A/N: Thanks so much for all your wonderful thoughts!
Most characters belong to S. Meyer. The rest belong to me. All mistakes are mine.
Chapter 10 – Running Water
I promise it's not about you
I've got way too many things to do
There's songs to sing
And words to write
And baby you know I ain't got all night
For you
I promise it's not about you
You think it's all about you
I think you want it to be true
You watch my masochistic smiles
Across the miles
And know it ain't about you
I promise it's not about you
I've got way too many things to do
I'm not gonna lie
You're on my mind
But I swear this ain't about you
It's not about you
I promise it's not about you
But you know I break my promises, right?
Still, I'll keep promising all night
that it ain't about you
Is it ever 'bout me?
Guess none of it was true
"Promises Broken"
Music and Lyrics by Edward Cullen
Copyright 2006 for Sophomore album 'Promises Broken'
OOOOO
September 13, 2024 – NYC, NY: 11:11 p.m.
"Are you sure you're okay?" Rose asked.
"Do you want us to come in and keep you company for a bit?" Alice offered.
The three of us – Rosalie, Alice, and I – stood just outside my suite door. Although I appreciated their concern and sympathy for what they rightly gauged as a trying night, I needed to be alone.
Whether much of what had happened throughout the past few hours was self-inflicted, I knew Rose and Alice wouldn't judge despite their undeniable curiosity and often dissimilar approaches. On the surface, Rosalie Hale always appeared the tougher one between the three of us. She was the louder one and more outspoken. But only those closest to her knew she was like a chocolate chip cookie: underneath an outer shell was the mushiest, gooiest, softest friend and shoulder an individual could ever ask for.
As equally as I appreciate both her and Alice, the truth is that when I needed a shoulder to cry on – such as when Edward and I broke up and its lingering afterburn, or when I finally matured enough to open up about how massively hurt and affected I was by my once-real-father's defection and my now-real-father's need for forgiveness and acceptance, or when James and I divorced – Rosalie's shoulder was the more comforting one. Rosalie listened and then helped me explore ways forward.
In contrast, when Edward and I broke up, Alice quickly pointed out why I was fortunate to be rid of him early in his career before his ever-growing fame worsened things between us. She stressed that the sooner I got over him, the better. Alice gave me a similar speech for my divorce from James as she did for my break-up with Edward, although here I agreed with a much more vehement 'hell to the yes.' She also reminded me that many kids went through their parents' fucked up divorces, with all kinds of shitty secrets exposed – much worse than mine – and ended up in broken homes a thousand times worse off than what I had: a pretty house, in a lovely neighborhood, with my beautiful mom, and with my biological dad literally begging me for the opportunity to prove himself. So, really, what the hell was my problem? Yeah, I suppose was all accurate and sound advice. But dude, I was in emotional turmoil; use the kid gloves for a hot minute.
Both women's ways of helping me deal were practical. But here's the thing:
As close as we were, Alice and I always had a note of competition in our friendship. It was sort of like real sisters, where both are always secretly – and sometimes not so secretly – eager to outdo the other. You fell in love with a hot rockstar who absconded with your heart? I fell in love with a cute accountant who keeps my heart nice and safe. You've got two dads who screwed up your childhood – one who adored you then forgot about you and the other who still adores you? I've got a dad who does the bare minimum but at least didn't cost me thousands in therapy bills. You've got a fun, lucrative career? I've got a husband and kids. Whereas Rose and I were like that saying about the family you choose rather than the one you're born into.
Perhaps I'd walk through the hotel room door, shower quickly, then fall into bed and allow the Sandman to claim me. Maybe I'd relegate to the morning hours the unfortunate job of dealing with my fucked up thoughts. Or perhaps I'd stumble through the door, crash into bed, and curl into a fetal position atop the hotel bedding's high-thread counts and moisture-wicking linens while sobbing my brains out 'til sun up. The point was, neither Rose nor Alice could help me in what came next.
"I will be okay, and honestly, I'd rather be alone for now."
Alice sighed. "Okay."
"But if you need us, call us," Rosalie added.
"I will."
Alice offered me a listless smile. "Happy birthday, babe,"
"Yeah, and sorry it didn't end on a high note," Rosalie apologized.
"It ended just fine. You both know I'm not wild about birthdays anyway."
We shared a quiet chuckle, and after yet another agreement to call them should I find myself staring down the bottom of every mini liquor bottle in the room's small fridge, they left for their respective rooms, and I walked into mine.
OOOOO
I ended up performing a mash-up of sorts of my post-running-into-my-ex-then-wandering-the-NYC streets-and-propositioned-before-meeting-a-great-couple-and-rescued-by-best-friends-yet-still-bewildered-over-the-ex options. In a twist of luck, my unopened birthday presents, which had been delivered to my room, included a few nice bottles of wine and champagne. Recalling Embry's earlier suggestion, I fisted a wine bottle in each hand and studied their labels.
"I might just have two, Embry," I murmured to myself. "I might just have two."
Popping open one of the bottles, I poured it into a long-stemmed glass and carried the glass, bottle, and my long-neglected cell phone into the bathroom.
Setting my items across the generous sink space, I moved on to drawing a bath. As the tub slowly filled with a puffy, steaming stream, I alternated between generous sips and peeling off my dirty clothing. Then I donned the cushiony, terry hotel robe embroidered with the hotel's initials and resting on a gleaming gold hook. After another sip, I dug through my toiletry bag, pulled out a hair tie and situated my hair on my brown with it. Sighing, I smiled at my reflection in the mirror, the wayward curls that always escaped the ties and cascaded in ringlets at my temples and nape.
What else had Embry said earlier?
Serendipity. Perspective. Time.
If one is fortunate, adulthood provides a new perspective on issues and grievances that once felt…insupportable and insurmountable. Nowadays, my curls were my signature naturally grown, organic crown. They were my heritage. My dad's legacy. I wouldn't trade it for the world.
'Your hair is the first thing I noticed about you.'
I shook that abrupt memory out of my mind and took another sip as I picked up my cell phone – first sneaking a peak at the water level and finding the tub barely a quarter full. Charlie had texted me five times with concise texts that clearly conveyed his concern. The last text was less than twenty minutes old. Setting my glass down, I texted out a reply:
'Charlie, I'm okay. Just needed some air. Back in my room now. We'll talk in the morning.'
I set the phone down, only to hear it vibrate a few seconds later.
'Thank God. We'll talk tomorrow when you're ready. Love you, Bells. Goodnight.'
Emotionally spent for the night, his text made me swallow back tears. Bells. He'd called me that my entire life since I was barely big enough to ride a tricycle, and he was just Chief Swan to me, the police chief who treated me like a precious princess. I'd once loved the pet name, much as I'd loved him in my own little girl way before I knew he was my real dad and that 'Bells' was his name for me, his secret way to hold on to me. It was sort of how Phil had once called me 'Izzy' long before Edward did. So, when I found out the truth about my parentage, I hated 'Bells', as I hated Charlie, as I hated my curls. In my mind, it all represented betrayals and what I'd considered, back then, the fleetingness of love.
Yet, despite it all, Charlie never stopped loving me, even when I purposely made things hard for him, when I tested him. But that was what I did back then: I tested the men who claimed to love me. Now, I was a forty-year-old woman. A lot had changed since I was ten, twenty, even thirty.
I typed out one last reply for Charlie, with words I'd had difficulty with for years but which, as with many other things, had grown easier:
'Love you too, Dad. Goodnight.'
With another sigh, I reclaimed my wine glass, took another sip, then peeked at the tub.
"You're not even half full? Jay-sus, what a slow stream."
Refilling my glass, I scrolled through the phone, scanning three hours or so of missed content. I shot out a couple more texts of debatable importance, then set the phone down. Nursing my glass, I swam dangerously close to a swell of years' worth of thoughts.
"Music!" I stated loudly to myself. "That's what's missing! Music!"
Even as I picked up my half-empty wine bottle and padded with bottle and glass through the hotel suite, I knew what I was doing. I'd been an avoider for so long that sometimes, the tactic returned like second nature. Like a safety blanket. Avoidance was the armor I protected myself with even before the threat of a battle. Just in case someone else massively important in my life ever told me they loved me then abandoned me when the going got rough – such as if the DNA stopped matching. Avoidance was how I'd once thought to keep myself from getting hurt.
So, yes, I knew my weaknesses and end them in a few. First, I'd take a nice wine, music, and bubble bath. Yet, even as I set down bottle and glass on a side table and fumbled with the state-of-the-art sound system – maybe too state-of-the-art because I couldn't figure out how to fucking make it produce a sound – Edward's words from long ago resounded in my head:
'You're not the type of person who's happy when she's at odds with those she cares about…'
'It's an unresolved conflict, and unresolved conflicts make you-'
"Uncomfortable," I said aloud. "Tense," I added, replaying the image of my first shocking sight of Edward and his eyes earlier that night. "On edge." I saw myself blindly throwing money onto the bar counter. "Defensive." I felt myself racing up those rickety stairs.
I sighed long and hard. "Unresolved conflicts make me avoid a resolution." Hanging my head, I shook it from side to side. "I shouldn't have run, not now, and not-"
I promise it's not about you
I've got way too many things to do
I'm not gonna lie
You're on my mind
But I swear this ain't about you
It's not about you...
The lyrics, circa 2006, streamed loudly from the sound system.
"Fitting," I snorted, now searching the buttons to select what room in the suite I wanted to stream the music into. "Perfectly fitting." Digging a finger hard into the button marked 'Bathroom, I sang along because, at that point, why not?
"I'm not gonna lie, you're on my mind…"
Picking my bottle and glass up, I shuffled back to the bathroom and my running bath.
"…but I swear this ain't about-"
Three slow knocks against the hotel room's door stopped me. Throwing my head up and glaring at the ceiling, I expelled a frustrated huff.
"Alice, Rose, I love you both," I whispered to myself, "but right now, I just want a dip in that toasty warm water."
Resuming my walk to the bathroom, I pretended I hadn't heard the knocks. I flicked a thumb through the robe's belt and loosened the knot. Again, three knocks resounded against the door, each slow and steady, with a pause in between as if the knocker knew they shouldn't be there yet insisted on interrupting me.
"Oh, come on," I grumbled to myself. "I frikkin' told them I wanted to be alone."
Stomping toward the suite's door, I snapped, "Coming!"
I didn't need company. I didn't need Rose's consolation or Alice's tough love. What I needed was to sit my ass in the warm tub before it grew cold, finish at least one of my two bottles of wine before it grew warm, and think through my next steps. Whichever one of my girls was at the door would get an earful regardless of her concern. Frowning, I padded over the thick carpet on bare feet while balancing the open bottle in the crook of my elbow to hold the glass in one hand and open the door with the other. Even as I pulled the door open, I upbraided my interloper:
"All right, which one of you decided to ignore…my…"
"Izzy."
The bottle fell first. Untethered from the crook of my elbow, when my entire frame went rigid, it dropped like dead weight. The glass went next. My stomach followed both, and all of it occurred with the accompaniment of my gasps and the cacophony of shattered glass.
A/N: Thoughts?
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