Chapter Nineteen

(Just to refresh your memory a bit...)

My chest heaves with the effort to catch my breath and I turn around, dropping my arms from the tree trunk as I do. My arm snags on the cord of my headphones and the buds are suddenly yanked from my ears...replaced by laughter.

Strange, unfamiliar laughter.

My laughter.

I stop abruptly as I look at Edward. He's hunched over with his hand son his knees and I freeze. He's staring at me with a small smile on his face, but it's careful. Guarded. He doesn't say anything and neither do I. Still trying yo catch my breath, I move back and sit against the willow.

Edward sits down facing me several feet away with his feet flat on the ground and his knees bent. He leans his elbows on them and folds his arms.

I feel...dazed. My thoughts are muddled. It was nothing. Just a laugh. It shouldn't be this big of a deal, but it is. I could pretend I don't know why, but I do.

I can't remember the last time I laughed.

The thought makes me feel abnormal...and pathetic. Debilitated.

I don't say anything.

He doesn't push.

I stare out at the water for a long time. Breathing. Thinking.

When I stand up and make my way back to the roadside, he follows beside me silently.

It doesn't feel strained.

It doesn't feel awkward.

It feels...okay.

Chapter Nineteen

Songs I rocked to write:

'Faded' by Barcelona

'Blood' by The Middle East

BPOV

The 'okay.' It doesn't last long.

At all.

It feels like the run back to the house takes hours. Every one of my steps is like thunder in my ears, while his echo every boom. It never even occurs to me to replace my earbuds.

My head pounds with the sound of my laughter and Edward's smile is splayed across my vision, applying itself on top of every image I try to see. It was nothing. Nothing at all. Just a laugh. Just a harmless fucking laugh. People do it everywhere...everyday, but giving this to him subtracts from me until I can barely breathe. I feel exposed. Susceptible. I've scraped off a part of myself.

I want it back.

The sweat that beads and slides down my temples has nothing to do with physical exertion and everything to do with the knot in my stomach...in my chest...in my throat. My whole body follows suit, tension wringing line of my spine until I feel like I'm splitting down the middle.

When we finally part ways on the sidewalk, I pretend I don't see him hesitate in my periphery before walking toward his car. I stare straight ahead at my front door as my skin crawls with an urgency to be enclosed.

There's not an inch of my naked flesh that he hasn't seen, yet Sunday's confession and now this leave me stripped. I've never felt as bared to him as I do at this moment.

I want those four walls around me. I need them between the two of us. I want them to block his view of every tick and shift and movement that I make. His eyes brand me with expectations that I don't want. That I can't meet. It burns and I writhe, but I will not let him see it happen. I want inside, where I can rupture without his judgment.

He didn't judge you after you told him about Charlie...

The thought gives me pause before I climb the steps of the porch. Maybe he hasn't judged me, but he's still here and it doesn't make sense. None of it makes sense. He doesn't make sense to me. 

The only thing that could possibly keep him coming back here is...

Turning in place, I watch him. His steps aren't hurried and his eyes are on his feet. He rounds the driver's side door and the beeping sound and flash of the car's tail lights snaps me into action. He's just opened his car door when I speak up.

“Edward?”

His eyes fly up to mine in surprise. He angles himself toward me, one hand on the top of the car door and the other palm down on the roof. His hair is windblown and wild and his cheeks are a faint pink. His breathing is still heavy from the run and he's watching me, expectant but wary.

I have his ear.

“I just, uh...”

I cross my arms over my chest and clear my throat, trying and failing to control my nerves. I'm determined to fake it until I can. If I can. I wonder if he can see it.

I walk the several steps it takes to put me just on the outside the passenger side door. Glancing down at my reflection in the window, I bristle at how timid I look. My shoulders are slumped and my eyes are downcast. The thought of how he must see me right now makes my teeth clench. I raise my chin and settle my eyes on his.

I'm not that girl anymore.

“I meant what I said before. About you being here...why you keep coming back. I'm not your charity case, Edward. So if this is some plan for, I don't know, atonement...if you're just here to pay penance to the poor, lonely girl you did wrong, then don't bother. I'm a grown woman and I'm fully capable of coping with...what happened. I already have. So I don't need your guilt. And I don't want your pity. Can you understand that?”

I can tell by the way his eyebrow subtly lifts that he understands the reference to our conversation at the coffee shop. He doesn't want my pity, and I'll be damned if he's going to heft his onto me.

Dipping his head in acknowledgment, his voice is quiet and calm.

“I can.”

I nod, but don't turn away to leave. Not yet. I don't realize how thoroughly I mean the words until my tongue is thick with them.

“This is your out, Edward. No hard feelings, no strings. You came, you saw, you apologized. Repeatedly. You and I seem to have drastically different ideas of what happened back then. Whatever it is you think you owe me...you don't.”

I raise my hands, palms up, in frustration.

“If it's what you need to hear, then fine. You're absolved, okay? I don't need your friendship as some convoluted compensation for what you think you did to me. If that's what you're doing here, then just go, okay? Just...just walk away now, Edward. And don't come back. I'm not your obligation. I don't need you.”

And then we both just...stare. It should be unnerving, but it isn't. I'm not trying to provoke him, I just need him to understand. I don't need salvation, least of all from him.

Edward's eyes narrow and scan my face. I don't know what he's looking for, but the fingers of both of my hands curl tightly into the fabric of my jacket. My knuckles dig into my ribcage with every rigid breath I take. Just as my calves and thighs flex to lead me away from his car, I see something ghost across his face. He almost seems...disappointed.

I blink and it's gone.

His cheeks sink in slightly and his lips purse as he looks to the ground and shakes his head. There's a forced acceptance in the gesture. He looks me in the eye and simply nods before ducking into his car and driving away.

~o~

Work consumes my attention span all day. Or it probably seems that way from the outside. My list of tasks only multiplies with every confirmation of participation we receive. Companies throughout Seattle, and some beyond, are signing up to sponsor and host charity events for The Hurley Foundation. It's great publicity for said companies and fantastic advertisement for Windsor.

It's nothing but a distraction for me.

I should feel satisfied with having gotten my point across to Edward. I should feel vindicated by the lack of fight he gave. I should be celebrating having finally convinced him of how unnecessary his presence is to me. Instead, all I can think about is everything that lead up to his compliant departure. The longer I have to dwell on it, the heavier it feels on my conscience.

Was it really that bad? Was it really that big of deal?

Hours later, after I slide into bed for the night, my mind is swollen with contemplation. My legs tangle in the sheets as my mind restlessly recalls and analyzes every detail of our run and the moment under the willow.

What Edward did was intentional. He was being...playful, goading me as we ran. He pushed and provoked until he'd elicited a reaction from me. From the look on his face, it had been the exact one he'd been trying for.

And still, it's a reaction I can't find a place for in my mind. I can't stop myself from finding shame in it.

I fall asleep to the sound of my own laughter in my ears, the sight of him smiling and the bright red glow of his taillights behind my eyelids.

~o~

The next morning, my feet feel weighted to the floor. While I'm no stranger to functioning on only a few hours of sleep, I'm not used to them being as fitful as last night's. I might as well have never fallen asleep.

Trudging down the stairs, I toy with the idea of skipping my run, but then I glance around the living room and into the dining room and kitchen. Everything is so still...so quiet. It's always been this way, but the silence screams louder in my ears today and it bats at my nerves. I can't sit here. Not alone with my thoughts this way.

With my mind made up, I open the door and swing it behind me, letting go of the knob before it shuts. When I glance up, my feet lock in place on the welcome mat. The door slams, bumping me in the ass and causing me to stumble forward. I recover my balance and stare out at the sidewalk.

Edward leans against a brick post at the end of the walkway that runs down the center of the yard.


 I descend the porch steps slowly, my eyes never leaving his. He pushes off of the post and straightens up, hands in his pockets. I don't miss the rise and fall of his chest as he takes a long, deep breath in. His face is casual, but there's an obstinate set to his shoulders.

I come to a stop a few feet away from him, narrowing my eyes on him and trying to get a read.

Nothing.

I wait for him to speak.

Nothing.

I don't know where it comes from, but swift and without warning, images of him flit through my mind and behind my eyes. I'm bombarded with them as they swoop in and immobilize my opposition.

I can feel his playfulness yesterday morning before I sent him away.

I remember him standing pink cheeked in my office confessing a weakness to me.

I recall five years ago and the man he was then, harsh and angry and cruel.

I revive the sight of him on my sofa, fractured and pleading and desperate.

I think about the first time I saw him on my porch, nervous and jumpy and apologetic.

I can hear him through his penthouse door, wounded and sobbing.

I imagine him joyful and radiant and carefree on a beach with a child in his arms.

I remember him in my kitchen, persistent and frustrated and impatient.

I can still see him in the backseat of a squad car, despondent and broken and hurt.

I think back to him at the coffee shop, exhausted and angry and...trying.


Trying.

I'm overcome by the affect the memories have on me. Despite my effort to remain indifferent to this man, somewhere along the way...I failed. And while the fear I feel as a result is skin tight, there's something else there. A pull toward the unknown.

My long stifled curiosity begins to rival my fear of learning. Learning the whys. Learning his reasons. Learning him.

At this hour, the sun isn't shining yet, but the night has only just taken its leave. With a black hood covering his hair, Edward's eyes are a dark blue. A smooth navy, almost black. They're still and patiently focused on mine with a calm challenge.

I bite.

“This is really what you want?”

“Yes, it is.”

It's early and his voice is rough and husky. Unused.

“You know this is a terrible idea, right?”

“Maybe.”

Don't ignore this, Edward. Listen.

“I don't know what I'm doing.”

“Neither do I.”

Hear me.

“I'm not making you any promises here.”

“I'm not asking for any.”

“We have nothing in common.”

“I disagree, Isabella.”

I swallow down my desire to know what he thinks our similarities are. I can't hear that right now.

“And no more apologies.”

He hesitates and I arch my eyebrow at him.

“Fair enough.”

“You're just wasting your time on me.”

He shrugs casually, unbothered by the flippant way I scoff at him. At this whole crazy thing.

“My problem, not yours.”

We stare quietly at one another. I pop my earbuds in and walk around him and onto the sidewalk.

“Suit yourself.”

.

.

.

.

We haven't spoken a word to each other since we stopped under the willow. We resume our usual spots, me against the tree trunk and Edward a few feet away in the grass. The silence isn't completely comfortable, but it isn't as loaded as it's been in the past either. Something has shifted, and it plucks at my insecurity.

What am I doing? I'm just going to be his friend now? 

His silence isn't helping my nerves and I fidget against the trunk of the tree before tilting my head back against it. The branches of the willow sway above our heads, thin and leafless. I watch the slender brown wood against the now bright whites and yellows of the morning sky and am startled by Edward's voice.

“I was seventeen years old when I found out I was gonna be a father. Eighteen when she was born.”

I pull my head away from the tree to look at him. He shakes his head, reaching down to the ground between his feet and picking up a fallen willow leaf. He twirls it between his fingers and watches the water as he continues.

“I was a dumb ass kid. When Jane told me she was pregnant, I sat staring at the wall for an hour straight, just...”

He speaks with a placid, almost detached tone of voice...until now.

“...smiling like a fucking moron.”

A pleasant remembrance and a fond smile color his face before he corrects himself, clearing his throat and looking back down at the leaf in his hands.

Jane. Hearing this woman's name for the first time causes questions to form. I haven't allowed myself to wonder about Edward's past for so long, insistent that none of it mattered. That the less I knew, the better. After all, what good would knowing do me? It would change absolutely nothing. If anything, it would hurt me. In ways I refuse to think on.

But despite my practiced indifference, I cannot deny the small thrill I feel at the possibility of answers. Even the slightest of gaps being filled in is tempting to me. I should stop him. I should cut him off...change the subject. Get up and run. But I don't do any of it.

I hold my breath and listen to the words I don't have the willpower to deflect right now.

“I always did well in school, got good grades and stayed out of trouble, but everything...meant more once I knew about the baby. I wanted to do it on my own...to be a man and handle my responsibilities. I got into U-Dub and found a dinky ass apartment off campus for the three of us.”

An image of the Cullen home pops into my head. I'm struck with a strange sense of...respect to learn that he insisted on making his own way even though he clearly comes from such wealth.

“By the time she was born, I was in school and working a full time job trying to keep our heads above water. I was always so goddamned exhausted. I could barely keep my eyes open half the time and I still don't know how the hell I got through that first semester. I just remember...”

His eyes lower and one hand slides out of sight and into his pocket, pulling out a closed fist. I snatch my eyes away from him, knowing what he's holding and suddenly feeling like an intruder. Like I'm trespassing on his memory. On a part of him I'm not entitled to. Receiving what he gives is one thing. Seeking it out is another. 

“I just remember coming home at night and seeing her there, asleep in the crib. I'd watch her breathing and I just knew that every ache in my body, every missed meal, every crammed study session on a fifteen minute work break, every night that I'd fall into bed just to get up two hours later for her morning feeding...it was all so fucking worth it. Because I was doing it. I was keeping the promise I made to my baby girl the second I met her.”

My mind reaches back into the past and snatches out a moving image, dragging it into the present and throwing it at my feet. Edward, exhausted and weary, against a background lavender and pink. His voice soothing and melodious as he cradles his daughter to his chest and sings his love to her.

I wonder if he's thinking of that night, too. Does he remember Esme's proud face behind the camera the way that I've imagined it before, despite knowing that I shouldn't? That it isn't any of my business.

But he's here...making it your business now.

I'm adrift in Edward's revelation about his past and it causes me to lose track of everything, including my tongue. I'm caught up and the question slips right between my teeth and through my lips before I can think better of myself.

“What did you promise her?”

I don't look at him yet, but at his hand. The leaf is crushed and falling in pieces from his fingers now. When my eyes find his face, he's still staring in the direction of the water, but he's far from here.

His voice plummets low, flat and deflated of any emotion.

“It doesn't matter now, does it?”

He shakes his head and clears his throat. I want to ask him what he promised her and why it doesn't matter now. I want to ask him where she is. I want to ask him what terrible thing he's carrying inside that keeps him this way. But I don't. I don't say anything and I don't budge. It feels like any movement I make would draw attention to me when all I want is to disappear. I want answers and it feels wrong to.

It feels wrong to want to know.

“I don't know why my regret bothers you, but that won't ever change. It won't go away because you can't handle it.”

He swivels his head toward me, slow and purposefully. I follow suit, staring him right in the eye. I narrow my eyes at him, offended by the accusation in his voice. He's dead on, but it doesn't mean I want to hear it.

“I hate thinking of that time in my life, Isabella. I hate how fucking weak I was. Josie... she was the only good thing that came out of it.”

The casual way he says his daughter's name surprises me. He's never gone out of his way to speak about his past the way he is right now.

You've never let him get a word in edge wise.

I shake off the thought, refusing to acknowledge the truth in it.

Edward rubs a hand over his eyes and pinches them together on the bridge of his nose before turning to face me. I begin to breathe harder, feeling pinned between the willow and his stare. My eyes flit back and forth between him and the road, anxious and afraid of what he'll say next. Things have shifted drastically in a very short amount of time. I need time. I need distance.

But I'm paralyzed and somewhere deep inside, I know that if I run right now...I won't be chased.

This is it.

My hands begin to shake and I loathe myself for wanting to stay right here in this spot. My legs twitch against the ground with the need to retreat, but my stomach hollows out at the thought of closing the door on this. On him. And being left standing alone on the other side of it.

Two separate voices erupt inside of me and the dilemma burns through my chest. The voices rage at one another, tugging me back and forth over the threshold of decision.

What the hell is wrong with you, Bella? Get out of here. Go now!

Stay. What's the worst that could happen?

This won't end well. Run.

Grow up and listen to him. Think of someone other than yourself for once!

If you stay, he'll fuck you over. Again. Of what use could you possibly be to him?

He's apologized. He seems different...

He's not different. They're all the same. 

His timing is immaculate. My palms flatten to the ground on either side of me and dead leaves crunch beneath them. I'm seconds from bolting when the deep, grating timbre of his voice stops me. 


His words are like quicksand. The harder I fight them, the deeper I sink.

“What she...what happened to me then, and who I was...I never wanted to be him again. I never wanted to be that powerless ever again. And I wasn't. Then that morning, when I heard you talking in the bar, I just...lost it. The things you were saying...work and school and being tired and broke. I just...it set something off. You reminded me so much...too much...of who I'd been. Of what I'd just let happen to me. I'd been so fucking angry for so goddamned long and I just...snapped.”

His jaw clenches hard and his lips press together tightly before he exhales hard through his mouth.

“I hated you in that moment. To me, you were pathetic and weak and it didn't matter that I didn't know you or anything else about you. What I'd hear was enough. I just wanted to punish you for everything that had happened to me. Things you had no way of knowing. Things that didn't have shit to do with you.”

I flinch at his words. I'm angry about his eavesdropping. I'm embarrassed for the girl I was then. I'm reluctant to acknowledge how my words that day in the booth could spark something in him. I can understand how they would and again, I feel shame for it.

“I'm so fucking tired.”

The words aren't for me. They're said with barely any breath as he rolls his head back on his shoulders a couple of times and rubs a hand over his face. He looks at me through heavy eyes and I try to ignore how liable I feel for his weariness. I fidget again, hating how self-conscious I suddenly feel about fighting this...him...so hard.

I'm not responsible for this. I didn't ask him to come here.

He takes another deep breath, like he's mustering up the energy to cross the finish line.

“I decided to make you suffer. I abused you in a way that I never can atone for. I'm not here for forgiveness from you. You think I'm waiting for absolution, but that's where you're wrong. There is no redemption for what I've done to you.”

I swallow and blink at him, but say nothing. He shakes his head at me and he's staring at me again...rummaging and rooting and it makes my stomach knot.

“I don't want your out, Isabella.”

This time, it's him that walks away.

I sit motionless under the willow for so long that by the time I jog back to the house, Edward's car is gone.

~o~

Edward doesn't show up for the next two days. When I do see him again, on Friday, it isn't for our morning run.

The hurried click of my heels as I walk through the entrance resonates in my ears and grates on my nerves. I'm late. Stepping into the stifling warmth of the restaurant is suffocating. The only comfort I find is the hum of conversation, the clanking of silverware and the generic piano melody being played. The sounds combine to form a cloak of obscurity, however false it may be. With the cacophony of noises filling the air, it's easier to feel invisible. To blend into the scenery until it's time to leave.

I'm escorted by a waitress and smile at Kate as I'm seated several chairs down from her at the long, rectangular table. I recognize and politely acknowledge several coworkers with nods and practiced smiles before ordering a glass of wine and flipping through the menu. It's been a long day at work and the last thing I want to do is make small talk with a group of people I barely know, so I keep my eyes down and pretend to peruse the dinner entrees.

The only reason I came tonight is because it's Kate's birthday and I didn't want to seem disrespectful to her. It's glaringly obvious that tonight's dinner is nothing more than an orchestrated attempt at sucking up to the boss. Judging by the way everyone is hanging on every word Kate says, things are going as planned. I try not to roll my eyes as I check my watch. It hasn't even been fifteen minutes.

I arrive too late for dinner, but after everyone places their dessert orders, conversation resumes at the table. I'm sip my wine and glance around the restaurant. It's a beautiful space, all clean lines and decorated in dark browns and creams. The mahogany bar has a mirrored and lit back wall, creating the illusion of being a larger space than it is. Massive, spherical chandeliers hover above the dining area, casting a warm glow over its patrons. I can smell the fresh flowers in the table's centerpiece and balsamic vinegar in the air.

The minutes drag. I've long poked at and discarded my dessert and am still nursing the same glass of wine, spinning it in place on the table in between sips. As I glance to my far left, my thumb and forefinger freeze on the stem of my wine glass. Seated at a small, square table are three men and a woman. I only recognize one person, his profile unmistakable in any setting. I remain motionless, my previous aversion to my surroundings taking a backseat to the shock I feel at seeing him so unexpectedly.

I have a perfect view of Edward's right side. I'm familiar with watching him from this angle, but his clothes are all wrong and the sound of lapping water is missing. He's wearing a light grey suit and black dress shirt. A stark white cloth napkin is draped over his right thigh and his right hand is busy spinning a short tumbler of dark liquid in place on the table. A plate of food sits in front of him, but his silverware is untouched on the table.

The two older gentleman at the table are speaking heartily, seemingly sharing the duty of telling a story. One of the men's arms waves animatedly in front of him and he leans toward the table to say something just before everyone at it bursts into laughter.

Everyone except Edward.

He's leaning back casually in his chair, watching the scene with a small, stiff smile on his face. It's enough to feign attentiveness, but his eyes are disconnected...blank. I can see it from where I sit.

I've been wearing the same expression since I sat down.

A high-pitched, feminine peal of laughter snatches my attention to Edward's left. The woman is smiling widely, an obvious reaction to whatever anecdote is being regaled. She's younger than the other two men...closer to Edward's age. Her red stained lips part as she laughs and tosses her straight blonde hair over her shoulder. I wonder how she can stand the attention it attracts. People from surrounding tables turn to look at her and I can see by the straightening of her posture that she revels in it. She wants the eyes on her. Her hand moves to cup over the top of Edward's left forearm.

A voice in my head scoffs at her, thick and bitter with experience in the matter.

Stupid woman. No touching...

His reaction is immediate.

His right hand abandons the spinning of his glass and the bored smile evaporates from his face. A severe rigidity seizes his body and he swiftly slides his arm from beneath her hand. The surprise on her face belies her casual behavior, exposing how intentional the contact was on her part. Edward recovers quickly, reaching into the inside pocket of his jacket and holding up his cell phone as an explanation for already being on his feet. He drops his napkin to the table and speaks a few words I can't make out before leaving the table and heading toward the exit.

I watch as the blonde woman leans over and whispers in the ear of the man next to her, her eyes never leaving Edward's form. She gathers her purse, stands and walks around the table.

I'm out of my seat and grabbing my coat off the back of my chair without thought.

What are you doing, Bella?

I slide my arms into the sleeves of my coat and tuck my hair behind my ear, muttering an 'excuse me' to several people I rush past. Fortunately for me, I am closer to the exit than the blonde is and my feet move faster when I see that she is slowed down by a dessert tray.

What the hell are you doing, Bella?

I feel transparent and obvious, as if these strangers know how I'm associated with the man I'm following. As if my past with him is visible on my flesh. I avoid eye contact with anyone and the door doesn't have time to close behind him before I'm pushing through it.

I spot him immediately, his phone nowhere to be seen. His back is to me, and I stay hidden in the shadow of the restaurant entrance. He sits down on a wrought iron bench that faces the street and is situated between two small trees. The trees are strung with tiny white lights and the skin of his neck and the side of his face appear golden under the glow. I lean my shoulder against the cold brick of the building and watch as he runs his hand through his hair and exhales. A white puff of air forms in front of him and he tilts his head back. I wonder if he's watching it evaporate against the dark night sky like I am. 


The hair at the base of his neck forms a thick 'V' and overlaps the collar of his jacket as he leans back. Aside from the occasional car or pedestrian, the street remains calm and quiet.

I don't know what keeps me rooted to this spot, watching him, but whatever it is doesn't last long.

The steady, muted hum of noise from the restaurant explodes loudly behind me as the restaurant doors burst open. The blonde from Edward's table doesn't even spare me a glance, but zeros in on him instead. She smoothes her hair down and then the front of her skirt before sauntering toward him purposefully.

My legs move with long, swift strides until I'm beside her and then past her, calling out to Edward. 

“Edward, is that you?”

The blonde stops in place. Edward startles and turns, standing as I round the front of the bench. He looks from me to the blonde and back again. My knees are like rubber and my hands are clenched into fists inside my coat pockets.

What is wrong with you, Bella? Why are you doing this?

“Isabella. Hi.”

He says my name slowly, using each syllable to catch up on what's happening. His eyes dart between the blonde and I. I smile at him, small and unsure. I don't mean it, and I instantly feel stupid for doing it. When the blonde starts talking, we both look back at her.

“Edward, I was just coming out to make sure you were okay.”

Her voice is confident, but her eyes aren't. They jerk back and forth between Edward and I, finally settling on me and giving me the once over.

“I'm fine, Victoria, thank you.”

I can hear the strain in his words and wonder if she can, too.

“Okay, then...if you're sure...?”

Her eyes are jumping back and forth between us again and I can feel Edward's patience shriveling. He takes a deep breath and nods at her, his voice tight.

“I'm sure.”

She only nods at him and turns, walking back to the restaurant. She drags her feet now, her confident saunter forgotten. Only when she's tucked back inside the door, does Edward drop back down onto the bench.

“Jesus fuck, you'd think she'd learn already.”

It seems, like my actions, my speech has veered off on its own as well. It is unconcerned with what I want. Indifferent to the caution I'm failing to operate with tonight.

“Who is she?”

“Just a colleague. A dense, thick-headed pain in the ass of a colleague who doesn't know when to quit.”

The relevance to our particular situation is just too obvious and the words are out of my mouth as fast as I think them.

“Some people just can't take a hint.”

He narrows his eyes and tilts his head in question.

“Did...did you just make a joke?”

He looks genuinely confused by the possibility that I have a sense of humor. I pinch my lips together and shuffle my feet, not exactly comfortable with him, but feeling myself shedding a layer of hesitance. Silence settles over us and I shift, looking around at anything but him.

“Here. Do you wanna...?”

I look down and he's slid to the far end of the bench, motioning to the empty space between us. I stare down at it in contemplation. Why does everything, even the simplest of actions, feel so loaded around him? Just agreeing to sit with him feels like a compliance somehow.

“It's a bench seat, Isabella, not a bed.”

I snap at him, defensive and embarrassed about being called out, but also bothered somehow by his choice of comparison. 

A bed.

“I know that.”

He takes a deep breath and looks away from me, shaking his head slightly. The tension, which moments ago seemed slight, has thickened in the air around us. He exhales through his nose and turns his head in my direction, but doesn't look up at me.

“I'm sor-”

“Don't.”

We had a deal. No more apologizing.

“Right.”

I roll my eyes and drop down onto the bench next to him. He wisely chooses not to comment on it, but changes the subject.

“How about a thank you instead, then?”

“What?”

“Thank you. For running interception with Victoria.”

I nod at him, but stay quiet, almost wishing the tension would thicken again. I don't know what to do with the civility that he's trying so hard to create between us. He's predictable when he's frustrated or angry. I know that Edward. This Edward...five years later Edward...is completely disarming. He's the same man in so many ways, but a different one in just as many.

An older couple walks past the front of the bench, arms wrapped around one another and smiling politely at us. I wonder what we look like to them. We're strangers, but not in every sense of the word. I know things about him that no stranger ever would. He knows at least one very private, personal thing about me. I've never willingly talked to anyone else about Charlie before, and thinking about the way I purged it all in front of him makes my skin crawl with shame and vulnerability. I close my eyes against the sensations as they entomb my composure, willing it to give in and give up.

“You changed your hair.”

“What?”

My hand instinctively cups the back of my hair, the strands laying thick and cold against my neck. He's right. After graduation, I got it trimmed, layered and highlighted with subtle reds. I needed to look the part. Long, dull and brown wasn't good enough anymore.

It was all a part of the costume.

“Uh, yeah, I did.”

It's a lame response, but what else am I going to say? He's commenting on my hair of all things and I wonder if it's for my benefit or his own. Maybe both? I don't know, but I'm grateful he's steering away from heavier subjects. Hair isn't so personal. I look up at his and it's just like I remember it.

“You didn't.”

Jesus, Bella, really?

He grins at me, but it's just there to restrain the laughter I suspect he's holding back. My awkwardness could not be more obvious. He looks down at his hands, sniffing and nodding and clearing his throat. Yeah, he's definitely holding back a laugh.

“No, I didn't.”

It's painful how bad I am at this. How in the hell are we ever going to be 'friends'? 


I'm struck with a sudden defiance.

I can do this. It can't be that hard. I'm a mature, educated adult. Making conversation shouldn't be this big of a deal. My job requires me to do it everyday and I manage just fine.

That's just it. It's your job. And required. You discuss flowers and venues and budgets all day. You punch numbers and avoid face time as much as you can. This is unscripted.

A voice in my head shouts at me to choose my words carefully.

Keep him out.

Hide what could arm him.

Give him nothing.

It's loud and demanding. And it wins.

“How's Paul?”

Though I'd been aiming for an inconsequential, safe topic to discuss, inferiority still billows like smoke inside my chest. It leaks out in hot wisps between the two of us and I burn with inadequacy.

“Uh...he's good, I guess. Like I said, he fucking hates me. Just sleeps all day and...yeah.”

He trails off awkwardly, looking down and scratching his jaw. I watch as he licks his bottom lip and tucks his top one over it. Slowly, his bottom lip slides from between his teeth, white from the pressure. When finally released, it's slightly swollen and a darker shade of red than the top one. A small space appears between his lips, revealing just the tip of his tongue. I look up at him. His eyelids are heavy and his jaw flexes. Conversation is forgotten, his eyes are on my eyes...my mouth...back to my eyes. When he blinks, it's weighted and unhurried.

He swallows and the bob of his adams apple tempts my focus, but I resist.

I will not look away.

I inhale and hold the air in my lungs as an unforeseen, inexplicably powerful appetite for control takes hold of me. I am not this weak. And I am not the same pathetic, desperate girl he found five years ago in that booth.

“Bella?”

My name startles us both and I turn around to see Kate and several coworkers filing out of the restaurant. She's regarding Edward and I carefully, and I'm already dreading the inevitable conversation she'll want to have about this. I look back to Edward and we both stand and I motion over my shoulder.

“It's my boss' birthday. I guess I'd better go say goodbye.”

It's a trivial detail, but I chose to share it. I can do this.

“Right. Goodnight, Isabella.”

“Goodnight.”

I'm several feet away from the bench when he calls out to me.

“I'll see you in the morning?”

I turn and he's standing with his hands in his pockets, watching me leave. I nod and manage a small smile, but wipe it from my face before I turn back around to Kate and her concerned eyes.

~o~

The next morning, we don't speak much. When we stop to rest by the lake, the silence is thick, but not as uncomfortable as it's been in the past. It's almost as if the heaviness of the last time we were here is still lingering. As if the echo of his confession is still under the willow. We jog back to the house and silently wave at one another before he leaves.

After I shower and eat, I pick up the phone for my customary weekly call to Renee. She picks up after four rings, her tone flat and colorless.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Mama.”

“Bella.”

I push through the pang that her indifference to me causes in my chest. Every time.

One day. Some day soon...

“How are you?”

“Fine, Bella. Just fine.”

“Good. I'm glad to hear it.”

Silence.

“So...Thanksgiving is coming soon.”

“Mm.”

“I was thinking that maybe I could come up this year-”

“No.”

I close my eyes and breathe deeply.

“No?”

“We've been over this, Bella. It just...isn't a good idea.”

She sighs and I swallow, taking more deep breaths and reminding myself to be patient.

She just has to see. You just have to show her. She'll see.

“Right. Okay. Well, there's always Christmas.”

I feign a cheerfulness I damn well don't feel and am not surprised when I'm met with more silence. I say a goodbye that isn't returned before hanging up, still unaccustomed to how depleted I feel afterwards.

~o~

I can feel that something has changed between us. An anomalous shift in our dynamic. And while I am cognizant of it, I don't know what it means...or what to do with it.

How to act.

How to stay.

How not to flee.

There are moments when he's nearby that my feet squirm inside my shoes and my eyes scan for an exit.

For escape.

I'm not naïve about the last time I lost control around him. I remember what happened as a result. What happened when I abandoned my instincts in favor of a momentary release.

Yet somewhere inside of me, tucked away too far to override my practiced defenses, there is a growing curiosity. A splinter of intrigue embedded in the thick skin of the very isolation I had depended on. It doesn't call attention to itself, lying in wait and giving no cause for removal. But as time passes and he moves closer, I know that it will begin to irritate me. To fester and infect everything around it and soon, I will have no other choice but to tend to it. To inspect and analyze this hunkering part of myself that isn't happy in the shadows.

The part that wonders what the sunlight would feel like on my skin.

The part that imagines how the world would look if I surrendered the death grip I keep on my armor.

The very part that, for the time being, causes me to forget to wish Edward Cullen away.

~fywfywfywfywfywfywfywfyw~

So......I'm extremely curious to know what your interpretation of this chapter is :)

Also I just wanted to let you guys know that things are back on track now and half of the next chapter is already written! I actually had that part finished before this chapter! See you soon!

~jada~