Chapter Thirteen

Songs I rocked to write:
'Memorial' by Explosions in the Sky


BPOV




My eyes land immediately on his feet.


On his chucks.


It's almost comical that this is what I find myself stuck on.


Why is he wearing them?

Why aren't they shiny and black and expensive looking?

Or why isn't he barefoot?


I'm borderline angry.


At shoes.


He searches for his words with frustration, shaking his head back and forth slightly.
"Isabella...don't...you don't..."


His words trail off and I hear him exhale deeply through his nose, as if to calm himself.


When he speaks again, he sounds less frustrated.


"I'm sorry to show up like this. This way."


He frowns down at the porch as he speaks, but looks up at me when he's finished.


My left side is leaning against the edge of the door. I'm not sure what he expects me to say.


So I say nothing.


I'm still trying to handle him being here at all.


"Do you mind if I come in? I just..there are...things that I wanted to say. To you."


I ignore the nervousness that saturates his voice. I don't recognize it.


Not from him.


And do I mind?
Of course I mind.


I don't want him here.


I don't want him here with his casual clothes and his messy hair.


I don't want to have to acknowledge the differences about him. How they're screaming out at me.


I don't want to have to acknowledge the similarities about him. How there hardly are any.


I don't want my long dormant curiosity about him resurrecting itself.


Wordlessly, I step aside and wait until he passes through the doorway...still avoiding looking him in the eye.


I don't know why.


Morbid curiosity perhaps?


In any event, I'm impressed with myself for still being upright. I wonder if it appears as composure to him.


He keeps his distance from me as he steps inside and I softly close the door behind him.


It feels like the slightest noise could puncture the atmosphere.


Seeing him here, in my house...in what my life is now, is surreal. To have him transplanted from the past and dropped into the present is beyond strange.


He has his hands in the front pockets of his jeans and I watch the back of his head as he gives my home a casual perusal.


Funny. I'm completely unfamiliar with this view of him.


It was always my back to his front...

Stop, Bella.


The wide neck of his thermal shirt sits just low enough in the back that I catch a small glimpse of black ink.


I realize the death grip I have on my wallet and set it down on the table by the door.


Money. On a table. Near the door.


My mind makes the connection with ease, the image of a white envelope flashing behind my eyes.


When I turn back to face him, he's turning as well.


I feel cheated out of a proper reaction.


I had no warning. No preparation.


I feel put on the spot. Under scrutiny.


What does he want from me?


"Isabella, can you please look at me?" He speaks calmly, but with authority.


And it pisses me off.


I'm not sure if there was actual audacity, or if it was imagined on my part.


I may very well be overreacting, but it can hardly be helped.


The last several minutes perform a replay in my mind.


Eyes down, Bella?

EYES. DOWN?


Fuck. That.


I raise mine and challenge his in an instant. And I really hope it comes off as confident.


Because I feel like I might vomit.


All over the fucking Chucks.


I suddenly feel a wave of defensiveness crash over me. I don't want to show him weakness. I don't want to submit as much as an ounce of compliance to him.


I think he's had just about enough if that from me.


For a handful of moments, neither of us speak.


Just stare.


I swear I can feel my heart tapping on my rib cage.


His face is...beautiful.


And I want to reach up and smack myself across the face. I briefly consider actually doing it. Maybe if he thinks I'm crazy, he'll leave faster.


He's looking at me intently...searching my face it seems.


Looking me over.


I wish he'd stop it.


"What do you want?"


And when I speak, the anger I bite out at him with is actual, not imagined.


It doesn't completely smother out the intimidation that he carries with him, though.


Like a cloak, it drapes itself on my shoulders and weighs down my mind and body.


It's been so long since I've felt this particular brand of nerves. The one that only this man seemed to ever have brought out in me.


I can't get a handle on myself. So many thoughts...so many feelings bombard me all at once.


This isn't fair.

I don't know how I'm supposed to feel.

I don't want to deal with this.

I don't want him here.

I can't think straight when he's looking at me how he is.

His face is all wrong.

His eyes...they're all wrong.


To be standing here, actually maintaining eye contact with him, is overwhelming me.


All of his trademarks are gone.


I realize that without anger...without disdain...without a cocky smirk or a disgusted glare...


I don't recognize him at all.


"I, uh..." More back of the neck rubbing. I find it ironic that he breaks eye contact first. When his gaze falls to the floor, I see his jaw clench.


He seems irritated.


It's the first glimpse of the Edward I remember.


The familiarity that it represents registers immediately. I'm at once wary and...relieved? Seeing even a fraction of the old him is strangely abating to my nerves.


I just...stare. I don't know what else to do. I suppose in another lifetime...under different circumstances, I might have had mercy on him. I might have put him out of his misery...took the pressure off.


Maybe offered up some small talk...


Please, have a seat.

Can I get you something to drink?

How have you been?

How is your family?


The intrigue I feel about the words he's yet to speak dominates the entirety of my consideration, leaving no room for anything else.


The ball is in his court.


So I wait. And watch him. It's surreal to be able to and at his request, no less.


Shifting eyes.


A swallowing throat.


A hand attacking hair. Tugging. Pulling.


Steeling himself.


And then he's looking at me again. And speaking. All irritation erased.


Or maybe...overcome?


"Isabella, I owe you an apology."


I narrow my eyes at him, trying to get a read on what is happening here.


He's...apologizing?


"What happened...what we did...what I did..." He stops and looks down at his feet, shaking his head.


His hands are jammed into the pocket of his jeans and for a moment, he looks angry.


He looks up at me then, eyes blazing.


When he starts talking again, it's with more force to his voice.


"It was wrong. I was wrong. There were...are...reasons. For who I was then. I didn't-"


He cuts himself off. Rubbing his forehead, he exhales a heavy breath. He's struggling to get the words out. They're coming choppy and rushed. He's nearly babbling.


I stay absolutely still...and silent, regarding him warily as he continues. He shifts on his feet and scrubs one hand over his face, the other never leaving his pocket.


Whatever he may have been about to say, he's changed his mind.


"Look, I just wanted to come here and do the right thing. To apologize. It shouldn't have happened, so..."


He trails off and stares at me.


Throughout his entire speech, he's seemed to have struggled with more than just the words. It's like he's controlling himself.


And then I put my finger on it.


He's reigning himself in. The anger...the malice...the harshness that were always a constant to me.


They're what's missing.


They're what he's reigning in.


What he's controlling.


Fighting off.


He's still regarding me, looking somewhat expectant. And beyond uncomfortable.


You and me both, buddy.


I find myself in the hot seat, doing a little foot shuffling and throat clearing of my own. I fold my arms across my chest and hate that I can't just close my eyes and make him disappear.


"I, um...I appreciate that. Thank you." I begin with my eyes on his, and end looking at the floor.


I can't believe this is happening . That he's here. In my house.


That I'm having a normal conversation. With Edward Cullen.


Granted, he's apologizing for a period of time when he angrily used me as a living sex doll, but it still counts as normal in comparison to our past conversations.


Or lack thereof.


"Yeah." He nods and runs a hand through his hair.


Had he always done that? I don't remember it.


When he speaks again, I'm very glad about my position in front of the door because the surge of anger I feel rocks me.


"Are you okay, Isabe-"


"Don't."


My eyes clench shut and I shake my head.


"Look, you said what you came to say. Let's not do this whole 'done you wrong' thing, okay? It is what it is. I'm not hung up on what happened. You shouldn't be either. It's no big deal."


I don't want any part of whatever it is he's pitching.


I don't want his pity.

Why the fuck can't he leave it alone?


I shrug with nonchalance.


And I know it's a low blow before I even say it.


"We both got what we wanted, right?"


His face, which had worn a careful expression, morphs at my words.


His jaw clenches again and I almost miss how he cringes slightly. But then I see anger there. Again.


I don't recognize me.


This bitch I'm being.


Even more reason for him to go.


I open the front door, keeping my hand wrapped around the knob and my eyes anywhere but on him.


He nods and walks toward the door. To do so, he has to pass me. And when he does, he pauses and turns his head toward me.


There's only a couple of feet between us.


Too close for comfort, but I look up at him anyways.


His eyes are clouded with intent. He's conjuring his words.


And when he finds them, they're careful.


And sharp with conviction.


"It is a big deal, Isabella."


My eyes dart back and forth between his, and he does the same.


He isn't angry. But there's a defensiveness lacing his tone of voice.


I break the stare first...looking out onto the porch...beyond ready for him to be gone.


For the bombardment of uninvited emotions and memories to follow behind him.


I don't want reminders.


They're a waste of time.


I'm. Not. That. Girl. Anymore.


"Goodbye, Edward."


I want to lean over and spit his name out of my mouth as soon as I say it. It feels peculiar there.


He stares at the side of my face for several seconds before walking out the door and down the porch steps.


I close and lock the door behind him, pressing my back to it and breathing much harder than I need to be.


And when my takeout is finally delivered, I place it straight in the refrigerator. I fold the throw and replace it on the back of the couch, turn off the TV and make my way to my window seat.


I spend the rest of the evening staring at the stars and hating things that I can't forget.


But doubling my efforts to do so.


~o~


Monday...Tuesday...Wednesday...Thursday...Friday...Saturday.


They don't pass as they always have.


It's small things at first, like forgetting to pick up my dry cleaning on Monday.


On Tuesday, I fake my way through my opinion on the prior thirty minute discussion during the weekly staff meeting. I hadn't heard a word of it.


Wednesday morning's client appointment was the worst I'd had since my first week on the job. I'd misplaced her wedding portfolio and called her by the wrong name. I'd only barely salvaged the account by bullshitting my way through the 'grand vision' I had of her special day.


Thursday found me in the break room of Windsor Events...chugging down a highly caffeinated cup of the sludge that was passing for coffee, trying to recuperate from a near sleepless night.


Friday capped the work week off nicely when I discovered that I'd forgotten to order the six fresh flower bouquet samples for one of our biggest wedding accounts. I'd avoided Kate's wrath by the time five o'clock came around, but knew better than to think it wasn't coming.


Saturday was the worst day yet.


With work to pass the time, I decided to do my grocery shopping instead, only to be home with said groceries packed away within two hours.


And it was so fucking quiet in the house.


I'd plugged my iPod into the speaker dock and played it on shuffle for hours while I poked around the house for things to sidetrack me from my thoughts.


My unwelcome, overbearing, no ending, Edward Cullen-induced thoughts.


It wasn't enough that he'd infiltrated my sanity once in a lifetime.


I was angry at him.


Angry at me.


Angry at him for making me feel angry at me.


I was spending every day running and avoiding and fucking everything up along the way.


My lack of sleep does nothing for the situation. I'm tired. And moody. And so ready to snap.


Even my morning runs, which were usually my refuge, had been tainted with all of the things that were getting really old, really fast.


I decided to lie down and take a nap. At least in sleep I can forget, right?


I'd showered after my run and didn't bother with anything other than a tank top and panties as I slid into bed.


The week catches up to me not much longer after my head hits the pillow. It's the first taste of mercy my mind gives me all week.




The burn is the first thing I feel.

Running down the line of my spine and radiating outward into every limb...

Every joint...

Every cell in my body...

Every bone.

I'm lying down somewhere. A bed?

Body versus mind.

My skin pulses hot and cold as they fight.

Fire and ice.

They war in the way they used to...so long ago...

Need and revulsion.

Reckless and reasonable.

Want and disgust.

They reclaim their adversarial positions with ease, undeterred by time.

And I writhe in it.

Caught in the warpath, yet unfettered by the conflict.

Knowing which side of the line I fall on.

And then......then it all manifests, merging together and taking shape.

Deep...rasping...controlling.

His voice.

"Did you miss me, Isabella?"

At the sound of it, and free of my consent, my body arches into the air.

My arms rest limply at my sides as my head lolls back.

The heat of his breath scorches my throat, stretched taut before him.

All I can feel is this.

Him.

My body trembles, lying at the feet of anticipation....completely at its mercy.

And his.

"You don't even know how to fight it, do you?"

His voice seduces my free will...mocking it, taunting it.
Dismissing it.

He doesn't lay a finger on me.

Not a single inch of him meets any part of me.

And yet, his hold on me is arresting.

"Isabella...let me in."

I feel my heels on the backs of my thighs as I submit, parting to allow him access.

Without a word.

Without a fight.

And the ferocity with which he drives himself inside me lifts my body off of the bed... and shatters me.

I scream out.

The pain is stinging.

The pleasure is agonizing.

Completely at his will, my body relinquishes.

He sinks into me.

Over and over and over again.

Hard and fast.

Far too much.

Not nearly enough.

And he's ruthless.

Just as I'd remembered.

Just as I'd fought to forget.

Authoritative...even when silent

His body seizes control over mine and bends it to his will.

"Do you feel that, Isabella? You fucking love it. Is this why? Huh?"

I still can't see him...can't see anything...lost in the rapture.

I can only feel...and yearn.

As much as I shouldn't want it, I can't resist the draw.

It beckons.

I report.

"Was it my face you saw when he touched you? My cock you craved when you spread your thighs for him? Is that why you couldn't fuck him, Isabella?"

I startle when his hand closes around my throat, squeezing just hard enough to make me work to breathe.

"That's it, isn't it? He didn't know..."

He doubles his pace inside me.

I thrash and choke on my scream.

"...he didn't know how to fuck you. How that uptight little pussy needs to be worked."

A searing pain shoots through my breast as his thumb and index finger clamp down and twist my nipple without mercy.

"But it's okay..."

Suddenly...everything stops.

All movement...all sensation as my body is released and falls back onto the bed.
Complete silence.

It's deafening.

The last thing I hear is a whisper. An echo in my ear.

It's eerie...a subtle threat.

"...because I'm here now, Isabella."


My eyes fly open and I clutch a hand to my chest as I try, in vain, to slow my heart beat.


My breathing is loud and shallow, piercing through the silence of the room...the house.


It felt so real.


Twin feelings of arousal and shame burn through me when I realize that my other hand is tucked into my panties...my fingers resting hot and slick upon myself.


Cheeks burning, I pull my hand out and head for the shower, hoping to wash it all away.


Knowing it won't be that easy.


~o~


When Sunday dawns, my morning run is wrought with dissatisfaction.


Again.


Hard as I try, I can't reclaim the serenity they once held for me.


I can't clear my mind and concentrate on the pounding of my feet on the pavement.


Or the rush of adrenaline that courses through me when I hit my stride, breezing through the quiet streets.


I'd moved to Wallingford, a neighborhood in northern Seattle, three years ago. I'd been working for Kate for almost two and had managed to save up enough to move out of the cracker box apartment I'd been in since graduating. And when I did, I knew I didn't want to live in the city. At least not in the heart of it. My house was the second I'd looked at, and decently priced for the area. So I signed on the dotted line and never looked back.


Well, until now that is.


I could blame it all on Edward, but I know it started before him. I've felt it creeping up on me for months now.


But he's not exactly helping matters, either.


That hollow feeling. I can't explain it. And I can't shake it. I dread the questions and doubt it triggers inside of me.


So I do the only thing I can.


I push it down.


The dream from yesterday is at the forefront of my mind. It doesn't succumb to my attempt at dismissal, settling itself in my line of focus and refusing to budge.


It'd been the first time I'd dreamt of Edward Cullen.


His taunting words run on a loop in my mind...


'Is that why you couldn't fuck him, Isabella?'


I push myself harder, increasing my speed as I round the edge of the lake.


It was over a year ago.


A company Christmas party. The first, and last, I attended. I should never have gone. It had been a particularly difficult week at work for me and I'd spoken to Renee that afternoon. I was worn down from that alone, but reluctantly let Kate talk me into showing up. It was crowded and loud and Renee's words were still reverberating in my ears. No matter how hard I'd tried, I never got anywhere with her. I never could.


I was feeling frustrated. In more ways than one. It'd been so long since I'd had any kind of...release. And it didn't look like it was changing any time soon.


He was some friend of a friend who'd been invited to the office party.


I usually never drink, but that night, I'd made an exception. I was on my third glass of wine when he approached me. Average height, average build, average face. Average Joe. Nothing notable. Nothing exceptional.


I don't even remember his name.


A few lame attempts at small talk, some one-sided flirting on his part and two increased blood alcohol levels later found me in a darkened conference room, perched on the edge of the table with my panties around my ankle.


I remember thinking that if I could just turn everything off again...like I had with...him. , then maybe it would make things better. Make me forget. Like it had before.


I remember dodging his mouth when he tried to kiss me.


I remember his hands roaming over my skin...too softly.


I remember wishing he'd just bend me over and fuck me already.


Pull my hair.


Slap my ass.


I was sober in seconds, praying I hadn't said my thoughts out loud. I mumbled out an apology and ran as fast as I could. And I'd left him there, nothing more accomplished than some heavy petting.


To this day, I don't know what the hell I was thinking. How the hell I ended up in that room with a complete stranger. I still can't think of it without my face heating and becoming nauseous. Or acknowledging that it hadn't been the first time I'd put myself in a similar situation. I continue my run, long past keeping track of how many miles it's been, lost in my head.


Until about an hour later when I round the corner onto my street and spot an unfamiliar car in my driveway.


And the driver of said car...on my porch. Again.


I slow to a jog and make my way to the front yard, taking him in. He's wearing jeans again, this time with a black hoodie. His back is to me as he faces the front door, his hands on his hips. Just as I stop at the bottom of the stairs, he raises his hand and rings the doorbell. He must not have been here long.


"Edward?"


He spins around, startled.


"Isabella. I rang the bell, but..."


He trails off and I'm confused about why. For about two seconds. That's about how long it takes for his eyes to drop from my face and run the line of my body. All the way down and back up again. He runs a hand through his hair and clears his throat, looking down at the porch.


Was he...did he just...?


And then I remember what I'm wearing. My running clothes. Black spandex shorts and red racerback tank top. I'm sweating like a pig, my hair sticking to my temples and my breathing still rapid.


"I...rang the bell, but obviously, you're not here. Or you are. Here. Now."


He pinches the bridge of his nose and looks away from me again.


"Um, yeah. I am. What are you doing here, Edward?"


Why in the world would he come back?


"The last time I was here was...disastrous."


I open my mouth to tell him that he's wasting his time, but he speaks over me.


"You made yourself clear last week, I know. But I didn't. It didn't come out right. It shouldn't have gone the way it did. I owe you more of an explanation. I owe you a better apology than that."


I cross my arms over my chest and consider what he's saying.


Do I really want to hear this?

Do I care?

What could he possibly say that would change anything?

He's looking at me. Patiently. Expectantly. He seems less frustrated this time. Still nervous and unbelievably altered from who he was once upon a time, but...calmer.


It couldn't hurt anything? Right? Besides, I need to try to relieve him of whatever sense of duty he feels he has to make everything all better. It's a waste of both of our time. I'll just tell him that he can't come here anymore. That I absolve him of whatever guilt he might feel. Whatever obligation he feels to make amends.


I look him square in the eyes and narrow mine.


"Ten minutes."


I walk past him toward the front door and bend over, pulling my house key from my shoe and straightening back up. I can feel his eyes on me from behind. He's quiet, presumably waiting for me to open the door, but I can feel his gaze on the back of my head.


Or on my ass.


Once inside, I close the door behind him and gesture silently for him to follow me. I walk through the small dining room that connects the living room to the kitchen. He quietly follows behind me. I head straight for the refrigerator and pull out a bottle of water, snapping the cap off and downing half of it before I remember myself. And my company.


Lowering the bottle, I reluctantly look up at him and point to it, asking without words if he wanted one.


"No. Thank you. I'm fine."


I nod and replace the cap back on my bottle, setting it on the granite top island between us.


Silences ensues as I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear and cross my arms over my chest. I look up at him and he's resting one hand on top of the island, the other in his pocket.


I decide to put us both out of our misery. This is painfully awkward and all I want to do is get this over with so he can leave and I can take a hot shower.


"Look, Edward, this really is-"


"You look good-"


I'm sure I look as stunned at his words as I'm feeling.


"What?"


He runs his hand through his hair...again. I'm actually surprised he has as much of it as he does, considering how much he worries it. His eyes dart nervously around the room before coming back to mine.


"I just meant...you look...well, Isabella. Have you been? Well?"


He coats his question in hesitance, no doubt because of the way I shut him down last week. I can't help but stare back at him for several seconds, trying to figure out his game.


As hard as I try to block it out, his voice from my dream invades my memory and distorts the what I see when I look at him. Instead of the trace of anxiety on his face and his relaxed body language, all I can see is the arrogant asshole. The cocky son of a bitch that my mind knows.


And it's him that I'm talking to now. Not the struggling, repentant man standing in my kitchen.


The words are out before I think them through, but I don't care. I'm tired of analyzing all of...this in my head.


"What are you doing here, Edward? Really? I mean, what's the point? You said your peace last week. And I said mine. I don't get why you're back. I don't have any interest in talking to you. In having anything to do with someone like you."


I can tell that I've taken him off guard. His mouth opens to talk, but closes it back. I continue on, before he can try again.


"You don't owe me anything. You didn't then and you don't now. I don't want anything from you. Except for you to drop this."


"Don't you think I tried?! It's been five goddamned years! Five! And...someone like me? You don't know shit about me! I'm trying to do the right thing here."


His composure is shattered now, but I barely notice, because Im not sure I ever even had any.


"There you go again. There is no wrong to right here. I'm fine! Just leave it alone."


"There is a wrong to right! My wrong doing. You don't get to tell me I can't do that. You don't get to take that from me."


My voice raises to match the volume of his.


"And you don't get to shove it down my throat!"


The unintended double meaning of my words isn't lost. On either of us. There's a stutter in the words we're hurling, but he recovers.


"That isn't what I'm trying to do. Why do you have to be so fucking stubborn? All you have to do is sit and listen."


I'm done. I've had enough. So I go for the jugular.


"What pisses you off more, Edward? That I won't hear you out, or that I'm not obeying you like a good little whore?"


Both of his hands are flattened on the top of the island as he leans on it. I hadn't realized until now, but I'd walked forward, my waist pressing into the edge of the counter. We're both breathing heavily, and staring the other down.


His jaw clenches as he pushes himself off of the counter.


"Okay. Fine. You win, Isabella."


He walks backward toward the doorway, pausing as he reaches it, his eyes never leaving mine. I maintain the stare, refusing to back down.


"But tell me...if there's no wrong to right, if you're so fine, then why is it so much easier for you to call yourself my whore than to hear me tell you that you didn't deserve it? That I'm ashamed of myself every day for what I did to you? Why was that easier than just hearing me say 'I'm sorry'?"


I blink back at him, unprepared to hear him say that. Sideswiped by the conviction in his voice. His eyes blaze at me, silently challenging me to deny it.


And I have nothing.


Without another word, he turns on his feet and disappears, the slamming of the front door marking making me jump in place.


What the hell just happened here?