Couldn't stop writing, so we got back-to-back chapters. Don't forget to feed the author, and thank you for each of your lovely reviews. They keep me going.

December 2014

Twenty-five / Twenty-seven

Edward had slammed the door, and the sound of the door rattling echoed through Esme's Manhattan apartment.

Outside her bedroom door, her mother was hysterical. Inside, Bella was falling to pieces. The emerald gown she had worn to Alec Voltaire's wedding hugged her curves tightly. It had become itchy on her skin, imbued with sweat and tears. The intricate beading adorned the waist, skirt, and the floral appliqués were scratchy against her skin.

Her door was locked, and it was only a matter of time until -

"Where's Edward?" Esme demanded in a panic. "Where did he go?"

"I can't, Mom," Bella croaked faintly. Then she realized the sentiment had barely escaped her lips, her voice was so wispy. Her lips were cracked, and tendrils of hair were knotted around her clavicles. The image of the look on Edward's eyes was haunting her, would haunt her for years and years, and years. Edward was fragile, too. In different ways. Isabella knew, that she had all of his parents in him – that he could be caring, that he could be sweet, that he could be shattered.

That his heart was glass, and she held it in the palm of her hand after gluing it back together.

She had hurt the person she loved most in the world. Her first friend, best friend, confidant, protector. Her family by circumstance and choice.

And he had hurt her, too. Gutted her completely. Edward had hurt her in ways no one else could. She had entrusted Edward with the power to hurt her.

"Isabella. Open the door, Isabella."

Her mother's screeching and pounding on the door were so hysterical that Isabella worried. Exhaustedly, feeling like she would faint – there was nothing in her tank to draw from – she heaved herself into her wheelchair. Sitting upright, she felt so faint that she saw stars. She unlocked the brakes, and the dress tangled around her. One trembling hand on the wheel, then the other. She rolled towards the door and unlocked it.

Her mother looked, Bella thought guiltily, rather like a pink plucked goose: bronze turban matching her bronze silk house coat. "Isabella?"

"I ga—y-vuh buhh-ck da- rrrr-uung," she croaked faintly, and she buried her face in her hands, anticipating her mother's reaction. Disappointment? Disgust? Incredulity?

Esme digested the information like a broken clock. "What do you mean you gave back the ring?"

Bella wiped at her nose, and her entire forearm became slick with her snot. Her voice was faint and hoarse, like a whisp. Her hands were shaking badly, and her migraine was building again. "Ed—wa-rd. He got Juh-Ey Fall-Turr puh-regg-nahnt." And gave 250,000 dollars to Aro Voltaire. And I found out all of the above in less than six hours.

Esme's mouth fell open into a delicate O: Isabella could see the shock on her mother's face quite plainly. Esme was silent and glassy-eyed and she stared into a nonspecific point in the City's horizon, across the man-made park. A beat elapsed, then another, and Bella shook and trembled.

"This indiscretion," Esme whispered delicately. "Is Jane still pregnant? Is there a child?"

Bella snorted, and it hurt her throat and nose, making it sting. She struggled to shrug with her shoulders. Jane was, technically, still pregnant.

"Mm—" What word did she want to say? Was her dysarthria at war with her confusion? Syllables had become such a pyrrhic battle against her own body, and she remembered a time when they had considered teaching her augmentative speech therapies. She shook her head wordlessly, like the useless moron she felt like.

She wailed again, feeling like hitting something and ultimately hitting herself by digging her fingers into her thigh. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Edward had said there was no baby, that there had been an abortion, but how could she believe him? If he had lied about the pregnancy, why wouldn't he lie about everything else? And all these thoughts were trapped inside her head. Because she was too fucking useless.

"Oh, sweet girl," Esme breathed. "I see. I see."

Bella sobbed and sobbed, and burrowed into her mother's embrace, like she had when she was a child. Esme stroked her hair gently, still frozen in mechanical shock. "You've had a terrible shock, my love."

Esme moved and recovered into mechanical gracefulness, like a robot resurrected. Even gaunt from chemotherapy, she moved with the practiced grace of someone who had spent decades perfecting every gesture.

"You haven't even changed," Esme tsked, moving to Isabella's closet with familiar authority. "Let's get you out of that gown before it wrinkles beyond repair. That gown is artwork and it deserves better than this."

Isabella's hands trembled as she tried to reach the zipper. Her muscles were so tight that even this simple movement sent spasms down her arms.

"Oh, baby." Esme's voice softened with concern. She crossed the room swiftly, her hands already moving to help. "Your tremors are terrible tonight. When was the last time you ate something? You were quite chubby last year – you look lovely now – but you're pushing it too much."

The gentle reproach in her mother's voice made Isabella's throat tighten. She couldn't remember her last full meal. Everything lately had tasted like cardboard. The gown pooled at Isabella's feet. She sat heavily on the edge of her bed, wrapping her arms around her middle.

"When was the last time you took your medication? Your tremors are completely out of control. I'll have Zafrina bring you some chamomile tea and toast."

Isabella let her mother fuss over her nightclothes, arrange her pillows, tuck her in like a child again. She wanted to explain that it wasn't about being too weak or too innocent. But the words stayed locked behind her teeth as Esme bent to kiss her forehead. "Sleep on it," her mother urged, in that clipped, faraway tone. Her eyes were still locked in a faraway place, lost in thought. "Don't make any rash decisions you'll regret for the rest of your life."

Isabella nodded mechanically, knowing it would be easier than arguing. She could feel her mother's disappointment like a physical weight, pressing down on her chest alongside her grief. "We can still have a lovely Christmas. Carlisle is on his way, and my father, is too."

It struck her as such a ridiculous notion that she almost laughed. On her way out, muttering to herself about plans being derailed, Esme turned off the light.

Bella tried to doze, but could not.

For months, Edward's weight sinking into the mattress next to her – a hand on her hip – had lulled her to sleep. Terror had seized her throat, and she was horrified because Edward was still Edward, and she had no idea what to do. She had no idea where he was, and that sent her into a fresh tailspin.

For a horrifying flash, she wondered if he was capable of hurting himself over this, and that made her so hysterical that she bit into her wrist. With trembling fingers, she reached for her phone. No new messages or missed calls blinked on the screen. Edward had vanished into the night, leaving an aching void in his wake.

Tears carved fresh tracks down her cheeks as sobs wracked her slight frame. The finality of it hit her like a physical blow. They had survived so much together - childhood trials, teenage heartache, the gut-wrenching loss of his mother. But this... this felt like an ending neither of them saw coming. She hugged her knees to her chest and let the memories wash over her. Edward's crooked grin. The way his eyes crinkled when he laughed. The feather-light touch of his fingers against her skin. Each image was a shard of glass, beautiful and cutting.

Bella squeezed her eyes shut, willing reality to fade away.

Her brain latched on to the most trivial piece of information, like a rottweiler hunting a rabbit. You were quite chubby last year – you look lovely now – but you're pushing it too much.

Sometime later, a gentle knock roused her from a nap. "Bella? It's just me now. May I come in?" Carlisle's measured, calm voice was a balm after Esme's hysterics.

"Come in," she croaked. She had taken two bites of toast and discarded the rest. Cold tea sat with untouched toast on her nightstand, and the pills she took were making her mouth dry and her stomach swirl. She had been taking protein shakes to cope with the medications she took every day.

Carlisle stepped in, and his anxiety was ill-concealed: Bella could see the strain in the deepening fine lines around his eyes, the panic swirling in his eyes and in the set of his mouth. Edward had been steadily trained to take on the same calm demeanor – had been developing the ability to hide fear and panic.

Carlisle spoke in a rush, anxious. "Sweetheart, your mother said…"

The terror for his son in his expression was plain. "That you gave back the ring," Carlisle breathed, and he could hide the cringe that ripped through his expression.

Isabella's eyes filled with tears again, and she nodded – just when she was sure there were no tears left to cry. She felt like a rag that had been squeezed too hard. Had she looked up, she would have seen her Uncle Carlisle thinking – thinking quickly through warring emotions and growing panic.

"Oh, sweetheart," he said softly, taking in her tear-stained face. He pulled over her reading chair and sat, bringing himself to her eye level. It was such a Carlisle thing to do – he'd always been mindful of making her comfortable, even in the smallest ways.

He reached for her hand, squeezing it gently. He struggled to find the right words. "Bella, relationships – especially long ones – they're complicated. There are always rough patches, always things we wish we'd done differently…" His eyes trailed towards his phone.

"I don't think this is a rough patch," Bella wheezed faintly, her voice cracking. "He kept huge secrets from me. About Jane, about a pregnancy, about—"

Carlisle cringed, took a hand to the bridge of his nose, shaking his head.

"The political donations," Carlisle finished quietly. "About Corvus with Felix Musgrave. I know. And you're right to be hurt. But sweetheart, Edward... he's terrified of losing you. Sometimes people make mistakes – big ones – out of fear."

Bella shook her head, feeling the familiar tremors intensify. She wanted to drink what was left of her tea, but could not. "He didn't trust me enough to be honest. How can we build a marriage on that?"

The words were out, like a bloodied thing between them, like her heart dying on her palm. Gently, Carlisle wiped away some of her tears with a tissue. "You're right," he mumbled reluctantly. "Of course you're right, sweet."

"You've known each other since you were children," Carlisle reminded her softly, pleadingly, an insistent edge to his voice. "You've loved each other for years. That kind of foundation... it's rare, Bella. Precious. He made one mistake, but – the foundation is there."

"More than one," Bella said tiredly.

Carlisle couldn't hide his cringe of tacit agreement.

"Did you know?" she whispered. "About Jane?"

Carlisle's hesitation was answer enough. Her heart cracked a little more.

"Everyone knew except me," she said numbly.

Carlisle shook his head adamantly. "Just me. Just me. Not even Emmett McCarthy, and he suspected. But Edward didn't want Emmett to tell your friend... eh, Rosalind. Because he was afraid of losing you, of showing you that."

Carlisle's avuncular fumbling would have made her smile. Instead, she sunk weakly back into her pillow.

"I need time," she said, the words coming out surprisingly steady despite her tears. "Please, Uncle Carlisle."

Carlisle studied her face for a long moment. She could see the conflict in his eyes – the desire to protect his son warring with his genuine love for her. Finally, he nodded.

"Just... promise me one thing?" he asked, standing slowly, tucking her hair behind her ear, in a gesture that was so Edward-like it burned. "Don't make any final decisions right now. Give yourself time to process everything. Can you do that for me?"

She could. She nodded.

After Carlisle left, Bella stared at the closed door, feeling more alone than ever. Even Carlisle, who had always been like a second father to her, was ultimately on Edward's side. As he should be – Edward was his son.

A couple of more hours passed in a haze of exhaustion and grief. Four hours. Five. Edward had probably landed in Boston, even made it to Springfield.

Unsteadily, legs so spastic and tight that the movement hurt, Bella shifted from the bed to her wheelchair. She transferred herself to her shower chair, hoping the hot water might wash away some of the pain. But even as the steam enveloped her, the ache in her chest remained.

She went through the motions mechanically - shampoo, conditioner, body wash. Her hands trembled as they skimmed over her ribs, the sharp protrusions a testament to the toll the past few months had taken. A soft knock at the bedroom door pulled her from her reverie. She wrapped herself in a plush terrycloth rob, wheeling out to find Carlisle setting a tray on her desk.

"I brought you some chicken broth," he said gently, taking in her red-rimmed eyes and the way her collarbone jutted over the robe's collar. "I thought it might be easier on your stomach than the toast."

Bella's lips twitched in a weak attempt at a smile. "Thanks, Uncle Carlisle," she croaked. You didn't have to do that."

He waved off her protest. "You need to eat. You're skin and bones."

His brow furrowed with concern as he took in her protruding clavicles. The scent of chicken broth filled her nose as Carlisle set the bowl on her bedside table.

"Small sips," he encouraged, taking a seat on the edge of her bed.

"Bella, I couldn't help but notice how thin you look." He stressed the word pointedly. "Have you been eating properly?"

Bella looked down at her hands, avoiding his gentle but probing gaze. "I...I've been trying. It's just been hard with everything going on." She was so defensive she sounded rude.

Carlisle nodded; his expression was schooled into clinical neutrality. "I understand. But Bella, if this continues, we may need to consider some medical intervention. I'm worried you might be developing an eating disorder."

Bella flinched. "I'm not...I don't have an eating disorder. I'm just stressed," she said warily, looking away.

"I know, sweetheart. But sometimes, stress can manifest in unhealthy ways. I just want to make sure we're taking care of you, both physically and emotionally."

Bella swallowed hard, fighting back a fresh wave of tears.

"I'll try to eat more," was all she could manage, her voice barely above a whisper. Carlisle squeezed her hand gently before standing.

"That's all I ask. Get some rest. I'll check on you later."

Standing on the doorframe, he paused for a moment, seeming to choose his next words carefully.

"My darling? Edward loves you. Edward has always loved you. I know things are difficult right now, but that's always been true."

Bella swallowed hard, fighting back a fresh wave of tears.

After he left, Bella sank back against the pillows, burying herself beneath the covers as if they could shield her from the pain.

Not six hours after Isabella gave back the ring, Carlisle knocked again, more forceful, more cutting in his movements.

"Edward isn't answering his phone," he said pointedly, a harshness in his tone she had never seen before. For all his love for her, Carlisle couldn't hide the accusation in his eyes or his tone. Bella felt a chill run up her spine. At the look of betrayal and accusation in Carlisle's eyes – a father figure. Carlisle had never looked at her that way before.

Bella's heart leaped into her throat. The terror that maybe she had hurt him so badly she had broken him. She reached for her phone with a trembling hand – but it shook so badly that the phone fell between the cracks of her night desk and her bed, and she was so fucking useless, and in her frustration, she clawed at her own forearm.

"I'll fetch it," Carlisle said. Clearly terrified but trained to suppress it, Carlisle rushed forward to pick up the device with nimble fingers. He handed it over.

One ring, and her tears started to fall, because what if Carlisle was right? What if Edward had hurt himself?

Two rings, and for a split, heart wrenching second that stretched into torture, she imagined Edward was hurt somewhere, unconscious or worse, and her terror fluttered in her throat with her heart.

A third ring, and her lungs seized, and -

Finally, his breath. "Bella?"

His voice gutted her like a knife, from her chin to her sternum.

"You're not answering your Dad," she howled, accusing and hysterical. We thought you were hurt, and you can't be. You can't disappear. Yo

"Are you OK? I - I want you to be OK. I need time, but I - Just because we - I can't - I can't not know. You can't disappear like that."

"I'm fine," he said softly.

Edward kept his voice steady. "I'm at work. Everything's fine." He sounded fine. He had been more functional than she had ever been. She had returned the ring, and Edward had taken a flight to Boston, returning to a grueling internship, and Isabella was useless.

"Are you OK?" He returned the question in a voice so achingly gentle like it always had been with her. Making her feel protected, safe, loved.

"I don't know," Bella croaked. She sniffed and wiped at her nose with a paper tissue. "I don't— I can't—"

He made a soothing, shushing noise. "You don't have to know, love. Take all the time you need. Just... take care of yourself. Please."

There was a long pause filled only with the sound of her uneven breathing: "You, too. Please. Promise me. Don't disappear like that."

"I promise."

Her breathing grew even and mellow, gradually. "Please. We can talk later," she said pleadingly, sniffing. "Please."

"I promise."

Carlisle sighed out a breath of relief.

"Thank you, sweetheart," he said, and his gestures were still warm and avuncular as he cupped her cheek. She wondered if maybe she had been imagining the sudden burst of ice in their relationship because later, he came in to give her Ambien.

The pill, the Ambien, knocked her out into a dreamless black slumber that carried her like a tide into the next afternoon. She still felt groggy, faint, parched with thirst. Completely wretched. Trembling so hard she was risking a fall, feeling tight and spastic all over, she climbed into her wheelchair. Took several steady but asthmatic breaths, gulping in air.

In her mind's eye, a ghost-like Edward gently kissed her temple – like he did every morning and every night. It felt so real, almost faint, that she almost cried. I love you.

Her mother had been listening for her movements, and she accosted Bella almost immediately. "Sweet girl?"

"Hi, Mom," Bella said faintly, trying to smile. Her mother wore a cozier cotton turban, and Bella felt a swell of tenderness and affection. She stretched her neck, in a familiar gesture: Esme offered her cheek, and Bella pecked it. "How are you feeling?"

Esme looked at her with that familiar, doting scrutiny – like she was lovingly studying her most prized asset, an original Edward Hopper. Satisfied with the mild improvements, she pinched Bella's nose. "My sweet girl. Are you feeling better?"

"Physically," Bella mumbled.

"That's better, pumpkin. Come have breakfast with Mommy."

Bella, who wanted to vomit, was used to a strict breakfast routine that she had been following for months. Every morning, she boiled three eggs until they were hardboiled. If Edward suspiciously noted she was too thin – a comment that sent a wisp of self-satisfaction – or inquired too skeptically about her eating habits, she had a protein shake.

Her mother looked oddly chipper in her cotton sweater and matching turban: Bella watched as she cracked an egg, then another, with those hands Isabella had loved as a child. Hands that had soothed fears and fevers. Hands that had always seemed so graceful and steady. They were quiet.

"Where's Uncle Carlisle?" Bella asked groggily.

"He's driving up to Springfield to be with Edward," Esme said stiffly, like her good mood had completely vanished. "Apparently, Carlisle will be staying there through the holidays."

"Oh. He didn't say goodbye."

"He did, actually, but you were completely knocked out with Ambien."

"He said he would call you," Esme said primly, with an evident burning frown in her eyes. "Some nonsense about seeing a therapist."

"Oh."

"I told him I disagreed," her mother said in prim, sniffling tones.

Esme set a plate of scrambled eggs and asparagus – her own standard breakfast fare – before her daughter, with a single slice of toasted rye bread – and black coffee. Esme had never eaten bread, though she served it to her guests with great expertise on the subject of baking.

Bella speared the asparagus with a fork, chewing and despising the bitter flavor in her mouth.

"Darling," Esme said while Isabella chewed. "I don't mean to pressure you, but the downpayment for the florist is due on January 1st if we are still aiming for a June wedding."

Bella's fork fell with a clatter, and she fought to chew.

She hadn't wanted to wake up that morning. Not because she wanted to die, but because she thought it would be better to stop living.

Her mother continued undisturbed in breezy, gentle tones. "The downpayment for the venue and catering is down – the Crane Estate in Ipswich, nonrefundable. The downpayment for the photographer. Carlisle was happy to sign a check for $10,000 dollars, and I just thought, wasn't that so splendidly generous – "

For the first time in her life, she genuinely felt the blood draining from her face, trickling down her neck. The sum made Isabella cringe. She could barely speak, so she shook her head like the Little Mermaid after the Sea Witch captured her voice. "M- mmmh -"

Esme's voice softened artificially, becoming wheedling and sweet. "Darling, couples fight. It's perfectly normal. You're both under so much stress with the wedding planning—"

Bella shook her head. Her dysarthia had gripped her throat in a vice, and she could barely speak. Her cheeks grew wet with tears. "Muh-uh-m. He – Jey—nuh."

"Sweetheart, you're still exhausted. Not thinking clearly. Darling, Carlisle explained. You know Carlisle wouldn't lie," she said pointedly, and her hazel eyes were hardened, dark amber – they flashed dangerously. "That woman purposefully got pregnant a week or two before – well, before you and Edward became an item. Entrapment, if you ask me."

Esme snorted with cold derision. "Edward did what he had to do. He wasn't ready to be a father, especially not with that woman. That's the extent of that unfortunate little hiccup."

Bella found the wherewithal to spin her chair from under the table – her movements were so measured because her body was out of control. One spin backwards, one slight turn with one hand. She poured herself a cup of water and drank from it. One sip. Two sips.

Isabella felt the familiar pull – the urge to shape herself into what her mother wanted, what everyone wanted. "Victoria said he pushed Jane to have the abortion," she whispered. "That he insisted on it."

"And you believe that woman?" Esme's voice dripped with disdain. "After everything she's done to make you feel unwelcome? Really, Isabella, I thought I raised you to be more discerning than that."

Isabella closed her eyes, feeling overwhelmed. She thought about Edward's face when she'd returned the ring, about the way his hands had shaken. About Felix and the drones and all the compromises she couldn't stomach.

Esme waited patiently, humming a tune under her breath as if their world – which had been reduced to the society event of the year – was not collapsing.

Bella put the glass on her lap, and it spilled as she wheeled back to the table. Her eggs had grown cold. She took a bite, then another.

"His grandmother told me about Jane," Bella insisted anew, her voice cracking – and perhaps that had hurt the most. "About the abortion. He never told me. How do I know what else he hasn't told me? How do I know he hasn't been—" She couldn't finish the sentence.

"Cheating?" Esme's voice was crisp. "Don't be ridiculous, Isabella. Edward adores you. He always has. Men in that position often have... complicated pasts. What matters is who they choose in the end."

"It's not just that," Isabella tried to explain, feeling tears burning behind her eyes. "The business partners, the political connections, the way he just accepts things that I find—"

"The way he builds a secure future?" Esme interrupted. "The way he positions himself to take care of you properly? To make sure you'll never want for anything?"

Isabella fell silent, recognizing the tone in her mother's voice.

"Do you have any idea what you're throwing away?" Esme continued, all sweetness gone. Her hazel eyes were intense. "Edward would have taken perfect care of you. You would want for nothing. You would finally, genuinely, legally have rights and obligations over this family."

"Mom—"

"No, you need to listen to me." Esme's hands gripped Isabella's trembling ones. "Edward adores you. He still does. Marriages have withstood much more, with a lot less. I endured decade after decade with your – with your father – "

Esme's eyes were welling with tears. Even now, more than half a decade after the divorce and betrayal, she couldn't help but spit out Charlie Swan's name. "I endured, and endured, and endured. You were worth the sacrifice. My Edward is ten times the man your – father has ever been. A hundred times. Do you know what I would have given for a man like Edward to love me, the way Edward loves you? And you say you can't marry him?"

She snorted out a scoff with brutal finality.

On that kitchen table, Isabella and Esme were both pale, fragile, and tear-streaked. They had never looked more alike. Once again, though it would be a while yet before she recognized it, Isabella had been strongarmed.

If Isabella hadn't been raised on her mother's mood swings, they would have given her whiplash. "You're very tired, sweet girl. Very tired," Esme wheedled, her voice sweetening. "You're not thinking clearly. I'll pay the florist – "

"Mom, no – "

"I'll pay the florist. You should get some rest. And finish your plate. No wonder Carlisle's panicking like a headless chicken about your weight."

On her bedside table, there was a note with a scribled phone number.

Dr. Elise Klein, M.D. Psychotherapist/Psychiatrist. She's a colleague from Rutgers. I think it would do you a world of good. Please call her, sweetheart.

Uncle Carlisle.