plik

The Ever-Fixed Mark

WutheringBites

SONNET 116 – William Shakespeare

Let me not to the marriage of true minds

Admit impediments. Love is not love

Which alters when it alteration finds,

Or bends with the remover to remove:

O no! it is an ever-fixed mark

That looks on tempests and is never shaken;

It is the star to every wandering bark,

Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.

Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks

Within his bending sickle's compass come:

Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,

But bears it out even to the edge of doom.

If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

BPOV

There are no more chances left to me. This is the last, and I must seize it. His world, full of
the superficial and the false, is entirely unfamiliar to me. It is pure serendipity that I have been
flung into it, and I will not fail myself.

His family is different, and he is different, but everyone else collectively demonstrates the
contrast between his kindness and their unfeeling nature. I had been stepped on, elbowed,
shoved, and walked over by them, and always, always, picked up by him.

Day after day, as I labored over the restoration of the art collection in the Cullens’ nineteenth-
century Hamptons estate, my heart cracked a little more. It had begun the first time he spoke
to me, not the first time I saw him, because sight is hasty and shallow. It is an impression, but
conversation is a reality of what lies within.

Edward had hired me himself, on contract away from The Museum of Fine Art, where I
restore their collections. Such contracts are not unusual for me, and Edward heard good things
about me from his “circle.” I loved that circle for facilitating our meeting, but I also hated it
because it held the same empty shells of people who thereafter treated me like a robot servant,
or ignored me entirely because my services were not for them.

I know that the majority of people in the Hamptons are actually quite pleasant—I’ve worked
for a number of them by now—but the guests that seem to visit the Cullens often are a
different breed. I wonder how such a nice family puts up with these harpies, but I’ve
overheard enough to know that most are unfortunately relatives.

They were the people who stepped on my hand as I lay on the floor to painstakingly replace
gilt on antique frames. They were the wretches who were so anxious to make their spa
appointments that they knocked me into a bucket of solvent as they barreled past. They didn’t
even look back. Edward made sure that my hand wasn’t broken and bandaged it. Edward
rushed me into a shower, fully clothed, and got the solvent off my skin. He was always there
to catch me, and never there otherwise.

There were usually a few of those nasty people staying with the Cullens. Quite a large number
of them were relatives of some sort, or business contacts in the realm where the Cullen money
came from, but I didn’t really pay much attention to that.

It has been nine months of this torture, and now I am done. When I first began the project, the
hundreds of objects d’art intimidated me, but most only required basic cleaning. Now, I
fervently wish the number had been in the thousands, giving me an excuse to stay in the little
rented bungalow and work at the estate for years rather than months. The loss hurts keenly.

This is my last day. I have taken as much time as possible to finish, and now I am washing my
hands of the last paint splatters and the memories of every interaction I’ve ever had with him.
Whenever he helped me, we would talk about art and history and life; it was pleasant, but far
too little, only whetting my appetite for more of what I’d never have.

I try to find a towel to dry off, my hands shaking as I wonder how to find a reason to speak to
him again. There is no question that I will; I must. There is no towel, but a small craft knife
lies in my kit, and I briefly consider cutting my finger to attract his assistance again. It’s
extreme, so I file this plan away as a last resort.

I climb the basement stairs, exiting for the last time the place where I’ve been restoring the
moveable objects. There are several other bathrooms on the first floor where I can dry my
hands, although it will likely be pointless by the time I find one.

The halls are deserted, but I hear voices coming from the largest powder room. Everyone is
outside preparing for the party tonight. The Cullens are throwing a costume soiree to benefit a
children’s hospital, and it’s the highlight of the season. The attire is fanciful and ridiculous,
merely a chance to display how much money one could spend on a glorified Halloween getup
worn only once. If the guests would donate the money they spend in preparation, the hospital
would be set for decades. But I don’t really know about the politics of such things.

I pass the voices, but almost involuntarily pause when I catch a few phrases.

“. . . the blue or the yellow? I heard that Edward is going as Dracula. How ridiculous is that?”
says a twittering, saccharine voice.

“Then he certainly won’t be Dracula if he said so. He always advertises his costume to keep
people looking for him, then comes as something entirely different,” another voice gushes.

“What’s the opposite of Dracula?”

“No idea. An angel maybe.”

“Ooh, yes! The bastard will be dreamy in white.”

I want to vomit. These vapid creatures will hold none of Edward’s interest. Of course, neither
do I. I laugh because they are completely off track, and I am pleased by that. I know that
Edward is going as a Carnivale clown because I’d seen the costume being ironed by someone
in the basement. He even had an authentic Venetian mask. My feet begin to move me past the
room, but I stop them.

“So, which one? Blue or yellow?” the first voice asks.

“Hmm. Yellow I think. He won’t be able to resist you.”

I can hear the smirk in the mystery woman’s tone. I don’t know why I linger. Maybe a small
part of me wants to see the face of this woman with whom I can’t compete because there is no
competition. They chat some more, and I quickly duck around the corner as the door opens. I
pretend to adjust a nearby vase, and they don’t even notice me as they pass. They are both
bottle blondes with cod lips from too much collagen. Another small smile escapes me,
because I know that if there was a contest, they would lose to me. They were too fake.

I enter the room they just vacated, but I realize that my hands have completely dried. I see a
gigantic garment bag hanging on the back of the door, forgotten. It must contain the “blue.”

I can’t stop myself from unzipping the bag to reveal a truly magnificent gown. It’s like
something Marie Antoinette would have worn, in sapphire and silver and lace. Before I am
aware of my actions, the gown is off its hanger and held up to my body as I gaze into the
mirror. The colors make my skin look like glowing porcelain.

A tiny spark ignites in my brain, the seed of a plan that is actually quite obvious. I had been
looking for my opportunity, and it had presented itself hanging next to a toilet. I hope that the
end result of my plan is more impressive.

I look into the bag again, because all the stories dictate that shoes should also be in there.
They are, as well as a full silver mask and a powdered wig. The complete package. I quickly
stuff everything back in and drag my borrowed disguise down to the basement. I would need
the two hours until the party to make myself presentable.

Sometimes, I wonder if all the exposure to paint fumes has made me crazy.

~*~*~*~*~*~**~

EPOV

I am so disgustingly tired of this nonsense. I hate these parties, but today I want them all to
die… in violent ways… at my hand. This is not the day for a celebration. This day is a
tragedy. A chapter of my life is ending, but it feels like an epilogue.

Bella left today.

I stayed in the city to work, but I accomplished little. Nothing could make me return to the
estate today, because I couldn’t say goodbye to her.

I left the nothing between us unfinished because I am a coward. Not in principle, but I am
certainly a coward in this sphere of society I am forced to exist within. It is filled with
groveling harpies and dissipation.

I often wonder how my family functions every day; I merely hide as much as possible,
because I cannot understand this life. Carlisle hardly has contact with society anymore since
he’s always at the hospital or off with Esme somewhere private. Come to think of it, my
parents hide as often as I do. This world of old money and entitlement and zero work ethic is
so strange.

And Alice is… Alice. She thinks this is all a game where she is the queen and everyone else is
a pawn she can manipulate. Not in a mean way at all, she would be horrified if anyone
thought that. I can’t blame her for using her inherent charm to mess with morons.

I see her flitting among the guests even now, dressed like a fairy. She’s having so much fun
that I smile despite my gloomy mood. My sister has always been so overdramatic.

I am very underdramatic. I don’t want to live in the posh condo on the family property or
“work” at the family business. All I want is to find a little cottage somewhere quiet where I
can write, perhaps a scathing, thinly-veiled exposé on someone I know, like A Moveable
Feast. Not alone though, not with only myself for company.

I don’t like being alone, even though I choose to be solitary. There is no other option is this
realm.

No, not here.

And back to tragedy.

Why couldn’t I have hired an elderly, balding Frenchman to restore the family collections?
When I heard of Isabella Swan’s enormous talent through some old biddy at a fundraiser, I
had pictured a hippy-ish fifty-something with stringy hair and a bandana, who alternated
between French and Italian, because English was the language of too many. Tie-dye was also
in there somewhere.

I was completely unprepared for the vision that met my eyes when I first saw her, sprawled on
the floor of the dining room, peering at a frame with giant magnifying glass. She didn’t
realize I was there for a good thirty minutes, and I used all those minutes to commit her
features to memory.

She wore faded, torn denim overalls and a white t-shirt that was covered in splotchy paint.
She was barefoot and wore no makeup. Her chestnut hair was gathered into a loose bun,
gleaming like chocolate under the light. She bit her lip in dismay as she tore a fingernail on
the wooden frame, and I almost laughed because all her nails were ragged and short from the
work.

She was completely stunning, and looked about twenty, although I knew that she couldn’t be
that young with such experience in her field.

Most of all, she was real. A real person who did real work, and got paid for it, because she
loved it.

I waited another three days to introduce myself, such a mistake. I should have kept my
distance permanently, for my world would poison her.

Her voice was soft and shy as she spoke to me, and I learned that she was commuting from
Brooklyn every single day. She looked tired.

The family owned a little cottage in town, about five minutes away from the estate on foot,
and it was currently rented by a massage therapist trying to make a buck over the summer
season. I offered him a gig in our office building in Manhattan, and he was out before the sun
set. I told Esme that the new “art girl” had to haul a lot of supplies back and forth, and that the
cottage had been abruptly vacated. I don’t know if my tone betrayed me, or if my mother’s
natural hospitality sealed the deal, but Bella was settled in the Hamptons by the next day. She
seemed happier.

Of course, I only knew this because I shamelessly spied on her every chance I could get. At
first, I thought I was merely fascinated by her passion, by the idea of being so engaged in
something that you could be content to crawl around on other people’s floors, scrub things,
and be covered in gooey substances in the name of art.

I quickly realized that it wasn’t the art or the work. It was Bella. Not Isabella, which I had
called her at first, but she quickly corrected me and said that she preferred Bella. The simple
version that was anything but simple in meaning.

I decided then to stay away from her. It would do nothing for her to know me, and it would be
very painful for me to know her.

No one else ever talked to her. I think my folks and Alice would have, but they pretty much
lived by the pool or even out of the country in the summer. I stayed in the States this year,
indoors, and worked in the city far less than usual.

My resolution to keep my distance did not last long. A few weeks after Bella started working,
Tanya Von Bitchface stepped on her hand as she dashed to some social event. Before I knew
that my feet had moved, I had helped Bella up and led her to the kitchen to find some ice.
Bella was hurt because she thought that Tanya hadn’t even noticed her presence among the
furniture; I knew better. Tanya was one of my despised harpies, unfortunately also my cousin,
and she enjoyed tormenting the “servants” as she called anyone who helped our family.

I held Bella’s hand in my own as I checked her delicate bones to see if they were damaged. I
had learned enough from Carlisle to do that much, but it was very difficult for me to keep my
cool as I ran my fingers along her porcelain skin.

“Thank you,” she whispered, her voice barely discernible in its shyness.

I looked up to gaze into her slightly shocked eyes. “No problem. Guess all those health and
safety lectures from my dad have paid off.”

She smiled.

I walked away immediately to fix her some tea. It was unwise to bask in her visible happiness
any longer.

“How do you take it?” I asked, my back turned.

“Umm, do you have honey?”

“Sure.” I stirred a generous teaspoon into the hot liquid and handed it to her. “I’m so sorry
about your hand. I don’t know how to make it up to you.”

“It wasn’t your fault, Mr. Cullen. I’m fine.”

“Edward. It’s just Edward. ‘Mr. Cullen’ is my father.” I joked.

“Okay. Thank you again, Edward.” She smiled for a second time and waved her teacup at me
before retreating into herself and returning to work.

I was lost the second she said my name.

For several months, I thought I might need therapy. I was turning into a stalker, or possibly
regressing into an adolescent state of “beautiful woman, can’t speak, must hide and pine.” Of
course, the real problem was that I had two dueling sides of myself that could not be
reconciled.

One wanted to find reasons to speak to Bella until I could muster the courage to ask her out
for coffee or something else normal and lame. The other wanted to keep her as far away as
possible from myself and my world, because it would only continue to injure her as Tanya

had. She was pure and good, two qualities that would surely be corrupted if she entered this
realm.

My first side, the selfish one, nearly won two months ago when my mother hosted a garden
party. She hated her own guests almost as much as I did, but they conveniently supported
dad’s research at the hospital, so they were necessary. Heidi and Jane Montague were two of
the nastiest bitches in existence, and they decided that it would be “fun” to take a self-guided
tour of my family home. They passed by Bella, and Jane’s gigantic dog-purse (complete with
naked, tiny dog) smacked into Bella’s ribcage, knocking her onto the ground.

She fell onto a small table of supplies, which was not dangerous in itself, but an open can of
paint solvent was shaken enough to spill its entire contents onto her body. I said something
profane as I watched her cover her face, and I dashed forward to play hero once again.

I could hear Heidi and Jane laughing as they left the room, but all I could see was Bella,
covered in something toxic. She frantically scrubbed at her face, but I grabbed her hands and
held them in mine.

“Did it get in your eyes?” I yelled at her.

A few tears escaped, and I was terrified that the solvent had seeped in.

“Bella, please! Is it in your eyes?”

She shook her head, and I saw that she didn’t want to open her mouth in case there was
solvent on her lips. Before she could argue, I scooped her up in my arms and madly dashed to
the nearest shower. It was in the gym, and I didn’t even bother asking before I threw us both
under the warm spray. She understood the urgency of the situation, and she let the water
cascade over her face until she was sure that nothing harmful remained.

I set her down, but her slim arms clung to my shirt as she steadied herself. I watched the beads
of water outline her features, peaceful for the moment.

It was over very quickly.

“You’re soaking wet,” she laughed.

“So I am.” I smiled back at her. “Let me get you something to wear.”

I left to change into some gym clothes that were lying around, and ran upstairs to fetch
something of Esme’s. She smiled widely at me as she left the house to walk to her cottage,
and I just barely stopped myself from following her.

There were so many more little moments in time where I would help her with something, but
I could never justify any sort of real conversation. We would chat, and that was all.

A loud crash from the bar breaks my reflection, and I force the painful musings from my mind
as I watch the guests enjoy themselves, or pretend to. I am dressed as a Venetian Carnivale
attendee, but no one knows this except for Bella and Alice. Bella because I caught her smiling
at my clownish choice, and Alice because she got me the costume in the first place. I made

sure that I would have a mask to cover my entire face; If I had to attend this farce, I would at
least be as invisible as possible.

I hear some harpies chattering behind me, and I laugh at their ridiculousness.

“Where is he? I’ve looked everywhere, but I can’t find him,” says one of the idiots.

“Darling Jane is probably forcing him to suck her blood,” the other giggles.

“Ooh, I’m going to slaughter that bitch. He’s mine, and I’ve told her that repeatedly.”

“Cougar,” voice number two accuses.

“'Course dear. Oh yes, something else happened. I brought two costumes today because one
makes my boobs look fabulous and the other makes my waist the size of Kate Moss'. I
couldn’t decide, but you see the result—”

“Hello boobs.”

“Damn right. Anyway, I left the other hanging about somewhere, but now it’s missing. I sent
Melinda to fetch it, and I know she didn’t steal it herself because I would see it in her face.
One of Esme’s damn servants must have taken it.”

“Maybe one of them thought it had been forgotten. Esme will probably know where it is.”

“Honey, Esme doesn’t have a clue what happens in her own house. She’s such an idiot that
the help runs everything.”

Even though I know it will break my cover, I can’t help myself. I spin around to face them.

“Good evening ladies. Might I interest you in one of my idiot mother’s crudités?”

They gape at me.

“Edward, darling!” One of them gushes disgustingly. “Of course we knew you were there!
We couldn’t think of a better way to force you out of your disguise, you naughty boy.”

“You’re lying. I know very well that your vapid mind had no idea I was here. For the record, I
have a few things to say. One, I loathe ‘darling Jane’ more than any human on Earth, and I
would rather be actually drinking her blood right now than talking to you. Two, you are no
longer welcome here, and if you don’t leave immediately, I will make a scene and force you
to do so. If you object in any way, I will have you banned from any society event for the next
five years, and you know very well that I can do it.”

And still they gape.

“Leave!” I practically bellow.

“What about my costume? I will press—”

“It will be returned to you. Leave.”

They leave.

I feel powerful in defending my mother. It would hurt her very badly to know that people are
speaking that way about her. I realize that it’s probably true that the “servants” run the
household, but only because mom lets them. She’s very kind to everyone.

I also realize in this moment, for the first time, that my entire family doesn’t fit here. It’s not
just me; I’m not the black sheep, the odd man out. Maybe we should all move. I bet a healthy
dose of Bella would help them out. No, not going there.

The drink in my hand is sadly empty, so I wander over to the outdoor bar that looks like it
should dispense gumdrops and fairy dust rather than whiskey sodas. Some Latin-looking guy
with a gaping fuchsia shirt hands me my liquid courage, and I lean against the corner of the
bar to people watch. I make sure that I’m in shadow, but I know it won’t be long before
someone figures out that it’s me. Bitchy McWitch will have blabbed about my costume before
she left.

I see my parents dancing to David Bowie. It’s disturbing and kind of awesome at the same
time. I wish I could ignore the world as easily as they do. Alice is busy flirting with the
recently-arrived son of our neighbor; his twin sister stands uneasily behind the obviously
entranced couple, and I almost find enough heart to go talk to her, but I don’t. I try to care. I
fail. The only person I want to talk to is Bella.

There are several women who have been staring for about a minute, and I can tell that they’re
trying to get the guts to approach me. I make it an easy choice by disappearing behind the bar
and scooting along the perimeter of the dance floor to the opposite edge of the party.

I settle into temporary safety again, and look up to see someone new come out of the house.
It’s a woman, and she glistens, all the soft lights of the party reflecting off of her silks and
satins and porcelain skin. She is tiny and beautiful, even though I can’t see her face because
it’s covered by an intricate full mask, like mine.

I decide to call her “Marie” because of her French Court costume. As I watch, I notice that
she seems nervous; she’s wringing her hands, encased in ivory gloves, and is apparently
shuffling her feet underneath her voluminous skirt. I also notice that I’m not the only one
who’s noticing.

Every man within sight of her is staring. There is something vulnerable yet determined about
her, and this persona does not match any of the usual women that attend these events. She is a
mystery.

She begins to walk, slowly, towards the table holding little dessert shots. I smile, because this
is so typically female. The people around her part like the Red Sea, but I don’t think she
notices. She’s eyeing the chocolate too intently.

She looks up, straight at me. She jumps back as if she’s been startled and stands completely
still. She is not a living Marie anymore, she is a statue, the moonlight turning the skin of her
chest into gleaming marble. She is a Cellini masterpiece.

I try to focus, and I see a glint of her eyes behind the mask. She blinks rapidly. I catch a
flicker of their color as a bit of light bleeds behind the mask. They are brown.

I have only seen such eyes on one person. She has eyes the color of molten chocolate, her
intelligence stirring the liquid like baker’s glaze until all I see is her soul.

Only Bella has those eyes. But this woman has those eyes. So...

I choke on the whiskey I don’t realize I’m holding in my mouth. I sputter, but quickly recover
to see her rapidly turning away.

“Marie!” I call out.

She stops, and looks over her shoulder at me.

“Yeah, you. Come here.” I try to speak in a calm tone, even though my heart is beating faster
than Seabiscuit could run.

She inches her way towards me, very hesitant.

I hold out one hand, palm up. “I won’t bite.”

She seems to make a decision, and confidently walks forward until she places her gloved hand
in mine.

I feel a thrill shoot through me as I realize that she doesn’t know that I know. Why is she
here? It seems so out of character for her to do this; the mysterious missing costume is
obviously adorning her body, and it is far more beautiful on her than it ever would have been
on its owner.

I think of what to say. “So, Marie, do I know you from somewhere?”

Cheesy, but I want to gauge her reaction, to see if she suspects.

She swallows. “Maybe. You know a lot of people.”

I laugh. She thinks it’s because of her obvious attempt to deflect my question, but I chuckle
because she has lowered her voice to an odd, sultry pitch that doesn’t suit her at all. It’s still
surprisingly sexy, but not my sweet Bella.

“True,” I acknowledge. “There’s something very familiar about you though. What might that
be?”

“Boobs,” she says.

I cough. “What?”

“I said ‘boobs.' I have some. All women do, and I’m quite sure you’re very familiar with
them.”

A slow grin takes over my face. Where did this saucy Bella come from? It occurs to me that
even though I’ve been stalking her for the better part of a year, I know nothing about the
details of her personality. I know that she’s sweet and patient and thoughtful, and deeply
intelligent, but she is a mystery beyond that. I love a mystery.

I decide to respond honestly, despite her teasing. I don’t want her to think I’m a womanizer or
something. “I think you’d be surprised that boobs and I have a very sporadic relationship.”

“Hmm.”

“Just ‘hmm'?”

“Yep.”

I hear the strings of the band warming up for another set. “Would you like to dance?”

The brown of her eyes darken as she thinks about her choice. The hand resting in mine
tightens.

“Yes,” she says as she leads me to the floor.

Begin the Beguine … begins. What an odd choice for this setting. I tug on her hand so that she
faces me again, and I take her into my arms. She doesn’t say anything, but her eyes bore into
me like lasers.

We move to the music, slowly, caught entirely in the moment. Surely, she must know that I
can see through her disguise. She must observe that I look at no one else this way. I think
myself obvious, but perhaps I’m not.

I brush my palm along her spine, and she shivers. She swings one arm around my neck and
threads her gloved fingers under my wig and through my hair. It’s ridiculous, but I don’t
laugh. She knows it’s me.

She does know, because I saw her looking at my costume in the basement earlier. She knows.

If she knows, and she headed straight for me when she braved the party, she came because of
me. I don’t understand this, but I don’t bother to try at the moment. I draw her as close to me
as possible, and she settles her head between my neck and shoulder. We sway to the lulling
clarinets and create a world of our own that does not contain other people.

The song fades, but we don’t move, waiting for the next to begin.

“You bitch!” A snarling voice shouts.

I look up to see Angelica, the woman I threw out for insulting my mother.

Bella spins out of my grasp and stares in horror at her accuser. I scowl and dart forward to
diffuse the situation. Angelica screams and threatens lawsuits, but I drag her by the collar into
the shadows and call security. She is taken away, none too quietly.

I turn back to the dance floor, but Bella is not there. I start to jog through the crowds,
searching for her, knowing in my heart that I won’t find her here again tonight.

I don’t, because she’s gone. I go into the house, and search every room. The costume she
wore is neatly hung in the downstairs hall bath, as if it had never moved.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

I am horribly, horribly grumpy. Beyond grumpy really, more like depressed with an extra
layer of animosity for the world at large. Not a good combination when you’re driving.

After Bella ran away from me last night, I searched the house and grounds for her with no
luck at all, so I headed to her bungalow. I didn’t know what I would say to her, but it would
have to include something trite like “I completely adore you, please don’t leave.”

The bungalow was empty. There was no sign of her anywhere; it was as if she had never lived
there at all. I sat in her empty space, hoping she would return, until the light of dawn made me
realize how much time I’d wasted doing nothing.

I returned home to change out of the ridiculous costume I’d forgotten about, and before my
thoughts were in any sort of order, I found myself in my car on the road to the city.

It takes me too long to get into Manhattan, and since I’m so impatient, I illegally park outside
the Museum of Fine Art where Bella works. I know that she rarely spends time in the building
since she’s contracted out for projects like my own, but the staff will surely know where she
is.

“I’m sorry Mr. Cullen, but Ms. Swan called this morning and arranged a sabbatical.” The
generic woman at the help desk says, hardly looking up from her zealous nail filing.

She clearly does not comprehend the heartbreak in this news. I struggle to avoid yelling in her
face, and grip the edge of the counter in front of her until my knuckles turn white.

“No, I’m sorry, I need to know where Ms. Swan is. I mean, I have more art that I need her to
restore. Did she say what her plans were at all?” I hope my tone isn’t too desperate.

“Sorry, no. She just said that she’d be back before Christmas. If she checks in, I’ll tell her to
give you a buzz.” And still she sounds bored. What is wrong with this bitch?

“No, don’t. It’s fine. I’ll call her when she’s free.” I turn to leave and don’t look back. I stuff
the expected parking ticket into my pocket and just sit in the car, head against the steering
wheel. Christmas is sixth months away.

I realize what my last phrase to the receptionist was, and quickly grab my phone off the seat
next to me. Why I hadn’t thought to call Bella in the first place was a mystery. Chock it up to
my state of crazy.

I hear the ring as I hold the phone to my ear, a good sign since she hasn’t turned it off. I plan
what to say when she answers and come up blank. If she intends on being away for six
months, she must be taking a big contract from another museum. She might even be leaving
the country. Bile rises into my throat until I taste acid.

She isn’t answering. I wait through all the painful rings until her voicemail kicks in.

“You have reached Isabella Swan at the Museum of Fine Art. Please leave your name and
number, and I’ll return your call as soon as possible.”

Her voice is detached and impersonal, and I realize that I am calling her work number. A
number she will probably not be using while away. I leave a message anyway, just in case.

“Bella…this is Edward Cullen. Um, you, there are some more things I need your help with, so
yeah, can you give me a call when you get this? Thanks.”

I sigh at the lameness of my voicemail skills.

As I sit in my car, wondering what to do, several choices make themselves apparent to me: I
can give up and let her go, I can become more like a stalker and continue to look for her even
though she obviously has no desire to see me, or I can find a way to indirectly make her return
on her own.

I momentarily allow myself to give up, because I know that I will feel the need to wallow at
some point anyway. Might as well get it over with now. I picture her face in my mind, but I
am dissatisfied with the limitations of my memory. I let the idea that I might not ever see her
again wash over me, and it feels like drowning. I want to run away from this possibility, but I
force myself to experience it, because I know that it will prevent me from giving up again.

She is everything I want. She is what I need, and I know from the party that she feels some
connection to me too. However shallow that is, I can live with it. I can make her happy.

The depression lifts and I abandon that first option entirely. I am too selfish to let her go, and I
am also too selfish to wait until she makes her way back to me. I will attempt to find her, but I
must stop myself before I become so obsessed that I could drive her away with my need. She
can’t see how much I want her because it would frighten her.

I pick my phone up again and search for Bella’s home address, but she isn’t listed. I do a
reverse number search, but come up empty again. The only thing I can do now really does
cross the creepy stalker line. Oh well, she won’t have to know about this.

I pull up my GPS app and hope that her work number is a cell. I tap my fingers while it
searches, and stop holding my breath when it beeps. Her phone is currently in the middle of
Brooklyn.

I smile as I start my car and head across the city, going way too fast. When I see Bella, I’ll
make up something about the Museum giving me her address.

It takes me over an hour to get to her street in Brooklyn, and I feel anxious and elated at the
same time. I pull up in front of an old, but nicely restored, apartment building and hope out of
my car to look at the name plates by the door.

She isn’t listed.

Maybe she was staying with a friend, or the apartment belonged to a roommate, or she was
subletting.

The wave of acid-despair creeps up on me, but I fight it off. Apparently, purging it is going to
be harder than I thought. I read the names again, just in case.

Roberts, Baranski, Takahama, Piedmont, Garcia, Blane, Whitlock, Titian, DeMilo….

Titian?

As in, the Renaissance Italian artist?

I’m not sure why Bella would go to such lengths to be anonymous, but I can feel it in my
bones that she lives here. The building, the neighborhood, it all looks like her, and what are
the chances that a random Titian lives at the address where her phone is?

I’m going to go with zero, because it makes me feel better. I ring the bell next to Titian’s
name and wait. There is no answer, so I try again. And again. I ask myself how brash I’m
feeling today.

Pretty damn brash.

Well ,okay then. I look up at the building, and it’s three stories. There are nine names by the
door, so it’s likely that there are three apartments on each floor. The name plaque is organized
in threes, so I ring the buzzer next to DeMilo and wait some more.

Nothing. I look at my watch and realize that it’s noon. And Saturday. No one will be home,
but seeing that I’m not a quitter at the moment according to my own resolution, I try
Whitlock.

“Yeah?” A male voice says, nasally because of the intercom. I’m not sure how to respond
because my plan was really crappy.

“Um, I’m from the Census Bureau. I have a few questions for you.” I rake my hands over my
face at my idiocy. What the hell am I going to do when I get inside?

“Get your ass away from my door!” the voice screams at me. “I sent in the form, and I ain’t
answering any more questions.”

Wow. Okay, different approach needed. “Sorry, yeah, that was a lie. It’s about a girl.”

“Everything’s always about a girl.”

You know, intercoms are not very conducive to conversation. “I need to speak to Miss Swan,
and she’s not answering.”

There is a long pause. “Who the hell are you? There’s no Bella here.”

I literally jump and fist pump. She does live here!

“I never said her name was Bella. I said ‘Miss Swan.’” I am gleeful to a creepy degree.

Another pause. “Shit.”

“Yeah, damn right. You’re not very good at this are you?” I laugh.

“Nope. That doesn’t change anything. Why should I keep talking to you when I don’t even
know why you want to talk my girl, Bella.”

His girl? Hell no.

“What, are you her boyfriend or something?” I ask with no enthusiasm. God, what if he was?
All this time I’d assumed that Bella wasn’t with anyone. I can’t stomach the idea of being
wrong, and I hold onto the way she behaved with me at the party.

“Nope. Are you her boyfriend or something?”

I breathe again, the flood of air almost painful. I take too long to answer, and the intercom
sounds again.

“Dude, just tell me your name and I might let you in.”

“Why?” I can’t stop myself from blowing my own chances.

“There’s one name you can have if you want to come in, but that’s it,” he says.

“Sorry man, but this is really weird. What are you getting at?”

“I’m sayin’ that if your name is the right one, I’ll let you come upstairs and talk to me.” He
sounded exasperated.

“I don’t want to talk to you, I want to talk to Bella.” Now I’m getting annoyed.

“Tough nut a-hole. She’s not here, but I might be willing to lend some assistance if you stop
being such a douchebag.”

“Fine, I’m Edward Cullen. Happy now?”

The voice chuckles. “Well, you got the right name, but you’re still a douchebag. I don’t know
if I want to deal with you anymore.”

“Listen, asshole. I need to see Bella. You don’t even get it, I just need to know where she is.”

“Fine, fine. I’m on three. Get your ass up here, but if you fuck with me I’m gonna kick your
douchbaggery to Timbuktu.”

So, is this guy some old fogey with a penchant for cussing? Who says that anymore?

The door buzzer alerts me that I have just a few seconds to get inside, so I dash in and upstairs
in a flash. I set foot on the landing to see a guy about my age leaning in a doorway. He’s
wearing a kaftan and smoking a pipe, and he has a cat draped around his shoulders.

This is Brooklyn after all, so I’m not really that surprised.

I don’t speak to him right away, because I am distracted by the door across from him. It’s
intricately painted in a tromp l’oeil style to resemble a window looking out on the street
below; it captures exactly the images I saw outside. One side of the doorframe is painted like
a street sign, stretching across the top and into the “window”. It has three plates saying
London, Tokyo, and Swan pointing in the right directions.

My chest constricts painfully at the sight, remembering how much she loves her art. She spent
numerous hours turning a simple door into something personal and wonderful.

There are fingers being snapped in my face, and I turn an angry eye towards Whitlock.

“Wake up from the wallow, dude. Trust me. Come have a smoke,” he offers and disappears
into his apartment.

I follow him, because what else am I supposed to do?

He sits cross-legged on a gigantic purple couch, and lights a pipe for me. I shake my head, but
he looks pissed so I take a few quick puffs of appeasement.

He holds out his hand. “I’m Jasper, and this is Titian.”

I take his hand, but I’m looking at the cat. I start to grin at Bella’s sense of humor.

He knows what I’m smiling about. “Yeah, this is her cat. I take care of him when she’s gone,
and since he’s in her apartment more than she is, she thought it was funny to put his name on
the door.”

Titian jumps off Jasper’s shoulder and onto the coffee table, more smoking pipes lying
dangerously close to his fur. He stares at me.

“He wants you to sit down,” Jasper says with an implied “duh”.

I sit.

Titian leaps onto my lap and puts his front paws on my chest. His nose is practically touching
mine, and his eyes bore straight into me. They are brown like Bella’s which is seriously
unnerving. He leaves as abruptly as he came, and wanders off somewhere.

I hear Jasper exhale. “That’s good. He likes you.”

“How do you know?” I don’t know why it’s important that Bella’s cat approves of me. Hell,
yeah I do, but it’s stupid.

“Something important would be gouged out by now if he didn’t. So, what’s up with you?”

What. The. Hell. “Oh, nothing much,” I snidely throw back at him. “What’s up with you?”

He grins at me. “You got it bad, eh?”

“What are you talking about? Can we just get to the point, please?”

“And the point is?” He puffs away at his pipe.

“I need to find Bella, and you said you can help. If you can’t, fine, but please tell me so I can
get the hell on my way.” I am growing unbearably impatient. Every hour that passes means
that she slips further away from me.

“Sure, man, sure. Just tell me why you want to see her, and I’ll see what I can do.”

Shit. There’s no bs-ing this guy either. I magically understand his previous random question. I
don’t know how to phrase anything anymore, so I decide to go with the truth. He might be
strange as hell, but he seems nice enough.

“I got it bad.”

He grins at me. “Sweet!”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“Well, B’s been moanin’ and groanin’ for months about you, so I figure it’s a good thing that
she’s giving you a bit of hell, eh?”

Is he Canadian? And Bella’s been talking about me?

I don’t realize that I’ve spoken both those questions aloud until he responds.

“Nope, and B hasn’t said anything, specifically, about you per se. But she’s been a real bitch,
and she’s never a bitch so I knew something was up with her. She mentioned you a couple
times as the guy who hired her, but I think she likes you too.”

“Why would you admit that to me? If you’re messing with me about this, you’re the one
who’s gonna end up in Timbuktu.” I am angry. I can’t let his words sink in if they’re false.

He laughs. “No worries. She’d kill me if she knew I was talking to you at all. I’ve known B
for years, and she’s been really upset that her contract with you was ending.”

“How do you even know this? And when did you talk to her?” I am absurdly hanging on his
every word.

“Just ‘cause she’s been living in your digs doesn’t mean she can’t pick up a phone and call
me. I’m her bff, bozo.”

Oh. So he’s gay.

“Nope,” he says, smugly. I really need a filter.

“Look, o wise one, tell me what to do. Please?” I practically beg.

He leans forward, suddenly serious. “Listen, a couple of things. One, I said I think she likes
you because she doesn’t really act all giddy and mopey and shit, and she was all that these
past few months. And also, she might have called me in the middle of the night a few weeks
ago and said something like ‘how do you stop yourself from falling for your boss?’ so that
gave me a clue.”

I almost speak, but I don’t because the acid in my chest has been replaced by chocolate.

“Two, she’s the fucking nicest girl anyone’s ever met, ever, so if you fuck with her I will kill
you.”

A chill literally crawls up my spine and chases the chocolate away. I have no doubt that this
Kaftan-wearing, smoking, hippie-man means every single word. I don’t know how to express
what I feel, how I can convince him that I only want to make Bella happy.

I take a deep breath. “She is my world now.”

Jasper grins again, and his swingy moods make me want to punch him in the face.

“Well, shit, that’s good news. But why the hell didn’t you say anything to her?”

He doesn’t seem mad, just curious. “I didn’t know how. There have been a lot of . . .
difficulties. Like you said, I hired her. It’s very unprofessional and I didn’t want to get her in
trouble with the museum if we were involved. She’s also been working in my parents’ house,
around my family all the time, and their house guests are not exactly nice to people they
consider ‘lower’ than them.”

“Yeah, she mentioned some stuff about that. She said you were always helping her out when
she hurt herself, too. I like that since I wasn’t there myself.” Jasper seems satisfied so far.

“Then there’s the fact I’ve spent over a month trying to find a way to say something to her. I
just couldn’t figure it out, and then she sneaks into the party last night, and she heads right for
me. I didn’t even remember how to speak English.” I sigh. It’s becoming a habit.

“She told me about that too.”

“When?” I almost shout at him.

He looks nervous all of a sudden. “Um, she showed up last night around three, and was kind
of in hysterics. Okay, maybe not that bad, but she was really upset. She told me what she did
and how she thought it was a horrible mistake.”

“Why would she think that? The only mistake was that she ran away from me!”

“Yeah, um, maybe ‘cause you called her Marie. She thought you didn’t know who she was.”

“She was dressed as Marie Antoinette! It was a game!” I am shouting now.

“Well, duh, but try telling Bella that. I did try, and it didn’t turn out so well. She wouldn’t
believe me that you knew who she was, and she thought that you thought you were flirting
with a random guest.”

“That’s idiotic! And how did you know that I knew it was her?” I don’t feel like I’m making
sense at all anymore.

“Dude, B might be clean up real nice out of her overalls, but she can’t hide her eyes man.
Anybody who’d ever talked to her would recognize those eyes.”

It was true. I think about her eyes for a moment before feeling anger rise in me.

“What the hell do you mean by ‘cleans up nice’? She’s always gorgeous,” I shout at him

He blinks in surprise, then chuckles in a really aggravating way. “Dude, you do have it bad if
you can see what she really looks like under all that paint and those hick overalls. Her fashion
is atrocious.”

I stand up. “No, dude, you are clearly just blind and an idiot. And who are you to criticize?
You’re wearing a kaftan!”

“Yep. It’s a fucking sweet kaftan. Nice ventilation.” He puffs away as if I wasn’t about to slap
his smug face.

I sigh and sit down again, because there’s really no point in wasting my energy on this guy.

I run my hands through my hair. “Where is she, Jasper?”

He sighs. Not good. “I’m dunno, man. She packed up a carry-on and left around nine. She
didn’t tell me where she was going.”

He looks apologetic, but I am too wound up to care. I stand up, again, and pace manically.
Titian reappears and randomly jumps into my arms, the expectation of being caught clearly on
his face. I hold him and continue to pace, but I take comfort in his presence, knowing that
Bella has held him and run her fingers through his fur. He starts to purr, and it makes me
happy.

Jasper holds up a piece of nasty looking meat. “Here, he likes this.”

I don’t want to touch it. “What is it?”

“Prosciutto.”

Of course. Bella’s cat likes imported Italian ham. I’m calmer as I give the cat its treat. “What
do I do?”

He shrugs his shoulders. Moron.

The calm doesn’t last. “How the hell am I supposed to tell her that I’m in love with her if I
don’t know where she is?” It comes out like a petulant child’s tantrum.

There is silence, so I look at Jasper again. His eyes are wide, and the pipe hangs limply in his
hand.

“Dude,” he says, carrying out the “u” way too long.

“What.” It’s not a question.

“Really? Like, you actually love her?”

Haven’t I made myself plain? The smoke must be impeding his thinking. “What the hell did
you think ‘got it bad’ meant? That I had a rash?”

“Do you?”

“Do I what?”

“Have a rash?”

Titian senses my impending explosion and jumps out of my arms to crouch behind a chair.
Jasper looks like he wants to do the same.

“Sorry, dude. I just wasn’t expecting that.” He holds up his hands in surrender.

“Yeah, well me neither.”

He looks at me weirdly for a minute, then gets up to go to the door. “Follow me.”

He grabs a key that hangs by the door, and heads out into the hallway. When I catch up to
him, he’s opening Bella’s door. He goes in and disappears around a corner, but I hesitate. I
feel like an intruder, entering her apartment without her permission like this. It’s not very

nice, but the nice part of me is overruled by the desperate part of me, so I step across the
threshold into her world.

It’s cluttered and eclectic, art supplies strewn everywhere. It’s not dirty though, just a
hodgepodge of interesting objects. I’m fascinated by everything that surrounds me, but I have
no time to look more deeply.

Jasper is in the tiny kitchen, thumbing through a box of paper scraps. I open my mouth to ask
what he’s doing, but he beats me to it.

“This is the box where Bella keeps her bucket list, but it’s not a list, it’s just notes. I have one
too. It’s just a thing we do, and then we compare every once in a while. When I get bored, I
pull a scrap out and go do it. Bella’s never bored, so she only looks in her box when she’s
stressed. I think I’ll know if something’s missing.”

This tiny ray of hope is enough to make me smile again.

Jasper goes through all the papers, then replaces them and closes the box. “Well, I don’t know
if she’s put anything new in, ‘cause I haven’t seen this for like, two months, but I do know
that two pieces are gone.”

He doesn’t elaborate.

“Well? What are they?”

“Oh. Yeah, right. One is the Uffizi. That one’s always there; she’ll go when she can, then she
just puts the paper back in when she gets home. The other’s been in there for a long time,
since we first started this shit. It just says ‘The Ever-Fixed Mark”. That’s it. I don’t even
know what she means by it.”

“So you think she’s in Italy?” I don’t know whether to feel elated that I some idea where she
might be, or depressed that she fled to another continent because of me.

“Probably. It’s my best guess since the paper’s gone.” Jasper shrugs his shoulders.

I take my phone out and search for the phrase on the other paper. The first result lists
Shakespeare’s Sonnet 116, and I quickly read the whole thing. I remember it now, from some
literature class. I recall that my teacher at the time was a youngish woman who blubbered
non-stop about this particular sonnet, but I dismissed it as trite and too idealistic to reflect
reality.

I misunderstood it before. My chest constricts as I read the words with an altered mind. I feel
that it was written exactly for me, and for Bella, and I see why it has remained so important
and why people blubber over it. I focus on the line of warning, that love does not bend when
its object is removed.

I will not bend.

I silently hand my phone to Jasper, and I can see his surprise as he realizes what Bella’s paper
refers to.

“So, what, you think she’s gone to England or something?” he asks.

“I have no idea. I don’t think the sonnets are on display anywhere, but even if they are, why
would she wait this long to go see them? She could’ve gone on the way to the Uffizi before.”
I am becoming antsy.

“Hmm. I don’t know, dude. Your guess is as good as mine in this case. She never told me
what it meant to her.

I grab my phone back hastily, muttering a ‘sorry’ to avoid being more rude than I already am.

“Whatcha doin’?”

“Getting a ticket to Italy.”

He is silent, so I pause to see his reaction.

“Not a good idea?” I ask.

“I dunno. Even after years of knowing Bella, there are still some things I can’t figure out
about her. She might think it’s awesome that you’d fly all the way out there to see her, but
then again she might punch you in the face. Who knows?”

“I guess I’ll find out in person. I don’t know what else to do at the moment.”

“Good luck, man. Say hi to B if you find her.”

I look up at Jasper. He’s a truly bizarre individual, but I see that he cares about Bella, and he’s
helped me a lot.

“You’re a good friend to her. Thanks.” It’s the best compliment I’m going to come up with.

“Np, dude. See ya around.” He salutes me as I practically dash out the door and down to my
car.

I’ve booked a flight to Florence that leaves in four hours, so I don’t have enough time to go
home and pack anything. I stop quickly at the office and retrieve some extra clothes I keep
there, and I leave my car in the garage, catching a taxi to JFK. I buy a load of massively
overpriced crap at the airport to tide me over, and pace the terminal until boarding.

The flight to Italy is awful. All the confidence I gained with Jasper has dissipated. I have no
plan, and I have nothing to say to Bella that will make any sense. I realize that I should
probably have thought this through more, because she will likely think I’m a psycho stalker if
I just show up in her face in a foreign country.

Oh well. Nothing to do about it now, and I know very well that once the plane lands, the last
thing I’m going to do is turn back around without at least trying to find her.

I reach Florence in one piece, on the outside at least, and hail a taxi to . . .

Hmm. I have no idea where to go or where Bella might choose to stay. Jasper might know,
but in my rush I failed to get his number. I could try information, but I don’t feel patient
enough to wait, so I make my way to a familiar hotel and check in.

I don’t realize what time it is until the desk clerk asks if I would like to store my bag until
two. Otherwise, I will have to pay for an extra day. I look at the clock above reception, and
I’m shocked that it’s seven in the morning. I haven’t slept at all, not even on the plane.

“What time does the Uffizi open?” I ask the clerk.

“8:15, sir.”

I hand over my bag to store, and head out into the city. I know where the gallery is located
because I’ve been here before, and I find a café across from it so I can grab something to eat.
I’m dead tired, but the cappuccino and pastry somewhat revives me.

I’m at the gallery entrance at exactly 8:15, and I once again run into a brick wall. The place is
huge, and I have no idea where Bella might like to spend time. Since she’s been here several
times, she would head for her favorites, or something relevant to a current project. I think
back on my conversations with her, and the one with Jasper.

It’s the cat who leads me in the right direction. I grab a map and find where Tiziano
Vecellio’s works are displayed, and I have to keep myself from running.

There is a conveniently located bench in the Titian gallery, in a corner of one end where I can
see both entrances. I park myself there and wait.

I examine the face of every female that wanders along the walls of paintings. I jump when a
very loud bell sounds and realize that it’s signaling the gallery’s closing.

I have spent almost eleven hours sitting on that bench. Tomorrow, I will have to plan for some
breaks. A few minutes here and there won’t make me miss her if she comes in. She won’t be
in a hurry, so I can afford to find a bathroom and something to eat.

I am completely spent, and grab some sort of pizza from a place by my hotel. I scarf down
four or five pieces, and once I’ve reached my hotel room, I collapse into oblivion.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

It’s my fifth day in Italy. I apparently forgot to tell anyone that I was taking a trip, so I have
received several angry phone calls from my family. I calmed my parents easily enough, but
Alice knew that something was wrong. Against my will, I ended up telling her about Bella
and why I was sitting on a bench in the Uffizi.

Being Alice, she said she already knew that I was in love with Bella and was just waiting for
me to grow a pair. Such a little liar.

I shift uncomfortably on the seat, even though it’s cushioned, and continue to sketch on the
pad I purchased. I was getting weird looks from the security guards on the second day, so I

decided to fake being an artist. I haven’t bothered to shave, so they don’t really question me
because I sort of look the part.

The bench cushion also has an ass-shaped dent in it. I don’t allow my frustration to consume
me, even though I’m about to combust. Bella has not appeared even once, and I’m about to
give up.

These endless hours of sitting and waiting have clarified my mind. I see that my own desire to
love Bella may not be the right thing for her. If it’s this hard to find her, because she wants to
avoid me that badly, then I can’t be right for her. The sonnet’s line mocks my initial
understanding. I was exactly right about it, but my application was so very, very wrong.

Love does not bend when its object is removed, but it never said anything about the object
being removed by itself. The remover to remove. I do not bend, but Bella has removed herself
from me, and I suffer alone. At this moment, I just want to go home and let the sadness take
me for awhile.

I force myself to get up and leave the gallery before the closing bell. I pack my things at the
hotel, and I book a flight back to New York.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

I am clearly not the same as I used to be, all of a month ago. If I was, my family would not
feel the need to constantly remind me that I’m different. I’m snappy and snide. I don’t go to
any events because they suck ass.

I basically hate everything. Alice tries to comfort me, but I push her away until she hits me.

“Idiot, idiot, idiot!” she yells between punches to my person. “You’re not a quitter, and you’re
just quitting. You gave up on her! How could you do that?”

Wow, she’s really mad. “Ali, there’s no point. She hasn’t come back, and she doesn’t want
me. How much more obvious can that be?”

“It’s not obvious at all! A girl just doesn’t sneak into a party and all that if she doesn’t have a
real reason. Bella isn’t one for games. She went because of you, and you gave up after, like, a
week.”

“You don’t know her at all. You never even talked to her, so how would you know why she
does things?” I am exasperated that my sister will not leave me alone.

“I know lots of things, and I did talk to her. A little bit. And I’m a girl, and I know stuff.”

“Wow, that’s a really solid argument you’ve got there.”

“Why don’t you call that Jasper guy? You didn’t even tell him that Bella wasn’t in Italy.
Maybe he’s heard from her by now.” She pouts at me.

“I’m quite sure that he has heard from her. He’s her best friend, and as such, he would tell her
that I went stalking after her like a moron. She knows by now, and she still doesn’t want to
see me, so what does that tell you?” I huff around, disgusted with my surroundings.

“Oh. I hadn’t thought of that.” She looked repentant. “Maybe—“

“No ‘maybes,’ Alice! I’m done with maybes and possiblys and all other ridiculous hopes. I’m
done.” My hands rake through my hair painfully.

For once, she actually looks like she understands. “I just don’t see how she couldn’t love you,
Edward. You’re the best.”

She is very quiet, and I’m not mad at her anymore. How could I be?

“It’s okay, Alice, I’ll survive.” I say that to convince her, but I’m not sure how I plan on
making it true.

She leaves me alone for awhile, and I think about my future. You know, the one with the giant
gaping hole where Bella was supposed to be. I think about the other things that I used to want,
like a cottage and the chance to write. And a burly dog.

I can still have those things.

I send my resignation letter to the office. I deal with the shocked phone calls and enraged
demands, and I hang up on most of them.

I get a hefty Saint Bernard from the shelter whose name is Ringo. That just leaves the cottage.
I’m already living in a sort of bungalow, but it’s not the same. I don’t want to be on my
parents’ property anymore, with reminders of her everywhere.

I drive around, looking for something interesting. I don’t want to be too far from my family,
but I need to start over. I find myself going east, and I end up in Montauk. The lake is
beautiful, and there are tons of tiny cottages lined up on the shores. Ringo jumps out of the car
and heads straight for a yard that has a real estate sign on the fence.

I guess my choice is made. I have the papers signed and done in less than three days.

My mom cries when I pack up to leave, but Alice seems to understand. It’s a little ridiculous
really, since I’m only forty minutes away, and I was never around the house much to begin
with.

I settle into the cottage easily. Too easily, because I’m forcing myself to be happy. I haven’t
seen Bella for seven weeks. It feels like seven years.

The lakeshore is right out my back door, and I’ve taken to spending my days writing random
crap while the world goes by. Ringo starts to bark manically and almost pulls his tether out of
the ground beside me when a cat runs by. I do a double-take because I could swear that cat
looks just like Titian, but I quickly insult myself enough to forget it. I’ve only seen that damn
cat once, and I know it’s not him.

I write some more crap. It’s not too bad actually, so I send it to some of the right people. Who
knows?

My phone rings on week nine, and it’s a magazine that wants to publish the little article I
wrote on visiting the Uffizi. I said some shit about parking yourself on a single bench to really
get the feel of the place and how it was cathartic. They want me to come sign the contract in
the city, so I get up early one morning and make the long trip in. I hate the city now.

The pointless meeting that could have easily been conducted via phone and fax concludes
quickly, and I groan at the wasted gas and time. I don’t really know what I’m doing when I
find myself unnecessarily driving through Brooklyn.

Hell. Yeah, I do. I’m so preoccupied with Bella, even now, that I unerringly pull up in front of
her building and stare.

All the things that have happened surge through me, and being here again makes me feel a
fresh wave of pain over losing her. Maybe I should try just once more. Even if she rejects me,
at least she’ll know how I feel. That has to be better than this, right?

I walk up to the door again and glance at the name plates.

Roberts, Baranski, Takahama, Piedmont, Garcia, Blane, Whitlock, Clearwater, DeMilo….

The long-suppressed acid burns through me. She moved. Because of me.

She hates me.

I hate me. How did it come to this? What did I do? I have to know what I did.

I buzz Whitlock, hoping with everything I have that he’s home.

The intercom’s static sounds, and it’s the best noise I’ve ever heard.

“’Sup.”

I clear my throat. “Um, hi, Jasper. It’s Edward Cullen.”

Silence. “Give me five minutes, then I’ll buzz you up.”

Okay. He’s probably naked or something. I hope he doesn’t have someone up there with him,
because I really don’t want anyone to overhear my emotional meltdown.

The five minutes pass more slowly than I think possible. Finally, the door buzzer sounds, and
I run up the stairs. I know that she’s gone, but the sight of this hallway without her door is
shocking. It’s gone, and the frame too. There is a plain, dime-a-dozen door in its place, with
no character at all.

Jasper’s door is open, and he’s on his cell. He hits the end button and sets it back down on a
table, smiling at me.

I can’t find a smile in return, but I’m glad to see that he doesn’t hate me. Whatever I did was
done to Bella alone. He’s wearing a different kaftan this time, but everything else is the same.

“Yo, bro. Where the fuck have you been?”

“Nice to see you too. I’ve been . . . places.”

“Douchebag.”

“Asshole.”

“Sweet. Whatcha want?” He is still casual. His joviality would piss me off if I had the energy.

“I just, I wanted to… I don’t know. I didn’t plan on being here.” Wow, I don’t even have the
ability to articulate words anymore.

“Son, drop the bullshit and let me tell you why you’re here, ‘cause you already know it
anyway. You want to know if I’ve heard from, seen, talked to, whatever, about Bella, and
you’re all depressed because she moved. Am I right?”

“Yeah.” I press my knuckles into my temples, because it feels damn good.

“You want to know where she is?”

I wait to answer, because I’m suddenly unsure. “I don’t know.”

“Then what the hell are you doin’ here?”

I shrug.

“Do you not know because you want to know where she is, but you don’t want to see her, or
because you want to know where she is, and you do want to see her?”

What? I think my raised eyebrows ask that question for me.

“Look, dude, what do you want?” Jasper is being mean. And I am being a pansy
kindergartner.

Everything is serious to me, but I feel more serious now than ever. “I want to see her.”

“So why did you stop looking? You didn’t even call me.” He sounds whiny now. Weird dude.

“You didn’t give me your number.”

He looks puzzled. “Oh, that’s right. Answer the first thing.”

“She doesn’t want to see me, and I got tired of fooling myself.”

“Well, you went to Italy, right?”

Why is he asking me things he already knows? “Yeah, idiot, right after I left here.”

“What did you do there?”

“What is this, interrogation day?” I’m growing angrier than I’ve been since… I spoke with
Jasper the first time. Hmm.

“Just answer, douchebag.”

“Fine, you wanna you know what I did? You want me to humiliate myself in front of you? I
sat on a bench in the fucking Uffizi for five days straight. I hardly slept, I lost weight because
I forgot to eat, and I then I came home because the pain was tearing me in half. Are you
happy now? She hates me, and I want to kill you.”

He grins at me. “So, you would want to see her but you think she hates you. That right?”

“Just about, yeah.”

“Why would she hate you?”

“I have no fucking idea! That’s why I’m here. I thought you could enlighten me, but you’re
clearly having too much fun ripping the bandages of my wounds.” I really hate this guy.

No, I don’t, but I want to.

“She doesn’t hate you.”

“How the hell do you know that? Why else would she move?”

“I know because I know, and she moved because she wanted to. She hasn’t liked the city for
awhile now, and she thought it was time to get out.”

This news makes me pause in my angry fit. It’s not because of me? Still, it changes little.

“Thanks, but it still doesn’t help much. Even if she doesn’t hate me, she doesn’t want to see
me.”

He folds his hands together in front of him in a scholarly manner. “So let’s hypothesize that
she doesn’t dislike you, and that you knew where she was. What would you do?”

“I would go see her.” I don’t hesitate this time.

“Why?”

“What is the deal here? I don’t even know why I’m still talking to you.” I throw my hands up.

He doesn’t speak, but his features take on a murderous glare. Although I would never admit
this to anyone, he still scares me a little. I decide to answer because I don’t want to die.

“Because I want to explain that I knew it was her at the party.”

“Why does she need to know that?” he persists.

“Because I need her to know that I’m not some kind of manwhore, and that I’m not creepy,
and I’m not a stalker.”

“You’re kind of a stalker.” He chuckles.

“Yeah, well, not the bad kind.”

“Why do you care what she thinks of you?”

“Because I need her to want to see me again.”

“Why?”

“Because I need her.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m in love with her! I already told you that. Why are you doing this? It fucking
hurts.” I’m yelling and pacing, and I hear a weird gasp from somewhere. It might have been
me, but I don’t recall making any noise. “I’m going completely insane.”

Jasper is silent, but he’s rocking back and forth on his heels, looking gleeful.

“What, no more questions?” I spit out at him.

“Nope. Well, maybe one more. What have you been doing since you came back?”

I almost laugh, but it comes out more like a snort. “Moping. Feeling sorry for myself. Writing
a shitty article. I got a dog and moved to Montauk.”

He gapes at me, then bursts out into maniacal laughter. He collapses onto his purple sofa and
clutches his torso.

“What the hell?”

He chokes. “That is priceless shit my, friend! You have no idea.”

“Well thanks. Glad that my life is entertaining for you.”

He suddenly snaps out of it and grabs my shoulders. “Dude, what kind of dog? What’s its
name?”

“Ringo the Saint Bernard. Don’t ask; I didn’t name him. Why?”

“No reason. None at all. Go home.”

Well, that was abrupt.

“What?”

“Go home. Not kidding. Go home, like, right now. Speed. Go home.”

He doesn’t look angry, like he’s kicking me out. He looks happy and amused. I stay still and
glare at him.

“Fuck, dude! Go home! Trust me.” He winks and shoves me out the door, locking it behind
me without another word. I can still hear him laughing inside.

I don’t have any idea what that was all about, but I feel infected by his enthusiasm, so I dash
back to my car and speed quite heavily on the freeway back to Montauk.

I’m almost out of gas by the time I pull into my tiny garage. I hear Ringo going nuts in the
back, probably over that damn cat.

Speak of the devil. A feline-shaped creature darts around the side of my cottage and skids past
me. Just as quickly, it turns around and looks me in the eye. I’ve seen those eyes before.

No, it can’t possibly be her cat. I’m hallucinating.

There is a part of me that feels sure of what I see, but it’s simply not possible. I make my way
around back to see if Ringo is okay. He’s quiet now, but that could be because he’s choking
himself on something stupid.

Ringo isn’t choking. He’s parked in front of someone who is sitting on my Adirondack chair,
the one I’ve been writing in. I can’t see who it is because Ringo is gigantic and obese.

My feet move me forward a little, but my brain has jumped ahead. I’m beginning to piece
things together. The cat, Jasper’s questions…

He was on the phone when I came in, and I thought he’d hung up… there was that weird gasp
I heard... he thought my move to Montauk was hilarious.

I see the glistening sheen of brown hair hidden behind Ringo’s head.

I move sideways so I can see what I need to see.

Bella is there, her arms wrapped around my dog and her head buried in his fur. She looks up
at me with her fathomless eyes. Trails of tears wash down her face and into the hole in my
chest, filling it up.

She was on the phone. That fucker set me up. That’s why he wanted me to wait five minutes,
so he could get her on the phone and make me confess. I think I might love that guy.

Bella looks like she’s trying to say something, but I can’t let her. I have to do this. I kneel
down into the grass beside her. I want to speak, but I am momentarily stunned.

She is so beautiful.

I forge ahead. “Bella, I love you so much it burns me from the inside out. I’m so sorry that it
took this long to find you and that I didn’t make it known before you left. That you think I
didn’t care hurts because I failed you. I will never fail you again. You are everything.”

My fingers trail across her face. She lets go of Ringo, and he bounds away somewhere. She
pulls something from the pocket of her overalls and places it in my hand.

It’s a yellowed piece of notebook paper. It’s the one that says “The Ever-Fixed Mark.” I look
into her eyes, silently asking why.

She draws in a deep breath. “This was the first thing I put in my bucket box. That sonnet
explains love to me, and I vowed to myself that I would only take it out when I really fell in
love with someone.”

It takes me a minute to understand what she’s saying. She sees when it becomes clear and
takes my face between her small hands.

“I’m sorry I ran from you.” Tears start to escape her eyes again. I wipe them away with my
thumbs.

“Shh, love. Don’t cry. You’re here now.” I am close enough to claim her lips, but I stop
myself. This gives me time to wonder. “How are you here, by the way?”

She smiles a little and leans into my hand. “I live here now.”

At my house? I can handle that.

She continues, “I loved my bungalow, but I couldn’t afford to move to the Hamptons, so I
came here.”

This is all well and good, but there are more important things I have to know. “I don’t care
about what’s happened, but please tell me what I did wrong.”

“You did nothing wrong. I did everything wrong, and I didn’t let myself see that you could
want me.” She smiles wider.

“I should have just told you, right away, that I’ve never wanted anything as much as I want
you.” I lament my silence deeply.

“Maybe. I’m kind of glad things happened the way they did. I might never have believed you
otherwise.”

I think about this. “Why do you believe me now?”

She raises one eyebrow at me.

“Oh. Yeah, I guess it’s kind of hard to doubt. Jasper was on the phone with you, wasn’t he?”

“Yes. He tried to tell me about you whenever I called, but I wouldn’t listen to him. It hurt too
much to know that I could have had you, but I screwed up too badly.” She closes her eyes.

“No, Bella, never. I’ve been waiting for you my whole life. You couldn’t do anything to drive
me away. I’m just surprised you don’t think I’m a psycho.” I laugh.

“I think you’re the sweetest person I’ve ever known. When I heard what you said to Jazz, it
was like my heart was being stitched up. That you would have such persistence…how could I
doubt you ever again?”

My control is almost gone, but there is just one more thing. “Did you go to Italy?”

Her lightness turns into weeping, and she nods her head in affirmation. “Yes! I was there for
two weeks. I was at the Accademia.”

She was there, within arm’s reach of me. I was so weak to succumb to the pain. “Did you go
to the Uffizi at all?”

“I was in the Caravaggio room for a day. It was while you were there.” She buries her face in
her hands.

“I was right above you, that whole day. I shouldn’t have assumed where you’d be; I should
have waited at the entrance.”

“No, Edward. I wasn’t ready to see you. I’m sorry you wasted so much time.”

“I wasted nothing. I don’t regret one second that I spent looking for you. It brought me here,
and now you’re here too, and everything is perfect.”

We both wipe her tears away, and she catches one on my cheek. I didn’t know it fell. I lean
forward to touch my forehead to hers, but it’s not enough.

“Promise me you won’t leave me again. Please, Bella,” I beg.

I feel her breath on my face, sweet as honey. “Never. There isn’t anywhere else I want to be.
I’m so in love with you it might kill me to leave.”

Every bit of pain and joy within me rises to the surface as I draw her into my arms. Our lips
fuse together in a desperate attempt to forget our separation, and it’s shattering.

She winds her hands in my hair and drops out of the chair to straddle me as I kneel on the cool
grass. I can’t get close enough to her, and I hope I don’t cause her pain as I press her against
my body.

I feel like I’m devouring her, and I slow myself so that she has time to retreat. I feel her
mumble a complaint before she sucks my bottom lip between her teeth, and I’m gone. Our
tongues tangle together forcefully. I can hardly breathe, but at the moment, I don’t care if my
lungs explode.

She pushes me, and I fall onto my back. My arms never let her go, so she falls too and lays
her full weight on me. Her mouth claims mine again, but the buttons of her overalls dig into
my chest, which actually hurts like hell. I quickly undo the straps, hoping she doesn’t
misunderstand.

She responds by snaking her hands under my tee shirt and practically ripping it off over my
head. I hadn’t allowed myself to think of Bella as a seductress. I was too caught up in being in
love with her, but she is full of fire, and I gladly burn in her flame.

I sit up, bringing our bodies as close as they can get in this position. My palms skate along her
supple body, exploring her soft skin and lovely curves. They settle in the back pockets of her
overalls, and she utters a cry of pleasure when she feels how badly I want her.

She is out of breath, so she settles for soft kisses along my jaw and down my neck. She sucks
my flesh at the juncture of my collarbone, and I groan, not able to stop myself from grinding
my hips against hers.

“Edward, I want you,” she whispers in my ear.

I nudge her to look at me, and I stare into her eyes. There is nothing but desire and love and
sincerity there, but I’m afraid that if give in she might regret being so hasty later on. There
can’t be any regrets between us.

I stroke her face and brush her hair behind her ear so I can see her better. “I can’t even
describe how much I want this, my love, but it’s so soon. It would kill me if you were
unhappy because we moved too quickly.”

“I’m not unhappy. I won’t ever be unhappy with anything we do.” She smiles at me. “It took
me this long to understand that there are no un-crossable barriers between us. I’m done being
unsure of myself. I’m done waiting for you.”

She straightens a little and removes her paint-spattered shirt, throwing it over her shoulder.

“Just love me, Edward. Make love to me.”

Our gazes lock. She is pleading with me. I will never refuse her anything, ever.

I brand her as mine with a searing kiss, and she melts in my arms. I feel goose bumps on her
nearly bare back and remember that we are still outdoors. I struggle to my knees, and she
wraps her legs around my waist, anticipating what I want to do.

She clings to me as I use the sturdy chair to pull us up, and I head toward my cottage, just
steps away. We slam against the back door because I can’t go further without feasting on her
lips again. She untangles her legs from me, and I’m about to protest when I feel that she’s just
ridding herself of the overalls.

She presses on my shoulders in a request to help her back up, and my body exults that her
limbs claim me. I fumble behind her to open the door, and we nearly fall inside. I slam it
closed, and she digs her heels into my back, bringing her core closer to my straining zipper.

I don’t think we’re going to make it to an object with cushions. She consumes me with her
body, lips, and tongue, and tiny hands exploring me until I think I’m going to detonate.

I set her on a sideboard just off my kitchen so my hands can be greedy with her flesh again.
Her cries of delight feed my soul. She kisses me more deeply than ever and undoes my belt,
ripping it out of my pants.

She laughs as I let out some sort of primal, guttural groan. I lift my head and stare into her
eyes as I draw the straps of her bra off her shoulders, waiting for her to writhe against me
before unclasping it. She stares back as she grasps my palms and brings them to rest on her
naked chest. Her skin is like satin. I have to taste her, so I feverishly kiss her lips before
trailing my mouth down her neck and shoulders.

I feel the weight of one breast in my palm as I glory in the other against my lips. She brings
herself closer to me, her head resting against my neck. She reaches to her sides, and I am
momentarily distracted from my banquet by her movements. She undoes two ribbons that lie
on her hips, and her panties are suddenly gone.

She is the most magnificent work of art. She should be in the Uffizi herself, but I’m not
willing to share her with any other eyes. I feel her hand steal under my waistband and gasp
loudly as she wraps her fingers around me. I’m very afraid that I will be overcome by her too
quickly.

I quickly rid myself of my remaining clothing and wrap one arm around her. She winds her
arms around my neck and through my hair again, and I love this fierce contact. Little sighs
escape her lips as I trail the fingers of my free hand down her body, light as feathers, across
her breasts, down her side, and over her hip to the hot skin of her thighs.

I feel volcanic as the heady scent of her reaches me. I stroke over her slick flesh, and she
gasps into my mouth before pulling me into a scorching kiss. I slide a finger into her, and she
trembles. I add another, and she screams my name.

It cleanses me and somehow forces space into my heart that is immediately filled with more
love for her.

I curl my fingers a bit to bring her pleasure, but she grows suddenly fierce and forces me to
look at her with her palms. She radiates blistering heat, and I can’t look away. She knows, and
lowers one hand to grip mine, removing it from inside her and bringing to rest on her waist.
Her supple thighs pull me forward, and we wrap ourselves around one another as I feel my tip
singed by her heat.

My eyes bore into hers, and I bury myself within her in one motion. I’ve never felt such
passion. It’s almost too much to comprehend. She arches her back as I thrust into her again,
her breasts heaving on my chest. We are connected at every possible point but our mouths,
and she quickly remedies this.

It’s difficult to kiss when we can’t contain the sounds of ecstasy, but I have to feel her mouth.
I have to match the dueling of our tongues to the rhythm of our bodies.

She presses herself against me, building the friction. I feel the dam about to break, and I can’t
hold on much longer. I refuse to take pleasure if hers is not greater.

I seize her mouth and pull her hips forward with my hands. She cries out as I force more from
us both. We can’t maintain this, and her head falls back. I bury my face in her neck and taste
the sweet flesh there. Her breathy moans are undoing me. I thrust harder, as hard I can. Once,
twice, and she screams as I feel her pulse around me in blazing waves.

It frees me, and I empty myself into her body with blinding joy. Our labored breathing
mingles, the damp of sweat and tears falling onto our lips as they find one another. I kiss her
softly but with no less passion than ever.

I can’t stand anymore, so I lift her with my remaining strength and sink to the floor. I remain
inside her, and she settles her head on my shoulder as I prop us against the wall.

I don’t know how long we rest in silence, not asleep but not able to move. The sun is
beginning to sink behind the lake when Bella stirs and looks up into my eyes.

The sunset seeps through the glass of my back door and turns her hair into fire, bathing her
face in light. She looks radiant. I delight to know that my love has made her so happy. She
smiles at me, from ear to ear.

“Edward,” she whispers. “Will you help me get my things later?”

I am confused. I think she means her clothes strewn around, inside and out, but I’m not sure.
“If you mean your outfit, I don’t think so. I want to keep you naked for a while longer.”

We laugh together.

“No, I mean all my things. From my house.” She looks shy.

I raise an eyebrow, requesting confirmation of this surprise.

“You said you didn’t want me to leave you. I promised, so I have to keep that promise, right?
Unless you’re done with me.” Now she looks coy.

How does she keep making me adore her more? “Yeah, because I’ve used your body so what
else could I possibly do with you?” I laugh outright.

“I can think of a lot of things.”

I can only respond by crushing my lips to hers. I’m not so tired anymore.

I break off only to say, “Of course I’ll help, because you’re right. I can’t be away from you
now. Never again.”

“Never again,” she echoes.

Her body calls to me, and I want her to feel my love again, but a loud bark breaks through our
bubble. We look through the door glass to see Titian sitting politely on the Adirondack chair.
He is watching Ringo use Bella’s overalls as a chew toy, tearing them to shreds.

She laughs, and I’m glad she wasn’t too attached to the ridiculous denim. I laugh too. “I’m
thinking that we should move you now, since you no longer have any pants.”

She distracts me by stretching in the dimming light and reaches for my own discarded
trousers. She stares me straight in the eye as she digs her nail into a seam and rips one pant leg
wide open.

“Neither do you. What shall we do with the evening since we obviously can’t leave the
house?”

The place in my chest that contained a giant hole until this very afternoon threatens to burst.
“You know, I don’t think it’s possible for anyone to love anyone else as much as I love you.”

She smiles a sweet smile. “No, there’s one exception.”

The look on her face forces me to admit that she’s right. I don’t deserve her love, but I will
never diminish her gift of it.

“I’ll concede to that,” I say against her lips.