A/N: Hello! First, I want to apologize to everyone who's been patient about the looong delay in posting the end of this story, especially considering it was basically complete when I first started posting. To try to make a long explanation short(er), what happened as I edited the final chapter was that I began adding more and more as it kept coming to me. So, the last chapter grew into another and then another, etc.

We've ended up with 26 chapters. I suppose these characters still had more to tell than I'd realized. I didn't say anything about what was going on because I honestly didn't know when it would finally be ready or how many additional chapters we'd be talking about once I was really finished. In truth, had I known these characters would have such a sudden burst of energy, I may have set up the last chapter I posted back in late June a bit differently. But there you go. It's fine, though; I'm confident it'll make sense either way. :)

Moreover…

RL makes it challenging—for me, at least—to post at scheduled intervals. Often, even when a chapter is technically "ready to go," I'll make changes right up to the second I hit "POST." Though I try to keep to an updating schedule, sometimes it just doesn't work out. I'm saying this because, over the past few months, reviewers have reached out with genuine questions/concerns/curiosity, etc., regarding updates.

But then there are those who reach out with an attitude of entitlement, using aggressive and demanding language, as if they're personally paying me for updates and I've cheated them. I'm not being paid for this, and as much as I enjoy writing fanfiction, it takes time away from a multitude of real responsibilities.

So, to make it clear to those less patient reviewers:

No matter how rude they get, I will not update on THEIR schedule or convenience but at mine. I apologize when a story is left in the air for a bit, but this is not my official job and, therefore, can't be my priority. I DO have a job and a family – young adult children, aging parents, a house, a spouse, etc., who frequently need my attention and will always be the priority. And for those reviewers who have a problem with my having more than one WIP at a time, I'll say this: Writing is my hobby, my form of relaxation therapy, one might say. So, if a plot bunny pops to mind and demands to be written before another plot bunny is complete, then that's how it will happen for MY mental enjoyment. As readers, everyone is welcome to follow along, but no one is OBLIGATED. So, for those who find this aggravating and/or can't patiently wait for updates, thousands of other stories out there update with unfailing regularity. You're welcome to move on to those.

Okay, sorry for the long rant. Here we go! With 26 chapters total, and this being Ch. 21, if we post one chapter daily 'til we get to the end, we should hit 'Complete' by Sunday or thereabouts. I say 'or thereabouts' because if my brain decides to add more, there goes Sunday. ;) All I can say is that eventually, we WILL hit that 'Complete' button. 3

Most characters belong to S. Meyer. The rest belong to me. All mistakes are mine.

One last thing: PLEASE NOTE THE DATE AND YEAR CHANGES IN THE FOLLOWING CHAPTERS! ;)


THE LAST CALL - The End in Three Parts.

Part I: This Time Around, We Communicated

OOOOO

Chapter 21 – Reminiscent But Different

September 13, 2025: St. George, Staten Island, New York - 8:27 a.m.

BELLA

It was warm for September 13th, especially by New York City standards. Late summer in the northeast brought with it cozy days bookended by brisk mornings and evenings. This culminated in daylight waning increasingly earlier – or so I was told by Edward, by Quil and Embry, and by a handful of other friends and acquaintances I'd made in my new home state. I took their word for it since this would be my first full autumn in New York.

At the moment, I sat on a cushioned outdoor lounge chair in our backyard with the sun's sultry rays dappling my skin. They felt like pinpricks, like a session of nature's acupuncture as I concurrently indulged in a morning cup of caffeine. My OB had recently warned me to limit these for the foreseeable future – the caffeine, not the sunshine. I, therefore, savored each drop, smacking my lips after every sip. With my laptop on my thighs, I drank slowly, enjoyed the daytime sun, and replied to emails one-handed.

Three-quarters of the way through my eight-ounce mug, I was beginning to sweat, and I'd made little progress with the emails due to chopstick-style typing and welcome interruptions from friends and family texting or calling with birthday wishes.

Mostly, I was distracted by the fact that Edward still hadn't returned from his jog with Zeus. With a sigh, I pulled my eyes from the laptop and shifted them to the cell phone on the side table.

"Where are you, Mr. Cullen?" I murmured.

In a way, in a peculiarly similar yet contrasting way, the yearning I felt for Edward this birthday morning was reminiscent of the yearning I felt for him precisely twenty years ago, on my twenty-first birthday.

It was reminiscent, but it was different. That was a frustrated, neglected sort of pining, a build-up of mutual mistakes that inevitably ended us. The result was a nineteen-year gap in our relationship, a long period of our lives apart by any measure.

Thankfully, that longing was behind us. This morning's longing was owed to the simple fact that, whether it was my twenty-first birthday, my twenty-fifth, thirty-second, my fortieth last year, forty-first today, or my forty-second birthday next year, the day never felt complete unless Edward was with me. That was my absolute truth, my raw grain in any universe, alternate or current.

Which circled back to my original query: Where was he?

A lone, gauzy cloud ruffled the white-blue sky, the barrier sieving the sun's full potency, diluting its heat so that I was again physically comfortable. With a sigh, I lay back against my sun chair and shut my eyes, mind wandering, unsurprisingly today, to Edward's and my past.

But not to our distant past, the one waylaid by wrong turns and misdirection. Instead, I recalled more recent events, those first days and weeks back together. They were, in essence, a catalyst to where we were now…

October 4 – 7, 2024 – Los Angeles, California

A couple of weeks after that fateful fortieth birthday weekend in New York, I had a job in L.A., one which I'd booked a few weeks earlier. I'd been hired to consult my food-styling expertise to a celebrity Michelin-starred restaurant owner and his silent partner. The job promised to be a feather in my career cap. As such, I'd been looking forward to it – that is until Edward and I reconnected.

At that point, the job became less about feathers in caps and more about why I'd be leaving New York on schedule rather than extending my trip, as I wanted to do. The opportunity quit being a boon and instead became an obligation, a commitment I couldn't break, an adult responsibility.

The restaurant's chef, Michel Enn, was a culinary talent in the kitchen but much less gifted in the food design department. Such a thing isn't uncommon; very few artists can claim the trifecta of creativity that marks an actual genius: brilliance in their art, presentation, and dissemination. More often, the artistry will shine in one, perhaps two areas, but rarely in all three (although I knew one genius who inherently mastered all three and then some).

In this instance, a food critic published an article in the L.A. Times praising the food but also mentioning that the tasty dishes lacked eye appeal. She provided a picture of her main course as an example: an Edamame bean-stuffed Portobello mushroom. Its flavor, she praised. Its plating she described as resembling a flaccid penis flanked by a pair of wrinkled testicles. Unfortunately for the chef, the picture proved the description apt, and once you saw it…well, you couldn't unsee it.

Of course, such a description went viral, prompting numerous memes with helpful suggestions for Chef's problem. These suggestions ranged from using certain stimulants on his tasty yet limp dish to broad hints that perhaps Chef himself should take the stimulants before he cooked.

Chef Michel was mortified and furious, so his silent but nervous business partner, Ben Cheney, contacted me.

Unfortunately, soon after my arrival on site, I discovered that though the job paid well, the paycheck barely compensated for working with a recalcitrant chef whose humiliation translated into begrudging and minimal acceptance of his need for assistance.

"Dew yuh knu who I ehm, Mizz Swan? I ehm wahn uhf, eef noht thee greatest chehf ohf my time! I haf toht suhm ohf the greatest chehfs their ahrt, though nahn as great as mee! For I am a genioos! Soh, how does eet fil, Mizzz Swan, to nuh yuh job ees tew poot the ahn-necessary feeneesheeng touches ahn somewahn else's wahn-uf-ah-kind genioos?"

Chef Michel spat this rant at me on our first day working together after I'd asked him to work through his thought process with me when deciding how to plate his dishes. I'd already noted the peculiar accent he was known for. However, no one except perhaps his partner seemed to know exactly where it, or he, hailed from. Even more curiously, the accent ebbed and flowed with no rhyme or reason, making neither geographical, cultural, nor audible sense.

At that point, I realized that Chef, on top of having zero talent in the food styling department, was a dickhead.

"And then he added, 'And reeelly, mohst anywahn can dew waat yuh dew'."

Later that evening, I mimicked the rant sotto voce while Facetiming with Edward from a bar stool set in a corner of Chef LimpDick's—as I silently nicknamed him—restaurant's bar. With my earbuds in, phone in one hand, and drink in the other, I attempted to deliver a faithful rendition of the mystifyingly murky accent through a phone screen.

"So I put on my own shitty, mythical accent and said, 'It feels absolutely amazing dahlin'. It feels particularly great every time I click on one of the humorous memes circulating on social media about your limp…ahem, creations, and I know I'm the one who's going to put a stylish end to these. I'm your own personal Viagra, Chef!'" I whispered with my face close to the phone so that my voice wouldn't carry around the bar.

"Edward, you should've seen his face. He huffed and glared down at me, and I swear I meant to leave it there," I grinned ruefully, swiveling the thin stick in my overpriced drink. "But you know that sometimes my mouth has a mind of its own, and it added, 'And my job feels even more amazing when I recall all the digits that are going to be on that deposit you're contractually obligated to make into my account, whether you believe me necessary or not. So why not try to get some benefit out of it on your end?'"

I muffled my ensuing chuckles against the glass rim. It wouldn't do to get caught criticizing Chef in his establishment, even if he was an asshole. Edward, however, didn't chuckle along with me as I'd expected him to. Instead, from behind his desk at his private office at TLC, his mouth stretched into a thin line, brow furrowing darkly.

"What a condescending prick."

No one but I heard him since I had my earbuds in. I pressed my lips together to stifle my amusement.

"Don't make me laugh out loud, Edward. It's not that type of joint."

"I'm not surprised to hear his place is as ostentatious as he was," he muttered. "As he is. Ostentatious, overhyped…" Edward sighed and trailed off, adding, "Sounds just like Mike."

"Wait, you know Chef Michel?"

His lips now curled in disgust. "I knew him about twenty years back when I first moved to L.A., after you and I…" I nodded to let him know I understood and that he could skip the unnecessary clarification. "In those still early days of my music career, there were certain types of establishments I was told I should frequent."

"Sex clubs?"

"No," he snorted, then gave a short chuckle. "No. I mean the popular clubs, restaurants, etcetera, because…well, because they were the it places, where the so-called it celebrities," he smirked, "were expected to hang out with their entourage to be seen and photographed by the paps while pretending they didn't want to be seen or photographed by the paps. It was part of the job: keeping oneself…relevant."

He scrubbed a hand across his nape, clearly uncomfortable, and my heart constricted for young, twenty-something Edward, experiencing that sort of pretense-full life. Then I reminded myself that present-day Edward no longer lived that way and that his current discomfort was likely due to what he thought I'd think of him for once having lived that way.

I offered him an encouraging smile. "Go on. So that's where you met Chef Michel, at one of these it restaurants?"

He pursed his lips in a 'no way' sort of way while his ensuing smile assured me he understood I wasn't judging him. I knew better now. So he stopped scrubbing his neck and relaxed, expounding on the story.

"Actually, no. At least, it wasn't an it establishment at the time. Even when it became one, it wasn't one of those types of it places. The truth is I grew tired of the it places pretty rapidly," he said sheepishly again before sighing. "So, one day, I was walking around by myself, in shades and a cap and trying to remain inconspicuous, and I wandered into a new place. It was…quiet. Elegant but understated. Unostentatiously inviting. The head chef and owner was a young guy, just a bit older than me, who, like me, was pretty new to the L.A. scene and just starting in his industry. He'd sunk every penny he had into this new restaurant, and we started a conversation that morphed into a friendship. Chef Michel," Edward sneered, "was my new buddy's sous chef. Though back then, Michel's first name still had an 'a' in front of the 'e,' and he spelled out his surname rather than condensing it into its initial's phonetics."

"Wait, so celebrity chef Michel Enn, from parts unknown, is…"

"Michael Newton from Boise, Idaho."

I choked back my laughter.

"One night, Michael rushed out of the kitchen, followed by my inexplicably grim-faced buddy. Michael introduced himself to me in an attention-calling, embarrassingly loud, and effusive manner. I then understood why my buddy was pissed off, knowing I appreciated the anonymity and quiet ambiance of the restaurant as much as I appreciated the food. I ended up comping Michael tickets to my next concert just so he'd quit calling attention to my table. I then assumed that would be the end of that."

"Uh-oh. You know what they say about assuming."

"Exactly," Edward nodded. "After the show, Michael snaked his way backstage and overstayed an already negligible welcome. I then began hearing that he was throwing my name around L.A. like he was handing out flyers."

"Oh my God, the second-hand embarrassment I'm feeling right now for being currently employed by that guy." I pressed a palm over my eyes and peeked at Edward through the slits between my fingers as if I were watching a horror movie play out.

Edward chuckled, but I couldn't fathom how someone so easily mortified by memes regarding his flaccid penis and unattractive dishes hadn't possessed the wherewithal to feel embarrassment over name-dropping. Still, at the same time, my shoulders shook with the force of my own stifled chuckles. Although the crowd around the bar couldn't hear my conversation, I dropped my head to further conceal my expression.

"So what happened?"

"Well, a few weeks later, Carlisle called me and-"

"Wait, wait, wait," I interrupted in a whisper, dropping the hand I used as a makeshift face shield and furrowing my brow. "Back up a second. Carlisle? As in Carlisle, the owner of Carlisle's of Beverly Hills, known everywhere as simply C-BH, with additional outposts worldwide – C-NY, C-LV, C-Paris, C-London, etcetera, etcetera?" I enumerated on my fingers. "Carlisle, possessor of numerous Michelin stars? Carlisle, the world-renowned chef whose reputation for creating gastronomical art counts him as one of the few artistic geniuses able to claim a trifecta of creative brilliance? Carlisle, the star of more than one foodie TV show, a chef who doesn't need a surname, much less an obnoxiously condensed version of it? Carlisle, inarguably the G.O.A.T of the culinary industry? That Carlisle was the chef buddy you keep referring to?"

Edward returned to scrubbing the back of his neck. "Uh, yeah. Though, to be fair, when we met, he was still building a name for himself, so none of those points you mentioned applied yet."

"Do you still keep in touch with Carlisle?"

"Oh, yeah." Edward nodded. "He gave me tons of advice about this place when I first bought it."

I stared at the screen. The Michelin-starred restaurants Carlisle owned worldwide, including his flagship Carlisle's of Beverly Hills, were known for representing the man himself. Even better, Carlisle was reputed to be a genuinely great person. So it made sense that he and Edward – a pair of creative, trifecta geniuses who were also genuinely nice – would befriend one another.

"Continue," I smiled.

"Anyway, Carlisle called me up one day and told me Michael practically flung his apron in his face and quit while crowing about a position Mike had managed to worm himself into at what was, back then, one of the most popular celebrity hangouts in L.A."

"One of those it places you mentioned before."

"Precisely. Mike had told the head chef that some of my friends and I were huge fans of his culinary skills. So now he'd be working as a sous chef for one of the most well-known chefs of the time."

"What a prick," I hissed through clenched teeth, then realized I'd said it loudly. Sure enough, I glanced up and found some bemused eyes on me. Shrugging it off, I returned my attention to the phone screen.

"Michael also threatened to take my business and that of all these supposed celebrity buddies of his with him unless Carlisle handed over a bunch of his recipes."

This time, I smacked a palm against the bar counter while gasping so loudly that I felt numerous glares cast my way. Sure enough, someone shushed me.

"Oh, you shush," I snapped back, my eyes still on the phone screen, too invested in the story to care. Edward chuckled heartily at my reaction. "You weren't even his buddy!" I hissed. "He's a phony in every way. I should quit right now."

Edward shook his head. "No, Izzy. At least, don't quit over events almost two decades old. Mike is a good cook, and he's a big name right now; I'll give him that. I know you were looking forward to this job and the extra boost that consulting for him would give your business. Think of it this way," he added when I mumbled something noncommittal, "after using my name back then to get his foot in a door, the least he could do two decades later is allow his name to be attached to my girlfriend's business credits."

"Your girlfriend, huh?" I smiled. It was the first time he'd called me by that title in nineteen years.

He raised a brow. "Aren't you?"

I nodded eagerly, but an annoying fact soon set in. As much as I'd taunted Chef Michel about being bound by our contract, that contract bound me, too.

"So what did you and Carlisle do about him and his threats?"

"Carlisle told him to kiss his ass," Edward said with a shrug, "and I assured Carlisle that he wouldn't be losing my business, nor that of most of the people Mike had threatened to take with him. C-BH had become an oasis in the middle of a jungle for us. Then I called Mike and told him I wouldn't be outing him to his new boss, but I warned him against ever name-dropping me or any of my friends again, or we would drag him. Unfortunately for him, like many trendy it places of the early 2000s, his new work establishment's popularity went the way of most L.A. partnerships: big for a while, then soon replaced by the newer, shinier object. In the meantime, Mike earned a reputation for being a talented chef but a presumptuous, arrogant dickhead who very few chefs enjoyed working with, while Carlisle's of Beverly Hills earned a reputation for being the place where one went for the true, quality experience. And that was the last I heard of Mike Newton until a couple of years ago," Edward said, expelling a breath that signaled the end of his story, "when he emerged as Chef Michel Enn with what I heard was a private partner keeping him in line."

I scoffed. "It's no wonder it took him so long to achieve his current celebrity."

"Sometimes Karma does get it right," Edward agreed.

I nodded pensively. "Wow. So Carlisle's of Beverly Hills was virtually unknown until you started frequenting it."

Leaning sharply forward, Edward's handsome face filled my phone screen as he balked at the suggestion.

"No, Iz. C-BH grew in popularity due to Carlisle's talent and reputation for caring about his customers rather than the celebrity status their presence loaned him. This is why, unlike the place Mike left Carlisle for and others like it, C-BH and Carlisle's other restaurants are still thriving. Carlisle achieved all he achieved when he achieved it because he deserves it."

"You're right, you're right," I acknowledged vigorously. "And I take it back because what I just said would be like someone saying you achieved all you achieved when you achieved it thanks to Heidi and Volturi Records' backing. You achieved fame so quickly because you deserved it, and I wish I hadn't left you alone to deal with that."

"Izzy, stop." He sighed. "Look, there are things I still have to share with you…details," he stressed with an enigmatic smile, "about my separation from Volturi and Heidi. But I'd rather not go into it on a phone call."

"Okay," I agreed softly.

He drew in a deep breath and grinned. "The point is, both Carlisle and Mike are where they deserve to be: with Carlisle as the undisputed G.O.A.T. in his field and Mike just beginning to garner recognition."

"And with a reputation for a flaccid penis to boot."

Edward laughed. "Anyway, I can well imagine what type of overinflated, pretentious joint Mike finally opened up."

I had no doubt he could imagine it, more likely, remember, if not Mike's restaurant, since it hadn't existed during Edward's time in L.A., then the it establishments like it. Currently, more than one recognizable celebrity sat in Chef Michel's dining room: the frontman to a wildly famous British rock band and his entourage; a world-renowned diva holding court with her companions, one of the sisters of an infamous family who'd built their street cred through social media scandals, etc.

I pictured Edward in his early twenties, all six feet two inches, one hundred and seventy-five pounds of personal-trainer-built muscles, out of nearsighted glasses and in contacts and designer shades similar to the ones sported by the celebrities here. I then pictured that image laughing it up with a slew of attendants—bodyguards, staff… a girlfriend—at his beck and call. His copper-penny hair would've been ideally and purposely disheveled. He would've worn similar expensive clothing to what I saw all around me…and a similarly empty grin.

I was so glad he'd gotten out. Now, rather than sitting at an overhyped and hollow restaurant, Edward sat in his office at TLC behind his desk with the laptop on his lap. I couldn't see his long legs, but by how he leaned back, I knew they were draped over his desk. The dual thunder of bass and drums pumped through the walls flanking him, the jackhammering vibrations almost visible, though the walls muffled the noise sufficiently to allow us comfortable conversation.

In contrast, a piano played in my background; its player was talented, of course – everyone working here was talented in one form or another. The tuxedoed gentleman tapped sleepy jazz notes with languid, mellow fingers and perfect keying. The music was a rhythmic accompaniment to the atmosphere; this was no boisterous crowd downing one sloshing beer after another while popping kernels of popped corn into their mouths, hooting and hollering, and pumping fists into the air to express their appreciation for all around them.

This crowd held themselves aloof, and their chins a few notches above. They dressed in Hermes and Vuitton. Their conversations revolved around topics the rest of the world could barely imagine, much less identify with, and carried on in serene, inaudible tones. They dined on Wagyu while sipping on Cabernet Sauvignon. At the bar, they ordered martinis and cognacs, bourbon cocktails mixed with Pappy Van Winkle, and whiskey sours poured with Macallan 18. All these were set reverently before them by conversationless, tuxedo-clad bartenders who took orders and prepared unhurriedly, with deliberate motions, and with careful measurements and portions.

Edward set down his sunshine-in-the-form-of-liquid craft, a pint that had my mouth watering since the start of our call – well, the draft and its holder. The pint sloshed like sunbeams inside the glass as he shifted around, plucked up his laptop, and set that on the desk as well. Dropping his long legs, his feet pounded the floor with an audible thump. He threaded his hands around his nape with an expression that made me suspect he would've preferred to wring them around Chef Michael's neck. His biceps strained against his tee shirt's sleeves, the black-ink wingspan on his right arm spreading tautly like an ebony swan caught mid-flight. He exhaled through his nostrils, those beautiful emerald eyes dark and fiery.

"Arrogant fucker," he continued, proving that despite the slight segue, he was still indignant. "I still can't believe he said all that to you – and in such a bullshit accent. Man, I wish I could catch the next flight to L.A."

"Jay-sus, I wish you could, too."

I regretted my impulsive, incautious words when Edward's features instantly twisted in remorse.

There was a three-hour time difference between us. When I ended my work days with Chef Michael, Edward's evenings at The Last Call were just getting underway. We kept in touch throughout the busy days, sharing brief thoughts, whether deep or contemplative, serious or absurd. We were the newly-relationshiped, those who swear that every rumination that pops into their heads will shine like a golden nugget for their counterpart. I certainly buzzed with excitement every time my phone dinged with a call or text from Edward. A thrill of anticipation raced up my spine as I rushed to learn what he deemed shareable, whether it was a quick, 'Hey, Izzy, thinking of you,' or a call just to 'hear your voice.' I suspected he felt similarly because of how rapidly Edward answered my calls and texts and because of the sparkle in his emerald gaze, even through a screen.

It was the evening calls that took a different bend, that of the reunited still figuring out the intricacies of how a separate past we didn't necessarily plan to dwell on figured into a mutual present we hoped would be permanent. Sometimes, our conversations were purposely complex, like a knotted ball of yarn we picked up and unraveled together, turning it from side to side, disentangling and untwisting. Sometimes, our conversations began innocuously, that ball of yarn deceivingly unsnarled and direct until a loose thread unexpectedly frayed and split into unforeseen strands and tangents.

Our first call of the evenings occurred before things really picked up on Edward's end, where 'really picked up' was relative. Edward ran a bar slash club that was simultaneously underground and popular among those in the know. So, there were frequent interruptions, staff running in and out, asking questions, seeking okays, signatures, etc.

And yes, it was…reminiscent, but not the same. Neither he nor I were the kids we were the first time around. I recently discovered how the same actions can seem contrastingly different through changed perspectives. Twist the kaleidoscope just a bit, and the same pieces fall in various shapes and colors. A piece that may have once landed as a massively sharp square, determining the shape of the entire picture, following lands as a minor, almost insignificant glyph, a blip in the overall picture's grand scheme.

"Because I miss you so damned much, Edward, not so that you can beat the shit out of Chef Mike," I clarified quickly. "I can handle him. I wish you could catch the next flight to L.A. because the more I talk to you, the more I miss you. If I hadn't accepted this stupid job before we reconnected, I would've stayed in New York much longer. As it is, I feel half of me is still there. But I do understand we both have responsibilities."

The words poured forth unpracticed and unfiltered as the ache to be with him crashed over me like a tidal wave, dragging me into the center of its racing force as if I'd been set adrift in an ocean rather than in the middle of a bar.

In turn, Edward's head jerked back, his tense arms falling heavily to his sides. The remorseful expression evaporated and was instantly replaced by an expression just as intense yet much more ecstatic.

"Iz, you know the only reason I didn't hop on a plane to follow you the day after you left was because I had these bands already booked, right? They're good friends, and I had to be here. Otherwise, I would've dropped everything to-"

"I do know that, Edward," I assured him.

Actions speak louder than words, yes. Still, it was undeniably gratifying to hear Edward say that. Because sometimes words were necessary. We were adults with adult responsibilities, but it killed him as much as it killed me to honor those commitments that kept us apart. Had he not verbalized it, I would've known and could've confidently assumed it. Yet words had power, even when they went unsaid, when they remained craved for. I got that now.

Edward looked away. "Fucking responsibilities. I hate 'em."

His peevish scowl, together with his words, drew chuckles from me. But I kept my volume down once again.

"Me too," I breathed.

From beneath a raised brow, his eyes met mine. "Are you still okay with my coming to Seattle next week?"

"God, yes – more than okay. I'm counting the days."

His eyes lit up, annoyed expression relaxing into one of gratification. He enjoyed my eagerness.

"Iz, what you just said about half of you still being here, I feel it too, and hearing you say it is about as great as the time you told me you were listening to our hearts beat like two halves of a whole."

"You remember that?"

He echoed my words of assurance with equal fervor. "God, yes. Back then, I hoped…I hoped it was your way of telling me you loved me."

His ensuing shrug belied a touch of sheepishness. It should've looked out of place on his handsome face – on the face of a man who'd been a rockstar and who'd been worshipped by literally millions of men and women, who still had millions of fans worldwide.

But his shy shrug was…heartrendingly touching. It was a gesture that made me want to smile yet simultaneously tightened my throat. That thing I'd once said so many years ago held such meaning for him because it had been expressed so rarely and always indirectly.

Sometimes, the novelty of gazing at present-day Edward was like a time-machine warp to two decades earlier. The lithe sinews of his youth – that smooth muscular frame he'd first built at Volturi's behest, much as he'd visited restaurants and clubs he hated at their behest – had matured as he'd matured. His frame was now filled out by much more rugged muscles, by mass and brawn built through the hard work of owning a space that needed regular upkeep, setup, dismantling, set up again, reconfiguring, repairs, and additions, and that boasted a steep stairwell down by which all deliveries, furniture, and equipment needed to be transported. Edward's build at twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four…at the height of his fame had been impressive. But that youthful, sleek polish of perfection had still hinted at a young man who'd been a boy less than a decade earlier.

There was nothing boyish about the bulk on Edward now.

Still, despite the attractive sliver of silver creeping at his temples and salting the dark stubble around his angular jaw, despite the lines etched across his forehead and those that crinkled at the corners of his emerald eyes, I could almost think the Edward on my phone screen twenty-one-year-old Edward. He could almost be the Edward on that long-ago ferry, who balanced me on his lap while holding me locked in a sheepish gaze, pushing his glass frames over his nose and waiting for my reply while toeing the line between sinfully hot and adorably geeky.

"It was my way of trying to tell you I loved you, though I should've used my words," I said with a rueful smile.

He grinned, now displaying the well-earned confidence of a forty-two-year-old former rockstar who'd experienced the world in all its over-the-top, materialistic success and glory…then voluntarily stepped away. He'd then turned his experiences into an opportunity to convert a dive bar into a successful venue. Edward had every right to self-assurance.

"What did we say about should've and could've?" he reminded me.

I exhaled, letting go of yet another past regret and allowing it to float into the air, drifting off with the laid-back, sleepy jazz…into the abyss with young Edward. "You're right."

For a few seconds, we silently held one another's gazes.

Once more, Edward pushed back against the chair, parking his feet on his desk and balancing the laptop on his legs – only to undo it all again. His more handsome than ever face filled the screen, the green and blue of his eyes gleaming like a tropical sea, so bright it was almost like looking into them from a shared space rather than through a screen. Almost.

"Iz, it still floors me to hear you admit things like that so openly."

"I know it does, but I'm not twenty-one anymore."

"I've noticed."

"Hey!" I protested. "I already apologized for being a pain in the ass back then. You don't have to be mean about it."

He smirked. "That's not what I meant, and you know it," he said while I chuckled. "But I am twice that twenty-one-year-old girl's age."

"Ahh, I see. You don't want to sound like a pervert lusting over a young college girl."

He snickered along with my teasing. Yet, as I sipped my drink, Edward grew pensive. He nodded almost absently, scraping his knuckles against his angular jawline, his eyes glazing over before he finally voiced his thoughts.

"I meant that…yeah, I loved that twenty-one-year-old girl. I loved everything about her: her intelligence, how despite wanting to spite her father back then, she couldn't help acing every class. Her contradictions; one minute, she had the snarkiest mouth," he snorted, "but the next minute, she'd whisper sweet words in my ear or cry over ASPCA commercials – then cry even harder because her mom's allergies meant she couldn't adopt a pet."

I chuckled at the memory, but Edward remained contemplative, far from our mutual screens. As he continued, his naturally deep voice roughened, grew grittier and jagged so that each word scoured my skin like prickly textured velvet, like uncured leather, raising the fine hairs on my skin with their lack of polish.

"I actually loved how she showed her abhorrence for my favorite sci-fi movies by sitting on my lap through each and every one and shooting me eye rolls, then distracting me with her hungry kisses. I missed half of the plotlines to some of the best movies while I was dating her, and fuck if it wasn't worth it. I loved…" his Adam's apple bobbed, "I loved her perfect spirals. They fascinated me. Twisting the soft curls around my fingers, like silk in my hands…it was an addiction. And when they brushed against my skin...damn. I loved the very center of her eyes." He tapped a finger below his right eye. "They managed to somehow be concurrently black and translucent, like shaded windows into another universe." He snorted. "Of course, the sci-fi geek in me imagined them being exactly that. I used to imagine them sucking me into her body with the force of their gravitational pull."

"You were a weirdo sometimes," I whispered, softening the words with a smile.

"Mm," he hummed in either distracted agreement or because he was still lost in introspective musings. "I loved the bow shape of her plump lips, how her two front teeth were slightly larger than the rest and peeked out even when her mouth was still. Her mouth…" He stared at my mouth, and the rest poured out hoarsely in one long stream of consciousness. "Call me a pervert if you want, but the truth is I fucking loved her mouth. Decades later, I still wake up sometimes, drenched in sweat after dreaming of everything that mouth – lips, teeth, tongue, and all – did to me. And yeah," he nodded, "along with every other part I loved about her was her body, strong and smooth, yet soft and plump in all the right places, and always so damn receptive to my every touch."

He paused, and my heart thundered against my ribcage. Finally blinking away the dazed expression, Edward drew in a sharp breath as if resurfacing from a deep river of memories.

"The thing is, Iz, I loved that college girl, and I lusted after her."

"You love-lusted me," I breathed.

He nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, that's accurate enough. I was twenty…twenty-one…twenty-two, and you were my world, physically and emotionally, even when your pain closed you off." He swallowed, holding my gaze. "Because for everything I said back then, for everything I supposedly so easily expressed…there was an equal amount I, too, held back. Which is why it ended how it ended. But even with all that…even with all that," he said, nostrils flaring with fervency, "what I felt with you was so transcendent that it became the metric by which I measured every other experience long after you were gone. So when I say 'thank God,' you're not that girl anymore," he rasped, "I mean, thank God you're the woman who's grown out of her, someone who's quickly proven to be exponentially and amazingly even more fucking mind-blowing than that girl once was, someone I won't have to merely fantasize about because if I once love-lusted her…"

He trailed off, not sheepishly as he had a few minutes earlier, or even uncertainly. We both knew what followed. As it turns out, sometimes…sometimes, when one individual looks at another the way Edward looked at me at that moment, even through a phone screen, words are superfluous.

Meanwhile, I felt as if I'd just jogged five miles in the summer heat, clammy and a bit feverish – but in a good way. The thrill that rushed up my spine was admittedly as much for everything Edward had just said as for the candid manner in which he lay it out there. All the while, his eyes probed mine, dark and alert, gauging my reaction. Edward's eyes hadn't changed in the past years. Still, neither had they remained static – the guileless, impressionable, awed gaze of a young kid on the cusp of fame was now the intense and steady regard of a man who knew what he wanted. It was more demanding, no longer afraid to spook me. This Edward's gaze challenged me.

And I appreciated it – more than appreciated if I had to be honest. Young Edward had treated me with kid gloves and approached me as if approaching a skittish mare. True, I'd more than allowed it; I'd encouraged it via my own fears so that when the gloves came off on that long-ago phone call, we'd both fought dirty. Yet, somehow, we'd still concealed our genuine fears.

Edward was no longer willing to do that, and neither was I. We'd be direct and honest about our adult feelings, but we wouldn't play dirty.

"Before I left New York, we touched on my divorce from James and a couple of somewhat serious relationships I was in. And…we touched on your relationship with Janey, and you mentioned one or two other relationships you were in..."

A line of wariness cut through Edward's brows. He nodded. When he replied, his tone was casual, deliberately so, nowhere near as intense as it was seconds earlier.

"We brushed on them, and if you want to know more, of course, I'll tell you more, but please don't feel as if it has to be a one-for-one reciprocation. Honestly," he snorted, "I don't think I want to know much more."

"And I don't want to delve too deeply into it – like you said before, especially not over Facetime. All I want to say now is that while it was true when I said that James was a good guy, and we divorced amicably because we weren't a good fit, there was more to it."

"Okay," he prompted. Through the phone screen, I watched him hold himself very still. And though I couldn't be sure via such a medium, it almost appeared as if his chest ceased its rise and fall.

"I've recently realized that though I may not have acknowledged it consciously, subconsciously, I've compared every man I've met since you to you. That includes my ex-husband. And maybe that was unfair, and he didn't deserve-"

I paused mid-sentence when Edward audibly expelled a long groan, and the forced mask of complacency fell away. Obviously, relief, yes, but the groan illustrated the simmering, fiery passion always just under Edward's surface. This underlying passion made him who he was, and it was an additional facet that hadn't changed about him. I was no more immune to its effect than in my late teens and early twenties.

"Iz, I couldn't care less about fairness or unfairness if the result is you and me together. I mean, my sympathies to everyone in our past who never measured up for either of us," – he shrugged – "but I don't want us to waste time feeling guilty about them. And I'm sorry if that sounds callous."

"It doesn't sound callous." Reconsidering, I amended, "Or, maybe to the outside world, it might sound less than magnanimous. What I should probably say is that I don't find it callous because I feel the same. I don't want to waste time with guilt either."

"Good." He took a series of deep breaths, filling his lungs as if they'd been drained. Then, scrubbing a hand down his face, he shot me a rueful smile. "This is tough over Facetime, but only because I wish you were here or I was there."

"Better me there than you here. I'm in the world's most boring bar," I whispered. "I miss Tyler."

Much less constricted in his effusions by a lack of ambient sound, Edward barked a loud laugh. Despite the distance between us, it reverberated in my heart.

"I'll let Tyler know you said that. It'll make his night. Little Gen Z'er's got a crush on my woman."

I had to choke back my own bark of laughter. "He does not. He compared me to his mom the night I stumbled upon TLC," I smirked.

We bantered back and forth for a bit, fluidly changing the subject to something much more superficial than our mutual, all-encompassing love lust. The topic of emotion that neither of us had ever been able to replicate with another partner had been taken as far as possible while Facetiming in public – at least, while I was in public.

That night, I huffed up at the ceiling after Edward's and my final call. Turning on my stomach, I fluffed my flat hotel pillow with frustrated smacks. Growling at the empty side of the bed, I echoed Edward's sentiments from a few hours earlier.

"Fucking responsibilities. I hate 'em!"


A/N: Thoughts?

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