4,884Wow. The response to the first chapter of this has been…overwhelming, especially since the story wasn't planned at all. Thanks so much for all your wonderful thoughts, and I truly hope I don't disappoint too much with the rest. :)
Most characters belong to S. Meyer. The rest belong to me. So do the plot line and all mistakes.
Break – Chapter 2
Present Day:
There were worse places than where I was headed that morning. After the year I'd been through, of course, I knew that.
For example, there was the night I spent in jail about a year ago. That…was a nightmare.
Where I spent the next month after that as one of the first conditions to keep my charges to misdemeanors rather than the more serious, felony assault charges, was only slightly less so. Twenty-four hours a day of being monitored, told what to do, what to eat, what medications would make me feel 'better.' As if meds would take care of the issue.
Once that ended, the court-mandated place I had to go every other week for a full year and discuss my 'anger issues,' was pretty horrendous. Two hours weekly of a room full of angry people discussing their triggers, their strategies, and their coping mechanisms did absolutely nothing to improve my outlook, especially since I didn't have 'anger issues.' What I had were a cheating husband and a backstabbing best friend.
So, what happened on that final session last week wasn't my fault. Jacob, the meeting coordinator, obviously frustrated by my lack of participation – although he'd never phrase it that way because our serenity had to be maintained at all cost – requested one last time that I share my story aloud for the group.
"Isabella, you have to stop denying your issue."
"I'm not denying I have issues. I'm just saying a need to manage my anger isn't one of them."
"It'll be good for you, Isabella. It'll be cleansing and cathartic.
"I doubt it."
"Perhaps, by finally speaking your story aloud, you'll accept why you're here."
"I know very well why I'm here. It was one of the conditions to drop the felony charges."
"You'll recognize where you went wrong-"
"I shouldn't have broken that window."
"-which will, in turn, help you rid yourself of some of that anger you carry inside, and you'll finally learn a coping strategy for your triggers," he finished through clenched teeth.
"I only have two triggers, and I don't ever plan to see either one again; therefore, I don't need a coping strategy."
"Either share your story or I won't sign your course completion certificate, and you'll be in violation of your court order."
Personally, aside from the threat, I found Jacob's overzealous expectations more than a bit arrogant and condescending. But obviously, I needed that certificate signed, and my decisions had been taken away from me a while ago. So, I shared.
Perhaps Jacob should've known a room full of already angry people wouldn't react well to a story regarding cheaters and backstabbers. At least, in the ensuing mayhem, Jacob was so anxious to get me the fuck out of there he signed that certificate real quick.
So yes, compared to those two places, this morning's weekly appointment wasn't so bad. If I was being honest with myself, as everyone in my life lately kept insisting I be, some part of me had even learned to see the benefit in where I was headed if not any actual enjoyment. But it's hard to enjoy decisions which are made for you, as were so many of mine of late. The entire engagement was just another reminder of how limited my life had become.
Which is why I sat at the coffee house in downtown Tribeca that morning on a stool which faced the storefront window, defiantly willowing away what was already fruitless time. If I couldn't completely avoid the appointment, at the very least, I'd delay it.
It was a busy, early September morning; the first day of a new school year. Young children were being ushered about wearing brand new sneakers and carrying immaculate new backpacks. They walked excitedly down the block, hand in hand with their parents, who grinned proudly at their 'little me's.'
Then, there were the copious nannies taking their pre-school charges on the first excursion of the morning. Through the storefront window, I smiled at the sight of those old enough to walk and sighed at the ones still in strollers. So many strollers. So many, in fact, I started counting them – two, four, six…
And that's the thing about triggers. Sometimes, you don't know they're there until you're lost among them, and your mind wanders down avenues it has no business visiting.
Like…like to the boy.
The boy was five months old now. He was named after his father; I knew that much from the few, remaining mutual grapevines between us. A bouncing, healthy baby boy. My husband's…my ex-husband's son.
"Bella?"
Startled, I blinked away from the window and looked up into a pair of unfamiliar green eyes framed by a stranger's face.
"Yeah?" My one-word reply was curt and wary, as were most of the words I spoke lately.
"I think this is yours. I…" the stranger offered me a chuckle, glancing down for a fleeting moment before meeting my eyes again. "I heard you order it."
My narrowed gaze moved to the paper cup in the stranger's hand, which at least cleared up how he knew my name since it was hastily scribbled on the side along with Barista-shorthand for my drink preference.
"It's been out for a few minutes, and I didn't think you'd want it to get cold or you would've ordered it iced." The stranger grinned.
Rather than point out the fact that there were a whole lot of degrees between steaming and iced, I took the proffered cup from him and offered the shortest possible form of socially-acceptable gratitude.
"Thanks."
Setting the not-quite-steaming cup of coffee down in front of me, I returned my attention to the window and to my masochistic game. What was I up to? Six strollers?
The stool next to me scraped across the floor, and the stranger took a seat. When he cleared his throat, my eyes slid sideways. He wrapped one hand around his coffee cup while the other hand drummed a spastic beat over the counter. Minutes passed. He kept drumming. He didn't touch his coffee. Finally, I looked over.
"What exactly are you doing?"
The stranger's eyes remained front and center.
"I'm trying to figure out what's so fascinating about this view that would make one miss their name being called by the Barista five times."
For a few seconds, I merely stared at him, only vaguely noting his dark head of hair – the streaming sunlight highlighted a few strands and turned them copper. He had thick eyebrows, but they appeared well-groomed. His nose was slightly crooked and tilted a bit toward me – a sports injury or a fist to the face? Who knew? There were crazy people out there nowadays.
And there went another trigger.
Nevertheless, I quickly pushed that one off its hinges when I saw the small smile which played around the corners of the stranger's mouth. It magnified the rectangular shape of his jawline – a jawline framed with an interesting amount of stubble which trickled down to his Adam's Apple. It wasn't too much stubble, mind you; not enough to look like my dad, who didn't shave once for the entire six months he spent here with me after 'The Incident.' But it wasn't sparse either, not like Jasper's failed attempt to grow facial hair right after our wedding.
Yet another thought I shook off.
Again, if I was being honest with myself, in another lifetime, I may have found the stranger good-looking. Instead, I looked away and toward the windows once more, with no intention of interacting with a complete unknown.
"I have a love/hate relationship with windows. On the one hand, there's so much to see through them. On the other hand…what is it about them that makes people feel safe?"
"Do you mean physically safe?" the stranger asked, his eyes still on the aforementioned window.
"No. Yes. What I mean is, people seem to think they can do the craziest things as long as there's a window in front of them."
"I suppose…there's a false sense of privacy when you're behind a window."
"Yes. Take for example that man fixing his hair in his reflection and looking right through us as if we're not even here."
In my periphery, I saw the stranger nod. "Or that kid who's got his ass pressed right up against my face."
An involuntary chuckle escaped me. But then, I stopped.
"Windows tend to distract me and get me into trouble; so I really should end my love/hate relationship with them. There really isn't much to see anyway, is there? Just people scurrying back and forth, either completely aware they're on display or totally oblivious to the fact that their every move is being scrutinized."
When the stranger didn't immediately reply, I assumed my comment taught him the dangers of speaking with an unknown person.
"So…you don't believe there's anything in between?"
"Nope. People are either complete assholes or complete idiots." I stood up. "Enjoy your coffee."
Stepping out onto the sidewalk, I dropped my shades back in place and joined the rest of the assholes and the idiots. My pace was quick; I no longer enjoyed strolls. Besides, I had an appointment to keep, and Dr. Rose tended to get on my case when I was late.
"So, how have you been, Bella?"
I stopped short so suddenly I almost lost my footing. The stranger reached out to help me, but at the last second, he wisely decided to keep his free hand to himself. Either way, I recovered quickly.
"What the…? What are you doing following me?" I snapped.
He chuckled lightly. "I'm not following you. You forgot your coffee."
Once again, he offered me my cup.
"Oh. Thanks. Again."
I took the cup and turned.
"You don't remember me, do you?" he asked behind me.
I spun around slowly, eyes already narrowed. The stranger was dressed in running clothes: dark sweats and a tee shirt, one of those moisture-wicking, jersey ones that absorb sweat.
"Should I remember you beyond the five minutes in the coffee shop?" I asked, my tone admittedly rude and laced with wariness. Trust wasn't something I possessed in droves anymore.
He seemed to hesitate for a moment before replying, but then he smiled and shook his head.
"No. No, I suppose you shouldn't."
"Good," I smirked. "For a second there, I thought I'd have to add 'Bad Memory' to one of my many issues. Goodbye."
I made it half a block before he fell in step with me. Stopping again, I threw up my empty hand.
"What the hell is your problem?"
He grinned. "I swear, I'm not following you. We just happen to be headed in the same direction." He pointed somewhere behind me. "I went for my morning run, had my coffee, and now I'm headed home."
I stared at him. He shrugged and dug his hands in his pockets, his stubbly Adam's apple bobbing.
"I was also wondering if you'd mind providing some clarification on that dim philosophy you just shared."
"No. I don't think I will."
I resumed my stride, but the damn stranger took a stand in front of me.
"Look, you're starting to aggravate me, and I've been told I don't deal well with aggravation. So, get out of my way before I spill this cup of not-quite-steaming coffee on you."
He grinned. "I just don't think everyone deserves to be classified as either an asshole or an idiot."
"Well, then you'd definitely fall into the latter category. Now, move." I held my coffee cup up between us. "Don't think I won't do it. Trust me; I've been known to do worse."
"That would be pretty ironic, especially since I'm the one who brought the coffee out to you – twice," he smirked.
"My fucking hero." When I raised the cup higher and quirked an eyebrow, the stranger stepped out of my way. He was still smiling though.
"I'll admit, I'm strangely and probably stupidly intrigued by your behavior."
"I'm not trying to intrigue you."
"Yet, you do."
"Seriously, dude, you're wasting your time and barking up the wrong tree here, not to mention the fact that you're messing with my serenity. I am not interested at all," I emphasized.
"Ohh." He nodded. "Oh, okay."
I rolled my eyes and shook my head. "No, I'm not a lesbian; though it would've made my life abundantly easier had I earned the privilege."
The stranger took a slow, careful step toward me.
"Well, from what I know, the privilege is more one you're born with rather than earn."
"Yes. That's what my therapist keeps reminding me – court-mandated therapist, by the way. Are you sure you want to keep following me?"
"I wasn't following you." He chuckled again but sobered rather quickly. "Bella…I'm sorry for…whatever happened that's forced you into court-mandated therapy."
I waved away his unnecessary and unappreciated sentiments.
"Yes, well. I'm about to be late to the said session, and unless I want to find my ass in jail again, I need to get going. And if you don't want to find your ass in jail," I snapped much more gravely, "you'll stop following me."
Strangely enough, when he stepped back, I felt a momentary pang of disappointment. But when he spoke again, his tone remained gentle.
"Have a good day, Bella."
Without replying, I turned and headed for the subway entrance.
"And by the way," I heard him call out, "there are those of us who fall somewhere in between."
A/N: Thoughts?
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