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Disclaimer: Stephanie Meyer owns Twilight and all its characters. I own a debit card that is about to become worthless once I click 'complete' on this Amazon order.

Bella

Time freezes, worlds of ice and snowflakes suspended mid-fall. My hands squeeze into fists at my sides, a subconscious shift that tries to bring me back into the now. I don't know how long I stand and stare at empty space, nothing but white walls that make me feel further apart from everyone in this house than I ever thought possible... further apart from him; winter wonderlands without the wonder, and a false sense of calm that does nothing to pacify the erratically pumping red muscle inside of my chest. I'm confused and hurt and above all: so, so angry. My heart is pounding, all provoked drumbeats and crashing symbols that threaten to tear me down; paper masks shredded to reveal what lies beneath. And it's an even better illusion: pain disguised within a pale face, all nondescript features and evasive stares cloaked in dark lashes. It won't come as a surprise, no shocked faces reflected back to me in the mirror—I've had a lot of practice over the years.

I tell myself I'll move so many times, leave, the words inside my head insistent and full of a surety I don't possess. He doesn't get to influence me... but, no, that's a lie. Or rather the fact that he doesn't influence me at all, is. He always has, and I doubt that's going to change now, even if circumstances are different. I'd given him my heart; his happiness became more important... he become more important. And maybe that's a fault of my own, slapped wrists and marks that pink and vanish.

My lashes flutter shut, shaky breaths drawn as I try to rein in my emotions, windows closed to block out the stormy weather that lurks behind the glass. I want to shout and scream, break every single picture that lines the wall behind me. I can feel that hot sting of tears at the corner of my eyes, all bitter hurt wanting a release. He's left the hard decision to me as always; put all the weight upon my shoulders. No, and I'm the one who gave up. Yes, and I'm weak and foolish and risk the possibility of more hurt. Leave, stay, flee, sit: I want to sink. And for once I don't want him to hear my voice—for once I want him to hear his first.

I had made a choice, a choice I hated, but a choice all the same. My emotions have scattered, refusing to centre, amusement parks with too much to offer; too much distraction and misplaced fear... too many colourful lights. Nothing has changed, the same issues from before are still here now... and in some cases they're so much worse. I'm at a crossroads, signposts burnt to the ground, nothing but smoke that rises upwards, travelling somewhere I can't follow.

I finally get my feet to move, muffled footsteps as I pull back to a room that is anything but a safe haven. It is my very own purgatory, one that I both love and hate. But I wouldn't change it, not now. This was him, us, days spent in our own little bubble; in our own little world filled with teasing touches and expressions. And fights... there were fights in this house, too. Stupid ones—before rings were added to fingers, before we even knew what we were doing.



Before they could ever really last or hurt.

~CitP~

I cut the engine and close my eyes, loving the warmth on my face as the sun beats down and fills the cab of my truck with primrose heat. I kind of want to stretch out on the seat with my back to the leather and drift—bask in that stage between sleep and wake, the kind that makes you feel as if you're wrapped in cotton wool, utterly safe and content.

That is until a heavy hand smacks against the glass beside my head.

"I wouldn't stay out here too long with your pale skin. You'll turn into a lobster," Em laughs, and I smile, swinging the door open.

"I was thinking about it," I say as I jump out. The air smells like freshly cut grass, and from the green stains on Emmett's white sneakers, it's suddenly evident why.

"What, becoming a lobster?" he teases. He follows his words with some weird crab-like dance.

"Sure," I laugh and shield my eyes with my hand. "Is Edward inside?"

He snorts. "Yeah, he's in the kitchen I think."

"What's so funny?" I ask. He shakes his head but says nothing, simply giving me a wave as he drags the lawnmower over to a patch of grass he has yet to cut.

I go around the back as his parents aren't home, gravel kicking up under my feet as I walk. I can hear Edward laughing as I open the door, an inquisitive smile immediately gracing my face. That is until I see who he's talking to; the reason for the smile currently lighting up his face stops me in my tracks.

Alice and her friend are making drinks in brightly coloured glasses: ice cream floats by the items spread out on the counter.

Alice spots me first and gives me a weak smile. I reciprocate, and look away, feeling a little awkward. We've never been close, and that's okay. I don't get the impression she dislikes me, we just don't have a lot in common. Plus she's a little older than I am, so we don't run in the same circles.

Her friend is really pretty: mid length blonde hair that curls slightly at the ends, and I can't see the colour of her eyes, but if her smile is anything to go by, I'd say her eyes are pretty distracting, too. She's leaning across the island in the middle of the kitchen, her off-the-shoulder sweater she's wearing dropping low on her left arm, showing off her bra strap and a little cleavage. I don't miss Edward's eyes darting lower every now and then.

I look down and can't help feeling mousy in comparison, jealousy and despair rushing through me. I feel agitated, the sticky heat suddenly not so pleasant. I think about stepping back outside for a moment until both she and Alice leave—maybe go help Em with the garden—when Edward finally spots me standing here awkwardly. His smile doesn't leave his face at first, but it finally does as he realises just how far he's leaning toward his sister's friend. He immediately takes a step back, and she turns to follow his line of sight, her smile waning a little... or rather a lot. She has blue eyes.

"Hi," she greets, and I give her a smile and a hello in return. She looks me up and down before pointing to the three glasses set out in front of her. "Want one? I was just making, Edward here, one," she says with a point of a spoon in his direction.

"Um, no, I'm fine thanks," I say, and twist the ends of my own sweater between my fingers.

"Okay, let me know if you change your mind." She smiles sweetly, and starts scooping the vanilla ice cream into the glasses. Alice grabs some paper towels and then they're on their way, Edward's gaze lingering a little longer than necessary on the bare legs of... whoever.

"Hi," he smiles as he rounds the corner of the island, bending down to give me a kiss. I turn my face at the last minute, his lips brushing my cheek as my palms push at his chest.

He sighs and steps back to look at me, gaze drifting over my features. "What's wrong?" he asks.

"Who was that?" I ask, referring to Blondie that was here only moments before.

He shrugs. "Just a friend of Alice's," he answers. "Why?"

I lick my lips. "She seemed... friendly."

His cheeks warm, and I tear my gaze from his face, irrationally hurt and embarrassed.

His hands find my hips. "Bella?"

"Do you like her?" I ask suddenly, watching his face for any signs of a lie. I'm not sure I'd know it if I saw it, but I look just the same.

He rolls his eyes. "Please don't tell me you're jealous."

This time it's my cheeks that heat. "Do I have a reason to be?"

He pulls away and shoves his hands in his pockets. "You're being stupid," he says irritably, and while part of me understands it, another part of me reacts to it.

"You practically had your face in her boobs!" I accuse, my voice rising.

He scowls. "You're exaggerating," he says, turning his back on me. And it kind of pisses me off that he's dismissing me like that. Without thinking I reach forward and grab the spoon still upright in the ice cream container, and flick a spoonful of creamy vanilla onto the back of his neck.

He jumps, cursing, his hand reaching behind him as his spins back around. My eyes are wide, lips parted, forming an 'O' shape.

He looks between the spoon and my face, his expression incredulous. "I can't believe you just did that!"

"I'm sorry," I say quickly, biting my lip as I feel a sudden urge to laugh.

His eyes narrow, and I take a step back as this dangerous looking glint fills his eyes. "Don't you dare," I breathe, knowing exactly what he's about to do.

His hand dives into the ice cream, and I squeak, attempting to turn and run, but he's quicker, and soon he's smearing cold onto my face.

Ice cream drips from my chin as he busts up laughing, and I run my fingers over my cheeks, gathering as much as I can as I reach forward and press the sticky sweetness over his face, too, grinning all the while.

He grabs my hands and licks and bites at my fingers before pulling me forward to rub his cheek over mine. I press my hands to his face, full on laughing at this point as I try to push him away to no avail.

"Don't be mad at me," he says, nudging my nose with his.

"I'm not, I'm sorry," I whisper, kissing his chin. "I was stupid... and maybe a little jealous."

His tongue touches mine, addictive. "No need. Your boobs are the only ones I want to press my face into, I promise," he smirks, and I blush, and smile, and get lost in his sweet kisses.

~CitP~

They were always silly to begin with, those first fights at that age, and always about the most stupid of things... until the years passed, subject matters more serious... and suddenly they were no longer that silly. And no amount of vanilla kisses and lips mouthing the word sorry from across a room could fix them.

And somewhere along the way I even stopped looking.

I take my clothes into my hands—damp and heavy, unforeseen forces trying to weigh me down—and watch as fingers reach out for the door only to pull back again moments later, a clear war forming. It's stupid... I'm stupid. Feet slide into shoes and I'm ready—ready to go home, ready to be brave. But I know that's a lie... it would be braver to stay.

Stay or go, fight or flight, boxing gloves and feathered wings; red and white and decision, decision, decision.

Do I have one? Have I ever?

I pace, cream carpet my own withered and rocky trail, hands over eyes as windows become the light that filters through the trees, spotlights that blind and pressure, a punctual urgency: quick, fast, faster. And I am lost in duplicates of the same—thin and silver birch, fingers that want to pry—until I fall back to the bed, defeated, shackled to this house; to him.

And he is a man, haunting my every waking step, invisible to the eyes but not to the soul. He is the fear that accelerates my pulse, the wonder that leaves me breathless. He is my recurring nightmare that I can't forget, the one that is no longer a nightmare at all: familiarity and dog-eared pages.

He is a ghost. My ghost.

And maybe I am his, too.

My hands fall to my sides, clothes to the ground, no longer weighted, yet no longer attempting to flee, either.

And I'm not sure I ever really was.

My focus lifts to the ceiling, to the circular pattern I've traced with my gaze more times than I can remember, white and dizzying spheres that spin with my movement.

I simply close my eyes and drift.

XXX

Fingertips to glass, I watch the early bird catch its worm, beak insistent, hungry for its find. I envy it its devotion; envy it its ability to fly away afterwards. The escape is so simple, so easy, gliding through pastel palettes of baby blue and fluffy white. The sun blinds as I look and follow, a shield made from spread fingers as I wince and turn, a new distraction for my eyes to focus on as shadows form on the gravel below. Car doors open and close, bags disposed inside with a click of finality. I step back a little and put the sheer netting back in place, a veil to the scene outside, replacing the one I never chose to wear.

I should pull away, the anticipation... the fear of being left alone in this house with him strangling me inside and out, metals cuffs on my wrists, my windpipe: both too tight.

I never thought I'd become scared of Edward. He was my bright spot, my soft comfort, all butterscotch candy on the tongue. He was my safety, the one person I knew would take care of me, no questions asked, safety nets lined with velvet pillows.

But dreams are there to be broken, and mine have been dispelled, swept away like a hand through a cloud of smoke.

Reality is so much harsher: the rope of net burns, angry marks that get worse the more you struggle. And it's impossible not to flounder, the desperation clawing at your throat like that of an angry lion out for the slaughter.

My gaze lands on two brothers, one with his hands at his sides, the other with his hands resting on shoulders I've pressed my lips to more times than I can count.

A lump forms in my throat as I remember the last time I pressed my lips to him like that, his skin warm and shower soft as I trailed telling kisses from one shoulder to the other.

He would normally relax under my touch, hands reaching back for me as he wrapped my arms around him from behind. But that time he'd tensed, and turned to face me, my heart skipping a beat as his hand found my cheek. His thumb had ghosted the area just below my eye, softly at first, until it wasn't, and he was pressing harder... not enough to really hurt, but enough to let me know this was different, and not us. His reaction had made my eyes water, but his touch was almost like a calming balm that kept the fears beneath the surface; that kept the tears from falling. And even now I don't know how to explain it, how to fully understand the feelings that bloomed to life inside me that day.

He'd stared at me for the longest moment, but I was too afraid to ask him what was wrong. I think it was because I knew and didn't know how to stop it either. So I just let him do what it was he needed, and when he'd dropped his hand and left the bathroom with a whisper of a kiss to that same area of my face, only then did I step into the shower and let the spray of water drown out the sound of my tears.

I never brought it up afterward; I simply went to work like any other day, and when he phoned later that night to say he would be home late, that he might stop at his parents so as not to wake me, I didn't argue back. I said fine and murmured a good night down the line... but I was met with nothing but silence—he'd already gone.

It wasn't the first night I'd cried myself to sleep. And it definitely wouldn't be the last. But it was the first time I knew that things weren't going to be okay.

A muted laugh draws me back to the present, and I take a deep breath, reverie lost to the ether as I watch Rosalie laugh at something as she pushes against her soon-to-be husband's arm. His smile matches, big and bright. And it's too much to witness small exchanges that remind you what you no longer have, so I focus back to the two brothers, both so different: one lean and beautiful, the other stocky and just a half a head taller. You wouldn't think they were related at first glance, but if you looked a little closer, a little harder, looked at their expressive faces, their tell, that's when you knew they shared the same DNA.

And while one still has that same expressive face, the other's has waned, too stuck in his own head, thought overriding instinct. It feels like I did that to him, and the rush of guilt and despair I feel is overwhelming.

Their lips continue to move, but their words are silent, and I'm too far away, locked inside a tower waiting to be saved. But no one is coming, and this is just a room with a bed, hisroom, and I have to accept that no one ever will. Not now.

Emmett steps away only to become replaced with another, and while there is no touching this time, there are still looks—the same one from this morning that I don't think I'll ever forget shining prominently in my mind's eye. It's funny how this stands out amongst everything we've been through, something so simple. Maybe it's because it involves someone other than me and him—maybe it's because it was always just a thought before. But this time it's tangible, and while I can't grab it, or hold it between hesitant palms, I can feel it in my heart. And it hurts.

Brown hair swirls in the breeze, and maybe I regret not saying something to the woman that was touching my husband's face; maybe I should have reacted fiercely, tiger stripes and words that scratch. It brings about a case of déjà vu, though this is not the same: expressions scorched into wood, my own unforgiving memorial that I get to carry with me.

Suddenly there is nothing but a lone figure with his hands in his pockets, staring after a retreating vehicle, and I guess that's my cue. But I'm not sure if I'm ready to go out there just yet, not sure if I'm able to face my audience of one—not sure if I'm ready for what comes next. And part of me is terrified that I never will be.

So I simply look upon a man until he disappears from sight... not noticing how my own reflection falls away as I, too, retreat.

XXX

Night has fallen, songbirds absent for the evening as the stars play a game of hide and seek. One of Edward's journals rests in my lap; my fingers absently run across the leather cover as I simply sit and think. I haven't been bothered, no knocks at the door, and I don't know if his reasons are the same as mine, but I haven't been able to bring myself to leave the room.

A part of me is still angry: at him, at myself, at the world. It feels like I've been manipulated. But then I read sweet words ghosted on paper, and it reminds me that it shouldn't matter, that there is good out there somewhere, too. Whether it's meant for me though, I don't know. I guess that's still being decided.

I pull at the ends of Edward's sweats, and know I need to shower, and search for some clothes that fit better than the ones I'm wearing now, but the prospect of actually sleeping in his old bed tonight is crippling me more than I want to admit. I somehow think I can sleep here, in this very chair that looks out over the garden, all swaying branches and rustling leaves covered in shadow, darkness that threatens to break through the glass and swallow me whole.

I pull the book open once more, trying to find the page I left off at when I hear a door close and footsteps approach. I slam the journal shut and slide it beneath the throw pillow at my back, adrenaline coursing through my body like the choppy tide down at First Beach as it crashes against the cliff's face. And secrets just as precious as diamonds get hidden for another day.

I think he'll knock, or pause, something other than what he actually does. The door pushes open slowly and gazes instantly lock, mine I imagine surprised. I'm drowning, frozen, trapped in green as he leans against the wall, hands in pockets, the picture of casual. And I have to stop myself from fidgeting, suddenly sure he knows what I was looking at just moments before.

"You haven't eaten," he points out, and whatever expectations I'd had lurking at the back of my head dissolve like salt in water.

My eyes drop to the floor, falling leaves. "I know," I answer.

He sighs. "You should eat something," he says again, and I want to be bitter and childish and answer, like you care.

"I'm not hungry," I tell him, shifting in the chair as I uncurl my legs, feet now touching the floor.

"Is it really going to be like this?" he asks.

My head jerks up. "Like what?"

"You avoiding me," he presses, pinning me with his gaze.

I hold back a laugh. "I don't know," I answer slowly. "You're the expert on that front."

I don't know why I'm being so defensive, so belligerent... or maybe I do. I'm scared. And still hurting from what I walked in on this morning.

He watches me carefully. "That's not true."

"No, I mean, you don't have trouble avoiding everyone," I say with emphasis.

He straightens up a little, swapping his hip for his back as he leans against the wall once more. "What's that supposed to mean?"

I try to be brave. Or maybe I'm being stupid. I should close my mouth and just stop. But I don't. "I think you know."

His lips curve at the corners, but the smile isn't one of amusement. It's bitter and serious. "You don't know what you're talking about," he insists, brushing my statement aside, an action as simple as a flick of the fingers.

"What is she to you?" I ask, heart beating a rapid rhythm inside my chest. And he's staring... expression closed off. I don't even need to clarify who the she is.

He shakes his head. "Why are you bringing this up now?" he wonders. "We're supposed to be talking about us."

And he's obtuse.

"I'm talking about this because it's important, Edward," I say, trying to blink away the image of the expression on his face as she touched his. He hadn't looked distant or disgusted, no frown marring his features; no cutting stare that stripped her heart bare. He'd simply gazed down at a brown eyed girl who had diamonds in her eyes, all glittering adoration that carved me in two. Because that girl used to be me. "I'm talking about this because you've made it an issue," I add softly.

His face hardens, heavy swallows taken. "You weren't even angry," he responds, shrugging himself off the wall. "You said nothing... did nothing," and his gaze is deep and dark and green and levelled right at me. "You talk about my fight, but where's yours?"

His tone holds a slight edge, and it surprises me. He was too caught up in touches and eyes that weren't mine. And seeing him like this... he's the best at pretending, the best at making me second guess myself.

And doesn't he realise this shouldn't be something I should have to fight against?

I feel my skin prickle, little sparks of ire, fizzing sherbet and sparklers that pattern the night sky in a golden blur.

"I got tired of fighting!" I yell, hands shaking. "All day... every day."

His response is automatic. "And I got tired of telling you I loved you every day without any reciprocation!"

My mouth snaps shut, his cool composure forgotten, and I pause, shocked, throat tight and breath choking.

"I'm not a mind reader, Bella," he adds. And I think he's shocked himself too, Adam's apple bobbing in his throat.

His words thread through my head like beads on a wire chain, a Rubik's cube that makes no sense. "Your view on things is so twisted," I push out, full of disbelief. "You think I didn't love you?"

He stares, nostrils flaring as he tries to calm down, heavy breath after heavy breath. "That's not what I said."

I lick my lips. "But it is, you just said it."

His gaze drifts. "Well then maybe." He sighs, hands fisting his hair. "You became so unhappy, Bella. You stopped smiling."

And his words are true and painful. "Only because you did," I murmur. "What you feel, I feel."

We're forever tied, woven hearts made from string; if he unravels, so do I.

"And you think it wasn't the same for me?" he wonders, brow furrowed. "You think I liked seeing you like that?"

I swallow against the lump in my throat. "I don't know," I answer. "Maybe."

I watch as his frown deepens, the lines on his forehead becoming more pronounced, and sometimes I wonder if he did... if he still does. His silence and refusal to answer even the simplest of questions have been so cruel. He's left me to think the worst. And his attention to a woman that isn't me is just another nail in the coffin.

He shakes his head. "I made promises I can't keep. This," he grabs my hand, "was a promise. And everything I said, I meant."

And all I can focus on is the can't. Needle holes that stretch through fabric, bigger and bigger until I'm left with nothing but torn strips of something that used to be.

I pull my hand away, unable to carry on touching him after those words. Or maybe he drops it, I can't be sure. And I know all too well what promises he made, because I made them, too. Those promises linger, misty mornings sitting on the lowest branch, trapped in the fog... trapped in my very own snow globe without the falling flakes of ice. They are the ache in my muscles and the sting behind my eyes; the despondency I feel every time he turns away from me.

And is this why he wanted me to stay, to make sure I couldn't recover: dried petals crumbling to powder before scattering in the breeze, colouring the sky with my pink blossom hurt?

I hold it back though—I'm not sure I could handle the answer to that thought.

"And you don't now?" I push, referring to the second part of his statement.

The slightest flicker of lashes and, "Do you?"

And why must he always answer a question with another?

"We don't talk, Edward," I point out, watching his face, the way the muscles in his jaw tick. It's our biggest issue... and I'm not sure when we stopped—one day red lights just forgot to switch back to green.

His eyes flick to mine. And green is here now. "We never have."

I frown, my head disagreeing. "That's not true. We talked," I say. I remember the fighting clearly.

"Not about the hard things."

"Do you regret it?" I blurt, subject changed, race cars hurtling off course.

His brows meet, the smallest pucker of lips accompanying. "Regret what?"

I pull in a shaky breath. Courage. Talk. "Marrying me," I say, watching his face. We were so young. And this past year... we've been so unhappy.

I'm almost positive his eyes soften for the briefest moment, but I can't be sure. "Why would you ask me that?" he questions. And is he serious?

"You seem to be so outside of it all right now," I explain, clutching the sofa cushion underneath me with unforgiving fingers. "It's like I'm going through all this pain by myself and you're just watching—I'm floundering and scared and you look the same," I say. "So that's why I'm asking you... I'm asking you because you don't seem to care."

He goes back to his spot on the wall, silent as the moon, and just as blinding. I'm watching him watch me, anticipation coating my being like toffee over apple at Halloween. The Edward he is now and the one I was reading from earlier... they merge into a ball, fighting for dominance. I'm trying to find a place for them both to fit, trying to find where they both belong, but it's proving fruitless, both turning to particles of dust before I have a chance to catch them.

His lips part, shirt moving with his breath. "Do you want to fix this?"

I pause, not expecting this question—he's been so evasive of late, and it's going against everything he's presented me with day after day. Everything I've become used to. I bite the inside of my cheek and think; think about if I can truly take this again if it doesn't work out. And wouldn't it be easier to leave now? I know it's wrong to think we're going to fail, but it's hard to think positively in spite of all this heartache and adversity.

If he'd asked me only months before, I wouldn't have even had to think. My response would have been automatic, desperate. And while I don't really have to think now, either, I still kind of do. It's confusing and contradictory. Just like he is himself.

I'm scared, terrified at the prospect of going through all this again a second time. But then my eyes meet his... and he's worth it. I know he is.

Aren't we worth it?

"Yes," I finally answer, battling against the emotions whizzing inside of me, Catherine wheels in the night sky. I keep it simple, Queen of Hearts close to my chest just in case. Either way the answer is still true—I want to fix this more than anything.

He swallows heavily, arms across his chest as he breaks my gaze. "Okay," he says, voice clear.

And that's it? No... No. "Is that want you want?" I ask, not giving him chance to run this time. He looks back at me, and I don't think I've ever felt so vulnerable, wanting him to say yes. Asking to be loved.

He frowns and looks away, and this is it, I think. He doesn't want me. But then his attention isn't diverted because of my words, or me, but rather due to the sound of my phone ringing on the bedside table. His eyes flit to mine, before he's moving, suspicious, and I realise I haven't spoken to my mom since yesterday afternoon.

His expression switches so fast, like the snap of your thumb against your middle finger, and I can't figure him out. I get to my feet at the same time he turns towards me, scared he'll see the journal I hope is still hidden behind grey cotton, legs wobbly from having been sitting for so long.

Looks and fingers that tighten, I watch, and so does he, and then I'm holding my hand out, confused at his reaction.

He places the phone into my hand, the softest touch of fingertips against my palm, shivers and warming cheeks. And suddenly the ringing isn't so important.

"You better get that," he says, tone hinting to something I can't quite decipher. He nods to my palm, eyes looking back up at me through long lashes against heavy brows, his gaze a torch that burns a hole straight though me.

I can feel the confusion on my face as my gaze drops, thumb already hovering. Then I pause.

He notices.

"I'll give you some privacy," he states, the slightest tightness to his jaw.

"I can answer it later," I say, but it's too late, and he's already halfway out the door. He hesitates, his back to me, hands on either side of the door frame, fingers tapping an uneven and uncoordinated rhythm against the wood. But then he's moving again, and I sink back slowly into the chair, exhausted, the hope from moments ago falling with me as I whisper a good night into the now empty room.

I look to the screen but don't pick up.

And the name Jasper continues to flash green as the call goes unanswered.


Date: 2015-12-18; view: 601


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