A Quiet Fire by Magnolia822

http://www.fanfiction.net/s/6431421/1/

A Quiet Fire~Prologue

September 7, 2010

Hurrying down 58th street, I catch and ignore strange looks from passers by—
there's only one thing on my mind—late. I'm late. Again I curse my stupidity for
not double-checking that the alarm clock was set for a.m., not p.m., the night
before. The move had taken it out of me . . . I hadn't slept well, and I'm a bundle
of nerves, a reality made worse by the fact that I am LATE for my first graduate
class at the University of Chicago.

What a way to make a first impression.

As I skid to a halt in the front of the Humanities Building, I hope against hope
that Professor Riordan will understand. She is the reason I'm here, a specialist at
the top of her field and mine, and if I screw this up, I'll have no one to blame but
myself.

Panting and sweating from the unseasonably warm September heat, I finally
locate the classroom where my Early Romantic Poets class is being held, stopping
for a minute before making my entrance. Since I'm already late, there's no use
sense barging in before composing myself. My breathing calmed to a normal rate,
I pat my hands over my hair to tame any flyaways before pushing open the door.

About a dozen students are seated around a large round table, and Professor
Riordan stands by the dry erase board, marker in hand. She turns when the door
opens, her eyes flicking over me to take in my appearance. I'm wearing a long
grey skirt that probably makes me look like a country bumpkin, out of place in
the city. Professor Riordan seems quite casual and cool in ripped jeans and a tank
top—a far cry from the professors I'd encountered at Washington State.

"You must be Isabella Black," she says, finally smiling as I nod dumbly. "Please
take a seat."
I hate that I can't find my voice in moments like these.

I do as she asks, relieved she doesn't appear angry at my tardiness. I find the
closest available seat near the door and slouch into my chair, gathering my skirt
to cover any skin that might have become exposed with the movement. My
shyness inhibits me from checking out the other students, some of who I can see
glancing at me curiously in my peripheral vision.

"To return to the question at hand. Does anyone know why William Blake is
considered a Romantic? He is, after all, quite different from those he is now
grouped with . . . Wordsworth, Coleridge . . . " Professor Riordan trails off,
looking to us for a response. I feel the telltale familiar thumping in my chest, a
flutter in my stomach—symptoms of the nervous energy produced whenever I get
ready to speak in front of people. I know the answer to this question, and I know
it well. William Blake is the reason I'm here.

Before I can work up the courage to reply, someone beats me to it—it's a blonde
girl, breathtakingly gorgeous, seated right across from me.

"Ms. Hale?" Professor Riordan responds.

The blonde girl clears her throat. "Well, Blake represents a new era of humanistic
inquiry—a break from the obsessive rationality and reason of the 18th Century.
He was greatly influenced by the French Revolution, although he was older than
many of his Romantic contemporaries."

"Excellent, Ms. Hale," the professor commends. "And of course our classifications
of literary time periods are relatively arbitrary—there's always cross-pollination
between generations of writers."

"Precisely." Ms. Hale says, smiling and looking pleased with herself.

I'm impressed with the exchange and more than a little annoyed with myself for
not speaking sooner. The blonde certainly knows her stuff, but I would have
added that Blake is bound to the younger poets by the shared belief in the
supremacy of the human imagination, a celebration of the body, too—which made
him much more like Byron and Shelley than the more conservatively-minded
Wordsworth.

Of course, all of this sounds so much more articulate in my head.

Still, I make a promise to myself that the next time an opportunity like that
arises, I won't miss it.

Just then, the door opens again. Professor Riordan now looks more than a little
miffed as I, along with the rest of the class, turn to inspect the latest arrival.

A shock of coppery hair pokes in through the door. It's a guy. I hear one of the
girls to the left of me whisper something to her neighbor but I can't make out
what she's saying. His face turns to the front of the room and a deep velvety
voice quietly asks permission to enter. The voice stills my heart.

No.

It can't be.

He enters and turns, his gaze sweeping around the room to find a seat. His eyes
alight on mine almost instantly and I am frozen, frozen in time . . .
The green eyes, those eyes have traveled with me. And the face, so much
beloved . . . older now, but unmistakable. A slight dimple in his chin, a jaw
stronger and more defined, the stubble a telltale sign of several days without a
shave.

The fingers on my right hand instantly worry the ring on my left as the face
morphs before me into the boy I knew.

Ten years disappear and I am lost.

"Edward?" The word leaves my lips before I can stop it . . . a ghost . . . a

whisper. His face pales as he steps closer, his expression a shock of disbelief.

And suddenly we are no longer in a classroom full of strangers. We are in his

living room after school and he is teasing me, prodding me. My mom is in the
hospital again and I'm staying with the Cullens, but no one's home now except
for me and Edward.

"Have you ever been kissed, Bella?"

I am shaking my head, blushing. He makes me nervous now in a way he never

has before. He's only 15—soon to be 16—but he seems like so much more of a
man to me, the two-year age gap between us expansive. I bite my lip and realize
I'm still shaking my head.

He chuckles. "Would you like to be?"

I almost gasp . . . is Edward asking me . . . if he can kiss me? My throat is dry as

I nod, the word struggling to make its way from my brain to my mouth. Yes. YES.

And when his lips meet mine it's nothing like how I thought it would be. His
mouth is soft and gentle; he brings his hand to my face and cups my cheek
softly. It is brief but when he pulls away I am left with a strange sensation, a
longing that I've never felt before. Almost without volition, I touch my finger to
his lips. Mine tingle.

"I wanted to be your first," he says, smiling as he kisses the tip of my finger.

"Me too." The words finally come and I know they're true.

Now, with his too-pale face only feet from me, it's too much . . . the years of
missing him . . . too much.

I hear a roaring surge in my ears and then see only blackness.

"Words are only painted fire; a look is the fire itself."—Mark Twain

Chapter 1: October, 1998

"Bella?" I cringe as I hear my mother call to me from her room at the top of the
stairs. I had hoped she wouldn't hear me coming home after school before I could
slip out again and over to the Cullens.' Alice is expecting me in ten minutes—
Esme promised to take us down to get ice cream at Bill's and I don't want them
to go without me. Then I'm supposed to spend the night over their house—it's
become our tradition on Friday nights.
Over the past few weeks my mother's voice has been changing… It's sounding
more and more like that time when she took me away to Canada because she
thought they were coming to take me away from her. And that scares me. I don't
want to be taken away, but I don't want her to either. That was over year ago,
and she's been so good since then . . . but now maybe it's happening again.

"Bella?" she calls once more. "Can you help me? I can't get this…"

Filled with dread, I climb the stairs to the second story. As I do I notice how
dusty the stairs are; I'm definitely going to have to clean again soon. Especially if
Alice or Edward want to come over. They don't usually, but still, they might want
to. And I have to be prepared.

The first time I met Alice was when the Cullens moved to our neighborhood three
years ago. I was out playing and I saw this little girl with short dark hair wearing
a really pretty red dress. Since I'd never seen her before, I stared. She noticed
but, instead of making fun of me or running away, she asked me to come and
play with her. So I did, and we've been best friends ever since.

It embarrasses me when they come to my house. Theirs is so perfect compared

to ours. Even though it's old, our house used to be nice when we first moved to
Elgin from Forks Washington when I was five. But then my dad was killed in
Chicago while he was on duty and things got worse. Mom says we don't have the
money to do upkeep, because dad's pension isn't big. So now our house sticks
out like a sore thumb in the neighborhood, that's what I overheard our next-door
neighbor Mrs. Crawford say one day to another woman I don't know. Mrs.
Crawford didn't think I was listening but I was playing near the fence. When she
saw me she shut right up.

I love hanging out with Alice and Edward at their house. Everything is so neat.
Their walls aren't covered with old peeling wallpaper. They don't have cracks in
their windows held together with heavy tape that looks like metal. Their carpets
are clean.

And their family is so nice. Esme always looks pretty, and she smells good when
she hugs you. I love the way she does her hair—it's light brown, curly. She
always wears dresses. I feel proud when I am out with the Cullens for dinner, so
glad to be friends with Alice and Edward.

Edward is the nicest boy I know. He plays with Alice and me even though
sometimes he gets annoyed with us. When we were young we used to play house
and, since I was older, and since Alice said it would be weird for her to be
married to Edward 'cause he was her brother, I was always the wife and Alice
was the little girl. But now that I am eleven and Edward is a teenager we don't
play that game anymore. I still want to, and I think Alice does too, but Edward
says it's for babies. Alice gets so mad when he says stuff like that because she
knows he is talking about her, since she is only ten. I don't know if he is talking
about me, too.

Now, Edward wants to play video games on his Nintendo 64. I like it, but Alice
doesn't, so when Edward and I play Mario she'll pout and then I'll have to stop
and go do something with her instead. She loves to play dress up with Esme's
clothes, but I'm beginning to think that game is for babies too.

Edward just laughs at us when he sees what we're wearing. He usually agrees to
judge our fashion show, but only if the neighborhood boys aren't around. I think
they tease him for being so nice to us.
Esme's dresses are way too big for us, especially Alice since she's so tiny. One
day a few weeks ago Alice chose a nice white dress for me to wear while Edward
waited in the living room for us to come down. I took my shirt and pants off,
leaving on only my underwear that said Monday when it was really Sunday. They
didn't make Sunday.

The dress didn't have a zipper, and Alice lifted it over my head as she giggled.

"What's so funny?" I asked her.

"Bella . . . I think you're getting boobs!"

"What?" I was shocked, looking down at my chest. There were two small lumps
there—I hadn't really noticed them before. But they weren't that big. Still, they
were bigger than Alice's. She lifted her shirt to show me. We looked at ourselves
in the mirror. Yes, there was definitely something there. Alice poked one and I
flinched.

"See? Boobs! I'm so jealous. I can't wait till I get mine. You're so LUCKY! Now
you can wear bras!"

I was so embarrassed pulling the dress down over my head. I didn't feel like
parading in front of Edward now. Why should I be different than Alice? She was
my only friend and now I had boobs and she didn't. The boys at school treated
the girls who were getting chests differently, teasing them . . . there was one girl
in my class who had such big ones the boys stared at her ALL the time and she
even stayed home once because Ryan Kinney teased her so much. She had to
wear a bra now.

And I didn't have a bra. Suddenly I was filled with fear; I didn't want to have to
ask my mom to take me to the store and get one. She always made such a scene
in front of the salespeople, and her voice was so loud. My eyes started tearing at
the thought of it.

Alice was laughing, chattering away about the girls in her class that were starting
to develop, and one who even had her…period. That thought filled me with fear
too. Would it happen to me soon?

Finally, she noticed that I was quiet.

"Bella, what's wrong?"

"I don't have a bra," I choked and ran from the room, and down the stairs. I
almost made it to the front door before Edward stopped me.

"Bella? Where are you going?" He blocked my way, holding the door shut as I
tugged uselessly at the handle. Alice appeared at the top of the stairs.

"Alice, what did you do to her?" His green eyes were angry and he shook his
head, his hair flopping. It was way too long and Esme always complained he
needed a haircut but since he was thirteen now he said she couldn't tell him what
to do anymore. But I knew that was a lie and he'd definitely be getting one soon.

"I didn't do anything!" Alice whined. "I was just telling her how jealous I was that
she's getting boobs and she needs a bra!"

I shrank away, hiding my head in mortification. I just wanted to sink into the
floor and disappear. Edward was looking at me and still blocking my way. I
sighed in frustration.
"Can you please let me go?"

"Wearing that?" he asked.

I looked down. I was wearing Esme's white dress and it hung from my shoulders.
I couldn't leave the house with it on.

Alice skipped down the stairs, adjusting the straps around my shoulders. "Don't
leave; you look so beautiful. I'm sorry if I upset you . . . I don't know what I said.
I'm sorry you don't have a bra."

"It's nothing, just let it go," I mumbled, still unable to look at Edward.

"Don't be embarrassed," he said softly. "But you should listen to Alice. She's
right. You do look beautiful."

"I don't want to be different." I said in a whisper, crossing my arms self-

consciously over my chest.

I looked at Edward and he smiled. "Well, you are."

A week later, Esme called me to come upstairs when Alice and I were watching
TV. I was nervous because I thought she was mad that I had worn her white
dress since it was one of her favorites. But she wasn't, and instead she said she
had a present for me. It was a white box that said "Macy's" and when I opened it
up I saw it was three white cotton bras. Esme said they were training bras and
even though I was shy I let her help me put one on 'cause I had never done it
before. She smiled and kissed the top of my head telling me how wonderful it was
that I was growing up, and I felt just a little bit proud. Before I left to go
downstairs again she told me it would just be our little secret, and she winked.

That was a month ago and since then it seems like something's changed between
Edward and me. He looks at me differently, and I'm not sure if I like it or not.

~QF~

At the top of the stairs I see my mother in the hall standing on a chair and
reaching for the fire detector. She can't really reach it and is straining on her
tippy-toes. She looks at me, blinking several times. But she doesn't look right.
She looks like she did before…all those times before.

"Bella," she whispers as she gets down from off the chair. She pulls me to her,
whispering in my ear. "I need you to help me . . . help me with . . ." She gestures
upwards. "That."

"With the fire detector?" I ask, confused.

"Shhhhhhhhhhhhhh . . . they'll hear you," her voice is fierce but quiet in my ear,
almost a hiss. And my stomach drops. I was right. She's not okay. And I don't
know what to do.

"Mom, it's just a fire alarm . . . You know? To let us know if there's smoke or
something."

"Do you see that?" She points. "That red light?" I look at the fire alarm and notice
a periodic red flash . . . I know that it's the battery light. We need to change
them.

"Yes, mom. It's the batteries. They're dead and it needs new ones." She grabs
my arm, digging her fingers into my arm tightly.
"That's what they want you to think! It's a recorder . . . they're listening to us."

I feel sick, an angry knot forming in my throat. I know that there's no one
listening to us…but I know there's no way she'll believe it.

Her panicked face mirrors mine, but we are scared for very different reasons.

"Mom. There's no one there."

"Bella . . ." she looks suspicious. "There is. Who have you been talking to? Is it
them? The Cullens?" she sneers. "I know they want you . . . want you to be their
daughter. But you're mine. And you always will be." Her voice softens and she
strokes my hair. "My beautiful girl. You'll always be mine."

I try hard to find my voice. Her eyes are still darting between the detector and
me.

"Mom?" I begin. She doesn't seem to hear me.

"Mom? I told you yesterday. Mom?" I say again, finally getting her attention. "I'm
supposed to go to the Cullens' tonight. Alice invited me over. Esme's taking us for
ice cream first. You know, like we do every Friday?"

She looks at me blankly. "No. I need you here tonight."

"But mom…"

"No. You've spent enough time with the Cullens. Now go to your room."

"But..."

"Go to your room!" She is suddenly authoritative again and I know there's no use
arguing with her, so I stomp to my room and slam the door.

Twenty minutes later the phone rings, and rings, and rings, until finally it stops. I
cry into my pillow.

I must've fallen asleep. When I wake my face is sticky. It's hot in my room and I
realize I need to open the window.

There's a 'pinging' sound to my left and I started up from my bed, my heart

racing. After I recognize my surroundings it slows down. But then there's that
sound again: something small hitting the pane of glass.

I had only heard that sound once before, but I know what it is.

Edward.

I push open my window and lean out. Looking down at the street I see him
pacing below. When he hears the sound of the window he looks up.

"Bella," he whispers.

"Edward?" I clamber out onto the roof still dressed in my school clothes.

"Yes," he says softly. "Shhhhhhh." Now he's looking up at me and I can see he's
nervous by the way he runs his hands through his hair.

Now I'm on the edge of the roof, laying so that my weight is evenly distributed
and my head hangs over the edge. He's only one story down but it feels so far
away.
"Bella." His voice is tense. "Get away from the edge."

"I'm fine," I reply, not sure if I actually am.

"Are you?"

I hesitate. I'm far from fine. I want to be at his house, with Alice and Esme and
Carlisle . . . with him. I just nod, tears choking my throat.

"I. . . Alice was worried about you. We didn't hear from you."

"Yeah," I whisper and my voice sounds strange. "My mom didn't want me to
come over."

"Oh. That's what I figured." He pauses. "Hey?" It's a question.

"Yeah?"

"Do you think you can come down?"

I think about it. Mom's a heavy sleeper and once she's out, she's out. But she
was extra-mad today. I worry that she'll find out I've left. But I want to go down
to meet Edward more than anything. I want to be with my friend.

Ignoring my doubts, I nod to him.

He sees me nod and smiles, and I tell him I'll meet him at the corner of our street
in a minute.

My heart is pounding loudly in my chest as I open my bedroom door, pausing to

make sure my mother hasn't woken up.

Satisfied once I hear her steady snore, I creep down the stairs, avoiding all the
squeaky spots that could give me away at any moment.

Once downstairs, I ease the door open and slip outside, leaving it a little open
since I won't be gone long. I think.

The street is bathed in a low yellow light, our suburban neighborhood quiet. I
wonder how late it is for a second, but then I see Edward.

He's leaning against a lamppost watching me. His hair is wilder than I've ever
seen it. I gasp as I approach and see he's smoking. The smoke is curling around
him and it makes him look sort of . . . dangerous.

"Edward?" I say hesitantly.

His eyes land on me, and he seems strange. He takes a quick drag of the
cigarette in his hand and stifles a cough as he approaches me.

"I wanted to see if you were okay," he says to the ground. I'm still overwhelmed
by the fact that he's here and that he's smoking.

"You know that stuff isn't good for you."

He scoffs. "Who the hell cares? Oh, don't tell me you've bought into the whole
D.A.R.E. thing?"

I shrug. Actually, I had. My mother smokes and I hate it. I hate the smell of it on
her clothes. He dismisses me and pulls out a pack from his pocket, taking another
and lighting it.
"Where did you get those anyway?" Edward is only thirteen, after all. He ignores
my question.

"You wanna go for a walk?" he asks.

I'm terrified. I've never snuck out before, but I trust Edward. I nod as he takes
my hand in his and leads me down the road.

"Where are we going?" I whisper, more aware than ever that I'm doing
something wrong. If we get caught who knows what my mom will do.

"Just down the street." He grips my hand in his and pulls me along.

We walk in silence for a few minutes until we come to our park. It's familiar…the
one we've played at for as long as the Cullens have lived here.

There's the swing set and Edward lets go of my hand. I sit down beside him on
the swings, my legs dangling. He chuckles to himself, pulling out the pack and
lighting another cigarette, handing it to me.

I take it tentatively, sucking on the caramel-colored filter and coughing violently

when the harsh smoke enters my lungs.

Edward watches me without talking, dragging deeply on his.

"Since when do you smoke?" I sputter, still recovering from my first inhale.

"Whenever," he says. I know he's just putting on a tough-guy front. It's clear he
hasn't been doing it for that long because he doesn't hold the cigarette like I've
seen the older boys do.

I glimpse at him from the corner of my eye. The night is cool but he's only
wearing his black Ramones t-shirt—he wears it so much I know there are little
holes in it but I can't see them since it's so dark.

"How did you get out of the house?" I ask. He had snuck out to come over once
before, but I never asked how he had done it.

"Window."

"Oh." I consider it. His room is in the basement and there's a small ground level
window above his bed. I know because I've been in there a lot, especially since
we started playing Nintendo 64 together. I think about this and how it's incredibly
brave of him to come over at night because if Carlisle and Esme find out they're
gonna be so mad.

Carlisle is a doctor, and he's one of the ones who is always warning us about how
bad it is to do what Edward's doing now. He even came to the school once and
gave a presentation. It was really gross when he showed us pictures of what your
lungs look like after you've smoked for a long time. Super gross.

We're quiet for a while as he sits and smokes. The cigarette he gave me is still in
my hand and I just hold it as it burns down to the filter. I don't want to inhale
again but I also don't want to offend Edward. When it finally goes out I throw it to
the ground, but he doesn't say anything about it.

"Um . . . is everything okay with your mom?" He finally asks the question I've
been dreading.
In the last three years my mom has been in the hospital twice. Since my dad is
dead and there's no one to take care of me I stayed with Edward and his family
when she was away. The last time was the worst.

She picked me up from school on the last day of 4th grade and we just started
driving. A man came to the house looking for me, she said, and she was crying.
She didn't want him to take me away and she was sure he was going to. I got
really scared because I thought he might come back and I didn't want anyone to
take me away. We drove to Canada and stayed at a hotel for a long time until she
thought it might be safe to go back. But by this time I was sure that there hadn't
been any man, that my mom was having one of her episodes. When we came
back to Chicago it was summer. The police came to our house and took my mom
away to the hospital and I went to stay with the Cullens, which made me really
happy even though I was scared for my mom.

But she got better and they let her go and she was so good for so long! So it
made me angry that it was happening again. I knew she had to take pills that
stopped her from being sick and when she didn't take the pills, that's when she
would get worse. From what had happened tonight I'm sure that she's not taking
the pills anymore, but I don't want to tell Edward. I'm so embarrassed.

I look away, knowing that if he saw my face he'd know the truth. I should have
known that he would know anyway.

"I think you should come home with me. We need to tell my parents."

"No. She's fine. Really," I lie, my voice cracking. If I tell him what happened
today he'll get really angry and, despite the fact that seeing my mom like this
scares me, I don't want them to take her away again either, even if it means I
get to stay with the Cullens again. I love my mom.

But I can't hold back the tears even though I try, and Edward jumps up and puts
his arm around me and we just stay there like that with me sitting on the swing
and him standing next to me while I cry.

"Please don't tell," I beg. "I can take care of her. Please." I'm so full of conflicting
emotions it's overwhelming. I want her to be better but I don't want them to take
her to the hospital. I want to tell Edward everything but I'm so terribly
embarrassed about my mom.

"Did she hurt you?" he asks seriously and I lift my head in surprise. His t-shirt is
all wet where I've been crying into it.

"NO!" I almost shout. My mother would never raise a hand to me, even when she
was at her absolute worst. I know all of her fears are about keeping me safe. I
don't want Edward to think she's a monster.

He sighs in relief and pats my head, pulling it back to his chest.

"She would never hit me, Edward."

"Okay."

"Promise me you won't tell Carlisle and Esme," I plead.

"You need to tell me if it gets worse." I nod in agreement even though I know I
probably won't. Finally my tears stop falling and my breathing calms.

Edward goes back to his swing and lights another cigarette. I can't believe he's
smoking so much.
"You're gonna get caught, you know," I point out. "You stink."

He shrugs and stands, pulling me off the swing and leading me back home. When
we get to my house I see the door is still ajar and I breathe in a sigh of relief.
Renee hasn't gotten up.

Edward and I stand awkwardly. It's so weird because we've always been good
friends, but now he knows my secret I feel strangely exposed and nervous
standing with him there in the dark.

"Goodnight," he says shuffling his feet. He looks nervous too, which is weird
because Edward is never EVER nervous, at least as far as I can tell.

"Goodnight Edward," I reply, then turn and run back up the porch steps, opening
the door quietly and closing it behind me. I lean back, relieved to be home
undetected. My heart is pounding and I'm not sure if it's from the running.

"Courage is fire, and bullying is smoke." Benjamin Disraeli

Chapter 2: February 1999

I'm in sixth grade and it's the absolute worst because Alice is only in fifth grade
and she still goes to our old elementary school, so that means I don't have
anyone to really hang out with during recess or lunch. The only good thing about
being in middle school is that Edward is in 8th grade and he goes to the same
school as me. But I hardly ever see him because 8th grade recess is later in the
day than our recess and we go to lunch at different times too.

None of the kids in my class want to hang out with me and I know that it has to
do with my mom. She comes to school all the time and makes a fuss at the
teachers, and even they roll their eyes at her. I tell her to stay away but she
never listens, and it makes me feel really bad because even though she's my
mother I hate her during those times because I'm so embarrassed.

We don't have the money for the right clothes either, so when I beg my mom to
buy me a new pair of the overalls everyone is wearing she tells me I can't have
them, but that we can go to the Salvation Army to look for a used pair. This is
the last thing I want to do because it will be so obvious that they're not the right
kind, and then people will make fun of me more. I don't tell my mom how the
kids tease me because if she knew she'd go to the school even more often, and
that would only make matters worse. So I just hold my tongue and deal with it,
even when it gets really bad.

There is a clique of popular 6th grade girls who are really mean, and the worst of
them all is Jessica Stanley. She's the leader and Lauren Mallory is her sidekick. All
of the boys love them with their blonde hair and blue eyes. The other girls in my
class aren't as mean to me, but they won't talk to me either because Jessica and
Lauren don't like me, so if anyone does, they'll become an outcast too.

I usually try to avoid them, but it's hard during free time because they always
seem to find me. Most of the time I'll take the book I'm reading and go sit under
the bleachers in the back field until the bell rings. I love reading—it's my favorite
thing to do, and my favorite book is Anne of Green Gables. Esme gave it to me
for my 11th birthday in September and since then I've read it three times. I don't
have red hair like Anne, but I understand how she feels when she's a lonely
orphan—the popular girls don't like her either at first until she meets Diana. They
become best friends. I like the way Anne calls Diana her "kindred spirit," it makes
me think of the way that Alice and me are. And then of course there's Gilbert
Blythe. Anne doesn't like him at first because he teases her, but he does it
because he likes her. For some reason when I read the story I imagine Edward as
Gilbert.

My teachers all praise me for being a good student and I get straight A's in every
class except math. While other people dread report card time, I never do because
my good grades are one thing I'm very proud of. This is another reason that
Jessica and Lauren don't like me. They're not good students, and they tell me
that studying too much is for losers. I ignore them, knowing that even though I
don't have friends at school I still have Alice.

It's February and five months since I first noticed my mom was getting sick
again. Since then I've kept my mouth shut when Edward asks me how she is, but
I know he knows that things aren't right. It's so hard to lie to him.

We haven't talked as much since the night he came to my house. When I go over
to the Cullens' he usually has a friend over—his friend's name is James. I don't
like James much because I think he's the reason that Edward started smoking.

One day in the fall I was walking home I saw the two of them sneak into the
woods in the back of the school and I decided to follow them to see what they
were up to. I felt a little bad to be doing it but I was really curious about Edward's
new friend. Not wanting them to see me, I crept after them and hid behind a
tree. James took out a pack of cigarettes and he gave one to Edward. I was close
enough to hear James say that he was going to get Edward another pack from his
dad's stash. So that's where Edward got those cigarettes!

Now I was stuck behind the tree because if I moved they'd see me, so I had to
stay there at least until they left. My feet were getting tired and I slid down the
trunk of the tree and nestled in the dried leaves, trying not to make too much
noise. James was really loud and I heard him mention a girl named Victoria who
he said was his girlfriend. I knew the girl he was talking about—she had really
curly red hair, and she didn't go to our school anymore because she got in one
too many fights, so she had to go to 7th grade at another school for kids with
problems. James was laughing and he told Edward that Victoria had let him see
and touch her boobs! I couldn't hear what Edward said next, but what James said
shocked me. He promised Edward that if he wanted to, he could make Victoria
show Edward her boobs too, and maybe he'd let Edward touch them as well.

I strained to hear Edward's reply, but he was so much quieter than James I
couldn't make out what he said. The thought of Edward doing that to Victoria
made me sick, and suddenly I didn't want to be sitting there under the tree
anymore. I picked up my bag and ran off, no longer caring if they saw me or not.

Obviously they did, because I heard footsteps coming up behind me, but I didn't
stop running and I didn't look back.

"Bella!" Edward called after me, but I was really fast and already had a head
start. Soon I burst out of the woods and onto the sidewalk. I heard James call for
Edward but I kept going. After about a mile I felt like my lungs would burst so I
slowed to a walk to catch my breath and finally looked behind me. There was no
one there.

Since that day I don't know what to say to Edward when I see him. I feel
awkward, and I am also upset thinking about whether or not he's done what
James had promised with Victoria. I also feel bad for eavesdropping on him in the
first place, because then this never would have happened. I miss playing with
Edward and talking with him, especially since he's the only one who knows that
my mom is sick. Even though I'm embarrassed that he knows and I don't want to
talk about it anyway, it's comforting knowing he understands.

February is really cold in Elgin and I'm standing during recess bundled in the
most ridiculous outfit—an old blue coat and a mismatched scarf and gloves. All of
the other girls have new coats from expensive stores. The funny thing is I don't
actually care a lot about clothes—I just don't want to look different from everyone
else.

Not that I'm a tom-boy or anything…I have long hair that Esme once told me was
the color of mahogany, which is this really rare and expensive kind of wood. And
even if I didn't really believe him, Edward told me I looked beautiful in Esme's
white dress. But I'm pretty sure I don't look beautiful now in the ratty coat I'm
wearing.

There's snow on the ground so I can't go to my usual place under the bleachers,
so I'm wandering around the playground aimlessly trying to blend in.

Jessica is wearing a pink jacket with white fur trim around the hood with
matching pink gloves that have little fuzzy pom-poms on them. Her blonde head
is snugly tucked in a furry pink hat. I don't have a hat on, and my ears are cold. I
hope she doesn't notice me but that's exactly what happens.

"Hey Bella," she says with a raised voice, her eyes latched onto me. "Where'd you
get that coat? It's sooooooo pretty. I wanna get one just like it."

Attempting to ignore her, I start walking the other way. But of course she follows
me, and I turn and notice that Lauren is with her too.

"Yeah, Bella. I really like your scarf too," Lauren chimes in, sniggering. I look
down at the red and orange scarf I'm wearing—it's all pilly from being washed
one too many times. "Goodwill is like my faaaavorite store."

"Maybe next time we can all go shopping together . . . that would be so fun,
wouldn't it Bella?" Jessica adds, laughing.

"No," I answer softly.

Jessica glares at me and takes a step forward. "What'd you say?"

"I said 'no," I repeat, a little more forcefully this time.

"You better watch what you say to me," Jessica is louder now and in my face.
Other kids are noticing and gathering around us. I take a step back from her, but
now Lauren is behind me. I feel a sudden jolt as she shoves me forward, just
barely hitting Jessica.

"Watch where you're going!" Jessica says angrily. I don't tell her that Lauren
pushed me because it's just part of the game and she already knows. I try to turn
away but Jessica is quicker, pushing me hard so that I fall back into the snow,
dropping my book and landing on my behind. I grab for it but Lauren kicks it out
of my way. Now they're hovering over me and as I duck, one of them dumps a
pile of snow on my head and some of it goes down the back of my jacket. I feel
wetness begin to seep through my pants as the snow melts against me.

"Get away from her." Suddenly there's an angry voice in front of me—one I know
well. I look up, brushing the snow off my head. Edward. His face is fierce—I've
never seen him look so mad before and the girls back away slowly, looking from
Edward to me and then back again.
In a flash he is next to me pulling me to my feet and stepping between Jessica
and Lauren and me. He holds my hand as I stand behind him and I blink back
tears; I'm so happy he's here.

"If you ever touch her again you'll be sorry." His voice is low; it almost sounds
like a growl. The girls move back and away from us and Edward spits on the
ground near their feet. I know that he intimidates them because he's in 8th grade
and they're in 6th.

The students who have gathered around into a semi-circle start to drift away and
soon it's only me and Edward standing there.

"Are you okay?" he asks. His eyes follow the retreating crowd.

"Yeah." I'm brushing myself off and feeling more embarrassed than ever.

"You sure?" He looks at me seriously but I can't look him in the eye. I wonder if
he's touched Victoria.

"Yeah. Thanks," I say, leaning to pick up my copy of Anne of Green Gables. The
pages are wet and have started to curl. Esme gave it to me. It's my present and
it's ruined. I feel tears appear even though I've tried to hold them off. Lauren and
Jessica were nothing compared to this. The words blend on the page and I feel
like I've lost a friend.

Edward stands staring at the book in my hands, a weird look on his face. All of a
sudden I hear Mr. Benson yelling from the school building. He's yelling at Edward
because it's not his lunchtime yet and he's out here. He's going to get in trouble.

"I gotta go," he says and seems sorry. "Wait for me after school?" I nod. He turns
and jogs back to the open door, and I can see Mr. Benson talking. He looks
angry.

Edward's never asked for me to wait for him. I'm still mad about Lauren and
Jessica but I'm also excited to be walking home with Edward. They try to bug me
during the rest of the day but I ignore them. Spanish class is one of my favorite
subjects and I love Ms. Martin even though she's losing her hair and all of the
other kids make fun of her because she had a bald spot. To me she's funny and I
love her accent. She's from El Salvador.

When the bell finally rings I grab my bag and my homework from my locker and
head down the hall to the front door. The sixth grade lockers are red and the
eighth grade lockers are blue and I'm looking for Edward at his—number 202. But
he's not there and I figure maybe he's outside since he never said where he'd
wait for me. As soon as the cold air hits my face I see Edward standing near the
front of the school.

He's not alone though. He's with James.

I walk up to them shyly; since that day at the back of the school I haven't really
seen James and I know he knows I was spying on them.

No one says anything. Out of the corner of my eye I can see Edward looks tense,
like he doesn't want to be here. I shuffle my feet and mumble something about
getting home on time. I start to back away. James is looking at me strangely and
he whispers something in Edward's ear, something he doesn't want me to hear.
He smirks and makes a gesture that I don't understand, but from Edward's
reaction I know it's something rude and it's meant for me. Edward shoves his arm
and says something back but I don't hear because by this time I'm already
walking away from them. I feel hurt and stupid because I was looking forward to
walking with Edward since recess, and now I see that I've been excited for
nothing.

I try to focus on the crunch of the snow under my feet. The sidewalks around
school are pretty well shoveled, but sometimes they still have black ice on them
and the last thing I want to do is fall on my butt in front of Edward and James. I
hate that Edward is friends with James. I hate that he's smoking and probably
doing things with girls and it's all because of James.

"Bella, wait." His voice sounds behind me and I scowl, not slowing my pace. I'm
not running away from him but he'd made me feel unwanted and I don't want
him to walk with me out of pity.

Edward is fast though and soon he is right alongside me, grabbing at my arm.

"Jeez, will you wait a second?"

I huff, turning to face him. "What do you want?" My tone is as cold as the ground
we're standing on.

"I said I'd walk with you and that's what I'm doing, aren't I?"

"Well, if you'd rather walk with James that's fine. I can get home by myself,
Edward."

"Damn Bella, I know you can. Listen, I'm sorry about James. He's a good guy but
he can be a jerk sometimes. He doesn't mean anything by it."

"Oh yeah? Great." I attempt to ignore him but he's making it pretty difficult.

"I'm sorry Bella. Do you forgive me?" Edward's walking backwards in front of me,
and when he gives me a smile that lights up his face I almost give in. But I'm
stubborn, and I stop myself from forgiving him so easily.

"I don't know. What'll you give me?"

"Hot chocolate?"

"With marshmallows?"

"Hmm . . . that seems like a pretty tall order."

"Well then, no deal."

Edward is still walking backwards and grinning at me. His hair is messy and
sticking up in all directions and the cold has made his cheeks look pink. I can see
the air mist in and out of his mouth as he breathes. But he's not paying attention
and when we get to the street corner he misses the curb, tripping and falling
backward into the snowdrift on the side of the road. The panicked look on his face
just before he falls is funny, his arms flailing at his sides. I've never seen Edward
look anything but graceful, and in this moment he looks awkward . . . and
embarrassed. He sits sputtering in the snow bank for a second and I can't help
but laugh. At first it's just a giggle, but when he gives me an angry glare I get
louder.

He stands quickly, wiping the snow off his pants and when he turns around I can
see that his bum is wet, a dark watermark on his black jeans. This only makes
me laugh harder.
"Thanks a lot."

"I'm sorry . . . I. . . " I try to catch my breath. "I'm just surprised. I've never
seen you do anything like that before."

"What? Fall on my ass?"

"Yeah," I snort.

"Well, at least you're smiling again." His grin is back and I suck in the side of my
cheeks to try to contain my own. But I can't stay mad at Edward for long.

"You still owe me hot chocolate."

"Well, can you come over?" he asks hesitantly. My mother's behavior has become
really unpredictable—sometimes she lets me go over to the Cullen's for my Friday
sleepover, but more and more often she's been making me stay at home. I
haven't bothered to ask her if I can go over tonight. Alice is at gymnastics until
five anyway, and I figured I'd have plenty of time to go home first. But it seems
like Edward wants me to come over now.

"I don't know. I have to ask my mom." Edward nods seriously and we walk for a
minute in silence. It's not long before we're nearing our neighborhood. When we
get to the front of my house he waits with his hands in his pockets.

Renee works at the Laundromat but recently they cut her hours back. I think they
can tell there's something wrong with her and she's not getting called in as much.
Her car is parked in the driveway which means she didn't work today after all,
and that means she's probably in a bad mood too. I can never predict how she'll
be from day to day. Some days she's not bad at all.

"Ummm . . . I guess I'll go ask her. Are you gonna wait out here?" I silently pray
that he'll go home and I can meet him there.

"I thought I could come in; maybe I could help convince her, if she won't let
you."

"Edward, I don't think that's a good idea." My heart beats so loudly I can almost
hear it; I hate having anyone in my house. Even though Edward's already seen
what it looks like, my embarrassment is fresh every time. It's like I can see
through his eyes and imagine what he must feel . . . pity, disgust.

He shakes his head. "It's a good idea. Come on, let's go." He nudges me forward
and I can't help but do as he says. It'll be even worse if I make a scene. I pick up
my book bag again.

We walk up the worn wooden steps and open the front door. There's a strange
smell wafting from the kitchen and I realize that Renee is cooking. She's a
terrible cook, and Edward and I wrinkle our noses in unison. It would be funny if
it wasn't something else I was embarrassed about.

Renee hears the door open and comes to the front door, wiping her hands on an
apron I didn't even know she owned. She's all smiles and I'm shocked—I
certainly wasn't expecting this!

"Bella! You're home! I've been cooking, sweetie. And Edward, please, come in.
You kids must be freezing!" Her face is plastered into a grin but she's still wiping
her hands on her apron, a movement that becomes more insistent and
noticeable.
"Um. Mom. I came to see if I could go over to the Cullens' for a little while."

Her face immediately falls. "But I've been cooking all day, baby. I was expecting
you for dinner. Edward can stay, of course. It'll be ready in about an hour."
Internally I'm screaming "No!" The last thing I want is for Edward to stay over for
dinner at my house with my unpredictable mother. She's acting pretty normally
right now, but I can sense that at any moment she might change. She's still
wiping her hands, but if Edward notices he doesn't acknowledge it.

"I'd love to Mrs. Swan. Thanks." This is not how I wanted this afternoon to go. I
nudge Edward, trying to be discreet, but he just keeps smiling, ignoring me.

"Okay then," my mother says brightly. "You two kids go play and I'll call you in a
little while."

Go play. Sheesh. She thinks I'm still five years old. I sigh and turn towards
Edward as she walks away, willing him not to look to closely at his surroundings—
the peeling paint, the cobwebs dancing in between chipped railings on the stairs.
I want to insist that he go home right now.

"What are you doing, Edward?" I whisper. "You can't stay for dinner."

"Why not?"

"Because . . . " Because I'm so embarrassed. Because I don't want you to taste
what's sure to be a horrible dinner. Because I'm afraid of what my mom might
do. Because I don't want you to see how I live. But I don't say any of these
things.

"Because nothing. I just have to call my mom."

I nod, unable to think of a reason that won't give away my true feelings.

After he calls Esme, we go upstairs to my room. I try not to look at the dingy
carpet on the stairs, the dangerously rusty nails that hold it in place, and I hope,
by sheer will, that Edward will ignore it too.

When we're in my room I turn on the light. It's only four o'clock but by this time
in the year it's already getting dark. Dim light floods my room and I'm suddenly
shy. I've never had Edward, or any boy, in my room, and I watch him to try and
see what his reaction will be. I'm silently thankful that Alice and I took down all of
the little kid posters I'd had up the summer before and replaced them with things
that seemed more grown up. I have an optical illusion poster that is really cool—if
you blur your eyes, almost so you're cross-eyed, you can see shapes and
pictures. The one I have shows a lion, but only if you look really hard.

The only other furniture I have is a bed and a dresser, and I have a small table
for homework. Edward flops down on my bed with a familiarity that thrills and
frightens me.

"Ahhh . . . " he exhales, closing his eyes and stretching his arms overhead. He's
on my bed with his shoes on and, strangely enough, I don't care. "Man, I'm
beat."

"Why are you so tired?" I ask, sitting down tentatively on the edge of my bed
near Edward's feet.

"Oh, you know, haven't been sleeping much." I have a feeling this has something
to do with James.
"Are you sneaking out a lot?" I ask.

"Sometimes."

"Did you sneak out last night?"

"Yeah."

"Where do you go?"

"Oh, I don't know, around." He's not telling me on purpose and I find it really
annoying.

"Why won't you tell me?"

"You wouldn't understand, Bella." He's right. I can't understand why someone
with such a perfect family would ever want to sneak out and do things that could
get him in trouble.

"Try me."

"Maybe there's no real reason. Maybe I just like the feeling. The excitement." He
runs his hands through his hair and shifts on the bed so that he's looking at me.

"That seems pretty stupid to me," I say. "Are you sure there's not another
reason?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I don't know. Maybe you're visiting someone."

"Who?" He's curious now, teasing me.

"I don't know, Edward," I grumble.

"You obviously have some idea, or you wouldn't have said it," he says,
challenging me.

I'm NOT going to say what's going through my mind. That maybe Edward is
visiting Victoria. But I blush thinking about it. I don't know much about what
happens with boys and girls, but I'm not completely clueless. I've heard enough
around school to know the basics—adults would be shocked if they knew how
much we knew. I didn't have any personal experience but I'd heard older girls,
girls in Edward's grade, who did. Some of them had even let boys touch them
under their clothes. The thought seemed strange to me. But still, I didn't like the
idea of Edward doing those kinds of things with anyone.

I decided I'd change the subject, but I didn't know what to say. Edward seemed
to be in a teasing mode. He suddenly stands up and moves to my bookshelf. I
have a lot of books that were past my grade level and I was pretty proud of my
collection. He picks one up and holds it in his hands gingerly. It's the Diary of
Anne Frank.

"We read this in class this year," he tells me. "This is a really depressing book."

"Yeah, I know," I reply. He's flipping through the pages.

"Can you imagine having to hide like that? I mean . . . with your whole family . . .
never knowing if today is the day the Nazi's are gonna find you?"
I shudder, thinking how horrible that would be. Suddenly my life doesn't seem so
bad after all.

"That would be awful…I can't believe it really happened."

Edward nods thoughtfully. "You have a lot of books, Bella."

"I like reading."

"That book that you dropped today, is it ruined?" He goes to my bag and unzips it
before I can say anything, searching until he pulls out Anne. It is ruined, the
pages now dried and stuck together. The sight of him holding it makes me want
to cry for some reason, but I don't.

"I guess so."

"My mom gave you this. You really like this book?" He looks at it as if it contains
the answer to some secret riddle.

I nod. "Do you like reading?"

"Yeah. Not these kind of books, but I like reading. I like writing too."

"Really?" I'm impressed. I had no idea that Edward was a writer. "What kind of
things do you write?"

He shrugs and sits back down on the bed. "Stories. Not really anything
spectacular. But it's fun."

Suddenly I really want to read something that Edward has written. "Will you show
me?"

"Maybe . . . I don't know. I haven't really shown anyone. They're probably

terrible."

"I doubt that," I say. "You don't have to, but I'd love to read your stories, if you
want."

He smiles broadly. "Cool. Well, maybe sometime." It's silent for a minute and I
have no idea what Edward's thinking.

Finally he turns to me. "Bella, is your mom okay? I mean, how are things going?"

This is exactly the conversation I don't want to have right now. I bite my lip and
look away, hoping he'll get the message. He's still holding the ruined Anne of
Green Gables.

"Why do you let those girls pick on you? Why don't you stand up for yourself?"

"What's with all the questions?" I'm suddenly annoyed; it's not like I let them do
anything. He doesn't understand. I try fighting back, but that only makes it
worse. I tell him so.

"Those girls are bitches, Bella. They don't mean anything. You're better than
them, and they're jealous."

I laugh. "What! Jealous? You're crazy. Why would they be jealous of me?"

He's thoughtful for a minute, sitting back on the edge of the bed. As he speaks he
looks down at the ground.
"Well, you're smart, for one thing. I know you get good grades. Jessica and
Lauren are dumb as bricks."

"Who cares? It's not cool to be smart—if they wanted to be smart so bad,
wouldn't it be cool?"

"Not if they're not smart—then being smart is uncool, since they're the ones who
make the rules."

I shrug. Whatever.

"You're more than that too, though. You're fun. And nice. And . . ." Edward stops.
I want to know what he's going to say, but suddenly I notice he's blushing. It
makes me feel strange and I turn away. Just then my mother comes in, and I
notice she's not smiling anymore.

"Edward needs to go, Bella. Dinner's ruined." She's talking to me even though
he's sitting right there.

"What happened?" I'm relieved because that means Edward doesn't have to stay
for what I'm sure would be a horrible dinner, and I'm alarmed by the unfocused
look on her face. Then from the open door I can smell something . . . it smells
like burning.

"Umm, I don't know." She looks at Edward and then back at me and I just know
she's about to say something weird. Edward looks uncomfortable so I stand up
quickly, grabbing his hand. Renee moves to the side, giving us room to pass.

But he surprises me, stopping in front of her.

"Mrs. Swan, can Bella come to my house for dinner? If you're not having it here?"
He smiles hugely and his whole face lights up. She seems to respond to that,
smiling back.

"Would that be all right with your mother?"

"Of course, she would love it." He tightens his grip on my hand.

Renee eyes me tentatively. "Okay . . ." Then she pulls me away from him. Giving
me a big hug, she whispers in my ear, "Someone burned the dinner, Bella. I'm
sorry."

Once she's released me I look to Edward, trying to figure out if he heard her or
not. He doesn't give anything away.

"Come on, Bella," he says. "Let's go."

Suddenly everything that seemed bad just a minute ago is right again. Because
of Edward.

Tyger! Tyger! burning bright

In the forests of the night,

What immortal hand or eye

Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies

Burnt the fire of thine eyes?

On what wings dare he aspire?

What the hand dare seize the fire?

–William Blake, "The Tyger"

Chapter Three: September 1999

There is a secret place in my mother's room—a chest she keeps in her closet. And
in this secret place are secret things, things she doesn't know I know about.
Sometimes when I come home from school and she's still at work, I go and look
through the chest and it's like discovering a treasure every time.

If most people saw the things in there, they wouldn't think much of it . . . but to
me, it's everything.

Today is my 12th birthday and when I get home from school mom's out. I
remember she told me she'd be working late today and probably wouldn't be
home 'til around seven or eight. Since it's Monday and a school night, I won't be
having a party. I don't want one anyway, because other than Alice and Edward
and my new friend Angela, there's no one I'd want to invite. It doesn't matter
because on Friday I'm going to spend the whole weekend over at the Cullens'
house. Esme promised that me and Alice could stay up late and watch movies—
maybe even a PG-13—and that sounds perfect to me.

But that's days from now and since I don't feel like doing my homework, I decide
this is the perfect time to go exploring in the treasure chest.

After I grab an apple from the kitchen and drop my school bag off in my room, I
creep to my mother's door and push it open gently. I'm always a little nervous
doing this even when she's not here, since if she found me I'm sure she'd be
angry.

My mother's bed is rumpled—she never makes it—and there are dust bunnies on
the wooden floor that drift and roll as the air from the door disturbs them. Her
room smells like smoke; there's an ashtray filled with cigarette butts on her
nightstand and I grimace, wishing I could throw them away and open a window.
But then she'd know I was in here and I'd probably get in trouble, so I just deal
with it. At least she doesn't smoke in the rest of the house.

I open the closet door and settle down on the floor, taking a bite of my apple,
then removing the clothes that my mother has strewn over the chest and lifting
the lid. There they are . . . her treasures . . . my treasures. First, I lift out the
delicate bone china teapot, admiring its decoration of fine gold filigree and
painted birds-swallows, I think. Turning it over carefully, I read the initials: EIR. I
have no idea what they stand for or why my mother has this beautiful object in
her secret place, but I love it. Almost as much as I love the photographs that I
take out next. They're not arranged in a photo-album or anything, but even so I
look at them one at a time, afraid that maybe they're supposed to be in order . . .
some method I'm not aware of.

The picture at the top of the pile is my favorite. It shows my mom and dad on
what I assume is their wedding day. They're so young—my mother has told me
how they got married just after high school. Renee's wearing a simple white dress
with her hair pulled back. She looks beautiful and she's got her arms wrapped
around my dad Charlie. I stare and stare, trying to remember his face. The man
in the photograph is smiling and you can see his perfect white teeth. He's dressed
in a brown suit and holding a paper in one hand, his other arm wrapped around
my mom. He has a dark moustache and kind eyes . . . they're the same as mine.
I stare and try to remember this face . . . his face . . . my eyes. But all I can
remember is this picture.

The next one is of my mom and me. Her hair is braided to the side and tied with
a white ribbon and I'm a tiny baby in her arms with a small scrunched red face.
She looks tired but happy. We're in the hospital and I imagine that it was my
father who took this photo.

More pictures of my dad. This time with a man in a wheelchair. I know who this
is: it's Billy Black, my dad's best friend. Billy's my godfather and he still lives in
Forks with his son Jacob. I know because they send us Christmas cards, and
sometimes I'll get a small present on my birthday. It's funny, because I
remember being at Billy's house when I was little. A memory comes—the smell of
a wood fire burning and playing cars with Jacob on the rug. He's smaller than me
and cries when I take his red car away and then I have to sit in a corner. That's
all I remember.

Pop-pop Swan is next. I remember him too, but he died a couple years after my
dad was killed. Why can I remember all of these people but not Charlie? Why
can't I remember his face?

Then there's a picture of my mom and she's all alone, sitting by a lake. There are
tall pine trees around her and a mist that makes her appear almost like a ghost—
she's so pale and she seems like a lost angel. She's staring out at the water with
a faraway look in her eyes, unaware she's being photographed. I kiss the photo
and hold it to my chest before looking through the rest. . . . more pictures of my
parents, of me, of Billy, other unknown friends, Pop-pop and Gran, who died
before I was born. But none of my mother's parents. I know that they didn't like
her marrying my dad and I think that's probably why. Near the bottom of the pile
is another picture of my dad. This time I'm sitting on his shoulders, gripping his
hair in my fists. He's looking up at me and I'm looking down at him, and we're
both laughing. I must be about three years old.

Suddenly, I hear the front door open and I freeze—it's only five and she's already
home. My mother's voice sounds through the hall, calling me. Impulsively, I
pocket the picture of me and Charlie, hastily stowing the rest of the pictures and
the tea pot back into the chest, closing it, re-covering it with the clothes, and
racing out of the room as fast as I can without making too much noise. Just as I
shut the door I hear her footsteps on the stairs and whip around quickly, guiltily,
sure that my indiscretion is written all over my face.

"There you are!" she exclaims, her voice excited. I'm flooded with relief since she
doesn't seem to notice I've just come out of her room.

"Yeah. Just getting ready to do some homework." Trying to look nonchalant, I

take another bite of my nearly forgotten apple.

"Oh, baby girl, no homework on your birthday! Come on," she says, hugging me
and then pulling me along. "I have a surprise for you."

"I thought you were working late," I venture, a little nervous about the surprise.
Knowing Renee, it could be anything.

"Not on my baby's birthday!" she exclaims. "I fibbed. So you wouldn't know!"
She's smiling now and seems completely fine. It's so tempting to trust this, to
give in and let her mother me. For the past few days she's been doing well, I
wonder if she's begun taking her medicine again. But a part of me knows better
than that . . . she'd never start it again on her own. She doesn't believe there's
anything wrong with her. And if I mention it, I know she'll get really mad.

Renee leads me to the kitchen and I gasp when I see the giant strawberry-
covered cake on the table . . . I know it's whipped cream frosting, my favorite,
and it's big enough to feed twenty people. Next to the cake is a small wrapped
box. I stand, stunned, and a slow smile creeps across my face as she claps her
hands together.

"Go ahead, sweetheart," she urges. "Taste it."

Hesitantly, I sweep my finger across the side of the cake and bring the icing to
my lips, darting my tongue out to taste. Delicious rich cream coats my tongue.

"I thought we might have some cake tonight instead of dinner. What do you
think?"

I think it does sound like a good idea, but it sounds like the idea of a child, not a
mother. And once again I'm back in her place. But I don't want to ruin this, and
so I nod my head.

"Perfect! I'll get plates!"

We cut large slices of cake and I pour milk into tall glasses and we sit in the
dining room at the dusty table. I listen as Renee chats about her day. The
photograph is still in my back pocket, and I worry I'm wrinkling it—but there's
nothing I can do about it right now. She tells me about annoying customers and
doesn't ask me about school, which again, is fine by me. But there's one thing I
do need to bring up. I haven't told her that they've invited me to join the new
Gifted and Talented program. There's a permission slip that she needs to sign,
and if she does, I'll go to South Elgin High once a week for advanced classes. I'm
excited for the challenge, and even more so because I'll be at Edward's school.
Since he's started ninth grade I haven't seen him as much, even though South
Elgin is right next door to Kenyon Woods.

I want to join the program so bad that it scares me. If she says no I'll be
devastated.

I push my uneaten cake around with my fork and she notices.

"What's wrong, baby girl? You don't like the cake?" She looks at it strangely.
"Come to think of it," she says, "it does taste a little funny to me." There's a
worried frown on her face and now she's not eating anymore either. Sometimes
she gets like this.

"No, Mom, the cake is really good. I like it. It tastes great," I try to reassure her.
"It's just, at school they've asked me to join this special program, this Gifted and
Talented program, and I really want to do it."

Her face is serious. "What do you mean? What kind of a program is this?"

I tell her about it and her face lightens again. She runs her fingers through my
hair and smiles, asking for the permission slip. My heart soars as I race to my
bedroom, taking one last look at the photograph before hiding it under my
mattress and returning with the slip and a pen. She signs and I hug her.
"I'm so proud of you, Bella. You're so smart. You'll go far, my baby girl. You'll go
far."

I sit down to finish my cake but she picks up our plates before I can do it. "I think
it's better for us to have something else, okay?" Her smile is strained and I know
she has the idea in her head now that the cake is bad. She's rustling in the
kitchen and opening cans, and I know whatever she's preparing it won't be as
good as the cake.

A few minutes later, she comes back in with the present; I'd almost forgotten
about it.

"For my special girl," she says, handing it to me. I shake the box gently, then
quickly unwrap it, gasping when I find a small gold heart pendant dangling on a
very fine chain. It's beautiful, but I have no idea where she got the money to buy
this . . . we can't afford it.

"I saw it in the window and I thought it was perfect." She's smiling again, "Do
you like it?"

My eyes tear up . . . the beautiful necklace . . . the way she's looking at me . . .

the guilt I feel for accepting it . . . knowing I can't say no, that she wouldn't
understand.

"I love it, Mom. Thanks."

She helps me with the clasp and I thank her again. We sit for a while but Renee's
much quieter now. She gets up and goes to the kitchen and comes back with a
bowl of canned soup. I'm not really hungry anymore and she's not eating, but I
manage to finish about half of it before asking to be excused. She nods absently
and I traipse to the kitchen to wash the bowl, and then retreat to my room,
feeling slightly uneasy.

For the rest of the evening I listen to music and read on my bed. My favorite
band right now is the Red Hot Chili Peppers. Edward gave me their new CD over
the summer and I listen to it all the time, but that's not the only reason I like it.
Some of the songs are really sad and some are louder, more angry. I love the
lyrics. To me, it's almost like poetry, even though I'm sure that would sound
stupid to most people. At school the girls like the Back Street Boys and Britney
Spears, but I can't stand that music. It all sounds the same to me.

At around nine Renee checks in and tells me to go to sleep—I hear her in her
room after that and turn off the music. I know I should go to bed since I have to
get up early, but I have a feeling, a hope. I turn the light of and sit in silence, my
secret hope growing stronger.

But I'm tired, and I find myself dozing slightly until I'm startled by a pinging
sound. I open the window as quietly as I can and see the figure below. Edward
looks up and waves at me.

He doesn't come over too often—maybe once every other week or so, but we
have a routine. I don't bother shouting down to him; instead, I grab my sneakers
and open my door quietly, tip-toeing down the hall and stairs to the front door.
But before I go outside, I remember the huge delicious cake and decide to bring
him a piece. When I get to the kitchen and look in the fridge, I can't find it. A
sinking feeling settles over me, down in my gut, I know where to look. Sure
enough, it's in the garbage.
It makes me so angry. I'm suddenly furious and I want to rip the gold chain from
around my neck. The conflicting emotions are overwhelming, and I don't know
whether to cry or scream. I certainly don't Edward to see me like this. But he's
waiting for me, so I slip my sneakers on and head out the door. It's after eleven
now and our street is quiet except for some dog barking nearby. Edward is pacing
around with his back to me, but turns when he hears me approach. I haven't
seen him in over a week and he seems . . . tall. Alice was teasing that he had a
growth spurt during the summer and for the first time I realize it's true. He's got
to be a good six inches taller than me now, when it used to be only an inch or
two. It's kind of chilly out and he's wearing a hat. His hair is sticking out from
underneath it and he looks . . . cute. I feel my face redden at the thought and am
thankful for the darkness.

"Happy birthday," he says, giving me a hug. He smells like cigarettes but he's not
smoking, probably cause he knows I don't like it.

"Thanks."

"You have a good day?"

"Uh . . . it was pretty good." I finger the gold necklace, trying to be happy about
it and forget those other feelings.

He eyes the necklace and then looks back at my face. "That's nice. A present?"

"Yeah, from my mom." I release it and Edward reaches out, grasping the
necklace for a second before dropping his hand.

"It's pretty."

"Thanks."

Suddenly things are weird, and I notice he has something in his hand.

"What's that?"

"Oh this . . .I ummm . . ." he pulls the hat off and runs his hand through his hair.
"It's for you."

I can't believe Edward brought me a present and the thought that he has thrills
me. "Well?" I tease, raising my eyebrow.

"Here," he mumbles, "it's nothing really, a book we're reading in my English

class. I thought you'd like it."

"I'm sure I'll love it, Edward," I say, taking the book. It's a thin book and there's
an unusual illustration on the cover...it looks like two figures crouching low hiding
from a vibrant banner of fire—Songs of Innocence and Experience is the title. I've
never heard of it before.

"Who's William Blake?"

"He's a poet. He wrote in the 19th Century and he illustrated all his poems. See?"
Edward takes the book and opens it to a random page. there's another illustration
. . . it's a strange kind of drawing of a Tiger. I can't really make out the colors in
the dim light of the street, but I instantly like it. There's a poem that
accompanies the picture, but it's in an old-fashioned script that's hard to read.
"Our teacher says everyone thought William Blake was completely crazy. He
printed all of his own books, and he kind of made up his own personal religion or
something. But now he's considered a genius."

"This is really cool, thanks." I'm flipping through the pages and can already tell
I'll love it. I can't wait to get upstairs and look at it in the light, but I don't want
to leave Edward either.

"I thought it was better than a lot of the crap we've been reading."

"You really didn't have to." Now we've started walking and he has his hands in his
pockets. The hat is back on his head.

"It wasn't anything," he repeats.

"So...how do you like your classes?" I ask. It's a little strange now that Edward's
at high school, but it's funny, I don't feel like he's that much older than me.
Really, I feel older than he is sometimes. But I wonder if he thinks of me as a kid.
Probably. I'm only in seventh grade and he's in ninth. He has friends that I don't
know about—I know he still hangs out with James. He might even have a
girlfriend. That thought makes me mad, even though I know that I'll never be
Edward's girlfriend. I don't really want to be anyone's girlfriend . . . the thought is
somewhat frightening to me. What exactly is expected of a girlfriend? Does that
mean you have to kiss the other person? How do you know when to do it? Or how
to do it?

Edward replies, breaking me out of my thoughts.

"They're okay, most of them, anyway. I'm taking algebra and it's awful."

I nod in understanding. Math is my worst subject too.

"I'm not looking forward to that," I say.

"Well, you won't have to worry about it for a couple years, anyway." I haven't
told Edward yet about the Gifted and Talented program. I'm pretty sure I'll be
doing some more advanced math as well as language and literature. Suddenly
I'm embarrassed. I don't want to sound like a know-it-all. But still, I want to tell
him.

"I . . . I'm actually gonna be doing some more advanced classes this year. I'll be
coming to the high school on Tuesdays, starting next week."

"Really? Wow. That's great, Bella. Good for you." He kicks a stone on the ground.

"Thanks. Is it scary to be in such a big school?"

"A little at first maybe, but you'll get the hang of it. I'm sure you'll be separated
from the high-schoolers anyway." My heart sinks . . . he's probably right.

"Yeah. I guess so."

"But you'll have to tell me where your classroom is," he says, grinning and pulling
my hair. "I'll stop by and harass you."

"Oh please," I scoff. "You won't want to be seen with me."

"Come on, Bella, you're my friend, of course I will."

"Yeah, but you're in high school now. I'm sure you have more interesting
friends."

"Well, now that you mention it." I know he's teasing me, but suddenly I want to
know more.

"Why do you like James, anyway?" I ask, barely able to hide the disgust in my
voice.

"Why don't you like him?" he asks. "'Cause of the smoking?"

"Yeah, among other reasons."

"What other reasons?"

"Oh, I don't know." I'm still remembering our conversation from months before . .
. the one where I accused him of visiting someone out at night . . .that someone
of course being Victoria. "I just think he's a bad influence on you."

"But you have a reason you won't tell me. You're embarrassed or something?
Why?" He's stopped walking and is looking at me. I try and avoid his gaze.

"I think I know what the reason is," he says.

"Oh really?" I ask, challenging him. "Well if you're so smart why don't you tell
me?"

"That day, behind Kenyon Woods you heard us talking and you ran away, and
ever since then you've been weird about James. I think you heard something you
didn't like."

He has it right and I'm too flustered to think of a lie.

"Whatever," I mutter.

"It's true, isn't it?"

"Maybe."

"Well, just don't believe everything you hear, alright?" Neither of us is

comfortable having this conversation, and I have no idea why he brought it up in
the first place. We turn back to my house after Edward says he has to get back
home, and I don't say anything.

When we're a little ways from my house he turns to go.

"I didn't mean to upset you, Bella. I was just teasing."

"Okay, Edward," I huff, still unconvinced.

"You're so sensitive. I forget that sometimes," he says thoughtfully.

Suddenly I feel bad about acting so immaturely—he's trying to be nice. And he's
one of my only friends. I've come to depend on him even more than on Alice, and
I don't want to leave things like this.

"It's okay. I know you didn't mean anything by it."

"Good. Can't have you sad on your birthday."

If he only knew.
"And you're coming this weekend, right? Alice is all excited." He rolls his eyes.
"She's planning makeovers or something, so you better be prepared."

"Ugh," I groan.

"And maybe if you're nice to me, I'll let you play on my new PlayStation."

"Lucky me," I say, grinning.

"You're damn right," he replies, not missing a beat. "It's pretty awesome."

"Well, I guess we'll see if Alice lets me. Thanks again for the book."

"You're welcome." He tugs a strand of my hair again and I wonder if that's a new
thing of his. It makes me smile.

"Night."

"Night."

Back up in my room I open up the book and pour over it greedily even though it's
already after midnight. I'm going to be tired for school in the morning but I don't
care. I read each and every poem, until I'm so drowsy I can't hold my eyes open
anymore, and I fall asleep with the book in my hands.

~QF~

The rest of the week drags by, of course, because I'm so excited for the
weekend. I avoid mentioning it to my mother in case she changes her mind and
decides I can't go, but she's been pretty distant this week, so I'm not too
worried.

Finally Friday rolls around and I rush home from school to pack. Although we've
been walking together since Alice started middle school, Esme picks her up right
after school for gymnastics on Friday, so if I hurry, I'll be able to spend some
time with Edward and maybe play PlayStation with him before she gets back.
Renee's not home yet, but I leave her a note telling her I've gone to the Cullens'.
I stuff my backpack with clothes and a few books, including the book of poetry
Edward gave me. The day after my birthday I was shocked to discover he'd
written something in the front. It said: "To Bella. Happy Birthday. Always,
Edward."

It's a short message but I've thought about it all week long. I look at it again and
again to make sure it's really there. What does "always" mean? Always what? I
know I'll never have the courage to ask him . . . or will I?

At the last minute I decide to take the photo of my dad and me. I don't want to
leave it behind for some reason, and I think maybe I'll show Alice and Edward.

The walk to their house takes about ten minutes and I feel like skipping, even
though I'm too old for that.

Carlisle's black SUV is in the driveway when I get there, and I'm surprised. He
usually works late on Friday night. I ring the doorbell and Carlisle answers, the
angry look on his face dissolving when he looks down and sees me.

"Oh. Bella!" he exclaims. "Alice isn't home yet."

"I know, Mr. Cullen. I came early 'cause I thought Edward might be here; he's
supposed to show me his new PlayStation."
Carlisle looks over his shoulder, then back at me. "Well," he says, "you're of
course welcome to stay and wait for Alice in the TV room, but Edward's being
punished." He says the last few words with strong emphasis, and I'm instantly
disappointed. But then my selfish desire gives way to sympathy and worry . . .
why is he in trouble? Did he finally get caught?

"Okay . . ." I reply, and he opens the door.

"I'll be in my study if you need anything," he says, taking off his glasses and
rubbing his eyes. "Edward is to stay in his room. No visitors. Okay?" His voice is
severe and he looks at me with a raised eyebrow, and I know that's his way of
asking me to cooperate. I nod and he closes the door, turning and going up the
stairs to his study on the second floor. I hesitate for a moment, my bag in my
hand. Finally, I take off my shoes, following the Cullen house rule, and pad down
the hallway to the TV room. I pass through the kitchen and the door to the
basement and Edward's room fighting the desire to go down there. But I don't
want to get him in more trouble.

Flopping down on the overstuffed sofa, I grab the remote and turn on the TV. It's
tuned to HBO and some movie I've never seen, but I'm not really paying
attention. My heart is thudding in my chest as I waver indecisively. Carlisle is
upstairs. He'll never know if I go down just for a minute or two, just to see if
Edward's okay. And Esme and Alice won't be back for at least another half hour,
probably more. But I should stay here . . .

Of course I'm fighting a losing battle. I pick up my bag and make my way back to
the kitchen. There's music playing downstairs, and if I can hear it up here it must
be pretty loud. I recognize it as the Smashing Pumpkins, Edward's favorite band.
I steel myself and open the door.

At the bottom of the stairs I look around. The lights are dim and I can't see
Edward. Then, I notice that he's sitting on his bed with his back against the wall
and his knees drawn up into his chest. He doesn't acknowledge my presence as I
come closer. The music is deafening.

"Edward?" I ask, suddenly very unsure. Maybe I shouldn't have come down. He
clearly doesn't want me here.

I stand still for a minute, looking away awkwardly, and when I look back I'm
shocked because he's crying.

"Edward?" I say again, sitting next to him. "What's wrong? What happened? You
got in trouble?"

"Yeah," he scoffs, wiping his face with the back of his hand and looking away. "I
guess you could say that. More like fucked. Royally fucked."

Edward swears, but he rarely uses that word, at least around me. It must be
pretty bad.

"Does my father know you're down here?" he asks.

"No. I snuck down. He's upstairs."

"Good. Bella, you should go...you don't want to get involved in this."

"Would you just tell me what happened?"

"I got caught, okay?"

"Caught what, sneaking out?"

"No, worse."

My stomach drops. What could be worse than that?

"Smoking?" He's silent for a minute, and I don't expect him to answer me, so I'm
surprised when he starts talking.

"I was with James and some seniors at lunch . . . and we were in the back of the
school smoking . . . and then one of the guys pulls out a joint and starts passing
it around. When it comes to me, and I don't want to do it, but I don't want them
to think I'm . . . I don't know . . . scared to do it. So I pretend."

"You pretend?"

"Yeah, I just kinda fake it, I guess. But just then one of the teachers comes out
looking for us and she sees me. A whole bunch of them scatter and it's me
holding the joint, you know? And she looks at me with this look.

"And before I know it I'm in the principal's office and they're calling my dad. And
he comes to school so mad, so fucking mad. And I try telling them that it wasn't
mine, that I wasn't doing it, but no one believes me. They search my locker of
course and find the cigarettes . . . and my dad's standing right there.

"I tried to tell him I wasn't smoking pot, but he just doesn't believe me. He just
doesn't believe me. And now I'm fucking suspended. Maybe even expelled. And
dad's talking about sending me away to fucking boarding school. And yeah, I'm
grounded for life or until I turn 18, whichever happens first.

"And just now before you came over he told me what a disappointment I was to
him . . . and a whole bunch else that I won't even repeat."

He's crying again but he's angry, and he wipes his face, looking away. It makes
me so mad that his father doesn't believe him. Sure, the cigarettes must have
looked bad, but I know Edward's not lying about the drugs.

"That's so unfair," I say. I want to do something with my hands, with my arms, to

comfort him, but I'm not sure how or if he'd even want me to.

"You believe me?" he asks, wiping his nose on the back of his arm. It's kinda
gross, but for some reason it doesn't bother me 'cause it's Edward.

"Yeah, I believe you. Why would you lie to me?"

"You're unbelievable, you know that?" he says. "No one else will believe me, but
you do. Why?" I shrug. I don't know why.

"Alice will believe you. Your mother will."

"But not my father," his voice is bitter.

"He's just angry, Edward. He'll cool down."

"He said he was . . . disgusted . . . by me."

My heart lurches and suddenly I hate Carlisle. Even though I know I'm right and
he doesn't really mean the things he said, no one should ever say such a thing
about their child. It wasn't right. I don't even know how it happens but suddenly
my arms are around Edward and now he's crying into my shoulder. I'm happy
that I can be here for him, as he's always been there for me. When he pulls away
and my shirt is wet but of course I don't care. I think maybe I'll never wash this
shirt again.

"And you were right, Bella. About James. That bastard just took off and left me
there. Didn't even stand up for me . . . he just ran off." This is not the time for I-
told-you-so's, so I just nod my head and pat his back.

"Sometimes I wish I didn't have a father." His words are spoken without thinking,
and I immediately stiffen, pulling my hand away.

"Shit. Oh shit, Bella. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean it." Edward's eyes are wide as he
watches me, his hand darts out to grab my shoulder, and for a minute I think
what to do. I could get mad at him and tell him he's an insensitive moron . . . but
he's not. He's hurting.

Instead, I unzip my bag and pull out my picture. It's a little wrinkled from where I
sat on it and from being under my mattress and I try to flatten it out with my
palm before passing it over.

"I wanted to show you this," I say softly. "It's one of the only pictures I have of
my dad, and my mom doesn't even know I took it."

He takes the photo carefully, and studies it for a minute without speaking.

"This is you."

"Yeah." I can't help but smile. He seems awed for some reason.

"I'm an asshole," he whispers.

"No," I tell him, "you're not. That's not why I wanted you to see it. I just wanted
you to see that once I had a family . . . like yours."

"Thank you." He hands the picture back to me. "You're really an amazing
person."

"Oh please, I'm just being a friend."

"You're a great friend," he says softly. We sit for a while until the CD stops. I've
forgotten all about time and the fact that if I get caught down here we're both
probably going to be in trouble.

"I better go upstairs."

"Yeah," he jokes, "Or Carlisle will probably think I dragged you down here to my
lair."

"Well, we can't have that."

"No."

"It'll be okay," I say. "You'll see."

"Okay." He cracks a small smile as I turn to go.

But before I do I pause on the stairs, suddenly feeling bold.

"Hey, Edward?"

"Yeah?"
"What does 'always' mean?"

I can't see his face in the darkness, but I hear his soft reply.

"Forever."

~QF~

Two months later

"I hate Tuesdays," Alice complains. She's standing at my locker while I gather my
stuff to go to the high school. "You're not at lunch and . . . uhhh . . . it sucks to
have to sit with Erick Yorkie and Mike Newton . . . and then we don't even get to
walk home together."

I of course don't say what I'm thinking: that I love Tuesdays because that's the
day I get to see Edward. Ever since he's been grounded, I only ever see him on
the days I go to South Elgin for the G&T program, as I've come to call it. Luckily,
Carlisle's threat to send Edward to boarding school was an empty one.

"I walk alone on Fridays," I remind her.

"Yeah. You're right. But I miss you at recess." I give Alice a small smile as I close
the locker, reattaching the lock and picking up my bag.

"I think Yorkie likes you," I tease.

Alice grimaces. "Gross! Bella. Eeew. Well, I think Mike Newton likes you."

Before I can respond the bell rings and Alice has to hurry off to class. And I need
to get to the front of Kenyon Woods before the rest of the kids in the program
leave without me.

At the front of the school, Angela Webber greets me with a smile. She just
recently moved to the area, and having her in seventh grade with me has made
all the difference. This year is so much better than last year, at least at school. I
don't feel like such an outsider anymore; Angela doesn't treat me different from
anyone else, and she stands by me when Lauren and Jessica pick on me. Besides
Angela and Alice, I'm even hanging out with other kids in my class—I'm even
thankful for Newton and Yorkie, although they are a little annoying.

It's so lucky that Angela was selected for G&T too—now I have someone to talk
to and hang out with at lunchtime, which we take in the high school cafeteria.

"Hey," she says.

"Hey!"

"Did you bring your portfolio?"

"Yeah." I pat my bag. "Right in here." We've been working on individual projects,
and I've decided that I'm writing a paper on the book Edward gave me for my
birthday, William Blake's Songs of Innocence and Experience. Mrs. Johnson, the
program coordinator, thought it was too advanced an idea, but I really want to do
it. It's hard, since I still don't understand a lot of the poems, but I wouldn't let
her convince me otherwise.

Angela sighs. "How's your project going, anyway?"

"Um. Pretty good, I guess. What about yours?" Angela was into science, so she
was working on an experiment on plant biology.

"Not great, to be honest. But, we still have time. I won't freak out until it's
absolutely necessary."

"I'm sure it will be great, Ang. Seriously."

"We'll see."

By the time we get settled in and down to work, it's past ten. My eyes glance
every once in a while towards the small window in the door.

At quarter 'til eleven, his face briefly appears, his telltale bronze hair a flash by
the window, and I ask to go to the bathroom, trying to control the hammering in
my chest. Angela gives me a knowing glance, but Mrs. Johnson hands me the hall
pass without a question.

I hurry down the hall, past the girl's room and to room one-oh-three. I turn the
nob and there's Edward, sitting on the teacher's vacant desk, just like always.

His smile is so bright and my stomach feels funny. In the past couple months
something has become clear to me. I have a crush, A HUGE crush, on my friend
Edward Cullen.

"I thought you might not see me," he says, hopping down from the table.

"Yeah, well, you're lucky I was looking at the clock."

"Class that boring, huh?"

"Not too bad. What about you?"

He groans. "Ohhhh, it's awful. I really could care less about mitosis or meiosis."

"Doesn't sound too interesting."

"It's not, believe me."

"We're just doing independent work today. So it's pretty okay."

"What are you working on?"

"Oh. . ." I reply dismissively, "just a book project."

Edward sits back up on the desk and gestures to me. I sit beside him, swinging
my legs and trying not to think about the fact that we only have a couple of
minutes before we'll both have to get back.

"So, I have good news," he reveals. "My parents are lightening up. I can have
friends over now. Good behavior and all that."

In the months since he was caught "smoking" pot, Edward has stopped hanging
around with James and sneaking out at night. I miss our late night visits, but I
know it's for the best. And plus, he has some friends now that seem to be nice
guys. Emmett McCarty and Jasper Whitlock are both sophomores, but from what
Edward says they're not at all like his old friends. Even Carlisle and Esme
approve.

"That's great! Are they letting you out, too?"

"Not yet. I'm working on it." His mouth is set in a hard line. "But if you wanted to
come over this weekend, I can finally show you some of my new games." Edward
looks over at me hopefully. We're sitting so close, both of us grasping the edge of
the desk. Our hands are nearly touching. If I just moved my pinky a little bit, it
would graze his. But I don't. Instead, I nod enthusiastically.

"Sure. That would be fun." All of a sudden, I'm crazily nervous. It's not like
Edward has never asked me to come over before. But this seems different. He
smiles at me and tugs my hair, before propelling himself off the desk once again.

"Cool. Well. I better be getting back. Saturday?"

I think about whether my mom will let me and, since she's been working more
often, I feel like it will probably be fine. "Okay," I reply shyly.

With one final smile, he turns and leaves and I'm filled with a warm feeling . . . I
know I like Edward. Could it be that he likes me too?

"Love is friendship set on fire." –Jeremy Taylor

Chapter 4: May 2001

"I can't wait 'till next year," Angela says, slumping down into her chair next to me
in the G&T classroom. "We'll be here every day and we won't have to deal with
Jessica or Lauren anymore."

I nod, glad that the terrible twosome won't be attending South Elgin and are
instead headed off to Trinity Academy—a private school on the other side of
town. "Sounds like heaven to me."

It's so hot today and there's apparently something wrong with the air
conditioning system, so we're all sweltering in the classroom. I shift in my seat
and my legs stick to the chair below me.

Though they're still awful to me, I ignore Jessica and Lauren for the most part,
but I know that Angela is relieved for another reason altogether. She has a thing
for Ben Cheney . . . and so does Lauren.

"I'll miss this, though, you know?" She gestures around and I know exactly what
she means. For the last two years, this classroom has become a sort of safe
haven for us both; even though we'll still be in this building next year, it won't be
the same.

"Yeah, but at least we'll be together," I say, grinning. "And we'll be out of Kenyon
Woods." Angela and I are planning to sign up for the same classes next week
when registration begins. Thanks to Edward, I already know which electives to
pick, and I've shared my knowledge with Angela and our other friends. Mr.
Hanson, for instance—the shop teacher who's missing two fingers—is to be
avoided at all costs. Of course Alice hates me bringing this up, since she's only in
the 8th grade next year, so I try not to talk about high school when we're
hanging out.

"And you'll be in the same school as your boyfriend," she teases, stressing the
last word a little too loudly. Bree Tanner turns around and looks at me and it's
obvious she's been eavesdropping.
"Oooh! Bella! You have a high school boyfriend? Oh my God! Is it Edward Cullen?
It is, isn't it? Oh my God! I knew it!" She's loud and some of the other kids turn
around, and I feel the blood rushing to my face. Angela!

"I don't know what you're talking about," I mumble. Edward Cullen isn't my
boyfriend, but I don't really know what he is to be honest. I'm so confused by the
way he acts. Sometimes it really seems like he wants to be more than friends,
but then other times he treats me more like a kid, or a sister. And since he
started playing baseball last spring, he's hanging out more with Jasper and
Emmett and the team. He's the Shortstop for the South Elgin Ramblers and it's
amazing how fast he is. I've been to a lot of his games, almost all of them, and
he's so good that he's become one of the most popular boys at South Elgin High,
even though he's only a sophomore—and I know he has a lot of female admirers.
How can I compete with high school girls?

Bree looks disappointed and hesitates a minute before turning away. I'm staring
down at my notebook, doodling absentmindedly to distract myself from thoughts
Edward and high school girls.

"Sorry," Angela whispers. I raise my head; her eyes are full of apology. "I'm sorry
Bella," she mouths.

"It's okay." I shrug, returning my attention to my aimless drawing as Mrs.

Johnson enters and starts talking about our end of the year activities. There's
only two more weeks, and then we'll be done.

At around ten I begin glancing towards the door. But by eleven, nothing. Edward
hasn't passed by.

But maybe he did while I was looking away? It was possible. I could've been
distracted for a second and missed him. I stand up and ask for the hall pass and
Mrs. Johnson hands it to me, raising her eyebrows. By this time I think she knows
something's up, since I ask at the same time every week, but she hasn't ever
denied me.

I take the pass and enter the empty hallway, hurrying down to our room . . . he's
not here. My stomach sinks into my feet and I stand with my hand on the
doorknob, trying to think of why. In the past two years, the only time he's missed
our weekly date is when he's been sick, and I know he's not, since I was just over
at the Cullens' on Sunday.

He could've gotten sick yesterday.

Maybe.

Dejection washes over me and I drag my feet back to G&T, feeling awful. But it
doesn't stop me from gluing my eyes to the door for the rest of the day, and
being disappointed when nothing happens.

Back at home that afternoon, I'm relieved that my mom isn't there. I have
cramps and I know what's coming. I've been getting my period for about a year
now, so it's no longer a surprise. And it's way less traumatic than I thought it
would be, especially since Alice just got hers too for the first time. She came to
me for advice and I felt kinda proud—like I could help her with my experience.
And it makes me happy that we're the same again.

I go to the bathroom and pull down my shorts; sure enough, there's a small spot
of blood. Hurrying to my room, I get a pad and change my underwear, then take
two ibuprofen for the pain before lying down on my bed. Of course my thoughts
immediately drift to Edward . . . I know he's at practice today and now I won't
see him until the weekend. He promised I could come along on Saturday—he's
got his driving permit and Carlisle's giving him a lesson. But now I'm not sure if
I'm still invited.

It's so quiet in my room, there's only the tick of my alarm clock . . . and it's still
so hot. For some reason I just feel like crying. But I don't. Instead, I study my
ceiling—the cracks and water spots—until boredom overcomes sadness and the
aching in my abdomen fades.

Renee's not home. She's been working a lot lately, and when she's here she's in a
terrible mood. Most of the time she stays in her bedroom with the door shut, not
bothering even to come out for dinner. Even though Renee's never been much of
a chef, now she doesn't cook at all, so I've started learning how. Nothing too
complicated, but I'm pretty proud of myself. I even baked a batch of blueberry
muffins for the Cullens; of course Edward ate almost all of them. He loves
anything with blueberries.

Since it's been a while and I decide maybe now is a good time to go and look at
my pictures . . . her pictures. It always makes me feel better.

Her room is in quite a state—dirty clothes everywhere, and the desire to clean up
after her is overpowering. But I don't. Once in her closet, I crouch down to
unearth the small chest, but right away I see something is wrong. The clothes
that usually cover it are gone-the chest is open! And inside . . . broken . . .
fragments . . . pictures and porcelain . . . destroyed, all mixed together. Ripped
and shattered. I reach my hand into the box and pull out nothing . . . dust . . .
torn scraps . . . nothing . . . no more.

She's ruined it all. She's ruined it all . . . all the pictures . . . everything . . . her
life before me . . . Charlie . . . Pop-pop . . . Billy . . . gone. The beautiful teapot
with the unknown initials . . . nothing.

I frantically claw, digging through the remnants, looking for anything to save. But
nothing has been spared.

Sobbing, I stagger out of the closet and back to my room, slamming the door
even though no one is home. I want to scream, to shake her, to run away and
never come back to this place. I hate, hate, hate, hate. Sinking to the floor I hug
my bare knees to my chest as I cry, and I'm sweaty as I roll onto my side.

Time passes and the shadows in the room morph and shift. It's getting later but
it's still daylight. There's no breeze coming from my window and I'm not crying
anymore because I feel like all my tears have dried up. My chest feels empty as I
think about what this means. Renee loved those things; I know she did. That
must mean she's really bad.

All I want is Edward, but he's not here.

Sitting up, I reach under my bed and pull out a shoebox. My own treasures—most
of them gifts from Edward. The book he gave me, almost two years ago. I touch
the cover and open it; tucked just inside is the picture of Charlie and me. Now it's
all that's left. I hold the photo gently in between my fingers then replace it safely
inside the book. Then, as always, I read Edward's inscription . . . "always." Does
he remember writing it?

There're also some CDs. A card he gave me one day when I wasn't feeling well. A
baseball from his first game. He was joking and signed it, and of course I teased
him, not daring to admit how happy I was when he then tossed it to me. Then
sillier things. A bottle cap from a soda he once left in room one-oh-three. A note
card from a test I helped him study for.

If Edward knew I had this stuff he'd probably think I was weird . . . or worse. But
I can't help it.

The necklace that my mother gave me for my twelfth birthday is still around my
neck. I unclasp it and put in into the box before stowing it away again.

The heat in my room becomes intolerable and I decide to go downstairs; when I

open the door I hear the phone ring. It's Alice.

"Hey, what are you doing right now?" she asks. I'm standing in the kitchen
twisting the phone cord around my hand.

"Not much."

"Well, can you come over? Edward, Emmett and Jasper are watching a game and
I'm so bored. Maybe we can watch a movie or something up in my room?"

It's a school night but there's no homework—we only have two weeks left of
classes and the teachers have been pretty lenient. Since Renee's not home to
object, I immediately agree. I don't even care if she's mad at me. I need to get
out of this house.

"Awesome!" she says. "I'll meet you at the oak."

There's a tree halfway in-between our houses where we always meet, and Alice is
leaning against it when I arrive. Her arms are crossed and she's frowning a little.

"What's wrong?"

"Ugh! It's just...Edward and his stupid friends have taken over the whole
downstairs to watch the Cubs game when they can just go down to Edward's
room...and that Jasper Whitlock is so annoying. They just bother me! And Esme's
got them all this snack food, and they just eat like pigs. Gross!" Alice is huffing
away. Jasper calls her "short stuff," and the name drives her crazy.

"You're so lucky you don't have a brother, Bella. And God, Emmett eats like a
freaking horse."

I shrug, not saying what I'm thinking, that all that doesn't sound too bad to me.
In fact, it sounds fun.

"Who're they playing?" I ask.

"What?"

"The Cubs...who're they playing?"

Alice looks at me as if I've grown three heads. "I have no idea, Bella. Oh God,
you're not gonna go ditch me and hang out with Edward and his band of idiots,
are you?"

"No," I insist. I'm still sore that Edward missed our chat today without even
telling me why. "I'm just curious."

When we enter the house, we immediately hear hollers from the TV room. The air
conditioning is a relief. I kick off my sandals just as Esme comes to greet us.
"Bella! So good to see you, sweetie. How's you're week going? Getting ready for
the summer?"

"Definitely." Another roar erupts from the room down the hall. Esme turns her
head, shaking it and laughing.

"The boys are excited tonight. I guess it's a big game."

I nod, trying not to appear too interested.

"Yeah, well Bella and I will be upstairs," Alice says, tugging at my arm
impatiently.

"Are you girls hungry?" Esme asks. "I have some chips and dip, and there's some
pizza, Bella, if you want a snack." At the mention of food my stomach gurgles,
answering for me.

"That sounds good," I reply shyly.

"Well, come on in the kitchen and fix yourself a plate then," Esme encourages. I
ignore Alice's sigh of exasperation and follow her mother down the hall towards
the kitchen and the TV room. There're two large pizzas on the center island . . .
mushroom and pepperoni. I take a slice of the mushroom and a handful of potato
chips and Alice wrinkles her nose. She's decided she doesn't like cheese, which to
me is crazy. Cheese is the best thing in the world. Instead, she grabs a bag of
carrot sticks from the fridge along with a bottle of ranch dressing.

"Are you sure that's all you want?" Esme smiles and I nod. "Well, okay then. I'll
be upstairs."

Esme is an interior designer and she works from home. Sometimes Alice and I
help her make selections from the large sample books of materials and colors.
Well, at least we pretend to help. I'm not sure she actually uses our suggestions,
but it's fun to pretend all the same.

"Okay."

Edward saunters into the kitchen, still dressed in his grass-stained uniform. His
hair flops down over his eyes and he rakes his hand through it when he sees me
standing there, his mouth dropping open just a little. Suddenly I'm not hungry
anymore.

"Bella, I didn't know you were coming over . . ."

"Yeah. Well, Alice invited me," I reply, irritated that he seems so startled and
embarrassed. Where were you today Edward?

"Oh. Cool."

"Yeah. We're gonna watch Clueless," Alice confirms, dragging me along. This is
news to me.

"Well, see ya." I turn to go, but before we can make our escape, Emmett comes
barreling into the kitchen.

"Holy shit, Edward. Duncan's on fire with the fastballs. You have to get in here,
man." Edward nods, still staring at Alice and me.

"Little Bee!" Emmett exclaims. "Where are you running off to?" Emmett is maybe
the tallest, widest person I've ever seen up close and personal, but he's really
sweet. Though he appears built more for football than baseball, he's an amazing
hitter. His nickname for me doesn't bother me the way that Jasper's bothers
Alice. I kinda like it . . . he's like a big brother. Emmett takes a piece of
pepperoni, folding it in half and consuming nearly a third of the slice in a giant
bite.

"Gross," Alice whispers so that only I can hear.

"We're going to watch a movie."

"Awww, but it's the Cubs! Come watch with us." My eyes dart between Edward
and Emmett and Edward suddenly looks very uncomfortable. I decide I like this
and turn to Alice.

"Just for a minute, Ali." There's an angry groan from the other room and the
sound of something heavy being thrown.

"Ugh! That's what you always say!"

I take my plate and follow Emmett into the TV room, Alice and Edward close
behind.

Jasper is lounging on the sofa sipping a Coke, and he nods to us when we come
in, his eyes focused on the screen. He's a lot quieter than the rest, but I really
like him.

"What's the score?" Edward asks.

Jasper sighs. "2-3 Reds."

"Damn," says Emmett.

"It's only the fifth. We still have time."

I take a seat on the floor next to Alice, placing my plate in front of me. My
appetite is completely gone now, so I just pick at the mushrooms on my pizza.
Everyone is chatting except for me and Edward—why is he so quiet? I try to focus
on the TV.

Even though I don't know a lot about baseball, I enjoy watching. The Cubs are
Edward's favorite team, and he's told me they've been on a losing streak, so the
atmosphere in the room is tense as the game progresses. But the score settles in
their favor during the sixth inning, and things lighten up.

During a commercial break Jasper leaves for the bathroom, messing with Alice's
hair as he passes by. She squeals angrily and bats his hand away.

Emmett takes a huge swig of his soda and belches loudly.

"You know, it's a miracle you guys can find anyone to go out with," Alice remarks.
"Do you have a date for the prom yet, Emmett?"

He grins and takes another bite of pizza. "Sure do, short stuff. The ladies can't
get enough of the E-man."

The E-man? I stifle a laugh.

Alice shakes her head.

"Yep, I'm doubling here with my man Edward and his lady."
Suddenly my body runs cold and I turn to Edward. His face is red and he's
focused on the TV, taking a measured sip of his soda. He won't meet my eyes.

"What?" Alice shouts, "This is news to me! What the heck, Edward! You're only a
sophomore."

The prom was only for juniors and seniors, so that means only one thing . . . an
older girl has asked him. And he's said yes.

"Who's the girl?" Alice asks excitedly. I want to sink into the ground.

Emmett answers for Edward again. "Tanya Denali . . . and man, is she hot. Your
brother is a lucky man," Emmett says, hitting Edward's arm playfully. Edward just
sits there, saying nothing.

But I know exactly who he's talking about. Tall. Strawberry blonde hair. Tanya's a
junior, and she's the subject of a lot of ogling whenever the males in G&T catch a
glimpse.

I need to go. I feel sick. And I don't care if it's obvious. I need out of that room.
Because suddenly I feel completely lost, like there's no place I belong now.

I stand up on unsteady legs, leaving my plate behind.

"I'm . . . supposed to be home by eight," I stammer. "I gotta get going."

"But I thought we were gonna watch the movie! Bella, you promised!" Alice's
whines just make me more embarrassed.

I shake my head and start heading out the door just as Jasper returns. "Where're
you off to, Little Bee?" he asks.

"Bella," Edward's voice startles me, but I don't look back.

That night, for the first night in a long time, there's a pinging sound at my
window. And for the first time ever, I don't answer.

~QF~

The next week passes by in a slow blur. My mother is getting really bad, and I
have no one. It's only now I realize how much I've come to depend on Edward. I
feel betrayed, like I've lost my best friend. Renee talks to herself in her room at
night, and it really scares me. But I don't tell anyone.

On Tuesday in G&T I don't bother looking at the door. In fact, I intentionally keep
my head down, not even glancing up at the clock.

At around 10:30, there's a knock on and Mrs. Johnson answers it. She goes into
the hallway and shuts the door, and when she returns she walks to my desk.

"Bella, you're wanted in the front office, sweetie. Bring your things."

My stomach drops as I think about what this means . . . Renee. Something's

happened to Renee. Angela gives me a worried glance as I gather my belongings
and walk to the door.

I try to hurry, but I can't. My body feels stiff with dread, my legs are leaden. The
door is open to Edward's chemistry class as I pass by, and my head turns against
my will. He's bent over his desk and I pause just a beat too long because he lifts
his eyes, probably feeling my gaze. I blush since he's caught me staring, looking
away quickly and continuing on my way. There's something warm and wet on my
face and I wipe it away, surprised that I'm crying.

When I get to the front office two women greet me with concerned looks on their
faces.

"Bella Swan?" One of them asks. I nod.

"I'm Mrs. Cope, the guidance counselor here," says the other, a short round
woman with cury grey hair. "Would you please come with me?"

I follow her down a short hall to what is, presumably, her office, sitting down on a
bright green couch across from her desk.

"Bella," she says softly. "Your mother has been taken to the Elgin Medical Center.
It seems there was an incident today at the grocery store, and they had to alert
the police."

"Oh." The material is scratchy on my bare legs and my eyes drift around the dull
yellow office. 'An incident,' such a vague phrase to describe what probably
happened. One of our spelling words last month was "euphemism;" that's what it
is.

"Your mother has bipolar disorder? Is that correct?" She's looking at a folder on
her desk and shuffling papers when she asks the question.

I don't answer.

She asks me more questions about Renee, my life at home, school, and I give her
short answers, sometimes none at all. She murmurs things and writes them
down, but all I can think about is when I can get out of here and where I'll go
when I do. I keep expecting someone from child services to appear and take me
away.

After a while the phone buzzes and Mrs. Cope answers it. She nods and stands to
open the door, and as soon as she does Esme appears, looking worried. She hugs
me and it feels so nice; I feel safe again, spared from answering any more
unwelcome questions.

"Bella," she says. "Would you like to come and stay with us for a little while, until
your mom is better?"

"Yes," I whisper faintly. I'm so relieved no one is coming to take me. Just then I
notice that Edward's there too, standing behind Esme. His jaw is clenched and he
looks . . . mad . . . sad . . . I can't tell. But his face is intense and I have to look
away.

"Well, then, let's go, shall we?"

Edward comes back with us even though it's only half way through the school
day. He sits in the back seat with me and I don't resist when he takes my hand. I
don't want to think about Tanya, or the prom, or my mom, or the future. I just
want to think about the warmth of his hand holding mine. If Esme notices she
doesn't say anything.

"I'm so sorry," he says softly.

I don't know what he's sorry about, so I don't say anything. I'm still mad at him,
but I need him, too.
"I know it probably doesn't matter right now, but I still wanted to tell you . . . I'm
not going."

"What?" My voice sounds funny, hoarse. He's not going to the prom? That's what
he means, right?

He shakes his head, then pulls me over as far as the seatbelt will allow. I lean
against his shoulder.

"Why?"

"Later," he says, and I know it's because of Esme in the car. A strange mix of
feelings overwhelms me—it is possible that I could be happy at a time like this?
When my mom is in the hospital?

We don't talk for the rest of the ride, but he never lets go.

That evening, after I go home and pack my bag, Carlisle asks if I want to call the
hospital to talk with Renee. I do, but not tonight. Tonight, I just need to sleep. He
nods in understanding and Alice and I go to her room, just like we're having a
normal sleepover. We chat for a while and I can tell she's trying to take my mind
off of things, and I'm glad. I fall asleep to the sound of her voice.

~QF~

After school the next day Alice has a doctor's appointment, so I find myself home
alone when Edward arrives after practice. I'm reading a book when he comes into
the living room, sweaty and flushed.

"Hi," he says.

"Hey."

"I'm glad you're here; I'm gonna go take a shower . . . wait for me?"

Before I can reply he's out the door again and I'm sitting nervously. And reading
the same line over and over again before I shut the book in frustration. Ever
since yesterday's car ride, I've wondered about Edward's words.

He comes back ten minutes later, freshly showered and wearing jeans and a tee
shirt. His chest looks broader—probably from all the workouts he has to do for
baseball. He sits down next to me on the couch. He smells nice.

"Are you okay?"

I shrug; I might as well be honest. "Not really."

"Why didn't you tell me how bad your mom was getting?"

"God, Edward. It's embarrassing. I don't know . . ."

"You really don't have to be embarrassed. You know you can tell me anything."

That's easy for him to say. "It hasn't felt like it."

"What?"

"Lately, it's like I don't know you anymore. Our lives are just different . . . it's like
we're not friends.
He lowers his gaze and I can see how long his eyelashes are because we're sitting
so close. There's a funny feeling in my stomach.

"I know . . . I'm sorry."

"You have the team now, and Emmett and Jasper, and all those other friends.
And I . . . I'm just the same."

"You're my best friend," he says softly. I can't believe it.

"Well, you didn't come last week, to our room," I accuse. "Why?"

His knee is bouncing around, shaking the couch. It's a nervous habit he's always
had. "Because . . . I felt weird. About the prom. . . that was the day Tanya asked
me."

"And you said yes."

He shakes his head. "Yeah."

"Do you like her?"

"I thought I did."

My breath catches and I move back, away from him.

"She asked me in front of everyone, and I just said yes. I didn't even think about
it. But then, later, I realized I made a mistake."

"When did you realize it?"

"I saw the look on your face when Emmett said that stuff."

So he felt sorry for me . . . that's what this is about. I really, really don't want
Edward's pity . . . not now.

"Don't call off your date because you feel bad for me. Really. You should go."

"You're not hearing what I'm saying, Bella. I don't want to go. When you left so
fast, I just new I'd been an idiot."

I blush deeply and turn away, remembering my hasty departure. Talk about
being an idiot.

"I'm not going. I told her the next day. I tried to tell you that night I snuck out. I
threw enough damn rocks at your window. Didn't you hear me?"

"Yeah," I admit.

"But you didn't come down. And yesterday when I went by G&T you didn't look
up."

"I didn't feel like talking."

"I figured," he gives a forced laugh, but then he's quiet again. "I hated it."

Before I can even stop them the words are out of my mouth. "Me too."

I'm still not able to look at him.

"Nothing is worse than not talking to you," he says gruffly.

He brushes the hair away from my shoulder and lets his hand linger at the back
of my neck. Suddenly I'm too warm, very aware of his body next to mine. His
next words are near my ear and his breath tickles.

"Bella?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you like me?"

"Of course I do, dummy. You're my friend." I'm unwilling to admit it but my heart
is hammering.

"I know. But do you LIKE me, like me?" I don't answer. "You do, don't you?" He's
a little cocky, and I don't say anything.

"I like you," he says.

"But you don't LIKE me, like me."

"I do."

"You do?" His hand is running over my back.

He nods quickly and his green eyes are so close to mine . . . they're mesmerizing.

"Have you ever been kissed, Bella?"

I am shaking my head, blushing. He makes me nervous now in a way he never

has before. He's only 15—soon to be 16—but he seems like so much more of a
man to me, the two-year age gap between us expansive. I bite my lip and realize
I'm still shaking my head.

He chuckles. "Would you like to be?"

I almost gasp. Is Edward asking me . . . if he can kiss me? My throat is dry as I

nod, the word struggling to make its way from my brain to my mouth. Yes. YES.

And when his lips meet mine it's nothing like how I thought it would be. His
mouth is soft and gentle; he brings his hand to my face and cups my cheek
softly. It is brief but when he pulls away I am left with a strange sensation, a
longing that I've never felt before. Almost without volition, I touch my finger to
his lips. Mine tingle.

"I wanted to be your first," he says, smiling as he kisses the tip of my finger.

"Me too." The words finally come and I know they're true. My heart is thudding
and I want to lean in and kiss him again, to actually participate this time. Part of
me doesn't believe this is happening.

"You did?"

"Um...yeah."

"I've wanted to kiss you for a long time."

"Why didn't you?"

Edward laughs nervously and runs his hand through his hair, sitting back. "I
didn't think it was a good idea."
"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You're so young, Bella," he says wistfully.

"You're not that much older than me," I remind him, a little defensive.

"Well, not if we were older. But now. People might think it was weird."

I'm instantly hurt and I turn away from him. "Do you think it's weird?"

"No. But other people might."

"Like who?"

"Well, my parents probably would, and my friends. Definitely Alice."

"Ahh." I'm not happy about it, but he's probably right. I imagine Alice's eyes
popping right out of her head if she was ever to find out Edward and I kissed.

"But you'll be in high school next year and it won't matter anymore," he says
emphatically. "Until then, let's just keep it a secret."

I don't even know what I'm agreeing to . . . keep what a secret? The fact that he
kissed me? That he likes me?

"Keep what a secret?"

"The fact that you're my girlfriend," he says, grinning widely.

My poor heart can't take anymore. It lurches in my chest, but I decide to tease
him. "I am, now, am I?"

"Well, you said you LIKED me, liked me."

"No, I didn't." As right as he was, he'd been the one to say those words.

"Well, you said you wanted to kiss me. It's the same thing."

"I don't recall anyone asking me to be their girlfriend."

"I said I liked you and I wanted to kiss you, and that's the same thing."'

"Is it?"

Now our faces are close together again and Edward licks his lips. I want to kiss
him but I'm not sure how, if I'll do it right. Edward makes the decision for me and
tilts his head, pressing his mouth against mine, and that same unfamiliar tingling
feeling erupts inside me, but this time I move my lips against his and I wrap my
arms around him, almost unconsciously. Our noses miraculously disappear, and I
find myself wondering why this feels so natural and just . . . good. Edward kisses
me back and his lips are so soft. After a few seconds he gently pushes back on
my shoulders. I look up worriedly, fearful I've done something wrong.

"Umm . . . whoa, Bella." His eyes look strange and his face is a little flushed.

"I'm sorry," I say, dropping my arms. He's breathing heavily and he shifts around
on the couch like he's uncomfortable.

"Are you sure you've never kissed anyone before?"

"Yeah. I think I'd remember," I say sarcastically. I turn away and hug my knees
to my chest.

"Don't be like that," he says, hugging me. "That was . . . really nice. But I just
think we should . . . take it slow. You know." He's embarrassed and I don't really
know why.

"Right. Okay." He's right. I have no idea what I'm doing or what these new
feelings mean . . . all I know is that it feels good to be near him like this, and it
also feels confusing.

"But you'll be my girlfriend."

That label seems wrong to me. Edward and I have always been friends. But now
that there's something more I don't want anything to change between us. I
mean, I like kissing him, but I need his friendship. I can't live without it. A lot of
girls at school have boyfriends, and they talk about all sorts of silly things. It's all
so shallow. It seems like a competition. What I have with Edward is much
different than that, so much more.

"I'm afraid," I admit.

"Of what?"

"I don't want to stop being friends."

"We'll never not be friends," he says.

"What if something bad happens?"

"What do you mean?"

"I don't know . . . you like someone else or something . . . or we break up . . .

and then we're not friends anymore." The thought brings tears to my eyes. I
imagine my life without Edward in it . . . how for years he's been my support.
He's the only one I can really talk to, the only one I don't feel judged by, the only
one I can trust. If I lost that, I don't know how I'd survive.

"Bella," he says, pulling me into a hug. "I'll always be your friend, no matter what
happens."

"Promise?"

"Promise. But you have to promise too."

"I promise."

We sit there for a while like that and I feel myself drifting off. I haven't had a
good night's sleep in a few days.

"Bella," Edward says, and I feel him kiss the top of my head. "You don't have to
be, if you don't want to. My girlfriend, I mean."

He's so cute when he sounds unsure . . . a little sad. I hug him tighter.

"I want to."

"The rest is silence." –William Shakespeare

Chapter 5: October, 2001

"Are you sure? You're sure you don't mind me reading this?" We're sitting on
Edward's bed after school and he's just handed me a bright blue notebook filled
with his latest story. There's a stack of them under his bed, but he's picked this
one to share. I wonder what it's about since he won't even give me a hint.

He's a little hesitant as he runs his hands through his hair, eyeing the book in my
hand.

"Um . . . No. I want you to. But I want you to be honest. I mean, if it's really bad,
you have to tell me, okay?" Now his knee is bouncing, shaking the bed. I want to
reach out to still it but he's too far away.

"I'm sure it's not bad." To be honest, I have no idea what Edward's writing will be
like; he's never shown me, or anyone else, before. And I know that Alice will be
annoyed that he's chosen me to read it if she finds out, so I hastily stow it in my
book bag. That way, he can't take it back either.

"But if it is . . ."

"If it is, I'll tell you. I'll tell you and make sure you never write again," I tease.

"You will, will you?" Now he's smiling. "And how may I ask, will you do that?"

"I have my ways." I edge a little closer to him and lean against the wall, sticking
my legs out. My black skirt is a little on the short side and it rides up my thighs.
Alice was the one who made me wear it; I was a little uncomfortable at first, but
seeing Edward's reaction on our walk to school this morning changed my mind.
He's been staring all day.

"Well, I just might not let you read it then."

"You already gave it to me, and it's already in my bag," I say, inching closer still
and pretending not to notice he's looking again.

"I'll take it back."

"You can't. My bag's private property."

"You're in my room."

"Guess I'll have to go then."

"What if I don't want you to go?" Now he's moved closer so we're sitting right
next to each other. I turn my head and his eyes are serious. I can't even
remember what we were talking about.

"Umm . . ." His hand is on my face and I know he's about to kiss me. Even after
months and months my heart still goes crazy whenever it happens, which isn't
anywhere near enough. Since we've decided to keep our "status" under-wraps,
the only one who knows is Alice, and she only found out by accident. The main
reason is we don't want our parents to know, but I can't say that it doesn't make
me a little uncomfortable at school since Edward's such a hot commodity. But
when he looks at me like he's doing right now, I'm not worried about any of that.

His lips are soft and delicious and his breath smells like peppermint because of
his green tic-tac addiction. I sigh and lean into him and we're like that for a few
minutes before he pulls away with a groan, moving back to lay with his head on
his pillow. His eyes are dark and his chest rises and falls rapidly. I curl up beside
him and put my head on his shoulder and my skirt rides up a little more. Up to
this point all we've done is kiss. I wouldn't mind going a little bit further, but
Edward always stops us from going too far. It's nice how safe that makes me
feel, even though it's a little frustrating at times. He's always saying there's no
rush, that we have plenty of time. And I know he's right.

"You really should wear skirts more often," he says quietly. His voice sounds the
way dark rich chocolate tastes. "Or on second thought, don't."

"Why?" I ask innocently. In the past few months I've learned more about his
reaction to our kisses, and I have a feeling it's difficult for him to pull away, but
he never says anything about it.

"Because it just might kill me," he laughs, nuzzling into my hair.

"Well, I need you to live."

"Just don't do it everyday then . . . or I won't."

I laugh but I know there's a little bit of truth to his words, and I know that I've
been trying to goad him. I pull my skirt down just a little.

"Better?" I ask.

"Not really," he mutters.

I love our after-school routine this fall; I come over to the Cullen's most days
now to "study," which we do . . . a little. A lot of the time I stay over for dinner
before heading home. I like to spend the least amount of time there that I
possibly can. Even though Renee's been out of the hospital for almost four
months, things are still strained between us. It's like I can no longer separate my
feelings from my mother from the feelings I have about her illness and
sometimes it scares me. I find myself wondering if I love her anymore, because
most of the time, I'm angry with her, especially since she's been back. I'll never
forget or forgive her for ripping up those pictures of Charlie. Am I a bad
daughter? A bad person?

Edward hugs me closer and I kiss him again, and for a minute I forget about the
other fears that have been worrying me, but they're not gone for long.

For the past few weeks, I've noticed that she's starting to act a little strange
again. Nothing major, but just little things. I found a perfectly good carton of milk
and a loaf of bread in the trash the other day. And then, the scariest thing: an
empty bottle of pills. When I asked her about it she said she'd finished them, but
from the label on the bottle she wasn't due a refill for another two weeks. She
hasn't done or said anything too weird yet . . . but there's a bad feeling in the pit
of my stomach that won't go away. I know Renee hates the pills because they
make her a little slow, and they make her gain weight . . . she's said before that
she doesn't feel like herself when she's taking the medicine. That's why she
stopped before . . .

I haven't said anything to Edward and I know he'll probably be mad at me. But I
know the next time that Renee is hospitalized child services is going to take me
away . . . I just know it. And for once I just want to be a normal girl with a
normal mother, happy with my boyfriend. I want it so badly.
"What're you thinking about?" Edward asks, tracing his finger over my tense
forehead. I try to relax.

"Nothing."

"Liar."

"I'm not lying..." He gives me a look. "Fine. I was thinking about your hair."

"What's wrong with it?"

I reach out and tousle the soft strands and scratch his head. He closes his eyes
contentedly.

"Absolutely nothing."

Edward kisses me again and this time his mouth opens and so does mine, my
hands still in his hair. Sometimes I think about how funny it is for our tongues to
be touching each other and I laugh. Once I even laughed while Edward was
kissing me, which he didn't think was all that amusing. But it's really not funny . .
. it's amazing. I never feel like Edward's biting my head off like they do in some
movies I've seen, and it's wet but not too wet. He's a good kisser, and he says I
am too. Who knew!

"Five second warning!" Alice shouts from the top of the stairs and we instantly
separate, flinging ourselves to opposite ends of the bed. I wipe my mouth with
the back of my hand and Edward groans again, muttering something under his
breath.

A few seconds later Alice appears, her face scrunched up in mock-disgust. This is
exactly how she found out about Edward and me over the summer.

Still, my actions must give me away.

"God, were you guys making out again? Get a room!"

"Ummm . . . have one, and you're in it. Thanks," Edward states the obvious.
"What are you doing home anyway? Don't you have practice?" Alice is on the
gymnastics team this year and she's busy most days after school, so Edward and
I have gotten used to having the place to ourselves. Esme's often out meeting
clients and Carlisle usually doesn't get home till at least six.

"Coach sent us home early today. Sorry. Am I bothering you?" Alice pouts and
falls backwards into Edward's black beanbag chair.

"Kinda," Edward replies. I hit him.

"No, obviously not Ali. I'm glad you're home early." Since we've started attending
different schools again, Alice and I have seen less and less of each other, so I'm
not lying.

Alice leans her tiny black head against the top of the chair and closes her eyes,
sighing loudly.

"What's wrong with you?" I ask, clambering off the bed and over to her. She
sighs again, dramatically placing the back of her hand on forehead.

"I'm fine. Just tired."

"Yeah, well maybe you should go take a nap," Edward quips.

"Oh shut up, Edward. Bella was my friend first."

"Maybe by about five minutes."

"Please, there's enough of me to go around," I joke.

Edward smirks and raises his eyebrow. "I don't think so."

"You guys are too much," Alice complains, leaning back again and yawning. There
are circles under her eyes.

"We were just about to play Resident Evil when you came down, Alice. Bella's
getting pretty awesome at zombie killing."

"God, Bella," Alice says, turning to me, "how do you put up with this crap?" The
game in question is Edward's latest acquisition and he's pretty much played it
nonstop for a week.

"Oh, it's not so bad," I reply, even though it's my least favorite game. I'm
actually terrible at it, and to be honest it freaks me out, especially when Edward
turns the lights off "for added effect." All those zombies, all that blood . . . it's
just a little too gross. Maybe a lot too gross.

"Well, my science teacher told us that video games cause seizures, Edward." It's
the age-old Alice and Edward argument.

Edward laughs at her. "Ali, that's only for the ones that have flashing lights, and
anyway, everyone knows Mr. Roberts has no idea what he's talking about. The
man's senile."

"I hope you're right," she says, frowning. "But don't say I didn't warn you."

~QF~

Esme insists I stay for dinner, which I do gladly. When I head back home later
that evening, my stomach drops when I see Renee's car. All of the worries I had
earlier, things I'd so easily pushed aside when I was with Edward and the Cullens,
come rushing back. What if she's bad again?

When I enter the house something immediately feels off. I can't put my finger on
it, but it's like I can sense it.

"Mom?" I call softly. No answer. "Mom?" I say, a little more loudly. The curtains
are all drawn in the living room and all of the lights are off, so it's pitch black. I
turn on the hall light. She's not in the kitchen either.

It's so quiet, it's scaring me. Suddenly my mind conjures visions of Edward's
stupid video game and I imagine zombies lurking in corners. creeping behind me.
Even though I know it's stupid, I turn around quickly. Of course there's nothing
there.

Renee's door is shut and I debate whether or not I should see if she's okay. I
don't hear anything coming from her room, and the coward in me decides to let it
be. Instead, I go into my room, turning the light on and switching on the radio.
The comforting sounds of classic rock fill the air as I unpack my schoolbag.
Recently, I've been getting into The Beatles, The Rolling Stones. Edward calls me
a hippie and tells me I should have lived 30 years ago, but then I tell him that
grunge is dead. He insists Nirvana and The Smashing Pumpkins are the best
bands that have ever walked this earth, with Pearl Jam close behind. I like that
music too, but I like teasing him more.
I take out my American History homework and consider the essay topic that's due
next Friday. It's about September 11th and what we think it means to America.
Some of the parents are upset about it, but the school is standing by Mr. Edison's
decision to assign it. It seems like in the last month the whole world is going
crazy. People are so afraid. I don't really understand the whole thing, but I know
that things will never be the same again. People from the Middle East attacked
America because they don't like what we stand for; I can't help but wonder what
we've done to them to make them do something so horrible back to us.

Coming only two days afterward September eleventh, my fourteenth birthday

wasn't exactly a cause for celebration. Only Edward of course made a big deal
about it. I made him promise not to buy me anything, and he didn't . . . but he
did give me his baseball jersey, washed, unfortunately. That doesn't stop me
from wearing it to bed and feeling close to him.

"Love, Love me do!

You know I love you!

I'll always be true!..."

Soon the music makes me feel calmer. I lounge on the floor, swinging my foot in
the air to the music as I begin my essay. I don't know how to start. Usually
writing comes easy to me, but I'm afraid that if I ask the questions I want to ask
that I'll get a bad mark. Ninth grade work is not much different from the
assignments we had in G&T, but I've been told I'm far too opinionated for my
own good. But I can't help it; if I feel strongly about something, I get passionate.

Thinking about writing makes me remember Edward's story. I can't believe I

forgot it! Casting my essay aside, I grab my bag and pull out the blue notebook.
It's well-worn, so I know he worked on it for a long time. Opening the cover, I
smile at Edward's crinkly writing . . . why is he so worried about people finding
his stories and reading them? If I wasn't so used to his horrible handwriting, I'd
never be able to decipher it. There's something so cute about the fact that he
writes in notebooks and not on his parent's computer. It's about privacy, but he
also says his thoughts come easier when he's writing by hand. We don't even
have a computer, so I don't know what the difference is, but I like having the
notebook in my hands.

When I read the first line, I'm completely surprised.

"On the day I died, I left home earlier than usual . . ."

Edward's story is serious and sad . . . it's so well-written. I don't know what I was
expecting it to be about, but it's not this. The plot is centers on a doctor who dies
in an accident while coming home early from work one day for his daughter's
birthday party. His whole life is about helping other people, but he's always
working. Finally, he's realized it. He's coming home to surprise her, and there's a
collision on the commuter rail. All of it is told from the point of view of the doctor,
who is now a ghost.

It's not too long, maybe 30 pages, but you can feel what the doctor is
feeling...you can see his life flashing before his eyes in that last moment before
the crash. It's not overly emotional, but is at the same time so sad that I'm
crying by the time I'm finished. I wipe the tears away, not wanting to smudge the
ink if they fall on the page.

In some ways, I know this story is about Carlisle, but it's so much more. I don't
know much about creative writing, but I've read a lot of books. This is definitely
remarkable for a sixteen year old. There are some problems; for one, he's writing
about an experience he's never had, and so some of the details, like the doctor's
work in the ER, seem a little forced, but the talent is there.

Reading his story, this thing that's so important to him, that he's trusted me with,
I feel so privileged, like I'm seeing a side of Edward no one else has seen. There's
so much in my heart for him . . . love. There's this feeling that can't be anything
else. It's swelling and making me lightheaded and as I hold the notebook to my
chest, it's like I'm hugging Edward.

He'll probably want the notebook back, but I decide I'm going to keep it for at
least a little while. So I reach under my bed to feel for my box of treasures,
surprised when my hand meets empty air. Thinking maybe I pushed it a little too
far under the bed, I reach again, further this time, trying to make out the shape
of the box in the darkness. My eyes adjust and I realize my reach is futile. Aside
from a few rolled up socks and some dust, there's nothing there.

Renee. It has to be. My blood runs cold, thinking about what this means. If she's
found the box she's also found notes from Edward, my William Blake poems, the
picture of Charlie.

Slowly, I rise from my crouching position and stand, unsure of what to do. My
rational mind tells me to go and confront her, knowing there's nothing wrong with
the things in that box, but I'm afraid I'll find out something even worse...that
she's destroyed my things the way she destroyed hers.

This thought churns until I'm full of hot anger. Without another thought I march
to her room.

"Renee," I say at the door. No answer. "Renee?"

I knock heavily; it's only past nine, so there's no way she's asleep yet.

"Bella?" Her voice filters faintly through the door paneling.

I turn the handle.

Renee is huddled under blankets with the bedside light on. The room is thick with
smoke and I realize she's probably been chain-smoking. It makes me cough.

"Bella? I didn't hear you come home." I come closer and she looks so small. She
sounds sad and lost, like a little girl.

"I came home about an hour ago."

She doesn't respond. I realize I'm still holding Edward's notebook. It makes me
feel stronger.

"Renee. Mom. There was a box under my bed and it's gone now. Did you take it?"

Her face is turned to the side, resting on the pillow. She doesn't lift her head
when she answers.

"Hmmm?"

"A box. With things in it. Special things. A book . . . some notes. The necklace
you gave me. You didn't take it?"

Her head lifts a bit and her eyes latch onto me.
"A box?"

Now I'm getting angry.

"Yeah. A box. I asked you if you took it. It's not there, and it's always there. And
I want it back if you did. You have to tell me."

"I didn't take anything from your room. I swear it."

"Well who did, then? Who would take something like that? Why?"

"Bella . . ." Now she's sitting up, her voice more of a whisper. "I think someone's
been coming in the house at night. Or maybe when you're away at school . . ."

"Wha-"

"Shhhhhhhh!" she hisses, cutting me off. She gestures for me to come over to
sit, but I don't.

Angry tears fall hotly from my eyes. I'm so mad because I don't want to be crying
over this, and anyway my mother doesn't seem to notice. She's paranoid again . .
. this is proof. She's not been taking her pills. And I know she has my shoebox,
but the sad thing is she probably thinks she's telling the truth. She probably
doesn't even remember taking it. It's useless to argue with her, so I'll just have
to sneak into her room when she's not home and hope I'm not too late. But I
want my things now. The picture of Charlie is the only one that's left. I'll die if I
don't find it.

"There's no one listening to us, Renee," I say in a shaky voice.

She draws the blanket up around her body and her eyes are darting around the
room. She looks far gone, worse than I've ever seen her.

"Things are missing from my room, too," she says sadly.

I don't know what to say to that so I just stay quiet, examining the room to see if
I might locate the missing items. There's a lot of stuff everywhere, but none of it
is mine.

"I think we're going to have to get new locks," she whispers.

"Whatever," I reply dismissively, barely containing the rage that's bubbling up. I
can't seem to stop it.

"Bella, don't talk to me like that. I'm your mother."

I can't take this anymore. I can't stop what I say next.

"Oh yeah? Well some mother you are! You're sick! You need to take your
medicine and you're not doing it!" I'm screaming. It feels good and terrible at the
same time. "Do you want to go back to the hospital and have them take me
away? Is that what you want!"

I've never yelled at her like this but the words keep coming. She's staring at me
in shock, not saying anything, but I just go on, crying and screaming and unable
to catch my breath.

"I'm so SICK of this. I wish you weren't my mother . . . I wish I was never born. I
HATE you. I wish you didn't exist!" I want to run from the room and slam my
door shut and never come out again. I'm out of control.
"Bella . . ." her face is white as she looks at me, reaching out her arms. "Baby
girl, I love you. I just want to protect you."

I'm shaking. My legs feel weak. "The only one I need protection from is you."

As soon as the words leave my mouth I want to take them back, but I don't.
Renee crumples before me and I should go to her, hug her, but I can't. I feel
empty and horrible and sick, and I can't be in this room anymore with her like
this. I want Edward, so badly. I clutch his story to my chest and run from the
room, trying to block out the sound of Renee's voice behind me as she calls me to
come back.

~QF~

The next morning I'm up at seven thirty after only an hour or two of sleep; I'm
exhausted, and I feel terrible for what happened the night before. Renee can't
help herself; it's her illness talking. I'm so confused and conflicted about what to
do now.

She's not home when I go for my morning shower; her car is gone from the
driveway. I peek into her room, wanting to look for my shoebox but realizing if I
do it now I'll be late for school. Edward waits for me outside at eight.

I'm like a zombie getting ready, and by the time that I am, I'm late. Edward's
outside already, and I drag my feet, sure he'll say something about the dark
circles under my eyes that I've tried to cover up with concealer. I haven't decided
if I should tell him about Renee yet.

When I come out he looks up and waves. I half-heartedly wave back, barely able
to appreciate how cute he looks wearing my favorite green army jacket and a pair
of grey cargo pants. His hair is messy and flops on his forehead as he approaches
me, reaching out to take my bag, which I gladly give him. It's heavy and I don't
think I'll make it the whole mile and a half to school.

"Hey," he says, giving me a kiss on the cheek, his stubbly chin grazing my jaw. I
smile at the feel of his warm lips, and I kiss him back. My heart swells again, and
I feel almost normal . . . almost.

"Hey. Were you waiting long?"

"Nah, just a minute or so. I was running a little late myself."

"Good."

We start walking and I don't know what to say. I feel heavy both from my
tiredness and from the turn my life has taken, again. But then I remember his
story.

"Edward, I read it." He knows exactly what I'm talking about and he grunts,
waiting for me to go on. I'm trying to find the words to say what I'm feeling.
When I don't say anything for a while he gets impatient.

"That bad, huh?"

"Bad?" I stop for a minute, grabbing his hand out from his pocket. "No. I'm sorry,
I was just trying to think of how to describe it. It was amazing."

His face lights up and he looks beautiful. "Really?"

"Really. I love it. You're an awesome writer, honestly. It was so real . . . and it
was so sad, but in a good way. Like I felt I really learned something."

"You did?" His answers are full of disbelief.

"Yes, stupid. I wouldn't say it if I didn't mean it."

"But you're my girlfriend. You have to say that."

"No, I don't. If I didn't like it I'd tell you. Remember? You made me promise."

This finally seems to convince him.

"You really liked it."

"YES!" I say, dropping his hand and hitting him. He grabs his arm in mock-hurt.
"I'd like to read some more, if you want me to."

"Umm...okay." He's smiling again as we start to walk and suddenly the world
feels lighter. The air is clear, the sky is so blue with only a hint of clouds. Then
Edward takes my hand.

"So," he says, "There's this thing . . ."

"A 'thing?"

"The harvest dance at the end of the month. I was wondering, well, maybe if you
wanted to go?"

This catches me off guard. "A dance? But I thought you didn't want anyone to
know about us."

"Bella, I'm not ashamed of you. I've been thinking about it and I want to go . . .
for people to know that you're with me. If you want that. And who knows?" he
rambles on nervously, "It might be fun. Jas and Em are going, and I think there's
a party afterwards that maybe we could go to . . ."

I consider what he's proposing and what it will mean for my life at the high
school. It will certainly give the popular girls more reason to hate me, especially
the older ones. But it will also keep their claws off of Edward.

But then I think of a dress . . . shoes. There's no way we can afford that stuff,
and I don't have anything appropriate to wear. And now, with Renee getting bad
again, I'm not sure she's even going to be working anymore. All of my earlier
anxiety comes flooding back, and I bite my lip so hard it hurts.

"What's wrong?" Edward is concerned. We stop on the sidewalk just about a block
from school, and he pulls me to the side to allow a jogger to pass, dropping my
hand and lifting my face. Visions of Renee, crumpled up in her bed . . . the awful
things I said come flooding back.

"Hey," he says, giving me a kiss. "We don't have to go if you don't want.
Honestly, I don't care."

"It's not that. I really want to go," I affirm. "It's just . . ." I don't know if I should
tell him, but I want to.

"Bella, you're scaring me. What is it?" His eyes are probing my face and they're
so intense I can't look away. "It's Renee, isn't it?" He knows me so well it's kind
of funny.
I nod slightly, dropping my gaze.

"We have to tell someone," he says firmly. "Fuck school. Come on. We're going
home to talk to my mom."

"NO! No. Edward. Please. Not yet."

"This can't go on. We need to do something about it, now."

"But they'll take me away, put me in foster care or something. I just know it!
Please."

"I'd never let that happen," he says, wrapping his arms around me.

"You wouldn't have a choice. Please. Let me try to reason with her, and I
promise, I promise, I'll tell someone. Just give me a couple of days. Please." I
hate the thought of the police coming to take my mother away again; it's so
traumatic for her, and for me.

He sighs and I can feel his frustration. "A couple of days?"

"Just a couple of days. Please." I need to think of what to do. I shouldn't have
told him. My worst fear is being put in some horrible foster home far away. I can't
let that happen.

"My parents will let you live with us," he says, his voice rough with emotion. "You
know that."

"But she's my mother, Edward. I have to at least try. You should have heard the
things I said to her last night. And this morning, she was gone, and I couldn't
take them back. I wanted to. I need to make things right. Maybe I can convince
her to go voluntarily . . . please."

"Fine. I'll give you a couple of days . . . but that's it." He sounds so bossy, but I
know he's just worried about me. But I'm worried about my mom. I can't just
betray her, not after what I'd said.

"Okay. Thank you." I hug him tighter.

"You know I can't deny you anything," he says. I kiss him on the lips, well aware
that people are probably watching us. I'm sure by lunchtime the gossip that
Edward Cullen is dating a freshman girl will be all over the school, but at this
moment in time, I don't care at all.

He smiles and kisses me so sweetly, touching my face. I open my eyes for just a
second and see his long lashes closed on his cheeks. I love seeing his face like
this, so close. I want to tell him right then that I love him, but I don't. I'm afraid
of what he'll say. What if he doesn't feel the same way?

"We better get to class," he says finally, kissing my hand before taking it again.
He groans, shrugging his opposite shoulder. "What do you have in here anyway?
Bricks?"

"Yep. I love to torture you."

"I know you do."

And just like that, my mood lifts again.

~QF~
I'm right about the gossip. Apparently, Padma Ray saw Edward and I holding
hands, and so by noon it seems like the entire school's talking about it. Angela's
good moral support, but I'm definitely receiving my fair share of death looks,
especially from the junior and senior girls I pass in the hall. So for lunch I decide
to sit outside with her on the picnic tables rather than face a cafeteria full of
staring faces. Edward offers to join us, but I tell him to go ahead and eat with Em
and Jasper. I'm sure Angela wants to give me an inquisition, anyway.

"I can't believe you never told me," Angela complains, taking a bite of her tuna
sandwich.

"I'm sorry." I feel bad keeping it from her, and I try to explain why it was
necessary. She seems pretty satisfied with my explanation, and the rest of our
lunch passes quickly as she drills me for details.

I'm exhausted by the end of the day. My sleepless night has definitely caught up
with me. Edward wants me to come over to his house, but I really want to take a
nap, so I promise I'll call him later. I don't tell him the other reason I want to go
home is to check Renee's room for my things while she's out. Edward reluctantly
agrees and kisses me again in front of my house before he says goodbye. I
secretly watch him walk off towards his house before going inside. I love the little
bounce in his step that makes me recognize him even from a distance. He must
feel me watching because he turns around and waves. I blow him a kiss and he
catches it, making me giggle. We're so dumb.

Back in my house, it's quiet, and I waste no time running up to Renee's room;
there's stuff everywhere, piles of clothes, ripped up papers, cigarette butts on the
floor, and I try desperately to quell the panic rising in my throat. I know my
things are here. I know it.

I set to work, rummaging through the things on her floor, under her bed, her
closet. It's dusty and I sneeze.

But I can't find anything . . . nothing. I'm just about to give up when something
catches my eye-a little burst of red and orange. It's the William Blake, sticking
out under a pair of Renee's old sneakers! I grab it frantically, relieved that it's still
intact, but horrified when I open it . . . no picture.

She's taken the picture of Charlie.

I frantically search through the pile where I found the book...nothing else from
my box is there.

An hour later, I'm exhausted. I've overturned her entire room, and haven't had
any more luck. I'm thankful I at least have Edward's present, trying not to
remember the rest of my lost belongings. I wonder if I'll ever get them back. I
won't think of the picture. I won't.

Back in my room, I take the book of poems and Edward's short story and put
them under my pillow. For now on, I'll just have to take them wherever I go.

Soon, my exhaustion returns. It's not even five o'clock, but I decide to get comfy
and take a nap, changing into my long flannel nightgown. I shut my door and lay
down on my bed, my head resting above Edward's books. And when I close my
eyes I'm instantly asleep.

~QF~
I'm having the most beautiful dream of Edward. We're standing in a field, a place
I've never been. It's a gorgeous summer day and it smells like grass and forest.
There's no sound at all except for the humming of bees, the distant sound of
water. Edward's wearing his Ramones shirt, holding his hand out to me. I reach
out, but suddenly the earth cracks . . .

Edward's on the other side of the widening chasm. I reach out . . . our hands just
grazing each other before we're ripped apart.

I'm struggling so hard to breathe. It burns.

The air tastes horrible and makes me choke and sputter.

It's not air anymore. I cough to clear my lungs, inhaling deeply, but the air isn't
clean . . . it's a thick, black, living thing. "EDWARD!" I scream. He's gone . . . he's
disappeared, swallowed up by the hole and black air.

"EDWARD!"

I wake up gasping for breath, trying to make sense of my surroundings. I know

I'm in my room. I should be . . . but nothing's recognizable in the darkness. My
eyes burn and the air smells horrible. It's pulsing around me . . . and it's warm.
Too warm. I can't breathe.

I feel lightheaded and dizzy-completely disoriented, but there's a primal,

instinctive fear that pushes me up out of my bed. Finally I understand what it is.
It's dark in my room but the air is heavy and sour . . . it's smoke.

The air is filled with smoke. Fire.

For a second, I'm pure fear. Pure panic. I don't know what to do. But then I
remember what they taught us in school. I know that the air will be cleaner the
closer I am to the floor. I crouch down and immediately feel the difference, but
my head is pounding. I know I've inhaled too much smoke already. Almost
without thinking, I reach under my pillow and take my books in one hand, then I
crawl to my bedroom door. Now that my eyes have adjusted to the darkness I
can see smoke pouring from the crack under the door. It's there, in the hallway .
. . the fire.

Just to check, I reach and feel the metal door handle. It's hot, burning hot. I
know I'm not supposed to open the door. I back away...

Suddenly I have a thought . . .the window . . .the roof!

I'm just about to crawl toward it when I hear a scream that shatters my heart.

My mother. My mother. My mother. She's screaming my name.

"Mom?" I croak. "MOM!" I'm screaming and screaming and my free hand is
reaching for the door handle. I hear her again. It's horrible, horrible, the pain in
her voice.

I could turn away, run to the window and never look back. But this is my mother.

"MOMMMMMMM!"

I open the door and it singes my hand. I'm not prepared for what I see. I can't
comprehend what I see. My mind blocks it out, refusing to acknowledge the sight
in front of me. I can't know this. I can't know this.
I take one step outside my door before recoiling. There's no more screaming.
Flames are everywhere. It's so hot. It's so hot and I know I . . .

Suddenly, something is tickling my leg. I look down and it's my nightgown. The
tickling is burning . . . I can't breathe . . . I can't think anymore . . .I try to bat it
out . . . I try . . .

There is a sound and it's horrifying. The screaming is back . . . it's in my head.
Nothing is coming out of my mouth.

Somewhere, I register the sound of voices, but the fire is loud. The screams in
my head are loud. And then silence.

"So, like a forgotten fire, a childhood can always flare up again within us."-Gaston
Bachelard

Chapter 6: September, 7 2010

It's dark and I'm so heavy. I can't see anything but I can hear noises . . .
beeping. I want to cough but I can't . . .it hurts. There's something in my mouth-
a tube? Something in my chest. It hurts. I want to swallow but I can't move. My
arms are heavy and there's pain, somewhere lower . . .

I want to open my eyes but I can't . . . all around me people are talking. I don't
recognize the voices. It sounds like a man . . . he's saying words I don't
understand . . . medical words. Someone does something to my arm and it
stings. Someone touches my head and their hand is cold and clammy. I want to
tell them to stop, that I don't like their hands on my head. But I can't . . . I can't
do anything.

Nothing. There's no voices . . . just the beeping. The sound of something whirring
near my head, a whooshing sound. It's too quiet and I wish I could open my eyes
but I can't.

I don't know how long I've been here.

More voices, but I still can't see. I feel my chest rise and fall . . . there's pain
down lower. Then something happens and the pain melts away. I'm floating,
floating somewhere else near a field and a waterfall. There are flowers and I bend
down to pick one. When I pick it I draw it up to my face, the red blossom is so
bright, so beautiful, but then it erupts into flame and I drop it . . . it's too late.
The flower scalds my hand and I cry out. The pain is awful.

Bella?

I turn around and there's Renee.

Mom? Mom?

She's got her back to me but I know it's her . . . I know that red ribbon in her
braided hair.

MOM? I cry again and this time she whirls around; she's laughing, wearing a
white dress. She looks young, like a girl, and she holds her hands out to me. I
run to her and she picks me up like I weigh nothing, and then we are twirling,
twirling around and the red ribbon flies wildly around her head. She's beautiful.

I love you.
I love you.

We collapse on the ground, breathless and laughing. She smiles and touches my
face. I reach out for the ribbon; it feels smooth in my hand. I pull the end and
Renee sits up quickly. She stands and runs away from me but I'm up, after her.

Don't come any closer, Bella.

Mom?

Bella. Run!

I don't want to see what I see. I can't see what I see. She's burning. The ribbon
in her hair is a flame and she's burning.

MOM! I feel utter panic, a hole in my chest that hurts so much. I want to take the
pain from her but she's running away. If she would have just given me that
ribbon.

Mom? I'm screaming now and she's flying towards the waterfall. I know once she
jumps I won't see her again. I don't want her to go.

She never looks back. And she jumps into the water. I imagine how cold it must
be. I run after her, looking down into the deep pool, the swirling eddies as the
falls empty into crystal blue . . . there's no one. She's gone.

A red ribbon floating is on the water and I reach down to snatch it up.

I'm back in a dark room.

A dull thud in my head. My head is pounding and my throat is so raw. I want to

move but I can't. More pain.

Bella, I'm so sorry. Crying. Someone is touching my hand. I know that touch. I
know that voice. I'm so, so sorry, Bella. Wetness on my cheek. Someone is
touching me and this time I want it. I know his name. Don't I? I can't remember
his name, but I know it. I know the feel of his face against mine.

Please . . . please . . . please. I love you.

Whispers.

More darkness.

Pain.

Then finally . . . light. A sliver of light.

"Her eyelids just moved. I think she's waking up . . ." A woman's voice. Mom? I
open my eyes. It's a nurse. She bends over me.

Suddenly, I'm all too aware of the thing in my throat. I cough and it's
excruciating. I taste something on my tongue. It's metallic and horrible. Blood.
The nurse bends over me with a concerned look on her face. I lift my arm to my
throat and I feel something in it; it feels weird. I look down. An IV.

"Isabella? Isabella? Can you hear me?" The nurse is talking again. Just beyond
her, I see a figure. I can't focus but it looks like a boy.
I nod but I can't speak. I want this out of my throat. I gesture to my mouth and I
try to speak but it comes out more like a grunt. I can't form any words.. And it
aches . . . something deep inside me. My eyes tear up.

"Isabella, your lungs were damaged because of smoke inhalation. That's why you
feel some discomfort. It will get better, but right now you need to relax. I'm
going to remove the tube in your throat. I just need you to blow on the count of
three. Can you do that?"

I nod, desperate for the tube to be gone.

"One. Two . . . Threeee."

I exhale and there's a bit of pain, but then relief as the obstruction is removed. I
can close my mouth, but the edges feel cracked, dry. My throat burns and I can
barely swallow.

"You did good, sweetie. All done now. I'm going to get you some water, but just
small sips, okay?"

I don't care what she's saying. Who is that behind her?

Edward? I want Edward.

The nurse leaves and a man I think I recognize steps forward, his eyes kind and
dark. His hair is long and black, streaked with grey, and when he speaks his voice
is low, gravelly, and comforting.

"Bella? I'm Billy Black. Do you remember me?" I nod my head, confused. Why is
he here?

Just then, someone else approaches . . . it's a boy, just around my age. He has
short hair and isn't as tall as Billy but he has the same dark eyes, the same deep
brown skin.

"This here is my son, Jacob. Bella, you probably don't remember, but you kids
used to play together when you were little, before your folks moved you all to
Chicago."

I nod again, still unable to comprehend why they're here. The boy, Jacob, smiles
at me but he looks nervous. I wonder what I look like.

"I know this is probably pretty confusing for you, but everything's gonna be all
right, okay? We're gonna get you back on your feet in no time."

I shake my head, not understanding. My mother. I want my mother. I make a

sound to tell them but no words come out. My throat is so raw and my lungs hurt
with the effort...

"M..m...m...a..."

Billy's face falls as he comprehends my meaning.

"I'm so sorry, Bella. Your mom didn't make it."

~QF~

"Is she okay?"

My mind struggles to catch up. I blink, once, twice. I'm sitting with my head
leaning uncomfortably on the back of a chair . . . the room is hot. When my eyes
focus I realize with a flood of embarrassment that I'm in class. Professor Riordan
is standing next to me, looking concerned.

"Are you okay, Ms. Black?" she asks.

I'm not. I'm really not. I know that Edward is in this room and I have no idea how
or why. I can feel him standing somewhere behind me and all I want to do is run
out of here before I have to face him. Students are staring and talking . . .
there's the blonde goddess across the table. She meets my eyes and I look away.
For the love of God, I fainted when he entered the room. I try and think of what
to do.

"I think so," I say, struggling upwards in my seat. I try not to look around the
room, my reasoning that of a child or scared animal. If I can't see him, he can't
see me. "I'm sorry; I don't know what it was . . . the heat, maybe."

"It is terribly hot in here. If you'd like, you're more than welcome to leave early."
The Professor leans down towards me. Her long dangly earrings pull her earlobes
taut and for a split second I fear they'll rip through.

I have to get myself together. I sit up straighter and fix my skirt, attempting a
smile. "No. I think I'm all right. It's just the heat. I'll be okay."

"Well, it was about time we had a break, anyway," Professor Riordan says. "Let's
take fifteen, shall we?" The class gives murmurs of approval and slowly begins
filtering out into the hall. I'm still staring straight at the table, my heart
hammering in my chest. I feel nauseous.

"Isabella," comes a voice from beside me. The blonde is standing next to my
chair, her haughty demeanor from earlier seemingly gone. "Hi. I'm Rosalie Hale."
She extends her hand and I take it; mine is visibly shaking.

"Isabella Black."

"It's nice to meet you. Are you sure you're okay?"

No.

"Yes," I clear my throat, "I'm fine. But is there a ladies' room nearby?"

"Sure there is; I'll show you."

I stand up on uncertain feet, surprised at Rosalie's height—she's quite a bit taller

than I am, which isn't a feat, since I'm only 5'4. She's wearing a form-fitting grey
pencil skirt, a blue blouse, and heels. A pretty impressive getup all around.

Outside of the classroom, Edward is standing with another boy. I try not to meet
his gaze but as soon as I step out the door I know he's watching. And all of the
calm I was able to muster before in the classroom vanishes because I have to
look at him. It's like I don't even have a choice. My stupid eyes don't listen to me
when I tell them to look away.

He's much taller than the other boy, who has his back to me. Edward doesn't
seem to be paying any attention to him. I can't believe how much he's changed,
how much he's still the same. Black pants, a grey tee shirt with some symbol on
it, probably the name of a band I don't know. His hair is a little shorter. His eyes .
. . even from this distance I can see their brilliant green. The other boy is
gesticulating vehemently and talking. I make out a snippet of their conversation—
something about a reading—but I don't understand the context. Edward's face is
impassive; he's regarding me carefully.

I wonder what he sees.

Rosalie's already a few steps ahead of me and I look away, my expression

guarded. I can't let him know how affected I am.

He already knows, you idiot, you fainted when he walked in the door.

The bathroom isn't that far down the hall, which is a relief. Rosalie holds the door
open for me and I go immediately to the sink. My face is hot.

"Do you want to sit?" she asks. I shake my head.

"No. I'm okay. It's the heat. I just need a little water."

Staring in the mirror, I'm alarmed by how pale my face has become. Rosalie
stands at measured distance, allowing me to collect myself as I turn on the faucet
and wet a fistful of paper towels with cool water, bringing them to my face. My
hands are trembling and I still feel a bit lightheaded.

"Are you sure you don't want to sit down?" she asks. That actually doesn't sound
like a bad idea after all. I nod. There's a random chair near the window and
Rosalie gestures towards it.

"Why don't you go have a seat. I'll be right back."

"Okay." The word catches in my throat and I walk over to the chair woodenly,
taking a seat as she exits the bathroom.

It's not possible. It's not possible. My mind is running on loop, traitorously
replaying the events of the previous twenty minutes. I can't get his face out of
my mind. His green eyes . . . I never thought I'd see them again. And if I did, I
promised myself not to be affected this way. After all of this time . . . nearly ten
years. . . How can he be here? How is it possible? It's not possible.

Rosalie's abrupt return distracts me from my thoughts. She twists the cap off of
the bottle of orange juice she's holding, passing it to me. Thanking her, I take a
large swig. It's cold and should be delicious, but it makes me want to gag. Still, I
need to raise my blood sugar and I don't want to be rude, so I try not to grimace
as I swallow again. Rosalie is eyeing me carefully.

"So," she says, arching her eyebrow slightly, "How do you know Edward Cullen?"

It's the question I've been dreading; of course I wouldn't be lucky enough to
have the connection go unnoticed. I wrack my brain, trying to figure up
something, some lie. I don't want my past exposed here. This is a fresh start.

"I don't." The lie rolls off my tongue naturally. "Who's Edward Cullen?"

"Umm...okay. I get it. I know you don't know me, and you have no reason to tell
me your business. But it seemed pretty obvious."

I try to remember what happened before I fainted. I think I remember saying

Edward's name, but not loudly . . . just a whisper. There's a chance no one
heard.

"Oh, really?"
Rosalie is leaning against the stall, arms crossed, one ankle in front of the other.
She looks like she means business and I find her hard to read. Why does she
care? Is she just nosey, or is there some other reason?

"I could have sworn you said his name when he walked in the door, before you
passed out. It seemed like maybe he was the reason you fainted." She says the
last part softly, but I'm getting a little irritated now. I put the cap back on the
juice and prepare to stand up.

"Well, you're wrong. It was just heatstroke."

"Look," she says, catching my arm as I rise. "I'm not trying to be a pain. I'm
sorry; I was just curious."

"It's okay." I answer, a little begrudgingly.

"I'm not usually a nosey bitch...well, not all the time, anyway." She smirks. "In
my down time I'm actually pretty okay."

"It's fine," I say, a little concerned about the time. I reach into my bag and take
out my cell to check. Flipping it open I see two missed calls from that morning,
both Jake. I sigh, re-stowing my phone. He always worries about me and I'm
sure he was calling to remind me to go to class. Too bad my ringer was on silent.
But I see we only have five minutes before we need to get back . . . before . . .

"So, how about I ask you a bunch of less invasive questions?" Rosalie asks.
"Anyway, where you from?"

"Washington State . . . a little town called Forks. I'm sure you've never heard of
it."

"Nope. Never been to Washington myself, though I've heard it's nice. I'm from,
you'll never believe this, South Dakota."

I consider the ultra-fashionable Rosalie before me and conclude that she's right; I
can't believe she's come from such a rural place.

"So yeah," she continues, "I know all about being from somewhere no one's ever
heard of. When did you move?"

"Just a couple days ago. I've been crazy, getting settled. That's why I was late.
Luckily I'm not living too far away or I never would have made it."

"Grad student housing?"

"Yep."

"Me too. I wanted to get an apartment in one of the neighborhoods this year, but
I hate the long commute, and the "El" is so unreliable in the mornings. So yeah,
I'm living in Sylvan Arms." Rosalie makes a face, as if this is a terrible thing.

"That great, huh?"

"I waited too long to get put on the waiting list and it's awful. But, it's close.
What about you?"

"I'm at Blackstone," I reply, trying to get into the conversation and forget, just
forget, what's about to happen.

"Holy crap! That's so close to me-just a couple blocks away. Girl, you lucked out!"
"It is pretty nice," I say, feigning enthusiasm. My studio apartment is small, but
it's in a beautiful old Hyde Park building. Luckily, it came furnished; I'd packed
my old pickup lightly since the drive was so long.

"And you're here for Romantic?"

"What?"

"Poetry . . . Romantic poetry. That's what I study. I was just wondering if that
was your specialty. Usually first years won't take Peggy's class unless it is."

"Right. Yeah. I'm studying Blake."

"Blake," she says, wrinkling her nose, "well, Peggy will love you, then."

"You don't like him?"

She hesitates, "No, I do. I just prefer the later Romantics. So many of his books
are incredibly opaque, you know? To be honest, I don't understand some of his
more esoteric works. The Book of Urizen . . ." Rosalie shudders.

I shrug. "But that's what I find so fascinating . . . the mystery . . . trying to

understand the worlds he created with his mind . . ."

"You sound just like Peggy. Speaking of, we should get back. If you couldn't tell
from before, she actually abhors lateness," Rosalie smiles and offers her hand to
help me up. Once I do, I feel a little more composed. The orange juice has helped
immensely. I drop the empty bottle into the recycling bin outside of the bathroom
and follow Rosalie back to the seminar room.

"What other classes are you taking, by the way?" she asks as we walk.

"Lit theory."

"That it?"

"Yep."

"You TA-ing?"

"Not this semester. I got a fellowship, actually, for this year," I'm a little
embarrassed to admit it, but Rosalie seems pleased for me. She's TA-ing for a
large Modern Lit lecture and apparently it's terrible, since she's never read half of
the novels they're studying. It's like taking another class on top of her grad work.

The door to the room is open and I force myself to maintain my calm. I can do
this. I can do this. As long as I don't look at him, I can do this.

"Talk later, okay?" Rosalie whispers just before we enter, taking her seat across
the table from me. I find my chair and quickly sit down. When I look up I notice
Edward is sitting in the seat next to her. He whispers something and she gives
him a look, then sweeps her hair over her shoulder and ignores him. Edward
smirks and leans back in his chair.

Shit. He's caught me looking. I glance back to the head of the table where
Professor Riordan is sitting. She smiles warmly at me before calling the class back
to order.
"Now that we're all here," she says, "maybe this is the best time for
introductions. Let's just go around the table and give your name, your year, your
focus, and, I don't know . . . a random fact about yourself.

"I'll start. I'm Peggy Riordan, and my one true love is William Blake." A couple
students titter and Peggy smiles good-naturedly. "Hmm . . . and a random fact:
my favorite band is Depeche Mode. And before you start, yes, I'm a child of the
eighties. And please, call me Peggy. 'Professor' makes me feel terribly old."

I decide at that moment that I love Peggy Riordan. She's simply wonderful.

After Peggy, the student to her left introduces herself . . . Marjorie Elms, second
year, focus on the Victorian novel. She can't cook. Then a boy. Riley something or
other . . . he's the one Edward was talking to. I'm not really listening because I'm
dreading my introduction. I'm trying to think of something to say, but my mind is
blank. I need to redeem myself so my professor doesn't think I'm a complete
idiot, but I'm paralyzed with fear.

Finally, it's my turn. I clear my throat and try to sound confident but, like always,
my voice is quiet. "I'm Isabella Black. First year. I came to study William Blake. I
love him, too." Peggy smiles at me encouragingly. "And . . . let's see . . . random
fact. I apparently faint in the heat. I feel very Scarlet O'Hara today." Some
people, including Rosalie, laugh and I smile, blushing despite my intentional joke.
I feel a little bit better about earlier. Maybe I can put it behind me.

The girl sitting next to me is another first year with a spiky short black haircut
named Rue Jones. She studies feminist theory and rides a Vespa.

But soon the calm that had washed over me once I'd finished my introduction
vanishes as I anticipate Edward's response. I don't allow myself to look at him,
but I wonder if my avoidance is obvious. I decide I'll allow myself the occasional
glance, just casual, but of course when I look up Edward is staring right at me.
His jaw is tense and his eyes . . . he looks . . . angry. His eyes are cold. I don't
see anything that reminds me of the boy I knew.

When Rosalie introduces herself, her confident, strong voice is loud and I see
Edward roll his eyes. This bothers me somehow; despite her somewhat brash
exterior, I think I like Rosalie. Edward clearly doesn't. He's next.

"I'm Edward Cullen. I'm a second year MFA in fiction. Random fact . . . I only
write in notebooks. Oh. And no offense, Professor, but I'm not terribly fond of
William Blake."

He's looking right at me and his beautiful voice has a hardness I've never heard
there before. He sounds cynical. I don't like it.

"Well, Edward, I appreciate your honesty," Peggy says graciously. "Hopefully we'll
change your mind by the end of this course." I can't believe he just told a poetry
professor—a well known, published, and above all, very sweet professor—he
dislikes her subject of inquiry, and I'm sure my shocked expression is clear on my
face. She dealt with it so smoothly. I'm impressed.

But all of a sudden it hits me: he meant that comment for me, not her. I feel like
I've been punched in the gut.

On top of that, I'm completely floored by his revelation. So Edward is a fiction

writer, after all . . . he still has his notebooks. Notebooks filled with things I never
got to read, will never get to read. My throat feels tight and for some God-awful
reason I feel something hot and undeniably wet well in the corners of my eyes.
More people introduce themselves but I'm not listening. I'm far away in another
world, where I was Bella and this man in front of me was a sweet boy, not the
arrogant prick he so clearly is now.

Why does he hate me so much?

Once introductions are finished, Peggy passes around the syllabus and reviews
the course policies. We'll have one seminar paper due at the end of the semester,
which I expected, and, along with a partner, we'll also lead one of our class
meetings. This requirement alarms me immediately. I'm not even comfortable
speaking in front of people for a short time; how will I lead an entire two and a
half hour class? Peggy explains that she likes to give all of her students the
opportunity of teaching a graduate class, since this looks good to hiring
committees once we're on the job market. It makes sense, but still, I'm uneasy
about it. Rosalie looks over at me and gestures surreptitiously . . . she wants to
work together. That sounds fantastic to me, since with Rosalie, co-teaching won't
be that bad. I'm sure I won't even get a word in edgewise.

After a little more chatting, Peggy excuses us for the day. Next Tuesday we'll be
starting with Byron, since she's arranged the course thematically rather than
chronologically. Interesting.

Rosalie is already at my side as people begin to file out, and I'm incredibly
grateful because this way I won't have to speak with Edward. Not that he wants
to talk to me anyway.

I hurry to collect my things.

"Where you off to now?" Rosalie asks as we file out of the room.

"Home, I guess. I need to go grocery shopping, then probably to the book store."

"Well, I'm off home too. I'll walk with you."

"Okay, sounds good." I smile. She's forceful and bossy, but yes, I think I do like
Rosalie Hale.

Once we're a little ways down the hall, she whispers lowly, "Can you believe what
an asshole Edward is? I mean, honestly, I can't believe he said that, and on the
first day."

I shake my head, not wanting to give my feelings away.

"Peggy is amazing. He's lucky to be in that class, really."

"So why's he taking it?"

"The MFA's have course requirements like we do. They have to take poetry,
Shakespeare, lit theory. And then their own b.s. writing seminars, of course."

"Oh." Oh crap. Does this mean Edward will be in my other class, too? Then I
remember he said he was a second year; he's probably already taken it.

"Yeah, it's annoying." She sighs in exasperation. "They always feel like they're
better than us 'cause they write and we theorize. You know, the whole, "those
who can't do, teach," thing. It's utter bullshit, if you ask me. But today, wow, I'm
just blown away."

"Is he always like that?" I ask hesitantly, not sure I want to know the answer.
"Pretty much. I mean, he's usually not that big of a dick, but he's a pretty cocky
bastard."

"So, you guys aren't friends," I venture.

"Yeah, that's an understatement. And hell, I'm probably the one girl in the grad
department that hasn't slept with him."

"Oh." Why did I even ask? I feel incredibly stupid.

"I mean, the guy can write, don't get me wrong. But, aside from that, I don't get
what everyone else sees in him."

A throat clears behind us and I freeze, turning round. Edward's not three feet
behind us. Of course he is. Of course.

"Can we help you?" Rosalie asks archly. Did he hear our conversation? Oh God, I
want to sink into the floor and/or die . . . whichever is quickest.

Edward ignores her. "Isabella," he stresses my name as if it's a foreign word on

his tongue. "I think you left this behind." He's holding my notebook.

"Right. Yeah, that's mine," I reply dumbly, extending my left hand. And in that
moment I see him . . . just sixteen, carrying my books for me. It's a gesture he's
performed so many times. But now he's like a stranger, not my Edward at all.
Our eyes meet and then his drift to my hand. He passes it to me quickly, as if the
book itself is on fire.

"Thanks," I say, but Edward is already walking away, his hands slung in his
pockets. I recognize that walk, the little lilt in his step, and for just a second, I
can imagine going after him. Just for a second.

"What a gentleman," Rosalie remarks sarcastically as I stow my notebook into my

bag, trying to control the beating of my heart. After all this time how can he
affect me like this? It's maddening.

"Do you think he heard us?" I ask once I'm sure he's out of earshot.

"Maybe. I wouldn't worry about it, though. He already hates me, and I'm sure his
ego will survive. Isabella..." she pauses, "are you sure you don't want to tell me
how you know Edward Cullen?"

My eyes still follow Edward. He's walking away, just like my last memory of him.
The last day of my old life.

"I told you. I don't know him. I don't know him at all."

I ripped your heart out from your chest

Replaced it with a grenade blast

Incinerate

Incinerate

Incinerate
Incinerate

The firefighters hose me down

I don't care, I'll burn out anyhow

It's four-alarm girl, nothing to see

Hear the sirens come for me

You doused my soul with gasoline

You flicked a match into my brain

Incinerate

Incinerate

Incinerate

Incinerate

Lyrics: Sonic Youth "Incinerate"

Chapter 7: September 7-September 14, 2010

Rosalie leaves me at the corner of 56th and Blackstone, but not before we
exchange cell numbers and make plans to meet up later during the week. As I
watch her walk away, I smile a little to myself. This is the first time I've ever
made a friend so fast. Well, maybe not the first . . .

It hurts to think of Alice, so I don't. I haven't . . . not in a long time . . . I haven't

thought of either of them. But now they're, well, at least HE, is back in my life . .
.

What is she doing now? Does she live in Chicago, or someplace far away? Will I
see her again?

These thoughts and questions aren't welcome, and I don't want to think about
Edward or what happened today in class. The surreal experience is already fading
and soon, hopefully, perhaps, it won't seem real at all. And I can live my life like
it never happened, like he never existed . . .

But you'll see him next week, fool. And did you ever really stop thinking about
Alice? About Edward?

The grey sandstone building looms immensely. I fiddle a bit, turning my key in
the wrought iron fence that guards the entrance, and when I enter and hear the
inevitable clank I feel a certain sense of calm. Nothing can follow me in here.

At first, even though Billy was worried about intruders, I'd insisted on a first floor
apartment. But then I learned that all first floors in the city have bars on the
windows, and I readily agreed to live on the second floor. An added bonus is it's a
bit quieter, even though I'm near a common area. In general the graduate
students who live here keep to themselves, which is fine by me. As I make my
way up one flight of stairs and then hang a right to my room, I exchange nods
and cursory greetings with other residents, but no one really looks at me—there's
comfort in anonymity.
My apartment is warm when I enter, and I kick off my shoes, going right to the
window and opening it wide to let air in. It's not enough, so I settle my box fan in
the open space, turning it on full blast. It's a little better with the warm breeze,
and after grabbing a glass of water from the fridge, I settle down on my futon
and consider the mess before me.

Boxes, boxes, and more boxes . . . suitcases . . . bags. There's a lot of unpacking
to be done and the task is daunting. This doesn't feel like light packing. This feels
like baggage. For a split second, I wish I'd left it all behind. Especially one box. A
box I never open.

But here it is, and something needs to be done with it all. I know I need
bookcases, since many of the boxes contain my collection and as of now I have
no place to store them. The genius who furnished this room only provided one
small bookcase that won't even fit a fourth of the books I've brought, so I make a
mental note to pick some up sometime this week. I also have to go grocery
shopping, to the campus bookstore. I have my Theory class tomorrow. There's so
much to be done, I won't have time to think. This is a good thing.

I check my phone again and see two more missed calls from Jake. Sighing, I
consider whether or not I should call him now or later. Later. I decide on later.
He'll ask me how the first day of class went, and I'll have to lie. There's no way
I'm telling him that Edward is here . . . it's just too weird . . . and right now I
can't face all the questions. It would just make him unnecessarily jealous.

And with a flash my thoughts are transported again, back to class, back to
Edward's face as he handed me my notebook . . . the way he said my name.

I need to get to work.

And so, after I feel a little cooler from the water and the fan, I open box after
box, piling and sorting my books into categories: fiction, nonfiction, poetry,
literary theory. I unload kitchen utensils. Put away clothes. Hang pictures. But
there is one box I won't unpack; I'll stow it under my bed, as I always do. Funny
how even though it's out of sight I know it's there, always there, waiting for the
one day I work up the courage to open it. Not often. Maybe only once a year,
when I can't resist its lure anymore. The itch will begin, a slight inclination. But
then the thought will catch and grow, and soon, no longer able to fight it, I'll give
in, open it, and shatter again.

Not yet.

I should have left the damn thing at home.

The rest of the day passes, and before long I find myself in a relatively decent
looking apartment. It still needs a bit of work, but for now, it's satisfying.

I perform the rest of my errands perfunctorily, and by the time I've shopped,
picked up my books for class, assembled a bookcase, and eaten dinner, it's
already after ten. Realizing I can no longer avoid the call, I dial Jake's cell. He
answers on the first ring.

"Isabella, where've you been? I've been calling all day."

He sounds irritated, and I know I've been wrong to delay this. "I know," I say
apologetically, "I'm sorry Jake. I had so much stuff to do, I completely lost track
of time." It's not a total lie.

"Well, I've been worried, Dad too."

"I'm really sorry, Jake. I just wanted to wait to call you, till I had some free time,
you know?"

"Okay," he says softly, a little placated. "But don't make me worry like that again,
please."

"I won't. I'm sorry."

"So, how was the first day of class?" He sighs and my heart thrums nervously,
the fingers on my right hand automatically going to the ring on my left, the ring
that's marked me as his. There's no way I can tell him, but I don't want to lie.
Still, knowing Jacob, he won't want to know details.

So I summarize. I tell him about how I was late, Professor Riordan, Rosalie,
course assignments. He grunts and murmurs on the end of the line, not really
saying much. When I proudly tell him about the bookcase I assembled, quite an
accomplishment as far as I'm concerned, he snorts.

"This is ridiculous," he says. "You doing all this stuff. I should have come with you
on the move. I should be with you right now."

It was of course the source of many arguments between us whether or not he

should move with me before the wedding, and eventually we'd decided that it
would be best for Jake to stay behind for my first year; he'd just partnered with
Sam at his garage in Forks, and the money was good. There was no guarantee
he'd find a suitable job in Chicago, and I knew I'd be insanely busy with course
work. Not to mention how Billy was uncomfortable with us living together, alone,
before the ceremony.

But now, as I predicted, he was regretting giving in.

"I'm doing fine, Jake, really. And I'll be home for Christmas break. That's only
three months from now."

"I miss you, Isabella."

"I miss you, too."

"I can't believe my fiancé is a graduate student. Who would've thought? I'm so
proud of you."

Suddenly, I feel a pang of guilt lying to him about Edward, and for a second I
wonder why I'm doing it . . . for me or for him?

Later, as I undress for bed, I catch a glimpse of myself in the full-length mirror I
bought on impulse at Target. I never look at my body unclothed, but tonight I
stand and impassively consider myself.

Who is this woman staring back at me? A catalogue of parts. A face some have
called pretty . . . even beautiful. Large eyes and pale skin. Long hair. Defined
collarbone. Perhaps delicate. Pale skin on the body too...arms, decidedly too
skinny. Breasts, a bit on the small side, but passable. Perky. Belly, soft but flat,
hips full but not too wide...

Legs. They seem to belong to someone else, but it's strange, because in a way
they are my essence. They define me more than any other part.

The once angry burned skin is now a webbing of pink and red. The right one isn't
so bad, but the left . . . especially the calf, the knee. I reach down and touch the
raised flesh, the end result of countless surgeries and grafts. It's horrible, but it's
better than it once was, so much better.

I squint my eyes in the already dim room. From far away, in the right lighting,
maybe you wouldn't notice. Maybe.

I stand tall again and look again at the girl in the mirror. I see questions in her
eyes, but I don't know how to answer them.

~QF~

"So, how are you liking Chicago? What have you been up to?" Rosalie asks as we
make our way to class. I haven't seen her since the first day because we'd both
been so busy, but she'd called on Sunday to see if I wanted to walk over
together. Of course I'd immediately said yes, grateful for even such a small plan;
I'd never thought it could be lonely in such a big city, but it is. There are so many
people, but all of them are strangers, living their own lives. And now here I am.

"I do like it. I haven't been able to explore much yet, but it's great." I don't tell
her that I spent the day before, my 23rd birthday, doing homework, because
she'd probably think I was weird. But it's not like 23 is a milestone . . . it's just a
random year, a decidedly awkward number. Why draw attention to it? I'd talked
to Billy and Jake and treated myself to Chicago-style pizza, my latest addiction.
That was good enough for me.

"Well, one of these days I'll have to take you exploring. Out of The Loop and out
to some of the cuter neighborhoods. Do you drink at all?"

"Umm, a little. Why?" Billy is not big on alcohol; in fact, he forbids it in the house,
which is why I really haven't drunk that much since I've been out of college. Not
that I did much there either.

"There's this awesome bar called The End. They have a huge selection of
international and specialty beers. It's pretty amazing. Maybe you want to go
sometime?"

I nod, smiling at her enthusiasm. "That would be fun."

Rosalie is a talker, and she keeps me distracted as we make out way down 58th
street. Still, I find my eyes automatically sweeping the sidewalk, scanning the
faces we pass. The nervous flutter in my stomach increases with each step, until
I'm barely aware of the things Rosalie is saying. I try to focus. She's telling me
about her family, her older brother, Marcus. He wants to go to medical school but
the family can't afford it. I murmur sympathetically. I know exactly what that's
like.

All too soon we arrive at the Humanities building and I follow Rosalie's finely
dressed figure inside. It's a bit cooler today and I'm wearing jeans and a button
down blouse; next to Rosalie's tailored tweed pants and silk top, I feel incredibly
dowdy. How does she afford these clothes?

My stomach drops as we climb the stairs . . . I can do this. I've faced him once
before already. This will be easier.

Unfortunately, when we enter the room ten minutes early, Edward is already
seated in the otherwise empty classroom. He lifts his head at the sound of
Rosalie's voice and I am struck once again by his face-how much older he looks.
He's filled out, no longer the lanky teenager I knew. His faded black tee shirt
emphasizes his arm muscles and I think I detect a hint of black ink peeking out
from under his sleeve.

Edward's eyes dart from Rosalie to me, then back to a notebook on the table,
which he hastily closes. There's a thick growth of stubble on his jaw, more than a
week's worth from the look of it, and his eyes look tired as they meet mine again.
For just a second, recognition passes between us.

"Writing the great American novel, Edward?" Rosalie asks sarcastically.

His lip curls slightly and his eyes are hard again—the stranger is back.
"Something like that," he mutters, looking away. "I'm glad to see the weekend
hasn't dislodged the stick up your ass, Rosalie."

Rosalie ignores his comment, sitting down beside me at the opposite end of the
table. A couple more students filter in, saving the three of us from the awkward
silence that ensues. I take out my poetry anthology and flip to the section on
Byron, paging through the selections we've had to read for today. It's the first
time I've read "Childe Harold's Pilgrimage" or "Don Juan," and I've made lots of
marginal notes to help prepare me for class. I'm determined to speak in class,
Edward or no Edward.

I pull out my notebook as well, opening up to the first page. And I'm shocked by
what I see there, scrawled in crinkly handwriting I know so well . . .

Isabella? Don't you know me?

My blood runs cold, then hot. I try to reign myself in, thinking back to the
previous week's encounter. Edward had written in my notebook before giving it to
me. Since I hadn't taken any notes last week, I hadn't bothered opening it.

A glance in his direction tells me he's otherwise occupied; he's got his phone out
and his brow is furrowed as he presses the keys. He's texting someone.

I look back at the note, considering it. It seems like a rhetorical question. Of
course he knows I know who he is, but he wants to know why I'm not
acknowledging him. The thought infuriates me. He has no right, not after
everything. Isn't it obvious? And why does he care now? Is he just trying to get a
rise out of me? I don't understand his motivation, and I don't understand my
reaction, how angry and confused I am.

A minute or two later, Peggy rushes in, a whirlwind of curly hair and dangly
jewelry, uttering curses aimed at Chicago's mass transit system and distracting
me from my thoughts. She settles into her chair at the head of the table as the
class quiets.

"I'd like to start today by just going over some of our initial impressions,
especially from those of you who haven't read much Byron before. Obviously,
Byron is known as the quintessential Romantic poet. He's been glamorized, even
deified, by posterity. His status as a lothario is obviously very much part of that
persona, and in his lifetime he was, if you will, hell-bent on shocking and
undermining what he saw as the hypocrisy and restrictiveness of contemporary
morality . . ." She pauses, taking a deep breath. She's so entertaining and
dramatic.

"But I think that all of this mythology around him really occludes the depth of his
art, and really the brilliance of it. But I'm interested to hear from all of you. So I'll
just open the floor...anyone want to start? What are some of the things you
noticed?"
A short freckly second year named Alison speaks up. "It was interesting to read
"Childe Harold" in tangent with 'Don Juan;' I really felt there was a deep cynicism
in both, but in 'Childe Harold,' I don't know, it was offset with something greater,
more profound."

"Maybe more honest?" Peggy offers.

"That's what I mean, yes."

"I agree," Rosalie interjects. "Even though the speakers in both of the poems are
jaded, there's a depth to 'Childe Harold' that's missing in the other poem."

"It's like you can sense that he's looking for something," Alison says. Not a great
answer, but who am I to talk?

"Well, 'Don Juan' is much more comic," Riley suggests. "Maybe that's what you're
sensing?"

More students offer their opinions and readings, and soon I'm the only one in the
seminar who hasn't spoken. The pressure builds, and I know it's now or never.
But before I can speak, Peggy addresses me.

"Isabella?" she asks, "we haven't heard from you. What do you think? What's
your take on Byron's relationship with nature in the poem?"

My stomach lurches and I surreptitiously wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans as I

consider what to say, all of the thoughts I had just seconds ago vacating my
head. Finally, I clear my throat.

"Well, I think it's incredibly sad...There's this melancholy spirit that comes from
world weariness, disillusionment. You can tell he's searching for something, and
he's not finding it in human society. So he turns to nature, but I don't think he
finds what he's looking for there, either. If human society is corrupt, nature is
volatile in a different way. It might provide some solace, for a while, but in the
end, nature is indifferent to our suffering."

Peggy smiles and cocks her head, drumming her pen on the pad of paper before
her. I try not to look around the room, sure my face is flaming. "An interesting
reading, Ms. Black. Many critics have seen Byron's relationship with nature in a
much more positive light—that it is indeed the antidote to corruption in the
human world."

I consider her point, staring at the page before me, the words clear. "To me, it's
as if he's trying to convince himself that nature is the antidote, but there's a
persistent dread underlying . . . like he's aware that it's really not the cure-all
he'd like it to be. Like towards the end of the poem in stanza 179, when he's
speaking about the ocean, he says:

'Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean — roll!

Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain;

Man marks the earth with ruin — his control

Stops with the shore."

I take a breath and look around. Everyone is turned expectantly toward me,
including Edward. My nerves are rattled, but I know I have to continue.
"He's praising the ocean for its power. There's this sense that mankind has no
control over it—it's the one thing we're subject to. The currents, the tides, storms
. . . especially in the 19th century, but even today. Any attempt to dominate the
ocean is futile, and he takes comfort in the ocean's power. But then there's the
line, a little further on, when he mentions the dead sailor: 'He sinks into thy
depths with bubbling groan, /Without a grave, unknell'd, uncoffin'd, and
unknown.' Those last three words—especially 'unknown,' there's something
disconcerting there . . . to die unknown, without anyone remembering you. The
ocean is powerful, it inspires his awe, but it's also unfeeling. So nature can
provide escape from politics, society, but it's also dangerous. It can mean
oblivion. And that, I think, is a tension that's underlying a lot of his writing about
nature."

I finish, staring down at the table in front of me. Rosalie murmurs approvingly in
my ear, and when I look up Edward is staring at me with the strangest look on
his face. Peggy looks like she's about to say something, but before she can,
Edward speaks.

"That's interesting," he says. "But I have to disagree." For some reason he seems
slightly hostile. I brace myself for the coming onslaught.

"Sure, Byron's aware of how insignificant man is, how powerful and unyielding
the sea is, but he's celebrating that fact, not condemning it. He's all too aware of
the humbling power that the ocean has over mankind—and he relishes how that
reality puts us humans in our place. He even compares the ocean's power to
God's. See," Edward says, gesturing to his open book, 'Thou glorious mirror,
where the Almighty's form/Glasses itself in tempests.' The storms, even the
destructive ones, are a reflection of God . . . or the divine, whatever.

"The fact is that we can't control everything. And human life is fragile, but it's
true . . . none of our lives are remembered, not really, not in the long run. That's
just the reality of life. We're all just tiny drops in the ocean . . . so insignificant.
An anonymous grave is perhaps the most honest one . . ."

I feel my face flame again, but this time it's from anger. In the heat of it I cut
him off.

"Do you really believe that? That lives aren't worth remembering? Do you think
that's what Byron thought?"

Edward seems a little taken aback by my outburst. Really, I should be reining

myself in, but this topic hits close to home for me . . . too close. The rest of the
class is silent, waiting for his response.

"Well, when you think about it, gravestones are really for the living, not the dead-
"

"But Byron went to fight for Greek Independence, and died a national hero," I
interrupt. "And he was a well-known poet. Surely he knew his name would live on
even in death."

"Maybe, but we're discussing the text of the poem, not real life," Edward fires
back. "It's a mistake to assume that anything an author writes is true to his life.
And, in any case, I think you're giving it a fundamental misreading."

Now I'm livid, but I try to control my tone. "What do you think inspires art? Real
life. And it's well-known that Byron himself identified with the speaker in 'Childe
Harold."
Edward's eyes bore into mine and for a second I forget we're in class. Before he
can answer me, Peggy intervenes.

"I think we're getting a little off topic, so I want to steer us away from discussing
the authorial fallacy. But I think there's truth to what both of you are saying.
That's what makes this poem, and all poems about the Kant's sublime, so
complex. There's beauty and awe in the power of nature, but there's also the fear
and threat of death. It's this combination that inspires the sublime. So really, I
think we have to see both of your readings in this poem. Well done."

Peggy glances at her watch and suggests a break . . . I'm still keyed up as I
stand and walk into the hall, not bothering to wait for Rosalie or anyone else.

I can't believe the first conversation that Edward and I have had in almost ten
years is about Byron's vision of the sublime. It's incredibly strange, and would be
almost humorous if I wasn't so agitated.

Rosalie appears beside me as I make my way down to the ladies room, but her
phone buzzes and she gives me an apologetic look.

"I have to take this," she says. "But I just wanted to tell you, you did great in
there. You put Edward in his place."

Is that what happened? I'm not so sure. Rosalie wanders down the hall a bit and
I enter the first stall of the bathroom, annoyed with myself that my hands are
shaking as I fumble with my fly.

Back outside, my only friend is still on the phone and the rest of the class is
loitering in the hall. Edward is a few meters away near the door speaking with
Riley and Rue, and I quickly turn round, not wanting to face him. Instead, I walk
a little ways down a side hall and pretend to look at the course descriptions
outside of the English grad office. There's a bulletin board advertising summer
internships and teaching opportunities, and it provides a good distraction.

I half expect Edward to come look for me, and I'm caught in a panic wondering
what I'll say if he does . . .

The fact is, we're in the same class. We're stuck with each other for at least the
next few months, maybe longer; it's inevitable we'll run into each other. I can't
run away from him, it's ridiculous.

But he doesn't come and soon the break is over; I've worried for nothing. Rosalie
comes to find me, shaking her head knowingly.

"You can't hide from him. And seriously, you shouldn't. You dominated that
discussion. It was awesome."

"Thanks." Even with Rosalie's reassurance, I'm on edge entering the room again.
He looks at me with that unreadable expression and this time I don't avert my
gaze. I don't want him to see how affected I've been by this whole thing, even
though it might be true.

We settle in for the last half of the class, this time focusing on 'Don Juan.' Neither
Edward or I say anything, and once in a while I catch myself watching him out of
the corner of my eye. The cuff of his shirt has ridden up further and, yes, he most
certainly has a tattoo. I can't see the whole thing but I notice it's rather large,
from what's visible it appears to be a series of interlocking black squares, each
corner extending and morphing into the other. What does it mean?
The rest of the hour passes uneventfully, but I can't stop thinking of our debate .
. . the things he said. My thoughts drift to my mother, but I don't let them linger,
not here.

Finally, Peggy ends with a reminder that we're going to begin with the student-
run classes in three weeks' time—and she's partnered us up based on field and
interest. That means that Rosalie and I probably won't be working together,
which is incredibly disappointing.

She reads our names off her list and when she gets to mine I'm sure I've heard
her wrong.

"Isabella Black and Edward Cullen."

Edward lifts his head, just as shocked as I am, I'm sure. He looks in my direction,
but I keep my eyes on Peggy. If I look at him I'll die. Are you kidding me? Rosalie
gives my side a slight poke and I try not to flinch.

"You should probably exchange contact information with your partner and discuss
what course material you'd like to present, and when," Peggy concludes as we
begin to pack our belongings. "Next week, we'll be signing up for dates. Since
there're only six pairs, it shouldn't be a problem to present on the day of your
choice. Of course, I always welcome volunteers for earlier in the semester." She
continues on saying something else, but I'm no longer listening. The reality of the
situation has finally hit me. I'll have to work with Edward outside of class unless I
ask to switch partners. But then everyone will know, and I'll be seen as an
immature fool; people will think it's because of our disagreement.

"Isabella," Rosalie nudges me, "I'm sorry. Something's come up and I have to
run. Call me later, okay? We'll go out, get a drink?" I nod dumbly at her, my
stomach lurching as she turns to go. Now I'm alone.

My bag feels incredibly cumbersome as I heave it over my shoulder, and my

heart feels even heavier.

Edward is talking to Peggy and she's listening intently to him. Is he asking to

switch partners? The thought crosses my mind with a fleeting sense of panic-the
last thing I want is to make a big deal about this in front of my professor. But
then I see him pull out a small stack of white papers and pass her one—the bold
lettering indicates it's an advertisement for something.

"I'd love to hear you read, Edward," she says, glancing at it. "If I can get away
from family duties, I'm there." He smiles and runs his hands through his hair,
saying something lowly before stowing the rest of the white sheets into his
shoulder bag, and that's when I lose all my nerve and decide to make a quick
getaway. I can't face him right now.

Out in the hall, I take a sharp left and walk quickly down the stairs and into the
noon air of Chicago, inhaling deeply and pausing before I decide what to do. I
could go back to my apartment or I could go to a coffee shop. Yes, somewhere
with people. Somewhere I won't be able to think.

"Bella?" No one calls me by my nickname anymore, but said in Edward's voice,

it's so familiar I stop dead in my tracks.

Oh shit.

"Running away from me again?"

I turn around and face him. He's just about two feet from me, standing with his
arms crossed, and I can't believe how tall he is; I'm only eye level with his chest.
I cross my arms and take a step backward. I won't let him intimidate me.

"I'm not running away."

"Oh really?"

"I saw you were talking with Peggy, and I had to go. I have somewhere to be," I
lie. Edward's eyes dart down to my left hand and this time it occurs to me what
he's looking at—my simple gold engagement ring. His jaw clenches.

"Well, don't let me keep you from your...obligations," he says, stressing the last
word. "But, if we're supposed to work together on this project, we'll have to get
in touch somehow. I need to do well in this class."

"So do I," I huff. "What are you doing here, anyway?"

He looks at me incredulously. "Me? What are you doing here?"

"I'm obviously in graduate school, Edward. I came here to work with Peggy, and
anyway, it's none of your business."

"That much is clear," he mutters, shifting on his feet and looking across the street
before turning back to me. "But it's a little weird you end up here, in Chicago, in
my class, isn't it?"

"What are you saying? That I planned this? Incredible!" I turn on my heel but
Edward reaches out and grabs my shoulder. Shrugging him off, I back away
again.

"Why did you pretend you didn't know me last week?"

His direct question catches me off guard and I'm at a loss for a second. "Because
it's easier. And I don't want people to know...okay? I don't want people to know
about my past."

"But you fainted..."

"It was the heat," I snap, trying to ignore the sharp cut of his jaw as he clenches
it again.

"Are you sure about that?" The corner of his mouth turns up in a little smirk.

"Yes, I'm sure."

"Okay. Fine." His tone is dismissive and I'm relieved he's not pursuing this line of
inquiry anymore.

Just then, Edward's eyes focus behind me, and he gives a small wave. I turn my
head as a tall, thin, blonde girl approaches. Her hair is closely cropped and she's
wearing tight black jeans, converse, and a red Killers t-shirt.

"Hey," she says, addressing Edward with a smile. "You ready?"

"Yeah," he replies, "is Carmen coming?"

"She's meeting us there."

"Sounds good."
I'm standing there, now the awkward third party, wondering if this is who Edward
was texting in class. He obviously has plans with her.

"Kate, this is Isabella," he says, using my full name again. She extends her long
thin arm to me and I shake her hand. Short nails with black polish. "We're in the
poetry class together."

"Nice to meet you," she says, her smile faltering just for a second.

"You too," I say, as sweetly as possible. I hate the Killers. Really, they're an awful
band.

"Edward, we have to get going. We'll be late, and you know how Garrett is." She
rolls her eyes. Edward gives her a quick nod.

"Isabella," he says, turning back to me. "I need your number."

Kate arches her eyebrow but I pretend not to notice, rattling off the digits by
route as Edward punches them into his phone. I take out my phone and do the
same.

"I'll call you," he says, "and we'll set up a time to meet for the project."

"Right. Okay. Sounds good." God, I sound like an idiot. Kate's phone rings and
she answers it, laughing loudly and walking a few feet away. "Carmen," she
mouths to Edward.

"Alright. Well, I gotta run."

"Seems like it." I can't keep the sarcasm from my voice.

"And don't you have somewhere to be?"

I remember my earlier fib and nod vigorously.

"Have fun with that, then," he says with a clipped tone.

"Oh, I will."

I pick up my bag and Kate gives a halfhearted wave, which I return equally
unenthusiastically. She's still on the phone, but is now looking at Edward with
impatience.

"See ya," I say, picking up my bag again.

"See ya," he replies. "Hey, Bella?"

"Yeah?" What does he want now?

"I just wanted to tell you, before . . . in class . . . I didn't mean that lives aren't
worth remembering. You misunderstood me. I think."

"Oh, did I?" I'm not convinced.

"Yeah, I think so." His voice is a little softer now, his eyes distant.

I don't know what to say to that, so I just nod. And before I can reply, Kate is off
the phone and bounding over to us, grabbing Edward's arm.
"Late, late, late," she chants, pulling at him. Edward smiles and shakes his
head—it's the first time I've seen him smile, really smile, since he's come back
into my life, and his face is so beautiful.

We say goodbye once more and as I walk away I'm proud of myself. I don't look
back.

"Absence diminishes little passions and increases great ones, as wind

extinguishes candles and fans a fire"-Francois de la Rochefoucauld

Chapter 8: September 14th, 2010

My coffee shop is crammed full of students when I enter, but I find an empty seat
at the large communal table in back and drop my bag in the chair before heading
over to order a cappuccino from the barista. Drink in hand, I settle in with the
other students, all of them engaged in various combinations of studying, listening
to music, and procrastinating on Facebook. I pull out my headphones to block
some of the din and turn on my iPOD to some Chopin. It's not my favorite, but it
helps me concentrate, and right now, with a hundred pages of Karl Marx to read
for my theory class, that's exactly what I need.

Marx's prose is pretty clear, but still I find my mind drifting from the pages of Das
Kapital after only a few minutes of reading. After all of these years I have his
number, just stored there in my phone, like it's no big deal. Like it's the easiest
thing in the world. My traitorous mind replays our encounter again, analyzing,
dissecting. Visions of the long-limbed and attractive Kate pulling on Edward's
arm...his bare arm. Who is this Kate to him, and who are the other people that
were mentioned? Garret and Carmen? All of this time, he's existed without me,
and it's strange, faced with this reality. People don't just freeze in time when they
exit your life, they continue on, they grow and change, they live. With other
people.

As I've been living without him.

Suddenly the milk from the coffee weighs heavy and thick in my stomach, my
nerves on edge from the caffeine, and I decide I have to go, nothing's getting
accomplished; wondering what Edward is doing right now, and with whom, isn't
helping my productivity. And anyway, it's none of my business.

Then why do I feel so empty inside? Why do I regret acting so coldly towards
him? At the time I felt nothing but annoyance and fear. But now, I don't know
what I feel, only that it had been too short. That we'd been interrupted. That
maybe he had something more to say . . . maybe I did.

But he left you. He said those horrible things in class.

He didn't mean them.

God, I don't know what to think, I'm so confused by my own behavior; I can't
even begin to fathom Edward's.

Packing up my things again, I slide out of the hard wooden chair and stand up
gingerly. The muscles in my legs still ache from time to time, so I have to take it
a little easy.
It's around two o'clock, still plenty of daylight, and I decide to stow my things
back at my apartment and take a walk to the Point. Maybe call Jake. Jake. My
fiancé. My best friend.

I head down east on 55th street towards the tunnel under Lake Shore drive,
wrapping my sweater more tightly around my body as I arrive near the water.
Promontory Point isn't too far from where I live now, and I love walking here. I
remember how my mom and I visited once, one of the few times we ever went to
downtown Chicago. She didn't like going into the city, and I never understood as
a child. But I know now it was because of Charlie.

I pull out my phone and hit the speed dial, but Jake doesn't pick up. I realize he's
probably working, so I leave a message instead.

The breeze over Lake Michigan has picked up and there are seagulls careening
overhead. Their cries sound forlorn...I remember running after the seagulls down
on the rocks where the Point meets the lake. I must have been six or seven.

"Mom, why are they here and not near the ocean?"

"Because this lake is so big, it's just like the ocean," she says, smiling. "It's so big
that the seagulls got confused, and now they think it's their home."

"Do they miss their home?"

"Well...I don't know. They've found a new one."

A couple women jog by, talking and laughing, and I wonder if I'll ever get to the
point where I'll be comfortable wearing shorts like they're wearing. If I'll ever
stop noticing if people look at me, or caring if they do.

More people are out enjoying the cool September afternoon. There's a group of
kayakers embarking off the revetment—getting closer I see it's a man and
woman, and a young girl, maybe eight or nine. Her father helps her into the back
of his boat and hands her a paddle; the wind whips her hair around her face as
she smiles. There's only another month or so for this, and then it'll be much too
cold out here for family outings.

I wonder around near the shore, and then loop around on one of the interior
trails. The sun's lower now and glancing at my phone, I see it's nearly four.
Perhaps Rosalie is done with whatever it is she had to do. Though I'm not a big
drinker, getting a beer doesn't sound like a terrible idea.

"Hey, Isabella," Rosalie answers, "I was just about to call you. How did it go with
the emo hipster?"

Laughing a little at her apt description, I feel a bit lighter. "Um. Fine. We just
exchanged numbers and I guess he's gonna call me . . . we still have to pick an
author and all that."

Rosalie murmurs in sympathy. "Yeah, well, if it makes you feel any better,
working with Alison is no picnic. I've been in a couple classes with her and her
close reading skills are next-to-nothing. It's a miracle she's survived her first year
of grad school. At least Edward is smart."

"At least."

"Sorry for running off before. I had a meeting with Professor Finley," she
explains. "And the other TA was late, very late. So it went a little longer than I
thought."
"It's fine, really."

"Hey, so are you up for a drink tonight? Say at around 8?"

"Definitely. Maybe two."

"I like the way you think, Isabella. Sounds like a plan."

~QF~

The atmosphere in my apartment is too quiet, the call of the box under the bed
too loud, and so when Rosalie buzzes the intercom at just a little after eight, I
quickly grab my coat and bag to join her.

Rosalie doesn't know that I lived in Elgin as a child, but I'm not too familiar with
the city proper, so when she prattles on about neighborhoods like Buckwood and
Wicker Park, I listen gladly. We're just a couple blocks away from the blue line,
and we don't have to wait long for a train. It's not too crowded, so we take a seat
for the ten-minute ride. When we get to the bar, I'm immediately struck by how
casual it is; not exactly what I expected from Rosalie, but I'm pleasantly
surprised.

"I would have seen you as more of a cocktail or wine kind of person," I say as we
enter the warm oak room; it's slightly musty and smells of beer and pub food.
There're over one hundred taps on the far wall, and the walls are decorated with
old faded maps and other traveling memorabilia.

"Oh, I'm not nearly as pretentious as I look," Rosalie answers. Her voice seems
wistful, like it holds the edge of a secret.

Rosalie seems familiar with the woman behind the bar and orders for us while I
stand by, since I know nothing about beer and I trust her judgment. The place is
pretty crowded, but it's not too loud; you can still hear the throaty strains of
Leonard Cohen in the background.

"How did you find this place, anyway?" I ask as we settle in a cozy corner nook
with two tall pints of dark beer—milk stout, according to Rosalie.

"I used to work here."

"Really?"

"Yeah, my first two years. I needed the money. But I had to quit for this year; it
was just taking up too much time and I wasn't getting the work done the way it
needed to be.

"A lot of graduate students come here, but not many from English. It's actually a
great place to meet guys from other departments."

"Oh, well . . ." My hands are wrapped around my pint and I sip tentatively,
finding the taste of the dark brew surprisingly sweet and pleasant.

"I'm guessing from that ring on your finger that's not something that interests
you, though. What's your story?"

"I'm engaged, just recently, in fact. Jake's still back in Forks, but he's planning on
moving out here at the end of the year, once we're married."
"That must be hard," Rosalie says, leaning back and taking a long sip of her beer.
"Being away from the one you love for so long. How come he didn't move with
you?"

The way she puts it makes me feel a little uncomfortable. I do miss him, it's true.
But I've been so busy, I haven't had much time to think about it.

"We agreed it was best for me to get settled, you know, focus on school, and
anyway, his dad wasn't pleased about the idea."

"Oh really? Why? You don't get along?"

"No! Nothing like that. I love Billy to death. He's just a little, old-fashioned about
those things. He's pretty religious." I stop myself before explaining further; the
last thing I want her to know is that I grew up with Jacob and Billy . . . that would
only lead to questions there's no way I'm answering. Even though Jake and I had
only become romantically involved a couple of years ago, she might not
understand.

"Oh, God, what is he, like a born again Christian or something?"

"No, he's Catholic. But really conservative," I say, a little embarrassed now.
"Jake's pretty religious, but not like his dad."

"Shit. I really have foot-in-mouth disease, Isabella. Just smack me when I say
shit like that, okay? You're probably religious too and now I've gone and offended
you."

"I'm not offended, honestly. And no, I'm not religious. I was born Catholic, but I
never really went to church as a kid." Renee had certainly never taken me. And
as my godfather, Billy felt obligated to lead me in that direction, but I was
internally, if not externally, resistant. I'd seen too many things in my life . . . too
many things for it all to make sense. To even believe in God. But I respected his
views, and Jacob's.

"I did. My parents are Baptists," she sighs. "Pretty much every one is where I'm
from, but I hated it."

I take another sip of my beer, relishing the creamy taste. I've already developed
a slight buzz and my head feels a little fuzzy. It's nice.

"So, what about you?" I ask, eager to change the subject. "Any guys in your life?"

There's a flicker of something in Rosalie's eyes, but it's gone before I can register
the meaning.

"I'm not seeing anyone at the moment."

"No one in the department interests you?"

"Well, the department is so incestuous. Really, I'm envious of you, already being
committed. It's hard to meet people outside of English, since those are the people
you see every day. And then, if something goes badly, well shit, you have to see
the person all the time. No thank you."

The dramatic irony of her words is too much, and I slightly inhale the huge
mouthful of beer I've just sipped.

"Jesus, Bella. You okay?" Rosalie asks concernedly, giving my back a light pat.
"Yeah. I'm fine," I manage once I've swallowed and cleared my throat.

"Girl, don't be dying here on me."

"Sorry. Just went down the wrong pipe." And before I can stop myself, the words
are already out of my mouth— "So, there's a lot of dating in the department?"

"I'll give you the scoop, since you're new," she leans forward conspiratorially.
"The MFA's are man-whores . . . and whore-whores. Steer clear."

God, why did I ask? What's wrong with me?

"Yeah, so you've said." I desperately want to ask about Kate, and the other girl
they were going to meet, Carmen, but I hold my tongue. Because I know I
probably won't like the answer. And I don't like that I know I won't like the
answer. But as if reading my mind, Rosalie continues.

"Being in graduate school is like being in suspended adolescence, I swear. And

it's not just the MFA's, though they're the worst. There's Kate Edgewood, now
she's dating Garrett Stowe. Man. They're your typical writer-hipsters, all trendy
shirts and indie rock. They're both uber-annoying if you ask me.

"They came as a couple last year, but I have a feeling they've both been sleeping
around. Kate's always all over Edward. I guarantee it. Anyway, I guess she and
Garrett have an open relationship or something. And then there's Carmen
Alexandra-she was dating Eleazar Stein—he's in dramaturgy, but they broke up
last year. She's actually not that bad. She's got a huge rack. It's kind of
distracting. But yeah—she and Riley, you've already met him, well, they've been
hooking up on and off. Everyone knows. That's another downfall of sleeping
around in the department . . . nothing's secret."

"Right. Good to know." I'm replaying her words in my head. The way Kate looked
at me when Edward and I exchanged numbers makes sense now. She has her
sights on him, and from the sounds of it, the feeling is probably mutual. I down
the rest of my pint in one gulp.

"Another?" Rosalie asks.

"Please."

It's only Tuesday night, and I know I should be home reading, but before I know
it, I've consumed two and a half pints and it's after eleven. It's more beer than
I'm used to, and I'm feeling the effects. I'm not drunk, but I'm substantially
buzzed. The drinks and the conversation have brought me out of my head, which
is a good thing. Rosalie's great company, and while she comes off a bit harsh and
abrasive, I sense that she's a sweet person underneath and that she too has her
secrets.

"Oh shit." Rose glances over my head towards the door. "No, don't turn around!"
she hisses just as I'm about to. A gust of cool air hits my back and wisps my hair.

"What is it?"

"Edward and company just came in. Ugh. What the hell are they doing here? This
is my bar."

Suddenly I feel completely sober.

A loud female laugh comes from behind me, followed by a man's.

"Who?" I ask.

"Kate, Garrett, Riley, and Edward. And from the looks of it, they're all wasted. Oh
man, this is killing my buzz."

"Tell me about it," I murmur, scanning the back of the bar for a rear entrance.
None is readily apparent. My heart is hammering in my chest and I can't
concentrate on what Rosalie's saying. I just want to get out of that bar. I don't
want to see Edward with his friends.

"I can't believe they're here. They must have gotten kicked out of Eclipse." I look
at her quizzically and she clarifies. "It's the hipster bar, a few blocks down. They
drink PBR and act ironically."

"Oh."

"Edward's been kicked out before, then he comes over here and harasses me."

"Oh."

"Maybe we should get the tab? You don't look so good."

"No, I'm fine," I say, not really knowing if it's true. I really, really want to look
behind me.

"Well, it is getting late. We should probably get going, anyway. Unlike some
people," she says pointedly, "we actually have work to do."

I nod in agreement, leaving the rest of my beer undrunk on the table and
standing up to put on my coat. I turn my head slightly and see Edward standing
with a group of people near the far corner of the bar. His back is to me, and a
black knit cap covers his hair, but I'd know him anywhere. Kate is standing next
to another boy, with a beard and black rimmed glasses, presumably Garrett, but
she's smiling at Edward.

Rosalie and I approach the bar at the other end and I try to keep my head down
and my gaze averted as she asks for the bill.

"Oh, Rosie," the short woman behind the bar says, "Please. You know you drink
for free here."

"No, Shel, come on, it's too much."

"Nonsense," she says with a wave of her hand and a smile. "On the house. But
you never introduced me to your friend here."

"Shel, this is Isabella, Isabella, Shel. She's the owner of this fine establishment."

"Pleased to meet you," I say, extending my hand. As we shake I see Edward

turn, and it's too late. He's seen me. His green eyes focus on Rosalie and me.
Immediately, I glance back at Shel, withdrawing my hand. Now there's no chance
of an unobserved escape. We'll have to at least acknowledge them or we'll seem
rude.

"Well, it's nice to meet you," Shel says. "Come by again."

"Oh, I will," I promise while Rosalie dons her coat and hat.

"Quick. Let's make a fast getaway," she whispers in my ear after we've said our
goodbyes to her former boss.
But now Edward and his friends are stationed at a high top table right next to the
exit.

"Hey, Rosalie," Kate says as we approach.

"Hey Kate. Garrett. Lucky us," Rosalie directs her comments to Edward and Riley,
"getting to see you two twice in one day."

We make introductions and all the while I'm so conflicted about what to do. We're
partners now. But how should I act? I have no idea if our dynamic is shifting, or
what our dynamic even was in the first place. I don't know how to respond to
him.

Edward's weaving a little; it's not very perceptible, but I can see he's not too
steady on his feet. Another look at his face tells me with hooded eyes and a slight
smirk that he's quite drunk.

"Isabella," he says, moving to stand next to me, and I'm stupidly shocked by the
sound of his voice and his sudden proximity. Rosalie is talking to Riley, and Kate
and Garrett seem to be having a secret conversation, though she glances over
the instant that Edward approaches.

"Did you take care of your errand?"

"I'm sorry, what?" I'm momentarily confused by his question until I recall our
earlier conversation.

"Oh . . . yeah."

"That's good."

"You?"

"What?"

"You make your appointment?" I nod towards Kate and his friends.

He nods abruptly, taking a swig of his pint.

"That's good."

God, could a conversation be more painful? I'm furious with Rosalie for talking
with Riley. They're engaged in some sort of debate over whether publishing or
student teaching is more important on a C.V. She's a little drunker than I
thought.

"We should probably decide on what we want to do for our class," I offer, trying
to think of something, anything, to say to end this awkward silence.

"Hmmm . . ." Edward replies, and it's like he's not even listening to me.

"We're going to have to meet or something. What's you schedule like?"

Nothing.

"Forget it," I mumble, turning away from him to grab Rosalie.

"I was thinking yesterday," Edward says, his words slightly slurred."I was
thinking . . . it was your birthday."

"You were thinking it was my birthday?"

"I thought about you . . . on your birthday."

"Oh really?" I ask, that old bitterness creeping back into my voice. It's a shock he
remembered at all.

"Did you have a good birthday?" Edward asks lowly. There's a flicker in his eyes. I
recognize him. It's the old Edward peaking through. The change in his demeanor
is disarming.

"It was good. I was busy."

"Ahh," he says. "Did your . . . husband . . . why isn't he with you?" He spits the
last five words and I flinch.

"Um, I'm not married yet. I'm engaged."

"Engaged?" Edward's confused face is only inches from mine. "But your name?"

"I changed it."

"What? Why?" He's getting a little louder now and Kate's watching us closely.

"Edward, I don't really feel like discussing this right now."

"You changed your name. When?"

"When I turned 18."

"Why?" he asks again, even though I've already told him no.

"Why don't you take an educated guess," I retort.

"Seems like you wanted to leave your past behind."

"Maybe I did."

"That doesn't work."

"Really? Are you an expert?"

"Something like that. So, when's the big day?" He asks and his voice is different
again. I can't keep up with him. He drinks deeply from his glass, emptying it.

"We don't have a date yet, but next summer. Probably July."

"I see. Congratulations."

"Thank you."

"Songs of Innocence and Experience,' he says suddenly.

"What?"

"That's what we should present, don't you think?" He's smiling now, but it doesn't
reach his eyes, which are hooded and a little unfocused.

"I thought you didn't like Blake. Or at least that's what you said." I cover for my
internal cringe at his suggestion. Of course he remembers the book he gave me .
. . of course. Sitting down with Edward and reading the poems that remind me of
him doesn't sound like a great idea.

"I used to. But people change."

"Apparently."

He acts as if he hasn't heard me.

"I was thinking maybe we'd do someone else, maybe Coleridge," I suggest.

"Oh, 'Kubla Khan,' what is there to say about it that hasn't been said?"

"We're just leading a class discussion, not writing a doctoral thesis."

"But you will be." He's off again on another track.

"What?

"Writing one. You'll be a doctor..."

"If I make it, and anyway, an English professor isn't exactly a doctor."

"Hmmm."

"And you're a writer."

"I'm trying to be."

"I always thought . . . you'd be a great writer someday." Why do I offer him this?

"Right," he scoffs.

"What's that supposed to mean?" For the last couple minutes, I've been engaged
in a non-hostile conversation with Edward Cullen and I haven't even realized it.
Now the spell is broken.

"Nothing. Sorry," he mutters.

"Edward...wa.."

"Hey, you ready to go?" Rosalie says, reminding me that I've been waiting for
her.

"Yeah."

I wave goodbye to the rest but before I'm out the door, Edward grabs my arm.

"You did?"

I shake my head and furrow my brow, not understanding his drunken non
sequitur.

He releases my arm as Kate sidles up.

"Bella, it's so nice to see you again," she says, using my nickname with an
irritating familiarity.

"Thanks," I reply, just as I turn to go. "But my name is Isabella."

~QF~

I'm quiet for the train ride and, for a change, so is Rosalie. She hugs me at the
gate to my building and promises to get in touch during the weekend.

"You bet, Rosie," I tease, remembering the term of endearment I'd heard before.
"Oh, not you too!" she groans. "Shel's going to Hell for this."

I turn to go inside, feeling heavy and sleepy from my waning buzz, and my phone
vibrates.

Flipping it open, I'm surprised to see a text from Edward.

Maybe it's for the bst if we dont talk about the past, when we work togther.

That sounds fine with me, I think as I read the message filled with typos, then
snap my phone shut. When I'm upstairs turning the key in my door, it vibrates
again. Another message from Edward.

Goodnight, Isabella.

~QF~

"You're being transferred to a hospital in Seattle tomorrow. There's a skin

specialist there, and it's close to Forks. That's where Jacob goes to school, and
that's where we're going to be living." Billy's voice is kind but I hate his words.
Edward hasn't been to see me. Doctor Cullen was in and said that Edward wasn't
feeling well and he thought it best for him to stay away, since I was so liable to
infection . . . but it's been four days since I woke up. How sick can he be?

They said I was in a coma for three days . . . they weren't sure I'd . . .

Alice came to visit yesterday and stayed for an hour. She brought me a comfy
sweatshirt and some candy, and, even though I'm not allowed to eat it yet, I
snuck a piece. I couldn't taste it really, and it hurt my throat.

She didn't tell me why Edward wasn't with her, but she hugged me and told me
she loved me, her face as white as a ghost. When she left she was crying.

I must look hideous.

"But I want to stay in Elgin," I protest weakly. My voice has improved just a little,
but it still hurts to talk—I can't manage to make much sound come out, but the
doctors say it will get better.

"I know. I know. But Isabella, you're going to need surgery before your wounds
heal too thoroughly, and the burn care unit at Harborview is the best in the
country. Doctor Cullen has arranged for your transfer; he knows one of the
doctors there. They're going to take real good care of you."

I struggle to wrap my mind around what Billy's saying, but the thought of moving
anywhere is awful. I'm in so much pain, the constant morphine drip is the only
thing that alleviates it. And the pain of leaving my friends . . . Edward . . . it's
even worse.

"But Edward . . ." My head is so confused. Why isn't he here again?

Billy just shakes his head; I don't know if it's because he doesn't know where
Edward is or because he's saying 'no.'

All this time I'm aware of another presence: Billy's son, Jacob. The television is
on, tuned to some game show. The audience claps and cheers. Jacob doesn't say
much, keeping his eyes trained on the TV, but he's there in the room and
somehow his presence is comforting.
I try and sit up in the bed, but find the movement difficult. Billy sees what I want
and uses the remote control switch to help me.

"I know this is hard, Isabella," he says, touching my head. "But it's necessary.
You want to heal properly, don't you?"

"Yes," I reply, the tears welling hotly.

Billy sighs and sits down in the chair next to my bed, using his cane to lower him.
I've noticed that he has a pronounced limp, but I haven't asked about it. I
remember from my mom's pictures that he was once in a wheelchair. I can't help
but wonder what happened to him. Even though there's grey in his hair, Billy's
face is young...but he has the voice, and the attitude of someone much older. It's
a contradiction I can't quite understand.

"Sometimes the ways of God are difficult for us to comprehend," he says, "There
have been times in my life where I found myself questioning His will. Once, when
I was very young, not much older than you, and then again when I found out
your father . . . when I found out what happened to Charlie . . . that he'd died.

"But when you were a little girl, just a baby, I agreed to be your guardian if
anything should happen to your parents, and I took that vow seriously. So, if the
doctors think this is the best thing, then so be it. I'm going to stay true to my
word, and do the best thing by you."

"What was he like?" I ask hoarsely, "My dad?"

Billy smiles and chuckles, "Well, I knew your dad for fifteen years, and in all my
life, before or since, I've never met a better man. He saved my life, Isabella. Did
you know that?"

I shake my head.

"You see, when I was sixteen, I was in a wreck-a pretty bad one. Your dad was
the first one on the scene . . . pulled me out of the car. And just in time too. . ."
Billy's voice trails off. I'm seeing him now in a whole new light.

"I couldn't walk. The doctors said I might never. But I prayed, I prayed, and,
well, your dad was there during all that time." He stops again, like it's painful to
continue. "We had some disagreements over the years, but he was always a loyal
friend. A good husband. He was a good father, Isabella. He loved you and your
mom, very much."

This is the most I've heard of Charlie, and I want more. He was a hero. Renee
never really . . . Renee . . . Mom never really . . .

"Shhhh," Billy says, and he's wiping my face with a tissue. "All right now, all right
now. I know it's going to be hard, adjusting . . . but you'll like Forks, Isabella.
And I promise. I'm not trying to take the place of your dad, or your mom. But I
hope you'll consider Jacob and me here as family. That's how close me and your
folks were back before they moved away." After a second, he adds, "Did you
know that you and Jacob used to be the best of friends?"

I shake my head. I don't really remember. But I already have friends. Friends . . .
no. I won't leave them. I won't leave Edward. Why isn't he here? Does he know
I'm leaving? Does he care? An ache settles deeply in my chest, rooting there,
making it even harder to breathe. Alice. Edward.

"Isabella?" Billy asks,"are you alright?"

No. No. No . . . .I don't want to leave . . . not even to get better, not even if I do
somehow trust and like this man and his son . . . no. I look down at my body.
Someone else's body. It's wrapped in bandages, gauze. My legs are covered but I
remember catching a glimpse when the nurse changed the dressing and
vomiting. Vomiting because there's no way this is my body . . . that it looks this
way. Those are not my legs, but they are. They are because I can feel them,
even unrecognizable under a char of blistering red and black.

How could someone ever love this body?

It hits me with startling clarity even in the fuzz of my drug-altered mind, and I
know with certainty why Edward hasn't come.

And I vomit again . . . there's a nurse . . .another injection.

Then sleep.

"As soon go kindle fire with snow, as seek to quench the fire of love with words."
–William Shakespeare

Chapter 9: September 21, 2010

A woman stands with her back towards me, her long hair spilling down her
shoulders and over her white nightdress. She's so still, but a breeze I cannot feel
ruffles her garment. She looks cool, peaceful, but I am suffocating. I can't
breathe.

Hello? My mouth forms the word, but no sound comes out . . . My hand claws at
my throat, willing air in, but nothing.

The woman doesn't stir. She cannot hear me.

All around is darkness and there is no sound, except for something low and
growling in the distance . . . it's growing. And suddenly I'm petrified of that
sound, more than anything else in my life.

I take a step towards the woman, but my feet won't move. They're stuck,
immobilized in some filthy, vile substance. I try again to lift my leg. Realizing with
a panic that I'm slowly sinking into them mire, I scream with force that wells and
bubbles, but still no sound. No sound but the growing roar, the dull crackle and
pop and hiss...

The inky blackness of the sky is interrupted by something falling, curling. I reach
my hand out to catch it . . . anything to hold on . . . a red ribbon.

Mom? The woman does not turn.

MOOOMMMM!

Without turning her head, she begins to walk away and I feel my feet lose
whatever purchase they have, as inch by inch I'm drawn into the dark depths of
sludge.

MOOOOOOOMMMM!
I awake panting, drenched in a cold sweat, shaking. Sunlight is peeking in
through the blackout curtains and I reach over to flip on my bedside light, noting
the time on my alarm . . . 9:00. I must've forgotten to set it, and now I've slept
way later than I wanted to, since class is in an hour.

But the remnants of the dream stay with me like poison as I shower and start my
day, and I know there's only one thing that'll shake it.

"Hey sweetheart," Billy's gravelly voice is a welcome sound in my ears; it makes

me feel at home, and without bidding, tears well in my eyes.

"Hey Billy."

"It's early; are you okay?"

"Yeah," I reply, trying to control the quiver in my voice. I don't want to worry
him. "I'm okay, I just wanted to hear your voice."

"Well, you know you can call anytime. You know me, I don't sleep."

"I know." Billy's insomnia has plagued him for years, but sometimes I'm jealous.
If you don't sleep, you don't dream. "So how are you? Is Jake there?"

"You just missed him, unfortunately. He got a call from Sam; someone's stuck
out on 41 and needs a tow."

"Ahh."

"Speaking of tows, how's that old truck of yours holding up?" Since I've moved, I
haven't really had to drive much. Old Gertie, as I affectionately call her, sits
parked in a monthly lot about a block from my apartment.

"She's good. She's settling in."

"And how're YOU getting settled in?"

"Oh, fine, fine. It's been pretty busy, but I've got my stuff unpacked. My
apartment's starting to feel a little lived in."

"That's good," he says wistfully. "Sure isn't the same around here without you."

"Awww, Billy."

"Well, we miss you, kid. Jake misses you."

"I miss you too."

"He says your classes are going real well."

"They are, so far . . ." There's so much I'm omitting, but I try not to think of that
as I wander around my apartment, picking up discarded clothes from the night
before and placing them in my hamper, getting my books ready for class. It's
already the third week of graduate school, and I haven't seen Billy or Jake in
almost a month. Now that the stress of the initial move has worn off, that thing is
creeping in . . . that thing that comes at night, threatening to take hold of me,
pull me under.

"Well, that sounds real good. I'm so proud of you, Isabella. Your dad and your
mom would be, too."
"Thanks." And this time my voice does choke up. Billy always knows the right
thing to say.

We talk for another couple of minutes, but then I really have to go, or I'm going
to be late again.

"I'll tell Jacob you called," Billy says. "You should give him a ring later, during
lunch. That boy doesn't know what to do with himself without you around."

"Alright. I will. Bye."

"Bye darlin.'"

It's almost 9:45, and I grab my bag; just as I'm about to slip my phone in it
vibrates-probably Rosalie downstairs telling me to hurry the hell up.

Hi. Can you meet today after class?

It's a text from Edward. My heart pounds in my chest as I consider what to do.
Do I reply? Answer him in class? Ever since the night at the bar last week, I've
half-expected him to text again, or to call, but he hasn't until now. I wonder if he
expected me to.

Indecision is only making me later, so I punch out a quick message before I lose
my nerve.

Yes, I can.

We need to get this over and done with, the sooner the better. The problem is we
haven't decided on an author or presentation date yet, and today's the day we'll
be signing up in class. Jogging down the stairs towards the door, I wonder if he
remembers suggesting Songs of Innocence and Experience . . . Can I handle
doing it? And if I refuse, how will Edward react? Will he think I'm refusing out of
spite, or because I really can't handle it. Why the hell does he want to do it
anyway? To torture me? To send some kind of message?

These are the same thoughts that've been swirling around in my mind all week;
it's becoming a little tiresome, especially because I'm supposed to be
concentrating on schoolwork.

Rosalie and I make small talk as we hurry on the way to class. She's been in
touch with Alison, and they've chosen to present on Christina Rossetti—she's on
the syllabus for October 5th—only two weeks away, and Rosalie figures no one
else will want that date. When she asks what Edward and me are doing and I tell
her we haven't chosen yet.

"Well, you better! You have about five minutes. You should talk to him before
class."

"I know, I know."

By the time we arrive, there're only two seats left. Rosalie quickly takes the one
next to Alison, and now there's only one next to Edward. I round the table quickly
and drop into it, trying to ignore how close we are to each other. The table's not
suited for 13 people, so space is limited. Edward turns to face me, dropping his
pen and closing the notebook he's writing in.

"Hi," he says.

"Hi." I'm a little out of breath, my lungs a bit constricted.

"So," he murmurs, "you got my message."

"Yeah."

"I didn't think you'd respond." His voice is terse, and my defenses kick in
immediately.

"What? Why?"

Peggy interrupts his reply, whirling into the room in that way she has, taking out
her folder and holding up a copy of the syllabus.

"The first thing we're going to do is sign up for presentation dates. I'll ask that
you select one of the last eight weeks of class, since we'll need time at the
beginning of the semester to get into the swing of things before student-led
discussions."

I hear Rosalie sigh a little and I know she's upset she won't get to do Rossetti.

"I know I told you to pick any week you wanted, and I'm sorry. But I hope you
understand. I think it'll be better this way. Everyone will have more time to
prepare, yes?"

We sign up counter-clockwise, so by the time the list gets to Edward and me,
there are only three dates left. Rue and Riley have signed up for Coleridge, and I
wonder just for a split second if Edward put him up to it. There's just Blake, Keats
and Wordsworth left. As I watch him, Edward holds the sign-up sheet and
considers it carefully. He puts his pen to his lip, casting a side-glance at me
before scribbling our names down next to Keats, then sliding it over to me with a
raised eyebrow. He's looking for my approval. I nod slightly, and then pass the
list over to Peggy on my left. Edward's eyes are still on me when I turn back, a
slight smile on his face that fades quickly as he looks away.

"Alright," Peggy says, glancing over the list. "Interesting." Her eyes dart to the
two of us for a second, and I wonder what she's thinking . . . is she wondering
why we're not doing Blake, even though he's my specialty? Does she think I
capitulated to Edward? "Everyone happy with their choices?" she asks.

The class emits a few murmurs of acquiescence and Edward's eyes meet mine.
There's something in the way he looks at me . . . I don't know what it is . . .

I nod and Peggy smiles. "Well, then. Isabella and Edward will be the first to go.
Looking forward to it." Our class is scheduled for October 19th, just a little over a
month away, but suddenly I'm incredibly nervous. I hadn't even considered the
fact that we'd be presenting first.

Peggy tucks the list away, sealing our fate, and directs us to today's topic.

Today, we're continuing our discussion of the sublime; we've read Edmund Burke,
along with some poems by one of my favorite Romantics, Percy Bysse Shelley.
His poem 'Mont Blanc,' is one I'm thoroughly familiar with, since it featured
heavily in my undergraduate thesis. This time, if Edward wants to bring it, I'm
ready.

We open up our anthologies and Peggy starts asking some leading questions.
Riley launches in immediately to some nonsense about how the sublime is dead
because we're no longer in awe of nature's power. There's no longer the
necessary element of fear required to inspire the emotional outpourings of the
Romantics. Riley's a city boy, clearly. He's obviously never been cliff diving or
caught in a snowstorm during a mountain hike. Or a fire . . .

I want to refute him, but I'm distracted by Edward's bouncing leg.

The movement is almost imperceptible, but I can see it sitting this close to him,
and the table's vibrating slightly. I have this incredible impulse to reach out and
still it, just like I used to do when we were young, and I actually have to grab a
hold of my own leg to stop myself. A flood of remembrance overcomes me . . .
sitting in his room after school, listening to music . . . flickers of a conversation
from long ago . . .

"But if it is..."

"If it is, I'll tell you. I'll tell you and make sure you never write again."

"You will, will you? And how may I ask, will you do that?"

"I have my ways."

There's a hot clenching in my chest and I force myself back to the present, trying
to wipe the memory from my mind. But it's so tenacious. It won't let go.
Edward's nervous habit, at once so endearing and so infuriating. . . is he
nervous? I glance at him out of the corner of my eye. His jaw is clenched and
smoothly shaven, and his eyes are focused on the text in front of him. He's so
close I can feel his warmth and smell his smell. Minty. A little spicy. Very Edward.
Does he still eat those green tic-tacs?

I used to tease him 'cause he always had a pack in his pocket. He said he liked to
keep his breath fresh. For me.

Something dead lurches and stutters inside of me. Why does he have to be here?
Make me remember these things?

"But for Shelley and the rest of the Romantics, Mont Blanc was the ultimate
embodiment of Burke's sublime. It's the highest peak in the French Alps; it
encompasses all of the aspects that Burke writes about in his treatise—the power,
vastness, infinity, and even the obscurity of nature." Rosalie's voice shakes me
out of my near stupor. I try to calm my racing heart and focus on her remarks.
She's speaking with enthusiasm; they must be in the middle of an argument. I
chastise myself for not paying attention.

"Obscurity? But it's a mountain. It's so visible," Alison replies.

Looking down the table, I can see Rosalie trying to control the rolling of her eyes.
"That's not what he means by obscurity. What he means is not being able to
comprehend the vastness of something. It's too great for the human mind. It
doesn't mean you can't see-it's that conflict between seeing something and not
being able to process what you're seeing."

"Exactly, Rosalie," Peggy affirms. "That's what Shelley's trying to get across in his
poem. But that doesn't mean you have to agree with the poet's vision. And
perhaps there is something to be said for Riley's earlier point. Is there a sense,
that with photography, video, all of the technology we possess now, that we're no
longer able to see something, a mountain perhaps, as incomprehensible?"

Suddenly, I have a thought. And before I can stop myself, the words are out of
my mouth.

"I think that's almost besides the point."

"Really, Isabella? How?" Peggy asks amusedly. Good, she's not offended.

"Well, the way I see it, 'Mont Blanc,' isn't really about the mountain at all. It's
Shelley trying to come to grips with his own perception of the divine, the
incomprehensible, that he sees embodied in it. He's outlining his poetic vision and
the mountain itself is only a muse. Even in the first line, he makes it clear he's
speaking about 'the everlasting universe of things.' This is what the mountain
inspires in him—thoughts about what lies beyond human understanding." Peggy
murmurs and nods, encouraging me to continue.

"And he's staking a claim for his importance as a poet, for the importance of all
poets—it's only those who 'deeply feel,' who are able to harness the powers of
their imagination to see beyond the visible. Really, nature is just a blank canvass
that's filled in by human thoughts...that's what he means by the final lines:

"[...] The secret strength of things

Which governs thought, and to the infinite dome

Of heaven is as a law, inhabits thee!

And what were thou, and earth, and stars, and sea,

If to the human's mind's imaginings

Silence and solitude were vacancy?'

"If we weren't able to see meaning in 'silence' and 'solitude,' then the mountain
would signify absolutely nothing. There's no meaning inherent in anything unless
we put it there. It's all subjective. And Shelley sees it as the job of the writer to
do just that, to make us feel."

"Someone's been reading their Derrida in the first year Theory seminar," Peggy
jokes. "Very perceptive, Isabella." Her eyes drift off to the side. "Edward? Did you
have something to add?"

I glance at Edward and he's looking down at his anthology, his brow a little tense.

"Actually, no," he says, raising his head and leaning back. "I agree with Isabella's
reading."

I'm shocked, since I'd been certain Edward would find something wrong with my
analysis. Peggy seems a little surprised too.

"Anyone else?"

The rest of the class passes by in a blur as I try to make sense of Edward's ever-
changing attitude towards me. He's so confusing . . . I have no idea what to
make of him.

As we filter out into the hall, Rosalie comes up behind me, poking me in the side.

"You, my friend, are one smart cookie."

I blush a little bit and shake my head.

She laughs. "You also need to learn how to take compliments."

"I know, I know. It's never been one of my strong suits."

"Well, you're in academia now. You need to develop your sense of self-
importance, or you'll never survive. So, you wanna go grab lunch?"

"Actually, I can't. I'm supposed to be meeting with Edward." He's still in the
classroom talking to someone.

"Ohhhh, I see. Okay. Sounds good. I have a ton of grading to do, anyway. First
quizzes. Blech."

"Sounds like fun."

"It's terrible, believe me. You'd be shocked at how little effort some of these kids
put into it. I mean, we're reading Heart of Darkness and they think Africa's a
country." She shakes her head.

"Kids these days," I play along.

"You said it, sister."

Edward's finally making his way to the door, and my stomach clenches again . . .
damn it.

"Pretty quiet in class today, Edward," Rosalie says as he approaches.

"I figured you were doing enough talking for us all," he remarks, not missing a
beat.

Rosalie rolls her eyes dramatically and sighs. "Good luck with this one, Isabella.
He's a real charmer. Call me later, okay?"

"Okay."

After Rosalie's departure, it's just Edward and me. I feel incredibly awkward, as I
usually do in his presence. We start to walk without talking.

"So, where should we go?" I ask.

"Coffee? Lunch? We could go to the library."

"Coffee sounds good." Somehow, I doubt I'll be able to eat with Edward, and the
library probably isn't the best idea if we're going to be talking.

It's another beautiful day with a clear blue sky . . . a day I'd normally enjoy very
much. But the silence between us is deafening and I don't know what to do to
bridge the gap, if I even should. How different things are now. Once upon a time
our relationship was as easy as breathing, and now I can't think of a thing to say.
It's horrible.

"So, you're okay with the Keats?" he asks, zipping up his hoodie and glancing
over at me. His green eyes, they're so strange, foreign yet familiar. One moment
they're a stranger's and the next, they're his.

"Yeah, I think that'll be good. Thank you."

"It's nothing. I didn't really want to do the Blake either."

"Then why did you suggest it?"

He shrugs. "I don't know. I was drunk."

"Do you get that way a lot?"

"Sometimes. Not a lot."

"Hmmm."

"Bella, I don't really care what Rosalie says; I know she's been telling you shit
about me. She doesn't like me, if you can't tell. Not that you like me either. I
know. I know you don't want to do this project with me, okay?" His pace quickens
a little, and I find it hard to keep up with his long strides.

"It's just weird for me. I don't know what to say to you," I confess.

"And you think it's not weird for me?"

"I never said that. I . . ."

"Look, that's why I sent you that text message the other night. I just..." He
pauses on the sidewalk, running his fingers through his hair agitatedly. It's
getting longer again, more like I remember it.

"I agree with you," I say quickly. "And I know you don't want to work with me,
either. We'll just keep it professional. Okay? And then we'll be done with it. You
won't have to talk to me anymore." I can't keep the hurt from my voice, even as
I attempt to rein it in.

"Bella, I don't . . ."

"Don't, please? Let's just not do this." I don't want to hear him confirm what I've
just said, even though I know it's true. The years have proven that well enough.

"Can I just ask you one question?"

We're in the middle of the sidewalk outside the coffee shop and people are
passing by. Cars are honking, trucks rattling along with their cargo. And Edward
is standing so close to me I can see the rise and fall of his broad shoulders as he
breathes.

"That depends. What's the question?"

"Are you . . . alright?" His voice is low and a little shock runs through me when he
reaches out and touches my arm. I flinch back instinctively and he removes his
hand, a hurt expression marring his features.

"I thought you didn't want to talk about the past," I whisper.

"I don't. I'm talking about the present. You don't have to answer me. It's just
that I never thought I'd see you again and I . . ." He leaves the rest unsaid, an
undeniable sadness in his voice I don't know how to read.

And whose fault is that?

I want to snap at him, but when the words come out, they're quiet. "I'm fine.
Okay? See?" I spread out my arms. Does he want to see scars? Horrible
disfigurement? What does he want to see?

"Okay, Bella," he says, stepping back. His eyes dart down, and I'm thankful, so
thankful, he'll never really see me.

"Shall we go in?" I ask, hugging my arms around my body and securing my bag.

"Sure."
We enter, finding a seat near the door, and Edward asks what I'd like. I insist on
giving him cash for my tea, but he waves it off. His absence gives me a minute to
reestablish my equilibrium, taking out my course materials and settling down to
work. Soon, he returns with our drinks and a muffin on a plate. Blueberry. His
favorite.

He sits and washes down a bite of cake with a sip of coffee. And all I can think of
was how he once downed an entire tray of my blueberry muffins in one sitting.

"Do you want some?" he asks, probably noticing the way I'm staring at him.

"No. I'm fine. Thanks."

"You sure? There's different stuff up there. Scones, croissant?"

"I'm fine."

"Okay," he says, clearing his throat. "So. Keats."

"I'm surprised no one else signed up for him," I comment, tearing my eyes away
from his moving mouth. We've tacitly agreed to a truce, and I decide it's better
just to go along with it.

"Well, it's the first presentation date. No one wants to set the bar."

"Should we set it low, or high?"

"What do you think?"

"High."

He smiles widely. "Definitely."

"So, where do we start?"

"Well, I guess first we need to decide what we want to talk about. Are we going
to lead a roundtable discussion like Peggy, or are we going to use some other
format?"

"I was thinking we could maybe bring in some other media...like a PowerPoint or
something. Something to get people's attention."

"That's not a bad idea," he says. "I even have some pictures of Keats's grave in
Rome we could use. And the house where he died near the Scalinata della Trinità
dei Monti."

The words roll of his tongue in a fluent Italian, and my eyes widen. The Edward I
knew had no interest in foreign languages, yet here he is speaking like a native.

"I spent a summer in Rome," he explains, somewhat sheepishly. "Learned a little

Italian." His humility indicates he didn't mean to show off.

"Wow. That's great." I'm impressed despite myself. I've never been out of the
country, and I've always wanted to go to Europe. "How did you afford that?"

"I kinda worked illegally. It was just after college. Stayed in a cheap room in
Trastevere. You know, to gain some experience for my writing. I did a little
traveling in Spain and Portugal as well." I wonder if he was alone, or if he had
friends there.

"That's amazing."
"It was...unforgettable." The atmosphere seems heavy again. Edward takes
another sip of his coffee, but his eyes seem far away.

"And did it help...with your writing?"

"Yeah. To some extent. I just figured I needed to get outside of the U.S. It was
only three months."

"That makes sense. Where did you go to college?" My curiosity is getting the
better of me.

"The University of Pennsylvania." He shifts uncomfortably in his seat, not

elaborating further.

"So," I say, bringing the conversation back to the topic at hand. "We'll use some
of your pictures to set the scene. Any other interactive media? Wasn't there a
movie about Keats that just came out?"

For the next hour, Edward and I talk about some of the ideas we'd like to discuss
and the format, but we still have to decide on what poems to focus on, and we
figure both of us have to do some close readings before we talk again. We decide
to meet at the same time next week after class.

All in all, the meeting hasn't gone as badly as I expected it to, despite some initial
awkwardness, and when we part it's not as tense as it's been. He gives a crooked
smile and a little wave before turning round and walking down the block to catch
his train. But instead of feeling relief, a clawing melancholy settles over me.

Hands in pockets. Long stride. Bronze hair shining. Always, in my memory,

walking away.

~QF~

Back at my apartment, I check my messages. Jake's called and his voice does
sound sad. I hate that it's my fault. I need to be here. He says he understands
but sometimes, it seems like maybe he doesn't.

I've always wondered if Jake resented me about the college thing, since he didn't
go. The only reason I was able to was because I had grades good enough to give
me a scholarship. Charlie's pension had transferred to me when my mom died,
and I'd received it until I was 18, saving all of the money to help pay for other
college expenses. Billy didn't have the money to send Jake to school, but Jake
insisted he didn't want to go anyway. How much of that was the truth, and how
much of that was just Jake being Jake, I'd never know.

I call him back and catch him on his lunch break, and we chat for a while about
work, the garage, school. He tells me that Billy's back is bothering him again. And
that Sam Uley left Leah Clearwater for her cousin Emily.

"That's insane! I always thought they were so in love."

"Leah's devastated," he says. "I love Sam like a brother, but he just really
messed up this time, you know? And with her own cousin."

"That must be horrible for her."

"Yeah, she's having a rough time. But she'll pull through, though. She's strong."

"Give her my love, will you?"

"I will. Hey!" he says, changing the topic. "Only 90 more days."

"Hmm?"

"Ninety days till you're home for Christmas, silly."

"Oh right. Sorry. Of course! Don't mind me, I'm just a little out of it."

"You sound a little weird. Is everything alright?"

"Yeah. It's fine. My mind's just on school. I have so much work."

"Okay, well, I'll let you get to it, then. Call me if you need anything, okay?"

"Okay. Bye."

"Bye babe. I love you."

"Jake?" I ask, but he's already hung up.

"I love you," I whisper to the air.

I make myself a little snack of crackers and cheese and settle down to read, but
my talk with Jake hasn't improved my mood. I still feel strange, like there's
someone else living in my body.

The crackers are fresh but seem stale on my tongue, the cheese cloying. I'm
reading Keats and I'm thinking of someone I shouldn't be thinking of. At all. But
he keeps waltzing into my thoughts with his strange moods and enigmatic words.
It's so weird, like he's holding a grudge against me for some reason. For the life
of me I can't fathom why. He didn't come to see me . . . he never contacted me .
. . all those years I cried and waited for him, dying slowly. A piece of me missing.

Damn Edward, and damn Keats. The last thing I want to read right now are love
poems. Maybe the Blake would've been better. Songs of Innocence and
Experience...what an apt title. What I've always loved about it is how Blake
manages to blend these two states of being in his poetry—so that the poems of
the "innocent" suggest experience, and vice versa. Isn't that the truth of human
life?

There is a box under my bed, and now that's all that's on my mind. I haven't
opened it in over a year, though I bring it with me wherever I go.

Today, I give in. I open the box and finger the two books inside. My treasure, my
burden. Picking up one of them, I sit down on my bed to read. It's a blue
notebook, the paper yellowed from time and slightly charred at the edges.

The only thing I have left from the fire.

Edward's writing.

"Here lies one whose name was writ in water."—John Keats

Chapter 10: September 28th, 2010

Forks is nothing like Elgin. For one thing, there're a lot more trees. There is some
farmland here, but otherwise it's nothing like Illinois. Billy's house is on the
Quileute reservation, close to the sea. I've never lived near the ocean, the real
ocean. So far I've only seen it once from the backseat of the car on the way
home from my latest operation. It looked a lot colder than I imagined it would . .
. hazy . . . misty . . . I asked and Billy pulled to the side of the road. I pressed my
palm against the cold, cold glass as my breath fogged it, making it even harder to
see.

I thought there was something white floating above the water in the distance. It
looked like a woman's figure, her dress and hair wild in the wind, but I didn't say
anything about it. Just the foaming of the waves, a trick of light . . . those
would've been the answers I'd have received.

But I believe in ghosts.

I'm alone a lot, since Billy works at the pawn shop in Forks and Jake goes to
school. He's in the ninth grade, just like me. Only I won't be back at school for a
while. Instead, a tutor comes three times a week, and the rest of the time I work
on my own. It's not so bad, being home schooled, and the doctors say it's
necessary since my legs are liable to infection as they're still healing, Anyway, it
hurts to walk even five months afterward. I don't want to fall behind, though, and
so I work really hard, even when I don't feel like it.

It's nicer here than in Seattle. I'm glad to be out of the hospital, and I don't
complain.

I write. Not stories, but letters. Letters and letters. I write to Edward and Alice
almost every day. I tell them everything; that I love and miss them, what it's like
here. About my new friend Jake. I tell Edward that I still have his notebook and
that I'll keep it for him in a safe place until I see him again. I tell him that I
understand he doesn't want me to be his girlfriend anymore, and why, but that I
remember our promise to always be friends. But he doesn't remember it. He
never replies, not once. It's like he never even existed at all . . . or that I've
stopped existing.

The last time I went for a checkup at Port Angeles General, another kind of doctor
came in the room to see me—a psychologist. She started asking me questions
about my mom and the fire, and I just sat quietly, hoping she'd go away. Later,
out in the waiting room, I heard her talking to Billy. That's another thing I've
started noticing: people talking about me like I'm not even in the room and can't
hear them. Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, she says. I know that term, but I
don't have it. Post means past, and what's happening to me isn't in the past. It's
here, every day. I see my mother burning, trying to save me. I try to save her.
But I'm too late, far too late . . .

I'm tired of people treating me like a child and an invalid, when I don't feel like a
child anymore, if I ever did.

Today is Friday and Jake has a half-day of school since it's the day before spring
vacation. He said he had a surprise for me, and I'm more than a little curious.

I'm sitting in the living room with my notebook on my lap, and I'm writing a letter
to Alice.

Dear Alice,

If you could go back to any day and have a do-over, what day would you choose?
There are a lot of days I'd like to change.
I miss you guys so much. But I don't understand. Why won't you write me, Alice?
I thought we were best friends.

Some days I wish I never met you.

It's a terrible letter. I can't think of anything to say anymore that doesn't end in
bitterness, and I tear the sheet from the notebook, crumpling it in my hands and
tossing it on the floor. I start again but that letter meets the same fate, and it's
so frustrating I start to cry. I'm tired of crying over people who don't give a damn
about me.

The sound of the door opening startles me, and I sit up on the sofa, wiping my
face with the back of my hand and reaching for my cane. Just like Billy's.

"No, no! Don't get up!" Jacob calls from the other room. He must've peaked in.

I sit back down, trying to catch my breath from the crying.

A minute or so later Jacob appears with a huge grin on face that falls the minute
he sees mine. His eyes dart from me to the crumpled sheets on the ground, and
before I can stop him, he snatches one up.

"Don't!" I protest. But he reads it anyway.

"Bella . . ." he says, looking at me sadly. "You can't keep doing this to yourself."

"That wasn't yours to read. And anyway, I'm not doing anything."

He sits down next to me. "Yes. You are."

"I need to do this. I have to write to them."

"No, you don't. It hurts for me to say this. But . . . they don't want you
anymore."

His words are shocking . . .they cut deeply. Mostly because I know they're true.
But even in my agony I stick up for my friends.

"You don't know that. You don't know anything," I whisper. I'm crying again and I
wish he'd go and leave me alone. He doesn't say anything else for a while, but he
reaches out his hand and puts it on my shoulder. I'm mad at him, but I can't
bring myself to shrug it off. No one, except the doctors and occasionally Billy, has
touched me in so long.

"I'm sorry," he says. My tears have slowed a bit and Jacob grabs me a tissue. I
blow my nose wetly.

"It's okay."

It's quiet in the room, and I hear something rustling in the hall. My curiosity is
peaked again.

"So," he says, smiling a little again, "you want your surprise?"

I nod and he gets up and retreats to the hall. A few seconds later he comes back
holding a square silver cage. Inside is a tiny brown bird with black eyes and an
orange beak. It flutters, clearly startled by the movement, and lets out a small
chirp.
Jacob places the cage on the side table next to me, and the little bird settles
down on its perch. It cocks its head rapidly from side to side.

"This is Finch . . . the finch," Jacob tells me. "He used to live in one of the
elementary classrooms, but the teacher got sick. She's retiring. So, he was
looking for a home. I figured you might like a little company, you know, when
Dad and I aren't around."

Finch rustles his feathers and chirps again, and I reach my finger out tentatively,
sticking it through the narrow bars of the cage. He regards it carefully, but is
seemingly unalarmed. I wonder if he knows there's a wider world out there, or if
he's happy in his small prison.

Jacob is smiling again, that huge grin that shows all of his perfectly straight white
teeth.

"Do you like him?"

"I love him, Jake. Thank you."

~QF~

For the rest of the week after my meeting with Edward I try to buckle down and
do my work. There's an assignment due in my Lit theory class, and I'm finding
the reading a little more difficult than I expected. I hole myself up in my
apartment to read and write, to concentrate on something other than the
awaking of a familiar strangeness inside of me, but reading the poetry for our
project isn't helping.

Keats' tragic death haunts me—the premonitory aspects of his poetry, and his
letters, are unsettling. He knew his end was near, that he'd never be able to
marry the love of his life, that he'd die before he'd reached his fullest potential.
Behind the beautiful words and imagery of "Ode to a Nightingale," I see a man
wondering what death must be like. What will be waiting?

There was a point in my life when it hurt to breathe, and it wasn't because of
smoke inhalation, although that hurt too.

It started on the day that I awoke to fire, and intensified that day I left Elgin
General in the transfer vehicle. A day in October, like any other . . . a crisp fall
day. I was fourteen years old, leaving behind the only life I'd ever known. I
looked out the window upon nothing, and the absence reflected in my shallow
inhales. And it didn't get better for a long time.

When I decided to return to Illinois, in some ways it was like a homecoming. Elgin
is just an hour away. I can go at any time to see the neighborhood where I grew
up. But I won't. Not only because I'm afraid, though I am, but also because it no
longer feels like home. I feel strangely unmoored, and that fierce longing, that
hurt, is crowding my chest again. I won't let it this time. I can do this. I can work
with Edward, and that's it. I can do this.

And so I read, and when Rosalie asks me to study or order Chinese food, I do.
And when Jake calls I take comfort in his voice, and Billy's.

But all the same, I wonder if he's reading the Keats, as I am, if he ever thinks of
me, as I think of him.

On Tuesday morning, Rosalie calls and asks if I want to get breakfast before
class. It sounds like a good idea since there's no food in my apartment. I haven't
felt much like cooking lately. A half an hour later, I meet her outside. There's a
beautiful white cashmere scarf wrapped around her pale neck, and I wonder,
once again, how she affords such luxuries. She smiles as I approach, but
something about it seems sad.

"Hey," she says.

"Hey yourself."

We have about an hour, so we decide to go to Roberto's for huevos rancheros;

it's delicious and just a block away from class.

"So, you're meeting with Edward again?"

"Yeah. After class."

"How's the project coming?"

"It's good . . . so far. What about you?"

"Not too bad. Alison's a dimwit, but other than that, it's coming."

"That's good. As long as you don't have to do most of the work."

"Oh, I don't mind. I'd rather get a good grade than leave it up to her."

By the time the food arrives I'm starving, and I instantly fork a bite of eggs,
beans and tortilla into my mouth. We chat for a bit, but Rosalie's not eating
much. And for the first time since I've known her, which admittedly isn't all that
long, I'm talking more than her.

"Hey. Are you okay?" I finally ask. I'm always wary of asking intrusive questions,
but it seems like there's something really bothering her.

Her eyes meet mine and I notice, with something of a shock, they're filling with
tears. She shakes her head, letting out a trembling sigh.

"No. Not really, actually." A tear falls and she hastily wipes it away.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"I don't want you to think less of me."

"I won't."

"I know we haven't known each other that long, but you're a good friend. You
seem . . . trustworthy somehow. It's just, I don't have many friends. The girls in
the department, well, they don't like me. I guess they think I'm a bitch, or stuck
up, or whatever. I suppose I'm not the easiest person to get along with."

"Well, they're idiots. I think you're great."

"Thanks." She leans back in her chair, setting down her fork. The look on her face
tells me she's deciding whether or not to share whatever is burdening her.
"Listen, do you swear you won't say a word . . . to anyone?"

"I don't know if you've noticed, but I don't have many friends either. You can tell
me anything, honestly. You can trust me."
"I thought I was pregnant." This isn't at all what I was expecting, so I'm
momentarily speechless. My expression must register my confusion, because she
starts to explain.

"I'm not. I took a test this morning."

"And that's not a good thing?"

"No," she sighs, "it is a good thing. I'm relieved, mostly."

"Wait. I'm sorry. I didn't even know you were seeing someone," I confess,
remembering our conversation at the bar.

"No one did. It was just our little secret," she scoffs, emphasizing the last three
words. "He's an older man—married. Has two kids with his wife. And anyway, I
don't mean anything to him."

All of a sudden, I have a sneaking suspicion I know who it is. I remember secret
phone calls, meetings . . .

"Professor Finley?"

She nods, her eyes searching mine. "How did you know?"

"I didn't. Just a hunch. How long has this been going on?" I ask her.

"A few months. It started at the end of last year. We were at the year-end grad
party, and he was there. I've always had a little crush on him. Have you seen
him?" I shake my head no. "Well, he's quite attractive. Anyway, we stayed late,
went for a cup of coffee. He started telling me about his marriage. How unhappy
he was. Same stupid lines than men have been using for millennia. Before I knew
it we were back at my apartment and he was undressing me. God, I was so
drunk, and it was so exciting."

I nod and murmur encouragingly for her to go on.

"We started seeing each other pretty regularly; then it was as often as twice,
three times a week. Since I got assigned a TA-ship for his lecture it's been almost
every day."

"Oh, Rosalie."

"He told me he couldn't get enough of me . . . brought me gifts, clothes, money.

I told him I wouldn't accept them, but he wouldn't listen; he'd just leave them
anyway. And I needed the money." She's started crying now in earnest and I
push my chair back, going to her and wrapping my arms around her slim
shoulders. So that explains Rosalie's wardrobe.

After a few seconds, I release my hold, sitting back down as she continues. "His
wife got suspicious. He came just a couple of days ago to tell me he had to break
it off. She'd opened his email account, found some of our correspondence, and
some credit card statements. He said he was sorry, but that doesn't make me
feel like less of a whore.

"It's so ridiculously typical. I've been such a fool, like so many other women. I'm
a home-wrecker. And you probably think I'm disgusting, don't you? And a
hypocrite. After all the things I said about our slutty department, here I am, the
worst one of all."

"No, I don't. And you're not."

"Yes, I am."

"Can I ask you something? Do you love him?"

She looks at me seriously for a minute, and then she nods her head.

"You're not a whore. I'm sorry this happened to you Rosie."

"I am what I am," she sighs. I've never seen Rosalie look so despondent, and it's
disconcerting—she's such a vibrant person. "It's funny," she says thoughtfully,
"I've always hated that nickname, but I don't mind when you say it . . . it's kind
of nice."

"You can call me Bella, if you want," I reply impulsively. I haven't asked anyone
to use my nickname in years. It's a little strange, but not bad.

"Okay, Bella," she smiles. "You know, that name suits you." She pauses for a
minute, checking her watch. "Listen, you need to get going to class. I don't think
I can bear it today. I'll send Peggy an email."

"No. I should stay with you."

"Please, no. You need to go to class. I'll be fine, seriously. I just need a little
time."

We part ways on the street corner and I walk the rest of the way to class on my
own.

Edward sits in the same seat as last week, but this time the seats next to him are
occupied. For just a second, I'm disappointed. He looks up from his notebook
when I enter and gives a small smile, which I return, before looking down again
and resuming his writing.

As class begins, I push aside thoughts of Rosalie and Edward and try to
concentrate. But I feel melancholy. Yes, in many ways, Rosalie's situation seems
typical. It was foolish for her to get involved with a married man, and a professor,
but she already knows this. I decide that I'll be the best, most supportive friend I
can be for her and perhaps, just perhaps, I'll entrust her with some of my secrets
as well.

The conversation today centers on some lesser known poets that I'm not terribly
interested in, but I take thorough notes for Rosalie's sake as well as my own.
Once in a while I sneak a quick glimpse at Edward. He's sitting directly in my line
of sight so my behavior isn't obvious. I don't think. But one time he catches me
looking and holds my gaze. He doesn't smile, but his eyes are thoughtful.

During the break, I check my messages. There's one from Rosalie thanking me
for listening, and again asking me to keep it between us. I understand her
unease, but she has nothing to worry about, at least from me.

I also talk with some of the other girls in the class about the course
requirements. Everyone is working hard on their teaching presentations. I know
that we'll have to do an excellent job to set the standards high and impress
Peggy and the rest of the class; still, I have confidence in what we're preparing.

I'm eager to get our project more solidified, though, so by the end of class I'm
ready to go. Edward waits for me as I pack up my stuff and we walk together to
coffee shop.
"So," I begin once we've settled at a table with our drinks, "did you have a
chance to read the Keats?"

"Yeah. I did. I hadn't read him in a long time," Edward confesses. He's looking a
little morose today as he pours a creamer into his coffee.

"Me neither. Did any poems stick out to you?"

"Yeah. A few. I think we should focus on the Odes, right?"

"Wouldn't that be expected, though? Should we do something unusual?"

Edward shrugs and starts ferreting through his bag. "I don't know . . . You don't
wanna just do something unexpected to do something unexpected. We should
talk about the most interesting poems." He pulls out an envelope of pictures and
slides them over to me with a small smile.

"Here. From Rome." I remember he'd said he'd bring the pictures today to see if
any were suitable for our PowerPoint. "I don't know if you wanna use any of these
. . ."

I open the envelope and begin flipping through the photographs. Most of them
highlight landscapes and buildings—beautiful Rome streetscapes and historical
monuments. Ruins overrun with tourists, but still managing to look majestic.
Edward is incredibly talented with the camera and I savor them slowly; they're
treasured glimpses into his life.

"I like this one with the turtles. What is it?" I say, holding up a picture of one a
fountain.

"That's the Fontana delle Tartarughe in the Jewish Ghetto," Edward explains.
"Yeah, it's one of the best of Rome's fountains. I think it's from the 16th century."

"Incredible."

I'm surprised he's letting me see the pictures that aren't related to Keats. Of
course there are some of those as well. I recognize his gravestone in the
foreigner's cemetery in Rome, since I've seen pictures of it before. I love the
inscription on the otherwise marked tomb: "Here Lies One Whose Name was Writ
in Water." It's a simple and beautiful way to remember his transitory life.

"We can use this," I say, holding up the picture.

"Yeah," Edward replies, "and the next couple are of the house where he died near
the Spanish Steps."

"Great. Let's definitely include these." Edward has pictures of the exterior of the
house as well as the interior and museum inside. They'll be perfect.

There are a few more photographs after those, and I'm surprised to one of the
last is of Edward. He's standing at the top of a hill with the city behind him,
shimmering and beautiful in the golden light. He looks so much younger, more
like I remember, but his face seems distant. His hair is long and he's holding a
rucksack on his left arm. I wonder who's taking the picture.

I glance up at him expectantly, but he's silent. He's watching me carefully. What
is he thinking? I can see he's not going to explain. Without another word, I
restore the pictures to the envelope and pass them back. His hand brushes mine
and the shock of his warm skin jolts me. Our eyes meet for a second, but I look
away quickly.
"Those were beautiful. Thank you."

"Yeah, well, I'm not a professional. But they'll do for this," he says offhandedly,
and I feel the sting of his dismissal. Nothing personal. Right.

"Okay. Well, which of the Odes do you want to do?"

For the better part of a hour, we're all business, finally deciding on "Ode on a
Grecian Urn," "Ode to an Nightingale," and "To Autumn." Neither of us brings up
any of the love poetry; it's clearly not a place either of us is willing to go. We'll
begin with the PowerPoint presentation and a short introduction to the poetry,
and then pose some leading questions to get the discussion going.

"It's important we have something to say, though, if conversation lags," I add.

"Definitely. I think we should do some pretty thorough close readings of the

poetry. Maybe we can do that on our own time and meet back up in another
week or so."

"Right," I agree, even as my chest constricts. He obviously wants to leave and it

hurts—almost as bad as the revelation that I don't want him to go. I'm surprised
when he continues.

"I've also done some research about Keats' life," he says, "If you think it'd be
relevant. Did you know he had an affair with a woman named Isabella Jones, and
that some of his poems were possibly inspired by her?" He leans back and eyes
me, and I'm flustered. I'd know about this, but his comment seems pointed, not
least because of the name. I try not to show my unease.

'I've heard that, but I don't know. I prefer to think he always stayed loyal to
Fanny Brawne . . ."

"He never consummated his relationship with Brawne," Edward points out as my
heart beats more rapidly. "You'd be foolish to think Keats died a virgin." We're
entering dangerous territory here, and I don't know what he's playing at. For
some reason I feel compelled to defend their relationship.

"Yeah. Well, we don't know anything for sure. And does it really matter? From his
letters you can tell how much he loved her."

"Sometimes people say things they don't mean in letters," Edward says coldly.
"You can't always believe what you read."

"Maybe sometimes. But I like to think most of the time people are honest," I
reply defensively. I feel sick . . . Is he insinuating that I didn't mean what I'd
written all those years ago? I meant every word. Every damn word. I look across
the table at the boy I loved, startled to see green eyes dark with pain staring
back at me. Strangely, I want to comfort him, even though he's the one who's
hurt me. I miss him. I miss Alice terribly. I don't even know what she's doing,
where she is right now.

Edward's collecting his things as I stare at my half-drunk cup of tea.

"I gotta get going, Bella. I'll see you around."

"Yeah. Okay." He stands, slinging his bag over his shoulder. "Hey, Edward?" I call
just as he turns to go. "When you see Alice, or talk to her, will you tell her I say
'hi'?" My voice cracks a little. I can't help it.
Edward whips around, his face wearing a bitter sneer. He emits a harsh laugh.
"Alice is dead, Isabella."

Well you can stare all day at the sky

But that won't bring her back

That won't bring her back

You say you're waiting on fate

But I think fate is now

I think fate is now

Waiting on us...

-Tori Amos "Bouncing Off Clouds"

Chapter 11: September 28-October 8th, 2010

No. No. No.

The word vibrates repetitively in my head. My hands clutch the table before me. I
feel its hardness, its stability, but I'm unraveling. Beautiful, sweet Alice. Full of
life. She can't be gone. It doesn't make sense.

"No," I whisper as the blood drains from my face. "No. It can't be true."

Edward stands before me, but I can't look at his face. All I see is Alice. Riding
bikes. Teaching me how to wear makeup. Teasing Edward and me when she finds
us kissing on his bed.

"It's true." His voice calls me back from the past and his familiar eyes hold me,
blurry like mine. They're not angry anymore. I want to reach out to him, feel his
arms wrap around me. I want to yell, scream, hit him, and tell him he's lying.

"No."

"Yes, Bella."

"Edward . . ." There's a fist closing around my heart, squeezing and tearing. But
even in the midst of my pain, I know his is more. He reaches his hand out and I
hold fast. There is desperation in his grip and I'll do anything to make it better.

"Edward," I say again, my voice catching in my throat. But then, my hand is

empty again.

"I can't. I'm sorry. I can't . . ." he chants hollowly. Steps back. Turns around.
He's out the door and I'm still sitting with questions I don't want answered
bubbling on my tongue. A cup of cold tea I want to smash against the wall.

How can she be dead? How did this happen? Why did no one tell me? What the
fuck is going on? That persistent, sweet, lying voice keeps telling me that it's not
true. But I know. I know.
My legs start to move but it's too late. I search for his back, his quick step on the
street, but he's already lost in the throng of pedestrians. Gone.

I wander futilely in the direction I think he went. For how long? I don't know. But
after a while I realize I've left all my belongings at the coffee shop, including my
laptop computer. Luckily, the manager knows me.

"You looking for this?" she asks, holding up my shoulder bag. Everything's neatly
stowed away.

"Yes." It's the first word I've spoken in what must be hours, and the vibrating
sensation seems strange on my tongue. I reach out for it, not even caring to
check if anything's missing. Everything's missing. She says something else but I
just nod absently and thank her. She must think I'm insane and maybe I am. Like
mother like daughter.

Making my way back to my apartment, I fumble for my cell phone. I have his
number. But when I call it goes straight to voicemail. His beautiful voice.

"This is Edward. Leave a message."

Not knowing what to say, I don't. What can I say?

There are also missed calls from the usual suspects, but I ignore them. All I want
is to be alone.

Back in my room, there's a curling inward. A darkening. I lay on my bed feeling

the blood pulsing through my limbs and listening to the sounds of traffic outside.
I want to blot it out. My mind remains strangely blank except for an image of a
girl with short dark hair and a red dress.

~QF~

"Why do you like my brother?"

It's a couple of weeks since Alice found out about us. Until now, she hasn't asked
me much about it, so her question takes me off-guard. It's impossible to put into
words. And anyway, there're too many reasons.

"Um . . . because?"

"Because why? Come on, I want details."

Alice and I are lounging in her room after school. She's painting her nails on her
bed and I'm sitting on the floor, flipping though one of her many fashion
magazines. So many boring-looking skinny girls wearing revealing outfits. I cast
it aside and sigh.

"I don't know. Haven't you ever liked a boy before?"

"Well, yeah."

"Who?"

"No one in particular."

"That's a lie. You like Jasper."

"I do NOT," she protests, glaring at me. But I can tell by the twinkle in her eye
that she's lying.
"Yes, you do."

"Whatever, Bella. He's a little old for me, don't you think?"

"That won't matter so much someday."

"Oh yeah? How do you figure?"

I shrug. "Edward's older than me."

"Not as old as Jasper."

She sits up and begins painting her toes.

"What's it like kissing?" Alice asks me suddenly, looking up. I blush.

"Uh . . ."

"Come on! You can tell me! Jeez! Don't be so prude."

Finally, the desire to share with my friend overwhelms my resistance.

"It's the best thing in the world."

"What do you mean? How?" Her eyes are wide and curious.

"Well, it's . . . I don't know. Sorta like being in warm water . . . floating. I can't
describe it . . . At first it feels strange, but then it's like the most familiar thing.
Your stomach feels jittery. And you don't want to stop."

"Hmm." She considers what I've said. "It's kinda creepy you're talking about
Edward. But it sounds nice. I'm glad you guys like each other. It's good."

"Thanks."

"HEY!" Alice's sudden exclamation startles me. I look up expectantly. "You know.
if you marry Edward, we'll be sisters!"

Now my face is definitely redder than a tomato, I know it. Marry Edward? We've
only been dating a few months. And I'm fourteen!

"Yeah, well, I doubt it."

"I don't."

"Oh yeah?"

"Sometimes," she leans forward secretively,"I know what's gonna happen before
it does."

I laugh and chuck a stuffed animal at her. She ducks and squeals. "So what? Are
you like a psychic or something?"

"I don't know. But the other day, I was thinking of this song, and when I turned
the radio on it was playing. Isn't that weird?"

"I think it's called coincidence, Ali."

"Coincidence, psychic-ness. Whatever. Anyway, I know you guys are gonna get
married and have ten bazillion babies. Bel-la and Ed-ward sitting in a tree . . ."

I throw another animal. "Shut up."

"K-I-S-S-I-N-G! First comes love—"

Deep, rolling thunder awakens me. For a minute it's peaceful, but then I
remember.

A glance at the alarm clock tells me it's three in the morning. Flashes of
lightening fill the room and rain drives in through the open window.

I move towards it, but instead of closing it, I lean outside, letting the downpour of
the early fall storm soak through my shirt and put the fire out.

~QF~

When I wake again it's morning and I am on the floor near the window. My
clothes are still damp and I look up at the blue sky. Not a cloud in sight.

~QF~

Another day.

I call him again. Straight to voicemail. This time I leave a message. Please call
me, Edward. I need to talk to you. Please.

There are many missed calls on my phone, but I delete all the messages without
listening to them. I don't feel like reporting in.

Briefly I recall my theory class is today. I don't feel like going, so I don't.

I make a grilled cheese sandwich and burn it. It's the last of my bread and I lick
the melted cheese from the inside, pick at the crust. There is no pleasure in food.

~QF~

He doesn't call back.

Rosalie does. I answer on the third day, needing the sound of her voice. The
silence in my apartment is becoming oppressive.

"Bella. Hey. Um. I was worried about you, but I thought that maybe you decided
you didn't want to be friends with me after all." A nervous laugh at the end of the
line.

"Of course not, Rosie. I'm sorry. There's just . . . something happened."

"What is it?" I can hear her fear; I know I don't sound very well.

"Can you come over?"

"I'll be there in ten."

She's here in five. I buzz her in and she swoops down upon me, mothering,
concerned. I'll take it. Her hug is so comforting that I sob.

"Jesus, what happened?"

"My friend, Alice." It's the first time I've really cried, and once they start my tears
are unstoppable.

"Tell me what happened."

"She's dead."
Rosalie leans back against the couch, taking me with her. "Holy shit. A friend
from home?" I nod speechlessly. "When did this happen?"

"I d-d-don't know."

"But she died? How did you find out?"

"Ed-w-ward told me."

Through the haze of my tears I can see her confusion, but I can't go on. Rosalie
rocks me and lets me cry.

"I don't understand," she says softly, releasing me. "Tell me from the beginning."

"I lied to you before about Edward. I did know him. We . . . we grew up
together."

"I thought as much."

Once I start talking I can't stop. It's strange how easy it is even though I've only
known Rosalie for a short time. Perhaps that's why it's easy. I don't tell her
everything, especially about my mom, but I tell her enough to understand. When
I get to the fire there are tears in her eyes. They drift to my legs tucked
underneath me, and I know she's wondering what they look like. I can't blame
her, not really. People are always curious. And then I tell her about the move and
how I never saw either of them again until now. Just speaking it out loud, I feel
detached; it sounds like someone else's life.

"Jesus. You've been through so much."

"Please, don't feel sorry for me."

"I don't. I think you're an incredibly strong person," she says softly. We're quiet
for a minute as Rosalie absorbs the whole bizarre tale. "God, no wonder you
fainted in class that first day." I nod wearily, resting my head against the back of
the couch. I'm exhausted; still, I can see Rosalie has many questions.

"So. Edward told you about Alice, but he didn't tell you how or when?"

"No. And he won't answer his phone."

"Goddammit! I can't believe he just left it like that." I haven't told her about the
strange, accusatory nature of his revelation—how he seemed so angry with me.
There's a horrible thought in the back of my mind that maybe he blames me for
some reason. I don't even want to consider why. But it was almost like he
expected I'd know for some reason. How could I?

"He was upset."

"Well, so were you. Don't make excuses for him, Bella. I know she was his sister,
but he can't just drop a bomb like that and then take off without another word.
It's not right." Rosalie stands up and collects a blanket from my bed, draping it
around my shoulders. I don't realize I'm shivering until I feel its warmth.

"I guess. I—"

"And after not writing to you. I can't believe it. He really is an asshole. You need
to talk to him. This is ridiculous." Now she's moving about the apartment,
muttering as she puts things in order. I can only watch helplessly. "You guys
have seriously not talked about anything? How the hell have you worked
together? That must have been awkward. I can't even imagine . . ."

"Yeah, well, it's been weird."

"Don't you want an explanation for everything, though? I mean, don't you want
to know why he hasn't even tried to contact you all these years?"

My head throbs and I shrug. Of course I've wondered. I'm just too much of a
coward to ask, probably because I already know what the answer will be.

"Well, I think you deserve to know." Rosalie goes to the fridge and rummages
around. "Bella," she calls, "there's no food in here. When's the last time you've
eaten?"

"Ummmm . . ."

She returns with her cell in her left hand, her right on her hip. "I'm ordering.
What do you want, pizza? Burrito?"

"Whatever is fine."

"I'm getting pizza. Mushroom?"

I nod, sitting silently as she places the order.

"It'll be here in thirty." She sits back down on the couch, huffing loudly. "Look, I
know it's none of my business, but now that you've told me all this, I can't help
but wonder . . . and listen . . . I know you're engaged. But do you still have
feelings for Edward?"

Her direct question floors me and I gape, open-mouthed, before turning away to
collect myself.

"I . . ." Stupid tears start again, just when I thought they'd all gone. I wipe them
furiously with my sleeve-covered knuckle.

"I'm sorry. I'm an ass. Forget I asked."

"It's okay. I just . . . I don't know how to answer you."

"That's all right. You probably know by now that I ask highly inappropriate and
invasive questions and I'm best ignored." She rubs my arm and I smile for the
first time in days. "I don't suppose you want me to call Edward and yell at him?"
she asks hopefully.

"No, I don't think that's a great idea. I'd rather we just keep this between us,
okay?"

"Yeah. I completely understand. Your secret is safe with me," she says, echoing
the words I'd spoken the other day when she'd shared her own.

"Thanks. I appreciate it."

"That's what friends are for, right?"

"Right."

Rosalie stays with me for the rest of the day. We watch stupid TV and she forces
me to eat and take a shower. I ask her how she's dealing with her breakup, but
she waves the question off as if it's unimportant. We don't talk much more about
Edward or Alice, though they're never far from my thoughts. And I know that
once she's gone the clouds will descend again.

~QF~

It's Tuesday. I'm strongly tempted to stay home so I don't have to face Edward
for the first time in a public setting. Rosalie calls in the morning, as if sensing my
reticence.

"You can't let this get in the way of your dream, Bella," she tells me. "Remember
what you're here for. You're gonna get your PhD and be a fucking awesome
professor someday. So come to class. I'll be there for you. Okay?"

Not entirely convinced, I agree, gathering my things together sluggishly. I've

done most, though not all, of the reading for this week, but I haven't worked any
more on our project. I doubt we'll meet after class since I haven't heard from him
all week.

Yesterday I'd finally gotten the nerve to call Jake and Billy. They'd both been put
out that I hadn't called in a few days. I'd justified my lack of communication with
busyness, the lies sliding easily off my tongue. I wanted to ask Billy about Alice
but I knew that if I did, I'd have to explain how I'd found out, and that meant
telling them about Edward. There's no way I was ready for that. Still, it weighed
on me. Did he know she'd died? And if so, why had he kept it from me all these
years?

I refused to believe that Billy would intentionally keep something so important

from me. There's no way he could have known. Still, the thought persisted,
making conversation with the men who had become my family strained.

On our way down 58th street, Rosalie chats animatedly, obviously trying to
distract me. It turns out she needn't have bothered. Edward's not in class when
we arrive, and by the time Peggy begins, he still hasn't shown. I'm surprisingly
not relieved by his absence, though I'd wished for it. Is he sick, avoiding me, or
something worse? Remembering the look in his eyes as he'd backed away makes
me feel uneasy.

During break, I stand talking to Rosalie and a few of our classmates. Apparently,
there's a huge welcome party on Friday at someone named Erin's apartment.
None of the professors are invited; it's a time to get to know people who are
farther along in the program and no longer in coursework. Since I'm not TA-ing
like most first year students, I haven't met any of them outside of the classes I'm
taking. The others are pretty excited about it, but I can't work up any
enthusiasm.

The rest of class passes incredibly slowly. Peggy seems to understand that
something isn't quite right with me, so she doesn't pressure me to speak. Next
week I'll have to do better; coasting through is not acceptable.

"I think we should go to the party," Rosalie declares once we're back at her
apartment having lunch. For the past few days she's taken it upon herself to
make sure I'm eating properly. "Maybe it'll be good for us, you know? Go and be
social?"

"Maybe. But I don't think I'm the best company."

"Still no word from Edward?"

"No." I hesitate as an idea occurs to me. "Hey, you don't think he'll be there, do
you?"

"I'm not really sure. He didn't go last year, but you never know." She gives me a
look. "You wouldn't let that stop you, would you?"

"No. I wouldn't . . . I just . . . "

"Listen, we'll just go for an hour or so, and if it sucks we'll leave and go get
trashed at The End. What d'ya say? Please, Bella? For me?" She's sitting looking
at me hopefully, and I realize that this isn't just about me. Rosalie needs this,
too.

I nod. "Okay. I'll go."

~QF~

I'm staring at my meager wardrobe at seven o'clock on Friday and wondering

what the hell I should wear to this party. The beginning of October has been
pretty cold, which I'm actually grateful for, since my wardrobe is long-sleeved by
default. Finally, I decide on a pair of snug fitting jeans that I've only worn once
before and a cream vee-neck sweater. I leave my hair down and put in simple
earrings, apply minimal makeup. If Alice were here . . . if she were here . . .

Nothing has changed and everything has. Even though I never though I'd see her
again, I always knew she was somewhere out there living her life, just like
Edward and the rest of the Cullens. Only now it seems that's not true. When I
imagined what she was doing, she was always going to college, getting married—
maybe to Jasper. I liked to think they finally found each other once she got older.
She'd partner with Esme in her interior design firm, have a couple of beautiful
babies.

All fantasies, sure. But probable.

Not anymore.

Tears come again and I have to reapply mascara. If Alice were here, she'd want
me to go to this party. I know this. So why is it so hard to do?

At 8:30, Rosalie and I walk to the "El" together. I'm surprised she's wearing
jeans, like me, and a casual coat. She still looks amazing, but it strikes me the
last few times I've seen her, she hasn't been wearing her fine clothes. The action
speaks volumes, though I'd never ask about it.

The house that Erin shares with a few other grad students is across town, so it
takes a while to get there. By the time we arrive at the somewhat shabby
brownstone, the party is already well underway. A short, pudgy, red-haired girl
warmly greets us near the door, and Rosalie introduces her to me as Erin. She
shows us a place to stow our coats and ushers us into the living room, passing
each of us a glass of red wine. I sip it immediately, grateful to have something to
do with my hands.

"It's just two-buck Chuck," she informs us. "But there's more in the kitchen. The
department totally cheaped out and gave me a hundred bucks. I hope you're
hungry . . . there're chips, too."

"Oooh. Only the finest for the English department," Rosalie jokes and Erin laughs.
I take another large sip.

"Well, hey, at least it's free," another girl that I don't recognize says, joining us.
"Isabella, this is one of my roommates, Su. She's a medievalist."

"Nice to meet you," I say, extending my hand.

There are around fifty people in the living room and in the kitchen, and I
immediately recognize Rue and Alison from class. Riley's in the far corner
speaking to a tall, curly haired boy, and I glance around, suddenly nervous. I
don't see Edward anywhere.

After about an hour, I'm relaxed and onto my third glass of wine. For someone
who doesn't really socialize within the department much, Rosalie knows everyone
and takes it upon herself to introduce me around. We've settled into a corner of
the room with a few people who are currently on the job market, listening as they
regale us with tales of terror.

"Yeah. My field only has twenty openings in the entire fucking country," says
Peter, an 18th century specialist. "And there're probably about 200 candidates for
each of them. So yeah, I'm pretty screwed."

"That's nothing, Peter," Su says, "Medieval History has a grand total of three."
She rolls her eyes. "I'm out of funding, so next year it's Burger King for me."

"Why are we doing this again?" Peter asks, sighing and sinking back in his chair.

"No fucking clue," she agrees.

"For the perpetuation of Humanistic inquiry in an increasingly profit-driven and

materialistic culture?" Erin offers with a grin.

"Right! I forgot!" Peter slaps his hand to his forehead, and everyone bursts out
laughing.

"Ah, grad student humor," someone says dryly.

"You guys are scaring the first years," Rosalie complains. "Bella, don't listen to
these jaded fools." More laughter.

I smile, accepting another refill of wine as Erin comes around. "Well, I knew it
wouldn't be a picnic. I guess I'm hoping in a few years things'll get better?"

"Ah, to be young and idealistic." Peter pats my knee and a girl to his right elbows
him.

"Don't be a jerk," she reprimands.

The night wears on and I've lost count of how many glasses of wine I've had. I
start mingling with people on my own. Some of the younger students have turned
on Hip Hop and started an impromptu dance party in the center of the living
room. People are getting loud and drunk—this party is definitely rowdier than I
expected it would be.

At around eleven, I'm in the kitchen with Alison when Rue joins us. "Edward's
here with a blonde girl," she says.

"Ugh. Must be Kate," Alison moans. "Is Garrett here?"

"I don't know who that is, but they came alone, and they're wasted. The girl is
cute, though."

"Sorry, Rue, she's straight."

"Yeah, I figured that from the way she was slobbering all over Edward. But still, I
can look!" Rue laughs.

The two of them continue to talk, completely oblivious to my turmoil. The residual
taste of wine is caustic in my mouth.

I'm frozen in place. The music is loud but I hear voices in the hall raised in
greeting. Over Alison's head, I can just barely make out Edward and the tall girl
next to him.

I don't want him to think I'm leaving just because he's here, but I'm so hurt and
so angry that he could just show up when I've been worried about him all week.
He can't answer my phone call but he can come to a party with Kate.

My eyes dart again to the hall, but Edward and Kate have gone, probably moved
to another room. The two girls I'm with pour themselves more drinks and decide
to go dance; I'm left standing in the kitchen alone and indecisive. My nervous
stomach rolls, always the first part of my body to feel fear, sadness, or anger.
Why did I come to this stupid party?

I know I'm going to have to hunt Rosalie down to tell her I'm leaving, and to do
that I'll have to go into the living room and probably face Edward and his date.

My mouth is set in a hard line. I pour myself a half-cup of the shitty wine, gulping
it down with a grimace. I'm not going to let him see how much he's hurt me,
even if I need liquid courage.

"Bella?" I whip around, startled. Edward stands about two feet away from me, his
cursedly handsome face surprised and . . . fearful? Kate's not with him, but he's
holding two empty glasses. My friend.

We stand for a second, both at a loss for words. I can tell from the look in his
eyes he's been drinking, heavily, but hell, so have I. His confused expression
makes me angry. Like he's surprised to see me at a party. As if he's the only one
allowed to go to a department function. Suddenly, I feel emboldened—all of the
emotions I've been dealing with the past week mix with the alcohol in my system.
I react instantly.

"You left me. At the coffee shop. How could you do that?"

"I . . ."

"No. Wait a second . . . I know the answer to that already," I say, glaring at him.
"You're an asshole."

His green eyes harden. Good. Let him be angry.

"I'm an asshole? That's all you have to say to me?"

"You told me Alice . . ." Despite my anger, my eyes fill with tears just thinking
about her, my beautiful friend. Don't cry. I blink furiously. "How could you just
tell me something like that and leave? All week I've been . . . And you didn't even
tell me how . . . she . . ." My voice chokes on the last word. I can't get it out.

Edward's expression has become unreadable. His hands clench the glasses in his
hands.

"I don't think we should do this here," he says lowly, glancing behind him.

"Oh, really? Why?" I ask, furious again. "Are you afraid your girlfriend wi—"
"She's not my girlfriend," he cuts me off.

"Whatever, it doesn't matter," I seethe. "But I deserve to know what happened.

You think you're the only one . . ."

"I couldn't. I can't talk about her," he says. "Not to you."

"What? How can you say something like that?" Despite my efforts to staunch
them, my tears are falling freely. Edward's shifting on his feet uncomfortably,
looking like he'd rather be any place else. Someone comes in to get a refill but
quickly retreats when she sees our confrontation.

"I didn't think you'd care, okay, Bella?"

Not care? That does it. I snap. "I loved Alice! I still love her. You . . . I don't even
know who you are. You only care about yourself! You never cared about me!"
Edward's eyes are wide in surprise. Meek little Bella, always quiet, unsure. Well,
I'm sure of one thing. I'm livid.

"Do you know what you've done? You think I could just forget about you? Are you
insane? All of those letters!" Before I can stop myself, I push him. Glasses fall,
shatter. His hands wrap around my wrists and I'm still yelling, struggling in his
grip. "All of those letters!"

"Bella!" he shakes me just as Rosalie enters, Kate following on her heels. The
blonde waif glares at me and I imagine I could take her. Then I'm free, Rosalie's
arm wrapping around me as she leads me from the room. I glare back and see
Edward and Kate arguing. Her arms are braced on his shoulders but his head is
craning after me. The look in his eyes is frantic and I'm sure he wants to come
after me and tell me off. Well, I won't give him the satisfaction.

A couple of minutes later, we're out in the cool night air and Rosalie is helping me
on with my coat.

We walk for a few minutes toward the train stop as I try to make sense out of
what just happened. It was so unlike me. Did I really do that?

"Well," she says, "You sure know how to make a dramatic exit."

I guess I did.

Even in my drunken state, I'm immediately filled with embarrassment. Now the
entire department thinks I'm a freak.

"Yeah . . . God. Was it that bad?"

"Bad? Nah! It was awesome! I'm sure a lot of people would like to tell off Edward
Cullen, and you've gone and done it. You're like a national hero."

"But now everyone will know."

"No. I don't think anyone knows what you were talking about."

"I just . . . I just couldn't deal with him, you know? He was acting like I didn't
deserve to know about Alice, like I didn't care. How could he think that, Rosie?"
My Edward would never be so cold and unfeeling. I can't understand this stranger
who's re-entered my life.

"I don't know," she murmurs. "I don't know."

Once we're back at my apartment, it's after midnight. Rosalie helps me into bed
and tucks me in, placing a glass of water and a bottle of aspirin on the bed stand.
I'm completely drained.

"You'll need this in the morning," she assures me. "Drink a lot of water, okay?"

"Okay."

"You want me to stay?"

"No, I'll be all right."

"Well, call me tomorrow and we'll talk."

"...M'kay." I don't think she even makes it out the door before I pass out.

All too soon, I'm roused from my sleep by a horrible noise . . . it's so annoying
and loud. My head is pounding and all I want is quiet. What is that stupid noise?

I'm definitely still drunk and my alarm says it's 2:00 in the morning. So late.
What's that terrible noise?

It stops. Relief. I begin to drift once more.

It starts again and somewhere my mind registers what it is. Phone. It's my
phone. I reach out blindly towards the bed stand and grab it up, not even
glancing at the caller ID as I mumble a greeting.

"Bella?" the voice on the end of the line is Edward's. I sit up in my bed, now
completely awake.

I don't reply but he must hear my breathing, which I notice has become
incredibly loud.

"Please don't hang up. I'm outside. Can I come up for a second?"

"But it's two in the morning," I protest. "Can't this wait?" My mind is reeling,
trying to figure out what the hell he wants.

"No, it can't."

"The fire which enlightens is the same fire which consumes."

Henri Frederic Amiel

Chapter 12: October 9th, 2010

From Chapter 11:

"Please don't hang up. I'm outside. Can I come up for a second?"

"But it's two in the morning," I protest. "Can't this wait?" My mind is reeling,
trying to figure out what the hell he wants.

"No, it can't."

~QF~
There's a sigh on the end of the line. I flip the light on and glance around the
room. I'm not dreaming; Edward's downstairs and he wants to come up. To say
I'm surprised would be an understatement . . . I'm completely floored.

"I don't understand . . ."

"Please, Bella. I have to talk to you."

Against my better judgment, I give my assent, clambering out of my bed and

buzzing him in. A minute later he knocks. Realizing I don't have a bra on and I'm
wearing my pajamas, I grab my robe from the closet and quickly don it before
opening the door.

Edward stands in the hall with his hands in his pockets. His hair is disheveled and
his expression is intense. When his eyes meet mine, I realize how bloodshot they
are. Is he still drunk? My buzz is completely gone now, leaving me with a
pounding headache to match the furious pace of my heart. It makes no sense for
him to be here right now.

"Hi," he says softly. "Can I come in?"

Without a word, I step aside and allow him to enter. I shut the door slowly,
leaning against it for support while I get my bearings. I'm afraid to turn around.

"Bella..." he says. I move slowly at the sound of his voice, looking over my
shoulder. Edward nervously taps his foot. I can't blame him, really, since just
under three hours ago I pretty much attacked him. Remembering our encounter
I'm ashamed, embarrassed, and angry all over again.

"How did you get my address?" I ask. As far as I know, I'd never given it to him
when we'd worked together.

"Does it matter?"

"Kind of," I grumble, closing a little of the distance between us.

"Rosalie."

"What?" Oh, she is in such big trouble. Why in the world would she have given it
to him?

"I called her . . . I had to see you. Tonight."

"I can't believe she told you," I murmur to myself.

He smiles sadly, glancing around the room. I feel strangely exposed with him
here like this, looking at my things. This is my safe place, my inner sanctum, and
his presence here is unsettling. For a second I'm nervous, worried that I've left
some memento out for him to see . . . His books! But no, they're carefully stowed
under the bed, as always.

"Believe me, there was a lot of . . . convincing required."

"I don't understand," I confess. "To tell you the truth, I have no idea why you're
here. I mean, I pretty much said everything I had to say at the party." Of course
that's not entirely true. But I'd said enough . . . definitely enough.

"And you won't answer my questions. So what is there left, Edward? What
couldn't wait?" I say tiredly, walking over to the couch and flopping down. After a
second, he follows suit, sitting at the far end, obviously uncomfortable being
close to me. Don't worry, Edward. I won't hit you if that's what you're thinking.
An awkward silence ensues, punctuated only by his foot taps.

Finally, he turns his body, making a steeple with his fingertips as he leans
forward with his elbows on his knees.

"Before. At the party—"

"I made an ass out of myself," I say, completing his thought.

"No. Please," he says, holding up his hand. "You said something . . . about
letters."

My face flushes hotly with embarrassment over how I'd exposed myself by
mentioning the desperate, pleading correspondence I'd penned as a child—
sentiments he'd not felt it worth responding to. I pull my robe protectively across
my chest.

"Yeah." I reply, shrugging.

He moves a little closer.

"Well, I was wondering. What did you mean?" Even though I want to look away,
his eyes are deep and they hold mine, just like always. Him, here, asking these
questions—it's a form of slow torture. My breath quickens as the cavern in my
chest threaten to implode.

"What do you mean, what do I mean? My stupid letters."

"What letters, Bella?" He's closer now, just a foot away, and his voice is urgent,
demanding and fierce as his eyes. I instinctively want to back away, but there's
no place to go. I shrink back into the couch cushions, drawing my knees to my
chest.

"My letters," I whisper, not understanding. "The letters I wrote to you and Alice."
Why is he doing this to me?

"What letters?" he asks again. "I never got any letters."

"What?" I shake my head in disbelief, not able to comprehend what he's telling
me. How can that be? Impossible. "What do you mean?"

"I never got letters," he says again, pain and anger cracking his voice. I look into
eyes welling with tears . . . No. It can't be.

"But . . . I wrote you. I wrote you for months . . . for over a year. You never
replied." All of those days of disappointment, filled with tenacious and terrible
hope that today would be the day I'd hear from them, come flooding back.

"I wrote to you. For a long time. I never got any reply."

"What?" My voice is louder now. "Impossible."

"I'm telling the truth. I swear to God I did," he says fiercely. He's looking directly
at me and I know he's not lying. "But if you wrote to me, I never got any. Alice
never got any."

His confession hits me squarely in the chest. I can't breath. I can't think. All of
these years . . . And Alice never read a word I wrote. And now she's dead, and
she'll never know! "I did! I wrote even though I never heard from you. I waited .
. . I wanted . . ." I choke out, gasping.

"And you, you thought I didn't . . ." He doesn't finish his sentence, burying his
face in his hands with a groan.

"I thought you . . . I didn't think you . . ." Loved me, wanted to be my friend.
Anything. My hand clutches my chest, willing the air in. I'm very close to
hyperventilating now. It's happened before; my lungs haven't been the same
since the fire and they never will be. They're damaged, irreparably.

Edward lifts up his head, alarmed, and I can see his face is wet... it's too horrible.
I wonder why he's looking at me like that, when somehow it registers I'm making
small, wounded noises.

"Bella? Are you okay?" I nod frantically, looking away—at anything but Edward.
There's an inhaler I haven't needed to use in years, but I don't know where it is
or even if I've packed it. Stupid Bella.

All of a sudden, I feel his arms around me. "Shhh," he whispers, pulling me from
my position at the edge of the sofa very nearly onto his lap. I'm helpless to do
anything but try and breathe. In and out. In and out. His arms feel so warm, so
strange, and after a minute I feel myself calming as the pain in my lungs recedes.
"Take a deep breath, okay?" I nod against his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his
heart there. He's touching my hair and shushing me, and it's only after I've
started breathing more fluidly that I realize he's shaking.

"Edward?" He buries his head into my shoulder, murmuring. Instinctively, I wrap

my arms around him, holding tightly around his ribcage and feeling the
movement of his body. When I inhale I smell his aftershave mixed with stale
booze and mint.

The hug reinforces my previous observations—he's so much firmer and broader

than I remember. Because he's all grown up. And I've missed it.

I start to cry. I didn't think there were any tears left, but they come streaming
and impossible to staunch. Edward rocks me and for a while we just cling
together. I don't know or care how much time passes.

"I can't believe this," he whispers in my ear, his voice cracking. "I can't believe it.
I thought you didn't ever want to talk to me again. After a while, I just stopped
writing." He grips me tighter and I know from a feeling of wetness on my cheek
that he's been crying too.

"I thought you didn't. But I don't understand . . . You never came to the hospital
. . . I thought you hated me. Or that you were disgusted . . ." I can't believe I
said that last part out loud. Did I?

"Disgusted?" he asks, pulling back and holding me at arm's length. "No, Bella.
Never."

"Then why?"

"I did come. On the first day . . . You were unconscious..."

I wrack my brain trying to remember, but there's nothing, no memory of him.

Still, why didn't he return later, once I was awake, if he'd wanted to see me so
bad?
"But I woke up. Alice visited. I saw Carlisle, Esme. Why didn't you come again
with them?"

Edward releases my arms and the blood begins to flow again; I hadn't realized
he'd been holding so tightly. Tight enough to leave bruises.

"I have no excuses," he says bitterly. "I always knew you'd hate me for that. It's
one of the reasons why you never writing made sense."

I cock my head, looking at him quizzically. I can see his features harden again—is
he angry with me, or himself?

"So you didn't want to come."

Edward sighs and runs his hands through his hair, his face downcast. "I was a
coward, Bella. I couldn't face you. When I saw you in the coma, wrapped up in
bandages, so fragile . . . I overheard Carlisle talking to one of the residents and
he said you had a 50/50 chance of pulling out of it. I was so fucking angry."

"Angry?" I'm struggling to understand him, but it's difficult after so many years of
lost contact. There's so much that's still unclear.

"Angry, yeah," he scoffs, "At myself, at the whole damn thing."

"Why would you be angry with yourself?" I ask in disbelief. "You didn't start the
fire."

"I didn't stop it either, Bella," he says, turning to me again. His eyes have that
haunted look again. "I should never have listened to you when you told me to
keep out of it. I should have taken you home to my house immediately and told
my parents. But I didn't, I fucking didn't."

"But you . . ."

"Don't you see? None of this would have happened if it wasn't for me."

"I was the one who stopped you, Edward," I protest, unthinkingly placing my
hand on his arm. I can feel the tension radiating from him. "I made you promise."

"I know," he says darkly. "I was mad at you, too."

"It was my fault," I whisper, fat wet tears dropping again. I can't even look at
him.

But he's right. It was my fault and mine alone. And I'll never be able to take back
those hateful things I said to Renee. All I'd wanted to do was say I was sorry. I'll
never be able to tell her I loved her. Or Alice.

Edward shakes his head emphatically. "No, that's not what I mean. It wasn't your
fault. It wasn't. You were just a kid. You were worried about your mom. Anyone
in your position would have done the same thing. You're not to blame."

I nod to appease him but inside I know the truth. It was my fault. Only I'd known
how bad she was. Not even Edward knew the extent of it. Even though the fire
was ruled accidental, it never would have happened if she'd been in her right
state of mind. If I'd told someone.

"But I couldn't see you in the hospital . . . not like that. You couldn't even
breathe," he chokes out the last word. "Then, my parents told me your guardian
was coming to take you away, back to Washington. I had a chance to come and
see you, with Alice—to say goodbye. And I didn't. I couldn't."

What Edward's telling me does nothing to contradict my feelings of

abandonment; he's just admitted he made the intentional choice not to visit me.
"I needed you, Edward."

"I know."

"It was . . ."

"I have no excuse. I was a coward. If it makes you feel any better, Alice hated
me for it."

Thoughts stumble around in my mind. I'm trying so hard to understand the

motivations of people I've long misunderstood. "But Esme and Carlisle... they just
let me go. It was so easy for you all . . . It was horrible, horrible for me." I can't
keep the bitterness out of my voice.

"Alice wanted to keep you—wanted my parents to fight for custody. But they
thought being with Billy would be the best thing. He was legally bound as your
guardian through both of your parent's wills. Esme and Carlisle met with him and
he seemed to care for you so much—he was the closest thing you had for family.
Carlisle didn't think they had any legal recourse . . . and then . . ." he trails off for
a moment. "They didn't treat you badly? God, please don't tell me . . ."

"No! No. Nothing like that! Billy's a wonderful person and so is Jake. They've been
very good to me."

Edward nods and swallows but I can see his hands gripping his knees.

"What about you?" I ask.

"What?"

"You said Alice wanted your parents to keep me. Did you?"

"At first . . . I didn't know what I wanted. I thought my parents might be right,
that you'd be better off . . ."

"How could you—"

"I don't know! I wasn't myself," he says, cutting me off. "Once the anger wore off
. . . by the time I'd realized what a mistake I'd made, you'd already gone."

Even after all these years, it hurts to know he'd doubted my place with him when
I never had. Edward looks stricken.

"I'm so sorry," he says, his hand reaching out to touch my hair tentatively, then
dropping quickly back down to his lap. "Can you ever forgive me?"

For a long time, I felt I'd already forgiven him . . . forgiven and moved on. How
foolish I was. It's clear the resentment is still there, unwanted and roiling in my
stomach. Even understanding his motivations, or at least hearing his
explanations, it doesn't feel like enough. But at the same time, strangely, I don't
want to cause him any more pain.

"I think so."

"Well, I don't deserve it. I broke our promise."

"To always be friends."

"No matter what happens," he says softly.

"But you said you wrote letters."

"Yes," he sighs. "I started a couple days after you'd gone. It was like I finally
realized you weren't coming back. I knew you probably hated me." I shake my
head. I'd never hated him. I just wanted my friend.

"I had to do something to make it up to you," he continues, "But I was afraid you
wouldn't talk to me. So I got your address and started writing. I was always
better at getting my thoughts down by hand, anyway. But you never replied."

"I did . . . I would have . . ."

He shakes his head sadly. "I thought I could convince you to forgive me. When
you didn't write back my parents said you needed time. But you never answered
Alice, either. I tried to talk to them about it, but by then they had other things on
their minds . . . Alice . . ." his pauses again, rubbing his hands over his face in a
gesture of weariness.

"Please," I say, putting my hand on his leg. He stiffens for a second but then
seems to relax. There's an internal struggle inside of me—one side wants to know
and the other side longs to hide from the truth. Edward had seemed so angry
with me before and I'm afraid to know why.

When he speaks again his voice is emotionless.

"She was diagnosed about four months after you left. Acute Myeloid Leukemia."

"Cancer?" I gasp. I don't know why, but that'd been the furthest thing from my
mind. I sit, struggling to remember if she'd ever appeared sick, tired maybe, but
never sick!

"By the time they caught it, her white blood cell count was low . . . very low. She
was . . . unresponsive to treatment."

I don't know much about cancer, but I know that leukemia has something to do
with bone marrow. That siblings and sometimes parents can act as donors. "What
about a transplant?"

Edward looks at me with dead eyes. "No donor match." Which means that he
wasn't a match.

"Oh, Edward," I whisper, and he glances away. The pain he must have felt over
not being able to help his sister. I know what it's like to not be able to save
someone you love. He shifts out of my reach, clearly not wanting to be touched.
Now my hands are empty.

"My parents were separated for a while. My mom took Alice to a treatment
hospital in Philadelphia and I stayed behind in Elgin with my dad. He couldn't
leave his practice, or there would have been no way to pay for Alice.

"I wanted to go with them, but mom thought I should stay behind, look after dad,
finish school. I'd go and visit over vacations, sometimes on weekends." Edward's
eyes are far away and I wonder what he's remembering. "She held on for a long
time, a little over a year. She was the one always trying to comfort us," he says
wistfully. "Even at the end."
"Were you with her . . . when it happened?"

Edward nods imperceptibly.

"After that things went downhill. My father . . . he blamed himself. He didn't

recognize her symptoms—thought she was just depressed . . . because of . . ."

The force of it hits me with cold, starling clarity. The fire. Carlisle thought she was
depressed over the fire, over my leaving.

"Oh my God. No. No!" It's even worse than I'd imagined. It can't be true. I don't
want to know this. I don't. I draw my knees up to my chest again, but it does
nothing to stop the horror. I can't even cry . . . there's nothing . . . nothing left.

Edward's embrace catches me off-guard, but I push him away. How can he even
want to be in the same room with me? After all this? And before he'd asked if I
could ever forgive him for what he'd done—how could he ever forgive me?

"No wonder you hated me," I whisper, almost to myself. "I wondered why—how
you could."

"I never hated you," he says gruffly.

"You did. You must have thought I was a terrible person. It's . . . oh God." I can't
stop shaking.

"Bella, it's not your fault. You didn't know. It wasn't my father's fault, either. The
doctors said that, even if they'd caught it a couple months earlier, she still . . ."
His words are meant to comfort me, but they seem almost absurd given the
situation.

"You say that but you think it's your fault, don't you? Because you couldn't
donate for her."

He doesn't answer me and I don't press him, but I know it's true.

"You said they were separated, your parents."

"They're back together now. It took a while, though. I thought they'd get
divorced." His voice is quiet. "There was a lot of anger after she died."

I try and imagine Carlisle and Esme, who'd always seemed so in love and happy
together, on the brink of ending their marriage. It seems impossible. But at least
they found their way back together again.

"When did you stop writing me?" I ask, not really wanting to know the answer.

"A few months before Alice died," he says. "But by then I was writing more for
me, than for you. I don't really want to talk about it, right now, if that's okay." So
he wrote to me for a year, maybe longer. What horrors did those letters describe?

And where are they? That's the unspoken question that's now hanging between
us, unsettled and unsettling. The one neither of us wants to consider. Could it be?
But no. Impossible. Maybe he had the wrong address. Maybe mine were lost...

"Do you remember when I used to sneak out and come to visit you at night?"

"Of course. I used to freak out thinking that Esme and Carlisle would catch you.
Or that Renee would find out."
"We used to have some good talks."

"Yeah. We did," I say, smiling a little at the memory. How excited I'd get when I
heard the ping of a pebble at my window.

"This reminds me of that," he says. "You never knew, but sometimes I'd come
over even when you were sleeping. Just to check and see everything was okay."

This surprises me and I straighten up a little. "Really?"

"Mmm-hmm."

Edward sighs and leans his head against the back of the couch, closing his eyes.
The room is heavy with exhaustion, sadness, and the waste of lost time. My body
feels devoid of anything, leached to the bone. I don't know what to do or say to
bridge this gap of time and space between us. Everything seems lost, and I'm
drifting again without anchor. I know I haven't even begun to deal with the
repercussions of this, final midnight talk.

A bit later, I'm startled awake by Edward's voice. I must have fallen asleep.

"What?"

No answer.

I shift on the couch, trying to make out his face in the darkness. He's completely
conked out, his lanky legs awkwardly stretched out in front of him and his head
angled in a way that looks uncomfortable. There's faint light coming now from the
window, and I don't need to look at my alarm clock to know that dawn is
breaking. I consider waking him up, but that seems cruel. Instead, I decide to try
and shift him to a better sleeping position.

Moving cautiously, I take him by the shoulders and guide him gently so that he's
lying with half of his body on the couch. The action is a bit difficult, since he's so
heavy, but surprisingly he doesn't wake up. Before I can move his legs, he
unconsciously draws them up by himself. Satisfied he's resting comfortably, I
move to stand, but Edward's hand reaches out and grips my wrist.

"Don't go," he whispers. "Please."

I sit quietly for a minute until his grip relaxes and his breathing evens out. In the
early morning light, his face looks so peaceful, his mouth slightly ajar, and I think
about the ironies of fate . . . life . . . the divine. Whatever it is guiding us, it's a
terrible thing.

I touch his face once before returning to my bed.

Do you remember

What things looked like when you were young

The voice of an old friend

Or the notes to your first song

It's been a while now

Since you asked me to be

Your cat, your dog, your owl, or bumblebee

Lately I've been feeling like the day has come

You'll walk up to me and erase my memory

Can't wait to feel brand new

I can't wait to meet you again,

friend...

Seabear, "Hands Remember"

Chapter 13: October 9th, 2010

"Bella?" A nice familiar voice edges its way into my consciousness, but I can't
quite put my finger on whose it is. "Bella?" Such a nice dream. I don't want to
wake up.

I open my eyes slowly when the voice speaks again, confused when the face I
see matches the one in my mind in everything except age.

"Edward?" I murmur, confused.

"Hey," he says, almost shyly.

The night before comes rushing back in a blur—a blend of emotions, words, and
gestures, all swirled together. Alice. The letters. Carlisle and Esme. Edward's
hands on my arms. I blink rapidly, trying to orient myself. There's cool air on my
skin and I blush when I realize my shirt has ridden up in the night, exposing part
of my stomach. Edward smiles and looks away as I tug it down and sit up. It's
only now that it sinks in . . . he's actually here, sitting on the foot of my bed. Last
night really happened. All of those things are true.

"Sorry," he says, looking back at me once I'm settled, "I didn't mean to fall
asleep."

"That's okay. I did too. It was really late."

"Yeah." An awkward silence settles between us as both of us try to process what

this means. Or at least that's what I'm doing. I don't know where we go from
here, how to act around him. In so many respects he's a stranger to me, even
though in some ways I feel like I've never known anyone better. How much of the
Edward I've seen in the last few weeks has replaced my old friend? Or was he
acting strangely out of hurt, the same as me?

"Did you sleep okay?" I ask.

He laughs a little, nodding his head. "Considering the circumstances, yeah."

"I'm sorry. That couch isn't very comfortable."

"It was fine . . . I wasn't talking about the couch."

"I know." I admit, rubbing my arms through the thin cotton material. They do feel
like they might be bruised.

"When I woke up, I was glad I was still here," Edward says softly.
"You were?"

"Yeah. Bella." He rubs his hands on his thighs, "I'm just can't believe this." When
he looks at me again, his expression is so intense, unreadable . . . I feel utterly
exposed. I draw the covers up over my chest, not sure if I should get out of bed.

"Me neither."

"I think there's more to talk about," he says, standing up slowly, "but you
probably want to get dressed." He's obviously noticed my reticence, but I'm
immediately worried. It's like if he goes now, I'll never see him again . . . or I'll
wake up for real and discover that this was a dream.

"You can stay," I say, "I'll make some coffee." I make a motion to turn back the
covers but Edward has already beaten me to the kitchen by the time I've pulled
on my robe. He's rooting through my cupboards like he owns the place. The
clothes he's slept in are rumpled and his hair is a wild mess.

"Um . . . I think you're out of coffee," he says, turning to me with a sigh. I think
back to the last time I went grocery shopping—it's been a while. Most of my
meals have been eaten either with Rosalie or out on the way to school. But since
I found out about Alice I haven't had much appetite. Edward turns and opens the
fridge. "And . . . everything else. Bella, there's no food in here." His expression of
concern echoes in the tone of his voice.

I glance in. There is a half-empty carton of eggs and some milk that I'm sure has
gone off. Edward picks it up and makes a face.

"Yeah. I hope you weren't planning on drinking this. September 15th?"

"I've just been busy," I reply, feeling a little self-defensive and foolish. There's no
excuse for not eating and I know I'm not taking care of myself. I've definitely lost
weight.

"Okay," he says, cocking his head to the side. "Listen, I'm gonna run down to the
store for a second and pick up something to eat. Why don't you do what you
need to do, and I'll be back in fifteen?"

"Don't you need to change?" I ask. Edward glances down at his clothes with a
shrug.

"Believe me, I've gone longer." He sniffs at his armpit. "I'd consider these clean."

I laugh, a sound which seems foreign and out of place in this context. Edward
grins at me, turning toward the door. "Any special requests?"

"Bacon." I say, the word slipping off my tongue without a thought. Even though
I'm not really that hung-over, bacon seems necessary.

"Bacon it is." He grabs my keys on the counter, holding them up and raising his
eyebrows in question. I nod and he pockets them.

As soon as he's gone, I spring into action. Scrubbing my skin under the hot
water, I try not to think of letters. Toweling off, I try not to think of scars . . . of
his pity. Edward said he hadn't been disgusted by what surely lay beneath the
bandages and gauze, but he'd never seen what it looked like. If he did, how could
he not be? Even now, after all these years of healing, legs that had once been
long, smooth and white are marked by trauma. Of course I feel instantly guilty,
for even in their imperfection they're still me . . . I'm still here, alive . . . I wipe
the mirror with my towel before brushing my hair. Banal activities like showering
and getting dressed aren't enough to keep intrusive, worrisome thoughts at bay.

A half hour later, adorned in comfortable yoga pants and a tee shirt, I leave the
steaming bathroom and enter a room filled with breakfast smells. I approach the
kitchen quietly. Edward is busy and either doesn't notice or doesn't acknowledge
me. He hums softly as he flips individual pieces of bacon, turns and stirs
something in a bowl. The coffee pot begins making gurgling sound indicating its
doneness, but still I stand and watch. Now that he's removed the long sleeved
shirt he was wearing, his tee shirt sleeves reveal a bit more of the tattoo I'd
detected on his left arm—a black web of right-angled intertwined lines. I want to
ask him about it.

He removes the bacon from the skillet, draining the extra grease into a mug
before emptying the contents of the bowl he's been stirring back into the pan.
Eggs sizzle in the remnants of the hot grease, giving off an amazing smell. He's
put something else in them, but I can't put my finger on it.

"You still like them scrambled?" he asks, still focused on his task.

I feel a bit caught off-guard with the awareness he's known I've been watching.
"My favorite."

"Good." He smiles, turning his head slightly. "Then we know at least some things
never change."

"Well some things do," I say, coming closer. "Since when do you know how to
cook?"

Almost instantly his features darken again. He doesn't answer for a second.

"I had to learn once my mom left with Alice. My father wasn't big on hot meals
and I got tired of eating cereal."

"Oh," I reply dumbly. I could say I'm sorry, express sympathy, but I know that's
not what he wants. It's not what I would want. Instead, I wait for him to go on as
I pour us both mugs of hot coffee.

"At first, you should have seen it . . . or on second thought, no. I was a mess in
the kitchen. But over the years, I've gotten pretty decent," he says with a touch
of pride. The little smile is back. I pass him his mug, which he takes in the hand
not holding the spatula.

How strange that our circumstances came to mirror one another so closely.
Necessity compelled us both to fend for ourselves when our parents couldn't, or
wouldn't, care for us.

"It appears that way." I gesture toward the eggs and the bacon draining on the
counter. "This looks great Edward. And I'm starving."

He smiles at the praise, turning the heat off and giving the eggs a final stir. I
retrieve a couple of plates and we both help ourselves to the food. I don't really
have a dining area, except for a couple of stools that slide under the kitchen
counter, and so I suggest we adjourn to the couch. Edward nods and follows me.

For a little while, we're silent as we eat—clearly both of us are famished. He's put
some cheese in the scrambled eggs, just like Esme used to do on the mornings
after I slept over their house. I can't believe he's remembered after all these
years. The salty taste of the crisp bacon is delicious and I murmur appreciatively,
swallowing thickly past the lump that's formed in my throat.

"You like?" he asks.

"Mmmmm." I nod, my mouth full once again. He chuckles and takes another bite
of eggs.

"Do you still cook?" he asks. "Or bake?"

I flush a bit, remembering his enthusiasm for my food. "Yeah. I do, when I get a
chance. It's just been so hectic with the move and all and starting school, I
haven't been able to really."

"Yeah. I get that. Grad school is tough, especially for you guys."

"The MFAs have it easy?"

"Well," he smiles, "easier."

"When did you move back to Chicago?"

"A couple of years ago, after Italy. My parents are still living in Elgin. And some of
my friends are still around . . . You remember Jasper and Emmett?"

"Of course." Over the years I'd wondered what had happened to Edward's
teammates and friends.

"Well, I actually share an apartment with Em. He works in PR for the Chicago
Bulls."

"Wow. And Jasper? Where does he live?" It's slightly painful to ask; I'd had such
hopes for him and Alice. I know she liked him when we were kids, and I wonder if
Edward knew about it. Probably not.

"He travels a lot. He's a photographer, actually, so he's gone most of the year.
But when he's home he crashes at our place." He pauses a minute, chewing
lightly. "They've been great friends. Through everything."

I smile sadly, glad Edward has had someone to rely on all these years, like I've
had Billy and Jacob. Jacob. Suddenly my mind is filled with thoughts of him—
would he be hurt if he knew I was sitting here with Edward having breakfast? Of
course he would. The guilt hits me hard, but it's confusing. I'm not doing
anything wrong. And then there's the gnawing fear that maybe he had something
to do with all of this . . . But no. Jacob isn't conniving—he's one of the most
honest, sweetest people I know. He couldn't have. There must be another
explanation.

Realizing Edward is still speaking, I turn my attention back to him.

"You'll be surprised," Edward says as if reading my mind, "He's actually been

dating your old friend Angela Webber."

If anything could have rendered me speechless, it's this. I haven't thought of

Angela in years. Not surprisingly, we'd lost touch after the move.

"What! Really? Does she live around here?"

"Yep, she's in Chicago, but she travels a lot for her job, like Jasper. She's a
journalist with the Tribune. They've been together for a while now." Edward goes
on to tell me how the two met at a human rights convention in Boston, where
they'd instantly recognized each other from school. Despite my happiness for my
old friend and Edward's, I'm a little jealous for Alice, even though I know it's
pointless. She's gone.

Something else occurs to me and I set my now empty plate on the floor before
curling up on the sofa again.

"Did you tell them about me being here? Or your parents?" I finally ask.

Edward takes a sip of his coffee and turns to me.

"Just Emmett. I had to tell someone. . . . But no. I haven't told my parents yet."

"Oh." There's a little stab of sadness and disappointment, but it makes sense that
he hasn't told them. To be fair, I haven't told anyone either, except for Rosalie.

"You're upset," he says softly.

"No . . . It's stupid." There's a little crack in my voice that gives my real feelings
away and I curse myself for my inability to hide anything from him.

"I didn't know what to think, Bella. I haven't told them because . . . I don't know
. . . it would have been like reopening a wound." He doesn't say whether this
applies to them or him, but I nod, still trying to understand.

"When I saw you," he continues, "that day when I walked into Peggy's class, I
honestly thought I was hallucinating."

"Um, yeah." I feel myself blushing at the memory. I was the one who fainted,
after all. As if sensing my embarrassment over the whole thing, Edward smiles
but doesn't mention it.

"And then, when you didn't acknowledge me, it was like it just confirmed
everything I'd feared. You didn't want to have anything to do with me." There's a
hurt edge to his final statement, and he looks down at the empty plate on his lap.

"That's not true, though," I say, taking the plate from him and placing it on top of
mine on the floor. "You know that, right? I was feeling the exact same way. I
mean, neither of us had any idea..."

"No, I know. I'm not mad. It's just not the best memory. So many times I
imagined seeing you again . . . it was never like that."

"I know. You wrote that note and I was so confused. I honestly didn't see it 'til
the next week. I thought you were ignoring me." The emphasis in my statement
is not meant to blame, but to help him see where I'm coming from.

"I didn't know what to say. I was pissed, but it was weird. I still wanted to talk to
you."

"I know the feeling," I say, my heart constricting as I remember his coldness.

"Well," he says, sighing. "We could spend all day talking about how the last
month could have gone differently . . . But instead I think we should call for a do-
over."

"A do-over?"

"Yeah. A do-over."
I laugh a little at the thought. It reminds me of being kids again, but perhaps
that's appropriate. Edward smiles and extends his hand and I stare at it
confusedly, not sure what he's asking for.

"If you agree, we have to shake on it," he says, raising his eyebrow.

Tentatively, I reach out, gasping a little when his warm, large hand envelops
mine. It's like our hands remember each other.

We stay like that for a minute, neither of us speaking or acknowledging what

we're doing is more like holding hands than "shaking on it." Touching him like
this in the light of day seems much more intimate than the comforting embraces
we'd shared the night before. My thoughts are drawn back to Jake and I release
him, looking away from unreadable green eyes.

"Do you think we can be friends again?" he asks softly.

"I'd like to be."

"But . . ." His voice is hesitant and sad, but I have to be honest. I do want to be
his friend. I do. It's just that I don't know what that means anymore.

"It's just a lot to process . . . for both of us. I mean, I thought of you one way—
and so did you, think of me, I mean—and now it turns out all that wasn't true."

"So you don't think . . ."

"I don't think we can ever go back to what we were, Edward." I say, tears welling
again. I brush them away, angry that some things are irretrievable.

"That's true. But maybe we can be something else. I'd like to get to know you
again. If you want." There's that sadness again—why does this have to be so
difficult? Yes, we're different people now, but I've seen enough to know that the
Edward I knew, my Edward, is still here in this man before me. What will he think
of the new me?

"I'd like that," I say, not admitting that I'm also scared. What if we find out that
there's nothing left to salvage? I think of his story, hidden in a box under my bed.
For a second I contemplate showing him, but then I imagine going over and
getting it—the exposure—and I decide to wait.

Edward reaches over, wiping a drying tear with the pad of his thumb. My face
remembers his hand. I'm twelve again, shocked into silence by the familiar
gesture. He must sense my surprise, because he pulls back with a rueful smile.

"I'd like to show you I'm not a complete and total asshole."

"I don't think that," I protest, recovering my equilibrium.

"It's okay. Most people do. Rosalie does . . . or did." He smiles and I know that
whatever transpired between them has changed her opinion at least enough for
her to give him my address.

"What did you tell her, anyway?" I'm a little nervous about the two of them
talking, but Rosalie wouldn't divulge our conversation. She'd promised.

"Just that I wanted to make things right."

"Well, I'm glad you did."

"When you said that last night about the letters at the party, it all clicked, you
know?"

"Yeah. I kinda figured. God, I'm so embarrassed," I say, running my hands

through my hair in frustration. "I just hate everyone knowing my business.
People must think I'm insane."

"No, they don't," he says with a grin. "I told everyone I said something rude to
you and you reacted accordingly. It wasn't far from the truth."

"What did you tell them you said?"

He wrinkles his forehead. "You don't want to know."

"That bad, huh?"

"Well, you might have taken it as a compliment. I can't be sure."

Now he's really piqued my curiosity. "Oh, jeez, just tell me."

"Nope."

"So now, what, if we're trying to be friends, aren't people going to think it's a
little weird? I mean, one night you're saying rude . . . or inappropriate . . . things
to me and the next day we're chums?"

"I really don't care what people think."

"I'm gathering that," I reply wryly.

"What about you? You asked me before if I'd told anyone. Have you?"

"I told Rosalie . . . which you've probably already gathered. No one else." The
admission makes me feel dishonest.

His expression becomes serious again, but still I'm not prepared for his next
question.

"Did the Blacks . . . your fiancé . . ." he grinds out, "Did they know about me?
About the letters you sent?"

Know about him? Yes. Jacob had been my confidant for years before he became
my boyfriend. I'd known that he'd harbored romantic feelings toward me, but I'd
been unable to admit or acknowledge my own until I was a senior in college. Part
of that was because of Edward.

I nod, imperceptibly. Edward sighs.

"What do you think happened to the letters?" The way he says it gives away his
meaning plainly. He's inferring that the Blacks—either Jacob, Billy, or both—are
somehow responsible for withholding his correspondence or, even worse, not
sending mine. I shake my head furiously.

"They wouldn't have done that. They wouldn't."

"Who else, Bella?" he asks softly.

"It's impossible."

"Impossible? Think about it. Would there be any reason for either of them to
intervene like that? Did they have anything to gain?"
"Gain?" The need to defend Billy and Jacob overwhelms me. I can't imagine them
betraying me like this . . . my whole life with them a lie. It's just not possible.
"What about Carlisle . . . or Esme . . ."

Edward makes an angry sound of disbelief. "Do you really think my parents would
withhold your letters from Alice knowing how much she loved you? How much it
hurt her not to hear back from you? How much I . . ." He stops abruptly, his jaw
clenched and tense as he looks away. I nervously worry my hands in my lap.

No. I can't believe that they would do that.

"I'm sorry . . . I shouldn't have said that."

"Well, who else then?"

"Edward," I say, my voice small in my throat. "I can't . . ."

"Can't what? Try to figure out the truth? After all this time you deserve—we
deserve—to know. Don't you think?" He's so insistent, voicing the concerns that
had been worrying me since last night, making them real. I feel myself shrinking
back against the couch again.

"I just . . . I need time . . ."

"Time is what we lost. Time is what's owed us."

"I know. I'm sorry," I whisper. I'm letting him down again, and I know it. He's
right but my heart can't take it. I can't lose anyone else.

Edward appears about to respond when his cell phone vibrates in his pocket. He
pulls it out and groans.

"Shit. It's after two. I have to get going." There's a hint of reluctance in his voice,
but he doesn't say where. Of course I instantly think back to Kate . . . is that who
he's going to meet? Or another girl?

I don't want to know, so I don't ask. Instead, I say "okay" and stand, picking up
the plates and bringing them to the kitchen. Edward gathers his things.

"Listen," he says as I walk him to the door. "I'm not trying to tell you what to do.
But we need to find out what happened to those letters."

"Yes, you're right. It's just hard, knowing . . . thinking. . . But I promise . . . I
will." My voice is hollow, and Edward's expression softens. He reaches out and
touches me, his hand warm on my shoulder.

"I'm sorry. I know how this must feel to you. I wish I could make it easier."

"Thank you. For understanding." Billy's the closest thing to a father I've ever
known, and Jake . . . I don't say any of this, of course, but Edward nods. He
takes back his hand and I immediately feel the loss. My body is a gathering of
feathers, of dust, and only his presence here is keeping me together. I'm afraid
once he leaves pieces of me will scatter on the breeze.

"Take the time you need, Bella."

"Okay."

"I'm sorry I have to run."

Again, I nod, but I don't ask him where.

"But don't forget we need to get this Keats thing sorted out."

Thinking of our project, I smile a little. I'll see him again. "Yeah, well you stood
me up last Tuesday."

"I'm sorry about that." There's that look again . . . the lost one from the coffee
shop. Both of us are so easily wounded. I have to treat him with care.

"It's okay, really. I understand."

"I thought it would be easier to avoid you. It was pretty stupid of me."

He's so serious and ashamed, I decide to lighten the mood. "Believe me, I'm
thoroughly practiced in the art of avoidance myself."

"Something else we have in common," Edward says with a small smile.

I smile back and his broadens.

"And maybe . . ." he offers tentatively, "we can . . . I don't know. Hang out
sometime."

"Hang out?" I tease. His grin flourishes in a way that makes him look sixteen.
He's twenty-five. Twenty-five.

"Yeah. Do something fun. Maybe play some video games." He winks. "We're
friends now, right?"

"I'd like that, Edward."

"Okay. Good."

Then his arms are around me again in a tight hug that catches me by surprise.
There's a fierceness about it that leaves me breathless . . . I don't even have
time to hug him back.

"Thank you for letting me in," he whispers in my ear. Before I can respond, I'm
released, and he's gone. I stare at the open door and wonder . . . could it be . . .
did I just feel his lips brush against my cheek?

"And where two raging fires meet together, they do consume the thing that feeds
their fury." - William Shakespeare

Chapter 14: October 9th- 12th

Once Edward's gone, I turn my attention to the dishes. As I rinse and dry, I
struggle to replay our conversation from the night before and from today—as it
always is with memory, or at least my memory, the harder I try to recall specific
words or moments the more impossible they are to grasp. Already last night has
begun to fade; moments from only an hour ago flicker at the edge of my
consciousness like vulnerable candlelight. It's only the things I want to forget that
I remember with ease.
Edward wants to be friends. Such a strange concept, and one I'll have to get used
to. The change in his demeanor towards me appears genuine. There's no reason
to doubt him . . . is there?

For just a second I wonder if he could be lying to me about the letters. But there
was nothing that suggested he wasn't telling the truth . . . his grief, his tears over
Alice—that was real. But is it my wishful thinking making me so easily believe
him? My confusion returns. Why should I trust Edward, who I haven't seen in
almost ten years, over Jacob and Billy, who've been supportive and loyal to me
for just as long?

What if he's right about them? I try and come up with reasons for why they'd be
motivated to do something so horrible . . . I just can't.

It hurts my head to doubt so many people I care about. Cared about. Care about.

Edward.

Can I let him back into my life? Can we be friends again?

Scanning the now clean kitchen, I notice the milk still sits on the counter. My
phone starts ringing and I hurriedly open the fridge to stow it, but I almost do a
double take when I see the inside.

Fresh milk, yogurt, bread, fruit neatly stowed away. Butter and cheese in the
bottom drawer, along with a package of something that, upon closer
investigation, I realize is deli turkey.

The persistent ring of the phone forgotten, I pick up a red apple, feeling its
smooth weight in my hand. Edward shopped for me. He bought all of this. And he
didn't say anything about it before he left. Why?

There's a hot welling sensation in my throat. My stupid eyes sting again. He did
all this for me. For some reason this simple gesture just affects me so . . . I put
the apple back and slowly close the door.

My apartment feels empty now, changed, the bed still rumpled from sleep. I strip
the bed mechanically for laundry day, but the action fatigues me. Once
everything is sorted, I pour myself another cup of coffee and sit back on the sofa,
sinking back into the softness and trying to figure out what the hell is going on.
The past twelve hours completely and irrevocably altered the way I've thought
about the last nine years of my life, and I don't know how or if they'll change the
future.

A "do-over," Edward had said. As if it were that easy. If only it were that easy.

I don't know how to begin, but I decide to start small. I pick up my cell phone
and send him a text message.

Thank you.

It's all I can think to write—I hope he'll understand what I mean.

A couple minutes later my phone buzzes in my lap.

You're welcome. But for what?

I sigh; I should've known Edward would want specifics.

For one, the food. You really shouldn't have. But it was nice.
Not long after I hit send, I have another reply.

I was glad to do it. And for two?

What? I look through our previous messages, until I finally understand what he
means. He's teasing . . . I think. But it takes me a little while to get up the nerve
to send the next one.

For taking a chance.

Because I am thankful that he came last night—even with the still-nebulous

outcome.

You would've done the same.

It's a statement of fact. He seems so certain of my reaction.

But would I? Something that feels like cowardice creeps into my mind, unbidden.
And I know that Edward is brave.

This doesn't feel like a conversation to continue via text, so I change the subject
quickly. He'd said he'd call me to set up a time to meet, but I don't figure it'll hurt
for me to suggest the same.

Keats. Tuesday, after class?

His one word answer puts a smile on my face: Definitely.

I don't send a reply and nothing comes from Edward either.

A quick look at my call history tells me Rosalie called earlier. If I know her, she's
frantic to know what happened last night and I'm sure she also thinks I hate her
for giving Edward my address.

I dial her back and she picks up on the first ring.

"Hello?" she answers, her voice a little fearful. "Oh don't hate me! Pleeease."

"I don't hate you," I reply.

"You don't?"

"No." I pause for a second and she huffs on the end of the line.

"Well don't leave a woman hanging, Bella! Tell me what happened!"

Without rehashing the most horrible revelations or talking about the more
intimate details, I summarize the night's events . . . there's one thing she
immediately latches onto, of course. The letters.

"So he wrote back to you . . . and you never got the letters?"

"That's what he says." I say, standing and running my hands through my hair.

"And you don't believe him?"

"No. I do. I . . . It's just a lot to think about, you know?"

"Yeah, I can imagine. So. You're not mad at me for the address thing?"
"No. Though I was, before I knew what he wanted. I do want to know what the
heck he said to you to make you give it to him."

She sighs a little. "He said he made a mistake and he wanted to set it right."

"Is that all?"

"Pretty much. But it was just the way he said it, Bella."

"What do you mean?"

"I actually feel a little bad saying this, but I've never heard anyone sound that
desperate before."

Desperate? Was that what he was? Thinking back to last night, I remember the
look in his eyes. Yes, he wanted to know the truth even more than I did . . . it
makes sense. He must have seen Alice suffer so . . .

"Oh."

"So. Are you gonna find out what happened to them?" she asks.

"Yeah, I will."

"You must be just like . . . whoa . . . right now."

"That just about sums it up."

"Well do you wanna do something? Maybe come over here?"

"I kinda have to do my laundry."

"I have a washer and dryer!"

We don't have much reading for Peggy's class on Tuesday since we'll be watching
a movie, so I immediately agree. Going to Rosalie's sounds like just the thing I
need.

~QF~

Rosalie has a new therapy appointment before class—she's trying to work out her
residual feelings about Finley—so on Tuesday I walk alone. It gives me a little
time to sort out my thoughts before I see Edward . . . I wonder if he'll ask me
about the letters again. My first attempt was a complete failure.

I'd called Jake on Sunday. Since he works such long hours and goes to bed early
during the week, our conversations on the weekend are the only time we can
really talk. At first, I planned to just blurt it out, but as we continued to speak I
completely lost my nerve. He was so sweet, so happy to talk to me . . . I couldn't
imagine he'd had anything to do with it. And he'd want to know why I hadn't told
him about Edward.

Every time I tried to make the words leave my throat they got lodged there,
stuck and unspeakable. Billy was out fishing with Harry Clearwater, so I didn't get
the chance to talk to him either.

Today I'm no closer to the truth, and I can almost feel Edward's disappointment
already.

When I enter the classroom, I remember about half of the people in my class
were at Erin's party and witnessed the great kitchen debacle. Rosalie isn't here
yet, but Edward sits at the far end of the table. He smiles and waves me over,
indicating the seat next to him while Rue and Alison look on with disbelief.

I join him and quickly take out and open my notebook. Edward closes the one
he's been writing in and turns his head to me. He looks different for some reason
and I finally figure out why—today he's replaced his usual grey or black tee with
a green one. It makes his eyes even more vibrant, his coloring more alive. It
suits him.

"Hi," I say, feeling suddenly shy.

"Hey."

"Did you have a nice weekend?" I ask casually. Such a stupid question.

"It was . . . okay. A lot of writing, actually," he says, tapping the book on the
table with his pen.

"What're you writing about?"

"Oh, just insane ramblings." From the other side of the room, I can hear
whispering. I glance up and Rue gives me a "What The Fuck" look. I shrug and
turn my attention back to Edward.

"Sounds interesting," I offer.

"Maybe. I hope so. But probably not."

"Why do you say that?"

"Ah, I don't know." He sighs and shifts a little in his chair, indicating this isn't a
comfortable topic of conversation for some reason. So I'm surprised when he
goes on.

"It's just some days the words come out so fast, I can't write them down quickly
enough. Then I re-read it later and I want to toss the whole thing."

"You don't think it's good?" He must be getting constructive criticism back from
his workshops, though; isn't that what the MFA's do?

"I don't know," he says again. "It could be." I almost ask if he'd like me to read it
when Rosalie comes in, taking the seat to my right. She offers a tentative "hello,"
eyeing Edward warily. He replies similarly and I'm sure the rest of the class is
about to die from curiosity. The seventh circle of hell must have frozen over for
Rosalie and Edward to behave civilly to one another. A second later Riley comes
over and strikes up a conversation with Edward, turning his attention away from
Rosalie and me.

"How was it?" I ask her. She quirks her mouth and shrugs.

"We'll see. But so far, so good. She seems pretty nice. It was mostly introductory
stuff."

"That's good," I smile. My own experience with therapy hadn't exactly been
positive, but I know it does help some people.

Peggy comes in wheeling a geriatric looking TV/VCR combo and muttering

apologies.
"You'll have to forgive me. I have no idea how to use the newfangled contraption
up there," she says, gesturing to the overhead data projector. "And I've made an
idiot of myself more than once. So today we're doing things the old-fashioned
way."

The class titters a little as she plugs in the TV and dims the lights. The film in
question is Kenneth Branagh's Frankenstein, starring him as Dr. Victor
Frankenstein and, strangely, Robert De Niro as the monster. Never having seen it
myself, Rosalie had assured me over the weekend that it's a pretty respectable
adaptation of the novella.

The story enthralls me immediately and I find myself swept up in the film.
Though a little melodramatic at points, Branagh's captured the story's pathos.

Once in a while, I glance at Edward out of the corner of my eye; he too seems
focused, lost in thought. His body heat radiates the measured distance between
us.

Victor's obsessive love of knowledge-his fascination with the potential power of

science to overcome and eradicate death-leads him on a dangerous, self-
destructive path once his mother dies unnaturally early in childbirth. His war
against death, ultimately reflected in his creation of the monster, suggests not
only his misplaced hubris, but also the depth of his grief and suffering. During the
scene where Victor tries desperately to revive his mother to no avail, I glance at
Edward. He looks stricken and I immediately think of Alice—his own self-
perceived failure to save her. His jaw clenches.

And when the monster murders Victor's young brother in retribution for his
abandonment—my hand somehow finds itself settling on Edward's jumping knee.

He stills, glancing at me quizzically before I realize what I've done.

Embarrassed, I pull back and refocus my attention on the movie.

But the end. . . I'm not prepared. Branagh takes a certain liberty with the
storyline. When the monster insists Victor make him a mate to share his solitude,
the doctor begins to comply, then refuses. Enraged, the monster murders Victor's
longtime love, Elizabeth, on the night of their honeymoon.

That would be bad enough, but of course Victor, maddened by her loss,
reanimates her. Elizabeth comes to life and, horrified by the monstrosity she's
become, burns herself. As she's engulfed in fire, all I can see is my mother's body
lurching, grotesque and alive with flames.

I feel my breathing quicken, the nausea rising, and I know I have to get out of
the room, and fast. Blindly groping my way to standing, I tear my eyes off the
screen and hurry to the door, at the same time trying not to draw attention to
myself.

Once outside, my footfalls echo through the empty hall as I speed to the
bathroom. I make it just in time to lose the remnants of my breakfast in one of
the stalls. I slouch over the toilet, heaving and ill, bile burning my throat as I try
to erase the images of burning from my mind.

A few seconds later, my stomach lurches again and I choke up the remaining
contents of my stomach.
The door opens and I flush the toilet, standing quickly and bracing myself against
the wall. I feel dizzy and weak and utterly humiliated, waiting for whomever it is
to find me.

"Bella?" Edward calls—I'm so glad it's him and not someone else. I won't have to
explain. The stall door pushes open slightly and Edward peeks in, his eyes wary
with concern.

"Are you okay?" he asks. I shake my head, grimacing with the bitterness of vomit
on my tongue. Without saying a word reaches out his hand and takes my arm,
gently guiding me out of the stall and over to sink. He turns on the water and I
cup my hand under it, giving my mouth several rinses. Edward stands a little to
the side, looking away to presumably give me privacy.

Once I'm as fresh as I'm going to be, I turn off the tap with a shaky hand and
look at myself in the mirror, considering the irony. The last time I was here like
this was on the day I fainted. The day he walked back into my life. Now he's the
one tending to me. My face slowly turning from green to its normal color.

"God, that was . . ." he says, breaking the silence.

"A little too much for me, I think," I whisper.

"Bella, I'm so sorry. I never saw that movie before . . . I never would have. . . "

"It's okay . . . I shouldn't have reacted like that. I just . . . it was too close to
home."

"I know what you mean," he replies softly.

In my preoccupation, I'd almost forgotten his reaction to certain parts of the film.

"Alice."

"I know it's stupid. But when I see things like that, I just remember."

"It's not stupid. Look at me, for God's sake. I can't even watch a movie."

"You're not stupid."

"Then neither are you," I say, my logic faultless.

"Okay, Neither of us is stupid," he replies with a little smile. "The movie was,
though."

I murmur in agreement. "Very."

"Good. Glad we cleared that up."

The door opens again and Rosalie enters carrying my bag. She doesn't seem
surprised to see Edward in the ladies room.

"It's over," she explains. Edward nods and looks at me; he looks unsure, like he
doesn't know whether to stay or go.

"Peggy's decided to let us go early since she has another faculty meeting. You
want me to take you home?" Rosalie asks.

"That's nice of you, Rosie, but Edward and I have some work to do."
"Bella," he says, surprise evident in his voice. "If you're not up for it, it's fine.
Really. We still have a week."

"I'm fine. Honestly. I'd like to get things finalized."

"Okay," he says, stepping back. "I'll just be outside then?"

"Okay."

Once Edward's outside, Rosalie puts her hand on my forehead. "You're freezing,
Bella. Are you sure you don't want to go home? Edward's right. You have a week
to get it done."

I shake my head firmly. "I'm fine, really. But thanks." I appreciate her concern,
but if I go home, all I'll do is think. Remember. I want to forget.

"I'm so sorry, Bella," she says, "I completely forgot about the ending. What a
shitty movie."

"Yeah. Edward and I already settled on that verdict."

She smiles a little at that and we join Edward in the hall.

The three of us walk outside into the early afternoon sunlight and Rosalie hugs
me goodbye before we part ways. "Call me if you wanna talk," she whispers.
When I came to Chicago, I'd never expected to find such a friend.

Edward and I start to walk without a destination; I'm feeling perceptibly better
but still a little on edge.

"Lunch?" Edward suggests. I know I should probably eat something, but he

seems to have a new-found obsession with my food intake.

"Is it like your mission in life to get me to eat?"

He looks a little sheepish. "No. I just thought you might be hungry after . . . We
can do something else if you want."

"Actually," I admit, "lunch sounds good."

Edward suggests a place and we make our way towards his favorite diner a few
blocks away. A UC undergrad haunt, the place pulsates, crowded and loud. It's
not exactly conducive to studying, but it smells awesome.

Once we're seated at the booth, Edward quickly orders cokes for us both. I give
him a look of consternation.

"What?"

"Please don't order for me."

"Sorry. But it's good for the stomach." He smiles, removing his hoodie with a
flourish. His hair stands up with the static electricity and I raise my hand to stifle
a laugh.

"Who says?"

"My dad," he replies, patting down his errant hair. "He always made sure we had
coke in the house when either Alice or I had a stomach thing."
I guess I can't argue with that. When the cokes come I take a sip and, damn him,
he's right. The knots in my stomach begin to untie themselves.

"Good?" he asks.

"Mmmmhmmm," I grudgingly answer.

Though thoughts of the movie remain on the periphery, I try not to dwell on it.
Edward doesn't bring it up either. Instead, we chat a bit about inconsequential
things, and I gradually relax. My appetite returns just as my meal arrives—a plain
grilled chicken sandwich, no mayo.

My plate looks downright empty compared to Edward's double cheeseburger and

fries. After swamping the two meat patties with more ketchup than most doctors
would recommend, he takes a huge bite, moaning in appreciation as the juices
dribble down his chin.

"Best burger in Chi-Town," he informs me. It certainly looks like the greasiest.

"Chi-Town?" I repeat, laughing at gangsta Edward.

He shrugs and grins and goes back to eating.

Once we're finished, we get down to work sharing the close readings of the
poems we've done over the past week and a half. Edward's critical eye surprises
and impresses me. Even though he says poetry isn't his thing, he picks up on
some things that I didn't notice. After about a half-hour, the major components
of our presentation are in place and both of us feel pretty confident, though I'm
still a little nervous about presenting in front of the group.

"So you'll take care of the PowerPoint," he says.

"And you'll do the discussion handout."

"Yep."

"Perfect."

"See? This isn't so bad. Us working as partners."

"Not anymore," I reply, thinking of the tense few meetings. Sure, we'd gotten
work done, but I'd never felt at ease. Today's the first day I have.

"Yeah, not anymore," he echoes, his hands busily knotting his straw wrapper.
"You know, I was thinking."

"That's a stretch," I joke.

"Ha. Ha."

"Sorry. What were you thinking?"

"I wanted to ask you a question." Alarm bells go off and I know what's coming—
he's going to ask about the letters. He must read the nervousness in my eyes,
but his gaze doesn't falter.

"What?"

"You don't have to answer if you don't want."

"Okay."
"I asked you before, but you didn't answer me. I understand why now, of course.
But why did you . . . change your name?"

I sigh, thinking back to that time in my life. How can I explain so that he'll
understand?

"A lot of reasons," I begin, taking another sip of soda. "I'd been living with Jacob
and Billy for some time . . . long enough to consider them my family. Billy never
formally adopted me, but he's like my father. You know? I thought it would mean
a lot to him. And it did." Edward nods slowly, but seems to understand there's
more to it.

"And then . . . it was my mom. I was going through a hard time. Remembering a
lot of stuff. I couldn't sleep well." Sometimes I still can't. Edward lowers his gaze,
but he's listening intently. I decide to go on.

"I thought of it like . . . kind of a symbolic break, or something. Like I could start
fresh without looking back. For a long time I was afraid . . ." My eyes meet his
and for a second I don't remember what I'm talking about.

"Of what?" he asks hoarsely.

"Of being like her."

"You're not."

"No."

"Are you still afraid?"

"Sometimes," I admit. "When I get anxious or nervous. I know. I mean, I've read
a lot about it. I know it's pretty unlikely at this point. But it still scares me
sometimes, like maybe one day I'll wake up and I won't even notice I'm sick."

"That won't happen."

"Probably not."

"It won't," he says, as if willing it true with his very conviction.

"Yeah. I know that intellectually. But it's different. I can't explain it. It doesn't
make the fear go away."

He nods and tears at the straw wrapper, shredding it to bits and gathering them
into a little pile with his long fingers. "I'm sorry. I don't want to make you
uncomfortable, after the movie and all."

"You're not." It feels surprisingly good to talk about it, actually, though a little
strange. But there's obviously something still on his mind. His forehead furrows
deeply as he speaks again.

"I thought maybe you didn't want anyone . . . to find you."

He thinks I changed my name to hide from him. While this first strikes me as
absurd, I begin to wonder if maybe it holds some truth.

"I didn't think anyone would look," I reply.

Edward smiles ruefully and leans back in his seat and I feel the gap widen again.
The hurt. But these things need to be spoken.
"Thank you. For telling me," he says softly. Now's my chance.

"While we're at it, can I ask you a question?"

He looks a little unsure but nods his assent.

I gesture to his tattoo.

"What's that mean?"

Edward hesitates for a second, then rolls up his sleeve, displaying the entire cuff
wrapped around his finely muscled arm. The design is uniform throughout:
interlocking black squares. Without thinking I reach out to tentatively trace one of
the lines, his skin warm beneath my finger.

"It's the Endless Knot. Its supposed to mean all things are interwoven . . . what
happens in the past affects the present, and the present, the future. It's
Buddhist. I don't know," he says dismissively, covering it again. "Just some
impulse I had in college. I was drunk at the time."

"I like it," I say. "It makes sense." Tattoos are like scars, I think. Scars that never
go away or heal.

"Does it?"

I nod slowly in realization.

Edward's been holding onto his past and I've been running from mine. What a
pair we make.

"Wood already touched by fire is not hard to set alight" –African Proverb

Chapter 15

April, 2010

"Isabella?"

"Yeah, hey! I'm up here!

For the past couple of months I've been so busy with graduate school
applications, I've hardly had any time to spend with Jacob. I've wanted to be as
thorough as possible, though, and of course he understands.

He always has.

He knows how much I want this, and I know how much it hurts him—but I've told
him time and time again, it's not for forever. Of course, tell that to your boyfriend
when the closest school you're applying for is a seven-hour drive away. There
aren't any universities nearby that focus on what I want to study: Romantic
literature and, more specifically, William Blake. And I know he's not going to like
it when he sees what's clasped in my hands:

An acceptance letter to my number one choice, The University of Chicago. Peggy

Riordan, one of the most prestigious scholars in my field, wants to work with me.
It's just what I wanted.
It's also close to home. My old home. The irony isn't lost on me. I never thought
I'd go back there. Do I want to go back there?

"Hey!" he says, pushing the door open.

"Hey," I say, a little less enthusiastically. I consider hiding the letter under my
leg, but he spots it almost immediately. "What's this?" he says, gesturing towards
it. "What's wrong?"

"It's . . ."

"You didn't get accepted?" he asks hesitantly, dropping down on one knee and
leaning against the bed where I sit.

I shake my head and my reply is almost a whisper. "No. I did."

"What!" he exclaims, jumping up and pulling me into a hug. "That's amazing,

babe! Congratulations!" When I don't reply he holds me out at arms length,
concern on his face. "Aren't you . . . happy?"

"Yeah. I am. I am."

"But?"

"I'm nervous. And . . . I'll miss you . . . Jacob," I say, my voice starting to crack.
How can I say goodbye to my best friend?

I don't know why, but now that it's become real, my leaving, I'm afraid.

"I'll miss you too. But I can visit. And you'll come home for holidays. Like you
said, it's not forever. Right?"

"Right." I say, not daring to mention how unlikely it is either of us will be able to
do much visiting. We don't exactly have a discretionary income with Billy's salary,
and even now, with Jacob doing so well at the garage—he's trying to save enough
to buy into Sam's business.

But I don't say anything right now. I just sit back down on the bed, and he sits
next to me, still holding my hand as I consider . . . aloneness.

"Isabella," he says suddenly. His voice is so strange and intense . . . not at all like
him. "I know this is probably crazy . . . and you'll probably say no. But I've loved
you since you first came to live with us. You know that. I know you haven't
always . . . felt that way about me-" He trails off for a second, then turns my
hand over in his palm, kissing it.

"Jacob?" I ask.

"Will you marry me, Isabella?"

~QF~

October 19th, 2010

Are you nervous?

Edward's text message momentarily distracts me from my desperate search for

the only high heels I own. I only wore them once-the day I graduated from
college-but today I want to feel and look professional. Earlier in the week, I'd met
with Peggy after she sent me an email wondering about my hasty departure from
the film. I'd assured her I was fine, and finally made a long-overdue appointment
to visit her office hours. Our talk had gone wonderfully—she agreed to serve as
my graduate advisor and told me my performance in the class so far had been
exemplary—but now I feel added pressure to do well today.

I should have gotten up earlier, rather than scrambling to get out the door on
time.

Now where are those damn shoes? Maybe they're in one of the boxes in the
corner . . .

Oh. Edward's message. I forgot to reply.

A little, I type out quickly. It's a blatant lie—my nerves are on edge and I almost
wish I had a Valium. But then I'd be nervous and out of it, and I need to be at
the top of my game.

My phone buzzes again. We'll do fine. No worries.

Hah! I think—easy for him to say! Edward's always been at ease talking in front
of people, even when we were kids. I know once we get underway it won't be so
bad—anticipation always makes everything worse.

Okay. If you say so. I'm sure Edward will stroll into class wearing his hoodie and
jeans, like always.

I do. I'll see you in a few.

Ah-ha! Finally, I locate the shoes in a long-forgotten hidden corner of my closet. I

fling the box open and slide them on my feet, turning to look at myself in the
mirror.

Not too bad. The purple, fitted button down—a recent purchase—looks
sophisticated without being stuffy, worn over an off-white cami. My charcoal grey
wool trousers sit smartly on my hips, and the two-inch black heels nicely elongate
my legs. With the makeup and my hair done up in a French twist, I look
startlingly different from my usual self.

As a final touch, I put on Peggy-approved silver dangly earrings and a bit of

lipstick before grabbing my coat and bag and heading out the door. I can do this.
This is why I'm here.

For the past week I've thrown myself into my studies, fearful of falling behind.
Peggy suggested I begin reading journals in my field to familiarize myself with
the discourse, and so I immediately logged in to the library database after our
meeting. Doing outside research will only help me later once I begin dissertation
writing, but I find the reading difficult. To make it easier, Rosie and I have agreed
to read and discuss one article per week outside of our normal coursework. Even
though someday we'll be competitors on the job market, right now I'm incredibly
thankful we're in the same boat.

A little voice inside me wonders if concern over scholarship is the only reason I've
been so diligent. I haven't seen Edward since our meeting after class last
Tuesday. Our revelations then had been somewhat . . . intense. I found myself
pulling back a little when he asked me about my weekend plans. He'd seemed a
bit disappointed when I told him I wanted to stay in to work, and I knew what he
feared. I'd assured him I wasn't having second thoughts about trying to be
friends. And I wasn't lying. I want that. So much.
I just feel so bare with him.

Once I had a dream that Jacob killed my bird, Finch. It was years after the poor
thing had died a natural death, but when I woke up I found I was angry—
stupidly, irrationally so, but still. Even though he hadn't done it—my mind had—
the anger took a while to dissipate. Later that day, when he asked what was
wrong, I told him about the dream and it sounded so silly. We laughed about it
and my unhappy feelings vanished.

What if one day you woke up and you realized your life was a dream? How much
laughter would it take to make it disappear?

I'm so deep in my thoughts I almost don't recognize Edward standing outside the
Humanities building as I approach. And that's not the only reason.

He's wearing a suit. Well, not a suit, really, but close enough—dark jeans and a
brown blazer. And the shirt underneath . . . it's tucked in. Do I detect a belt? I'm
pretty sure I've never seen Edward dressed like this. Ever. A belt? I'm nearly
speechless.

"Hey," he says once I'm in earshot, a crooked grin on his face. "You look . . .
really nice, Bella."

"Thanks," I say, my face heating at the compliment. "So do you. Wow. I just
never . . ."

"Is it too much?" he asks a bit warily.

"No. No! It's great. You look so . . . professional."

"Well, you know, setting the bar high and all." He chuckles a little self-
consciously.

"Consider it set."

"Shall we?" Edward asks, gesturing toward the door. I nod, but then out of the
corner of my eye I notice a tag hanging from under his arm. He must've just
bought the jacket. I try to bite the smile that's forming on my lips as he looks at
me perplexedly.

"Um. You have . . ." My hand hovers between us for a second before I reach out
and yank the tag; it gives with the force and Edward's eyes widen as I hold it out
to him. He pockets it quickly with a shy smile.

"Yeah. This is new."

"So I gathered."

"Never speak of this again?" he asks hopefully.

"Oh, I can't promise that," I joke. He fakes a frown but his eyes are alight with
suppressed laughter.

"This is what I get for going shopping with Angela and Jasper," Edward grumbles.

"Oh, Jasper's in town?" I ask casually as we continue up the stairs.

"Yeah, through Thanksgiving. He just got back from covering the elections in
Sudan actually. We went out on Friday." So maybe that's why Edward was asking
about my weekend plans? Did he want me to come out with them? Well, why
didn't he tell me?

"Wow. What an experience," I reply, my mind still dissecting Edward's possible

intentions.

"He said it was incredible. His pictures are—unbelievable. You should—"

"I should . . . ?" I ask, urging him to go on.

Now that we're at the top of the stairs I can see people milling around outside of
the classroom. We still have a few minutes until class. Edward glances towards
them and motions silently for me to follow him down the opposite hall.

Once we're at a safe distance, he leans toward me with serious eyes. I catch a
waft of mint on his breath as he sighs.

"I told them . . . Angela and Jasper . . . that you were here."

"Oh."

"I was drunk. I'm sorry. I hope you're not mad."

"I'm not mad." I'm just thinking about all the people I haven't told about
Edward—and wondering what exactly he told them about me. "Did you tell them .
. . about why . . ."

"No. Not the whole story. But I did say we'd lost touch due to a
misunderstanding. I had to explain some way. Anyway, I don't think they'll ask
too many questions. But they want to see you. Angela, especially . . ." Edward
steps back, waiting for my response. He looks hopeful, but nervous.

Angela.

We're thirteen and riding bikes at her house. She swerves on some gravel and
falls, skinning her knee. Back at home, her mother dabs the wound as I turn
away, my stomach queasy from the sight of raw flesh. Later Alice joins us and we
eat ice cream outside on her front steps, the incident long forgotten.

In school, Ben Cheney tells her he likes when she wears braids in her hair. She
smiles bashfully and gives me a sideways glance . . . a look only I would
understand.

"I'd like to see them, Edward," I say softly, raising my eyes to meet his.

"Well," he starts, leaning against the wall next to me, "I'm doing a reading this
weekend with a few other MFA's down at Odyssey Books. The others are planning
on coming . . . so you should . . . if you feel up to it. We usually go out afterward,
and you can join us if you want . . ." He's rambling a little as I try to imagine
what the encounter would be like . . . the thought of seeing old friends is exciting
but unnerving.

But Edward had said "the others;" if other MFA's are at the reading, surely Kate,
Garrett, and the rest will be there too. What might they think of me showing up?
The idea of hanging out with them isn't very appealing. Kate obviously dislikes
me. But I do want to hear Edward read.

"You can bring Rosalie, too," he offers.

Another glance down the hall tells me class is starting soon. I need to make a
decision but I can't right now.

"I'll think about it, okay?" I tell him. "I want to see you read. It's just a big step
for me. Seeing people again." And socializing with your new friends.

"I understand," he says. His voice holds a trace of disappointment even as he

maintains his smile. "Just let me know."

"I will."

"So, shall we go 'wow' them?"

"Let's do it," I agree.

Edward and I are the last to enter the room and I feel the nervous flutter again .
. . thankfully it's not as intense. Peggy beams at us and relinquishes her spot at
the front of the room while I set up my laptop for the PowerPoint. Edward takes a
seat next to where I stand, shuffling through papers in a folder. When he finds
the handout he passes a stack of them to Alison, seated to his left.

I finish up connecting the requisite wires, sweating a little from all of the eyes
focused on my task. But Edward's presence calms me—I know we're in this
together. I'm supposed to go first with the introduction, so I clear my throat, but
just as I'm ready to speak my mind goes blank. I can't remember what to say.

I glance up and meet Rosalie's kind eyes. She smiles warmly and gives a slight
nod, urging me to go on.

"Hi everyone," I begin. "Today, as you know, we're presenting on John Keats's
poetry and work. I'm going to begin with a PowerPoint just to set the scene, but
we'd like this class to be as interactive and focused on discussion as possible."
Edward nods as I speak, but he's focused on a paper in front of him, jotting down
some notes. I start to relax again and the words flow more easily.

"Some of the questions we'd like you to consider are on the handout, but of
course those are only guidelines. Let's get started, shall we?"

I begin the PowerPoint and Edward and I take turns discussing the slides-I focus
on Keats's early years and he explains a little bit of his history in Rome, using
some of his own pictures to provide visuals. The conversation moves fluidly
between us, and every once in a while I cast a sideways glance at Peggy. She's
observing us carefully with a thoughtful look on her face that I hope is a good
sign.

After a short break, we move onto the critical reception of the poetry, both then
and now, and of course the poetry itself.

"Since he died so young, Keats never lived to see the height of his fame. He also
believed he never reached his full potential," I conclude as we transition to more
open-ended discussion. "In fact, one of his last letters to Fanny Brawne reads: 'I
have left no immortal work behind me — nothing to make my friends proud of my
memory — but I have lov'd the principle of beauty in all things, and if I had had
time I would have made myself remember'd'."

"But," Edward adds, "it also poses an interesting question—do we in some ways
fetishize him because he died so young? How does his position as the
quintessential Romantic poet shape the discourse itself?"

I smile a little at Edward's effortless transition to our discussion handout.

From then on, conversation flows like wine. People clearly have a lot to say about
the topics we've raised, and more than once discussion becomes heated—but not
in a bad way. It's exciting, leading class like this, being at the center of it all.
Time passes quickly; before I know it class is over and we haven't even covered
half of the assigned readings. This indicates our preparedness—another good
sign.

"Ms. Black," Peggy remarks from a few seats away as I shut down my computer,
"I'm impressed by your technological prowess."

I smile and blush-now everyone in the class probably hates us. People are
packing up but her comment was clearly audible.

"Thanks," I mumble, trying to accept the compliment gracefully.

"I always feel bringing multimedia into the classroom really aids with learning,
with graduates as well as undergraduates. Well done, both of you." She nods at
Edward beside me. We chat for a few more minutes as the rest of the class files
out. Rosalie has a TA meeting with the bastard Finley, so I give her a quick wave
and a concerned smile before she departs. She's wearing her game face, but that
doesn't stop her from giving me a "thumbs up" sign. I try not to laugh because
Peggy is still talking.

"Your reading of 'To Autumn,' was especially smart, I thought. Good

consideration of how Keats uses imagery and stanza formation to show how
death can be a sort of renewal. Your close-readings were spot-on."

"It was all Isabella," Edward says firmly.

"It was both of us," I amend, giving him a look. I don't want or need all the
credit.

"I'm sure," Peggy says with a little smile. "In any case, it was very interesting."

Peggy congratulates us again before she leaves. As soon as she's gone I flop
down into a conveniently located chair, sighing loudly.

"Whoa. That was intense."

"You can say that again," Edward agrees.

"How do you think we did?"

Edward smiles a little cockily. "I think we kicked ass," he says, reaching out for a
high-five. I slap his hand.

"Peggy seemed to like it."

"Definitely."

I feel a little giddy. The relief of everything going off so well, coupled with Edward
and I here, together, just talking, makes me laugh. It feels to good to be true.

"What's so funny?" he asks.

"I don't know!" I say with a giggle. He considers me with an amused expression,
shaking his head.

"You're in hysterics."
"Maybe."

"I think this calls for a celebratory drink."

"But it's only noon."

"It's five o'clock somewhere," Edward rationalizes. "Come on. We deserve it."

"All right," I agree. Why not? I wasn't planning on doing work today anyway.
"Where do you wanna go?"

"I know just the place."

"Is it far?" I ask as I stand up, remembering my shoes. They're not the most
comfortable things to walk in. "Maybe we can stop by my apartment first so I can
change and drop off my computer?"

"We'll take a cab." Edward says, glancing at my shoes. "Unless your feet hurt
now."

"No, they're fine."

"Good. Then, let's go!"

"All right! Pushy, pushy."

Edward grins and we finish gathering our things. Before I can stop him, Edward
takes my laptop bag and casually hoists it across his shoulder—just as he used to
do. I almost say something but think better of it, instead following him out of the
door.

Out on the street, we're not long in getting a cab. Edward gives a Delaware
Street address and the driver assents with a nod. It's one of those beautiful fall
days where the air seems especially clear and crisp—no trace of the sweltering
humidity that you find in summertime Chicago—and so I roll down the window a
bit, letting the breeze swirl around me. Edward watches the street quietly from
his seat as we drive, his knee bouncing. My phone buzzes in my bag and I pull it
out: a text message from Jacob.

How'd it go?

Really good. Call you later? I reply. If Edward is curious about who I'm texting,
he makes no indication.

Ten seconds later: Congrats babe! Sounds good.

So like him. Happy. To the point. He has no idea I doubt his honesty like this.
That just by being here right now . . . I am dishonest too.

Ten minutes or so later we're disembarking at the curb, as I shake off my slight
misgiving. Edward pays quickly, dismissing my attempts to retrieve my wallet
from my bag.

"It was my idea," he explains as we start to walk.

"Fine," I huff. "But I'm getting the drinks then."

"Sounds like a deal."

"Where are we going anyway?"

We're down on the Magnificent Mile, surrounded by skyscrapers, stores, and
restaurants. I rarely come to this part of town.

"We're here."

"What?"

Edward gestures towards the building in front of us—I hadn't even noticed we
were standing in front of the Hancock Center.

"Have you been here before?"

I shake my head, a little alarmed—does he want to go to the top of the center? I

know there's some sort of observatory up there but I've never been. The truth is
I'm not exactly fond of heights. Edward must read the hesitation on my face
because his smile falters.

"You're afraid of heights," he says, matter-of-factly.

"Just a little."

"We don't have to. It was just a stupid idea." I hate when he says things like
that—he can be so dismissive of himself—his writing, the tattoo, even this well-
intentioned impromptu plan.

"No." I firmly reign in my own fear. "It's an awesome idea. I'd love to check it
out."

"You're sure?" he asks skeptically.

Despite the fact my palms have already begun to sweat, I nod with an emphatic
"yes." Edward's answering smile is so sweet I know I've done the right thing.

Once we're inside, the elevator speeds us to the top so rapidly I don't have time
to change my mind. I have to steady myself on Edward's arm when the elevator
lurches to a halt, and he reaches his hand to my hip automatically.

The doors open. He removes his hand quickly and I let go of his arm, both of us
slightly embarrassed at the contact. It reminds me of the unconscious way I'd
touched his knee in class during that horrible movie. Or hugging the night he
came to my house. Familiar gestures, but different. For some reason they stand
out more clearly than the most intentional embrace.

Edward pays our fees and we follow the other guests out into the observatory,
forgoing the "audio tour" one of the employees tries to foist on us.

I gasp as I realize how high up we are—definitely higher than I've ever been.

Edward follows close behind as I make my way towards the tall windows—the
place is so open, affording a spectacular 360-degree view.

It's a breathtaking sight—the city is bathed in afternoon sunlight, shadows from

the shorter buildings dipping and twisting in sinuous paths around their
neighbors. The clear day makes visibility extend for miles, probably beyond the
borders of Illinois. I reach out and touch my hand to the thick glass. Everything is
so far below it seems surreal, more like a movie than real life, which provides a
sort of comfort. My vertigo seems contained for now, at least.

"What do you think?" Edward asks cautiously. "Do you like it?"
"I do. It's incredible, Edward." I can't tear my eyes away. So many people. I
imagine myself back down on the ground, in another life, inhabiting another
body.

"I thought you would. Well, maybe that you would have liked it. When we were
kids."

"I still like it now," I say, turning to him with just a hint of a smile.

I'm not prepared for the pain in my chest that wrenches and pulls when my eyes
meet his. I'm not expecting to see sadness there, matching mine, but I do. For
the first time in nine years it feels like we're friends—real friends. It shouldn't be
sad, but it is.

I want to speak these things out loud, but I don't know why my heart hurts. My
mind grapples with reasons, but my thoughts speak only in pictures, images. The
tender growth of new skin. Sometimes it hurts when skin knits together, each
side seeking its wholeness. But how to describe this to him? Perhaps it can't be
put into language. Perhaps we all have our own ways of envisioning pain.

I clear my throat and look away, self-protective instincts kicking in. Today we
should be happy. Edward seems to follow my train of thought.

"So. We came to celebrate, right?" he asks.

"Right."

"A drink then?"

"Definitely."

There's a relatively well-stocked café and Edward lets me buy him a beer and a
sandwich. I select a glass of white wine and a grilled chicken salad, and we
choose a small table near the windows and away from the throng of Midwestern
tourists that teem the place.

We sit and chat while we eat. Edward points out a few landmarks and swears he
can see his apartment building from where we sit. We talk about Peggy's class
and school in general. I tell him more about my life since I've moved here,
though there isn't much to say. But I'm happy to be officially working with Peggy
and Edward seems proud of me too.

He tells me about Emmett—he's apparently single and looking—and I

immediately think about Rosalie. I suggest it and Edward laughs dismissively. It
is kind of a silly idea, I suppose, but who knows? Stranger things have happened.

I don't ask him about Kate or if he's dating anyone at the moment, and he
doesn't offer any information on that front.

I don't talk about Forks, Jacob and Billy, or letters and Edward doesn't mention
those things either. But once I catch him looking at my left hand and I control the
sudden, strange impulse to move it from the table. Somewhere my mind guiltily
registers it's not the first time I've done so.

Jacob had been embarrassed about the modest engagement ring, but it was all
he could afford. As if I would have wanted more. I'd never been big on jewelry,
even as a kid. The necklace my mother had given me had been the only one I'd
really ever owned, and that was lost in the fire along with everything else. Well,
almost everything.
Edward looks back to my face and flushes a little at being caught staring. To
break the tension, I offer to buy another us another round of drinks.

Two hours later, we're finishing our third, and I'm feeling quite fine. I'm not used
to drinking in the daylight, but night is rapidly falling. When I glance at my cell
phone, I can't believe it's gotten as late as it has—we've talked for so long.
Edward drains the rest of his beer and wonders if I'm up for one more. A fourth.
Why not? He sets off on his errand and I sit, watching the spectacle unfold before
me.

The setting sun is alive. Vibrant, fiery, oranges and pink hues light up the October
sky, almost blinding in their brilliance. It reminds me of something Blake would
have illustrated. It reminds me of something Renee once said when she was well,
when I was a very little girl.

Mom? Why does the sky turn colors when the sun sets?

Every day, God works so hard keeping track of what happens on Earth, so in the
evening he relaxes by painting the sky. He chooses glorious colors, but he's never
satisfied with his picture. He erases it with night and tries again the next day.
That's why the sunset is different each night.

But I thought God was perfect? Wouldn't he paint a perfect picture the first time?

Sometimes you're too smart for your own good, baby.

Like so many of my memories, I'm not sure if it happened quite like that, or if I'm
remembering and fusing several different moments together. But it feels so real.
So real I can almost imagine her here with me right now.

"Bella? Are you okay?" Edward's back at the table and I'm startled from my
reverie.

"Yeah. I was just thinking. I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry. You want to talk about it?" he asks.

"No," I shake my head, not wanting to bring down the moment by being a
sentimental drunk. "It's just so beautiful."

"It is," he replies, but he's not even looking outside.

"Edward," I say, taking another sip of wine. "Can I ask you a question?"

"Uh-oh," he says, "another one of those?"

"Yep."

"Okay. What's your question?"

"My question is . . . what's the best thing you ever ate?" I giggle a little at his
wide-eyed expression—obviously he wasn't expecting such an easy one.

He smiles slowly, taking another sip and leaning back in his chair.

"My mother's beef stew."

"Ah-ha!" I exclaim, "I thought you'd say my blueberry muffins, just to placate
me."

"Well, they're second place, of course," he says with a grin. "What about you?"
That's easy. "The cake my mom bought me on my twelfth birthday." I think for a
second, wracking my brain for another innocuous question.

"What's your favorite non-90's band, and if you say The Killers I'll puke."

"What? The Killers suck," he replies with a frown. I can't contain my smile,
remembering Kate's shirt. He scrunches his forehead and looks up at the ceiling
like he's trying to figure out the meaning of life. Finally, he exhales with a
triumphant, "Sonic Youth."

"I said non-90's!"

"They formed in 1981, Bella," Edward replies smugly.

"I should have known."

"What about you?"

"Easy. The Beatles," I say.

Edward rolls his eyes. "Still a hippie, I see."

"Of course."

Edward grins at me and we continue our game, covering everything from places
we'd like to visit to favorite cartoons.

"Worst game show ever?"

"Wheel of Fortune."

"Wrong! The Price is Right."

"That's entirely subjective," I complain. "The Price is Right is moderately

entertaining while Wheel of Fortune has been proven to actually kill brain cells."

"Oh has it?" Edward asks, arching his eyebrow.

"Yep. Scientifically."

"I see. Fine.

After a few more rounds, we're bordering on total nonsense arguing over the best
Saturday Night Live character. I laugh as Edward does his best Wild and Crazy
Guys impression, trying to convince me. I'm strongly loyal to Wayne Campbell
and Garth Algar, however, and cannot be dissuaded.

"Give me one good reason," Edward insists.

"They're from Aurora. They're locals."

"Is that your only defense?"

"No! Two hilarious spin off movies? I'd say that beats your crappy sketch."

"Well, what's Mike Meyers done lately? Steve Martin and Dan Ackroyd are
legends."

"I think you're forgetting Dana Carvey," I say. "Garth is key."

"Oh, his career is in the toilet."

"I don't recall seeing Ackroyd in any decent films, I don't know, in the past
decade," I tease. Edward rolls his eyes.

"He's currently filming Ghostbusters 3," he says with hopeful shrug.

"You've got to be kidding me. That's all you've got? Pathetic. No one likes Ray."

"Do you remember," he says with a little grin, "the day we played Ghostbusters?"

I groan—how could I forget. It was one of Edward's favorite movies when we

were kids, and he'd convinced Alice and I to play along one day. He'd of course
gotten to be Peter, the coolest Ghostbuster, and I quickly snatched up Egon,
leaving Alice to choose between Winston and Ray.

"Alice was not happy."

"And the game lasted about a half an hour before she went crying to mom."

"Bella and Edward are being mean!"

"It wasn't our fault she was being held hostage by ghosts!"

"Definitely not," I agree, laughing at the memory. It feels good to talk about Alice
like this.

We reminisce for a little while—at one point I'm in such a fit of laughter that I
grab his hand on the table. I don't know if it's the alcohol, or what, but it doesn't
feel weird at all. Until he covers my hand with his. Then something strange
happens . . . my mind feels fuzzy and confused. I pull away slowly, returning my
hands to the stem of my wine glass. Edward's hands stay on the table, palms up
as if in supplication.

I take another sip and try to clear my head.

"I don't know why you're bringing this up, Edward, because it completely
disproves your point. She picked Winston. Even a nine-year-old knows better
than to choose Ray."

"Fine," he says with a sigh. "Agree to disagree."

I laugh. "You're just upset I'm right."

"Okay, okay," Edward says, throwing his hands up. "One last question. It's your
turn."

"Hmm . . ." I tap my chin, trying to think of a good one. It comes easily. "What
was your happiest day?"

Edward's face slowly becomes serious. "Do you want me to tell you the truth, or a
lie?"

"Why would I want you to lie?"

"I don't know," he says. "You might."

"I don't," I reply, but something about his demeanor makes me nervous. Still, I
want to know.

"Okay. Well . . . there are two days. But I'll just tell you one."

"Not fair!"
"The original question asked for 'happiest day,' singular."

"But you just said you had two! I hate when people say they're gonna tell you
something and then they don't."

"Do you wanna know or don't you?"

I nod.

"The night of Erin's party," he says quietly, "When you told me about your
letters."

I don't know what I'm expecting, but it's certainly not that. My mouth
immediately goes dry . . . He's looking at me so intently and I can barely speak.

"Really?"

He nods slowly, looking away. I can't believe it. Out of all of the days, and he
picks that one.

"See? You'd rather I lied."

"No," I whisper, but it doesn't even sound convincing to my ears.

"What's your happiest day, Bella?"

One day comes to mind immediately and it's shocking . . .

Have you ever been kissed, Bella?

It's not the day it should be. But I can't tell him.

"Oh, I don't know. I don't think it's happened yet," I lie, looking down at my
hands on the table to avoid his gaze. I can't think of anything else to say . . . any
untruth that would sound convincing.

"Ah, yes. Your wedding. I'm sure that will be a very happy day." Edward says. His
voice holds a trace of coldness . . . and when I look up again, his eyes dart from
my hands on the table to my eyes. They're searching for something.

He's misunderstood me, but what can I say? So I remain silent, watching the last
glimmer of light fade from the sky.

The most tangible of all visible mysteries - fire. ~Leigh Hunt

Chapter 16: October 22, 2010

"How'd it go?" On the day after our presentation I lay in bed nursing a bit of a
hangover—I definitely drank too much wine last night. Edward and I had shared a
taxi back from the John Hancock and as I speak to Rosalie, my mind drifts back
to the look on his face as I exited the cab.

He doesn't seem happy. Not just last night, either. In general.

"Oh, it was a shit show, of course," Rosalie replies, and I feel bad for my
wandering attention. Yesterday was the first time she'd met with Finley in a
professional capacity since they'd broken up.
"What happened?"

Rosalie sighs on the end of the line. "Honestly Bella, I don't even want to relive it.
But just suffice it to say that it was enough to make me wonder what the hell I
ever saw in that guy. He's a fucker."

"Do you think you can keep working for him? I mean, do you think he'll treat you
fairly?" I'd encouraged my friend to ask for another assignment given the
situation, but TA positions are hard to come by and it's too late at this point in
the semester, anyway. If Rosalie gives up her job, she's out of funding.

"He fucking better, and he knows it. I have a pair of his underwear and I'm not
afraid to bring them to the administration, if it comes down to it."

"You're amazing."

"No. Just pragmatic." In my book, she's amazing.

We chat for a while and Rosalie asks what Edward and I did after class. I tell her
about the visit to the John Hancock Center and how much fun we had, leaving
out, of course, Edward's confession about his favorite day. I don't want to share
it.

"Wow. That's really nice. I didn't know Edward had it in him," Rosalie murmurs.

"Don't be like that." For some reason, her doubting him bothers me now. It
hadn't before.

"Sorry, sorry. Old habits and all," she replies. "I know you guys are trying to be
friends—I'll be good. I promise. I just don't want him to hurt you."

Her words sting just a little. Maybe a lot.

"Yeah, well. It was nice."

"So . . ."

"Yeah?"

There's a sharp inhale on the other end of the line. "I met with Alison yesterday
evening."

"Aaaand?"

"It seems people are talking about you and Edward."

"What?"

"That you guys are an item or something."

My heart skips a beat—and all I can think of are four letter words.

"Well that's just crazy. What the hell did she say?"

"Whoa! Bella. Relax. I told her it's not true—it's just that people have noticed how
you guys have started acting differently around each other. I mean, one second
you're mortal enemies and the next you're working together, completing each
other's sentences . . ."

"It was for class. It was just a . . . And we didn't . . ."

"You don't have to defend yourself. Don't listen to what people say. You know the
truth and that's all that matters. I told you from day one academics are the worst
sorts of gossips," she says with a dismissive laugh. "We live vicariously through
other people."

"Unless you're an MFA," I sigh, stretching and thinking of Edward and Kate. The
upcoming reading.

"Exactly."

"So I guess this isn't the best time to bring it up, but Edward asked if I'd go to his
reading on Friday."

"Down at Odyssey?"

"Yeah."

"Are you gonna go?"

"Um. I was thinking about it. But it's gonna be weird. Edward's friends . . . some
people I knew when I was a kid . . . they'll be there too."

"Whoa. And you haven't seen them yet?"

"No, not since I was 14."

"And do you want to?" I think back to my conversation with Edward—how much
he'd wanted me to go. And now that I have the chance to see Angela again, I
can't pass it up.

"Yeah, I think I do."

"Well, what's the problem then?"

"Weeellll . . . I was kinda hoping you'd come with me." I pause, waiting for her
response. I don't wait long.

"Hell yeah, I will!" And this is another reason I love Rosalie—she's always game.
"What are you doing right now?"

"I have some work to do for class tomorrow, then nothing."

"Oh good, 'cause we need to go shopping."

"We do?"

"Yes. We do."

~QF~

On Friday as Rosalie and I hop off the "El" and onto the platform, I thank God for
the cold night. Chicago air is not like the verdant, oxygenated air of Forks. I miss
air that fills your lungs and refreshes, making everything clearer—sharper. Here,
only the cold provides that same clarity of mind.

"You ready to do this thing?" Rosalie asks, clutching onto my arm for support.
She's wearing heels the likes of which I have never seen. I'll stick with my flat,
brown riding boots, thank you very much. Only about a block away, I can see the
illuminated sign of the bookstore beckoning.
"Yes. Sort of." For the last couple of days, I've been in a perpetual state of dread
and excitement. Aside from the fact I'll be seeing my long-lost friends for the first
time, I'm also a little nervous about how Edward's other friends will react to my
presence. All I know is that I don't want Kate to know about my history—I don't
trust her one bit.

At least focusing on tonight has kept my mind off of one thing.

I hadn't even realized it until yesterday. A glance at the calendar on the kitchen
wall shocked me. October 24th. Just a date, written in black ink like any other
day. Just a date.

But every year it creeps up like a slow-moving, stealthy beast. This year, it's
pounced quickly, taking me unaware.

How could I not have remembered?

"Bella?" Rosalie asks as we approach the building. I nod and she gives me a
supportive smile.

"All right, then. Let's go in."

I've never been inside Odyssey before, but when we step in I instantly love it. It's
a used bookstore, one of those places with hidden corners you can get lost in.
The musty smell of well-worn leather bindings and yellowing pages mingles in the
air with another comforting aroma—a few candles burn, lighting the reading area
and creating a warm, albeit pretentious, atmosphere.

Candlelight, I have grown used to.

"Oh God," Rosalie whispers lowly in my ear, "I see . . . hipster people." I giggle a
little at her ancient movie reference—Rosalie is a master at using humor to
diffuse tension. A few people, some who I recognize from campus, mill around
the store. Others begin to fill the rows of folding chairs. Towards the back of the
room, a table displays a modest array of cheese and wine, but I've already
decided I better not drink tonight.

At first I don't see Edward among the crowd of people gathered at the front of the
room, but then I notice his telltale hair. That, coupled with the fact he stands
about a half-head taller than most people, makes him conspicuous.

"There's your bud," Rosalie says playfully with a poke to my side.

Edward looks up and over at us, a grin spreading over his face as he turns to
speak to the dark-haired man next to him. Holy crap. Emmett McCarty swivels his
head, his eyes searching till they alight on Rosalie and me. He's just how I
remember him—older, of course, but the same broad shoulders, the same wide,
sincere smile. Edward says something else and Emmett nods.

"Who the heck is that?" Rosalie asks with interest.

"Emmett. Edward's roommate—he's the one I told you about."

"You didn't tell me he was fine."

"Yeah, well. I was fourteen the last time I saw him. And I had a boyfriend . . ." I
trail off.

"Here they come," she grits through her teeth, patting her hair as they start
making their way towards us.
Edward looks scruffy, handsome, and very much like an author with his notebook
in hand. He told me after the presentation he wasn't going to shave for a week
and the thick growth of stubble along his jaw proves it. He's back to wearing his
usual clothes-a black Sex Pistols shirt and jeans with a chain hanging from his
pocket. Emmett's button down shirt and black trousers look much more formal by
comparison. My heart thrums nervously as I glance at them, and then behind,
but Angela and Jasper aren't here yet.

"Little Bee," Emmett says with a grin. Before I can answer, he envelops me in a
tremendous hug, nearly lifting me off the floor. Though I can't see him, blinded
as I am by Emmett's shoulder, I can hear Edward's throaty chuckle.

"Emmett," I whisper.

"When Edward told me I just couldn't believe it. And here you are," he says,
releasing me.

"Here I am."

"Are you . . ."

"I'm okay." I have a feeling there's going to be a lot of this tonight. People want
to know how I am but they're afraid to ask. It's the elephant in the room—the
fire, my scars. Even with Edward. We have yet to talk about my treatment or my
time in the hospital. I wonder if he's waiting for me to bring it up, or if he just
doesn't want to know. Maybe both.

"It's so good to see you . . . and this kid," he says, elbowing Edward, "has been
sooo—"

Before he can finish, Edward cuts him off with a "Fuck off, Emmett." He shoves
Emmett aside, closing the distance between us with a hug.

"Thanks for coming, Bella," he whispers in my ear.

"Are you kidding? I wouldn't miss it."

Rosalie clears her throat and I turn my head and to find her watching us
expectantly.

"Emmett," I say, stepping away from Edward, "this is my friend Rosalie. She's in
the program with me."

"Very nice to meet you." Rosalie smiles and a very transfixed Emmett takes her
hand.

"Any friend of Little Bee's is a friend of mine."

"I'd say the same about Edward's, but I don't want to lie," she replies.

Emmett laughs at that, slapping Edward on the back again.

"Yeah, I'm with you on that one, Rose. Edward sure has some interesting friends.
Where is your shadow, anyway?"

My stomach lurches uncomfortably—I know immediately he's talking about Kate.

It's only confirmed when Edward grumbles, "She's not my shadow."

Just then the door chimes again and we all turn round.
I immediately recognize Angela's petite frame, her long straight hair parted at the
side. Jasper ushers her in the door, taller and blonder than I remember. Her arm
is looped through his and they're laughing about something. In this moment,
before they notice us, I can tell they're happy together.

And I'm glad for them.

Jasper's gaze sweeps the room, finally alighting on us as a warm smile spreads
across his face. Angela follows suit, her eyes widening in disbelief as they meet
mine.

"Bella, oh my God," she says, letting go of Jasper and rushing over to me, "I
can't believe it! I just can't believe it!"

We stand and hug and cry and I don't care there are so many people watching.
It's so good to see her. For the moment, I allow myself to just revel in seeing this
girl, now a woman—one of my only friends from home. I hug Jasper too, happy
he's here even though I never knew him very well. Rosalie introduces herself and
the six of us stand catching up for a few minutes as more people filter in.

But . . .

One is missing. Edward looks on pensively, not really joining in the conversation
until I catch his eye. In that one moment I can read his mind, and I'm sure he
can read mine. The last time we were all together like this Alice was alive.

Angela wants to know what I've been doing, how I ended up at Chicago, what I'm
studying. She tells me a bit about her job, but there's not much time for serious
conversation. Happily, the reunion isn't half as awkward as I feared—until Angela
notices the ring on my hand and snatches it up with an exclamation.

"What's this!"

"Um . . . I'm engaged," I murmur.

"You're engaged! Edward," she scolds, "You didn't tell us Bella was engaged!"

"It wasn't my news to tell," he replies with a shrug.

"Well," she says, turning back to me, "I think it's wonderful! Who's the lucky
guy?"

I tell her about Jacob, averting my eyes from Edward. Luckily, he's deep in
conversation with Emmett and Rosalie. She grins over her shoulder at Jasper,
their hands finding each other surreptitiously. Such an intimate gesture of
comfort and familiarity—I feel another one of those pangs.

I wish it could be easy. I wish it didn't make me feel uncomfortable to talk about
Jacob in front of Edward. But while the words coming out of my mouth make
Angela smile, they feel strange on my tongue. I haven't been able to forget what
Edward said about his favorite day and what I felt but didn't say. The guilt weighs
heavily and uncomfortably in my chest. I feel like I've been unfaithful to Jacob
even though Edward and I are just friends.

Just friends.

Five minutes before the reading, Kate, Riley, another girl arrive, who Edward
introduces me to as Carmen—she's stunning with black hair and eyes to match
and a soft, shy voice. I decide that I like her much better than her more
gregarious and irritating friend. Kate greets me civilly but I detect an icy
undercurrent to her tone. Of course she immediately gravitates toward Edward.
But I'm spared from anything else as the bookstore owner calls us all to
attention, and people begin to take their seats.

"I'm a little nervous," Edward whispers as we trail the others towards our
reserved seats. I investigate his face to see if he's joking—he seems serious.

"Why?"

"Because it could be crap."

"It could be, but it won't."

I notice Peggy seated next to a handsome grey-haired man; she waves as we

pass.

"I'm glad you came," Edward says, squeezing my arm quickly before taking his
place at the front of the room. I settle down in-between Rosalie and Angela, my
heart beating more quickly for him. It's really quite exciting.

Edward has two pieces to read, he tells us, both very different in tone and
subject. At the sound of his voice, the audience immediately stills to listen.
Edward has an incredible stage presence and a beautiful reading voice—so why
wouldn't you? I'm transfixed, and so proud of him even though he's barely
begun.

The first story surprises me—it's incredibly funny and smart in a way that
reminds me almost of a young Philip Roth. It's the story of a young unmarried
couple moving in to their first apartment together and Edward really captures
their hopefulness, excitement and the fear—he enters both of their heads, giving
us a glimpse at the things that make them nervous, the things that irritate them,
the things that they desire. It's really well done, and by the end of the story, the
entire audience is laughing and cheerful.

The audience claps. Rosalie gives me a quick, wide-eyed smile before returning
her attention to Emmett, who sits on her other side. The two of them speak lowly
together during the short pause between stories and I smirk to myself. Perhaps
there might be a love connection there after all.

"Wasn't that good?" Angela whispers in my other ear. "Most of Edward's stories
are, but that's one of the best I've heard."

"It was awesome," is all I can reply because Edward's getting ready to read
again. He takes a deep swig of water from a bottle, his Adam's apple bobbing,
before he returns to the lectern.

"This is a story about a journey," Edward begins quietly. This time, his voice is
much more subdued, immediately setting a more melancholic tone. The story is
of a young, recently discharged American soldier abroad in Rome, and so I
automatically listen for signs of Edward, hoping for a glimpse of his real life
through his fiction.

During our first in class argument he'd insisted I was misguided for doing so—but
I can't help it.

Set in 1918, the story begins just after the Armistice is signed and before the rise
of Fascism. There is a sense that the soldier, who is never named, is adrift.

Once Edward begins reading, the rest of the world melts away. "He went to the
same café every day, ordered the same cup of coffee—a double espresso.
Because he was an American, he tried hard to speak the language, but tripped
over vowels, bent consonants foolishly. He was a consummate foreigner waiting
to be absorbed by an ambivalent country. But still the proprietario listened
patiently every time the young man placed his order, confident that one day, he
would get it right."

Edward pauses, and when he begins again his voice is firmer, though still that
familiar velvet. I glance around me and notice everyone, especially the women, in
rapt attention. I like the formal, old-fashioned narrative style—it's much different
from the jaunty, comic, modern prose of the first.

"On this particular day, he had an errand—an unusual one. His landlady had
requested he pick up a bouquet of flowers at a negozio di fiori on the other side
of town. Her niece, a young woman from the countryside, was coming to visit,
and she had never been to the city before. That night, dinner would be served at
seven. By all accounts, the expected visitor was quite beautiful. The landlady,
especially, seemed keen on his meeting her, and while he was vaguely intrigued
by the prospect, he met the day with no real excitement."

Edward continues on, describing the soldier's journey through Rome on a spring
day—he sees the beauty and wonder of the city but as an observer, not an active
participant in the life around him. The story recounts several stops he makes on
his way to get the flowers—several mishaps and encounters with denizens of
Rome—but still he remains impassive. Just under the surface of his character,
you can tell the trauma of the brutal war has had a lasting and devastating
impact. He, like the city itself, appears unsettled, waiting in the calm between
two storms.

"There was one place he felt entirely comfortable. Some days he would visit the Il
Cimitero Acattolico for no reason other than to marvel at the tombs. Here, in the
foreigner's cemetery, he would wander through the narrow paths, reading names
and marveling that the most beautiful and peaceful place in Rome was a place of
death. He loved its inhabitants well." Edward pauses, glancing over at me. This is
the cemetery where Keats is buried—the pictures of his grave flash before my
eyes. A glimpse of Edward's life in Rome. It's devastatingly sad.

"But one tomb in particular, designed by a famous American sculptor for his wife,
particularly captivated him. The Angel of Grief, her body prostrate and weeping,
seemed the most perfectly executed expression of loss he'd ever seen. The
surrender of the Angel's down-turned wings recalled a memory he could not let
go."

The piece ends perhaps a little predictably, but beautifully. Instead of taking the
flowers, a bouquet of lilacs, back to his accommodations in fulfillment of the
landlady's request, he leaves them for the Angel of Grief. The unnamed soldier
never returns to his lodging, and we're left wondering where his journey will end.

When Edward finishes, I blink back tears. Such an understated story—so filled
with emotion without melodrama. He wrote it beautifully. Edward smiles a little
shyly at the applause before retreating to his seat at the end of our row.

I feel like I've learned something about him, but I'm still trying to figure out what
it is.

~QF~

An hour or so later, after another MFA has read stories that in no way compare to
Edward's, I find myself at Eclipse, the infamous hipster bar down the street from
the bookshop.
There's a pretty sizable crowd of us, and everyone wants to talk to Edward—I can
barely congratulate him before he's swept away into a sea of people who want to
know more. Though I'm not drinking, everyone else is, and soon the room is filled
with voices. Still, I can't shake off the impact of Edward's second story.

The place appears intentionally grungy, filled with kitschy memorabilia from the
80's—including a Ms. Packman video game. I can see why Edward likes it here,
but somehow it seems fake to me, like it's trying just a little too hard to be cool.
The music is too loud and it's difficult to carry on a conversation. Maybe you have
to drink to have fun here, I think, finally giving in to Jasper's insistence and
having a beer.

Rosalie whispers something in my ear about being right back and I turn round to
see her move off with Emmett to a recently vacated table, leaving Angela and I
alone. We share a knowing smile—I'm so happy they seem to be getting along so
well. Jasper's wandered off to where Edward is, over at the other end of the bar
with his MFA friends. It's nice to talk to Angela without an audience, but I feel a
little slighted and out of place. The irritating sound of Kate's loud laughter filters
over, and I glance over to see her standing next to Edward. Of course.

For the better part of an hour, Angela and I have a chance to catch up. She tells
me about her job in investigative journalism and how she and Jasper had met.
They seem pretty serious, though both of them travel quite a bit. Jasper's
working freelance right now, and is currently in the midst of negotiating a book
contract for his African photography.

When it comes to my life, Angela is hesitant at first. When I ask her why, she
says that Edward warned them from asking too many questions. It's a little
irritating—he's trying to make me more comfortable, but I don't want to be
treated like a child.

"It's okay," I tell her. "You don't have to be afraid to ask."

"I just . . . I'm so sorry we lost touch. I don't suppose I was a very good friend. I
did try to call a couple of times, but I never got through. I thought maybe you
didn't want to talk to us." She bites her lip hesitantly.

I smile at her, trying to convey I'm not angry. "It was my fault, too. I was just so
out of it after the fire . . . I was in the hospital for three months and then when I
got out, it was just so weird. I couldn't walk . . . I couldn't do anything."

"Oh, Bella," she says, resting her hand on my shoulder. "I thought about you a
lot over the years. And then when I met Jasper again, sometimes you'd come up
in conversation. I always wondered where you were. If you were okay. Everyone
did."

"Did Edward . . ."

"He didn't like to talk about you. It was too hard for him," she pauses, as if
considering whether to go on. "If you don't mind my asking, what did happen?
Why didn't you write?"

"I did. I never got his letters," I sigh. "He never got mine."

"What!" she exclaims, shocked. "How in the world . . ."

"I don't know," I reply, not wanting to delve into the subject right now. Instead, I
take another sip of my beer. Angela seems to understand.
"Is it weird? Seeing Edward again?"

"Yeah. Well, it was really weird at first. But it's not so bad anymore. We're trying
to be friends."

"You guys were always so close," she reminisces. "Even before you dated."

"Yeah."

"He was always so protective of you . . . and Alice." At the mention of her name,
I glance over Angela's shoulder towards Edward. Someone I don't know is talking
to him, but he's looking over at us. Our eyes meet for a second before Angela
recalls my attention.

"What does your fiancé think of the whole thing?" she asks, laughing. "Is he okay
with you and Edward hanging out? He must be a pretty awesome guy."

And I am caught in a web of my own lies—how do I explain why I haven't told

him? Anything I say will sound horrible . . .

"Isabella," comes a singsong voice from beside me. It's Kate. She wears black
eyeliner around her huge blue eyes and red lipstick on her plump lips, which are
curled into a smile. "So nice of you to come to Edward's reading."

"Yeah, well, I wouldn't have missed it," I reply, not missing a beat.

"He thinks very highly of your opinion," she continues. "It's sooooo nice to see."
The insincerity of her words is almost shocking. This girl considers me some kind
of threat, but I'm not in the mood to be bullied.

"Is that so?"

"Yes. And I think it's just so sweet for him to invite you, knowing you used to be
such good friends and all." She speaks with authority and condescension and my
stomach drops. Edward's clearly filled her in on our relationship—and I don't like
it one bit. Her nastiness just cheapens it—everything. Angela clears her throat.

"So nice of you to join us Kate," Angela says equally condescendingly. "And
where's Garrett this evening?"

Kate rolls her eyes. "I don't keep track of my exes, Angela. Unlike some people."
She looks at me pointedly.

"What's that supposed to mean?" I ask, angry now. Is she insinuating I came
here to stalk Edward? The way she's acting confirms there is something between
them . . . she's marking her territory, telling me to back off. But . . . how could
he want to be with a person like this?

"Oh, nothing, nothing," she says noncommittally. And I can't believe Edward told
her about us—I don't like not knowing how much she knows. Now the rest of the
department is sure to find out, too. I feel completely betrayed. When Edward
approaches, I can't even look at him.

"Hey," he says, his hand on my shoulder, "is everything all right?" I cringe away
from his touch, thoughts of him with Kate making me sick.

"Perfect," Kate says, now the wide-eyed innocent, taking a sip of her drink.

"Yeah. Well. I actually was just leaving," I tell him, my throat dry as tears prick
the backs of my eyes.
"What? Don't go. I hardly got a chance to talk to you," he says with disbelief.

"Yeah, well, you're busy," I reply. "And I'm tired. I'm sorry." Angela looks a little
bewildered at my sudden change of plans, but she gives me a fierce hug. I feel
stupid for running away, but I just can't deal with this.

"It was so good to see you," I whisper.

"Please, don't let her run you off," she whispers back.

"I have to go. I'm sorry. I'll call you," I tell her.

"Okay."

"Bella . . ." Edward says, his whisper an near hiss, "What's wrong?"

"Edward," Kate replies soothingly, reaching out. "She's tired. Let her go. Your
friends are here; that's all that matters."

"Stay out of it," he growls at her.

"I'm going now," I say, mustering my strength to look him in the eye.

His expression is a combination of confusion and anger as his gaze darts between
the two of us. But I don't want to make a scene—not again.

"Goodbye, Edward," I say softly.

"There may be a great fire in our hearts, yet no one ever comes to warm himself
at it, and the passers-by see only a wisp of smoke."

-Vincent Van Gogh

From Chapter 16:

"Bella . . ." Edward says, his whisper an near hiss, "What's wrong?"

"Edward," Kate replies soothingly, reaching out. "She's tired. Let her go. Your
friends are here; that's all that matters."

"Stay out of it," he growls at her.

"I'm going now," I say, mustering my strength to look him in the eye.

His expression is a combination of confusion and anger as his gaze darts between
the two of us. But I don't want to make a scene—not again.

"Goodbye, Edward," I say softly.

Chapter 17: October 22, 2010

Suddenly Edward's expression changes to fear . . . he thinks I mean forever. I

shake my head—tonight's events have utterly confused and bewildered me and I
don't know what to say.
I give him a pleading look before retreating, but before I can his hand clutches
my arm, guiding me away from the other two women. He grabs our coats on the
way out the door and I catch a confused glance from Rosalie that I can only meet
with a weak smile as Edward ushers us into the cool night air.

"Bella . . ." he growls lowly, holding me close once we're on the sidewalk. "Can
you please just tell me what's going on? What the hell happened?"

His proximity distracts me for a second, his clear green eyes dark and intense
with emotion. Even in the fresh air I can smell him-Edward. My thoughts flash
back to a younger him, a younger me standing in the hallway near his locker.

"Is that a picture of me?" I ask.

"Maybe," he says, the hinged door swinging shut with a clank.

"You have a picture of me in your locker?"

"Maybe."

He smells like home.

But then my thoughts return to Kate and her insinuations. She looked at me like
she knew everything. How could he have told her?

I shrug my arm out of his grasp, walking quickly—and perhaps cowardly—away.

"Goddamn it," he says, his long strides allowing him to overtake me easily
despite my best attempts to hurry. "Will you just wait a second? Jesus. You're
always running away from me." He grabs at my arm but I whirl around, my anger
returning.

"How could you, Edward? How could you tell that . . . girl about me?"

"What are you talking about? Tell her what?" He appears genuinely confused.

"She acted like she knew everything about us," I say, walking again. "She
basically just accused me of coming tonight to keep tabs on you."

"What? That's crazy."

"Well, that's what she said."

"Bella," he says again, walking in front of me in that annoying way he has. I wish
there was a snow bank for him to fall into. "The only thing I told her was that we
were old friends. If she says she knows anything else, she's lying."

"She seemed to know more."

He groans in frustration. "Kate's manipulative. Whatever she said was just to get
a rise out of you."

"Why are you friends with her then?" I ask with a huff, probably sounding as
catty and immature as Kate herself.

By now, we've reached the "El" stop—I place my hand on the railing and begin
climbing the steps to the platform. A crowd of boisterous teenagers jostle each
other around, the boys shouting out rude remarks, and the wind has picked up
quite a bit, encouraging me to wrap my coat more tightly around my body.
Edward still hasn't spoken. Finally, I glimpse at his profile: jaw clenched, conflict
plainly written on his face.

"I think we should go someplace to talk," he says.

"What do you want to talk about?" I ask stubbornly, no longer sure what my
reaction to him should be.

"Not here, please. I want to tell you about Kate." Oh, I don't want to hear this.
Not at all.

"You don't have to tell—"

"I do," he says, his voice serious. "Give me a chance to explain to you. The truth.
My place is nearby. Will you come over for a little?"

Edward's house is about ten minutes from the "El" stop, and we walk there
mostly in silence. I can tell he's thinking, mulling things around in his head, and
so am I. The anger I'd felt just a little while ago dissipates as I try and keep up
with Edward's lilting steps. He leads me down a quiet street. Soon, I find myself
standing in front of a beautiful three-story brownstone—from the lights shining
out through the darkness I can make out wrought iron filigree decorating the
upper story windows. Edward jostles with the keys in his pocket as I wait on the
short, squat landing behind him.

"This is all yours?" I ask in disbelief as we finally enter and Edward flips on the
light. The place is huge. Though the exterior is surely turn-of-the century, inside
is a modern wooden interior, decorated by a couple of tastefully placed Persian
rugs. The walls are a creamy off-white and I suspect a couple of the original
rooms have been gutted and extended to create a wide-open space for the living
room to the left of the entryway. An L-shaped leather sofa and imposing flat
screen TV feature prominently, and the room incorporates other masculine
elements—some modern paintings, a steamer-trunk side bar, filled with
numerous unknown bottles. Straight ahead, I think I detect the kitchen, but it's
too dark to tell for sure. The stairway to the other floors rises to the right.

I turn to look at Edward—nothing about this place reminds me of him.

"Emmett pays a good portion of the rent," Edward confesses sheepishly. "And
Jasper, too. They did the decorating."

"Oh."

"They have real jobs. And Emmett—lets just say his paycheck is . . . substantial."

"Must be," I murmur, glancing around.

"He also got a pretty sizable inheritance when his dad passed away last year."

"Poor Emmett," I whisper. "How did it happen?"

"Pancreatic cancer," Edward replies.

"That's horrible."

Edward nods curtly, looking away. But I feel his pain stab out, slicing through the
room like an invisible force, before he pulls it back inside.

"Well, do you want the grand tour?" he asks. I nod my head in assent to prolong
the inevitable.
Edward smiles tightly and takes my coat to stow in a hallway closet. He leads me
forward and confirms that the darkened room ahead is the kitchen. But it's a
kitchen right out of my dreams—all of the fixtures are beautiful muted steel. They
must have a cleaning woman, or something—it's far too nice in here for three
bachelors. But that's not the most impressive thing to me—a set of handcrafted
copper cookware dangles from an iron holder over the center island.

"Wow," I say, automatically moving towards them and reaching out my hand to
touch. "These must have cost a fortune." The comment isn't meant to be spoken
out loud, but Edward obviously hears me.

"They were a gift. From my parents when I graduated college. I told you I got
into cooking."

"They're beautiful."

Growing up in the neighborhood I did, I'd always been self-conscious being in

other people's homes. I couldn't help comparing them to mine— and
unfortunately that old habit hasn't worn off. It irritates me, to still feel somehow
unworthy of being in a space like this—like I'm in some sort of museum or
something and not a real home.

"Come," Edward says, holding out his hand. He leads me through the kitchen and
to a simply furnished dining room. A long, stately mahogany table sits flanked by
two equally fine benches—very old school, like a King's mead hall. There's a vase
of fresh cut flowers on the center of the table, placed on a deep red table runner.
I instantly think of Angela—it must be her doing. An unframed rectangular mirror
hangs lengthwise on the right hand wall, reflecting the entire room.

"A lot of this furniture—was Emmett's parent's. His mom moved out of their
house about six months ago, took an apartment in the city."

I run a finger over the smooth, varnished wood. "Funny, how things like that—
inheritances—work. You get these material objects, when all you really want is
the person back." Of course, nothing remained of our old house when it burned—
when Renee. . .

"Two days," Edward says softly.

I turn back to him, shocked. "Yes. You remembered?"

"Of course. Every year. I'm sorry, Bella."

"Thank you," I whisper—I can't believe it. He nods and for a minute we just stand
there, staring at each other, understanding passing between us. Somehow, the
fact that he remembers comforts me.

"The others will probably be home soon. Shall we?"

I follow Edward back out through the kitchen and up the stairs. The second floor,
he tells me, is Emmett's, and Jasper's when he's at home. Down the hallway,
there's another set of stairs leading up to the third floor.

Edward's room is a converted attic space and as soon as we enter I feel a wave of
relief. This—this I recognize. A smaller flat screen TV stand rests on a glass
stand, video game consoles tucked neatly away inside. There's a desk strewn
with papers, notebooks, pens, and closed laptop computer. I laugh when I
recognize a couple of Edward's old band posters, framed now, hanging on the far
side of the room. He notices the direction of my gaze and laughs along.
"Those are classics," I say.

"Yeah. My mom threatened to throw them away, so . . ." he drifts off and both of
us remain standing. Other than a desk chair, he doesn't have anyplace else to sit.
Except the bed, which, I notice with an unwanted blush, is huge.

Next to it along the wall a couple of bookcases teem over capacity—some rest on
their sides on top of their upright neighbors. And along the shelves are knick-
knacks, a couple of pictures. I allow myself to drift closer, my breath catching
when I spy a small, framed photo of toddler Edward holding a tiny baby Alice. He
looks overwhelmed, staring with wonder at the small bundle on his lap while she
regards the camera steadily.

And then another photo. Alice lays half-reclined, swaddled in a pink blanket on a
narrow hospital bed. She's bald and far too thin—but her eyes. Her eyes are
luminous, lit from within, a sort of resigned wisdom reflected in their depths. I
glance at Edward and he nods his assent before I pick it up, drinking in the
image. At the end of the bed a tired, teenaged Edward sits holding her small
white feet in his lap. A foot rub.

"That was two weeks before she died," he says hoarsely.

"She's beautiful," I whisper. There are some emotions that are too strong for
tears.

I stare at the photo for another minute, memorizing it, before gently restoring it
to its place on the shelf.

"I don't usually have company . . ." he says, glancing around.

"That's okay," I sit down on the edge of the bed a little self-consciously. I wonder
how many women Edward's entertained up here, but I push that unwelcome
thought away.. As if sensing my thoughts, Edward chuckles nervously, running
his hands through his hair.

"I met Kate and Garrett last year," he begins without warning, taking a seat on
the floor a couple feet away and leaning against the wall. "We were all first years,
and we started hanging out, doing readings together, you know. After a while I
realized they weren't happy. Garrett was sleeping around on Kate and she didn't
know about it. When she found out, she was pissed. They'd been together . . .
since high school."

He picks nervously at the light blue carpeting, stretching his long legs out in front
of him with a sigh.

"She'd been a good friend to me," he continues after a beat, "so she crashed on
our couch for a few days. Then Garrett called. He wanted her back, but he
wanted to see other people. I was totally surprised when she agreed. So, that's
how it was. She went out with a few other guys, but nothing serious. He dated a
little here and there," Edward pauses and glances at me, gauging my reaction. I
try to remain impassive.

"Anyway, I thought it was a little weird, but figured if that's what they both
wanted, it was fine." He pauses again, bending his knee and leaning forward. A
jittery, nervous energy radiates from his body.

"But then, this summer, Kate and I . . . I was drunk. It was fucking stupid, Bella.
Anyway, it happened, and I immediately regretted it. Garrett was pissed off and
Kate, well, it became pretty clear she wanted something more with me."
"Oh," I say, feeling sick. So they have been together—the thought makes my skin
crawl. Kate is just so . . . horrid. Was it here? On this bed? I almost make a move
to stand up but think better of it, willing myself to remain seated.

"Oh? That's all you have to say?" he asks.

"It's none of my business, Edward, who you sleep with," I reply, trying to control
the tremor in my voice. Talking about sex with Edward makes me
uncomfortable—I feel inexperienced and foolish. Jacob and I have done certain . .
. things . . . but we'd planned to wait till we were married, both of us for different
reasons.

Edward scoffs a little. "The way I see it, it is. If you're my friend. Friends tell each
other things, right?" His tone is more than a little accusatory and I realize my
selfishness. I should be able to hear these things, if he wants to share.

"I'm sorry. Go on."

"She broke things off with Garrett completely about a month ago, even though I
told her I wasn't interested. She's a friend. Nothing more."

"But she's not giving up?"

"Apparently she thinks I'll come around," he says darkly.

"Will you?"

"No. And to be honest, we haven't been hanging out much lately anyway. I asked
her to come tonight to keep the peace. I'm sorry for whatever she said to you.
But I swear to God, Bella, she doesn't know anything about you. At least not from
me."

I think about what he's said—it is true that Kate didn't actually give any concrete
details about what she knew. And of course Rosalie told me people have been
gossiping about us anyway. She could have heard something, or she could have
been bluffing. I know Edward's telling me the truth.

"People are talking about us," I tell him.

"What do you mean?"

"Like I said they would. On campus. Rosalie told me."

"Don't listen to everything Rosalie tells you. I know she's your friend, but I think
she's given you the wrong idea about me."

I raise my eyebrow, which seems to piss him off.

"I know what the department gossip is, Bella. I'm not stupid. And yeah, I have
gone out with a couple of people—so what? But if you think I'm some sort of man
whore, you're wrong."

"I don't think that."

"Don't you?"

"No . . . I—"

"Don't lie to me, Bella. I can see it in your face when you lie. It doesn't become
you."
I flush, looking away. He's right. I did believe Rosalie. But now I'm so confused. I
doubted Edward so quickly when Kate accosted me. Why? I'm looking for any
reason not to trust him . . . I still don't, do I?

"I'm sorry."

"I know we're still . . . trying to figure out stuff. But I think part of the problem is
you don't know me . . . not anymore. Or at least you think you don't. And I don't
know what's okay with you . . . where the boundary is, what's okay to tell people
and what's not."

"About?"

"Don't be obtuse, Bella. About who you are in my life," he says with some
exasperation.

"I don't know . . ."

"I know you don't trust me . . . not yet. It's frustrating, but I understand. Just
give me a chance, please. I think there are some things we need to talk about."

"You're right."

"Can I ask something?"

"Yeah."

His voice is quiet and serious. "Why haven't you tried to find out about the
letters?"

I expected the question, but my answer seems inadequate.

"I'm afraid . . ."

"Of what?"

"Knowing. Having it confirmed that Billy or Jacob . . . betrayed me like that. What
if they knew about Alice? That she was sick? I could have . . . said goodbye." I
choke out the last words, glancing again at the photo of Alice and Edward in the
hospital. He cradles her feet so gently, the delicate veins visible through
translucent skin.

Edward considers me stoically. "Do you think it's better, not knowing?" He stands
and comes to sit next to me on the bed, tentatively placing his hand on my left
knee. The gesture elicits a warm, slow burn. I stare at his hand.

"I don't know."

"Well," he says, "I'll be honest and tell you how that makes me feel. Like you
don't care. I know you lost something. But I lost something too. When Alice was
dying, writing to you was the only thing that kept me together . . . I imagined
you'd get those letters and maybe . . . help me."

"Oh Edward," I whisper.

"I thought you might forgive me for abandoning you. But then, she was so sick. I
had no one else to talk to. You never replied and I . . . You think you're the only
one that was alone?"
"I don't think that. I'm sorry . . . I do care!" I say vehemently, the words just
spilling out. "I care so much! I'm so sorry about what you must have went
through, Edward. Every day I was in the hospital, I thought about you. About
Alice. I know how much those letters mean to you. They mean the same thing to
me! But it's just not something I can do over the phone—I've tried!" Now I'm
crying and I don't know what to say; I feel the weight of his words and know he's
right. I've been holding back so much—he's been trying to reach out to me, but
I'm afraid. A part of my mind screams for Jacob-for him, here, to anchor me.

"Please don't cry," he says, scooting a little closer. I want to lean into him but I
don't . . . I don't because I want it too much. Instead, I wrap my arms around my
body, rubbing my hands up and down. I feel so cold.

"I'm so sorry for making you feel like that," I whisper. "I can't do it over the
phone. But I promise. I swear to you I will—when I go home."

"You're going to Forks for Christmas?" he asks softly.

I nod abruptly, the tears still spilling. I hate how confused I am, how strange I
feel right now with him sitting beside me.

Edward groans dejectedly. "Please forgive me. I'm a fucking hypocrite anyway."
He sighs when he sees my confused expression.

"Back when you went away, I could have called you. But I didn't because I was
too fucking afraid. I thought you'd just hang up on me and that would be that. So
I started writing. But once I started and you didn't reply . . . then I really couldn't
call. And the days went by." With a quick movement, he stands and disappears
into the adjoining bathroom, returning moments later with a wad of toilet paper.

"It's all I have," he says. "Like I said. Not many visitors."

"Thank you." I take it gratefully, wiping my face.

"But Bella, there's not one day I don't regret not picking up the phone."

My thoughts immediately flash to Angela—what she'd said about trying to call and
not getting through. I'd never received any phone calls—just another
confirmation that my old life, my old friends, had been purposefully kept from
me. Could Billy have done such a thing? And why? It's becoming increasingly
plain that even if Edward had tried to call, I'd never have gotten the message.
But I just nod. I understand his regret.

"I never told you . . . but I got arrested."

"What?"

"Well, not exactly arrested. 'Taken into custody,' is more like it. I got it in my
head that I'd just drive to see you."

"Are you kidding?" I ask, surprised.

"No," he laughs mirthlessly, "I stole my mother's car and got picked up on the
Illinois border. It was just about two months after you left. My dad put me under
lock and key."

"I was so lonely, then," I whisper. "I'm not saying this to make you feel bad. But
it hurt. A lot. The operations. I have . . . horrible scars." Edward inhales sharply
and I look away. I don't want to see the pity in his face. "But you don't want to
hear about that."
"That's not true. I do."

"You never asked."

"I didn't know if you wanted to talk about it. I didn't want to make you
uncomfortable," he says. But I know there's more to it. "Bella . . ." he reaches
out, his light touch barely grazing my arm. "You're beautiful."

"You haven't seen."

"I don't need to see to know that."

"Don't. Please," I choke. "Don't feel sorry for me."

"I'm a bastard," he whispers to himself. I don't know what he's talking about . . .
but when I look up I see his face contorted with guilt.

"It's not your fault, Edward."

"I—"

"No. It's not."

He sighs, scrubbing his hands over his face. "I want to know about what
happened. If you want to tell me. I'll listen to anything you have to say."

The prospect of telling him about what my life was like after the fire—it seems too
much of a burden. He's suffering too, and I'm afraid right now he'll take anything
I say as more blame.

"I do want to tell you. But not tonight."

"It has been a little . . . rough."

"Yeah," I sigh in agreement, stifling a yawn. "This was supposed to be your night.
And I had to go and ruin it."

"No, Kate ruined it by being a bitch."

"Yeah, but I listened to her," I reply with a wry grin.

"Can I ask you what you thought? About the reading?"

"I loved it."

"Really?"

"Yes, really. I mean, I liked both of them. But the second one . . . I loved it."

"What did you like about it?"

I think for a second, and while I do, Edward fluffs up a pillow and pats it, urging
me backwards towards the head of the bed.

"I can't stay, Edward,"

"I know. Just rest. You look exhausted."

"Okay." I comply shyly, leaning back against the pillow while he covers me with a
soft white throw.

"Now, tell me why you liked my stupid story."

"The writing was beautiful, that's one thing. I loved how understated the
emotions were—and it was so sad, but there was more to it than that . . . I know
you'll probably get annoyed, but I felt like it gave me a glimpse into your life . . .
what you were feeling when you were in Rome."

"Why would I get annoyed?" he asks, sitting back down near my feet.

"That day in class, you were talking about the authorial fallacy—how it's wrong to
assume a writer always incorporates their own life experiences into their work."

"Ahh," he says, remembering with a light chuckle. "Well, maybe I just said that to
throw you off my trail. I think it's impossible to write about something you have
no experience with, you know? I mean, at least a part of it—whether it's the
emotion, the action, something."

"That makes sense," I say, watching cautiously as Edward scoots over to the
other side of the bed, grabbing another pillow and reclining against it. I clear my
throat, suddenly incredibly aware of our proximity to one another—I should
definitely go. But I can't move—I'm frozen in position, watching the rise and fall
of his chest as he breathes.

"What else?" he asks.

"Umm . . ." I say, staring at the ceiling to get my bearings, "I could identify with
your protagonist. How he seemed stuck in limbo . . . too close to death. Did you .
. . feel that way?" Of course he did—how could he not have?

"Yes. That's not to say I didn't enjoy my time in Rome," he says wistfully. "But
yeah, I felt pretty disconnected—from a lot of things."

"The girl in the story. The dinner guest. Was she real?"

"I did meet someone—Maria," he says, crossing his arms in back of his head. "I
liked her quite a bit."

"What happened?" I ask.

"I realized I didn't love her," he says, turning on his side to face me. "Any more
questions?"

"Just one. Why lilacs?"

"Hmm?" he murmurs distractedly.

"In the story, the soldier leaves lilacs on the grave. Do they have any special
meaning?"

"Well, if I told you, it wouldn't be much of a mystery, would it?" he teases, his
hand reaching out to brush a strand of hair off my face. My face heats when he
lingers just a beat too long.

"Fine. Be that way," I whisper.

"I'm glad you liked it," he says, rolling over to his back again. "Actually . . . I'm
trying to get it published."

"Really? That's amazing, Edward. I'm sure some magazine will snap it up. Have
you had any luck?"

"Not yet. But persistence is the name of the game."

"Keep trying. I definitely think it's good enough."

For a while, we just lounge and talk. I forget that I should feel weird about laying
in Edward's bed—I forget about Kate, about my mom, Jacob, everything.

I'm sleepy and warm listening to the sound of his voice.

"Bella," Edward says, "I wanted to tell you something about Alice."

His statement rouses me and when I turn to face him with a worried expression,
he smiles. "Don't worry. It's something good."

"What is it?"

"She never believed it, even when I did. That you didn't want to talk to us
anymore. She never hated you."

"But her letters . . ."

"I'm not going to lie and say she wasn't hurt, but she always said there was a
reason. I thought, I don't know, it was wishful thinking or something. A couple of
days before she died . . . she said . . . someday, I'd find you again."

"Really?"

"Yes. And see? She was right."

"Girls blush, sometimes, because they are alive, half wishing they were dead to
save the shame. The sudden blush devours them, neck and brow; They have
drawn too near the fire of life, like gnats, and flare up bodily, wings and all. What
then? Who's sorry for a gnat or girl?"

-Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Chapter 18: October 22-24, 2010

My eyelids flutter open onto the hazy contours of an unfamiliar room. Where am
I? The soft red illumination of an alarm clock provides minimal light. Without
thinking, I snuggle backward into the source of the comforting heat behind me.
Heat?

Edward.

Memories of the night before come flooding back—we'd talked so late into the
night, I must have just fallen asleep in my clothes. Somehow during the night the
distance between us has dissolved, and he's now laying flush against my back,
wrapped in the same blanket he covered me with hours before. I notice his head
rests on his arm next to my pillow, his own probably abandoned on the other side
of the bed. And his other arm . . . is around me. My heart stutters in my chest,
rendering me fully awake. Move. I should move away. But I don't dare to stir lest
I wake him. And it feels nice . . . really nice. I know it's not good that it feels nice
but it does.
Once we started dating, Jacob used to sneak into my room sometimes when Billy
was asleep. I'd awake in the night with his body wrapped around mine, his
erection sandwiched between us. At first, it was an unspoken embarrassment,
both of us aware but not daring to acknowledge what was happening. But soon
we moved to touching, grinding onto each other needily.

I would never let him see me without my clothes in those moments, and Jacob
was adamant about not going "all the way," but on occasion he would sneak his
hand down my pajama bottoms, his fingers searching, trembling and unsure at
first and then, eventually, becoming more confident. Only rarely did he allow me
to do the same, but when he did I was surprised and pleased by how his body
reacted to my fumbling touches. He was the only man I'd ever seen in that way
and, while he was embarrassed of his pleasure, I found it fascinating.

Lying here, I try to remember what Edward's lips felt like on mine. Yes, we were
children then. I now understand that I'd misread his desire for me as
discomfort—the way he'd pull away when things got too intense. I was so
innocent. I still am in many ways, but this at least, I know. He was protecting
me, who he considered much younger and more vulnerable, from himself.

But today, what would it be like?

Until now, I've stopped myself from indulging in visions of what might have
happened if the fire never did. If I never left Elgin and Edward and I had finished
growing up as a pair.

Would we have stayed together? Would we have wound up here, like this?

I am beset by images.

I see the two of us sharing an apartment like the couple in his first story—Edward
carrying boxes and cursing when he bashes his shin against a misplaced coffee
table. Me cleaning cobwebs out of long-forgotten corners. Laughing at the silly
belongings each of us has brought along to our new home—for him, old band
posters, for me, a collection of tickets to all the movies we've seen together.
Eating Chinese takeout on the floor then making love on a mattress with no
sheets, my body molded to his with no scars on either of us, body or mind.

Edward's warm breath on my hair sends chills through me as I imagine it . . .

allow myself to think of it, here in this dark cocoon, what his hands would feel like
if they drifted over me, soft and gentle, rough and demanding, what he would
look like in this new, older body if I could see all of him, if he were still mine.

I know that such is the stuff of fairytales—it doesn't happen like that in real life.
But could it have, with us? Would we have survived, or would we have drifted
apart, as most teenaged couples do?

But the fact remains the fire did happen—it did. And I've promised myself to
another man. A good man, who doesn't deserve this, whatever he may have
done.

I feel strangely calm.

Moving very slowly, I turn on my side to regard Edward. He's sound asleep,
probably not even aware of his position—he's still fully clothed and no doubt
unconsciously sought my warmth in the night. But his face is so peaceful, like a
child, I think as the early morning light begins to filter in through the windows of
his attic space. His eyelashes softly fringe dark circles I hadn't noticed until now.
As I study him, his eyes begin to move under closed lids. Even in sleep, he
doesn't rest. He's breathtaking.

What does he dream about?

I never knew, even when we were young and he was my most trusted confidant,
he'd grow into such an honest, caring, loyal man. He doesn't hold anything back
and he needs someone to do the same for him—someone who can give them her
whole heart without any reservations. Not Kate. Someone as sweet and good and
kind as he is. My heart fills with longing for him to be happy. But that longing is
followed by a swell of bitterness and resentment toward whomever that girl might
be. How hypocritical and unfair of me. Still, I allow myself the indulgence. Just
this once.

It's time for me to leave before he wakes and feels guilty or awkward about this
moment. I'd rather keep it perfect.

And so carefully, so carefully, I slide myself out from under his arm and down
onto the floor, trying not to make too much noise in the process. He doesn't stir,
and his eyes return to their resting state—that deep, fathomless sleep that only
comes after dreams. I draw the blanket up around him and look down his face,
impulsively leaning down to kiss his cheek, just where smoothness meets
stubble. He smells like sleep and blankets and unwashed hair.

You'll always be my friend, I silently promise him.

A certain resigned melancholy settles over me as I walk through the early

morning Chicago streets. I memorize everything—the way the mist rises and
settles in the alleys, swirls around streetlights. A scraggly looking tomcat
appears, giving me a skeptical, wary look before returning to his hunt. It's cold
but not mind-numbingly so, and I take my time, stopping for a cup of coffee at a
bakery just opening for business. The smell of warm bread assaults me as I
enter, arousing my hunger, so I buy a croissant as well. In Rome, Edward says,
they're called cornetti—a favorite breakfast, usually served with either chocolate
or jam. I smile thinking of him in a café with his espresso and morning pastry.

Even though I must've only slept a few hours, I feel like walking. So I do,
drinking my coffee and eating as I weave through neighborhoods I don't know,
watching as the city wakes up. Weekends in Chicago are the best. I love seeing
people begin their routines—jogging or bicycling, getting their morning papers,
walking their dogs. And later, there will be brunch—waffles and omelets and
granola with yogurt and honey. This morning seems particularly busy. People
must sense that the relatively pleasant weather will only hold for so long, and
soon winter will bring the cold, driving wind Chicago is famous for.

Finally, after I've finished my coffee, I seek out an "El" stop to wait for the train.
My mind is peaceful, but just barely staving off the sadness that always haunts
me this time of year. I don't want to be sad anymore. It feels tiresome and self-
indulgent, when I know I'm one of the lucky ones. I've survived. I'm healthy. I
have people in my life that love me, and people that I love. I'm pursuing a degree
in a subject that I'm passionate about, on a pathway to a fulfilling career.

But what I wouldn't give if I could just tell my mother . . . just once . . . that I
loved her.

I was so fragile then—the year after the fire—and Billy and Jake were extremely
protective of me. In a very short time, I came to depend on them for everything.
When I was strong enough, Billy finally told me about how the fire had started: a
careless cigarette in her littered bedroom. I was so angry, but I was also relieved.
For there'd been a horrible dread festering somewhere in my mind that whispered
she'd done it on purpose for what I'd said to her, for being an ungrateful child. Of
course my memory of her trying to save me completely contradicted this fear.
But still, it was a relief to hear. It allowed me to mourn her with my whole heart,
but it didn't erase my grief or my guilt.

Only Jacob knew the depths of those feelings. I remember the day I told him
about what I'd said to my mom the day before she died. It was my sixteenth
birthday, and the two of us were walking down on our beach, down at La Push.
I'd just recently learned to walk again without my cane, but still I leaned on Jacob
for support, fearful of slipping on the wet rocks. He was always so strong.

"Bella," he'd told me, "your mom knew you loved her. And she loved you."

"How can you be so sure?"

"From the things you've said. But also because I've seen parents and kids fight
before. You know Seth?" Seth Clearwater was a good friend of Jacob's. He'd been
in and out of juvenile detention recently—he was a good kid at heart, but
troubled.

"Yeah."

"Well, one day I was going over there and I heard him fighting with his mom
through the door. I didn't want to go in, but I didn't know what to do, so I just
stood there for a second."

"And?"

"Well, Seth was saying something about his parents not caring or giving a damn,
and that's why they let him go to juvie. And Sue said that she didn't know how to
help him, or what to do. But that whatever Seth did, he'd always be her son.
She'd always love him, no matter what."

"Do you think that's true?"

"I know it is."

I didn't know whether to believe him, but his words were my only comfort. Now,
I'm doubting my trust in him, and I hate it. These missing letters weigh so
heavily on my heart, part of me wants to just call and be done with it. This
strange limbo I'm in is horrible, especially when I talk to Jacob. But I know what I
told Edward was true. It's not something I can do on the phone. But today I
wonder if that's the only reason.

I hop off the train a couple blocks from my house and am almost there when my
cell vibrates in my pocket. It's a text from Edward.

Where'd you go?

Lots of work. I didn't want to wake you. I reply quickly.

Oh. I wanted to take you to breakfast. His reply makes me smile.

Always trying to get me to eat.

Sorry. Rain check? The contrition in his voice is almost audible.

Definitely.
I'm not expecting the next message.

My pillow smells good. Like your perfume.

I'm not wearing any.

Well, then I guess it smells like you.

I re-stow my phone, fiddling in my bag for my keys with shaky hands. A few
minutes later, just as I enter my apartment, there's another message.

Was that weird?

Never have I had such a fraught internal debate over what to reply. If I say 'yes,'
or even 'a little,' he'll feel bad. I decide to go with just a simple "No," even
though it's a complete and total lie.

Okay. Don't mind me. I'm an idiot.

No you're not.

We could continue on like this, but I decide it's high time I took a shower. I
quickly discard last night's clothes and hop under the warm water, feeling
simultaneously light and heavy. Edward's text . . . his arm around me this
morning . . . I can't stop thinking about it. Here under the spray of the shower
and bright light of the bathroom, my fantasy seems more like a betrayal, and I
feel the horrible sting of guilt.

I lather my hair, surprised at how long it's grown, preparing myself for my
Saturday call from Jacob. He'll want to talk about Renee, knowing the anniversary
is tomorrow. And I've just spent the night in another man's bed, conjuring up a
life with him instead. Doubting Jacob's honesty—imagining his betrayal.

Confused tears mingle with angry ones in the water—my weakness disgusts me.
How easily I devolve into this crying, sniveling mess. My one comfort is that there
are no witnesses this time.

Now out of my shower, I notice two missed calls—Jacob and Rosalie. Emmett had
dubbed her Rose. I like it, and I wonder how she feels about it.

Though I'm eager to hear how her night went after I left, I dial Jacob back
immediately. He picks up on the first ring.

"Isabella?"

"Hey Jake."

"I'm so glad to hear your voice," he says.

"Me too," I say, an awkward pause ensuing. I haven't been able to negotiate this
terrain—how to talk to him like nothing's wrong when . . . everything is.

"Where were you last night?" he asks. "I called pretty late and I didn't get any
answer."

"Um . . . I was with Rose," I lie. "We went out. A couple of people from our class
were giving a reading." What a horrible person I am.

"Oh. I guess that's good. Did you have fun?"

"Yeah. It was pretty good. I'm a little tired today, though."

"I hope you didn't get too crazy," he laughs nervously. "You're being careful,
right?"

"Of course," I reply. "I just had a beer."

"Seems like you're drinking a lot lately. You were never like that here, at home."

"I'm not drinking a lot," I say defensively. "And anyway, it's graduate school.
That's how functions are. Everyone has a glass of wine or a beer or two."

"Yeah, I guess I wouldn't know," he says bitterly.

"What? What's that supposed to mean?"

"You just haven't been very . . . I don't know . . . present lately."

I sit down on the edge of the bed, my hands sweaty and nervously wiping at my
yoga pants. He's right, of course. I just didn't know he'd noticed.

"I'm sorry. I have a lot of things on my mind."

"That's what you always say. And you know, I was looking at my call history . . .
you never call me."

"I'm sorry, Jacob. I'll be better about the phone thing." My heart is thrumming in
my chest, fearful that my guilt, like an alive and slithering thing, will cross the
expanses between us.

"That would be nice. But it's weird, Isabella. Even when we are on the phone, it's
like you don't want to talk to me, like you have something better to do."

"That's not true."

"It might not be. I hope it's not. But I'm just telling you what its felt like to me,
okay? I mean, you're my fiancé. We're supposed to be planning our wedding."

"I told you, I'd rather do it over break. When we're together."

"Have you bought your ticket yet?"

"Um . . . no, not yet."

"Jesus, Isabella," he says with exasperation. "The flights are just getting more
expensive the longer you wait." I had completely forgotten about my ticket. The
last time we'd spoken a few days before, I'd promised to buy it straight away.

"I know. I was planning on doing it today."

"Do you want to come home?" he asks. His voice sounds so bleak, it hurts my
heart.

"Of course I do," I tell him.

He sighs deeply. "Okay."

We speak for another half hour, our conversation turning to lighter topics, but still
the early part of our conversation lingers in my mind. While we're on the phone, I
finally purchase my plane ticket for December 15th, the day after my essay for
Peggy's class is due. This seems to appease him to some extent . . . he brightens
quite a bit, sounding more like my Jacob. I can tell the hurt isn't completely
erased though . . . he's so bad at keeping things to himself.
Just as we're hanging up, he finally brings up Renee.

"So, do you want me to call tomorrow, or do you want to be left alone?" he asks
softly.

It varies year to year. Some years I don't want to speak to anyone, other years I
need to surround myself with people. This year seems like one of the former, but
in the context of our conversation, I decide to go with the latter.

"Okay. Well, I'll talk to you tomorrow then."

"Okay."

When we hang up, I realize it's the first time neither of us has said, "I love you."

I text him immediately and he responds a minute later, but it still feels strange. I
go about the rest of my day feeling hollow.

I finish up the work for my classes, gratefully losing myself in the beauty of
Wordsworth's poetry.

I listen when Rosalie describes her night—she and Emmett hit it off, just as I
suspected they had, and they plan to go on a "real date" in a couple of days. I
can tell how excited she is, and I'm pleased for her—she needs a good guy like
Em in her life. She asks me about my encounter with Kate and Edward, but I
gloss over it. If she suspects something more, she's good enough not to pressure
me. And if she's hurt when I tell her I don't feel like having dinner that evening,
she doesn't show it. Just for good measure, I tell her about the anniversary.

"Oh Bella," she says. "Do you want some company tomorrow?"

I tell her no, but in my heart there's only one person I want to see.

~QF~

On the day of my mother's death, I take a long walk down by the water. Jacob
calls, as promised, and I speak to him and Billy, but something doesn't feel right.
Their potential deception seems more brutal today, more heinous. What if they
knew about Alice?

I never got to say goodbye.

It's so tiresome, these warring impulses—trust and doubt, anger and love. I don't
know how to reconcile them, and I'm sick of thinking by the time I approach my
apartment.

From a distance, I'm utterly surprised by the sight of Edward standing by my

building's gate. We haven't spoken since our text messages the day before. He's
leaning against the iron gate, busily scribbling in a small notebook with his hair in
his eyes, so he doesn't notice me at first.

"Edward?"

At the sound of my voice his snaps up, a little smile playing on his lips. The sky is
darkening, and even wearing his brown leather bomber jacket his face is ruddy
with cold. He tucks the book into the inside pocket and steps forward hesitantly.

"What are you doing here?" I ask him, gladness blossoming under my initial
confusion.
"Hey. Uh. I was waiting for you." He grabs me up into an embrace, and I'm
engulfed by the scent of leather and spicy aftershave. His face is smooth on my
cheek, and it feels so good . . . just to be hugging him. I'm warm and safe
despite the chilly air.

"Did you call?" I murmur.

"No. I . . . actually I got here just as you were leaving. I saw you walking off and
I thought I'd wait."

"But I've been gone for nearly two hours," I say incredulously after he releases
me.

"I thought . . . you might want to be alone . . . for awhile." He looks sheepish . . .
nervous. Like he's afraid I still don't want him here.

"That's . . . nice of you, Edward. But you should have called. It's cold out here."

He shrugs it off. "I'm fine."

"Oh, tough guy."

"You know it," he says with a wink. "So do you?"

"Do I what?"

"Want to be alone."

"No. I've had enough of that. You want to come up?"

"Actually, I've been thinking . . ."

"Don't hurt yourself," I say, indulging in one of our old jokes.

"How do you feel about bowling on a scale of one to ten?"

"Are we talking playing, or just the concept in general?"

Edward rolls his eyes. "Playing, smartass."

"I don't know . . . maybe like a five?"

"Five's good enough for me. Come on," he says, tugging on my arm.

"But . . ."

"But what?"

"Um . . ."

"Give me one good reason you shouldn't go bowling with me right now."

I shrug, giving up. Edward answers with a vindicatory grin and steps out into the
street to hail a cab. The way he uses them left and right, you'd think he was
made of money.

Once we're settled in the backseat, I become hyper-aware of Edward's wide-

legged straddle. His knee brushes against mine and I'm suddenly shy,
remembering the other night.

"What?" he asks.
"Hmm?"

"You have a funny look on your face."

"Do I?" I ask, flushing and looking out the window.

"Are you still weirded out by my text message?"

"No. I wasn't weirded out."

"You lie like a dog, Bella Swan."

"I'm not lying," I grumble.

For a little while, Edward is quiet, and when I look back at him he's watching me
carefully.

"Where did you go today?" he asks quietly.

"Just down the lake," I reply.

"It's nice down there this time of year."

I agree with a murmur. Out of all of the places in Chicago, that's the place that
reminds me of my mother. Of course, we'd gone there together once when I was
a child. But it's more than that.

"I always feel closest to her near the water," I say, looking at my hands. "I don't
know why. Or . . . I don't know. Maybe I do. There was this picture of her that I
loved. She was next to a lake, in Forks. But the picture was . . . lost. When I
moved there . . . I finally got to see it."

"That must have been special," he replies.

"It was. It was neat . . . visiting a place where she lived before I knew her."

"What's the name of the lake?"

"It's more a pond than a lake, actually. I don't know that it has an official name.
But the Quileutes call it Two Moon. 'Cause of the way the moon reflects on the
water."

"Billy . . . and Jacob. They're Quileute?"

I nod, glancing away. "Yes. We used to go trout fishing there." I smile a little at
the memory. How I used to look forward to those trips.

"Edward?"

"Yeah?"

"When did . . . Alice die?"

"March 21st."

"The first day of spring," I muse aloud.

He nods, swallowing deeply. "By then we were back home, in Elgin. She died at
home. It's what she wanted."
His hand skitters unmoored on the fake leather seat of the cab. I allow mine to
drift over to where our fingers are just grazing each other. I can't bring myself to
go the whole way, but I have such a fierce need to touch him.

"Hey, did you know Alice liked Jasper?" Edward asks, grasping my hand firmly
and threading our fingers together. My heart stops, then beats again in a staccato
rhythm as he pulls it onto his lap, forcing me a little closer to him on the seat.

"She told you that!" I exclaim with an exhalation, trying to calm my stupid heart.
"I can't believe it. She always denied it to me, but I knew she was a liar."

Edward grins, tracing his finger over the back of my hand absentmindedly.

"Yeah, well, when she came back to Elgin, just a couple of weeks before she died,
she confessed to me. She . . ." he laughs, shaking his head, "she played the
whole 'last request' angle. She said she didn't want to die without ever being
kissed."

"Oh my . . . did Jasper?"

"He kissed her."

"He did?"

"Yup."

"Oh, Alice," I murmur. So she got her kiss. It's so horribly sad and beautiful at
the same time.

"And you know what's funny?" he asks, not waiting for me to respond. "I think
Jasper . . . if Alice was older. I think he might have liked her too."

"Did he tell you that?"

"Not in so many words. I think he thought I'd probably kick his ass."

"You would have."

"Yeah, I know."

"But still."

"But still," he echoes. We both turn our heads at the same time, and I see him. I
really see him. Our faces are so close together I . . . His green eyes crinkle a little
at the sides as he smiles, glancing down, and I realize with some embarrassment
that I'm squeezing his hand too tightly.

"Sorry," I say, releasing him.

I don't have much time to be self-conscious, because we've pulled up at the

bowling alley. Edward pays and helps me out of the car. For the rest of the night,
there's no more talk of dead loved ones, of missing time. Instead, we lose
ourselves in the game.

I haven't bowled much in my life, but even I'm better than Edward. He's terrible,
but he makes a show of it, cursing at errant gutter balls and doing silly victory
dances when he so much as knocks down one pin. Truth be told, neither of us
fares very well, and after two pretty dismal games, we adjourn to the cheesy
bowling alley bar for pizza and a pitcher of beer.
He tells me funny stories, and even though I'm onto him—I know exactly what
he's trying to take my mind off of—it actually works. He asks if it's okay with me
for him to tell Esme and Carlisle that I'm here, and I agree. It would be nice to
see them after all these years, if they want to see me. He grins, certain Esme
especially will be thrilled.

By the time we pay our check and make our way outside, I'm pretty sure that
this day has gone from one of the worst to one of the best of my life.

"Love is the Fire of Life; it either consumes or purifies."

Chapter 19: October 31, 2010

My mother stands with her back to me. We're high up on a rocky cliff looking
down at the sound below. The water hurtles against craggy rocks, frothing and
foaming, but I only hear the howl of the wind.

Why are we here? All I see is the wide expanse of stormy grey-green water. A
couple of gulls wheeling on gusts of air.

"Mom?" I call, barely able to hear my own voice.

"It's powerful," she says. Her eyes are focused on the water and rocks below.

"What do you mean?"

"If you fall . . ." she says, "there's no way back up." She gestures downwards.
No. She can't mean to jump?

"It will hurt."

"Perhaps."

She turns to me, a small, enigmatic smile playing over her lips.

"But it will be worth it."

Before I can stop her, she's gone. Gone, over the edge.

~QF~

"I don't do Halloween parties," I protest. All week long, Edward's been harassing
me to go with him to this stupid party at Riley's house, and all week long I've
been deflecting. But he hasn't given up and I've run out of excuses. Rosalie's
decided to forsake all Halloween festivities to go out with Emmett and I don't
have any other plans.

"Neither do I," Edward replies on the end of the line.

"That doesn't make any sense. Why are you trying to get me to go then?"

"Because, this is the only time I'll ever get to see you dressed up as a literary
character."
"Uhhhggghh," I sigh. Riley apparently thought it would be and ironic to throw a
costume party with a literary theme, since we're English graduate students and
that's what's expected of us. So he's attempting to thwart that expectation by
doing exactly what's expected. I'm unconvinced.

"Please, Bella. I don't want to go alone." Since when does he care about doing
things by himself? I smell a rat.

"Then don't go," I reply stubbornly.

"You know you want to come."

"I don't. I really don't."

"We won't stay for long."

"I don't have anything to wear."

"I'll be by in an hour to go costume shopping. See you then!" he replies, hanging

up before I can protest again.

True to his word, an hour later Edward arrives at my apartment wearing a

ridiculous-looking mustache. It's crookedly attached under his nose and I laugh,
gesturing to his face.

"What the heck is that?"

"My Edgar Allen Poe costume," he says with mock-indignation as I skeptically

regard his holey t-shirt, bomber jacket, and jeans.

"Huh?"

"This is only part of my costume, Bella." He swings his bag around and shakes it
at me. "The rest is in here."

"Ahh. Well, I was going to say that's pretty much the saddest costume I've ever
seen."

"Hold off on your judgment," he replies with a laugh. "We haven't picked yours up
yet."

An hour and a half later, we return to my apartment with a pair of black,

feathered wings. After we'd struck out several times at second-hand stores, we'd
finally gone to a cheesy costume shop. Though the selection was pretty picked-
over, Edward had spied the wings and in a burst of inspiration suggested I dress
as the raven from Poe's famous poem. I'd been hesitant at first since it seemed
too much like a "couples" costume. I'm already uncomfortable enough with the
gossip about us.

But the wings are pretty cool—dark, shiny, smooth. The price was right, too,
since I already own black jeans and a mock turtleneck to make up the rest of the
costume.

Edward could sense my reticence, but he didn't pressure me. Finally, I decided to
go for it. Why should I let stupid people influence me? They can think what they
like.

We order Indian takeout and share a bottle of sweet white wine before I hop in
the shower.
For some reason, my excitement about the party increases as I get ready . . . all
week long I hadn't wanted to go. Parties make me uncomfortable—at least they
used to. In college, sometimes I'd tag along with a roommate or two, but
generally I stayed in my room on the weekends to study. Or I went home to visit.
It rarely bothered me. Or at least, I didn't allow it to. I did sometimes envy how
easy it seemed for the other girls . . . to get ready, to meet boys, even go home
with them—though I'd never have done that. To have fun.

But this year . . . it seems easier. I can't account for the difference . . . I like
getting to know people in the department.

Putting on my costume in the steamy bathroom proves difficult, but finally I

wriggle myself into the jeans—they fit a little tighter than I remember, but luckily
they button. The shirt comes next, and I look in the mirror. The dark clothes
make me look too pale.

I definitely need something else.

Turning to my mediocre makeup supply, I fish out some black eyeliner and
smudge it around my eyes. I apply a couple of thick coats of mascara and search
for lipstick. From the bottom of my bag I excavate an ancient tube that I don't
recognize. It's deep red, and it's not mine—probably one of my old college
roommate's.

It's ancient and smells a little funky, but beggars can't be choosers, I decide,
smearing some on my lips. It's thick and cakey, so I have to apply some
chapstick and rub my lips together to make the color uniform, but when I'm
finished, I barely recognize the girl in the mirror. I decide to leave my hair down;
it falls in long, thick waves around my shoulders.

"Bella?" Edward knocks on the door. "Rosalie's on the phone. Sorry. I answered
for you."

Nothing prepares me for how handsome he looks. The cell extended in his hand
momentarily forgotten, I stare.

He's wearing a black suit, a high-collared white shirt and a black necktie. Without
the mustache on, or the equally silly-looking wig, he looks like he just stepped
out of the 19th Century. Only taller. Much taller. His eyes widen and I wonder if I
look weird.

"What?" I mouth silently, bringing the phone to my ear.

He shrugs and grins, looking bashful.

"Bella?" Rosalie says.

"Hi. You getting ready for your date?"

"Um . . . Edward's at your place?"

"Yeah."

"He said you guys were going to Riley's." She sounds surprised . . . and why
shouldn't she? I'd been adamantly "not going" all week.

"Yeah."

"Kate will probably be there."

"Yeah." I hate being reminded of this—the last time I saw her was such a
disaster.

"Can you say anything but yeah?"

"No."

"Oh, I get it. Your company."

"Exactly." I turn around and catch Edward watching me before he looks away.
Sneaky.

"Well, I want to hear all about it tomorrow."

"Most definitely." I pause, deflecting to a safer topic, "So . . . your date?"

Rosalie lets out a great gust of air. "I'm a little nervous. Emmett sent a bouquet
of roses today . . ."

"Oh my!"

"Yeah. He's incredible. I just want this to go well, you know?" Anyway, that's
what I was calling for. I need your advice. Skirt or dress?"

"Hmm . . . where are you going again?"

"Di Violeta." It's one of the most expensive Italian restaurants in town, but
trendy.

"Skirt."

"Blue or purple?"

"Blue."

"You're so right. So right," she says breathlessly. I hear the sound of hangers
being dragged along the metal bar of her closet. "Okay. Got it."

"This might be the first time anyone's ever called me for fashion advice," I
confess.

"Speaking of fashion, what're you going as?"

"Tomorrow," I whisper.

"Okay, okay. Have a good time."

"You too."

I click the phone shut and glance back at Edward, now sitting on the couch with
his wig in his hands. He glances up at me again, this time his eyes traveling down
and then back up again. I don't have the wings on yet and I feel self-conscious
and very Goth, but the way he's looking at me . . . I . . . don't know . . .

"Wow," he says.

"What? The lipstick? Is it too much?" I ask, glancing down.

"No . . . um . . . You look hot."

Hot? Really?
"I do?" I ask uncertainly, turning to look in the mirror. With my black heels, jeans
and form-fitting shirt, makeup, I don't look like me, that's for sure. Objectively . .
. I guess I do look kind of hot.

"Yeah, you do." His voice resounds deeply, certainly.

He stands. Stalking over to me with my shimmering wings in his hands, his eyes
locked onto mine in the mirror, I almost don't recognize him. I hold my breath as
he helps me secure them to my back, fitting the straps around my arms. His firm
hands linger on my shoulders, a smile playing upon his full lips. I feel warm. Even
so, an inadvertent shiver runs down my spine. Suddenly it hits me. The way he's
looking at me is not friendly at all.

When he speaks, his voice resounds lowly in my ear. "You make a beautiful raven
. . . Isabella Sw—"

The half-spoken word hangs in the air, a silent wall between us.

Edward clenches his jaw and looks away, but not before I see the look of pain
there. It makes my stomach drop.

"Well, shall we?" he asks gruffly. And just like that, the spell is broken.

~QF~

Almost everyone from my classes is at Riley's, along with some other people I
recognize from the department. A few MFA's I don't recognize. People are already
getting pretty drunk and it's only nine o'clock.

Edward goes off to find us some drinks and I spy Rue, Alison and Marjorie on the
other side of the room. They've dressed up as characters from A Clockwork
Orange. Rue looks especially intimidating as Alex in her top hat and long
eyelashes.

"Whoa, Bella," she says. "You look amazing. Um . . . what are you?"

I turn around, displaying my wings. "Nevermore?" I offer as a second hint.

"That's great . . . the raven. Very clever."

"Thanks." I don't bother to mention it wasn't my idea.

"Did I see you come in with Edward?" Alison asks.

"Yeah," I reply dismissively, ignoring her knowing look. It doesn't seem to

dissuade her.

"You guys have become pretty tight, it seems."

"Oh shut up, Alison," Marjorie chimes in. "You're just as bad as Kate."

"What?" I ask.

"Kate . . . she's just been talking shit. Everyone knows she's full of it," Marjorie
says in a whisper.

I glance around nervously . . . so she's at the bottom of the rumors.

Out of the corner of my eye I spy Kate with another girl I don't know, probably an
MFA. She's wearing a 20's style flapper dress and holding a long, thin cigarette
holder. I instantly recognize the look she's going for—Daisy from The Great
Gatsby. Typical hipster, Rosalie would say.

Her eyes meet mine, cold and hard, before flickering away. I see where they
alight—on Edward. In a flash, she abandons her companion and saunters over to
where he stands talking to Riley. She slips his arm around his waist and leans her
head against his arm, and I'm instantly nauseous.

I stand trying to keep my cool while the topic of conversation changes to

something else . . . I can't help thinking it was a mistake to come here dressed
like this. How could I have been so stupid? I refuse to look back at Edward and
his "friend."

A couple of minutes later, Edward returns with a glass of red wine for me.

"You having fun?" he asks, diverting my attention from the girls. They're engaged
in a fierce political debate and don't seem to notice.

I nod in my best attempt to look convincing.

"Liar."

"No, I am . . . it's just . . ." My eyes drift automatically to where Kate stands with
Riley.

"Oh Kate? Fuck her."

The irony almost makes me laugh. Edward gives me a warning look, fiddling with
his fake facial hair. He looks so cute . . . the stupid thing has obviously lost its
adhesiveness.

"Bella . . . you're not going to let someone like her ruin your night, are you?" I
can't get the image of her arm around him out of my head . . . so possessive.

I shake my head half-heartedly and Edward chuckles.

"Come on. I want you to meet someone."

~QF~

For the next couple of hours, Edward never leaves my side. I forget about Kate
and start enjoying myself. Some people have spent an inordinate amount of time
on their costumes, basically defeating all attempts at irony. I get a text from
Rosalie at around midnight that makes me smile.

Just got home. Fantastic.

Edward watches me as I re-stow my phone, taking a measured sip of his beer.

"Rosalie," I explain.

"Home so soon?" he asks.

"I know what you're trying to say, Edward. But it seems like it went well. So
there." I resist the impulse to childishly stick my tongue out at him.

He sighs a little and shrugs. "Well, I guess that's good."

"Come on, she's not that bad. And anyway, she admitted she was wrong about
you."
"She did, did she?" I can hear the skepticism in his voice.

She hasn't—not in so many words, but I can tell her feelings have changed. I'd
told her, not in full detail, but just in general strokes, about the exaggeration of
Edward's reputation. Whether or not she believes me, she's kept her opinion to
herself. And she's stopped speaking badly of him.

"Just give her a chance. Emmett is."

"I will . . . for you," he says with a smile. His wig looks a little crooked and I
reach up to fix it. He bends down to give me better access.

"So, have you talked to your parents?" I ask the top of his head, smoothing the
waxy plastic hairs as much as possible. I want to rip the thing off.

"Not yet. They're actually in France right now. I forgot to tell you," he says,
straightening up. "My dad hasn't taken a vacation in forever, but they'll be back
in another week or so."

"Do you think they'll be upset?"

"Bella, why? They'll be fucking ecstatic."

"Yeah, but will they understand . . . about why . . ."

"Of course. And if not, I'll make them."

"Okay."

"Hey," he says, touching my arm lightly. "It'll be okay."

I don't know if it's the wine or something else, but for the first time in weeks I
feel free.

As the night draws on, dancing begins in earnest. Feeling a little tired and tipsy, I
find myself sitting with Edward and Rue on Riley's overstuffed sofa.

"So, you guys look pretty awesome," she says, gesturing to our costumes.
Edward had removed his wig about an hour ago, claiming it was too itchy. I
prefer his natural hair so much more, even though it interferes with the
"authenticity" of his costume.

"So whose idea was it?"

"His," I say, pointing at Edward. "I wasn't even going to come tonight."

"Well, I'm glad you did," Rue says sincerely. "You're the shit, Isabella."

"The shit?" I ask with a laugh. Edward nods in agreement and Rue stands up with
her hands on her broad hips.

"Yeah, girl. Hey, come on and dance." A bunch of the other girls from our class
are on out on the floor dancing to a song I don't recognize.

"Noooo," I protest, shaking my head.

"Aww, come on!"

I look at Edward indecisively and he gives me an encouraging nod. I mutter

something about poking someone's eye out, finally allowing Rue to drag me along
out to our classmates. Alison and Marjorie squeal at our approach, and soon
we've formed our own little circle on the side of the room. At first, none of the
guys dance, but eventually some begin to join in. Eventually, almost everyone at
the party is on the floor and it gets a little hard to move. I discard my
cumbersome wings and lose myself in the rhythm of the music: this kind of
dancing isn't so hard, after all. It's just swinging your hips to the beat. Of course
the three glasses of wine don't hurt either.

After a few songs, I feel familiar hands on my sides and I turn my head,
breathless from the exertion. From the looks of it, Edward's had a couple more
drinks since I last saw him. He looks happy and tired.

"Hey," he murmurs in my ear, resting his chin on my shoulder. "You're having

fun."

"A miracle, isn't it?" I ask with a nervous laugh, trying to disguise my desire to
lean back into him. Something about the way he holds me feels so safe. And
there's no sign of the stupid mustache.

"No, it's not. Don't be like that." The crowd surrounds us thickly, and I imagine
no one can see. We begin to sway together, his front just barely grazing my back.
His hands stay firmly in place and I can feel his breath tickle the side of my neck.
I shouldn't be doing this. But it's just for a few seconds. Friends dance together.
Don't they?

Almost immediately, Alison's quizzical glance shatters the illusion. I step forward,
gently removing his hands from my body, remembering where I am . . . who I
am.

"Sorry," he says softly. I smile and squeeze his hand to let him know we're okay.

"Well isn't this cozy?" comes a voice from beside me. I whirl around to find
myself face to face with a very drunk, very angry looking Kate.

"Kate," Edward says, his voice a warning.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Edward. Am I interrupting your little dance? I just wanted to
come to talk to Isabella here." She weaves a little on her high-heels, reaching out
to steady herself on Edward's arm. He shrugs her off. "You don't mind, do you?"

"Anything you can say to Bella, you can say to me," he says firmly. Maybe he's
not so drunk after all.

"Really? How protective of you. I would have thought that would be a job for her
fiancé.

"Funny, Isabella," she says, drawling out my name. "What does your fiancé think
about you being such good friends with Edward here? Yeah, that's right. I've seen
that ring on your hand. Don't think it's some big secret."

"That's none of your business," I say sharply, glancing around. This whole public
confrontation thing is getting out of control.

"Isn't it, though?" she says, nearly spitting her words. "Isn't it my business who
fucks around with my good friend here, especially if that person is engaged?" I
flinch back immediately from her suggestion. Luckily, the rest of the party is so
loud no one seems to be paying much attention to us. Even so, Edward guides
Kate over to the corner of the room while I trail behind. She stumbles a little and
Edward helps her to right herself, but I can see he's angry.
"I don't know what you're talking about," I say, recovering myself. "I have every
right—"

"Kate," Edward interrupts me. "You're drunk. Just leave it."

"So what if I am? At least I have the decency not to screw around behind
someone's back."

"No," I say, standing my ground. "You just do it in front of them."

"Why you little bitch!"

"Don't you dare talk to her like that," Edward snaps at her, his eyes livid now.
"You don't know what you're saying."

"Fine, Edward. I see how it is. But I can't believe you're choosing her," she glares
in my direction, "over me."

"There isn't any choice," he says coldly. His face remains impassive, but Kate
shrinks back like she's been slapped, her blue eyes clouding with tears. And I
know at that moment, she truly cares for him. I feel sorry for her. It's terrible to
love someone when they don't love you.

But Kate's quick on her feet: she doesn't stay silent for long. A second later her
eyes narrow through her tears. "That may well be. For you. But just ask yourself
something, Edward. Who will Bella choose? You or her fiancé?"

She turns on her heels, her drink in hand, and stalks away, leaving me
dumbfounded . . . confused . . . and so guilty. My eyes fill with tears of shame
and embarrassment.

"Let's go," Edward says softly, his hand at my waist. "Come on. I'll take you
home."

Once we're outside, I can't even speak or look at Edward. Kate's venomous words
keep replaying in my head. Edward keeps his hold as we begin to walk.

"Please, talk to me," he says.

"I . . . I just. I shouldn't have come."

"Yes, you should have. We were having a good time."

"But Kate—"

"Don't listen to her, Bella. God, you see how she is! Nothing she says is true."

"But it is Edward, it is! I'm going behind Jacob's back, don't you see? I haven't
told him anything. If he found out, it would kill him."

"Then tell him."

"I . . . can't. Not . . . yet." The stupid tears start falling and I let them this time,
no longer caring if he sees.

"Why? Because of the letters?" I nod, the realization dawning that I've left my
wings behind. I'm not going back to get them, that's for sure.

"Are there . . . any other reasons?" Edward asks quietly.

"I'm afraid . . . he won't want me to be . . . friends with you." Is that the right
answer? Is it true? Yes, I'm afraid . . .

I don't want to hurt anyone.

Edward sighs deeply, kicking at fallen leaves on the sidewalk. The moon shines
brightly above us, reflecting on pavement damp from a late night rain shower.
But nothing is clear anymore.

"But when you ask about the letters, what then?"

"I don't know," I say honestly. I haven't thought that far ahead, but I realize I
have to.

"Do you think it would be easier," he says, drawing out each word, "if we weren't
friends?"

"What! No!" I turn on him, blinking through my tears. "Please, don't say things
like that to me! Please! I . . . I just . . . found you again." My voice breaks a little
at the end and I realize I'm gripping Edward's shirt in my fists. He brushes my
hair back from my face and pulls me against him, his chin resting on the top of
my head. He's always comforting me. Who will comfort him? I wrap my arms
around his back and hug tightly.

"Do you think that it would be easier? Would it be better?" I whisper.

"I'll always be your friend, Bella. As long as you want me," he says softly.

He hasn't answered my question. But I know what that means . . . easier. Yes,
perhaps easier. But easier would break my heart.

I can only nod into his chest. "Always."

Some say the world will end in fire,

Some say in ice.

From what I've tasted of desire

I hold with those who favor fire.

But if I had to perish twice,

I think I know enough of hate

To say that for destruction ice

Is also great

And would suffice.

–Robert Frost

Chapter 20: November 6, 2010

"The 'rents are coming home tomorrow."

"Really? That's great," I murmur. "Did they have a good time?" The two of us are
lounging around in my apartment on a Saturday afternoon. He's reading
Coleridge for Peggy's class while I work on an annotated bibliography assignment
for theory.

"I think they did. My mom sent me an email yesterday with some pictures of
Paris. Shit made me jealous."

"Have you ever been?"

"Nope. But I'd love to go."

I sigh, wondering if I'll ever be able to afford Europe. "Me too."

"We'll go together one day," he affirms.

"We will?" I ask with a smile. "What are you, psychic?"

"Runs in the family."

I chuckle at him and shake my head, returning to the task at hand—wading

through about fifty articles on my subject.

Since Halloween, Edward and I have seen each other almost every day. Mostly,
we hang out at one of our apartments and work, since it's getting to that point in
the semester where both of us are swamped. With only five more weeks of class,
and two, twenty page seminar papers to write on top of my regular course
assignments, I've been dedicating at least five hours of each day to research and
reading.

The night before, I'd met up with Edward, Angela, and Jasper for dinner at
Edward's place. He prepared a simple meal of pasta and salad, apologizing for not
having had time to make anything fancier. But when I took a bite of the Bucatini
all'Amatriciana, the tang of the zesty tomato sauce and the Romano cheese was
shockingly good. Such a simple dish, but it was one of the best things I'd eaten
recently. Edward brushed off our compliments, though I could tell they secretly
pleased him.

It was nice, slowly getting to know Jasper and Angela again. They seem so well
suited, anticipating each other's needs wordlessly in that way some long-term
couples have. And I like the way they are with Edward. They're so supportive and
enthusiastic about his work—I can tell that Jasper thinks of him like a brother. He
needs good friends like them in his life.

Soon our conversation drifted to Emmett and Rosalie. Edward still isn't entirely at
ease with their new romantic attachment, but he's trying. I smiled a little to
myself, thinking of my friend off with Emmett again on another date.

A few days before the dinner with Jasper and Angela, Rosalie and I finally had a
chance to catch up regarding both of our weekends. She nearly glowed with
happiness as she relayed the details of her night with Emmett. He's smart, but
not in an overbearing or pretentious way—a relief after Finley. Not only that, he's
down to earth, funny, and (according to Rosalie) a helluva kisser. For the past
week, he's sent flowers every day. Roses for a Rose. She wanted to know
everything I remember about him. I told her I didn't remember him being so
romantic, that's for sure, but I did recall his gargantuan appetite. Rose laughed—
apparently this is something he still possesses.
I've never seen two people fall for each other so quickly. I just hope it works out
for her. Emmett's such a nice guy, there's no reason for it not to. And she
deserves it.

Rosalie was eager for details about the Halloween party, and I'd given her plenty,
including a brief synopsis of my confrontation with Kate.

"I underestimated Edward," she said, clearly surprised over his reaction. "He
really cares about you."

"I know."

"I asked you a question once about your feelings for him."

"Yeah."

"You said you didn't know."

"Rosie . . ."

"Don't make a mistake, Bella. That's all I'm going to say. Just don't make a
mistake."

Rose's comments replayed in my mind during dinner at Edward's. After we ate

and spent a couple of hours playing cards and drinking wine, I decided to call it a
night. Angela suggested coffee the following week and I agreed, excited to catch
up with her on our own. Then, Edward walked me to the "El" stop. When the train
pulled away, leaving him behind on the platform, I felt strange.

Don't make a mistake, Bella.

"I just love this. Listen to this," Edward says, interrupting my reverie.

I swivel around in my chair and smile as he scrambles up to a seated position, his

expression becoming serious as he begins to read:

"Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee,

Whether the summer clothe the general earth

With greenness, or the redbreast sit and sing

Betwixt the tufts of snow on the bare branch

Of mossy apple-tree, while the nigh thatch

Smokes in the sun-thaw; whether the eave-drops fall

Heard only in the trances of the blast,

Or if the secret ministry of frost

Shall hang them up in silent icicles,

Quietly shining to the quiet Moon."

"Frost at Midnight?' I ask with a smile. It's one of my favorite poems—Coleridge's

meditation on his lonely childhood and his hopes for his newborn son to have a
happy one.

"Right again. Damn, you're good."

"Well, I already did the reading this week."

"I'm sure you'd have known it anyway," he replies with a laugh, placing the book
on the floor and sinking back down onto his elbows.

"Yeah, well. Maybe," I confess, watching as he studies the page with a frown of
concentration.

"That phrase, 'the secret ministry of frost,' it's great," he murmurs.

"I love the last line."

"The repetition of 'quiet.' It's perfect," he agrees. With a swift movement, he rolls
over on his back and clasps his hands under his head.

"See," I tease, remembering our encounter at the bar weeks ago, "There's more
to Coleridge than 'Kubla Khan'." That night at The End seems so distant now—
he'd been such a stranger to me. But I hadn't seen him clearly. Not at all.

"You're right. You know, sometimes I wish I could've been a poet."

"Why can't you?"

"Writing chooses you."

"Okay, so then, why a poet?"

"Because . . . poetry just does something that fiction can't. The way a good poet
can appeal to all of the senses simultaneously—like in this passage. Sound, smell,
taste, touch, sight—and thought—all there at the same time. You're surrounded
by the moment. It's so hard to capture that in a short story, or even a novel."

"But fiction does that, too," I insist. "What about Proust? Joyce?"

"Yeah . . . that's true. But it's one thing I've been working on lately—how to
represent sensory experience."

"Give me an example."

"Like for instance: right now. I'm lying here on your floor. I feel the hardness
along my back. My hands under my head. But there are other things happening.
My foot itches."

"So scratch it," I joke, throwing a pen cap at him. It glances off his side and lands
a couple inches away.

"That's not the point. My foot itches at the same time I feel the floor underneath
here. And it smells."

"Thanks," I say with mock-offense.

"No . . . like coffee. And you."

I make a show of sniffing myself. "I showered today."

"Everyone's home has a particular smell. Your smells like . . . cinnamon and
laundry and fresh water. Old books. When I come in here, I think of you."

"I never noticed," I say softly.

"That's because it's your smell."

"Oh." I blush at his words. How can he say he's not a poet?

"Umm-hmm. So there's that. Then taste. My mouth tastes like the coffee we just
had, a little cream. It's a little sour. I could use a mint," he chuckles, fishing
around in his pocket. "And of course sound—the click of your keyboard as you
type, the traffic outside. Shuffling of pages as we both read. You humming."

"I am not," I object, but he turns his head to me and nods.

"You're not even aware of it, but you are."

"I didn't know that."

"I know."

"Okay . . . what else?"

"Well, sight, of course—that's the big one. So important. My eyes take in this
whole room, but focus only on one or two objects at a time. We see everything
and nothing at once. We forget about things, take them for granted. Like this
book here," he says, glancing upwards with his eyes and scrunching his forehead.
"I know it's here even when I'm not looking at it. But I forget about it, too."

"What else do you see?"

"It's late afternoon—see the sun coming into your window over there?"

"Yeah."

"It reminds me of the Dickinson poem."

"There's a certain slant of light," I say with a smile.

"Exactly. But that's only one thing . . . I see your ceiling . . . a couple of cobwebs
up there, Bella," he teases.

"Hey, now. I'm too short to reach."

"This cap," he says, picking up the pen cap and throwing it back at me.

I catch it with my right hand and set it on the desk.

"And there's you."

"Me?"

"You fill up this space . . . even when I'm not looking at you."

My breath catches in my throat, and I glance down at the theory book in my lap.

But Edward doesn't seem to notice how his words affect me. He goes on.

"When a writer picks details—sensory details—to include in whatever he's writing

..."

"He?"

"Or she," he says, correcting himself and raising his eyebrow at me. "It has to be
for a purpose—to set the scene, give the reader insight into the characters—and
so they're carefully selected. You can't put too much in."
"Or you'll overwhelm the reader."

"Or lose his . . . or her . . . interest."

"Right."

"But, to me—I don't know. I'd like to be able to capture it everything on paper.
All of those things—and my thoughts—but it's impossible. Language is so linear—
one thing follows the next. Poetry is the closest way, I think, of capturing what
I'm talking about. There are some moments . . . that shouldn't be lost," he says
quietly.

"But you are a poet," I say. "What you described to me just now? That's poetry.
And your writing has some very poetic qualities." Abandoning my work on the
desk, I move to sit on the floor next to Edward. He smiles a little and rolls to his
side, propping his head up on his arm.

"Do you really think so?"

"Yeah. I do. I've . . . always thought so."

"I always forget about that silly story I gave you once. I was so proud when you
told me it was good," he laughs. "I was so afraid you'd hate it."

"It was amazing," I whisper. My heart begins to pound.

"I hardly remember it, honestly."

My eyes drift over to my bed where the book in question resides, my teeth
worrying my lower lip. "You know, about that . . ." I say softly. It's now or never .
. . I either show him . . . or I don't.

"What?" Edward asks with a smile.

"Close your eyes."

"Hmm?"

"Close them."

Edward obliges with a chuckle, rolling onto his back again and draping his arm
across his face. I see him peek out from underneath deviously and I reprimand
him with a poke to the side.

"Hey! I see you!"

"Sorry, sorry." He removes his arm and scrunches his eyes closed dramatically.

"Is this better?"

"Yes. Now keep them shut."

Before I lose my nerve, I tiptoe over to the bed, angling my head to ensure
Edward's not cheating. It's weird enough I've saved the story all of these years, I
don't want him to know where I keep it. But I want him to know I'm invested in it
. . . our friendship.

I feel for the box, sliding it out and removing the cover cautiously while Edward
hums a familiar tune.

"Is that Claire de Lune?"

"Yep. It's what you were humming before."

"Was not."

"Were too."

Edward shakes his foot impatiently.

"Can I look yet?" he asks.

"No. Just relax."

I remove his notebook, then the Blake. The pages of both are yellowed, singed
with acrid smoke and the telltale lick of fire. It's a miracle they survived at all.

My heart picks up speed as I re-stow the box and clutch the books, returning to
Edward's side on the floor. Once I show him, I can't take it back.

"Bella?" Edward asks, his hand groping blindly before landing on my knee.
"What's wrong?"

"Um. Nothing. Just . . . I wanted to show you something. Something special. You
can open your eyes only if you promise not to laugh or make fun of me."

"I promise," he says with a smile. "I would never do either of those things."

"Okay."

Edward opens his eyes and looks at me. I feel shaky and unsure, still holding the
books tightly against my chest. His gaze drops down and I slowly expose the
cover of his blue notebook. Almost instantaneously, his expression shifts from
curiosity and concern to shock. He sits up quickly as the blood drains from his
face.

"Oh my God," he whispers. "Is that what I think it is?" he gestures to the
notebook. Takes it from me. Then the other. A look of discovery as he opens the
cover, sees his inscription. Ghosts his fingers over the delicate, discolored paper.

"The pages . . . "

"They're a little burned," I murmur.

"But I can't . . . I don't . . . How?" he asks incredulously.

"I had them with me . . . when they found me . . . I got them back when I was
discharged. No one knew what they were. Billy thought it was stuff for school," I
laugh halfheartedly.

"Jesus, Bella."

"It's stupid, I know."

"It's not stupid."

"I don't remember what I was thinking. It was one of those weird things when
you just automatically do something." I say, trying to put my motivation into
words.

"I know what you mean," he replies. Edward waits for me to go on, turning the
books over in his hands.
"I . . . could've gone to the roof. But I heard . . . something. I went back for her.
The doorknob was hot, but I opened it anyway."

"My brave girl," he says, touching my face. But I'm caught in the memory—
burning hair, flesh—I shudder.

"No. I was foolish. It was too late. It was horrible. I . . . saw her."

Edward's eyes flash with pain, anger, something else. He puts the books down
and pulls me onto his lap. I go willingly, nestling my head in the crook of his neck
and inhaling his comforting smell. He's right. Everyone has one. I just never knew
what mine was until he described it to me.

"She was trying to get to me," I whisper.

"God."

"If I . . . wasn't . . ."

"She was your mother. She would've tried to protect you no matter what. It's not
your fault." I lose myself in Edward's gentle rocking, feeling small in his arms—
almost like a kid again. But it doesn't erase the memory of her flaming hair.

Edward listens as I tell him what I remember. Waking up in the hospital. Moving
to Seattle, then to Forks. Surgery upon countless surgery. Being alone. My pet
bird and how I cried when it died. What it was like to walk again without a cane.
How my lungs won't ever be completely normal.

When I finish, he's silent. I steel myself, awaiting the inevitable expressions of
pity. He must be thinking of my scars, what they look like. Everyone does.

"The Blacks took good care of you," he says, leaning back against the couch. I'm
still in his lap.

"Yes."

"It's funny . . . I'd like to hate them . . . but I can't. They kept you safe."

"Yes." I know I should get off of him, let him go. But I can't. I don't want to.

"They must really love you."

"Yes," I say again.

"Thank you," he says simply.

"For what?"

"Trusting me. Telling me. It's not easy . . . to do that."

"No, it's not." I know he's speaking from experience as much as I am.

"And you kept these? All this time?"

"They were all I had left," I say. I don't have another explanation. All I had left . .
. of my mother, of Elgin. Of him.

"You brought them here to Chicago with you? Why?"

"I . . ."
"Why, Bella?" His voice is soft and serious.

My mind fumbles in confused inarticulate sentences that I can't vocalize. Because

I don't think . . . I don't think . . . I . . .

"Bella," he whispers against my cheek.

His body is so much more than a comforting embrace. I feel everything. The way
his warm thighs support my weight, the strength of his arms, his chest and the
heart beating there. So strong and fragile. I long to sink into him, to learn what
it's like to live in his body.

It's there in my lungs and all around me . . . a pulsing, quiet energy. He looks
down at me, something flickering in his eyes. His question remains unanswered,
but I give it away with every shaky exhale. His eyes. I can almost see their color
expand . . . They're like the sea, I think; swirling eddies of color—green and grey
and blue with flecks of brown and gold. One arm still holds me and the other
moves. I turn my head and close my eyes as he touches my face tenderly. His
hand leaves a burning trail on my skin, tracing and retracing. Stopping now to
cup my chin, touch my cheek. A feather-light movement over closed eyelids that
I think might be his lips. How I long for his lips.

I attempt to focus my jumbled thoughts but I can't. As long as I don't look into
his eyes I'll be safe. But the thrumming of his heart under my ear is my undoing.
Now his hand moves up through my hair and cradles my head, scratching lightly
against my scalp.

He whispers my name again and I do it. I look. They're too much . . . those sea-
eyes. I could drown there and do it gladly. Edward brushes away a tear from my
cheek and rubs it into his palm, before his thumb moves down, gently playing
across my lips.

"See? This moment. This," he says, brushing my lips again with his thumb. He
tastes the place on his palm where my tear dried, the place where he touched my
lips.

And I know with certainty that when I die, my last thoughts will be of him.

"I would give anything . . . to be able to kiss you right now," he says hoarsely.

"Edward, I—" I don't know what to say. Can he . . . want me . . . now? Or is he

just remembering the girl I was?

"Shhh, I know," he says, placing his finger over my mouth to silence me. But he
doesn't—it's impossible. His hand moves again through my hair, so softly. I close
my eyes and lean into his touch. I let myself be swept away by this dangerous
dream.

"Do you know what you mean to me, Bella?" he whispers.

I shake my head foolishly, stupidly. He can't know what he's saying, how it
shatters me completely.

"You're everything to me." He buries his face in my hair and inhales. I feel his lips
on the side of my face and nothing has ever been sweeter.

Then it happens. My telephone rings, bringing reality with it. Jacob's Saturday
call.
Edward drops his hand immediately as I shoot out of his lap, guilt twisting my
stomach as I fumble for my phone on my desk. Yes, it's Jacob. I can't even look
at Edward as I bring the receiver to my ear.

"Hello?" I ask, shaky with adrenaline.

"Isabella? Hello?" There's some feedback on the line . . . a crackling. His voice
sounds strange.

"Yeah, Jake, it's me. Where are you? I can't hear . . ."

"Isabella?"

"Jake?

The interference subsides and I can finally hear him. "God, I . . . need you right
now, Isabella." In all of the many times I've spoken to him on the phone, he's
never been like this-desperate. Something doesn't seem right.

"What's wrong?" I ask, alarmed. My body is still warm from Edward's.

"It's just . . . I don't know. I've been thinking about how wrong it is without you
here. I don't even know who I am anymore. I just . . . I need you to come back,
Isabella. Here to Forks. It's where you belong, where both of us belong."

"Jacob . . ." I hear Edward shuffling papers behind me, my heart beating in my
ears. Jake's voice. Too many noises.

"Just hear me out, okay? I'm thinking maybe instead of me moving to Chicago,
you can come back here once you finish your coursework. You can write your
dissertation from home."

His words confuse me—they feel so wrong. I like Chicago. I don't want to finish
my degree in Forks. I don't want to move back. And his voice—

"Jacob," I say softly, trying to stay out of Edward's earshot. "I can't talk about
this right now, okay?"

He rambles on for another minute or two, but all I can think of is Edward.

"Okay. Okay. I know . . . I'm getting a little ahead of myself. But it was just a
thought. I think we should consider it. You know, after the wedding."

The wedding. Until now, all thoughts of our marriage remained nebulous—a hazy
prospect looming in the distant future. But the summer is not far away. July.
Eight months. I envision it . . . a white dress. Jacob in a tuxedo. A cake and
dancing. Vows to remain true to him for the rest of my life, when I've already
been faithless in my heart. I am faithless because . . . I love another.

How stupid I am.

I've always loved another. Edward. Yes, a voice inside of me whispers, you fool.
How can you deny it?

I think of the past few weeks . . . how had I not seen it until now?

"Jacob. I—I have to go," I say, trying to maintain the calm in my voice, but I feel
faint.

"Okay. I get it, work in all," he jokes.

"Yeah," I reply roughly. "I'm sorry." I'm sorry for so much.

"I love you, babe. I miss you."

"I miss you, too," I whisper, because it's true. I miss my friend. The one I could
confide in, the one who told me stories and made me laugh. But it's also not true.
I can live without Jacob. I'm doing it now.

I've never really lived without Edward. And even though he's here with me now, I
miss him so fiercely my heart can't contain the longing. It wells up and seeps out
and fills the room, so palpable it must be visible.

Jacob is still talking. "So, I'm gonna be busy this coming week. But I'll give you a
call on my lunch break."

"Okay. Sounds good." The forced cheerfulness of my words echoes hollowly in my

ears. It's not me, it's another person speaking. I'm a liar.

"Oh, and Dad says 'hi.' He's watching the game now though so he can't talk."

"Tell him I say 'hi,' too," I whisper.

"Will do."

"Bye, Jacob."

"Bye, sweetheart."

I close the phone and set it down on my desk. The room is unnaturally silent.
Slowly, very slowly, I turn.

My apartment is empty.

"Edward?" I call. No reply. The bathroom door is open. He's not in the kitchen.

He's gone.

My heart stops beating.

"I gaze into the heart, lowly it may be,

Thought the words be higher still.

For the heart is all the substance,

The speech an accident.

How many phrases will you speak,

Too many for me.

How much burning, burning will you feel,

Be friendly with the fire, enough for me.

Light up the fire of love inside,

And blaze the thoughts away."- Rumi

Chapter 21: November 6th, 2010

Panic rises in my throat as I inspect the room. His books, papers, coat—gone.
Clearly he's not intending to come back. I run over my conversation with Jacob in
my mind . . . I'd said I missed him . . . just after Edward . . .

You're everything to me.

I grab my coat without thinking, checking quickly for my wallet and keys before
bolting out the door. He's not in the hall.

"Edward," I whisper to no one before I take off towards the stairs and the lobby.
He couldn't have more than a three or four minute lead, I think, my heart
hammering in my chest. But when I get to the street in front of my building, I
search vainly for his tall frame, his copper hair. There are only a few people on
the sidewalk and none of them are Edward.

He could be anywhere. My hand shakes as I retrieve my phone from my pocket

and check for messages. Nothing. I immediately call him and it goes straight to
voicemail. I don't bother leaving a message. Instead, I walk to the closest "El,"
station, my gaze darting from person to person.

The ride is excruciating. I tap my foot restlessly on the dirty floor, willing the train
to move faster. Twenty minutes and one transfer later, I'm in Edward's
neighborhood trying to remember how to get to his house. Luckily, the one time
I'd been here I'd explored many of the nearby streets, so it doesn't take too long
before I'm on the right track. I already feel better, closer to him. I just hope he
came right home.

As I walk, the evening falls quickly and so does the temperature. It occurs to me
I should have worn a warmer coat, or at least put a sweater on over my thin t-
shirt, but for some reason the cold isn't bothersome. It keeps me alert. My eyes
move restlessly over passersby as I try not to think about how Edward must have
felt . . . for him to left that way. What if something happens to him?

It's not likely, I know that. But I can't help the dread creeping over me . . . More
than anyone, I know sometimes you don't get to tell people what they mean to
you until it's too late.

Finally, I arrive at Edward's house, out of breath and afraid. I steel myself before
ringing the bell. It's very likely he doesn't want to speak to me.

Nothing happens. I ring again.

Disappointment tinged with hopelessness. I'm just about to turn around when the
door opens.

"Little Bee?" Emmett stands at the top of the stairs looking disheveled. His
sweats and matted hair tell me he's just woken from a nap. I feel bad for
disturbing him, but I look eagerly behind his shoulder.

"Hey, Emmett. Um. Is Edward here?"

"I thought he was at your place," he says with a large yawn.

"Yeah, he was. I . . . it's a long story."

Emmett looks concerned, opening the door wider and waving me in.

"Well, I've been sleeping. He could've come home. You can go check if you want."
"Thanks, Em." But somehow I already know he's not home.

"No problem."

I hesitate on the bottom of the stairs. "If he's not, I might just wait."

"That's fine. What's ours is yours or whatever."

"Thanks."

When I get to the third floor, my intuition is confirmed. I flip the light switch and
blink, absorbing the scene. His room is a little messier than last time. The bed
isn't made, the comforter nearly half on the floor. Absentmindedly I run my hand
over the soft, rumpled sheets. A half-drunk cup of coffee sits on the nightstand, a
book tented next to it. Dylan Thomas.

Sighing resignedly, I kick off my shoes and pace the room, unable to sit still.
There's a strange intimacy, being in here like this without him knowing. I feel a
bit like an intruder. I am an intruder. Will he be upset? The photo of Alice calls to
me from the bookshelf. She stares back at the camera—at me—with her wise,
knowing eyes. Perhaps this is one moment that Edward has tried to capture in
words. The photo doesn't even come close. I close my eyes, imagining I'm there
with them in the hospital. It's not difficult to recall the smell of bitter antiseptic,
laced with undertones of bleach. The stale air. Sounds of whooshing machines
and the low hum of mindless TV no one's really watching.

At least Alice died in peace, at home. At least she had that.

"I miss you, Ali."

The picture of Edward holding her feet makes my heart hurt. I pick the photo up
and kiss them both, not bothering to wipe the trace of my lips from the glass
frame before returning it to its perch overlooking the room.

A few of Edward's notebooks are stacked next to his opened laptop. It takes more
than a little willpower not to open them and read, but I resist. Instead, I grab a
book from the shelf and retreat back to Edward's bed, propping up his pillows
against the wall and leaning against them. I pull the comforter up around my
body, enveloping myself in his scent. If I close my eyes I can recall the feel of his
arm around me, how warm he was. I can imagine he's here right now and not
wandering around Chicago doing God knows what. My mind drifts to Kate. The
jealousy, once it emerges, is almost impossible to repress. No. He wouldn't. But
even if he did, could I blame him?

I bury my head in his pillows, inhaling deeply, trying to put his scent into words
as he did mine. All I can think of is green. His bed smells like green. I ball the
sheets up in my hands, an ache in my chest that longs for something I've never
had.

Then my mind returns to Jacob, his plea for me to come home, back to Forks.
The sadness and strange desperation in his voice. How will I stand hurting him?

I don't know how much time passes, but I don't get very far in the book I've
picked. In fact, I pretty much keep reading the same sentence over and over
again, trying to sort through the insane mess of my life and not think about
Edward's whereabouts. There's no guarantee he'll come home tonight and do I
want to live with that knowledge?
A little while later, I hear footsteps on the stairs and I start up rigidly, eyes
focused on the doorway.

"Little Bee?" Emmett calls as he enters. "You still here?"

I flush to be caught in Edward's bed and look down at the book in my hands.

"Yeah. Is that okay?"

"Of course. I just wanted to tell you I'm headed out. Rose and I have a date." He
grins.

"That's great. Say 'hi' for me." I haven't seen much of Rose lately—both of us
have been busy. But I miss her. My voice threatens to crack.

"Will do. But there's food downstairs if you're hungry. Edward has all sorts of
weird Italian shit. We have tons of cereal . . ." he says, drifting off.

"I'm not really hungry, but thanks."

"You still haven't heard from him?"

I shake my head despondently.

"He'll turn up sooner or later. He gets like this sometimes. Wants to be alone."

"Oh."

"Less so recently."

"Really?" I grasp onto the insinuation with both hands.

Emmett nods. "I don't know how to describe it. He's writing a lot more. He seems
happier." His voice sounds thoughtful as he leans against the doorframe.

"Look." He turns to me with a serious expression. "I know this is none of my

business. Whatever happened with you guys wasn't your fault, and things have
happened since then, you've lived your life or whatever. But Edward . . ." he
pauses. "This is gonna sound weird. But Edward's not like other people. Once he
loves something, he loves it forever. Just keep that in mind, Bella."

I nod, my stomach plummeting. It's not really an accusation, but it is. These past
few weeks I've been so self-absorbed with my life, I haven't even considered that
Edward might be hurting. If what Emmett's saying is true . . .

Kate's words from Halloween return. She was right. And he thinks I've picked
Jacob.

"That's why I'm here," I whisper.

He smiles a little and slaps the side of the wall. "I gotta get going. You take care,
Little Bee."

"Okay," I say.

More hours pass. It's after ten now and I've been waiting for nearly six hours.
Another phone call goes straight to voicemail. I want to leave and go look for
him, maybe at Eclipse, but I'm afraid I'll miss him if I go. I attempt to read again
but give up in frustration. Anything would be better than this horrible waiting.
I shudder, suddenly chilled and wishing I'd worn a long-sleeved shirt. On an
impulse, I go Edward's dresser, cautiously opening the top drawer. T-shirts,
messily folded. Another drawer contains socks, boxer shorts. I smile at a pair
with cartoon characters on them. Laundry day underwear. Finally, I find the
drawer that contains what I'm looking for. I select a random grey sweatshirt and
pull it over my head, more than a little disappointed it smells clean and not like
Edward. Glancing down at myself in the full-length mirror on his wall is pretty
funny. It's more like a dress than a shirt.

A glint on my hand catches my eye. My ring.

Jacob brought it home for me a couple of days after we got engaged. I insisted
he not buy one, but he didn't listen to me. He said he wanted to do things right,
and by right he meant "traditional." Billy was so happy. I remember how it felt on
my hand—a foreign object I couldn't quite get used to. I justified that
strangeness because it was the first ring I'd ever owned or worn. But I don't even
notice it anymore.

Thinking back on it now, shouldn't that have come as a warning sign? I should
have been ecstatic about the ring, worn it proudly. My body told me what my
mind refused to acknowledge.

Other things, like how his kisses felt. Nice. Enjoyable. But never more than that. I
told myself that our relationship was more stable, more realistic, than any
fantasy love. That love based on friendship is bound to stand the test of time.
That no one else would ever—could ever—love me. Not the way I am now.

I still don't know if that's true. That self-doubting part of me refuses to believe
Edward would really want me if he saw my body. He could have any woman he
wanted. I don't even know if I'm good . . . in that way. Before Jacob, I dated very
little in college. One guy, Demetri, was especially persistent, and I'd finally given
up and gone out with him a couple of times. When he tried to kiss me on our
second date I pulled away. I couldn't stand his touch or the feel of his lips. He
called me a tease and a prude, and I didn't know enough about sex to tell if he
was right. I hated him, I hated my scars, and I hated myself for being so
ashamed.

I wasn't afraid to touch myself. But when I did, thoughts of Edward intruded. I
felt pleasure, but when I finished I'd cry into my pillow because I knew I'd never
see him again. And so I didn't do it often—it only heightened the feeling of lack,
of pain.

And then there was Jacob. With him, no pain. But no fierce desire, either.
Comfort. Is comfort enough to build a life on?

Just to see how it feels, I wriggle the ring off my finger—the first time in seven
months. It hurts to feel the tenuousness of our bond now. Jacob deserves so
much more. But I don't want to let him go.

I slip the ring into my jeans pocket and it weighs there heavily, but my hands feel
lighter. If I hadn't doubted Jacob about the letters, would I be so readily
removing his ring? Another question I can't answer.

The longer I wait without seeing Edward, the more confused I become.

I don't like the frantic state of my mind, and I look for something, anything, to
focus on. My attention returns to the neat stack of notebooks I'd observed earlier.
Emmett said Edward was writing more frequently—I've noticed it, too. He's
always scribbling away in one of those notebooks, but he hasn't offered so much
as a hint.

I shouldn't read them. That's such an invasion of privacy. If he wanted me to see

what was written there, he would show me. But they call to me seductively,
tempting me with knowledge. The Biblical ramifications of this moment are not
lost on me, even as my hand gently touches the binding of the top notebook.

Surely just one little taste won't kill?

But I know how this story turns out.

More minutes pass and my unease increases. I'm circling the notebooks like a
shark in the water.

I'm disappointed in myself, but not enough to stop myself from flipping open the
cover. Edward's handwriting curls over the first page, nearly illegible. But inside
the top right-hand corner of the cover neat, decisive letters clearly indicate:

Property of Edward Cullen.

If found, please return to 32C Hawthorne, Chicago, IL.

Reward.

So cute. My heart clenches painfully. How I love him. My eyes drift to his wild
cursive—I'll only allow myself one sentence. Maybe two.

He walked past the familiar spot, a quiet fire burning. Even though the plot had
been razed and grass had long since covered the ash, in his mind her house still
stood there. Silent, still, and immovable even in flames.

Oh my God.

"Bella?"

Edward's voice materializes out of nowhere, startling me. I hastily flip the
notebook closed, but he's already seen. He watches me remove my hand guiltily,
his face cast in an unreadable expression. Words choke in my throat. I want to
run and throw my arms around him, but there's a wariness about him that stops
me.

"I'm sorry. I only just opened it. I didn't read . . . just a sentence," I say, trying
to disguise the shakiness of my voice.

"Okay . . ." he says carefully. He runs his hands through his hair, exhaling
deeply. "Are you surprised?"

"About what?"

"What you read."

"I didn't—I—" I stammer, not knowing how to defend myself. I feel

untrustworthy, sneaky, and awful.

He comes further into the light so that I can see him. His face is flushed from the
cold, but he doesn't look drunk, which I realize—shamefully—is what I expected.

"Don't lie," he says softly.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have read any part of it." My mind is still reeling from what
I read.

"You might as well. It's about you. But you already know that now."

I don't know how to reply, so I stand there dumbly. He's writing a story about
me. About us. I can't believe it. It makes me want to cry and beg his forgiveness.

"What are you doing here?" His tone isn't angry, but nor is it happy. It's tired.
Maybe I shouldn't have come after all.

"I was waiting for you. You left . . ."

He nods. "I needed some space. And you had a call."

"Where did you go?" I ask.

"Where do you think I went?" he shoots back, his green eyes serious.

"I don't know."

"Not to fuck Kate, if that's what you're wondering," he answers a little snippily.
I'm ashamed that the thought had crossed my mind. There's no way I'm worthy
of him. He thinks so highly of me and I doubt. I always doubt him. "I went on a
walk. A long one. To think."

"Of course," I say, shaking my head stiffly. From this moment on, I'll never think
the worst of him again. If this ends badly, it will be my fault.

"What do you want, Bella?" He starts removing his coat to throw it on the bed,
and just then seems to notice I'm wearing his sweatshirt. His eyebrow quirks up
and I see the hint of a smile on play upon his lips as he glances down. The thing
nearly reaches my knees.

"I got cold," I explain, moving to take it off.

"It's okay," he says, holding his hand up. "Keep it."

"Edward—"

"I can't do this right now," he says. My eyes widen as he continues. "I'm not mad
at you, okay? We're still friends. I know you have . . . responsibilities . . . I just .
. . when you showed me you'd kept my story . . . and the Blake, just for a
second, I thought that . . ." There's such pain in his voice. It cuts to the bone.

"Please, can I just say something?" I move towards him. So many expressions
dance over his features—but the predominant one is fear. I'm afraid too, but I
don't stop my advance. It's been far too long since I was honest with anyone,
even myself. I don't know how to begin.

"Please?" I ask again. He nods, glancing around the room like a caged animal. I
dig my nails into my hands to keep from touching him. I don't want him to feel
cornered.

We take a seat on the side of the bed for lack of any better arrangement, and it
doesn't escape my notice that he sits at a safe distance. I play with the long
sleeves of the sweatshirt nervously, noticing the little tears on the end. How like
Edward. He always wears his clothes until they're rags.

"I shouldn't have taken that call today," I say.

"No, you were right to," he sighs. "You were right to."

"I shouldn't have, and I'm so sorry."

"Bella, don't. Don't apologize. You can't help how you feel. But neither can I."

"How do you know what I feel?" I ask.

"I saw it in the way you looked at me when the phone rang."

"I wasn't thinking clearly. I was startled. I felt guilty."

"You have no reason."

"Don't I?"

"Well, I'm sorry for making you feel that way."

"You didn't," I say, more forcefully. "It was me. You're a poet, Edward. You are.
You made me feel something today I haven't felt in years. Realize so many
things. What you said—"

"Was stupid."

"No," I reply fiercely, willing him to look at me. "It was beautiful, the things you
said. I—I'm sorry if you felt I was dismissing you by talking to Jacob. I wasn't. I
was trying to escape. Because . . ." I trail off, realizing I'm not making any sense
at all. There aren't enough words and they all sound wrong in my head.

"Because?"

"I was afraid."

"Why?" he asks. I can hear the fear and hesitation in his voice, but there's also
something else.

"When I came over here, you know what I did?"

"Besides go through all my stuff?" he jokes.

"I'm sorry," I say shyly, my face reddening again.

"Okay, what did you do?"

"I climbed right into your bed."

"I haven't washed these sheets in awhile."

"You stupid," I say softly. "I don't care. I just wanted to be close to you. When I
saw you left . . ."

"Bella, what are you trying to say?"

My hands rest my lap, useless. I pick listlessly at the pills on his sweatshirt just to
have something to do.

Suddenly, Edward grabs my left hand. I look up into green eyes filled with
confusion and hope.

"Your ring?"

"I took it off," I say.

"Did you . . ."

I know he's about to ask whether I've broken off my engagement. I shake my
head and his expression rapidly falls.

"You don't understand. I realized today I don't . . . love Jacob. Not enough to
marry him."

"You don't?"

"No," I say. "I don't. I don't think I ever did."

"Is it because of the letters? Because he might have had something to do with
it?"

I shake my head and he looks at me and I try to convey with my eyes the words
that still stick in my throat, hopeless, voiceless. I can only stare and pray he
saves me.

And he does. He always does. I stare and stare as lips move closer. Full, delicious
lips that make my stomach curl with want before they even meet mine. His eyes
flash, a final question.

Edward taught me some moments can't be captured by words.

Edward is a writer and a poet. His eyes are like the sea: green, depthless, and
unfathomable. Because of him, a pebble pinging off a pane of glass is my favorite
sound in the world. When I was thirteen, he kissed me and I fell in love with him.
And it was like drowning, because I've never reached the surface.

I try to memorize the instant before he kisses me. His sweet breath on my face.
The way his eyebrows furrow gently in concentration. He whispers my name and
it's like I've never heard it before.

Not able to bear it another minute, I close the distance between us, my lips
hesitant at first, just ghosting over his. I feel him smile against me as he cups my
cheek, his other hand in my hair, then at my neck. Then his lips are everywhere,
drawing me nearer, deeper into him, velvet and pliant and demanding at the
same time. I angle my head, pouring out everything I am into this moment. And
when my mouth opens and he moans as his tongue touches mine, I gasp at the
current that passes through my body.

Kissing Edward is like coming home.

No longer tentative, I tangle my hands in his hair, rubbing at his scalp. Anything
to get closer. We're desperate and greedy and I realize I may be crying. I want to
feel. I want him to make me forget—Jacob, Billy, Alice, everything. I want him to
erase everything in my mind but him.

"There's sand in your hair," I whisper, feeling the grit.

"It's windy outside," he says, breaking away to answer me. I hate the little
distance between us. I can't bear to be so far away. And so I kiss him again, and
again, and again, breathing his air as he breathes mine.

Somehow arms and legs become tangled, and we're lying on his bed, and he's
pressing into me with his whole body. I can feel his hardness on my thigh and I
unconsciously grind my hips up into it. I ache so much and I love how he feels
and I want more. He moans and grinds back harder, his hands running over my
shoulders and down my sides and all thoughts and sanity have fled. His scruff
scratches my chin with each hot, wet kiss and I revel in the pain.

The feeling of his hand fumbling with the fly of my jeans makes me freeze.
Suddenly my mind catches up to my body—this is happening too fast. I'm
confused. And I'm petrified for him to see my scars. Edward notices immediately,
stilling and rolling off me to the side with a groan.

"I'm sorry," he pants. "I think I got a little carried away."

"It's okay," I say, my breath coming in short spurts. Edward reaches his hand
into his pants, shifting the arousal that's so evident now, straining against his
jeans. The sight makes the ache between my legs nearly unbearable.

"Bella," he says, shifting to his side. "We can't do this."

"I know."

"I don't want you to . . . get into something just because you're confused about
Jacob."

"I'm not confused," I say, but I can see he's not convinced.

"Yes, you are."

"Edward, I—"

He reaches out and pulls me into his arms. My desire still courses hot and thick
and being pressed against him isn't helping, but I can't bear to pull away.

"I'll confess I'm confused," he whispers, his hand gently caressing my face. "Until
today, I had no idea your feelings for me might be . . . like mine. I thought for
sure you were going to marry him."

"I'm not," I say, my eyes tearing. How can I make him understand that this is
real?

"I don't want you to. You have no idea how much that idea kills me. But I don't
want to push you either. Bella . . . you coming here, this," he says, gesturing
between us. "It's more than I ever could have hoped. I just want you to be sure.
I need to be sure you're not just doing this because you're scared to lose me.
Because that will never happen, I promise. Even if you marry someone else. I
promise. Okay?" His words are so sincere but I can't help my frustration. My
chest hurts at the thought of leaving him now.

But he's right. Maybe I'm expecting too much . . . again. I haven't taken his
feelings into account. Why should he believe me, trust me with his heart when
I've yet to earn it?

"I love you, Bella," he says softly. "But when . . . if . . . you tell me the same . . .
I want you to feel it with your whole heart. With no regrets. No other people in
our way."

"I'm sorry," I whisper.

"No need to be sorry, love," he says, kissing my forehead. I close my eyes and
blink back tears. Edward loves me. He loves me. I can't stop replaying the words
in my mind.

"I'm glad you came after me."

"I had to." I wrap my arms around his torso, rest my head on his chest. He sighs
and strokes my hair and, despite our predicament, I feel calmer. Happy and sad
at the same time.

"My mom used to do that when I couldn't sleep," I say. "Touch my hair."

Edward doesn't reply, just kisses my forehead again.

My stomach takes this inopportune moment to growl and Edward smiles, patting
it through his sweatshirt.

"I bet you haven't had dinner."

I shake my head shyly. He clambers off the bed and reaches out his hand. I take
it and slide slowly off the bed and into his arms.

"Well, let me make you some. You like meatballs?"

"You make meatballs?"

"Secret recipe," he grins playfully.

"Well, how can I resist?"

And as I follow him out and down the stairs, I vow to make this right.

"All thoughts, all passions, all delights,

Whatever stirs this mortal frame,

All are but ministers of Love,

And feed His sacred flame."-Samuel Taylor Coleridge

November 6th-9th, 2010

There are some things time can't erase. Like how easy it is to hug Edward. Even
though I'm so much shorter, our arms just seem to fit together. I hug him from
behind and rest my head on his back as he boils pasta to feed me at midnight.

"Why Italy?" I ask, twirling the strands around my fork.

"Why not?" he answers back, giving me a smart-alecky grin.

"That's not an answer."

"Mostly I was drawn to the history. The art. It's so incredible how many of the
cities are relics in themselves—each building a masterpiece. Then I took Italian in
college and just . . . well, it was where I needed to go."

"I wish I could've gone." My voice is wistful and Edward places his hand on mine.
All thoughts of food are forgotten.

"Me too."

"So, did you like college? Did you have a girlfriend or anything?" I ask, trying to
keep my inquiry casual.
"No one serious. I was . . . pretty fucked up, Bella."

"Like fucked up how?"

"I was angry—with my parents. Myself. I didn't write. I partied a lot." I eye the
tattoo on his arm and think about what he'd told me about how he'd gotten it.

"You drank a lot."

He nods, going back to his pasta. I don't bother to mention that he seems to
drink a lot now, though less so when he's with me.

"Because of Alice?"

"Of course. Just the thought that if I had the right fucking marrow, if I could've
been a match for her. She might've . . . I don't know. And you. I couldn't . . .
forget you. And it drove me crazy . . ." He trails off, taking another bite. His jaw
muscles work tensely, and I'm mesmerized. He swallows and takes another sip of
water and I feel kind of creepy for staring. "What about you?" he asks.

"I didn't . . . date much . . . before Jacob." I blush hotly, looking away. I might as
well have "virgin" stamped across my forehead in bold letters. There's a twinge in
my heart . . . the part that loves Jacob.

"Why?"

"Oh, you know . . ." I mutter evasively.

"No, I don't."

I sigh, lightly scraping my fork over food I no longer have interest in eating. "So
many reasons."

"Your scars?" he asks, his tone careful.

I nod. "And I don't know . . . I never knew how to talk to guys, not really."

"You did fine with me." He smiles, giving my arm a playful nudge.

"Well, you're you. You were always so easy to talk to."

"I'm not that great."

"You are," I say softly, blushing again.

Edward sets his fork down and turns to me with a serious expression. "Bella . . .
before, when we were upstairs. You froze. I mean. I know there are a whole hell
of a lot of reasons why we should've stopped, but . . . you seemed . . . scared.
Was it only because of Jacob?"

I take a sip of my water, avoiding his gaze. "You don't . . . I didn't want." God,
this is so hard. My embarrassment reaches a peak I didn't know existed.

"You don't want me to see you."

All I can manage is to nod affirmatively.

"Nothing will change how I feel about you," he says simply. "Ever." Such a
definitive statement. It makes my blood run hot.
It also reminds me of his story—what I'd read upstairs shocked and thrilled me. It
also made me curious. How long has he been working on it? Is it a novel length
piece or a short story? Will he ever let me read it? I decide to settle on a less
loaded question.

"My old house in Elgin. They didn't rebuild it?"

"No."

He slides his chair back from the table and grabs our mostly empty plates,
heading toward the kitchen as I trail behind. The overhead lights cast a soft glow
as he rinses the dishes and maneuvers them into the already very full washer.
It's strange, but lovely, being here with him in such a domestic space, only the
two of us. His bronze hair flops over his forehead, and he brushes it aside
absentmindedly, shutting the machine and turning to me . . . I'm still waiting for
him to go on, but he doesn't really seem to want to talk about it.

"Oh," I say, prodding him further. I don't know why I'd imagined the house
rebuilt, lived in. "Didn't it go up for sale?"

"It did. I don't know why it didn't sell. They leveled it a couple of months after
the fire."

It's difficult to get a handle on my ambivalent emotions—on the one hand it's
where I grew up. There were good days with my mom, with Edward and Alice. On
the other, it reminds me of everything horrible, embarrassing, and lonely about
my childhood. To this day, I've never forgotten what it's like to be so different—
singled out—our house seemed representative of every way I was unlike other
children. Now I know many of my fears and worries were superficial, but at the
time, nothing was more devastating than being teased for where I lived. Edward
approaches me and brushes his thumb over my chin.

"Hey," he says. "Are you okay?"

"I don't know." Because it's true . . . so much has happened today. I'm
exhausted, mentally and physically. Edward stifles a yawn and rubs my shoulder
lightly. The circles under his eyes give away his tiredness.

Without a word, I follow Edward back upstairs. He doesn't stop me.

I shouldn't be back in his room, contemplating spending the night again. Not now
when things are so . . . unresolved. He knows it too.

"I won't touch you," he whispers. "If you want to stay. I can sleep on the floor."
But I don't want that, I want him with me. I don't know if it's possible . . . if he'd
be uncomfortable. If we even should. I mutely accept the pair of pajama bottoms
he hands me, unable to voice my need to have him near.

I hurry to the bathroom to change, my weariness making me fumble with my

jeans, Edward's overly large sweatshirt. The bottoms Edward gave me are huge,
but luckily cinch tight with a drawstring. There's the question of the bra. It
wouldn't be comfortable to sleep in. Impulsively, I decide to take it off and sleep
in my T-shirt. Folding up the other clothes, my ring falls out of my jeans pocket
and pings lightly on the tile floor.

I pick it up and hold it between my two fingers. It glints back at me reprovingly

before I secure it once more in my pocket.

"I'm so sorry, Jacob," I whisper.

When I emerge minutes later, I notice Edward has changed out of his clothes as
well. His bottoms match mine, but on him they fit more securely. He swallows
deeply, running his hands through his unkempt hair, and I wonder where he went
walking today. I take a tentative step towards the bed and his eyes dart to my
chest, then quickly away.

His gaze sends a secret thrill through me—but I cross my arms self-consciously
and fling the covers back, diving under them. Without another word, Edward gets
in on the other side and shuts the light, blanketing the room in darkness.

I hate how far away he is. I want to crawl and curl up around him, but I know I
shouldn't. Neither of us speaks for a while.

"Bella?" he whispers in a gravelly, tired voice. I sigh with relief when I feel his
arms reaching for me, gathering me into his warmth.

"Is this okay?" he asks. I shift and wrap my arms around him, nodding my head
into the crease of his neck. My hand drifts to the pulse point there. I'm
intoxicated by his scent and his nearness and so happy I could cry.

Edward drifts off almost immediately, but I'm unable shut my brain off. Repetitive
thoughts chase away all chance of sleep—the only thing that distracts me is
Edward's quiet breathing.

For the first time, I allow myself to think, really think, about the reality of the
situation. All night long I think of reasons why Jacob might have withheld our
letters. Jealousy? Why Billy might have . . . Protection?

As if I would need protection from Edward.

Finally, finally, I drift into a fitful sleep.

"Billy," I ask shyly. "Can I ask you something?"

Billy's face appears from behind the newspaper. He swivels around in his
armchair to face me where I lay on the couch, a book resting unread on my lap.

"What's that, darlin'?"

"How did my mom and dad meet?"

Billy leans back in his chair and rubs his chin like he's thinking really hard.

"Well, let's see now. Your dad was on the football team. Did you know that?"

I shake my head.

"Well he was, and a good player too. A running back."

"Really?"

He nods and smiles. Wow. I never knew Charlie played sports. Like . . .

"Your mom transferred to Forks. I don't know how old she was, maybe fifteen,
sixteen. Her folks were from Seattle. Well off people. I don't exactly why they
moved . . . but I think there was some kind of scandal. Anyway, your dad didn't
talk too much about those kinds of things. But I remember the day Renee started
showing up to his games. They were attached at the hip ever since."
I smile, thinking about my parents meeting when they were kids, not much older
than I am now. But it also makes me think of Edward.

"Why didn't her parents like my dad?" I want to know.

Billy shrugs. "I can't tell you that, sugar, because I don't know." His face is
guarded. I know there's something he's not telling me.

"But she married him anyway."

"She did."

"Why?"

"Well . . . Your parents loved each other very much."

I nod, wondering.

In the morning, Edward makes toast and coffee. We talk for a while, both of us
prolonging the inevitable.

Emmett hasn't come home, which I find incredibly exciting. Jasper's not home
either—it would be so easy to stay here, cut off from the rest of the world. But
the world won't be ignored for long.

Finally, Edward takes my hand and leads me down the hall toward the door. We
hug and I clutch him tightly, hating how it feels so weirdly final. There's a rueful
expression on his face when he pulls away, brushing my hair away from my face.

"I don't want to go," I whisper, standing in the open doorway. A cool and cloudy
late fall day awaits. It's after eleven already and I need to get some work done.

"Me neither." He sighs and kisses my forehead, his eyes lightening. "It will be
okay, Bella."

"It will?"

"Yes."

"See you Tuesday?"

"Of course."

I feel like a teenager again, wondering how I'll live forty-eight hours without
seeing him. I roll my eyes at myself internally.

"Okay. See you."

"Bye."

On the ride back to my apartment, I'm contemplative but calm. These last few
weeks I've been living my life in a perpetual state of unease, all because my
subconscious knew what I refused to acknowledge. But now that I've accepted
it—there's only one thing to be done. I just don't know how to do it.

As much as I don't want to hurt Jacob, breaking things off with him is the right
thing to do—for both of us. He might not see it that way now, but I hope in time
he'll forgive me. I can't do it over the phone, though. He deserves more than
that. But can I really wait until Christmas lying to him? That's wrong too.
There's also a possibility that he might never want to speak to me again. I have
to face that choosing Edward might mean losing Jacob permanently. It's a bitter
pill to swallow.

And of course there's also the matter of the letters.

My phone vibrates in my jacket pocket. It's a text from Edward.

Hey.

Hey, I reply.

You forgot your sweatshirt.

It's yours, silly.

It's yours now.

How does he do that, make me weak and dizzy with just three words?

Well, you better hold on to it for me. I type back quickly.

Always.

~QF~

"I'm so sorry I haven't called, Bella," Rosalie says apologetically. "I don't want to
be one of those girls that gets so wrapped up in a guy she forgets about her
friends."

"It's okay, really," I say, pulling my jeans up over my hips with my phone cradled
to my ear. It's Tuesday morning and we have class in an a little over an hour.

"So, Emmett said you were over their place on Saturday," Rosalie says. "He said
you were upset. What was that all about?"

I clutch the phone and wince, not sure what else he told her. Or what I should.
It's only been three days since I decided to break off my engagement with Jacob
. . . three days since Edward said he loved me.

"Yeah . . ." I trail off, not bothering to mention that I'd spent the night wrapped
up in Edward's arms.

"There's something you're not telling me, girl. Spill."

"What're you doing right now?" I ask hesitantly. I still don't know what she meant
by her ambiguous comment about not making a mistake, and I'm not exactly
excited to find out, especially if she thinks I've made the wrong decision. But I'm
desperate to talk to someone.

"Nothing, why?"

"You want to get a cup of coffee or something before class?'

"Definitely."

Fifteen minutes later, Rosalie and I meet up at a small café about a block from
class. I glance around discretely while we order our drinks, attempting to discern
whether or not we're alone. Doesn't seem to be anyone I recognize. When it's my
turn to pay, I hand the cashier five dollars.
"Holy shit," Rosalie whispers under her breath. I turn to her as her gaze zeros in
on my naked hand.

I smile wanly, pocketing my change quickly. Rosalie grabs my arm and nearly
drags me over to a couple vacant overstuffed chairs by the window.

"Holy shit," she says again, leaning forward. "Does this mean what I think it
means?"

"I don't know . . . what do you think it means?"

"Don't give me that bullshit! Did you call off your engagement?"

I shake my head slowly, setting my cup down on the table. Rosalie's expression
vacillates from shocked to confused and back again.

"I have to."

"Are you okay?"

I nod slowly, unable to hide the smile that emerges, even though it feels so
wrong. I shouldn't be so happy when I'm about to do a horrible thing.

"You love Edward," she says, matter-of-factly.

"Am I that obvious?"

"Kinda."

"Oh great," I reply, sinking back in my chair.

"I knew it from the first day I met you, Bella. When he walked into that room. I
knew you were a goner."

"Really?"

"Well, I'll admit you fooled me for a while. But once you found out about the
letters, I knew Jacob didn't have a chance."

The sound of his name sends a pang through my chest.

"I haven't told him."

"Well, Jesus, Bella, what're you waiting for?"

"I don't know . . . I don't want to hurt him. I don't think I can do it over the
phone." My hand shakes a little, making the coffee slosh precariously in the cup. I
set it down and rub my temples.

"But you've told Edward?"

"Yes." I nod.

"Don't you think Jacob deserves the same?"

"Am I a bad person?" I whisper.

Rosalie cocks her head to the side and regards me cautiously. "That's a stupid
question. Of course not. You're human. But you need to tell Jacob. If Edward is
the one you want. Unless you're having second thoughts . . ."
"I'm not," I reply emphatically. Nothing has ever felt so sure or clear before. It's
a relief to be so certain of something, finally.

"You're sure of your feelings for Edward?"

"Yes."

She gives a little affirmative nod and rests her hand gently on my knee for a
second.

"Okay. Listen, you don't need to worry about my judgment. I hate to admit it, but
I was . . . wrong about him. The way I see him with you . . . what Emmett's told
me . . ."

It's such a relief to have her on my side, like a weight has been lifted. "Thanks
Rose."

"Dude, it's nothing. You were pretty awesome to me about the whole Finley
bullshit. Complicated relationships are kinda my thing. Well, until now." Her face
lights up in a very un-Rose like, dreamy smile. Things must be going very well
indeed. Before I have time to ask her about it, she's back to business.

"So we need a plan. When are you going home again?"

"December fifteenth."

Rosalie looks up at the ceiling thoughtfully, then shakes her head. "Too far
away."

"I know! I know. And I can't bear the thought of talking to him on the phone,
Rosalie. He called yesterday and I couldn't pick up."

"Well, why don't you transfer your ticket for Thanksgiving?" She shrugs, taking a
loud sip of coffee before continuing. "We have three days off plus the weekend—
that'll give you plenty of time. And you really want to be with the Blacks all
Christmas break once all this is out in the open?"

"No . . ." I trail off. My heart lurches as impact of what I'm about to do hits with
full force. I may never spend another Christmas with Billy and Jacob. Never break
the wishbone with Jacob at Thanksgiving dinner. Our tradition.

I choke back emotion, trying to concentrate on what Rosalie's saying.

"Well, it's not that much money to transfer your ticket. Probably fifty, a hundred
bucks. It'd be worth it for your peace of mind."

Two weeks. My heart starts pounding in fear . . . so soon. I try to imagine the
scenario—but I feel sick. Oh God, can I really do this? But then I think of Edward
. . . how much this would mean to him. Still, the thought of doing it so soon . . .
Am I ready for this?

"Think about it," she says. "I mean, I don't know how you'll be able to write your
final papers with all this going on . . . God, men are such pains in the asses. The
amount of worrying we do over them. Makes you wonder if all this love crap is
even worth it."

I murmur in agreement, smiling as Rosalie rolls her eyes. She's totally full of it.
Rose glances at her watch and sets her cup down. "Speaking of papers, we
should probably get going to class, no? We don't want to be late for Ruth and
Riley's riveting presentation."

My heart thrums with excitement—class means Edward.

"So I take it you haven't gotten much work done the past couple weeks?" I ask as
we head to the door. I'm eager to press her for more details about her night with
Emmett.

Rosalie grins and throws her arm around my shoulder.

"Well, I have been a little busy . . ."

~QF~

Edward's seated already when Rose and I enter. He glances up, a small smile
playing over his lips. But his eyes look tired, sad. I notice his shirt is rumpled,
even more so than usual.

Something's wrong.

My heart constricts in panic. Maybe he's having second thoughts. Two days have
given him perspective that he lacked before . . . he doesn't want me after all.

The calmer, rational part of my brain tells me to stop freaking out. This is
Edward. His smile gets bigger and he pats the seat next to him, offering some
consolation. I give Rosalie's arm a squeeze before going to him, trying to fight
away the nervous light-headed feeling.

"Hi,' he says when I take my seat. As the rest of our classmates drift in, laughing
and talking, his hand settles surreptitiously on my knee. I cover it with mine and
his palm turns upwards, clasping our fingers together.

"Hi."

"I missed you," he murmurs in my ear. I catch a whiff of stale beer that worries
me.

I nod and squeeze his hand before releasing it. With some of Kate's friends in the
room, it doesn't seem like a great idea to draw attention to ourselves.

"Have you been drinking?" I whisper furtively.

"I didn't sleep much last night," he admits. His bloodshot eyes speak their own
confirmation.

"Why?" The tone of his voice is scaring me . . . something's very wrong. I feel it
in my bones.

"Can you talk after class?" he asks, patting his pocket and drawing out his Tic-
Tacs. I nod, searching his eyes for a clue. They don't give anything away.

"Of course." My voice quavers although I attempt to maintain my equilibrium. All

of the worries that surfaced in the coffee shop with Rose . . . and now Edward
behaving strangely. It's a lot to take.

Moments later Peggy whirls in, smiling warmly, and Rue and Riley begin their
presentation. I welcome the distraction, allowing myself to be swept up in the
discussion of Coleridge's Lake District poems . . . but the context surrounding the
poems' composition is eerily resonant. Trapped in an unhappy marriage,
Coleridge fell in love with the sister of his friend Wordsworth's future wife.
"Dejection: An Ode," the poem that Rue and Riley are focusing on—is a
meditation on the poet's inability to write while under such emotional strain.
Ironically, however, it's a lovely poem and perhaps one of the only clear glimpses
of Coleridge's genius, which was heavily fettered by his opium addiction and
occasional intense bouts of depression.

Right now we're debating whether the end of the poem is meant ironically or not.

"The entire poem is a discussion of his feelings of desolation," Riley explains,

leaning back in his chair. "And the basis for that is this woman he can't have. This
woman he's tortured by. So this final stanza rings with a note of irony, doesn't
it?:

"'Tis midnight, but small thoughts have I of sleep:

Full seldom may my friend such vigils keep!

Visit her, gentle Sleep! with wings of healing,

And may this storm be but a mountain-birth,

May all the stars hang bright above her dwelling,

Silent as though they watched the sleeping Earth!

With light heart may she rise,

Gay fancy, cheerful eyes,

Joy lift her spirit, joy attune her voice;

To her may all things live, from pole to pole,

Their life the eddying of her living soul!

O simple spirit, guided from above,

Dear Lady! friend devoutest of my choice,

Thus mayst thou ever, evermore rejoice.'

Riley aims a pointed look at the room and continues. "I don't think he's really
interested in granting her peace, or sleep. He's basically just told her that sleep is
impossible for him, that his life has been overturned by her presence in it."

I glare across the table at him—he seems so self-satisfied in his reading. It

irritates me.

"I disagree," I say. "Why does everything have to be ironic? Why shouldn't he
wish that for her? It's not Sarah Hutchinson's fault that Coleridge is in love with
her. He was already married when they met. And he can't be with her."

"True, Isabella," Riley replies, "But most of the poem is a complaint, isn't it? And
now suddenly all these happy wishes for her while he's suffering? There's a turn
here at the end that just doesn't seem to fit unless it's read ironically."

Something in the tone of his voice really gets to me . . . he's so patronizing. It's
so like a man to lay all the blame at the woman's feet.
"Well, I think you're reading the poem through a contemporary lens that just
doesn't fit," I say snippily. For some reason I want to believe that Coleridge's love
is true, even if Riley's point does make some logical sense. Perhaps I'm being
stubborn.

Throughout our exchange Edward remains silent. But he places his hand on my
leg again, his touch sending a little shiver through me.

The rest of the class passes without incident. I'm lost in thought, still meditating
on my exchange with Riley. The more I study the poem, the more I think that
perhaps we're both right—Coleridge wants Sarah to see his suffering, to
acknowledge it, but he also truly loves her and wants her to be happy.

A familiar and painful combination.

I glance at Edward out of the corner of my eye. Rosalie is right. I have to go to

Forks, and soon.

"Bella?" Edward says, breaking me from my trance. I barely even noticed Peggy
had dismissed us for the day. Everyone has already begun packing up and filing
out.

"Yeah, sorry." I blink to clear my head, shutting my book and stowing it in my

bag.

"You want to go for a walk with me?" There's that weird tone again. His
expression is inscrutable, brooding. More like the Edward I met when I first came
to Chicago. I don't like it one bit.

Out of the corner of my eye I catch a glimpse of Rosalie. She's fiddling with her
phone and looks up and over at us.

"I'll call you later," she mouths. I nod, turning back to Edward.

"Okay," I say slowly. "Where are we going?"

"Just down to the lake?"

"What's going on, Edward?" He doesn't reply.

Foreboding makes my feet leaden as the two of us make our way out the door
and down to the street.

"It could be both, you know," he says softly. At first I don't know what he's
getting at, then I remember my earlier revelation about the poem.

"I know."

We start to walk, our steps punctuated by awkward small talk. Edward is lost in
thought, which makes conversation difficult. Then for a few minutes, neither of us
says anything at all. The silence soon becomes unnerving, and it's a relief to see
the lake come into view after we cross the tunnel. Can this be ending before it's
even begun?

Now that we're away from campus, Edward takes my hand and leads me to a
bench off to the side of the trail. The sunlight dances on the water, and despite
the chill in the air it's a beautiful day. Still, the wind coming off the water makes
me wrap my scarf more tightly around my neck.
"Beautiful," I murmur. A seagull screeches overhead and I look up, watching it
disappear into the white, cloudy sky.

"Bella," he says.

"What?" I turn to him, not liking the careworn look on his face. He's studying my
hand, tracing my fingers with his.

"Beautiful. Bella."

He leans down kisses my open palm, warm lips pressing lightly. Then he holds
my hand against his cheek and I stroke his face, loving the rough feel of his
stubble. Even tired and hungover as he obviously is, he's so beautiful to me. I run
my fingers up and through his hair and he sighs deeply. If I could sit here like
this for the rest of my life I'd be happy.

"Bella," he murmurs. I let him pull me onto his lap. Wrapping my arms around his
neck, I don't care who sees. I kiss his face tenderly, then the corner of his mouth,
silently begging him to tell me what's bothering him. This isn't the end. It can't
be. Not when we feel so much.

"I don't know what to do," he whispers.

"Let me help you, Edward. Tell me."

"I spoke with my parents last night."

"And?"

When he speaks again his voice sends a chill through me. It sounds dead.

"I think they know about the letters."

"Love must be as much a light, as it is a flame."—Henry David Thoreau

Chapter 23: November 9th, 2010

"What do you mean?"

He looks away, stubbornly burying his face in my hair. There's no way to catalog
or make sense of the questions running through my head. The Cullens knew? So
does that mean they were the ones who kept us apart all those years? Maybe it
wasn't Billy or Jacob after all . . .

The hope that blooms, hesitant and shy, feels like a betrayal of Edward. Of Alice.
What a horrible thought that while she lay dying her parents . . . horrible. For
Edward's sake I hope it's not true. And for mine. It's bad enough thinking Billy
and Jacob might have . . . but the Cullens too? Esme? I can't believe it. But I'm
getting ahead of myself. I need to know more.

"Edward," I say, turning my head and forcing him out of his cocoon. "What did
they say? Did you talk to Esme?"

"Yeah," he says quietly. "Yesterday evening."

Getting him to talk is like pulling teeth. He murmurs something and moves my
hair aside, gently kissing my neck. The first pecks are light, sweet on my
collarbone, then higher. Gradually, he becomes more insistent, demanding,
pulling at my flesh with his lips and making my eyes roll back in my head. His
moan against my ear electrifies my spine all the way down to my toes, fuzzying
my mind. How did he learn to kiss like that? Right on my pulse point, so I can
feel his tongue laving the beat of my heart. My head nearly lolls, held only by his
hands. Distractions. He's trying to distract me.

Gently, I turn my head, cutting off his access. He grunts with disapproval.

"Hey, hey, hey," I say, taking his face between my hands, not wanting to stop
him but needing to. His green eyes are feverish with grief . . . desperation. I
don't quite understand his reaction—yes, if it's true it's terrible. But there doesn't
seem to be any anger there, just defeat.

"Tell me," I say. "From the beginning."

Edward sighs in resignation, taking my hands from his face and folding them
together under his chin.

"I told her you were here. That we'd been getting to . . . know each other again."
The corner of his mouth turns up and it takes nearly all of my willpower not to
kiss him. A couple holding hands walks by, giving us a curious glance and
distracting Edward. His eyes follow them for a moment before returning to mine.

"And . . . ?"

"And that we'd talked about what happened after the fire. How you wrote to me
just like I wrote to you. I asked her if she . . . knew anything about it."

"What did she say?" I whisper.

"Well, she was surprised you were here, that's for sure. She asked if you'd talked
to Billy, and I told her no, that you were waiting for Christmas to ask him in
person."

Just then I realize I haven't yet told Edward about my intent to get my ticket
transferred to Thanksgiving. But the situation has just become more complicated.
We have to get to the bottom of this thing, even though nothing he's said so far
seems to warrant how upset he is.

"That doesn't sound bad. Seems like a reasonable response."

"Her tone was off. And the strangest part was she didn't sound surprised that
you'd written. Bella, it was like she knew."

"Well, maybe she was just in shock. It is kinda weird, us meeting again and all," I
say, but the wheels are turning in my head. Something about what he's saying
feels . . . off.

"It was the way she asked . . . so carefully . . . it wasn't like her at all. I asked
her again if she knew anything about it, and she was evasive. I could tell there
was something she wasn't saying."

"Did you talk to your dad?"

"Briefly, but it was before I talked to her. After I told her about the letters and
wanted to talk to him again, she said he'd gone out. I don't know if that was the
truth or not."

"So then what happened?"

"I got pissed off and hung up on her. She tried to call back but I didn't answer."

"Edward . . ."

He doesn't answer.

I know it as surely as I know my name. We need to go back to Elgin. Back to

where I lived, where my mother died. The prospect looms before me. Until now
it's been an ambiguous thing—I'll go in the future. Someday. Not now. Not yet. I
don't know if I'm ready to do it.

And Edward. I understand his silent battle . . . I've lived it too. Not knowing who
you can trust, if anyone. All he has are his parents. And me.

"I'll go with you."

He says nothing, and I wrap my arms around his neck, willing him to look at me.
His eyes gaze across the open water. Sea green and troubled. I wish I could take
it away.

"I'm so fucking sorry," he whispers finally, kissing my forehead. "I don't think I
understood before, what you felt like. I didn't understand why you didn't want to
know. But I know now. I don't want to fucking know."

All I can do is nod into his shoulder, wishing there was a way I could get closer,
make his pain mine. It is mine. It always has been.

"It'll be okay," I say, using the words he's so often used on me. Then, I kiss his
neck, inhaling his musky scent, just under his ear. He lets out a little moan that
spurs me on. My lips travel across his cheek to the corner of his mouth. An
aching pull. I stop at the edge and wonder if I should go on, or if he will. He sighs
and turns his head, opening his mouth and slipping his tongue against mine. I
know it's wrong; it's too soon, that I still have Jacob on my conscience. But I
can't help it. I'm hungry and wanton, giving him access to everything. Anything.
He sucks my top lip and my whole body feels alive with wanting pain. The fear of
losing him, still lingering from our earlier encounter, heats my blood and makes
me desperate. The mint just masks the stale alcohol on his breath, but nothing is
sweeter than his soft, full lips.

"I wish it . . . God, Bella," he groans, pulling his mouth away. "I want you too
much."

"I'm sorry." I'm breathless and embarrassed for getting so carried away, and on a
park bench no less. Edward shifts beneath me and I can feel him though our
pants, how much he's affected too. It's thrilling. My heart beats its wings against
the cage of my chest and Edward slips his hand into my coat, resting his hand
lightly over my breast as if to still it. It only makes the flapping more furious.

"I'll come with you," I tell him again. "We'll go together."

Edward's stormy, tired eyes meet mine, some undisclosed emotion simmering
there.

"I'll never forgive them," he says.

"We don't know . . ."

"Never."
There's no use arguing with him over this, not when everything is so raw. He
needs sleep.

"Where did you go last night?"

"Out."

Stupid insecurity makes me ask the next question. "Alone?"

He sighs little, his eyes blinking once, twice, hypnotizing me with their long
lashes.

"With Jasper for a while. Then he left and I stayed out a little longer. And then
home." I try not to be hurt he didn't think to call me, but I am. Still, I'm more
worried about him than anything else.

"That scares me."

"I didn't go home with anyone, Bella," he says.

Even though that thought is enough to make the bile rise in my throat, I shake
my head; he doesn't understand. I try to think of a way to put it that won't rile
him.

"No. You drinking like that. It's not . . . good . . ."

His eyes narrow perceptibly and I worry I've said the wrong thing. That fills me
with even more fear—his denial. I bite my lip and look away, sliding off his lap
slowly and back onto the bench, my hair falling as a curtain between us. I don't
know how to handle this if he does have a problem.

Edward's hand rubs lightly on my shoulder.

"I'm sorry." His voice is hoarse, and when I turn again to look at him, I see
contrition. He thinks I'm judging him. "You're right," he says softly.

"I just want you to take care of yourself."

He nods, looking down at his tented fingers. I've been so caught up in our
conversation I've barely noticed how the wind has picked up. The weather begins
to change. Threatening looking clouds move in from the west, foreshadowing
rain. I love the way the fiercer wind riles the water of the lake. It reminds me so
much of another beach.

Jacob. In my heart I know that this changes nothing—even if it was the Cullens. I
don't love him the way I should. But, oh, the guilt returns, making me feel it in
every inch of my body. If he's completely innocent, I'm a horrible, ungrateful
person.

I need you to come back, Isabella. Here to Forks. It's where you belong, where
both of us belong.

I have to talk to him, but I don't know what to say. For the last few weeks I've
doubted his honesty—even while something has told me he knows nothing about
any of this. Nothing else makes any sense. My need to speak to him nearly
surpasses my need to care for Edward. Yet it doesn't. I swallow thickly,
understanding it never will.

"Come with me," I say, standing and reaching for him. He looks up, examining
my hand with wonder before taking it.
Our walk back to my apartment is mostly silent, but I'm so aware of his presence
next to me, wanting to know the thoughts swimming around in his head. When
we arrive back in my neighborhood, I make a quick stop for groceries, pulling
Edward along. He shakes his head, says he'll wait. He doesn't want to be in the
crowded store.

Inside I select carrots and celery, chicken, parsley, and garlic. Tiny noodles in
alphabet shapes to make him smile. I pay quickly and return to Edward, my eyes
scanning to find him leaning against the side of a neighboring building, scribbling
away as always. The crowd is thick and he doesn't notice me at first, so I take a
moment to admire him. Long legs stretched out, mussed hair and light stubble.
He doesn't even notice when women pass him, their eyes widening with shock
and wonder at his beauty, some even turning their heads for another glimpse.

Mine, I think to myself, surprised at my possessiveness.

My heart stutters when his face lifts at my approach, the worried creases still
there, but fading. A smile appears on his face as he pockets the notebook, and I
try not to be too curious about what he's written.

"What did you get?" he asks, reaching to take the bag from me automatically, his
other hand finding mine again.

"It's a surprise," I murmur.

Back in my apartment, I ignore the blinking of my cell phone. Edward pokes

around the shopping bags curiously, but I shoo him away out of the kitchen.
Soon, I'm lost in the easy rhythm of peeling and chopping. I haven't cooked in so
long and it feels good, soothing. Out in my room I catch a glimpse of Edward
sitting on my couch with his head in his hands, still wearing his coat.

Once I've brought the soup to a boil, I wash my hands quickly and dry them. He's
still sitting in the same alarming way.

He lifts his head and attempts a smile.

"It smells good."

"Are you hungry?"

He nods shyly as I kneel on the floor by his feet. I ignore his protest as I lift one
into my lap, untying the knotted lace of his shoe and removing it, then the other.
His socks don't match, which makes me smile. I squeeze his feet gently, meeting
his eyes. Cautiously, I stand and slide my hands between his coat and his shirt,
feeling the heat and strength of his arms as I tug it downward. He leans forward,
letting me drag it away and toss it to the side.

"Stay a while," I whisper. He nods and leans back on the couch, resting his head
while I return to the kitchen.

When I come back a couple of minutes later, he's out like a light. I drape a
blanket around him and curl up by his side cautiously, not wanting to disturb him.
For a while I watch him sleep as I try to decide what to do.

What this will mean for us all . . . for Edward and me? I can't help but fear we're
involved in some sort of strange, vast conspiracy, but why? I wonder if it's worth
it, knowing your family has betrayed you. Might it not be better just to accept the
lie and move on? Sometimes truth comes at the expense of great pain.
Outside, I hear the storm begin—a distant rumble of thunder, surprising for
November. Something that sounds like hail pelts the window.

Edward makes a sleepy sound and I sweep back the hair from his face, kissing
his brow before going back to check on the soup. The chicken has cooked through
and I turn off the heat, removing it carefully and setting it on the counter to cool.
I add a little more parsley to the broth and skim some of the fat. The kitchen is
warm and deceptively pleasant, especially with the storm raging on outside. The
appealing contrast reminds me again of Forks. We never would get much snow,
but sometimes the rain would come down torrentially. Being wrapped up in a
blanket always made me feel so safe and content. Jacob and I would spend all
day playing games in his room and I'd think about the people who had nothing . .
. homeless people, people without heat. I felt so sorry for them and so glad to be
alive. To have survived.

I try to push thoughts of Jacob away. I can't have both worlds-Jacob's friendship
and Edward's love. But I can wish.

Edward said by the lake he'd never forgive his parents if they were involved. Yes,
he was speaking out of anger . . . but there was conviction there, too. Will I
forgive Billy? Or Jacob?

It's clear now I'd already condemned them in my heart. I'd hoped it wasn't true,
but I feared it was. In some ways I've already come to terms with it. Edward's
still dealing with the shock of possibility. And I know likely the answer lies
somewhere in-between.

This whole thing has gotten so out of hand, and I know I'm partially to blame. If
I'd just asked Billy in the beginning, perhaps we could've saved ourselves so
much heartache. Or at least it would have come quickly, not with slow drawn out
torture.

Once the chicken has cooled, I pull it apart and chop up the meat, returning that
to the pot and adding some salt along with the pasta. It smells good, as Edward
said, but my appetite has flown.

My cell phone blinks madly and accusingly on the kitchen counter. I'm sure I've
missed calls from Jacob. I ignore my churning stomach and flip it open, relieved
to see one missed call from Rose and one from Angela. Oh no! I completely
forgot about our coffee date during her lunch break. And in such terrible
weather—she must be so irritated.

Dialing her back quickly, I step outside into the hall to apologize.

"Angela, I'm so sorry," I say, getting her voicemail. "Something came up . . .

something big. I can't talk about it right now, but I promise I'll explain soon. Call
me."

Back in my apartment, Edward is awake.

"Hey," I say, smiling at the way his hair is plastered to the side of his face. He
doesn't smile back. I don't understand the hurt gaze he's leveling at my hand
until I realize I'm still holding my phone.

"If you wanted privacy, I could go," he says coldly, moving to stand.

He thought I was making a secret call to Jacob.

"Don't be like that. I didn't want to wake you and I had to call Angela. I missed
my coffee date with her to make you soup."

He sinks back again with a sigh. "Sorry. I'm being an asshole again. How long
was I asleep?"

"Just about an hour," I say, sitting next to him. But I'm not willing to change the
subject so quickly. The way he's acting is just too strange . . .

"So who did you think I was calling?"

"Bella . . ."

"What did you think I was saying?"

He shrugs and I put my hand on his knee. He still doesn't trust my feelings for
him. Suddenly, his behavior starts to make sense . . . the letters . . . Jacob . . .
the feverish kisses in the park.

"Edward, you need to talk to me."

He takes my hand and kisses the sensitive space in between my knuckles. "This
will change your mind."

"What?"

"You can't tell me you haven't thought about how this changes things," he says
darkly.

"What, if it was your parents that kept the letters? I'll change my mind about
what?"

"Breaking it off with him. If he's completely innocent."

"You still think I'm doing this because of the letters?" I demand, my voice rising
in pitch. "I told you that wasn't true."

"But if you hadn't doubted him to begin with—"

I interrupt him with a flash of my palm. "I'm not going to lie and say it had
absolutely no impact. But you must think very little of my feelings if you think I'm
just reacting because of the letters. My God, Edward. Do you know what a hard .
. . Jesus."

I can't even finish my sentence; I'm up on my feet and pacing the room. Can I
even be angry with him for these thoughts? I haven't told him about
Thanksgiving yet . . . all I've been is hesitant . . . scared. Running. He has every
reason to doubt me . . . except for his heart.

"Fuck, Bella. I don't know what to think," he mutters, alarmed by my agitation. I

turn on my heel and face him with my hands on my hips.

"Well, know this. I talked to Rose and she had an idea . . . I can go back to Forks
for Thanksgiving, transfer my ticket."

"You told Rosalie?" There's a touch of disbelief in his voice, mirrored in his
expression. Happiness. I feel myself softening a little. It's almost impossible to be
mad at him with that bewildered look on his face.
"Yeah, we had coffee this morning. And I was thinking. I can't go on like this . . .
not until Christmas."

Edward's smile widens further—he looks more like himself.

"You're serious."

"Yeah," I say, nodding. "I am."

He moves so quickly I can barely register his movement before his arms are
around me, lifting me off the floor like I weigh nothing. A surprised sound
escapes my mouth and I automatically wrap my arms around his neck.
"BellaBellaBellaBella," he murmurs into my hair, peppering it with kisses.

"I want you to believe me," I whisper.

For the third time today, his mouth is on mine, stealing my breath away. This
time it's so much more intense. I feel myself growing damp, wrapping my legs
around him as he staggers towards the bed, his knees buckling as they hit the
edge. And then he's hovering over me, kissing me lightly, then deeply. One hand
cups my face, the other roves down my body to rest where I'm burning, pressing
there firmly with a groan.

I can't help the way my hips lift up into his hand as he rubs, curling his long
fingers between my thighs and cupping me. I wish he'd rest his whole body on
mine. I reach out, wanting to feel him so badly. Edward evades my grasp,
gathering my hands together and holding my arms gently over my head while his
other hand continues to rub me over my jeans. I feel almost certain the wetness
is seeping through them but I can't find it in myself to be embarrassed. Instead I
moan and bring his mouth to mine. All sane thoughts have fled. I'll give him
anything, all of me, right now. He can take what's his. Edward doesn't seem to
have any objections, either.

Our tongues thrust together in a rhythm that makes me crave more . . . more.

"Please," I whisper, not knowing how to ask for what I need.

"I wish I was the first one," he growls into my ear. "The only one to take you
here."

Without thinking I pant, "Yes. You are. You are."

Edward's hand stills, his eyes snapping to mine.

"What?"

I blush ferociously, covering my face with my hands. He pulls them away gently,
forcing me to meet his gaze.

"Do you mean you've never . . ." he trails off. His voice is so soft and full of care,
but it does nothing to alleviate my embarrassment.

"God, this is so embarrassing." I close my eyes, not having the sanctuary of my

hands to hide behind anymore. Edward's stopped touching me and I ache . . . so
much.

"Don't be embarrassed," he says, kissing my eyelids. "Look at me."

"I can't." I stick my tongue out at him and try to turn away. Of course he won't
let me. He chuckles, the bastard.
"You're so precious to me." I feel his lips move lightly along my temple but still I
don't look.

"I don't want to be precious. I want to be sexy."

"You are, silly girl. You're both."

"I fail to see that."

"I know."

He sighs and I dare to sneak a peek at him. His face is filled with love, longing. It
makes my heart stutter.

"I promise . . . I'll take care of you. I'll make it good for you."

My eyes widen further and he smiles, caressing my face.

"If you only knew what you do to me." His voice sounds rueful.

"What?" I ask, wanting to hear it. Never in my life have I felt sexy or desirable,
but under Edward's stare, I do.

He chuckles again, more darkly this time, taking my hand and guiding it down,
down his chest. My breath hitches as I realize his intent. With eyes blazing into
mine, he moves my hand down between his legs.

"This."

I gasp at the feel of his erection under his jeans. Pressing his hand against the
back of mine, he moves it up, then down, then up, so I feel the entire length of
him, the width. His eyes roll back into his head and he mutters something before
he moves my hand away. But I'm fascinated. Instantly, I'm drawn back. I press
more firmly and he groans again. It's so . . . long. Wow. His reaction makes me
ache even more I move my hand again, up and down.

"Bella, you have to stop," he says. I can hear the regret in his voice and I know if
I don't stop . . . he won't. I do it again anyway.

Now his breathing is coming harsher. He covers his eyes with his arm, and I know
I'm playing a dangerous game, crumbling his resistance.

But then his words from Saturday come back to me . . . it shouldn't be like this.
Not like this. As if I didn't have enough guilt about Jacob. I don't want my
relationship with Edward to be tainted by cheating even more than it already is.
Of course that's hypocritical of me. I already am a cheat. And Jacob is perhaps
completely innocent.

I move my hand away and Edward sighs, grabbing my hand and kissing it. For a
while, neither of us speaks.

"This can't happen again . . . not until."

"I'm free. I know. I should never have . . ."

"It's not your fault. I'm an idiot. I should have known I . . . It's not just because I
want to forget, this," he says, gesturing between us. "But I want to forget." The
pain is back in his eyes, and I squeeze his hand tighter. I still don't know what
we're going to do about the letters.
"It's too tempting to be here with you . . . alone. I should go." He lifts himself up
and swings his legs around the bed. I feel such a flutter of panic at the thought of
him leaving. I don't know what he'll do.

"But I made soup."

"Bella . . ."

"Chicken soup. With vegetables. Please." I scramble to sit next to him, adjusting
my rumpled shirt.

He smiles and touches his hand to my face.

"Okay."

I pop up from the bed excitedly, but before I can move toward the kitchen,
Edward's hand is on my arm, drawing me back to him. He holds me at arms
length and looks at me seriously.

"Bella, will you come with me to Elgin?"

"Yes." I nod, moving in for another hug. "Of course."

His arms wrap around me again and I realize with a shock that, despite our
intimacy moments ago, I hadn't once thought about my scars.

"Where no wood is, the fire goes out; so where there is no tale bearer, the strife
ceaseth." –Biblical proverb

November 13th, 2010

My truck. I haven't driven it in over two months, and when it comes into sight in
the long term lot I get a little choked up. So many memories.

Jacob rebuilt nearly the entire engine as a gift for my eighteenth birthday.
Although it's over twenty years old, it's never given me a problem. Some people
look down on mechanics, but they don't understand the artistry behind the work,
the skill required to take bits of metal and create something so solid and
dependable.

With a little pang, my mind drifts back to our conversation from the day before—
Jacob's voice still held that intense edge, full of plans for us. He started again
with the idea of me coming back to Forks to complete my degree after my
coursework . . . but what then? Where did he expect me to teach, at Port Angeles
Community? It irritated me that he hadn't taken what I wanted into account at
all—or just assumed what I wanted was what he wanted. In some ways I guess I
can't blame him. Until now, I've never really asserted myself.

I knew I needed to tell him right then, but no words seemed right.

It's over.

I've met someone.

This isn't going to work out.

I don't love you enough to marry you.

Apparently, I didn't have to. When I told him that we needed to talk and that I
was changing my ticket for Thanksgiving break, he became very quiet.

"What do you want to talk about? Can't we do it over the phone?"

"No. There's a lot. Jacob, you—"

"I've been expecting this." He cuts me off with a wavering voice. "Please, don't
say it. Please."

"But you don't understand. I—"

"I'll fight for you. You'll come back for Thanksgiving and we'll make it right again,
I promise. It's this distance. That's what's pulling us apart. I've felt it, too. But
once you're back home, you'll know . . . we're meant to be."

I hadn't bothered to press further, but his determination alarmed me. I don't
know what else I expected, his easy acquiescence? For him to accept it all with a
lighthearted smile and a hug?

He's not going to let me go.

How different he is from the boy I knew when we were children. Or could I just
be seeing a side of him I've never acknowledged before?

I run my hand over the edge of the flatbed in contemplation.

"This yours?" Edward's voice beside me brings me back from my reverie. I

haven't told him about my conversation with Jacob, or lack thereof . . . it won't
do anything but upset him. I nod and watch his face as he takes it in, expecting
some sort of comment about the way it looks. But he doesn't say anything. He
already knows the history.

On Tuesday Edward stayed late. After we'd eaten, we talked for a long time about
what we should do and finally decided to confront his parents as soon as possible.
We settled on going to Elgin on Saturday, since his father usually got off early on
that day and we wanted to ensure both of them were at home. Edward's initial
resistance had given away to a quiet resignation, but even now I can feel the
tension radiating off his body, from the hard set of his jaw to the uncharacteristic
stillness of his legs. He's fearfully calm. But I know him well enough to
understand that despite the seeming placidity of his demeanor, it won't take
much to shatter it.

My hand drifts and settles on his leg, rubbing into the coiled muscles there.

"Are you ready?" I ask. His eyes flicker to mine—and there it is, just under the
surface: dread. Oh Edward. He feels everything. It's one of the reasons I love him
so.

He gives a curt nod and I turn the key in the ignition, relieved when the engine
instantly roars to life.

Over past couple of days, Esme has left Edward several messages begging for
him to answer so that she 'can explain'. But now that we're on our way to see
them, I'm worried. The ride to Elgin is only forty-five minutes, but it's enough
time to think over all the possible outcomes of our meeting. If they did have
something to do with it . . . what will they think of Edward and me together? If
they wanted to keep us apart as children, why would they want us together now,
as adults? The ramifications of the situation start to sink in. Perhaps the Cullens
cut me off from their family. Perhaps Esme, who I loved fiercely, didn't feel the
same way. Will that matter to Edward, once his anger with them dissipates, if it
does? I don't want him to ever have to choose between his family and me.

A glance over at Edward tells me he's lost in thought as well.

Soon, familiar landmarks come into sight—McCabe's, an old restaurant where I'd
sometimes go to dinner with the Cullens. Edward loved something . . . their
mashed potatoes. It looks much smaller than I remember, surreal like a movie
set. Here and there, signs and street names long forgotten pop up. I inhale
sharply when I notice a faded billboard for the Ramblers, Edward's old baseball
team.

"Are you okay?" His brow furrows with concern as he reaches over to stroke my
hair.

"I think so."

"Do you want me to drive?"

"No. I'm okay," I respond automatically. But inside I'm wondering if I'm really
ready to do this. My body starts sending warning signs—my breath comes more
rapidly, as does my pulse. I don't want to see my old neighborhood. I can't. My
grip on the steering wheel tightens as the fluttering in my stomach increases.

"Bella . . ." I glance at Edward quickly and I know he sees it. It's always been
impossible to hide from him.

"I'm okay," I say again.

But when we pass South Elgin High, I'm not. I feel dizzy as the blood roars in my
ears, blackness encroaching on my field of vision. Just in time, I steer to the side
of the road as the panic crushes my chest. I rest my head on the steering wheel,
willing the faint away. How did I think I could manage this? I feel so fragmented,
as if a piece of me could break off with just the slightest breeze.

Before I can register it in my dazed state, Edward is out of the truck and around
by my door, opening it and unbuckling my seatbelt. I fall into him, feeling
helpless and weak and needy, but so, so thankful he's with me. I cling for dear
life with all of my limbs as tearless sobs wrack my body.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked you to come. I'm sorry." He
murmurs soothing things and I try to let myself be calmed. We need to do this. I
know we do, but there are just so many memories, especially here. So many.
Edward, Alice, my mom. I feel his lips against my hair but I'm far away,
remembering. The last day he walked me to school and kissed me, not caring if
anyone knew that I was his girl. I wish I could have gone to the dance with him
and seen how handsome he looked in his tux.

So much has been lost, and why? Will they even tell us the truth?

A few minutes later, after I've calmed, Edward slides into the driver's seat and
wraps his arm around me, holding me close to his side.

"The clutch sticks," I whisper as he starts the truck.

"Okay, love."

He pulls away from the curb and into a three-point turn, right in the middle of the
deserted road.
My eyes widen in alarm when I realize what he's about to do.

"No! We have to go see them. Edward. Please. We have to. Please."

"But Bella—"

"Listen, I'll be fine. I promise. I was just a little overwhelmed for a second . . . I
didn't know I'd react like that. But I'm okay now, I swear." All I know is if we
don't do this now, we never will. I'll be fine. I'll have to make myself be fine.

"Are you sure? You're really sure?"

"Turn around. We need to go. Please."

Edward sighs and I can sense his reluctance, but he complies nonetheless. It's
only a little farther . . .

When we finally enter our old neighborhood, I'm strangely calm. All of the
emotion has been leeched out of me. Still, Edward wisely avoids taking the route
that runs by my old house, or the place where it used to be.

We pull up in front of the Cullen home at around five o'clock. It's incredible—just
the same. Black shutters and white siding, dim now in the oncoming darkness.
The well-kept lawn. Esme's rose bushes, cut back for the winter. How lovely they
are in full bloom-red and pink and yellow. Alice and I used to, very carefully, steal
the occasional bloom to play 'He loves me, he loves me not.' Even the tire swing
hanging from the venerable old oak tree on the side of the house. I can't believe
it's still there. If I close my eyes and imagine, I can almost hear Alice's squealing
laughter as Edward pushes her 'higher, higher'!

Edward stiffens at the sight of an expensive-looking car in the drive, his arm
tightening around me. I don't recognize it but he clearly does.

"My father's home."

"Good. Well, I guess that's why we came."

The window of Esme's second story office is illuminated. She must be home, too.
It irritates me that they can just go on with their lives while Edward and I hover
in this painful limbo. True, his mother has been calling him incessantly since their
phone call days before, but still.

Edward pauses with his hand on the door, turning to me with a serious
expression—there it is again, that fear right under the surface. He smiles ruefully
as if to say, this is it. I lean into him, searching for his mouth, both of us seeking
reassurance and comfort. I feel his tongue press gently, but insistently against
my lips and sliding softly inside. My pulse quickens automatically. If I lived
forever I'd never get tired of kissing him.

I vow to stay strong for him today when he needs me.

"Whatever they say in there, I'm with you. Okay?" I say when we finally break
away.

"I love you," he murmurs against my cheek. Even though he's said so before, the
words send a secret thrill through me, down to my toes and up my spine. I know
he doesn't want me to say it back, not until I've officially broken things off with
Jacob, but he must feel it, he must know. My sweet Edward.

"I talked to Jacob yesterday about Thanksgiving."

Edward's face is awash with emotion—fear, happiness, concern. I know if I told
him what Jacob said he'll get upset, so I just nod. We have enough to deal with
today.

"Do you want me . . . to go with you?" From the look on his face I know he wants
to, and while I'm sorely tempted, I know I need to go alone.

"I have to do it by myself."

He swallows, nods. It's not settling well with him but he's good enough not to
pressure me.

The walk up to the front door seems interminable, and once we arrive Edward
hesitates with his hand on the knob.

His jaw clenches as his hand changes tacks and rings the doorbell instead. The
other one grips mine firmly. I give him a squeeze.

About a half a minute later, the door swings open.

I think I gasp when Esme emerges—she's so different, but the same. Illumined
from the hall light behind her, I notice her hair, neatly swept up in an elegant
bun, shows streaks of grey. Though still fit, her figure is a little thicker now
around the middle. Her eyes widen immediately, taking in Edward and then me,
her hand darting to her mouth to cover her shock. From behind her the smell of
food cooking wafts into the early evening air.

"Bella?" Just a faint whisper from in-between fingers as her eyes rake up and
down my body. The last time she saw me I was swaddled in bandages in the
intensive care unit, so I suppose it makes sense. What is she expecting to see? A
damaged girl? Her eyes immediately begin to glisten with unshed tears as they
move to Edward, then to me again, then to our clasped hands.

"Yes," I choke out. Edward doesn't release my hand and I watch him regard his
mother impassively. Her demeanor radiates discomfort. Coupled with her
pleading look at him, it is a confirmation of sorts.

"I've been so worried about you. I . . ."

"Can we come in?" he asks quietly. She nods and widens the door. Edward moves
first, his hand still clutching mine . . . I feel awkward openly outing ourselves
here before knowing how much, if any, contact they've maintained with Billy.
Still, his hand is my only support and I'd never let it go.

Once we're inside, Esme shuts the door and glances up the stairs . . . I assume
Carlisle is there in his study. He either hasn't heard the doorbell or doesn't care
to know who it is.

Now that we're inside I can see just how much the years have changed Esme.
The lines around her temples and forehead tell the story of time. Watching a child
die is a terrible thing. She certainly looks older.

"You're all grown up, Bella," she murmurs. "So beautiful."

I don't know what to say to that, but I offer a small smile. Then her arms move
hesitantly—she reaches out, then pulls back, not sure if I want her to touch me. I
don't make any move toward her and she fists her hands at her side, her gaze
alighting on the stairs once more. She seems nervous, a bird about to take flight.

"Is he home?" Edward's voice is cold and Esme starts. It's so unlike him.
"Yes. Just. I . . . we've been calling you, sweetheart. If you could understand how
hard . . . I was so worried . . ."

"Save it, please. You know why we're here." I can't help but cringe a little at the
way he's speaking to her—how angry he is. Of course he has every right to be if
what we fear is true.

Esme nods and swallows, playing a little with the gold buttons on her cardigan.

"Sweetheart—"

"Let's just cut the crap, shall we?" Edward says. "Bella and I came for answers."

"Esme?" Carlisle's voice sounds from the top of the stairs before Esme can reply.
"Who's there?"

"Please come downstairs," she calls back. "It's Edward."

There's nothing for a moment, then the thumping sound of footsteps on the
stairs. When Carlisle comes into view, I almost don't recognize him. His once
blonde hair has lightened considerably—it's nearly white, accentuated even
further by the crisp white button down he's wearing. When his eyes land on
Edward and me, he freezes on the stairs. There's none of the same surprise
there, as with Esme. His green eyes, so like Edward's, are unreadable; they stay
trained on us while he completes his descent.

"Edward," he says, rounding the banister. "Your mother told me you'd spoken.
But I didn't expect . . We've been trying . . ." His words break off as he notices
our hands for the first time. "Bella. How good to see you."

There's a calculated, measured calm to his voice—too practiced to be real. When

we were young, something about him always intimidated me, though he never
seemed to be around much. Just like in Edward's story. Always working, not
involved in his children's lives except to dole out punishment. How I hated him
when he refused to listen to Edward about the pot.

"Likewise," I manage. Edward pulls me closer to him.

"What a small world," Carlisle replies, smiling now and extending his hand. I don't
take it, less from the desire to be rude than from being entirely overwhelmed by
the situation.

"I guess so."

His demeanor falters for a second and he pauses, glancing between the three of
us. For a second, the air is thick with weighty silence.

"Esme tells me you're a student at Chicago. In Edward's class."

"Yes."

"How fascinating," he murmurs. "After all this time."

"You never expected it, did you?" Edward's sharp interjection causes Carlisle to
flinch visibly.

"Son, please . . ."

"Come into the living room," Esme says in a pleading tone. "Will you? Just come
and sit down for a minute, sweetheart, Bella. Would you like anything? Are you
hungry?"

"No, we're not." Edward answers for us both. With my stomach roiling and all the
tension I couldn't eat a thing, despite the delicious smells in the air.

"There's something you're not telling us and we want the goddamn truth!"

"Please," I add, my voice a whisper.

Esme glances at Carlisle but I can't read their silent communion. She gestures at
the door to the living room.

I don't recognize any of the furnishings. As always, Esme's design sense is

impeccable. Plush beige carpeting gives softly under my boots and I momentarily
wonder if I should've taken them off. The room itself is cast in a soft yellow glow
from an overhead hanging light fixture—almost, but not quite, a chandelier. I
look hesitantly at the twin deep red sofas facing one another before Edward
moves toward the one on the left. A solid dark wood coffee table bridges the gap
between them.

How I loved coming here as a child, everything always clean, new, and nice. But
it was more than that—it was a home, filled with life. A family. Edward and Alice
bickering, Esme upstairs drafting plans. It's so quiet now, save for the ticking of a
handsome pendulum clock hanging on the far wall. The setting would actually be
quite lovely if it wasn't for the task at hand.

"Edward," Esme begins, settling down across from us. Carlisle stands for a second
before sitting next to her. It's difficult to determine which one of them looks more
uncomfortable.

"Where are the letters?" Edward demands. He lets go of my hand and leans
forward in a challenging posture. I immediately regret the loss of my anchor, so I
sit on the backs of my hands to keep them from trembling.

When Carlisle speaks next his voice is tired. "Son, I understand you're upset.
But—"

"Upset?" Edward snaps, his eyes livid. "I swear to God you better tell me what
the hell is going on. I'm a whole helluva lot more than 'upset' right now."

Carlisle's eyes widen infinitesimally and Esme gives her husband a hard stare.

"Tell your son, Carlisle." I'm surprised by her authoritative tone . . . not much like
the sweet and docile Esme I once knew. "They're going to find out, or hate us
either way."

So there is something they've been hiding. I'm actually surprised they appear
willing to talk—I feared that once we got here we'd only get more lies. But
perhaps they understand their cause is lost.

Carlisle sighs, rubbing his hands over his face. "I was only trying to do what I
thought was right."

"Don't tell me," Esme says with exasperation. "Tell them."

"Well someone better start talking, or else Bella and I are walking out that door
and never coming back."
Esme's already pale face blanches at Edward's statement. Her obvious, quiet
desperation makes me feel sorry for her despite everything. A suffocating silence
ensues, and I have to remind myself to breathe. Then Carlisle speaks again.

"Can I just ask that you hear me out?"

Neither of us replies, which he takes as a cue to go on.

"From the beginning," Edward snaps.

"Bella." Carlisle turns to me with a grave expression. "When you were a little girl,
Esme and I were very . . . concerned for you and your mother. I'm not sure if you
know this, but we tried on several occasions to get her help. But state laws are
designed to shield the rights of the mentally ill, as they should be. It's very
difficult to get someone involuntarily committed unless they're a danger to
themselves or others—and proving that it nearly impossible unless the person
makes an attempt on their life or threatens someone else."

This is something I've learned—once I was in college, I became obsessed with

researching Bipolar disorder, both to better understand it and to determine if I
had any of the symptoms. Though laws vary state-to-state, most are very
protective of patients' rights.

"I could get into the history of why this is the case, but suffice it to say it has to
do with how horribly the mentally ill were once treated in this country—locked
away by their families with no legal recourse. As a doctor I've heard terrible
things. So advocates lobbied for stricter, more protective laws—and of course this
is generally a good thing. But in some cases, unfortunately, these same laws
have made it more difficult to get people like your mother treatment."

I nod and swallow, feeling ill. The irony of it all is too much—if a person doesn't
want to be treated they have every right not to be—I know all too well the
burden and stress this places on families. All I wanted was for her to take her
medicine and be all right, but she wouldn't. She just wouldn't.

What I didn't know was they'd tried to help her. At this moment I don't know
whether to be grateful or to scoff at their failed efforts. Edward takes my hand
again and squeezes softly and I move more closely to him on the couch.

"But then there was you, a child in a bad home environment. The reality is that
with parental rights and the strict mental health laws, children slip though the
cracks every day. And added to the fact the foster care system is already
overburdened, there's always the chance a child will be placed in a living situation
even worse than the one they were removed from."

Yes, and there it was . . . my deepest fear. To be taken away to foster care and
never see Edward again. Another irony. I can't suppress a sarcastic smirk.

Carlisle smiles sadly and runs his hands along his thighs, leaning back in the
chair. From this angle he looks so much like Edward . . . but I see Alice, too, in
both of them. How differently our lives might have turned out if she had lived.

"Esme and I discussed it, and disagreed, many times. She wanted you to come to
live with us. We didn't know you had a guardian or any other family, and really
no legal way of finding out. And then your mother seemed to be doing better. We
had no idea the situation had gotten out of hand again."

"I'm so sorry, Bella," Esme whispers. "We waited too long."

I cringe, thinking of how I'd wanted to keep it secret . . . how I made Edward
promise. Now the burden of guilt lies distributed across all of our shoulders.

Esme's face is all concern. "You could have come to us."

"I was ashamed," I say to the floor. Edward presses a kiss against the side of my
head and murmurs in my ear.

"You have no reason to be. Ever." I blush at the intimate gesture and Carlisle
clears his throat. When I glance up I notice both parents watching us with careful
expressions; they're still trying to figure out what we are to each other now. Well,
it's probably pretty obvious now. Hand-holding can always be explained away,
but not a kiss.

Carlisle hesitates before continuing. "We also had no idea that you and Edward
were . . . involved."

Edward sneaks his arm around my waist, giving them even more confirmation
that what's past is present.

"I thought there might be something going on, but I wasn't sure. I didn't say
anything to Carlisle," Esme confesses.

"Of course once you were injured, Bella, the situation became more complicated,"
Carlisle says. My heartbeat picks up and Edward rubs my arm lightly. Please
please please don't make me relive this. Thankfully, he doesn't dwell on the
events of that fateful night.

"The authorities alerted Billy Black and he flew in immediately with his son. I met
with him on several occasions and those meetings put my mind at ease. I knew
he'd be a good caretaker, and he was eager to do it. He told me all about his
friendship with your father.

"But I'm getting ahead of myself. After the fire, Edward . . ." Carlisle focuses his
gaze on his son. "Edward was . . . inconsolable."

I have a feeling he's leaving something out as Edward stiffens beside me. I
remember our conversation in my apartment that first night he'd come. He said
he couldn't bear to come back to the hospital after that first day—a betrayal that
still stings, though I understand it now.

If I'd been in his position at that time in my life . . .

"We were so worried," Esme interjects, her eyes seeking mine out. "Edward
blamed himself for the fire . . . That's when my suspicions were confirmed that he
had a romantic attachment to you."

Attachment. The word seems hardly sufficient to describe what he was to me.

"Alice was so adamant we fight to keep you," she whispers. "We should have. I
know that now."

"But you were so young, both of you," Carlisle says. "I was worried for Edward's
sake, for yours. Afraid that your treatment would put too much of a strain on
him—I didn't know how he'd deal with it if it didn't go well. And your relationship,
to be honest I disapproved—Bella, you were just barely fourteen. I had to do
what was best for my son. And I'm sorry if this sounds callous, but a relationship
with a much younger, seriously injured young lady wasn't in his best interest."
Carlisle's words cut me to the quick. He saw me as damaged goods—perhaps he
still does. Edward squeezes my shoulders and from his profile I can discern the
pulsing of his jaw.

"That wasn't your decision to make," he grits out between clenched teeth.

"It was. I'm your father, and I was doing what I saw fit."

"I was sixteen, not a goddamn child."

"That very well may be, but you were in no state to make decisions."

No state to . . . Oh Edward, what happened to you?

He's about to reply but Carlisle cuts him off. "Billy would have taken her whether
or not we consented—he was granted the legal right. But yes. I discussed the
situation with Billy. He was quite alarmed, much more so than even I was, by
your relationship. He wanted an immediate end to it. From his perspective, Bella
needed time to heal away from Elgin, without all of the memories of this place.
We decided a fresh start for both of you was the right thing to do for everyone
involved."

Of course Billy would have been completely freaked out by Edward and me.

"But both of us knew that would be impossible if communication between the two
of you continued. Billy had the idea of intercepting any letters and screening any
calls that might come through, and I confess I thought it was a good plan."

So it was the two of them working together!

"Billy has the letters?" I choke out . . . this confirms all of my worst fears. He's
kept them from me all these years.

Carlisle nods. "I assume he disposed of them, but I don't know. I never thought
to ask, and I haven't spoken with him in quite some time."

It hurts so much-the thought that all of those years the Cullens were so close,
only a phone call away. Billy and Carlisle talking, who knows how often, while I
suffered and suffered for my own good.

"I didn't know any of this," Esme says, casting a hard glance at Carlisle. "I agreed
to let Bella go, but your father never told me about this no contact agreement. I
didn't find out until just before . . ." She trails off and looks down at her hands.
Just before Alice died. Poor Esme.

Carlisle's eyes soften as they consider his wife. He places his hand tentatively on
her shoulder and she covers it with her own. She's forgiven him. Still my mind is
reeling from Carlisle's words. It's out . . . there's no going back to the way things
were. Not anymore. Hot tears prick at the corner of my eyes but I fight them.
They won't see me cry.

"Then what?" I ask hoarsely.

"So I arranged care for you in Seattle with a friend, a top reconstructive
surgeon."

"Doctor Banner." I remember him well—his kind smile and perfect white teeth. I
haven't seen him in years but I've often thought about him. I wonder if he knew
about any of this. Probably not.
"Yes. Richard is one of the best. So you were transferred, Bella, and even though
my children were upset, I figured we'd all move on in a couple of months when
they didn't hear from you."

"How dare you," Edward seethes.

"Please. Let me finish. Eventually I saw how wrong I'd been—neither you nor
Alice gave up so easily. I must say I admired you both for your perseverance.
You kept writing, and asking us about her, and I kept deflecting, hoping you'd
eventually give up. But I underestimated you. You proved me wrong."

"What about when Alice got sick?" I ask, surprised at the strength in my voice.
"How could you have kept us apart? She died thinking I never wanted to talk to
her again, and I . . . I never got the chance to say goodbye."

Just like Renee. Just like Renee. Oh, sweet Alice.

The tears come whether I want them to or not. I can't control them anymore.

Esme presses her hand to her face, but her concern does nothing to allay the
ache in my chest . . . the ache she helped put there.

"Shhh," Edward whispers in my ear, bringing my head to his chest. I'm so

embarrassed to be reacting like this. I close my eyes.

"When Alice got sick, and I saw neither of you were giving up . . ." Carlisle's voice
infiltrates my thoughts and I force myself to listen, even though I'd rather block
him out. "I talked to Billy. I told him I'd made a mistake, that the plan wasn't
working . . . and that my daughter was very ill.

"But Billy was firm. Bella wasn't doing well . . . she was so upset about her
mother. He didn't want to add to her burden. He said the psychologist she was
seeing thought she was dangerously fragile. So he said no."

No no no. The words echo in my ears. It was Billy . . . Billy who kept me from
saying goodbye? Oh no. I squeeze my eyes tighter, startled when I feel the
eruption of anger from Edward's chest.

"I can't fucking believe this! Why didn't you tell me and Alice?"

I lift my head again, wanting to see Carlisle's reaction. His face is studiously
impassive, but I think I might detect a faint blush of shame.

"What good would it have done? He didn't want you to see her, Edward. He didn't
want her to know about Alice. If I told you that, you never would have gotten
over it."

"I would have gone to her."

"And then what? Stolen her away? Be reasonable. You were always so impulsive
as a child. When you took the car to drive cross-country, your mother was beside
herself. "

"I would have found you," Edward whispers in my ear. I nod, alarmed by
Carlisle's next statement.

"You would have gotten arrested."

"That's bullshit and you know it. You were covering your own ass. You didn't want
us to know you'd fucked up, isn't that it? I mean, you didn't even tell Mom? God,
what a fucking coward."

"Is it wrong that I didn't want to lose my family?" Carlisle shoots back. "I almost
did as it is."

"The separation . . ." Edward questions, looking between the two of them.

Esme frowns a little and rubs her forehead. "I overheard your father talking to
Billy one day. I'd picked up the phone to make a call, but they were talking . . . it
was just before Alice . . . it was when we brought her home."

"Yes," Carlisle says again. "That's how she found out."

"I couldn't believe he'd done it. All that time, I felt something wasn't quite right,
but I was so caught up with Alice . . . I'm sorry, Bella. I thought you'd moved on
with your life. I should have known better." Esme's voice is soft, wavering
slightly. I can barely make out her words. Edward mutters something under his
breath, his eyes cast in a steady glare.

"The two of you lied to me . . . all these fucking years. I can't believe it. I can't
fucking believe it." He stands up suddenly and runs his hands through his hair,
pulling at it. I can't get a good look at his face, but he's livid. I can't decide
what's worse, the original betrayal or the fact they'd kept it a secret all this time.

I want to reach out towards him, but he's pacing the room.

"What the hell am I saying? Yes I can. You obviously never gave a damn about
how I felt. About Bella, Alice, anything. All those fucking years and the two of you
were so caught up in your own shit you didn't notice what was going on with me."
His voice gets louder and for a second I worry that he'll actually strike out at his
father. That fear seems to resonate with Carlisle as well. He flinches backwards
as Edward approaches.

Esme sits with tears streaming down her face as her son's words—angry and full
of pain—sink in. But I could care less at this moment how she feels. My heart
breaks for Edward but there's nothing I can do. His words come in fragments,
choppy bits of rage and sorrow. I can't even follow some of what he's saying.

"I thought Bella hated me for leaving her there in the hospital. I wrote her those
letters . . . it was all . . . You never said so, but I knew, I knew, you were
disappointed in me for not being able to donate for Alice.

"Edward, no!" Esme says in shocked wonderment.

"And Bella . . ." he says, turning on Carlisle again. "You thought it was just some
teen romance, well fuck you. I loved her. I still fucking love her. And you were so
goddamn selfish. Too worried I'd be pissed at you to see what you were doing
was far worse."

"I already lost my daughter. I didn't want to lose my son," Carlisle whispers.

"Too late. You already did."

"I have been astonished that men could die martyrs for their religion -
I have shudder'd at it.

I shudder no more.

I could be martyr'd for my religion

Love is my religion

And I could die for that.

I could die for you."

-John Keats

Chapter 25: November 13th, 2010

"Don't go. Edward, please. Bella, I'm so sorry."

So so sorry.

Esme's words ring in my ears as I drive through the thickening darkness, a slight
drizzle obscuring my view. I turn the windshield wipers on and focus on the road
ahead. My heartbeat won't settle and I can't bear to look at Edward in the
passenger's seat. It hurts too much to see him like this, even worse than my
pain. He hasn't spoken a word since we got back in the truck and I don't know
how to reach out to him, how to deal with any of this. I'm afraid if I say the
wrong thing he'll snap—perhaps the silence is the only thing keeping him
together. He'll talk when he's ready.

Calm, Bella. Stay calm. I have to get us home in one piece.

I breathe deeply and try not to think, but my mind has always been a traitorous
organ. It never lets me forget, and the quiet in the cab only encourages
remembering.

Carlisle's face—ashen when he hears Edward's parting words. Maybe it's the first
time in his life he really listens.

"I'm sorry, son."

Edward stands in the doorway, not blinking when Carlisle says the words. Hurt
flashes briefly before it disappears, replaced with a cold, impassive stare. His
words, too, are like ice.

"It's too late for apologies. And anyway, you're only sorry because you got
caught."

"I know you don't believe me, but I am. More sorry than you'll ever know." He's
only middle-aged, but in this moment he seems an old man worn by time and
guilt.

"Too fucking bad." Edward nearly spits out the words and in that moment,
despite what they've done, the disappointment and sadness they've caused, I feel
sorry for them. The rage he feels is for Alice too—I wonder if it will ever be
surmountable.
"Edward," Esme calls after us, her tears flowing freely now. Edward's hand grips
mine tightly as I trail after him, trying to get a handle on all that's happened.
"You don't mean that. You don't."

He turns on his parents, standing in the doorway. Esme clutches at his sleeve and
Edward pulls back as if he's been burned.

"It's too late."

Esme's hand flutters to her heart and she buckles over, Carlisle moving quickly to
steady her. The finality of Edward's statement hangs resolutely in the air as we
walk down the brick path towards my truck, leaving them both behind.

I didn't even get a chance to say anything to them. I didn't know what to say. All
of the lies, all of the deception—and what was at the heart of it? Me. They felt I
was bad for their son—bad enough to send away to live with people I didn't
know, despite the historical connection between our families. The Cullens didn't
want to deal with me. Too young. Damaged goods. Damaged.

And they're right. Edward hasn't seen my scars. How will he react when he does?
He says I'm beautiful to him, but how can that not change when he sees? How
will I ever know he's telling the truth and not just saying he doesn't care to
placate me? Or worse—pity me. Will I survive seeing revulsion replace love in his
eyes?

I fiddle with the radio, tuning it to an alternative rock station that I know Edward
likes. As the sounds of the Stone Temple Pilots fill the silent cab, I try to push the
poisonous thoughts away, only to have equally virulent ones replace them.

Billy's betrayal hurts so acutely, more so than it did before. He knew she was
dying. He knew and he forbade me to see her—my best friend! I try to recall how
I was after the accident. A lot of that time is a blur, thankfully. I remember
meeting with the therapist and telling her about my friends and how much I
missed them. She listened sympathetically but I knew even then she thought it
was a lost cause.

Hot tears threaten to blind me, but I wipe them away, feeling anger build in my
chest. All the guilt I've felt about doubting Billy has vanished—now I'm sick at
myself. How easily I'd trusted him, let him fill the place in my heart left vacant by
Renee, Edward, and Alice. A child so desperate for love that I clung on to any
affection that was thrown my way, even if it was a poor and unworthy substitute.

It was all a lie. A twisted, perverse manipulation of lives justified under the guise
of parental concern. And what of our letters—had he read them? Thrown them
away? Either option is unforgivable, but the former seems worse. The thought
that Billy could have been privy to all of Edward's secrets, all of Alice's, meant for
me but never received—how could he?

And Jacob. Something in me still refuses to believe he had a hand in all of this. It
was always Billy who mailed my letters when he went to town for work, and who
picked up our mail from the post office in town. Surely Billy wouldn't have
included Jacob, only four months younger than me, in such a deception. Would
he? Jacob had always been my confidant, the one who listened to me when I
needed to talk about Renee. He himself had never known his mother, since she
died in childbirth, but I know he always felt that lack too. It was one of the
reasons we bonded so easily.
He showed me a picture once of our mothers together, both so young. Mary Ann
was Quileute and beautiful with dark hair and complexion distinct from Renee's
fairness; side-by-side, the two women created a lovely study in contrasts.

"She's lovely, Jacob," I say, but I can't tear my eyes away from my own mother.
I drink her in eagerly, my eyes memorizing every tendril of hair.

The two of us are seated on his bedroom floor after school looking through old
photo albums. There are many pictures of my parents that I've never seen
before, both together and with Billy and his wife. What's startling is that all of
them are not much older than we are now. Billy never looks at the pictures or
speaks of her. I think, even after all these years, he still loves her.

Jacob smiles wistfully. "I wish I knew her."

I wish that for him, too.

No, he couldn't have known. He wouldn't have done that to me. I repeat the
words like a mantra, willing them to be true, but I don't know what to believe
anymore.

And Edward. What happened to him after the fire? Both he, and now his parents,
have hinted at things I'm not sure I want to know about. He's so quiet. I chance
a glance at him, but his face is turned away, his leg bouncing again with nervous
energy. Thankfully, our exit finally appears. I pull off just as the rain begins in
earnest, wanting so much for him to speak to me. I can only imagine the state of
his mind right now.

A few minutes later I pull up into my lot and still the engine. It's only eight
o'clock but every joint in my body aches with tiredness.

"Edward?" Rain drums steadily on the roof of my truck, nearly drowning out my
whisper, but he must hear. He turns and looks at me with red-rimmed green
eyes. I realize suddenly that's why he's been looking away—he didn't want me to
see him cry.

"I'm sorry," he says softly, extending his hand to my face. Just a soft touch
against my cheek, but it's enough to unleash all the tension in my body. I sag
against the seat, leaning my head back on the stiff fake leather upholstery and
gazing at the ceiling.

I can feel his eyes trained on my face, waiting for my response.

"For what? You have nothing to apologize for."

"I do. For them. For what they said. What they did. I'm so fucking sorry."

"It wasn't your fault."

"I'm so ashamed of them."

"This is so . . . fucked up."

Edward lets out a staccato laugh at my language—I rarely swear. But there's no
other way to describe this situation. It really is fucked up.

Then Edward leans over and unfastens my seatbelt, pulling me across the seat
into his lap. I feel dampness on his shirt when I lean my head against his chest
and the warmth of his breath in my hair. His comforting smell surrounds me,
soothing away some of the tension. When he speaks again, the words rumble
from his chest.

"I can't believe him. And her. I can't believe she kept his fucking secret and took
him back. She could have told me."

In some ways I understand Esme's actions, though I couldn't tell Edward that at
this moment. It must have been such a difficult decision with Alice dying—how
horrible it would have been to find out that her father had lied to her for over a
year? But there's no excuse for not telling Edward or for neglecting him when he
clearly needed his parents. Despicable.

I nod, smiling despite the situation when his warm lips press to my forehead.
However, my smile quickly fades when I remember what Carlisle intimated.

Edward was . . . inconsolable.

I don't know if he'll tell me or not, but I want him to know it's okay . . . it's okay
for him to tell me.

"Can I ask you a question?"

He nods, but I feel his body tense underneath me, bracing for it.

"What really happened . . . after the fire, with you? It's just . . . you don't have to
tell me . . . but you can, if you want."

Edward sighs and tightens his hold, burying his face in my hair.

"I'd like to tell you. But I'm ashamed."

"You don't have to be."

"I'm not proud of it."

I turn to face him, noting the discomfort in his expression. I don't want to make
him feel worse, so I stay silent, surprised when he goes on.

"I was fucking depressed, Bella. Seeing you like that . . . knowing I was to blame.
I couldn't bear it. I felt so fucking weak and useless. I should have protected you,
but I didn't."

"But it wasn't—"

"I know we've been over this, but I can't help how I felt. Right or wrong, I felt
responsible."

"You don't still feel that way, do you?" I whisper.

He doesn't answer me directly, but the guilt is written all over him.

"So yeah. I thought you should go, that you shouldn't . . . be around me
anymore. But it killed me. And then when you left and there was nothing I could
do to make it right . . . I went to school, but I dropped out of baseball." He
pauses, his voice heavy and tired. Hearing that me so sad . . . he'd loved being
on the team.

"My grades slipped. I pretty much didn't do anything but sit in my room like a
fucking zombie. Then I took the car to go find you and my parents flipped. They
tried to get me to see a shrink but I wouldn't. One day, just before we found out
about Alice, I overheard my parents talking. They were discussing options—even
hospitalization. That's when I learned I had to hide it."

"What do you mean?" I ask hoarsely.

"I mean I realized if I didn't, I'd end up in . . ." he trails off, shaking his head.
The conversation conjures memories of my mother, her resistance to undergo
treatment for her illness. I can understand his fear to some extent, but he needed
help.

He sighs before continuing. "So I started going out again, acting more normally.
My parents bought it. Alice knew there was something wrong, but after she got
sick I hid it from her, too."

"Hid what?"

"You're not gonna like it."

"Tell me."

"Do you remember James?"

I nod, my surprise giving way to anger and revulsion. I'll never forget his sneer,
the horrible way he treated Edward.

"Yeah, well . . . I couldn't get by in school. It was . . . awful. People knew what
happened and they treated me differently. And every corner I turned I saw . . .
you. I saw our classroom, the one we used to meet in. Remember that?"

"Of course." How could I forget? I looked forward to those meetings more than
anything else.

"I thought I was losing my mind. And by then James was pretty much dealing. I
ran into him one day, looking pretty shitty. He started hooking me up."

"With what?" I ask, feeling sick.

"Well, booze for starters. And then other drugs—mostly prescription, but I
dabbled in a lot of shit. My parents, well, my mother was gone with Alice. My
father was working, and he had no fucking clue. He gave me money for food and
I used it, along with my allowance."

My breath catches in my throat and I try to control it—I don't want him to see me
panic. I had no idea it was that bad. How could Esme and Carlisle have been so
blind?

"I couldn't handle Alice being sick . . . I knew she was going to die. I couldn't
donate and she was so fucking weak. It was stupid and cliché, but I did it to
cope. And I wrote you."

"Oh, Edward." I try to take his face in my hands to kiss him, but he doesn't want
my sympathy.

"Don't," he says hoarsely, looking away. Then he scoffs.

"You know what? It's probably for the best you never got those letters. I wrote
some pretty horrible stuff."

"Did your parents ever find out?"

"I got pretty good at hiding it. I stayed clean when they tested my blood for the
marrow donation. Later, I think they might have suspected something, but they
were so caught up in their own shit they didn't really notice. I was functional.
Kept my grades decent. And I was halfway across the country most of the time,
once I went to college."

I dread the answer to my next question, but I need to know what I'm dealing
with. "Do you still . . ."

"No," Edward replies emphatically, cutting me off. "Jasper and Emmett finally
knocked some sense into me. They knew what was going on and they called me
out. At first I was pissed, but then I went to Italy. It was kinda like a turning
point, I guess. I realized that I had to keep living for Alice . . ." He trails off, as if
considering how to continue.

"I didn't even drink for a while, until last year. I guess I kinda got caught up in it
again." I can't help thinking about Kate and the others—they didn't see Edward
had a problem, either. They just fed into it.

"Your story, about the solider . . ."

"Yeah, it was metaphoric for how I felt. Maybe a little self indulgent," he says
with a light chuckle. The soldier leaving lilacs by the grave has always felt
autobiographical, but I read it more as Edward's mourning his dead sister . . .
perhaps even me. I hadn't even considered that it might have other valences. A
choice—life over death.

"Why didn't you tell me before?"

He shifts underneath me again and I worry his legs are falling asleep, but when I
try to clamber off him he won't let me go.

"I knew you'd be upset but I thought . . . I don't know. You would think twice
about being with me. What you said the other day about my drinking hit a nerve.
You're right . . . I shouldn't drink to hide from my problems. Like right now? I
really want a fucking drink. And that scares the hell out of me. I'm sorry I didn't
tell you. I won't blame you if you don't . . ."

"Don't even say it. Don't even think it," I tell him, hugging tighter.

He looks so lost and I'm scared—scared I can't help him. I don't know the first
thing about alcoholics, if that is indeed what Edward is.

Sensing my fear, he kisses the side of my face. "I don't want to be like that
anymore, Bella."

"Okay." My mind is spinning, trying so hard to deal with all of today's revelations.
He says he doesn't want to be like that, but even I know that's easier said than
done. I'm terribly afraid he'll leave tonight and go do something reckless.

"I'm not going to be like that anymore."

I want to tell him not to make promises, but he's looking at me so seriously, with
such determination. I want to believe him. I want him to be okay.

"Okay."

"I'll show you. I'll show you. If you stick by me, I'll prove I'm worthy of you." His
voice wavers, and I can hear the anxiety there—his fear of rejection.
"You already are," I assure him, leaning into his chest. The rain continues to fall
steadily, but I can hear Edward's heartbeat, firm and strong under his ribs. His
lips move against the top of my head and suddenly I'm so aware of his body
under me, how alive he is. How thankful I am for that, when apparently it
could've gone much differently.

Edward not existing . . . I can't even complete the thought.

He takes my chin gently and turns my head up, resting it back on the crook of his
arm. More lips, this time on mine. I meet his kiss eagerly; what starts gently
soon gains intensity. Edward's mouth is simultaneously soft and forceful as I open
to him, our tongues meeting each other in a frantic attempt to erase the past few
hours. The sounds of need he makes flood my body with desire until soon I'm
gasping for breath, pressing against him insistently for more, more.

His hands rove down my sides, pulling at my shirt and sliding under. My skin
comes alive when his warm palm rubs across my abdomen, then up to cup my
breast over my thin lace bra, rubbing, kneading lightly. I feel my nipple harden
under his touch and Edward does too, groaning and slipping his hand inside
against my skin.

He rubs my beaded nipple, heightening my desire. I imagine what it would feel

like for him to kiss me there.

"So soft," he whispers against my neck, sucking and nipping at the skin under my
ear. My mind has gone completely blank except for the feel of his hands and
mouth and the firmness under my thighs that I know is his answering response to
mine. I moan quietly, not knowing whether to arch upwards into his hand or
downwards against him, wanting both, wanting him never to stop, not caring
about anything else. The windows have completely fogged and I'm reminded for
an instant of that scene in Titanic—a ridiculous thought that exits my mind as
soon as it enters.

I breathe him in deeply, running my hands through his hair and tugging lightly.
He likes that and I do it again. His hips lift against mine, seeking friction and
without thinking, I run my hand down between my legs to where his hardness lies
trapped against his thigh.

"God, Bella," he groans in between kisses. "We have to stop." But he doesn't
move my hand away when I squeeze him firmly through his jeans. His eyelids
flutter closed and I kiss his mouth again, absorbing the short bursts of air he
pants. I don't care about anything else anymore. Just Edward. I don't care what
this makes me . . . I'm surely a bad person but I don't care. I'll die if he doesn't
quell the ache building in my belly and flaming out through my entire body. I
make a move to release him but before I can he covers my hand with his own.

"Bella," he says again, so lowly, almost a growl.

"Come upstairs. Please." I don't know what's come over me, but something
seems to have shifted. This day, this moment—I don't want to wait anymore. I
can feel his need radiating, mingling with mine. My whisper hangs in the air of
the cab under the hum of the lightening rain. Edward removes his other hand
from my shirt and raises my chin to meet his eyes. Stormy sea-green. I see
desire there, and fear—and so much love. It hurts.

"Please," I say again, unable to keep from squirming in his lap. His eyes dart
down with a hungry look to where our hands rest against him, straining and hard.
I want to keep him with me always.
I see it happen, his surrender. His eyes flicker darkly and he licks his lips,
pressing my hand against him more firmly. He groans, leaning into my neck and
placing fluttering kisses there. Surrender.

Without another word we spill out of the truck onto the wet pavement. Edward
surreptitiously adjusts himself then grabs my hand as we run through the
downpour. Neither of us has an umbrella and the wind whips the rain against our
bodies, the sensation recalling a memory that hits me with startling force.

"Bella," Alice laughs, twirling and extending her hands to the sky. "Come out,
come out!"

I peek my head out from the door before taking a tentative step outside. The
warm summer rain instantly wets my skin—it seems so decadent and forbidden
to be doing this. But my mom's not home. She'll never have to know.

Then I see Edward a little ways off . . . he's standing with his hands in his
pockets, a mischievous smile on his face.

My secret boyfriend.

"Come on!" Alice calls again. Edward's eyes are focused on me and I feel warmer
still.

Without any more hesitation, I run down the stairs to meet my friends.

I let out an exultant laugh as my feet smack against the wet pavement, smiling
wider as I hear Edward's deeper chuckle beside me. I wonder if he remembers
that long ago summer day. By the time we reach my building, both of us are
giggling and soaked through. Edward shakes his head, running his free hand
through his wet hair. I have to release him to find my keys, my hands trembling
not with nervousness, but with anticipation. I want this. I want this so much.

Our sneakers squeak against the linoleum as we hurry up the stairs, hands
clasped again. When we're outside of my apartment I fumble with the keys again,
dropping them with another curse. Edward laughs as he bends to retrieve them,
making quick work of the lock and pulling me inside.

He grunts, pressing me against the door with one swift movement and trapping
my hands above my head. Now he's the frenzied one, all restraint gone, his thigh
anchoring me as he kisses down my neck to the vee of my shirt, nipping at my
collarbone. My eyes are cloudy and the room is dark, but I can see his head
moving, feel his hot, wet kisses against my rain soaked skin.

I'm afraid to speak lest I break the spell between us and let the outside world in.
I try to blot out everything but the feel of his lips on my body.

Finally, he releases my hands and I slip them down in between the collar of his
shirt and his jacket. He seems to understand what I want and helps me; soon the
jacket is discarded and so is his shirt. My hands run over the planes of his chest
and the light smattering of hair there, not daring to land because I want to touch
all of him, all at once. His mouth returns to mine and I turn my head for a better
angle, surprised when I'm suddenly weightless.

I squeal out involuntarily and I see the flash of Edward's teeth as he smiles. He
strides to the bed with sure steps, my heart stuttering a nervous rhythm as my
legs kick helplessly in the air.
We'd vowed to wait. I know on some level that doing this is wrong, that I
shouldn't be here with him like this, but it doesn't feel wrong to me. I've waited
for him forever.

I'm tired of denying myself things that I want, letting other people control my
destiny.

He sets me down softly, so softly, kicking off his shoes and climbing until he rests
above me. I'm cold from the rain and I welcome the press of his warm body,
wrapping my arms around him as his lips return to mine. Now that my eyes have
adjusted to the darkness, I can see him more clearly. His arms are so beautiful,
firm, and strong, holding me so gently despite his fervent kisses.

The memory returns . . .

Later that day Edward and I are down in his basement room. His parents are out
and Alice is in the bathroom.

Edward pulls out a fresh, dry t-shirt and tosses it over to me.

I blush with the garment in my hands, not knowing where I should change. With
a little smile, he respectfully turns away.

"I won't look," he says softly.

I close my eyes and yank the wet shirt over my head, my pulse firing rapidly. It's
weird. I want him to look.

The press of Edward's hips against mine brings me back to the present moment.

Unable to help myself, I whimper and arch up, straining for contact, and I moan
when I feel his erection trapped between us. He swivels his hips again, and then
backs off, each movement a pleasurable torment.

"Mmm." I sigh, clutching at his back.

"Bella?" he whispers.

I open my eyes and Edward's face is so close, his expression so intense it takes
my breath away. He cradles my head softly between his hands, bending to kiss
my cheek with a sweet exhale.

"Tell me you're sure about this," he murmurs near my ear, licking and nipping
lightly. "I can stop now. But I don't think I can if we go much further."

"I'm sure. I'm sure," I pant, loving the feel of his tongue on my neck. He draws
my skin into his mouth in sweet, sucking kisses.

"I don't want to hurt you," he whispers hoarsely. I can still detect the pain in his
voice—nothing can blot it out. I want to try. I want him to be happy, to feel
pleasure and not pain. I don't want to think of the past anymore. I want a future.
A future with him.

"You won't. It's okay. Please." He smiles and I have to close my eyes again,
unable to bear the sight of his beauty. How can this man love me?

I remember a dream I once had . . . a dream that was apparently real.

Bella, I'm so sorry. Crying. Someone is touching my hand. I know that touch. I
know that voice.
I'm so, so sorry, Bella. Wetness on my cheek. Someone is touching me and this
time I want it. I know his name. Don't I? I can't remember his name, but I know
it. I know the feel of his face against mine.

It's Edward. I know it is. He's holding my hand. I'm not alone anymore even in
the darkness. I love you, Edward.

Please . . . please . . . please. I love you.

"I love you, I love you." His voice reverberates against my skin, making it stand
up in gooseflesh as he pulls my wet shirt up over my belly, planting featherlight
kisses as he goes. I struggle to help him lift it over my head. When it's discarded,
he unfastens my bra deftly, flinging it away before I can catch my breath. Then
I'm bare before him from the waist up.

I'm not ashamed of this part of my body, and so when his eyes rake over my
breasts and stomach, desire plain there, I revel in it.

But I'm nervous, knowing that even in the dark my scars will be visible. I want to
hide under the sheet before he goes farther. I want to make him promise not to
look at the rest of me.

"So beautiful," Edward murmurs, bending his head to do what I imagined before.
His full mouth takes my nipple inside and I groan at the soft, wet pulling
sensation. His hands move over my body, warming me as his tongue swirls each
peak taut. I clutch at him and bite my lip, delighting in the feel of solid muscle
under my palms.

When he reaches for my zipper, I freeze.

"Don't be afraid.," Edward says breathlessly. "We don't have to do this." I can tell
that the last few words are painful for him to say; they're painful for me to hear
because I'm surely at the point of no return. But still that fear . . . that nagging
fear that won't go away.

"I'm afraid for you to see."

He cups my face in his hand, forcing me to look at him. His eyes are wide,
sincere, and full of longing.

"Don't be. I love you. Trust me and let me love you." Just the tips of his fingers
slide under the waistband of my jeans and I gasp with desire, wanting them
lower despite my fear. I have to trust him. If I don't, we have no future anyway.

I nod my acquiescence, turning my head to the side and closing my eyes. If

nothing else, I don't want to see that look in his eyes—that look of disgust that
will surely flit across his face, if only for a second.

Edward's mouth returns to my left nipple, then lower, lightly kissing the concave
curve of my belly, just under my ribs. It's a ticklish spot, but I gasp when his
mouth opens and his warm tongue sweeps out, leaving a trail of hot, then cold
wetness. It drives me to distraction so that I barely notice when he returns to my
zipper, slowly lowering it. My jeans fit snugly because of the rain, though, so I
have to move to help him slide them off my hips. He pulls off my underwear too,
tossing the wet clothes somewhere into the darkness. Then, he curses and I feel
the bed move underneath me as he fumbles with his belt.

The awareness that we're both fully naked makes my whole body blush despite
the cool air of the room. I keep my eyes shut, wanting him to say something,
anything. He doesn't though, and I bite my lip, sure that my pulse is visible
everywhere but still afraid to open my eyes.

"You're so beautiful," he murmurs, running his hand down along my side. And
then he's touching me everywhere, his mouth trailing down my abdomen to my
hipbone, breathing lightly over my sex before planting a light kiss there. But he
doesn't pause for long, instead he moves lower, parting my legs and kissing the
inside of my thighs . . . and lower. I know that even in the darkness he'll see the
irregular flesh on my left knee, the mottled skin on my calf. I gasp, feeling his
mouth there, just where smoothness meets scar tissue. He kisses, sweeps his
tongue out, and I feel the light tickle of stubble even through the nerve damage.

I wait for him to pull back, for him to make a sound that indicates disapproval,
but there's nothing, just a moan of pleasure as he kisses again and again, paying
equal attention to my scars and the rest of me. His hands are so warm, and his
mouth so soft I feel myself relaxing, reveling in the fact that he's neither ignoring
nor focusing on my damaged parts. A couple drops of water fall from his wet hair,
shocking the heated skin of my inner thigh and leaving a tingling, cool trail that
he follows with his tongue. He murmurs against my skin and the pleasant
vibration ripples through my body.

I feel exposed, vulnerable, but safe at the same time. Whole. I feel whole.

I open my eyes just as he moves in between my legs, spreading them with a look
of intense desire. My breath quickens as I finally allow myself to see his entire
form. He's nearly perfect, at least to me—I greedily drink in his broad shoulders
and chest, narrow hips and strong thighs. And that part of him I've never seen—
only felt and wanted to feel, juts thickly from between them, its size both
daunting and fascinating. Edward smirks a little, cocking his head and I blush,
embarrassed to be caught staring. He chuckles lightly, his eyes dancing with
mirth and desire, and I know it's okay. He wants me to look. Some instinctual
desire makes me long to touch and stroke him, but Edward seems to have other
plans.

He nudges my knees wider, placing his hands on my inner thighs and bending
down to kiss me again, so lightly, then again, all the time teasing with small
kisses at the crease of my thigh, the top of my sex. I lift my hips and whimper
when he pulls away, a devilish grin on his face. I've never been open like this
before and I worry momentarily about how I look, how I smell, afraid I'm too wet
and that he'll be disgusted. Maybe I should have shaved?

Seeming to sense my nervousness, Edward whispers comforting words, his hands

gently caressing my thighs, working them further apart.

I gasp and lurch off the bed again when his mouth finally covers me, his warm
lips sucking and pulling and driving me out of my mind. Never in my life have I
felt such intense pleasure—all worries and fears instantly flee and there's nothing
but Edward's mouth and his hands, his long finger lightly teasing my entrance
before sliding inside. I take it easily, wanting more, bucking my hips against his
face wantonly as he secures me with his other hand pressing lightly on my belly.
There's so much sensation everywhere, I feel utterly and completely consumed
by him, wetter and hotter than I've ever been before. But I want more. I want to
touch him.

Trying to express my desire, I pull uselessly at his hair, his head, but he ignores
me, so intent on his task. I feel that pull from deep inside my belly, he won't let
me go, he's merciless, making me give him everything, everything until I clamp
my thighs around his head, crying out as my release overtakes me. As I come
down, I realize I'm chanting his name incoherently, awash in the sensation of his
fingers and his mouth still rubbing me lightly, not letting me completely relax. I
pull on him again and this time he relents, sliding up my body to lay over me. I'm
all too aware of his erection between my legs, so close. I reach my hand down
and slide my hand over his silky skin, loving the contrast of softness and
hardness, the way he groans into the side of my neck as I rub him again.

"That feels good," he murmurs, thrusting his hips lightly into my grip. Frankly, his
size intimidates me, but it's strange how I want to feel it stretch me . . . how
much I want it inside. But of course there's the matter of protection. I'm not on
the pill and I certainly don't have any condoms. I can only hope to God that
Edward has one.

"Umm . . ." I say hesitantly. "I don't have any condoms."

Edward nods his understanding, kissing under my ear again.

"I have one," he admits. I don't want to know why . . . who he was planning on
using it with. I try to clear my mind as he rolls of the bed to retrieve it. This is us.
Whatever happened in the past now, this is us.

He's back in a flash, tucking the foil packet neatly under the pillow. And then he
moves over me again, his mouth covering mine. I wrap my arms around his body
and pull him tightly against me, enjoying his solid weight and the way his chest
hair tickles my body. Finally, I can touch him the way I want. Our hands are
greedy, seeking and searching pathways both familiar and foreign. I discover he
likes it when I run my nails over his back, when I touch his pleasantly fuzzy bum.
I love when he presses into me, letting me feel his hardness on my leg, on my
belly. The kisses he plants on the underside of my bicep send chills up my spine.

Some of the things we do make us laugh—there are ticklish places that we learn
and then respectfully avoid. He doesn't laugh when I take his length into my hand
again.

He whispers sweet words into my hair, half of which are incomprehensible,

drowned out by his trademark soft, wet kisses.

It doesn't take long before the need is back, fiercer than it was before. I whimper
and arch into him as we writhe together. His eyes seek mine out, asking
permission, wanting to know if I'm okay. I nod, reaching toward the pillow.

Edward is quicker. I watch fascinated as he removes the condom and rolls it

down his length. My eyes widen again, wondering how he'll fit inside. But he
touches me again and I feel how wet I am, how ready.

"Have you ever been kissed, Bella?"

I am shaking my head, blushing. He makes me nervous now in a way he never

has before. He's only 15—soon to be 16—but he seems like so much more of a
man to me, the two-year age gap between us expansive. I bite my lip and realize
I'm still shaking my head.

He chuckles. "Would you like to be?"

I almost gasp . . . is Edward asking me . . . if he can kiss me? My throat is dry as

I nod, the word struggling to make its way from my brain to my mouth. Yes. YES.

And when his lips meet mine it's nothing like how I thought it would be. His
mouth is soft and gentle; he brings his hand to my face and cups my cheek
softly. It is brief but when he pulls away I am left with a strange sensation, a
longing that I've never felt before. Almost without volition, I touch my finger to
his lips. Mine tingle.

"I wanted to be your first," he says, smiling as he kisses the tip of my finger.

"Me too." The words finally come and I know they're true.

"I love you," he whispers gruffly as he positions himself in the darkness, his face
only inches from mine. His eyes search my face for any sign of fear or discomfort
but I can only nod and push up into him, wanting him inside. My whole body stills
in anticipation as I feel just the tip press against me.

With restraint that makes his neck muscles strain, he begins to push forward. I
immediately feel the stretch and will myself to relax, to let him do it. He pauses,
letting out a soft moan as his head drops to my shoulder.

"I don't want to hurt you." I can hear the pain and the pleasure in his voice, the
need to keep going. His eyes focus on my face, full of intense concentration and
desire. Love.

"Do it, please. Please." He presses in just a bit further and the pressure builds,
becoming somewhat uncomfortable. Edward groans and bites softly at my neck,
one hand moving down between us to where we're just barely joined. He rubs my
clitoris lightly and I feel my desire begin to build.

"God," he pants again. "This is hard. I just want to be inside you so bad."

I move then, catching him by surprise, taking him in more fully. The discomfort
returns but Edward doesn't stop moving his hand. Then, with a growl from deep
within his chest, he pushes again. The pain is sharp as I feel something give way
inside me and he's there. All movement ceases. I feel myself stretched and full
while he's groaning, telling me how good I feel. I nod against his shoulder, glad
he's unable to see my face because at this moment it hurts. Blessedly, he doesn't
move, giving me a chance to accommodate him, to relax.

"Are you okay?" he asks, his voice strained. His eyes meet mine again, all
concern and care.

"I think so. Just . . . go easy."

He nods kissing my mouth slowly, bracing himself with one arm. I run my hands
along his back, welcoming the comfort of his kiss.

The hand that stopped moving when he pushed inside starts again and I feel
myself grow wetter, expanding around him. The pain recedes until it is only a dull
memory, replaced by a need to move, to feel him rub against me. I swivel my
hips lightly, testing it out.

Edward is inside me.

I can't control the welling of emotion—the stupid tears that fill my eyes.

"Bella?" Edward's eyes widen in alarm, but I shake my head and smile, trying to
indicate that the tears are happy ones. He touches my face reverently before
kissing me again.

"I love you so much," I whisper. I don't care if he wanted me to wait to say it. I
feel it so acutely I can't stay silent anymore. Today has changed things and for
better or worse there's no going back. There will be consequences, but I'll deal
with them tomorrow. Right now, it's just us.

I look at his face, the emotions playing over it—I'm worried I said the wrong
thing. But then he smiles a large, triumphant smile and kisses me and I know it's
all right.

When he begins to move it's with a mutual groan. Our mouths find each other,
muffling our noises of pleasure. At first, he's quite gentle, but then he quickens
his pace, holding my hips gently and swiveling his pelvis against me with every
downward thrust. Gradually, I learn the rhythm, how to move in a way that feels
good for us both. It's incredible how effortless it is, how much I crave him inside
when he withdraws.

"You feel so good," he groans again, his eyes feverish and wild. I can only
murmur an incoherent response, spurred on by the sound of our bodies coming
together, the noises of desire he makes. He touches me again where we're joined
and I feel the pulsing throb, so pleasurable it's almost a pain, building again.

Suddenly, without warning, Edward withdraws and flips over on his back, pulling
me on top. I lay down and he slips back inside with ease, but I'm not sure what
to do. He helps me, guiding my hips up and down as we gradually build rhythm
again. In this position, I feel so much more. I find myself grinding down onto
him, rubbing that part of me against his public bone. He seems to know what I
need, holding me to his chest as my orgasm begins to build.

"Do you feel good?" he pants. I nod, embarrassed and needy but unable to stop
myself from writhing. He brushes my hair back from my face and kisses my neck
and the pressure of him inside of me is too much. I come again with a cry that
Edward absorbs into his mouth. Still fluttering around him, he withdraws and
moves us back into the original position, moving with more force. His eyes roll
back into his head as he pumps erratically, so deep it's nearly painful. But it's a
strange, pleasant pain.

The happy tears come again, rolling down my face. My heart feels so stretched
and full I can barely contain it. His expression contorts with pleasure and I've
never seen him more hauntingly, humanly beautiful. I arch against him, urging
him to find his release.

"I'm . . . gonna . . . God . . . I'm . . ." he moans a final time and thrusts and I
feel him—I actually feel him throb inside of me. I kiss his face all over, feeling
wetness on my cheek that might be sweat or tears, his or mine. I can't tell and it
doesn't matter. Because we're the same.

He pants and shudders, holding me tightly to him, and then he's kissing me
again, so sweetly, so softly.

"Are you okay?" he asks, his brow creased with worry. "Did I hurt you?" He wipes
at the wetness under my eyes with the pad of his thumb.

"No," I whisper. "I'm okay. I'm better than okay."

"Are you sure?" he asks again, running his hands over my neck, my arms, as if
trying to account for all my parts. I can't help smiling over his unnecessary
concern.

"Yes, silly."
He sighs, seemingly satisfied, his expression lightening, drawing me to his chest
and rolling us over so we're facing each other. The movement causes him to slip
out of me, which reminds me again that he was inside. The thought brings a
smile to my face. He's always been inside me.

"What?" Edward regards me curiously.

"I'm just happy."

"Me too. I'm so fucking happy." He kisses me again, a languid, slow kiss that
leaves me quivering. And when he pulls away his eyes shimmer in the darkness.

There's so much joy . . . I can't believe that only hours before everything seemed
so bleak. A nagging voice tells me that this won't last, but I push the intrusive
thoughts away. Because another voice, a more optimistic one, says this is just
the beginning.

A beginning for us.

"Love is a smoke made with the fume of sighs. Being purged a fire sparkling in
lovers eyes, being vexed a sea nourished with lovers tears, What is it else? A
madness most discreet, A choking gall and a perserving sweet."

-William Shakespeare

Chapter 26: November 14-16th 2010

The waters of Two Moon obscured by mist. My footfalls break the silence,
snapping twigs underfoot.

How I've missed this place.

It must be fall. The air is crisp and the needles of the fir trees are crystallized
with frozen dew. I take another few steps . . . I know I'm supposed to be looking
for something, but I don't know what.

It is then that I see her. My mother sits on a large rock overlooking the water,
wisps of hair stirring lightly in the slight breeze. As always, she's turned away
from me, gazing out over the water.

My breath fogs the air as I approach cautiously, not wanting to disturb her
solitude but at the same time needing to. It's been so long since I've seen her
face.

Come sit, baby girl.

The words surprise me. I can't tell if they've come from the still figure before me
or from inside my own head.

I'm dreaming, I suddenly realize. This is just a dream.

Then why do I feel so cold?

Come sit.

I do as she asks, or as my mind encourages, arriving at the boulder and

clambering on, feeling the cold slickness of the stone under my legs. Shocked, I
look down. I'm wearing shorts and my skin is completely smooth, white. Perfect.
I reach out, stroking myself in disbelief.

It's cool today, Bella. You should wear warmer clothes.

My mother turns to face me, and I'm overcome by her beauty; it's enough to
distract me from the flawless skin of my legs. Her eyes seem different—lighter
than I remember. She's wrapped in a warm-looking, yet delicate red shawl.

Mom.

Come.

She reaches out, extending the material with her arm. I tuck myself under
gratefully, curling up by her side as her arm settles around my back, warm—
alive.

I miss you, Mom.

I know, baby girl. I miss you too.

Her voice is so sad, so full of longing. It brings tears to my eyes.

Is it . . . lonely where you are?

She tilts her head to the side, a small smile drawing up the corners of her mouth.

No. I have someone waiting for me.

Dad?

Her smile grows wider and she blushes, looking so young.

I . . . I don't want you to go.

I cling on tighter to the shawl, clutch at her arm. If I hold tight enough, she won't
be able to leave. Or she'll take me with her.

Slowly, so slowly, she gently pries herself away, wrapping her shawl around me.

You'll be all right, baby.

Mom? Mom?

You'll be all right.

"Bella, love? Bella?"

I blink rapidly at the sound of Edward's voice, focusing on his face. For a second,
I have no idea where I am . . . but I know I was dreaming . . . I was in the
middle of the most beautiful, sad dream. The emotions it invoked linger even
while the images fade, replaced by Edward's concerned gaze.

"Edward?"

"You scared me," he sighs with relief, drawing me to his shirtless chest. "You
were having a nightmare." His chest hair feels rough and delightful against my
cheek, my awareness of his body helping me shake off the last remnants of
sleep.

"Was I?" A blush I can't control erupts on my face, probably everywhere else too.
I move my legs; they, like the rest of me, are intertwined with Edward . . . and
bare.

A slight ache in between them confirms what I'm now remembering in vivid
detail—the feel of him pressing me down, entering me . . . the pain and then the
incredible euphoria. His face when I told him I loved him. Tentatively, I stretch
out my hand, feeling the firm muscles of his stomach, surprised when my hand
grazes his erection. I pull away immediately, worried that I'm invading his
personal space or something. I know about morning wood, but I've certainly
never woken up with it. I'm not exactly sure about the protocol. Edward chuckles
and wraps his arms around me more tightly and when I chance a glance at his
face again his eyes are full of laughter and . . . something darker. An answering
pull stirs in my belly and I move my legs again, luxuriating in the delicious
sensation of the way we fit together.

"What were you dreaming about?"

His question evokes a memory, a feeling . . . I try to grasp onto it, but chasing
dreams is always a futile enterprise. I shrug, rubbing my cheek against his chest
again.

"I don't remember. But I don't think it was a nightmare."

"You were crying."

"No . . . really?"

"I hope it wasn't about me."

"No . . . not about you."

His hand runs though my hair lightly. "Okay, good."

"Did you sleep all right?"

"A little. Mostly I just watched you sleep."

"That's creepy, Edward," I joke, poking him lightly in the side. He flinches away
with a laugh and covers my hand with his, drawing it up to kiss it and then
holding it captive so I can't tickle him.

"Maybe so. But I couldn't help it."

His revelation makes me smile, though I know his sleeplessness probably more to
do with yesterday's dramatic confrontation than anything else.

"So you stayed up all night just to watch me?"

"I don't think I would have slept no matter what . . . luckily I was here with you."

He releases my hand and runs his hands through his hair, making it stick up even
more crazily. I don't know whether I should press him or not.

"Do you want to talk about it?" I ask finally, giving him a chance to say no.

He sighs a little then kisses the top of my head.

"I just . . . I was wondering where the hell I go from here, you know?"

"Mmm-hmm." It's not the first time in my life I've faced this question . . . and I
know it's not for Edward either. His confession last night proved that.

"You're probably the only one who does."

"So," I start hesitantly, "did you figure anything out?"

"One thing. But I already knew it anyway. Wherever I go, I want it to be with
you."

How does he know how to say those things—those perfect things that just make
me love him more? I scoot up on the bed a little, so that we're face to face,
looking into his sad, green eyes. He looks lonely. Oh, Edward.

"I want that too," I whisper, closing the distance between us, all the while hoping
my morning breath isn't too horrible. His lips find mine, warm and gentle.

We kiss for a couple of minutes before Edward pulls away again, looking at me
with a serious, determined expression. "Bella . . . "

"What?"

"I want to come with you to Forks."

My eyes widen in disbelief as he regards me stoically. Edward coming with me . .

. it's alarming . . . and comforting. But I know I have to do this on my own. And
the thought of Edward and Jacob together . . . it's not something I want to put
either one of them through. Jacob. My guilt flares up again—I've betrayed him
and he has no idea. But can I regret it? No. I don't. But bringing Edward to Forks
would just prod Jacob's wound. I can't be that cruel.

"I don't think—"

"You came with me."

"But this is different. I have to talk to Jacob . . . You can't . . ."

"I don't mean I'd come with you when you go to talk . . . to him," Edward says,
not even able to say his name. "But I could fly with you, stay at a hotel nearby.
We . . . we could stay at a hotel."

"Edward," I say with a snort. "I don't think you realize—there's one hotel in Forks
and it's a dive. Not even truck drivers want to stay at The Lodge."

"You can't mean to tell me you really plan on staying with the Blacks?"

I consider his question for a second—he's right. I hadn't given much thought to
it—but how can I stay in their house, knowing what I know? And after Jacob and
I have our discussion, he probably won't want me there anyway. He'll probably
never want to see me again.

"Listen. I know this is uncomfortable for you. But I won't feel right if you go on
your own. I know you can do it, but I'll go crazy . . . just worrying."

"About what? You don't think I'm going to break it off?"

Guilt flashes over his face for a second before dissipating. I know a part of him is
worried about that very thing, even after last night, and that hurts. But in some
ways I understand . . . Jacob had been very adamant on our phone conversation
about making things work. But Edward doesn't know that. How can I tell him now
without him completely flying off the handle?

"No. About your safety."

"Edward, they would never hurt me."

"They already have," he replies softly.

His words sting, but they're true, at least of Billy. I swallow thickly as worst-case
scenarios play in my head— but none of them include physical violence. I can't
imagine either of them actually hurting me.

Edward kisses me again. "Just think about it. Okay? That's all I ask. And
remember that Billy's . . . choice affected me too."

"I know it did."

We lay quietly for a minute as I grapple with Edward's request. I know he does
have every right to hear Billy's account first hand, but while I'm not afraid for my
own safety, I'm afraid for Edward's. I know that Jacob has a jealous streak and
the thought of them getting into a fight . . .

But why should I make things easier for Billy? He betrayed both of us. And Alice.
And in some ways, even Jacob—if he didn't know. The anger that had started
growing as the Cullens told their side of the story returns . . . how dare they
make these unilateral decisions about our lives?

"I'll think about it," I say finally, hugging him again. "Can we just not talk about it
now?"

"Yes . . . for now."

I want to forget about all of this, just be with Edward in our warm blanket
cocoon.

His face moves closer, his stubble grazing my chin, and I wince back, the skin
there still tender from our kisses the night before.

"Sorry," he apologizes, thumbing the area lightly. "You're so soft. I should have
shaved."

"It's okay."

He presses his lips to mine again, and then brushes his cheek against me.

"I'll just have to concentrate on . . . other places." His words send a chill through
my body as he rolls me over, the look on his face making my heart pick up
speed. I can't believe we actually did it . . . and that we could do it again.

"Like this place, here," he says, kissing the hollow at the base of my throat. "I
don't think this place got enough attention."

His tongue darts out, surprising and smooth. Equally unexpected is the way he
pulls back the sheets so that I'm exposed from the waist up. I flush, my hands
automatically moving to cover my breasts. Edward lightly restrains my hands,
forcing them down by my sides so he can see.
"Or this place." His mouth moves lower, touching just above the crease of my
arm. Wherever his lips touch, tingles.

"What about here?" he asks, raising his eyebrows as his fingertips lightly tease
my nipple. I inhale sharply as his lips barely graze it, his warm breath washing
over my skin. That, combined with the coolness of the room, causes the skin to
pucker instantly.

"Do you like that?" he asks, kissing again, then again, then sucking it into his
mouth. The sensation is intense, pulling some chord deep within my stomach.
And lower.

"Yes," I manage, barely able to speak. My hips lift unconsciously and Edward
chuckles, moving up and between my legs . . . and yes, now I can definitely feel
him, firm against my belly. He runs his mouth over my chest again, then up to
nibble at my ear.

"What are you thinking about?"

I don't know why I'm suddenly shy. But I am . . . I feel stupid and girly, and
more like a teenager than I've felt . . . well, even when I was a teenager.

"Umm . . ."

"Bella . . ." His voice is hoarse and needy . . . so sexy. I close my eyes and
breathe him in.

"I want you. Please."

"Are you sore?" He touches his hand to me and I open my legs further, loving the
feel of his fingers on me, wanting more. He slides one in and I gasp, bucking into
him. There's a slight soreness, but the ache of wanting him is far, far more
painful. Another finger curls inside, and it feels so good. I want all of him . . . it's
incredible how much I crave him, strangely primal.

"Please . . ."

"God . . . don't tempt me."

"Why not?" I ask, my eyes widening. Is he rejecting me?

"I don't have any more condoms," he groans, his head dropping into the crook of
my neck. I know it's a terrible idea to even consider not using protection . . . I
know it. But I can't help myself from imagining what it would feel like for him to
be inside with nothing between us . . . A little moan escapes me and I writhe
against his hand. But then he removes it and I whimper . . . until I feel him
against me.

He makes a guttural sound and allows his erection to rub between my legs,
sliding and creating a delicious friction as he kisses me with a mind-numbing
passion. I can only feel tongue and lips and his warm, heavy body covering mine
as he passes over me again and again. At one point, his movements become so
frenzied that he slips inside . . . just a tiny bit. I feel him start to stretch me
before he catches himself with a moan. I know this is wrong but all sanity has
fled. I want him to keep going and I don't care.

"Jesus . . ." he says panting, pulling back even as I lift my hips to draw him in
deeper. "This is so not a good idea. We need to be careful, baby. Here." He
touches me again, sliding his fingers back inside. I whimper, raising my hips,
struggling to press against him.
I gasp against his mouth, feeling the need build, begging him not to stop. He
doesn't, murmuring sweet and wicked things in my ear, holding tightly as his
fingers move. My entire body is stretched and begging, so warm. I cry out and
come, clenching wildly around his fingers, clinging to him with all of my limbs.
Yes. Please. He watches with a heated expression on his face as I shake, my body
relaxing after a final pulsing shudder.

"Beautiful," he murmurs, kissing my neck.

The covers fall around his waist and I look down, seeing how hard he is, how his
hips move almost without volition. I reach out and take him in my hand, pumping
lightly as he groans a low, throaty sound. He flops over onto his back and puts
his hands behind his head, looking at me with questioning eyes. I try again,
grasping him and moving from base to tip slowly, then again.

Just a whisper . . . yes. A sigh in the air. He bites his lip and I grow bolder.

He thrusts against my hand, and I drink it in, his expression, how hard he is, how
he seems to grow even more as I stroke him. I kiss his chest and I touch his
stomach, feeling the straining, taut muscles against my palm.

"Am I doing it right?" I ask him. He gazes me with hooded eyes, gives a hesitant
smile. I want to touch him how he likes to be touched. I want to learn.

"Show me," I whisper.

With eyes that never leave mine, he covers my hand with his, demonstrating how
to use the wetness from the tip to make the gliding easier. I catch on pretty
quickly, stroking around the top, moving to the bottom, squeezing harder than I
thought was okay. There's nothing more erotic than the sight of both of our
hands moving together . . . how solid and warm he is underneath. I gain more
confidence, stroking more boldly, loving it when his eyes roll back in his head.
After a minute or two he releases my hand and clenches his fists by his sides.

"Yeah, just like that. Just like that," he gasps. "Jesus."

He's losing control and it's a heady feeling.

Suddenly, I have an idea. Without breaking rhythm, I lean forward, placing a kiss
on the head of his penis. Edward curses, and I reel back, afraid I'm doing
something wrong.

"Sorry," I say, my tempo faltering. I look at him with wide eyes.

"Don't be . . . I . . . uh liked it." There's something so incredibly endearing about

his crooked smile, a faint blush coloring his cheeks. It's strange, this place we're
in now, both of us unsure . . . tentative, but filled with longing. He has more
experience than me, but even though I have no idea what I'm doing, I don't feel
bad. This is new for us and I'm not ashamed—I feel safe.

"Do you want me to do it again?"

His blush grows and he throws his arm over his face . . . I'm teasing him and he
knows it. "God, Bella. Are you really gonna make me answer that question?"

I shrug, smiling deviously. He groans again and laughs, but it's the sexiest thing
I've ever seen.

"Is this funny?" I ask.

"Not really. Jesus. You're killing me."

Taking pity on him, I lean forward again, letting him slip inside my mouth as my
hand continues to move. He tastes salty and musky and so like Edward . . . I can
smell myself on him, but it's not nearly as weird as I thought it would be . . . I do
it again, sucking harder—just the tip. Silky smooth. I try take him in further but
I'm not sure what to do, afraid my teeth will scrape him. His skin seems so
delicate despite the hardness-so easily breakable. Not wanting to risk it, I
concentrate on just the top couple of inches, working my hand around the rest.
Edward doesn't seem to mind. He moans, mumbles my name, fists the sheets
with his hands, and I know whatever I'm doing is okay. Better than okay.

I look up at him through my lashes, watching him as he watches me, the most
carnal, desperate look on his face. I feel incredibly powerful and elated—I'm
making him feel good, which makes me feel good. I feel myself growing wet
again and Edward reaches out, touching me wherever he can—my breasts, my
neck, my arm. He sweeps my hair back from my face, his hand resting on my
shoulder gently, scratching the back of my head, and caressing my cheek.

He grunts and moans and I love it . . . I love the sounds he makes.

"Faster," he whispers. "You won't hurt me."

I comply, my hand working more quickly while I suck and lick . . . I want to see
him come in the daylight like this.

Seconds later, he's pulling my mouth off of him, dragging me upwards. I feel the
warm liquid on my hand as he pulses, shudders. He grunts into my mouth,
almost as if in pain, and I give him a final squeeze, careful to release him gently.
I can feel his heart pounding under my other hand, the beat gradually slowing
along with his breath.

"Bella . . ." he murmurs. "You didn't have to do that."

"I wanted to. I liked it."

"Well that's awesome," he replies with a boyish grin. I giggle, resting my head on
his chest again, my hand still sticky and wet. Suddenly, I have the overwhelming
urge to take a shower and brush my teeth, but I've never walked naked in front
of anyone before . . . and now that it's light out, he'll be able to see . . .

"Hey," he says, touching my face. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah. I just . . . I'd like to take a shower."

"That sounds like fun," he replies cheekily.

"Um . . . yeah. I . . . alone. If that's okay."

Edward looks a little disappointed, but nods. "Of course."

I move to sit up, my eyes darting around the room to consider how to make it
from here to the bathroom. My clothes are pretty far away . . . I could wrap
myself in this sheet . . .

"Bella?" Edward touches my shoulder.

"Yeah?" I turn to him, feeling sheepish.

"I've already seen you naked."

"Not in the daylight," I whisper.

He smiles, kisses my shoulder.

"And how unfortunate is that?"

"Edward . . ."

"If you don't want me to look, just tell me. I won't." He shrugs and I know I'm
being stupid. He has already seen . . . I'm just not used to being so . . . exposed.

I kiss him then with a fierceness that takes him by surprise. He blinks rapidly as,
without another word, I stand and walk to the bathroom.

~QF~

After a run back to his apartment to get some things, and a quick stop at the
grocery store for food and . . . other supplies, Edward and I don't leave my
apartment for three days. Both of us turn our phones off. We read, cook, and
spend a good deal of time in bed.

But Tuesday comes all too quickly and with it, reality. I don't want to leave our
bubble, but I know it's inevitable. And I keep telling myself it will be all right . . .
I'll be with Edward. This is just the beginning, after all.

When Rosalie calls in the morning to see if I want to walk to class, I cast a glance
over at Edward who is currently standing on one leg, struggling into his jeans.
Shirtless and sockless Edward might just be my favorite. He buttons the pants
and brushes them off, looking up and smiling when he catches me staring.

"Bella? So meet you in fifteen?"

"Hmmm?" I say, still blushing.

"Were you listening to me?"

"I . . . yes. Um . . . fifteen?"

"Oh my GOD," she nearly shouts in my ear. "You're not alone, are you?"

"No," I admit quietly, all too aware that Edward is shamelessly eavesdropping.

"No WONDER Edward wasn't home at all this weekend. I was wondering where
the heck you disappeared to, girl. All holed up in your love nest, huh?"

"Something like that." I haven't told Rose about our trip to Elgin, but I figure
that's a conversation for another day.

"Well, I want to hear all about it! Did you tell Jacob? Are you still going to Forks?
Oh, shit. I guess you can't really talk right now." Her voice is so loud I'm sure it's
nearly audible.

"No."

Edward is pretending to look at the books in my bookshelf. I pick up one of his

socks from the floor and throw it at him.

"Okay, well soon. Jesus. Okay. I'll see you in class then?"

"Yeah. We'll . . . I'll see you then."

Rose laughs at my slip. "Bye."

"Bye."

I flip my phone closed and Edward turns to me, smiling mischievously before
pulling his shirt over his head.

"You're an incredibly nosy person, you know that?" I chide with a grin.

"Where you're concerned, yes."

"What am I going to do with you?"

"Kiss me?" he suggests hopefully, coming closer.

"I don't know . . . I think you've had enough kissing."

"Nope. I'm pretty sure I'll never have enough." He takes a strand of my hair and
tugs it, his eyes light.

I tilt my head up and he kisses me softly, and I'm pretty sure I'll never have
enough either.

"We're going to be late," I say finally, pulling away.

"Okay. Okay. William Wordsworth waits for no man," Edward says, referencing
the reading we've had to do for this week.

"Or woman."

He smiles and kisses my nose and we finish gathering our things for class.
According to the weather it's a freezing cold day, so I grab a wool hat from my
closet and pull it on, ignoring Edward when he laughs at me.

"You're so cute," he says.

"Shut up."

"Like a little Eskimo." He pulls the fluffy green pom-pom on the top of the hat.

I roll my eyes and bat his hand away. "Let's go."

And we walk to school together, just like we used to. I'm nervous to face the
class, certain that the past few days are written all over my face. Edward assures
me it will be fine, ignoring my protests and slinging my bag over his shoulder.
Just like he used to.

But only now is so much better.

"Love is a sweet tyranny, because the lover endureth his torments willingly."
~Proverb

Chapter 27: November 20-24, 2010

"So what are you going to say to him?" Rosalie asks, her wide eyes focused on
my face. The two of us are sitting in my apartment after a late Friday afternoon
lunch. With both of our busy schedules, today's the first chance we've had to
really catch up, and I've been talking her ear off for the past hour and a half.
Though I wouldn't have traded the past week with Edward for anything, I've
missed my friend. And since Edward had to meet up with Riley and a couple other
MFAs to discuss next semester's fiction reading, I figured I better distract myself
somehow, knowing in all probability Kate would be there.

Even though she and Edward have ceased all regular communication, the thought
of him meeting with her still bothers me. I don't trust her. But it's for school, and
he doesn't really have a choice. Of course, the other side effect of my somewhat
irrational worry has been a newfound understanding of how Edward feels about
me meeting with Jacob. On a much different scale, I'm sure.

Rosalie takes another sip of her tea and leans back against the couch, waiting for
my answer.

I sigh and tuck my legs under the afghan we're sharing, feeling the oncoming
rush of nervousness—it's been growing more and more acute as the date of the
trip approaches. It's a good question. What will I say to Jacob? Last night I barely
slept for worrying about it, imagining how the conversation will play out.
Obviously I have to talk to Jacob first. I have to tell him about Edward and the
letters, Billy's involvement . . . but will he even believe me? Will I find out he's
known all along?

"I have to tell him the truth."

"Are you going to tell him . . . you know . . . about you and Edward?" She raises
her eyebrow to convey her meaning and my face heats, thinking about the last
few days.

"Well, about us . . . yes. But I don't think he needs to know all the details . . . I
don't know. Maybe it's just me being cowardly."

"Cowardly or not, I'd say he doesn't need to know details. But you better work on
your reactions, babe. The way you're blushing right now is a dead giveaway."

"I know." I've never been a good liar, but in this case . . . if Jacob knew about
Edward and I having sex . . . I don't know how he'd deal with it.

"And are you going to tell Jacob Edward's with you?"

"Yeah," I sigh. "I'll have to. Edward wants to talk to Billy."

Edward had finally convinced me to come along on the trip. I'd thought long and
hard about it, but realized what he said was true—he deserves to hear from Billy
firsthand. And the idea of leaving him alone on Thanksgiving is awful, especially
given what just happened with the Cullens and his history of turning to alcohol
when things go badly. He hasn't been drinking at all this week, but I was afraid of
what might happen if I left. And even if that wasn't a factor, it's plain I need him
with me. Luckily, he was able to buy a ticket since my flight from Chicago to Port
Angeles wasn't fully booked.

"But you're going to talk to Jacob alone."

I nod, picking at the fuzz on the blanket. "I guess I'm going to drop Edward off at
the motel first. But the question is where to go for the talk. I mean, it doesn't feel
right to do it in public, but that's what Edward wants me to do. What do you
think?"
I watch her thoughtful expression as she considers my question. Of course, in
typical Rosalie fashion, she turns it back on me.

"What do you want to do?"

I shrug. "I don't want to make a scene, you know? Forks is such a small town and
the gossips can be pretty cruel. I think it would be best to be alone. I'm sure
Jacob won't want all of this broadcasted, and I don't either."

"But Edward's worried?"

"He thinks Jacob might get violent or something. But he won't. He's not like that."
I can't help the pleading tone that creeps into my voice at the end—I want her to
believe me. Jacob might not be perfect, but he's not a violent person.

Rosalie sighs and rubs my arm. "You know him. Edward is just being protective,
but I say go with your gut. You need to do what makes you feel most
comfortable."

"Nothing about this situation makes me comfortable."

"I know. But girl, I have to hand it to you . . . the way you're dealing with this is
really admirable. I mean, I know the situation is beyond horrible, but you seem
so much stronger than you were a month ago. I think it's going to be okay."

I shake my head, wanting to agree but unable to be terribly optimistic.

"I don't know."

When I spoke to Jacob the day before and told him my plan to rent a car at the
airport in Port Angeles and drive out to Forks, he hadn't been pleased. Since I'm
arriving on Wednesday, and he's working, I persuaded him it was for the best,
though I could tell he wasn't entirely happy about the idea. Our conversation in
general had been stilted, both of us aware of what he wouldn't let me say. Later,
when he passed the phone on to Billy, I almost cried. He was so excited I was
coming home for Thanksgiving, so eager to see me. Whatever suspicions or fears
Jacob has, he's kept them to himself.

"Well," Rosalie says, smiling sadly. "I don't mean to say that it won't be difficult,
but you're doing the right thing, Bella."

"You think so?"

"I do." She nods just as her phone starts ringing. She reaches down to retrieve it
from the floor, beaming when she notes the caller ID. "Sorry," she mouths to me.
I smile and gesture for her to answer.

"Hello? . . . Yes! Of course . . . I'm at Bella's now. . . . Yeah, seven? . . . I'm

excited too."

The way she's blushing and smiling, I know the voice on the other end of the line
is Emmett's. I stand up and grab our now empty mugs and take them to the
kitchen to give her some privacy.

A few seconds later, she joins me.

"Emmett?" I ask with a knowing smile.

"Yeah. We're going to dinner later." She sighs contentedly and I almost want to
roll my eyes, but I'm certain I look and sound exactly the same way when I'm
thinking about Edward. "You guys coming tonight?"

Edward and I had briefly discussed whether or not to go to the release party for
Peggy's new book. She'd announced it on Tuesday and invited the whole class—
even though I'd rather stay home to be with him alone, Edward thought I should
go to establish my presence in the department. Since Peggy's my advisor, it
makes it even more important I attend. Politics is just as important in graduate
school and academia as it is in the business world.

"I think so. Are you going with Emmett?"

"Yeah, we'll probably stop by for a second just to congratulate her. Maybe we
could meet up with you guys there and then go do something?"

Before I can answer her, the door opens and Edward walks in, tossing his bag on
the floor and ripping off his coat. I can tell by his quick, forceful movements that
he's angry. He seems surprised when he notices Rosalie's still here, but quickly
composes himself.

"Hey," he mutters. "Sorry . . . am I interrupting?"

"Hi Edward," Rosalie says, smiling pleasantly. It's amazing the progress the two
of them have made in the past few weeks; I know it's out of necessity, but
they're getting along better than I ever thought they would. "I was just leaving,
actually."

She turns to me and squeezes my hand, leaning in for a hug.

"Uh-oh," she whispers in my ear, references Edward's sour mood. "You better
sort this out. I'll talk to you later about tonight, okay?"

"Sounds good. I'll call you," I reply, noticing Edward's already flopped down onto
the sofa, scribbling something maniacally in his notebook.

She releases me and says her goodbyes to Edward, which he returns with a half-
hearted grunt.

As soon as Rosalie's gone, I regard Edward warily. He's been writing a lot these
last few days; we all have our own ways of dealing with things and this is his. I
know when he gets like this he doesn't like to be interrupted, so I leave him to it,
picking up the rest of the dishes left over from mine and Rosalie's lunch and
returning to the kitchen. I fill the sink with soapy water and wash our plates,
wondering silently what could have happened to make him so upset. In any case,
his attitude seems to confirm Kate was there after all. We'd decided that while
we're no longer trying to downplay or conceal our relationship, but we're not
going to discuss it in public either—it's the only way to keep the nosy people in
our department out of our business.

Edward interrupts my thoughts, his strong arms wrapping around me from

behind. After my momentary surprise abates, I lean back against the warmth of
his body and revel in the feel of his stubbled jaw nuzzling the side of my face.

"Hey," he whispers. I turn my head and notice his rueful expression. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay."

"Are you mad at me?"

"No. I just didn't want to bother you. You looked . . . preoccupied."

He kisses my temple and I can smell coffee on his breath; I'm so pleased it's not
alcohol.

"Yeah. I just had to get something down. I shouldn't have stormed in like that. I
should have greeted you properly."

With one hand on my hip, he cups my jaw with the other, drawing my lips to his
in a slow, sweet kiss. I want to hug him but stop myself when I remember my
sudsy hands.

Edward gently releases my face and moves behind me, his arms caging me
between his body and the sink. He turns on the cool water and takes my hands in
his, rinsing them off and drying them with a nearby dishtowel, a tender gesture
that leaves a lump in my throat. Now clean and dry, I lean into him, my arms
wending around his back.

"I take it didn't go well?"

Edward grimaces and shrugs.

"It was fine, honestly. I'm just irritated with myself."

"Why?"

"Because," he sighs. "I'm just realizing some things that I guess I didn't see
before or didn't want to see."

"Such as?"

He rests his chin on my head for a second and I feel completely safe and
surrounded by him.

"Well, some of the people in this department, they have this perception of writing
that just . . . let's just say we don't always see eye to eye. It's like they're here
because of the lifestyle, not the art."

"You mean they don't take it seriously?"

"They do, in their own way. But it's more of an image to them. Grad school offers
this extended adolescence; in some ways it's even worse than college because
we're older and should know better. Garrett and Kate have this idea of what a
writer is—and at the heart of it is snobbery. I don't know if that makes any
sense."

I think about what Rose has said about the posturing hipsters and I nod.

"I do . . . I think what you're saying is they're here more for the glamor and
prestige of being a writer, more than the writing itself."

Edward nods emphatically, his expression thoughtful.

"Yeah, exactly. And you can see it in their work, the way they respond negatively
to constructive criticism."

"They don't want to improve?"

"They can dish it but they can't take it. It's not to say everyone in the department
is like that. Carmen isn't . . . she's really good, too."
I think about the beautiful girl with the dark eyes and kind smile, wondering how
she could ever be friends with someone like Kate. Then again, Edward once
considered her his friend as well. That thought is not at all welcome.

"So did you guys have a fight or something?"

"No," he replies, rubbing my shoulders lightly. "It's not worth it."

"Is that the only reason you were upset?" I'm fishing, trying to figure out if there
was more to the situation.

"You're thinking about Kate?" Edward of course sees right through me, and I
blush to be caught so blatantly jealous.

"I hardly spoke to her, honestly Bella."

He kisses me again, his lips warm with reassurance. Before I know it, his hands
are sliding under my shirt and I'm shivering—but not from cold. When his fingers
pull down the cup of my bra and graze my nipple I inhale sharply, feeling the now
familiar pull of want between my legs. It's amazing how quickly he grows hard
against my hip.

"Do you have any other questions?" he murmurs, pinching my flesh between his
thumb and forefinger, smiling devilishly when my nipples pucker at his touch.

"Um . . . not at the moment."

"You know you can ask me anything?"

"I do. I trust you."

"Okay."

He breathes lightly against my cheek before he covers my mouth with his,

pressing me up against the counter. I wonder foggily if he'll decide to take me
here or in the bed, not caring where, just needing him.

Soon, he's pulling at my clothes with determination. I'm equally eager,

unbuttoning his jeans and sliding my hand down the front.

"I missed you," he pants, moving his hips lightly as I wrap my hand around his
erection.

"You were only gone a couple hours." I'm teasing, though secretly pleased at his
admission.

"It was too long," he whispers against my ear, closing his eyes and running his
hands down my now naked sides to grasp my hips.

"I agree."

He takes me to the bed.

We make love slowly. Edward cradles me in his arms, entering me from behind
with long, deep strokes. He moans with each thrust, a throaty, guttural sound
that makes me writhe against him, seeking more. The position on our sides lends
itself to the leisurely pace, but it doesn't give me the friction I desire. Seeming to
understand, Edward hitches my leg up and over his thigh, swirling his fingers
between my legs until I'm moaning. I clutch at him as best I can, running my
fingers through his hair as he licks and sucks at my neck.
Never have I felt so utterly adored.

"Feel this," he mutters breathlessly, drawing my hand down to where we're

joined. I feel him sliding inside me, slipping between my fingers and it's one of
the most intense sensations I've ever felt, his hardness inside my wet, his hand
covering mine.

I gasp, turning my head to kiss him, letting his tongue plunder my mouth softly.
When I open my eyes, I'm shocked by the intensity of his expression, the love I
see there. I whisper those words to him, wanting to tell him everything, things
about me that I don't even know. He sees it all and gives back himself.

"So good," he groans. I want him to move faster, but he draws it out, filling me
again and again, making it last much longer than ever before. I have no idea how
much time passes, only that I never want him to stop.

When he finally pulses, holding my hips to him as he comes deeply inside, it

shatters something—some final barrier between us. I come apart, a pleasure so
acute it overtakes all my senses, nearly frightening me with its intensity. I feel
him in me and I know that's where he belongs. Always.

It's nearly a minute before it subsides and I'm finally able to relax against his
body, the sweat from our exertion slick between us. Edward disengages and goes
to discard the condom, but he's back quickly, returning to his position behind me
and pulling up the blanket over us. He murmurs contentedly and I feel ready for
an afternoon nap.

But first, I feel ready to broach the question that's been on my mind since we
first made love.

"You haven't said anything about my scars. How come?" I trace the musculature
of his arm with my pointer finger, wondering how he'll answer.

"I didn't want to make you uncomfortable."

"You haven't. At all. I thought . . ."

"I know."

"I don't know . . . I just . . . I don't know how you feel. Honestly. If it matters to
you."

"Of course it matters to me, Bella." Edward rolls me towards him, his green eyes
serious.

"I hate what happened to you," he says gruffly. "Every day I wish I could change
it. But I love you. All of you. The way I see it, your scars are part of your history.
I love that you trust me enough to show me."

I can't help the way my eyes tear up at his words, startled when I feel his hand
move down my leg to stroke my knee.

"Does it hurt you?" he whispers.

"Not anymore. I don't have much surface feeling in some places, though. Like
there."

"How about here?" His hand drifts towards the inside of my leg, down my calf.
The feeling of his warm skin on mine is heightened in the places with sensation.
"It feels nice."

"And here?" His hand rubs lightly against the sensitive spot behind knee.

"I can feel that."

"Bella," he whispers, his hand running up again to cup me between my legs. And
we don't leave the bed again until it's time for Peggy's party.

~QF~

It snows on the morning we leave for Forks. Nothing severe enough to impede
travel, but just enough to remind us that winter is rapidly approaching. When we
exit Edward's apartment to hail a cab for O'Hare, the cold flushes his cheeks.
Large, wet flakes fall silently, coating the parked cars and the trees on his street,
sticking in our hair and reminding me of being twelve. I missed this.

Neither of us checks a bag since we're only staying three days, but despite that
the lines at the airport are horrific and it takes us almost two hours to pass
through security. Everyone is traveling for tomorrow's holiday, and the terrorist
threat has been raised to orange. Somewhat embarrassingly, this is the first time
I've flown since I was a baby and everything is new to me. Edward shows me
how to take off my shoes and place them in the plastic bins for screening, making
sure I'm all set before doing the same. I laugh at the noticeable hole in his sock
and he grins and shrugs, holding his hands up in surrender as he walks through
the body scanner.

Edward has never been to the west coast, and I can see little peeks of excitement
underneath his unease, the traveler in him eager to visit a place he's never seen
before. And I am too. Despite the upcoming confrontation, I want Edward to see
the place I grew up after I left him.

"We should eat something," he suggests as we make our way through the
bustling holiday crowd. I can't believe how big this place is, but Edward navigates
it with ease. He flew a lot when Alice was in treatment, mostly alone.

"Don't they have food on the plane?"

"Ha!" he laughs. "Unless you count pretzels as food, which I don't, no."

"Okay, smarty pants."

We decide on breakfast sandwiches and grab some coffee as well before heading
to our gate. Edward sits beside me as we watch planes taxi on the runway,
munching on his sandwich. There's a young family—parents and two young
children—sitting across from us. The little girl, probably no more than four or five,
sits staring at Edward, but he doesn't seem to notice.

"I think you have an admirer," I whisper in his ear, nodding my head at the girl.

Edward glances in the direction I indicated and waves at her, causing her to
giggle and hide her face behind her hands. She peeks out again and Edward
makes a funny face, inciting another fit of laughter. The parents notice what's
happening and look over and smile at us.

I rest my hand on Edward's knee, wondering whether he wants a family

someday. Jacob had wanted children very badly, but I've never been overly
enthusiastic about the prospect. I figured we'd probably end up with one or two,
but I wanted to focus on my career first. The life of an academic, especially a
woman, is full of uncertainty. First graduate school, then the tenure process—I
hadn't thought much beyond that. But now I can't stop myself from imagining
what it would be like to have a child with Edward. A little girl with long, auburn
hair.

"What's your name?" Edward asks as the girl approaches with a toy—a tiny horse
that looks like it might have come from a kid's meal. She laughs shyly but doesn't
answer.

"Lila," her mother replies, smiling fondly. "Is she bothering you?"

"Not at all."

The girl holds the toy out to Edward as I watch with rapt attention. He takes the
toy and gallops it along the arm of his seat, making ridiculous whinnying sounds.
This gains him much admiration from Lila, who claps her hands and attempts to
do the same. I remember when we were kids he was always so patient with us,
especially Alice.

I almost forget about why we're here until they call our flight. Edward says
goodbye to his new friend before we head to the gate, surprised when she hugs
him around his legs. The parents chuckle and call her back over and with, one
more wave, we're on our way.

"She was cute," he says.

"You were good with her."

He smiles and I detect a faint blush on his cheeks, and I wonder if he's been
thinking the same things as me. And as we board the plane, I feel much lighter
than I expected to. I can do this. We're going to be okay.

I hold Edward's hand as the plane ascends, my stomach sinking when turbulence
shakes the relatively small craft.

"Is it always like this?" I whisper, gripping tighter after a particularly strong
shake.

"It'll even out. Don't worry." He puts his arm around me and I lean into him,
closing my eyes. Five minutes later, I start to relax as we reach smooth cruising
altitude.

The rest of the flight passes by relatively uneventfully. Edward and I do a

crossword puzzle together, but he gets most of the answers. I've never been
good at them. But when the flight attendant announces we're nearing our
destination, the nervous flutters in my stomach return.

"So . . ." he begins. "You're going to go straight to the garage?"

I nod, biting the inside of my cheek. I still haven't decided where to confront
Jacob.

"Yeah."

"Then what?"

"I . . . I think we'll probably go somewhere to talk."

"Why don't you stay at the garage?"

"In front of all the people he works with? I couldn't do that, Edward. Come on."

"So where?" His green eyes are troubled, and I can see the tension on his
forehead. I know he won't like my plan.

"I don't know. Maybe we'll take a walk."

"A walk? Jesus. Where?"

"I haven't decided. Down at the beach?"

"I don't like it." Edward says, his expression serious.

"I'll have my cell phone. But honestly, you don't know Jacob. You need to trust
me on this."

"I swear to God if anything happened to you . . . " he trails off and I can see the
panicked look in his eyes, the fear. It hurts to see him like this but I have to do
this on my own—I owe it to Jacob to do it privately.

"Nothing is going to happen. Please don't worry." I squeeze his hand, my voice
choking a little.

"You have to call me immediately . . . Bella . . ."

"I will. I promise."

He mutters something to himself, his eyes darkening. Although he doesn't release

my hand, I can tell he's angry with me. But I'm firm in my resolve.

Neither of us speaks as the plane completes its descent into the small Port
Angeles airport. Rain mists the windows, the grey sky mirroring my mood. The
tension between us is thick and uncomfortable, so much like those days when we
first met again in Chicago. I hate it.

Just as the captain turns off the seatbelt signs and passengers start collecting
their belongings, Edward turns to me, bringing my hand to his lips.

"I love you," he murmurs, kissing my knuckles softly.

I touch his smoothly shaven cheek with my other hand. "I love you."

It's all I can say.

We disembark with the weight of the visit hanging heavily in the air. How I wish I
were one of those people who could just cut ties without explanation. But then I'd
be as cruel as Carlisle and Billy.

As we make our way through the sparsely populated terminal towards the rental
car agency in the baggage claim, I cling closely to Edward's side, knowing our
separation is imminent. He seems to feel the same way, hooking his free arm
around my shoulders as we ride the escalator down toward street level. I have to
stand a step higher than him to reach eye level.

"It'll be okay," I whisper. He rubs my shoulders soothingly and plants a light kiss
on my lips, smiling a smile that doesn't reach his eyes.

"Watch out," I warn as we reach the bottom. Edward nods and grabs both of our
bags, giving me a quick kiss on the cheek before stepping off the escalator.

But there's nothing, nothing that could have prepared me for what happens next.
Just a few feet away from the bottom of the escalator, a bunch of red roses in
hand, stands Jacob.

And the stricken look on his face tells me he's seen everything.

"Your reason and your passion are the rudder and the sails of your seafaring soul,
if either your sails or your rudder be broken, you can but toss and drift, or else be
held at a standstill in mid-seas. For reason, ruling alone, is a force confining; and
passion, unattended, is a flame that burns to its own destruction."-Kahlil Gibran

Chapter Twenty Eight: November 24, 2010

From Chapter Twenty-Seven:

But there's nothing, nothing that could have prepared me for what happens next.

Just a few feet away from the bottom of the escalator, a bunch of red roses in
hand, stands Jacob.

And the stricken look on his face tells me he's seen everything.

"Jacob," I whisper, as all the blood drains out of my head in a dizzying rush.
Edward's hand squeezes my shoulder, a gesture of support, but I can't turn to
look at him. My eyes focus on Jacob's. I see regret and anger there, but the
predominant emotion is pain: raw, real, and totally my fault. My whole body
vibrates with tension, and Edward's presence beside me only intensifies it.

I take a step away from him.

"Isabella?" Jacob's familiar voice tests my name, hoarse with emotion.

He's the same as I remember, wearing his coveralls from the garage. They're
smeared with grease and engine oil; evidence he probably came straight here to
greet me. How could I have been so stupid? In my attempt to spare him, I've
done the worst thing imaginable. Edward draws closer, his hand moving to my
back in a possessive gesture. Jacob follows the motion with his eyes.

"Don't," I whisper to Edward, shaking my head slightly. His hand drops down,
clenching at his side, and I catch a glimpse of the worry and hurt marring his
brow. I want to tell him I didn't mean it . . . that I don't know what to do. There's
no way I can handle this. I . . . I need to think.

"Jacob, Please I—"

Before I can continue, Jacob cuts me off.

"This is why you wanted to come home so soon, huh?" he mutters, running his
free hand over his neatly shorn hair. "You want to rub this in my face? After
every . . ." He grimaces, his fist tightening around the rose stems. I momentarily
fear he'll cut himself on the thorns.

"No. That's not—"

"How could you do this to me?"

"I didn't want—"

"Save it. I see what's going on. I'm not blind, Isabella. Not anymore." He nearly
spits out the last words, throwing the roses down with a sigh of disgust and
turning on his heel. Some petals detach and scatter across the linoleum floor,
abandoned.

"You don't understand!" I say, crossing the distance between us before he can
get too far. I'm subconsciously aware of Edward trailing behind, but I need to talk
to Jacob. This wasn't supposed to happen like this. "Please let me explain. I never
intended . . ."

"What?" Jacob barks, turning around before I can continue. "You never intended
to what Isabella? Come home with some guy and rub it in my face? I see what's
been going in Chicago, why you . . ." Suddenly he seems to remember we're not
alone, casting his hard stare to my right. "Who is this guy, anyway?"

"I'm Edward Cullen," Edward's voice rings out from beside me. Jacob's eyes snap
away from my face to his.

"Cullen . . ." His features change in dawning realization . . . Disbelief. Shock.

Rage. How many times have I cried on Jacob's shoulder, that very name on my
tongue?

"How dare you?" he growls, advancing on Edward, who meets the coming
onslaught with stoicism. My stomach sinks as I watch the two of them face off,
mere inches from each other, neither one giving any sign of backing down. It's a
small airport, and passersby gawk at us openly.

"How DARE you." His voice gets louder, and soon "You have some nerve, coming
back into her life. After the way you abandoned her."

We need to get out of here before someone calls security. Or before someone
gets hurt.

"Jacob, you don't understand," I say, glancing between them. While Edward
easily surpasses him in height, Jacob is a good deal more muscular, years of
heavy lifting adding to his body's natural propensity for bulk. Both of their eyes
glint dangerously, but I'm suddenly fearful for Edward . . . the thought of
anything happening to him drives me into a near panic.

"Just listen. We were wrong. I was . . . you need to listen."

"Stay out of this, Isabella." Jacob says, his gaze lethally trained on Edward.

"Don't . . . tell me what to do." I approach the two of them and Edward gives me
warning look. He's worried about Jacob's escalating temper, but I need to do
something to diffuse the situation. Jacob ignores my approach.

"You broke her. And I was there to pick up the pieces. Me," Jacob says, thumbing
his chest for emphasis. "She might not have even. . . and you, what did you do,
huh? How did you weasel your way back into her life?"

"You're right," Edward replies evenly, his expression serious but calm. "Bella
suffered a great deal, and some of that was my fault. But you don't know the
whole story."
I'm proud of Edward for not getting rattled, but I understand Jacob's confusion
and anger.

"YOU don't know the whole story," Jacob seethes. "I have half a mind to tear you
limb for limb for what you did to her."

"And what do you think that would do to Bella?" Edward shoots back.

"Save her from making the biggest mistake of her life."

"As far as I'm concerned she's just narrowly escaped it."

The expression on Jacob's face is purely feral. "Why you—"

"Stop it. Just stop! Both of you," I shout, stepping between them and pushing
back lightly on Jacob's chest, feeling the frantic thrum of his heart.

"Don't be like this, Jacob. This isn't you."

Breathing heavily, he finally relents against my hand, stepping backward a few

paces before turning to me.

"Did you tell him, Isabella? Did you tell him what you went through, all the pain?
How you couldn't eat? Sleep? About the surgeries and the letters you wrote that
they never answered?"

Edward's eyes latch onto mine, and then away, shame cracking his calm façade.
We've been through this before, but I know how much it hurts him to think about
my suffering. But I'm struck by something else . . . Jacob mentioned the letters.
He doesn't know.

"Jacob—"

"Or did you forget about all that when you saw his pretty face?"

The words are a knife to my gut-to think I'd throw him away for such superficial
reasons. Clearly, he's too keyed up to have a conversation about this here, not
with Edward present. He'll never believe me about Billy, not unless I can get him
somewhere to calm him down.

"Don't talk to her like that," Edward snaps, his green eyes livid.

Jacob takes another step toward him. "Don't tell me how to talk to my fiancé."

Edward's jaw clenches and I can tell he's doing everything in his power to hold
back the obvious retort. His gaze shifts to me, obviously worried about how I'm
handling this. I'm not. I'm not handling this, and I need to start.

"It wasn't supposed to happen like this. I didn't bring Edward here to hurt you or
rub anything in your face. He needs to talk to Billy, and so do I."

"Dad? Why?" Jacob demands, dark eyes flashing.

"I wanted to speak to you first."

"Bella, tell me what's going on."

"I'll explain everything," I say, strengthening my resolve. There's no reason the

rest of the day can't go on as planned. "Is there somewhere we can go to talk?"
Jacob's seems confused, his eyes darting between the two of us. When he speaks
again, the hopefulness in his voice makes me cringe.

"So you're not . . .?" I can see the wheels turning in his mind, trying to explain
away the kisses on the escalator, Edward's possessive behavior.

"We very much are," Edward says, gritting through his teeth.

Jacob's expression hardens again.

Then his eyes trail to my bare hand. The ring that he gave me is tucked away in
my luggage. He inhales sharply and staggers backwards, as if trying to escape
that ultimate proof. When his eyes meet mine again, all the fire has gone out of
them.

"I don't know what more there is to say." The finality in his statement fills me
with panic. I can't let him go like this, not when he hasn't let me explain.

"Jacob!" I cry out. "Don't go. Please. If I mean anything to you, anything at all,
you'll let me have the chance to explain. I didn't . . . want to hurt you."

He turns slowly to me, swallowing deeply.

"You did."

"I'm sorry . . ."

"You lied to me Isabella."

Before I can respond, a middle-aged, portly security guard approaches us,

wearing a mistrustful expression. He sucks his teeth and stands with his hands on
his hips.

"Is everything all right here, folks?" he asks, specifically eyeing the two men. I'd
known it wouldn't be long before someone reported us.

"Yes. Thank you," Edward reassures him. "We were just leaving."

"Well see that you do."

With that, he turns and goes, casting a small frown over his shoulder. This is
probably the most excitement he's had to deal with in the Port Angeles airport for
some time.

We need a plan, and fast.

"Jacob, I need to talk to Edward for a second. Is your truck here?"

He nods slowly.

"Go pull up and wait for me."

"What's he going to do?"

"Please, just do this."

Without another objection, Jacob strides away, his straight, almost rigid posture
so different from Edward's relaxed gait . . . The two of them couldn't be more
different. Like oil and water, I was a fool to think they could mix.
"Bella," Edward hisses as soon as we're alone. "I don't like this, you driving with
him while he's upset. Jesus, what are you thinking? Where are you going?" He
pulls desperately at his hair, causing it to stand up on end. Every nerve in my
body cries out to comfort him, to make him understand.

"I have to do this . . . and anyway, this was part of the plan, remember? I'll
never get through to him if you're around."

"But things are different now . . ."

"Yeah, the worst is over. I'm pretty sure doesn't have any idea about the letters.
This news about Billy . . . it's going to devastate him. You can't be around for
that. It would kill him."

"I don't care," he says harshly. "I don't want you in any danger. The way he got
in my face . . . I don't trust him."

"He's upset, Edward. Just listen; Jacob has been my best friend for nine years.
He's not going to hurt me."

"How can you be sure? You've never been in this situation with him before.
People do stupid things when they're angry, Bella. I don't want to take that risk."

"Don't do this. Don't do this to me. Please, I need you to understand." I tug
uselessly at the front of his shirt willing him to meet my eyes. He does, but his
expression is guarded.

"It seems I don't have a choice," he replies with defeat.

"Get the car and take our stuff to The Lodge. We'll go to a coffee shop or
something, and then I'll call you. It won't be more than a couple of hours.
Please?"

"A coffee shop?"

"Yeah. Someplace public. Will that make you feel better?"

"Yes," he admits grudgingly. "A little."

"Don't be mad at me. I love you."

And then his arms wrap around me, hugging me to him with an intensity that
literally takes my breath away.

"I love you," he murmurs into my hair.

I inhale deeply, running my hands under his leather jacket and across his back,
feeling his strength. I'll need it to get through this.

"I love you," I whisper again before pulling away. His face is still worried. I reach
up an attempt to smooth the wrinkles from his forehead, and he captures my
hand in his, drawing it to his mouth and kissing it softly.

"Be careful. Please."

"I will."

"I hate this."

"I know. I'm so sorry. I won't be long. I promise."

I squeeze his hand one last time, turning before he can see the tears welling in
my eyes. I hate hurting him, but I don't have a choice. I've dug myself into this
hole, and I'm the only one that can get out of it.

Jacob's black pickup idles by the curb as I exit the terminal, the cool, damp
peninsula air greeting me like an old friend. I inhale deeply, trying to calm myself
as I approach the passenger's side.

Once I've climbed inside the cab, I'm greeted with nothing but Jacob's silent
stare. His eyes glance away from me almost immediately as he shifts into first
and begins to drive.

At first, the quiet affords me a chance to get my thoughts in order, trying to think
of the best way to begin. But after a few minutes, it becomes unbearable. I don't
know where we're going, either, which makes me nervous.

"Jacob—"

"Don't," he says warningly. "Don't start talking now, Isabella, not while I'm
driving."

I hear what he's not saying—he doesn't want to get angry behind the wheel.

"I just wanted to know where we're going."

"La Push," is his short reply. Crap. I told Edward someplace public, and now I'm
going to the most private beach on the peninsula.

"I thought maybe we could go to Judy's . . ."

"A coffee shop? No. I'm not having this conversation in front of all of Forks. If
that's what you want you can get out of the truck now."

While his ultimatum irritates me, I suppose I expected it. Edward will be so
angry, but I can't see what I can do about it right now. I sigh and look out of the
window, watching as we leave Port Angeles behind.

The rest of the ride passes by in uncomfortable silence, with not even the radio
on to provide distraction. I let myself become lost in the passing greenery, the
thickly wooded, rural landscape I've missed in the city. I love this place. But not
enough to want to stay here.

Once in a while I cast a sidelong glance at Jacob, but he stares straight ahead. I
can see the tiny muscles working overtime in his jaw—that's one trait he shares
with Edward, at least. I can only imagine the bent of his thoughts. And Edward.
He's probably going crazy wondering what's going on.

Finally, after a little over an hour, we arrive on the opposite end of the coast. The
tall trees give way to plunging coastline and rocky shore, the cold November day
causing my breath to fog the window as I wearily rest my head against it.

Jacob pulls off the side of the road to the place we've parked so many times
before. The beach is deserted now, only the waves and a few lonely seabirds
wheeling in the air. Still silent, he jumps out of the truck and starts walking; I
hurry to follow, wrapping my coat more tightly around me as protection from the
wind. I know exactly where he's headed—Whale Cove.

"Wait," I call, my voice drowned out by the sounds of the surf. Jacob easily
navigates the terrain, quickly outpacing me as I pick my way carefully, wary of
the notoriously slippery rocks.
He freezes, back still turned as I approach.

"Jacob," I say breathlessly, automatically reaching out my hand to steady myself

on his arm. He flinches away, his face cast to the side. With a shock, I realize
he's crying.

"Have you slept with him?" he asks, the question taking me completely off guard.

My eyes freeze in a widened stare and he grimaces, kicking a rock with his steel-
toed boot.

"Fuck!"

"I—"

"You couldn't wait for me? Is that it?" He won't look at me; I know how he feels
about sex outside of marriage, and in all probability he views me as nothing but a
lowly, cheating whore.

And for just a second, that's exactly what I am.

But Edward is not a mistake. I won't let Jacob make me dirty about our
relationship, even if his view of it is inevitable given the circumstances. I gather
my courage to speak the truth.

"I'm in love with him," I whisper. The wind carries my voice out to sea and dries
the tears that have begun falling softly on my face.

"Did you ever love me?" he asks, still looking at the ground. He kicks another
stone, more lightly this time.

I don't know how to answer him. Yes, I loved him. I love him. But not with the
sort of love that makes a marriage.

"I love you, Isabella."

Instinctually, I reach out to touch his arm, years of love and friendship driving me
to comfort him.

"Don't," he says hoarsely, shrugging my hand off before it can rest firmly. He
turns away and continues walking, his pace just as rapid as before we stopped.

All of these weeks I've been pulling away from him emotionally; it still hasn't
prepared me for the realization I've lost my friend forever. The reality hits me
with crippling force. I never should have said yes to him; if we'd remained friends
this never would have happened. And now it's ruined, all of it.

Whale Cove, so dubbed by Jacob and me when we came here to watch the
migrating Humpbacks when we were young, is just a small inlet set back from the
rest of the beach and sheltered from the wind by large boulders. By the time I
wind my way around the familiar corner, Jacob's already perched on our rock,
looking out at the sea with vacant eyes.

I settle down beside him, careful not to sit too close. He doesn't move but I can
feel the coiled tension in his muscles, even from a foot away.

"How?" he asks. A simple question, so loaded with meaning.

"Edward goes to the University. He was in my class on that first day."

"From the first day?" He mutters something that sounds like a curse, which
rattles me. Jacob so rarely swears, and this is the second one today.

I try to search for the words to explain. "I didn't . . . it wasn't like that at first. I
thought he hated me."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"At first I didn't want to tell you . . . I didn't want you and Billy to get angry or
worry about me."

"So you lied."

My silence confirms it.

"You should have told me."

"But I . . ." I was trying to protect you. What a lie. The truth is I was trying to
protect myself.

"You should have told me," he repeats.

"I didn't want to do it over the phone. I'm so sorry."

"Well, I'm sorry. I can't accept that apology right now." He sighs deeply,
wrapping his arms around his bent knees. Despite his sizable frame, the position
makes him look so young. My Jacob.

"I understand."

We're both quiet for a while.

"So then what happened?"

"But then . . . oh . . . everything became so confusing."

"Tell me from the beginning." He utters the words with the attitude of a man
going to the guillotine, full of dread and resignation.

So I do. I tell him about how horrible our initial meeting was, how strained those
first few weeks in class were, the way we were forced to work together, how
confused I was over his hostility towards me.

When I come to the part about Alice's death, Jacob's eyes widen in disbelief, but
he doesn't say anything, obviously absorbing the impact of my words. I don't
mention how Edward came to me that night, but I know I have to tell him about
the letters.

"They did write to me, Jacob."

"What? But you never got letters."

"I know." I swallow deeply, pain constricting my throat. "Billy and Carlisle kept
them from us."

"What?" he snaps.

"Yes. I'll tell you how I know. But first I need to ask you a question, and I need
you to answer me honestly. Did you know anything about . . . Edward and Alice's
letters?"
He shakes his head at me, looking at me with dark, serious eyes. "No. I didn't.
How could you think I'd have kept something like that from you?"

"I don't know! After Edward told me he'd written to me and that he never got my
letters, I didn't know who to trust."

"But you trusted him. How? How can you trust him after he . . . abandoned you?
Because of your burns?"

"He didn't . . . it wasn't him . . ."

"How do you know he won't leave you again?"

"He won't." I say it firmly, but his words are insidious, picking away at my
tentatively established security. Hot tears prick at the corner of my eyes, but I
wipe them away quickly. Edward loves me. All of me. He won't leave me.

"So what about these supposed letters?"

I tell him about our confrontation with the Cullens, how Carlisle explained his and
Billy's plan to separate us . . . but when I get to the part about Billy keeping
Alice's death from me despite Carlisle's change of heart, Jacob snaps.

"Bullshit. My father wouldn't do something like that. The guy, Carlisle or

whatever, he's lying."

"I don't think he is."

"You lived with us for ten years. You know my dad. He's a good person. How
could you believe all this stuff?"

"Because it makes sense, Jacob. Edward isn't lying about writing to me. And
Carlisle and Esme, they admitted lying to him. He won't even speak with them
now. Why would they make this up knowing they had so much to lose?"

"I don't know. Maybe to save themselves, Bella. You ever think of that?" He
pauses before changing topics. "And you thought I had something to do with it?
All this time? No wonder you could barely stand to talk to me."

"I didn't know. I didn't know."

With a groan, he rubs his hands over his face.

"That hurts."

"I'm sorry I thought that . . . But after I found out about Billy . . ."

"It seems like this guy is trying to put most of the blame on my father to save his
own skin. But we're going to get to the bottom of this." He stands up quickly,
brushing his pants off.

"What do you mean?"

"Let's go home and ask my dad. It'll prove these Cullens are full of it."

"You don't believe me?" I ask, my defensiveness rising.

"I don't know. But for all I know the whole lot of them are liars."

I sigh in frustration; it's like talking to a brick wall. "They're not lying. Edward's
not lying."
"Well, I need proof and I'm sorry, but your word doesn't cut it. Not anymore. I
need to talk to my father."

My mind races frantically. "But Edward . . ."

"Edward can wait," he says angrily. "You come home with these accusations,
cheating on me with a new boyfriend . . . God, I don't even know who you are
anymore. I sensed it. I knew if you went away to Chicago you'd change." The
disgust in his voice makes me cringe away from him.

"I made mistakes, Jacob. But I'm still the same," I whisper. He never really knew
me at all; it's all too clear now. He'd created a version of me in his mind, a
perfect girl—innocent and weak and dependent on him. My humanity must come
as a startling disappointment.

"Hmmph," he grunts, picking up a rock and tossing it at the sea. "So you admit
he was a mistake?"

"No. Edward is not a mistake. Lying to you was. I see that now, and I'm sorry."

He scoffs. "Well . . . it's a little late for that now."

"I know."

He curses again, shoving his hands into his pockets.

"Let's go."

When we get back to the truck, I immediately pull my cell phone out of my bag
and turn on the power. Jacob pulls away from the curb and starts heading home,
while I stare at the black screen, willing it on. After a few seconds, it still hasn't
powered up. I press the button again, glaring when nothing happens. Shit! It's
dead and Edward has my phone charger. And now I have no way to reach him . .
. unless he's at the Lodge. I can call him there when we get home. But the
upcoming confrontation with Billy quickly overshadows my relief. What if he
denies it? What if Jacob's right and the Cullens were lying about Billy to mediate
the blame?

It's almost humorous how badly wrong our plan has gone, I think darkly.

When we pull up to the house, Billy is seated on his rocker on the porch, reading
the newspaper as always. His head lifts at the sound of the engine, his eyes
crinkling in a smile. I watch as grabs his cane and struggles to stand. The man I
thought of as a father-now, who? Someone I never knew at all.

In a flash, Jacob is out of the truck.

I follow behind much less enthusiastically, still berating myself for not checking
my cell phone battery before we left the airport. Edward wanted to be here for
this, and I know he's going to be angry that I came here without telling him. On
top of that, it's been over three hours and he's probably frantic by now.

"Dad, don't trouble yourself," Jacob says as Billy limps down the steps, his back
hunching over as he presses weight into his good leg. I'm shocked by how much
he seems to have aged in only a couple of months. Even his hair is grayer.

Billy waves off Jacob's concern and straightens himself, his eyes drifting over to
me.
"Billy," I say hoarsely, feeling such conflicting emotions. I've missed him so much
. . . but he's betrayed me. I've come to find out why, but at this moment I don't
even want to know.

"Aren't you going to hug an old man?" he finally asks, probably wondering why
I'm standing there staring.

"Yeah," I say finally, wrapping my arms around his back. He feels thinner. He
squeezes lightly with one arm before stepping back, resting on his cane. Even
though I'm supposed to be furious with him, I can't help feeling worried about
how frail he looks.

He must notice my perusal, because he smiles half-heartedly. "Haven't been

sleeping much. I'm okay."

A quick glance between the two men tells me they've been keeping me in the
dark about something.

Billy quickly changes topics.

"Where're your things Isabella? You are staying the weekend, aren't you?" He's
joking, but I realize with trepidation I don't have a bag. But does it even matter if
it looks suspicious? Before I can reply Jacob does it for me.

"I'm not sure Isabella is staying, Dad." Jacob says.

"What?" he asks, his eyes darting between the two of us, finally noticing the
tension. "Is something wrong?"

"Yes," I say, finding my voice. "I need to ask you some questions, Billy."

"About?" Billy's face pales considerably . . . I think I see a flicker of something in

his eyes.

Again, Jacob beats me to the punch. I watch him warily as he describes the
situation in general strokes.

"Dad, Isabella has been in touch with the Cullens. They spun some story that has
her all backwards—some hogwash about you taking some letters that the Cullen
kids sent. She met up with one of them in Chicago. Edward. Says he never got
hers either." Jacob keeps his tone light, not giving anything about our
relationship away. Is he protecting Billy? Does he want me to have the honor of
describing my betrayal? He doesn't believe my story at all, and it shows.

It's so quiet, I can almost hear my blood beating thickly through my veins.

"My day of reckoning has come. May the Lord forgive me," Billy whispers.

Jacob's head snaps to his father's face, his expression confused.

"What?"

Billy's face has gone from pale to ashen. His legs seem to tremble beneath him.

"Is it true, Billy?" I ask him, tears spilling over my cheeks. I'd known it was, but
having it confirmed . . . it's nothing like I thought it would be. It just feels like
additional torture for everyone. I want Edward.

"It's true?" Jacob's voice fills the silence.

Billy looks between the two of us, his expression of guilt confirmation enough. I
can only stare at him, crying tears I don't want to shed.

"Why?"

"Come inside, Isabella, Son." He turns and, with Jacob's help, makes his way
back up the stairs.

When we enter the house, I smell the familiar smell of home—pine and Billy's
pipe tobacco—only now it feels foreign. I stand awkwardly in the foyer like an
uninvited guest.

"Dad? What's going on?" Jacob asks, the irritation in his voice growing. Billy looks
away.

"Go sit, please."

Without another word, Billy makes his way toward his bedroom, his slow gait
impeding his process. My stomach churns. Nothing he could tell me can erase the
lies now.

Jacob won't look at me, but I can tell from his profile he's having a hard time
dealing with this. On another day, we'd find comfort in each other. Not today. Not
anymore.

Eventually I find my way to the sofa, sinking onto it gratefully. But then I
remember Edward; I'm just about to reach for the phone when Jacob sighs with
exasperation.

"What the heck is he doing in there?" he huffs.

"I don't know."

Without another word, he stands and leaves the room, probably going to check
on Billy.

I use the opportunity to grab the phone book from under the coffee table and
look for the number to The Lodge. Edward's going to be so pissed at me, but I
suppose there's nothing I can do about it now.

"Isabella!" Jacob bellows from the other room, startling me just as my finger
alights on the number. "Call an ambulance!"

"What?" The book drops from my hands. Somehow I find myself in Billy's
bedroom at the rear of the house. Jacob's form is crouched over his father's
crumpled body, feeling for a pulse at his neck. At his feet, I see a bundle of
something . . . papers?

Billy's not moving.

"Billy?" I whisper, my eyes widening in horror at the scene.

Jacob turns to me, his expression pure dread.

"An ambulance! Now!"

His head turns away, back to Billy.

"Dad. Dad. It's going to be all right. Stay with me. Dad . . ."

I stumble out of the room, my mind numb. Phone. Phone. I need the phone.
I dial the number with shaky hands but the damn buttons won't press fast
enough.

"Hello, this is 911; what's your emergency?"

I give them the address quickly and the operator asks me a couple of questions.

"Please hurry," I whisper before the line goes dead.

I'm nauseous as I retrieve the fallen phone book, my hands trembling so violently
I can barely flip the thin pages.

"Hello. Lodge." A nasally female voice answers the phone.

"Hello," I say hollowly. "I need to speak with one of your guests. I don't know
what room he's in."

"Name?" She snaps her gum casually, a sharp, unwelcome sound. I flinch.

"Edward Cullen."

"Hang on a second."

A minute or so later, the voice returns.

"There's no one by that name."

"Maybe it's under mine, then. Isabella Black?"

"Nope."

"Are you sure? He would have just checked in, maybe an hour ago."

"Sweetie, I've been here all day. No one's checked in."

I hang up the phone, but I can't stop shaking. The only sounds in the house are
Jacob's voice and the ticking of the clock over the mantle in the corner. Every
second that passes, Billy's life could be slipping away.

Oh Edward, where are you?

"The weak can never forgive. Forgiveness is the attribute of the strong." –
Mahatma Gandhi

Chapter 29: November 24-28, 2010

Seated in the back of the ambulance next to Jacob, everything feels surreal. The
quiet, urgent murmurings of the EMTs offer no comfort. They attach an IV drip,
bodies obscuring our view of the man on the stretcher—the man who's been my
father, the only parent I've known for nearly ten years. I'm a spirit, only
grounded to earth by the unyielding grip of Jacob's hand on mine, a physical
anchor that reminds me of my corporeality.

His face is frozen in worry, ghost-white and fearful.

I didn't want him to die. I don't want him to die.

Jacob's lips are moving. I listen closely under the dull roar of the engine,
detecting faint wisps of prayer.

Our father, who art in heaven . . .

His father, still with us, for now . . .

With eyes wide as a child's, Jacob turns to me.

"Will he be all right, Isabella?"

I don't know why he asks me this; there's no comfort I can offer. Yet with this
question, the reality of the past few hours is set aside—a temporary truce
dictated by need and fear.

I attempt to squeeze his hand in reassurance, but I can't. He's already clenching
so tight.

"I hope so."

But I know how fragile and useless a thing like hope can be.

I clutch my useless phone in my other hand and try to remember Edward's cell
number. 4-2-7-3-1 . . . 4-2-7-7-3 . . . the digits flit through my mind, gone
before I can grasp them and string them together in any meaningful way.

Please let him be somewhere and be okay . . . Where is he? A bar? No, he
wouldn't do that to me. Would he? Perhaps his anxiety about Jacob was too
great. Perhaps he tried to follow us . . .

What if he left?

No.

I don't let my mind wander into that darkness, not when there's already so much
around me.

The ambulance lurches, making a quick right turn. One of the EMT's moves to the
side, giving us a glimpse of Billy's still, limp hand, upturned as if in supplication.

My day of reckoning has come.

Regret. That was the emotion I heard in his voice.

Jacob inhales sharply, his eyes misting over again. Whatever has happened
between us, I need to be strong for him. Still, I feel myself slipping, remembering
another loss.

Renee. Her hair on fire. Acrid smoke stinging my eyes and burning my throat.

"Dad," Jacob whispers. I rub his arm and lean my head against his shoulder while
he mumbles a Hail Mary. Still, the pale hand on the stretcher doesn't move.

Luckily, the ride to Forks Community Hospital is not a long one. While the
seriousness of situation dictates a larger, more sophisticated facility, there's no
time.

Time always runs out.

~QF~
Jacob and I sit side-by-side in the tiny E.R. waiting room. I remember the
hospital well from my monthly check-ups once I moved to Forks from Seattle. It
even smells familiar. It's quieter than I recall, or perhaps I'm remembering
wrong. Somehow all the hospitals I've been in feel the same—a longing to be
somewhere, anywhere else.

The only other person in the room is an elderly woman, knitting and nodding
asleep on the far side of the room. A TV in the corner relates the day's news on
low volume. Save that, we are silent.

Once in a while, a doctor or technician passes through the double doors and my
head lifts mechanically, hope and fear battling for supremacy in my chest.

More minutes pass, adding to another half hour. Why does time drag so
stubbornly? I rest my head against the back of my chair, my eyes tracing the
thin, spidery cracks in the dull white ceiling. I can't bring myself to read a
magazine or the theory book in my bag since my attention darts hummingbird-
quick between thoughts of Billy and Edward.

I've already called the Lodge twice more, braving the increasing annoyance of the
nasally desk clerk. Edward still hasn't checked in. It's well after four hours now
since I've seen him.

What began as a small worry has metastasized into a coiling and potent dread.
My hands twist over my cell phone, trying to conjure those damn numbers.

For one terrifying second, I imagine Edward bleeding out just beyond the
swinging doors in the O.R. What if something happened? What if he . . .

What is it Lear said? O, that way madness lies.

He's fine. He's fine. He'll find me.

"Why won't they tell us anything?" Jacob asks, standing and kicking the leg of his
chair in frustration. Now that the tension and anger radiating from his body is no
longer directed at me, it's almost easy to become complacent.

I long for the easy way we used to be.

"I don't know, Jake."

Is this my fault? If I hadn't come here to confront Billy like this, would things
have gone differently? His frailness indicates he's been feeling ill for a while . . . I
want to ask Jacob about it, but fear his reaction. Instead I stay quiet. There'll be
time for questions later once . . . and if . . . Billy survives.

Jacob goes to consult the nurse at the desk and comes back wearing a dark
expression, sitting down with such force the back of his chair hits the wall.

"She says the doctor will come when there's more information. This hospital is so
small and they can't tell us anything? This is ridiculous."

I reach out and pat his knee, resting my hand there for a second. He lets me.

A string of useless advertisements, louder than the regular broadcast, starts

grating on my nerves. No one seems to be watching anyway, so I get up and turn
the TV off.
"You were right about him keeping your letters," Jacob says quietly. I almost—
almost—want to say I told you so. Thankfully I'm able to reel in the childish
impulse.

"Yes."

"Why?"

"I don't know. That's what we came to find out."

"I should never have confronted . . ." he grimaces, squinting his eyes and looking
away. "Maybe he wouldn't have . . ."

"It's not your fault, Jacob."

He almost seems ready to talk. I decide to chance it.

"What's been going on with Billy?"

Jacob scratches his arm absentmindedly, his mouth turning down in a pensive
frown.

"He's . . . he hasn't been doing well since around Halloween. He's supposed to
exercise, eat right, and quit the pipe. But you know Billy." He pauses, heaving a
deep sigh from within his chest. "It's heart disease. There are pills he's supposed
to take."

"Has he been taking them?"

"I thought he was. I don't know why he wouldn't . . . I . . ."

"Why didn't you tell me?" I remember his increasingly panicked phone calls. I'd
thought it was just his fear of losing me, but now I see them in a new context.

"I didn't want to scare you. You were away at school and all . . . he thought it
would be better."

I scoff, shaking my head. "You two both think I can't handle anything."

At least he does me the favor of looking a little sheepish. But can I really chastise
him for keeping me in the dark? My lies and omissions don't make me a saint. Far
from it.

"I guess I just got used to protecting you."

"Oh, Jake."

Just then, I hear the whoosh of opening mechanical doors. A cool breeze wafts in
along with bronze hair and a brown bomber jacket I'd recognize anywhere. I leap
out of my chair.

"Edward!"

His eyes flash with recognition, but I only see them for a second before I'm
engulfed in his embrace. I inhale sweet mint and sweat and Edward, burying my
face in the crease of his neck.

I'm weightless.

"Bellababybaby," he croons, lifting me off of my feet. All the while I'm babbling
and rubbing my cheek against his, touching him everywhere my hands can reach.
"You're here, you're here."

"I'm here."

"I'm so sorry we went to the beach and my phone didn't work and Jake wanted to
talk to Billy so we left and I tried to call you and you weren't at the Lodge and
Billy's sick and I thought you were . . ."

"Shhhh," he says, whispering. "It's okay. It's okay. Slow down, baby."

All the tears I've been holding in threaten to release at the sound of his voice.

"What happened?"

I tell him again, more slowly this time.

Edward shakes his head, the creases between his brows deepening. "God, I was
so worried. He told me there was an ambulance . . ."

"Who? Who told you?" I ask, pulling away a fraction.

"A guy named Sam. I came right here. I thought . . ." His voice cracks, and I
know exactly what he thought. Those terrible images were in my mind too.

"I'm so sorry." I touch his cheek, and he leans into my palm, whispering.

"You're okay."

I don't know how long we cling to each other before I remember what we were
talking about.

"Wait, Sam Uley? Where did you see him?"

"I waited for as long as I could, but you didn't call and I got worried. So I went to
the diner in town and got Billy's address from the waitress there. I figured that's
where you must have gone."

One good thing that can be said of this small community-everyone knows
everyone. Edward probably hypnotized the poor woman with one of his smiles.

"Sam was at Billy's?" I ask, still confused.

"Apparently he'd just gotten home from work when he saw the ambulance pull
away. I guess it was a little bit before I got there." Since Sam lives just down the
road from Jacob, it makes sense he would've seen the ambulance leave the
house and come to investigate when Edward showed up.

"He didn't know any details, but I thought the worst."

I can still see traces of despair in his eyes. Taking his face between my hands, I
channel all of my love and regret into my kiss. Edward responds with a quiet
moan, running his fingers thorough my hair with one hand while holding me
against him with the other.

"I'm so sorry for making you worry," I whisper against his lips. He wraps his arms
around me more tightly. "I tried to call you but my stupid cell was dead and you
weren't at the hotel. I never should have left you at the airport. I'm so sorry."

"Sweet girl, it's okay. It's okay." He kisses the side of my face again, closing his
eyes and humming against my ear.
"You're not mad at me?"

"I'm just so fucking relieved you're not hurt. I'll have time to be mad later. What
happened?"

"Billy had a heart attack."

"Is he going to be all right?" Edward asks, concern overshadowing his dislike.

"They won't tell us. We've been waiting."

My use of the plural pronoun brings us back to the present, and to the third
presence in the room. I glance to the left, to where Jacob sits alone, his head
turned awkwardly away from our intimate embrace. Edward slowly relaxes his
hold, but I grab his hand, threading our fingers together. I'm not ready to let him
go again.

"Jacob," Edward says in acknowledgment.

Jacob gives a curt nod, his eyes darting to our hands and then away again.
Everything about his position screams discomfort. But before I can dwell on it for
two long, a doctor emerges from the swinging doors, his expression unreadable
as he turns to us. He's surprisingly young and handsome, not more than thirty by
the looks of it.

"Are you the Black family?" he asks.

Jacob stands, worry and hope playing over his face. "I'm Jacob Black, Billy's son."

"I'm Doctor Merchant," the young doctor states, clearing his throat. "Your father
has had an myocardial infarction—in layman's terms a heart attack. Right now
we're trying to stabilize his heartbeat."

"He's alive," I say aloud.

Dr. Merchant nods at me, and then turns to address Jacob. "We've located the
clot that caused the attack and we're administering thrombolytic drugs to break it
up. If it does, he shouldn't require surgical intervention at this point."

"Is he going to be okay?" Worry resonates in Jacob's voice.

"Right now our main concern are the arrhythmias, but so far he's been responsive
to treatment. We have reason to be optimistic, but we're not out of the woods
yet."

"Can I see him?"

Dr. Merchant gestures towards the doors, indicating we should follow. He seems
to know what he's doing, which is a great relief. What brought such a bright
young doctor to Forks? Jacob starts to follow, stopping after a pace and glancing
at me.

"Do you want to come?"

"You go," I say, drawing closer to Edward. Without another word, Jacob passes
through the swinging doors, his heavy footfalls dissipating down the hall.

Once they've gone, I sag against Edward's shoulder. My entire body feels weak
from the stress and anxiety of the past few hours—and now the relief that
Edward is here and Billy seems to be pulling through. At least there's reason to
hope.

Edward wraps his arm around me and guides me over to the chairs. He sits and
pulls me into his lap, holding his coat open so I can snuggle against his chest.
Just for a second I allow myself to luxuriate in his warmth before the inevitable
questioning begins.

"So this really didn't go well, did it?"

"You can say that again," I agree.

"Where did you go? Obviously not to the coffee shop like you said you would." I
detect a hint of resentment in his tone, but he's trying to keep it at bay.

"I know. I'm sorry. Jacob didn't want an audience and I didn't really feel like I
could argue with him at that point. He wanted to go La Push, so we did."

Edward sighs and I feel his body tense beneath me.

"It wasn't my plan. I didn't want to lie to you."

"That's it. I'm getting a tracking device."

I laugh softly. "What are you going to do, microchip me?"

"Maybe." He says it as a joke, but I can see the seriousness in his eyes. There's
that haunted look, there because of me.

"Oh, Edward."

"So," he says, serious again. "How did he react?"

"A lot like I expected. He's upset, obviously. When I told him about the letters he
didn't believe Billy could've done it. That's why we went straight to the house—
Jacob wanted to talk to him."

"I wish you would have waited for me."

"I know. I wanted to, but Jacob wasn't exactly in a reasonable state. It's like once
the ball started rolling I just got caught up."

"Going off with him when he was angry like that . . ."

"I know. I know. It wasn't the best idea. But I told you Jacob would never hurt
me. I wouldn't have gone if there was any danger."

He's silent and I stroke his tightly clenched jaw, trying to loosen the muscles
there. There's something else bothering him.

"Did you think I was going to change my mind?"

"Not really . . ." He hesitates. "Maybe just for a second."

"You don't trust me?"

"Of course I do, Bella. But when you didn't call I couldn't help thinking of all the
possible scenarios."

"I wouldn't do that to you. Ever." How could I ever live without him again?
"I know. Forgive me."

I kiss him on the cheek once, letting him know there's nothing to forgive. Both of
us have had our moments of doubt. Just as my lips brush against his skin a
second time, he turns his head, kissing me back so sweetly. I know he's forgiving
me too.

"I'm so stupid. I should have written down your phone number before I left.
Technology is not to be trusted."

"That reminds me. I'm also going to have my number tattooed on your wrist," he
grumbles, taking the wrist in question and bringing it to his lips.

"Micro chipped and tattooed? Any other ways you plan on marking me Edward?" I
tease.

"I could think of another one or two," he says with a sexy smile. I blush, feeling
just a tad bit guilty about how happy I feel given the circumstances.

"Okay, so back to Billy. You got to the house and then what? You asked him
about the letters?"

I shake my head. "Actually Jacob did. When we got there I could tell he wasn't
well . . . he basically admitted it. Said something about his 'day of reckoning'. I
don't know. It was weird."

"Did he say why?"

"We never got that far." I tell Edward how our conversation had gone—how Billy's
initial excitement at seeing me had quickly evolved into cryptic statements and
behavior, culminating in his collapse on the floor.

"You must have been scared."

"I was shaking . . . it just brought back such bad memories, you know?"

"Oh, baby. You were thinking about your mom?"

"Yeah."

I don't remember anything immediately following the fire since I was

unconscious, but I do remember those feelings of doom. The bleak permanence
of loss. No one should have to suffer like that.

"But I had to be there for Jacob."

"What about you?"

"I feel sort of numb. I'm worried about Billy, but I'm mad at him too. And Jacob.
I've treated him terribly and I . . . I don't know. I don't think he's ever going to
be able to forgive me."

Before Edward can respond, Jacob reemerges from the swinging doors looking
weary. I start to scramble off of Edward's lap, but Jacob holds up his hand,
averting his gaze again. He can't even bear to look at me, I think bitterly.

"Billy?"

"He's not awake. But they think the anticoagulants are working."

"Oh thank God."

"I'm going to grab some coffee. You want anything?" he asks, gazing at the floor.

"No. We're fine."

"Okay. Stay until I get back?"

"Of course."

I watch him go with a lump in my throat, wishing my happiness didn't have to

come at his expense.

Over the next couple of days, Jacob and Edward establish an uneasy truce. We
occasionally stop by the hospital to check in, but we never stay for long. When
we do, the atmosphere borders on painfully uncomfortable. I still haven't seen
Billy. Even though he's awake and talking, they want to keep his heart rate down,
and I don't want to risk having the inevitable conversation until he's more stable.
More and more, I'm wondering if it will be possible at all. Doctor Merchant is
optimistic about Billy's recovery from this particular attack, though they're
keeping him under observation for a few more days just to be sure.

But there's no denying Billy is very ill. Doctor Merchant informs us that the
coronary artery disease is unusually advanced for someone so young and that
surgical intervention might be the only way to assure a long-term solution. His
primary care physician is away on vacation, but according to his charts Billy has
known about his illness for some time. Even Jacob hadn't understood the severity
of the situation.

Jacob takes the news particularly badly, but there's little I can do to ease his
pain.

On Thanksgiving Edward and I eat take-out Chinese chicken in our small, run-
down room at the Lodge, trying not to think about all of the people in our lives
that are missing. Out of courtesy I invite Jacob over, but he predictably turns me
down, opting instead to spend the holiday with Billy at the hospital. I'm pretty
sure he's only left long enough to sleep, and I haven't bothered to mention the
bundle of papers on the floor of Billy's room. It just doesn't seem right. More and
more, the letters have begun to feel like a curse.

Edward finally gets his tour of Forks. It only takes a grand total of two hours,
though I enjoy pointing out landmarks like Forks High and the Elks Club, of which
my father's father, my Pop-pop, was a proud and long-standing member. Edward
takes it in with wide-eyed wonder, more like a tourist viewing the Taj Mahal than
a run-down convention hall. When I ask why, his answer makes me blush.

Because there are little pieces of you here.

It's not enough to keep him from teasing me relentlessly when I relate how I
came in second in the regional spelling bee when I was sixteen.

"I can't believe you didn't know how to spell ursprache," he jokes. "Anyone who's
anyone knows how to spell ursprache."

"Shut up. Like you would have done much better."

"Oh, a sore loser after all this time?"

"It's not even English," I grumble. "I was cheated."

"Come here, my little second place speller."

I grin and bat his hand away.

"Not until you spell ursprache."

He loves the forest. On Saturday it pours, but we still go on a walk through the
woods. I lead Edward along the well-worn path to Two Moon. Green-grey
November light filters through the trees along the trek I've made a hundred times
with Jacob and Billy. We stand shivering on the bank as the rain leaves millions of
tiny ripples on the surface of the pond, soaking us through to the skin. I look out
over the water and think of my mother.

Edward lifts his head and lets the rain course over his face, once again stubbly
and rough. I can't resist kissing the cool water off of his lips.

When we get back to the Lodge, we make love frantically on the lumpy,
uncomfortable bed.

I dream strange dreams—not nightmares, but unsettling all the same. I awake
trembling in the night, grateful Edward is always there. He never minds if I wake
him up.

The day before we leave, Edward drops me off so I can spend some time with
Jacob alone. We haven't spoken in private since our talk at the beach, and I know
we both have things left to say. Still, I'm not naïve enough to believe that
everything can be mended now.

He's sitting outside on a bench waiting for me when we arrive.

"I'll be back in an hour, okay?" Edward says, leaning over for a kiss.

"Okay." I kiss him quickly, aware that Jacob's watching, and hop out of the car.
It's one of those rare, sunny days in Forks that come after days of drear and rain.
Despite the cool air, it's pleasant.

"Hey," Jacob says as I sit down, stretching my arms up overhead into the sun.

"Hi. How is he today?"

"Better. The doctors say he'll be released tomorrow."

"That's good."

"And you're headed out," he says with resignation.

"Yes . . ." I trail off even as Jacob nods.

"Billy wants to see you. The doctors think it's okay, but he needs to keep calm."

"Are you sure it's a good idea?"

"Not really. But it might be more stressful for him if you don't, you know?"

"I want Edward to be there, too."

"Dad asked for him as well."

"Oh."

We sit silently for a minute. Jacob seems different today—softer. I don't feel
nervous sitting next to him for some reason.
"I haven't been completely fair to you, Isabella." He sighs, scuffing his feet
against the gravel below the bench. "All this stuff with Dad, well. I've thought
about a lot of things."

"What do you mean?" I ask, trying to imagine what he might mean.

"Remember a while back, when I told you about Sam and Leah breaking up?"

"Yeah. You said she was pretty torn up about it."

"She was."

"Is she okay?"

"Yeah. Well, I don't know. I haven't spoken to her in a couple weeks."

"What did you guys, like get in a fight or something?"

All of a sudden, it begins to dawn on me—the nervous way he's shifting on the
bench. The hesitation in his voice . . .

"Jake, is there something going on with you and Leah?" My disbelief rings out
over the sparsely filled parking lot. I'm not angry—far from it—but I can't wrap
my mind around this new development.

"No, it wasn't like that. Not like you're thinking."

"What was it like then?"

"We got pretty close after her break up. She needed someone to talk to. You
know how close she and Emily were—she took it pretty hard. So we became good
friends. But recently, I don't know. I started feeling like maybe it was more. I got
scared because of you and . . ." he trails off, gazing into the distance and looking
like he might want to run away.

"Did you tell her?"

"No. I didn't. And I mean, she knew how much I loved you."

"You can love more than one person at the same time." I can't believe I'm sitting
here having this conversation with Jacob of all people.

"But that's wrong," he says. "It shouldn't be like that."

I laugh, shaking my head. Sometimes he seems so much more than four months
younger than me.

"You're human. It's human. So what, you told her you couldn't be friends
anymore?"

He nods, and it all makes sense now. Dealing with Billy and the guilt over Leah—
no wonder he'd sounded so frantic on the phone the last few weeks.

"How does Leah feel?"

"She was upset when I said we shouldn't hang out as much. I told her you might
get the wrong idea." His voice takes on a bit of an edge, but this is much more
than I ever expected, for us to be talking like this.

"Do you think she has feelings for you?" I ask gently.
"I think so . . . but I couldn't be sure if it was just her trying to get over Sam or
not. I didn't want to lose you. And I didn't want to drag Leah into something like
that. But when I said goodbye, I felt awful, like I was breaking her heart all over
again."

How ironic—the parallels between our lives these last couple months. Even
though he's not being very vocal about it, the way he says her name suggests the
feelings he harbors run much deeper than simple infatuation.

"And how has it been, not seeing her?"

"Hard," he admits. "I miss her."

"What are you going to do now?"

"I don't know."

"You should talk to Leah, tell her how you feel."

"She probably won't even want to talk to me."

"You never know until you try." It's a trite expression, but it's true.

"I want something real, Isabella." His eyes sweep over my face and for the first
time since I saw him at the airport, I see some of the old tenderness there.

"You deserve it," I reply hoarsely.

"I see you, the way you are with him." He still can't say Edward's name without
cringing. "You've never looked at me like that before."

"I'm so sorry Jacob," I say, my voice cracking.

"You've always loved him, haven't you?"

"Yes." Even as I say the word I remember the years of denial. As soon as I saw
him in class that day, I knew. I just couldn't admit it to myself.

"You're happy now."

"I am."

"That's good." The words are simple, but sincere. It's more than I could have
hoped for.

He smiles ruefully, his hand hovering over my knee, not sure of whether or not to
land. I save him the trouble and take it in mine. We sit quietly, listening to the
breeze rustling the nearby pines. There are secret places in my heart where Jacob
has never been, but in this moment I feel closer to him than I have in a long
time.

When he speaks again, his voice is quiet. "I said before you were a different
person. I don't know if that's true. You've always been meant for something more
than this town. I knew it, even if I didn't want to admit it."

"This town isn't so bad."

"No, not for someone like me. But you? You're so smart Isabella. I know you'll do
great things."

"Well, that remains to be seen," I say, blushing at the compliment.

"Nope, it's a fact."

"Thanks."

"Whatever the reason for what Dad did, it doesn't make it right. But . . . he loves
you. He really does."

I sigh, not sure if I enter into this territory with him. Whatever Billy did for my
own good, if indeed that's why he did it, wasn't. Jacob seems to understand my
reticence and doesn't press further.

"When you go in there to talk to him, can I come? I'd like to hear it for myself."

"Of course. It's your story, too."

"It's my story too." He almost laughs. "I guess it is."

A few minutes later, our rental car pulls into the parking lot and Jacob releases
me. I wonder if it's the last time I'll ever hold his hand.

Edward emerges from the car, gangly and graceful at the same time. I watch as
he straightens and pats his pockets—the notebook check. Seemingly satisfied, he
turns and approaches us.

"Hey," I say with a grin. "You're back."

He smiles back. "Always."

The two men consider one another warily before Jacob clears his throat.

"Let's go see my Dad."

"If the doors of perception were cleansed every thing would appear to man as it
is, Infinite. For man has closed himself up, till he sees all things thro' narrow
chinks of his cavern."

— William Blake

Chapter 30: November 28, 2010

When we enter Billy's room, I'm struck by the starkness of it all—not so much as
a vase of flowers decorates his bedside. The lack strikes me immediately, as does
the silence. Billy lies on the reclined hospital bed, his head turned towards the
opposite wall, obviously asleep. Under the sterility of the air, the smell of sickness
lingers.

"Dad? We're here." Jacob leads the way as Edward and I trail close behind, my
hand lightly clutching his middle and ring fingers. At the sound of Jacob's voice,
the figure on the bed shifts and murmurs.

"Dad?" he says again.

The movement becomes more pronounced. Billy turns his head, startling me with
a full view of his frailty. He looks thinner, and his skin has a sallow, unhealthy
hue.

"Isabella," he says in his gravelly, familiar voice.

"He's been asking for you." Jacob speaks the words quietly so Billy can't hear.
I give Jacob a nod before my eyes alight on Billy again, who at the moment is
fumbling to raise the mechanical bed to a more comfortable seated position.
Edward's fingers thread between mine and I feel momentarily embarrassed about
my sweaty palm.

Jacob notices his father's struggle, going and taking the remote from his father's
hand. "Let me help you, Dad."

"I need . . ." I can't hear the rest of the whispered conversation, but I turn my
head away as Jacob helps Billy with the blankets, not wanting to see him in this
vulnerable state. Billy has always been so proud.

"Are you okay?" Edward touches my side with his free hand, a sympathetic smile
drawing up the left corner of his mouth. No matter what Billy has to say, nothing
will change between us. But my feelings remain conflicted—a moment from our
conversation comes back to mind.

"Do you think you'll forgive him?" Edward asks quietly. I move close toward him,
still heavy with sleep. His bare chest is scratchy where my cheek settles, but I
like it. I like hearing his heart beat under my ear with nothing between us. The
vibration is so comforting it takes me a while to answer. I think how our lives
depend on a strong, but small fist sized organ. Yes, Billy's heart attack has
changed things to some extent, but the reality of the situation remains the same.

"I don't know. I have no idea what he'll say."

"Probably that he was protecting you."

"I don't know. I mean, if I can forgive him. I'll never forget. But at the same
time, I don't want to hold a grudge for the rest of my life." Edward sighs and I
can feel his breath flutter my hair. He's thinking of Esme and Carlisle, I know it. I
hope I haven't said the wrong thing.

"Yeah," he finally says. "I know what you mean."

Edward's hand rests more firmly on my hip. He cocks his head to the side,
studying me.

"Yeah. I'm okay," I whisper. "I just want this to be over. I want to go home."

More sounds come from behind—Billy raises his voice in objection to something
Jacob's doing.

"Soon." His eyes drift over my shoulder and he gives a faint nod in that direction.

After a final squeeze, I turn around to face Billy and Jacob. Just as Edward had
taken the lead with his parents, this moment is mine.

Now sitting with more composure on his bed, Billy looks more like himself. Jacob
stands to the side, watching the situation guardedly. And so now begins the
delicate balance of trying to maintain a calm atmosphere while also getting the
answers we need.

"Is this . . ." Billy nods at Edward and me. From what Jacob has told me, Billy
already knows the basics of our breakup. He looks at Edward skeptically, and I
don't need to be a mind reader to tell he disapproves. But I suppose that's to be
expected. It's Jacob, after all, that is his son.

"This is Edward Cullen."

"Hello," Edward says from beside me.

"Edward," Billy repeats. Then his eyes squint, becoming thoughtful. "You
resemble your father."

"So I've been told."

"How is Carlisle these days?"

"We're not speaking at the moment," Edward says. "But I don't imagine he's
doing too poorly."

I can tell from the strain in Edward's voice he's having a hard time keeping his
composure, not that I blame him.

"That's a shame," Billy says unexpectedly. "Your father's a good man."

Edward doesn't reply. I look at him, wanting to know what he's thinking. These
last couple weeks have been difficult; while he hasn't spoken about it in detail,
both Esme and Carlisle have attempted to contact Edward on several occasions.
The guilt of not responding to them is starting to weigh on him.

"You've discussed the situation with your parents, I take it?" Billy asks.

"Indeed we have."

Edward stands taller for a moment and Billy sits up in bed. Both of the men are
sizing each other up, but I'm not sure what they're looking for. For some reason
I'm filled with an all-encompassing need to show Billy that Edward's good for
me—that he did wrong to keep us apart.

"Come sit, please." Billy gestures towards the vacant chair next to his bedside
and I move towards it hesitantly, grateful when Edward follows. His warm hand
comes to rest on my shoulder and squeezes lightly.

"Where to begin?" Billy says with a sigh. It's a rhetorical question, but I there's so
much I want to know—and I'm afraid this might be the only time I can get the
answers I seek.

"I want to know about my parents. I know there's more you haven't told me."

He seems to consider my request. A strange expression flits across his face

before being replaced by a grim smile.

"I know I haven't told you much about your history, Isabella. But there's a reason
for that. When you were younger I didn't think it was appropriate."

"Tell me now," I say, keeping my voice even.

Billy's face remains inscrutable, but I catch his quick glance at Edward's hand. He
looks away just as rapidly.

"I think Isabella deserves to know, Dad." I'd almost forgotten Jacob was in the
room, but I give him a grateful smile.

Billy nods resolutely. "After Charlie died, I promised your mother that if anything
ever happened to her, I wouldn't tell you about her past."

"She wasn't in her right mind, Billy. You know that."

"I'm afraid I didn't know how bad Renee was doing. Not until it was too late. She
managed to . . . sound much more composed on the phone when we spoke."

I remember how she could appear very stable for long lengths of time, at least to
outsiders. As a child I became so well versed in reading her that I could tell when
she was unwell, but she had a way of disguising it for others. And when she was
taking her medication, she actually was normal. Even after all these years I'll
never forget how much I wanted her mothering during those good times.

"No one did," I reply hoarsely. Except me. And Edward. I hear movement and feel
him come to stand behind my chair, placing both hands on my shoulders in a
protective, comforting gesture.

Billy seems to make up his mind.

"Tell me what you know of your parents meeting."

"Not much. Only what you told me—that they fell in love and her parents
disapproved, but they married anyway. She never spoke about him to me. Just
little things once in a while." Like how he liked strawberry jam on toast. And how
my eyes looked just like his.

Billy sighs and looks up to Jacob, whose eyes are latched onto his father's face
with vivid attention. From the tension in stance, I can tell this is the first time
he'll be hearing any of this himself.

"Your mother transferred to Forks High school when we were all sophomores. You
knew that, right?"

"Yes."

"I was a year older than your dad, but he was my best friend. When Renee came,
he was instantly taken with her."

"I remember you telling me he was on the football team."

"Yes. He was quite the athlete," Billy remarks with a fond chuckle. "But . . .
Renee. Your mother had some problems at school. She sometimes acted . . .
unpredictably. Though she was beautiful, she wasn't popular, and Charlie could've
had his pick."

Aside from the difference between me and my mom, her and Charlie's early
relationship actually sounds like Edward's and mine. I wonder if the man behind
me is thinking the same thing.

Billy reaches for the glass of water at his bedside and takes a small sip before
continuing.

"Her parents were important people in Seattle. Very well off. There had been a
scandal with Renee the year before at her school. She," he pauses, his hands
clenching the covers.

"Some of this is going to be difficult for you to hear, Isabella." His voice is quiet
and serious, and when I look into his eyes, I can see the truth in his words. My
stomach drops as implications I've never imagined tendril in my mind like
dangerous weeds.

"Tell me."

"She'd attempted suicide the previous year."

"How?" I whisper.

"With pills, I believe."

"Oh my God." I swallow deeply, imagining with horror the thought of my

fourteen-year-old mother in such a state. How lost she must have felt to have
attempted to take her own life at such a young age. Was she ill even then? And
why didn't her parents do something?

"The family had decided a move to a smaller, more intimate school would help
her. But they were also . . ."

"Ashamed," I complete the sentence. Edward's hands rub soothingly, but even
they can't offer comfort now.

Billy nods in affirmation.

"Of course I only later learned about this from your dad. As far as I knew at the
time, Renee was a sweet girl with problems and a rich family."

My throat feels dry and I swallow deeply, trying to deal with this new, troubling
information. When I was young, I'd naively thought my mother's life before
Charlie's death was happy and uncomplicated. Now I see the illusion of that
belief.

"But they started dating. Renee's parents disapproved of the relationship and
Charlie couldn't understand why. He wasn't exactly from a wealthy family, and
that was part of it. But there was more."

Edward's hands leave my shoulders and I feel the loss instantly. I glance up at
his green eyes, dark and focused on Billy. When he notices my movement, he
gazes down at me.

"What?" he asks, concerned.

"Don't go." I don't even know why I say this; I just want him to keep touching
me.

"Never." His hands settle back on my shoulders immediately.

When I turn back to Billy, I see he's been watching our exchange with a curious
expression. He takes another sip of water before going on.

"The summer before our junior year, I got in that car accident. Your dad was
following with Renee in the car behind mine. If it wasn't for him, I wouldn't have
gotten out of that car alive."

"What happened?"

"It was a head on collision . . . the other guy driving was drunk."

"Did he live?"

Billy shakes his head.

"I was hurt badly, as you know," Billy says, rubbing his leg. "I couldn't walk for a
long while. The next year, when school started, I didn't go back."

I'd always known that Billy hadn't finished high school, but I'd never realized it
was because of the accident. It all makes sense now, of course.
"By that time I was seventeen. Your mom and dad were pretty serious about
each other. And I was lucky enough to meet someone special, too, in the most
unlikely of places."

"Mom?" Jacob asks.

"Yes, your mother. Maryanne was a daughter of one of the nurse's at the
hospital. This hospital, actually. She was a couple of years older than I was,
already finished high school. At first I didn't know why she kept coming around,
but it didn't take long before I was head over heels with her. And I knew God had
sent her to me."

Jacob smiles, but there's pain behind it. He's always blamed himself for his
mother's death, no matter how many times Billy insisted it wasn't his fault.

"Son, she was so happy to have you. You were a blessing for us both."

Jacob's smile becomes embarrassed, a slight blush coloring his cheeks.

"Yeah, yeah."

"And with her confidence in me," Billy turns to me, "and Charlie's support, within
a year I was walking again. Maryanne and I got married soon after I turned
eighteen. It was in the fall. She looked so beautiful. Your dad was my best man."

"And my mom and dad? Didn't they get married around then?" I knew my
parents had married right out of high school.

"Well, let's see. They married a year later. This is the part of the story I'm not too
proud of, Isabella."

"Tell me what happened," I say, nervousness unsettling my stomach again. Even

though it was so long ago, it doesn't feel like history. I know as well as anyone
that the past never dies.

Billy's voice takes on a low tenor. "Renee got pregnant around Christmas time.
Her parents were furious. She was still in high school, you see—only seventeen."

"She was pregnant with me in high school?" I ask, disbelief coloring my voice.

"You know my feelings about such things, Isabella. It was wrong of them to be
having relations outside of marriage. We had a falling out over it. But eventually I
recognized that it was not my sin to forgive."

I sit, struck dumb with shock. It's the first I've ever heard of my conception, and
it's not exactly the story I'd imagined. And Billy's sense of righteousness over the
whole situation irritates me. My brow furrows and I glance up at Edward, noticing
the same expression on his face.

"You thought of me as a sin?" I say. Jacob stiffens and I notice how conflicted he
looks.

"Not you, Isabella. Please let me finish."

"Okay," I relent, unable to keep my resentment out of my tone.

"Charlie wanted to marry your mom, but her parents wanted her to get rid of the
baby and end things with him. Said if she didn't, they'd cut her off without a red
cent."
"Assholes," I hear Edward mutter under his breath. Billy allows it to pass without
comment.

I notice with a smile Jacob's nod of agreement.

Billy clears his throat. "She didn't do it, obviously. Thank the good Lord." He
raises his eyes to the heavens and mutters something indecipherable. I wonder if
he's talking to Charlie or to God.

"So what did she do?"

"She went to live with Charlie and his dad, your Pop-pop."

"And her parents?"

"As far as I know, she never spoke to them again."

"Good for her," Edward says. My own personal peanut gallery.

"Isabella, now I'm going to tell you something that might bother you. Only a
handful of people knew, and most of them are dead now, God rest their souls."

"Is it about my mom?"

He smiles sadly.

"Once your mom was free from her parents she confided in Maryanne, who by
that time was carrying you, son."

Jacob nods, his eyes latching onto mine for a moment. Sympathy and love are
the only things I see.

"A terrible sin was committed against your mother, Isabella."

"What happened?" I whisper.

"Her father . . . he . . ."

"No," I whisper, my stomach twisting.

Billy's eyes say what his words can't.

"Whatever you seem to be thinking is probably better than what happened to

your mother, may the Lord forgive the man who harmed her."

"My grandfather?"

"Yes. And it seems that the abuse had continued for many years. Right until she
met Charlie."

Righteous, aimless indignation rises with the bitter bile in my throat. My mother.
Just a child. If I had known . . . how could I ever have doubted my love for her?

I want to cover my ears and run from the room.

I want to kill a man I've never met.

"Are they alive?"

"I don't know. All I know is that your mother wanted you as far away from either
of them as possible."
"And her mother?"

"It seems her mother had been covering up the abuse for years. But she hated
Renee for it. So I guess in some ways she was just as bad as the father. Your
mom was scared to tell anyone and, of course, ashamed."

What an insidious web. I feel sick, so sick. A vision of my mother appears and I
can't erase it. I see her lying prostrate, helpless at the hands of a faceless
monster. I know enough about bipolar disorder to understand that while genetics
factor in to some extent, environmental factors also contribute hugely. Perhaps if
she'd had a different life . . . How could her own father . . .

"Excuse me," I mumble, shrugging off Edward's hands and standing up

unsteadily. I'm going to be sick.

"Bella," Edward calls after me. I put my hand up, not wanting anyone to follow as
I quickly make my way into the adjoining bathroom. I barely get inside before I'm
heaving into the toilet.

Mom. Mom. Mom. How could anyone do such a thing?

"Bella."

In my sickness I hadn't even noticed Edward come into the bathroom. He's
kneeling down next to me, holding my hair back as I vomit again.

Quickly, I flush the toilet and wipe my mouth, slumping back against the wall.
Edward wedges himself into the small space, gathering me into his arms.

"I can't believe it."

"What can I do?" he asks.

"Just stay here with me."

He nods and pets my hair as the sickness abates.

"Do you want to go?"

"No. It just took me by surprise, you know?"

"Yeah. Shit," he mutters.

"I feel stupid."

"Don't. I feel a little sick myself."

"You do?"

"Definitely. It's horrible to hear about something like that happening, especially
to someone close to you. Or close to someone you love." The emotion in his voice
matches something in his eyes—it makes me feel stronger.

"I need to go back."

"Okay."

Edward helps me up and grabs a cup to fill from the tap, which I take gratefully,
rinsing my mouth.
When we reemerge from the bathroom, hand in hand, Billy and Jacob stop
talking. Jacob looks angry.

"Are you okay?" he asks.

"I'm okay."

Jacob grumbles something under his breath.

"He doesn't think I should have told you that," Billy says cautiously. "I'm sorry if
it upset you, but you wanted—"

"I wanted to know. I'm okay."

Seated back in the chair, I hardly know where to begin again.

"Renee's mother covered it up?" Edward asks, taking over for me with an
indignant, strong voice.

Billy shakes his head sadly. "It turns out it was one of the reasons they moved to
Forks. The doctors in Seattle wanted to put your mother into treatment, but her
parents. Well, now they had secrets to keep, didn't they?"

So she didn't get help.

"Oh God," I whisper.

"The only one in the family that stood by her was her grandmother, Elaine. She
gave Renee and Charlie some money to start out. I never met her but I heard
she was a wonderful artist—a painter."

A painter.

"What was her last name, Billy?"

"I don't remember, child. I think maybe it was Renault, but I can't be sure. She
was French."

Golden filigree and swallows-I remember the delicate hand painting and the
initials, lost in destruction. EIR. The teapot. Could my mother's grandmother have
painted it?

"Bella," Edward says, his arm wrapping around my shoulder. "What is it?"

"I'm just remembering something," I whisper. "I'll tell you later."

"Okay."

Billy's eyes are on me again, more guarded then before. I can tell he's having
second thoughts about telling me, and I decide I need to get a hold of myself.

"Charlie was a good man. He stood by your mom, no matter what. They both
managed to finish high school and then, that following September, you came into
this world, Isabella."

"So they got married after I was born?"

"About a month afterward. Maryanne and I had just celebrated our one year
anniversary."
I shake my head in disbelief. It's almost impossible to comprehend getting
married so young.

"When you were born, your mother loved you something fierce. Said you were
her miracle baby. She never regretted you, ever. And I had the honor of
becoming your godfather. Something I always took seriously, even once your
family moved away."

However misguided Billy has been, it's clear from his narrative that he truly loved
my parents. I have at least that to thank him for.

"Those four months after you were born were some of the best of my life," Billy
says. "Maryanne was pregnant and happy. I was happy."

Jacob reaches out and puts his hand on Billy's shoulder. Billy pats his son's hand
and forces a smile.

"I don't want to talk about how she died. You already know that."

"Yes," I nod.

I've only heard the story once. Apparently her labor had onset hemorrhaging the
doctors couldn't staunch. Maryanne died in Billy's arms just minutes after Jacob
was born.

"Your mom and Charlie were my life support; of course I had my parents too."

Billy's parents both died peacefully of natural causes a couple of years back, but I
remember them fondly. They were staunchly religious, like their son, but kind-
hearted.

The four of us sit quietly for a minute. I realize I've gotten so swept up in hearing
my parent's history, I've nearly forgotten the letters. Despite my sympathy for
Billy's loss, I need to know what drove him to separate me from my friends.
Hearing the story of his relationship with Maryanne and my parents doesn't make
his motivation any clearer. If anything, it should have shown him how important
the ties of friendship can be.

Billy regards me carefully.

"You want to know about those letters. I must say it came as a shock to me for
you to have found out. But I suppose that's pretty obvious." He laughs
mirthlessly, gesturing to the machines that surround him.

"It was cruel," I say. "I don't care what your reasoning was. I missed them so
much. You should have known better, Billy."

"I've done you a wrong, child. That much the good Lord has made clear to me."

"It has nothing to do with the Lord, Billy," I say, my anger returning. "It has to do
with me! With real people whose lives you tampered with. You said you loved my
parents, that their friendship got you through Maryanne's loss. How could you not
see that I needed Edward and Alice?"

"You're right," he says simply. The ease of his admission doesn't sit well with me
for some reason. It almost makes it worse.

"So why?"
"I wish I had a better answer for you, Isabella. I thought I was doing the right
thing. The reality is simple. Carlisle was worried about his son. I disapproved of
your young relationship, that's true. I thought with time things would get easier."

I feel Edward stiffen behind me.

"They didn't," I choke out. "Things didn't."

"I see that now. At the time Carlisle and I agreed a clean break would be best for
all involved. And it was clear to me he wasn't interested in being your caretaker,
though of course I would have fought for you even if he had."

"But Edward? And Alice? You didn't even think of them." Edward shifts and I can
feel the warmth of his body. I lean my head back against him.

"I'm sorry, but they weren't my concern. They had their own parents. And I knew
that my job was to protect you. I went about it wrongly."

"Wrongly? Billy, you kept all of our letters. You lied to me. You say you're a
Christian. How Christian is that?"

Billy winces, then nods.

"It was a sin."

"Yes, but not in the way you mean. It was a sin against me. Against the memory
of my parents. Against love."

His face grows paler and I see the shame in his eyes.

"Did you read them?"

"No. I kept them with the thought that maybe . . . I'd give them to you."

"Ha! What? When were you going to do it? Because it seems like never."

"I—"

"No, I have more to say. You do realize I never got to say goodbye to Alice,
right? Just like my mom. That Edward was suffering and thought I hated him . . .
he was . . ." I start to choke up, remembering the things Edward has told me
about his struggle during Alice's treatment.

Before I can answer, a nurse comes in with some medication in a small plastic
cup. She regards the scene warily, her eyes darting to the heart monitor,
disapproval growing.

"I think it's about time we wrapped up this visit," she says, handing Billy his
meds. He takes them and washes them down quickly as she checks his vitals.
The tension in the room is thick, but so is my anger.

"Just a few more minutes. Please," Billy says in a calm voice. He's trying to
establish a sense of authority to persuade her.

The nurse stands impassively, crossing her thick arms over her full bosom.

"Five minutes."

"Okay," Jacob agrees. "Five minutes."

Once she leaves, Billy exhales.

"We don't have much time," he murmurs. "I thought I was doing it for the best. I
was concerned with your mental state. When Carlisle contacted me about the
little girl's illness . . ."

"Alice," I correct him.

"Alice. Yes. I was horrified by the news, but I was worried for you. You were
doing so poorly, Isabella. I was afraid of your recovery being set back. And I'm
not talking about your physical recovery."

"You were afraid I'd turn out like my mom?"

"I confess I was. It seemed like you might break at any moment. And the
therapist expressed some concern. I never told her about my deceit, but she
made it clear that all large shocks should be avoided. I didn't know if you'd be
able to handle it."

His shame is apparent, but so is my anger.

"And so you lied to me?"

"I make no excuses for myself now. I wish I had a better answer, but I don't. And
I know you might never forgive me."

"You were both wrong. You and Carlisle. You tampered with lives that weren't
your own."

"Yes. I'm sorry, Isabella."

I don't know what to say. I have my answers, but nothing seems settled. Nothing
feels better.

"If I could say something." Edward speaks from behind me, his resonant voice
capturing all our attention.

"Listening to you, Mr. Black, I can see you care about Bella. I'm grateful for that."
He pauses for a second, his hand lightly brushing the nape of my neck.

"But you and my father did more than just hurt us—you hurt my dying sister. I'll
never forget that. And there's another crime here that I think maybe you don't
recognize. Bella is stronger than you've ever given her credit for. If you could just
see her—really see her for who she is and not as the product of some fucked up
history, you'd know that too. She's not like her mother. Not at all."

I reach up and squeeze Edward's hand gently, wanting him to know he doesn't
have to fight my battles for me, but appreciating it all the same.

"I confess I came here wanting answers," Edward continues. "But, to be honest, I
really wanted revenge. I wanted to see you suffer the way that we have."

During this time, Jacob has remained silent. Now he clears his throat, looking
displeased. Billy's pulse rate climbs higher still and I glance up at Edward
nervously, shaking my head.

"But I don't want that anymore."

"Edward . . ." I say, holding his hand at the sound of his softening voice.

"I realized something. Revenge doesn't change anything, and I get no pleasure
from seeing other people in pain." He sighs. "I don't want to live in the past. I
want a future, and my future is with Bella. You've told us your reasoning and it's
not for me to forgive. It's between you and Bella now."

Billy nods in understanding.

"You seem to be a good man, Edward. For Isabella's sake, I'm glad of that."

"I'm sorry for the pain I've caused you, child," Billy says gruffly. "I want you to
have your letters. They're at the house. I was going to get them for you when . .
." His eyes start to tear and I have to look away—it's too much.

"Okay."

"Clearly God has a plan for you. He has his own way of setting things right." He
looks between Edward and me. "If I didn't think that God had a plan, I never
would have gotten over my wife's death. He took her, but He gave me Jacob. The
Lord has a way."

I clear my throat, readying myself to voice thoughts that I know will come as a
shock to him.

"I'm sorry, Billy, but I don't feel the same way. I can't believe it was God's plan
to take your wife. And there's no reason behind a disease like cancer or in the
sick, twisted desires of a father towards a daughter. Diseases and untimely
deaths are tragedies, but when it comes to the choices we make, I believe in free
will. You made a choice to do what you did, you acted on it, and it had
consequences. And at the end of the day it doesn't really matter, because
whether it was God, fate, chance, or just dumb luck, Edward came back into my
life. And I'm never losing him again."

I blink back tears, but it's useless. They've already begun falling. Edward's arms
are around me then, and he's speaking softly into my hair.

My heart aches being pulled in so many directions. I love Billy, but I also feel
anger and hurt, and I'm just not ready to forgive him. Not yet.

But I know, somehow, that I will. Someday.

I feel another hand touch my back and I look over my shoulder, confused at first.
Jacob stands next to us, his face sad and sweet.

"I'm sorry, Isabella," he says.

"Jacob."

"Let's go get those letters."

"Someday, after mastering the winds, the waves, the tides and gravity, we shall
harness for God the energies of love, and then, for a second time in the history of
the world, man will have discovered fire."

-Pierre Teilhard de Chardin

Chapter 31: November 30, 2010

The bundle of letters lies on the floor next to Billy's bed, partially obscured by the
covers that had fallen off during his collapse. I reach down and pick them up,
startled by the handwriting I see. Mine. A quick glance assures me they're
unopened. Edward stands silently beside me, his hand lightly resting on the small
of my back.

"Isabella?" Jacob says as he emerges from the nearby closet. "Here."

He extends another bundle—Edward and Alice's letters. I feel a little twinge of

pain and love when I notice the painstakingly legible addresses.

All together there must be over seventy of them. The paper feels so fragile in my
hands, but also heavy, weighted with lies and the wrongs of the past.

Edward clears his throat and takes my letters from me.

"So many."

I nod, feeling a hot constriction at the back of my throat. While a part of me

longs to tear open the envelopes and finally read the words that have been
intentionally kept from me, another part is afraid. I hardly remember what I
wrote anymore, but I know I said some bitter things, especially toward the end.
Edward's letters must contain much of the thought of reading them now . . . no,
better to wait.

"Okay, well," Jacob says, breaking the silence in the room.

"I guess we should go," I reply softly.

Edward nods automatically, still staring at the letters in his hands.

I touch his shoulder and he looks over at me, startled out of his contemplation.

"Edward," I say, turning to him. "I want to say goodbye to Jacob. Can I meet you
in the car?"

His eyes latch onto the bundle in my hands . . . his letters, and Alice's. "Of
course."

Jacob starts to move and we follow him back out through the hallway and down
to the front door. We pass by the photos framed on the wall—there is one of
Charlie and Billy I've always loved. I pause for a second, trying to memorize how
they looked when they were young.

So many memories in this house. Billy always treated me as his. I'll never forget
that.

I pass by the familiar rooms and silently say goodbye.

Once we're in the foyer, Edward extends his hand and Jacob takes it. The shake
is brief, but firm.

"Thank you for always being there for Bella," Edward says. "I'm afraid I
misjudged you."

"Yeah, well. I guess I misjudged you too." There's a touch of resentment in the
words, but still they're surprising. We've all misjudged each other in some way or
another.
Edward puts his hands back in his pockets and shuffles awkwardly. "It was
understandable."

Jacob nods.

"Take care of her."

"I will."

I pass the letters to Edward and he gives my hand a subtle squeeze before going.

"Jacob," I say quietly after we're alone. "I'm so sorry for what I've done. I should
have been honest from the beginning. I'm so sorry for hurting you."

He nods and swallows deeply, glancing away for a second.

"I'll need some time."

"I know."

Finally, he looks me in the eyes. "But I want you to be in my life. I can't imagine
not having you . . . here."

"I'd like that. So much."

"I'm sorry that my father kept you from your friends. That wasn't right. I always
thought I was protecting you from them because they didn't want you. All I was .
. . was just a poor substitute."

"No," I say, shaking my head, "Please don't think that. You're not." Even as I
protest I wonder with sickening realization if he's right. He's always been second
best and that's not fair. It's time I start holding myself accountable for my
actions.

He sighs and mutters something under his breath.

"God, I'm sorry Jacob. But please believe me when I tell you my feelings for you
are real. You're my friend and I love you. You shouldn't be anyone's second
best."

"It's not entirely your fault. I knew it all along. I just hoped . . . Well. That's all
water under the bridge now."

"Will you tell Billy I said goodbye?"

"Sure," he says, inclining his head to the left. It's like he's trying to memorize
me, too.

"Take care of him."

When we hug, it's as old friends. I have high hopes for him and Leah. I only hope
she understands what a great man he is.

"Take care of yourself," he says gruffly, pulling away. I can tell he's trying hard
not to get emotional.

There's only one thing left to do. I reach into my pocket and pull out the simple
gold ring, pressing it into his palm.

"I'm sorry I never deserved this."

He grasps the small object, holding it between his thumb and forefinger with a
look of pained regret. Then he quickly pockets it, plastering a forced smile onto
his face.

"Goodbye."

~QF~

Edward waits for me in the idling rental car, his face pensive. I move the letters
from their place on the passenger's seat and climb in, shutting the door behind
me. As he pulls away I watch the small house under the pines recede from view.
The bundles of paper in my lap infiltrate the air of the car with their musty smell.

"What do we do with these?" I ask finally, breaking the silence as we pull onto
the main highway that will take us back to the hotel for our final night.

Edward stares straight ahead. "Honestly, I don't know."

"Maybe we should just put them away for a while . . . think about it?"

"That sounds like a good idea," he says, relief palpable in his voice.

"I think we've had about enough drama for one day."

"We've had enough drama to last years." The heaviness of his voice undermining
the attempted joke.

"Agreed."

We're silent again for a while.

"But you know what?"

"What?" he asks, glancing at me curiously before retuning his focus to the road
ahead.

"It's like . . . it's done. We're free. I mean, there's nothing standing in our way
now, you know?"

Edward smiles, but somehow it doesn't reach his eyes. He doesn't seem as happy
as I thought he would be seeing I've just broken off my engagement. Perhaps he
feels guilty after meeting Jacob and having his theory about him disproven. Or
maybe he's still thinking about the things Billy told us this afternoon. I'm certainly
not ready to dwell on those revelations too thoroughly yet. I wonder if it might be
a good idea to talk to someone—a therapist, maybe. Even though I didn't have a
good experience in the past, I don't know how else to sort out the mess in my
head. And I wasn't exactly the most cooperative patient during those early
sessions.

I decide to ask Rosalie about the person she sees when I return to Chicago. At
the very worst I go to a session or two and it doesn't help.

Once we're back in the room at the Lodge, I immediately stow the letters in my
suitcase before collapsing on the horrible lumpy bed.

Edward lies down beside me and takes my hand, stroking the skin of my palm
with his finger. It tickles but it feels nice, soothing after the day we've had. I
snuggle into his side and sigh when his arms encircle me.

"Bella . . . if you want to talk about your mom, you can talk to me, okay?"
"Okay," I say, grateful for his support but not really feeling up to it at the
moment. "I appreciate that."

He kisses the top of my head.

"I love you."

That night I sleep soundly and without dreams.

The next day, Edward is quiet as we get ready to leave. He barely speaks a word
on the drive back to Port Angeles, and he writes a lot on the flight. I try to occupy
myself by completing the reading for the week's upcoming classes, but I can't
keep from glancing occasionally over his shoulder. Of course Edward is onto me,
guarding his work with a small, protective smile. Shamed by my nosiness, I
return to my theory reading, wishing Judith Butler was as interesting to me as
Edward's busy scribbles.

Still, I find my mind distracted, drifting to thoughts of EIR. Elaine. My mother's

grandmother—the only one who stood by her decision to leave home and marry
Charlie. What was her middle name? Did she know of the abuse? Could she still
be alive?

Since my mother had me so young, I know it's possible that my great

grandmother could still be out there somewhere; but if she were, wouldn't I have
heard of her? My mother wanted to cut off all contact with her birth family, but
clearly this woman meant something, else she would never have kept that
beautiful teapot hidden away in her nest of treasures.

I decide she's one person I'd like to learn more about. The others—Renee's
parents—I would be happy to never hear of again.

~QF~

Peggy's class on Tuesday comes as a welcome burst of normalcy. It feels good to

be back to work. When Edward and I walk into class together about five minutes
early, Rosalie leaps out of her chair and hugs me.

"Oh my God! I've missed you!"

"I missed you too, Rose," I say, hugging her back. "It's good to be back."

"How did it go?" she asks, sitting back down and patting the seat beside her.
Edward takes the empty chair on my other side and opens his book, hunching
down over it. He hasn't done all of the reading for this week. I glance around,
noticing only a couple other students are in the room and none of them are
paying any attention to us.

"It was . . . crazy. Really crazy."

"You survived?"

"Barely."

Edward grunts from behind me, clearly eavesdropping. I poke him in the side and
Rose smiles.

"Did he have the letters?"

I nod slowly, not sure of what to say. We still haven't figured out what we're
going to do with them.
"So?"

"Um. I haven't . . ." Luckily, Peggy picks that time to sweep into the room along
with Rue, Riley and Alison. Soon, the whole class is present and the room fills
with the voices of people asking each other about their Thanksgivings. I roll my
eyes, thinking about what they'd say if they heard about Edward's and mine.
When Rue inquires, I just smile and say "nice."

Ha.

Peggy calls us to attention and I lean back in my seat, smiling as I watch Edward
lift his head. He hasn't shaved in a few days and his face is very scruffy. My
favorite.

Today is the day I've been waiting for all semester—we're discussing William
Blake. Marjorie Elms and a boy I don't know very well lead the discussion for the
first half of the class, focusing their readings on the easiest poems to understand,
"The Songs of Innocence and Experience."

As a child I thought I understood these poems. I loved the book Edward gave me
and it's colorful illustrations. But as I've grown older and experienced more, I've
come to see the depth inherent in even the most seeming uncomplicated verses.

Blake lived in a time of strict moral codes based on religion, and while he was a
very spiritual man, he was appalled by the hypocrisy of seemingly devout people
who turned their backs on the suffering of the poor, growing fat off of the
enslavement of others. "Songs of Innocence and Experience" are written simply,
but they contain great truths.

As the presenters give their own analysis of "The Garden of Love," I read it over
again, not really paying attention to what they're saying.

I went to the Garden of Love.

And saw what I never had seen:

A Chapel was built in the midst,

Where I used to play on the green.

And the gates of the Chapel were shut,

And Thou shalt not, writ over the door;

So I turn'd to the Garden of Love,

That so many sweet flowers bore,

And I saw it was filled with graves,

And tomb-stones where flowers should be:

And Priests in black gowns, were walking their rounds,

And binding with briars, my joys & desires.

There's no way I can help reading these words in light of my recent experiences.
I'm deep in thought when Peggy calls on me.

"Isabella," she says. "We haven't heard from you today. Do you have anything to
add?"
I clear my throat, my heart pounding as it always does when I'm called out.
Blushing nervously, I try to gather my thoughts.

"Um. Well, I think that this poem is allegorical for the corruption of natural
innocence. You notice that the Garden of Love is capitalized, obviously a
reference to Eden. It's idyllic, and the speaker remembers the Garden as
someplace he used to play as a child. But now, the Chapel dominates the
landscape. It's a man-made structure, out of keeping with the natural
surroundings . . ." I trail off, not sure if I'm rambling.

Peggy nods. "Do go on."

"Blake was very against the exploitative way that adults treat children to get
them to behave. And it's true there was a lot of corruption in secular and religious
education. What was once a free garden, filled with flowers, is contrasted with the
shut gates of the Chapel and the prohibitive phrase 'Thou shalt not.' The imagery
confirms this. Tombstones replace flowers. Binding 'briars' are metaphoric for
repressive teachings. And the image Blake included is important here, as well," I
say, gesturing towards the color plate. Since Blake always included watercolor
print illustrations with his verse, it's essential to the interpretation of the poem.

"The three figures are kneeling and praying—obviously one is a priest and the
other two are children. Their postures are rigid, and their faces are downcast,
right? It's symbolic of the way the church controls their natural playfulness."

"I get what you're saying," Marjorie chimes in, "But without religion, how can we
learn morality?"

"Blake believed people should be able to do whatever they want," Riley says with
a laugh. "That's pretty cool."

I sigh with frustration and Edward's hand drifts lightly to my knee.

"No, that's not what he means. I think what Blake was saying is that we are born
free, natural, and inherently good. We're born with God in us—playing in the
garden—the way we were meant to be. He's critiquing the way humans use
organized religion to repress others and stifle natural freedom. That's not what
God intended."

My heart is thumping so loudly by the time I finish I'm sure it's audible in the
room.

Everything is silent for a second before Peggy smiles and nods. I breathe a little
more easily knowing she's pleased.

"Well spoken, Isabella," she says. "Blake did believe that organized religion was
life-denying, rather than affirming."

"I agree with Isabella," Rosalie says, "That's one of the trends we see throughout
the poems, the way that children internalize the corrupt ideologies of church and
state-"

Rosalie continues and my heart slows down. I'm irritated at myself for getting so
nervous about speaking in class even after all this time, but old habits die hard.

"You're amazing," Edward whispers in my ear. Hearing his voice makes me

realize how much I've missed it. He's been so quiet since we've gotten back.

I wonder if reading the poem made him think about Billy, too.
After class, Edward has some errands to take care of so I walk home with
Rosalie, telling her as much as I feel comfortable relating. I feel very protective of
my mother's history, so I don't divulge specifics. My friend is especially impressed
by the way Jacob has dealt with this entire thing—and I confess my shame at
having wronged him so badly. If I had known then what I know now, I would
have gone about things much, much differently.

"You can't beat yourself up over it, Bella," she says just before leaving me at the
front of my building. She's saying what a friend should say, but it still doesn't
change what I've done.

"This whole time I thought I was the one being lied to and betrayed and I think I
justified what I was doing with that . . ."

She smiles sadly and touches my shoulder.

"You mean to tell me Edward was a mistake?"

"No. Edward wasn't a mistake. I should have told Jake right away, though. This
whole thing basically blew up in my face."

"Well, you're human. You'll learn from it, right? Being honest is always the best
way to go."

I smile at the irony of her statement. I should know that better than anyone.
"You seem to really have it together lately."

"Ha! Tell that to my therapist. But no, really, it's helped a ton. Just being able to
talk to someone who doesn't know me personally and can call me on my bullshit."
She laughs, absentmindedly adjusts the blue scarf around her neck.

"So you'd recommend this person you're seeing?" I ask, the tone of my voice
betraying my interest.

"Definitely. Siobhan is awesome. I'll email you her contact info."

"Thanks, Rosalie."

"Anytime, babe."

Edward doesn't get back to my apartment until late, and when he does he's more
sullen than before. He kicks off his sneakers and sets his bag down on the floor.

"Hi," I say from my position at my desk. I've spent the rest of the afternoon
trying to get back into research for my final seminar papers.

"Hey," he says before turning to the kitchen. Worry gnaws in the pit of my
stomach. There's something bothering him but he won't tell me, and it's starting
to drive me crazy. I know I should have patience and let him come to me or work
it out on his own, but his moodiness doesn't seem to be abating. Granted, we've
only been back for one full day, but still.

"You cooked?" he asks, coming back into the room with the bowl of pasta I left
for him in the fridge.

"Yeah. I thought you'd be back earlier."

"Sorry," he says quietly. "I had some stuff to do."

"What kind of stuff?" I ask casually.

He takes a bite of cold noodles, working his jaw furiously. I don't bother to offer
to heat it for him, since he obviously doesn't care.

"Just stuff."

"Just stuff?" I ask, rolling my eyes in irritation. "Great. Sounds like fun."

"Bella . . ." he says in his warning voice. He sits down on the floor and stretches
his legs out,

"Fine. Don't tell me," I answer testily, unable to mask my hurt. I don't know how
to deal with this closed-off Edward, not when he's been so open with me recently.
It suddenly feels like we're regressing and I don't like it. I go back to my work
and try to concentrate as he moves around my apartment like a familiar stranger.

~QF~

The flames are so hot but I don't let go of the books. If I drop them, they'll
incinerate and I will too. I hold them against my chest protectively. But where's
my mother?

She's not here. She's escaped.

Mom?

Warm on my throat, warm touching my hip. I drift slowly back to consciousness

at the feeling of Edward's insistent hands tugging at the thin material of my
pajama bottoms.

"I need you," he groans, nipping at my throat. "Please."

"Edward?" I ask, still fighting off sleep. I feel his erection pressed against my
thigh and instantly want to wrap my hands around it. But then I remember I'm
mad at him.

I start to turn away but he pulls me back against him. In spite of my irritation, I
start to grow wet at the feeling of him moving against me.

"I'm sorry. Forgive me," he breathes into my ear.

"What is going on with you?" I ask. "You've been so weird today."

"I'm sorry. I'll tell you. Just give this to me first," he says, slipping his hand into
my underwear. I gasp as his hand immediately moves between my legs, his
fingers probing my wetness. A moan escapes lips that are supposed to be
protesting. But how can I think when he's touching me like this? When I want him
so much?

"I need you," he says again. "Don't say no."

I continue to writhe against hand while the other cups my breast and tweaks the
nipple gently. There's feverishness in his kisses, the way our tongues twine
together. Before I know it my pajama bottoms are off and Edward is moving
between my legs, pressing his erection against my entrance. He starts to push
inside and I feel—I know—he's not using a condom. I could stop him but I don't
want to . . . I want to feel it like this, nothing between us, just his warm flesh
filling me. I groan and wrap my legs around his waist, drawing him inside. A
guttural moan erupts out of chest as he pumps into me once, twice.
"Oh, God. So fucking . . . oh God." He moves faster, his hands coming to rest on
my hips as he presses me down into the bed. I've never felt him lose control like
this before but it brings out something similar in me. I lift up and writhe against
him, urging him on, knowing that this is unwise but not caring. I'm expecting my
period in a day, so we're safe. I think. I think.

He moves his hands under me and whispers delicious things. I cry out as he hits
a spot deep inside I never knew existed. He hits it again and again, unashamed
and groaning. I feel so full and stretched with him, my heart and my body aching
each time he withdraws.

"We . . . I shouldn't be doing this," he pants against my mouth, "But I can't

stop."

"Don't stop," I beg, digging my fingers into the curve of flesh at the top of his
butt. "Please."

"You feel so fucking good. I . . . " his breathing is harsh and I feel the covers fall
down around our bodies. I know from the sounds he's making he's very close and
there's no way I'm going to get there in time. He draws my legs up and back and
rears up on his knees as his thrusts become more erratic. I clutch at him
desperately, chasing my own orgasm, but not fast enough.

"Shit," he grunts, withdrawing quickly. I instantly feel the lack, my body still
writing as he pumps himself, the warmth of his ejaculation streaking my
abdomen. He flops down beside me with a sigh.

"You didn't come?" he asks huskily.

I decide to be honest. "No."

"Oh baby."

Before I can protest or even figure out what he's doing, he's between my legs, his
mouth covering my wet, aching flesh. I arch off the bed with a moan as he teases
my clitoris with his fingers, sucking, lapping and licking and bringing me back to
the brink. With little care for decorum, I thread my fingers through his hair and
press against him, finally crying out as my orgasm hits with splendid force. When
I finally come down, panting and spent, Edward chuckles lightly.

"What?" I ask, suddenly embarrassed.

"You're so beautiful," he says.

"Oh."

"God, Bella. I'm sorry. We shouldn't have done it like that."

Now that the sex is over, I'm annoyed with my weakness for giving in so easily.
Even so, I don't want him to think he took advantage of me.

"Yeah, I know. But I wanted it."

"Still . . . shit. I'm sorry."

"Stop apologizing. I should probably go on the pill, though."

"I think that's probably a good idea." He sighs and sits up. In the darkness I can't
see his features, but I know he's still chastising himself. "I'll get you something to
clean up."
Fifteen minutes later we're back in bed and I've managed to convince Edward
that our carelessness wasn't his fault, and that the likelihood of a pregnancy is
minimal given the time of the month. But we both vow not to be so foolish in the
future; the last thing we need is a baby on our hands.

"But someday . . . would you ever want one?" he asks quietly, brushing my hair
back from my forehead.

"Someday. Yeah. I mean, once I finish and get tenure, hopefully. I mean, it will
take a while. Probably at least ten years." I say the last part with reticence, not
knowing if Edward is willing to wait that long. What if he wants kids sooner?

"That's fine with me," he says. "I'm in no hurry."

Suddenly it strikes me with pleasure . . . we're talking about our future together.
Our future. Kids. I smile against his chest.

But it also reminds me of the desperation that drove Edward to me in the night.

"Will you tell me where you were today?"

"I was back at my house," he admits.

"I thought you were doing errands."

"I did. But then I went home I . . . was going to call my parents."

My curiosity roused, I sit up further in the bed to get a fuller view of him. Now
that my eyes have adjusted to the darkness, I can just barely detect the defeated
look on his face.

"You didn't?"

"I couldn't get the fucking nerve up, Bella," he admits. "I spent all fucking day
trying to work up the courage, figure out what I was going to say to them,
especially my father."

"What were you going to say?"

"So many things. I'm fucking mad at them still, you know? But I don't hate them.
I don't want them to think that . . . I mean, if anything happened and they
thought that . . ."

He's agitated again and I rub his arm soothingly, feeling the muscle beneath as it
flexes with movement.

"Anyway, that's why I didn't tell you. I felt ridiculous, sitting there with the phone
in my hand all day . . . But I'm sorry about the way I treated you. I have no idea
how you put up with my miserable ass."

"I get it. I do. But yeah, you were being a miserable ass. I didn't like the way it
made me feel, like you were keeping some big secret from me. I mean, I don't
think you're stupid for what you just told me. Have a little faith."

"I do. I'm sorry."

I lean over and kiss him softly on the lips.

"Maybe you could just call when you know they'll be out and leave a message or
something? That way they'd know you still needed some space, but they'd also
know your feelings."

"That's not a bad idea," he says thoughtfully.

"See? Look at us working this out."

He smiles against my lips, his hand gently framing my jaw.

"While we're at it, there's something else. I don't want you to get mad."

"I won't," I promise, hoping I'll be able to keep my word.

"I don't want you to read my letters."

His words surprise me. I sit up in bed and reach for the light so I can really see
his face. Both of us blink as our eyes adjust.

"How come?"

His green eyes are tired, focused on mine.

"When I wrote those things, half the time I was out of my mind. I started sad,
desperate for you to forgive me. Then I pretty much accepted you never would. I
was resigned to it. But then Alice got sick and I got angry. I couldn't believe how
I could write you about her and how much pain I was in and you never
responded."

I nod in understanding, remembering my own anger.

I wish I'd never met you.

"I said some terrible things in those letters, Bella. I said some good things, too.
But I don't want you to think of me like that—as that boy. It's not who I am now
with you. I'm afraid if you read my letters that picture will always be a part of the
way you see me."

I don't know what to say—I hadn't even considered how reading the letters might
affect our relationship now. But he's right.

"I didn't even remember writing a lot of them. Some of the things in there . . .
Jesus, I was fucked up."

"Did you read them?" I ask, realization dawning.

He nods warily. "I read some today."

My eyes widen in surprise.

"Not yours, I promise. I left those here. But I took mine and I started reading . . .
and some of the things I wrote were horrible. I don't want you to think of me that
way. I don't want to hurt you.

"But I leave it up to you. They're your letters. If you want to read them, I'll live
with that." He says the last few words softly, but I can still hear the anxiety in his
voice.

"Edward," I say, throwing my arms around him. He grunts in surprise. "I love
you. We're together. I won't read them if you don't want me to. They don't
matter anymore, not really."
"I love you so much, Bella." His voice swells with emotion. "And I'll tell you more,
anything you want to know. But I'd rather we do it this way than by reading
letters we wrote as sad, angry kids. They were all based on a lie."

"Okay," I agree, kissing his sweet face. "Okay."

We hug for a while, gentle touches and whispers of assurance passing between
us. His troubled expression eases, making my heart feel lighter.

"What about Alice's?" I ask quietly. It's one thing to agree not to read our own
letters, but Alice isn't here. There's no way I can imagine resisting the temptation
to read her last words to me, even if they're bitter and angry.

Edward sighs. "I thought about that."

"And what did you come up with?"

"I don't know . . . I'd like to see what she said, I think. But it might be hard."

"We don't need to decide now. But yeah, let's think about it."

"Okay. Sounds good."

"Do you feel better now?"

"Much better."

"I'm glad."

I snuggle against Edward again, listening to the quiet thrum of his heart.

~QF~

In the morning, I wake up alone, which doesn't alarm me since Edward had an
early meeting on campus. I blink rapidly as I sit up, noticing with surprise it's
already after ten.

Still in my pajamas, I make some toast and put the coffee on, stretching and
feeling deliciously sore from the previous night. The aches serve as reminder to
make an appointment with health services later in the afternoon.

I boot up my computer and stare at the black screen as it loads, sipping my

coffee and gazing out the window to the street below. It's a gorgeous, sunny day,
but also an extremely cold one; the telltale frost etched across the glass makes
me smile. For some reason I'm looking forward to the winter.

Then I notice an envelope on my desk . . . a letter.

To Bella, with love, E.

Confused, I open the unsealed envelope and remove the paper inside, unfolding it
as hastily as possible. It's dated from this morning.

Bella,

Do you know the first day I knew I loved you?

It was a day Alice dressed you up in some white dress of our mothers. When you
ran downstairs, upset at something Alice said, I thought I had never seen
someone so beautiful. Of course this was strange for me, since until that day I'd
only seen you as my kid sister's friend. If I remember correctly the dress was far
too big for you, hanging off your shoulder dangerously. I didn't want to let you
out of the house or out of my sight wearing it.

I wanted to kiss you.

I think you were frightened of me. The last thing I recall of that particular day are
your wide, dark eyes. I could see my own reflection in them.

That's one of my favorite memories of you.

Today I have to leave you for a few hours. I'd love to wake you up and kiss you
and see those eyes, but I won't. I'll let you rest.

Thank you for being everything to me.

Always,

Edward.

P.S. Would you like to meet for lunch today? I know a wonderful little diner just
around the corner . . . see you there at one?

My smile grows wider and wider with each word, until I'm sure my face isn't
broad enough to contain it. Still holding Edward's note, I fumble in my desk until
I find what I'm looking for-my favorite pale yellow stationary.

I pick up my pen and start to write.

"Fear not for the future; weep not for the past."

-Percy Bysshe Shelley

Chapter 32: November 30th-December 24th, 2010

November 30th, 2010

Edward,

I don't remember the first time I realized I loved you, because I didn't know it at
the time. But there came a moment when I started to feel strange when you
were around. Retrospectively, it must have been the night you came over to my
house smoking like a chimney. You gave me one and I pretended to smoke it—I'll
never forget that. I didn't like the way it made you smell.

How in the world did you sneak out so many times without getting caught?
Although I loved it, I was always afraid you'd get in trouble because of me and
then I'd never get to see you. But hearing the little stones you pinged at my
window was the best sound in the world.

You were always so kind and protective of me. Oftentimes I wondered what you
really thought about my mother and my situation. Of course I was horribly
embarrassed, but I trusted you. Alice too, but especially you. Now, to think that
you might have loved me even then makes me smile.

I'm glad we've come to the decision we have. This is a good thing for us, I think.
Maybe we should get rid of our old letters altogether and eradicate temptation
completely? All I know is the only thing I want to read are the words you write for
me now.
Love,

Bella

December 2nd, 2010

Bella,

The best and worst thing about doing drugs is the forgetting that comes with it.
When you're high, you're completely in the moment. You don't think about
anything but who you're with and what feels good. But I started to forget. I
started to forget you.

I started to forget your face.

And that was what scared me, because even though I wanted to forget, I didn't.
That doesn't make much sense, I know. With time, all memories fade if there's no
one there to share them with. That's one of the reasons I wrote you.

Then there'd be moments when I'd remember something so clearly it shocked

me, like near my locker at school . . . I could have sworn I saw you there on
several occasions, waiting with your back to me. I'd walk over to the girl I
thought was you and probably freak her out by calling your name. The
disappointment I felt every time was unbearable; I felt your loss all over again.
But there was one good thing about it: in those moments, I could see the perfect
picture of your face.

When I saw you again in Peggy's class, I thought it was one of those moments at
first. I couldn't believe how beautiful you were, how different and how familiar.
Your eyes were unchanged, but your face was older, thinner, but in a good way.
Your lips seemed fuller. Your blush was the same.

If you had given any indication, any at all, that you knew me that day, I would
have forgiven you for every hurt I (wrongly) thought you inflicted.

I tried to put you out of my mind again, but it didn't work. I'm glad now, of
course, but at the time it was torture.

When I heard your last name, and when I saw that ring on your finger . . . those
days were some of the worst of my life. Because I realized that I still loved you.
You, or your memory, at least. I couldn't differentiate between the two.

But it didn't take me long to understand the person you are now, so smart, kind,
shy, and strong, is infinitely better than any half-remembered fantasy.

Love,

Edward leaves notes for me in unexpected places. In my sock drawer, under my

pillow as I sleep. One day I find one tucked in between the leaves of my theory
book. I slip short notes into his backpack before he leaves for school. They're
never as eloquent as his, but I enjoy writing them all the same. I keep each of
Edward's letters in my box of treasures, tucking them away carefully where I
know they'll be safe.
December 7th, 2010

Edward,

You want to know why I agreed to marry Jacob.

The love I felt for him was never the same as it is with us, but I did love him in
my own way. Perhaps it was more friendship than anything else. He cared for
me. He was a good man. And I was a coward, afraid of starting a life without him.

I knew I was in trouble the moment I saw you again. Of course my fainting will
live forever in infamy now . . . I'm still embarrassed about it. You must have
thought you were quite handsome to evoke such a response.

If so, you were right. But don't get cocky. :-)

Today I went to therapy for the first time, as you know. I told Siobhan about our
letters—the old ones and the new. She thinks this is a good exercise, but I
laughed at that designation. It's so much more than that. I liked her quite a bit-
she's very feisty and smart. In some ways she reminds me of Rosalie, probably
why they get on so well together.

She even gave me a homework assignment. This week, I'm supposed to write
down all my feelings about my mother. The woman doesn't waste much time
getting to the heart of things, apparently. I told her to expect a Ulysses length
novel by next week.

But it feels good. I feel good. And I can't wait to see you tonight. I'm making you
a special surprise for dinner, so come home early!

Love,

Bella

December 8th, 2010

Bella,

I'm sorry you never got to say goodbye to your mom. The one luxury I had when
Alice was dying was being able to say that—but an unhurried, protracted death
has its own horrors. It comes so slowly and leaves everyone exhausted. I'm
grateful you were spared that, at least.

If she could see you now, she'd be so proud; how could she not be? You're the
most amazing person I've ever known.

I hope she knows that, even though you don't really need it, I'll always take care
of you.

E.

December 10th, 2010

Edward,

Today I learned about my great-grandmother, Elaine Isabella Renault, nee

Chenard. What a comely name, don't you agree? And, though I have no actual
proof, it seems like too much of a coincidence for me not to have been named
after her. I must confess I love the idea of having her history behind me, which I
will relate to you now.
Her obituary dated October third, 1989, two years after I was born.

She was born in Seattle in 1900, daughter of two French immigrants. In 1927,
she married another Frenchman, Pierre Renault. For a long time they were
childless; then, by some miracle they had a daughter, my mother's mother, in
1939. Very late in life at the time. The child's name was . . . is . . . Frances.
(Apparently Frances still lives, though her husband, the horrible man who hurt
my mother, died just last year. Good riddance.)

Back to Elaine.

Tragically, Pierre died as an enlisted man in 1943 somewhere in the South Pacific.
Elaine raised her daughter on her own and took a job at a factory in Seattle
making ladies' shoes. I can imagine she was a hard working, tough woman; you'd
have had to be as a single mother in those days. She was also, somewhat
unexpectedly, an artist; her work is quite highly collectible, though not well
known. The teapot I've told you about—the one my mother kept—was one of
these pieces.

She never remarried, and lived the rest of her days modestly. Frances' husband,
who at the risk of sullying this page I won't name here, was from a quite well off
family. She left everything that she owned, which wasn't much, to my mother.

What a sad, beautiful story. It would make a lovely novel.

I'd like to find some of her work, Edward, if we can. It would mean so much to
me.

In other news, I've finally finished up both of my seminar papers. I can't believe
the semester is ending so soon! Only one class left with Peggy. I'll miss it so
much, because a part of me thinks if it weren't for that course, we wouldn't be
here today, together.

Love,

Bella

December 15th, 2010

Bella,

I finally mailed the letter to my parents this morning. It felt good slipping it in the
mailbox and walking away . . . Maybe I'm being dramatic over this whole thing. I
mean, imagining what parents I could've ended up with really puts things into
perspective. But I still don't feel like I can trust them, my father especially. I
don't know. We'll see.

Angela is excited about the dinner she's planning. It looks like it'll be the six of us
after all, since Jasper isn't flying out until after New Year's. Emmett plans on
getting the chimney cleaned so we can use the fireplace for the first time since . .
. well, ever. I told him maybe it wasn't a great idea. Will it bother you? Please be
honest.

You might be wondering what I was doing today, besides writing and mailing the
letter of course. I can't tell you, but just know it might be Christmas related.
Don't feel obligated to get me anything; the only thing I want from you is to wake
up with you on Christmas morning. There, I said it. Please don't quote me in
public, for I have a terribly hip image to uphold.

I love you,
E.

Sometime we talk about what we've written in our letters, sometimes not.
They're not always long and filled with love-thoughts or memories, but my
favorites are. Those are the ones I read again and again. Some are very private.
Those are the ones I blush over.

December 16th, 2010

Edward,

To be honest, I don't know how I feel about a fire at Christmas. People have fires
all the time and nothing happens. But it makes me nervous. So, if you'd tell him
'no' for me this time, I'd appreciate it.

If our ancestors hadn't mastered fire, the human population would never have
been able travel beyond the warm places of the world. Our lives are bound to and
dependant on fire, which gives life even as it destroys. Someday I'd love to be
able to snuggle in front of a cozy winter fire with you, but that day hasn't come
yet, I'm afraid.

But thank you for asking me, and not just assuming I'd be okay with it, or not.
That means the world to me.

You always know just what to do.

-B

December 19th, 2010

Bella,

So it's done. I've taken the letters and burned them, as we discussed. I'm
surprised I wasn't arrested down by the beach, but it was late and cold, and the
fire was quick. A symbolic act, perhaps. But when it was over I felt strangely the
same. I wished you were there, but understood why you couldn't be.

And so now all we have are Alice's. The last piece of the puzzle.

Then, we'll have all the time in the world.

Love,

Edward

~QF~

A couple days before Christmas, Edward quietly tells me he's ready to read Alice's
letters. We're sitting in my apartment in our pajamas drinking tea and listening to
the Beatles, still my favorite band.

I don't know where to start—there are so many—but finally we decide to start at

the end. I pick up the envelope with the latest postmark, dated only two weeks
before she died.
As I tear open the paper and feel for the letter inside, my hands tremble. She
could have written anything, and I know that we'll have to deal with whatever it
says, the good and the bad.

In a shaky voice, I begin to read out loud while Edward stares at the cup in his
hands.

"Hey Bella,

I keep having these weird dreams. I don't know if it's because of the pain
medication or not, but they seem like they might mean something. Maybe they
do, maybe not. In my dream you're trying to get home to us, but something
won't let you. In my dream it's just like this big, cloudy black thing, like a fog.
Whatever it is, it's strong.

It just doesn't make sense why you wouldn't want to talk to us. Something weird
happened after you were hurt in the fire, but I'm afraid I'll never find out what.
Nothing my parents say makes sense. I think Edward has started to believe it,
but I never will. I know he finally stopped writing to you."

I swallow deeply, trying not to feel hurt. I know why he stopped. I stopped, too;
there's no time for that now.

"I mean, that day when I went to visit you in the hospital, I was so upset because
Edward wouldn't come and I knew you were upset about that. But even though
you couldn't really talk, you were happy to see me, and you didn't want me to
leave. And then my Dad told me you were moving and you didn't want to see us .
. . Like I said, some things just don't make sense. But I've said all this before. I
don't want to sound like a broken record! Maybe I really am crazy and you hate
us, but I doubt it. I really do.

So here's what's happening. I'm dying now. I can feel it. My body is so tired like
it just wants to give up. And I'm not hungry, even for my favorite foods. It kind
of sucks, but I don't know. It will be nice for all this pain to be over. I'm tired of
living when I can't really live, you know? Please don't be sad for me. This cancer
is no one's fault. My brother thinks it's his because he couldn't help me. I see him
beating himself up over it everyday. He must really feel bad because he rubs my
feet even without me asking, but even though I tell him it's not his fault, he
doesn't listen."

The picture of the two of them in the hospital springs immediately to mind. I get
a little choked up, thinking of his careworn face. Edward shifts a little on the
couch beside me. He sets the cup down on the floor and rakes his hands through
his hair, nodding for me to go on.

"But that's not the only reason he's sad. He doesn't talk to me about you
anymore, but I know he misses you so much. It would be good for him to hear
from you when I'm gone. So if I'm wrong, and you really are getting and reading
these letters (then I'm mad at you), please make sure to call him. And tell him
my dying wasn't his fault, okay? Maybe he'll listen to you. I really think that
someday you and Edward will be together again. I have no idea why, but it's just
a feeling I have. Wherever I am, if that ever happens, you'll still be my sister. I
hope you have a really huge, fabulous wedding with lots of guests and presents,
but knowing you and my brother, you'll do just the opposite. Anyway, no matter
what kind of wedding you plan, you should wear a strapless dress. You have very
nice shoulders."

My voice wavers as I read the last few sentences. I blush shyly, afraid to look at
Edward. After a brief pause to get my bearings, I continue:
"Anyway, this might be my last letter. It's so tiring to write now, and I'm afraid
my penmanship isn't very good, even though it never was to begin with. (ha ha)
So I want to say goodbye, in the hopes that someday you get this. You were my
best friend. I love you, Bella.

Your friend,

Alice"

I read the letter again, silently this time, absorbing her words with astonishment.
Neither of us seems willing to break the quiet settling between us. Finally,
Edward reaches for the letter. I let it slip from my grasp.

"She never believed it," he whispers, running his fingers over the paper. "I wish I
could have had the faith she had."

"I wish I could have, too."

The silence descends again, and then I notice Edward turning away,
embarrassed.

"It's okay," I say, climbing into his lap. I press my face against his wet cheek. "It
wasn't your fault. See? Alice knew that. It wasn't your fault."

"It wasn't?" he asks, still doubtful.

"No. It wasn't."

"It wasn't?"

"No."

I nod again, willing him to believe me, holding him with all of my strength. His
arms tighten around me.

"She knew this would happen," he says huskily, warming my ear with his breath.
I know from the tone of his voice he's talking about us.

"Yes," I say with a smile, "she knew."

~QF~

"It's too big," I object, shaking my head at the imperial, ten-foot tall spruce that
Emmett and Edward are struggling to hold up. Rosalie giggles from beside me.

"How will we get it in the house?"

"Have you seen the ceilings at our place?" Emmett says. "It'll fit."

"It's not like there's much left to choose from," Edward adds, gesturing to the
near-empty lot.

"Okay. If you want it, let's get it," Rose says. "It's your funeral."

Rosalie and I laugh and shout words of encouragement as we watch Edward and
Emmett carry the massive, cumbersome tree back to their house on Christmas
Eve. By the time we've made it the fifteen blocks, both of them are covered in
sticky sap. And once we're inside, it takes the two of them plus Jasper to get the
thing situated in the tree stand. Edward groans, pouts, and holds up one of his
hands, showing me the needle-inflicted battle wounds.
"Poor baby," I murmur half-seriously. He smiles and gives me a kiss on the
forehead.

"Help me get cleaned up?"

"Of course."

These days, the third floor loft feels cozier. Edward let me hang up some white
Christmas lights—the only decorations for the holiday, besides the trees, that
either of us actually likes. They cast a soft yellow glow on the wall and make it
possible to see in the rapidly encroaching darkness.

And at this time of year, it seems like it's dark most of the time. Gone are the
long evenings of early fall, now replaced by four p. m. sunsets. But there's also
something nice about it; there's more time for being cocooned up here with
Edward.

Edward turns the shower on and comes back from the bathroom, kicking off his
shoes as he goes. Steam starts billowing from the open door as he unzips his
hoodie and removes the tee shirt underneath with one swift movement. I stand
fully clothed and somewhat shamelessly staring, but he shakes his head at me,
coming toward me with a sly smile.

"Off," he says, gripping the hem of my sweater. I lift my arms and let him
undress me, shivering once I'm stepping out of my pants and underwear. Edward
stands and glides his hands once over my torso, lightly touching my nipples and
kissing me.

"So sexy," he says, his eyes lowered appreciatively to take in my form. I smile at
the compliment, wrapping my arms around his strong shoulders and pressing
myself to him for warmth.

"And cold."

He kisses me again before leading me toward the warm, wet room.

Edward's shower is tiny, a tight squeeze for two people.

"It's a good thing I like you so much," I joke, running the soapy washcloth over
his back. He presses back against me, impeding my movement, and I wrap my
arms around him from behind, tracing his tattoo with my fingers.

I rub my hands over his chest and I can feel the vibration of his contented
murmur, though I can't hear anything but the sound of the spray. And then
Edward turns and presses me against the cold tile wall and all thoughts of bathing
are forgotten. His lips travel over my collarbone, my throat, finally my mouth,
and we're a tangle of wet, urgent limbs.

"Too damn slippery," he growls with frustration, his erection hard and straining
against my thigh.

I giggle. "Yeah, I guess shower sex only works in the movies."

"Bed," he pants, shutting off the water.

"But we're wet," I protest, still laughing. He steps out of the cubicle and throws a
clean towel at me.

"That's what these are for."

"In such a hurry," I tease, even though I'm just as eager. Now that I'm on the
pill, sex is so much better . . . and more frequent.

We barely make it to the bed in question. Edward whirls me around, kissing my

neck and the side of my face.

"This okay?" he asks, showing me the position he wants to try. I smile and nod,
flushing with anticipation as I feel him ready himself, pressing his erection into
me with a groan.

I feel so incredibly filled—almost painfully so—but soon adjust to the depth as he

rocks forward, cool water dripping from his hair onto my back, tickling as it
travels down my spine.

Soon, we've set up a rhythm that has both of us crying out. My hips feel loved by
his hands, my shoulders and neck by his lips and his teeth. And when he finally
stills and pulses inside me, my own release rips through my body, leaving me
breathless, legless, and numb.

After we spend a few minutes recovering, I reluctantly begin disentangling myself

from Edward, despite his groans of protest.

"We should join the others," I say. "Angela will kill us if we miss dinner."

He stretches languidly before sitting up, the very movement making me wish we
didn't have social obligations.

"I suppose you're right," he agrees.

"We've already been up here an hour."

"Has it been that long?" He chuckles and glances at the clock. "It feels like five
minutes."

I reach out my hand and he takes it, pulling me onto his naked lap for one final
kiss.

We don't make it downstairs for another half hour.

Later that evening, after we've decorated the tree and eaten Angela's delicious
roast beef, Edward and I return to his room, sleepy and full. The rest of the gang
is downstairs playing cards and drinking wine, which made Edward a little
uncomfortable. Right now he's set on staying alcohol free, a decision I quietly
support.

"Presents now, or tomorrow?" I ask, curling up on the bed and pulling the
comforter over me. He flops down next to me and puts his hands behind his
head.

"We always used to open one on Christmas Eve," Edward says, smiling at the
memory. "Alice insisted."

Of course she did, I think, remembering how much she loved gifts—both giving
and receiving.

"Well, tradition is tradition."

"Who first?"
"Me first!" I say, leaping up with renewed energy and grabbing my bag from the
floor. Inside, I quickly locate the rectangular, foil covered box and skip back to
the bed.

"You're excited," he chuckles, taking the proffered gift and giving it a gentle
shake.

"I hope you like it."

"I'm sure I will."

Edward tears open the paper and lifts the cover of the box, his eyes widening
when he sees the black resin and gold Meisterstuck Montblanc pen.

"Bella," he murmurs, picking it up carefully, weighing it between his fingers. "I

can't believe . . ."

He's so visibly awed I feel a blush color my cheeks, worrying he'll think it was too
much.

When he finally looks up at me, I can see he's pleased. He touches my cheek,
then leans forward to kiss me.

"This is perfect. I love it."

"And look," I say with a whisper, "I got it engraved."

Our initials are discreetly carved on the clip. He examines it closely and smiles.

"Sweet girl. So thoughtful."

I blush further, burying my face into the crook of his neck.

"I'm glad you like it."

"I do. I love it." He places the pen back carefully into the box, then sets it down
and climbs off the bed, returning with a square box, about a foot wide. "My turn."

I take the package, which is very charmingly wrapped by Edward's unpracticed

hand.

"Don't shake it," he warns.

My curiosity instantly piqued, I tear the wrapping paper, unveiling a cardboard

box.

When I open it, my heart nearly stops.

Inside, nestled amongst Styrofoam packing, is a delicate porcelain, footed bowl.

The sides are decorated with a woodland scene—intricate tree branches twine
around the circumference, with small, finely detailed sparrows flitting between
them. The entire effect is rustic, yet extremely elegant. It's lovely.

"Edward, is this . . ."

I lift it out and turn it over, gasping when I see the initials I know will be there.
EIR.

"I can't believe it," I say, staring at the precious object in my hands. "I can't
believe it."
"I looked everywhere," he confesses. "And I was starting to lose hope. I think I
contacted every antique and art dealer in the Pacific Northwest. I guess most of
her pieces are held in private collections. But then I lucked out, and you'll never
guess where. There was a guy in Port Angeles who just got this in from an estate
sale a couple of weeks ago . . . I didn't even know what it looked like until it
arrived yesterday. But I hoped you'd think it was pretty . . . And I know you said
you wanted something of hers . . ."

He's rambling nervously, waiting for my response. I hardly know what to say. It's
the most thoughtful, sweetest, and best gift in the world, and words could never
express what I feel right now.

"Thank you," I whisper, tears welling in my eyes.

"Bella?" he asks. "Are you okay?"

I nod, wiping my face with the back of my sleeve. There's no way I can even
comprehend the goodness of the man sitting in front of me as I hold the proof of
his love in my hands.

"Yes, I'm okay. I just . . . this is the most wonderful thing. Thank you. Thank you
so much."

And then I set the bowl back into its safe nest, because right now all I want is
him.

Always.

Nine years later...

"Professor Swan?"

I pause from collecting my things, looking up to see one of my students, a

nervous first year named Matt, standing on the other side of the desk. The rest of
the class has already begun filing out.

"Yes?" I ask, giving him a warm smile. Out of all of my students this semester, he
seems the most ill at ease discussing literature, and I know that he's worried
about his final grade, though he doesn't need to be. For not being an English
major, his work is actually quite good.

"I was wondering if we could meet to talk about my final paper sometime."

"Of course, Matt. I'd be happy to. I have an engagement right now, I'm afraid,
but you can come to office hours on Monday, if you'd like." As I speak, I glance to
the clock on the far wall. It's already past four, and I'll need to hurry if I'm going
to make it to the bookstore by five. And tonight is important-so important-for
more reasons than one.

"That would be great."

I smile again and nod. "Good. I'll see you then. Do you have a draft?"

"Yeah. It's pretty rough."

"That's okay. Bring it along when you come."

He smiles and wishes me a good weekend, disappearing out the door after the
last of his classmates.

I finish collecting my lecture notes and shove the folder into my briefcase, zipping
it quickly and slinging it on my shoulder. I cast a quick glance behind me at the
room before I go; my room. My students. I love it.

The halls of the Humanities building are filled with talking, laughing students—
some on their cell phones, some rushing to class. I recognize several familiar
faces and give the requisite perfunctory greetings as I make my way down the
hall to the front door. Professor Smiley, one of the English department's more
prestigious faculty members, flags me down before I can escape. I sigh inwardly,
knowing that my position as an assistant professor is tenuous, and that
maintaining congenial relations is essential since I'm up for tenure at the end of
the year.

And, given the recent change in my circumstances, I need to do everything I can

to assure the department that I'm dedicated to the job.

"Bella," he says warmly, "I hear you're going to be working on the graduate
admissions committee this year."

"Yes, I'm looking forward to it," I lie. My time is so filled with committees as it is,
but Edward joked that one more couldn't hurt.

"Well, if I could make a recommendation—" He drones on and I nod, starting to

get nervous about the time. Finally, when it seems like he's given me the most
important of what he considers insider information, I smile and give him my
thanks.

"I really appreciate that, Stephen. I'll make sure we take the matriculation rate of
the 18th Century students into consideration."

"Fine, fine." He smiles, and then seems to notice for the first time my fidgetiness.

"Going somewhere?"

"Edward's book release is tonight."

"Oh yes! That's right. Well, you better hurry on then. Tell him congratulations for
me."

"I will," I say as I turn and beeline for the door, grumbling internally that if he
really cared, he'd be there as well. But one thing I've learned is the divide
between the critics and the MFAs continues after graduate school; in our
department, the older literature professors rarely mix with the writers in
residency. Not that Edward cares. He complains most of them are too stuffy to
associate with anyway. However, we have made quite a few friends among the
younger faculty, which is nice.

Once outside, I breathe the cool air and hurry quickly to the lot where my car is
parked, unlocking the door and flinging my bag on the passenger's seat. It's
about a twenty-minute drive from the campus at the University of Santa Barbara
to the bookshop where Edward has chosen to have the launch and reading of his
third book and second novel. My stomach fills with anxious, excited flutters as I
make my way into town. At a red light, I pause and try to settle my nerves, my
hand drifting to rub my still flat belly.
Still flat for now, but soon . . . how long will it take for me to show? Another
couple of months, probably.

For the past week or so, I'd been feeling odd, but with my busy schedule I hadn't
really given it much thought. When we made the decision for me to go off the pill
three months prior, neither of us thought it would happen so quickly.

But this morning, on a whim, I'd stopped at a drug store on my way to campus
and picked up a test.

Positive.

We're going to have a baby.

What will Edward say? My face heats with the secret knowledge. I can't wait to
tell him, but I didn't want to distract him before his big night. This is the novel
that will solidify his reputation as one of America's most important rising new
authors. I just know it.

I bite my bottom lip, pressing the gas pedal cautiously when the light turns
green. I suddenly feel very wary, protective of the life inside of me—even if now
it's probably only the size of a pea, if that. My little pea.

There's a small lot just a block or so away from the store, and I pull inside,
feeling victorious when I spy one last vacant spot. Usually when I meet Edward
downtown after work I change into more comfortable shoes, but today I leave my
heels on; it is a special occasion, after all.

Outside the bookstore, some of Edward's writing students stand milling around,
smoking. I try not to inhale, again thinking of my little pea. They recognize me
and smile, making room for me to pass. A couple of the girls give me sour looks,
which I note with good-humor and just a touch of smugness. At thirty-five, my
husband is certainly the youngest, most attractive professor at UCSB, but he's all
mine.

Just as I open the door, I notice the poster advertising the book launch.

Phoenix, A novel

Edward A. Cullen

The abstract images that adorn the book cover are reminiscent of Blake, but
more modern. Two winged figures, a boy and a girl, emerge from flame-like
swirls of color, reborn. It's beautiful, and so fitting. This is our story, after all.

Partly.

When Edward finally completed the novel he was working on based on our lives,
it was far too raw and personal to publish. He slaved over it for years, drafting
and redrafting, often times despondent, at war with himself whether or not it was
too self-indulgent, whether anyone would care. Finally, frustrated and at a
seeming impasse, he put it aside and wrote other, unrelated things. His first
book, a compilation of short stories he'd written in graduate school, was met with
a fervor of critical praise, but the novel which came two years later unfortunately
received mixed reviews—many negative. Edward was censured for losing the
vigor and forceful writing he'd achieved in his first volume. The New York Times
Book Review suggested he'd betrayed the independent voice and vision of those
stories; while the novel was well written, it was too commercial, too self-
conscious and trendy.
Edward didn't entirely disagree. Instead of discouraging him, however, the
critiques served as a wake up call, igniting a desire to prove himself. He
embarked upon a final re-write, abstracting the text more from our real lives but
keeping the ethos and essence the same.

Through it all, I completed my course work and my dissertation, Time and Space
in Blake's Mythologies. Just after I graduated, we had a small wedding in Chicago
with just those closest to us. Jacob came with Leah and their twin boys, but Billy
was unfortunately too ill to travel. Carlisle and Esme generously paid for the
whole thing, and when Esme saw me wearing the strapless dress, she cried.

We'd shared Alice's letters with them long ago.

I decided to change my name back to Swan after we were married, partly to

differentiate myself from Edward, since I was soon to be a published author, too.
Most academic women keep their own names when they marry. But, more
importantly, I'd seen it as an opportunity to reverse the mistake I'd made when I
was eighteen, a final gesture of loyalty and love to my parents. Edward agreed
wholeheartedly.

Smiling, I press my palm against the glass, feeling the smooth coldness. Such a
perfect cover for his book.

After we moved to California so I could accept the tenure-track position in

Romance Literature at UCSB, Edward was offered the writer's residency the
following year, teaching during the day and writing at night.

I'll never forget the day he finally finished Phoenix. Without a word, he shyly
handed me the manuscript. I locked myself away in my study, reading until the
early morning.

Ten hours and about twenty cups of coffee later, I emerged from my self-imposed
exile at around five, only to find Edward slumped outside in the hallway, fast
asleep. I kissed him awake and told him with the tears in my eyes that he'd done
it. He'd finally done it.

Unfortunately that happy news was tempered with sadness the following week
when Billy passed away. He'd gone peacefully, though, and with a clear
conscience. And I'd had the chance to tell him I loved him.

"Bella?" comes a familiar voice from beside me. Startled from my reverie, I turn,
dropping my hand and blinking back the tears that have started to form at the
memory. Lately, I haven't been much of a crier. I wonder if the pregnancy
hormones are already starting to kick in.

"Rose!"

"Hey!" she exclaims, hugging me tightly. "We just got here."

"Where's Emmett?"

"Parking the rental," she says, kissing me on the cheek. "It's so fucking good to
see you, girl. You look amazing."

"So do you! I can't believe you're here. Edward's going to be so happy to see you
guys." We haven't seen Rosalie and Emmett since we left Chicago, where they
still live. I've missed my friend.

She nods, biting her lip. "I wouldn't have missed it."
Rosalie never did end up going into academia. When Emmett proposed, she
decided to accept a job at a respected academic publishing house, rather than
chance the highly unpredictable job placement associated with our field.

I hug her again, wishing desperately I could tell her about my joyful secret, but
knowing how bittersweet the news will be. She and Emmett have been trying to
get pregnant for over three years now with no luck, despite fertility treatments.

By now, I realize that people are waiting and we're blocking the door.

"Come on, let's go in," I say. "Emmett will find us inside."

The store is filled with people, mostly colleagues and students. I immediately
notice Edward's agent Stephanie standing near the front of the room. Jasper and
Angela are with her, their profiles visible. They flew in the day before with their
daughter Anna, now four years old. She clings to her mother's side, eyeing me
shyly as we approach. Even though we just had dinner last night, apparently I'm
still a scary stranger.

Edward is nowhere to be seen.

"Autie Rosie," Anna shrieks, releasing Angela's thigh. Rosalie bends down and
gives her a kiss on the cheek, then picks her up with some effort.

"Heya pumpkin."

"We've been here for forever and there's no other kids," Anna complains. I smile,
watching the scene contemplatively, a tiny bit jealous that our friends have
maintained this close connection over the years. I love living in California, but I
miss them.

"Hey guys," I say giving everyone hugs, "Where is he?"

"In the back." Jasper motions over his shoulder. "Nervous."

For a second I contemplate whether or not I should go to him, but then the
storeowner calls us to attention, signaling the reading is about to start. The door
chimes again and I glance over my shoulder just in time to notice Carlisle and
Esme enter along with Emmett. I smile and wave as they take seats near the
back.

Even though things have never been completely easy between Edward and his
parents, they're getting better. I knew a certain breakthrough had been reached
when they were the first people Edward called to tell his book was finally getting
published.

"Little Bee," Emmett says, wrapping one arm around my waist and kissing my
forehead. "So good to see you. Looking fine, as always."

"You're not so bad yourself."

Emmett grins, showcasing his dimples and flexing his other arm. "I've been
working out."

Rosalie rolls her eyes good-naturedly, setting Anna back down. "We should sit,"
she suggests. I nod, following her lead to the reserved seats in the front row.

My eyes focus on the back of the store, where I know Edward is waiting. When he
finally emerges, wearing dark jeans, a white shirt, and unbuttoned grey blazer,
my heart starts pounding erratically. I'm struck by his handsomeness, his
features mature, no longer boyish. He walks to the front, his long, bouncy stride
eliciting a titter of excited giggles from his fan club behind me.

But it's my eyes he searches out.

"Good luck," I mouth silently. He smiles and whispers something in return, but I
can't quite make it out.

Edward stands to the side of the podium while the owner gives a short
introduction, then he steps forward, picking up a copy of his book from the side
table.

He clears his throat, taking a sip from his water bottle.

"First, before I start, I'd like to thank you all for coming out tonight for this. I
know some of you have come a long way." His eyes glance to the back of the
room and I can tell by the recognition in his eyes he's seen his parents. He smiles
briefly, pausing before he continues.

"Many of you have been there through this whole process, and you know that this
is a book that's taken me many years to write. Eleven, to be exact."

He says the last sentence with a touch of irony, glancing to our friends in the
front. Emmett laughs, maybe more loudly than necessary.

"So I bet you're relieved that it's finally finished. I know I am. Anyway, I couldn't
have completed it without your support. So thank you all, especially you, Bella."
His voice gets quiet and serious as he looks at me, making my breath catch in my
throat. I press my hand against my stomach again.

"You've been there through everything. This book is for you."

~QF~

As I watch him read, I've never been more proud. He's more confident than I've
ever seen him, and the audience response is thrilling. When he finishes, everyone
erupts into applause, calling for an encore, to which Edward shyly agrees.

An hour and a half later, once the congratulatory crowd has finally begun filtering
out, the rest of us head over to one of our favorite sushi places for a celebratory
dinner.

"You did so good," I whisper, giving him a kiss once the others are in the lead.

He's happy, his face lit up in the widest smile. "You think so?"

"It was amazing. You're amazing." I want to tell him so much more, but it doesn't
seem like the right time. I'll tell him later tonight, when we're alone.

"You're just saying that because you're my wife."

"Hey," I say with a laugh. "I'm a well respected literary scholar. Are you accusing
me of nepotism?"

A block or so later I start to regret not bringing a change of shoes. My feet are a
little tired and my back aches, but I don't want to complain. Of course, Edward
knows me too well.

"Do your feet hurt, baby?" he asks.

"Just a little. I'm fine. It's just these heels."

"Here," he says, pausing on the sidewalk and turning his back to me. "Hop up."

"Edward, I'm not climbing on your back."

"Why not?"

"I'm too heavy, and far too old. It would be humiliating."

He turns around, giving me a fake sad frown. "You're not heavy or old. Please?
For me?"

"Fine," I grumble, allowing myself to be hoisted up. I close my eyes as he carries

me, refusing to look lest I see any of my students. In a town this size, it's likely
this will be broadcasted through the English department by this time tomorrow.
But I start having fun despite myself. I love seeing Edward happy and carefree
like this.

By the time we arrive at the restaurant, everyone else is already seated. They
raise glasses of champagne as we enter, toasting Edward as we take our seats.
Rosalie passes me a glass, which I take and discreetly set to the side, not
wanting to draw anyone's attention. I've never been a big drinker, though, so I
figure no one will notice. Edward sticks to water and tea, as usual.

Esme and Carlisle sit across the table from us, giving us all a chance to catch up.
They've only been to visit once before, and Esme is eager to do some
sightseeing, which I happily agree to host on the following day. And when Carlisle
asks his son to sign his copy of Phoenix, I see Edward swallow deeply, fighting
back emotion. He takes the proffered book I peek over his arm as he signs the
title page.

To Dad, with love, Edward.

Carlisle accepts the book back, smiling when he reads the inscription. Esme and I
exchange a knowing glance as we look on at our men.

Finally the food arrives and everyone remarks upon the gorgeous presentation.

So far, I've successfully avoided alcohol, but when it comes to the sushi, I panic.
Is it safe to eat raw fish when you're pregnant? Isn't there mercury or something
in some of the fish, like tuna?

When a platter of my favorite sashimi is passed around, I eye it skeptically,

putting a couple of pieces on my plate but not eating them. When some avocado
rolls come around next, a variety I don't particularly care for, I take more than
my share. Edward watches me curiously.

"Why aren't you eating?" he finally asks, his voice concerned.

"Um." I quickly try to come up with an excuse. "I'm not hungry?" It comes out
more like a question than a declarative statement.

"Okaaaay." He's obviously not convinced, raising his eyebrow as I munch on my

vegetable rolls.

A few minutes later, Stephanie dings her fork against her glass.

"Attention everyone. I have some exciting news," she says. We all turn our heads
as she continues. "The early sales of the book are higher than expected. We think
this is the big one. The publisher wants Edward to do a ten-city tour this
summer—Boston, New York, Philadelphia, Miami, Houston—maybe even a couple
of live talk show appearances."

As she speaks, my stomach drops. This summer? I count the months. By then, I'll
be majorly pregnant . . . ten cities? How long will he be gone? And why didn't he
tell me about this?

I glance at Edward's profile as he listens. I rest my hand on his thigh and squeeze
gently, and when he finally meets my eyes, he looks just as surprised as I am.

"Edward?" I ask under my breath.

"I didn't know," he says in a whisper.

Something about the cast of our faces makes the table quiet rapidly.

"When did this happen?" Edward asks Stephanie, a little testily.

"I just heard from the publisher yesterday. I thought you'd be excited."

"Hmm." His eyes narrow a bit. I know that look. Oh, Stephanie. Big mistake.

"I have to talk to Bella," Edward says tersely.

"Of course." She blushes, obviously chastised by his tone.

Edward slides his chair back and reaches for my hand. I stare at it dumbly for a
second. He means now?

"Bella?" his eyes are soft, concerned. I take his hand and rise, leaving our friends
and family behind.

As I follow him out of the restaurant, I feel so conflicted—I don't want this
pregnancy to get in the way of his dream. But I don't want him to go, either.

Once we're outside, we find a quiet bench on a side street.

"I honestly didn't know," he says. "This the first I've heard anything about a
tour."

"I know," I reply, trying to control my emotions. "I could see that."

"I don't know what to think . . ." He sighs, running his hands through his hair.
"It's probably a good thing, right? I mean, the exposure would be good for the
book and all."

I nod along, feeling the blood drain from my face. Finally, Edward trails off.

"You don't seem happy."

"I am," I say brokenly, "I just . . ."

"Baby, what's wrong? Are you sick? You hardly ate." He rests his hand on my
forehead and I close my eyes, leaning into his touch.

"No, I'm not sick. I'm pregnant," I confess, finally opening my eyes.

His eyes widen in surprise. "Pregnant?" he repeats.

I nod like a maniac, smiling through the stupid, hormonal tears.

"Oh my God, Bella, really?" He touches my abdomen so tenderly, as if the
slightest pressure might cause harm.

"Yes," I manage, covering his hand with mine. "Really."

"Really, really?"

"Really, really."

I thought I'd seen every version of Edward. But in more than twenty years, I've
never seen him like this. His eyes gleam in the low lamplight, and his smile—pure
joy. He's beautiful.

Without another word, he stands and pulls me into his arms, whispering tender
words of happiness into my hair. Our mouths find each other, smiling and
laughing. And I know, I just know, that things will be okay.

"In here?" he asks, kneeling down suddenly in front of me and pressing his ear
against my belly.

"Yeah."

"When?"

"I just took the test today."

"Why didn't you tell me right away?"

"I didn't want to distract you on your big night."

Edward shakes his head. "This," he whispers against me, "This is my big night."

I run my fingers through his hair lovingly, and he closes his eyes and hums. I feel
the vibration all through my body and I wonder if our little pea can feel it too.

"You're happy?" I ask, just wanting to hear it.

"The happiest I've ever been."

"Me too."

He kisses my stomach before standing again.

"You do realize I'm not going on that tour. Fuck it."

"But Edward, it's important for you. For your career."

"I'm not leaving you alone."

"Well," I say, my mind working frantically. "Maybe I can come with you.
Depending on how far along I am. I can't be more than a few weeks now."

He nods, his forehead furrowed in thought. "Maybe. Or maybe I can talk them
down from ten cities. Do four or five instead and come home in-between."

"We'll work it out," I say, feeling so much calmer and more levelheaded about it
now.

"I want you to know that you're my first priority," Edward says, taking both of my
hands in his. "You know that, right?"
"I know. It's nice to hear though, all the same. I was worried."

"Well, no more worrying, okay?"

I stretch up and kiss his cheek. "Okay."

We hug for a few more minutes before both of us realize we better get back to
the others before they send a search party. And I'm not willing to share this with
anyone yet.

"So you're sure?" he asks again, taking my hand, "I'm going to be a dad?"

"Yes, I'm sure," I say with a laugh. It quickly fades when I imagine it—Edward
with a little girl or boy in his arms.

"Do you think I'll be good at it?"

I nod in affirmation, no doubt in my mind.

"You'll be the best."