Author: denverpopcorn PM
A blizzard blows in and shuts down the City. Everyone prepares for a snow day, including Edward and Bella. They each have a life-changing decision to make, but will their sudden confinement cool their passion and force them to face certain truths? E/B,AHRated: Fiction M - English - Angst/Romance - Chapters: 15 - Words: 33,504 - Reviews: 1,571 - Favs: 1,314 - Follows: 769 - Updated: 12-30-10 - Published: 10-10-10 - Status: Complete - id: 6388820
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
Disclaimer: Stephanie Meyer owns Twilight. No copyright infringement is intended.
The Man Who Wasn't Him
He was in the bathroom filling a glass with water when she woke up. He heard the springy mattress shift with her weight. He twisted the "Hot" knob towards hotter, his glass becoming the color of fog and overflowing.
The man in the mirror, who wasn't him, stared back blankly. It was no longer him who blinked and kept blinking. The man in the mirror gazed back, green eyes flashing like a busted traffic signal.
He turned the faucet off, drained out the water from his glass, and ignored his scalding fingers. He gripped the porcelain wash basin around the sloped edges with little purchase.
Edward shook his head and breathed in another day. It was just another day.
Clearing his throat and looking away from the man in the mirror that wasn't him, Edward called back to his lover.
His one and only, who was not his to one and only.
She was dressed to leave. Her red winter pea coat hugged her from neck to knee, no hair out of place - a picture of a woman with purpose, facing a man wiping his hands on his boxers.
His apartment was loft-style and bachelor friendly, cozy enough for stranded work paraphernalia, take-out cartons, magazines, and transient love.
His wrought-iron bed sat anchored in the center of the loft, the white sheets banked at the edges, the pillows pressed into the headboard. These were the only hints of her.
She was tucked in and smoothed over like a wrapped present meant for someone else. He knew better than to touch her. Hand on door, he leaned over her, the other hand on her hip.
Breathing her in one more time.
"When will I see you again?" he stalled with clenched eyes, counting away the panic. He knew the answer to this already, and later that night, he wouldn't recall if she actually pointed at her ring finger and rolled her eyes, or mumbled incoherently about a business trip, or in-laws and people whose names he could never know.
They made plans for phone calls. They made plans until his return.
They were always making plans.
Thank you for reading!
If this burns going down, I promise to add an ice cube to it. It goes down smooth that way. ;)
Heartfelt thanks to Cesca Marie and WriteOnTime for the hand holding and encouragement. I won the beta lottery with these two. I really want to gloat, but that would be rude.