Disclaimer: Stephanie Meyer owns Twilight and all its characters.

Bella

I remember reading a passage about love in a magazine once, glossy pages that were dedicated to women who were supposedly just like me: fresh faced, married to their sweetheart, world at their feet. The women who allegedly had it all.

The article was split into two parts: those who had found their happily ever after, and those who were still looking. Waiting.

For those that had—the lucky ones—there were detailed pieces about vacations in The Hamptons, camping trips that led to special rings being slid down fishing wire onto fingers, swelling bellies and hands that protected, hands that already adored.

Happiness screamed from these pages, exuding hope to all those that had yet to fill their shoes; had yet to soar and spin with utter delight, like dancing under the moonlight. Alone. No one watching.

The part that really stuck out for me though, was the section made up of letters, the innermost desires scribbled on bits of paper.

They were depicted on receipts, napkins smudged with ketchup, Starbucks coffee cups, all asking that same universal question so many crave the answer to—the one we all worry about as time begins to speed by, like high speed chases, foot flat to the pedal.

When do you know when you've found The One?

The answers were simple, the usual, what you would expect to read: next date anticipation, that instant attraction that prickles your skin and stretches your smile—the one that makes your cheeks hurt and warm—eyes that dart and avoid; shyness, coyness, all due to the same result. Desire and bursting hearts.

These are all the obvious signs, flashing lights that garner your attention, that reflect back in glassy wonder. But there's also that spark, that factor you can't quite put your finger on, can't quite put a name to. A feeling of just... knowing.

And as I think back now, I can't help but feel they left an important part of the equation out, one no one ever thinks about until it's too late, a question I have done nothing but ask myself for months: What do you do when that happy ending, that seemingly perfect life... What do you do when it begins to unravel? When the man you married is so distant he may as well not even be there; when everything falls apart, unsettles itself, like tornadoes ripping the thickest of roots straight from the ground?

When the one who made you happy, who still can, is also the one behind it all, dictating your reactions and controlling your heart, like buttons on a switchboard being hit at random until you've lost all control?

Those are the articles I want to read. Those are the answers I so desperately crave. Those are the important pieces for me.

And I know I'm not alone. Because no one would ever want to go through this.

No one.

If you had a choice, a snap decision, it would be to be glued back together. To be whole, a unit, united, magnetic opposites.

Happy.

Where are those articles? That's what I want to scream, so loud, at the very top of my lungs until my throat burns and oxygen dries up.

But I know. They are stitched up into hearts all across the world, scared, waiting for something to change.

But waiting will get you nowhere.

I know that.

And I think he does, too. Last night he seemed to know. My lips still feel his soft touches lingering like sun kissed rays that leave freckles behind on the bridge of your nose, on the apples of your cheeks.

Yes…

I think.

I hope.

I close my eyes but don't pray. This is something I need to do alone. Or maybe not alone. But together.

I think.

Hopefully.

My palms find my eyes, anguish burning like amber lit coal, and I still don't know what he wants.

I still don't know.

XXX

I stand before the mirror, eyes that were once glossy, now a dull brown, the hue of your favourite aging tree in the park.

Faint colours line the underside of my bottom lids, my lack of sleep sneaking in to leave unwanted gifts beneath long lashes. I look again, my face appearing like a portrait on display, patiently waiting for that one person to really look, to decide if it likes what it sees. A bid, a buy, a home.

I press my fingers to the patches of ugly watercolour, watching them momentarily pale before the colours fight back. And it's useless. My body is bone tired and I can't sleep.

I lie in bed at night and think about it... all of it, trying to remember the vivid moments that stick out like yellow chalk slashed over black, like a brightly coloured wound.

It feels like life is passing me by; a series of blurs and colours; a cacophony of voices and endless faces I do not know. Drifting eyes and watch faces that spin, inner cogs rotating, a constant reminder that follows you around on your wrist.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

It's like I'm climbing down a trail of knotted sheets, one that never reaches an end. I'm simply going and going, driven by something more than aching fingers and a sweaty brow; more than shaky arms and a shattering desperation.

I'm looking for that something that represents all the good parts of who I used to be. That something I can't let go of, even now. Especially now.

I pull myself away from my reflection, knowing I'd rather see a different face instead, even if I am scared of what I'll be met with.

I descend the stairs slowly, unsure what I'll find this morning, what his eyes will communicate. I'm hoping they'll tell me something and not keep me locked out; I'm hoping he'll be here at all.

My answer is rewarded when I'm met with his form hunched over the counter, elbows to the surface, hands in hair that make my own fingers twitch with want.

His back is to me, his chest rising and falling steadily, hypnotic like slumber. I wonder what he's thinking right this second; wonder if his thoughts match mine, like a game of pairs.

I want to press my cheek to his skin and listen to his own inner tick; count and sigh and ask if it still knows me with a whisper.

It's strange looking at something that is essentially mine, yet not being able to act on what my heart is literally screaming at me to do. I don't think I'll ever get used to the feeling... I don't ever want to get used to the feeling.

He sighs and that awareness doesn't leave. I want to curl into him, have him wrap himself around me; safe arms and familiar scent. Experience home. Press my lips to his stubbled chin and feel his lashes against my cheeks as he peppers my face with his own fleeting kisses.

Shine.

For him.

And I'm not sure if he's only now sensing me behind him, but he's suddenly all movement, straightening up: tap on, kettle filled, noise filling the silence.

He turns, eyes up and down, up and down. Never leave. Never leave. "Morning," he says, his hands finding their favourite place—in his pockets.

I straighten my skirt, his attention yes, yes, yes, and no, no, no. "Morning," I repeat, my voice sounding stupid.

The kettle bubbles angrily and I watch as he grabs two mugs from the cupboard, leaving me with nothing to do.

I pass him a teaspoon from the drawer beside my hip, his eyes flicking to mine as I hand it to him. "Thanks."

"You're welcome."

The awkwardness is palpable as I slide into a chair; sweaty palms and the fluttering wings of a butterfly.

He sits opposite me after a few minutes, sliding a mug of tea my way; it warms my hands like hot sand on a sunny day down at the beach.

I always have tea first thing in the morning... he remembered. I hold in a smile over something so simple.

My teeth find the inside of my bottom lip, and I can't seem to stop looking at him, expectant for... something.

His eyes meet mine after a few moments and warmth blooms in my stomach. "I need to go to the grocery store after work." And I'm not stupid enough to think it's an invitation. Or maybe I am, as he asks, "Do you want to come with me? Pick out something for dinner?"

He's watching me carefully, his fingers resting on the handle of his mug as surprise registers itself within my system, such a simple domestic activity filling me with more happiness than it should. And I go to say yes, the word on the tip of my tongue, when I remember... I can't.

Nerves tickle my stomach, accelerate my pulse, my coffee date with Jasper instantly playing heavily on my mind. "Um, I would, but I'm meeting a friend," I reply evasively. And I'm not sure why I say it like that. He's a friend. Just a friend.

"Anyone I know?" he questions, staring at me from across the table.

I tease the teabag in my mug, stirring around and around, a whirlpool of conflicting answers on the tip of my tongue. "Just Jasper."

He goes about stirring his own drink—coffee—silent the whole time. I peek and meet a controlled face, lips parting as his mug reaches his mouth. I quickly look away again.

"Where?" he asks once he's swallowed.

I shrug. "I'm not sure."

He closes his eyes for a fraction of a second longer than it takes to blink. A sign. A something.

I'm really looking this time, unwilling to miss even the smallest token that what I've just said is affecting him.

"What time are you meeting him?" he asks.

My brows rise, his interest something I haven't been on the receiving end of in so long. "After work."

"Ah, so this has been arranged for a while, then?" he assumes wrongly.

I look back at him to find him already staring at me. "No." I shake my head. "Yesterday."

His gaze lingers on my face. "The reason for the smile," he says, referring to yesterday.

I bite the inside of me cheek, my tongue. "No, not the smile."

"Something else?" he questions.

My eyes focus on the point where his Adam's apple protrudes in his throat. "He just talks to me, Edward. That's all. Just talks."

"Like we are now?" he points out, being difficult.

I sigh. "Maybe, but not really. This is different."

His thumb rubs down the edge of his mug. "How?"

I gather a deep breath in my lungs. "Because it's easy... easier."

His brows shift. "So not easy?"

My eyes dart away, focusing on the clock. "Easier than this," I answer.

There's a pause in the conversation as I momentarily lose him to his thoughts. "Shouldn't it be the other way around?" he mutters finally.

I think about that, wondering how he'd react if I switched to his favoured form of answering—with a question. "Would you want it to be?"

This is your opportunity, Edward. This is it. Tell me.

Chair legs scrape against the floor. "I'll order in for dinner. Is there anything I shouldn't get?"

He's diverting, running. Playing house where foundations are almost nonexistent. But then I started it. What did I expect?

"You know what I like," I answer.

He pauses with his arms halfway through the sleeves of his suit jacket, and I briefly wonder if he's about to ask me what that is, what I like. But he doesn't, and shoulders hunch to shift the jacket up rightfully.

My gaze lowers to his tie, crooked as always. It's a constant in a sea of change, my tangerine life jacket. I can't seem to look away.

He notices my attention, fingers twisting and tugging at the knot, his turn to shift under my gaze, even if it only lasts seconds.

"What?" he questions, gaze a direct hit to my own. Bullseye.

"Nothing," I answer.

More tugging.

"Want some help?" I offer, the words out of my mouth before I can stop myself, feet taking a hesitant step forward.

His hands still, green steady, pinning me in place, paper to cork. Sharp metal pinch. "It's fine," he answers.

I pull in a deep breath. "I can help," I say.

He eyes dip. "It's not important," he responds. "I'll just get one of the girls to do it at work if I have a meeting."

Sudden screeching as he slides his chair back under the table, wood banging against wood, the sound like a gunshot, bullet straight to the heart. And this time I know he's trying to hurt me on purpose. I just can't figure out why.

After last night, I thought something had changed, shifted like ice caps. Evidently not.

I say nothing and reach for my empty mug at the exact same time he does, resulting in his fingers brushing with mine. We both pause, his thumb on the back of my hand, and I'm frozen, conflicting emotions battling against one another as his touch and his words clash; hurt and warmth and a bleeding heart.

And even though there are no words, no looks as he pulls away, it fills me with a rapidly blooming sense of joy. All over something so simple; something I'm not even sure he did on purpose.

But it doesn't matter, it doesn't matter. Because it's better than nothing. Better than it has been.

And I guess that has to be enough.

XXX

It's foggy out as I make my way to the bookstore, the roads busy this morning as everyone takes their time getting to work. I park my car in the lot down the street and walk swiftly on heels that feel too high for this time of day, eager to get inside. Fume exhaust and the smell of cinnamon rolls linger in the air as I search for my keys in my bag, head in the clouds as I accidentally bump into someone.

An apology leaves my mouth before I've even looked up, my mouth instantly snapping shut again when I see who it is I've run into.

Rosalie stands at the door to the store, a wary smile on her lips as she clutches a soft purple binder to her chest, the colour reminding me of lilacs in bloom. She's so put together, not a hair out of place, neat makeup applied, even if it is minimal. I wish I could have her dedication this early.

"Hi, Bella," she greets, looking a little nervous. Or eager. Maybe a small amount of both.

And I haven't lost my manners, even if I am surprised to see her. "Hey," I say, my bag dropping heavily to the crook of my arm, keys forgotten.

I watch as she shifts the binder in her arms a little higher, teetering slightly on her feet, my eyes naturally drifting to the brown beaded flats that grace them.

And she's practical, too.

"Is it okay that I'm here?" she wonders, that wary expression forming on her face again. I don't like it, it makes me feel uncomfortable.

I nod stiffly, the movement creating an ache that shoots from my shoulder to my neck, muscles tense. "Sure," I answer, assembling what I hope to be a smile onto my face. "It's not my store... it's fine." I'm flustered, having not expected her waiting here for me. "It's fine," I say again.

That look diminishes, but still doesn't go away completely. "Oh. Good. Okay, thanks." She slides her hair over to gather on one shoulder, her binder almost slipping in the process.

I'm immediately reaching out, helping so it doesn't fall to the pavement and the oil stains that litter it. She murmurs a soft 'shit', one I'm sure I'm not supposed to hear.

I realise it's the first time I've ever heard her curse.

"Sorry, I've been up for hours and have maybe had one too many cups of coffee," she explains. I don't say anything, urging her gaze up, not intentionally, but it's there. "Wedding planning," she adds with a small smile.

"Yeah," I say, even though I wouldn't know. The only responsibility I had for my own was turning up at the courthouse.

She eyes the door. "Can we go inside?"

I shake my head, trying to clear it. "Of course. Sorry." I go about searching for my keys for a second time.

The bell signals our entry as I flip the switch for the lights, the outside dreariness darkening the space inside, a cloud of smoke as it shoots to the sky from a chimney.

I set my bag on my desk, the computer humming to life as I switch on the power.

"I always feel a sense of guilt whenever I'm here. Guilty that I don't read more," she says distractedly, gaze sailing across the array of bookshelves and titles that don them, a kite aimlessly shuffling in the wind. "Or any bookstore for that matter."

And I can understand that. I feel the same whenever I pass a church without walking inside. It's not the same, and I'm not at all that religious, but I guess it's just that feeling of what we should be doing. Or what we perceive we should be better at due to outside forces.

I glance at the clock, watching ten seconds tick by before refocusing my attention back to the woman in front of me.

"Did you want to sit?" I ask. She shakes her head.

"I can't stay too long; I just came by to ask you a favour."

I'm immediately on edge, wondering what it is she could want from me. "Oh. Okay."

She places the binder on the counter between us, flipping through until she lands on a page where a Polaroid of a pretty dress resides. "Do you like this?" She looks at me expectantly.

"Sure," I answer. "It's beautiful." And it is.

She smiles. "How would you feel about wearing it?"

I feel my brows crease, lips puckering ever so slightly. "Sorry?"

She takes a deep breath. "A friend of mine from back home can't make the wedding... she was supposed to be my bridesmaid."

This time my eyes are widening, lashes blinking again and again, a flick of a handheld fan, as I stare stupidly. She's not serious?

"I don't know what to say." My teeth immediately find the inside of my cheek.

Her blue eyes are piercing as she tucks her hair behind her ears. "Say 'yes'."

I look back at the dress, trying to imagine myself wearing it, trying to imagine myself helping Rosalie get ready for her big day. I feel a lump form in my throat as I picture Esme running about and Kate fixing her hair and makeup. I imagine myself standing off to the side, like every other event I've ever been to with these people.

"Why are you asking me?" I push out, the question coming out quietly.

She gives me a long look. "Because you're important to Emmett." She wets her lips. "It was his idea, actually."

I frown, wondering why he'd suggest that. Surely he'd know how awkward this would be between us?

"All you'd have to do is walk down the aisle," she adds, trying to convince. The thought of all those eyes on me makes my mouth go dry.

I can't help but wonder if she really wants this. We know nothing about one another. "And you're okay with this?" I question. I'm watching closely for any signs of a lie.

Her head tilts to the side, assessing, just like I am. "We're going to be family... and Edward's Emmett's best man. It makes sense."

My heart stutters at the mention of Edward's name... I'd somehow forgotten about him in all of this.

She doesn't look away once, no nervous twitches. Gaze confident, steady.

My natural instinct is to refuse, but I've never been to a wedding before, apart from my own, and definitely not one filled with loved ones and mascara smudged tissues clutched between palms.

I want to ask if she's spoken to Edward about any of this. The thought seems unlikely.

"Okay," I find myself saying, heart leaping in my chest.

Her smile is white and perfect. I'm undecided about its genuineness. "Thank you, Bella."

My limbs feel stiff. "Do I need to do anything or...?"

"No, no, no," she interrupts. "Well, apart from turn up to a fitting, and maybe a brunch, which I'll call about tomorrow. Is that okay?"

I nod. "Em has my number."

"Edward actually gave it to me a while back now," she admits.

I unconsciously fiddle with my wedding ring. "Oh." I don't understand why he'd do that... why she'd want it to begin with.

She glances at her watch. "I've got to go—I'm meeting Kate for breakfast." She pauses, eyeing me as she collects her binder. "Did you want to come?"

The mention of Kate's name makes me tense up, actively trying not to show my disdain on my face; wrinkled noses and nauseous sensations.

"I can't really leave the store," I say. Not that I'm sure anyone would notice.

She hitches her bag higher onto her shoulder, contents rustling. "Of course. Sorry." She takes another look at the time. "I'll call you tomorrow... around lunchtime?"

"That's fine."

Another smile. "I'll speak to you then." The bell rings as she opens the door, a quick wave sent over her shoulder. "Bye, Bella."

"Bye."

I'm staring through the glass to the building opposite long after she's gone, arms around my middle as I watch the owner stick a sign in his window, bold black lettering on paper the colour of the inside of a watermelon, indicating there is twenty percent off all footwear.

He waves over to me but my response is slow, my head a mess of thoughts, overcrowded like wild ivy, lost to a different conversation about pretty dresses.

~CitP~

The room is full of faces I've seen countless times before but still don't know the names of. There is laughter and clinking glasses; happiness and flirtatious glances.

I tug at the end of my dress for what feels like the hundredth time as I stand alone, watching it all.

Emmett has brought his new girlfriend home for the summer, my insecurities making an unwelcome appearance. More so when I see how much Esme instantly loves her.

"Stop it," a voice whispers in my ear, arms wrapping around me, hands resting on my stomach.

I smile, relieved he's back. "Stop what?" I ask.

"Comparing yourself," he answers. Am I that obvious?

"I wasn't," I lie.

His lips find my neck. "You forget, I know you."

I turn and kiss his cheek, surprising him. "I didn't forget."

He grins. "Good."

Music is playing softly, despite there being no room for dancing. Edward grabs my hand and pulls me forward, holding my hand in the air, eyes expectant, brows raised.

People stare, my cheeks turning hot as I swallow thickly.

"People are looking," I say, trying to avoid staring at anyone but him.

He shrugs. "Let them look."

"It's embarrassing."

His expression gets serious, softer. "No, Bella. Falling down the stairs is embarrassing. Forgetting your wallet at the store is embarrassing. Watching a pretty girl twirl in a pretty dress is not."

I don't think it's possible to love someone as much as I do him right this second. "Okay."

He gives my hand a tug and my teeth find my lip, holding back a smile as I twirl. I'm pulled into his arms, his lips finding my ear as I laugh lightly. "Not so bad, huh?"

"No, not so bad," I agree. My cheeks are pink with a different kind of heat.

It's not long before I'm staring at Rosalie again, her dress a pale blue that sets off the colour of her eyes, a meadow full of forget-me-nots. My own is one I've worn numerous times, usually unconcerned with how it looks. But now, with a new female at family events, it's hard not to be.

"I should have bought a new dress," I sigh, swaying softly as Edward continues to hold me.

He pulls back a little, eyes sweeping over me. "I think you look beautiful," he murmurs, thumb brushing my jaw, all feather-like strokes that make my skin tingle.

I decide to tease, even though his words make my heart flutter. "You have to say that because you're my husband."

The sound of his laughter makes me happy. "And don't you forget it."

I stare for the longest time, my lips moving to his, all sweet kisses like cinnamon and touches that adore, that make me melt, flavoured ice on the tongue. "Like I could."

~CitP~

My throat feels tight and my eyes are watering... it's been so long since he acted that way with me. I never forgot... but he did, after a while.

There was no twirling, no laughter, no arms around middles. Just me and my memories.

My breath catches—what did I just agree to?

I twist the sign to 'Open' and walk back to my desk.

XXX

The store has been quiet today, leaving me time to unpack the new shipment of books we received during the week I had off work.

Also, it's left me with a lot of spare time to think about Jasper.

I've been feeling anxious all day, especially as I remember Edward's reaction this morning... taking an interest. Is what I'm doing wrong? No, I tell myself. No. I'm allowed to have friends... just like he is. Kate's face comes unbidden to my mind and I quickly blink it away, trying to ignore the way my chest aches afterward.

I'm down to the last box when I hear the bell ring, signalling someone's arrival. A few minutes pass and I figure if anyone needs my help, they'll ask for it.

I hear footsteps getting nearer, my head lifting at the sound of my name, the voice unmistakably male. I pause as I find grey eyes, the stack of books heavy in my arms, awkward to hold.

Jasper stands at the end of the aisle, dressed casually in faded jeans and a plain blue shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, exposing his tan.

I tell myself not to be nervous. "Hey," I say, glancing back to the books and the shelving in front of me. "You're early."

He scratches the edge of his jaw, clean-shaven skin against the tips of his fingers, none of the stubble-scratch noise I love. "That's okay, right?"

"Sure, sorry," I say quickly, eyes trained on the title of the book on top of the pile. I hear him shift and take a peek, inspiration hitting as I notice him following my glance. "You can help if you want?" His eyes lift to mine and I add, "We'd be able to get out of here quicker."

He laughs, uncrossing his arms. "I suppose I could do that," he says, his expression alight with humour, all sunshine reflections.

My cheeks warm as I dump the books from my arms to his, hands quickly reaching for the check-off sheet on the cart. "Those books there," I say, pointing to the ones in his hold, "go in this section right here: green for agriculture. All you have to do is alphabetise them."

"Hmm," he hums, the sound nice to my ears, my skin, like soft wool. "So, no putting, say..." he glances at the title of the first book, "The Sheep Book near All Flesh is Grass?" he teases.

I shake my head. "No, that would be wrong," I smile.

His eyes go a little squinty. "Would anyone really notice, though?"

My lips purse. "I would," I say. "Oh, and a sheep farmer might, too," I add as an afterthought.

He grins. "Get many sheep farmers around here?"

I'm teasing, playing, heart thumping, long forgotten feelings searching for light, a wilting plant in a darkened room.

"You'd be surprised," I say as seriously as I can manage. "The people of Port Angeles are really crazy about their... sheep."

He holds my gaze and I can't stop the laugh that is bubbling in my chest, fizzy powder and stilted breaths. It feels foreign and I let go, lips curling at the sides, cheeks hurting in a good way. He smiles back at me and I look away.

"Let's live a little," he says after a moment, a note of conspiracy to his tone as he slots the book in the wrong section.

My eyes seem to not want to stop staring at it, even after he's removed his hand. "Okay."

But I don't feel like it's okay. That need to fix and right is kicking in, flashes of smiles and brown eyes—green ones, too—coming to the forefront of my mind.

"It's just a book, Bella," he tells me, his gaze burning a hole into the side of my face.

I swallow hard, mouth dry. "I know," I answer. And I do. It doesn't mean my fingers aren't twitching though.

He starts arranging the rest of the pile, placing them anywhere while I just stand stupidly, a statue in a garden maze, eyes frozen. And I don't stop him, but I don't help him either. That is until he's standing in front of me with the last book in his hand. "Your turn," he says quietly, eyes holding mine steady as that need to pull away beats inside my chest like a warning drum.

My gaze flicks back and forth but I don't take it, my hands clutching the check-off sheet tightly.

He slouches a little, bringing his head somewhat closer to my height. "What are you frightened of?"

My reply is instant. "I'm not scared."

"Then what is it?" he presses.

A slow exhale passes through my lips. "I don't like change."

His lashes lower. "Change isn't always a bad thing, Bella. It can be positive, too."

I swallow heavily. "Not always." I know this... know it all too well.

He wets his lips, sight distracting, confusing. "What's the worst thing that can happen by putting this book in a different place?" he asks. "Someone might not be able to find it? Big deal."

My fingers find my temple, pushes hair aside. "It could get lost," I say, and I don't think I'm talking about books anymore. My eyes feel hot and I don't know where this is coming from.

His fingers sweep through his light waves, gaze thoughtful. "Think of it another way; think of the fun you could have finding it again." And I don't think he's talking about books, either.

It doesn't feel fun... it hasn't felt fun. It's hard... so, so hard: questioning every little detail, worry a black veil that covers my eyes, that irritates my lashes, tinting everything in a negative light.

I reach forward and take, slide the book into a gap at random and quickly look away again. I'm rewarded with a warm smile.

There are no condescending words or pats on the back afterward, just a glance to his watch and a, "ready?"

I grip the cart with two hands and push it towards the back room. "Yes."

"I'm in the mood for something with a lot of cream," he says, stretching, all jungle cat movements as I return.

My cheeks warm as my eyes land on a sliver of bare skin, tan and different. Nice. I turn away.

"I usually just take mine black," I say, closing my eyes.

I hear him yawn. "You don't like cream?" he questions from behind me.

"Not in coffee." I peek sideways—he smiles.

"Black is your favourite?" he guesses.

I nod. "Since I was old enough for Charlie to let me drink it."

He smiles softly. "Well, then, that's a good choice."

He hands me my coat, his fingers brushing mine, eyes nervous as they fly to his face. His own are there and I can't keep them, I can't. I turn away.

There is a ringing silence and then he's close, my body automatically leaning forward. It shocks me so much I freeze, ice sculptures with hammering hearts that threaten to crack the exterior.

I don't want to look, don't want to go, coffee no longer a good idea, but then he's moving, out the door, waiting on the sidewalk, easy stance and I can breathe. I can breathe.

I flip the lights with a shaky hand and follow him out.

XXX

Consciousness starts to creep in, lids closed, something heavy across my legs. I'm warm, cosy, sleepy-content. Part of me wants to ignore all this and lose myself once more. But awareness has crept up on me fully and the moment has passed, shadow moving on a sun dial.

The house was empty when I arrived home, and too exhausted to climb up the stairs, I found myself on the couch in the lounge, waiting and wondering. Wanting to see Edward. Disappointed he wasn't there.

Somewhere in between I must have drifted off, persuaded by lowering lids and even breathing.

I crack my eyes open, the room dark apart from the blue of the TV screen, programme ended.

I don't even remember switching it on... and I don't remember falling asleep. My eyes find the dark woven blanket covering me... and I don't remember that either.

Carpet fibres tickle my feet as I pull myself up into a sitting position, fingers trying to sort out the tangle of waves about my face as a yawn escapes my mouth. A throat clears, eyes snapping in the direction of the noise, heart flying, not realising there was anyone else in the room with me.

They land on Edward, and I'm momentarily confused before remembering where I am. He's my church, my please, God, please.

The light of the TV reflects back onto his face, lighting his eyes, making my heart beat, beat, beat.

He's staring back at me unabashedly, scanning my face, searching for what, I don't know. His forearms rest on his knees as he leans forward at a slight angle, fingers joined loosely.

I can feel my cheeks warming as I stare right back, really look, thankful for the dark of the room. I go to shift my feet when I remember the blanket covering me.

It prompts me to break the silence.

"Did you do this?" I ask, my voice still thick with sleep.

His lids become a little lazy. "Do what?"

"Cover me with this," I say, indicating to the blanket.

His answer is simple. "You looked cold."

"Why?"

His brow furrows. "Why what?"

"Why did you do it?"

He sighs. "I just told you, you looked cold."

"That's it?" I question.

He licks his lips. "Yes."

I look down.

"What made you care?" I wonder. Why now?

I don't know where this is coming from. But I need to know what he's thinking, what he wants. I can't stand waiting anymore. Waiting leaves nothing but a stagnant pain, a burn that still stings long after the initial contact.

This afternoon made me see a few things for what they are... avoidance is dangerous. It festers... could eventually lead to a stupid decision if you're not careful.

"You're tired, I'm not doing this with you now."

"No," I shout, my voice louder than anticipated, filled with a fire that brings his eyes back to mine.

"We are. We're doing this now."

He raises a glass to his lips, the amber liquid familiar. I burn. And it's only now I'm noticing he's been drinking. "Oh, really?"

I nod. "Yes, really."

His jaw flexes. "Did you have a nice time tonight?"

I pause, Jasper's smile flittering before my eyes. "Stop trying to change the subject."

"I'm not; I'm asking you a question. You wanted to talk, we're talking."

My fingers twist the blanket in my lap. "Yes, I had a nice time."

His eyes hold mine and I can't look away. "I'm incredibly happy for you," he sneers.

I glare back at him. "Sarcasm doesn't suit you." He's looking for a fight, and I'm scared with the way I'm feeling right this second, I'll end up giving in.

"What does?" he questions lazily.

My throat feels tight. "Not this," I answer, watching him.

His gaze burns. "Perhaps if I looked a little more like Jasper... would that suit me better?"

And twisted smiles that still make me feel too much.

I hate it and love it, love him... hate him.

"I don't want that... don't want this."

He swirls the whiskey in his glass. "What do you want then?"

"I want to live again: smile and laugh and feel good about myself."

He gives me a series of hard blinks. "I'm not stopping you from doing that."

I run a hand through my hair. "Of course you are."

Eyes down and away. "Forget about me then. Pretend I'm not here."

I want to laugh at that, but I'm afraid I'll start crying instead. "I can't just forget about you; I can't just walk away."

Cruel expressions and, "Why? You already did once."

And it's a punch to the gut.

I'm instantly on my feet, not about to do this with him when he's been drinking. The blanket drops to my feet.

"Where are you going?" he asks.

I look around, searching for an escape route. "Away," I say, rounding the sofa.

The sound of glass clanking against wood echoes behind me and then he's following me to the kitchen, his voice a shout as I continue to ignore him. "Bella!"

I need to be alone, take a breath, calm down.

A fire burns through me, cupboards slamming shut, cutlery rattling as I tear open paper boxes. The food's cold, but I don't care.

"This is what you always did. Escaped to the kitchen. Ran away." His tone is victorious, indignant. Not him.

I spin, hands fists on the counter. "Because I had to get away from you!" I scream. "You're driving me crazy!"

Hard eyes and parting lips. "You think it's not the same for me?" he roars, and it fills my ears; his pain, his anger, coating me like a shell of sugar.

Eyes squeezing shut, lashes scrunching, and, "Get away from me," I saw lowly.

A painful silence and punishing claws, ripping away at me. "I should never have asked you to stay."

And the plate in my hand flies, crashes to the wall; sparks and ire and sharp pointed edges. My destruction, my breaking point—enough, enough, enough.

He's staring at me with a tight jaw, my chest rising and rising, matching his, and words, they arrive, hitting again and again. My shield. My weapon. My truth.

"Let me go then!" I say loudly, hands shaking. "Let me go! Stop stringing me along! If you want to end this, do it, because I'm breaking and I can't do it. I can't do it."

I'm screaming, shouting, my eyes burning along with my chest, and I'm defeated, broken, a mirror cracked multiple ways.

Why can't he see that? Why can't he see?

A smile that holds no amusement forms at his mouth. "Like it's that easy," and his ire, I want to drown in it, lose mine to his, want him to take it; take, take, take.

"It is," I say, arms out at my sides. "You just say the words. Say anything. Because you're breaking my heart, Edward. And it hurts... you're hurting me." I'm moments away from sobbing, or maybe I'm already there. My cheeks feel wet and it's too late.

"Well, you broke mine, too!" he yells.

And how can you mend two broken hearts?

Bitter smiles and a travelling ache, pinpricks of stinging remembrance. "So you're punishing me?" I choke out.

He doesn't answer me, a severe look, a warning.

"Jesus Christ. What do you want from me?" I scream, control gone, up in the clouds, flying high. "What do you want, huh? Because you asked me to stay here, and I did, but you're being the fucking same. Hot, cold, cold, cold. Stop playing games with me!"

"I'm not the one going on dates with another man after work!" he yells.

I take a step back. "It was coffee. Nothing. We're friends."

He swallows heavily. "He looks at you as more than a friend."

"That's rich," I laugh, hands clutching opposite shirt sleeves.

A step forward, counteracting my one back. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Kate." I don't need to say any more.

His chest expands with a deep breath. "What about her?"

"What do you mean, 'What about Kate'? Are you not attracted to her?"

He holds my gaze and my teeth clamp down on my lip, refusing to cry again. Not that I think I ever stopped. "She's attractive."

"That's not what I asked you," I say, my body trembling, adrenaline and a weakening heart.

His face darkens. "No."

"But you want to be?" I'm not stupid, not blind.

And one word. "Yes." Arms clutch, useless, but he's not finished. "I've thought about it... how easy it would be."

That last bit of strength I was holding onto crumbles, and I swear that noise is coming from me. "So why haven't you done anything about it?"

He's closer, proximity prickling my skin. "Because she isn't you."

My hands grip his shirt, pushing him away.

"I told you to get away from me," I say, tears streaming, eyes hot.

Fingers dig into the tops of my arms, battling against me. "Stop."

"No, you stop," I repeat, chest constricting. "You've taken everything, Edward!" I cry, shattering like crystal. "Everything!"

His blinks increase, lashes battling against foreign dampness. Take, give, break. Down, down, down. Like me, drowning, sinking like ships.

"You need to stop fighting against me but for me!" I press, hands clutching, fingers tight and knuckles white. "Please. Please," I beg.

His expression shifts, smoke clearing. "I am," he grinds out. "I always have." And his hands are performing, too. "You think I left emotionally... I didn't. I live and breathe and think about you... all the fucking time. And sometimes... sometimes I wish I didn't."

He pauses, taking in my expression, a wounded animal as it whimpers on the ground.

"I'm hurting in all this too," he pushes out, showing me; eyes and mouth and words that splinter. "But you're so wrapped up in your own grief to notice mine."

Fingertips catch teardrops, angry and wanting to give in, to fall. But my legs are steady, holding me up when I think I have nothing left to give. "You should have told me," I say; a growl, a groan, a plea.

His fingers punish; weave and tug, weave and tug. "Did you ever consider that the only way I can cope is by shutting off?" he says lowly, his words causing chills to run up my spine. It's attack, attack, attack—and enough of a visual, an admission, to rid the ire from my voice.

I shake my head, the action fruitless as his words continue to push through, swim around in dizzying circles like a goldfish in a bowl.

"You're the person I'm meant to trust," I whisper hoarsely, all strength gone, throat sore from all the shouting. "The person who's supposed to be there for me."

He scrubs his forehead roughly, eyes squeezed shut.

I carry on, heart pouring; truth and pain and free falling water. "You're not just my husband," I say, "but my very best friend. Do you understand how hard that is?" Tears leak through the fissures. "Do you understand how hard it is to have both of those things ripped away in one fell swoop?"

He doesn't like my words, face turning to the side, blocking me out. "It's crushing," I press. "Crushing. You have your family, your work colleagues, and who do I have? No one, Edward. I only have you."

He swallows hard, brows low over his eyes. "You have your parents," he says, as if that's supposed to make everything better.

"I have you," I say slowly. "I should have you."

He shakes his head, only slightly, but it's enough for me to stop whatever it is he's about to say.

"You're not getting it." I have his attention again, frustration, desperation driving me on. "Our situations... they're not the same and you know it. I can't speak to my parents about us... I hate it. I can't bear the thought of burdening them like that."

That crease appears between his brows again. "That's what family is there for, Bella. To support one another."

My mouth turns dry at his words. Desiccant. "You're my family... why can't I talk to you?" I feel weak, tearful, a child who has been told 'no'.

"You can," he tells me, voice sounding hoarse, gritty, like sand caught between your teeth. "You can tell me whatever you want."

And I swipe at wet cheeks, the word 'liar' coating my tongue, pumping through me, surrounded by red. "Stop it."

He swallows hard, eyes unblinking. "I'm doing nothing."

"You're pretending, sugar coating. Evading. The list could go on."

Green eyes blaze, and there is no pretense here. "You think it didn't rip me to pieces when you walked out on me?" And his voice is low, deadly, full of a hurt I haven't seen until now. "I never thought you'd do that, Bella. Ever."

My lip trembles, vision blurry. "That isn't fair. I had to."

"I thought I could make you happy... keep you mine." His gaze flits to the side, no longer able to look at me. "I failed twice."

"I came back. I'll always come back, weak and pathetic, so in love with you... maybe too much."

He swallows hard, blinks quickly, hands forming tight fists. "Sometimes you make me feel like the biggest piece of shit on this planet."

Eyes widen, sore and swollen. "I don't mean to. I'd never..." My words die off, throat so tight I'm sure nothing more can pass through.

"You think I'm heartless... but I think nonstop about doing something: calling you, asking you what I should do because I'm so tired; so scared of making it worse. And that... it terrifies me. Terrifies me."

I'm cold, tired, tear stained cheeks. Unblinking eyes look down at me. "Sometimes I wish I didn't love you."

My hand connects with his face, red palms and cheeks, heaving chests, and oh god.

Silence.

Loud breaths.

Half closed lids.

Then lips, on mine, his, crushing and punishing, drawing sounds out of me that are desperate, wanting, relieved.

He's pushing me backwards, hands tangled in my hair, not gentle, not giving me any room to push him away.

Warm chests and my fingers fist his shirt, twisting, pulling and pulling, uncaring as my back crashes into the wall. It hurts and he's taking, but then so am I, lips moving, making me remember. Harder and harder.

He's pulling at me now, making noises of his own as his tongue pushes into my mouth. And I'm shaking, warm, flushed cheeks.

I never want to stop.

But I do. Because even if my lips don't like this idea of moving away, a whimper in protest following, I don't want it to happen this way... No.

Hands coax but I wrench my mouth away. "Stop." It's breathless, and weak, but he does.

Eyes glimpse reddened lips and then his cheek is against mine, voice low in my ear. "I'm sorry."

My eyes close and suddenly I can't move. He feels too nice; wrong and right and please love me.

"Let me fix this," he goes on and my face crumples, because that's all I've wanted to hear. All I've wanted, period. Shaky breaths and tiny whispers. "Please."

I nod, unable to say anything, feeling his exhale in my hair. And I know he's scared... I am too.

I collapse into him and he lets me, and I don't know how long this lasts, but his lips are at my forehead, hesitant, telling me to sleep, that he'll see me in the morning, and I must have agreed, because I'm back in his room, staring at myself in the mirror.

I look different: better, a mess. And eyes that were once dull are now changed, a bit brighter, like new pennies.

And when I smile this time, it is not practiced, not forced. But real.

And even though it's only at half mast, a long way to go, it feels right; my cheeks like it, my heart.

I like it.

My eyes catch something else. Something stuck to reflective glass. A yellow post-it. Bright like the sun.

I do nothing but think; where we're going, what to do. But I think I've finally figured it out.

It all comes down to the last person you think of at night. That's where your heart is.

For me, that person is you.

I read again, fingertips hovering over ink once last time, his words seeping into my skin like liquid gold.

And this time my tears are ones of heart-hurting happiness.

Date: 2015-12-18; view: 601