1,950A/N: Hey, everyone! It's been a long time! For those of you wondering what's going on here and why I'm posting a new story when I've got so many WIPs to wrap up, here's the explanation I posted on Facebook (if you've already seen or aren't interested, you can skip this and just go on to the story):
Our fandom got together a couple of months ago to help one of our own. Deb's Auction was created so the fandom could donate and bid on various items to assist one of our members when she needed us. Many fandom authors pledged yet-to-be-written stories in various formats, whose plots would be determined by the auction winners.
Our own Pamela Lorraine, a.k.a DrivingEdward, did me the honor of bidding on and winning a one-shot short story to be written by me based on a plot bunny she provided. After the Auction, Pamela and I had a couple of conversations, after which she entrusted me with the rest of the process.
Now, as anyone who's known me for a bit knows, I have a hard time keeping "short stories" short. ;) So, what started as a one-shot grew into a multichapter story that can now better be described as either a long novella or a short novel. Pamela was amazingly patient while weeks of radio silence ensued because 5K words became 10K, then 15K, then 20K, then…
Well, let's just say the story is complete! And after FINALLY reaching out to a supremely patient and indescribably amazing Pamela Lorraine, a.k.a. DrivingEdward, she has generously agreed that the story should be posted in its long novella/short novel form.
Therefore, beginning today, I will post the story below every other day, excluding weekends. (So, Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays). This is all written out and complete, so unlike the WIPs I've got going on, there won't be long delays between posts.
(I know some of you have been waiting long to see how The Burn, The Ghost of Christmas Past, Summer Haven, Uprising, etc., end. I promise I'll begin getting back to them now that these characters have completed their adventure.)
This posting schedule means the story should be posted entirely by the end of June/early July.
Finally, check out the closing A/N for answers to FAQs!
Now, without further ado, here's the first update to The Last Call, by PattyRose, based on a plot bunny provided by Pamela Lorraine!
SUMMARY:
Tonight, I ran into Edward Cullen in the most unexpected place.
Yes, that Edward Cullen—the 2000s-era Rockstar. Once, not long before his sudden fame, he was merely Edward Cullen, our college Indie bandmate and all-around nice guy. He was also my boyfriend. But we all know how these Nice Guy-Finds-Fame-Almost Overnight-and-Can't-Hack-It stories go, don't we?
Don't we?
The countdown begins
It's our last call
And I'm making my way back to you
With every step, with every breath,
I'm working my way to your arms
So just say the word
Show me you've been waitin'
Tell me you still want me, too
Say the words
I've always been waitin'
Never been no one but you
Say the words
Show me you're waiting
Tell me you still want me, too
Say the word
I'll always be waitin'
It's never been no one but you
"No One But You"
Music and Lyrics by Edward Cullen
Copyright 2005 for Debut Album: No One But You
Chapter 1 – It Must Have Been Love
Nineteen years ago…
September 14, 2005 – Bainbridge Island, Seattle, Washington: 12:25 a.m.
While Chris Martin's muffled voice crooned in the background, I assessed my reflection with the slanted eye of an appraiser:
What was the asset's condition? How was its curb appeal? Would said property need upgrading in the next few years?
The realization that I was valuing my image in the manner of an investment, and an iffy one at that, made me cringe. Nevertheless, tonight, it would take more than self-disgust to stop me. It had been months since I'd seen Edward, and I needed to look my best, feminism be damned.
I shook thoughts of all the ways I was failing female empowerment and my fellow sistren out of my mind and instead weighed my latest outfit change. In the past fifty-six minutes, I'd traded in a laid-back, average-girl-by-day-but-secret-agent-in-my-spare-time vibe of a black crop top, army-green baggy pants and Docs for a more saccharine-princess-of-pop-inspired spaghetti strap dress over bellbottoms and platforms. That gave way to something with more blonde-hotel-heiress energy: a flared micro-skirt paired with a pink sweater and white kitten heels. Twisting from side to side like a pirouetting ballerina, a tentative smile spread across my face.
"That's hot."
Now I cringed inwardly and outwardly, quickly kicking off the damn kitten heels. They slammed against the white wall while I moved on to yanking off the shitty pink sweater and flinging it in the same direction. The fucking skirt followed.
A blonde hotel heiress, I was not. I wasn't about to start dressing like one. Much less using her signature lines. Again, I cringed.
What would've made more sense to my reflection and me in what promised to be an anxiety-ridden evening would've been basic jeans and a comfy flannel shirt. But sense rarely comes into play in the monumental events of young adulthood. It certainly had no place in the upcoming night.
Five minutes later, Weezer was on the radio lauding the benefits of living in Beverly Hills, and I'd compromised with myself by donning a black tee shirt dress and my Docs. Of course, another outfit change necessitated a makeup redo. Dark colors would blend well, but as my thoughts were dark enough, I went the route of pastels.
All the while, the familiar sounds of the band prepping for the night seeped through the walls and crept under my doorframe. Riffs rang out while instruments aimed for harmony, levels were adjusted, equipment was tweaked, etc. I should've been there with a mic in hand and setting up with them. Instead, I was here, with a makeup brush in hand and trying not to count the minutes.
Jay-sus, when had I become this girl?
Next, I re-examined the bane of my existence, also known as my hair. A decade earlier, pre-puberty wreaked havoc and morphed what was merely soft, wavy tendrils into riotous, serpentine spirals. Afterward, every family get-together seemed compelled to host impromptu comedy bits whose punchline revolved around which branch of the family tree my curls first coiled their way around.
See, the issue was that both my parents had stick-straight, dirty blond hair and blue eyes. So where exactly did my brown eyes and dark brown corkscrews loop in from? That was the question the jokers in my family aimed to solve and in the most teasingly mortifying ways.
"A blind stork dropped her off!"
"Or a horny milkman!"
"Actually, Renee, what kinda milk exactly were you getting from that milkman?"
Of course, still in my first decade of life, the intricacies of these jokes went over my head. But one doesn't necessarily need to understand the punchline to know you're the butt of the joke. Regardless, the teasing continued in this vein, punctuated by raucous laughter, even from my parents, Renee and Phil Dwyer. This was probably why, growing up, I'd come to look forward to family get-togethers as I looked forward to jabbing a Q-tip in my ear. If there was a silver lining to my parents' divorce, it was the end of these comedy specials. However, the curls remained. Though, for a long while, I'd tamped them down with my collection of beanies – luckily, a Seattle staple.
There was plenty more to that story, but that night, I sure as hell did not have the mental fortitude to traipse through that memory lane.
Sighing, I returned to the here and now and mentally weighed the pros and cons of dealing with natural hair tonight versus taming nature with a flat iron. It'd been a while since I'd used the flat iron, mostly because he loved my curls.
As I puzzled out this issue, the first strains of the deep, familiar baritone wafted in the air and made my heart suddenly soar. The gritty voice originated beyond my bedroom. Curls-versus-flat-iron forgotten, I spun toward the sound like a moth following the flicker of a flame.
The countdown begins, it's our last call
And I'm making my way back to you
With every step, with every breath,
I'm working my way to your arms
Anxiety obviously makes one stupid because it shouldn't have taken an entire handful of heartbeats for me to realize that the soulful rock ballad floating toward me like the lassoing notes of a hypnotic spell was still a poor imitation of his live voice. It seemed that, tired of waiting for me and our delayed guest of honor to make an appearance, my party guests decided to conjure him via the radio.
Clenching my teeth against the frustrated howl threatening, I finally allowed my gaze to creep up to the clock on my wall. For an indeterminable moment – an hour or four – I'd fought the inclination to check the time. But like a swollen pimple centered on one's nose, the clock demanded my attention simply by sitting there, insignificantly small yet glaringly prominent.
The clock's short hand was just past the mid-mark of the Roman number twelve, while the long hand pointed mockingly between the Roman numbers seven and eight. It was twelve-thirty-seven – in this case, a.m. The actual day of my birthday had come and gone. It was now officially the next day. The time also meant that the last Bainbridge Ferry of the night would soon be leaving Seattle's Colman Dock for the ten-mile, thirty-five-minute ride across Elliott Bay.
Fun fact: if one missed this final night ferry, one had to wait four hours for the first early morning ferry. This being my twenty-first birthday, Charlie had okayed a late-night party after checking in with our neighbors and obtaining permission from his buddies at the BIPD. But this was Bainbridge Island, Washington State, not New York City, New York. A late night meant 'until the last ferry leaves the island.'
Abruptly, I thought of the many times Edward and I purposely missed the last ferry after returning the band equipment to the garage, all so we could spend a few quiet hours alone in my bedroom while the rest of the house slept. Strange, how long ago those nights already felt.
Early this morning, he wished me a happy birthday via a three-minute phone call, squeezed in between all his other obligations.
'I'll be there long before the party starts. I promise I'm not going to miss your birthday, Izzy.' Then, apparently cognizant of how little weight his promises held these days, he'd upped the ante. 'Matter of fact, I swear it.'
The first half of that vow had already gone the way of so many of his others: broken. He had not, in fact, arrived before the party started, and he had missed my birthday. With last-ferry-time quickly approaching and Charlie just itching to shut the party down, Edward was perilously close to missing the party altogether, thereby having completely sworn in vain.
The song's refrain now blared from the garage speakers. More than a few bellowing voices joined in, like a typically tuneless and goofy karaoke sing-along. The cacophony reached decibels that were likely already hurtling Charlie toward a meltdown.
But I supposed the partygoers couldn't help being proud. In a town that cut its teeth in the music industry with the likes of Jimi Hendrix, Patti Smith, and, for God's sake, Cobain, Seattle had nothing more to prove to the world. Yet, again, the Emerald City outdid itself by introducing yet another golden child to rule the airwaves with his raspy baritone.
So just say the word
Show me you've been waiting
Tell me you still want me, too
Say the words
I've always been waiting
It's never been no one but you
The refrain repeated twice. With each repetition, the grit in the voice deepened, grew more haunting, more evocative. The rock ballad, loud and demanding in places, ended on a note of heartrending vulnerability.
"This is KTU Seattle, and that was 'No One But You,' by our hometown golden boy, Edward Cullen! Woo-hoo! It's the most requested song this week here and in all our sister stations nationwide! Remember that name because Ed's been signed by one of the biggest labels and is now working on an album release – date to be announced! Go, Edward! Go, Seattle!"
The little-known fact that Seattle wasn't actually Edward's hometown was unimportant to Seattleites.
My gaze trekked back to the mirror. Just as I considered pivoting to my closet to rummage anew, a series of footsteps resounded from outside my bedroom door. Incorrigibly, my heart leaped again while a smile as obstinate as my previous one nudged the corners of my reflection's mouth. When a pair of harsh whispers reached through the door, the reflection's hesitant smile withered.
"What is she still doing in there?"
"What do you think?"
Alice, one of my two best friends, burst in ahead of Rosalie, my other best friend.
"Birthday girl, can you please get your legal-drinking-aged ass out here?" She gestured behind her with a thumb. "If we're quick, we might be able to squeeze in a short set before Charlie kicks everyone out. Besides, everyone's waiting to see you. We've celebrated most of your party without you!"
I held her gaze briefly, then spun back to the mirror. "They're not waiting to see me. Besides, I was about to change."
Rosalie walked further in and stood next to Alice. "Yes, they are waiting for you, and you've changed twenty times in the past hour, and you've looked great every time. Let's go." Like Alice, she flourished a hand in sweeping invitation.
"Are you sure the first outfit wasn't more-"
"Bella!" Alice snapped.
Rosalie set a hand on Alice's arm in a calming gesture. She then turned and slowly shut the door. As one, both she and Alice sat on my bed, leaving just enough space between them for me. Obviously, a strategy was underfoot. They resembled a set of parents who'd practiced and agreed on the action plan before facing their wayward child.
"Come sit with us," Rosalie invited, patting the quilted space in invitation.
With an admittedly childish eye-roll that played well to my part, I crossed the room and bounced heavily onto the proffered seat, folding my arms against my chest. My defenses were on the rise, sure that an attack was coming – if not one aimed at me, then one aimed at Edward.
Funnily enough, they began with a topic that, a few months earlier, would've been my biggest concern of the evening. That night, however, it was as unimportant to me as was the next day's weather report across the country. I had heftier issues going on.
"Have you heard from Phil?" Alice asked.
"You mean the man I called 'Daddy' from birth to age ten, who taught me how to ride a bike and swing a baseball bat, and who used to call me his pride and joy?" I grinned sardonically. Okay, perhaps I was a bit bothered. "Yeah, I got a 'Happy Birthday, Izzy. Have a great day,' from him."
"Shit, Bella." Alice shook her head. "That's fucked up."
"Yeah. I'm sorry about that," Rosalie added.
"Whatever." Impatient, I waved off Rose's empathy and Alice's factual yet trite comment. "Phil's ever-dwindling affection is the least of my concerns tonight."
"Yeah, about that," Rose said, "Bella, Alice and I have been talking-"
"Obviously."
"Because we care about you, Bella, and frankly, you're turning into one of those girls."
I quirked a brow and tilted my head. "One of what girls, Alice?"
It was an unnecessary request for clarification. I knew what she meant. Hadn't I just privately bemoaned the same sad state of affairs? Nevertheless, I played along, if only to distract myself from the circular blemish on the wall and its refusal to stop or slow down. Either way, as was the usual case with Alice, she didn't mince words.
"The girls whose lives revolve around their boyfriends, and all they do is constantly wait in the wings."
"Ouch. As blunt as usual, aren't you, Al?"
Rose replied, and in a much gentler tone: "Honey, we have to be."
"I'm not constantly waiting-"
"Bella, all you do anymore is wait for him to grace you with a few minutes or, if you're lucky, a couple of hours of his time," Alice scoffed.
"He's touring. If I get that, no one else needs to get it."
"You're absolutely right, and if you were truly okay with it, and it wasn't visibly killing you," Rose stressed, "then Alice and I would've kept our mouths shut. But honey, we're your best friends, and we can see what his constant absence-"
"More than that," Alice cut in, "what his constant cancelations are doing to you. He tells you he's coming for a visit, then either blows you off or blows in and out of town like a hurricane."
"Again, it's not easy to always show up or to hang around for a few days shooting the breeze when you're in the middle of a national tour and cutting a record."
"Yet it was easy for him to leave, Bella. He wouldn't even be where he is today if it wasn't for you, if you hadn't hand-picked him for the band's co-vocals."
"Leaving was not easy for him. Neither of you was there for the discussions between Edward and me. Trust me, it took convincing to get him to call Heidi."
They shared a mutually dubious look that made my scalp prickle.
"He took convincing," I reiterated through clenched teeth. "I had to assure him, more than once, that we were okay- more than okay with the fact that Heidi only wanted him. And why shouldn't he have jumped at the opportunity? Don't tell me that neither of you saw how his talent surpassed us by leaps and bounds from the beginning."
"Bella, of course we did. Look, you're right," Rosalie said, her tone placating, playing good cop to Alice's much less understanding one, "and you know none of us, neither me nor Alice nor Emmett, ever begrudged Edward his opportunity. The fact that he's a massive talent isn't disputed here."
"Good," I snapped with a nod of finality. But I should've known Rosalie was far from done, and when she spoke again, the pity in her voice simply served to make her point all the more devastating.
"What is in dispute is that you are still as much a priority to him as he is to you."
As if this were a cue, my traitorous gaze panned up to the wall clock. Since my last peek, the clock's short hand appeared to have sped headlong toward the number one. In fact, it was almost directly on it. Meanwhile, the long hand was now centered on the number eleven.
It was twelve-fifty-five a.m.
I swiped away an angry tear I hadn't even felt forming. And still, they continued this good cop/bad cop tactic.
"Bella, you know I was always one of the biggest proponents of your relationship with Edward, but it's your twenty-first birthday party, and all your friends are here except him."
"And you know I was not one of the biggest proponents of your relationship with Edward, but that has no bearing on the fact that the effort he puts into your relationship dwindles in inverse correlation to his growing fame."
"He still has time to catch the last ferry from Seattle," I countered. "And if he misses that, he can drive in. He swore. He swore he'd be here."
Blessedly, Alice and Rosalie appeared to have exhausted their talking points. Or perhaps they simply grew tired of hearing me refute them. Either way, they fell silent. In the silence, the sound system in the garage blared with another hit from Seattle's newest golden boy. Like a ticking time bomb, the clock kept time with the music, pulling me inexorably nearer to an implosion. I glared up at it, scowling at its rotundness and its hands' habit of fluttering nervously with each and every minuscule, almost imperceptible forward motion. Yet forward they went.
"At least come wait for him in the garage with the rest of us," Rosalie hedged.
'…come wait for him in the garage with the rest of us.' As if I were just another one of his fans.
"Don't stay in here by yourself," Rose added.
"Yeah, Bella. Everyone wants to hear us play. And they're anxious to wish you a happy birthday."
Standing briskly, I crossed the room, pacing back and forth, shaking my hands at my sides, and releasing the energy that made me want to scream. I stopped.
"I'll be out in a few. I promise. Let me just…let me fix up my makeup."
"Bella-"
"Please. Just give me a few more minutes."
Again, they exchanged skeptical looks – parents unconvinced the lesson had gotten through the thick skull before them. But the child was twenty-one today. And they'd said what needed saying. And there's only so far you can lead the blind before allowing them to stumble forward.
"Last Call!" Charlie suddenly called out from somewhere beyond my bedroom. "The last ferry will be leaving in less than a half hour! Turn the music down and start getting yourselves ready!"
This was greeted by a series of moans and groans from the party guests. My eyes shot up to the clock, narrowed in a fury currently directed at Charlie because he'd promised the party could run 'til one a.m. on the dot. Now he was cheating me out of a few precious minutes!
But…
But the clock's short hand no longer quivered. Instead, it lay perfectly still and direct, unmistakably centered on the number one. At the same time, the long hand issued a salute to Perfect North.
It was indeed one a.m.
"Great," Alice huffed. "There goes our set."
"Bella, you missed your own party," Rose said more sympathetically. "At least come outside and say hi to everyone before they leave."
Swallowing hard, I nodded. "I'll be right there."
"Okay. We'll see you out there. Come on, Alice."
Alice followed Rose to her feet, and both went to the door. They turned to take me in over their shoulders.
"We love you, Bella."
"We're sisters, right?"
"We are," I agreed. "I'll be right out. First…first, I've got to make a phone call."
A/N: Thoughts?
FAQs:
Q: How long will this story be?
A: This is all written out (!), so it will be between 21 and 23 chapters, depending on how I decide to split up the final chapter – still debating that.
Q: Where is this story going?
A: Somewhere good, I hope. ;) (You may read my Author's page for further info regarding my view on HEAs).
Q: How often will this story be updated?
A: This will update 3x a week: Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays, UNLESS something unforeseen happens (the apocalypse, a knock-out flu, a day of 85-degree weather where I say "eff all this," and head to the beach, leaving the world behind, etc.)
Q: Will there be a time jump in this story?
A: Yes.
Q: What do I do if I hate this story?
A: First, swallow back your first impulse to let me know of your hatred in the most colorful language. Then just 'X' out of it. Beyond that, it's up to you. ;)
Q: What will YOU do if I review and/or PM you to tell you how much I hate this story?
A: I've been at this for a long, long time. So, it depends on how you express yourself. If you're nice, we can discuss why you hate it. Maybe one or both of us will learn something. If you're not nice, I'll delete your review and continue with my life. If I can't delete your review, I'll continue with my life while you sit seething at the other end, waiting for my reply.
Facebook: Stories by PattyRose
Twitter: PattyRosa817
Instagram: pattyrosa9311
"See" you Wednesday! (Provided there's no apocalypse, I don't catch the flu, and I don't escape to the beach for the day!)