Chapter Fourteen

Song I rocked to write:


'After the Storm' by Mumford and Sons

BPOV

He'd stormed out.


I saw it.


The tension embedded in his shoulders and the exasperation that darkened his eyes.


I felt it.


The windows rattling from the impact as the door slammed.


I heard it.


The rumble of his car's ignition and the rev of his engine as he peeled away.


While he'd taken his leave, his words had stayed behind.


He'd left them here with me.


The things that he'd said...the look on his face.


We'd stood in my kitchen and warred with words, both of us pushing in on the other, neither backing down. His attempt at careful conversation didn't stand a chance against the heft of things unsaid, but I couldn't deny that he'd tried. It wouldn't have mattered how he dressed it up, though...


I didn't want to hear it.


As it turned out, I didn't have a choice.


The echo of his voice lingered within the walls of my house. Room to room it followed me, continuous in its pursuit of my ear.


But I withstood...I refused to acknowledge it.


And so it persisted.


Work...home...errands...on my runs...in my sleep. Like an unwanted residue, it accompanied me everywhere with a dedicated tenacity, insistent that I listen. Unwilling to forfeit until I had.


And still, I tuned it out.


But it was patient.


Like it knew it was only a matter of time before I surrendered.


And after only six days...it won.


Saturday morning, after speaking to Renee.


I'd continued to call her weekly, checking in on her and making sure she was okay.


The calls were always the same.


My pleasantries were never returned.


My concern about her well-being was never reciprocated.


She never volunteered more than a few sparse words in response to my stabs at conversation.


She never initiated anything.


I don't know where it came from.


I don't know why I asked.


I knew better.


"Mama?"


"Mm." Disinterested and flat.


"Do you...do you miss me?"


I'd closed my eyes and rubbed a hand across my forehead, hating the way my voice trembled.


Hating how insignificant this made me feel.


Loathing how I craved her answer, despite knowing what it would be.


"What? What are you talking about? Look, Bella, I have things that I need to get done today. I need to go. Goodbye."


It took ten seconds for the click to become a dial tone.


It took about one hundred and twenty more for the loud, blaring sound to come, indicating that the phone was disconnected.


I hadn't heard her say that many words to me at one time in over a decade.


Funny how it was only one word I was looking for.


I'd hung up and here I was, pacing the house.


Angry and hurt and confused.


Why couldn't she just answer me? Why couldn't I just...stop trying?


It was so quiet.


Too quiet.


As had become a habit for the last few years, I looped music constantly in the house. The background noise usually soothed my unease, but it wasn't working now.


I'd tried the window seat, but couldn't sit still.


I'd tried cleaning. If I scrubbed the toilet any harder, the porcelain was going to wear off.


I'd pulled up the active client accounts and tried to get lost in work, but gave up after I'd read the same line of a contract thirteen times.


So I took it out on the pavement...running in time with the loud, pulsing beat in my ears. I turn the volume on my iPod up as loud as it can go, trying to drown in it. The music blaring so loudly that I can't even make out the words.


Hard as I try, I can't get myself far enough away to just...let go.


To turn my thoughts off and just...be.


To check out.


It had never been a problem before.

You know that's a lie.

Okay, so it had never been a problem since then. Since him.


My running falters when I register a second shadow beside mine. My head turns to the right just in time to see Edward jog up to me and begin to match my pace. He's looking straight ahead, not acknowledging the hole that I'm burning into the side of his face with my eyes.


I come to a halt and snatch my ear buds out. He continues on for several feet and then looks back, turning around and jogging back to me.


"What are you doing, Edward?" My voice is winded and breathy.


"Running. You?" Blasé and matter of fact.


I can't get a read on his face. He doesn't seem angry. Or happy. Just...blah.


Blah? Jesus, Bella.

I narrow my eyes at him.


"Go away, Edward."


"No."


"No?"


"No."


"I don't want you here."


"I don't care."


"You can't make me talk to you."


"No, I can't."


"I don't want to talk to you."


"That's fine, but I want to talk to you. Don't talk. Just listen."


I glare up at him and briefly entertain the thought of kicking him in the shin and running away.


Pretty boy probably couldn't keep up, anyway.

Wordlessly, and skipping the shin kick, I move around him and take off. I don't hold back, launching myself as far from him as I can get. Knowing the route as well as I do, I close my eyes and push harder. My face throbs from overexertion and my chest aches from the hard, panting breaths I'm taking. But I push harder still, fueled by every foot of distance I'm putting between us.


And then I open my eyes...and there he is in my periphery, perfectly in step with me. Matching me stride for stride. Barely breaking a sweat. He's looking straight ahead again, and I could swear that I see the tiniest hint of a smirk dancing just on the corner of his mouth.

Since when does he smirk?

I know I have another mile before we...I...round the lake, so I stick to my usual path and decide to ignore him.

Damn it. Pretty boy can keep up.


It's the longest mile I've run in three years.


He never falters, not even once. He runs there, at my side, and the way his footfalls echo mine make me uneasy. Fidgeting and running don't exactly go hand in hand. I feel angry that he's encroaching on this.


On my time.


Why can't he just take a fucking hint already?

With a grunt, I push off of my right foot and catapult myself forward, smiling when his face disappears from my periphery.


And scowling when it pops back into it.


And so the miles carry on this way.


Back and forth.


My trying to outrun him and his advancing with ease each time.


Apparently, pretty boy is a runner. Wonderful.

I'm so infuriated by the time we round the lake, I dart to the right, cutting him off and causing him to skid to a stop to avoid crashing into me. I jog down the slight decline and toward the embankment, holding my hands out at my side for balance. I come to a stop under a large willow tree just on the edge of the water. It's my last ditch effort to, well, ditch him.


I kind of figured it wouldn't be that easy.


And I'm just exhausted enough to admit that a part of me is glad when I hear his breathing behind me. It's now or never. I need to deal with this once and for all. Hands on my hips, I stare out at the water and wait for my breathing to slow.


This is getting ridiculous.


It ends now.


One way or another, this will be the last time I see Edward Cullen.


Even if I have to call the cops-

I cut the thought off before my mind can wander down memory lane.


Before I can be reminded of the way he looked. The cuffs and the dried tear tracks. The blue lights and his face-


Stop.

Deciding that I need to have the upper hand in this, I turn to look at him.


He's standing with one hand on his hip and the other is using the bottom of his grey t-shirt to wipe the sweat from his face. In the few seconds it takes for him to do so, my eyes zero in on his exposed skin. The sweat clings to it and gives his pale complexion a glow.


I dart my eyes away as he lowers his shirt and opens his eyes. My body is angled toward him, but I turn my head to the right to look back out over the water. It's beautiful this time of day. Barely a ripple, the water's still and calm. I try to imitate it, taking in a long, deep breath. The willow has only just begun to bloom. It's slender, vibrant green branches hang and slowly dancing just over the tops of our heads.


When I turn back to him, he's closer. Still a several feet away, but close enough for his essence to make itself known. His eyes are on the water now. The neck of his shirt is drenched in sweat. It runs down the front of his shirt in the form of a 'V', cruelly luring my sight into following its path.


And when he reaches up to run a hand through his now damp hair, I chide myself for noticing how his sleeve tightens and stretches over his bicep.


Or the way said sleeve becomes pinned between his bicep and forearm as his hand glides down and rests on the back of his neck.


I want to slide my fingers under the edge of the sleeve.


Expose the divinity that lies below.


Taste the salt of his sweat on my tongue as my teeth bury into his flesh.


I feel a heat spark inside me.


Saturday evenings slither through my memory and taunt it with an ambrosial nostalgia.


It isn't until this very moment that I realize what infuriates me the most about the situation I've found myself in.


What it is about this man that burns through me like fire.


That incapacitates my composure and debilitates my otherwise good sense.


I glance back at the side of his face. There's a light dusting of stubble there, which shadows the sharp angle of his jaw, highlighting it. Making it impossible not to notice.


Creating the temptation to touch.


To glide myself against the direction of its growth.


Any part of me.


All parts.


To feel it scrape and drag along my skin.


The heat that spreads through my body and settles there only cements my epiphany into place.


After all of these years...all this time...one thing hadn't changed.


I'd felt it the first time I'd met him.


Every time I was near him.


Any time he touched me.


Every time he spoke, despite the foul, disparaging words he used.


And looking back, I could see it.


That it had been there the first time he showed up on my porch.


And the second.


And now...still.

The shiver.

It never left.

I can't begin to comprehend what this says about me. What it means for me.


How can I possibly feel this way toward him?


The only consolation I can muster is that it's purely physical.


That it isn't, in any way, an attraction to the person beneath.


And if I was going to get through this conversation with him, I needed to not be thinking about the way it feels to have him inside of me.


I mentally gather my thoughts, using my newly found realization to tackle my task. I use the frustration I feel about my inability to control my body's reaction to him. I ball it up and squeeze it tight and let it fuel my words.


But when I open my mouth, it's his voice I hear.


"I heard you."


What? Heard me? I haven't said a word.

His eye flicker to mine and quickly back to the lake. His hands are in the pockets of his basketball shorts and his voice is calm.


Almost timid.


His posture is loose.


He's resigning himself to his words.


"That morning. In the bar."


He pauses, and I'm still not following. His voice builds in volume and I can see him gathering his nerve.


He steels himself and speaks with more grit.


"I heard everything you said that morning in the bar. When you were talking to that woman. The day I approached you. I was listening on the other side of the booth. School. Work. Money. How exhausted you were. How worn down. And I acted on it. I propositioned you. Knowing you were in a bad place. Choosing to kick you while you were down."


He turns and looks me straight in the eye. I can't look away. His words are spoken evenly.


With intent.


A quiet insistence that I hear him.


"And hold you there, Isabella. Treating you like shit made me feel better. I dangled the one thing that you needed the most in front of your face. You weren't in any position to decline it. I manipulated the situation so that you suffered either way. So that whether you stayed and endured the...things I did to you or refused me and walked away, there was a consequence. I used you to deal with shit that had nothing to do with you. I humiliated and abused you in a way that no one has a right to do to another human being. I deserve whatever retaliation you have to give. Slap my face. Tell me you hate me. Tell me what a sorry, piece of shit excuse for a man I am. Tell me to fuck off and never bother you again."


He's driving his point home, stabbing his pointer finger into his chest. He stops and takes a deep breath, his eyes piercing into mine.


Assuring that he still has my attention.


He does.


"But don't stand here and try to tell me that it's okay. Don't tell me that it's no big deal. Stop fucking acting like it didn't happen, Isabella."

By the time he's finished, I'm breathing so deeply that the pressure I feel in my chest on each exhale is painful.


I take two steps back, reaching behind me blindly for the trunk of the willow and leaning my back on it. I slide down until I'm sitting, my legs folded in front of me. My hands fall to my lap as I take in what he's said.


He knew.

He heard.

He...knew.


I hadn't given any thought to it at the time. I had just assumed he knew nothing about me. I never even considered that it was premeditated.


The thought makes my stomach drop.


My job at Hunter's.

Could he have...


My voice shakes around the question.


"Did you...is that all you knew about me Did you...do anything else?"


"No." He lets out a humorless snort and I can tell he shakes his head back and forth. At himself.


"My only concern was that you were clean. I couldn't be bothered with anything else."


He's still standing, but rubs his hand over the back of his neck and walks closer, dropping to sit a few feet away from me. He draws his knees up and leans his elbows forward onto them and burying a hand in his hair.


We both keep our eyes on the water this time and I wonder, just for a moment, if he's trying to imitate its calm as well.


Silence settles in the space between us, and I have to be grateful for it this time. I don't know why his confession is having the impact that it is. After all of this time, do the 'hows' or 'whys' really matter?


Yes.

I was never naive enough to believe that Edward was some tender soul underneath all of the hatred and rage. I hadn't been operating under any misunderstanding about the arrangement we'd had. But I can look back now and see that I took a modicum of comfort from the fact that we were complete and total strangers when we entered into it. And while logic assures me that we were, and essentially still are strangers, there's a louder voice shouting that I was...used.

Taken advantage of.

Abused.

Violated.

Was I?

Did I just do a bang up job of deluding myself about what I was doing?


All of a sudden, my justification for participating in the arrangement doesn't feel so solid. I can feel the bottom of my reasoning falling out from under me.


"This isn't always who I was. I was a better person once. A good person. But I lost that."


I turn to him when he stops, but his eyes remain straight ahead. He shakes his head again.


"No, that's not right. I didn't lose it."


His brow furrows and he reaches his hand in his pocket. I wait for him to pull something out, but he doesn't.


"I buried it alive."


His jaw clenches and mine mimics it.


"You keep saying that I shouldn't feel guilty. That I should let it go. But I do feel guilt. And feeling it makes me think that, maybe, the good person that I used to be...isn't dead."


I still have no words for him.


More silence stretches out between us.


He doesn't seem expectant that I say anything, just leaving the opportunity in the open.


"You were there."


This time, my mind registers what he's referring to immediately.


It's an understatement to say that I'm taken off guard by the intensity of the flashback. It strikes swiftly, without warning and devoid of mercy.


Before I can take my next breath, I'm under siege.


Sensations from that night settle over me.


The tremor of my hands, no matter how tightly I gripped the railing.

The stiff tension that wracked my body as I prayed to stay unnoticed.

The shock of witnessing something I was never meant to.

The boom of his angry, wild voice echoing off of the walls ringing in my ears.

Alice's heels on the stairs as she ran.

Alice crying.

The shattering of glass.

The splash of water and flowers on marble flooring.

Esme screaming and crying.

The way the heels of my shoes sunk into the soft earth as I ran across the lawn.

The shiver and how it snuck up on me and made it impossible not to look.

The shock of his face.

The sight of my name on his lips.

The question in his eyes.

The chill of January against the only tear I could ever remember shedding.


"How much do you know about me, Isabella?"


No. No. No. No. Not this. I can't do this.

"Nothing."


"Bullshit."


He doesn't spit the word, just calls me out.
"I......I don't know anything, really. I didn't even know they were your family."


I have his attention. He turns and looks at me, his eyes darting back and forth between both of mine.


Looking for a lie.


"I was assigned a mentor. For school. Her company was hired to plan Alice and Jasper's wedding. I had no choice. It was for school."


My nerves are afire under his stare, but I don't look away. I may never get another chance to convince him that there was no deceit there. And I don't understand why I even care whether he knows that or not.


My exhaustion goes far beyond physical at this point.


So when he stands, I follow suit, dusting off the back of my pants and tightening my ponytail.


"Did you want a ride back?"


I hear a chirp and look up to see him holding a set of keys over his shoulder, pointed toward a sleek looking black car parked in the lot behind him. When the tail lights on the car flash, I finally catch on.


"That's your car?"


He nods carefully, probably sensing the buildup in my voice.


"You parked your car here? Why? And how did you know where I was anyway?"


He holds his hands up in surrender as my voice rises.


"Whoa. Take it easy. Yes, it's my car. No, I wasn't following you, but I noticed you running the last time I was here. It wasn't hard to map out your route. Your whole neighborhood is wrapped around the lake."


I narrow my eyes at him, deciding whether to believe him or not.


"Besides, I had to have a means of escape in case you called the police or jumped me."


And then shit gets weird.


Did...did he just make a joke?

Edward Cullen...made a funny. Okay, so it wasn't actually funny, but it wasn't dripping in anger or disdain either.


I just stare at him for a long moment, confused as hell.


He looks down awkwardly and clears his throat, probably regretting his stab at humor.


"Right. So, did you want a ride back or...?"


I glance up in the direction I came. The hill alone looks daunting.


I glance at Edward. And then his car.


Equally as daunting.


Well, hell...

I'm beyond drained. Physically. Mentally.


I nod at him and we walk in the direction of his car.


Several awkward feet lie between us.


And then shit gets weirder.


He opens my car door. Like a valet type of deal.


I stare at him so long afterward that he retreats to his side, climbing in and shutting his door. Only then do I follow suit.


Oh, shit.

His scent.


The masculine, clean scent of him is potent inside the car. It clings to the interior and mixes with the smell of leather and...our sweat.


I inhale without thought.


Remembering.


Recalling what it felt like to sweat with him...under different circumstances.


I buckle my seat belt and stare out the passenger side window, focusing on tamping down my heart beat and calming my breathing.


How does this happen?

How does he do this?

I don't want to feel this.

I can't make it stop.

I don't have anything safe to focus on. The mere thought of considering what he's told me is off limits.


That's for later.


When I'm alone and his scent and sweat and body heat and nearness aren't looming over me. Taunting me.


I chance a look at him.


That was a bad idea.


There are no angry words or awkward confrontation to serve as a buffer, and so all that's left is how my body reacts to his.


How the muscles in his forearm flex as he wraps his fingers around the gearshift and puts the car in reverse.


When his right arm reaches back and his hand settles on my headrest, I stop breathing altogether.


He's not even looking at me. His face is turned and looking out of the back window for traffic before backing out. But just the few seconds I get of his profile make me cringe. I turn my head away from him and close my eyes, rooting around inside myself for even a shred of collectedness.


It's in short supply.


He's so...different.


I can't reconcile it.


I need to be out of this car.


He needs to go away.


Just a few minutes, Bella, and he'll be gone.


"Isabella?"


My eyes snap open and I'm looking at my front lawn.


I'd missed him turning into my driveway and parking.


The ignition is off.

My fingers wrap around the cool door handle, but I stop when I hear his voice.


Quiet.


Cautious.


He's staring out the windshield...but not.


His face is blank and his eyes are far away...unblinking.


"That night...I never forgot it. All those people. All the whispers and the stares and the gossiping. I didn't give two shits about what one single person there thought about me...my family included. I was...in a bad, bad place, Isabella. Over time, when I thought back on it, little by little, they all fell away. Except for you. The look on your face when I saw you. You were the only person who looked at me that way. Not just that night, but...in so long. You were the only person who looked at me without disgust. Without anger. And you were...and still are...the person I'd have most deserved it from. After everything I'd done to you...you'd have been warranted. A dirty look would have been merciful compared to what you'd have been justified in doing. But you didn't. You looked at me with...compassion. Sympathy. I couldn't understand it then. And I'm no closer to understanding it now. You were the only one who didn't look through me...but right at me."


I'd looked away from him as he spoke, suffocated by the meaning of his words.


He'd thought of me? Why would he think of me?

I hadn't...I'd thrown his memory away.

Disposed of him. Suppressed everything in regards to him.

Every memory. Every detail.

I'd written him off as a hopeless, miserable waste of a man.

Erased him from myself.

It was as if he'd never existed.

"I don't want to be some pain in the ass to you. And I regret the way I spoke to you before. I just wanted the chance to be heard. To give you the truth and tell you that I am sorry. I can't ever make it right is all I have. I won't come back, Isabella."


I wait, but he doesn't say anything else.


And despite the cacophony of questions and answers and confessions in my head...


I don't either.


Slowly and silently, I climb from his car.


I close my front door behind me and lean back on it.


And watch the clock.


It takes him a full four and a half minutes to drive away.














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