury deep if you could. In the photo on his screen, I'm posing in a gold thong bikini, my back to the camera, my butt the clear focus.
Great, I think, my cheeks burning with embarrassment. Of all the pictures…
I barely stop myself from groaning aloud. Where did that bikini even go?
"Eww, gross," Emmett grumbles, recoiling as if the sight physically hurt him. "I've seen enough." He scoots away from Carlisle, throwing himself dramatically back into his chair. "What does that prove? My best friend thought my sister was hot? Big deal. All my friends do."
I blink, surprised by his admission. "Aww, really?" I tease, raising an eyebrow despite my mortification.
"Get over yourself, B," Emmett snaps, clearly irritated.
Carlisle, ever the calm presence, keeps his voice steady, cutting through the tension. "You're judging too quickly," he says, gently increasing the volume on his phone. "Keep watching, and you'll see something more."
The video keeps playing, and Edward groans, stuffing his phone into his pocket, completely unaware his father is watching—and filming. Carlisle, ever composed, remains quiet, letting the moment breathe before speaking in a casual tone.
"What's got you down in the dumps, son?"
Edward's head jerks up, startled at first. But then he relaxes, not realizing Carlisle is filming him. He leans back onto the couch, rubbing his face with a tired laugh. "This girl," he mutters, the frustration in his voice evident. "I fucking… I can't stop thinking about her."
Carlisle plays it cool, acting as though he didn't just catch his son deep in my Instagram feed. "Oh? Do I know this girl?"
Edward swallows hard and shakes his head. "No."
Carlisle nods, keeping his tone neutral. "All right then. So I can be impartial. Do you want to talk about it?"
Edward sits up a little straighter, the shift in his posture making it clear he's conflicted. The camera angle changes, briefly obscured as Carlisle adjusts, but Edward's voice cuts through, loud and clear, even though the screen goes black as Carlisle's phone gets pressed against his leg.
"It's complicated," Edward admits, his voice quieter now, almost unsure. "She's younger than me."
Carlisle's calm voice cuts through the tension. "How much younger?"
Edward hesitates. "She's 20. But she'll be 21 in a month."
There's a pause before Carlisle speaks, and when he does, it's gentle but firm. "She's of legal age, Edward. And really not that much younger."
"Yeah, I know." Edward's voice is heavy, weighed down by whatever conflict is swirling inside him. "That's what's making it so hard not to just… call her. Ask her out to dinner or something."
Carlisle doesn't miss a beat. "Then why don't you?"
Edward exhales slowly, his frustration clear even in the crackle of the phone's audio. "Like I said, it's complicated."
Carlisle's voice softens, as though he knows how fragile this conversation is for his son. "Edward, do you really like this girl?"
The silence hangs thick for a beat. Then Edward answers, voice low and rough, like the truth has been sitting on his chest for too long. "So fucking much, Dad. And I don't know what to do."
There's some static and a brief distortion in the audio as the phone shifts, but then the screen adjusts slightly, catching Edward's hands—clenched together, knuckles tight with tension.
Carlisle's voice lowers, almost as if he's afraid to push too hard. "Do… you… love her?"
The silence that follows feels like a weight, hanging there, stretching into eternity. I hold my breath, waiting for his answer.
Finally, Edward speaks, his voice so soft I barely hear it over the rustling in the video. "Yeah. I think I do."
A beat later, Esme's voice calls out in the background, and the camera jerks up to the ceiling, giving us a final, awkward shot of Carlisle's nostrils before the video cuts off, leaving me reeling in the silence that follows.
I lean back, trying to absorb everything I've just seen and heard. My heart feels heavy, tangled in emotions I'm not even sure how to process. Emmett is shaking his head beside me, like he doesn't quite know what to make of it either.
"Does Edward know this video exists?" I ask, my voice soft, almost afraid of the answer.
Carlisle slips his phone back into his pocket, shaking his head gently. "No. And if he knew, I'm sure he would've made me delete it. That was the last time he really opened up to me… until you came back into his life."
A sigh escapes me, heartsick and frustrated. "God, I wish he had called me. I was so madly in love with him back then too."
Carlisle nods thoughtfully. "I agree. He probably wanted to, but I think he knew it wouldn't have been well received." As he says this, his eyes narrow, glancing pointedly in Emmett's direction.
The accusation hangs in the air, and Emmett, quick to sense it, immediately gets defensive. "Oh, great. So now I'm the asshole, right?"
"Yes," I snap, the word leaving my mouth before I can hold it back.
Carlisle, ever the diplomat, softens it. "Well, not entirely."
My temper flares, the frustration bubbling over as I turn to face Emmett. "What is your problem, exactly?" I try to keep my voice steady, but it trembles with rising anger. "Are you really that selfish? Do you think Edward belongs to you?"
"Yes!" Emmett fires back, without hesitation, his voice filled with raw emotion. "He's my friend, Bella. You don't get to just swoop in and steal him from me."
My jaw tightens, the absurdity of his words hitting me like a punch to the gut. "He's my friend too, Emmett. Or did you forget?"
His eyes flash, but behind the anger, there's something deeper—something wounded. It's not just about me and Edward. It's about all the things left unsaid, the invisible lines drawn between loyalty and love, and how everything between us has shifted. But right now, all I feel is the heat of betrayal burning in my chest.
"No, I didn't forget," Emmett growls, his voice rising with each word. "I didn't forget how Mom and Dad forced me to take you everywhere." His frustration is palpable, and before I know it, we're standing chest to chest, his broad frame towering over me.
I have to crane my neck just to meet his eyes, but I refuse to back down. I can feel the heat of his anger, and mine too, swirling between us like an invisible storm.
"That only proves how selfish you've always been," I snap, my voice sharp as a blade. "This has nothing to do with your friendship with Edward. What, did you two have some secret spot in the woods where you'd go and bond?"
His face twists in irritation, like he knows it's ridiculous, and the look only confirms what I suspected—there was no sacred connection between him and Edward that he's so desperate to protect.
"Well, we did," I say, my words biting as I push him back, my small hands firm against his chest. He barely moves, but I don't care. I feel the need to make my point. "So don't act like you had some precious bond with him, because you didn't. I did! Me and Edward did. And we still do!"
The weight of my words hangs between us, thick and heavy. There's a flicker of something in Emmett's eyes—pain, maybe? But I don't have the patience to decode it. I reach for the remote, my hands shaking just slightly, and turn toward the TV, using it as a barrier between us.
"Now leave me alone," I say coldly, my voice trembling with a mix of anger and exhaustion. "The game's about to start."
But as the words leave my lips, I feel a knot tighten in my chest, a lingering ache that no amount of stubbornness can push away. It's not just about the game, or even Edward. It's the distance that's grown between Emmett and me, the unspoken resentment, the years of feeling like I was in his way.
Edward is on fire. There's an undeniable grace to the way he moves across the field, like it's second nature, like every step is part of a dance only he knows the rhythm to. It's effortless—his movements fluid, almost like he's gliding over the grass, barely touching the ground. There's an art in it, a beauty that draws every eye to him.
He and Garrett are perfectly in sync, moving like two halves of the same whole. Every pass Edward sends sailing through the air feels inevitable, destined, as if it was always meant to land in Garrett's hands. The crowd erupts each time, their cheers echoing through the room as the Seahawks rack up another touchdown.
By the time halftime rolls around, dinner is ready, and we're up by sixteen points. The house smells of warm rolls and roasted turkey, but all I can think about is the way Edward's been dominating the field. He's not just playing the game—he's owning it, commanding every moment with the kind of confidence and precision that leaves me breathless.
The whole family is beside themselves with excitement, the energy in the room electric. Even Emmett, who had been holding onto his grudge, seems to have let it go. We've been high-fiving, and laughing, and, in a rare moment, he even pulled me into a hug. For the first time in what feels like forever, it's like the tension between us has melted away, and we're back to how things used to be—playful, easy, right.
"Man, did you see your boy, Carlisle?" my dad exclaims, grinning ear to ear as he carves the turkey, handing out slices like they're part of some victory feast. "He's pure poetry out there. That arm—pow! I still can't get over it."
Carlisle chuckles, pride gleaming in his eyes. "He really is something else, isn't he? I don't know where he gets it," he says being modest, but there's a glimmer in his voice that suggests he knows exactly where Edward gets it from.
Emmett jumps in, unable to resist adding his two cents. "Man, you gotta hand it to Garrett too. That dude's a beast. The way he and Edward sync up, it's like they've got some kind of telepathy going on." He shakes his head, impressed despite himself. "I mean, seriously—every time Edward throws, Garrett's just there."
My dad nods in agreement, grinning as he passes out another slice of turkey. "No kidding. The way they connect? That's some next-level stuff. It's like they were born to play together."
The way they talk about him just fills my heart, overflowing with this warmth I can barely contain. Every time they mention his name—his perfect pass, his incredible footwork, the way he's leading his team with such confidence—I can't stop the smile from spreading across my face. It's like the words wrap around me, lifting me, making me feel weightless.
It's not just pride. It's deeper than that, like this invisible thread that's been slowly weaving through everything is finally pulling tight, tying everything together. I've always known Edward was capable of amazing things, but hearing other people acknowledge it, seeing them admire him like I do—it makes my heart swell. There's this sense of rightness, like all the pieces that were scattered are finally locking into place.
For so long, things between us felt messy and unsure, but in this moment, everything just clicks. The doubt, the distance, all of it feels so small, so far away. Watching him out there, hearing them praise him, it's like the universe is giving me a sign—this is where we're meant to be.
The game starts just as we got a second helping of food. Everyone takes their plates and moves into the living room, excitement already buzzing through the air. I can feel the energy shift as soon as the game flickers onto the TV screen. It's like the whole room is waiting for something big to happen, something that'll snap us out of the lull of too much turkey and mashed potatoes.
By the end of the third quarter, something shifts. It's subtle at first, barely noticeable, but you can feel it in the way the Seahawks start hesitating, like their confidence is teetering on the edge of arrogance. Maybe they think they've got this game in the bag. Maybe they believe Edward will pull them through no matter what. But the Lions—they've got a fire now, a new kind of energy, as they've tapped into something primal. They're everywhere all at once, closing gaps, blocking every route, tightening their defense until it feels like Edward's team is suffocating out there.
Every time the Seahawks try to push forward, the Lions push back harder. They're relentless, swarming Edward, cutting off every option he has to move the ball. The air feels thick, and tense, like the game is teetering on the brink of disaster. I watch as play after play goes nowhere, the team losing yardage instead of gaining it. And then, it happens.
The snap is clean, but the pocket collapses almost instantly. Edward's eyes dart around, looking for an opening, but there's nothing. And then, before he can even raise his arm to throw, they're on him. The Lions' defense crashes into him like a freight train, and Edward goes down. Hard. His body slams into the turf with a sickening thud, and the breath catches in my throat.
He stays down a second too long, long enough for my pulse to spike in panic. God, he hits the ground so hard, I can feel it in my bones. The sound of the collision echoes in my ears, and the room around me fades into the background. All I can see is Edward on the ground, struggling to get up.
My heart is in my throat. Every instinct in me wants to scream, to shout at the TV for someone to help him, to make sure he's okay, but all I can do is sit there, frozen in place. My stomach twists painfully, a sickening knot of worry tightening with each passing second. He finally gets to his feet, but he's slow, and the way he holds himself—it's like he's trying not to show how much it hurts. But I can tell. I can always tell.
And then they sack him again. It just keeps going.
So does Edward. Hit after hit, I see that same determination in his eyes. He refuses to give up, no matter how much it costs him.
And it's killing me.
On the outside, I'm steady, composed, sitting there with my hands folded neatly in my lap, my face giving nothing away. I nod at the right moments, keep my expression calm, even managing to force a small smile when someone glances my way. I'm acting like everything's fine, like I've got it all together.
But inside? Inside, I'm screaming. Where's the fucking defense?! The panic is clawing at my chest, a wildfire spreading through my thoughts, and I'm barely holding it together. My mind is racing, a constant loop of frustration and fear pounding in my skull. Every missed tackle, every second Edward's on the ground, my nerves are fraying more and more, like a rubber band stretched too far, ready to snap.
The contrast between what I'm showing and what I'm feeling is dizzying. I'm a mess underneath this calm surface, desperately trying to hold it together while my heart feels like it's going to burst from the anxiety.
"It's okay, sis," Emmett says softly, his voice breaking through the chaos of my thoughts. He places a hand on my shoulder, his touch grounding, but it's not enough to ease the sick feeling twisting inside me.
I glance at him, trying to force a smile, but it falters. How can it be okay when Edward keeps getting knocked down like that? Emmett squeezes my shoulder, his gaze steady, like he's trying to convince me with sheer will that everything will turn out fine.
"Edward's tough," he continues, his voice calm but firm. "He can handle this. You know him."
I want to believe him, to trust that Edward's going to be okay, but the image of him hitting the ground, over and over, is burned into my mind. I know how determined Edward is, how he never gives up—but that's what scares me. It's like he's pushing himself beyond the breaking point, and I'm not sure how much more of this he can take.
Emmett leans in a little closer, his tone softening even more. "He's got this. I promise."
I nod, not trusting myself to speak. The knot in my stomach loosens just a little, but the worry still sits heavy, refusing to leave.
The tension in the room is unbearable. Every single person is on edge, their eyes glued to the screen, the air thick with panic. It's no longer just about the game—it's about Edward. The way he's been taking hits has everyone on high alert, and now that the Seahawks are down by a few points with only a minute left, the pressure feels suffocating.
I can hear nervous breaths around me, whispers of hope mingling with murmurs of dread. Plates of half-eaten food have been abandoned, and forgotten on laps or coffee tables. No one's moving, no one's speaking, except for the occasional sharp intake of breath or muttered curse when a play goes wrong.
Edward's back on the field, bruised but unbroken, his face a mask of fierce determination. He's not giving up. Not with so little time left. But the clock's ticking down, and the Lions' defense has been relentless, unyielding. Every second feels like an eternity as we watch the huddle break, the team lining up for what could be their last chance to pull off a miracle.
"Come on, Edward," I whisper under my breath, hands clenched so tightly in my lap they hurt. The room feels like it's holding its collective breath, waiting for something to happen. Anything.
The ball snaps, and everything moves in slow motion. Edward drops back, scanning the field. The Lions rush toward him again, but this time there's no hesitation in his movements. He sidesteps a defender, just barely escaping the hit, and I can hear people gasping around me as he avoids another tackle. It's like watching a high-stakes dance, and he's just one misstep away from disaster.
He cocks his arm back, ready to throw, but no one's open. Not yet. I can see the indecision flicker in his eyes for a split second, and my heart races, the panic rising in my chest. He's running out of time—both on the clock and with the Lions bearing down on him.
"Come on, come on," someone murmurs, their voice tight with nerves.
Edward takes off, sprinting toward the sideline, keeping his eyes downfield, looking for an opening. The seconds tick away, and the panic in the room builds to a fever pitch. It feels like we're all holding onto the last thread of hope, terrified that it's about to snap.
And then, just as the Lions close in, Edward makes his move. He fakes a pass, juking past a defender, and takes off downfield himself. The room erupts with a mix of cheers and gasps as he bolts, weaving between defenders like a man possessed. But it's not over yet. He still has to cross the end zone.
Thirty seconds left. Time is slipping away, and the field is shrinking.
Edward dodges a tackle, then another. He's almost there, but a wall of defenders is closing in on him fast. It looks impossible—there's no way through. But just when it seems like the play's over, Edward fakes again, a subtle shoulder drop that throws the last defender off just enough. He dives for the end zone, and for a second, time seems to freeze.
Then the ref's arms shoot up. Touchdown. The room erupts with cheers, everyone jumping out of their seats, but I just sit there, eyes glued to the screen, watching Edward as he gets up, breathless and triumphant.
For a moment, he glances toward the camera, and I swear he looks like he's searching for something—or someone.
Me.
