Outtake from The Secret Changes within Bella Swan

Written for Fandom4Tsunami

This outtake is about some things that happened to Bella before she met Edward - it's about her and James, the Bella-breaker. It begins in the present, in a therapy session with Emily, and looks back in time. It's quite a long story to tell, and a bit hard to write, so I will probably write it in three parts. This is the first. I don't know when the next part will be done. I hope you enjoy!

James, the Bella-breaker - part I

"Hello, Bella. Nice to see you again." Emily smiles at me as she opens the door. I nod at our therapist and shrug out of my jacket before I sink down in the chair I usually sit in. Edward and I quickly adopted our favourite chairs in Emily's office, and when we're both there for couple's counselling we automatically take those seats. When I'm there alone, like I am today, I sometimes find it easier to think and talk if I'm in Edward's chair, it's like the change of seating helps my mind to change routes, to see things from different angles. It's silly, but I don't care. It works. Today, I sit in my chair. Today, I want to focus on me.

"How are things at home?" Emily asks, casually.

"They're good. We're good. We have done like you suggested, with the sex embargo thing. We decided nothing sexual was allowed for two weeks, and every touch between us was supposed to be about... well, other stuff than sex." I hesitate slightly, not really sure what else to tell her.

"Did you find it helpful?"

"I did. It was nice to know that he had no ulterior motives for touching me. It's not like he had before, I know that, but it felt different anyway. I felt more secure and could relax, I didn't have to wonder if he wanted something more." I admit.

"That's good, then. Did it change they way you feel about sex?" She tilts her head and watches me expectantly.

"Somehow, yes, it did. We even decided to extend it by one week when we were done with the first two, because it was such a relief for me. But by the end of the third week, I actually wanted him to touch me sexually. That kind of surprised me." As always, when we discuss my sex life, I blush furiously.

"Did you tell Edward about that?"

"Not at first. I'm not good at talking about those things, about sex. And when the third week was over, and we could have sex again, we were just... I don't know. There was this huge pink elephant in the room, but neither of us wanted to address it. He didn't want to put any pressure on me, so he didn't say anything about it, and I didn't know what to say. Instead of touching regularly with no sexual intent, we went to not touching at all because he wasn't sure how I'd interpret it, and I didn't know how to initiate it. So we had a week of building tension, of course, before I finally got my act together and gave him a hug. Just a simple one, but when he started to loosen his grip, I kept my arms around him. That's when we started to talk about it, and even though we didn't actually do anything, we... well, we touched. Sexually." I avoid her eyes and look down at my trembling fingers, fiddling with the hem of my sweatshirt.

"So it took some time, but eventually you talked about it. It sounds like both of you fell into your old patterns of bad communication and building frustration, but managed to break that negative spiral and find your way back to a healthier one," she concludes.

"We did," I agree.

"Are you ready to talk to me a bit more about this James character? You've mentioned him before in therapy, when you told me the basics of your love life before you met Edward, but I'd like to know more."

I look out the window and sigh. I knew she'd want to know more about him, but I don't know where to start. Does she want everything, from the beginning? Because really, that's a long story to tell. I close my eyes and go back in time, to the small ground floor apartment I used to live in. I recall the damp, almost moldy smell, the grass and trees outside the window, and the wafts of cigarette smoke occasionally finding their way through the ventilation shafts. I remember my bed in the corner, the second hand couch covered with blankets and the worn office chair by the desk. A small TV and a huge computer - by today's standards anyway - took most of the space on that desk. It was through that computer he first made contact. James, the Bella-breaker. It feels so far away, like a different life, but yet I remember every single thing.

~oOo~

I tapped my fingers against the desk as I waited impatiently for my old 28.8 k modem to connect. The modem's blinking green diodes, the beeps and the crackling from the phone line caused an almost Pavlovian response, a nervous itch and expectant thrill that rushed through my body. When I was finally connected I quickly opened the BBS, and searched for the little red flag indicating new messages in my favourite forum – "Love and Relations."

Going through the responses in the last thread I was involved in, I revelled in the realization that so many people were cheering me on. I had wanted to know why a single woman having one night stands was considered loose and whorish, when a man could do the same thing and be seen as a stud. For her, it was negative. For him, it was positive. I thought that was unfair. I wanted the same options. Women's liberation and equality should also apply to their sex life, not only work, salaries and domestic tasks.

My online friends – who were males, mostly – were telling me to go for it; that of course I was entitled to the same level of casual sex and multiple partners as any male on campus. They agreed with me. Women should be able to sleep around, too, without being called slutty. Somewhere in my mind a voice pointed out that maybe these men encouraged me because they had an interest in having more women in the "one night stand-market," but I quickly shut it down. Of course, that wasn't the case. Right?

Right.

There were some people – women, mostly – in the thread reasoning that the sleeping around was a bad idea, both for men and women, but the overall response to them was that people should be able to do what they wanted and satisfy their lusts as long as no one got hurt by it. Some said they were boring, in need of a good fuck, or not good looking enough to get any one night stands anyway. I furrowed my eyebrows at that; I didn't like the tone they used, it was unnecessary harsh, and for some reason it worried me. I didn't want to be perceived that way. I was more concerned about being seen as an ugly, frigid, boring girl that no man wanted to fuck anyway, than I worried about being considered an easy lay. Therefore, those comments stayed in my mind, nettling my subconscious like a splinter too small to get out with the tweezers.

It was with mixed feelings of delight, from being encouraged by so many men, and unease, from the harsh comments to some of the other women in the thread, that I left the forum and opened my inbox. The red flag on it made me curious; I rarely got emails directly to the inbox since most of the activity was in the forums. It was only one message, from someone named James Lambert.

"Don't let other people dictate what is right for you. Your lusts and desires are there for a reason. Follow them."

Staring at the screen I scratched my head, seeing something familiar with the name but not being able to place it. His profile told me he was at the same campus as me, and it made me wonder if he knew who I was. Why did he contact me? What did he want? I went through the forums in search for messages from him, trying to get some idea of what he was like. He didn't post much, and when he did it was mostly in the technology or computer related forums. He'd never posted in the Love and Relations forum, but apparently he at least read it.

I started checking the history of random posts, and could see he'd not read many of them. It wasn't until I checked the history of my own posts as his name started to show up regularly, and the last month or two he'd read every single one of my posts in that thread. I found his interest in me rather endearing, and it felt like he'd unconsciously given me a compliment. That small voice in the back of my head whispered something about creepy stalkers, but I shook it off. It felt nice to be noticed and good that someone took the time to read what I wrote and send me a private message.

A happy warmth spread through my body as I re-read his message. It was sweet and sexy in a way. It sounded like he cared for me, that he wanted me to experience good things and feel good about myself. It sounded like he knew my mind.

I smiled and typed a short answer.

"Thank you for your sweet message. You give good advice."

It didn't take more than a few minutes until I heard the distinct ping from the computer, indicating a new incoming message. I raised my eyebrows and opened my inbox again. It was from him, not more than a few lines and a flirty smiley.

"You're welcome. I give good when I get good... ;-)"

I giggled at his message. That could definitely be interpreted in different ways, and I couldn't help but wonder if he saw the double meanings in it - or maybe even meant for it to be that way. I bit my bottom lip and thought about how to respond to him.

"A nice balance between the two - isn't that what life is all about? I equally enjoy giving and receiving, and even more when it's good."

I nodded to myself. I was pleased with my answer. It could very well be about giving and getting advice. It could also very well be about something else, and that's what made it fun. I had always enjoyed double meanings and hidden messages, and not everyone shared my sense of humor when it came to that. Jake did, of course, and we could make an entire conversation into something it wasn't. Sexual innuendos were our speciality, and it drove people nuts. We enjoyed it immensely, of course, and it wasn't unusual that, when it went far enough, it eventually led us straight to bed. Not that I minded. In fact, when it came to Jake, that's what I hoped for.

With this James guy, however, it was strictly for fun, to practise my innuendo skills and to see if I could wind him up a bit, maybe even get him a bit excited. That's how it began, really. An exercise in equivocalness and a test to see if I could make someone interested in me without even meeting me.

As it turned out, it worked pretty well. We spent hours chatting online, and our emails got longer and longer. We shared deep thoughts, hopes and fears, and he was always supportive and friendly. He showered me with compliments on my wits, intellect, and beauty - to which I snorted and replied that I could very well be 85 years old and ugly as a bat as far as he knew. His answer was the first clue that maybe he actually knew who I was.

"Oh Bella, I know you're not ugly. I've always had a thing for brunettes with velvety brown eyes and a pretty smile... And you can't be more than 22, tops."

I had never told him what I looked like.

I was twenty-three years old, old enough to know the difference between honest compliments and indecent intentions, but too naive to tell them apart in reality.

I typed a new message.

"Do you know who I am?"

His answer didn't take long.

"Of course I do. Everybody knows who you are. All the boys want to have you, and all the girls want to be you."

I giggled and shook my head. How silly. That was so not true... Then I pursed my lip, wondering what he meant by it. Was he, himself, included in "all the boys" or was he being metaphorical?

"ALL the boys? Really? No exception at all?"

Once again, his answer came quickly.

"Yes. ALL the boys. No exceptions... ;-)"

I felt myself blush and quickly turned the computer off. I was both embarrassed and happy by his comment, but somehow the thought of him knowing who I was, when I was still kept in the dark about his identity, made me feel inferior and insecure. I didn't know what to make of it, or how to respond. I had to think about it for a while. That little voice deep down whispered her disapproval once again, voicing her concerns about his actions and motives, and I chose - once again - not to listen.

Surely his motives were honest. Of course he was sincere in his compliments. Obviously he really liked me as a person. Right?

Right.

I stayed off the computer for a few days. It was hard, seeing as I had become quite addicted to that little red flag indicating incoming messages, but I needed some space. I couldn't quite figure out my feelings about where this long-lasting correspondence seemed to be heading. Not only did he know all those things I'd told him in the security of anonymity, he also had an actual person to attach all of this to. He knew me in so many ways that I didn't know him. I had no knowledge of his identity. The balance between us had shifted, and from being an equal exchange of thoughts and feelings, he had now gained the upper hand.

When I finally logged on again, I had several messages from him. The first ones were short, wondering where I had gone and why I didn't answer. Then they gradually became more worried, pleading, full of self-accusations. His last one was a long, tender letter where he begged for forgiveness, afraid he'd overstepped the boundaries. He was devastated that I didn't write back, and told me how important our conversations had become to him. They were the light of his existence, the reason he got up in the morning, and the last thing on his mind before he went to bed.

I caved, of course.

We resumed our regular correspondence, and I started to recognized a pattern. His short messages were usually sent during the afternoon or early evening, and the longer ones later, around midnight or the early hours before the sun rose. It made me wonder what kind of sleeping pattern he had - and what his life looked like. I wanted to know what he did during the day, where he lived, why he was up so late... He answered my questions in an evasive but flirty way, and it didn't give me much information about the trivia of his life at all. I knew his inside - or so I thought - but not a thing about what went on outside of his brain. The lack of details and the withholding of information started to bother me. I grew more and more curious and, to be honest, infatuated by this person, who I knew nothing about. My ignorance allowed me to conjure up an image of his persona that, in retrospect, wasn't very accurate. I didn't know that, then.

My first clue should have been the knowledge he dumped on me when I started to hint that I wanted to meet him in person. We'd grown increasingly more affectionate towards each other in our emails, and his words had come to make me blush and tingle with a giddiness I hadn't felt since I was a teenager.

I had just gotten back from a party at campus. It was well after midnight, and the first thing I did - of course - was to check my inbox. The red flag on it made me smile, and my inebriated brain didn't think much of the content of the message. The tiny voice in the back of my head who should have whispered "creepy stalker" had passed out hours earlier.

"You had a quite nice cleavage in that blue top, and I love your ass in those jeans. ;-)"

I slowly processed the fact that he'd apparently been at the party, without acknowledging me. Instead of being pissed off that he apparently was following me around, I got angry that he'd been there and not made contact. As far as I knew, I might have even talked to him. As far as I knew, I might have made out with someone in front of him, which made me feel oddly guilty and more than a little insecure. It wasn't as if we had some kind of relationship; I should be able to make out with the entire male population on campus in front of him, but I started to worry about how I had appeared, how many parties he'd seen me at, and what he thought of me. I would never be able to go to a party again without constantly looking over my shoulder, wondering which of the guys was him.

I needed to know who he was, so I made a decision. I'd make him see me.

"Really? You liked what you saw? I'd say the same, but I can't because I still don't know who you are and I honestly don't think that's fair."

His answer didn't take long, as usual at this time of night.

"I did like it. You're a smart girl. If you think hard you should be able to figure it out. Your hair smelled nice, BTW."

Somehow the fact that he smelled my hair without telling me pissed me off beyond words, and my alcohol numbed fingers stumbled across the keyboard as I typed my response.

"I don't think knowing who you are is some kind of riddle for me to solve. You know me - obviously - and if you're interested in still having this kind of contact you need to give that "oh I'm Mr. Secret and I'm so cool" act up. Otherwise you can consider this as my last mail. Enough is enough. It's not funny anymore, and the only way I can interpret your actions is that you don't want me to know who you are, because you're not at all interested in me. I'm just a diversion when you're bored, and you have no interest whatsoever in knowing me in real life. So fuck off."

I knew I should turn the computer off and go to sleep, but my insecurity and self-torturous tendencies forced me to sit there and wait for him to answer. I wanted him to answer, so badly. I wanted him to care. I wanted him to want me in real life, not just as an email fling.

I put my head down on my desk, not wanting to see the empty mailbox mocking me. Exhaustion washed over me, and my shoulders slumped down. The ping from the incoming message was almost drowned in a huge yawn, and at first I wasn't sure I'd actually heard correctly. I turned my head slightly, peeking at the screen. My sight was blurry from alcohol and lack of sleep, but it did register a small red flag there. I sat up slowly, hesitating before opening the message. I dreaded the content, and held my breath as I read.

"I'm sorry Bella. You've never been just a diversion, and everything I've written to you is true. Why would you ever think it's not? It's just... I'm afraid for you to meet me. You're popular, pretty and outgoing, and why in the world would you want to spend time with me? I'm nothing. I've avoided making my presence known because I was afraid it would jeopardize what we have, and I need you to know it means so much to me. Of course I would want to know you in person. Of course I would rather talk to you in real life. You have to believe me."

I snorted. Why would I believe that, when everything he did contradicted his words?

"Prove it. Tell me where you live and I'll take a cab. On second thought, don't. I know your name, I can look it up myself."

His response was immediate, almost desperate.

"You can't do that!"

I shook my head. There he was again, saying one thing and acting like another.

"Why? Didn't you just say you wanted to meet me in person?"

I tapped the desk impatiently as I waited. His answer was still the same.

"I do, but you can't come here."

Tears startled to prickle my eyes. I didn't understand why he was so opposed to seeing me.

"I don't understand. Why?"

"Because."

"That's not an answer. And if I can't come to you, then you can come to me."

Time passed, and I kept staring at the screen. I got a sinking feeling in my stomach, and I wondered how I could have gotten so emotionally invested in someone I hadn't even met. It was so strange. The ping and the little red flag brought me back to reality.

"Okay Bella, here's the thing. You can't come over, but it's not because I don't want you to. Believe me, I do. It's because, well, I'm not alone. I have a girlfriend, we're engaged actually, have been since her eighteenth birthday. We've known each other forever, and she was my biggest support when my mother passed away, years ago. Her name is Victoria, and you can't come here because we live together. We bought this apartment together last year. She's asleep now, but she's been quite suspicious lately, wondering why I'm up so late at night and spend so much time in front of the computer. I want to meet you, I do, but I have to think of a way to make it work out. Give me your phone number, and I'll call you when I can talk. You are too important for me to lose. I need you."

And just like that he gave me the biggest clue as to why I should stay away from him, cut the losses and go on with my life, and yet I didn't see it. This was a man who was engaged to be married to his childhood sweetheart, and still he had pursued me for months, withholding that little piece of information about himself, flirting with me and making me more and more interested in him. He was living with a woman, and yet he tried to make plans on how to be able to get involved with me, too.

I should have seen the warning signs. But what did I choose to see? I chose to see a man who was so infatuated with me that he put his entire life at stake. That had to be it. Right?

Right.

To be continued...