All At Once by grown.ass.woman.pdf

All At Once by grown.ass.woman

http://www.fanfiction.net/s/5683993/1/

PROLOGUE

This isn't a story about love or romance. This isn't a story with a knight in shining

armor who rescues his princess. This isn't a story where the boy gets the girl.

There are no rainbows, or butterflies. No pretty words or soft caresses to make

the pain go away. The gentleman does not kiss away her tears, though the tears

are many. This isn't a story with a happily ever after.

This is a story about loss. And regret. And pain. And the havoc that was wreaked

upon the lives of the innocent and unsuspecting. This starts with wonder and

hope and curiosity. It begins with friendship and laughter and supportive

gestures. Even seduction.

But it does not end well. No, not at all.

You see, the boy does not always get the girl. It's a fact of life; something my

father told me when I was just a boy and I had to watch my beloved pet and best

friend die after being struck by a wavering car on a wet and rainy road.

Sometimes bad things just happen.

But what my father failed to tell me then, a lesson that I evidently needed to

learn the hard way, was that sometimes those bad things that happen are

completely our own fault.

This story is my story. It's the story of how I began with everything, but ended

with nothing, not even hope. It's not a fairy tale, more like my own personal

nightmare. This is my confession of how I broke the heart of the woman I

promised to love forever, of how I tore apart two families, one being my own; of

how I destroyed everything I held dear to my heart. I lost my wife, my children,

my home; I very nearly destroyed my career. I alienated my friends and parents.

I lied, cheated, and stole.

I did the worst of the worst to the best of the best.

My name is Edward Cullen, and I am an adulterer.

LINDA LOMAN MAKES PANCAKES

The morning began as any other, like every other. Up until that inauspicious day,

each one was an exercise in predictability. I'd wake, rise, use the toilet, and

make my way to my treadmill in the spare room of my apartment to run my

typical three miles. Then I'd shower and get dressed in my daily wardrobe of

jeans and a t-shirt. Sometimes, I'd shake things up a bit by adding white Oxford

shirt, or a navy blue button down with the sleeves rolled up, maybe a gray

hoodie. Always the jeans though, I was a creature of habit.

I'd pad my way into the kitchen where I'd be greeted by my two children with

hugs and kisses before they rushed off to get ready to leave for school. I'd also

be greeted by my wife, which was always an interesting experience. She's an

actor. No, she's a character actor, method. The person who greeted me each

morning after my ritualistic wake/run/shower/dress was largely contingent upon

which play she was performing in that month.

Living with an actor was never boring. It's one of the things that attracted me to

Victoria initially…her creativity and her passion. And her commitment to whatever

role she was playing. She became her character.

One time she played Hester Prynne and after a singular, intense sex session the

day she received the role, she wouldn't sleep with me for the entire duration of

the show. She was quiet and reserved and sometimes argumentative. Another

time she was Daisy Buchanan. She spoke in a fake southern accent (and not a

very good one) and drank everything from a martini glass (even milk). She was

trite and needy and ignored our kids.

We were all quite happy when that off-off Broadway production was shut down

after the first two weeks of rehearsal.

Last year she played Celia from As You Like It, at the American Shakespeare

Theater. She spoke the Queen's English (again poorly, she was never very good

with accents) but she was loving to all of us around her, even though she was a

bit moody. I couldn't say whether the moodiness was from the character or her

actual personality.

Despite the butchering of the accent, she received very good reviews for that

role, which led to her biggest part yet in the Broadway revival of Death of a

Salesman, her first Broadway show, where she played Linda Loman, the sad and

loyal wife of Willy. Even though she was much younger than the character, she

worked her ass off to make sure she got it right. I was proud of her and had no

complaints about that role, since I'd been welcomed with a home-cooked meal

every night during her rehearsals. If the acting thing didn't work out, she would

make and excellent caterer, I thought.

That morning, before the afternoon that changed everything, was rather typical.

Linda Loman was standing before the sink washing the kids' breakfast dishes.

She dried her hands on her apron (apron!) and poured me a cup of coffee before

fixing me a plate of hot and fluffy pancakes and crisp bacon. She even warmed

the syrup for me. I really liked Linda Loman.

"What are you doing today, dear?" she asked me, her smile outlined with bright

red full lips.

After a sip of coffee I replied "Umm, working, I guess. I need to pick up the

materials I need for the frames I'm going to make. My show is in just eight weeks

and I have a lot of shit to do to get everything ready. The prints and stuff."

"Language, Edward." She corrected, nodding to our two children gathering their

books and shoes and things by the front door.

Ahh Linda. She would have been mortified to hear my lovely wife call the Chinese

food delivery guy a fucking retard just last week when he forgot the extra plum

sauce she'd requested.

I looked over at my son, Luka and winked. He smiled and shrugged. His deep

brown eyes and black hair reminded me of something else I needed to do that

day, but I wasn't ready to discuss it with anyone yet. Soon though. I was fairly

certain that Linda would be much more likely to be agreeable to my plan than

Tori. Sometimes this acting thing had its perks.

"Sorry," I muttered while stuffing my face with a forkful of pancake.

"Well, you have a wonderful day dear, and be sure to eat a decent lunch." She

kissed me on the cheek after taking off her apron, folding it neatly and laying it

on the counter. "I'll be at the theater until 9 or 10 tonight, so Jessica will pick the

kids up from school and stay here until you get home, but you'll have to give

them their dinner. There's a pot roast prepared in the Frigidaire, you'll just need

to heat it up."

She said all this in a flourish of gathering her bags, the kids and all their stuff

before heading out the door.

"Have a lovely day, sweetheart," she called out in Linda's sing-songy voice before

closing the door behind her.

"Bye" was all I could manage with a mouthful of food. I chewed and swallowed

and took a deep breath, considering the day ahead of me.

Jessica. One thing I did not look forward to was seeing her face when I got home

at the end of the day. She was nice enough, but her whiny voice drove me crazy

while she drone on and on about whatever assignment she was currently working

on at school. She was a college student and not my first choice for a babysitter,

but she was great with the kids and flexible with our sometimes chaotic schedule,

and at least I wouldn't have to rush home when I had a busy day planned ahead.

I needed a list. I've always been completely unorganized, so at a very young age

my father advised me to make lists of things that I needed to get done, and to

prioritize them. It's a practice I began just to help stay on top of homework, and

it's something that continued all through my adult life.

1. stop by frame shop for materials

I've been a photographer ever since high school and majored in photography at

NYU. That's where I met my Tori, at Tisch School of the Arts, where she was a

theater major. I was busy preparing for my first ever solo show in one of New

York's most prestigious fine art galleries. I'd had shows before, but never of this

caliber, and never solo. To say I was nervous was an understatement, but I was

also excited. I'd been waiting for this moment my whole life, and I finally had a

body of work with which I was immensely proud.

2. lunch with Dad

I've always been close with my father. Like many successful fathers, he had

hopes that I would follow in his footsteps and pursue medicine. But I was more

like my mother, and was much more interested in the Arts. It didn't matter

though, I was his only son, and he and I had a great relationship, something that

I hoped to foster with my own son.

3. meet with private investigator

Ugh, I dreaded this one. It felt seedy and dirty and just…wrong. But I was left

with no other choice. Tori and I had two children, Luka and Ryan. Ryan was six

and in the first grade. She looked just like me, with the same green eyes, reddish

brown hair and mischievous smile. Luka was nine and in the fourth grade. In

addition to the deep brown eyes and black hair, he had a rich olive complexion, a

sharp contrast to the pale white skin of our entire family. Luka was not my

biological son.

Although we had been together through most of college, Tori and I broke up for

about a year, during which she began a relationship with a guy from her

hometown in New Jersey. The relationship ended after a few weeks, but she soon

found out that she was pregnant. She had the baby and her parents helped her

take care of him while she continued with school. The boy's father never even

acknowledged his son existed. When Luka was about a year old, Tori and I got

back together and I've raised him as my own son ever since.

When we'd been married I wanted nothing more than to make Luka legally my

own. I loved him as if he were my own son, I was the only father he ever knew, it

only seemed right that I give him my name, that I adopt him and make him

officially a Cullen.

But his biological father stood in the way. When Luka was born, Tori had his

biological father's name placed on his birth certificate. In order for me to adopt

him, his natural father would have to legally relinquish all rights. The trouble was,

no one had any clue where this asshole lived. Once he found out that he was

going to be a father he took off. Neither my wife, nor his parents had heard from

him in nearly ten years. At least, that's what they always told me.

Luka's paternal grandparents were in favor of me adopting their grandson, yet

they were afraid to cross their only son, and offered no help in finding his

whereabouts. For years we'd waited to see if the schmuck would just show up,

make contact with a family member, or return home to his aging parents. But

time was ticking and I was growing impatient. Luka was my son and I wanted

him to have my name. I decided to take matters into my own hand and hire an

investigator to find the prick.

4. go to my studio to work on project

My photography show was still two months away but I had a ton of work to do for

it. I had the photos ready that I was going to use, but no prints made yet. I also

had the grand idea of making my own frames, a task I was totally ill equipped

for, but I was determined to finish.

It was a simple list of four things. I finished my coffee, rinsed my plate and

placed it in the dishwasher. I grabbed my keys, messenger bag and phone, and

headed out the door to start the day.

It was a beautiful autumn morning in New York, and I felt refreshed and

energized to face the day as I exited my building on the Upper West Side. It was

just after nine and the morning rush was beginning to dissipate. I made my way

to the subway station down the block from my building and caught the train

going downtown to my studio in West Village.

My studio was simply a small studio apartment that I used for a work space and

to store all of my equipment. Actually it was my first apartment, but after Tori

and I were married and bought our place uptown, I couldn't let go of this little

studio. I decided to keep it for "work". I never saw clients there, but it was a

good space for me, good light through the large windows, and it was where I felt

like I could just exhale, when Real Life got too frenzied. Sometimes I needed to

escape the Daisies and the Persephones, and the Helens of Troy.

The first thing I did when I arrived was power up my computer to retrieve my

email, and I then listened to my voicemail. The first message was from Dad

canceling lunch; he had a meeting of some sort. I crossed item #2 from the list.

The second was from my friend Jasper. He sounded a bit frantic and asked me to

call him back right away, so I did. He picked up on the second ring.

"Hello?"

"Hey Jas, it's Edward, I just got your message, what's up?"

"Oh dude, I'm so glad you called. I'm at the hospital."

"What? Is everything okay?"

"Yes! Oh my God, I can't believe this, Alice is in labor," he said in an excited rush.

"Holy shit, that's great, I didn't realize she was due already. Congratulations,

man!"

I remember the night Ryan was born. I was a nervous wreck and nearly pulled

out my hair.

"Thanks. Yeah I can't believe this is happening! So the reason I called you is that

I need a favor."

"Absolutely, whatever you need." I meant it. Jasper was a great friend, and I

knew he'd do anything for me, as well.

"Well, you're going to hate this, but I'm in a pinch. I need you to cover a

corporate gig for me. The baby is actually three weeks early and I scheduled this

job thinking I'd be in the clear. It was the last job I had planned to take until the

baby was born."

Jasper was a commercial photographer, specializing in advertising and print

media, but he did some corporate work as well. He was incredibly talented and

had a great reputation for being imaginative with an eye for detail. I hated

corporate photography. The money was good, but I felt like it sucked all life and

creativity out of me. In addition to my fine art work, I shot mostly editorial

assignments for magazines and some newspapers.

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