Again: Chapter 2

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Chapter 2

Chicago, 2012

"Hold up!" Rosalie flails her arms around kung fu style, effectively dropping her
fork and knocking over her ice water. Every head in the restaurant turns in our
direction and chagrin creeps up my cheeks. I sink down as low as I can in my
chair and pull the hood of my sweatshirt over my head, tugging on the white
strings until only my nose is visible.

"Could you kick the theatrics down just a notch please?" I hiss through the
fabric. "We're not in my apartment right now."

"You just got done telling me Masen Edward is actually your Edward—Edward
lips-stuck-to-the-bottle-candy-up-the-nose Cullen—and you expect me to kick
down my theatrics? No way, Izzy! This is too crazy!"

I pull my hood off at the same time our waiter appears. He's got a stack of
napkins in one hand and a water pitcher in the other. His expression is one of
amusement rather than annoyance.

"Can you please continue with what you were saying?" Rose prods after her
mess is cleaned up. I reach across the table and grab her water, moving it next
to me and out of the blast zone.

"Masen Edward is Edward Cullen." Each time I say the words the reality of the
situation slaps me in the face. I spent most of the previous night hoping and
praying that the scene in the gallery had been nothing but a nightmare. That my
subconscious was up to no good and wanted to torment me with incredibly
realistic memories of the man who had broken me so long ago.

Alice's ass crack of dawn phone call this morning dashed my hopes, however.

"What did you think?"

"It's seven am on a Saturday, Alice. You're going to have to be a bit more
specific than that."

"For gods sakes, Bella! What did you think of Masen Edward? He's a catch, huh?
And so talented!"

I sat straight up in bed, wide-awake and supremely irritated that his name was
the first thing I had to hear to start my weekend. "He's … meh."

"Meh? MEH? How can you even say that?"

"Because I can." I yawn and fall back against the squishy pillows. "This is his
first collection, right? And yeah, it's good, but who's to say the rest will be? For
all we know, he'll be a one hit wonder in the art world."

"What's gotten into you, Bella? I mean, at least give the guy a chance to show
what he's made of before you judge him into the ground!"

"I'm hanging up now, Alice."

"Wait, I wanted to talk about the one paint—"

"Goodbye, Alice."

Rose shakes her head, disbelief playing on every one of her features. "Of all the
art galleries, in all the cities in this country, he had to waltz into yours.
Unbelievable. Does Alice know?"

"Know what?" Our pixie-like friend magically appears, slipping off her coat and
taking a seat in the chair next to Rose. She's all smiles and dancing eyes as she
surveys the mess of food spread out between us. Pregnancy isn't something
that looks good on everyone, but for Alice it fits perfectly. She rubs one hand
over her swollen tummy, waiting for one of us to get her up to speed on the
conversation.

"The new and amazing artist whose showing opens Monday is none other than
Bella's college boyfriend," Rose explains. She reaches for her water and I give
her a stern side-eye before returning the glass.

Alice's eyebrows push up as realization sets in. "The same college boyfriend who
was more interested in what he snorted up his nose than your relationship?"

Rose nods. "That's the one."

"Masen Edward is Edward Cullen," I say matter-of-factly, then shove a few fries
in my mouth. The words taste less bitter this time, and I wonder if I'll become
immune if I say them enough.

"So that's why he's just 'meh'. It all makes sense now." Alice flags down the
waiter and puts in her order.

Since moving to the Windy City, Saturday lunch had become a sort of tradition
for Rose and I. Once I started working at the gallery, and got to know Alice, she
quickly fell into place in our small social circle. Now the three of us met every
week to catch up on what was going on in each other's worlds.

"So who's overseeing this opening in two days?" Rose looks back and forth
between Alice and me, her eyes filled with concern. Snarky as she can be, she's
my oldest and best friend, and I know she understands what a big deal this is.

"Well, I was going to have Bella take the ropes for the night. In light of recent
developments; however, I think Jasper will have to handle things."

I groaned. "I don't want to be that woman, Al."

"What woman?" The two ask at the same time.

"The one who lets a man interfere with her life." I push my plate away and look
out the window. The hustle and bustle of the city comforts me. It's a reminder
that even though things in my own world are up the air and all over the place,
normalcy still exists out there. "I gave Edward control of my emotions once and
that was more than enough hurt for one lifetime. I'm not going to let him
influence the way I do my job, so I'll oversee the opening as planned."

Rose raises an eye skeptically. "Are you sure that's a good idea? Don't get me
wrong, I love your train of thought, but if it were me, in your shoes, and
Emmett had done shitty things all those years ago, then jumped back into my
life unexpectedly, I'd probably want to kill him. And if we were forced under the
same roof for a whole evening … well, I probably would kill him."

"I do want to stab him in the eye with one of his own paintbrushes," I admit,
earning a giggle from Alice. "But I've worked far too hard to get where I am
now and I won't let that go for a guy. So, I'll oversee the show, be the
professional I am, and once the night's over, I can forget that Edward Cullen
ever happened."

"Except he lives here now, B. And you're both involved in the art world. You're
bound to cross paths at some point." Leave it to Rose to be the devil's advocate.

"Okay, we've talked about my predicament enough. I'm officially moving the
spotlight over the both of you." Rose and Alice have no problem commandeering
the conversation, and we spend the next two hours talking about baby names
and Rose's plans for her parents' fiftieth wedding anniversary. When our bellies
are full and we've met our weekly gossip quota, we say our goodbyes and head
off in different directions.

Rays of sunlight filter down through the gaps between buildings on Michigan
Ave., warming my cheeks and the tip of my nose. It's unusually warm for mid-
October, and I say a silent word of thanks to Mother Nature for giving us a
reprieve from the usual fall temps. I take off on foot, weaving my way through
the Saturday afternoon shoppers, street performers, and tourists. Twenty
minutes later I arrive at the gallery.

"Hey, Bella! Happy Saturday!" Jasper's greeting is warm and friendly, made only
more so by the big grin that's spread across his face.

"Afternoon, Jas."

He takes in my attire and frowns. "You're not working today, are you?"

I laugh. "No, no, don't worry. I'm an off-duty gallery director today. I just
stopped by so I could take a look at the pieces for Masen's collection before I
come in to hang them tomorrow."

"Oh, yeah, of course." Jasper waves a greeting to one of our best patrons and
then turns his gaze back on me. "Take all the time you need back there. His
work is pretty spectacular. I think you'll feel a connection to some of the pieces,
too, when you see them."

"I'm sure I will," I mutter as I head towards the office. The canvas bags that
hold Edward's work rest against the wall, in almost the same position he'd left
them yesterday. I run my fingers over the top of one bag and smile sadly.
Somewhere, in a different time and place, I'd have already seen these
paintings. I'd of been there when he painted them, maybe even been a part of
the process. Aside from missing him, I miss his creativity and his passion for the
work he created.

I unzip the bag and pull out the canvas in the front. I prop it up against the wall
and step back to look. The painting catapults me back to the city I'll always
love, despite the heartbreak that drove me from it. My gaze travels along the
shapes and lines that make up the Minneapolis skyline, nestled comfortably
behind the expanse of the Stone Arch Bridge. The colors are rich and vibrant,
the style abstract, and I can't stop the corners of my mouth from curling up in a
nostalgic smile.

The next painting is done in the same style, but with a different focal point. It's
Edward's artistic take on Spoonbridge and Cherry, a well-known sculpture by
Claes Oldenburg and Coosje van Bruggen. Instead of the traditional cherry,
Edward's is exploding, lending an air of darkness to the piece.

When I get to the third painting, my heart leaps straight into my throat. Soft,
warm colored strokes make up the naked back of a girl. Her brown hair is
fanned across the pillow beneath her head, sheets thrown haphazardly off, like
the bed got too hot in the middle of the night. I drop to my knees in front of the
canvas, reaching out and brushing my fingertips over the lines of the tattoo that
decorates her shoulder blade. Bits and pieces of wrapping paper are scattered
about on the floor behind the bed, and a small package with a gold bow sits on
the empty pillow next to the sleeping woman.

"That one is my favorite." I jump at the sound of Edward's voice. I glance over
my shoulder and see him there, shoulder propped against the doorframe and
ankles crossed. He moves his hands from his pockets through his hair and back
again. I swallow hard, trying to cage the renegade butterflies that have
unleashed themselves in my stomach.

"I can't believe you remembered," I whisper, turning back to the canvas. The
night unfolds in my mind like it was just yesterday. It was our junior year of
college and Edward and I had just gotten our apartment. We existed in the
midst of the whirlwind known as young love, and had elected to spend the
holidays together in Minneapolis instead of going home to our parents.

We ate lots of delicious Chinese takeout, opened gifts, and spent the rest of the
evening between the sheets, wrapped up in one another. When I woke the next
morning I was mortified to find Edward up and sketching me.

"I remember every minute of the time I spent with you." His words are enough
to make the happy Christmas memories fade. They're quickly replaced by
thoughts of the less-than-perfect moments in our relationship. Images of
Edward, drunk and coked out of his mind, flash through my head. I think about
all the times I had to pick him up from detox, all the nights I spent alone,
wondering where he was and if he was okay. Some people could look back on
their former love and smile, but it wasn't that way for me. The bad memories
exceed the good, no matter how I choose to look at it.

"I doubt that." I stand and slip the paintings back into the bag, zipping it shut
and propping it against the wall.

"I do." He pushes off the door and takes a few tentative steps towards me. "I
know you're still angry, and you have every right to be, but I'd really like a
chance to get to know you again, Bella. For you to see who I am now and how
sorry I am for all that happened."

Part of me wants to give him a chance, to hear him out and let him explain. But
a bigger part of me—the part that holds the wound that never fully closed, and
now feels as fresh as the day our relationship ended—won't let me. "Not going
to happen." I make a beeline for the door but he grabs my elbow. His fingers
meet the fabric of my sweatshirt and I freeze. A wave of emotion surges
through my body, starting at the top of my head and working its way to the tips
of my toes. I shrug my arm away as Edward reaches down and grabs something
I hadn't noticed was there.

"These are for you." I look at what appears to be a stack of letters and then
back up to his face He must read the confusion on mine, because he continues.
"I wrote these during my final stay in rehab. I mailed them to Renee's address,
because I had no clue where you were, but she always sent them back to me. I
kept them, because … Well, I always had a feeling I'd see you again,
somewhere, somehow. Take them, please."

It's like my hands have a mind of their own and I'm watching from the sidelines.
Before I know it I'm clutching the stack tightly between my fingers. Edward
moves toward me, and I can tell by his movements that he's going to try and
hug me. I clutch the letters to my chest and turn, running across the gallery and
out onto the crowded Chicago street.

I'm three blocks from the gallery when I stop to catch my breath. Curiosity
takes hold and I slip a letter from the stack, tearing the edge off the envelope
and yanking the paper out. My eyes roam over the page, taking in Edward's
messy scrawl. I can't see the words through the tears that well up in my eyes.

A tsunami of memories slam into me and, before I've even had a chance to read
what's written, I'm transported back to a time I've spent the last ten years
trying to rid from my memory.