A Constant in The Darkness

Chapter Thirty-Three - I'm Coming Home

Darlings,

Bella's turn and she's got lots to say.

n7of9 is beta, always and forever, like Napoleon and Pedro. Go watch it bb, it's better than ice cream.

Disclaimer: I don't own it.

...

BPOV

"Bella, get up." Alice's fingers wrapped around my wrists as she tried to pull me up off the floor. I just continued to sob, wiping at my face and nose, and she grabbed my face in her hands, her jade eyes a reminder of everything I had lost because of one monumental decision.

"Bella, Edward's in Italy. He left a month ago, right after your birthday. Of course, you would have known that if you would have bothered to call." Alice's hands dropped from my face, the reunion over. Now came the groveling, and I could tell by the cool crisp tenor of Alice's voice that it would not be brief.

"Italy? Edward's in Italy? He didn't go to New York? What about the academy?" The questions flooded from my lips. I was literally salivating for the information.

"Did you really think he was going to go live at the apartment the two of you were going to share? That you could just leave a fucking note and a check and he would get over it? What the fuck is wrong with you? How could you do that to him? Do you have any idea how destroyed he was? Fuck, Bella, how could you do that to me? Or to Rose? This is the most insulting shit you could have pulled." Alice paced on the porch and I waited patiently for her to finish her scolding, knowing that I deserved it but also knowing that she'd never listen to me if she had more to say. So I waited.

"He started smoking pot, you know. And drinking. He crashed his car into a tree because of your damn charitable donations. He thought it meant you were never coming back. He thought you had given up, Bella, that you were going to die in Jacksonville. That is the shit he has been dealing with since you left. We didn't know if you were dead or alive or hurt. I mean, what the fuck were you even doing in Jacksonville?" Alice stood before me, her hands on her hips, her eyes ablaze. I absorbed the shock of it all, the enormity of the repercussions completely shocking the shit out of me. Like a punch in the gut, it knocked the wind out of my defensive sails. I wanted to defend myself but I wanted to make sure she'd had the chance to get it all out, all the poisonous thoughts towards me, all the resentment. I deserved it, and I was here to accept the consequences of my actions, whatever they may be, but not before I had a chance to explain myself.

"Are you done?" I asked politely. Alice narrowed her eyes at me and flopped down on the bench waving her hand in front of her, which I took as a sign to proceed.

"Look, I know what I did was shitty, the way that I left. But I don't regret leaving," I said indignantly as Alice's eyes shot up to hold mine. I took a deep breath, trying to calm my nerves, hoping she'd find it within herself to listen. That's all I was asking for, a chance to explain.

"Alice, I owe you an explanation."

…

I hated her. I lay on that couch with Edward's body warming mine, the mousse burning in my belly, and the emotional high of our beautiful lovemaking tinged with the agony of knowing what had to be done. I was going to hurt him, destroy him beyond repair no matter what decision I made that night. I had two choices: stay and die, killing him along with me, or leave and give him the chance to survive. The decision practically made itself, and the longer I laid there listening to his deep breathing and feeling his chest expand against my back, the more resolved I became.

Just like my mother, I destroy things, and it's her fault. She should be the one to see me waste away right in front of her, demonstrating just how fucking detrimental her selfishness had been. Not them, not him, they didn't need to see me like this, emaciated and broken, damaged goods. No, they didn't deserve this at all. But she did. Oh God, I hated her.

I knew it would hurt, I knew he was going to probably do something drastic, his past destructive behavior looming over my decision, but I hoped that this time maybe our love had proved to him that he didn't need to fear the future. I hoped that maybe he had been altered just enough to allow himself to find the strength to move on rather than self destruct.

I also knew that it wouldn't affect only him, but that I would also be hurting my friends and the only family I had ever known, that I would be losing them as well. But I didn't belong here with them. I felt like a parasite, affixing myself to this family unit and fucking sucking the life right out of them. I felt it in the hospital room after Rose had her baby, the whole family seething with joy while I wallowed in my every failure. I couldn't stand it. I brought nothing valuable to these relationships but took everything that I could, their love, their compassion, their acceptance. It wasn't fair, and I couldn't continue to take when I had nothing to give.

I had no intention of ever coming back. I would let them get on with their lives. I would let Edward have the future he deserved. I always thought he would be with someone exceptional, a lovely, kind hearted soul that matched him in all his potential and not only in his deficiencies. I remember finding comfort in the fact that we both had shitty pasts and fears and insecurities, and we did match, in so many ways, but potential was where I fell short.

I filled my suitcase with my belongings: my bracelet, my Cullen t-shirt, my father's pipe, all trinkets of little value but those which were the very essence of my time here in Forks. I wanted to keep them with me, a constant reminder of what I was leaving behind, of what I was giving up so that I would never forget that for a brief moment in time, I loved and I was loved in return. It would surely never happen again and I was determined to live the remainder of my days subjecting myself to every mental torture known to mankind for what I was about to do. These trinkets would come in handy.

I sat at the kitchen table and wrote him a letter, just as my mother had done. I tried to explain that it wasn't his fault, any of it. That this wasn't because I didn't love him, because I did, oh God, how I loved him, but that he was better off without me. I sat in that kitchen and I sobbed as I realized how Charlie would had felt when my mother left him, and now how Edward would grieve when he found me gone. But I also now realized how Charlie was able to let me go, why he never tried to contact me after he came to Phoenix. He loved me, and it was because he loved me that he was able to give me what he thought I wanted. It was because of my love for Edward that I was able to give him what he didn't know that he wanted: freedom. It was with this hope that I was able to walk out the door, that he would at least one day be free to find peace.

He didn't even stir as I sat down on the couch beside him and brushed the hair from his face, sobbing to the point of nausea while I waited for the taxi I had called. And then I saw the headlights of the cab flash through the window and I left him. Wrapped in my father's flannel and my red wool coat that was now two sizes too big, I walked out the door, my soul dead and numb, leaving him with nothing but a note and hoping like hell it was enough.

It wasn't, of course, because nothing I ever do is.

I spent my flight huddled against the window pretending to sleep but really just hoping I wouldn't fall apart. I remembered the last time I had been on an airplane, I had surrounded myself in Joni and I was running away, just like I was right now. I went to Forks because I couldn't deal with shit in Phoenix. I couldn't deal with my mother or my eating disorder, and I couldn't face my friends, especially Angela. And then my father had given me an out. I didn't have to deal with it, I could just leave and forget it all.

Somehow, I didn't think I'd be able to do the same this time. I didn't leave because I didn't want to deal with anything; I left because I didn't want him to have to deal with me. I was giving him an out, letting him off the hook and slipping him back into the waters. I know I will never forget, that he will always be there in everything that I do and say, every experience that I have, hovering in the background of my mind. "I'm selfish and I'm sad, now I gone and lost the best baby that I ever had…"

He would have woken up by now, alone, would have read the letter. It was at this thought that I dissolved into a hysterical mess. I don't know if my resolve had clouded my cognition, but I hadn't fully anticipated how bad waking up alone in that house was going to be for him. I felt physically sick at what I had done. I had to remind myself over and over it was for the best, that this was something I could give him, a chance at a normal life. I had a layover in Houston and I almost called Alice, but that would just make me feel better and this wasn't about me. No, clean and swift, these cuts heal best.

Finally, my plane landed at Jacksonville International Airport. I walked out onto the street and the warm weather caused sweat to bead on my forehead. I didn't even really know where my mother lived anymore. I knew it was somewhere near the college, and I vaguely worried if she would even agree to see me. Our last encounter hadn't exactly been friendly, but my mother had this unique ability to get over shit. I never knew how she did it; maybe it was a perk of the delusional, sick world she created for herself, or maybe she just didn't care enough to hold grudges.

I needed to call her to find out where she lived but I didn't have a cell phone anymore, so I found a pay phone. I dreaded the voice I would hear on the receiver and partially hoped she wouldn't be home and I would have to talk to Phil. I knew it was bad when the best option was talking to Phil.

She answered on the second ring.

"Hello?" My mother's voice was bright and giggly and I wanted to vomit at the mere sound of it.

"Hi mom," I muttered, trying not to cry and fumbling to maintain the control I had on the plane.

"Bella?" she asked, confusion and shock heavy in the single word, and I almost snorted at her discomfort. I was pretty obvious in my disgust of her the last time we had spoken, and she hadn't forgotten. Shit, I had been pissed at my father's funeral and that was before I even knew the full extent of her betrayal. It was with this thought that I considered I might have to find somewhere else to live.

"Yeah. Um, I'm in Florida and I wanted to stop by, but I don't know where you live," I said in a rush.

"How could you not know where I live? You're my daughter! Of course you know where I live!" she exclaimed. I didn't know who she was trying to convince, me or herself.

"Nope, I don't. Can you just give me the cross streets and the address. I'm sure a cab driver can find it." I closed my eyes, wishing to fuck she'd just tell me the goddamn address.

"Sure, it's 3 Phelps St., between First and Main. Bella, is everything okay? To be honest, I'd kind of given up hope that you'd ever come to visit," Renee said tersely.

"Okay, I'll be there soon," I said, and hung up the phone. I didn't want to offer her any explanations or give her the chance to question me. I just wanted to curl up into a little ball and disappear.

The cab pulled up to the little blue house and I could smell the ocean air from the front porch. Visions of tide pools and bonfires and cliff cuddling swirled through my mind and I had to grasp the door frame to steady my legs. Oh fuck, how was I going to get through this? Everything reminded me of him, of us. I inhaled deeply, letting the salty air fill my lungs, and I clutched at my heart, my little shrunken heart that beat with a pale thud against my ribs. It hurt. Oh, God, it hurt.

Before I sank too far into my own misery, the door flew open and my mother was standing in the frame.

"Bella!" She engulfed me in a tight embrace, her patchouli perfume so heavy that my eyes swelled at its intensity. My mother pulled me inside and I took the opportunity to assess her new home. It was light and airy, newly built and a lot nicer than I thought it would be. I mean, my mom didn't make a fortune teaching and it wasn't like Phil contributed to the monthly income in any substantial way. I guess my leaving lessened the financial strain a bit. I just figured she'd blow the extra cash on whiskey or pot.

I sat on her couch, the same one we'd had in Phoenix, and I ran my hand over the familiar fabric. My mother sat in an overstuffed chair across from me. Like a shark circling, I could see her dark eyes darting excitedly across my face. She smelled blood in the water.

"So? How are you? Are you eating? How long are you staying? Are you still with that boy, what was his name, Edmund?" My mother sat on the edge of her chair, practically drooling over the anticipated information and completely disregarding any animosity I had shown her in Forks. I was in her territory now, and the fact that I showed up here indicated my admitting defeat in her eyes.

"Ed…Edward," I stuttered, my chest tightening and bile burning in the back of my throat. I hadn't eaten anything since the mousse but I felt no comfort in the nagging grumbling in my belly. This slight pain was easily overshadowed by the aching pulse in my chest threatening to send me into hyperventilation at any moment.

"Um, can I have a glass of water or something," I asked her, swallowing back the nausea and wiping at the damp sheen slick on my forehead with the back of my hand.

"Sure," Renee said as she left the room through a doorway, to the kitchen I presumed, before she returned with a glass of water. I sipped the cool liquid, feeling the icy trail through my chest.

"You look awful. Do you want to go lay down for awhile? Maybe you're tired from the travel." Renee crossed her arms in front of her body as she stood in front of me, and I nodded, my exhaustion too thick to ignore any longer. I left my suitcase in the living room but grabbed my father's flannel as I followed her down the hall. She led me to a small room filled with her painting supplies. There was a small futon in the corner, covered in canvas and paper, clippings from magazines, photos, pictures of paintings, all of them my mother's inspiration. I waited while she cleared the bed by tossing her shit aside, and she pulled a blanket from the linen cabinet in the hall. I wouldn't need the blanket; it was practically eighty degrees outside, a cool breeze sending the salty air streaming in through the window.

She left me then and I closed the door behind her before erupting into a silent sob. I let the tears fall and muffled my cries with the flannel shirt, my entire body shaking until I gasped for air and my head pound with pressure. I curled up on the uncomfortable bed, longing for Forks, longing for the afghan, and wishing like fuck I could just go back to this morning and sleep in, drown in the comfort of Edward's arms wrapped around me and his breath tickling my neck, the tidal movement of his breathing beckoning me to sleep.

…

The bright lights of morning streamed in through the open window, a slight breeze causing my hair to wisp around my face, my scalp tingling and reminding me of a time when Edward's fingers pulled through my tresses. I groaned and covered my head with the blanket and turned toward the wall. The temperature had dropped overnight and a cold chill had seeped in through the window, so I wrapped the flannel shirt tightly around my shoulders. I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to block out the god-awful light. Renee hadn't let me hang up any curtains, she said she needed the natural light for her paintings.

Weeks had passed, months maybe, and I had stayed in her painting room, lying on the most uncomfortable slab of cushion and straining to hear the waves of the ocean crashing along the shore. I had learned the beach was more than a mile away and it was ludicrous to think I could hear the waves from that far, but I tried. I strained, I held perfectly still, and cursed when a fucking car outside would disrupt my concentration. It gave me something to focus on besides how I had hurt everyone who ever meant anything to me.

My mother had tried to make me enroll at the local high school so I could at least graduate, but I quickly vetoed that idea. I didn't want to start over, I didn't want to do anything. I just wanted to be left alone. Besides, it didn't matter, I had no use for a high school diploma. That accomplishment was for people who had a future, people who were going to go on to be successful members of society, and I had no plans to be any part of society.

Living with Renee and Phil again was a delicate balancing act. I avoided them, waiting until they left in the morning before venturing out of the room. Phil had taken a job working the batting cages at a park nearby and was gone most days, and Renee was teaching classes five days a week, so I pretty much had the house to myself. Not that it mattered; I rarely left the painting room. Some days I'd imagined myself living in her unfinished art, in the black and white charcoal drawings of children on the beach, or the watercolor monochrome landscapes of the ocean. This made existing manageable. "I am a lonely painter, I live in a box of paints…"

But then I started receiving Alice's emails. I couldn't read them at first. I didn't want to think about how I'd hurt them. I was still holding onto the belief that my leaving had been for the best, but then I received an email from Carlisle and it threw me off. I thought the worst, of course, as my mind ran through scenarios where Carlisle would need to contact me. I opened the email and the moment I read Alice's words, it all came flooding back to me, the feeling of family, of acceptance. Alice was my best friend and I had abandoned her as well. I hated myself for it, but I read every email after that, searching for clues to set my mind at ease and fearing the ones that would crush me beyond belief. She never mentioned Edward directly, but I read them over and over, the link reaffirmed, even if only in my head.

On more than one occasion I had almost written back. I had typed out full emails explaining myself, begging for forgiveness, but I never sent them. It just didn't feel like it was enough, like nothing I could say would excuse my behavior or make everything alright. So, instead of an email, I sent them money.

Ridding myself of the house was somewhat selfish. I didn't want to go back there, to the place where this hellish journey all began, and I had seen the way Rosalie had transformed my father's room. If anyone could turn that miserable house into a home, it would be Rosalie, and if I could help her in any way, if this house made things any easier on her, then she should have it. She deserved a place to raise her child, a sanctuary where she could teach her baby about love and family. I smiled to myself as I thought of a young Charlie poised in the corner, his mischievous spirit evident even before he'd joined this world, and this was subsequently followed by an unbearable ache in my chest as I realized I'd never know him.

I called my father's lawyer and had him take care of the paperwork. He had it sent to me overnight and I had to have it notarized and sent back. Thank God for Google because I had no fucking clue what that meant. I made an appointment, signed all the necessary paperwork, and just like that, my childhood home was no longer mine. "So I signed all the papers in the family name..."

The checks were a bit easier to negotiate. I just went to the bank and had them make out three cashier's checks, draining nearly every penny from Charlie's checking account. I didn't want the money but if I needed to I could cash in one of Charlie's numerous investments. Plus, I was still getting a monthly check from his pension. I just wanted to give them something, like maybe this would make it up to them, like I could somehow pay them back for all they'd given me and for all that I'd taken. At least I could help them out with school, or something, and maybe, just maybe, Edward would still go to New York. I couldn't stand the thought of him giving that up and that my leaving would have all been for nothing. We had originally planned that I would work so he could go to school but now he would need income for rent and living expenses and I wouldn't let him give up because of money. Maybe the check would be incentive, or maybe he'd just do it for me. I didn't know, but I had to try.

I didn't sleep much, the exhaustion kept at bay by the sorrow boiling in the pit of my stomach. Some nights I relived every moment I had with him, every kiss, every touch, every giggle. Sometimes, I would create new memories, imagining us in New York on the subway or traipsing through Central Park. I would cry myself to sleep these nights, wondering if he was still planning on going to New York and hoping like hell he would be strong enough not to give up on himself, that he would succeed where I had failed.

I couldn't bring myself to eat the meals my mother prepared, like accepting nourishment from her would admit my acceptance of her. Of course, she was mortified by my appearance. She had tried at first to force me to eat. She started with insults, sarcastic quips about my protruding shoulder blades and sunken cheeks, thinking she could shame me into eating. Unfortunately, this only works on people who care what they look like, and I really didn't, my disgusting appearance was the least of my offensive attributes and, if anything, the packaging matched the product. Broken and weak, a pitiful excuse for a human, my appearance warned people of what I was: void and empty.

Then Renee bribed and begged, using her passive aggressive bullshit with the hope of persuading me to eat, but I found I felt no guilt or remorse over hurting my mother. It was actually incredibly gratifying to cause her some distress. Eventually, she gave up. I knew her maternal instinct would only last so long; Renee never really had any staying power. So she gave up, and I abstained. I ate enough to sustain the sedentary lifestyle I'd adopted, mostly toast or crackers, and once in a while a banana or something, just enough to get her off my back.

Yet in the hunger I no longer felt comfort, the emptiness just leaving me hollow instead of resolving the pain I felt in my heavy heart. This was bit of a shock to me. The grumbling in my belly had always made me feel better, comforted, the pain of hunger a distraction from the pain in my chest. But now nothing could distract me from the burden in my soul, not even the smell of my father's sweet tobacco.. Edward's darkened features burned in my brain when I thought of how I had hurt him over and over again. I couldn't get the image out of my mind and I just couldn't understand why I couldn't find anything to distract me from this misery.

I couldn't understand, that is, until she cooked marinara.

She knew it was my favorite. She knew I couldn't resist that aroma. She also knew it reminded me of my father.

I was fucking furious, and I marched down the hall when I smelled the garlic wafting through the small house. Marinara belonged to my father, it was his. How dare she try to defile it by associating herself with its aroma! No, I didn't want to think of her when I smelled this sweet scent. It was petty and stupid to act this way over sauce, but I didn't care. This was his, this was mine, marinara did not belong to my mother.

"What the hell do you think you are doing?" I spat at her venomously. She was standing at the stove and she startled at my sharp tongue.

Her vacant eyes blinked and she pursed her lips as she assessed my rage. "Well, look who decided to join the living." She turned back to the stove. "Why don't you go get in the shower, you look like death warmed over."

"Why are you doing this?" I asked her through gritted teeth. I could feel myself boiling over with ever stir of her pewter ringed fingers and I wanted to yank the spoon right from her hand. I wanted her away from my father's marinara. She'd just ruin it like she ruined everything else.

The passage of time had cleared my head and now that I was no longer under the duress of constantly worrying about the damage I was doing to everyone around me, I was able to focus on why I was here.

Why was I here? When I left Forks, this was really the only place I could think of to go. I wanted my mother to know exactly how she had ruined me. She should have been the one to find me unconscious and bleeding out in the shower. She should have been the one to find Charlie dead in his room. Instead, she'd been here in fucking Florida, in her new house with her new life with an entire room just for her paintings and without a single picture of her daughter gracing the walls. I recalled arriving in Forks and seeing my grade school pictures hanging in Charlie's living room. For seven years, every day that he sat in that room he thought of me, of her, and every day he lived her betrayal all over again.

"I'm making dinner Bella, what does it look like I'm doing?" Renee's lips pulled into a smirk, her caramel hair pulled away from her face. Great, now she was fucking laughing at me. I wanted to punch her right in the fucking head but I knew that physical pain wouldn't be enough. No, I wanted her to be constantly haunted by the pain she had caused. Fuck, if I had to endure this hell, so should she.

"And you're using dad's recipe?" I asked, the resentment clear in my sharp tone.

"There's more than one way to make marinara, Bella. Not everything is about your father," Renee scoffed.

I laughed at her arrogance, her fucking clueless dumbass arrogance. She had no idea that I knew all the shit she had done, how many ways she had wronged my father, and here she was, smugly playing the martyr once again. I was done listening to her diversionary tactics and her delusional versions of reality.

"I mean, really, it's just another thing you stole from him, right?" I said sarcastically.

Her eyes pierced into mine, narrowed and vicious, and she understood. She removed the pan from the heat and she quickly turned the knob to extinguish the flame. Ordinarily, she'd ignore that I'd even said anything and carry on to avoid confrontation. But today, I wouldn't let her. I'd given up everything that mattered, everything that I had ever found joy in and the only person to ever show me any kind of acceptance, the only person to ever freely show me love, and now she was going to be held accountable.

"Right, mom? It wasn't enough you had to destroy his family?" I pushed as she clearly avoided the topic. Her body moved around the kitchen, taking the pasta from the cabinet and filling a large pot with water that she practically threw at the stove. "He went to the diner every day, did you know that? Probably why he had a fucking heart attack to begin with," I continued as my mother threw me a warning glance with poison in her glare, but I wouldn't stop now.

I purged, hatred and spite and loathing spewed from my lips, the bile I'd been choking back for so long finally released, and I laid it all at her feet. "You know all he did was love you. He wasn't holding you back, he was holding you up, and all you ever did was destroy him." The words flowed from my lips and I realized I was no longer talking about my father. Had I not done the same to Edward? Had I not spit in the face of the person who held my hand through an eating disorder, a death, a drug addiction, a miscarriage and a whopper of a diagnosis, and still, through all this, he wanted me forever?

I felt every sting of my own words and I reveled in the truth. "And you let me believe that it was my fault. You let me believe that I wasn't worth loving, that I wasn't worthy enough for either of you to give a damn, and you never did one fucking thing to prove otherwise." My mother stood before me, her arms crossed in front of her chest, the marinara now forgotten on the stovetop.

I had behaved no better than my mother. I had acted out of fear and self hatred, stripping Edward of any choice in the matter because of what I thought was best, because of what I wanted for him. But the truth was, no matter how much I detested the way I'd acted, no matter how much I hated myself for what I'd done, living without him was far, far worse.

That was why the pain in my belly no longer left me satisfied. I had starved myself because I felt I never deserved the care in the first place, care that I thought my father was withholding, craving only the acceptance from a man I thought didn't give a damn about me. But Charlie had loved me, Charlie wanted me, and Charlie accepted me when he was given the chance. What happened between my parents was never my fault, it was hers. My mother, too self involved to offer me the one thing I sought in my self hatred, the one thing I was never able to offer myself: compassion.

"I did what I thought was best for us," my mother said in a shaky voice.

"No you didn't. There never was an us. It was just you. It's always been just you," I said quietly. I wanted to cry, release the vehemence that burned in my eyes, but I wouldn't give her the satisfaction. I wouldn't let her see how she'd broken me.

But I would force her to see how Edward's love had healed me. How all the Cullens had shown me more compassion and acceptance than she ever had.

"You know that's not true, Bella. I mean, I admit I wasn't a perfect mother. But I raised you all on my own, do you have any idea how hard that is?" I startled at this question, her words a slap in the face. She didn't know about my failed pregnancy or my failed ovaries, but fuck, her words stung. She was right, though, I had no idea what it was like to be a parent and I never would. But I knew what it was like to be a part of a family.

"You didn't raise me. You didn't give me guidance. Everything I know is a byproduct of my own conclusions, shit I rationalized in my own head while you focused on your life, making up for your missed opportunities." I swallowed and forced myself to continue. "In Forks, there were people who loved me, people who accepted me as one of their own. In Forks, for the first time in my life, I had a family and I loved them." The tears welled in my eyes as I accepted the truth into my heart.

"Well, I'm sorry, Bella. I'm sorry I'm a terrible mother. I don't know what you want from me." My mother threw her hands in the air. She didn't get it. She never would. I could sit here all fucking day and she'd never get it, because the epiphany I was having right now as I expelled my guilt, my self-loathing and disgust, was an exceptionally difficult concept to grasp, and my mother had never really been exceptional.

But I had been exceptional once. No, I was exceptional still.

"You know, Mom, you don't have to be exceptional to be loved. You have to be exceptional to love others," I said, a smile playing upon my lips as I thought of my friend, my sister at heart, a wealth of knowledge crammed into seventeen short years, and I ached for her. I ached for them all.

My heart didn't just ache, it stuttered as I thought of Edward. I could almost feel his phantom hand in mine, the touch so familiar I even felt it in his absence. God, I had made such a monumental mess of things.

Renee blinked, her arms folded tightly across her chest again. Apparently, she had said something but I had tuned her out. It really didn't matter what she had to say at this point.

"Bella? Did you hear what I said?" I shook my head, my mind still spinning, trying to decide what to do next. I was breathing heavily. The dim glimpses of the many realizations I had just begun to decipher were flashing through my head. This all meant something, something big. I wasn't sure what just yet, but I knew things were changing.

"I said, I do love you. You're my daughter and of course I only want what's best for you." My mother tried to convey sincerity but I had heard this all before.

I looked at her with all the hatred I was feeling. "I know, Mom. I know you love me, but just not as much as you love yourself."

"Bella, you have no idea what you're talking about," my mother tried to respond and I laughed out loud. I probably sounded like a crazy person, but fuck, I hated it when she treated me like an idiot, like a fucking child who couldn't handle the truth. Even now, she couldn't own up to her mistakes, even now, as her destroyed daughter stood before her, practically begging for some kind of explanation, even now, she couldn't admit it. I wanted to tell her that I knew everything, how she had kept my father from me, and how as a result I'd coped by starving myself of nourishment because I thought he didn't love me, because I was never cared for or appreciated or nurtured.

"I know more than you think, mother. I know what you did, and how you destroyed him by leaving and now-" I stopped my rant in mid sentence. I was about to tell her how I'd done the same thing to Edward. I was going to explain it all, how I thought I wasn't good enough for him and how I couldn't give him the life he deserved. I was going to tell her how I'd never have children, how my heart had withered and my ovaries shriveled, how I would never know motherhood. I would never get the chance to nurture a child or know a mother's love, and here was my own mother who had taken this privilege for granted, abused and neglected her responsibility and had never shown any remorse, never even understood how detrimental her actions had been.

I wanted to destroy her as she had destroyed my father, how she had destroyed me, but I realized this would be a futile task. She didn't care enough to be destroyed by this. She never thought her actions were wrong and defended herself still, and would see my outburst as a tantrum from a little girl. It wasn't worth it. She wasn't worth it. She didn't deserve to know the darkest anguish or the greatest triumphs of my soul, and she never would. She didn't know anything about me and she didn't deserve to

Renee stood before me, staring at me expectantly, waiting for me to continue, but I just scoffed, not willing to share another minute of my life with her.

"You know what? Forget it. You don't deserve to know me."

Before I knew what was happening, I had shoved my few belongings into my suitcase and was racing out the door. I had no plan, no idea where I was going, and I was completely alone.

I'd never felt so free in all my life. "I am on a lonely road and I am traveling, traveling, traveling, traveling, looking for the key to set me free..."

My emotional high faded as I realized I knew nothing of this city or of Florida. I needed to find a place to sleep, at least for the night or until I could figure out what I was going to do. My mind, my thoughts and emotions were all in turmoil, and I just needed to figure out what this all meant. I wanted to go straight to the airport and take the next plane back to Forks, but I didn't want to return there a messed-up half person. It had never been Edward's job to put me back together, and although he had made a benevolent attempt, in the end I would always end up in the same place. This was something I had to fix. I hadn't had the tools before, but I think I did now. Well, I was developing the tools, at least. Yes, going back to Forks now would be a bad idea.

I stopped at a liquor store a few blocks from my mother's house to buy a pack of cigarettes and call a cab. I figured I would stay in the area, maybe find a motel by the college or something. The taxi picked me up and dropped me off at a less than desirable motel just off the college grounds. It wasn't great, but it would do. Plus, there was a little grocery store within walking distance in case I needed anything. Right now, I just needed to think.

I threw my shit in the corner of the room thinking I wouldn't be here long, just until I figured out what I was going to do. The first thing I did, though, was pull out my laptop and plug it in, thankful for the free internet access. I wanted to talk to Edward so badly. I wanted to tell him everything, how I had confronted my mother, how living without him was the worst torment I'd ever felt in my life, how I had left him out of fear, and my God, how I wish I could have explained all this before but that I hadn't even known or figured it out until now. Everything was just beginning to click into place, but I was still confused as all hell. I just wanted to talk to him about this, hear his viewpoint on what had been going on in my mind because I knew he'd be able to make sense of it. He'd ask me all the right questions and everything would become clear.

Pulling the cellophane from my fresh pack of cigarettes, I pulled the papered tobacco from the carton. As soon as I drew in the smoke my mind swirled with the memories of Alice and schooldays smoking. I clicked on the most recent email from Alice, sent this morning at seven thirty. Alice's emails conveyed an array of emotion in just a few sentences. Some were fighting mad, with venom in every keystroke, some were worried, some were just downright heartbreaking, and then some even reminiscent. Every couple of weeks the cycle would start all over again, and I lived her emotions through those few words. Today, she was reminiscent.

Dear Bella,

Do you remember that time we smoked at Mike Newton's party and we spent the whole night flicking pennies at his car? Do you know he still doesn't know it was us who chipped up his paint?

That was a great night.

I miss you,

Alice

How could I forget that night? I spent that night on the curved couch while Edward took care of me. That morning I puked up his crepes and it struck me now how fucking ungrateful the act had been. I had been so consumed with guilt, my mind so unable to accept the nourishment that my body rejected it physically. I had been fighting myself this whole time, trying to make my mind and my body and my heart all act as one, but the truth was they were all so damaged that no one part of me could operate as it should.

Inhaling a long pull from the cigarette, I started typing a response immediately. I poured my thoughts onto the page, cigarette ash dusting my keyboard and smoke swirling around my face. I'd pause to pull the cigarette from my lips and flick the ash into a coffee cup I'd found in the bathroom, but the thoughts just tumbled from my brain. I wanted to tell her in person, wishing I was back in that school day-smoking restroom, letting the words flow freely from my lips and letting Alice make her assessments. I longed for the roof under the stars, wrapped in my comforter with Edward as his icy fingers tickled my skin. I just needed to get these thoughts out of my head if they were going to make any sense.

My heart, I knew. Edward had mended my heart and forced an electric impulse through my body, shocking the muscle into strong, rhythmic beats. This I am sure of; I had loved Edward and I loved him still. I have an unspoken attachment to him and I knew that no matter where this stage of my life would lead me, I would always love him and my heart would always long for him. Even if I never go back to Forks, I would never know a love like Edward's. I might find someone I can spend my time with, maybe even someone I could love, but I knew Edward was my match. This I never had to question and I accepted it as truth, its clarity ringing so true I dared not disturb its constancy. I may never get the opportunity to love him again in this life, but I knew I would find him in the next.

I stopped typing long enough to ease the trembling in my chest at this thought, the idea of this life without Edward still a fresh wound. If it's the last thing I do, I would make sure Edward knew this, that our love was never a question. Tossing the spent cigarette into the cup, I quickly procured a fresh one, my fingers resuming their task.

My body is trickier. I knew it couldn't really be fixed, but it could be better. Logically, I knew what I had to do: a hundred pounds, fifteen hundred calories. But I also knew my limitations. Some damage was irreparable, like the scarring and shit, but I could live with my limitations. If I pushed myself I could get overwhelmed and I would find myself in the same cycle of pressure and purge that I had been living in for the last few years of my life. I couldn't start down that path again. I needed balance, to take care of the many ailments that my poor body had to deal with as well as provide it with the much needed nourishment it deserved. I think it was easier to think of my body as a separate entity unto itself. Looking at myself this way, without my emotional voids and fears of failure fucking shit up, I was able to see what the body needs from a physiological standpoint, and I had to admit it fascinated to me.

My mind was the hardest part. If I ever go back to Forks, I would have to be a whole person. When I started depriving myself of nourishment it was because the aromas reminded me of a man who I felt certain despised my very existence. It was something I could control and the hunger had left me focusing on physical pain and emptiness rather than the grief in my heart. If I were the one to hurt me no one else could.

When I boarded that plane to go care for my dismantled father I had no idea what I'd find, but subconsciously I knew what I was looking for: love, acceptance, compassion. I wanted to know why he didn't care enough to fight for me so many years ago. I wanted to know how he could just let me go simply on the pretense of what was best. I fully understood his reasoning now. It was the same reason I left, the same pool of hope from which I dipped my cup as I walked out of that house, the hope that Edward would be better off someday. I just wanted to give him everything he deserved, and I didn't think that included me.

But now, I no longer needed that acceptance from my father. My father loved me. He loved me enough to let me go. It wasn't because he didn't want to fight for me, it was because he didn't love himself enough to think he deserved my love in return. I wish I could have been able to tell him this, that I knew he loved me. It is a regret I might never release. My heart still ached to think of what I lost, what my mother stole from me. But I had to move forward, I had to recognize what I'd gained. Instead of a huge void in my life where my father should be, I now had at least this last year in Forks to fill it with. I had the truth, I had the reality of what my father was, and while his decision to cut me out of his life tormented me for so many years, I now understood why, and I absolved him of this flaw. I forgave him for his absence and his unwillingness to love himself and accept that he deserved me when I was ten, and then again for his unwillingness to care for himself when I returned.

I paused in my typing and I reread what I had typed and just like that, it all fucking clicked in my brain.

I had to forgive myself. I had made mistakes and I had hurt people beyond what I ever thought I was capable of. I had spent so much time dwelling on the many ways I had wronged those I loved and now I needed to accept responsibility for it and fix it. I wanted to repair some of the damage I had caused.

My cursor hovered over the send button and my finger twitched as I debated whether to send them my thoughts. In an instant, I clicked 'discard' instead.

I wasn't ready. Not yet. It didn't seem like enough to read what they'd known all this time, what I was just figuring out. They wouldn't be surprised by this information, they would just want to know what I was doing with it, and that, I still didn't know myself. What if they couldn't forgive me? What if he had moved on, realized how easy his life was without me and I would just bombard my way back in with all this personal shit? I would try, but not yet. I wanted to be able to give him everything, and I couldn't just yet.

I finished my cigarette, indulging in the sweet flavor and tossing the filter in the ceramic cup. I reread through the few emails from Alice I had saved. I mostly just saved the argumentative ones, the ones where I almost felt her glowering eyes burning into me. I had relished in the regret that I had felt, taking comfort in her harsh words because the pain was a distraction to the misery of living without Edward. But now, things were different. I didn't really need them anymore. Something else had begun to fill the hole that was my heart, one grain at a time, something else I could use as a distraction, something I hadn't touched in a very long time.

Hope.

...

"Shit!" I cursed into the small white kitchen, pulling my arm away from the hot pan and immediately running it under the cold tap. I inspected the wound, a thin red line seared into my skin where I had absentmindedly let my arm rest on the pot of vegetables steaming before me.

I had woken up in the motel room after my revelation just as confused as I had been the night before, and since I had discarded my email to Alice I couldn't go back and read any of my realizations. I could feel them vaguely, I knew a shift had occurred, but old habits are hard to break. I vowed that I would now make sense of my thoughts in a document I could save so that I might remind myself of any progress I'd made. I had no idea where to start but thought acknowledgement would be a good first step; that had to be worth something, right? And I knew I needed to find worth in myself before I could offer anything to anyone else.

So I started at the first place I could think of, the one place I had always felt value: school. I had always been smart and school was something I had found comfort in, using the information as a distraction from all my insecurities, but I was now a high school dropout, looking to attend school in the middle of the summer. I feared I would have to wait until September or October but I just couldn't wait that long. I had to start now.

The first step was to get a diploma. Again, thank you internet gods for Google. I knew it would take forever if I tried to go through the public school system, so I registered to take the General Education Development test at the community college. Fifty dollars for two days of general education testing, which I passed with flying colors. Fuck, I should have done that years ago. Now that I had this certificate in tow, I applied for the summer session at the community college. One class, two hours a day, four days a week for five weeks. I was starting small, trying not to take on more than I could handle, but trying nonetheless. I knew what class I wanted to take as soon as I saw the list of available courses.

Introduction to Human Nutrition.

I have always been interested in the sciences and this seemed beneficial to my situation. The more knowledge with which I could base my decisions, the better. I thought about Edward and how he wanted to incorporate good nutrition into his cooking, how he had explained a great deal of this information to me when we were preparing the healthy meals for Charlie.

College was a completely different experience from high school. Nobody gave a damn about you in college. I showed up, I listened, I took notes, and I completed my assignments. No bullshit, no drama. I loved it immediately. The class had completely captured my attention and it was in these thoughts I was lost, musing over the biological determinants of nutrient requirements in specific demographics, when I had lazily let my arm rest on the edge of the pot.

I had found a one bedroom apartment about half a mile from the community college. It had only taken me a little over a week to find a furnished place because when you had cash, I discovered, people were willing to get shit done quickly.

I also managed to get a job stocking shelves at the market a couple of blocks from my apartment. I volunteered to work the night shift as I really had nothing else to fill my time with, no family or friends, so I spent my evenings mindlessly replacing the goods depleted during the day. I was cordial to my coworkers but I pretty much kept to myself. I stayed in my own little world where the only thing keeping me sane was thoughts of Edward. What was he doing right now? Was he living with Rose and Emmett? Had he gone back to Carlisle's? What had he done for his birthday, for graduation? I wondered if they had gone camping this year or had a party or something. I thought of the camping trip last year, how I had tried to eat that hot dog and ended up puking by the stream. I thought about sleeping under the stars and waking up to such wonderful displays of affection. I spent all of my time at the store thinking, wondering, wishing, longing, no matter how much I tried to concentrate on something else, my thoughts always came back to him.

Patting my forearm dry, I stirred the vegetables with the spatula, the burn stinging from the radiating heat as a light sheen formed on my brow. Fuck it was hot in there. Summer in Jacksonville was miserable. My shirt stuck to my back, the humidity sweltering, and once again I was grateful for my decision to cut off all my heavy hair.

I just couldn't stand the weight of it any longer, and the humidity of Jacksonville made me look like a mad woman, the hair at my nape matted and tangled most of the time. I went to a local salon and asked the chick to hack it all off. She asked me three times if I was sure before pulling my frizzy mess into a tight braid at the base of my neck and cutting the long rope free. I cried as I held the thick bundle in my lap. I knew it was ridiculous to weep over cut hair, but the last time my hair had been pulled into a braid it was by Edward's hand and really, I cried because this was sort of representative of my old life, my old self, and here I was cutting it at the nape. However, it did lessen the intensity of the heat and now my hair hung lightly around my face, barely touching my shoulders in loose waves. It was far easier to manage and I liked the way I looked now, the style complimenting my face nicely. It had been difficult to get used to at first, but a good change nonetheless.

I removed the veggies from the heat and turned off the burner. Rinsing the slightly overcooked penne in the sink, I was glad I had chosen the wheat because it still held it's form even though I had left it in the water too long.

I had found some sort of sick satisfaction in trying to recreate Edward's meals. It was a way I could feel close to him, searching for those same smells, trying to emulate the distinct flavors, and I only now realized how accomplished Edward was as a cook.

I had started eating small meals, a granola bar or a piece of fruit, yogurt or cereal. I liked the breakfast foods, they were lighter and easier to digest. I would eat a small portion slowly, like I had before, until I felt that heaviness in my belly, and then I would stop, being careful not to fill myself to the point where I felt nauseous. I was taking my antacids and vitamins but it still didn't happen quickly, it took me a whole week just to be able to stomach a small breakfast. But once I had mastered that, I started trying to make Edward's creations.

My eggplant failed miserably. I used too much oil and spent the entire evening in the bathroom, my delicate digestive system not ready for the um...lubrication. Fuck, I was thankful as all hell I lived alone because I would have been mortified if I had to deal with that amongst company. I quickly learned that oil was not my friend and to use it sparingly in the future.

I had tried to make Edward's crepes using a recipe from the internet and ended up making thin, eggy pancakes instead. They didn't taste the same at all, the ricotta wasn't lemony enough and the crepe too heavy, and I threw away half the dish purely out of frustration.

I'd watched Edward prepare today's dish dozens of times and I thought I had remembered everything. I had sautéed the vegetables in a splash of olive oil and softened garlic, sprinkled them with a bit of salt and parmesan cheese before spooning the veggies over the pasta and portioning out a small amount into a shallow dish.

And now, as I took a small bite of the penne pasta before me, I sighed in disappointment. It held no flavor, no kick like Edward's primavera had. I took a few more bites before wrapping the rest up with plastic wrap, another flavorless meal to be enjoyed at another time.

After I cleaned up the kitchen I was going to do some research for one of the papers I had to write this week on the role of diet in the development of chronic diseases. I had been putting it off because I had lived with this topic myself and also through my father, but I had picked the topic for these very reasons. I wanted to learn as much about it as I could so that I might help not only myself, but others in the future, too. Edward had such a noble outlook on what he wanted to do with his gift, and maybe it was stupid to think after all this time he'd even want to see me again, but I felt myself thinking that maybe I could help him, that maybe I could do something noble with all this bullshit too.

It was during that time that I started writing emails to Edward. At first, I just wanted a recipe. I was trying to make a peach glaze for yogurt and I searched the internet for recipes but ended up bawling like a complete fool at the computer because I was so depressed that I couldn't just call Edward and get it from him. I could care less about the fucking recipe, just the fact that I couldn't call him for anything made my heart ache. I was feeling so awful and distraught that I started typing, and before I knew it I had typed up every insecurity I was feeling, every horrible thought I'd ever attached to myself, and in a moment of complete mental hysteria, I sent it. I wanted to take it back immediately, afraid of what he would say. I didn't even know if he would respond, so I waited, checking my email every fucking hour for the entire day, yet I received no response. I didn't know what this meant and I interpreted the silence a couple different ways.

At first, I assumed he had read them and just wasn't responding, similar to how I had been reacting to Alice's messages. But then my mind started to wonder. If Edward had emailed me, would I be able to ignore him? I don't know if I had enough strength to ignore Edward. It was difficult enough trying not to answer Alice. Maybe he had read them but just didn't care. Maybe the effort was too little, too late. Or maybe he wasn't getting them at all. I didn't know for sure, but I forced myself into believing he was listening, and so I told him everything, sending the secrets of my soul out into the great cyber unknown, finding comfort in the fact that the truth was out there and even if I never got the opportunity to tell him in person, at least he had this. At least there was some explanation for my behavior.

And so this became my routine. Whatever I felt, I wrote. I told him everything, laid my soul bare, stripped and raw and completely unedited. Every embarrassing or stupid thought I've ever had, every time I felt pathetic and lonely, when I'd wake up at three in the morning just longing to talk to him, or touch him, to feel him, to kiss and love him, I wrote him an email.

I told him about how I'd tried to go to the movie theater, just so I wouldn't have to be completely alone for a couple of hours. I thought maybe I could sit in the theater and just be in the company of other humans, but I couldn't even focus on the movie. All I could think about was mine and Edward's first date at the drive-in and how he had told me everything about his parents that night and how the next morning I had decided, come mental illness or not, I was going to love him for as long as I could.

I wrote messages to my ten year-old self, wishing I could tell her how she will be loved one day. I wished like hell I could wrap her in my arms and hold her, protect her from Renee and her confusing manipulations and give her hints so that the conclusions I knew she was creating in her head wouldn't be so harmful. I wrote about taking care of Renee when she had overindulged and how I had assumed the parental role in our relationship. I wrote about how I had loved the way my father smelled and how I had searched for those smells all my life, how the smells still haunt me like ghosts of his aura, and how I felt this strange comfort in surrounding myself with them. I wrote all about the pills and the puking and I wrote about Angela's party, the fucking domino that started this chain of events that led me to this place.

I wrote email after email about the Cullens. I wrote pages about Esme and Carlisle and their after work coffee, the way they stayed united as a couple and as friends, and I wrote about how they personified what parents should be. They weren't perfect, their children engaged in underage drinking and smoked pot right under their noses, they didn't know it all and they made mistakes, but the one thing that stood them apart was their ability to show love and acceptance. They trusted their children, instilled in them a sense of responsibility and made them a priority. They didn't enforce, they guided, offering a firm hand along this very confusing pathway of life.

I wrote about Emmett and Rose and Jasper and the many challenges that still faced them, and how they had dealt with the ones they had already surpassed. Rosalie and Jasper, too, stemmed from their own parental hell, one just as toxic as mine, and I found their abilities to set that shit aside remarkable. They had each found in themselves the desire to do so, to excel in the face of adversity instead of folding under the pressure.

There were pages and pages about Alice and her incredible heart, encircling us all in her tightly-woven protective warmth. The way she read her cards, always watching, observing and learning. Alice was unlike any person I'd ever encountered, her intuitive nature allowing her to see the very essence of what we all needed, and she would offer herself unselfishly, not because it's what she expected in return, but because she desired to give. The way she inspired Jasper, the way she inspired us all to be not just mere shadows of ourselves, but to live in vibrant color, and her empathy to the energy around us was a truly unique gift. I only hoped I had been as influential a friend to her as she has been to me. I knew I'd fallen short, but maybe, in time, I could show her what her influence meant to me.

I wrote him a message on his birthday and talked about how phenomenal I thought he was in the kitchen, how he moved with the ingredients, his ability second nature to him, and how he'd smell each ingredient before tossing it into the blend. It was natural to him, he was so organic and so pure in the care he put into his cooking, from his selection of ingredients to the delicate knife-work he had perfected, and it was nothing short of brilliance.

I scribbled down all these images as they flashed through my mind. I filled my emails with recollections of our firsts and our lasts, especially the last time we'd made love. I recounted every detail, the way he felt, the way he smelled, the way he placed his gentle hands on my body and I was able to surrender fully to him and trust him completely. I wrote about things he had said, trying to recount the many constellations he'd explained and all the ways people of the past had tried to make sense of the world. I wrote about our lost child, our lost opportunities, the future I had taken from us both, why I had decided to leave, how I managed to walk out that door, and every emotion I had lived with since. And I wrote about how it might be too late for us. I had been gone so many months, plenty of time for Edward to have moved on. Hopefully, he'd be leaving for New York in just a few weeks and a whole new array of opportunities would be presenting themselves to him. I might never get the chance to love him again and I wrote about how this thought burned in my soul like a piercing fire right through my veins.

I apologized to him, to all of them. I apologized for every way that I had hurt them, for every time I had disappointed them and they had to feel the sting of my behavior. I apologized to my father for not being able to help him sooner and for not being able to show him that he deserved love too. I apologized to the tiny life that couldn't have a sanctuary in my dilapidated womb and to the life that would never even get the chance. And I apologized to myself, for abusing my body, for depriving myself of nutrients and care, but most of all for believing that I didn't deserve to be loved. I wrote about all the ways I had wronged the people that I loved, including myself. And then I let it all go, sending it off to Edward in the hope that maybe he would understand, that maybe he could be comforted by my realizations too. I accepted the hurt and the pain and the turmoil I had created and I let it go, cut that attachment to the abuses of my past life, and I focused on the future.

The only way I could make sense of it was by comparing it to a quilt, pieces of scrapped material forced together with intricate stitching. Sometimes the materials are carefully chosen, beautiful pastel silks and satins, creamy laces and earthy, dark jacquards with rich red velvet trims, and some are simple cottons, or patterns frantically torn from other garments. These patches are nimbly sewn together with heavy threads, fingers worn raw from the constant tugging of fiber through the various fabrics. There may be blood, a pin prick of a needle, or tears as seams are ripped open and stitches reworked. Yet, when you're finished, you're left with a completely unique tale, the mistakes and the wonder, the pain and elation, it all makes this life mine.

It would still be warm, this quilt, it would still offer comfort, and I accepted the comfort this quilt would offer, with all its flaws and mistakes. In turn, I accepted myself for who I was and I found value in the person I was going to be. "And I feel like I'm just being born, like a tiny light break in a storm..."

...

Ninety-eight pounds.

I stood on the scale in the liquor store down the street from my apartment. I hadn't been on a scale since I had been in the hospital. It was hard to believe all that turmoil had been seven months ago. It seemed a lifetime away now, as the cooler weather of October settled into Jacksonville.

Of those seven months, I had been living here in Florida for almost five. I had celebrated my nineteenth birthday alone. I had been working another late shift, restocking the shelves with cans of beets, when I realized it was my birthday. And I was completely alone, and without a soul I wanted to share this with. I ended up sobbing in the bathroom of the store for the entirety of my thirty minute dinner break, longing for Edward, longing for a family, and just really needing a kindred spirit to talk to. But I had no one.

My family was in Forks and I was trying to figure out a way to get back to them, but I was scared. What if I could only be successful with this here, away from them, away from Edward? What if I went back and I fell back into my old routine? I didn't trust myself yet and I didn't even want to think about what I might find when I got back. I had tried to eat out at a restaurant once, kinda like a test to see if I could do it, but the whole time I thought of Edward. I ordered minestrone, pathetically sipping from my spoon and just missing him so much I could hardly breathe. What if I went back to Forks and he didn't want me anymore? What if he couldn't forgive me for leaving? Would I still be able to forgive myself? Like I said, I was fucking scared.

It just seemed like such a long time, five months, but then again, it wasn't long at all. But I knew more than anyone how shit could change so drastically in such a short span of time. Five months ago I was planning for New York, and now I was standing on a scale in a liquor store in fucking Florida.

It was still difficult to not chastise myself whenever I fucked up. The negative self talk was practically a part of my personality and to deny myself of that was extremely taxing. But if I were to truly accept myself, I would need to accept every part, including the flaws, and with this thought in mind, I continued on my path of positive affirmations.

So, today, in the liquor store where I bought my milk and my cigarettes, I celebrated in the small weight gain. When I had left the hospital I weighed ninety-four pounds. I had gained four pounds in seven months and my first reaction was that I wanted to cry. I wanted to scream, throw a temper tantrum right here in the fucking store. I felt like I had been doing so well, like there should be a more substantial gain. But I had to focus on the positive. It was a gain, and a gain is a plus, no matter how minute.

I paid for my items and walked the three blocks to my apartment. I was attempting marinara tonight. I was pretty sure I had this one down, I had watched my father make the sauce hundreds of times and Edward had made it for me for almost every meal I'd had at his house. He knew it was my favorite and made an effort to make sure there was something for me to eat which I enjoyed. I missed him so much and I let fall the silent tears that sometimes still found their way down my cheeks. Sometimes it was just a few nostalgic tears and other times it was hysterical sobs when I thought of what I had given up. When the situation seemed hopeless and my struggle with food became too much to bear, I would give up. I would skip dinner and instead cry myself to sleep, thinking it had all been for nothing, that I was here suffering without him for nothing.

In the morning I would awaken to a new day, and I would start the struggle again. I didn't expect it all to be fixed in one night, or even one week, but it had now been five months and I had only gained four pounds.

"But it's still a plus, Bella," I said to myself out loud as I walked into my apartment, setting the paper bag on the counter. I had been talking to myself a lot lately.

I pulled the ingredients from the fridge, allowing the tomatoes to reach room temperature while I checked my email. Nothing. I still hadn't gotten any type of response from Edward, so there was no indication that he had received my messages. Alice's emails were becoming less and less frequent and it killed me to not know why. My mind always raced to the worst possible scenario and I had taken her correspondence up until this point as an indication that everything was fine. The emails lately had been a bit indifferent, seeming to be forged out of habit instead of genuine interest, and I realized she must think I'm not getting them, just as I thought Edward wasn't getting mine, but I couldn't let them stop, I needed those emails, they were the last link I had to my life in Forks, proof that my life there had been real, so I sat at the table and constructed eight different messages, none of which I actually sent to her. I didn't know what to say or how to explain. No, this was going to be something I would have to do in person.

I set to work making the marinara by first placing a pot of water on the stove to boil. I let the tomatoes boil in a separate pan first to soften them, then ran them under cold water to shock them out of their skin. I sautéed the onions and garlic in a small amount of olive oil before smashing the tomatoes to a pulpy mess, taking care to eliminate the chunks because I really didn't care for chunky sauce. I let the tomatoes reduce at a high heat to get rid of the acidity and I added a pinch of sugar to sweeten up their bitterness, and salt and pepper and sweet basil, torn, not cut.

Tossing some spaghetti into the boiling water, I removed the marinara from the stove. It smelled delicious and I was actually anticipating the taste. Once the pasta was cooked, I strained the noodles at the sink, spooning the sauce over the top of the spaghetti and mixing to thoroughly coat the long thin strands. It just smelled so good and I couldn't help myself, I took a noodle right from the bowl, piling it into my mouth and slurping like a five year old.

It was perfect.

It tasted just like my youth, and I quickly served myself a small helping onto one of my ceramic dishes. I sprinkled the pasta with freshly grated parmesan and instantly, I was ten years-old again, engulfed in my father's marinara and just enjoying the meal.

I ate without thinking, the pasta heavy in my belly, and I stopped when I was full. It was routine now, when I felt the familiar pressure I stopped, and now I rarely had to even pay attention to it anymore.

I thought of my father, how he would let the sauce splatter all over the range and then forget to clean it up. I learned quickly to wipe that shit up right away because scrubbing dried sauce off the stovetop was annoying as all hell. I remembered how he would always find something wrong with his sauce, not enough salt or too much sugar or it should have cooked longer or hotter, but I could never tell the difference, it had always been remarkable to me.

Suddenly, Edward popped into my head, as he often does when I'm thinking of food, and I thought of how considerate he had always been, knowing how I loved marinara and making it specially for me. And I had never really appreciated it as I had appreciated my father's. I hadn't even given him the chance, my eating disorder already in full effect before I had even set foot in Forks. And I smiled because I would be able to give him the chance now.

In fact, I craved it.

My fork hit the plate with a clatter. Holy fuck! I was sitting here at my kitchen table and I was enjoying a meal. I was sitting here, eating marinara and thinking of my father and I was happy. And I wanted more, the craving for Edward's creations now strumming a fine tune of anticipation in my belly.

I stood up from the table, my course of action completely clear. I could do this. I could fucking do this. All my fears and all my hesitations fizzled and faded as I threw my most important things into my suitcase. It all made sense now, I could succeed where my father had failed. I could fight for the love that I now deserved. I had been here fighting for myself and now I would fight for Edward. He was the only thing I had held constant in my life, my constant in the fucking dark unknown world we stumble around in, and he might not forgive me, but I knew, even if I lived a thousand lifetimes, I would die trying. I would do whatever it took to earn his trust back. Whatever it took.

I used the house phone to call a cab but I couldn't wait. I rushed out the door, my marinara still on the stovetop and just hoping like hell I wasn't too late. "I'm coming home..."

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A/N

Joni Songs…

The River

Little Green

All I Want

Willy

California

Two more, my lovelies…le sigh