la belle dame sans merci | carlisle cullen

67

As June turned over to July, Minerva thought of little other than Carlisle. For the months she'd spent redacting his name from her thoughts, he occupied them once more in full force. It was like a dam had opened, a flood in her consciousness.

The fifth was both closer and farther than she'd have liked. Too far for all the agonizing that came with waiting for it and too close for anticipation's sake, she wanted it to be over with.

Minerva was getting ready a little too diligently, taking a little too long. She had to be there early, to deliver the flowers and help set them up. So bright and early, she was painting herself up.

Applying the mask took the longest, her hair was taken care of by sleeping in the severely mangled hair curlers she'd had since the 30's. Modern invention still hadn't topped the magic of Flora Dora, in her opinion. Minerva generally wore just enough make up to cover the circles under her eyes. A wedding called for a little more effort, not to mention the presence of her estranged friend.

It was odd, really. Mentally preparing to see him— to speak to him, to dance around the elephant in the room. It took some of the pressure off, to nod politely at the elephant, carry on for the evening and leave it to be wrangled another day.

What would she even say? Hello, I know I had a meltdown last time we spoke but wasn't it a lovely service? It was foolish, the whole lot of it. I miss you too much to go on shutting you out. Mortifying. I'm scared of where I'm headed and I don't want to go there without you. Unthinkable.

She'd devised her plan quite well, it'd probably throw the poor, old vampire for a loop. Truthfully, it wasn't a very clever plan. Minerva was just going to walk right up to him and pretend nothing ever happened. Strike up an ordinary conversation and try to remember how they used to talk before everything went to hell.

It was simple. She was world class at pretending, major league even. It was an every day occurrence, she'd had a lifetime of practice. It should be simple. She just had to remember how to pretend with Carlisle.

Could he be trusted not to see right through her? He always had before, what could be different now? One misstep and all would be revealed and he'd know. He'd know she wasn't the same person she was before, he'd sniff out the blood on her hands, he'd diagnose the darkness in her eyes. That wasn't even the worst of it. At least darkness Carlisle knew. He was a vampire for Christ's sake, his hands couldn't be clean. Vegetation or not, she couldn't imagine that'd always been the case.

The worst of it was that he might know how desperately and pathetically she needed him. She couldn't be alone anymore, her mind would slip if this persisted.

She needed late nights at her kitchen table, afternoon coffee check-ins, happenstance at the hospital. She needed his company like she needed air. It was worse than any suffocating Hecate could ever even hope to inflict. Minerva could take a thousand punishments if it meant he would be there to put her back together.

Luckily, Minerva was well aware she was selfish. Brutally and agonizingly self aware. The time for caring was months past, perhaps during the evening dusk before any of this mess had begun when she'd asked him to get coffee with her.

Forgiving him was a quandary for once she'd heard his explanation, though she had little doubt she wouldn't buckle. Staying mad at him, as it turned out, was incredibly difficult. Three months had to be a new record for the shortest grudge she'd ever held. Hell, it might be the only one she'd ever let go of.
Whether it said more about who Carlisle was or who Minerva had become, she remained unsure.

By the time Minerva was finished and content with how she looked, she was already running late. The ceremony didn't start until three but she was told explicitly to arrive at half past one. The issue was it was quarter after and going to take her at least a half hour to get there— speeding or not.