AN: thanks for sticking with me! Life is busy (but good), and sometimes edits and writing take a back seat.
Thanks to Mel, May, Monica, Meg and Ciara for all their help when I just can't quit the rewrites.
Chapter 4
︎•
Time
Four in the morning always seems to be the loneliest hour to be awake, even in the city. Pulling my dress on over damp hair, I fight back a wave of tiredness, itching to be home in bed, surrounded by familiar things.
Instead I'm in the bedroom of a two room suite, and despite the hours that have passed away in here, until now I haven't really been able to appreciate anything about it—not the art on the wall, or the color-coordinated furnishings, or the floor-to-ceiling windows with dizzying views of the city. I can only recall how things felt; soft carpet under my knees, marble against my back, Egyptian cotton sheets twisted in my fists.
In daylight, I hope everything in the room looks as expensive as it felt.
Behind me, Emmett is passed out face down in a pillow, sheets bunched around his waist. I'm not inclined to wake him to say my goodbyes. I already know that my fee is in my account, paid up front.
The transaction at this point is done.
In the past, I would want nothing more than to scrub my skin raw in an effort to relieve the sordid feeling of selling myself, but now I find I'm desensitized. Acceptance washes over me, and individual experiences have blurred together to the point I could probably convince myself they never happened at all.
Standing, I cross into the living room, past the low glass coffee table where two flutes of half-drunk champagne remain, right where we left them. The sofas that face each other are decorated in Emmett's slacks and shirt. My heels beneath a side table, my clutch bag on top of it, right by the white double doors that lead to the hotel corridor. Leaning a hand against the wall to balance, I slip my shoes back onto my feet, one at a time, before taking out my cell to order an Uber.
"Take some cash out of my wallet for the taxi home," I hear Emmett say.
My head jerks upwards, surprised to find he's now standing in the doorway that separates the living room and the bedroom, completely naked, his hair ruffled and his eyes bleary. He points to a leather, monogrammed wallet on the coffee table.
"If you're sure."
"I'm sure," he says. Self-consciously, I cross the room, reaching for his wallet and opening it. I take in the myriad of bank cards, credit cards, his driver's licence, an appointment card for a dentist, and silently wonder where his baggie of coke is. Pulling out twenty dollars, I leave the rest of the thick wad of bills intact. "I had a lot of fun," Emmett adds. "You're a lot of fun, Maria."
I echo the sentiment. Emmett smiles. There's nothing else that needs to be said.
He leaves, back to the California king bed and sleep, and so do I, although what I have waiting for me is far less luxurious.
Maybe he'll book me again, I think as I close the door behind me and make my way to the elevators. Maybe he won't. In any case, there'll be others, and truthfully that's all I care about.
The money.
I'm driven blindly by it, knowing it gives me the one thing I truly want.
Time.
︎•
I don't wait in the hotel lobby for my Uber, avoiding the eyes of watchful receptionists that may suspect what I do. Instead, I time it so that I only have to walk through the lobby and down the street, where the Uber has already arrived, tail lights glowing.
Walking down the wide empty sidewalk, I take a deep breath of air—it's cold, the kind that stings your lungs and waters your eyes, and just as I'm blinking them, I spy the same bucket of water and wilting roses from the previous evening, the very same man buried under a pile of ragged comforters and blankets. I fish the twenty dollars I took from Emmett out of my clutch and approach the man from yesterday evening. He's dozing but opens an eye when he hears my footsteps.
"Here," I say kindly as I offer the bill toward him.
I'm stunned by the way he snatches it out of my hands, the thanks barely audible.
"I hope you can use it for a shelter, or food," I tell him, lingering.
His shoulders raise in a shrug, his answer non-committal. "Sure," he says, dismissing me.
︎•
The Uber crawls down the street I spent my whole childhood on, finally stopping outside the very same house, too. My dad and Sue still live in it, although the cream paint job is long gone, painted over with a muted, forest green. In the early morning light it looks grey. The front yard is neat, the cherry blossom tree finally blooming and shedding petals that get trapped under the soles of my heels as I walk up the shallow stepped path. The Uber pulls away. When I think of home, no matter where I've lived, this house will always be it.
Opening the front door as quietly as I can, I'm assaulted by the stillness—the only thing that makes a sound is the ticking of a clock from the kitchen. Carefully, I slide off my heels, putting down my keys on the side table and padding over threadbare rugs, careful to avoid the spot that creaks by the bottom of the stairs.
Sneaking in reminds me of all the times I'd sneak out in high school to see my boyfriend—Mike—or Rose, or both, if we were heading to a party.
It happened often. Every week, and then every few days, until I inevitably got caught. The lecture on safety by my police officer father is something that I can still remember now; the look of disappointment, the words spoken with a hand gripping my shoulder.
It's not you that I don't trust, it's other people, Bella.
Instead of heading straight upstairs to my bedroom, I walk to the door shut tightly closed, just before the kitchen.
Purposefully, I twist the handle, waiting for the latch to retract all the way in before I try to open it. When I do, my breath is held tightly.
Just to check.
To make sure he's still here, sleeping, just like Sue said.
Just like he used to do when I was little.
I asked him when I was seven or eight, why he always did it—checked on me before he went to bed.
"To make sure you're breathin'' he'd told me when I'd asked.
Now our roles are reversed.
There's a bedside light on, a warm glow bathing the room, and I'm relieved to find his chest rising and falling steadily. I watch him for a minute, before retreating—closing the door softly, making my way up the stairs and into my former bedroom. I collapse onto the cramped single bed I've spent too much time in recently. The aging mattress sags, just as I do, carrying the indescribable heaviness that comes with looking after a parent who happens to be dying.
︎
The weekend crawls by, as it always tends to do when I'm taking care of my dad. I both hate it and love it in equal measure.
I hate seeing him, once so invincible, getting weaker. It's undeniably cruel, the cancer that plagues him, the gaunt look in his cheeks, the rattle of his breath in a rib cage now so prominent. His bed is now a hospital one, taking up space in the dining room where a table and chairs once stood—where we'd have Christmas and Thanksgiving dinners and he'd help me with my homework. Now, he lies in the footprints, dying instead.
But I love spending time with him—treasure it. As a teen I was full of dreams of escaping my life in Chicago, but now I would do anything to turn back the clock. To not be dismissive when he asked whether we could go on a fishing trip, and I wanted to hang out with Rose instead. It's hard to accept the regret, when I didn't regret it at the time.
That evening I cancel my plans with Rose and listen intently as he reminisces and tells weak jokes, over a game of Trivial Pursuit. The next day we sit on the veranda, him in a wheelchair with a blanket Sue has crocheted him spread across his knees, a knitted beanie covering his head. My MacBook is open on my own lap, as I check and recheck my references for my thesis. I read passages out loud to him, to make sure they make sense. He points out my mistakes. Once in a while I'll look up and take him in properly, to find he's tilted his head to the sun, and closed his eyes; the simple pleasure of feeling its rays doesn't escape me, so I join him. Bringing my chair closer to his, taking his hand in mine.
Somedays I wish I could take the pain away. Other days I wish he would stay here forever.
"Bell," he says on Sunday night, as I'm helping him into bed. "Promise me that no matter what, you take opportunities when they come around. You've missed so many by being here with me, and I'm grateful for that. Truly. But I don't want you to miss more. Not when you've achieved so much. You need to make the most of whatever comes your way. Don't put off applying for jobs, or anything—research positions—I don't know. Don't let it pass you by for my sake. I want to know you're gonna be okay. My mind needs that peace."
"Life can wait," I tell him stubbornly, as I cling on, avoiding thinking about the inevitable. "I'll be fine. I'd much rather be here with you."
Deep down, though, I know he's right.
︎•
It's Wednesday and the lecture hall I'm sitting in feels oppressive—the heat and closeness of the seats, the lack of windows and lighting. To the right of me, Angela is typing furiously. Her MacBook casts her face in a pale glow. She puffs out her cheeks, jabbing at the enter button.
"I don't know about you but I've heard enough guest speakers this year to last me a lifetime," she murmurs. "Ben lucked out today being sick."
She's not wrong. There have been a lot of guest speakers this year, more than the previous one.
"Do you know who it is?"
Angela fluffs up her curls.
"No, the email didn't say. It wasn't even on the schedule. I double checked. Seems to have been a last-minute addition. Whoever it is better have something worthwhile to say, seeing that I dragged my butt in for this, after playing nurse all night… sorry," she added. "I didn't mean to be insensitive."
I shrug it off. Angela's definitely not the type of girl to be insensitive on purpose, I know that much. She's always been kind, looking for the best in every person or situation.
"I bet Ben loved it." I lay my head down on my arms, watching as she starts to type again, pushing her new bright red, thick-framed glasses up her nose.
"If he did, he didn't show it. He's honestly the worst patient. 'Ang, I'm dying. Hold me,'" she mimics in a nasally voice, adding in a pathetic cough.
We stifle giggles, but I end up sobering quickly.
"And then when they're actually sick, they carry on and pretend everything's fine until it's too late," I say wistfully.
Angela's face turns sympathetic, her smile sad.
"Is that why you're so tired today? Your dad?"
"Not last night. Sue's been with him. It's exhausting either way, but I just … had a late night." I don't try to stifle my yawn; last night was spent first with a client and then with Rose. My eyes flutter closed, the pull of sleep overwhelming. "Wake me up when it starts?"
"Of course. What else are friends for but to allow for afternoon catnaps?"
Without opening my eyes, I smile. I hadn't really set out to find any new friends when I'd moved back to Chicago. I'd left a handful of really good ones behind in Michigan, and I had Rose here. At the time, it wasn't a priority for me. Despite that, I'd become close to Angela and her boyfriend, Ben. They'd been the ones to invite me for lunch on the lawns outside Pick Hall during our orientation week the year before, or to study with them in the library, bouncing thesis ideas off each other. Eventually, I confided in them about why I had come back to Chicago in the first place—my dad.
They know nothing of what I do for money though; we never talk about it. I suppose in some ways Edward was right about that. I didn't want the judgment. I do what I have to do to afford the last-ditch treatment—to afford as much of it as possible at least—it's given me time. Peace of mind. The ability to carry on and complete my post-grad without having to worry.
Fifteen minutes later, I'm pinched into consciousness, raising my head off my hands, to hear Angela's hiss of delight.
"Can you believe this?"
"Believe what?" I ask, twisting my head to the stage, where she's focused. " Oh."
"Maybe this was worth dragging my ass in for after all," Angela says, a huge grin on her face.
My own smile is weak.
Edward stands front and center on the stage, talking quietly to the president of the Institute of Politics, hands in the pockets of dark navy blue slacks. Not long after, he shrugs off his matching suit jacket, removes notecards from the pockets, before hanging it on the back of a chair, off to the side of the lectern. He rolls up the sleeves of his shirt before he makes himself comfortable, ankle resting on his knee, garish striped socks visible.
Students are filing in around us from the doors at the back of the room, and his focus shifts every now and then from the notecards in his hands to the doors.
There are more students than usual filling up the seats around us—some definitely not doing their postgrads, but whether you are a PoliSci student or not, Edward's not just a politician. He is, on many levels, a celebrity. One-half of a power couple. He draws in the crowds, the media, the paparazzi, and I guess word must have spread that he was here.
If I'd known beforehand, I probably would've avoided coming.
It's been a week—maybe two—since we first met and although I've replayed our encounter over in my head, torturously wondering whether I'd made an idiot out of myself by being so candid, I hadn't really expected to see him again in any capacity. And yet here we are, sharing a room; one I've spent hours and hours of my life in—a completely different part of my life. Our meeting at the Four Seasons was purely coincidental, but having Edward Cullen come in as a surprise, last-minute guest speaker just before the end of my final semester, feels very much not.
My surprise descends into fretfulness. Thankfully, before I spiral too far into my own thoughts, Angela voices her own aloud.
"No wonder he managed to snag Tanya Denali. I think he's more handsome in real life than when you see him on the TV, don't you think?"
She's oblivious.
"He's certainly…" Undeniable. "Got that je ne sais quoi."
She hums in agreement as I slink down in my seat, hoping the darkness of the room lends itself to not being recognized. I could just be another face, in another crowd—and it is getting crowded—the noise in the room growing into a fever pitch.
Not for long.
The hush that falls across that room is near enough instant as soon as the IoC president steps forward to begin: setting the agenda, IoP summer events outlined, and then after what seems like an age, getting to the main event.
Edward.
He's introduced to rapturous applause, my own coming together half-heartedly as he crosses to the lectern and thanks the IoP president with a confident handshake. Somewhere deep down, the contrast between that handshake and the hesitant one of our own smarts.
Patiently he waits for the applause to die down before he speaks.
"Hello UChicago." His voice carries clearly, eyes searching across the room, seeking a connection from his audience that he doesn't need. Glancing around, everyone else is enraptured. "First of all, I want to thank you all for coming today. I hadn't expected such a great turnout, especially at such short notice. Please, if there's anyone suffering at the back standing, raise your hand and I'm sure one of your peers will happily swap out their seat. Second of all, if you can leave any questions you have until the very end, I promise I'll pick a handful to answer. Thirdly…" He presses the clicker in his hand, the screen behind him changing.
"I'm here to talk to you today about Public Policy and Poverty, and how we can
move forward."
I hang on each and every word.
Public speaking is one thing Edward has always been good at, and this is no different. He captivates us for over an hour, speaking in-depth and at length with an overwhelming confidence and conviction.
It reminds me of why I like him as a political figure—how he engages—and somewhere along the way my defenses stand down. The tightness wrapped around my lungs loosens. I decide I don't care if he does see me sitting here. It's not in his interest to out me, or any similar overdramatic theory that's spun up in my head. In the end, I doubt he even cares about me or our brief conversation—the sheer amount of conversations like ours he must have had… I convince myself that he probably doesn't even remember.
"I'll take a few questions as promised. Please raise a hand and I'll pick at random."
Confronted with a sea of hands, Edward takes questions in quick succession, and as he answers, the thicket of them thins out. It's only then I put my own up, not hearing an answer to the question I have.
There's a moment where his gaze passes over me and then back again—recognition all over his face.
"Yes… sitting next to the aisle, in the floral dress."
I lower my hand, ignoring the faces near me that had turned to look.
"Hi. Thank you for your time today, Senator. You talked earlier about introducing a tax credit scheme for low-income households. How many people in Illinois would actually qualify for this benefit? And instead of using taxes to pay for this, would it not be better to regulate employers to ensure that they provide their employees with a living-wage in the first place?"
I hope I'm just as clear and calm as he is, my voice much unlike my heart—thumping double time in my chest.
"Good question. Well, in an ideal world we'd do both—sorry," he apologizes, "I don't want to be rude… What's your name, if you don't mind?"
The pang of realization hits as soon as the words are out of his mouth—how I made a mistake, letting him know I used a pseudonym, and how now I'm left with no choice but to tell him the truth. My face feels too hot, my hesitation becoming too much.
"Bella."
His smile makes the room fall away. Makes the yearning feeling in my stomach stronger. Makes the attraction I dismissed the other week rattle against my chest.
"Bella," he repeats, my name on his lips like honey. "Like I said, ideally both, but we need to weigh up short-term gains and long-term goals. This is something I feel we can introduce at the state level to help our most vulnerable fairly quickly. I've been working on this policy for a while with support from both Dems and Republicans, so I'm confident by the end of my first term, there'll be progress against working-poverty. Current projections—over a million households across the state. And you're completely right, of course. We need to make sure employers throughout the US are paying their employees enough to live. I will continue this tireless campaign for greater rights for workers. As someone recently highlighted to me, no one should have to do an honest day's work and still have to live off instant noodles in a cockroach-infested apartment. I hope that answers your questions?"
"Yes, I think so."
"Good. Let me take five more…"
My back falls against my seat. Edward's moved on, but I'm stuck, my own words so accurately remembered by him playing over and over in my head. Two more questions answered… three… all the while my pulse soars. A shaky breath. A feeling of elation, cruelly shattered by my cell vibrating. Underneath the table my hands fumble, finding an incoming call from Sue.
I let it ring out—reasoning to myself that the lecture will be over soon. Seconds later, I get a text that I can't ignore as easily.
Can you call please?
Angela's staring, and I tilt my cell toward her, with my lip between my teeth.
"Go," she urges, under her breath, after she's read it. "This is practically done anyway. I'll fill you in on anything else you miss."
Shoving my MacBook into my bag, I slide out of my seat; finding myself vulnerable to people's gaze, and there are more than a few, as I make my way up three rows to the back of the hall, toward the doors.
I'm sure I imagine it, the slight falter in Edward's words from the stage, but years from now I'll find the whole talk on YouTube, for the whole world to see him stumble.
And I'll know.
It was because of me.