Chapter 9 - Unraveling

Tell me, where's your hiding place?

I'm worried I'll forget your face

And I've asked everyone

I'm beginning to think I imagined you all along

•Cornerstone, Arctic Monkeys

BPOV

"He hasn't relapsed, but he must be high on something," Jacob Black rants in my ear over the phone.

Said phone is tucked between my ear and shoulder as I unpack my records from the boxes they were delivered in. The smell of vinyl and dust surrounds me, calming me despite the turmoil roaring through me.

The band is on a slight break in Stockholm before they play three nights in a row there - the Swedes love Masen. Black called me when he saw the photo, and I quickly informed him of my birthday gift as well. He barely uttered a happy birthday, then launched into a rant about Edward.

"That's not funny," I deadpan.

"Well, he's gone rogue. And I just don't think it's cool of him to pull this shit. It's been six years! You haven't heard from him in how long? He sees you once and loses his fucking mind." I can hear him pacing his hotel room.

"Um, more than once. The photo shoot, when he came to my apartment, and then when I was in Berlin at your show."

There's silence on the other end of the line. I pause while shelving Rumours.

"Did you finally give yourself a stroke?" I ask dryly.

"You're telling me Edward came to your apartment and you didn't tell me?! And what's this about Berlin?" By the time he had reached the word apartment, he was yelling.

"I assumed you knew! In fact, I assumed you were a part of it. You were texting me a ton and then stopped right before he showed up. He said the band decided to delay the flight to London."

"Yeah, because Emmett and Rosalie got into it for the millionth time and we needed him to fix that unless we want a moody bitch for this whole European leg. He doesn't have a driver's license, so I took him to their apartment."

Emmett, in true Emmett form, was married to Rosalie Hale, an Instagram fitness influencer. She's based out of LA, and splits her time between whatever she's doing for her social media and traveling with Emmett. Or at least, that's what I gathered through her videos.

I proceed to tell Black about Edward showing up to my apartment and the conversation that followed, and wrap it up with my time at the show in Berlin. After I wrap up, Jake is silent again.

"Your silence is very reassuring," I quote dryly at him.

"Excuse me while I get my thoughts together. I'm confused."

"You're confused? I'm confused! This is Edward we're talking about. Need I remind you that I was married to this man? Who divorced me? And ghosted me for six years?"

I'm getting agitated, so I take myself to the couch, where a glass of wine waits for me. I take a healthy gulp.

"Listen, Bella," Black starts, and his tone is that of someone prepared to deliver bad news.

"Whatever you're about to say is unnecessary."

"I just don't want you to get hurt again. Or get your hopes up. You've been down this road with him, and we know how it ends. Yes, he's different now, but he sure as hell isn't good enough for you."

I scoff. "That's not true. I'm not this perfect person, I'm a mess. I contributed to issues in our marriage too, and now I'm a commitment-phobe that travels the world for work instead of addressing my problems."

"But you didn't destroy your marriage with your unresolved trauma that manifested in the form of an addiction and then ghost him, even after getting sober. You didn't write hundreds of songs about him and make his friends perform them. You didn't essentially force him from the only life he knew in adulthood. He did all of that, and thinks a sorry six years later is going to fix everything? No. I'm sorry, but no."

Tears filled my eyes, partially from hearing everything laid out that way, and partially from the passion of a dear friend. I can be so disassociated from everything that I forget there are people out there that care about me, even when I'm not the best friend back to them. I feel suddenly compelled to tell him.

"Thanks for being my friend, Jake. I don't say it enough."

"Ah, Bell," he sighs. I can hear his tone softening, his thorny disposition wilting. "I just care about you. And I don't want to watch you fall apart again, You have yet to put yourself back together."

A tear finally falls.

"I know."

In a million years, I couldn't have predicted how this week was going to go.

After I got off the phone with Jake, Alice called me in shock. I ended up rushing her off the phone, unable to answer any of her questions. I, myself, had no clue why Edward was doing this, why Masen was doing this.

The day after my phone call with Jake, I get a DM from Rosalie checking on me.

Rosalie.

Whom I've never met.

Is checking on me.

This sends me into a bit of a spiral, worried more people will reach out. I switch all of my accounts to private, even my photography accounts, and take away the ability for people to tag me in photos, in case any of the band's fans get a little crazy (not the first time - the first time I read about myself on Reddit in relation to Masen, I wanted to give up the internet entirely). I tell Rosalie all is good, and I appreciate her reaching out, and tell Emmett 'hi' for me.

But then, something obscenely bizarre happens.

I finally leave my house the next day to get a coffee and a few essentials for my next trip, a short jaunt to DC to get some of the protests happening there while they finish some arrangements to get me out to a Red Cross location in Gaza where many released hostages are being treated. I look a little raggedy, so I attempt to dress decently and not be an embarrassment in public. Good call, too, as I literally physically ran into James David, another musician I have had… relations with.

"Shoot, I'm so sorry!" I exclaim, holding my coffee away from our colliding bodies to avoid spilling my desperately needed coffee.

"It's… fine. Oh, hi, Bella," his voice lowers as he recognizes me, lids lowering slightly as his eyes rake over me, head to toe. I take him in as well, not unhappy with the vision in front of me. James is in a big international rock band called The Volturi. Originally from Italy, he has a thick accent, tight buzzcut, roman nose, and dark tattoos lining the majority of his body from the neck down. We met when I was in Italy covering some labour union strikes, and then met up a few times in various countries

My mouth is suddenly wet and dry all at the same time.

"Hi, James," I whisper, then clear my throat and try again. "Hi, James."

A smile grows on his face and reaches out to touch a strand of hair.

"Bella," he drawls. "I've missed you."

"Stop," I blush. "You have not."

"I have. I do," he insists. Stepping closer. His eyes are expressive, telling me exactly how much he missed me, exactly how he missed me.

"How's life?" I change the subject. "I saw the solo album rollout. Congrats. How's the band taking that?"

"It took a second, but they're happy for me. We needed a break, we've been touring for years." He runs a gentle finger down my arm. I erupt in goosebumps.

"It must be so hard being so popular," I deadpan back at him in an attempt to distract from how I feel. Especially since I don't even know how I feel.

"What about you?" He steps even closer. "Aside from Masen posting you on his... very public instagram."

I gape at him, surely resembling a dead fish. James laughs.

"Of course I recognized you. I'd recognize those lips anywhere."

Now I'm really blushing.

"I don't know how I feel. Masen is… being weird. We've been divorced for six years. But then we see each other once and suddenly he's infiltrated my life in so many ways. And this is the man who essentially ghosted me." I let out a deep breath, then flick my gaze up to James, then focus on the tattoo on the back of his hand. "Sorry, I totally just trauma dumped on you."

He laughs softly, then grabs the hand that's toying with my coffee cup.

"Tell me all about it over dinner."

I meet his open gaze, brown eyes unraveling me in a way I haven't been unraveled in a long while. I smile.

"Okay."