Disclaimer: Stephanie Meyer owns Twilight and all its characters.

Bella

It feels like déjà vu as we pull up to his parent's house, this time bearing gifts that are wrapped in festive paper and shiny bows. The engine cuts off, but I make no move to get out, my gaze instead drifting to the window of a room that used to make my heart fly like a hummingbird's wing every time the door clicked closed.

But now all I feel is a heaviness that stops that wing from trying to move, feathers set in stone.

I take a deep breath and push those feelings down, wishing I could wrap them in pretty paper and cast them away: send them to someone else to deal with, like so many other unwanted gifts others' will receive today.

Edward's eyes are focused on the same window as I turn to face him, his hands tight around the steering wheel, white like bone.

I want to reach over and cover them, pry his fingers loose; let him squeeze my hands if he needs to, show mesomething, but he's already in motion and out the door, exchanging hugs with his mother.

I follow his lead and reach for the handle, fixing my expression to one of easiness as I smile back at Esme.

"Happy Christmas, Isabella."

I nod, and repeat the sentiment back, even though this holiday has been anything but happy so far.

Edward takes the bag of gifts from my hand as we reach the porch, his fingers careful not to touch mine. He doesn't look at me, and without a word, he follows his mother inside, leaving me to follow after him.

There was a time that he'd let me go first... but not anymore. It's almost as if he's trying to run... block me out.

I hold back just a little, taking the smallest amount of comfort I can with steady breaths before I have to adorn more fake smiles like frozen portraits in a gallery.

I'd wanted to spend Christmas with my parents this year, a big part of me needing their familiarity and love; whether it be in the form of Charlie's silent presence or Renee's chatter to keep my mind busy... I just needed something other than the unreadable expressions I'm met with day after day.

I don't want to have to long for something as simple as a smile.

But, of course, Edward had already promised his parents... without asking me first. We are no longer a couple, making decisions together—we're separate people living under the same roof—a pairing that used to be so much more.

Laughter draws me to the correct room, my mind screaming against the merriment, refusing to allow it to affect me.

But it does.

The room doesn't fall quiet when I step inside; I'm all but invisible. Except to one person. Everyone else is opening gifts—I'll leave mine for later.

My hand finds the locket that always lies around my neck, fingers fumbling with the clasp to keep me grounded. I feel relieved that he's here... that someone outside the immediate circle can maybe take that edge off.

It's selfish of me to think like this, but the respite is too good to ignore.

I'm surprised he's been invited...

I stop short.

Of course he would be; he's Rosalie's brother. Perfect Rosalie that Esme adores.

That relief lasts all of minutes when I spot the other guest for dinner.

My gaze moves from the grey of Jasper's eyes, to the laughter that is coming from red lips.

Kate.

My blood runs cold as my finger traces the heart around the picture I know to be Edward's inside the locket.

Did he know she'd be here?

It's a pointless wonder—why would he mention it to me? I don't know her, she isn't important to me... to him. At least I hope she isn't. Although, his attention is to her right now, not me.

And I can't pretend that doesn't hurt.

The memories that flood my system almost seem cruel now—even if I close my eyes, they'll still be there, haunting me with their lightness and shining green.

The differences of then and now make me want to give in to the tears that threaten, burning like the sting of ice on already frozen skin.

I don't give in. Won't give in to them... here... now.

Emmett comes over, drink in hand. He passes it to me along with a one-armed hug.

"Did you get me a good gift this year?" he asks, that loveable, boyish smile lighting up his face.

"Do I ever let you down?" I reply with a raised brow, amused.

He laughs. "No yet. But there's always time."

Time.

He seems so sure that they'll be plenty of it—time—so sure that Edward and I are going to last.

But then why would he think any differently?

If I'd seen how happy we were in the beginning, I wouldn't either.

Emmett's not stupid; he must see something isn't right. But every marriage has its problems along the way—small hitches that build and build until it all threatens to crumble—which is exactly what I'm currently dealing with.

The walls, however, are proving difficult to rebuild. They don't want to form and stay solid; instead they choose to wobble and waver, the foundations rocky and unable to support their weight.

My eyes find Rosalie as she joins Kate and Esme, sharing their smiles as she smoothes down the long, droopy bow at the neck of her pale blue blouse.

"Are you nervous?" I ask Emmett, looking up at his face.

His brows furrow, lips puckering just ever so slightly. "Nervous? About what?"

I look to the thick veins running along his bare forearms, sleeves turned up to his elbows. "Getting married," I shrug.

"Nah," he grins, his gaze naturally making its way to Rosalie. "I can't wait to officially make Rose mine."

I smile softly, his words so sincere.

"I can't let Edward have all the married fun now, can I?" he winks. I say nothing, and bring the glass to my lips, taking the smallest of sips. I'm not at all thirsty... or hungry, for that matter.

"I guess not," I murmur as Emmett excuses himself when Rose calls him to her.

Carlisle has Jasper looking at a particular book that rests at the table, so I take the opportunity to sit in the chair he'd previously occupied. It's the comfiest one in the room.

I sigh, wanting nothing more than to go home, especially when I see Edward sidle up next to Kate and his mother.

He doesn't engage her in conversation though—and surprisingly, she finds her way over to me.

My hands tighten around the throw cushion on my lap, the corners creasing around my fingers.

"Merry Christmas," she grins, motioning to the space next to me, a silent question asked.

"Merry Christmas," I repeat, nodding, sliding over a little for effect, letting it seem I have no issues with her wanting to sit next to me.

My jealousy, however, says otherwise.

"I love this time of year," she sighs, focusing her attention around the room. "Although, the waistband on my jeans don't—I always over indulge," she winks, as if it's some sort of special secret between the two of us.

"Yeah, me too. It's the leftover turkey and potatoes that do it," I answer good-naturedly.

"And the stuffing," she giggles.

She sets her drink on the small table in front of us, the wood dark cherry. "What about you? Are you a fan of Christmas?"

I think... am I? "I used to be," I find myself answering. "Not so much now, though."

Too much has changed, I add to myself.

"Any particular reason?" she asks, studying my face far too closely for comfort, eyes searching for things she has no right to know.

I swallow against the lump in my throat, my eyes darting from her face, only to fall on the expressionless one of Edward's as he watches us both.

I want to ask him what differences he sees right now. And which ones appeal more.

She finds my distraction, her head turning in his direction.

"Just grew out of it I guess," I say, my gaze lingering on his green one for a few more seconds, before tearing away.

She continues to talk to me about more inconsequential things. And each time I look at her face and take in her features, I want to hate her.

But I can't.

Which makes the need all the more great.

She seems perfectly nice... friendly; big smiles and easy hand movements as she tells a story. I can see why everyone else likes her.

"I'm going to go see if Esme needs any help in the kitchen," she says as she eventually stands. "Do you want anything?"

She's already calling Esme by her first name—it took me months and months to stop calling her Mrs. Cullen.

I shake my head in response to her question.

Only for you to leave. I can't talk like this anymore and pretend, just...please.

I find my voice. "No, I'm good, thank you."

She picks up her empty glass, giving me a red-lipped smile. "Okay."

I take a deep breath. And then another. My eyes closed when I feel the seat next to me dip.

Five minutes. That's all I need. Alone.

I'm met with grey eyes when I open my own.

"I'm not boring you already, am I? I haven't even said anything yet?" he smirks, hands resting on his knees as he leans forward a little.

I shake my head, smiling lightly. "No, I'm sorry. I'm just tired," I lie.

"Yeah, this holiday takes it out of me too. I'll be glad when it's all over and the sun decides to show itself again."

He looks out to the window, his hair falling into his lashes.

"You won't get too much of that here: spring, summer... whatever, it's mostly all the same," I say, finally moving the cushion from my grasp.

He shifts slightly, head turning further towards me. "Yeah, I heard that about here," he smiles.

I answer him with one of my own, easily distracted when a pair of hands I know so well enters my vision.

Edward hands me a Christmas card, placing himself into the empty spot on the other side of me. "It's from my Mom and Dad," he voices before I've even had chance to open it.

I lean back against the cushions, while the other two remain forward at a slight angle. I can see them both so clearly from this position.

"Oh, okay," I say, not bothering to open it yet. I set it down on my lap, staring at the cursive scrawl of Esme's handwriting.

"So, how are you liking, Forks, Jasper?" Edward inquires, looking across me, to him.

His hand finds his light hair. "It's different," he answers. "Quiet."

Edward nods, the action sharp.

"I was just telling Bella about my longing for some sunshine," he smiles, directing it at me.

I don't answer; I simply twist the card around in my hands, catching my finger on a corner of the envelope that hasn't been sealed.

A small line of red appears at the pad of my finger, a tiny drop sliding down my skin like candle wax on porcelain—rubies against crystal.

I mutter a 'damn', and reach for my purse, hoping I have a tissue somewhere inside.

There are suddenly two different hands reaching for my wrist: one touch is much more distracting than the other.

Jasper quickly recoils, while Edward's hold strengthens.

"Come on, I'll find you a Band-Aid." He stands, expecting me to do the same.

I shake my head. "Edward, it's nothing," I dismiss.

His hand reaches towards me, palm up, eyes hard. He can't always expect me to ask 'how high?' when he wants me to jump.

I stare back, refusing his hand as I get to my feet and brush past him.

I make my way into the downstairs bathroom, ignoring Carlisle's gaze as it follows me out of the room.

As I attempt to close the door, a hand shoots out, pushing it back open. I don't look at him, angry that when he finally decides he wants to act like he cares it's around someone we really don't know.

He turns on the faucet and I push my finger under the cold water for a few seconds, watching the water turn a pale pink as it circles around the plughole, cotton candy swirling around a stick.

A towel is placed in my hand, and I pat the area dry as I watch him look through the cabinet above the sink.

He evidently finds what he's looking for, as the cabinet door clicks closed, his hand replacing the towel.

"Does it hurt?" he asks.

I suck in my cheeks, gazing up at him. "It's tiny. It's nothing."

He concentrates on peeling the wrapping from the Band-Aid. "The smallest cuts can sometimes be the most painful."

He says it quietly, almost as if I'm not meant to actually hear the words.

I expect him to let go immediately, but his finger lingers, smoothing over the tan coloured fabric.

"Edward? Isabella?" A knock sounds at the door, along with the voice.

My hand falls to my side.

"Yes?"

"Dinner's ready," Rosalie informs us.

He opens the door and doesn't look back as he follows his future sister-in-law into the dining room.

I turn off the light behind me, my eyes drawn to the wide staircase that leads up to the two floors that hold the bedrooms.

I remember running up them almost every day in summers past—afternoons when Esme and Carlisle weren't at home.

~CitP~

"No," I laugh, running ahead of him, hoping like hell I don't trip up the stairs.

I hear him behind me, footsteps heavy, but muffled, in sound.

I hesitate for the briefest of seconds as I decide which direction I should run in, but it's long enough for Edward to catch me around the waist, my back to his front.

"I told you I'd catch you," he breathes against my neck.

I shiver despite the warm weather, goosebumps of a different kind grazing over my skin.

We'd been washing the car he'd just gotten for his sixteenth birthday. It wasn't planned, but when Edward had turned up at Newton's just as I was finishing my shift, murmuring something about needing hiking boots, he'd lingered in the parking lot, asking me if I was busy.

He said his parents were going out, and that he'd have the house to himself, his gaze unwavering as he looked back at my face.

His attention made my face flush, the skin warm as my fingertips found their way to my cheeks in a nervous gesture.

Anxiety made me want to say, 'yes, I have to get home', while the much more dominant part of me said, 'no no, no, I'm free, always', like the infatuated teenager I was.

In the end I'd said neither, and simply shook my head instead, indicating I wasn't busy.

Our plans of watching a movie were put on hold when his mother told him he had to wash his car before doing anything else—she'd apparently been telling him to do it for days with no success.

I hadn't minded, especially when his parents drove off... and Edward removed his t-shirt.

I kept my eyes down, slightly embarrassed, and so, so nervous. And as I was bending down to re-soap my sponge, water had shot out and hit my back, the cold making me gasp.

A water fight had ensued shortly after.

I'd retaliated by throwing the sponge in his face, both shocked and exhilarated when it actually made it on target. But I'd forgotten he had the hose. Silly, Bella.

I'd ran into the house, knowing he couldn't bring it inside.

I hadn't counted on him chasing after me though.

His hand rests on my stomach, fingertips finding the small amount of exposed skin from where my wet shirt has slid up.

He's been touching me a lot more like this, and I try not to get my hopes up—try not to let them soar high like diamond shapes on string against the bluest of backdrops—but it's just as easy to pretend.

"It's not fair; your legs are longer," I point out in return to his earlier statement, making no move to remove his arms from around me. I want to lean back further, melt into his touch like ice-cream left out in the heat.

I feel his smile as his cheek touches mine.

My heart is racing, my adrenaline spiked. It feels like I'll stop breathing at any second.

"Maybe," he agrees, his voice lowering. "But I think it has more to do with that fact I just really wanted to finally catch you."

His lips brush against my neck as he speaks that last part, arms leaving me as he walks backwards down the hall, a side smile on his lips.

I don't know if it was intentional, but at this moment, I really don't care.

"Come on, I'll find you a dry shirt."

He waits for me to draw up alongside him, and instead of turning away, he continues to walk backwards, his smirk only getting bigger.

The smile that's on my face feels like it's never going to leave.

~CitP~

The dining room table is laid out with all the foods you'd expect; table settings the deepest of reds, highlighted with gold—a rose and its stem.

I sit and pretend everything is alright; tell myself that things will be different—that I'll make them different.

I sit and know that these are all false promises—I've been repeating this same speech for months.

And even though I don't want to be here, I stay seated, because there's a good chance that if I get to my feet, I will fall.

I look across to the smiling faces opposite me, Kate and Rosalie, realising more than ever that I don't want to feel broken or hopeless—I want to be just like them. I want that hope; I want to reach out and grab it and hold on to it sotight with both hands—let it guide me and make everything better—have it keep me warm like the sun's rays as it keeps out the cold thoughts that threaten to ruin my day.

Edward passes me a dish, and I wordlessly take it from him, spooning something onto my plate that I take no notice of. I'm in autopilot mode.

I don't know how much longer we can carry on like this. I know I need to ignore the words that come unbidden to my mind—the ones filled with panic that try to destroy everything we've built.

And everything we haven't.

And I know I should keep a clear head—a clear vision—and fight this feeling that makes me want to crawl back into the past and forget. Again and again and again. But it's so hard. I don't know if I'm strong enough to do it alone. And Edward... Edward doesn't like to talk. He runs, or ignores, anything so he doesn't have to discuss.

"How are your parents, Bella? I haven't spoken to Charlie in a while," Carlisle asks me.

I poke my fork into a slice of turkey, pushing it around my plate. "He's good, thanks," I answer," smiling back at him.

Carlisle nods as he fills his plate with the creamy mashed potatoes. "I'll tell him you were asking after him when I see him a little later," I add, noticing Edward's hand pause by the side of mine.

"And your mother too," he reminds me before turning to Emmett at his right, joining in his conversation.

"I didn't know you were planning on going to your parents this evening," Edward states, his voice low, meant for only me.

I tilt my head, meeting his eyes. "I didn't know I had to run it by you first," I say stoically.

His jaw clenches ever so slightly. "That's not what I meant," he responds, a long sigh escaping his nose.

I bite the inside of my cheek. "You do things without asking me all the time," I point out. "Like agreeing to this, for example."

His expression shows his frustration. "You're twisting this. I was merely making a statement," he responds.

I take a bit of my food, not really tasting anything. "And so am I."

His gaze is long and hard, and even though I want to look away, I can't. The atmosphere around us crackles like the logs currently in the fire, the others' voices drowning out.

I don't know which one of us looks away first, but my eyes are suddenly staring at the food on my plate that I can't remember putting there.

XXX

Charlie is sleeping in his favourite chair that has seen better days, the arms a little faded, patches re-sewn. Mom has begged him time and time again to throw it out; she insists it makes the room look untidy. He's never listened though, and I think she mostly says it now out of habit now than anything else. There's no harm in the small comfort of an old chair.

Dad's light snores mingle with the low volume of the television, his moustache occasionally twitching above his lip. He's always taken a nap after Christmas dinner.

I'm sitting on the sofa, my head on my mother's shoulder as she runs her fingers through my hair, comforting me the way she has since I was little.

She hasn't asked me what's wrong, and I haven't let on that anything is. She's done exactly what I needed her to do: keep my mind busy. And I think she knew that too.

Neither of them mentioned Edward, but a look was shared when I said he was spending a bit more time with his own parents.

Renee presses a kiss to my temple as her fingers continue to move, snaking through my hair like raindrops sliding down glass.

"Merry Christmas, Baby," she whispers.

And for the first time today, I don't feel so alone.

"Merry Christmas, Mom."

XXX

His fingers steadily type away at the laptop as the sound of tapping keys continues to be the backdrop to the otherwise silent room, the noise irritating like that of a dripping faucet as water hits metal time and time again.

I don't ask what he's working on; it's probably a case, information that I can't be privy to... much like the inner workings of his mind... his heart.

With each tap of the keys an old and familiar desperation surfaces, rising like the morning sun, bright and hot. Say something, please.

And like he can somehow hear my inner plea, he angles his head to look at me, insistent green eyes holding me steady despite the fluttering in my stomach that suggests otherwise—I'm like a bird in a cage, safe and partly content in this moment, yet still wanting to flee.

I've been home for the last hour, the visit to my parents in the end short, and still, nothing.

I don't know what I want him to say, but my silent pleas do nothing apart from make me ache, purple bruises on pale skin that fade slowly.

His lips part, and I think this is it; he'll say something that will either make everything better, or push us farther apart until the distance is too great. I won't be able to reach him and make him see that I still feel.

Instead I'm met with empty space as he gets up and leaves the room.

I know that my pillow will once again soak up tears before bed, dreading that when I wake, the whole process will repeat itself.

Date: 2015-12-18; view: 656