Company Loves Misery

by AngstGoddess003
Disclaimer: Twilight and characters belong to Stephenie Meyer.

Bloodcurdling.

I always thought it was a kind of ridiculous word. How could blood curdle? Applying it to a sound
was even more ridiculous. Sounds don't make blood curdle. Heat, maybe.

I sighed, hanging out the window and watching the gravel swish by as James swerved into an
open space. My blood didn't feel curdled. It felt… alive and comfortable. I lazily chuckled, eying the
way in which the yellow line of the allotted space ran completely under his beat up Oldsmobile.
"You park like shiiiiiit," I sang. I rested my cheek on the door and sighed once again. My insides
felt like molten lava. Maybe that'd be kind of like curdled blood to some people, but me? I liked it.

"Get out of my fucking car before you hurl," he ordered in a slur, the sounds of his exit fuzzy
behind me.

"Yeah, yeah." I grumbled as I stumbled from the car, steadying myself with a serious expression at
the ground. "Hey, you. Stop wobbling," I demanded, narrowing my eyes as I swayed.

"You're both drunk as shit. Remind me why we're here?" Victoria's annoyed voice came from
behind me, and I had to clench my teeth to stop from heaving. I don't know how, but the sound of
her voice reminded me of eggs. Scrambled. You know what looks scrambled? Curdled milk.

I clamped a hand over my mouth, eyes watering. "Can't miss the Trig test, Big Red," I mumbled,
battling to hold down my previous night's dinner.

"We're going to get busted. I don't feel like getting bitched out just because I needed a ride…"

Yadda, yadda, yadda. She kept going, insisting we were going to fuck up.

Whatever. Wouldn't be the first time. Won't be the last.

James clapped me on the back as we clumsily stumbled through the courtyard. "We're late," he
sighed, gesturing to the building. "Your pit stop made us late, Eduardo. What the fuck do you
suppose we do about it?"

Certain that I could open my mouth without vomiting, I scoffed. "We go in there—" I pointed to the
building, our steps halting as we assessed this fine institution known as "Forks High School."

James' eyes narrowed and widened with his attempts to focus. "We go in there, and we say, 'Hey,
Mrs.… umm… Trig person with bad lipstick—" He was already doubled over in laughter, clutching
his stomach with one hand and resting the other on his knee. "'If a flask holds twelve fluid ounces,
and you have three partially filled bottles of… something… then how do you choose which bottle
to fill it with?'"

James answered through his hissing snickers, eyes crinkled, "You don't! You just start on the
fullest bottle and work your way down. Flasks—" His face turned serious as he turned to me,
slinging an arm around my shoulder and making me stumble. He jabbed me in the chest. "Flasks
are for pussies."

I nodded my agreement as Victoria passed me, stomping in her tennis shoes as she declared,
"You two are the dumbest shits in Forks' history."

James was about to say something else when his mouth snapped shut, head turning to her. "Hey!"
He frowned, leading me through the double doors. "I resemble that comment!" The floors were
shiny. Definitely not like eggs. Scrambled. Curdled…

A light shudder climbed my spine as I fought to keep the contents of my stomach down, once
again. I might have had a little too much to drink, but as James says, "It's noon somewhere.'"

"Oo! Oooo! Oo-oo-oo!" James started suddenly bouncing on his heels, halting me with a yank of
my jacket that almost sent me to the ground. "Look, Eduardo! Look it! Look it! Sassy Freshman!"
He was pointing vaguely to the other end of the empty hall, a figure crouched down beside a
locker that was blurry in my vision.

A small smile crept over my lips as I regarded her, ass sticking out, brown hair all veiled around
her school bag. "Wager me," I dared, lifting my chin and staring down at him with determined
eyes.

As expected, his face lit up into a grin, his one snaggletooth peeking out from his bottom lip. "First
to make the Sassy Freshman say a wordy dird," he gambled with a lazy nod.

I furrowed my brows, groaning. "Come on, man. Give me something worth my time."

Sassy Freshman was so fun to fuck with. James and I were always making wagers on who could
piss her off more. She was one of the nerdy types, new from somewhere south, all quiet, loner
bookworm and just so… sassy.

Whenever I'd knock her books from her hands or move her stool right before she sat down or
spike the volleyball at her head in gym, she always got the most adorable, fierce expression.
She'd curl her lips back, and her eyes would flash in the most magnificent way. Nothing was better
than seeing her nostrils flare as she jutted out her chin to give me a piece of her mind. Oh, and the
blushing. She would blush the most unnatural shade of magenta if I could get her worked up just
right.

Most girls in her position would have been sobbing messes as a result of our constant antics, but
not Sassy Freshman. She never cried or got sad or hurt or whiney. She just got… like… really
pissed off.

It was such a refreshing change from the usual girls at this school, always so flirty and demure and
needing constant validation for their low self-esteem. Hers were the best reactions of all. I loved it
when she opened her mouth and started calling me names, threatening the welfare of my manly
bits and shaking in rage.

She had spunk, that one.

I liked her.

"Okay," James sighed, rolling his eyes. "First to make her take the Lord's name in vain." He tried
to do that thing where an eyebrow would curve up, but he was drunk, and he sucked at it anyway,
so he just looked like he was having a stroke.

Oh. That was a good one. Sassy Freshman was too goody-goody to surpass the already-tawdry
"fuck you" she commonly spat at me. I liked it. "S.F. never swears at our Holy Lord and Savior. I'm
down for that bottle of Jack in your trunk." I held my hand out to him, and he sort of whined,
shoulders slumping.

"But that's for my mom! She'll kick my ass—"

"If I lose, I'll give you my new game system."

His face brightened, lips forming a loose slant. "Really?" James was so easy. His family was pretty
low on the rungs, middle-class, low-income. I was the opposite and had more money than I knew
what to do with. He was so easily conned with materialistic bullshit. "Fuck yeah!" he exclaimed,
smacking my hand in a sloppy grasp.

I licked my lips as I regarded her, still bent over and rifling through her bag. "Shhh." I held my
finger up to my lips as we softly padded down the hall, stalking her like predators. …Okay, more
like two very drunk and stumbling predators.

James, of course, couldn't stop from laughing. He was as giggly as a teenage girl when he got
drunk. Fucktard. I shot him a warning glare, his hand covering his mouth as he hissed more
chuckles through his fingers.

This wouldn't be easy. It was a little specific and, truthfully, I had no intentions of giving up my new
game system. I'd just gotten to Level Ten on this really hard game, and I was going to beat it
before the week's end, mark my words. More than that, however, was that bottle of Jack. I never
got good whiskey. Carlisle kept his liquor locked down like Fort Knox, and two no-goods like
James and me had to constantly lower our standards and settle for shitty leftover liquor that
usually made us sicker than dogs.

We could have two night's worth of fun off that bottle of whiskey. Or I could make it four and make
James watch.

Once we were close enough, we could hear Sassy Freshman grumbling under her breath, huffing
and causing her hair to fly up. Her locker was propped open, all organized on the inside with prints
of some random painter all taped up to the inside. I smirked, glancing at James as a genius idea
suddenly struck.

I mean, there's no such thing as an atheist in a foxhole and whatnot.

Sadly, she also had one of those small mirrors hanging from her locker. She must have caught
movement from the corner of her eyes because she gasped, shooting up from her crouch and
spinning around.

"Go!" James shouted, but I'd already caught her around her waist, lifting her from the ground as
she kicked and pushed against me.

Shit, she was strong. Her head thrashed, sending her silky hair beneath my nose, and I was dazed
for a moment because I was a weirdo, and I liked the smell of a girl's hair. I liked how it shined and
flowed and… I couldn't really explain it. I tightened my hold, laughing as she began her predictable
tirade.

"Put. Me. Down." Her teeth were clenched tight, and I caught her glare from the mirror.

Jesus, if looks could kill.

Her nostrils were already flaring as her eyes flashed—sparked—ignited—rage.

God, I loved this chick.

I smirked, jostled slightly as she struggled against my already clumsily inebriated body. "Make
me," I challenged, laughing when her attempts to elbow me in the ribs proved futile. Her cheeks
were already turning a hilarious shade of purple, nails digging into my arms like her stubby little
claws could actually hurt me. I had to give it to her. She had a spark like none I'd never seen
before. Seeing her like that elated me to an intoxicating degree, and I couldn't even explain why.
She was just the epitome of ferocity, all wrapped up into this little frail package, complete with a
deceiving bow.

But then I began shoving her forward and she put a foot on either side of her locker, face
blanching a ghostly pale. "Don't," she rasped, clutching at my forearms with trembling hands.

James's laugh was derisive as he mocked, "No! Don't! Waaaah!" He rolled his eyes and flicked his
hand. "Get on with it. I'm late for Mrs. Big Tits." He leaned against the row of lockers as she kicked
and started gasping, pushing into me and making me stumble back a step.

Our eyes met in the mirror and hers gazed back at me with this odd, kind of pleading stare. I could
see her mouth form a silent "Please," the stretch of her lips lingering and elongated until I could
see her clenched teeth.

Fuck me, Sassy Freshman was kind of… begging. It was the most fascinating thing to see.
Humming in thought, I pushed her closer, just to feel her body tense and to see her eyes widen
further. Her lip trembled. Trembled!

I almost reconsidered, but I mean… I really wanted that Jack. Really, really, really. Plus, James
was standing there, watching me, waiting, and ready to take my game system and… it would only
be for a few seconds. Sassy Freshman could take it. We'd done worse than this. I also couldn't
deny that uncovering this new, fragile side of her captivated me. I sort of felt a fleeting protective
urge at realizing this weaker side of her, but at the same time, I also wanted to poke it around and
see how deep it went.

With a shrug, I promptly began stuffing her into the locker, ignoring her strangled gasp as I fought
awkwardly with all of her flailing limbs. My fingers dug into her sides as I was forced to thrust her
with a surprising effort. She was stronger than she looked.

Of course, I was strongest.

With one last grunt, I'd finally crammed her in there nice and good, and was able to close the door
after one final shove of a stray flapping arm. Once it was finally secured, I slumped my fatigued
body against it, mashing the padlock closed with a huff. I caught a fleeting glance at the look on
James' face and began laughing. He was staring at the ground intently, hands on his knees.

He was so gonna blow chunks.

The first bang on the lockers was startlingly loud and echoed through the hallway, but there
weren't any classrooms in this wing, just lockers. I smiled triumphantly as she began cursing
smothered strings of profanity, waiting for the one that signaled her release.

James held up one finger, the noise seeming to upset his stomach. That was just a bonus. "I think
I might hurl, dude," he choked as beads of perspiration rose on his forehead.

Sassy Freshman was getting louder, actually moving my body with the brunt of her kicks at the
door. "Let me out! My dad is going to blow your fucking brains out for this!" My first instinct was to
roll my eyes, because she always used that one, but her voice was off. It cracked and grew
uneven as she continued, "Open the door! I swear to fucking God—"

I brightened, looking to James with raised eyebrows.

"Doesn't count," he gagged at the ground, one finger still suspended in the air.

"Does so!" I argued. "Taking the Lord's name in vain. That's it." Then everything went silent. The
banging stopped, the cursing, the threats, the gagging. The hall was completely still. I could
literally hear leaves falling outside onto the pavement, my vision still blurred around the edges.

It made the hair on the back of my neck stand on end.

"Please," she whispered, heavy breaths wafting through the metal between us. "Please let me
out," she begged and she sounded… so scared and small.

Without waiting for his confirmation, I turned to the locker, ready to release her because she was
clearly on the verge of tears and… Sassy Freshman never cried. God knows we'd given her plenty
of reasons to in the past. Maybe she really didn't like not having control or something. I was like
that sometimes. Maybe it was just the confined space. I wasn't sure why she was acting like that,
but I figured I'd probably shaken her enough for the month.

I rolled my eyes as I began fumbling with the lock, and then laughed further as I began tugging at
the metal shaking my head as I realized that I'd locked it.

I frowned at the circular knob, turning it over in my hand, before it occurred to me that I could just
ask her what the combination was. Startlingly, before I could actually ask, I heard the most visceral
shriek emerge from the metal, inches from my face. It made me jump.

My first thought was that her reaction was a bit melodramatic and over the top, but then the
banging started again—with a vengeance. It rattled the entire row of lockers. James keeled over
and finally lost his stomach, his vomit splashing onto the floor with a sickening "splat" as she
kicked and thrashed, her voice projecting a scream that could only be described as…
bloodcurdling.

You know that phrase about "all hell breaks loose?"

This was it.

One second, everything was still, and the next, everything was clattering and piercing. It made my
stomach flip and heave, lips numb as I pulled at the lock, struggling to get it open.

"Shut up!" I ordered, her voice piercing my ears and making my head throb. I couldn't think
straight. But she didn't relent, her scream so loud that it made my chest vibrate with its intensity.
"Just… shit. G-g-give me your combination," I hastily implored while yanking at it.

But she couldn't hear me over her own yells and thunderous hammering at the metal between us.
I backed away from the locker, my blood curdling as I watched the locker door distort with her
every jab and thrash.

I covered my ears and looked to James, who was wiping his mouth with glassy eyes.

"I can't open it," I told him, unable to even hear my own voice. But her voice raised three octaves
as it escaped my mouth.

I didn't know what to do. It'd been an accident. I used my locker up to four times per day and it was
just habit to secure the padlock once it was closed. And… I was drunk… and I wasn't thinking…

Her cries were incoherent, but it sounded like she was being murdered in there. I'd never heard
anyone being murdered before, but I imagined that it sounded much like she did inside that locker.
I'd never seen anything like it. It took me a good minute to jump into action.

"Shit! Get the janitor!" I eventually ordered James, shouting over the sounds ricocheting off the
walls. Her panic was somehow infectious and I found my own hands trembling as I clawed at the
lock, puffing as I tried to pry it away from the door. I considered the hinges and desperately
struggled with every point and crevice. My fingers ached as I'd jam them into cracks and try futilely
to bend the metal away, but she kept rattling the door and it would pinch me, make it impossible to
find any weakness. My usually dexterous fingers couldn't find any purchase as they blearily
grasped at the surface.

Rather ironically, I prayed as I desperately battled with the rattling obstacle. I just had to fix it and
then everything would be okay. If I could get her out before the janitor came, we could all laugh it
off and go our separate ways. I'd never fuck with Sassy Freshman again if I could just… open the
fucking locker.

I heard the bell ringing in some distant portion of my intoxicated consciousness, but so focused
was my attention on the locker that I never noticed the crowd of people heading toward the hall
from the courtyards and parallel wings of the building. I was sweating by then and utterly defeated
as I smacked my knuckles against it in frustration. My livid punch did nothing. It didn't even rival
her resounding knocks and smacks against it from the inside. I was completely powerless.

Within moments, the hall was filled, spectators behind me just looking on in a kind of stunned
silence as she continued. God, she continued. It was relentless and shrill and crashing and
desperate. It wasn't right. It wasn't sassy.

It was the most horrific thing I'd ever heard.

Michael Newton shoved me out of the way, fumbling with the lock and trying to talk to her through
the grates of the door. I couldn't hear what he was saying over the screams and banging, but his
voice sounded soothing—not a bit like my own had been, even if his face showed his obvious
worry.

Much like I'd done, he struggled with the door, Ben and Eric eventually coming to his aid. The
three tested different tactics of opening the locker as I cowered into the crowd, covering my ears
and flinching with her every wail.

Teachers filtered in, trying to help the boys to no avail. With every passing minute, their faces grew
strained and pale, a sea of tight lipped and helpless do-gooders. Mr. Berty threw his hands in the
air after an attempt, as if to say, "What the hell do you expect me to do?"

It felt like an eternity, her screams growing raspier and grittier by the second. I imagined that it
must have been like listening to someone expel their soul through their lungs. That's what it felt
like to me—like if I looked hard enough, I could've seen her soul being pushed through those
horizontal grates and dissipating into thin air. I only traveled as far away as I had to in order to
reach the nearest trash can, where I vomited my morning joyride binge all over the black plastic.

It took half an hour—thirty fucking minutes—for James to come rushing through the crowd with the
janitor, a large bolt-cutter held welcomingly in his calloused grasp.

When he finally cut the padlock free, the door flung open so quickly that it knocked the old janitor
backward. Sassy Freshman landed on the cold floor with a resounding 'clap' that silenced the
entire hallway.

We all looked on mutely—the entire school—as she laid face-down, back rising and falling with
sharp wheezes that fluttered her dark hair. Her gasps were the only sounds to fill the hallway, like
maybe everyone was holding their own breath. I know I was. She was still visibly trembling as the
vice principal yanked me sharply by the back of my collar. He spoke in venomous hisses that
projected a mist of spit onto my cheek, but my wide eyes remained fixed to the appalling sight of
her on that floor.
I'll never forget it.

Her bloodied fingertips were gruesome against the stark white linoleum. I swear, it looked like she
was missing fingernails, but I couldn't tell. Her knuckles and elbows were already purple and
swollen, while her right arm was wedged unnaturally beneath her, noticeably broken as a result of
the strength I'd admired only moments before. The arm twitched as she shook, and people hissed
painfully in response, the girls turning away as they wrinkled their noses at the air around her,
which reeked of her urine.

The last thing I remember seeing as my limp body was ushered away to the office was her watery-
eyed stare. Her cheek rested against the floor, hair matted to her sweaty forehead as her wet
eyelashes clumped and stuck together in haphazard angles. There was no rage or ferocity or sass
or indignation as she looked blankly ahead—no admirable fury, sadness, or even the pain she
should have been feeling.

There was nothing at all.

There was an ambulance—I was told that much. There was Chief Swan, and his police cruiser,
blue and red lights illuminating the courtyard as she was carried out. There were phone calls to
mine and James' parents. There were looks of complete disdain from the faculty and student
body. There was Victoria in the middle of it all, shaking her head with 'I told you so' eyes.

There was definite expulsion.

There were charges filed by Chief Swan himself.

There were screams in my house that night, for the very first time.

There were a lot of details about that day that lay fuzzy in some reality I'd made abstract and
distant, like an ancient, shadowy dream. I don't really remember much after seeing her eyes
though—empty and cold.

I never went back to that school.

Neither did she.

A/N: This story was bought at the Fandom Gives Back auction by all of the wonderfully supportive
ladies over at WA Rehab (link on profile). This was born about as half prompt/half random plot
choice with focus on the word "rehab" and canon Edward thirst? Thanks to Pastiche Pen for her
time beta'ing, and revrag for her feedback during preview. And the rehab ladies, of course for
supporting such a great cause!

EZrocksAngel should be like... on everything I write as a collaborator because I swear, without that
crazy awesome lady, I would be inspirationless.

This story updates every Wednesday and Sunday. Thanks for reading!

A/N: Twilight and its characters belong to Stephenie Meyer. I don't own anything. Not even
Boozeward. He belongs to the fab ladies at WArehab and they can do whatever they want with
him (except allow him anywhere near water or feed him after midnight). Thanks so much for all
your kind words and encouragement!

"I called my dad today," Lauren began, her hair almost platinum in the glow of the fluorescent light.
She looked down as she fiddled with her nails, shrugging. "He hung up on me, but—I think—well,
it took him longer than usual? And I figure maybe I'm making some headway, you know? Does
that... does it sound stupid to think that?"

I could recognize her optimistic, yet weary expression. I'd felt it so many times. We all shook our
heads silently, a few select people murmuring their customary "give-him-time" and "Rome-wasn't-
built-in-one-day" assurances. She'd heard it before, but a weak smile tugged at her lips as she
folded her hands in her lap.

The room went silent as we all looked down into our cups of coffee, waiting for the next person to
begin.

Jasper cleared his throat, and we all raised our eyes, waiting. "I'm kind of seeing someone," he
softly announced.

"Who's the lucky girl?" Lauren asked, smiling excitedly. She loved hearing the happy stories.

He scratched at his eyebrow, unable to fight the badly suppressed grin that spread across his
face. I could almost detect a tinge of pink. "Um, just someone I met through a friend. You'd like
her. She's a really… happy person." He nodded thoughtfully into his cup of coffee, taking a
pensive sip before he added in a lower voice, "She makes me a happy person."

Tyler chimed in, clapping him on the back. "That's some epic shit."

We all nodded our agreement as Jasper shrugged. "I was just thinking how…" His eyes darkened
as he shifted in his seat. We were all listening with rapt attention because Jasper was a man of
few words. When he spoke, it was significant. "We're keeping it secret. Her family… they wouldn't
approve—of me. Not that I could blame them or anything, but—"He halted his ramble with a puff of
frustrated air, finishing curtly, "It's sort of frustrating."

Carlisle hummed gently, one arm over his chest, the other holding his cup gingerly. "Of course
that'd be frustrating, Jasper—to be happy and have to hide the source of it."

Everyone silently agreed.

Except Jasper, who shook his head, muttering, "I'll probably end up fucking it up anyway. I guess
it'll be easier, the less people that know." He looked downright despondent now.

The room was silent for many moments.

Carlisle's sigh was yielding. "Maybe you've learned from your mistakes? Maybe this person just
isn't ready to commit themselves to a relationship with someone in recovery? Maybe her family will
see you for who you are and not who you once were? Nothing is certain, Jasper. Not even your
failure. Don't lose faith so easily."

When Jasper offered only a sad smile and a roll of his eyes, we considered that discussion
appropriately fizzled. It'd come up again. It was a shock to me, that's for sure. I eyed Jasper over
my cup with a questioning expression, but he was avoiding my gaze. Carlisle then took a deep
breath and turned to me, smiling encouragingly as he cupped his jaw.

I didn't mind airing out my shit to these people. I'd been doing it for almost a year now, coming to
these meetings and growing familiar with stories that were occasionally worse than mine,
occasionally better. It was never a contest. It was usually just discussion with a lot of struggling
people. I hated admitting that it helped—at first. But not anymore. I didn't have the time or energy
to waste on pride or bitterness.

With a breath, I pondered over my month and eventually began, "Uh, well… I didn't get that job
over at Northam's." Everyone frowned sympathetically, but I shrugged a shoulder, reasoning,
"Hey, I wasn't even expecting to get it. I'm pretty sure I fucked the foreman's daughter…" I
grimaced as they chuckled, Jasper snorting.

Yeah, I'd fucked his daughter, but in my defense, I didn't even remember it—not really. I
remembered the way her hair had swept over my face as she rode me. It was blonde and had felt
like a silk halo of girl. I actually referred to her as, "Long blonde, John Frieda, straight as a board."
Mr. Northam was confused. Knowing her name might have saved me a lot of grief.

Might have.

Probably not.

God, Forks was so small.

"Anyway, I'm looking into something up here in Port Angeles, so If you know anyone who's
hiring..." I flashed them all a wry grin as Carlisle visibly suppressed his eye roll.

He'd been trying to get me on at the hospital for months, but I wouldn't take it. Getting a job was
something I needed to do myself, and it had nothing to do with pride. I already lived under his roof,
ate his food, and used Esme's car. I'd accepted enough of his help. The point was to use his
generosity as tools, not crutches.

Jasper piped in then, finally raising his eyes. "I'll keep my ear out for ya."

I smiled, offering a small, "Thanks."

The slap of Carlisle's hands against his thighs signaled the end of the meeting, and we all stood,
stretching our limbs and cracking our necks.

After a quick recital of the Serenity Prayer, we all disbursed, with some going to the refreshment
table to devour the surplus donuts, some meeting with their sponsors, and others simply leaving
with amicable nods.

This was a good group—definitely the best I'd been to. It was solid and dependable, and Jasper,
my sponsor, was good people. Sure, he was as fucked up as the rest of us, but if I ever found
myself stuck on Second and Lafayette, parked in front of ABC Liquor, he'd be there to talk me
down before I could even hang up the cell phone. Those favors were always returned in kind, of
course.

It was all Carlisle, really. He'd set these meetings up in the basement of St. Mary's for every
Tuesday. He was devoted to seeing it through, to helping people. Carlisle had never been an
alcoholic himself. In the past, people had looked down on this particular group for that reason
alone.

They wondered how he could preach to them if he'd never experienced the addiction. But what
they didn't realize was that Carlisle had experienced the effects of addiction, just from the other
side. He probably knew it better than most of the addicts. Addicts were assholes who rarely stuck
around to witness the destruction they caused anyway. Carlisle had seen how alcoholism could
violently rip a family apart. He knew because his son was an alcoholic and had spent years upon
years of his life causing those grey hairs by pushing him around and making his life miserable.

It could have killed Carlisle. Hell, it probably did to an extent—not that he'd ever allow anyone to
actually see. But Carlisle wouldn't just lie down and accept defeat like that. Unlike Lauren's father,
he never gave up, and as a result, he was more than qualified to be leading these meetings. He
knew just as much about the monster as anyone.

He knew because he was the monster's father.

He knew because he was my father.

I used to loathe waking up. I was a hangover magnet. No matter how hydrated I'd always kept
myself, I'd always ended up feeling absolutely miserable come morning—or afternoon—or
evening. Those were probably some of my darkest moments: waking up in some random woman's
bed—or in my own bed with said random woman next to me—head throbbing, muscles aching,
wondering what the hell I'd done the night before and knowing that I'd probably pissed someone
off in the process.

The sex was usually mediocre—I think.

Hair was all I ever remembered about it because it felt feminine and delicate, and I'd never in my
entire life had sex sober. How sad was that? After so long, it was impossible not to immediately
associate hair with sex, so it was the only feature of a woman I ever cared about. Sadly, when I'd
awake sober and begin actually meeting the faces the hair belonged to, I'd be disgusted with
myself for not being more discerning. Those thoughts always left me impossibly more depressed.

You had your angry drunks (Jasper), your silly drunks (James), your promiscuous drunks
(Lauren), and your depressed drunks (everybody). I just so happened to be all of those types of
drunks, depending on the time of day. Nothing was worse than mornings, though. I used to hate
them, so fucking much.

Of course now, I woke up completely refreshed and clear-headed. It was like night and day, black
and white. The first time I ever woke up without a hangover, I knew I was on to something. It was
pretty pathetic that it'd taken me so long to realize that my one source of true joy was also my one
source of true misery.

Energized by the time my feet hit the carpet, I'd left mornings like those behind. I had taken to
doing push-ups when I woke up, and after weeks of the routine, I was now up to fifty. I liked feeling
productive and helping around the house, looking for jobs during nine-to-five. I liked making Esme
smile.

I owed her twelve years' worth of them.

I made my bed afterward because even though I was thirty-year-old man, I could always expect
Esme to want to come in here and pick up after me. Sometimes, I'd let her because she didn't
have anything else to do. She also enjoyed getting some of those years back that I'd selfishly
stolen from her.

I stretched as I traveled to my closet and opened the door, examining the black marker scrawled
over the entire length of the wood. I scratched my jaw absently as I removed my Sharpie from the
shelf, searching for one Mr. Jenks. Once I found his name, I crouched down, uncapped the
marker, and reverently eased the felt tip over it.

There was no better feeling in the world than crossing out someone on my list in the morning.
Sounds cheesy as hell, I know, but making amends over the last twelve months had been a lot like
healing one wound at a time—wounds I hadn't even realized existed. All those mornings I'd spent
in bed, waking up feeling like shit, convinced that it'd never be possible to get back in anyone's
good graces, and here I was, crossing out Mr. Jenks since I'd finally grown the balls to call last
night and apologize for breaking into his first law firm office. It'd been a rundown little
establishment, and James and I had really done a number on it. I'd known Mr. Jenks since I was
little, so it'd always kind of stuck with me that I'd managed to cause him trouble with my reckless
behavior.

It also helped that the statute of limitations prevented him from pressing charges.

I stepped back and assessed the list written across my door. I did this every morning, but on the
ones where I'd manage to actually cross someone out, it felt as if another piece of my individual
self had settled back into place. The pieces were jagged and not always familiar, but they were
there and, fuck, that was something.

Really, the size of the list was a little laughable. Just because I couldn't remember many of my
indiscretions didn't mean that I never found out about them. Like I said, Forks was a small town.
Ever wanna feel awkward as shit? Go up to a complete stranger and say you're sorry for stealing
their money after you'd fucked them, but do so only being able to recognize their hair. Then call
them something like, "Pantene Pro-V, shiny, brunette with annoying ponytail." I'd had more of
those interactions than I'd thought possible.

I sighed as I reached the bottom of the list. Every other name had been crossed out, but this
one… this one was special to me. It went back to the roots of that fork in the road. I can't say
exactly where it all began, of course. Few could explain what put them on a destructive path
because they were too busy taking the path to stop, look back, and even consider it.

I'd had a privileged childhood: great parents, awesome sister, boatloads of friends, and a good
support system. Carlisle once mused that I had an addictive personality. Maybe that's true, and
there was no stopping it—I don't fucking know.

But I do know when it all went downhill, and the final person on my list suffered for it.

I suffered for it.

Everyone suffered for it.

That one event could have pushed me in either polar direction. If I'd been a better person, had
been a better man, I could have used that experience to sober myself up then. That was what
sobering experiences were meant to do. But it didn't. I pushed myself farther down that other,
darker path, because it was where I'd been convinced I had belonged—among the monsters of
the world.

It was an instinct I still struggled with, to this day.

With a huff, I capped the Sharpie and closed the door. That was something that would likely never
get crossed off my list, however, and for good reason. Chief Swan's daughter had moved to
Jacksonville after that day, and for the last twelve years, he'd refused to cough up any kind of
contact information.

"She just wants to move on," he'd said once. "And you're going to let her."

After so long, I'd given up. I accepted that which I couldn't change. Isabella Swan was probably
living her life, married with kids or something, and perfectly happy. Believing this made me happy,
and so I'd let it go.

But she'd never be crossed off my list, and even at that moment, as I stood under the shower and
felt a sense of completion for having crossed out the next to last name scrawled on my closet
door, hers would always remain there—a reminder of that piece of myself that I could never
reclaim.
"Why won't you stop being so proud?" Esme asked, pouting at me gently over the breakfast bar as
I guzzled a glass of orange juice.

I rolled my eyes. "It's not pride," I promised, shoving a spoonful of cereal into my mouth.

"Not to say that he'd be putting any pressure on you, but he trusts you with the position," she
persisted, eyes hopeful.

"See," I began, pointing the spoon at her dramatic frown. "You think that I think that you two don't
trust me, but it's not about that." I already knew they didn't trust me. "Finding a job will mean more
to me when I do it myself. And I will," I added, "do it myself."

She harrumphed and spun on her heel, halting at the doorway when the phone rang. She picked it
up and mock-glared at me as she answered.

I just smirked. Carlisle knew better than to pester me about the job at the hospital. He knew that
sometimes, a man just needed to have that peace of mind. Esme, however, was not so easily
deterred.

"What?" Esme's stricken voice drew my attention. Her hand flew to her chest and she stood,
phone to her ear, face pale as she gasped. "Oh, Carlisle—that—that's so awful!"

"What?" I asked, seeing her eyes sparkle with tears. It was like getting punched in the stomach. I
hated seeing Esme cry. Even at my worst, that secretly did me in. I couldn't handle a crying
woman period, but when it was my own mother, it was like… damn. Just stab me in the chest, why
don't you?

She put her hand over the receiver and whispered to me, "Chief Swan died last night."

My orange juice caught in my throat as I swallowed, watching her cry over the phone. I listened as
she made floral arrangements for the service that was to be held the following afternoon, my
cereal marshmallows bobbing morbidly in my bowl of abandoned milk.

I felt sick.

My parents had been somewhat close to the Chief after the incident in high school with his
daughter. They felt responsible, since they were responsible for me, and had made it a point to
keep in close contact with him after she'd left. I'd resented them for it for a long time because I
could never really get far enough away from that one mistake. It was always right there, staring at
me through the faces of my family—a flash of their eyes or a tightening of their lips.

But I guess I was a little close with the Chief, too. Not in a friendly, buddy-buddy sort of way. He
never would have even allowed me through his door. But there were those days where I'd be
sober enough to draft a letter to his daughter in hopes that it'd make it to her, desperate for her to
at least know that I was sorry. I'd camp out his front stoop and wait for him to emerge, usually
armed.

I'd pretty much beg and grovel at his feet for a good ten minutes until I'd give up and wander away,
leaving the letter on his steps. I'd then find the nearest bar and wallow heavily in my guilt amongst
the monsters that surrounded me, where I belonged. Those stints were always pretty bad.

Chief Swan found me on his steps one Friday night—probably all gross and disheveled, I don't
even know what I looked like, but it must have been pretty bad because he said to me, "Son, I
don't know why I even bother bringing my gun out here. You're already doing a pretty good job of
killing yourself for the both of us." Then he'd slammed the door in my face.
He'd been right about that.

He'd been right about a lot of things.

"Do you believe in signs?" I asked Carlisle the next afternoon as we ate a quick lunch, winding
down from our day. Mine had been spent in a bit of a stupor as I'd followed up on my final
employment prospect in Forks. I'd already exhausted all the others. Luckily for me, Mike Newton
didn't have a wife. What he did have was a sporting goods store that needed a stocker.

"Signs? Like divine intervention?" he clarified, taking a bite of his sandwich.

I nodded, wondering aloud, "I was just thinking about Chief Swan yesterday morning and how I'd
never get to cross his daughter off my list. Then—well, maybe it could be a sign. She'd come for
the funeral, right?" I looked to him, hopeful and anxious as fuck all. It was one thing to write letters
and another to come face to face with her.

Carlisle frowned thoughtfully. "Of course she'd come to the funeral, but, Edward, I really don't think
that's the time and place for you to—"

"Oh, no," I interrupted. "I get that. I wouldn't bumrush her or anything. Maybe she'll stick around
town for a day or so," I pondered.

He simply hummed in response, but I could detect the tightness around his eyes as he avoided my
stare. I knew my own father well enough to realize when he was hiding something.

"Don't make me ask," I implored with a sigh. "You know what this means for me."

Finally meeting my gaze, he palmed his cheek, assessing me. "You know how your sister gossips,
so it's information that I'd take with a grain of salt." I nodded. Leaning forward, Carlisle informed,
"Word has it that she refuses to sell his house. One could venture that she plans to move in,
but…" He let his words permeate the air with uncertainty.

My stomach was already in knots.

"Grain of salt," he warned, returning to his meal and eying me sharply. "Even if she did move, it
doesn't mean that it'd be a good idea. Remember? Make direct amends to such people wherever
possible—"

"—except when to do so would injure them or others. I get it," I finished with a scowl at my plate.

"One day at a time," he reminded, wiping his mouth and swiftly changing the subject. "How'd
Newton's go?"

I puffed out a hard sigh and cocked my head, listing off, "Application? Check. Driving Record?
Check. Awkward conversations with people who hate me? Check, check, and check." I ignored his
blatantly disapproving expression. It wasn't that I was being pessimistic, it was just that—Newton
only knew a different version of me. I couldn't blame him. "I don't think I'll wait by the phone, if you
know what I mean." Then it was my turn to change the subject. "Jasper said he'd come to Sunday
dinner."

As expected, Carlisle was easily distracted, and he smiled. "That's good. You know how Esme
worries about him." He was relieved, so I figured that my mom had been harping about Jasper
since the last time he'd been invited to dinner.

He was, according to her, "Too skinny."

God forbid.

A/N: Heh. Probably not the time leap most of you were expecting, but age was the main request of
the prompt, so… the HS scene was my way of cheating. ~looks innocent~ Everyone's asking
about length, and I'm pretty confident this'll be 13 chapters.

Also, I must address that this chapter uncovers some similarities to TalulaBlue's, With Teeth. I'd
written most of this story before it was brought to my attention, but after much correspondence,
TalulaBlue (who is so incredibly sweet and awesome omg) and I were confident that, though our
stories shared the AA/Jasper-sponsor thing, our plots were light-years apart. Definitely check out
her fic for a different and truly captivating take on Rehabward. Remove Spaces: twilighted
viewstory . php?sid=7061

Thanks to Pastiche and FrenchBeanz for the beta and Angel for, not only bringing With Teeth to
my attention and being present for my freak out, but also for being her awesome self. If you're
looking for a creepy DarkVampward AU, read her fic, Daedalus in Exile (listed in my faves on my
profile). It's getting soooo good, guise.

See y'all Sunday!

A/N: Twilight and its characters belong to Stephenie Meyer. I don't own anything. Not even
Boozeward. He belongs to the fab ladies at WArehab and they can do whatever they want with
him (except allow him anywhere near water or feed him after midnight). Thanks so much for all
your kind words and encouragement!

I was walking down the hall, everything seeming to radiate a blue tint. My hands looked deathly
pale, the floors looked lavender, the walls looked cerulean, and the lockers… well, the lockers
were midnight blue.

I was late for World History. The bell had rung, and people who rushed past me were going to
make it. Unfortunately, my feet seemed to move slower. I was easily distracted by Mike Newton,
who stopped to say, "Come to the beach with us on Saturday."

I was hungry, and the bake sale table captured my attention next. I bought a cupcake and ate it as
I continued, rolling my eyes at Tyler when he threw a football down the hallway. We weren't
allowed to play sports indoors like that.

I halted when I reached the double doors, staring out of the tall vertical window as I surveyed the
courtyard. I could see the area illuminated like everything else darkened, the only thing visible—or
allowed to be visible—a head of messy hair. Edward Cullen, more orange than blue, walked
toward the doors, laughing about something someone had said, head shaking, boots stomping,
arms swinging. He captured my eyes and my breath caught, my arms painfully squeezing the
textbooks in my arms as he pulled open the door, sparing me an askew glance as he continued on
his path.

I watched as he walked away with a swagger, talking animatedly and eventually ducking into a
classroom.

God, he was so beautiful.

With a sigh of epically dreamy proportions, I returned to my quest to be punctual to World History.
I cursed myself for being so easily distracted when I had important things to do. I had places to be,
I kept reminding myself. We had a quiz. My whole grade depended on it—maybe even my whole
life.
Panicking, I struggled to make my feet carry me farther down the south wing of the school, doors
closing in my wake and making me jump with anxiety. I was late. I was so late. The teacher would
never forgive my tardiness, and I'd be forced to go to the principal's office. I was sweating as I
searched for the door, praying that my instructor would be understanding, just this once.

When I'd finally reached the correct corridor (for some reason, I kept wandering down the wrong
ones), I was so relieved that I could feel my muscles loosen, a smile stretching over my face.
Better late than never, I figured. I trudged forward, begging my feet to carry me faster. The door
was in my sight, and I was determined to make it. If I could just ignore the rattle that came from my
side, a vibration of the lockers, then I could get there unhindered.

But the rattle was very distracting, and my feet ceased their steps, as if independent from my
body. I was frustrated and looked to the lockers with annoyance. They were still midnight blue, but
one in particular looked almost black, the lock on it shaking just slightly enough for my eyes to
catch the movement.

My throat tightened uncontrollably. Locks don't shake on their own like that. I'd seen enough ghost
flicks to know that you don't go exploring unnatural noises and movements. Frighteningly, my legs
carried me toward it anyway, and I could feel myself coil as I drew closer to the subtle "clinking"
sounds of the lock grazing the metal of the locker.

My hand was surprisingly steady as it lifted to the padlock, fingers grasping the bottom and slowly
pulling until a click resounded through the blue halls. I gulped as my eyes shifted from side to side,
and then decided to spare the horizontal grates a second glance. I could only discern black from
where I stood and had to stand my tip toes to get a peek inside, bracing my fingertips against the
structure as I peered.

Brown eyes snapped forward, stared back at me with a gurgling noise.

I sprung myself back, only to collide with a hard chest. I was happy to not be alone, and I turned to
tell the stranger what I'd seen, my heart racing as I panted sharp breaths.

"Something's in there," I informed, staring up and meeting the green eyes and blue coolness of
Edward Cullen.

He looked different than before. He wasn't as orange, and his smile wasn't as soft. His posture
was stiff and lacked the same grace he'd emanated during his walk through the courtyard. I gulped
as I inched backward, careful to keep an equal distance between both him and the thing in the
locker.

His lips pulled up into a smile that was craggy, exposing three of his left, gleaming teeth. "Really?"
he whispered, his voice sounding cold. "What did it look like?"

Swallowing, my hands wrung as I explained in a stammer, "Uh, there w-w-were eyes. Brown eyes.
They h-had these… veins, like bloodshot." I could feel the locker at my back though I had been so
careful to keep away from it, I jumped, Edward seeming closer now as well.

"Hmm." He looked over my shoulder through the grates, his smile hardening, eyes crinkling
around the edges. They snapped to mine. "Maybe it's looking for you," he ventured through jagged
lips, grasping my arm and yanking me forward.

I was paralyzed as he reached to the lock and removed it, my breath coming in errant bursts as I
tensed, awaiting the reveal of the thing with the eyes. The black door swung open and I held my
breath, immediately releasing it with a gasp as he shoved me into the darkness.
With a shriek, I lurched upright in bed, heart hammering as my hair stuck to my sweaty neck. I
swallowed lungfuls of air, pulling my hair away and clenching my eyes shut as I twisted it up into a
knot atop my head. My hands shook when I lowered them to my nightstand to retrieve my lucky
pen and I curled them into fists while calming my racing heart. With a vicious stab, I speared the
pen through my bun, securing it away from my face as I scanned the empty room.

It was the coffin, I decided.

Seeing Charlie in that coffin was a really fucked up experience. When I died, I wanted to be
cremated, for no other reason than I just couldn't spend eternity in a box. It'd been years since I'd
had a nightmare like that. Being back in Forks probably had a lot to do with it, too, and I was bitter
as I regarded the sun shining through my bare windows, warming my face and shoulders. I
squinted against the brightness, and it didn't seem right. It felt almost… inappropriate. Rude.
Inconsiderate.

My dad was dead.

The sun shouldn't be shining.

My mattress had no sheets, so I slipped easily from the bed, still wearing my clothes from the day
before. The floor was cold as my feet slapped down the staircase. The living room was eerily
silent; the entire house, eerily silent. I'd only been here for five days, and I already hated silence.

I turned the television on and cranked up the volume, just to make the house feel less… dead. The
weatherman's booming voice echoed off the empty furniture as I prepared my coffee. Apparently,
it wasn't going to rain until Saturday. Damn it.

My dad's old coffeemaker puttered to life once filled. It made the shittiest coffee. I had no idea how
he handled drinking from it for… God only knows how long. I snatched my cigarettes from the
kitchen table, eyes still blurred with sleep as I unlocked the door and exited onto the front porch. I
lit a cigarette and stretched, looking out over the overgrown lawn.

Charlie had been sick for a long while. No one really knew, because Charlie hadn't wanted anyone
to really know. He was a lockbox like that. No one could keep a secret like my dad, and no one
would ever know just how many secrets he had. His biggest was probably the cancer, though. I
didn't even find out until a week before he passed, and even then, he'd played it down to the point
that it seemed like nothing more than a bad case of arthritis. He was idiotically genius.

I guess I hadn't really considered how long he'd been bad off, though. Not until I saw the house.
It'd once been his pride and joy. Charles Swan didn't own much in this world, but there was his
quarter acre of property off of Cedarcrest Road where a two-story house sat that he'd paid off with
his blood, sweat, and tears. Of course, turns out, stage four prostate cancer makes it a little
difficult to keep up.

The house, the yard, the driveway, the front stoop—it'd all gone to shit. And this big ole pile of
shit? It was now mine.

I plopped onto the first step with a huff of smoke, rubbing my eyes as I adjusted to the sun.

I couldn't sell it. Maybe I was being sentimental or nostalgic or… whatever. It was his, and he gave
it to me. That meant something, and even though it'd be really, really smart to sell and move back
to sunny Florida where I had nothing waiting for me but a rented apartment and a job that made
me want to kill myself, I just couldn't fucking do it.

I didn't want anyone else living in the house. It'd be a pile of shit to them, but to me… to me the
brown spot on the lawn was where my beloved Chevy had sat for ten years. To me, that old
decrepit swing set in the backyard was the first toy my dad had ever assembled for me. To me, it
was childhood and laughter and the smells of warm coffee and Charlie coming down the stairs to
ask, "Have you seen my other shoe?"

To me, it was home—his home—our home.

I butted my cigarette out into the soil of the large planter by the door. That plant was deader than a
doornail anyway. I made a note to replace it with an ashtray as I retuned inside and drank my
awful coffee.

By nine, I was awake, showered, dressed, and ready to spend my day applying for jobs. I might
not have had rent to pay, but there were utilities and expenses and groceries and… shit. I really
needed to get a move on. Charlie had left me money, truthfully, but it didn't feel right spending it
on bills. That money was meant for something special and noteworthy.

Maybe tuition.

And that's how I spent my entire day applying for jobs while feeling like utter shit. Charlie had only
been gone for a week, and I was already thinking of ways to spend the man's money?

My head hung a little lower than usual as I drove from establishment to establishment. As always,
I ruled out anything in a cubicle, anything with an elevator, anything shady on legal details, and
any place that didn't ask for a background check. I put on a fake smile and—when gender allowed
it—poked out my strategic cleavage and laughed—a lot.

I had seven job offers by noon.

"Really?" Renee breathed too heavily over the phone as she was prone to do when she was
caught off guard. "That just doesn't sound like something you'd like," she remarked.

I sighed. "There isn't anything here to like, mom. At least the bar and grill gig comes with the
promise of free food and beer." I could practically hear her smile at this. She'd been worried about
me, that much was obvious. I continued with faux enthusiasm, "I like the shitty jobs, you know?
There's less pressure. Everything is week to week, tip to tip. And you have to admit, it'll never be
boring."

The Lodge's Bar and Grill was the classiest restaurant in Forks, which… wasn't really saying
much, but, let's face it, my options were limited.

"You don't miss working at the paper?" Renee wondered. That was her code for "Don't you really
want to come home to mommy?"

"Nope." I didn't. The paper had given me three ulcers and as great as Renee could sometimes be,
I was ready to cut the cord. I should have done it long ago. I should have stayed and cherished my
time with Charlie instead of running away like a coward.

Shoulda, woulda, coulda…

"Well, if it makes you happy, then what can I say? I waitressed a few times, you know. There was
this one time in Phoenix, this little bistro, and the boss was this enormous Italian man, really surly
guy. He had the biggest obsession with—" I nodded and hummed along, lolling my head back on
the sofa. I struggled absently to craft of a decent excuse to hang up, even though I knew once I
did, I'd be bored and alone again.
It was then that I heard the telltale thump-ump and scrape of a car driving too fast over the large
bump in the driveway. I stood and walked to the kitchen, offering Renee a distracted, "That's
totally crazy, mom," as I peeked out the curtains. I figured it was another officer from the station,
coming by to check up on me. Either they were looking to honor their late Chief by looking after
me, or looking for a good reason to waste tax-payers' dollars since there was nothing else in this
town to do.

The car was silver, though, not a cruiser. And the driver was dressed in jeans and a sweater, not a
uniform, and he didn't have a hat. He had a familiar head of coppery hair that bobbed over the
vehicle and dipped as he assessed the damage to the undercarriage of his shiny car.

"I'll call you back."

I hung up the phone without even waiting for a response. I watched as he stood, wrinkled his
nose, thumped at his tire with his shoe and ran his fingers through his hair. When he started for
the door, I dropped the curtain and made my way into the foyer. The coat closet was dark when I
opened it, but I didn't need the light to find what I sought.

My hand caught it immediately, wrapping around the cold metal and wood with a comforting chill.
Before I could even hear a knock, I had the door open, and Charlie's shotgun pointed right at the
middle of his chest.

He had the audacity to be smiling, those red lips curled and tucked into his flawless cheeks. Just
as soon as it'd appeared through the crack in the door, however, it was gone. He staggered back
a step, palms up in the air, eyes wide.

His mouth formed a muted "Whoa," before he said aloud, "You are definitely your father's
daughter."

"Get the fuck off my property," I growled, pumping the shotgun with a pointed chunk-chink.

All grumpy old Clint Eastwood jokes aside, he looked like he was about to piss himself, which,
honestly, would have been laughably karmic. "I just wanted to offer my condolences," he hastily
explained. His green-apple eyes were fixed on the barrel, torso bending back ever so slightly.

My skin felt hot and purple on the surface, though my insides felt downright frigid. I quickly
discovered, the tighter I gripped the gun, the less my hands could be seen shaking.

I was gripping it pretty damned tight. "And I just wanted to watch Wheel of Fortune without some
sorry sack of shit showing up on my doorstep to piss in my cornflakes. Guess we're both kind of
screwed."

He winced, inching backward with a long inhale. "I deserved that, but—"

I cackled in his face, the sound feeble and uncomfortable. "If you came here to discuss what you
deserved, we'll have to sit down. It could take a while."

His eyebrows rose as his hands dropped, thumbs hooked into his pockets. Suddenly, he was the
picture of ease, cocking his head to the side with smiling eyes. "Actually… if you do have a
minute—"

"Are you fucking serious right now?" I wanted to jam the barrel into his chest, but I swore to myself
long ago that I'd never touch Edward Cullen with a ten foot pole—even if bullets exploded from
one end of it.
One hand went to his hair as he visibly considered my question, brows pinched. "Maybe… this is a
bad time?" he hedged uncertainly.

"There won't be a good time," I assured in a flat voice, nodding my head at the street. "And just so
you know, the station has officers patrolling this road, day and night." This was only a partial lie,
but they'd offered, and I had no choice but to accept now.

His lips formed a silent "o" as he bobbed his head thoughtfully, averting his eyes. With a grim nod,
he turned and gripped the flimsy railing, retreating in silence. I smiled inwardly as the dry-rotted
wood gave under his weight, almost making him stumble and fall onto his pretty little face.

He stared at the crumbling remains that tumbled to the ground and looked at me over his
shoulder, urging, "You should get that fixed."

I kept the gun aimed at his back as he walked to his car, only stopping to meet my gaze for a
second before he ducked inside. He pulled out slowly—too slowly for a man whose life had just
been threatened.

When I could no longer see his taillights, I lowered the gun. My hands were shaking so violently
that I no longer felt safe with my finger on the trigger. I didn't return the weapon to the closet,
though. I took it with me as I collapsed onto the couch in a limp, trembling heap.

I rubbed my palms against the denim covering my thighs, the jagged scars from a shattered locker
mirror somehow stinging as if sensing his proximity. That would be an issue. I figured he'd moved
away by now, though I'd never dared to ask anyone. It'd been there, nagging at the back of my
mind ever since I'd boarded the plane in Jacksonville, but I'd pushed it away.

It was one more justification to leave.

I seriously considered whether to stay or leave that night as I lay in bed, the shotgun propped
against my nightstand—out of anger, not fear. I knew the paper would take me back, Renee would
help me get settled into a new place, and the house could go on the market and be sold within
months. It was doable and undeniably tempting.

But I wasn't going to let him chase me away this time. I wasn't a swoony little ignorant girl
anymore. I was something else, someone stronger. He thought he'd broken me, but he hadn't, for
all of his many efforts. I wouldn't have been capable of living with the notion that he might think
he'd chased me away if I fled now.

The scrape of branches against my window reminded me of my fingernails against metal, and I
cringed. I hated remembering that day, that feeling of being trapped and powerless and
suffocated. When I remembered the way I'd tried with all of my might to kick and push and free
myself from that tiny space to no avail, I'd begin sweating. I'd rub my forehead and stretch my
arms out, take deep lungfuls of stagnant air. Sometimes, I'd have to stand up and go outside,
smoke a cigarette and take a walk.

I hadn't remembered it in so long. I'd almost forgotten how cold his eyes had looked as he'd stared
at me through the reflection of a mirror, or the total disregard in the tightness around his brows, or
the way his smirk had looked jagged and stony—like he'd just thought up the most amusing joke,
but was keeping it secret. I'd almost forgotten how he looked so achingly beautiful on the surface,
but how the darkness of his soul had made him the ugliest person I'd ever met.

It was vivid and bright now, though—a lot like the ignorant little girl that I'd left behind, trapped in
the rank darkness of a dented locker.
I saw him again the following Saturday. I'd just finished my first day working at the Lodge and had
stopped by the Thriftway to get some dish detergent and tampons. I was crabby and tired, and I
reeked of grilled beef, Heineken, and irritable bitch.

The cashier was young and thankfully, didn't recognize me. I'd already run into several people
while working and shopping in town. Keeping my hair up and secure with my lucky pen helped a
bit, but once they really looked at me, I was a goner. I'd only lived in Forks for six months as a
teenager and yet, no one from that school had ever forgotten me. It wasn't exactly flattering,
seeing as how the only thing they remembered was the sight of me having pissed myself as I'd
lain on the floor in front of my locker.

"That's ten fifty-four," the pimply boy squeaked, actually blushing as he bagged my box of
tampons. I rolled my eyes as I thrust my debit card at him, annoyed at the way in which he
handled the box like full on contact might curse him with a debilitating case of vagina. He gawked
at the plastic rectangle and said, "Oh, I'm sorry. We only take cash." A point of his finger to a sign
below the register confirmed this.

Who the fuck doesn't accept debit cards? I darted my eyes back and forth between him and the
sign, feeling as if I'd been transported back to the fifties. I'd left my tips in the pocket of my jacket
and was really pissed off about the extra trip to the parking lot. My feet were killing me.

With a huff, I grumbled, "I'll be right back."

But then a hand reached over me and laid a crisp twenty dollar bill before the cashier.

"Oh, I can't…" I began, turning my head to decline this stranger's obvious generosity. I froze when
my brown eyes met warm green.

"It's no problem," he insisted with a shrug, smiling. His grin was jagged, and my eyes grew wide,
heart thrumming loudly in my chest. I gulped against my will, incapable of forming further protest
as I gawked openly at his craggy lips, feeling beads of sweat rise on the back of my neck.

The fucking cashier gave him his change before I could promptly tell Edward Cullen to shove his
twenty dollar bill up his ass. I snatched my bag from the counter and stormed out of the store,
ducking my head as the fine mist of a sprinkle fell from the sky.

I could feel him behind me and my fists clenched around the plastic handles of my grocery bag.
"Leave me alone," I warned over my shoulder, peeking at him as he sprinted toward me out the
automatic doors.

"I don't want to hurt you, I just—" His words caught in his throat as I spun around, enraged.

"You think I'm scared of you?" I screeched with incredulity. Edward Cullen believed that I'd
cowered—that I feared him. It was unbearable. I'd fled all those years ago because I was
humiliated, not intimidated. I walked right up to where he stood, staring up at him steadily as the
rain speckled his hair. "You can't do anything to me. I'd really love to see you try though," I
challenged, jaw tight as my fists curled. "Go on, try me." I stepped closer, daring him to so much
as brush the fabric of shirt against my skin.

I'd dreamed of nut kicking him for too long. God, the catharsis that would bring was almost
intoxicating. I yearned for it with every cell of my being.

His eyes flashed in frustration as he moved back, repeating, "I said I didn't want to hurt you, and if
you'd give me a minute to talk, maybe you'd realize that I'm trying to apologize."
"I don't owe you shit," I spat, turning on my heel and fishing my keys from my pocket. They rattled
in my hand as his footsteps followed me.

He spoke in such a rush that he never took a breath. "I'm more sorry about that day than you'll
ever know and I'm trying to make things right, you know, turning over a new leaf? And I never
forgot and never will, and I know you don't owe me your forgiveness, but I'd really like to earn it."
By the end of his rant, I'd reached my car, and he was gasping a long inhale. He finished, "I'll do
anything."

All I could register was "sorry about that day."

I spitefully wondered, what about all the other days?

"Anything?" I asked belatedly. "Go to hell." I caught a fleeting glance of his pained eyes as I
ducked into the car, slamming the door and jamming the keys into the ignition. My tires squealed
as I left him in the middle of the parking lot, the clouds finally opening and blanketing him in a
sheet of misty darkness.

I caught sight of him in my rearview mirror, looking to the sky, jaw tight, eyes closed, arms limp as
the frigid rain assaulted his face.

For the first time that week, I smiled.

A/N: Betas-PastichPen/Frenchbeanz. EZrocksangel/RevRag helped tooooo! Thanks guise!

And thanks everyone for all those awesome reviews!

I posted Chapter 1 of a new angsty novella fic (Rising) on my LJ (link on profile).

If you enjoy reading Terribella and the bitch that lives in all of us, check out Girl Afraid (on faves
list). It was rec'd today on , and I lubbs!

See y'all Wednesday! Hope your holidays are going well!

A/N: Twilight and its characters belong to Stephenie Meyer. I don't own anything. Not even
Boozeward. He belongs to the fab ladies at WArehab and they can do whatever they want with
him (except allow him anywhere near water or feed him after midnight). Thanks so much for all
your kind words and encouragement!

Saturday, FFn was being failylicious, so just in case anyone doesn't realize, this is Chapter Four,
and Chapter Three is that-a-way -

I listened to her car disappear as I sighed up at the clouds, rain pelting my shoulders and face.

I should have written her a fucking letter.

By the time I finally reentered the Thriftway, I was already sopping wet. The cashier who I'd just
abandoned watched me with scrutinizing eyes as I rattled a cart free and sulked to the deli.

Chief Swan's daughter—Isabella—had every right to be a bitch to me, so even though it

completely broke my spirits, I couldn't exactly feel sorry for myself or frustrated or anything else I
wanted to feel. I'd had plenty of rough encounters while making amends over the past year. Hell,
Ben Cheney had clocked the shit out of my jaw when I'd shown up on his doorstep to apologize for
my behavior toward his wife.

Angela Cheney (Redken, breast-length brunette, curled at the ends) had been a bartender at what
was once my favorite bar. Apparently, my constant ass-grabbing, lewd comments, and overall
asinine conduct toward her in particular had caused her enough distress to quit her job. Her
husband hated my guts, even though I'd helped her get a new—and far more acceptable—job at
the hospital with Carlisle's assistance. I'd apologized profusely until I'd earned her forgiveness.
She'd sent me a Christmas card the previous year. But if it had Ben Cheney on my list instead of
his wife, I never would have had the pleasure of crossing him out.

There were handfuls of experiences such as that one, and for the most part, everyone made me
earn their absolution. It was rarely easy, and I was used to being turned away once or twice, but…
I just knew that Isabella would be the worst of them all.

I wasn't really certain I'd have it any other way.

She exuded obstinacy, that kind of tenacity that was impervious to persistence. Her eyes didn't
display the same adorable ferocity as they had in high school. Instead, that adorable ferocity had
matured into something hard and fortified, with a trace of cynicism in the slant of her lips. I mean,
she'd pulled a fucking shotgun on me.

Wherever the Chief was in spirit, he was wearing a shit-eating grin.

In any case, it was going to take a lot more than words and a Dawn-slash-Tampax purchase to
win her forgiveness. I spent most of my time in the grocery store thinking it over, wondering how I
should continue.

To let it go and move on without making it right wasn't even an option, although, in all honesty, I
shouldn't have even been entertaining the notion. I didn't know Isabella well enough, and I couldn't
be totally confident that my efforts wouldn't end in someone getting injured. That was a crucial
point to making amends. If doing so was dangerous, we weren't supposed to make the attempt. I
knew Carlisle would be disappointed and frustrated if he found out, so I'd decided to conveniently
omit my previous encounter with the Chief's daughter whenever we spoke.

As I began crossing things out from another list—Esme's Sunday dinner grocery list—I pondered
what Isabella might need. She didn't need a job, that much was for certain. Alice had told us that
she'd been hired at the Lodge and had received many more offers. Truthfully, I couldn't deny my
aggravation with that. I'd been looking for a job in Forks for eight months.

Must be nice having tits.

Nothing genius struck until I was at the register, three dollars short because I'd helped Isabella
pay, and had to dip into my savings reserve.

I didn't have much. I did odd jobs around the town for those who'd let me and had managed to
save a little over four thousand dollars toward moving out of my parents' house. I'd planned to
make the move as soon as I had a steady job, but… that wasn't looking promising, and the Chief's
house was looking worse for wear. I figured Isabella could maybe use some monetary assistance
in getting it back to its previous condition. If she refused to sell it, it must have meant something to
her.

I found myself conflicted that night as I counted out my money, a little apprehensive about handing
it all over—well, most of it. I mean, I'd busted my ass for it and four thousand dollars probably
didn't seem like a lot to some people, but to me, it was pretty much the only thing I'd earned. Ever.

But Isabella was new to town and working that shitty waitressing job, and I was sure that, if she
had the money, she would have already begun work on the house—which she obviously hadn't. I
didn't want her to think I was just trying to buy her off, so I set to work on doing what I probably
should have done in the first place.

I wrote a letter.

Not to toot my own horn or anything, but I was pretty good with words—especially written. I pretty
much obsessed over my notebook all night, trying to perfect my sentiment and show that I truly
wanted to assist her and earn my absolution. It was going to take more than money, I knew that.
So I also offered the gift of my manual labor.

Once I was done, I placed it all in an envelope, frowning at the small stack of bills as I slid them
inside and taped it closed. I didn't fret over it for long, though. I knew better than anyone that
forgiveness was sacred and entirely priceless. It'd be more of a boost than a setback, and that
was saying a lot, because honestly, it was a really fucking enormous setback.

Jasper looked a little uncomfortable, a little lost, and a whole shitload of awkward as he stood
before Esme, accepting her hug with anxious eyes. She smashed his cheeks with her palms and
placed a kiss on each one. He looked to me as if to ask, "Is this normal for her?"

I shrugged.

"Look at you! Carlisle, look at him." Esme turned to my dad with her lips all pursed into a scowl.
She "subtly" gestured to Jasper's waist. "Doesn't he look wonderful?" she asked, although it
sounded a lot like, "Wouldn't he look wonderful if your sorry ass invited him to dinner more?"
Without allowing him to answer, she turned back to Jasper, who was frowning down at his
shoes—or possibly his waist. "What would you like to drink?" she asked, quickly expounding, "We
have ginger ale, sweet tea, juice, milk…"

Jasper ducked his chin. "Sweet tea is fine, thank you." Jasper was always a little timid around
Esme. I wasn't certain why, but she did tend to unintentionally make everyone in her presence feel
substandard.

"She's starting to make me feel like a fucking bean pole," I told Jasper as we sat at the sofa,
waiting for dinner, since, I couldn't have weighed that much more than him. "Does that new girl of
yours ever cook for you?" I tried to sneak it in all cavalierly, like I was just curious for the sake of
his weight, but the cluck of his tongue made it apparent that I'd failed.

"I was wondering when you were you gonna start jumping my shit about that." He was so tucked
into the corner of the couch that his discomfort was evident and infectious. I wondered why he
even bothered accepting these invitations if he felt so ill at ease here.

"Who's jumping whose shit? I'm just curious."

His silence made me wonder if he might not say anything, and I was okay with that. It wasn't
unlike him to answer questions with silence. To some people, that'd seem rude as hell, but I knew
better, because he only did so when actually answering the question would be even ruder. "She's
a pretty good cook," he eventually supplied.

Encouraged, I prodded, "What does she look like? What does she do? What's she like? How'd you
meet? You know, the usual shit." I couldn't explain my curiosity, but I just couldn't see Jasper in a
relationship. He was such an inwardly intense person, so quiet and guarded. He was also in the
same point in his recovery as me, which made my head spin.

I couldn't even begin to fathom having a relationship.

"She's… pretty, she works in retail, she's… a happy person, like I said before, and we met through
a friend." His answer was curt and rushed, a sharp glance at me from the corners of his eyes
signaling his annoyance.

"Wow, don't go ape shit with all of those glowing details or anything." I really wanted to know why
she was being such a heinous bitch about keeping Jasper some dirty secret. My instincts told me
he was setting himself up for a lot of grief, which was a distraction he really didn't need.

His huff emerged as a hiss through his teeth, fists curled on his bouncing knees. "Just fucking
drop it, okay?"

I blinked, taken aback, but ultimately contributed, "Hey, man, sorry." His reaction just pretty much
solidified my theory that he was fucking up. I wouldn't be the asshole that told him so, though.

"Dinner hasn't started yet, and you're already apologizing for something? Gotta love dinners with
the fam." Our heads turned to find Alice propped against the doorway, ankles crossed, arms
folded across her chest, jacket speckled with rain, and a wide smile stretched over her face.

Three minutes later, I had her pinned to the ground, one of her wrists in my hand as I forcibly
brought her knuckles to her head. She thrashed, laughing beneath me as I chanted, "Stop hitting
yourself, stop hitting yourself, stop hitting yourself…"

She threw her head back, shrieking, "Mom!" Her glare was playful as she swatted at me, dodging
her fist by shaking her head.

Jasper stood beside the sofa, looking on with a worried brow and gnawing at his fingernail. I
quirked an eyebrow at him, but he simply looked away as I continued antagonizing my little sister,
snickering at her futile attempts to retaliate.

We were just making up for lost time.

Esme's head poked out of the kitchen, ordering sternly, "Edward, stop making your sister hit
herself, dinner's ready."

"Oh!" With that, I stood, offering Alice my hand before promptly tossing all one-hundred-and-ten
pounds of her over my shoulder. She giggled and kicked her legs, smacking at my back, but
everyone was smiling as her laughter filled the house. Well, everyone but Jasper. I didn't know
what the hell his deal was, but there was nothing as soothing as having laughter fill the large
expanse of our home.

It was so much better than the screaming.

I dumped her into her seat and mussed her hair, laughing at the mortified expression she wore as
she hastily patted it back into place. She obsessed with it for a good five minutes, using her
spoon's reflection to not-so-subtly primp.

Once we were all seated and had begun eating, Alice began with a sigh, "So, Edward, word
around town has it that you're harassing the poor Swan chick."

Carlisle's shocked eyes were already on me and I hastily insisted, "I'm not harassing." At his
skeptical expression, I repeated, "I'm not. I went to her house once and ran into her at the
Thriftway. It's no big deal." I shrugged and shoved some food into my mouth, praying they'd let it
be. I really didn't want to discuss my utter failure at making amends with Isabella, and I didn't want
Carlisle to shut me down before I'd had a chance to deliver my envelope and give it one more
shot.
"Edward—" Carlisle warned, but Esme quickly jumped in.

"I think determination is a very admirable quality. It's commendable that you're willing—"

Alice silenced everyone while cutting into her beef with nonchalance. "I heard she tried to shoot
you."

Carlisle's eyes flashed in disappointment, while Esme's jaw dropped.

I groaned. "Dammit, Alice, she didn't try to shoot me. She just…" I paused and finished in a rapid
breath, "…answeredthedoorwithashotgun."

Esme's monotone reply was immediate, "Well, that's the end of that."

Before Carlisle could even open his mouth, I shot a glare at my meddling sister and inquired,
"What's new with you, Alice?"

She looked like a deer caught in headlights as her fork lingered in the air, eyes darting around the
table. "Um, same old, same old?" she ventured with a cautious smile.

I scoffed dramatically, since she was a twenty-four year-old female who had more going on in her
life than anyone else at the table. Realizing that it wouldn't suffice, she straightened and cleared
her throat as we all looked on intently, especially Jasper, which was odd, seeing as how he hadn't
said two words since she'd arrived.

She rambled, "We, uh, got this new machine at the store. It can match anything to a paint color,
just put it under this little… thing, and the computer does all the work. It's really neat, mom, you'd
love it. You can, like, bring in this placemat and buy the same color to paint the walls with."

Esme's expression could only be described as completely awed. "Really? This placemat?" She
fingered the tan fabric and, at Alice's nod, asked in wonderment, "What if it was a plate?"

I didn't miss Jasper's smile as Esme began quizzing Alice about every item under the sun, finding
nothing to be too large or too odd to have color-matched. In fact, if I hadn't been looking close
enough, I would have missed his breathy and hollow chuckle, the shake of his head, and the way
the smile was more bitter than amused.

When I asked him what was up, he only answered with, "Just the same old, same old."

I couldn't explain why, but everything was really uncomfortable after that.

This was a little dangerous, a little careless, and a whole shitload of stupid. I could possibly get
arrested or assaulted or blown to bits with a really big gun. I'd never done anything this stupid
while sober.

The lawnmower came to life with a thunderous roar, vibrating me as I pressed the gas and began
riding a long path through the thick overgrowth of Chief Swan's front yard. My eyes flickered to the
front door, just waiting for a shotgun to poke out of it and blow my head off.

She'd have to shoot me.

I didn't think she had the balls though. I mean, don't get me wrong, she was every bit as sassy as I
remembered her—and then some. But she wasn't a murderer. She was just pissed off and looking
to scare me. She wanted to be left alone because she didn't understand that I was a different
person and maybe I was kind of a dick for forcing her to see that instead of giving her time, but…
whatever.
I was impatient. I wanted her off my list. I wanted to move on and celebrate my first full year of
sobriety with a clear conscience. It meant everything to me—more than the four-thousand dollars
sitting in that white envelope on her front porch and more than getting my head possibly blown off.

There were fates worse than death and one of them was a life of remorse.

I was on my third path when the door finally opened and, like I'd anticipated, she had the gun. I
turned the mower off and sat with my hand on the steering wheel, assessing her wild hair and
wrinkled clothes.

"What the fuck are you doing?" she asked, voice thick with sleep and eyes smoldering.

"What does it look like I'm doing?" I replied, smiling. She wiped at her eyes, lips all pinched into a
scowl as the gun hung so limply that it was more pointed to the ground than anything. "Were you
sleeping?" I asked in amusement.

A glance at my watch confirmed that it was almost noon.

Her eyes flashed as she met my gaze. "I worked until two in the morning, and you're trespassing. I
can mow my own lawn, by the way."

I nodded, pursing my lips in thought. "So… why haven't you?" She'd been here for over two
weeks.

She raised the gun again, and I knew, I sincerely knew that this was a serious situation, but her
hair was tied up into a bun more sloppily than the previous two times I'd seen her. Errant locks
escaped the careless knot and displayed its impressive length. Long hair. My Achilles Heel... I
found myself assessing it, briefly wondering what it might look like were she to wear it down,
letting it tumble over her skin and send wafts of girl scent floating around her.

I shifted in my seat with a horrified swallow.

"That's none of your business. Are you harassing me now? Should I file a restraining order?"

I could practically feel my eyes darken, knowing damn well that she wouldn't shoot me, but she'd
definitely call the cops. Shit. "Just let me finish this and I'll leave, okay?" The front yard wasn't that
large, and I could finish it in an hour, easily. There was still the letter. "I left you a—"

Her eyes closed and she held up a hand to stop me, the gun dropping. "Time out," she rasped,
rubbing her eyes again as she turned around and entered the house, closing the door.

Shrugging, I restarted the mower and continued on my path, idly pondering what kind of hair
products Bella might use. She didn't strike me as the boutique shampoo kind of girl. Maybe
something from the Thriftway shelves? I grimaced. Nice hair like that deserved something
luxurious and decadent, like... Fekkai.

Nodding in absentminded approval, I didn't hear the door open, but a quick glance in its direction
revealed her slouched form perched on the steps, a lit cigarette between two fingers. She stared
into the distance, running her hand over her face and visibly attempting to wake herself up with
haste.

My ride was rushed but thorough over her lawn, little bits of grass flying around me as I strategized
the fastest plan of attack on the overgrowth. I didn't want to bother her for long. I certainly hadn't
expected to wake her up after a long night working and felt like an ass for assuming she'd be
awake.
With a frustrated sigh at myself for fucking up my own plans, I chanced a peek at her, expecting to
see the gun pointed at me yet again, but she didn't have the gun. She had the envelope I'd left for
her in her hands and was staring at it with her head cocked to the side.

The flame of her cigarette lighter was held beneath it.

"Stop!" I exclaimed, fumbling with the key to turn off the mower. Within seconds I was springing
across the yard, watching in horror as the paper smoked, flames licking toward the sky as she
smiled in a kind of disturbing amusement.

By the time I reached her, more than half of the envelope had turned an ashen white. I snatched it
from her hand, causing her to flinch as I threw it onto the ground and stamped it out with my shoe.

I couldn't even….

I palmed my forehead and turned away from her scowl, clenching my eyes closed and giving
myself a moment to deny what she'd just done. With gnashed teeth and deep breaths, I tried to
convince myself that it wasn't that bad. It was only four thousand dollars. It was only money—no
big deal. It was replaceable. With a lot of time and some brutal determination, I could find a way to
make that money back.

But—goddamit—I didn't have tits.

"Do you know what you just did?" I growled. I was trying to control my temper, but I couldn't help it.
I couldn't see anything but the sight of my money going up in flames.

I turned to find her shrugging, chin propped in her palm as she sucked on her cigarette. "I don't
care what you have to say. You can skip the letters from now on." She blew the smoke directly at
me, eyes hard and cold and indifferent.

I probably should have kept it to myself and let her believe that she'd burned nothing but paper,
but…

I thrust a finger to the black-edged envelope lying on the ground. "You just burned four thousand
dollars." I couldn't even hide my anger, one fist curled into my hair as I struggled to just… not even
look at it. I couldn't see it.

I watched as she smiled, chuckling a little, before it slowly dissipated into a tight line. "You aren't
serious," she argued.

I kicked it with my boot, sliding it across the space between us to where she sat. With a pale face,
she didn't break my gaze as she reached down to retrieve it, pushing her fingers through the
charred opening. When her eyes left mine, and she gazed at the contents, it was almost
painful—because her wide eyes and gaping mouth made it real.

She'd really burned the money. With a heavy stomach I followed her eyes and found the remnants
of the bills, the edges intact, but entire halves of them gone.

"Holy mother…" she breathed, face still aghast—less aghast than I felt as I tugged at my hair and
ground my teeth. "How was I supposed to know?" she asked, throwing her hands up in the air.

My jaw dropped. "You're supposed to open it and look before you decide to be a bitch and torch it
for no good reason!"

Her teeth clicked as she stood, chin jutted out, just as I remembered her doing so long ago. As if
transported back in time, I could see a flood of magenta tinting her cheeks, and the moment was
fucked up, and I know I shouldn't have felt it, but on the inside, deep down underneath that
extremely pissed off motherfucker that just lost four thousand dollars, I smiled... a little.

Her voice was a growl, "First of all, no one asked you to come over here and… what? Buy me off
with mommy and daddy's trust fund? Second, I have ample reason to burn anything you've
touched, and finally, you call me a bitch again, and I just might have to expand that logic to your
genitalia."

My laughter didn't ring of amusement as I shook my head, pushing my fingers through my hair.
"That's great. I come out here to do something nice, trying to apologize and help you out since, not
only do I owe you a whole hell of a lot, but your dad was someone I actually respected. And you
can't even…" Defeated, I simply shook my head once again as I realized this was all pointless. I
turned away from her purple face and headed for the mower.

She just looked on with a blank face as I drove it up the ramp and secured it. Wordlessly, I jumped
into the cab of the borrowed truck and sped away from the lawn, five perfect lines carved into the
thick brush. I was beyond being pissed off about it.

Mostly, I was a little depressed, a little disenchanted, and a whole shitload of wishing I had a
fucking drink.

A/N: PastyP and FrenchyB and RevyR were epic helps! And Angel, duh. Without her holding my
hand, I'd be all lost and stuff. Thanks for all the comments and reviews, too! You guys are
UHMAZING! MWAH!

Hmonster4 rec'd LetMeSign's Marble and Mahogany(in mah faves list) yesterday on . It's a pretty
fuckawesome (and completed) AU, if you're in the market for some vampy action.

This is my last update before Christmas, so I hope you all have a safe, fun, and happy holiday!

See y'all Boxer Day!

A/N: Twilight and its characters belong to Stephenie Meyer. I don't own anything. Not even
Boozeward. He belongs to the fab ladies at WArehab and they can do whatever they want with
him (except allow him anywhere near water or feed him after midnight). Thanks so much for all
your kind words and encouragement!

I was (and am) a little behind as the result of the WA Epilogue update Saturday, and then I got
sick (getting better now, yay!). Had to skip an update. Sorry! Hope you all had a great x-mas!

I couldn't wake up without at least two cigarettes and a cup of coffee. I didn't care if the world was
ending. If I woke up to find earth being invaded by some superior alien race, I'd ask them to
timeout for like ten minutes so I could look alive.

I'd been living in my childhood home for a good bit, but I still couldn't fathom lighting up inside.
Charlie never smoked, or if he did, he'd never told me so. Therefore, his house was in many ways
pristine, and I couldn't bring myself to sully it and disrespect him by smoking under his roof.

So, you see, I had this constancy where I would always be found on the front porch after waking
up, smoking a cigarette, coffee pot puttering away, lucky pen nestled safely in my hair, trying to
convince myself that Forks wasn't the total shithole I knew it was. In fact, Forks was a small town,
and people talked—too much. I was sure by now this was common knowledge, which was already
weird and a bit creepy.
But when I opened my door to find Edward Cullen's silver Volvo sitting in front of my house, him
lounging in the drivers' seat, evidently waiting for me…

Yeah. I was creeped out to the max.

I lowered myself to the steps and glared at him through his window, considering the shotgun in the
coat closet. It wasn't entirely necessary, but I hoped that I came off as a little unstable and thus
had managed to scare him shitless a time or two. Sadly, it was looking as if I might have failed.
You'd think after I pointed a shotgun at him twice, told him to go to hell, and destroyed a few
thousand dollars of his money, that he'd get the fucking hint.

Nope.

There he was, head rested back, eyes closed, one hand on the steering wheel and tapping to a
beat of the song that was muffled by his closed windows. It took me a literal two minutes to realize
that a stack of two-by-fours sat beside my porch.

His door opened, drawing my eyes to him as he stepped out, slamming the door and shoving one
hand inside his jeans pocket. The other hand held a large toolbox. "Good, you're up," he said,
starting toward me with an emotionless face. I didn't miss his drooping eyes or wrinkled clothes or
subtle yawn into his shoulder as he came to stand before me.

He was every bit as beautiful as he'd been all those years ago—if not more so. His hair was a little
longer than it had been then, but it was just as lively and vibrant, chaotically elegant. His cheeks
had lost their roundness, giving way to sharp features and a well defined jaw. His nose was
straight, lips that looked thin when he smiled but looked full when he didn't. His choice of clothing
was mostly the same, however: a simple band tee and a pair of jeans that looked well worn.

I inwardly scoffed at this, wondering how in the hell a thirty year old man could get away with
wearing a band tee on a weekday. I could imagine him living in his parent's basement or
something equally as pathetic. It made me happy.

What didn't make me happy was everything I'd thought before that.

He'd taught me how deceiving beauty could really be.

"What the hell is this?" I asked, gesturing to the wood and finding myself too exhausted to threaten
his life or criminal record—yet.

His green eyes shifted to the pile of wood, and he shrugged, explaining dully, "Your railing is bad.
You could fall and split your head open or something." Without awaiting my word, he crouched
down and began rifling through his toolbox, producing a hammer, a level, some nails, and various
other tools that I didn't even recognize.

I scoffed. "Since when do you care whether or not I split my head open?"

He paused, eyes drifting fluidly to mine. I could see the muscles in his stubbled jaw twitch. "I never
wanted you to get hurt," he responded, holding my gaze with an intensity that made me shift
uncomfortably.

"Yeah, right." I laughed, taking a pull from my cigarette and looking out over the trees. "This from
the asshole who used to love watching me trip over his shoes? No one cared about head injuries
then."

"I was an idiot," Edward responded, breaking me from my dark thoughts. I found him staring me in
the eye, elbows propped on his bent knees, hammer swaying loosely from his fingers.

I didn't argue, instead staring at the hammer in his hands with a void face.

I hated that I was remembering these events, with a frustrating frequency now that Edward had
somehow managed to reemerge into my life. I'd left it all behind for so long and chalked it up to a
simple bad high school experience, and I'd been okay with that.

The truth was, however, that falling on my face during assemblies and having my books knocked
from my arms and falling on my ass when I'd have to dodge an intentional volleyball spike had
been more than simple bad experiences.

Spitefully, I mused, "Charlie was so pissed off back then that he almost pulled me from the school
all together—you know, whenever he saw the bruises. Idiocy is when you leave your keys in the
car to run into a convenience store. What you and James did was cruelty."

Edward's eyes jerked to mine then, a vibrant and stunned green, and I immediately regretted
having started this conversation. "Bruises?" he asked, neck snapping back, appalled. "Jesus, we
never hit you or anything—"

I held his stare and my teeth gnashed painfully. "I was a ninety pound, fourteen year old girl. Yeah,
bruises are what happens when some dickhead shoves a stack of ten-pound textbooks from your
arms, or makes you faceplant onto the gym floor, or—I don't know—shoves you inside a locker or
something."

The silence was thick and deafening as he gawked at me, mouth opening and closing with lost
eyes that I couldn't even look at. I was ashamed for revealing my own physical inadequacy all
those years ago. I'd always made it a point to never let him see my injuries. I'd never cried at
school. I'd held it all in until I'd gone to bed at night, and even then, my tears were out of anger,
never pain. I'd been a bit of a loner, but always well liked among my peers. I'd had friends and the
whole cushy teenage girl package, in fact. If it hadn't been for Edward and James, it would have
been perfect.

Waving my hand, I uttered, "Whatever," anxious to take attention away from myself.

Unfortunately, he responded, in this kind of pained whisper. "I liked seeing you riled up, and I
was... not that it's any excuse, but I was used to being rough with other guys, and I didn't even
think—I'm sorry, Isabella, truthfully. If I could go back—"

I halted him with a shake of my head, palm raised as I stood. "I don't care, okay? It is what it is."
And that was the truth. Those experiences had shaped me into a stronger person, which was the
bright side I always struggled to focus upon. He couldn't take that away.

"No," he demanded, returning to his stack of wood with a locked jaw. "It was what it was. What it is
now, is me trying to make it right."

"I don't want your help," I insisted, rubbing the heel of my palm into my forehead. "I can afford to
pay someone to fix it." This was another secretly unbearable notion—that Edward thought me
some grieving, down and out waitress. I was more than that. I had money and a degree, and I was
better than he'd ever know with his band tees and wrinkled jeans and trust fund.

He emitted a groan, fingers rubbing his temples. "Just let me do this one thing? I—I know the
Chief would hate himself if you ever got hurt because he couldn't keep the house up. Consider it a
favor to him instead of you, if that's what it takes." He looked to me wearily, slumping a bit as he
licked his lips and added, "Just the railing, and I won't do anything else, okay?"
I folded my arms across my chest and curled my fists, longing for my cup of shitty coffee. "How
much do you charge?" I intoned in a growl, curling my toes in anger.

He shook his head. "Nuh uh. It's not a favor if you pay me."

"I don't want any favors!" I maintained, battling the urge to stamp my bare foot. Or shove it up his
ass…

He was relentless as he huffed, "For the Chief, remember?" He tilted his head and lifted a hand,
squinting as he tried to block the ray of sun that suddenly broke through a random cloud as he
stared up at me. It cast shadows against his face, and I felt my breath catch as it illuminated his
sharp features.

I quickly looked away, inwardly berating myself for remembering him as I had back then. "I'm
paying you back the four thousand dollars," I informed, mentally locating my checkbook because
honestly, who in their right fucking mind pays someone that much in cash?

He shrugged, stating plainly, "Fuck the four thousand dollars. I don't want it. I was giving it to you
anyway."

"And I wouldn't have accepted it," I pointed out.

"Goddammit!" he exclaimed, shooting to his feet and staring to my eyes with an alarming passion.
"If you want me to beg, I'll do it. Do you want me to beg? Do you want me to beg you to let me do
this? Fuck it, I'll do it. I'll beg. I'm not asking for much. You just have to go inside, and I'll do it and if
you're going to make me beg, then I'll beg." His chest heaved as he puffed, but his face made it
evident that he honestly would have dropped to his knees and begged me.

Fuck all that.

Irritated beyond what any person should be before they've had their cup of coffee, I shook my
head, relenting, "Whatever. If it'll get rid of you." It was worth it. I was thoroughly sick of dealing
with him.

He swept his hand before his torso grandly, uttering a sarcastic, "Thank you, oh so very much."

I turned on my heel and stomped into the house, slamming the door. He seemed to enjoy
demolishing the old structure far too much, and I could hear his hammering, crashing and bashing
and causing me to dive for my headphones to drown him out.

"What can I get you to drink?" I asked my customer, clicking my pen and holding it to the pad of
paper. You know those waitresses who can take the whole table's order and remember it
perfectly, without ever writing it down?

Yeah, evidently, I wasn't that waitress.

The Lodge was pretty bare, since it was Tuesday night. During the weekdays, I found they only
staffed one waitress, while on the weekends, we had pretty decent numbers. Actually, it was
rather boring. Actually, I was always bored. There was never anything to do or anywhere to go or
anyone to talk to.

The girl hummed as she furrowed her brows at the menu, asking, "Is the tea sweetened? I have
this new thing for sweet tea. It's not very common here, no?" She glanced up at me and smiled.

"Um," I scratched at my head, remembering, "Yeah, I'm pretty sure we have sweetened tea.
Would you like to start with an appetizer? Today's special is stuffed artichoke with—"
"Oh, no. No appetizer." She seemed to be staring me up and down, flicking the corner of her menu
as she cocked her head. "You're Isabella Swan," she declared.

I cast a sardonic glance to my nametag, battling the urge for sarcasm as I replied, "Yeah, that's
me."

Her smile grew wider as she extended her hand, her inky hair appearing thorny with its many
uneven layers. I took her hand and suppressed a sigh. Some of the people in this town were
annoyingly friendly. It wasn't that I was purposely isolating myself, but perky people annoyed me.
"I'm Alice," she introduced. Once she released my hand, she folded her arms on the table, adding,
"Alice Cullen."

Jesus…

I raised my eyebrows, nodding with a rock on my heels. "Ahh, you must be the wife."

Confusion colored her features before her eyes grew, her head shaking with vehemence. "Oh,
God no. Edward's my brother." She did a kind of half giggle, half shudder.

"Oh," I breathed, my brow pinching involuntarily. "I didn't know he had siblings."

She shrugged, bobbing her head as she explained, "I was in middle school last time you lived
here, so we never met."

After a brief silence, I ventured a slow, "Okay. So… I'll be back with your drink." She flattened her
napkin in her lap as I spun around, placing her order with the kitchen staff.

I didn't really suspect much about her presence at first. She ordered her food and asked for a drink
refill twice, but I could feel her eyes on me as I filled the salt and pepper shakers and made myself
busy preparing for the dinner crowd later that evening.

"Is there something you wanted?" I ultimately asked as she remained at her table, long after she'd
finished eating. She was just… sitting there, watching me as she sipped at her tea and
occasionally cocked her head to the side with a thoughtful expression.

She straightened in her seat and rolled her eyes. "I'm really transparent, huh?"

"Yeah, pretty much," I replied curtly.

"Can you sit down and talk, or…?" she glanced around, noticing there were no immediate
customers.

I flopped into the seat before her, deadpanning, "Five minutes."

"It'll only take three." She winked, curling her shoulder and arms inward as if cold, suddenly timid.
"Edward didn't ask me to come here. Actually, I'd really appreciate it if this could stay between us."

I looked at my wrist, tapping as if I had a watch.

Her smile fell a little and she leaned forward, starting. "You hate Edward, and I get that." Her eyes
were a stormy grey as she met my gaze, somber. "Words can't even describe what he did to my
family. Most girls think back on their teenaged years and remember dances and first kisses. You
probably remember something else, and I'm sorry for that. I mostly remember my mother crying
every night and my brother getting into fistfights with my dad. Nothing in our house was ever
permanent. He'd steal anything and everything, sometimes leaving for weeks on end and only
coming home to ask for money or cause us all grief. I won't get into the gory details or anything,
but it was hell. He ruined what was supposed to be some of the best times of my life and I'll never
be the same as I was before..." When she paused, her jaw was locked so tight that her lip
trembled.

"None of us will," she continued. "It was just Edward and his selfishness, and… he poisoned
everything. He… he was abusive, and I know people think of abuse as hitting with fists, but
Edward liked to hit with his actions and words. I can't even really describe it." She brought a finger
to her lips, gnawing on her fingernail and furrowing her brow, as if trying to find adequate words.

"He sounds like a real monster," I offered sympathetically, knowing first hand. I didn't doubt any of
it. I'd only had to put up with his callousness for a mere six months and at least, once the bell rang,
I'd escaped his cruelty. This girl had had to share her home with him.

She nodded her head, face stoic. "He really was a monster. I just wanted you to really
comprehend how much I hated him, because maybe it'll make more of an impact when I tell you
that he's not that person anymore." She smiled softly, her shoulders seeming to relax as she
uttered the words.

I threw my head back and laughed, declaring, "Five minutes are up."

When I stood, she lurched up, grabbing my wrist. Her face was fervent as she gently held me in
place, imploring, "Please, just understand. He's been trying so hard and it breaks my heart to see
him try and try and get nowhere with you. If I can forgive him, then anyone can, please believe
that. He thinks he doesn't deserve forgiveness, but he does, because once you give it him, you'll
find that he's been hiding such a beautiful person." Her plea was amplified by the glittering of her
eyes under the ambient lights of the dining room.

I pulled my wrist from her grasp, unable to deny her sincerity or my own curiosity. "How long has
he spent making it up to you?" I wondered. I couldn't be as frigid as she'd made me feel by
suggesting that he'd done worse to her and received her forgiveness with more ease.

She sighed, dropping her head minutely. "A year, but—"

"A year!" I screeched with incredulity. "Jesus, Alice, that's not a change, that's just a vacation."

"No." she shook her head, and even though she was shorter than me, her conviction made her
seem taller as her spine straightened. "It's not temporary, believe me. He really means it. He's
really changed, just give him a chance, and you'll see for yourself."

I ridiculed her with a chuckle, pointing out, "You could audition to be a battered wife right now."

Her head kept shaking as she removed her jacket from the chair, stuffing her arms into the
sleeves. "I'm not some moronic little girl, I just know my brother better than you do. But you know
what? Whatever." She tossed her napkin down and didn't even bother tipping me as she stepped
away from the table, shoving her little purse up her shoulder until it was tucked tightly beneath her
arm. "This is bigger than you and bigger than Edward. There are people who can see past their
bitterness and thaw out their hearts long enough to see him for the person he's become. Trust me
when I say, those people do actually love him and you're making us suffer too." With that, she
stiffly brushed past me, exiting the restaurant and leaving me standing there—fuming.

How dare she guilt-trip me? For standing up for myself, for sticking to my guns, for having integrity,
for not being stupid enough to actually believe that someone can have a total personality
transplant within a years' time? It wasn't my fault she was weak and let him wiggle his way back
into her family, only to cause them this so-called "suffering."
That was his fault, not mine.

By the time I clocked out, I was downright furious and sick of Forks. Apparently, Edward was the
new golden boy of the town, which was simply absurd. The entire population was suffering from a
serious case of dumbass.

It was raining as I drove home, gripping the steering wheel so tightly that my knuckles ached. I
couldn't wait to get into a nice, hot bath and get shitfaced drunk. When I thump-umped into my
driveway, I got out and slammed my car door, stomping up the path and making the puddles
splash around the hem of my slacks.

I trudged up the steps, which I found to be just wet enough to be slippery. My shoes were those
half dressy, half comfortable types, and the soles were too smooth to find traction as my clumsy
stomps made me miss the top step. A gasp escaped my mouth as I slid forward, rocking back and
grabbing blindly for something to hang onto.

My palm wrapped around wet wood and jerked my body forward, my chest hammering as I
steadied myself, breathing a large and relieved sigh. It was then that I looked down, stroking the
new, bright maple wood of Edward's railing and peeking over my shoulder at the slab of concrete
that would have likely split my head open, had I fallen.

But I hadn't.

It was four days later when I awoke to the same silence as always, though earlier than usual,
having been off the night before. I'd also managed to buy some sheets for my bed, but other than
that, everything was the same. I sloppily threw my hair up, secured it with my pen, cranked up the
television, started my coffee, searched high and low for my cigarettes, and unlocked the front door
to greet my crappy day.

The only thing different was the stunned Edward I found standing beside my porch, a paintbrush in
hand. Half of the railing looked stained and darkened, while a large can sat nestled in the grass
beside his feet.

He looked guilty and awkward as he stammered, "Uhh," and held the paintbrush like it was the
cookie he'd just got caught stealing from my cookie jar. I rubbed at my eyes as he lowered the
brush, explaining, "I know I said I wouldn't come back, but I forgot that I should probably
weatherproof the wood, you know, with all the rain. I figured you'd be sleeping." After a long
silence of my staring and his shifting uncomfortably, he glanced down at the wood, shrugging. "I
also just really needed the distraction. I'm sorry for bothering you." He put the brush to the wood,
cautiously assessing my reaction to him continuing.

I grunted in response as I collapsed onto the step and lit my cigarette. It was so quiet that I could
faintly hear the putter of the coffee pot, Edward's paintbrush making gentle swishing sounds as it
darkened the wood of the railing, and distant insects chirping.

"The yard looks like shit," I noted in a thick voice that made me cringe. I cleared the sleep from my
throat and looked over the lawn, the five lines he'd cleared already beginning to grow back with a
vengeance. That was another downside of rain.

He hummed flatly in response.

I rubbed my ankles with my bare toes, avoiding his gaze as I kept my head down. In a steady
voice, I offhandedly commented, "It'd be really nice if I had someone to mow it for me." The
swishing of his brush abruptly ceased and I finished my cigarette, craving the coffee I could hear
finishing in the kitchen. I stood and finally met his gaze, scratching my elbow and shrugging at his
confused expression, waiting.

He nodded once before I turned and the swishing continued, accompanying the sounds of my
footsteps as I left him to his task, unhindered.

A/N: PastyP, RevvyR, FrenchyB, and EZR-Angel did the beta/preview/talk a lot thing.

I haven't been able to read so much over this last week, so I'm going with safe recs and saying
that my fave fics of the year are...

For all-human,The Tutor by ItzMegan73. This is a completed high school fic that I won't even
attempt to summarize, as I'd never do it justice. Her other fics are just as awesome. Also, Burn
and Shine by PulsePoint. Rebelward and Rebelsper. Yum. And Fault by Ineedyourswayy is
still owning me just as much as it did the first day I added it to alerts. For alternate-universe, I
ADORED Gravity by The Artist Formerly Known As Nightshade (Racketghost). Best damn
New Moon AU ever. EVER. All of these are in my faves list. XD

Hope you all have a wonderful and safe New Years Eve!

See y'all next year!

A/N: Twilight and its characters belong to Stephenie Meyer. I don't own anything. Not even
Boozeward. He belongs to the fab ladies at WArehab and they can do whatever they want with
him (except allow him anywhere near water or feed him after midnight). Thanks so much for all
your kind words and encouragement!

The days following my construction of Isabella's new new railing found me sitting at none other
than the corner of Second and Lafayette. I never needed to call Jasper, of course. I didn't have
any money, so it didn't matter how long I stared at the door to ABC Liquor. I couldn't get any.

I could justify it in my mind in the oddest ways, though.

Inwardly, I'd argue that only allowing myself to have one drink would be a serious testament to my
self control. To have one, and abstain from having another would mean that I was strong, that it
had no real power of me. I'd actually be doing myself a favor, I'd eventually reason. It'd take away
just enough stress to supplement my focus on my recovery. It'd begin making sense, and if I
thought about it hard enough, I could eventually convince myself that having one drink would
actually make me a better recovering alcoholic.

But I knew that logic was a means to an end, not a personal truth.

The trick was keeping myself occupied. Being alone and bored—those were usually the moments
in which my mind would wander. Boredom made every recollection of my old life grow more
attractive. I'd downplay the bad and glorify the good, even as I knew better. The old adage had
never been truer for me: Idle hands are the Devil's playground.

I kept my days as occupied as possible by job hunting, usually in Port Angeles. Every morning I
would don my uncomfortably awkward dress slacks and oxford shirt, and I'd always feel gawky
and out-of-place whenever I'd enter a business with casual dressing codes—which were the only
businesses I ever visited. I stuck out like a sore thumb, like that guy everyone knows is trying too
hard because he's overcompensating for something. I was transparent and thin, and it was
seriously wearing me the fuck down.

Nights were the worst, though.

I stayed up all night in the car, driving around, looking for something to do while struggling to forget
about my failure to earn Isabella's forgiveness or do anything worth a shit. I'd promised I would
leave her alone if she'd let me fix her railing, and she had. But no amends were given or earned. It
was a deal, an agreement brought about by frustration with my mere presence, and I'd used up all
of my chances.

I'd finished without any sense of completion.

There was nothing to do at home but sleep, and I'd discovered days before that I couldn't sleep,
because I couldn't bear to wake up and see her name on that fucking door without a line through
it. I considered calling Jasper, but he would've come to find me, assumed that I was on the brink of
relapse, which wasn't necessarily true. Forks pretty much shut down after midnight, aside from the
bars, of course, so there was really nothing to do. I was bored and idle and thinking too goddamn
much.

Thus, I eventually found myself at Isabella's house after a particularly boring night of driving. I had
a can of weatherproof varnish, a paint brush, and a silent refusal to even look at those goddamn
dress slacks hanging in my closet. I was breaking my promise by doing so, but at that point, there
was nothing she could possibly say or do to make me any more miserable.

What other purpose did I have?

Everyone else on my list was crossed out. I didn't have a job. I didn't have any genuine friends. I
didn't have any money. I didn't have anything but Carlisle's tool shed and a shitload of home
improvement supplies. Well really, I didn't even have that—just access to it.

When she caught me, I was certain she'd make me leave. I wasn't going to give her grief about it, I
decided. If she asked me to go, then I would go without protest.

Imagine my surprise when she didn't.

"So you put the price in, and it'll spit out the sticker. Got that? You'll do the red stickers every
Friday and the blue stickers every day we get a new shipment. Okay? Always stock the biggest
items on the top shelves so they'll have to ask for assistance. Alright?" I nodded, possibly a little
too enthusiastic as I listened with rapt attention.

When I'd received the call from Newton's Outfitters upon arriving home from Isabella's, I'd been
mortifyingly elated. There could have been fist pumping and, after a brief scan of the kitchen, a
simulated smacking of ass. It wasn't a good position and the pay was shitty—like, really shitty
—but I'd gotten it on my own, and it would be steady.

Finally, some fucking luck.

Sadly, the downside to this job was the fact that I'd be working for Mike Newton. He was two years
younger than me but had this air of superiority that was seriously killing my first-job-buzz. He
wasn't that impressive. He managed a fucking sporting goods store, not a law firm. I battled back
my annoyances with him because despite his blatant condescension, he was at least giving me a
chance, which was more than I even deserved.

"My mom still comes in to take inventory every Saturday," he informed, propping himself against a
shelf. His eyes were full of warning as he added, "If something goes missing, we'll know it."

I forced a thin smile. "Nothing will go missing, man," I assured. I kept reminding myself that
trust—like respect and dignity—was a privilege, not a right. I had to earn it.
His arms flexed as he raised his chin, somehow looking down his nose at me even though I was
taller. "We'll see," he said, finally exiting the stock room.

I was left amidst a sea of brown corrugated cardboard. With a determined inhale, I shrugged out of
my jacket and began breaking them down as instructed. I whistled under my breath because that
felt like the normal thing to do, and every time the thought would pass through my mind (I had a
job!), an involuntarily cheeky grin would invade my face, promptly making any whistling an
impossibility.

Edward Cullen, currently employed stock boy.

No—stock man.

The entire day played out like a bit of a downhill descent. It started out bright, promising, and
hopeful—optimistic even. But as the hours passed, I was met with constant reminders of my
inferiority, and my mood went steadily down the shitter.

I had a checklist that Mike Newton had taped to the back of the stockroom door, like I was a
fucking Kindergartener or something. After sweating my ass off in the stockroom for four hours, I
found that I only got a twenty minute break, which was spent staring at the break room wall and
twiddling my thumbs, since I hadn't thought to bring food and didn't have time to get anything.

I later discovered that I was forbidden from entering the area behind the counter where the cash
register sat. I also wasn't allowed to answer the phone, issue returns, or offer advice about the
durability of varying tent fabrics. In fact, I wasn't allowed to assist the customers whatsoever.

I was allowed to do heavy lifting, box cutting, and the ever-intellectually-stimulating price tagging.

By the time I clocked out and poured myself into Esme's Volvo, my earlier bright mood had shifted
into this festering air of resignation.

It wasn't until I arrived at Isabella's the next Sunday afternoon that I was able to regain even a
modicum of dignity, not that she would have allowed that to last long.

Sitting on her porch, hair up, cigarette hanging from her lips, Bella's eyes squinted up at me.
"You're like a wart," she stated, expending a puff of smoke.

I raised an eyebrow, wondering, "A wart?" I pursed my lips and shrugged. "Yeah, I've been called
worse."

Her lips curled up into this slanted grin, fingers flicking her ashes. "I haven't woken up yet. Baby
steps." Without awaiting any response, she asked, "Don't you have somewhere else to be at
noon? Like work?"

"I work at Newton's." I proudly declared, the relief of not having to tell Isabella that I was
unemployed renewing my vigor for the position. "I'm off Wednesdays and weekends, though. Not
that it matters. I get off at three and you obviously don't wake up until noon anyway." At the flash
of her eyes, I quickly added, "Not that there's anything wrong with that."

Her nose wrinkled up. "The fuck you working at Newton's for? Even I didn't apply there, and my
standards were appallingly low."

I frowned, shuffling my feet unconsciously. "He hired me," I reasoned matter-of-factly. Suddenly
feeling a little defensive of my shitty job, I supplied, "Besides, it's a good job with good hours. And
there're benefits, too."
She snorted, finally finishing her cigarette. "What benefit would that be exactly? First dibs on the
latest in camouflage-print apparel?"

I averted my eyes to the ground, nudging a wayward rock with the toe of my boot. "I get a fifteen
percent employee's discount," I replied, inwardly cringing at my wounded tone. Normally, I would
have easily insulted her lackluster career choice in retaliation—I mean, waitressing at the Lodge
couldn't have been much better—but she wasn't wrong.

I got that feeling in my chest that made my shoulders feel heavy—like finding out those
'prestigious awards' I'd once won at my elementary school's Awards Day Ceremonies were
actually just pieces of regular paper that anyone could print out.

It meant nothing.

My lips parted as I prepared to save some shred of my dignity. It came to mind that I could lie
through my teeth and feed her some bullshit like, "I really just enjoy the work." But not even the
most gullible person in town would have believed that line of crap.

"What do you even need that job for, anyway?" Isabella asked absently as she rose to her feet,
stretching. "Isn't your dad the renowned town physician or something?"

Slowly, my eyes narrowed, my spine growing rigid and holding me at an awkward posture. "So?"

She rolled her eyes, dropping her arms with a huff. Waving her hands for emphasis, she
explained, "So… shouldn't he have already set you up with the obligatory low-demand, high-pay
position that he created from thin air?"

I could feel my nostrils flare, and I was sincerely trying to keep my temper in check, but in the span
of two minutes, she'd managed to not only insult my once proud achievement, but she'd also just
basically made the presumption that I was a freeloader. Maybe I could accept that, since it wasn't
entirely untrue, however unintentional it may be, but I wouldn't let her insult my father like that.

"You don't know me, and you don't know my dad. And anyway, what the fuck is it to you?" I spat.

She glared upon hearing my snapping tone, her jaw tight as her teeth gnashed. "Good fucking
point," she ground, spinning on her heel and storming into the house.

I followed her lead, stomping my way to where the mower sat. I jammed the keys into the ignition
and relished in the angry roar that emerged from around me. As I began clearing the thick brush of
her lawn, my anger slowly dissipated to that same, stagnant air of resignation I'd felt after my first
day working at Newton's.

There was literally nothing I could do about it. I couldn't just quit—there was nothing else waiting
for me. I could probably spend my days off looking for something better in the meantime, but it
was my first fucking job. I envied normal people like Isabella, who could quit their crappy jobs and
raise their standards.

Sure, I wanted to be the motherfucker who had to wear dress slacks every day. I wanted boring,
stuffy 401(k)s and retirement plans. I wanted full dental. I wanted a hot secretary with really long
hair that tumbled and did the slow-mo thing whenever she took out her barrettes and shook it out. I
wanted pedestrian success and the six a.m. routine—hot coffees balanced between my legs on
the morning commute—lunches with assholes who repeated "that's what she said" enough to
make me wanna choke them out—I wanted that.

But what I had was Newton's.

It was at this point that I resolved to make my position at Newton's work—no matter this shittiness
of the conditions. There were far worse jobs to have. I didn't shovel shit, or break my back logging,
or anything really demeaning. In fact, if I looked hard enough, I could see the positives. Not having
to deal with customers was a pro, not a con. The motivations behind the rule didn't matter.

I spent the majority of my afternoon doing these inner pep talks as the mower roared beneath me.
By the time I'd finished the front yard, I'd tricked myself into being minimally excited about the
position once again.

I started on her back yard without permission, supposing that it was the only nice day for a long
while, and I still had a full tank of gas. Maybe, I hoped, it'd be appreciated and make her feel like a
shitty person for insulting me back there. She never came out to protest, at any rate, so I mowed
around a large swing set that was so rusted and antiquated that simply looking at it made me feel
as though I needed a tetanus shot. I'd just decided to go the extra mile and use the weed-eater I'd
brought along to trim beneath it when my mower began sinking.

There was mud.

A large perimeter of the back corner of the property was sodden and sunken. In Forks, mud was
fairly common, but this particular area was especially bad. The grass was brown, large puddles
below the dead blades reflecting the sunlight. A closer inspection revealed air bubbling to the
surface—a definite sign of a water leak.

I debated for a long while whether or not to tell Isabella. She'd need to get it fixed. Her water bill
was likely astronomical and leaving it untended could cause a whole host of other problems. But I
was… annoyed.

Isabella would probably be really pissed off about it, and there was some truth in the shooting of
messengers. I'd come out here to do a favor, to make shit right, to help someone out, all in the
name of amends, and now I was probably gonna have to spend God knows how long enduring her
rage.

With a growl of frustration, I backed the mower out of the mud and started toward her back door. I
was anxious and wound up, flexing my fists in preparation for her wrath as I knocked at the door.

She answered with a scowl, having had to wrestle it open. "I didn't ask you to do the back," she
said.

I suppressed another growl. "Look," I began, wiping the sweat from my brow with a grind of my
teeth. "You have a pretty bad water leak out there that you should have looked at."

Her sneer fell, forehead creasing. "Water leak?" she asked, eyes wide.

I huffed, nodding. "Probably a bad pipe."

After slipping on some flip-flops, she followed me across the yard to where the puddles were
located, arms wrapped around her torso. She peeked downward and rocked on her heels,
assessing the bubbles that popped to the surface.

"This looks bad," she worried, far less angry that I'd expected. She began tugging at her bottom lip
with her teeth, eyes tight as they inspected the damage. "Is it bad? Should I call a plumber? Will I
have to call the water company?" Her eyes flickered to mine, a subtle panic raging beneath the
soft brown of her irises.

"Your water bill will be fucking ridiculous," I informed, a little more confident now that I knew
Isabella wouldn't be assaulting me with any armed weapons. "The water company won't be any
help at all, but if I were you, I'd cut the water as soon as possible."

"Cut the water," she nodded astutely. "Right, of course." She began hugging herself tighter, brows
pinching inward. Her eyes traveled to mine as she hesitantly wondered, "How do I cut the water?"

I fought a snicker as I realized that Isabella was completely clueless about all things home
improvement and repair. I reasoned that she'd likely never owned a house before. In fact, she'd
lived in Florida, where she'd probably had an apartment, where a call to the building owner would
remedy any problem.

She looked lost.

Feeling considerably more self-assured at this revelation, I located the cut-off valve myself. I
explained to her what I was doing as I shut off her water, her face screwed up while she listened,
rapt with attention.

"How long will I have to wait for a plumber?" she pondered once I'd finished, looking to me like no
one ever had before—like I held the answers. It was strange.

"A couple days?" I estimated, wiping my hands on my jeans.

Her eyebrows shot upward, jaw falling. "Two days without water?!" she shrieked, cheeks turning
that familiar shade of pissed off. It made me cringe.

I loathed being the bearer of bad news. I'd spent too much of my life seeing others disappointed,
pissed off, resentful, and just generally upset as a direct result of things I'd done. I wasn't
personally responsible for the water leak, but I didn't enjoy seeing Isabella made upset over
something that wasn't really that big of a deal.

"Or…" I ventured, wary as I sighed. "Well… I guess I could… maybe fix it myself?" I set my jaw
and braced myself for her eventual indignation, but was met with a surprising silence. When I met
her gaze, she was gnawing at her lip once more, contemplative. Buoyed, I continued, "It should be
pretty easy, you know? I just have to dig it up, find the pipe, cut the bad section, and then replace
it. The hardware store'll have everything I need."

She assessed me with scrutiny, her arms once again hugging her midsection. "You can do that?"
she asked.

"Sure." I shrugged plainly, and at her reluctant expression, bargained, "You can even put the call
in to the plumbers now, just in case anything goes wrong. It'll save time."

"Yes!" she abruptly exclaimed, shoving her finger at me. "That's a damn good idea. There should
be a shovel in the shed back there. I'll be right back." I watched as she sprinted into the house, her
flip-flops flapping in her wake.

I blinked rapidly at her sudden change of demeanor. Her acquiescence was already a bit of a
stretch, but now she was sort of… ordering me around. Taking advantage of me. Using me.

It wasn't half bad.

"Well?" Isabella asked from behind me, clearly concerned as I inspected the three-inch-long
fracture of the muddy pipe.

I huffed in exertion, the hole having taken longer than anticipated to dig. "Well, the good news is
that it's PVC and not some old copper bullshit." The sky was already beginning to darken, and I
knew I was running out of time.

"What does that mean?" she squeaked.

I dutifully explained, "Copper is expensive and you'd probably have to re-pipe the entire property.
That's like… thousands of dollars."

Her eyes grew wide.

I quickly assured, "But this is PVC. Really cheap and simple to fix. Can I see that?" I pointed to the
pen she had speared through her bun, one hand fishing in my pocket for an old receipt.

"What?" she asked, lips thinning to a tight line. "My pen? Why?" Her eyes narrowed.

Furrowing my brow, I replied, "Well, I need to write down the size of the pipe so I can buy the right
shit." I held up the receipt for emphasis, smoothing it over my thigh in preparation.

"Oh. Well… I can find something inside…" she began, her flip-flop making a suctioning sound as
she pulled it from the mud.

Incredulous, I reminded, "The hardware store is gonna close in twenty minutes. It'll only take a
second." If I didn't make it to the hardware store, then she'd go the entire night without water,
something she obviously realized as she once again sank her foot into the mud.

"I don't know…" she hedged.

If I hadn't been in such a big hurry, I might have laughed. "You don't know?"

She sighed, shoulders rigid as her chin jutted outward. "This pen... it's… well, it's my lucky pen. No
one uses my lucky pen," she stated. "I rarely use it myself."

This time, I did laugh. "Seriously? I just need to write down three numbers." I kept my hand
extended, the mud-stained receipt on the ready as I waited.

Her relent wasn't silent. She huffed and did this growl that made her lips curl up. She snatched the
pen from her hair, and even though I was completely focused on the task at hand and was well
aware of the importance of the situation, I was immediately thrilled at the prospect of her hair
tumbling down from its perch, all waves of brown and auburn, swaying in the wind and coaxing me
with its girl scent.

It remained fixed in its knot. Damn.

I frowned as I took the pen, careful not to muddy it as I quickly jotted down the circumference of
the pipe. When I was done, I considered fucking with her, just for the fun of it. She seemed pretty
attached to the pen for some reason, and I could only imagine the look on her face when I acted
as though I meant to keep it. She'd get all huffy and turn red, maybe even move about enough to
jostle her hair free.

But I couldn't do it. If there was one lesson I'd ever learned, it was to never again antagonize
Isabella Swan, no matter how much I'd enjoy seeing her flustered and… tumbly-wavy-haired.

I handed it back with a soft, "Thank you," because maybe she didn't realize it, but she'd just given
me the opportunity to earn a little of her trust. Maybe I had, and maybe I hadn't, but it felt good,
nonetheless.

She blinked at me as she took the pen, gingerly placing it back into her hair once again. "You're
welcome."

I didn't get home until eight, which was unfortunate because I'd missed Sunday dinner with the
family. Jasper had been invited again, and I could only imagine how absurdly anxious he'd been
without a buffer between him and my parents.

Wincing at the thought, I swung the truck into our long driveway, wet and filthy. I had mud up to my
knees and elbows, all over my clothes, and possibly in my hair. I tugged at it self-consciously as
the truck bounced and jostled down the path to the house, grinning at the memory of Isabella's
face when I'd successfully fixed her water leak.

She'd turned the water back on all by herself, her spine straightened with a child-like pride. I'd left
the hole unfilled, just in case the fix didn't hold, so I'd have easy access to it when I'd swing by
next week. When she'd offered to pay me, I'd declined. Unfortunately, I'd had to accept the money
to cover the hardware expenses, since I was essentially broke.

We'd parted with few words, but her relief for my assistance was clear, and despite our rough start
earlier in the day, I was comfortable declaring the entire evening a total success.

Thus, it didn't really matter how badly my palms stung, or how badly my back ached, or how filthy I
was as I pulled up to the house. The bright headlights illuminated the dark yard and the cars
already parked in the driveway.

A movement caught my eye as my headlights paused on Jasper's small Dodge, a flash of black, a
wave of flesh-colored blur, and my foot stomped the brake, bringing the truck to a lurching halt.

It had only been a brief second, what I'd seen. I could have probably chalked it all up to lack of
sleep and a long day, but the image that I'd only barely seen would positively be branded into my
brain to haunt me for years to come.

Alice had her arms around Jasper's neck, her lips attached to his as the stood against the door to
his car. His long, sweater-covered arms enveloped her completely, tucking her into him as his two
hands grasped firm handfuls of her ass.

My little sister—he had his hands on my little sister's ass. He was fucking swallowing her,
devouring her, staining her little mouth with his saliva—her soft skin with his rough fingers. I flung
myself from the cab without even turning off the ignition, my vision varying shades of violent red.
All I could think about or see was his hands—his dirty fucking hands—all over my baby sister.

Just as soon as I'd seen them, they'd separated themselves and were standing at opposite ends
of the car, passing one another worried glances.

Jasper had the fucking audacity to greet me, "Hey, man. Wonderin' where ya been." His smile was
almost convincing, but the bone-white pallor of his skin betrayed his fear.

I never paused in my stride as my fists clenched, nostrils flaring as I swiftly descended upon him.
"You fuckin' my sister?" I asked, shoving my finger into his chest as I spat the words at his face.
"Huh?! You fuckin' my sister?!" I kept jabbing him, until I eventually flattened my palm to his
shoulder, shoving him roughly against the car.

His face was completely blank, eyes fixed steadily to mine. He took my jabs and shoves without
any retaliation, instead bouncing back from the car listlessly.

Alice was behind me, calling my name and tugging at my muddy shirt, but I merely shrugged her
off, asking him once again, "My sister? My fucking sister?"
His face was so calm and stoic, those two eyebrows a straight line across his forehead. He was
fucking my sister and he didn't even have the balls to own up to it, to my fucking face.

I punched him.

I wasn't normally a violent person. There'd been the occasional bar fight, a few moments with my
dad that had come to blows when I'd been younger, but this—this hurt. My knuckles cracked
against his face, my clumsy punch sending his head whipping to the side. I shook my fist and
hissed in pain, growing more and more enraged with every second of his silence.

"STOP!" Alice screeched, wedging herself between us, a palm on each chest. Jasper just stood
there, cupping his injured eye as the other blinked at me. Alice was talking, going on and on about
how she was an adult and it wasn't any of my business who she fucked.

Jasper and I maintained that stare, and the conversation that was held between us was wordless,
but evident.

My stare said, "I will fucking murder you if you touch her like that again."

His stare said, "I will let you."

Mom and Dad were suddenly there, hands yanking me back, pulling me away while Alice
whispered into Jasper's ear and petted his wavy hair away from his injured eye.

I was wound up once again, the one punch to his face not nearly enough to satisfy me. I wanted to
cut off his hands and feed them to him for having ever touched her. My baby sister…

"What are you thinking?" Carlisle hissed, eyes sharp and emanating that familiar disappointed I'd
grown so accustomed to.

"That piece of shit is fucking your baby girl. Maybe you oughtta be asking him the questions." I
waited for his fury, for that realization to strike him that the same man he'd heard appalling stories
from for the last eleven months had had his dick in his daughter—had sneaked around behind his
back, betrayed his trust, and tainted her with his venom.

He rolled his fucking eyes at me. "There's no need to be crass, Edward. Alice is twenty four, and
this is Jasper." He emphasized this with a gesture toward the car. "Isn't he your friend?"

I gaped at Carlisle, then at Esme who'd emerged from the house with a dishtowel full of ice, hastily
tending to Jasper's swelling eye as Alice peppered his face with kisses and soft apologies.

"Have you all gone fucking insane?" I wondered with incredulity. "This is Jasper!" I emphasized
toward like Carlisle had, reminding with no measure of ease, "Alcoholic, compulsive gambler, sex
addict, coke addict, motherfucking felon!"

Alice was before me now, eyes wide and enraged. "How dare you!" she screamed, and I was only
just noticing the thick tracks of tears staining her cheeks. "After everything you've put us through,
after everything everyone has done, you're acting like another judgmental prick!"

I shot back, "Holier than thou, are we? Tell me then, Alice, why haven't we found about all this
before?"

She cackled manically. "Well, geez! I wonder why I wasn't in such a hurry to see my brother
physically assault my boyfriend."

I simply shook my head, Carlisle sighing in annoyance from beside me. "That's bullshit, Alice, and
you know it. You were fucking ashamed of him for a reason."

"I wasn't ashamed!" she denied, her tears flowing faster now.

A throat cleared, drawing all our eyes to where Jasper stood, hand clutching the handle to his car
door. "Yeah, so, I think I'm done," he said, but he wasn't looking at me or mom or dad. He was
staring at Alice with a taut expression, one eye puffy.

"What?" Alice breathed, frozen.

He repeated, "I'm done." Then Jasper said the most words in one moment that I'd ever heard him
speak. "You should listen to your brother, you know. He's an asshole, but he's mostly right. You're
ashamed of me, and you have every right to be. I guess… well, I guess I was just pretending this
whole time, like it was okay to have you. And it's not, so… I'm just… done." His eyes never
traveled to mine or anyone else's as he opened the door and ducked inside. They remained fixed
to Alice's briefly, until he started the ignition and began backing out.

Esme and Carlisle flanked Alice as the three of them watched Jasper's car disappear down the
path to the highway. Her back expanded and contracted in deep, panicked lungfuls that moved her
entire body. She hugged her torso, much like I'd seen Isabella do that afternoon, and then she
shook with silent, yet guttural sobs that left me momentarily breathless.

That was when I knew I was fucked, because when Alice loved, she never did it halfway. She
loved with every cell of her being, every ounce of her soul, and she'd already given that part of her
away to a man that was far too fucked up for her own good.

Jasper had left because he'd believed all along that he was never good enough for Alice. He
would have taken my punches and the frustration of being with someone who hid him away like a
dirty secret, but he couldn't bear facing the truth that he'd ultimately be bringing her down.

Alice whirled on me, Esme flinching as she broke from her grasp. Her big doe-eyes were watery
and red-rimmed, accusation seeping from her stare. "You just couldn't stand it, could you?" she
asked. The crease of her brow and the tremble of her lip made me speechless and guilty. I shifted
from foot to foot, unable to answer until she made two stomps in my direction, jaw clenched in
frustration. "You can't stand that someone might just be happy, can you? You just have to ruin it!
You have to ruin everything! Every fucking time!" The sobs had returned, and instead of allowing
me to explain myself—he'd had his hands on her ass—she began toward her car.

"Alice," Esme and Carlisle both scolded at the same time, hands on hips, faces exasperated.

"Oh, here comes the calvary!" Alice shrieked, flinging the door to her Honda open. She turned to
me with a hard glance, gesturing toward our parents. "Don't worry, Edward. You can do no wrong
in their eyes, see?" She sped away without glancing back, and I was left with my parents who
shared worried glances and heavy sighs.

I wondered to the dust Alice's car had left in her wake, "Do you ever feel like someone said the
words, but you were never really forgiven?"

A/N: PastyP did the beta thang, and TKmoon/Angel previewed fer me. Thanks so much for all the
feedback, guise! Really enjoyed all the views on Alice last chapter. You rock!

I rec'd Greeen Goldfish's "A War of Cynics" (fem-nazi Bella and AwkWard) on yesterday, and
today, Ninapolitan rec'd Behind the Clouds (AU) by EchoesofTwilight.

Hope you a great New Year's Eve!

See y'all Wednesday!

A/N: Twilight and its characters belong to Stephenie Meyer. I don't own anything. Not even
Boozeward. He belongs to the fab ladies at WArehab and they can do whatever they want with
him (except allow him anywhere near water or feed him after midnight). Thanks so much for all
your kind words and encouragement!

Of all the stupid, idiotic, weak, despicable, utterly ludicrous things I could have ever done… I'd let
Edward Cullen hold my lucky pen. He'd written with it. He'd held it in his disgusting palm. He'd felt
it between his freakish, slender fingers. He'd had the power to destroy my secret weapon with one
moment of decision.

He'd had the power.

When he left, I stormed around my house, more than disappointed with myself. I'd needed his
help. I'd had to acquiesce and accept it. It wasn't the same as the yard, as clearly, I'd allowed him
to mow the lawn. I'd had the power then—but the leaking pipe was different.

I'd never had to fix anything before. I remembered having lived in this house with Charlie and
recalled various projects he'd done himself. There'd once been a leak in the roof that he'd fixed all
on his own. He'd replaced the knob on my door when—as a growing teenage girl—I'd requested a
functioning lock. He'd installed a new ceiling fan once, with nothing but tools and his own two
hands.

I'd never thought anything of it. Maybe I'd taken Charlie for granted more than I realized and grown
complacent in the knowledge that he'd always be here to fix things, but now he wasn't, and I had
this massive responsibility to keep the house up myself.

It'd been with Edward's uttering of the words "pretty bad water leak" that I'd panicked. I'd looked
down into the muddy puddles and sunken earth, and had only been capable of one thought: I want
my daddy.

Charlie would have known right away that the water would have required cutting off. He would
have taken charge and dug the hole, patched the pipe, and I likely wouldn't have even known
there'd ever been anything awry. Instead, I had to make choices and know things I'd never been
taught or had explained to me. I felt small and young, lost and vulnerable.

And I'd given Edward Cullen the power.

Somewhere in that accidental moment of weakness, he'd managed to talk me into giving him my
pen. My pen! It was unthinkable. Even the recollections of the moment as I sat down to eat my
dinner-for-one appalled me. I was absolutely incredulous. Had I really allowed him to touch it?

Scenarios clamored around my mind, unbidden. He might have snapped it in half, laughing as the
ink ran between his fingers. He might have chucked it in the mud and guffawed about my
ridiculous attachment to inanimate objects. He might have stuck it in his pocket and left, leaving
me to always know that the pen continued to exist, as a tangible item that my fingers itched to
touch, but one that I'd never again have. He hadn't, but he could have.

That night, I stepped beneath the scalding stream of water as I took a shower. I washed my hair
and shaved my legs, and every drop of liquid that touched me held Edward's smile before he'd left,
all muddy and exhausted. His lips had tucked into his cheeks in a slanted and unsymmetrical
streak. Three of his teeth had shown, sparkling through pink flesh and making his skin seem all
the more soiled against the pearly perfection of white. The water ran down my body and cradled
me with comfort and warmth, images of lips and teeth and crinkles at the edges of green eyes
upsetting my serenity.

"Son of a bitch!" I exclaimed to the showerhead, throwing down my razor with a resounding clank.

The water pressure was motherfucking fantastic.

It was a Wednesday. I had to do some grocery shopping, and I wasn't too thrilled as I entered the
Thriftway, more cash on hand than I felt even remotely comfortable with. This was something I'd
realized about Forks very quickly. Only three places in town accepted debit cards. Residents were
forced to carry large amounts of cash with them wherever they went. It was unsafe and just plain
stupid.

Then again, I was also convinced the town of Forks only owned a running total of four computers.
The town was so stuck in the past that it was comical. It now made sense to me why Edward had
tried to pay me in cash. He'd probably only ever been paid in cash. He'd probably never been able
to pay with anything else.

Absurd…

I hated shopping, but I hated shopping for groceries most of all. Nothing was ever made for one
serving. Pictures of families and smiling couples beamed up at me as they graced packages
meant for multiple plates. I'd grown rather handy at being a single-serving type of girl, though. I
had a shitload of Tupperware. I'd make one meal, and spend three nights in a row eating it. I'd had
a cat once, back in Florida, to whom I used to give leftovers. Nevertheless, he ran away after four
months, never to be seen again.

I'd always blamed the meatloaf he'd eaten the night before.

"Excuse me," I heard a voice from behind me and turned to find a woman cradling a bag of frozen
peas in her palm. The apples of her cheek flushed red and she grinned. "This is… well, it's a little
embarrassing, but aren't you Chief Swan's daughter?" The floral-print dress she wore rose to her
chin and ended at her feet, looking like something from the prairie.

"I am." I smiled, immediately disarmed by the warmth of her grin and her mother-like eyes. It
reminded me of Renee, of being safe and cared for, of being home.

Her eyes brightened. "We met briefly at the service, but I figured you might not remember. I'm
Esme Cullen," she introduced, smiling impossibly wider. "My husband and I were good friends with
your dad. I was so happy to find out you were moving to town, though I must apologize for our lack
of welcome. We wanted to give you time to settle in." A small bob of her head served as perky
emphasis.

Well, that explains Alice…

At this point, most of her maternal allure faded, and I could only see how similar her nose and chin
were to Edward's. "It's a pleasure," I lied, turning to the package of eight hotdog buns I held in my
hand.

An awkward silence commenced in which we both regarded our potential purchases with sheepish
eyes.

"You like hot dogs?" Esme squeaked.

I blushed. "Sometimes." No, scratch that—I blushed furiously.

Her chuckle seemed nervous, too as her eyes darted about. My anxiety must have been
infectious. She cleared her throat and deposited the bag of frozen vegetables into her heaping cart
"I almost feel out of practice," she began, wringing her hands as she met my gaze. Ah, small talk. I
suppressed a sigh. "My son's been doing my shopping for so long that I'd forgotten where the deli
was." She grinned thinly.

I couldn't restrain my scoff. "Edward shops for you?"

At his name, Esme Cullen's face seemed to brighten considerably, her shoulders lifting her dress.
"I think he mostly enjoys perusing the cereal aisle," she replied, laughing."In any case, I do believe
he's at your house right now…?" She trailed off questioningly, but I ignored it.

Of course, he was at my house. That's why I was here.

My eyes were dangerously close to dislodging as a result of chronic eye-roll. "That's… special," I
said, no amount of sarcasm hidden.

Esme was clueless. "It is! He's such an enormous help. Sometimes I wish he'd leave me
something to do." There was another awkward silence in which I didn't bother being polite. I
placed my hotdog buns into my cart and angled away from the woman, a clear indication that I
was finished speaking. Thankfully, she took the hint with grace and offered another warm grin.
"Well, please know that you're welcome at our home if you need anything or would ever like to see
a familiar face or four. We'd be so delighted to have you." At this, she departed, her prairie dress
billowing around her short legs.

How in the hell someone as innocuous as Esme had bred someone like Edward was simply
beyond my comprehension. I spent the rest of my shopping trip procrastinating, in hopes that
Edward would be long gone by the time I made it home.

I checked out an hour later, unable to entertain myself by comparing the varying softness of bath
tissues for any longer. I paid an elderly lady one hundred and thirty dollars in cash and spent the
next ten minutes loading it all up into my car.

He should definitely be gone by now. All he'd needed to do was fill a hole with dirt. I'd been
tempted the day before to do it myself and spare us both the trouble of interacting.

It was odd, though, my complete lack of surprise to find that silver Volvo sitting on the curb. He
was standing on my porch, leaning against one of the two columns and watching as I barreled
over the large hump in the driveway.

He was fucking smiling again. Ugh.

He didn't speak as I exited the car and traveled to the trunk. Instead, he simply ambled down from
the porch toward me, reaching for one of the many bags nestled within the confined space before
me.

"I can do it," I snapped, well aware that I sounded like a petulant five-year-old.

Ignoring me completely, he lifted three bags at once and headed for the door, commenting over
his shoulder, "The pipe's holding good. Has the plumber come by yet?"

I glowered at the back of his head as I followed him, one bag in my arms. Clearly, he'd chosen
three of the light ones. "He came by yesterday," I replied through tight teeth.

"And?" He stopped at the door and leaned comfortably against the siding as I fumbled for my
keys.

I regarded the muddied toes of his shoes with narrowed eyes before shoving the key in the lock.
"And he said it was fine," I answered tersely.

Once the door was open, I merely strolled through, not even bothering to invite him inside. I didn't
hear his footsteps behind me, so I figured I'd made him appropriately confused. This made me
smile.

His voice then came from directly over my shoulder, "Just fine?"

I jumped, turning to him with wide eyes. "Christ, make some fucking noise or something!" I
dumped my bag onto the table, avoiding his apologetic smile.

"Sorry," he said, gently placing the other bags down beside mine. He then walked back through
the door, assumedly to get more groceries from the trunk.

I wasn't a particularly competitive person. Team sports had always made me a little queasy, and I
sucked at all card games, thanks to my easy blushing, but there was something about Edward
Cullen that brought it out in me. He was trying to take the power, and he had already taken the
power once. I wouldn't let it happen again.

The next five minutes played out in a bit of "I can carry more bags than you." I kept tally in my
head, careful to compensate for the two he'd already had on me. Licking my lips in concentration, I
began carrying three at a time as well. Who cares if I only chose the lightest bags?

He tossed me strange glances over his shoulder as we continued unloading them, silent.

I was not happy with the eight to twelve score once we'd finished, which I'm sure was evident as I
began yanking items from the bags and throwing them in their designated locations. Various slams
and rattles followed me as I darted through the kitchen.

"Really, though. The plumber didn't say anything else?" Edward asked, a glance at me from
beneath his lashes betraying his curiosity.

I began pulling things out of the final bag with a maniacal haste, annoyed that he'd remained on
my doorstep for nothing more than a thorough ego stroking. "He said the pipe would hold," I
elaborated with a sharp glance.

The look on Edward's face made the frenzied motions of my hands falter.

His face had gone completely white, hands gripping the back of the chair in which Charlie used to
sit during dinner. His knuckles were taut and strained, green eyes fixed to a six-pack of beer I'd
gotten to help numb the upcoming weekend boredom.

I huffed and palmed my forehead in annoyance, praying that the offering would make us even for
the entire water leak debacle. With a thrust of my hand, the six-pack slid down the table to where
he stood, his eyes growing impossibly wider. "They're hot, but help yourself," I offered, my smile
more derisive than polite.

Okay, so the plumber had actually said that Edward had saved me a few hundred dollars. He also
might have made a passing comment about how I, "had a keeper."

I may have vomited in my mouth a little.

Edward continued staring at the beers, fingers pressing into the chair back with a force that was a
little rude. If he broke it, I'd be pissed the hell off. "I can't," he finally replied, voice low and
somehow strained.

I didn't really think much of his words—maybe he didn't want to drink and drive or something—until
his eyes met mine. They were big and somehow terrified. He took a step back from the table,
finally releasing the chair as he did so, only to grip two thick fistfuls of denim covering his thighs.

"Why?" I asked, blinking in surprise.

His answer was swift and mechanical, "I'm in recovery. Eleven months sober." He didn't
emphasize this with any proud smiles or somber frowns. He stared back at me with that same
horrified expression, as if he'd already somehow cheated and had a drink.

He was powerless. All the hole-digging and pipe-fixing and bag-carrying in the world couldn't put
him above me. This realization affected me in a way that was foreign and consuming. He'd always
had the power. Back in high school, I'd been scrawny and weak. He'd been tall and strong,
beautiful and menacing. Even after I moved back, he still had the power, with his skills and money
and constant apologies.

It was my turn to have the power.

"Oh," I replied, feigning nonchalance as I reached for the six-pack, plucking one long-necked
bottle from the casing. His eyes flashed in realization as I uncapped the bottle with a resounding
fizzle. "Well, cheers to that." I smiled, holding the bottle up to the air.

Then I tipped it back and began drinking, and holy shit, the look on his face was worth every
second of his presence over the last month. There were too many emotions in his expression to
even decipher—the terror in his eyes, the agonized part of his lips, the longing furrow of his brow,
the angry flare of his nostrils. He remained completely frozen as he looked on, his skin still a flat
shade of powerless motherfucker.

It was positively intoxicating.

I lowered the bottle with a loud sigh, licking my lips. I could have stopped then and had plenty to
laugh about in the future, but it was just too good. "I bet you could have one," I cajoled, sauntering
to the case and extracting another. His terrified eyes followed it in my hands. I wasn't even really
certain why fucking with him was so important to me, but it suddenly was. I reasoned, "If you think
about it, I bet just having one beer wouldn't hurt anything. You could prove once and for all that it
has no power over you."

I stopped before him, assessing his pale expression with glee. I waggled my opened bottled below
his nose and watched his nostrils flare further. He sucked in a large breath and held it, the
muscles of his shoulders rippling beneath his t-shirt. His mouth parted and his bottom lip trembled.
Trembled!

His hand came out and grabbed my wrist, thrusting the bottle away from his face with a gasp.
When his eyes met mine, they were no longer glazed with want.

My stomach rolled.

Throat bobbing with a rapid swallow, he released my hand with a gentle nudge. He then stared
into my eyes, the rasp of his voice betraying his tension as he remarked, "I've never known
anyone addicted to spite before."

His brisk walk as he fled neared a jog. My front door was left ajar but swinging behind him, and
then I heard the sounds of his car door slamming followed by the rev of his engine as he sped
away. I was left standing in the middle of my kitchen, an opened bottle in one hand, a closed bottle
in the other.

I blinked at the sunlight that traveled into the entryway from the door, illuminating the decorative,
yet old runner that ran the length of the space. Particles of dust floated through the air, dancing
and weaving through the rays of light in a wraithlike pattern.

I closed the door with a soft click.

I didn't sleep that night. I tossed and turned in my small bed, getting my legs tangled in the cheap
sheets I'd bought a town over. My pillow smelled musty and stale. The air of the house was cold,
and there was no moonlight illuminating the room. The tree outside my window scraped against
the pane and flustered me enough to make me rise.

I was sweating, even though the chill in the air made my feet feel frigid. The hallway was bare,
which amplified the sounds of my footsteps. I passed Charlie's room—the only room I hadn't
entered since moving in. The staircase creaked and groaned under my weight, while the space
just beyond remained eerily silent. The wind howled from afar.

I opened the door to quick, forceful gusts that sent my hair flying in all directions. I batted it away
from my face and stepped out onto the porch, producing my lighter and a crumpled cigarette
package. The lit cherry glowed in the blackness as my eyes slowly adjusted, peering beyond the
yard to the thick forest that lined the property. I sat upon the top step and simply felt the breeze
touch my skin, seep through my shirt and jeans, and slowly invade the warm nooks and crannies
of my body.

It all started with one tear. I was allowed one tear, I decided. I hadn't cried since the funeral, and
even then, it'd only been a brief moment in which I'd been hidden in the bathroom of the church.
Now, I was allowing myself one tear. It wasn't a big deal—and it had nothing to do with Edward's
words from earlier that day.

It all started with one tear.

It ended with deep, thick sobs into my knees that shook my body and drowned out the chatter of
the forest insects. I kept trying to convince myself that I was weeping for Charlie, or maybe I was
weeping because I was lonely and cynical and had no friends or family to stand up for me
whenever someone refused to forgive me. Maybe I was just weeping because I had PMS and
such fucking excellent water pressure that I couldn't even bring myself to use without feeling guilty
and wrong.

Mostly, I soaked the denim of my pants and considered the person I'd become. I was meant to be
better. I was meant to be kinder and more rational. I was meant to be more of a human being than
the Edward Cullen I'd known in high school.

When had I lost that simple moral compass? I wondered. When had it all become a competition for
power instead of my childhood philosophy to "do unto others?" When had I decided that stooping
to that level was acceptable, and not only acceptable—but entertaining?

A gust of wind that felt a lot like Charlie's disappointed voice whispered through the leaves, "I
raised you better than that."

My car rocked from side to side as I slowly drove down the long path to where the Cullens' home
was rumored to sit. I eyed the trees on either side of me skeptically, reluctant to continue down a
path to nowhere, but determined to see where it led.
After so long, I came upon an opening in the trees, revealing a grand white house nestled snugly
into the surrounding forest. Its size was no surprise to me. The residents of Forks often regarded it
as, "The second nicest house in the town." I supposed that only the mayor was paid better than
Dr. Cullen was.

I didn't see the silver car present, which was a colossal relief. I'd come here to see Esme, simply
to inquire as to Edward's whereabouts. I'd get a number or address and spend the next couple of
days mulling over my words. This was the best course for now, I was sure, and Esme had invited
me over.

With a deep inhale and a sweep of my blouse, I emerged from the car and began the trek to the
door, growing more nervous by the second. They had a large planter by their door, much as I used
to have, only theirs held a strong, thriving fern of some sort that seemed to wave hello to me with
the breeze. I took one final glance at myself before lifting my fist and knocking loudly.

When it opened, my heart sank.

Edward's brow was tightly pinched as he assessed me with shocked eyes. He recovered quickly,
smoothing his forehead and locking his jaw. "What do you want?" he asked, low, accusing.

My heart was pounding rapidly, being caught off guard so entirely. I could feel the blood rush to
my face. "Your mom said I was welcome," I answered, inwardly grimacing at my small voice.

"Hmph," he huffed, narrowing his eyes. "She's not here."

I diverted my stare to the fern, admitting, "Actually, I came to get your phone number." Then, with
a deep inhale, I rounded my shoulders and met his gaze. "I wanted to apologize."

No time like the very awkward present…

"Apologize?" he asked, quirking his brow.

"Yes, apologize. What happened yesterday was…" I trailed off with a cough into my fist, eventually
concluding, "It was cruel."

"It was," he agreed, after which a tense silence ensued. "Do you wanna come in?" he offered with
a huff, stepping aside from the doorway.

With a grimace, I followed him into the house, feeling as though my apology was quite lacking. It
was because of this that I began to ramble to the back of his head, "That person yesterday,
taunting you? I just wanted you to know, that wasn't me. I—" I paused, frowning as we reached his
kitchen. He'd invited me into the house, even though I'd never shown the courtesy of inviting him
into mine. He wasn't wearing shoes, and his clothes were too casual to be worn during a visit.

Edward lived here.

"I feel awful," I finished sincerely as he finally turned to me.

He held my gaze and leaned against a counter, lips tightly pursed. "So, let me get this straight," he
began, gesturing to a stool, which I perched upon stiffly. "You did something that made you feel
awful. Something that wasn't really indicative of the person you are?"

I nodded. "Yes."

He nodded as well, thumbing his chin contemplatively as he continued, "You had some kind of…
moment of idiocy. Like… there was a split second decision made that—had you been in the right
mind—would have never happened?"

"Exactly!" I exclaimed, a relieved laugh escaping my lips.

He persisted, guessing, "And now that you've had time to think about it and realize how much it
hurt me, you're sorry it went that far?" he finished by crossing his arms over his chest, head
cocked to the side.

"Very," I insisted. I folded my hands in my lap as he stared at me with a blank expression.

Then he shook his head, dropping his chin to his chest with a frustrated groan. "Isabella…" he
breathed, slouched forward. "Doesn't this sound familiar?"

It took me many moments of watching his downcast eyes before it finally dawned on me. "Oh," I
breathed in realization. My forehead wrinkling, I struggled with how to best express my
disagreement.

"It's not the same thing," he replied, echoing my thoughts exactly.

I acknowledged, "Not completely."

He braced his palms on the counter behind him, his hair now falling in his eyes. He tossed his
head to the side once to clear his vision. "I guess," he conceded, though he didn't sound truly
convincing.

Eager to break the tension, I commented, "So, you've been sober a year now?" At his affirmative
nod, I smiled, praising, "That's great, really."

He shrugged. "Sometimes."

"You live here," I supposed as I inspected the large kitchen, though I was already quite certain.

At this, his forearms seemed to ripple, eyes tightening. "Yeah, for now," he answered curtly.

I shook my head, promising, "Oh, I didn't mean anything by it. I live in my dad's house," I pointed
out.

"I'm moving out soon," he continued, unfazed.

"Cool."

Awkward silences were becoming my forte. Another long one ensued, in which Edward observed
the floor, and I, the ceiling.

"Shit!" he suddenly cursed, causing me to flinch. He pushed himself from the counter and asked,
"Can you wait here one second?" At my nod, he sprinted to the other side of the kitchen, snatching
up a cordless phone on the way.

He only traveled to the other side of the wall, where I ultimately heard his muffled voice speak,
"Alice, it's me again. Every hour on the hour. You won't get rid of me." He paused for many
moments, perhaps waiting for her to answer, before he resigned, "Talk at ya soon." When he
reentered the kitchen, he didn't place the phone back on the cradle, instead opting to keep it near.

"Alice—your sister?" I asked, feeling intrusive and out of place, and a little anxious to leave.

He puffed out a hard breath before taking a stool himself, resting his arms against the cool granite
of the counter. "Yeah, she's kind of pissed off at me right now," he supplied, frowning down at the
little rubber numbers of the telephone as his fingers brushed over them.

My chuckle earned me a slow, ascending glare from across the counter. I hastily explained,
"Funny. Last time I saw her, she was singing your praises like you were the second coming or
something."

His brow pinched. "When did you see Alice?" he wondered.

"Couple of weeks ago. Came into the Lodge. Told me I had to forgive you and stop causing
everyone grief." I snorted at this, still incapable of feeling blame-worthy.

Edward appeared more than a little flustered, the tips of his ears glowing red. "Sorry about that,"
he murmured, looking to the phone as if it had changed since he'd last seen it.

"No big."

"She has this thing about forgiveness," he engaged. "She wants to give it, but she doesn't want to
do the work associated with letting shit go."

"Oh," I replied, completely lost as to the intricacies of their quarrel—not that I even really gave a
crap. I liked being an only child.

"Well, for the record," he declared, back straightening as his lips spread into a thin grin. "I forgive
you."

I could feel my eyes grow wide, face flushing at the reminder that there was anything I needed
forgiven for. "Just like that?" I asked, leery.

He nodded. "Just like that."

I wasn't sure. Maybe his forgiveness was some kind of ploy to make me feel as though I had to
hand over my forgiveness. That'd make sense. What I'd done the day before was… deplorable.
Despicable. The lowest of lows. It didn't make sense for him to hold no animosity against me as a
result of it. Plus, I didn't really feel as though I deserved to be forgiven so easily.

"It's not that easy for me," I whispered while averting my eyes.

The darkening of his eyes made it evident that he realized my meaning. He promised, "I don't want
your forgiveness right now. It doesn't mean anything if you say it out of guilt…" His voice trailed
off, and even though there was sincerity in his statement, I could sense a "but" coming.

"But…" I encouraged, finding his eyes to be fixed on my own.

He leaned closer—close enough to make me borderline uncomfortable—yet I held his stare and it
entranced me with its intensity. "But… it'd mean a lot to me if you gave me the chance to earn it,"
he explained, eyebrows high and hopeful.

I knew I was done. I couldn't forgive him "just like that," but what kind of person would I be if I
denied him the opportunity to earn it?

I knew what kind of person I'd be. A spite-aholic.

"Yeah, okay."

His eyebrows were dangerously close to disappearing behind his hairline. "Yeah?" he asked.
I shrugged. "Yeah," but then considered in a wary tone, "What would that entail, exactly?"

His smile swallowed his face, all shiny teeth and craggy edges and crinkled eyes. "Well,
apparently, I'm pretty good at plumbing," he boasted, to which I rolled my eyes, even though I was
fighting a smile myself. He then asked seriously, "What do you need?"

I quickly shook my head, insisting, "Oh, I don't need anything."

He snorted, tossing the phone casually from palm to palm. "Everyone needs something. Mr. Berty
made me teach him guitar," he said. At my quizzical stare, he deadpanned, "He was trying to woo
Ms. Stewart."

My nose wrinkled. "Ew."

"Tell me about it."

"I'm not trying to woo anyone, so guitar is out," I alleviated, at a loss as to what I should request. It
felt weird.

Edward already had ideas, though—and high ambitions. "Your house could still use some fixing
up," he noted, smiling buoyantly.

I evaded, "Er, maybe."

He persisted with eager eyes, "I'd never seen the inside until yesterday. I—shit, this may come off
as rude, but I don't mean it like that," he warned.

I waved a hand in dismissal, urging, "Carry on."

His cheeks expanded with a gusty breath. "The inside probably needs more work than the outside.
I mean… if you're planning to stay, it should be comfortable, or safe, at the very least, right? And
then, if you wanna sell, you can make a good profit."

"I'm not selling," I replied, perhaps a little too sharply.

He curved a brow. "So, it's gonna be your home."

"Yes," I insisted.

"Possibly forever."

"Yeah…" I trailed off, feeling my forehead crease deeply in contemplation. I'd never really looked
at anything with that amount of permanence before. Could I see myself living in Charlie's house for
forever? Could I see myself looking at the faded yellow walls and listening to the same tree scrape
my windowpanes? Could I use the same coffeemaker and sit on the same porch every morning?

I sighed, rubbing a hand over my face in frustration. "It makes me uncomfortable—you doing all
that work for no pay," I admitted.

He scoffed. "It's not a favor if—"

"—I pay you to do it. Yeah, yeah," I finished in a grumble. I stated, "I'm very independent."

At this, he laughed. "No shit."

I narrowed my eyes and wondered, "Maybe I could help or something."

He pursed his lips and hedged, "Hm. Maybe."

With a deep breath, I confessed, "I don't know how to change the light bulb in the laundry room."
This was true. No matter which way I turned the bulb, it wouldn't come free. I'd spent ten minutes
trying before finally giving up and doing my wash in the dark.

He brightened. "See? There's a perfectly good light bulb joke just waiting to be found."

I was still uncertain as I looked away, sidestepping, "I don't know... I guess."

Finally, Edward stood, backing himself away from the counter while he diverted his eyes to the
phone he still held. He spoke softly, "Look, this is a little humiliating, but… I don't really have
anything else to do." He spared me an askew glance before elaborating, "I just started work at
Newton's, which sucks pretty hard. I don't have any friends, not really, and Forks is boring—and…
I can't get bored, Isabella." When he finally met my eyes, they were that same shade of terrified
green that I'd seen the previous day, as if he were one second away from ruining everything he'd
been working toward.

"So… I'd kinda be doing you a favor," I joked, though I was completely serious. I wasn't so
deluded as to think he'd be the only person gaining anything, but it made me feel a little better
about accepting his help.

The relief in his eyes made his understanding of this apparent. "Right." He smiled.

The moment was feeling a little too friendly for me. Before I could even think to censor my
weakness, I confessed, "It's really hard to trust you." I raised my eyes to his, awaiting his eventual
jab or mocking comment.

"I get that a lot," he said instead, eyes less terrified, sadder. He bargained, "I'll earn it, if you'll let
me. Like the pen." He gestured to my hair with a grin that made my lips thin.

I swore. "That was a fluke. No one is touching my pen ever again." I punctuated this with a scowl,
though I was more upset with my own neglect than anything,

"What's with that anyway?" he asked, effectively moving us past the tense atmosphere of our
confessions.

I stated, "It's lucky."

He clucked his tongue, bracing himself once again on the counter before me. "Obviously. How?
Why? What do you need luck for?" He looked to the top of my head with intrigued eyes, looking far
more absorbed in my pen than absolutely necessary.

"Those are things I'd tell a friend," I evaded, pulling my head back.

"Oh." He frowned at my hair, finally dropping his eyes to mine. "Maybe we could work toward that
friend thing, then." That hopeful expression was back. Ugh.

"Er, one thing at a time."

He nodded agreeably. "That makes sense. Can I at least call you 'Bella?'"

Of course, he'd been calling me by my full name, which was annoying but served as a reminder
that he was respecting our distance. I'd enjoyed having that. With a resigned, inner sneer, I
replied, "Yeah, whatever. I've been called worse." I stood, ignoring the joy clear in his expression
as I fished my keys from my pocket. "My schedule is wonky, but we can start this weekend?" I
asked.

His nod was fervent, though upon saying his next remark, he seemed to lower his head. "I won't
be able to pay for supplies until my first pay day."

My head snapped up at this, and I firmly announced, "I'm covering all expenses."

His brow furrowed as he likely considered arguing, but one glance at my face probably clued him
into the fact that I wasn't folding on that one. He conceded, "Deal."

"Deal." An enormous weight was lifted from my shoulders at our agreement, a chance to finally
move on and leave my spiteful behavior behind me. I was somewhere between smiling and glaring
at my shoes when I was suddenly enveloped in big arms. "Oomph." My cheek was mashed to
Edward's hard chest as he embraced me, my body stiff and alarmed.

Good God, he was a hugger.

Ugh.

"Thank you," he said into my hair, a thick and genuine whisper that wasn't enough to make me
relax into his touch but was definitely enough to save his testicles from my capable knee. I nodded
rigidly into his chest, willing myself to disregard the comfort one would normally feel at being
hugged with such vigor.

I was pretty sure he sniffed my hair.

A/N: Mmm. Transitional chapters. PastyP and TKmoon did the beta thingy. The growing chapter
lengths are scaring me, too. I have a 7k cut off, though. Else, biweekly updates will pile up! Thanks
for all the comments and reviews!

I don't have a rec today because I was using my potentially awesome fic rec as incentive to finish
this chapter. I'll let you know how it panned out next update. XD

Se y'all Sunday!

A/N: Twilight and its characters belong to Stephenie Meyer. I don't own anything. Not even
Boozeward. He belongs to the fab ladies at WArehab and they can do whatever they want with
him (except allow him anywhere near water or feed him after midnight). Thanks so much for all
your kind words and encouragement!

So... you probably noticed that I missed my Sunday update. I was so fail, guise. Sorry! I was doing
taxes and... admittedly? Reading a lot of fic and procrastinating. You all deserve medals or
something for putting up with my nuttiness! Lubbs ya!

I ducked through the doors, head low, and quickly scanned the groupings of tables. My eyes easily
spotted the head of blonde hair I'd been seeking and, with narrowed I eyes, I marched
determinedly to where he sat.

"Fancy seeing you here." I took a seat beside Jasper at the table, avoiding his gaze—not that he
was looking me in the eye. It'd taken me nearly a week to hunt him down, and sadly, I'd gone
through a variety of undesirable individuals before it was revealed that he was just... here.

I was annoyed.

He sat with his legs sprawled out, propped on the rungs of the chair across from him. "What do
you want?" he asked, voice flat. He stared ahead, out the window of the coffee shop where we
sat, at the little boutique across the street. "I'm allowed to be here. I can be here. I'm not doing
anything wrong." He clutched at his cup and scooted it farther toward his chest, eyes narrowed. "I
can be here."

"I know that, Jasper." I ground, following his gaze through the glass. I spoke low, inclining my head
toward him, "People have been looking for you. You can't just—" My fists tightened as he pulled
the cup closer still, tucking it into his chest, eyes vacant. "You can't just fucking not show up," I
finished.

"I'm going to the group in Tacoma," he replied, shrugging stiffly.

I snorted. "No, you aren't."

"I don't need it," he hissed, finally breaking his gaze on the shop to meet my own. His expression
loosened as rolled his eyes, flicking his wrist in dismissal. "You know, whatever. I don't need it.
Fuck it."

"I bet Alice thinks differently," I challenged, snatching a Sweet-N-Low packet from the table and
flicking it between my fingers.

"What do you know 'bout Alice?" he asked, grin hard and bitter. "She's fine. She's doing fine.
Better this way." He drew his cups to his lips, returning his eyes to the window.

I scrubbed a palm over my face in frustration. "That's… that's just—fuckin' stupid. You're just
giving up because… what? I don't approve?" I barked a chuckle at this, assuring, "Trust me, that's
never stopped Alice before."

He shrugged once again. "She's better off, you know it."

"I do," I agreed with a fervent nod. "And I'm not being a hypocrite." And I wasn't. I didn't deserve
someone like Alice, either.

"I know."

I continued, "If it were Rose and me…"

His gaze snapped to mine then, flashing in anger as he inclined over the table. "If it were Rose
and you, I'd cut off your fucking dick and feed it to you."

I held up my palm in emphasis, "Precisely." His jaw twitched as he reclined back into his seat, one
hand flat atop the smooth, black surface of the table. "You can't just give up, Jasper."

"I haven't," he said, taking another long sip from his Styrofoam cup.

"Oh?" I asked, nodding to the cup that he held in his hands as if it were His Precious.

His brows pinched together as he followed my stare, turning the cup over in his hands. He clicked
his tongue, rolling his eyes. "Christ, it's fuckin' sweet tea. They don't sell it here, so I have to sneak
it in." He popped off the top and smacked it onto the table, daring me with his eyes.

Without preamble, I lifted to my nose, sniffing. "Oh," I replied at the innocuous scent, pushing it
back toward him. I ducked my chin, folding my arms on the table. "So you're not, eh, falling off the
wagon?" There was really no easy way to ask something like that.

"Nope."
I took a deep, relieved breath. "Good," I whispered, feeling as though an enormous burden had
been lifted from my shoulders.

I might not have been too pleased at the idea of Jasper boning my baby sister, but I certainly didn't
want him throwing away all of his progress as a result. That would be more guilt than I could live
with.

Confused, I pondered, "So, if this isn't about… going back, then… why don't you just fucking talk
to her, man?" It would have made sense if Jasper had simply given up, thrown in the towel, and
disappeared for a lengthy bender of booze, blow, and bimbos.

"What's it matter to you?" he asked in a scathing voice, tucking the cup to his chest once again.

I frowned, knee bouncing as I fidgeted with the sugar packet. "You matter to me. Alice matters to
me. I know, I acted… impulsively, and—look, I really don't like the idea of you… er, being with her,
but Christ, I'll get over it, okay?" I raked my fingers through my hair, even more frustrated when he
didn't answer.

Truthfully, I couldn't deny that a large part of my reaction was likely due to my own issues rather
than Jasper's. I didn't feel above him in any way, and I didn't feel below him, either. I felt on his
level, a level that people like Alice, my parents, Bella, Mike, and the rest of Forks were above. Far
above. I couldn't help feeling that way. It wasn't a conscious choice or anything. It was just one of
those truths that could never be changed.

We were less.

They were more.

But I was frustrated, both at myself and at Jasper, who sat at this table every day, from opening 'til
closing, and never thought to challenge that fact.

I gnashed my teeth and stretched across the table, shoving his shoulder with a hissed, "Fuckin'
prove me wrong or something."

He slapped my hand away with indifferent eyes, replying, "It's not about you, Edward. All of this? It
was never about what you thought."

"Then what?" My voice was rising loud enough to draw stares from the wait staff. I slouched sourly
in my chair.

Jasper's eyes scanned the room, narrowing at the remaining gawkers until they looked away.
Then he leaned forward on his arms and leveled me with his eyes—fierce and glowing. He asked,
"Ain't you ever been rejected? Like, given someone your whole soul and watched them just…
fuckin'… stomp on it?"

I raised my eyebrows in surprise. "No." The closest I'd ever come to anything like that was having
Angela Webber decline my sexual advances.

Her hair had always looked really soft—and she was a brunette.

He nodded, cupping his neck with one palm as he nodded at the window. "Well, I'll tell you what.
That woman over there? It mighta been minutes or it mighta been months, but eventually, she was
gonna see me for what I was, and she was gonna do that. We both know it. She was gonna do it.
She was—" He paused, jaw tensing. "She was ashamed of me, you were right."

We both watched Alice over the expanse of the road and busy sidewalks. She was bagging
something for a customer, her smile wide and fake enough to be seen from afar. The interior
design boutique she worked at had just appointed her manager, and she'd been so happy. I felt
dual pangs of guilt and longing upon watching her through the windows. She had yet to answer
any of my calls. I'd spent four days calling every hour, on the hour—even setting my alarm clock to
do so—until it grew old, and my concern shifted to Jasper's whereabouts.

Jasper finished darkly while sipping his tea, "So excuse the fuck outta me for not giving her the
chance."

When he lowered the cup, he watched her in silence, and I watched him. Patrons came and went,
wait staff stopped at our table, Alice tended to four more customers, three blue cars passed, five
white, one red, and the way he watched Alice… it stunned me.

I couldn't comprehend how in the hell he had fallen so completely head over heels for my little
sister, right under my nose. It was so clear in his posture whenever he'd watch her. He'd loosen,
sink into the seat, as if the simple sight of her could make everything disappear. It was
uncomfortable for me to witness, and not just because it was my sister eliciting that reaction from
someone like Jasper.

I wondered, "And your recovery?" At this point, I knew he wouldn't approach Alice, and I couldn't
say I blamed him one bit.

I couldn't be sure that she wouldn't break him.

My words seem to jar him from his Alice-induced trance, his body tensing with a subtle intake of
air. He lifted one shoulder. "So long as I know she's out there, so long as I know she has my soul
and ain't stomped on it yet, I got a reason," he said, nodding to himself with a set and determined
jaw. "I won't be fine or happy, but I'll damned sure be sober to feel every moment of it." His eyes
found mine, and the smile he forced was a strained and ugly thing—just like us.

It was times like these when I'd be reminded of James. Sometimes, I'd try to fit Jasper into that
niche James had once filled, without even realizing it. Sometimes, when we'd sit together like this,
I'd half expect Jasper to jump up from his seat, smile broadly, look me in the eye, and say, "Come
on, Eduardo! You only live once!" My lips would twitch, and sometimes, I'd wait to hear the
booming tenor of an excited voice, only to be met with a heavy, grey silence.

"Come back to the group," I implored, defeated and weary. "There's no reason not to."

Jasper was quiet for so long that I figured he wouldn't answer. Doing so to only decline would
have been rude, so this made sense to me. But then his chin lifted and ever so slightly dipped to
his chest, and I knew that he'd be coming Thursday.

I sat with him in silence until closing, watching the sun disappear as I siphoned his peaceful and
serene mood. He'd prop his feet on the chair against the glass he faced and relax into his seat,
one hand resting behind his head. He'd drink his sweet tea with measured sips, drawing it out until
it the cup was emptied and hollow. I'd dump packets of sweetener onto the black surface of the
table and draw figures into it with my fingertip.

Bugs swarmed the halos of light from the street lamps when they illuminated the sidewalk.

"For he's a jolly good fellow, for he's a jolly good fellow. For he's a jolly good fellow! Which nobody
can deny." Claps and cheers resounded around the dinner table, a few whistles and hoots
following in their wake.

"I can think of a few that could deny it," I laughed, buoyant regardless of the truth behind it.
"Blow it out!" Lauren exclaimed, bouncing on her toes as she pointed at the large cake before me.

Tyler shot me a wry grin from across the table. "Lauren knows all about blowing things out."

Esme looked positively horrified, while Lauren simply shot him a playful glare. She wasn't
offended, of course. You couldn't offend Lauren. If anything, she'd be most likely to boast about
her fellatio skills. However, Carlisle was not without a grumbling reproach as I blew out the single
candle.

It wasn't my birthday—technically—though it was a day of birth of sorts.

Esme had gotten out the fine china and was distributing slices of cake, severing the letters that
created, "Happy First Year," with pursed, focused lips. Lauren and Tyler had both come to the
house for the celebration, my parents both beyond ecstatic to mark the day.

Jasper and Alice hadn't.

"Whaddya think you were you doing exactly one year ago, to the second?" Tyler asked before
shoving a large forkful of cake between his lips. He was probably the antithesis of Jasper.
Outgoing, loud, outwardly confident, usually had no issue with helping himself to anything and
everything.

I really wished Jasper would have come.

"Hmm," I pondered, sparing my parents a sidelong glance. Their eyes were focused intently on
their plates. "I was probably lying in a hospital bed, enjoying some good narcotics," I answered,
grinning tightly. Narcotics weren't my drug of choice, but I couldn't deny that they'd dulled my
misery at the time.

"Tyler's never heard this! Tell the story again," Lauren sighed, chin propped on her palm with a
whimsical expression. "It has a happy ending."

Tyler sniggered, "Lauren knows all about hap—OW!" He rubbed at the ear Lauren had just brutally
flicked.

She waved me on with a smile, but I was apprehensive, especially given my parents' reactions. To
get to the happy ending, I had to relay the other, far harder portion of the story.

I blew out a hard breath and, resigned to much editing, as usual, began, "Well, I was in this car—"

"You don't know whose car it was," Lauren stated matter-of-factly. She already knew this story. I'd
told it to her at least five times. At my scowl, she frowned and insisted, "I'll be quiet."

I cleared my throat. "Right, so I'd just woken up in this car. Real shitty car, too. And it was dark.
Like… four a.m. or something? And cold. So I climb out of the car, and my head is… throbbing.
Worst hangover I've ever had, I swear. Anyway, I put my feet out and stand up, only… I can't. I fall
pretty much flat on my face, and for some reason, there's… blood—everywhere."

Wordlessly, Esme stood and left the room, her shoulders high and tense. She never could hear
this part of the story. Carlisle simply continued eating his cake, eyes averted.

I continued while both Lauren and Tyler listened, rapt with attention, "Turns out I was on the side
of the road. The car was against a telephone pole, all smashed to hell. I couldn't stand up, or even
lift my head, so I just laid there and… waited."

Lauren nodded eagerly. "Waited for someone to pass," she explained with a sidelong glance to
Tyler.

But that wasn't entirely true. I was mostly just waiting for everything to end. I was waiting for black
and finality and peace and painlessness. I could still remember the gurgled sounds of blood in a
throat, the shimmer of ice on the blacktop and how it reflected the moonlight.

"Right," I confirmed instead. "So then, when someone finally drove by and saw me, they called the
police, who called the ambulance, who took me to the hospital." I had skimmed over a lot, but
Lauren wanted the happy ending and, not gonna lie, so did I.

Lauren's face brightened in anticipation.

"It was so weird," I mused. "I had no idea where I was, but I figured I was in Port Angeles. So, I
was confused as hell when I was brought to the hospital here, in Forks." At this, Carlisle finally met
my gaze and offered a small smile. I persisted, "My dad was there that night, at any rate, so… he
heard my name and came to me, and..." I trailed off with a shrug, always uncomfortable about
telling that part of the tale. It was too personal.

Carlisle finally saved me from elaborating, "He was in serious condition and it'd been suggested
that he might not walk again. It was decided that I'd take care of him." We shared a knowing
glance, quickly drawing our eyes away.

It was the first time I'd ever seen Carlisle cry. He'd come into the triage room in his blue-green
scrubs, face ashen and taut, and he… lost it. It scared the shit out of me. I'd been convinced that
was it—I was paralyzed for life, or had permanent brain damage, or was horribly disfigured. Why
else would he have reacted in such a way?

"Looks to me like you walk fine," Tyler observed, helping himself to another slice of cake.

Lauren inclined her eyes upward, shaking her head. "Well, duh. Let him finish."

At this, I concluded, "It took a week for the swelling to go down, but the first time I moved a toe, I
just knew."

"Knew what?" Tyler asked when I didn't continue.

I shot the glob of icing hanging from his lip a wry glance. "Knew that I was done living that way."

Lauren, as usual, grew annoyed, huffing, "You're missing the point." She turned to Tyler with a
reverent expression as she explained, "He could have died that night, or spent the rest of his life
paralyzed. But he wasn't. Don't you see?" she asked imploringly, eyes wide and shining as an
enormous smile swallowed her face. She cheekily declared, "Edward was given a second chance
by our Lord and Savior."

I groaned.

Carlisle's mirroring grin to her was toothy and proud. "Praise Jesus," he smugly declared.

"Praise Jesus," Lauren answered, returning to her slice of cake with a blithe expression that I
couldn't bring myself to disrupt.

It was only upon hearing this that Esme reentered, offering her own wide smile.

It wasn't that I disagreed. For all her born-again, loosely-followed, bible-thumping Christian
fanaticism, Lauren wasn't wrong. I could have easily been killed or spent the rest of my life in a
wheelchair. Maybe there'd been a higher power at work, but I didn't see why. I didn't deserve the
second chance I'd been given. No higher power could be that unfair. By all karmic rights, I should
have been paralyzed or rotting six feet under.

Instead, I was sitting at a table in a nice home, celebrating my first year of sobriety while on the
path to something better. I was employed and loved by my parents unconditionally—a type of love
that few have ever had tested. I was fortunate and… blessed. Blessed by God or blessed by luck,
it didn't matter to me.

What mattered was that I didn't waste it.

"I have good news and I have bad news. Which do you want first?" I asked. I put my palm to the
frame of the archway to Bella's kitchen, before yanking it back and running my fingers through my
hair. She turned to me from the sink with a flinch, having been caught off guard. "Sorry," I said
quickly, recalling how she'd accused me of being too silent.

She rolled her eyes and returned to a dish, responding. "I hate it when people ask which news I
want first. Just spit it out."

"Okay," I said, watching as she traveled to the oven. "Your light socket is totally fucked, but I
planned ahead and bought a new one from the hardware store, so I'll be able to replace it."

"How much was it?" she asked while removing a casserole dish, a puffy mitt on each hand.

I clucked my tongue, a bit distracted by the aroma of… something cheesy. "Come on, Bella. It was
like five dollars," I informed. I watched as she set the dish on the table, steam rising from the
yellowy layer that was still bubbling. Damn, it looked good, and I hadn't eaten lunch that day, since
I'd only just gotten off work at Newton's and my break had been too short, as usual.

I realized my salivating at her meal was incredibly rude, and snapped my eyes to her with a mask
of indifference.

She was staring at me, frozen, one mitt halfway removed and in her fist. "Would you like some?"
she asked, shifting her bare feet. She didn't recover from her grimace fast enough for me to miss
it. She was only asking to be polite.

I waved a hand in dismissal, declining, "Nah, I don't wanna impose. I just need to find your breaker
box real quick." A quick scan of the kitchen revealed that it likely wasn't in this room. It was
probably in the laundry room, now that I thought about it. I turned to leave, only to be halted by her
sigh.

"It's okay. It'll even out the five dollars," she persisted, twisting a tight smile for my benefit when I
met her gaze.

Figuring it'd be rude to decline again and respecting her necessity of making things even, I
tentatively took the seat at the end of the table. She broke my gaze and removed an extra plate
from the cupboard, setting it before me with a fork. The clanks and dings of table-setting made her
house feel more silent than it likely was.

I cleared my throat, shifting uncomfortably. "What's your obsession with balance?" I asked in an
attempt to break the tension. My neck was hot, prickling as she seated herself before me, a
newspaper beside her plate that she scanned with her eyes. The scene was almost
inconceivable—Bella making me dinner. She looked nice today, too, in her tight sweater and dark,
fitted jeans, hair all twisted up as it usually was.

She spooned a heap of what I eventually realized to be homemade macaroni and cheese
casserole onto her plate. "I don't like being in debt, and I hate knowing that someone has
something over me," she finished with her shoulders tucked to her ears, avoiding my eyes.
Clearly, this entire scene made her uncomfortable, too.

I should have declined.

I puffed out a tense breath and reluctantly filled my own plate, hedging, "You're proud." Then I
supposed that was a rude assessment to make, my hand pausing over the casserole dish as I
peeked at her with caution.

She shrugged in response. "I don't know. Maybe. There's nothing wrong with a little pride." Her
eyes emphasized this when they met mine, steady and brown and not giving a shit.

I blew on my forkful of macaroni, steam wafting up my nostrils in mouth-watering plumes. "A little
pride can be good," I agreed, shoving the fork into my mouth.

My jaw froze. My hand froze. Everything froze.

It was good. Like... really good, which made my being at this table felt even odder. Not only had a
beautiful woman who hated my guts made me dinner, but it was a delectable dinner. Then I
remembered that she hadn't made me dinner, but that I'd imposed on her night, and I felt like utter
crap, frowning.

"What's wrong with it?" she asked, guarded and tense. She flicked her eyes to my fork, narrowed.

"Nufing," I mumbled, mouth full as I swallowed. "It's… really good," I complimented.

"It's okay if you don't like it," she said, pushing back in her seat, lips set into a frustrated line.

A little frustrated myself, I reiterated, "It's fantastic, okay? I say what I mean, and I mean what I
say." I punctuated this with another large forkful, shoving it into my mouth. It was only upon a few
more eager mouthfuls that her shoulders began to ease from their defensive tension.

Her cheeks grew a faint flush of pink as she retrieved her fork, pushing around a macaroni noodle
on her plate. "Oh, I just—" Her words cut off with a snap of her jaw and sharp shake of her head.
"Never mind."

"You just what?" I encouraged, licking my teeth as my eyes searched the table. I was thirsty, but
didn't dare ask for a drink.

She stared into her plate, scowling. "I'm not used to having, like…. I don't know. People eating.
Stuff that I cooked myself, or…. Whatever, I didn't mean to be bitchy," she concluded, eyes hard.

"Well, it's really good," I assured once again, though my finger began toying with the paper towel
she'd set beside my plate, tearing the edges into a fringed pattern. My next words were a surprise,
even to me. "So you don't usually… cook—for anyone… else or anything?"

She was silent for a moment as I refused to look her in the eyes. "Uh… no," she answered,
confusion lacing her tone.

"So, what's next on the home improvement list?" I blurted, eager to veer away from the
unexceptionally weird place my mind had travelled to.

"Um," she stammered, brows furrowed in uncertainty. Her eyes darted about the kitchen, rolling
her fork between her fingertips. "I'm not... sure?"
I assisted, "Your staircase," and ducked my head in the direction of her living room, hoping that my
ears weren't as red as they felt.

"My staircase?" she asked, brow curved.

I nodded, elaborating with a swallow, "It makes bad sounds. That can't be safe. Won't hurt to
make sure it's still structurally sound, you know?" It felt weird admitting aloud that I'd heard her
steps on the staircase earlier. Something about being inside this house made my senses
particularly alert, as if I were expecting the Chief's memory to bust through the door at any second
to strangle me to death.

She looked thoughtfully to the archway into the parallel room, raising her brows with a small, "Oh,
okay."

"Okay," I exhaled in relief, having successfully traversed through enough multiple awkward
moments to make my muscles feel gelatinous.

Despite my compliments toward her casserole, Bella still appeared abundantly shocked when I
gestured with reluctance to the dish for a second helping, a silent question in my eyes. She simply
nodded, growing pinker.

Sure, the silence that followed wasn't tense at all.

I was still thirsty as hell, but knew better than to ask for a drink. Bella didn't seem to mind being
beverageless, nevertheless, and opted to thumb through her newspaper while she ate.

When she turned it over, I caught an eyeful of The Forksian's front page.

A low and involuntary, "Ugh," escaped the back of my throat.

She flitted her eyes to mine, surprise evident in their width. "What?" she asked, that trace of
defensiveness tainting her posture once again.

I quickly shook my head, pointing to the paper as I explained, "Nothing, just that article on Dr. Aro.
He's such a fake. He's had my dad so wound up and—" I paused with a roll of my eyes. "Never
mind." I waved my hand, certain that Bella could care less about anything I had to say.

"What? Tell me," she prompted, turning the paper over in her hands. Her eyes flew left to right as
she scanned the article and photo I'd gestured to, jaw moving as she chewed.

I wasn't sure why she cared, but I easily vented, "Well, he was elected to the board under false
pretenses or some such. My dad said he's seen some shady shit go down."

"Like what?"

I shrugged, shifting in my seat. "Missing funds and stuff? I don't know. I just… know my dad's
really stressed out over it. I don't really ask him for specifics or anything," I finished with a weak
smile.

She met my gaze, brows pinched with indignation. "Why not? That's something that should be
investigated," she began, back straight in her seat. "That's the problem with the world today.
People see others being wronged and they never say or do anything about it. Just turn their backs
on the issues. If someone were stealing your money, wouldn't you like someone to say
something?"

I wasn't sure what to say as I prodded at my last few bites of casserole, frowning. "I guess, but
what am I gonna do? You know what the law enforcement here is like—underfunded and
understaffed. Plus—" My teeth clicked as I quickly snapped my mouth shut.

Plus, your dad was the best investigator this town probably had.

"I don't know enough about it," I finished grimly.

Her hand raised to her hair and, with a flick of her fingers, emerged with her pen—the lucky
pen—the pen she rarely wrote with. My heart thrummed with anticipation of seeing her hair
tumble.

It didn't.

Damn.

She put the pen to the newspaper and ordered, "Tell me what you do know." Her eyes were
determined and piercing as they met mine, flashing in an unfamiliar-to-me fashion.

I sputtered a surprised, "Uh, I don't know," and quickly filled my mouth, concluding, "I'll haf to avk
my dad."

Her hand began scribbling onto the grayish paper, brows pulled together in thought. "Maybe I
could talk to him?" she asked, though it felt as though she were mostly talking to herself.

"If you… want to…?" I supposed, more than a little taken aback by her interest. I mean, sure, it
was pretty fucked up for Dr. Aro to hold such a powerful position when he was possibly abusing it,
but… I had enough of my own bullshit to worry about without meddling in the hospital's business.

I finished my casserole before Bella, who was still scribbling onto the paper, so I placed my fork
atop my plate and just sort of… sat there. I didn't wanna just jet without offering to help clean up or
something. That seemed like the polite thing to do, especially since I'd probably eaten more than
five dollars worth of her meal.

She eventually broke her gaze from her paper, seeming to search the table. She then stood,
wordless as she traveled to the cabinets across the room. I rose as well, lifting my empty plate and
shifting from foot to foot.

She emerged with one glass, then—slowly—another. "Would you like a drink?" she asked over
her shoulder, lifting a glass.

I exhaled, gripping the plate with unnecessary force. "No, thank you," I said, sharply enough to
cause her head to snap back.

She only looked offended for a fraction of a second before her features went slack. "I didn't
mean…" She shook her head, turning to me. Her gaze was focused vaguely over my shoulder. "I
have lemonade," she clarified. "I wouldn't ever, like… try to offer you—that again." Then she
looked down at the glasses in her hands, her shame subtle, but apparent in the hard lines of her
barely-there glower.

The temptation I'd felt at her previous taunting had been enormous. She wouldn't have cared
whether or not I'd fallen off the wagon. She would have rejoiced, and this thought had made it
impossibly more alluring. There was nothing worse than being in the presence of someone that
wanted to see me fail. That day in her kitchen probably fell in my top five most difficult moments.

I breathed deeply through my nostrils, willing my mind to not address the other drinks she might
have in her fridge. "Lemonade would be great," I accepted, embarrassed.
Nodding, her feet pattered toward the fridge, opening the door.

And then it happened.

She ducked inside, disappearing behind the door before emerging with a jug. But she'd bent and
then… straightened and...

My breath caught, strangled in my throat.

There was a slow untwisting, gravity pulling her thick rope of hair until it was… tumbling. It fell in
fat waves around her shoulders, bounced once, then settled down her back in a tidy cascade, the
horizontal impressions of her bun uniform, while the ends curled in spiraled locks just above her
hips.

She was pouring from the pitcher, none the wiser about my inner turmoil as her head tilted in
concentration. Her hair shifted over one shoulder, veiling her face and arm. My anxious eyes
darted to the table, where her pen sat peacefully atop the newspaper.

Oh, and she was talking. "—this, but I used to make it a lot in Florida. I'm honestly not a big
drinker. Of beer, I mean. Just… sometimes. On the weekends, or whatever." She turned to me
with a heavy exhale, cheeks flushed, eyes trained upward. "I'm not like that."

My face must have been as red as hers when I accepted the glass, eyes trained on the hair that
covered her delicate, pink neck. In that portion of my mind reserved for boredom at work and late
nights on the internet, I briefly imagined dropping both the plate and glass and pushing my fingers
through her hair.

I'd stand behind her and cup it in my hands, bury my face into it and rub it against my cheeks, take
deep inhales of her inadequate, cheap, strawberry-scented shampoo.

I sank my teeth into my cheek and willed away my sudden erection with thoughts of rancid vomit.
"Thank you," I said, clearing my throat when my voice cracked. I tipped the glass back and
inspected her ceiling as I chugged every single drop of it down.

My lips puckered when I finished with a deep breath, wiping my mouth on the back of my hand.

She blinked at me. "If you were so thirsty, you could have asked for a drink," she stated, taking my
plate with an annoyed expression.

I remained frozen beside the table, fixated on how the dull lighting of the overhead fixture didn't do
her highlights justice. When I was certain my bizarre behavior was reaching noticeable
proportions, I ripped my gaze away and scratched furiously at my nape.

"Would you let me do the dishes?" I asked, already knowing the answer.

She scoffed, turning to place my plate in the sink before returning to her seat. "I think I'm capable
of washing two plates, but thanks," she answered dryly, retrieving her pen and resuming her
sporadic scribbles beside Dr. Aro's face.

"Right," I sighed, fixing my eyes to the dull toes of my boots. "Well… I'm gonna go see if I can find
that breaker box then…" When she answered in a low hum, I spun on my heel, frantic to leave the
room before that other, more imaginative side of my brain took over certain appendages.

"Edward," she called, halting me right before I'd crossed the threshold.

I cursed under my breath, glancing vaguely toward her from over my shoulder. "Yeah?"
"I was wondering…" She looked down at her hands, fidgeting with the pen between her fingertips.
"Well… I mean, it's not really… important? But…" She went silent for a moment before finally
lifting her eyes, a flicker of anger crossing her features. "What ever happened to James?" she
asked.

At the sound of his name, all sorts of dormant emotions assaulted me. There was anger, sure, but
there were also other, fonder emotions of my childhood friend as well. I felt a dipping of nostalgia
in my stomach of summers spent down at La Push, James always challenging me to jump from
the higher cliffs and swim in the rougher surfs.

He'd smile his snaggletoothed grin, blonde hair all rumpled and sticking to his face and neck. He'd
extend his arms wide, as if the world were always his own, and say, "Come on, Eduardo! You only
live once!" His eyes, alight with mischief, would dare me to follow him—and I usually did, and then
we usually emerged from the water, thrilled and breathless, collapsing on the sand with airy,
juvenile laughter.

I was brought back to the present with a lurch; my legs, weak; tongue, bitter with the memory of
salty water, stealthily stolen booze and the smoky air of his Oldsmobile. I turned away, looking
toward the laundry room where my next task lay. That was how to get through this—one moment
at a time.

My words followed behind me, flat and vacant.

"He's dead, Bella."

A/N: I only just realized that every scene in this chapter takes place at a table. Huh. Clearly, there
was interaction creativity fail. PastyP beta'd, TKmoon held my hand, Angel approved the
hairection. And, of course, you all brighten my life by reading my drivel and actually taking time to
comment! XD

I have two recs this week! I actually had three, but Angel called dibs on one of them.
Expectations and Other Moving Pieces by chrometurtle (in my faves list on my profile) is an
insanely awesome AH E/B angstfic. E and B are already in a loveless marriage when the story
begins. It is so good!

The other is So Cruel by Demosthenes91 (in my faves list) and is a contest-winning one-shot
continuation, AH, 80's E/B, angsty High School fic. The sweetest doucheward I've read all year!
KickedPuppyward? Whatever. Bella punches him. It's good times!

See y'all Sunday!

A/N: Twilight and its characters belong to Stephenie Meyer. I don't own anything. Not even
Boozeward. He belongs to the fab ladies at WArehab and they can do whatever they want with
him (except allow him anywhere near water or feed him after midnight). Thanks so much for all
your kind words and encouragement!

There's a long A/N at the end with a Mac-N-Cheese recipe, so I'll just say a huge thanks for all the
comments. [Insert big, goofy grin, here]

"What are you doing?" I shouted. The door to my car closed behind me while I hugged my
notepad and folders to my chest. I assessed the aluminum ladder propped against the house with
confused and wary eyes.

If he'd gotten that from the shed, it probably wasn't safe to use, and I had no interest in a
lawsuit—if it were possible.

I'd have to research that.

I saw him stiffen, one hand gripping the top rung of the ladder, while the other paused its
mysterious movement at the edge of my roof. Slowly, his head turned, eyes darting to my face,
before rising to my head. He exhaled heavily, body easing from its rigid posture.

His odd reaction upon seeing me was common. His last three visits had all began like this—eyes
cautious as they rose to where my hair was tied atop my head. It took me a long while to deduce
what he was always staring at with such trepidation. I hadn't forgotten the way he'd looked at me
that night we'd eaten dinner together and I'd taken my hair down—the wide eyes, the ashen face,
the quick swallows, his taut jaw muscles. I had always been an observant person, had always
prided myself on deciphering mysteries. His had taken a long while to crack, but I had his number.

Clearly, Edward had some kind of fear of hair—Chaetophobia, possibly.

I'd looked that up.

Edward offered me another quick glance over his shoulder before extending a handful of sodden
leaves. "Cleaning the gutter," he replied, mud and goop dripping from between his fingers.

I wrinkled my nose and walked closer, craning my neck to see him. "Weren't you going to finish
the staircase?"

He resumed working, using a large pole he'd sat on the roof to purge the gutters of wet leaves.
"Well, when I came, you weren't here, so I figured while I was waiting..." he trailed off and glanced
down, his hair limp and dark from the morning mist in the air.

I'd been around town, looking into this whole Dr. Aro situation. I'd been casually asking questions
about him to the citizens—some coworkers and such. Most of the people I'd asked didn't even
know who he was, which was a testament to his ambiguity, as everyone knew who everyone was
in this town.

Without answering his silent question, I replied, "That's not necessary," and shifted my thick stack
of files to one side, rather frustrated. I wondered when the hell Edward had become such an
egregious overachiever. It seemed as though he found something extra to do with every visit.
When he'd come last week to simply "check" the staircase's foundation, he'd also managed to find
another flaw in the house that needed attention: pests.

Sure, it seemed necessary enough to note the termite damage that was related to the staircase's
vulnerability, but by the end of the following day, he'd been up in the attic, setting down mouse
traps, which was an issue that continued to bother me.

I didn't want to kill the poor mousies.

He shook his head, and I could see his sigh from where I stood. "It's nothing," he insisted. "And
trust me, it's very necessary. Do you have any idea the damage clogged gutters can do to a
house's foundation? Water can even back up into the walls and ceiling and—"

"Okay, okay!" I halted him, defeated. "Just... is there anything I can do to help?" I kept asking this,
but he usually found excuses which made it impossible for me to help, like involving the brutal
murder of defenseless mammals.

His grin was barely hidden as he jostled the pole about, eyes focused. "I'm almost done," he
dismissed. "I'll be in after I finish...?" He paused then and looked to me with an uncertain
expression. He wasn't comfortable in my house, was always shifting and grimacing and holding
his arms unnecessarily close to his sides.

It was kind of awesome.

"That's fine," I relented, traveling up the steps and casting him one last, reluctant glance before
entering the house.

Despite my undeniable discomfort with having him so near, I couldn't disregard my annoying
sense of relief at having somebody not only to repair the house, but also to simply... be here. It
was a definite credit to my loneliness that I still felt this way, even though it was Edward Cullen. It
wasn't like he was anywhere near being a friend to me, and we never spoke about anything
unrelated to his self-imposed duties—and even then, I was usually battling with him to do less, and
he was usually battling with me to do more. I didn't know if I could say we argued, because it
wasn't possible to argue with Edward. He was always quick to reassure me or present the
situation in a light that I couldn't possibly debate.

Those moments of disagreement were growing shorter and shorter. I justified this by reasoning
that Edward had a talent for explanation and spinning views. He was practical—with a dash of
manipulative thrown in.

He'd tilt his head just so, and then he'd state his case in this calm, smooth, self-assured voice, with
all his home improvement lingo and simple logic. Furthermore, refusing to allow him access to my
attic had resulted in something particularly appalling. The green of his eyes had grown dark and
despondent, a sadness present with them that picked and prodded my inner bleeding heart.

A bleeding heart? For Edward Cullen? It was laughable.

But I'd let him, because there was only one thing in this world worse than feeling indebted to
Edward Cullen—not to mention the useless slaughter of innocent animals—and that was my slow,
creeping sense of compassion for his circumstance. No good could come of that. I wanted to save
my compassion for people—and poor, helpless animals—whom I actually deemed worthy of such
a thing.

I was sourly pondering this as I laid my things upon the table, absently flipping through papers, the
name, "Dr. Herbert Aro" riddled within sentences and document titles. His essays on financial
efficiency in the healthcare system were particularly intriguing, and had been simple to obtain.

I'd gone to the library with the intention of garnering use of their microfiche reader. Unfortunately,
the librarian was young and hadn't been updating the films. There was a massive gap in time that I
wasn't comfortable overlooking, so it was decided that a trip to the actual headquarters of the
paper was in order. Instead, I'd taken advantage of the free internet and had printed out some of
Dr. Aro's academic works.

I didn't know what the hell was being said through most of it, but one thing was clear: Dr. Aro was
an intelligent man with innovative ideas. He was in the position to save the hospital loads of
money. The question was: what was he doing with it?

The sounds of an elongated, thunderous scrape disrupted my musings, my head whirling to the
kitchen window just in time to see a flash of silver ladder. A muffled crash followed that caused my
stomach to lurch.

Oh, great, I thought as I sprinted to the door and threw it open, bounding down the steps to peer at
the side of the house. The last thing I needed was to be liable for hospital bills, or worse.
I caught sight of Edward just as he sprung to his feet, eyes meeting mine immediately.

He stuffed his hands in his pockets, a succinct and covert jerk of his shoulder sending a leaf
tumbling to the ground. "What's up?" he asked, eyebrows raised.

I gaped at his ruffled appearance while noting the ladder, which was flat on the ground. "You fell!" I
exclaimed, wincing at the sight of him. He had debris in his hair, while his flannel shirt, pushed up
to his elbows, was smeared with the same goop he'd been holding moments prior.

"Oh, that?" His eyes went to the ladder and he shrugged. "It was nothing," he said, craggy grin
tainting his face.

My eyes narrowed. "It didn't sound like nothing," I retorted, and it certainly didn't look like nothing.
When my eyes shot a wry glance to his hair, Edward merely scoffed, scrubbing his fingers through
it.

"Like I said, it was nothing." He shrugged again and whisked past me, declaring, "Let's get started
on that staircase."

I watched him from my periphery as I perched on the sofa, his shoulders tucked high to his ears,
the muscles of his forearms flexed and rippled as he sanded the new banister. I pursed my lips
when he orbited his task, favoring his right leg.

"You sure you don't want some ice or something?" I asked for the third time. Clearly, he had
injured himself and was too proud to admit it.

Just like a man.

He exhaled, eyes narrowing. "I told you. It was nothing," he snapped, sanding the wood a little
harder than I thought necessary.

I rolled my eyes at the amplified, abrasive sounds. "Suit yourself."

I looked forward once again as Vanna White strutted across my screen, revealing there were, in
fact, two 'F's.

"Forever and forever," I mumbled, idly attempting to solve the puzzle. Edward snorted, drawing my
eyes to where he stood, lips pressed into a fine line. "What?" I asked, nostrils flaring against my
will.

He shook his head, muttering, "Not a thing," as he continued working, skirting around the banister.

I crossed my arms over my chest and scowled ahead, easing into the sofa.

It was always difficult to relax in the living room—not just because Edward was present, but
because the room exuded Charlie's essence. Sometimes the vacant space in the corner of my eye
would seem filled, as if he were sitting there on the sofa in his usual position. I'd be startled as I'd
whip my head to the side with a gasp, only to find nothing but air and faded cushions in his place.

"G!" the overweight woman exclaimed from the television, gleeful when Pat confirmed there were
two 'G's present in the puzzle. When asked if she'd like to solve, she clapped her hands and
jovially declared, "FORGIVE AND FORGET!"

Claps and cheers sliced through the tension in the air, Edward silent and meticulous just beyond
the archway. I could see the infinitesimal incline of his head as his hands worked faster, sending
sprays of white dust floating to the ground.
"I'm going outside for a cigarette," I ground out, eager as I snatched my pack of cigarettes from the
end table. His low hum served as acknowledgement as I whisked past him, my footsteps loud and
quick.

The sun was beginning to set, and the air was cooler, so I hugged my knees to my chest once
situated on the steps. I drew long, freeing pulls of smoke, and set the grey clouds afloat into the air
with slow, languorous exhales.

This wasn't going to work.

Yes, Edward had plenty work on the house to keep him busy, but I needed an end-point. When
would it be finished? When I forgave him? I wasn't confident that even a house as derelict as
Charlie's held enough manual labor to fulfill such a thing. I could tell him the words now, but
somehow I knew Edward wouldn't settle for that.

It was exhausting, just considering the amount of work he'd have to do to earn my
forgiveness—with no guarantee it could ever be granted. He was an enormous help, and though I
was grateful on many levels, they were all superficial in comparison to the kind of gratitude that
might summon forgiveness.

I was weary by the time I reentered the house, rubbing warmth into my arms as I closed the door
behind me. I paused to assess Edward's work, which, in all honesty, was flawless. He was good
with wood and tools and hammers and… shit I didn't know the name of. I wasn't even certain what
portions of the staircase had received his attention, but the new banister stood proud and regal,
white amongst the faded stain of the old wood it was attached to. Its presence was much like a
clean spot on a dirty floor. It made everything surrounding it look lackluster and aged.

Edward pushed his hair from his eyes, turning to me. "I can stain it to match the wood," he said,
gesturing to the smooth, white surface of the banister. "I should do it during the day, though, so
you can leave the door open. For the fumes…" he explained, shoving his hands into his pockets.

I nodded and ran my finger over it, offering, "It's great. Thanks." I smiled and met his gaze, sincere
but superficial, yet again.

He nodded, casting a glance up the stairs. "I should check the traps. If it's okay," he asked,
nudging a shoulder toward the ceiling.

My smile transformed into a tight line. "Yeah, whatever you think's best. I have to get ready for
work." I kept my head ducked as I passed him and climbed the stairs, which no longer creaked
and groaned under my weight. I slapped my feet against them extra hard as a result of this fact
before diving into my bedroom and shutting the door.

If I was lucky, I wouldn't be able to hear him killing the trapped mice that hadn't died yet. I'd seen
Charlie do that once, when I'd lived here as a teenager. They always got bad during winter and
would scratch in the ceilings at nights. It'd always annoyed me, a fact that had been the cause of
much guilt the day I'd come home to find him climbing down from the attic, bag in hand. When I'd
seen the bag moving, I'd been devastated.

"The one that's alive is already badly hurt, Bells," Charlie had said, sighing as he squeezed my
shoulder. He never had known what to do when I cried, and my tears had come faster upon the
gesture. "I'm doing it a favor," he'd reasoned in a lower voice, stalking off down the hall with his
head bowed.

He'd killed it out back, on the boulder that resided on the edge of the tree line, and I'd cried for the
little mouse all night long, upset further by my inability to have given it a proper burial. It was the
last time Charlie had ever been so careless, opting instead to set traps when he was certain I'd be
gone.

My stomach turned as I hastily disrobed and slid into my dark work slacks, the crisp, white shirt
still managing to smell of the Lodge despite having been washed. I could see the grey shape of
the boulder from my bedroom window, and the sounds of footsteps above me made my chest
ache with a dull throb.

I sat on my bed and waited, scanning the room.

It was bare for the most part, my old bed being the main presence in the space. There were boxes
I'd had sent from Jacksonville along the wall that I hadn't bothered to unpack. They were mostly
full of clothing that wasn't appropriate for Washington's climate, while the boxes downstairs were
full of old house wares from my apartment—pots and pans and lamps that didn't fit with the
décor—or lack thereof—in Charlie's house.

My dresser was still a small, white piece of furniture that you'd find in a little girl's room, the
handles decorative and delicate. There were no mirrors, no rugs, no chairs, and no curtains. The
entire scene was simple and functional, comfortable in its discomfort, and I found myself relaxed
once again when the sounds of footsteps ceased.

I stood and straightened my blouse, walking to the door and throwing it open.

"Jesus!" I shrieked, jumping back.

Edward's fist fell from the air as his wide, rueful eyes met mine. He had a bag in his hand, and I
grasped my stomach, narrowing my eyes at him.

He shifted his weight to his presumably uninjured leg, stepping back from the doorway. "I'm sorry,"
he said, averting his eyes to the floor as he scratched the back of his neck, grimacing. "I just
wanted to ask where I should get rid of these." He held the bag up for emphasis, and…

It was moving.

It wasn't a small movement either, but rather, the entire bag was jostling about, indicating that
there was more than one mouse that—as he'd so callously put it—needed getting rid of.

"How many did you catch?" I breathed, unable to look away from the bag he held.

"Four."

I exhaled raggedly. "Are they all alive?" I asked, projecting the words at him with a hint of venom. I
mean, really, what a failure. If he'd set them right, then four mice wouldn't have been sitting up
there above me every night, silently suffering.

"Of course they're alive." He balked, finally meeting my gaze with pinched brows. "I got no-kill
mouse traps, which you know, pretty much implies that the point is to not kill them." He paused as
my eyebrows hiked upward, surprised. "What?"

"How did you know to get no-kill mouse traps?" I asked, though I inwardly berated myself for not
knowing such a thing existed.

He rolled his eyes and ruffled his hair, pink lips furling to one side. "Well, fuck Bella, I'm no mind
reader or anything, but when you told me to 'enjoy my heartless maiming of the harmless
creatures you shared your home with' I sort of managed to put two and two together." He
extended his palm and braced it against the door frame, leaning forward with an expectant
expression.

The bag wiggled against the molding.

I covered my mouth with my hand and looked away, figuring if I could focus on the empty space of
my room long enough, I could contain my laughter.

It wasn't effective.

A chuckle escaped through my fingertips, and I spared Edward a glance from the corner of my
eye, finding his lips pressed together in a poor attempt at hiding his smile.

My laughter was breathy and relieved when I finally released it, shaking my head. "I didn't say
that," I insisted.

Edward's smirk was full and cheeky now, one eyebrow curved. "No, I believe your language was a
little more colorful, but whatever. Point taken." He gestured to the hall and twisted the bag in his
hands. "Where should I release them?"

It was with odd buoyancy that I led him down the hall, bouncing down the quiet stairs with
springing steps. I steered him to the back door and peeked over my shoulder to be certain he was
still following me. His lips curved up into a grin when mine did, and there was just enough light
outside to make the back yard visible.

I led him across the yard, past the grassless section where the leaking pipe had been, and to the
boulder I'd been able to see from my bedroom window. It seemed appropriate and respectful to
the memory of countless mice that had likely been disposed of upon it.

I halted beside the rock, turning to Edward with an uncontainable smile. "Here," I said, peering at
the bag with a weird, impatient kind of enthusiasm.

Nodding favorably, he crouched down low, sinewy forearms rested on his knees as he carefully
unwound the top of their fabric prison. He laid it flat on the ground before pinching the bottom
between two fingertips and gently nudging it upward.

The first mouse to emerge from the bag was grey and tiny, just an adolescent. Its beady eyes took
only a brief moment to assess its surroundings before swiftly scampering off into the forest. The
second was larger and didn't spare one second of investigation before fleeing. The third and fourth
emerged at the same moment, following the lead of the others.

We watched until they had all disappeared, Edward bunching up the bag in his hands when he
finally rose from the ground.

I broke the silence with a gentle, "Thank you."

It was sincere, and not superficial in the least.

Completely ignorant as to the rather rare and sentimental moment I was experiencing, Edward
began, "You'll just have to be preventative now. They make all kinds of repellants and shit." With a
shrug and one final glance into the trees, he turned, boots soft against the damp ground behind
me.

With slower steps, I trailed behind him toward the house, the sky above us bathing the yard in a
warm, calming orange. Upon reaching the door, I turned my head just enough to catch the boulder
in my periphery.
The skin of my arms erupted in abrupt, startled goose bumps. I whipped my head to the side, only
to be met with empty air and cold granite, even though for a fraction of a second—from the corner
of my vision—that space had seemed filled with the same Charlie-shaped silhouette I'd sometimes
sensed beside me on the sofa.

The small building that housed the inner operations of The Forksian was easy to find. I entered the
antique, glass-etched door, and my nostrils flared with familiarity—the bland scent of office
supplies mingling with the rustic smell of ink and paper. This newspaper was nothing like the one
I'd worked at in Jacksonville. The entire building of The Forksian could have fit in Jacksonville
Gazette's reception area alone.

A middle-aged, curvy redhead sat at the reception desk to greet me, a thrilled smile lighting her
face. "Welcome to The Forksian! How can I be of service?" She straightened her back and busied
her hands with righting a shiny, red stapler.

"The lady at the library told me I could find a Forksian microfiche reader here," I said in reference
to the young girl I'd met. I'd been putting off the task of investigating here, as it was a little more
obvious than I usually preferred when doing freelance.

Her smile withered. "Of course. Through the back room there, Miss..." she trailed off with a
skeptical expression.

"Swan." I smiled, effectively allaying any suspicion. This was an upside to living in Forks. My name
was well known, and I was rarely given any grief. If anything, people hurried to satisfy my needs. It
had felt uncomfortable at first, but now I was beginning to see the advantages of the town's odd
behavior.

In Jacksonville, it would have taken me weeks to reach this point in an investigation.

My main goal was to determine whether or not The Forksian had special interest in Dr. Aro's
public image. It wasn't unlike any aspect of the media to throw all objectivity out the window. The
signs would be obvious: opinion pieces painting him in a positive light, coverage of his presence at
certain local events being highlighted, and the absence of any negative press.

It took me four hours hunched over the microfiche reader in the dark, back room of the building to
determine that The Forksian wasn't showing him special interest. They definitely weren't showing
bias—they were just ignorant. Over the last week, I'd done subtle explorations of his position on
the board of directors at the hospital. Outwardly, he seemed like the upstanding citizen everyone
believed him to be. This was, of course, fairly suspect. No one is without fault. No one is perfect.
Not even Dr. Aro.

With a sigh, I rubbed at my eyes, blurred from long hours of focusing on the monitor. I considered
that The Forksian could really benefit from an article of this nature. From the looks of it, their
reputation was safe, but only because they covered safe topics. The community would be sent
reeling with this kind of scandal, especially seeing as how it'd be done for the sake of protecting
their own. This was logical—to alert an editor and allow them to investigate the situation with their
clout.

But I needed it.

So badly did I need it, that I intentionally threw off the staff to my readings by perusing random
films that meant nothing to my interests. Comics, food articles, obituaries from the nineteen-
sixties—you name it. My perusals were so random, that I was completely thrown upon finding the
face of one James Jensen staring back at me.
The hairs on the back of my neck prickled, my heart rate increasing as I recalled how Edward had
told me of his death—the hollow voice that had lingered too long in my hallway that afternoon,
weeks ago.

I didn't truly care how he'd died, though I'd be a liar if I said I hadn't been thinking about it. My
curiosity was shallow, at best, and I hadn't gone out of my way to press for details the day Edward
had fixed my laundry room light socket. Actually, he hadn't been too keen on discussion after we'd
eaten, anyway.

I didn't even attempt to justify my interest as I began reading.

One Man Killed, Another Seriously Injured in Fatal Car Accident Near Industrial Park.

According to the article, "James Jensen of Clallam County, 29, was fatally injured when the stolen
car he'd been driving struck a telephone pole just south of the industrial park." It was revealed that
"poor weather conditions and excessive speed" were "believed to be contributing factors," though
the coroner was still "awaiting the results of a toxicology report." At the time the article was
published, "The coroner's office and state Highway Patrol continued to investigate the accident."

The third paragraph into the article read, "He hadn't been wearing a seat belt."

Regardless of all my attempts to release my spite, I found myself to be indifferent in regards to

James' death. Even when I read of his mother and the little brother he'd left behind, I felt... nothing.
It was alarming at first, because I didn't want to consider what kind of person this made me.

But then I continued reading, and I was more than simply alarmed.

"His passenger, Edward Cullen, was reported to be in stable, but serious condition Tuesday night."

My breaths, short and choppy, accompanied a swift somersaulting of my stomach. I grasped at my

abdomen and quickly turned the monitor off, hastily replacing all the films to their rightful positions
among the dusty shelves.

The redhead offered me a tired smile as I fled the building, clutching my notes to my chest and
ducking through the sprinkle that was beginning to fall.

The ride home was silent and pensive, my wipers filling the space with rubbery squeaks.

I knew to expect him when I arrived, so the sight of him sitting on my porch was no shock. Once
again, I'd made him wait for me. I'd lost track of time at The Forksian, and I scrambled to collect
my papers as I stumbled from the car.

"I'm late," I stated in apology, fumbling for my keys.

Edward stood and leaned his back against the column that rose to the roof. "No big," he said
without meeting my gaze, hands nestled in his pockets. He was wearing what I recognized to be
his work clothes, having likely just gotten off. He rested his head against the wood and seemed to
be staring at nothing in particular, perhaps lost in thought.

I glanced at him sideways as I unlocked the door, noting the thick stubble that lined his jaw and
the heaviness of his eyelids. He hadn't even regarded my hair in the way he usually would, with
cautious eyes and stiff posture. Instead, he followed silently behind me when I opened the door,
though he left it ajar for the sake of airing out the varnish fumes.

The afternoon continued in the same manner it always did during Edward's visits. He set to work
while I went about my business, only inquiring if I could assist him once. As usual, my help wasn't
warranted, so I remained in the kitchen, where I searched for excuses to remain occupied.

The varnish smell wasn't so bad but did seem to linger in the air with a harsh edge that my nostrils
refused to acclimate to. It was because of this that I finally stood, shuffling to the back door with
my cigarettes in hand, since going out the front would force me to pass him.

Maybe it was my discovery from earlier, or perhaps even Edward's sullen mood, but something
about the atmosphere was grey and contemplative—a stark contrast to the orange warmth of the
last evening he'd come.

I didn't like it.

I sat on the back stoop, calmly watching the rain fall until the sounds of Edward's approach caused
my head to turn.

He explained, "I'm just waiting for it to dry so I can add a second coat," and stood beside the door,
face an expressionless mask.

"Okay."

I continued smoking my cigarette while looking out over the yard. The grass had already grown
quite a bit, and I was anticipating Edward's request to mow it any day now. With the rain came a
chill that made me grateful for my sweater as I pulled it tighter around my torso, aware of the
presence over my shoulder, but reluctant to regard it.

It was only then that I noticed Edward's dark, hooded sweatshirt. He'd obviously gotten it from his
car, which meant that he'd went out the front door, which meant that he was preferring to wait
while in my company.

Weird.

"How's Newton's?" I prompted, eager to at least make small talk if he was going to stand out here
and invade my peaceful space.

His response was soft and quiet. "Shitty."

"Oh." I nodded, raising my brows to myself. He certainly was being one hell of a wet blanket today.
"Sorry," I supplied.

He shrugged, asking. "How's the Lodge?" and pushed his hands into the pockets of his sweatshirt.

"Shitty." I shot him a small smile, only to be met with his piercing, unamused stare.

"You didn't waitress in Florida," he stated, and I was taken aback by the accusation that laced his
tone.

"No," I responded, drawing out the syllable with confusion. "I worked at a newspaper. Mostly… just
a gopher." This was my main reason for hating my old job. I'd always been underestimated by the
senior staff, who were often only interested in using me to do their dirty work. If I'd stayed, I
probably could have worked my way to the top by outlasting them—which I would have, no doubt.
But I hadn't stayed, and the notion of starting over yet again didn't seem attractive to me, and I
would have to start over again, all the way from the bottom.

My degree was not in journalism.

"That's not true," he said in the same accusing tone. "I saw your article." It was then that I turned
to face him, regarding his utter stillness, the limp hair that hung over his forehead, and the
sadness of his eyes.

"What article?" I asked, briefly panicked that he'd been looking through my research on Dr. Aro.
That piece was more important to me than I could bring myself to admit. It'd be just my luck that
Edward would show his true colors now and ruin my advantage by outing me.

However his response was unexpected. "The one you wrote in college—about bullies," he
answered, lips barely parting as he spoke.

"How?" I asked in a whisper, too stunned to find my voice.

That article had been my first venture into the field, and it'd been too late at the time to change my
major once I realized that I'd rather have a career in journalism than general English. The sense of
purpose I'd gained from bringing awareness to an important and often disregarded subject had
affected me so deeply, that I'd never even put my English major to use.

He gruffly muttered, "Internet," and finally broke my gaze, staring at the toe of his boot as it
pushed a wayward leaf around.

"Oh."

I supposed that made sense, only it didn't make any sense. Why the hell was Edward searching
for my articles on the internet? And what else had he found? What other ambiguous portions of my
life in Florida had he uncovered? It was intrusive made me really uncomfortable—even though… I
was kind of guilty of something similar.

"It was… really good," he said, drawing his entire bottom lip into his mouth.

"Thanks."

I wasn't particularly conceited, but it was more than just good. It had won an award, and my
parents had doted on the accomplishment to a mortifying degree, often referring to me jokingly as
an, "award-winning journalist." I would blush and roll my eyes and stomp around as if I were
frustrated with the attention.

He abruptly whispered, "Is that how you see me?" Sparing me only a quick glance from beneath
his dark lashes, his eyes bore that same sadness that had prompted me to allow what I thought to
be the murder of little, furry creatures.

"I don't know," I said, turning my face to hide my grimace.

Truthfully, the article hadn't been kind to bullying personalities. I'd even worked with the college's
statisticians and science departments to compare adolescent male hostility to lack of penis length.
I'd kept most of that out of my article, but it was a testament to my bias. Looking back, award-
winning or otherwise, it was anything but objective.

I really had no way to answer him. I'd definitely seen Edward as one of those people, but didn't
find any sense of satisfaction in telling him so. Instead, I released a light chuckle, quirking a brow
at him. "You know, my mom used to tell me you had a crush on me," I informed, anxious to lighten
the mood.

This would definitely lighten the mood, as clearly, it was rather comical.

Edward's loose shrug was casual and indifferent. "Probably not too far off base," he responded,
causing my jaw to drop once again.
What?

"What?" I asked, my voice unintentionally shrill. If my comment hadn't been amusing enough, I
was certain my expression must have been.

He met my gaze, unfazed, as if his words didn't hold the enormous weight they in fact had. He
removed one hand from his pocket and scratched absently at his jaw. "Isn't that what boys do
when they like a girl? Just… fuck with 'em, or something?" He punctuated this with a slapping drop
of his palm against his thigh.

I croaked, "Yeah, when they're like… nine!"

His brows pulled together, puckering his forehead. "I don't know what the fuck I was—" He
paused, and his ears, though mostly hidden by his hair, stood out bright against the grey of the air,
colored with a vivid pink. "It just… seems like another life. I can't channel that person anymore," he
concluded, sighing as he leaned against the frame to the door. He looked away. "I just meant that
you shouldn't have been so quick to write off the possibility is all."

To him, the silence that followed was probably awkward and discomforting. To me, there was no
silence, because I was too occupied with scanning my memories for any signs of… attraction?
That didn't seem likely, one bit. Even if by some grand leap the most beautiful guy in school had
been attracted to me, Edward had never given any indication of it. Not even an inappropriate
touch, which was something I'm certain his previous personality wouldn't have hesitated to do.

I eventually decided, "I don't think so," because he might not have been able to channel the
person he'd once been, but I was capable of channeling mine, and that person wasn't being toyed
with for the sake of flirtation. I was certain of it.

Almost completely certain of it.

Edward huffed. "Look, is there any point to this?" he asked, pushing himself forward. He jerked his
head in the direction of the house, his sweatshirt protruding as he raised his palms from beneath
the fabric. "Because if all I'm doing is being a massive pain in your ass, then… I shouldn't. I don't
want to be." His eyes were more guilty than sad as he gnawed at the inside of his cheek, his jaw
moving intermittently.

This was the same question I'd asked myself during his last visit, and for a moment, I wasn't
certain how to even respond. Then I recalled how I'd ended that day, the bright warmth of the
sunset and a feeling of contentment.

"There's a point to it," I decided, confident when I met his gaze.

He exhaled, bunching the front of his sweater into his hidden hands. His eyes closed, but when
they opened, they were shining. His lips screwed up into small, relieved grin. "Thank God," he
breathed, lowering himself to the steps at my side. He glanced at me, joking, "I'm risking bodily
injury here."

Snorting, I nudged him with my shoulder, the casual and unconscious act resulting in my sudden
rigidity. I chided, "I knew you hurt yourself falling off that ladder."

His shoulders shook with silent laughter as he pressed his lips together. "Trust me, I've had
worse," he replied, folding his arms atop his knees. He stared ahead toward the trees, a haunted
expression tainting his sharp features.

I felt that similar somersaulting of my stomach, my hand reaching to grasp a phantom pang that I
was only just beginning to understand. As I watched his dark eyes, body hunched lazily over his
knees at my side, I realized that I was happy that Edward hadn't died in that wreck—upset even,
at the mere thought of the possibility.

That wasn't total forgiveness, but it was a good start.

A/N: So, when my dad died, everyone in my house was seeing him from the corner of their eyes. I
don't know if this is common, and it was really plausible that it could have been some impression
on our minds, unconsciously looking for him, but it always made us feel looked after, like he was
still there. Anyway, I'm not doing a big Charlie-the-friendly-ghost reveal or anything, jsyk. Just
writing from the only experience I have. XD

Big thanks to PastyP and TKmoon. Angel, just because. [heart]

I don't have a rec today. Instead, I have a recipe. I got like a gazillion PMs and reviews inquiring
as to Bella's Mac-N-Cheese. Here's the dealio: I can't cook for shit. Luckily, I have wtiiy pals who
do. So, without further ado, withthevampsofcourse gives us…

The Dirty Uncle's Post-Sex Mac and Cheese Casserole

Okay, boil [one package of] noodles of choice as directed. Drain and put in a casserole dish.

Roux: Now, in a large saucepan over medium-low heat, melt 4 pats (tbsp) of butter, with 4 tbs.
of flour.

Whisk. Do NOT let brown. Now, add 2 cups of a dairy product. The non-fatty fat version is milk.
Me? I go balls out and use heavy whipping cream—sometimes half n half, depends on what's in
my fridge. Whisk it in. Continue heating, stirring occasionally to prevent milk from sticking. Add
salt and pepper to taste. I add garlic powder and minced garlic. Keep heating until starts to
thicken. Once these large, rolling bubbles start to take off, remove from heat source.

Sprinkle in cheese: how much and what kind depends on you. I usually use sharp cheddah,
colbyjack, and some mild. EXTRA sharp if I can get my hands on it, but that's not too easy to
come by, unless you go to a cheese shop-not at a decent price, anyway. So use about a cup if
you don't want a strong, cheesy flavor. Me? I use about 2 and a half cups. Okay, so stir the
cheese right into the roux. Gets all melty.

Now, use a spoonula/spatula to pour all this cheese sauce on yer noodles. Scrape the sides, get
all that good shit in there.

From here... you can mix it up. If you want a thick, I-can-feel-the-plaque-forming-in-my-coronaries
casserole... foil it and bake. If you want a lovely, creamy casserole- pour in some milk/cream. I'd
put some in each of the corners and then kind of sweep around— about 1/2 to 3/4 cup of dairy.

You can also add mixers. Best combo: about 1 package of thinly sliced, crispy bacon and
broccoli (raw, not steamed). Broccoli and ham is also amazing. You can brown some ground
beef, about a pound, and make it a cheeseburger casserole, etc. Bacon and extra garlic is my
fave.

So... mix up the cheese sauce and any mixers. Pour in your extra liquid, if desired. Cover in foil.
Bake at preheated 350 for a half hour. Presto!

OMG I only make it like... on demand or twice a year. It's just too fucking much, because it is, in
fact, the delicious-est casserole known to man.
-wtvoc

Thanks to her for the recipe! (Even though my fiancé is all kinds of grumpy about my
experimentation with his precious cheddah.)

See y'all Wednesday!

A/N: Twilight and its characters belong to Stephenie Meyer. I don't own anything. Not even
Boozeward. He belongs to the fab ladies at WArehab and they can do whatever they want with
him (except allow him anywhere near water or feed him after midnight). Thanks so much for all
your kind words and encouragement!

WOW. Was that a huge wait, or what? So sorry for the delay in updates.

Anyway, I should probably warn that updates for this story will be decreased to once per week.
They're growing in length and I can't promise them as often as I used to. In any case, I keep
forgetting to mention that my outline grew a bit, and we're looking at possibly 7 or 8 more
chapters.

Three fluorescent bulbs had gone out overhead, and as a result, the basement of the church was
bathed in an eerie glow, the corners of the room obscured with darkness. We didn't have a full
group today, though Lauren, Tyler, and even Jasper were all present. There were other people,
though, that I'd never gotten especially friendly with for various reasons, who hadn't come. The
weather was bad today—rainy and cold, and there was some kind of flu virus going around.

Carlisle had watched over the refreshments table like a hawk, encouraging, "Wash your hands,"
over and over and over…

With the way my leg had been, I dreaded even going out at all, without adding the possibility of
infectious illness on top of it.

Jasper hadn't said much yet, and I doubted he was going to. He came to the meetings and
indulged the rest of us, but I knew his mind was really three miles away, sitting inside that dainty
coffee shop while his eyes stalked my sister. This should have bothered me, should have pissed
me off, or at least made me fear for Alice, but mostly, it just depressed the shit out of me.

All had gone silent, and Carlisle looked to me expectantly.

I cleared my throat and shifted in my metal chair, spine straight. "So that girl whose house I've
been working on?"

Their heavy sighs were all audible, since they no longer made any attempts to mask them with
yawns or coughs as they once had, but I didn't care. I'd had to hear about Lauren's fucking cat
every single meeting this month—the calico with the diabetes—and Tyler's brother—who
apparently makes it his life goal to sabotage Tyler's career.

Seriously, they could handle my talking about Bella.

I continued, "Well, turns out, she's some kind of journalist or something, and when she was in
college, she wrote this article on… bullies." I frowned and tugged absently at my hair, noting
aloud, "It was a little brutal, you know? Because even though she wasn't talking about me, she
was definitely talking about me."

I'd found the article innocently enough. There just came a time in every man's life when he needed
the quick and dirty release that only internet porn can bring. Sadly, my mind kept drifting. I'd been
easily distracted by every fake brunette and blonde that bounced on my screen, my palm's efforts
having proved unfulfilling. Curious and resigned that internet porn had lost its luster, I did an
internet search on Bella, which revealed more information than she'd ever willingly offered up.

This had been on my mind all week—the article, not the porn—sort of pressing at the fringe of my
consciousness. Every time I remembered the things she wrote, I'd want to cringe, could feel my
face growing hot in embarrassment for having been seen as one of those people. Sure, I'd felt
shame for my behavior before, but it was always limited to how my actions had affected Bella—not
so much about how people might have interpreted those actions.

"How do you know she was talking about you?" Carlisle asked, eyes thin with contemplation.

I trained my gaze to cup I held in my lap, answering, "I know because… because she was talking
about herself, even though she wasn't, you know? And how many bullies could she have dealt
with back in high school?"

No, I had definitely been the motivation behind that article—or my actions had been at least.

Carlisle gave me a brief nod, before looking away, face tight. He wasn't too fond of Bella after I'd
spoken to the group about the beer incident. It was odd how I'd almost kept it from them, as if their
opinions of her mattered so much that I was willing to lock away the battle she'd presented. I didn't
want them to hold that moment against Bella, because as she'd confessed, it wasn't indicative of
her character.

The whole incident with the ladder and my leg didn't exactly make Carlisle too happy, either.

"Anyway," I sighed, rubbing the heel of one palm into my eye. "It really got me down—which I get
is a totally selfish reaction, because I don't deserve to be down about it. I wasn't the victim." I
paused and glanced at all the faces, expressions varying from sympathetic to blank. I concluded,
"But, still. It got me down."

"Did you talk to her about it?" Carlisle asked.

"I did." My head bobbed with a proud nod, seeing as how approaching her about it had been
difficult. I raised my hand and swept it in the air, elaborating, "I just came out and asked her if she
saw me like that, which… duh, right? Then I asked her if there was a point to… me even trying to
make amends, or whatever."

My main purpose for doing this, aside from not wishing to waste everyone's time, had been the fall
I'd taken from her roof earlier in the week. It hadn't been a serious fall or anything, mostly just me
being distracted and stupid, but it fucked my leg up enough to necessitate an appointment with my
physical therapist—the one I'd used after the car wreck.

I felt so guilty and ashamed as my leg was assessed for permanent damage, my parents looking
on worriedly from my side. I promised to make the best of my second chance, and here I was,
being careless and risking all the physical progress I'd made since the accident. Plus, if there had
been serious damage, I might have been forced to even quit my job at Newton's. I knew I'd be
okay with taking that risk, if I could just see some kind of proof that headway was being made. I'd
gone to sleep that night in pain, and not just the physical pain from my leg, either.

Carlisle raised one sandy brow. "And?"

"She said there was." My smile was relieved as I eased back into my chair. Every day I spent with
Bella made earning her forgiveness that much more vital to me. Once I got to know her a little
better, had a chance to see her for the person she truly was, had a chance to really see how badly
of a person she perceived me to be, my quest for forgiveness became less about me and more
about her.

I wanted her to like me.

"Oh!" I shot back up in my seat. "Also, we did this thing," I began, laughing at the memory before I
could even say it aloud. "She had mice, right? So I go to set these traps, but I have to set the no-
kill kind, because apparently, she's a total softie for the little shits. And then, when we go to set
them free? She takes me to this rock in her backyard—couldn't have been more than twenty feet
from the house, you know?"

I paused here, laughing once again and clutching my cup to my stomach. I took a deep inhale to
continue "But she looks all happy, and you don't know her, so you can't really grasp that, but she's
never happy. Like… ever. Anyway, so I set these little mice free, and she's watching them with
this… look—I don't know, like she just cured cancer or something—and I just didn't have the heart
to tell her no, even though those fucking mice probably did a one-eighty and scampered right back
into that house—I just know it."

I snickered into my cup of coffee while taking a short sip, shaking my head at the memory. I'd
secretly set the traps again immediately after, anticipating recapturing the mice and setting them
free again—this time, much farther away.

I raised my gaze to a handful of blinking stares, blank and heavy with a silence I couldn't decipher.
I swallowed, glancing back and forth between them as my smile slowly withered. "What?"

Tyler's voice broke the uncomfortable silence, a cheeky grin punctuating his laughter. "Man,
you've got it bad for the Locker Girl," he declared.

My gaze narrowed. "Shut up," I replied, voice low with warning. Everyone was looking at me, all
those eyes swimming with a knowledgeable flicker.

I didn't like it.

He scoffed. "Oh, come on. Every meeting, it's 'Locker Girl this, Locker Girl that.' And you should
see that look on your face when you—"

My chair scraped as I lurched forward, snapping, "I told you to shut. The fuck. Up."

Tyler's eyes grew wide, though they shone with amusement. "Hey, I was just—"

"He said drop it, Ty." Jasper's voice was sharp and thin, razor through paper, though he wasn't
looking at Tyler when he spoke. He fixed his gaze on me. His face was emotionless as he nursed
his cup of coffee.

Tyler didn't say anything else after that, but my muscles remained coiled and aware of everyone's
eyes. I palmed my forehead when it began growing clammy and cold with sweat. I tapped my toe
to the floor and watched the clock, so relieved when Carlisle stood and we recited the serenity
prayer.

I couldn't count how many times I'd left the church after telling stories of wretched, deplorable
things, yet I'd never felt as vile as I did then—walking out to Carlisle's car, his eyes burning
accusatory patches into the nape of my neck.

My hair was still wet as I hurried from my bedroom, taking the stairs gingerly for the sake of my
leg, fingers fumbling to button my shirt. It was dumb of me to come home after work just to take a
shower, but I couldn't bear going over there looking—and smelling—as I had.

Esme intercepted me as I passed the living room, the roar of her vacuum ceasing as she turned to
me. "Will you be home for dinner?" she asked, one hand on her hip, forehead glistening with
sweat.

I shrugged while stuffing my feet into my shoes, answering distractedly, "I dunno. Maybe…" I
trailed off as I tied my laces, fingers clumsy in my impatience. I turned to my mom and sighed at
her frown, throwing my hands into the air. "Not right now, Ma! I'm gonna be late." I swear, the
woman could make me feel ten years old, any time, any place.

Her frown deepened. "Late for what?" she asked, but before I could answer, continued, "You're
always rushing out the door, and you're never home for dinner. What are you eating? Is that girl
feeding you at least?" As she spoke, she walked past me and into the kitchen.

I answered while pulling on my jacket, "Yeah, sometimes, okay?" Really, it was only one time, but
she didn't need to know that.

When she emerged from the kitchen with a banana, already half-peeled, I rolled my eyes. "Eat this
before you go? You didn't eat breakfast, and I know you don't have time to eat at work."

Snatching the banana from her hand, I took a swift bite and kissed her on the cheek, mumbling,
"Save me a plate?" Her heavy sigh followed me as I rushed out the door, diving into her Volvo with
the banana hanging from my mouth.

It was gone before I left the driveway.

I tapped my fingers on the steering wheel and hummed along to the song that was playing on the
radio, my eyes flickering to the rearview mirror. Esme and I had this battle of sorts with every
adjustable facet of the Volvo, so when I was met with my own reflection instead of a view of the
road behind me, I grunted in annoyance.

But my reflection startled me.

I gulped as I looked away, adjusting the mirror with haste. This was the moment in which I stopped
denying it. I'd been able to blow off various signs, but the meeting the night before, and now this?
It was time to stop lying to myself and face the facts.

Fact one: My visits to Bella were the highlights of my week. I'd even taken to scheduling them
directly after work at Newton's, because going to Bella's had become an incentive, and a rather
effective one. It made my shifts crawl when I'd watch the clock, but I had something to look
forward to.

Fact two: Bella was the closest thing I had to a friend outside of AA. We couldn't talk as openly as
most friends could, but that didn't matter. If I had a particularly meddlesome shipment of tents
come in that day, I could tell her about it, and she'd tell me about her asshat customers at the
Lodge in response. I'm certain that'd be small talk to some, but for me and Bella? It was a pretty
big deal.

Fact three: Bella was pretty—nice to look at—easy on the eyes—and I don't just mean her hair.
Her skin looked soft and delicate, but her posture was always anything but. She was confident
without being cocky, humble without being shy. Her eyes were pretty. Her hands were feminine.
Her lips were full. Her eyebrows were expressive.

Fact four: Bella was intriguing. When she'd get frustrated with something, she wouldn't get all huffy
and screw her face up into an ugly sneer like most people would. Instead, she'd smile this wry grin
that dimpled the edge of her lips and just… shake her head—like she was keeping some kind of
list in her mind of everything she hated, and she'd get revenge for it later, rather than get worked
up about it then.

Fact five: That look I'd just seen on my face, the shine in my eyes, was new and foreign, which
made it equally thrilling and terrifying.

Fact six: All of the aforementioned facts were bad. Bad bad bad. All of them were wrong on too
many levels to even tabulate. It was unthinkable—appalling—bad—wrong—badly wrong—to like
Bella in that way.

Fact seven: I didn't know what to do about it, how to approach her, how to see her every day and
act as though the sight of her didn't make waking up in the morning, leg stiff and aching, totally
worth it. It was easy to write off my feelings, like maybe I felt that way because she was the last
person on my list, which gave me a sense of purpose that I didn't want to lose. I didn't know how
much longer I'd buy into that excuse, though, because deep down—really deep, where I could
clearly remember always having inklings of these feelings toward Bella—I knew that wasn't true. I
knew I'd had that crush on her in high school, even if she didn't believe it.

Fact eight: Things were good right now. Bella wasn't uncomfortable or annoyed with my presence,
so why should I change anything? You can't fix something that isn't broken.

With a new resolve, I adjusted the mirror once again, certain that the guilt I felt would dissipate if I
just didn't have to look myself in the eye.

Bella wasn't home when I arrived, but this didn't surprise me. She was usually late, usually kept
me waiting in her driveway or on her porch until she came roaring up to the house, bumbling and
flustered. Still, it never once crossed my mind to not be here, waiting, at the second I said I'd be.
Even if I had to wait in the rain, in the freezing cold, I'd show Bella that I was punctual and
trustworthy.

She arrived twenty minutes later, just as I'd suspected—flying over the hump in her driveway and
screeching to a halt. My pulse increased at the mere sound of her sedan, and held a steady
rhythm as I watched her emerge.

"Sorry!" she called as she stepped out of the car, ducking inside to gather notebooks, files, and
papers, as was common.

"No worries," I responded smiling at the sight of her flustered expression—cheeks rosy, little
wayward strands of hair framing her face.

She kicked the door closed and came galloping up to the porch, ranting, "The fuck is wrong with
people in this town?" I pressed my lips together in restrained amusement as she shoved her keys
into the door, flinging it open in frustration. "Never mind the fact that no one will take a fucking
debit card for Christ's sake, but on top of that, do you have any idea what I had to go through to
find a fax machine? A fax machine!" She turned to me after dumping her papers atop her kitchen
table, eyes alight. "A fax machine, Edward. That's not even, like… ugh. Twenty first century
technology. It's a fax machine."

Her hands were waving in the air, forehead pinched and eyes narrowed as if, were she to focus
hard enough, she could telepathically transfer understanding to me.

My grin was impossible to contain as I calmly informed, "I have a fax machine at my house."
Her entire jaw dropped, face tinting that familiar magenta, and it was a physical battle not to pump
my fist in the air. Her jaw closed, and then opened, like she was trying to find the words to express
her anger, which really wasn't necessary. The curling of her fists and the shaking of her arms said
quite enough.

She stomped her foot and with clenched teeth, emitted the most guttural, most frustrated, sexiest
growl I'd ever heard. I could practically see the chords of her throat vibrate, the soft, delicate skin
there tinged with a furious pink.

Below my belt, there was a definite stirring, and I went to the sink under the guise of washing my
hands, when in reality, I just couldn't hide my smirk. I'd found that there were other ways to
experience Bella's being flustered without having to be the direct cause of them. I also found it
easier to enjoy those moments when her annoyance was only surface-deep—nothing too
substantial or heavy.

"Well, isn't that just motherfucking special?" she snarled, throwing her arms across her chest and
looking especially sulky.

I dried off my hands, my smirk finally falling away as I sidled up to her, encouraging, "Oh, chin up,
Swan!" I threw my arm over her shoulders and crushed her to my side, reminding, "We're
choosing paint colors today. Don't girls usually dig that kind of crap?"

Her hair was right under my nose, her body warm and fitted so perfectly against mine. I palmed
the ball of her shoulder and grew slack as she grew rigid. I knew I was being too forward, just as
I'd known that day in my parents' kitchen when I'd hugged her. But I wasn't used to feeling…
whatever it was being close to someone in that way felt like. Affectionate? I wasn't certain what
name to give it, but it was nice, and it made me feel all warm on the inside.

Bella, however, didn't seem to share my enjoyment for close proximity. Her sharp eyes jumped to
my hand, which was still grasping her shoulder. Rigid posture aside, though, she wasn't exactly
hurling me away in disgust.

I could feel my entire being brighten.

But then her eyes narrowed, and she grinned, but it was that wicked grin that dimpled the edge of
her lips. She raised her hand to her hair and plucked the shiny, silver pen from its nest. My eyes
widened as she shoved her fingers into the knot and quickly shook it loose.

I was on the opposite side of the table before it could complete its tumble to her waist, eyes careful
and maniacal as they fixed to the tiled floor below me.

"I've never really been good at design and stuff," she said, voice exponentially more chipper than it
had been. "All those stupid color names? No, sorry. Blue is blue, if ya ask me."

I gaped at the floor as I watched her bounce to the fridge in my periphery, all of her thick hair
springing behind her. I gulped. "So, d-d-don't look at the names. Just… you know… look at the
colors." I internally rolled my eyes at my stuttering. Was I always this moronic when I crushed on a
girl?

She shrugged, whipping her hair to one side, and grinned at me over her shoulder. "Whatever you
think is best." And then she bounced past me, sending waves of her scent up my nostrils as her
wavy hair leaped and plummeted in her wake.

My glassy eyes followed her out the front door, one corner of my lips pinned painfully between my
teeth.
As the day progressed, I told myself it was good seeing her like this—hair free, eyes alight with a
mischief I couldn't comprehend, back straight with confidence as she held paint samples to the
siding of the house in contemplation. My physical reaction to her wasn't as… er… pronounced as
it had been that first day, even though stirrings still occurred. Mostly, she just looked…
classic—like if I'd ever been one of those fruity, artsy types, I'd get a camera and take pictures of
the way her hair captured the sun and made a dull ray of light glow like a halogen bulb.

Then, I'd probably kick myself in the nuts, not only for turning into a complete pussy, but for doing
so as a result of Bella Swan.

She tilted her head to one side, scratching the dried dirt from the siding with a stubby nail. "I think
it used to be this color," she mused aloud, comparing the paint sample to the house with a
wrinkled brow. She had her hair swept over one shoulder, and her ear peeked out from it, a little
silver stud nestled in her earlobe.

"Peacock Plume is too green," I advised, reluctantly leaning in closer than I felt comfortable with to
compare the samples. "I think Powder Blue is closer to the original." I put my finger to the paint
sample, rubbing it with my fingertip.

She hummed, eventually deciding, "Okay."

Surprised, I eased back, scratching at my brow. "You don't wanna change it to something else?" I
asked. "You can do anything you want. Even—" I looked to the colorful palette, finishing, "—Zany
Pink." I shuddered, but held the sample out to her. Whatever she wanted, I'd gladly do, even if it
made Pepto Bismol look dull.

"Um…" She gnawed at her bottom lip, brows pinched as she wrung her hands. "I don't know. I
think I should probably just make it the same." She stretched her lips into a cringing frown and
shook her head. "Definitely not the Zany Pink kind-of-girl, know what I mean?"

I pursed my lips, pushing my head back on my neck. "Well maybe not the pink, but don't you have
some color that you like? This isn't permanent, Bella. You can always change it later, you know."

Her brows furrowed further. "No, I get that, but… my dad chose Powder Blue, so…" She looked
down at her hands, intertwining her fingers, eyes guarded.

"But," I protested, shifting to one side. "What if he only chose that because your mom liked the
Powder Blue? What if the Chief was more partial to Peacock Plume?"

Bella snorted, finally meeting my gaze. "Trust me, Edward. My mother would never—ever,
ever—choose a color like Powder Blue. You know the Zany Pink?"

I cringed.

"Exactly." She nodded, a smile flirting at her lips as her eyes once again fell upon the house.
Gently, she placed her palm on the siding, caressing it with reverence as she explained, "But my
dad looked at this house, and he said 'Powder Blue would sure look nice here.'" She assessed it
with shimmering eyes, concluding in a watery voice, "He wanted me to live in a Powder Blue
house."

I watched as she turned away, her eyes averted as she cleared her throat, one hand ducking
beneath her hair to grasp her neck. All of her confidence had dissipated, and she looked small and
sad as she hugged herself with one arm, probably hiding tears for all I knew.

I shifted my feet against the grass, inwardly panicking. I was never good at seeing people cry. I
scratched at my neck, forearms tight with tension, before I decided to just let instinct guide me.
Without even considering it, my hand went to her shoulder, rubbing over the ball of it as it had
earlier, in her kitchen.

She tensed as she had before, body swaying stiffly to my palms movement, but she didn't shrug
me off. She shook her head, clearing her throat once again. "Sorry," she breathed, voice cracking.

"Don't be," I implored, feeling less uncomfortable when she sighed, her body finally loosening from
its coil. I shook her shoulder lightly. "We'll do the Powder Blue out here, and you can get creative
on the interior," I suggested, humor in my voice as I smirked into her ear. "I hear that Zany Pink
bathrooms are all the rage."

She released a thick chuckle, her hand leaving her neck before swiping at her face. Dammit.
She'd definitely been crying. "What is it with you and the pink, Cullen?" she asked, still refusing to
give me a view of her face.

In an attempt to make her more comfortable, I busied myself with the paint colors, answering,
"Pssssh. I wouldn't be so hard on the pinks if I were you. I've seen you turn shades of red that
Sherwin Williams doesn't even offer."

She snorted at this, taking the opportunity my distraction provided to turn and pass me. She
paused at the corner of the house, barely turning her head as she tugged her sleeves over her
hands. "Hey… Edward?" she called.

"Hm?" I fixed my eyes to her back, the hair that covered it undulating with her breaths.

Her voice was small and reluctant but emerged contrastingly strong. "Would you like some lunch?"

One fifty two, my watch read.

I sighed, idly tagging a new shipment of hockey sticks with the red stickers. This job was so
fucking boring, but at least Mike had stayed out of my hair today. The previous day, he'd been
over my shoulder for three hours straight, criticizing my lack of organizational skills after inspecting
my area. I'd grinned and nodded along to his instruction, while mentally envisionsing clocking him
in the jaw.

Now, I was perched on a rack in the corner, my leg stiff as a result of the inclement weather from
the previous night. Impatient for it to heal, I was trying to keep my weight off it without any of the
staff noticing. I hadn't taken real pain medication in almost a year and was determined to endure
the ache without the assistance of narcotics. Because all I needed was to trade one addiction for
another…

The ibuprofen I'd taken was going to kick in at two-fifteen, just in time to loosen my leg up for when
I got off work at three. My borrowed truck was loaded up with brushes and a paint sprayer, bucket
after bucket of Powder Blue, and a sturdier ladder. I was more nervous about Bella helping me
than I was about injuring myself once again.

She'd insisted she could assist me with this project during lunch last week. Her eyes had been all
red and puffy, and the reminder of her tears made a tight knot wind within my stomach. But, for the
most part, lunch had been comfortable. She'd made us sandwiches and regarded the interior walls
of the kitchen while we discussed pain colors.

It was a little difficult, because interior design was something I'd go to Alice for. Alice would coach
me on finishes and matte versus glaze, and she'd be good at it. Alice had always had an eye for
design.
She still wasn't answering my calls, and I couldn't deny my growing frustration. Sometimes, she
could be such a fucking child. Jasper wasn't much better, though, with his infuriating refusal to just
call her. I mean, staying away from someone because you didn't think you were good enough for
them?

Clearly, that was just... stupid.

At two-fifteen, my leg was starting to feel loose, the ache dulling enough for me to begin lifting
boxes to the top shelves. I always saved them for the end of the day, when I felt most capable.
Heavy lifting also had this way of making time go faster. So when I noticed the clock had struck
two-fifty-nine, I dropped everything I was doing and clocked out.

The weather had improved drastically since the previous night, the sun even daring to peek
through a few clouds. It was a perfect afternoon to paint the house, everything falling into place.
The presence of Bella's car in her driveway was further proof of this, seeing as she usually made
me wait.

My stomach fluttered as I loped to the door, my knocking on it feeling odd. I was not at all
prepared for what greeted me.

Bella swung the door open and stood before me in a pair of sweats and a large shirt, her hair all
tangled and matted to her forehead, face gaunt and pale, lips dry, eyes drooping and purple.

Stunned, I blurted, "Wow. You look like shit."

Her eyes narrowed, either from the intrusion of the sun or anger. "I'm sick," she explained in a tiny,
gravelly voice. She palmed her forehead, lips parting as her eyes closed. "Some kind of virus
going around or something. Some kid had a birthday party at the Lodge and…" Trailing off, her
face looked nearly green as she swallowed.

"Oh, right," I breathed, cringing at her red-rimmed eyes and chalky pallor. "My dad's been treating
a lot of people in ER for that."

She nodded as silence descended over us, gripping the doorknob as if to keep her vertical. I
pursed my lips at my feet and contemplated leaving. I supposed I could go back home and hang
out with my mom for a few hours. That'd probably make her happy. Me. Spending the evening with
my mother.

"Right. Well," I exclaimed. "Let's get you to bed then, and you need fluids–and food. Soup,
probably." I entered the house without awaiting permission.

She found me in the kitchen, rifling through her pantry for something in an aluminum can with red
and white labels. "... huh?" she asked, one eye screwed closed, palm flattened to the paper-
cluttered table.

"Soup," I repeated, extending my chicken noodle treasure with a shake. "Sustenance, hydration,
electrolytes... do you have a fever? How high is it?" I found an electric can opener beside the
coffee pot, quickly filling the room with a high buzz.

She moaned, holding her head with one hand. "I... don't know? You don't have to—"

I interrupted, "—I want to."

Her bottom lip jutted out as I prepared the soup, fingering the hem of her large shirt, one shoulder
tucked to her ear. "It's probably contagious," was her weak protest, voice betraying her fragility.
I tossed a smile over my shoulder, shrugging. "It's not airborne. I just have to wash my hands."

Her frown deepened as she ducked her chin to her chest. "But... I'm not..." She paused and
clutched at the bottom of her shirt, stretching it down and outward. She cringed. "...presentable,"
she finished.

I quirked an eyebrow at the pot of soup, wondering aloud, "What exactly are you trying to present
to me?" At her silence, I chanced a peek over my shoulder and found her eyes glued to my head.

She glowered. "Nothing."

"Exactly," I mumbled, turning my face before she could decipher my dejected expression. "Just go
upstairs, okay? I'll bring this up to you and hunt down some pain reliever and a thermometer."

"You're being really intrusive," she blurted with less anger than I'd expect.

I turned away from the stove then, crafting a carefully blank mask as I assured, "I'll go, if you
want."

She kept her eyes over my shoulder, knuckles going white atop the wood of the table as she
gripped it, until eventually, she emitted a loud huff. Mutely, she pushed off the table, and her feet
made little padding sounds as she exited the kitchen, climbing the staircase with hunched
shoulders.

I smirked as I turned to the pot of soup. It was cheap, lame, and put more emphasis on my lack of
culinary skills than I preferred, but she hadn't rejected it. That must have meant something. Even if
cheap chicken noodle wasn't her most ideal soup, she didn't shun it.

(I was totally not comparing myself to canned soup, by the way.)

While it was cooling, I took the liberty of plundering Bella's medicine cabinet, her room down the
hall silent and still. I found an old mercury thermometer but had no luck finding pain reliever.
Luckily, I still had a whole bottle of ibuprofen in my car. Gathering everything took ten minutes, and
I had to admit, I was a little nervous as I climbed the stairs to her room.

I knocked with the toe of my boot on the door frame, peeking inside before entering. Bella lay
beneath a heap of blankets, her knotty hair all fanned out on the pillow beneath her. Her room was
mostly bare, no embarrassing piles of dirty laundry cluttering her floor like mine would have. My
eyes briefly assessed the area before they fell on her face.

Lips parted, she spoke in a dry, gravelly whisper, "I don't think I can keep it down." She tugged the
blankets to her chin, her fingers poking out as they grasped tightly at the fabric. She regarded the
bowl in my hand with reluctant eyes.

"Just try," I encouraged, stepping forward to place the bowl of soup on her night stand. I dug in my
pocket while explaining, "The saltines might help, too." I emerged with my bottle of pain reliever,
only then realizing I hadn't brought her a beverage.

I ordered her to stick the thermometer in her mouth before rushing downstairs. I halted at the
fridge, rigid and wary. Curling my fingers around the handle, I popped the door open with a
nervous swallow, sweeping the contents with my eyes and exhaling in relief when I found no
clusters of brown, long-necked bottles.

Pink Lemonade seemed to be the best option available, so I quickly filled a glass and started
toward the stairs, taking a brief moment to admire my handywork with the banister. She probably
touched it every day, I mused, a little surprised to feel a swelling of pride that I'd left such a mark
on the house—on her house.

The rapid sound of footsteps from above startled me, Bella's form blurred as she zoomed past the
top of the stairs and into the bathroom. Within seconds, I could hear the unmistakable sounds of
her vomiting. Drink in hand, I rushed upstairs and found her hunched over the toilet, back heaving.

My nose wrinkled, but I quickly cleared my expression before she could notice. I abandoned the
glass beside the sink, taking a hesitant step toward her. She retched again, her long hair veiling
the porcelain of the toilet bowl, and her every muscle seemed to tense and release with the
violence of it.

My palm rested lightly on her back, offering a sympathetic pat, but her hair beneath my hand was
unsatisfying.

I wished she'd get better—as soon as possible.

"Ugh," she groaned when the heaves momentarily subsided, shoulders shaking. "God hates me."

Before I could reply, her body coiled with another round of retching. My fingers were light and
anxious as they collected her hair, pulling it back and revealing more of the toilet bowl that I really
would have preferred to see. I twisted up her hair and shoved it into the collar of her t-shirt,
standing to search for a wash cloth.

"You really don't have to watch this," she suddenly said, her voice thick and shaky.

I held the cloth under the cold tap as I assured, "Trust me, I've seen a good ralph or two in my
time." I shot her a weak smirk, even though her eyes were squeezed closed, a shimmering of
tears lining her lashes.

I squatted behind her, encasing her body between my thighs, and pulled her head back, wiping at
her brow and smoothing away the little locks of hair that clung to her forehead. Her immediate
compliancy was something that could only be explained by her absolute misery.

"I hate kids," she blurted, voice frail as her eyes remained closed. Her voice was muffled as the
washcloth passed over her pale lips, "That's the secret to world domination, you know? Use kids
for biological warfare, have them sneezing and coughing all over everyth—" Her voice cracked as
her muscles rolled against my chest, her head ducking to the bowl once again.

My palm rubbed soothing circles against her back, the episode finally subsiding minutes later. The
position had my leg screaming in protest, but I remained until I heard her small, "I'm done," her
hand rising to hastily flush the toilet.

I helped her back to her room, where she all but collapsed onto her bed. "Are you hot or cold?" I
asked.

She was completely still, face down, back rising as she mumbled into the pillow. "I'm hot now."

The thermometer that she'd left on her bed side table read one-oh-two. Nothing dire, I decided,
though I was quick to get some fluids into her. When I returned to her room, she still hadn't moved,
and I had to kneel beside the bed to see her face.

She protested as I thrust the glass of pink lemonade at her, "I've never been partial to pink vomit."

Her eyes shot opened and immediately met mine, our mirroring smiles large and swift as we
concurrently exclaimed, "Zany Pink!"
"In the context of vomit, it totally works," she chuckled, back bouncing as her eyes crinkled with
her smile. "And clearly," Her smile withered a bit at this, the flash of enthusiasm that had touched
her features dimming once again, "we spend way too much time together."

I rolled my eyes, prompting, "Just drink it," though on the inside, her words and reaction to that fact
didn't even register with me.

I'd made her smile—a real smile—regardless of how bad she was feeling.

I watched as she gulped down the Zany Pink beverage, swallowing two ibuprofens before settling
back into her bed, eyelids heavy. "Sleep," I ordered, gathering the rejected soup so the sight and
smell of it wouldn't disturb her peace.

"Yes'sir," she mumbled, eyes already closed when I retreated from the room, one small fist curled
beneath her chin.

I took a moment to watch her before I closed the door—vomitous, sweaty, smelly, and
miserable—and she was still… pretty—nice to look at—easy on the eyes—

Beautiful…

My stomach fluttered with something foreign—some gentle tug of longing that wasn't sexual or
even hinted at mere attraction. What I felt for Bella was more than a crush—had to be.

It was at that moment I pretty much knew, there was no way I'd make Jasper's mistake. He
refused to challenge the notion that monsters like him and I didn't belong with good people. He
was content in accepting it, just like everyone else, and maybe that worked for him. Maybe he
woke up every morning and the prospect of merely observing Alice was enough to get him by.
Maybe he was okay with settling, but me?

I owed more to my second chance than that.

A/N: Thanks to P for the beta. She's at the dentist right now, getting all doped up and probs
feeling like shit. Hope you feel better soon, darling!

My recommendations this week are: 1.) Go to my profile and download the WA PDF or Word file,
because OMG, they took motherfucking forever to make. And 2.) La Pour Ca by PulsePoint
(slash). And 3.) How to Save a Life by UnholyObsession. You can find both in my fave fics list
on my profile.

See y'all next week! (Hump Day? Skinny-White-Boy-Thursday? Not certain...)

A/N: Twilight and its characters belong to Stephenie Meyer. I don't own anything. Not even
Boozeward. He belongs to the fab ladies at WArehab and they can do whatever they want with
him (except allow him anywhere near water or feed him after midnight). Thanks so much for all
your kind words and encouragement!

Christ, is anyone still reading this? Please accept my deepest apologies for the ridiculous delay.
There was health fail, but all is getting better. Thanks for all the comments and your patience. I'd
promise to get the next update out hastily, but I've broken my word on that front enough times for it
to be laughable. Instead, I'll just bribe you all with the promise of virtual cookies. Omnomnom.
See? Yummy!

I pursed my lips, bringing my cup of coffee to my lips. I'd been apprehensive about my ability to
keep it down, but when I awoke this morning, I was feeling loads better. I'd had that wretched
stomach virus for three days, so relief couldn't come a moment too soon. I scratched my calf with
my toe, cocking my head to the side as I regarded my sofa and the person sprawled upon it.

Edward's face was mashed into the cushions, his feet dangling over the opposing armrest as he
slept. The afghan that he'd pulled around himself during the night only granted coverage to half of
his body, and one of his socks was missing. I narrowed my eyes, scanning the floor. Ah, there it
was, hanging off the end table.

This was weird.

I hadn't put up much of a protest when he'd insisted on staying the night. I mean, I was just so
miserable, and it had felt... comforting... to not be alone. He hadn't even had to do anything. I
honestly would have felt so much better simply knowing someone had been in the house. But, of
course, Edward never did the bare minimum. He'd catered to me the entire afternoon, evening,
and night. He'd cleaned my dishes, took my temperature, kept me properly hydrated, and fed me
pain reliever at the highest rate the dosage recommendation likely allowed. He'd watched me
vomit, had wiped specks of regurgitated noodles from my lips, had held my hair back. My hair.
He'd touched it—had overcome his obvious dislike of it for the mere sake of assisting me.

The previous night, when I'd awoken parched and raspy, my damp skin sticking to my sheets, I'd
pathetically called out for him. When he'd entered my room with a glass of water in hand,
somehow anticipating my needs, I'd told myself that I wouldn't forget how I'd felt in that moment:
relieved, grateful, comfortable, and most of all, not alone. I'd laid back down once he'd exited my
room, having granted him permission to sleep on the sofa, and everything had seemed so clear.
Edward was a gift from God.

Now?

He stirred, a snort escaping his nose as he burrowed his face deeper into the cushion, messy hair
all nestled between his head and the coarse upholstery.

It was just weird.

I sat outside and smoked my morning cigarette as I waited for him to wake up. My hair was still
wet from the shower I'd taken when I'd awoken sticky and gross, the act of bathing feeling like
somewhat of a religious experience. There was nothing like the sensation of the first day following
a recovery from illness. Everything looked brighter. Everything smelled more pleasant. The birds
sang, the coffee didn't taste as bitter, and the man on the sofa who you'd once absolutely loathed
seemed like welcomed company. Previously regarded problems were shed in a new light of
triviality, and you could swear to yourself, you could swear to God, that you'd never take this
feeling of normalcy for granted ever again—and yet that promise was usually forgotten within the
span of a day.

I didn't consider myself much of a pessimist, but I was certainly no optimist, so I savored the
feeling that I was confident wouldn't last as I ruffled my hair, willing the scant breeze to assist in
drying it. I had just closed my eyes and pulled humid, chilled air into my lungs, fleetingly resolving
to quit smoking, when I heard the telltale stirrings from within the living room. I butted out my
cigarette and curled my fingers around the warmth of my coffee cup, my footsteps light as I
reentered the house.

I found Edward perched on the edge of the sofa, head down as he scrubbed his palms over his
face. I observed him for a moment before making myself known, assessing his squinted eyes.
Grimacing, he reached a hand to his crotch and shifted, adjusting the bulge beneath his jeans. He
stretched one leg forward and propped a foot on the coffee table before him, a raspy groan
punctuating his movement.
He began rubbing his knee.

His features were tight and somehow pained, lips stretched into sharp frown as he watched his
hand rub and massage his leg. I quirked a brow as he began muttering under his breath, "Fucking
steroids don't... what's the point... just gonna make... ugh." I shifted forward in an effort to hear him
better, but he caught the sound of my feet shuffling against the floor, and his head whipped around
to face me.

Watching him carefully rearrange his features was rather frustrating. "You look better," he noted,
bracing one elbow on the back of the sofa as he pivoted toward me. "Your stomach?" he asked.

I lifted the coffee as I rounded the sofa, replying, "I can drink this without gagging, so that must be
good."

He had a deep line running down one side of his cheek as he ruffled his hair. "Fever?" he asked,
falling back into the cushions with a shallow exhale.

I shrugged, but answered, "I don't feel feverish."

He inspected me with a sideways glance, eventually waving me over with his hand. Confused, I
leaned toward him and was less startled than I should have been when he put a palm to my
forehead, before moving it to my cheek. It was only when his hand then descended to my neck
that I began to feel a twinge of discomfort, but I didn't halt him, even though he'd just touched his
morning wood with that hand.

See? Weird.

His eyes followed his palm as it brushed my hair aside and cupped my neck, his skin feeling warm
against the portion of my nape that my dampened hair had cooled. His palm lingered, and the
tickle of his delicate touch caused me to clench my teeth in an effort to restrain a shiver. "You feel
pretty cool," he deduced, pulling his hand back.

I lurched, perhaps a little too enthusiastically, back to my portion of the sofa, informing, "I actually
feel perfect. Must have been—"

"—a seventy-two hour bug," he finished. Before I could think to respond, he intoned in a rushed,
strained breath, "Do you have that ibuprofen still?" His eyes were guarded as they darted to the
stairs, jaw tight as his hand resumed massaging his outstretched knee.

My brow furrowed. "Yeah, upstairs. Are you okay?" I shot a pointed glance to his leg, his posture
all rigid and seeping of some unfathomable tension.

"Just... an old injury. No big deal," he assured, though the clipped and stretched tenor of his voice
suggested otherwise. He continued in a reluctant tone, "Maybe... well, if you're feeling better... you
could go get it for me real quick?" His eyes were beseeching—begging.

"Sure," I replied, blinking in confusion.

The bottle was beside my bed where he'd left it the previous night, and when I returned to the
living room, his eyes fell upon the ibuprofen with equal amounts of relief and impatience.

He swallowed them dry and I felt a little guilty. Edward had done such a great job at taking care of
me, at anticipating my needs, and when it came time for me to repay the favor—to balance the
scales—I fell a little short.

"What's the old injury?" I asked, curious.

He sat so perfectly still on the sofa, staring at the digital clock about the television, that he could
have been a statue. "Car accident," was his soft, distracted answer.

My eyebrows raised in interest. "The one with James?"

His eyes snapped to mine then, flashing in shock, a trace of horror present in the crease between
his brows. "How do you know about that?"

I tugged guiltily at my lower lip, fingering the frayed ends of the afghan. "I just... saw it in a
newspaper while doing some research is all." When he didn't respond, I chanced a peek at his
face, only to find his gaze once again trained on the clock, face devoid of emotion. "Do you still
have a lot of problems?" I continued, adding hastily, "With your injuries, I mean. The article didn't
say..."

I felt intrusive and ridiculous prodding him for information when, even when I'd read the article, I
hadn't felt it necessary to learn more. He hadn't died, while James had. Further facts had seemed
inconsequential at the time.

His lips pinched into a purse as he responded, "Not really. My legs are just kind of..." He paused
and shifted his upper body, his legs remaining freakishly still. "Vulnerable," he concluded. I
watched as one corner of his lips curled up into a grimace at the confession.

It was then that it occurred to me, "The roof!" I gasped. "God, Edward, why didn't you say
something? What are you doing climbing ladders, anyway, if you could get hurt and—are there
doctor bills? Do you have insurance?"

He halted my flurry of panicked words with a weary exhale. "Please, this is nothing, Bella." He met
my gaze then, eyes emphatic as he repeated, "It's nothing."

I argued, "It looks painful," as I watched his hand continue to rub and soothe his leg. Obviously, he
was in great pain if he couldn't even make it upstairs to get the ibuprofen.

His next words were sharp, almost icy. "Can you please drop it?"

Taken aback, I raised my palms in a yielding manner. "Sorry," I apologized, somewhat annoyed
that my responsibility in the matter couldn't be properly acknowledged. The silence that stretched
between us was laced with tension, and I struggled to find some way to ease it, while
simultaneously lamenting this newly discovered imbalance.

Edward was the first to speak, his voice soft and considerably less irked. "I'm glad you're feeling
better," he said, glancing at me sideways and offering a small smile.

"Ugh," I grouched. "Me too. That's the last birthday party I'm working. Aside from the whole...
'biological hazard,' the clown they hire is exceptionally skeevy." My lips curled in disdain for the
rainbow-afro'd man-boy who had made me balloon animals that were in no way appropriate for a
children's' party. Satisfied with the change in topic, I rose and asked, "Breakfast?"

He replied with a statement that disappeared behind me as I entered the kitchen. "Just so you
know, I do more than plumbing and carpentry and painting. I could really fuck a skeevy clown up."

The serious tone of his voice made laughter bubble within my stomach.

As we began painting the house the next day, the air between Edward and I was amicable. Given
his behavior during my illness and the fact that he'd injured his leg cleaning the gutters, I was
feeling particularly inclined to accept his efforts.
It became clear to me that day that most of the work surrounding painting was in preparation and
not so much the actual task. I was actually a little disappointed when the sky darkened and we had
to set our things aside for work the next morning. When Edward left, I ate dinner alone while sifting
through paperwork on Dr. Aro.

When I woke up the next morning, I got a weird package in the mail. What was more, I was
surprised to find how excited I was to laugh about it with Edward when he returned to finish
preparing the siding for paint. Finding topics of discussion was always most difficult for me where
he was concerned. There were too many words, suggestions, or memories that were best left
unvisited. But as it turned out, we were so busy that I never had to worry about making
conversation. "We'll need to replace these," Edward said of the shutters that afternoon. He began
removing them, one by one, and I stood in the grass below when he had to climb the ladder,
holding it steady and praying he didn't fall again.

His choice of words hadn't escaped my notice—We'll.

"I was wondering..." He lingered around the foyer that evening, wiping his shoes on the rug for an
unnecessary length of time. "What are you doing for dinner?" he finally asked, bracing one elbow
on the banister he'd crafted himself.

His stare, fixed upon the dirt jammed beneath his fingernails, was quite intent.

I shrugged as I sat on the bottom stair, unlacing my muddy boots and massaging my feet, which
were positively aching from walking around the house all day. My weekdays were nothing special.
Though I worked every weekend evening at the Lodge, my weekday nights were often spent
in—alone. "I put a beef roast in the crockpot this morning. Probably watch some Wheel or
something while I eat."

Edward hummed, his head bobbing as he continued picking at his nails.

It seemed a little rude not to offer. "Do you eat roast? I made a lot. You can't really make a small
roast."

He pursed his lips, avoiding my gaze. "I don't wanna intrude or anything."

"You're not intruding," I sighed. "I'm asking you." Seriously, what the fuck did he need? An
engraved invitation?

His gaze met mine then, and though his hair was droopy and flopping into his eyes, I couldn't have
missed the way they flashed a bright, vibrant green. The corner of his lips tucked into a small grin.
"Okay."

When I was done in the bathroom, he went behind me to clean up, and I began preparing the rest
of our dinner. As I began dicing cucmbers I got the same feeling I'd had that night when he stayed
for macaroni-and-cheese casserole. It was nice preparing a meal for more than myself. For
example, I never bothered making side salads or rolls for just myself. It never seemed worth the
effort, but having a guest over changed everything.

Edward took one end of the sofa, while I took the other, and thirty minutes later, we were both
hunched over our T.V. trays as we watched an elderly, gangly man spin the wheel.

"N!" the man exclaimed, to which Pat Sajack replied, "Four N's." Loud applause erupted as Vanna
strutted in her animal-print dress across the stage, slowly revealing the puzzle.

With a thoughtful hum, I guessed, "Slinging on money cars?" I then took a large bite of roast beef
and nodded appreciatively.

I was pretty good at this game.

Edward, still chewing, knotted his brows together and deadpanned, "No offense, but you're pretty
awful at this game."

I balked, definitely offended, as I dropped my fork and turned to him. "Excuse me, but I happen to
be somewhat of a wordsmith."

His laugh was small and muffled, before he caught a glance at my sour expression. "Really?" he
asked.

I thrust a finger at my chest. "Aspiring journalist with a Bachelor's in English, thank you very
much."

He pushed his beef around his plate with a cautious glance in my direction. "Yeah, but writing with
words and playing word games are two different things. I'm actually good at word games. Not so
much with writing." Then, never breaking my gaze, he guessed with confidence, "Swinging on
monkey bars."

The man on television solved the puzzle, "Swinging on monkey bars!"

I scoffed, but shoved a forkful of potatoes in my mouth. No way Edward Cullen was going to beat
me at Wheel. "I bet I get the next one," I challenged with a smile.

For the next puzzle, I was anxious that he might solve it first. So much so, that I think it was
clouding my mind and frazzling me. I sat close to the edge of the sofa, and whenever he'd open
his mouth, even to eat, my body would clench. I searched the revealed letters frantically.

Eventually, only five letters of the Then and Now puzzle were yet to be revealed. I knew he'd get it
when a burly lady chose with unconcealed enthusiasm, "Y!"

Edward's eyes narrowed at the screen, and I saw it happen. His lips stretched into that craggy,
stupid grin that I loathed, and then his pink tongue separated them with an inhale that signaled his
imminent victory.

"BADLY FUCK AND COVER!"

His words died in his throat as his head whipped to face me, eyes wide, eyebrows hiked high on
his forehead. "Daffy duck and cover," he said, still staring at me in that incredulous way when the
lady solved the puzzle.

My face burned.

He turned to his food and ducked low to the plate, murmuring, "You do realize that Wheel of
Fortune is a family show, right?"

I gnashed my teeth together, warning, "Shut up. I don't do well under pressure."

The corners of his lips twitched as he continued, "No, I like your version better, though. Very
relateable." He punctuated this with a mockingly stern nod at his plate, but was amused when I
shoved my tray away and stood, towering over the couch.

"That's it, motherfucker. You. Me. Scrabble throw-down. Loser paints the trim."
Thus, we found ourselves sprawled out on my living room floor. We moved the coffee table to the
side of the room, each of us taking the sporadic bite from the plates we'd brought to our laps, until
they were eventually abandoned.

By our second game, he had his bad leg stretched out before him, framing the Scrabble board, as
he regarded his lettered tiles with an intense gaze. "Really, Bella. Buqshas? No way that's a
word," he accused, snatching the game's dictionary from the floor between us. It was already well
worn from my years playing Jacob as a teenager, and I wasn't surprised when he threw it down a
moment later, defeated. He scrubbed his fingers through his hair. "This is borderline humiliating."

I grinned as I added the letters to my score. Triple word play, too. Nice. "I told you," I said, "I know
my words."

He inspected his tiles with a scheming face. "Yeah, but you take forever. If this game were timed?
I'd totally beat you down." With his tiles, he carefully created the word 'C-O-I-T-U-S,' sparing me a
brief glance from below his lashes. "Plus, you have the lucky pen. Not fair."

I studiously recorded his score with said lucky pen. "And if you took more time to think, you might
come up with some choices that weren't related to sex, food, or sex." Snorting, I muttered under
my breath, "Typical man."

I could have sworn he was blushing. "This coming from Miss Badly Fuck and Cover?" he retorted.

"I was under pressure," I reiterated with a scowl.

"And anyway," he continued, ignoring me as he shook the bag of tiles, "I made Alfaqui." There was
that crooked grin again.

Ugh.

"Would you shut up about the fucking alfaqui?"

He refused to let me forget that it'd won him the first game. "Just saying." He shrugged. "Are you
going to take all night over there?"

While we continued playing the game—and I supposed, having fun in our own weird way—my stiff
posture relaxed, and I ended up mirroring his pose—propping my back against the table behind
me as I kicked one leg out toward him.

But when he casually took my foot into his lap and began rubbing it, my spine stiffened once
again. He asked, "I'm probably gonna be painting trim tomorrow, huh?" He flashed me a smile as
his fingers pressed into the balls of my foot, rubbing over the thick cotton of my sock.

I was definitely uncomfortable, and I flattened my palms to the carpet in preparation of snatching
my foot from his grip, but then he ground his thumb into the arch, and shamefully, I didn't.

It was amazing.

With a grimace, I diverted my gaze to the board and ventured, "Probably."

He spelled out the word 'T-I-N-T' as he spoke, "Also, I can find you a really good deal on some
shutters," and then returned his full attention to the foot in his lap. He was staring down at it
attentively as he added, "My friend Jasper knows some people."

At this point, I was pretty much putty. "Cool."

After a long silence, I realized that it was my turn and snapped my gaze to him. "You don't have to
do that," I said with a swallow and a glance at my foot. This was really unforgivably intimate.
Right?

Edward lifted one shoulder as he watched his fingers knead my toes. "I know." But then his fingers
paused and he met my stare, worrying, "Does it make you uncomfortable?"

"No." Yes, but it feels wonderful, and I'm a selfish person. Oh! Selfish! I spelled out, "S-E-L-F-I-S-
H-L-Y." My right foot, which was tucked beneath me, began feeling a little jealous of all the
attention Edward was giving to the left, and I wondered how awful it would be if I just... maybe... I
kicked my right leg out, but only so I could reach the far end of the board. "Taxi," I gloated as I
recorded my score. I wiggled my toes.

Edward spelled, 'I-C-I-N-G,' and when his eye caught the movement of my neglected foot, I almost
pulled it back, but he only reached out and snatched it up, bringing it into his lap before he began
massaging it.

I released a long, contented sigh, but weakly accused, "You have serious issues with personal
space, don't you?"

He continued, unfazed. "Yes. You look like you're really bothered," he mocked, grinning at my
toes.

One ankle propped on either of his knees, I cooed, "It's appalling."

The silence that followed for the rest of the night could have been tense enough to cut with a knife,
and I wouldn't have noticed. The urgency of our Scrabble game dulled to a lackadaisical pace,
each of us making words between sighs and yawns.

The sounds of the television transformed from evening news, to late night talk shows, to
infomercials, and his hands were close to putting me to sleep. After watching Edward stifle his fifth
yawn, I grudgingly mentioned, "You're going to be drag-ass at Newton's tomorrow."

I was used to staying up until two in the morning, but it was obvious that Edward was not. His lids
were heavy, eyes red-rimmed as they surveyed the mess we'd made of the living room. "I'll help
you clean up," he offered, giving my heel one last squeeze before finally releasing my feet.

"Don't worry about it. I'll just leave it for tomorrow," I assured as we both stood. I could have
whined when my feet pressed against the hard wood of the floor, Edward standing before the sofa
with both hands now shoved into his pockets.

"Bathroom?" he asked, cutting a sideways glance at the stairs. At my nod, he shuffled from the
room, and I cleared our plates, startled when I realized how late it had actually gotten.

"Are you okay to drive?" I worried when we met in the foyer, but he only shrugged me off, pulling
on his hooded sweatshirt and mussing his hair. I was dangerously close to offering him the sofa
when his gaze landed on the ornately wrapped package I'd received that morning.

He curved a brow at it in curiosity.

"I almost forgot!" I barked a laugh, promising, "You'll appreciate this. Apparently, I have a secret
admirer," I began, rifling through the box with a wry smile. I emerged with a fancy, gold-capped
bottle and stated, "And he seems to be quite concerned over the state of my hair."

Edward leaned his back against the door, crossing his arms over his chest. "What is it?" he asked,
scanning the label. "Shampoo?"

I answered with a somber face, "Oh, not just any shampoo, Edward. Frederick..." I glanced at the
bottle. "Fekkai," I sounded out. "And not just shampoo, but shampoo, conditioner, moisture
treatment, freaking... advanced overnight hair repair." I flailed each item about for emphasis.

"Wow," he responded, lips lifting into a smile. He definitely looked awake now. "He must really
be—"

"A complete ass, right?"

His eyebrows shot upward, before pulling together, lips fallen into a loose gape. "Ass?"

I snorted. "Well, yeah. I mean, who does that?" I wondered, staring down at the bottle as if it could
answer me. "Whoever this guy is, he could have bought me flowers or chocolates or some other
totally socially acceptable gift, but evidently, he thinks my hair is in dire need of attention." With a
final scoff, I tossed the bottle back into the box, muttering, "Complete ass."

Edward had pushed off the door by then and was diligently adjusting his hood. "So you like flowers
and chocolates," he deduced in a low voice.

"Hell no," I answered. At Edward's askew, confused glance, I explained, "I don't like any gifts with
monetary value."

Now Edward was huffing at the floor, jamming both fists into the pocket on his sweater. "Well,
maybe he knew that, and maybe he thought that it'd be nice for you to pamper yourself or
something." He kicked at the rug, removing old, loose dirt from his boot. "Maybe it's more of a
compliment and not so much of an insult."

As I watched his feet, I ventured, "Maybe..." Truthfully, I had expected Edward to appreciate the
oddity of the gift—had expected it to get a hearty laugh out of him. With a frown at the bottle, I
persisted, "But you have to admit. It's a really weird thing to send someone." When our gazes met,
I was further puzzled by the long, almost defeated expression he wore.

"It's weird," he finally agreed, nodding.

Why did I feel so guilty? I didn't want to seem like one of those people. "Not that I'm ungrateful,
or... I mean, I guess it was nice, but—"

"Weird," he finished, emitting a small, strained chuckle. He added with a roll of his eyes, "Almost
creepy. What a fucking douche, right?"

I didn't even know how to answer at this point, so I just bobbed my head at the bottle in my palm.
Unlike earlier, I definitely noticed the tension of the silence that followed as he shifted from foot to
foot, rustling his hair. It wasn't until a loose, ratty leg of his jeans came into view that I looked up at
him again.

Before I could meet his gaze, he'd crushed me to his chest, forcing a familiar oomph from my lips.

"Oh no," I whined, rigid as he embraced me tightly to his body, my cheek mashed to the plush
cotton of his dark sweatshirt. "You're hugging again?"

His chuckle into my hair seemed genuine as he swayed us from side to side, the sound of his
response rumbling through his chest into my ear. "It's non-monetary, right? At least I'm not going
around buying you beauty care products."
I shoved him away with a scowl, yanking the door open. I thrust a finger at the driveway, ordering,
"You'd better get some sleep if you're gonna start on that trim tomorrow."

He held his palms up in surrender, but the cheeky grin he gave was relieving. That whole moment
before had been weird, and frankly, more unsettling than the unsolicited hugging. He exited
through the door but turned when he'd hopped down to the steps to the drive, calling, "Let me
know whenever you wanna let me win some of my dignity back. You can wager for manual labor,
and I'll play for awkward displays of affection."

I gave a stony look and replied, "Your funeral," before shutting the door. I watched him retreat
through the kitchen window, only retiring for bed when the red halos of his taillights disappeared
through the fog.

My sleep was filled with the soft clacking of lettered tiles, sleepy laughter, and gentle presses
against my sore feet. That wasn't the first night I dreamed of Edward Cullen, but it was the first
night I dreamed of him without the backdrop of eerie, blue hallways, craggy grins, and black
lockers.

My investigation into Dr. Aro hit a lull for the next two weeks, and it wasn't because I'd hit any kind
of roadblock. Working on the house proved to be a timely, exhausting task. I wasn't certain how
the hell Edward managed to show up every other day, tools in hand, eyes bright, mood chipper,
ready to work his ass off, but he always did.

He usually insisted that I allow him do all the hard work, and then I'd argue and put my bitch-face
on until he laughed and handed me a paintbrush or hammer or whatever tool necessary.

I liked that about Edward. His protests against my doing work were less about me helping and
more about him wishing to accomplish the task himself. Otherwise, he never underestimated or
coddled me. Though he may have gotten skittish when I'd climb the ladder, or he'd worry when I
lifted lumber, or acted sketchy about my using the fancy paint sprayer, he never stopped me.
Instead, he explained how the paint sprayer worked, or how to lift with my legs, or how that third
rung from the top on the ladder could be a doozie. (He'd scowled at this.)

We actually worked fairly well together, syncing our use of tools and hoses so effectively that we
rarely had to speak, unless we were discussing work or town gossip. I was certain most of the
townsfolk had already enjoyed plenty of gossip on our behalf, and returning the favor was really
rather fun.

He mowed the lawn while I measured shutters, or installed shutters while I put down grass seed.
And when the painting finally began, I was amazed at seeing the house's gradual metamorphosis.
I knew that a fresh coat of paint would make a difference, but I often found myself awestruck
whenever a new patch was completed.

The little house began to look so bright and clean and... happy. I never even realized just how sad
it had looked until it began transforming. Every evening included a small, reflective moment as I
assessed the progress from the mailbox, Edward always taking this time to get his tools in order,
or clean up in the bathroom, or run to the hardware store for a last-minute purchase before it
closed.

It was almost as if he could somehow sense my vulnerability and chose to give me space, which
was odd, because Edward had a big problem with respecting my space.

After that first night we'd spent playing Scrabble until two in the morning, he'd become impossibly
more fond of touching. It was never really inappropriate, so I had trouble deciding how to make my
discomfort known. It was especially difficult because the discomfort I felt mostly stemmed from a
lack of discomfort at his brief embraces, shoulder grasps, or playful hair tugging. My guard around
Edward was dropping, and though I'd anticipated this to some degree as I got to know him, I
hadn't expected it to drop quite so much.

I soon began to question his motives. I wondered one day, as he placed a warm palm to the small
of my back, speaking animatedly about having found a new door at the hardware store, if he was
this physically intrusive to everyone, or if it was just me?

"But it'd make the perfect back door, Bella. You should see this thing. And for only forty dollars?
I'm pretty sure it's an antique or something, too. A total steal," he said, using his palm to steer me
around the back of the house, and halting us before my back door—which really, was in dire need
of replacing.

"Okay," I agreed, stiffening when he raised his hand to cup my shoulder and crush me into his
side.

He assured, "It'll be great!" with a satisfied flex of his arm before loping off in the direction of his
truck, whistling and twirling his keys around his forefinger.

I think that was the first moment I really suspected it.

There were other little signs, of course, like how he'd look at me with a relieved smile whenever I'd
answer the door—as if he had been worried that I wouldn't. Or how his eyes would flash in
significance whenever I'd ask him to stay for supper. Or how he eventually stopped guessing at
the Wheel puzzles whenever he would stay, sparing me the anxiety that usually caused me to get
them wrong. But the biggest sign, by far, occurred when I ran out of shampoo and was forced to
use the fancy gift from my mystery admirer. It shouldn't have even been noticeable—I'd always
been happy with the shampoo I'd used since my teens—but when I used the fancy crap before
bed one night, I awoke to a pillow-full of thick, bouncy, shiny hair.

I'd stood before my bathroom mirror, gaping at the sight of it as I squeezed and pulled my hair
atop my head experimentally, shifting my head from side to side. It fell in heavy waves when I let it
go, and I admit, I was pretty impressed.

I prayed the asshole that sent it wouldn't see me again until I got to the Thriftway. In the meantime,
I spent my morning twirling it around my wrist and fluffing it in the back, almost the point of fixation.
I'd only just decided to maybe not throw the bottles away when Edward knocked on my door,
punctual as always—at noon on a weekend.

I'd been preparing lunch, and anticipated asking him to join me before installing the new door, so I
yelled to him, "It's open!" while I stirred a large pot of chili.

The sounds of his entrance were loud and exaggerated as he stamped his feet against the rug.
"It's freezing out there today. We might have to work in our jackets. Or I might have to work in my
jacket while you stay in here and cook whatever belongs to that smell." His sigh upon entering the
kitchen was just audible enough for me to hear its abrupt cease.

"Fine with me," I mumbled, distracted as I added more chili powder, before ultimately deciding,
"But then, ten years down the line when the front door goes to shit, I won't have any cool door-
installing knowledge."

His approach behind me was silent, with the exception of the sticky, soft sounds of his soles
meeting the linoleum, and then his hands were on my hips. My eyes widened in shock as I stared
into the boiling pot of chili,, because Edward enveloped me in the most foreign, delicate way, his
chest just barely pressing into my rigid back as he hunched low enough to balance the height of
our shoulders.

He ducked his nose to the crook of my neck, which was covered in hair, and inhaled deep enough
to push his chest into mine. He exhaled a gentle, "Smells so good," that tickled my skin.

"The chili?" I deadpanned, every muscle in my body coiled and radiating discomfort. I wasn't sure
what to do or how to politely push him away—if I was overreacting or if he was truly being
inappropriate.

Until he replied in a whisper that fluttered through my ear, "Yeah, the chili smells good, too." With
the solid warmth of his arms and chest surrounding me, he seemed to be just about to peer into
the steaming pot when I grasped his wrists and pried them from me.

As crazy as it sounded, even in my own head, I was smart enough to spot an advance. I turned
and placed a palm against his chest, gently pushing him an arm's length away. He just stared
back at me with a lazy, lopsided smile, brows knitted together. "What is this, Edward?" I
demanded, gesturing the empty space between us.

"What is what?" He was far enough away to prop himself against a chair. I didn't miss the way the
sharp lines of his jaw hardened.

Annoyed, I could feel my nostrils flare. "Don't act like you don't know. All of this... touching, or
whatever? It feels a lot like—like maybe... you want something..." I hesitated to say it aloud, seeds
of doubt stealing my confidence. I eventually hedged, "Romantic?"

If he was surprised by my accusation, it didn't show on his face as he answered, "That's

ridiculous." In fact, nothing showed on his face. Every line and crevice and curve was perfectly
even and still. He added, "You barely consider me an acquaintance, and we're just getting to know
each other, and—" But then he paused mid-sentence, hid his expression by dipping his chin to his
chest, tightened his grip around the chair back on either side of his hip, and I knew.

"You do, don't you?" I asked, horrified as my mind and chest were barraged with accumulations of
feelings I'd abandoned years ago.

I felt as though I might be sick. When his eyes rose to mine from below the thick fringe of his
lashes, he answered in a timid, reluctant voice, "Maybe."

"Oh, God!" I gasped, slapping a palm to my forehead and spinning away from him. I squeezed my
eyes closed and repeated, "Oh, God." I knew it. I had known it for so long, and yet it had
completely eluded me. I felt so stupid.

"Wait, wait, wait. Just hear me out," he rushed from behind me. I couldn't look at him as he
explained with a swift, desperate inhale, "I know it's soon, and weird, and like I said before, you
barely consider me an acquaintance—"

This was where I interrupted, finally growing the courage necessary to face him. "Just stop,
Edward," I ordered, ignoring the panicked width of his eyes. With a deep, steeling breath, I began,
"Look, I do consider you a... friend—" And though I never really acknowledged it before, simply
saying it aloud made me how realize how very true it was. "—which is scary and confusing
enough, but...that?" I thrust a finger to the space before the stove where he'd embraced me. "That
is never going to happen."

His face fell to the speed of his exhale—slow and calculating. "I know, it can't happen any time
soon, but I can wait until—"
"Until what?" I snapped, appalled. I couldn't contain the volume of my voice, and I couldn't care
that it made him flinch. "Until I can get close enough without associating your touch with fear? Until
I forget everything you did? Until I grow fucking feelings for you?"

I was definitely going to be sick.

His breaths were steady as he inspected his feet, but I could see the flush of color that flooded his
neck, and climbed to his ears. "I'm not saying that," he finally answered, raising both shoulders.
"I'm just saying that... you never know."

"But I do know," I assured. "It'll never happen, Edward." I could see when he lifted his head that he
was going to protest, but I stopped him with my slow, intentional, perfectly enunciated, "Never."

He searched my eyes for many moments, and I could see when it finally clicked for him—when he
finally realized that this wasn't a choice for me—that it was as definite as my inability to ride in an
elevator, or work in a cubicle, or use airplane bathrooms—that I could have thousands of those
gentle, soft dreams of us playing Scrabble on the living room floor, and I'd always be haunted by
the other, darker dreams that came the following night.

"Oh," he breathed, and I couldn't for the life of me comprehend the hurt and disappointment that
flooded his face. He had to have known. He had to have. "Wow, I feel really dumb," he said with a
laugh that held no trace of humor.

"I'm sorry." I don't know why I said it. I shouldn't have been sorry. I should have been disgusted.
But I was sorry. I was sorry that I'd moved to Forks as a teenager, and not just because it would
have spared me so much agony and devastation, but because it prevented me from only knowing
this version of Edward.

When I bowed my head, I caught a glance of my hair in my periphery. My heart sank. "You sent
the shampoo," I realized, raising my gaze to find him still standing, motionless and indifferent.
When his lips parted and closed, he seemed to be at a loss for words, and I hated the way he was
looking at me—like he should lie.

Instead, he smiled, and it was small and sad. "Yeah, I'm the complete ass."

I wanted the floor to swallow me up, right there. "God, Edward, I had no idea. It was—" I had to
ignore the angry wrinkling of his nose. "—a nice gift, and I liked it, but… I can't—"

He interrupted with a sharp clearing of his throat, shifted his eyes to peer out the window above
the sink, and offhandedly commented, "If I start on the door now, I can have it done by nightfall."

I was rendered speechless until he finally turned to exit the kitchen, when I called behind him,
"Edward, I'm sorry!"

"Don't worry about it," was his muffled reply.

But I did worry about it. I collapsed into the nearest chair and battled with this sense of guilt I felt
for rejecting him, guilt over that guilt, and the compassion I'd unknowingly come to feel for the
person he was now. I wondered if I'd ever be able to look at him and see something other than the
past, and I doubted it.

Mostly, I worried that the friendship I'd only just been capable of acknowledging had already
perished.

A/N: Betas: Pastiche_Pen, EzRocksAngel, and TKmoon#s. All the WC peeps were awesome
help with research, too. Thanks, guys!
Manyafandomand I are hosting "The AwkWard contest," which is going up for voting soon. Also,
I'm judging this dry hump contest, "Fun with Your Clothes on," with a bunch of other awesome
aficionados. The info for both contests can be found under the "Contests" section of my bio.

Thanks to everyone for all your comments! And everyone on Twitter who kept me company and
gave their well-wishes during my painfully slow and depressing recovery. I can't believe how
blessed I am! I really hope everyone doesn't hate me for my lack of review replies. I read and take
them all to heart, and am more grateful than simple words could ever express.

~gives more cookies~

A/N: Twilight and its characters belong to Stephenie Meyer. I don't own anything. Not even
Boozeward. He belongs to the fab ladies at (the artists formerly known as) WArehab and they can
do whatever they want with him (except allow him anywhere near water or feed him after
midnight). Thanks so much for all your kind words and encouragement!

I remembered how I once imagined what my life would be like following my one year milestone. I
knew the first year would be the worst. I knew I'd feel like giving up more often than not. I knew it'd
be a total bitch. But after that first year?

Well, I can't say why, but I'd had this vision of normalcy. Like that first year was my sentence, and
then I'd be free, and I could wiggle back into the skin of the person I'd been before, just... better.
Happier. Things would be right. I'd have completed my list and would be on good terms with
everyone. My family would play a constant role in my life. I'd have an awesome job. Maybe I'd
even be taking courses at the college in Seattle, or... I don't know. Maybe I'd have a girl and a dog,
and a home of my own to put them in. I'd have a car—a really fucking nice car, too—one that
drove fast, looked sleek, and wasn't approved for a soccer mom.

Don't get me wrong. I didn't have any illusions—not totally. I knew these fantasies were just
that—fantasies, but I'd dreamed them up against my own will, and somewhere along the way, I'd
begun driving toward a finish line that turned out to be nothing more than a flimsy paper ribbon.

I still hated my life. I was just sober enough to realize it.

"She told me this would happen, but I—Goddammit, Cullen, are you even fucking listening to me?"
Mike seethed from across his tiny desk, fists all balled up and pressing into the wood.

"What do you want me say, man?" My exhale was weary as I tossed my hands in the air, but they
landed in my lap with a limp flop. I couldn't even muster the energy necessary to feel offended.

Mike answered, "I want the truth," and I could see his weariness, too, in the push of his sigh and
the drop of his shoulders. Age hadn't been kind to him. I could already see his hairline receding,
despite all his efforts to comb over it. If I looked hard enough, there were the beginnings of a
definite weight situation, too. This was what thirty years as a resident of Forks got you.

"I'm telling the truth. I tagged the hockey sticks, and then I left. I never went anywhere near the
register. You have the cameras, Mike." At the familiar indignation evident in the flaring of his
nostrils, I corrected myself, "Mr. Newton."

Jesus, I may as well have gotten down on my knees and opened wide.

He took half-a-moment to stare down at the register balances, fiddling with the corners of the
papers before he fell back into his chair and scrubbed a palm over his face. He began,
"Someone's gotta take accountability here. Karen's been with us for five years. Mr. Milton doesn't
even need this job. He's got like... millions of dollars squirreled away. I know I didn't do it. I know
my mom didn't do it. If you were in my shoes, who would you be pointing the finger at?" He stared
at me, expectant, helpless.

I sucked in a deep, cleansing inhale, before releasing it into the space between us—slowly,
smoothly. "How much was it?"

Mike answered, "Five hundred, twenty three dollars, and seventeen cents."

My fingernails pressed angry crescents into my palms. "Take it outta my check. Whatever."

"I was taking it out of your check anyway," he said, eyes following me as I stood. His voice halted
me before I could even make an appropriately melodramatic exit. "Look, I—I wanted to see this
work, but honestly? My ass is on the line here, too. If I can't handle the store, then my dad'll never
let me live it down." He appeared almost embarrassed as he averted his eyes and swiped at his
nose, feigning coolness.

I figured that was it. He'd fire me, and I wouldn't be able to say a fucking word about it, because
really? Who would blame him? Karen didn't take the money, I knew that much. I also knew Mr.
Milton only kept this job as a hobby. I was the only logical suspect, and I understood.

But it didn't make it right.

"One more chance," he finally said, expression solemn as his eyes held mine. "You're a good
worker, and I wanna think you didn't take it, but I'm not a moron, Cullen."

And then came the twist of the knife. I could see it coming from miles away in the rigid set of his
shoulders and the fact that he'd just complimented me in the most condescending way possible. I
knew what he was gonna say before the words even left his mouth, but I just stood there and took
it.

"People don't change."

On the way home, I passed ABC Liquor, and though my eyes flickered to the little glass door, and
though my foot hovered over the brake pedal, I kept going. I was having a really bad week—one of
the worst—but it wasn't enough to merit that sort of sacrifice. On the inside, I realized that's what
I'd be doing: throwing away my sobriety, which was the only little nugget of fucking
accomplishment I've ever earned. At the end of the day when I was alone and miserable and
broke, I still had that. No one but myself could take that away from me.

As I steered the car toward Bella's street, I decided that it wasn't bad enough that I wanted to give
up, but it was bad enough that I embraced the bitterness and resentment that consumed me the
second I saw her face at her door. She looked me right the eye and I couldn't fucking stand it. She
represented my every failure, both old and new.

With my gaze trained above her shoulder, I explained, "Just need to install the new lock." I jingled
the bag of hardware I held, flitting my eyes to her face just in time to see her bite her lip.

"Oh, okay," she replied, shuffling aside and allowing me entrance.

I hadn't told her I was coming. I didn't even have her phone number. She probably wouldn't have
answered anyway, and there was no way I could sleep at night knowing that someone likely had a
key to her new-old backdoor. Her footsteps followed behind me, and my muscles, coiled and
tense, ached more and more with every thump of her feet.
She began, "The backdoor is... amazing, Edward. Really. Nicer than the front. Actually, I think the
front's a little jealous." Her laughter seemed strained, and I caught her yanking at the hem of her
sweater through my periphery. Normally, this type of awkward atmosphere would have weighed
on me, but today, it didn't. It just really, really annoyed me.

I hurried through the motions of unscrewing the hold hardware, getting myself out of her hair. "I
can change the front, too," I offered, terse, no matter my efforts at keeping my frustration at bay.

"Oh, I didn't mean it like that!" she insisted.

I offered no response as the old knob clattered to the ground with a strange, punctuating rattle.
The stifling silence swelled long and large enough to fill the entire room before the sounds of her
retreating footsteps eased my posture. It was easier to concentrate when she wasn't standing
there, fidgeting.

The new hardware didn't exactly sit flush, seeing as how I'd avoided the extra trip over to
measure. Instead, I spent the next hour using my flat-head screwdriver to shave away the wood,
shaping the surface into a beveled square. I had the door held open, and the stagnant air of the
old house, mixed with the muggy air from outside, eventually dampened my clothes and hair with
perspiration. As I was hunched over my toolbox in search of a level, miserable in the sort of way
that only unappreciated, sweat-inducing labor for no reward can make you feel, Bella's voice
startled me. "I have some lemonade."

I declined with a flinch, "No thanks," and was anticipating the relief that would come after she
made like a tree.

But she wedged herself between me and the door and crossed her arms over her chest. "This is
unfair," she said, and because I was still crouched over my toolbox and she was rigid and pissed
off, I had to peer upward to see her scowl.

"Unfair?" I could have impaled the doorframe with the screwdriver.

"However it is you're acting," she clarified. "I don't deserve it. I can't control my feelings, Edward."
And then, for the briefest second, she dropped her eyes to the floor.

I couldn't tell if she was looking for reassurance that she hadn't completely crushed me days prior
or if she was looking for an easy confrontation, but I had no plans of giving her either. "I'm not
acting like anything," I lied. "And I told you to forget about that." In a perfect world, I could have
erased that entire day. But it wasn't a perfect world, it was a shitty world, and all I'd asked for was
a little fucking avoidance.

Of course, Bella had no plans of giving that to me. "No, actually—you know what? This new
attitude of yours is great. It makes it easier," she said, finally stepping away. The softness of
sympathy that I'd seen in her eyes when I'd first arrived was all but gone now, replaced with the
same cold stare she'd given me for so long.

I asked, "The fuck is that supposed to mean?"

But she was already giving me what I wanted, and the sounds of her retreat were loud and
clamorous. When she answered, her voice spanned the distance of the kitchen and living room,
bringing with it a soft detachment. "It means that you almost had the wool pulled over my eyes, but
I get it."

She was looking for a confrontation, and I still refused to give it to her. Instead, I shoved the new
knob into the door. I tightened every screw in such a way that the splintered wood around them
raised and split, and then I began the task of hurling each tool and spare piece of hardware into
my toolbox as loudly as possible.

If I'd just left out the back door, I probably could have avoided the sight of her at the kitchen table,
nostrils flared, skin flushed, tap-tap-tapping her oh-so-special pen against the tabletop. But I didn't.
Because I'm a fucking masochist, and because I wanted to know, "What, exactly, is it that you
get?"

She wasn't one bit surprised that I'd fed right into her plan to start a shit-storm, despite all my
evasion. She just supplied a stiff lift of a shoulder. "That whole 'friend' act for the sake of crossing
me off a list, or getting in my pants, or—hell, I don't know, maybe both. I almost bought it." And
then she rolled her eyes, and—goddamn derisive is what it was.

I exploded.

"Congratulations, Bella! You figured me out! Which was real cunning, considering my brilliant
scam. Break my fucking neck for two months, for nothing but the gift of your kindness. At least
Mike Newton usually signs my paycheck after he reminds me I'm a useless sack of shit." The
volume of my voice registered to me a moment too late, because Bella had already shot out of her
chair, knocking it to the ground.

Her voice was low and utterly calm—a complete contrast to the expression she wore. "That's the
last time you'll ever raise your voice to me in anger, especially in my own home."

Frustration. Because my anger had some fucking merit, and I couldn't even show it. I couldn't
show it because I had this… history, and I was stuck with it. Forever. And I'd always have people
like Bella and Alice and Newton to remind me of it the second I reached for something I wanted.

My anger faded, exposing a primal ache that seized my chest. The kind of ache a kid feels when
spending their last dollar on an ice cream cone, only to accidentally send it tumbling to the ground.
Like I could have had something really good, but I ruined my only chance, and now I had to watch
it melt into the dirt.

Every day.

I suddenly decided, "I can't do this anymore." I think I hadn't known just how exhausted the
thought of earning her forgiveness made me. Now, it made my bones feel like iron, my skin feel
like granite. I was dragging too much weight and only just now realizing it. I admitted, "I just—I just
wanted to help you out, and yeah, it was about forgiveness at first, but then… then I wanted to do
it because you're a good person, and you deserve to have someone who'll do these things for you,
but—"

She lowered her gaze to the table when her stance withered, and I think she believed me, but I
knew it didn't make a damn bit of difference.

It was important to me that she understand, "I want to be your friend, and when we're close, and
it's good, it's… amazing. But I can't feel this..." Struggling to find the words, I pushed a palm to my
chest, "…this way you make me feel when you say shit like that—when you think the worst of me.
Friends don't do that, Bella."

Eyes still glued to a random stack of files on the tabletop, she remained silent. It was probably
better that way.

I added, "I'm sorry you think I've had some kind of hidden agenda—and for raising my voice—and
for not finishing—and for—" With a deep breath, I concluded, "Well, I'm just sorry, period."
I laid the keys to the new locks on the table before I left, and if I didn't know better—if I didn't know
that cold and resentful stare of hers like the back of my hand—I could have sworn I heard a sniffle
as the door closed.

I wish I could say the next month of not seeing her made life easier for me, but it didn't, because I
had this habit beyond Bella Swan of surrounding myself with people who hated me.

I drove to go see Alice, because I could pick my friends, but I couldn't pick my family. My mom's
once bright, laughter-filled Sunday dinners were replaced with two empty seats and soft, "Please
pass the gravy's." Since I no longer had any right to beg Bella's forgiveness, I pledged to put the
effort toward mending fences between Alice and Jasper.

Not surprisingly, the door to Alice's studio apartment remained closed as I pounded endlessly.
After so long, someone was sent to ask me to leave, and I did so with a resurgence of the anger
I'd left in Bella's kitchen.

This situation was getting ridiculous.

That night, I all but strong-armed Jasper into coming to Sunday dinner. By "strong-armed" I mean
detailing the taste of mom's roast beef and the devastated expression she'd be wearing when I
informed her he'd declined a formal invitation.

I just had to regain some of the normalcy I'd destroyed the night they'd split up. Jasper was pliable
in some ways, in his depression and pessimism. But Alice was never pliable. She was the kind of
person who held grudges, the kind of person who'd eaten at the Forks Diner for ten years, but
hadn't stepped foot in the place ever since the cook got her Philly Cheese Steak order wrong. She
was a brick wall. Jasper was a thin sheet.

They were perfect for each other.

I was in the backyard filling the bird feeders when he arrived. The sun was setting and I was
dangerously close to telling my mom where to shove her birdbath. Every minute of every day, I
was someone's bitch, in one way or another. The frustration it caused merged with other
frustrations—Bella-related frustrations—and festered inside of me, made my tongue sharp and my
actions stilted.

"Gotya doin' all the manly chores, I see," Jasper greeted, standing below our largest oak, staring
at nothing in particular. He still had a residual tension in his shoulders that meeting my parents
had likely created.

I grumbled a response. "She guilt-tripped you into coming to dinner without even having to open
her mouth. Imagine that but every day."

He mused, "Don't seem to work much on Alice," and pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket.

I flung the bag of bird feed aside and propped myself against the trunk of the tree. "Alice is
immune, like… a guilt-trip-Jedi or something. Knows what to avoid." Which was, easily enough,
any and all contact.

Jasper nodded. "Sorry she's ignoring y'all." The smell of his cigarette smoke reminded me of Bella,
which put me on edge in the strangest way.

"Yeah, you should be. This whole thing you're doing is dumb as shit."

He shrugged.
I asked, "You know what really burns my ass the most, though?"

Cigarette filter pinched between his lips, he squinted and lowered a palm. "A flame about yay-
high?"

I continued, "Here I'm crazy about someone who hates me—really, genuinely could never want
me like I want her. Alice actually wants you." In fact, it didn't just burn my ass. It really pissed me
off. Everything everyone did anymore pissed me off.

He just said, "Thinks she does."

"Rejection isn't the end of the world," I insisted. "I'm still here. I'm still sober." A little fucking
wounded, but that's neither here nor there.

Now, Jasper curled a lip, which was about as much anger as I'd ever seen him show. It started
that crackle of tension one would feel right before some shit went down. "Fuck you, Edward. You
don't love that girl, and there's the proof right there. You just love the possibility of bein' good
enough to beat your bad enough. Traded one fixation for another s'what I think."

"I never claimed to love her, and no one asked what you thought."

His hum was skeptical—mocking. "Mhm."

"Christ, sometimes…" I curled a fist and tried to rein in this creeping, consuming anger that had
been plaguing me. "Sometimes I just wanna fucking hit something."

Jasper, whose shoulders had regained the tension he'd only just lost, responded, "You can hit me
if you wanna."

I snorted.

"No, really," he persisted, back straight. He took a pull from his cigarette and taunted, "Didn't seem
to mind taking a shot when I was fuckin' your lil sis. And I was fuckin' her, Ed. All the time." He
laughed. "We could go for hours and hours. Remember that 'trip' she took last year? The only trip
she took was the one to my bedroom. Fucked that girl for three days straight. The kinda fuckin'
that leaves a girl bow-legged, know what I mean? She could barely walk after I—"

The crack to his jaw was distressingly satisfying. His head snapped back, and then forward, and
all of his hair was in his face, and all I could think was… Damn, that felt good.

Sick fucker he was pushed a laugh through his nose. "Nice hook," he said.

I was still somewhat bracing for a real fight, but I knew better, so I simply flexed my fist and said, "I
used to be good at this. You know, before I started filling bird feeders and driving a Volvo." I had
been bottling it up for too long—separating sides of myself in an attempt to find a balance that
didn't suit me one bit.

His response to this seemed to come at random while he was emptying his pockets. "Alice came
into that coffee shop today." His car keys hit the dirt with a smack.

"Really?" I followed when he removed his watch, stretching our necks and rolling our shoulders.

He nodded and took one last pull from his cigarette before flicking it away. "She was with
someone else."

Arms up, feet crossing in bounces, we were circling one another, since, evidently, we both wanted
to beat the shit out of something, and if shady people like us were good at anything, it was having
the shit beat of them during impromptu boxing matches.

I unloaded, "That Newton motherfucker took my last paycheck. He's taking the next one, too." I
was hyped and ready to go, but asked, "We really gonna do this? No gloves?" Not that I really
cared. This was real, but not serious. We both got that.

Jasper was lighter on his feet than me and ended up throwing a blinding, straight right to my nose,
jesting, "Unless that Volvo's given ya a pussy to go with that hair."

Even though I was cradling my nose and there was probably blood, I laughed, and I kinda got him.
I kinda understood that look in his eyes when I cracked my fist against his cheek. Like there was a
comfortable sort of symmetry to having your outside match your inside. Like the bruises and blood
were nothing new—you could just see them now, touch them and prod the tender spaces
between.

Then, later, we could actually watch these heal.

"He was her age—younger than me," Jasper hissed, holding his cheek. "Had on a fuckin' polo
shirt, like a little bitch boy." His fist caught the side of my jaw, snapping my head to the side.

"Fuck!" I spat, shaking it off before supplying, "Yeah, my sister's been known to run with little bitch
boys." His eyes flickered before I landed a punch that made him stumble back. By now, my voice
was thin, strained as I battled the pain in my knuckles. "I raised my voice to Bella," I confessed.

And I'd been feeling guilty, because she was right, and I was being a total prick about something
she had no control over—something that even I couldn't even blame her for. Of course she
couldn't want me like that. It was just like how Mike had pointed the finger at me. I shouldn't have
expected anything more or less.

Falling back into his stance, he winced, asking. "In anger?" and at my nod, sniffed. "S'fucked up."
Uppercut to my jaw. Again. Fucking dirty bastard. "Your sister? She'd invite that bitch boy home to
meet your parents, and they'd like him. They'd like him and his bitch-boy-loafers."

I laughed at that. This was better than just hitting something. "I'm three hundred dollars in debt
with Carl's hardware store." I went below the neck this time, barreling my fist into his stomach,
which hurt my knuckles less, but drew the breath from his lungs in a wheeze.

Jasper was a brawler, but I was faster than him and gave as good as I got. There was no
wrestling. No grappling. No rules, because we didn't need any. Just two dudes throwing fists and
taking it. I don't know how long we boxed like this, but by the time my poor mom caught an eyeful
of our sparring, we were both bloody and panting, and our laps around the invisible ring had
transformed to lazy, exhausted limps.

"What on baby Jesus's green earth is going on out here?" she asked, stomping out the sliding
glass door with a scowl directed at, not shockingly, me.

Jasper just braced his palms on his knees and sent her a smile, assuring, "Oh, we're finer than
frog hair, Mrs. Cullen. No worries."

She sure looked worried, so we shook hands in an exaggerated way before we went inside to get
cleaned up for dinner, and I guess the disturbing, yet amicable sound of our laughter as we
inventoried injuries was enough to keep any major concern at bay.

Dad didn't even need to ask. "Women, huh?" he commented as we all took our seats at the table,
Jasper and I sorer than shit, but hungry enough to make piling food on our plates our foremost
priority.

"I don't like it," Mom said, voice stern. "No more of that. Not in my house, you hear?"

But before we could act appropriately apologetic, the front door opened, and everyone froze. If the
fact that only one other person in this world would have come into this house without knocking
wasn't enough to tip us off as to who it was, then the clicking sound of her high heels sure as hell
was.

All the tension Jasper had just expelled returned with a vengeance, raising his shoulders and
widening the one eye that wasn't swollen all to hell. He looked cornered.

But then Alice, without any flourish at all, was standing in the dining room, staring straight at him,
just as shocked as everyone else. Dad was cringing, and Mom was one embroidered-pillow-
saying from having an emotional moment, so I took the reins and cleared my throat, promising,
"The violence was consensual this time."

She didn't even look at me—didn't even speak. She just walked to her chair, sat down, and started
filling her plate, like this was any other Sunday and she hadn't been avoiding us for the last two
months.

Jasper offered, "Maybe I should…" and made to stand, but my dad just placed a hand on his arm
and shook his head.

As far as awkward dinners went, this one took the cake. It was pretty much just forty minutes of
total silence. Whenever someone would try to break it, their words would linger in the air and
trigger even more discomfort.

But there was something else. Even though Jasper kept offering to leave, and Alice barely spoke
three words the entire meal, I could see the looks they kept giving one another when the other
wasn't looking. Not to mention the fact that Alice never once looked at or spoke to any of the rest
of us. In the moments her eyes would flicker up from her plate, she only had eyes for Jasper and
his toilet-paper-plugged nostrils.

Only one thing made this Sunday dinner different from the others she'd missed, and only one out
of four people at this table would have tipped Alice off to Jasper coming.

As we were clearing plates, my suspicions were confirmed. "At least she has a car," Mom said out
of nowhere, just low and far enough from the others that only I could hear. I was achy and tired
and confused, and not in the mood for riddles. At my expression, she hefted a stack of plates to
her chest and sharply elaborated, "Wouldn't it be just so unfortunate if something happened to her
car, and Jasper had to take her home?"

Many things were obvious to me then. Firstly, it'd take nothing more than ten minutes in a room
alone to break these two—I mean they were practically buzzing with it. Secondly, even an idiot like
me could see how much they belonged together. Lastly, my bible-thumping, Volvo-owning,
embroidered-pillow-loving mother was conniving, and I'm pretty sure I inherited it from
her—because I found myself outside, breaking into Alice's car, popping her hood, and stealing
three of her spark plugs. I don't know how shit went down. I was too "tired" to stay up and offer her
a ride myself, much like my parents.

Unfortunate, indeed.

Unsurprisingly, I had a lot of trouble getting a hold of Jasper after that night. I didn't even bother
with Alice. I figured, like my mom told me the morning following with the most innocent of
expressions, "These things have a way of working themselves out."

With the summer came a barrage of thunderstorms and an influx of business at Newton's
Outfitters. Without the task of… pretty much… trying to get my sister laid, I was at a loss regarding
what to do with my free time. So I took on extra hours, even though I wasn't getting paid one
fucking dime for them.

I missed Bella.

I almost went to her house once, armed with some fake excuse of seeing how the yard had held
up in the bad weather. I ended up parking across the street because her car wasn't there, and just
my luck, the yard looked fine.

I don't know why she'd ever come to a sporting goods store, but when I was at work, I'd stare at
the doors and will her to walk through them. I didn't need much. If she just snarked me up and
shot me down, I'd probably grin like a fucking moron.

Maybe I didn't love her, but it was apparent that I could have, in a different life. A life where I had a
chance and our every moment wasn't tainted with my past fuck-ups. Maybe, in that life, she could
have loved me, too. I liked to think so, and I liked to think about that different life a lot.

It wasn't until later that week that I finally saw her, through no fault of my own.

I was on my way home and driving behind Mike, since I'd closed the store with him, and we both
lived on the same side of town. I was wondering if anyone had ever taught Mike about the five-
mile-per-hour grace limit when we saw her. My reaction made me worry that maybe Jasper hadn't
been so far off about my trading fixations, because just like it did when I passed ABC Liquor every
day, my foot hovered over the brake pedal.

Only this time, I pressed down.

She was on the side of the road with a phone to her ear, standing next to a truck old enough to be
a classic, but shitty enough to be worth exactly nothing.

Mike, ever the gentleman, pulled over to offer assistance, and I could have kept on
driving—probably should have kept on driving—but she had this look on her face, like she'd been
having an exceptionally crappy day. Or maybe I was just playing it up because I needed an
excuse to hear her inevitable mouthing off to Mike once I heard the way he greeted her.

"If it isn't Damsel Swan." His smile was genuine and toothy as he closed the door to his sedan,
striding up to her, clueless as ever.

Her hair was all frizzed from the light sprinkle that was falling, which just made the flash of her
eyes appear feral and beautiful. "I'm just going by Bella now, thanks."

I exited my car, but kept my mouth shut, content to give Mike just enough rope to hang himself.

Mike continued, "Blast from the past, eh? Almost like old times. If Cullen here got a wild hair up his
ass to lock you in his trunk, it'd be déjà vu." He poked me in the side with his elbow, and it was
meant to be funny.

Nobody laughed.

When Bella's eyes found mine, they widened. "The hell happened to your face?"
Having forgotten about my black eye and swollen nose, I quickly dismissed, "Nothing," but was
suddenly self conscious enough to catch a glance at my reflection in her driver's side window.
"This new?" I asked, gesturing to the truck.

Completely ignoring Mike, she turned to me and explained, "I had to give the rental back
yesterday, so I bought the Chevy this morning. It sat for a long time. Rotted the tires." She didn't
seem especially upset over the flat. Just inconvenienced.

Mike piped in, "Wow, how much did you pay for this pile?" and rounded the truck, kicking the tires
with all sorts of disapproval in his frown.

"I got a good enough deal," was her sharp reply.

His laughter had a condescending ring to it. I knew it well enough. "I don't know about that," he
said, facing her with the eyes of a man who'd just watched a woman get swindled by a car
salesman into buying a lemon. "Gotta jack?"

By now, Bella's lips were pressed into such a tight line that I could practically feel the restraint she
used to answer as kindly as possible, "Yeah, I was about to change it. Myself." Her words were, to
me, unchallengeable in such a way that had me producing my car keys.

To Mike, not so much. "Aw, come on, now. You know I can't let you do that." His smile was all
lopsided—kind, yet… flirtatious.

Bella's magenta cheeks expanded with a puff of air. "Can't let me?"

This was definitely worth it.

"Leave a nice girl on the side of the road in the rain to change a tire? I was raised better than that."

She was about two seconds from taking off her jewelry and smacking him down when I called,
"Mike," and beckoned him to the front of my car. "Let her change the tire," I advised.

His head snapped back on his neck, expression flickering between offense and incredulity. "Did
you not just hear me? I was raised better than that."

Choosing to overlook the fact that he'd basically just insulted my mother, I persisted, "She can
change the tire herself. She wants to." She was already rifling through the cab of her truck,
preparing to do just that.

"That is Bella Swan." Mike pointed to where her ass protruded from the truck cab.

This guy was really asking for it.. "And?"

He sent me a wrinkled, disgusted look. "Poor girl just lost her dad, man. Give her a break."

"She's not a damsel. If she says she can do it herself, she can. If she says she wants to do it
herself, then trust me, she wants to do it herself." I liked how that made me feel. I like that I knew
her better than Mike, despite how low he thought of me.

The fucker actually had the nerve to straighten his back in an attempt to stand taller than me—to
step to me. "This front she's putting on… it's what she does. 'I'm fine, I can take care of myself.'
Next thing ya know, she's being stuffed into a locker by the same guy she made goo-goo eyes at
all year, and I'm the one crushing my fingers to clean up your mess." I could have knocked his
teeth out—would have if his words hadn't rendered me frozen and puzzled. He concluded, "Some
people are just too proud to ask for help."
"Goo-goo eyes?" I had no logical reason to believe whatever skewed version of high school Mike
remembered. Maybe it was wishful thinking on my part, or maybe it was just the sick sense of
irony the idea of it created. But I did believe him, and it fucking horrified me.

His snort was triumphant, in a bitter sort of way. "See my point?"

Through the sounds of him approaching her truck and removing his jacket, I was pretty much
stupefied. It wasn't until I could hear the reoccurrence of their bickering that I finally snapped out of
it long enough to decide that enough was enough.

Loudly, I pondered, "How long you 'spose it'll take you to change that flat, Mike?"

He was knelt in front of the deflated tire, eyeing the jack and lug wrench cradled possessively in
Bella's arms. "'Bout fifteen minutes."

I sidled up to where she stood, all tense and pissed off at someone else for a change, and
challenged. "I bet you money she can change it in ten."

Bella's curt response was unexpected. "Five."

"Five," I agreed, nodding appreciatively.

Mike laughed, and I'm sure he thought he was just playing along when he asked, "How much
money?"

I grinned. "Five hundred, twenty three dollars, and seventeen cents."

Bella cut me a curious, sideways glance, wondering, "Pretty particular amount."

"I already earned every cent of it," I promised.

His eyes darted back and forth from mine to hers, bewildered. "You're serious?" His face held no
small amount of shock.

We shared a glance before nodding.

Maybe Mike was finally beginning to realize how stubborn Bella really was, or, more likely, he'd
been fostering a gambling addiction ever since he'd spent a college weekend in Kentucky. Either
way, he agreed, "Fine, you're on. Not even a pro could change this thing in five minutes." I wasn't
nervous about it. In fact, I already felt the weightless relief that came with knowing my debt to Carl
would be paid.

Watching her set to work as Mike and I rested against the hood of my car was familiar and
comfortable. She rolled the sleeves of her shirt to her elbows, twisted her hair into a tight bun,
secured it with her pen, and turned to us, ready.

"Go," I timed.

She was really nothing like she was in high school. Age had granted her the gift of grace, making it
possible for her to heft the spare tire from the back of the truck, and roll it with ease to the front.
Time had also granted her the gift of craftiness, which was evident when she planted her boot to
the lug wrench and used all of her weight to loosen the bolts. But the most significant lesson she'd
probably learned with time, was the one that made all the difference.

She knew where to place the jack and she knew how to use it, because anyone who knew Bella at
all knew that she'd never buy a truck with such clearly defective tires without inquiring about these
things first.

Time and experience had given Bella a wise kind of cynicism.

She'd probably expected those tires to go flat the second she paid for it—had probably drilled the
seller on how to change them—had probably made certain every tool required was included in the
deal—had probably worn that flannel button-down in anticipation of changing them in the rain. And
she'd probably haggled that sorry motherfucker down a few hundred because of it.

She finished with a satisfied nod, needlessly tightening the last nut before turning to face us, dirty
and wet and smug and perfect.

I exclaimed in mock awe, "Well, look at that! Damsel Swan didn't need your help, after all." With
much more self-satisfaction than entirely necessary, I said to Mike,"I guess people can change."

Mike was floored. "What, did you take a class or something?"

She dusted her hands on her thighs before lowering the jack, replying in all seriousness, "Yes,
that's exactly it, Michael. I took a class on how to change a tire—you know, because I have this
annoying disadvantage of owning a vagina. Really holds me back."

Before Mike could manage to accidentally insult her once again, I cleared my throat, palm out.
"Four minutes and fifty two seconds. Pay up."

Disgruntled, he wrote me a check, and I couldn't contain my smirk as Bella stood by and watched
him sign his name to it. Before allowing me to take it, he warned, "Next time money goes missing
from my store, I won't be taking it out of your paycheck. I'll be calling the cops."

He drove away in a spray of mud and frustration, and left us standing there in the drizzle, awkward
and mute

Bella broke the silence by guessing, "He held your paychecks because he thought you took
money from the store." When I turned to face her, she had her arms bunched around her chest,
and her chin ducked.

In a desperate way, I swore, "I didn't take it." Mike could think whatever he wanted, but I couldn't
bear the thought of Bella believing him.

Her response was matter of fact. "I know." She finally raised her eyes to mine then, and if I didn't
think it'd just make shit worse, I would have hugged her breathless.

Faith.

She believed me, without even needing to ask. A line in the sand, and her on my side of it. It'd
been so long since I'd had someone take my side without familial obligation that it sort of took my
breath away.

All I could say was, "Thank you," and turn my head, wait for the tightness in my chest to dissipate.
I cleared my throat into my fist, asking, "So… new truck?"

She nodded, spinning to face it in all its dysfunctional glory. "Yeah, it's no fancy rental, but… it was
cheap and it has character, don't you think?" She spread her arms into a welcoming gesture, and
the sight of her wide, almost childlike grin signaled my own.

I agreed, "A very rusted, barely dependable character, but character nonetheless. Really brings a
whole new meaning to I Can't Drive Fifty-Five."
She pish'ed. "It has a lot of leg space and a working air conditioner."

I decided, "I like it," because, for one, it made her smile, and for another, I could understand the
way she looked at it—like it was independence and something to call her own. "Got a good deal,
huh?"

She perched herself on the tailgate and excitedly informed, "Talked him down to fifty dollars and a
macaroni casserole."

It felt good to laugh again. "Shit, Bella, I'd give you the Volvo for some macaroni casserole." I
spent a moment admiring the body of the truck until I was satisfied that it was solid and durable.

She lifted a shoulder, replying, "Isn't worth a whole Volvo or anything, but… maybe—" She
paused, but didn't turn to face me as she concluded—"Maybe I'd settle out of court for a game of
Scrabble."

I took a moment to observe her, hands grasping the tailgate at her thighs, legs swinging idly. I
wanted to ask her why she even wanted to spend time with me anymore, what it was she wanted
from me, why she said those things, and why she could believe me when it came to Mike's
accusations, but not her own.

She answered without even needing to hear me ask, "You're the only friend I have here, and you
were acting so different after…" A hand waved wildly in the air before she explained, "I panicked,
but I didn't really believe any of that stuff." She turned her head just enough to catch my gaze, and
I could see the remorse they held.

With a sigh, I confessed, "I shouldn't have made it weird." It'd never been my intention. I'd thought
I could handle rejection, thought I could face her afterward without feeling the anger it created
within me. But that anger had reached the surface now, coloring it with tender bruises and split
skin, swollen knuckles and aching muscles.

It'd already begun to heal.

I sighed. "Game of Scrabble, huh?"

Her answering smile was wide and cheesy with expectation.

I eventually agreed, "You're just hell-bent on taking all my dignity, aren't you?"

"Absolutely."

I then asked, "Mind if I get this?" and gestured to the flat tire. Because unlike Mike, I knew to ask
Bella if she wanted help, not to insist that she needed help.

After I'd lifted the tire into the truck bed, she closed the gate and asked, "Wanna take a ride in my
new truck?" She was so excited over this piece of junk that she was bouncing as she traveled to
the driver's side, which she had to practically climb a ladder to get into.

As if I could have said no when just twenty minutes with her had made my whole day better. I
didn't know how she did that—how she could turn my lowest lows into my highest highs, with no
more effort than it took for her to just… exist.

I'd been right about one thing.

When it was good, it was amazing.

A/N: Epic love to PastichePen, who beta'd, ERA and TK for doing the feedback thing, and you, for
still being here, even though I suck at update consistency and review replies.

Your comments have meant the world to me. I promise to try to get the next chapter out sooner.
I've already started on it. You can bug me about it on my Twitter, if you wanna. I don't mind one
bit. XD

If you want recs… Pastiche wrote this uhmazing NM AU oneshot called Motorcycles if you're
looking for something downright angsty and beautiful. You can find it under my favorite fics on my
profile here. Also, And with Thee Fade Away. (As if everyone hasn't already read it). For All
Human, The Sound of Your Voice. For Slash, Uncomfortable.

Miss you guys. [heart]

A/N: Twilight and its characters belong to Stephenie Meyer. I don't own anything. Not even
Boozeward. He belongs to the fab ladies at (the artists formerly known as) WArehab and they can
do whatever they want with him (except allow him anywhere near water or feed him after
midnight). Thanks so much for all your kind words and encouragement!

This chap is dedicated to the marvelous TKMOONNUMBERS as it is her birthday today (actually,
it ended thirteen minutes ago, but lettuce pretend I posted on time and didn't have to deal with a
tornado outbreak today, kk?). I love ya.

I don't know what it was about summer I loved so much. Maybe it was the sun, the smell of fresh-
cut grass, or the fizz of sprinklers or laughs of children playing. Maybe it was that first month,
before the frustration of sweat and smelliness had gotten to me, before I had a chance to tire of
sweltering cars or wish for the refreshing breeze of autumn—or maybe it was being able to finally
access the biggest portion of my Florida wardrobe: summer clothes.

I had boxes upon boxes of summer clothes that I hadn't been able to so much as peek at until my
week off. I'd spent that entire week washing whole bundles of halters and tanks, and shorts and
dresses. I hung them up one at a time, satisfied with how full my closet and dresser looked once I
was finished. Unpacking the clothing, however, had also brought to light my many other unpacked
boxes.

This was why I stood in that cluttered corner of the living room, staring at them as I gnawed my
nails. I didn't know what to do with most of my stuff—I didn't see it fitting into this house and
blending in with any comfortable measure.

The first non-clothing related box I'd decided to wade through held inconsequential things—knick
knacks and prints and coasters and all the small items that served little purpose, but made the
bigger items fit.

I considered my favorite pair of bookends and inspected each wall in an effort to feel out where
they might fit in best. But the first wall proudly displayed Charlie's many Sherriff's Office
accreditations, and the second was home to one fake talking bass—a battery-operated fish that
sang something-or-another—and there was no way I could put the bookends on either.

I supposed I could use them in my own bedroom, but… no one would ever see them, and what's
the point in that?

I pulled my cell phone from my pocket and dialed, warily eyeing the tower of unpacked boxes as
the rings sounded in my ear.
"You're calling me," Edward answered, unnecessarily. "On the phone."

I rolled my eyes. "I asked for your number, Edward. What did you think, I planned to bronze it?"

He sounded about as surprised as he had the night I'd asked for it, following our reunion Scrabble
game. But that's what friends did, right? They could call at noon on a Thursday for no reason
whatsoever, just to ask what the other was up to.

I'd longed for that—the feeling of friendship—the entire month Edward had exiled himself from my
life, because I'd been lonely—again. I'd even tried to strike up a closeness with some of my
coworkers, only to find they didn't ignite that spark of interest, bursts of laughter, or unexpected
comfort that I'd felt with Edward.

Our easy friendship no longer bothered me, in the same way in which that mole on my shoulder no
longer bothered me. There was no use in fussing over it, or questioning it, or dwelling on the fact
that it was out of place. It just was.

As I rifled through the foremost box, his surprise transformed to suspicion. "Did something break?"

My forehead wrinkled in confusion. "No. I was just calling to ask what the chances were you'd
need a set of gargoyle bookends." With a triumphant smile, I pulled one of the heavy statuettes
from the box.

Lester and Howard would have a good home with Edward.

Edward didn't seem particularly enthused. "Come again?"

"Bookends, with gargoyles," I repeated. "They go on the ends of book? Hold 'em upright? Ring
any bells? They're less gothic-y pretentious than they sound."

"Why are you trying to give me bookends?"

Frowning at the tower of boxes, I elaborated, "I have all this… stuff from Jacksonville that I have to
unpack eventually, and… I don't know what to do with it."

"So, you used the bookends in Jacksonville?"

"Yeah." Lester and Howard once guarded my set of gothic romances, which seemed apropos.

He hummed in thought. "But… you can't use them now?"

I quirked a wry smile. "I dunno how good they'd look next to Charlie's mounted talking bass."

"So take the bass down."

The thought of taking it down made my chest clench in a physical, painful way.

Edward's sigh into the phone was loud and knowing. "Bella, it's your home now."

My voice was small, uncertain. "I know."

"You should make it yours. Paint the walls, move the furniture, put up some fucking gargoyles for
Christ's sake." There was a smile in his voice that sounded more sad than amused.

"It doesn't feel right," I confessed, inspecting all the little facets about the space that made it
Charlie's. "I know, it's stupid, but I can't help it." It was too soon. Maybe it'd always be too soon.
Edward began, "It's not stupid, you just…," but then paused and seemed to be moving about. His
voice adopted a softer tone when he continued, "You just need to start small, you know? Little
things, each day, and then one morning you'll wake up, and it'll feel more like you and less like
him, and—I don't know, maybe that'll hurt like a bitch, but he'd want that. He'd wanna see that
house be more about the life he gave you and less about the life he lost."

I nodded, even though he couldn't see, because the tightness of sobs had captured my chest. I
struggled to contain the sound of them—to twist the phone away from my face and hide my
vulnerability. This had become frustratingly common. I never knew when it was going to
happen—when some random reminder of the permanence of his death would trigger this pit-deep
sensation of grief.

Edward must have known, because he stayed silent on the other end as my sobs slowly
dissipated to long, wet sniffles, but he didn't call attention to my weakness, and I was grateful.

When I could speak, I muttered, "You talk about him like you knew him," and pawed at a nearby
box of tissues.

"Not as well as I would have liked." Edward's voice was bordering on distressed, and I could
sense the urgency there—knew that he was about to ask me one of the five "grieving family
member" questions.

I offered a hasty, unconcerned sigh before he could. "Start small, huh?"

"Yeah. You know, something like… gargoyle bookends?"

I rolled my eyes. "I'm never gonna live this gargoyle thing down, am I?"

"Decidedly not."

I clutched Lester to my chest. "It was a phase."

"A gargoyle phase?" I could practically hear the quirk of his eyebrow.

"The mythology is fascinating. Gargoyles drive away evil with a façade of malice, when at their
core, their intentions are to only protect."

He hummed thoughtfully, as if considering this, but then supplied, "In any case, I'm not really one
to give advice in this area. My wallpaper is baseball-themed."

I laughed so hard that I snorted, slapping a palm to my mouth. I couldn't help but tease, "Do you
still have posters taped to the wall? No, wait. Lemme guess. Jamiroquai and models humping
Camaros."

His reply was less offended than I expected of a thirty year old man being called out for living with
his parents. "Actually, Rage Against the Machine and models humping Stingrays. I mean, come
on, Bella, give me some credit. I do have taste."

"So why don't you change it?"

"Because I'm not staying."

Now, that sounded just as offended as I'd expect. I grimaced. "Of course. I didn't mean anything
by it," and gently produced Howard from the box to join Lester.

Dismissive, Edward only asked, "What're you doin' today?"

"Laundry," I mused, adding, "Maybe… putting up some gargoyles? And, of course, feeling
miserable as a result of the two."

He supplied a small, "Hmm, misery," before offering, "Want some company?"

Forty minutes later, Edward was standing in my living room, hands shoved in his pockets,
inspecting Lester and Howard with a curious tilt of his head. He looked better than the last time I'd
seen him. He'd shaved, and the dark black eye bruise had faded to a greenish yellow. I still
wondered who was responsible for the state of his face, but whenever I'd asked, he'd just blown
me off.

"They're…" He gave Howard a poke. "…cute."

I balked. "They are not cute. They are menacing."

Edward swept his eyes to the side, meeting my own. "They're grinning."

"They're smirking—evilly."

"Cutely," he amended. "I bet you even have names for em, don't ya?"

"Do not." I lied.

But then his voice took on that same soft, yet distressed quality as he asked, "Hey, you okay?"
Even though his shoulder seemed to twist toward me, he kept a wide distance between us, which
was something I'd noticed from his previous visit. He was making a new practice of standing two
arm spans away. I wasn't sure how I felt about that yet—relieved or just… sad.

I was definitely sure, however, how I felt about his question. I sank into the sofa with a groan.
"Now you're asking the five 'grieving family member questions?'"

At his confused expression, I explained, "Are you okay? Is there anything I can do? You'll let me
know if there is? Do you need to talk? Are you sure you're okay?" I wrinkled my nose. "It all starts
to lose sincerity after so long–which… is wrong, I know." I finished with a sigh, "I just can't walk out
of the house without someone reminding me."

He took a seat in the chair at the farthest end of the room, eyes fixed to his shoes. "I think they're
just worried, you know? You hole yourself up in this house, never go anywhere, do anything fun."
His eyes scanned the room, brows pinched together. "The Chief was a good guy. I think—I know
—it's just their way of respecting him. You aren't the only one who lost him, you know."

He'd pinpointed my biggest problem. This town—all these people—they had been more of a family
to Charlie than I ever was. Whenever they'd show sympathy or pity—it made me feel undeserving
of their kindness. I didn't want anyone to worry about me.

"What do you do for some action in this town, anyway?" I asked, drawing my knees to my chest.
Edward just stared at me, unblinking, until I realized my error. I added, "Something that isn't
debauch."

He pushed a small laugh through his nose at this, replying, "There isn't anything in this town to do
for fun that isn't debauch—used to spend most of my time here thinking of other places to go…"
His eyes took on a distant, foggy quality that made me wonder if he weren't doing that right now.

"Where would you go?"

He shrugged. "Port Angeles. Seattle. La Push, if the weather was nice." His lips formed a small,
secretive grin. "Sometimes, when it wasn't."

I gleefully exclaimed, "La Push! There's a beach, right?" His nod was a little too humdrum, given
the obvious perfection of the idea. "Well, we both have the day off, and it's a great day! And look,"
I persisted, "I have, like… a whole box of beach stuff to unpack." I punctuated this by approaching
the tower of boxes and dragging one out that used to be labeled "Beach," but had "Trash"
scrawled over the top of it. Clearly, upon packing, I hadn't been too thrilled with the looming
grayness of Forks.

Scooting forward in his seat, he asked, "You wanna go to the beach?"

"Uhh… fuck, yeah." He'd be lucky if he could drag me off it at the end of the day. "I'll pack some
lunch and stuff. It'll be great!"

"Okay," he called, but I was already jogging up the staircase to my room, arms full of beach attire.

My bikini—all black and small, and totally perfect for a day out on a Florida beach that held the
promise of many a-strapping-young-men—was stepped into, tied securely, and adjusted without
much consideration—at first.

I'd had a lot of time to really dwell on the fact that Edward was interested in me in some romantic
fashion. If I were a bigger person, I would have simply lived in denial for the past month. But I
wasn't. On the inside, a little part of me was still that same freshman girl, daydreaming of grand
gestures, green eyes, toned forearms, and boxer waistbands exposed by too-low pants.

But then came the utter mortification those feelings created—mortification at being attracted to
someone intent on hurting me—and I would berate myself, feel awful for not admiring someone as
beautiful on the inside as they were on the outside. I'd never been a shallow person, but Ben
Cheney, who'd once shown a polite interest in me, had had chronic acne and a stutter, and I'd
declined his advances in high school, opting instead for lazy afternoons spent dreaming of
someone prettier and yet uglier.

Ben Cheney was certainly no Edward Cullen.

Edward Cullen, that boy responsible for those old fantasies, somehow wanted me now. Like that.
It was surreal to me in such a way that I didn't question my bikini until I stood before my mirror,
blushing. Would it be rude to wear this? Would Edward feel lead on? Would it seem as though I
was parading myself before him, half-naked, in some kind of tactless attempt at teasing him?

None of these things were true, but I was suddenly sensitive about every little thing, in conflicting
ways. For instance, as I spun around before my mirror, I did worry about the implications of my
bikini, but… I also worried about the state of my hips and thighs and God, I hoped that shadow on
the back of my butt wasn't cellulite. The lighting in here must just be terrible.

I quickly donned a cover-up and decided I was over-thinking it, since Edward surely expected me
to wear a bathing suit to the beach, and since surely, it made no difference to me whether or not
he found me attractive.

As it turns out, I had nothing to worry about, because once I descended the stairs, Edward
laughed at me.

"You're gonna stick out like the only tourist La Push has ever seen."

It was most practical for us to take his car, which was unfortunate. I didn't like Edward's Volvo. It
was small, and I wasn't familiar with the locks.
I always made it a point to get acquainted with child safeties and possible mechanism failures
before getting inside a vehicle. Nevertheless, it felt odd asking Edward about these things,
especially since he could likely pinpoint the cause, and I didn't want to spoil our fun day, so I
remained quiet as we took the back roads to his house, sweating and uncomfortable. I kept my
hand on the door latch, aching to pull just hard enough to hear the whoosh of accompanying air in
reassurance it would open.

In my teens—after I'd moved to Jacksonville from Forks—Renee had bought me a car. It'd been
this tiny blue sedan—something safe and suitable for any 'average' teenaged girl—but I hadn't
been able to even enter it. Nightmarish visions of getting trapped inside plagued me to the point of
insanity. She'd spent so much money on it, had been so determined to see me happy and
independent, that I'd eventually phoned Charlie and confessed how awful the situation had made
me feel.

Ten days after that teary phone conversation had taken place, I received my lucky pen in the mail.

Now, I clutched that pen inside my fist and took steadying breaths. Even though it could only get
me out of so much, my nerves ebbed knowing that I would definitely not get trapped in this car, on
this day. Definitely.

Probably.

When Edward finally pulled the car into his driveway, my hand acted of its own accord, pulling the
latch with a soothing click.

He offered me a concerned look as he removed his safety belt and asked, "Everything cool?"

I didn't answer him until I was out of the car, gulping air into my lungs. "Yep!"

Skeptical, he lingered around the car and asked, "Do you wanna come in, or…?" and I could see
him chewing on the inside of his cheek.

I admitted, "Not really," and felt a little embarrassed by my frankness until he emitted a relieved
sigh.

"Cool." He smiled, calling behind him, "Be right back."

I took this moment to whirl around to the car door, open it wide, and inspect the manufacturer's
text that resided on the innermost side of it. The child lock was disabled and didn't seem to have
ever experienced use, but I fiddled with it—just in case—to make sure it wouldn't somehow stick.

It was then that a voice startled me. "Afternoon, Isabella."

I gasped and turned to find Edward's father standing before the second car occupying the
driveway. I flushed, greeting, "Good afternoon, Dr. Cullen."

He was giving me a polite, but odd look as he lingered. "How are you?"

"Good," I answered with a bob of my head. "Working. Taking care of the house. You and Mrs.
Cullen?"

He supplied a similar bob of his head. Small talk. Ugh. "Working. Taking care of our children."

My smile at this was fake and polite, and because I hated being fake and polite, it occurred to me
that I should probably take this opportunity to broach, "I heard you were having some trouble at
the hospital. Sorry to hear about that." It hadn't felt right asking Edward to set up a meeting
between myself and his dad, given the weak foundation of our friendship, but now that he was just
standing here, talking to me in something like private, I figured it couldn't hurt.

Though he did seem rather confused. "Hm?"

"Dr. Aro and all," I elaborated.

Edward's dad shook his head. "No, no trouble. He's been an enormous help. I don't know where
we'd be without him."

Taken aback, I muttered a small, "Oh," and tried to hide my shock. I knew I hadn't misunderstood
Edward that day in my kitchen. His words were as clear to me now as they had been then. He
didn't make it sound like a mere petty difference of opinion, either. According to him, his dad had
been stressed out over some 'shady activity.' So why, then, was Dr. Cullen suddenly singing
Herbert Aro's praises?

Something felt off.

Dr. Cullen, in an obvious attempt to steer the subject elsewhere, remarked, "Going to the beach?"

I was still suspicious, but decided to humor him. After all, maybe he just didn't feel comfortable
discussing work issues with strangers. "Edward mentioned La Push, and I thought it was a nice
day to get out. He just needed to drop in to get some swim trunks."

Dr. Cullen straightened at this, smiling in a bright and infectious way. "Is that so?" he asked.
"Edward never goes out anymore. Actually, I've been a little worried about him." This was
punctuated with a small sigh. "He's still trying to wrap his head around the concept of having fun
without booze."

Edward's words from before about my never leaving the house or having fun seemed to apply to
him as well, which stirred even more guilt.

Dr. Cullen continued, "He needs a friend outside of this." He gestured at the house, and the
expression he wore—the pain that laced the wrinkles in his forehead—was familiar to me. It was
the same look Charlie adopted whenever I'd come home from school with bruises and no
weekend plans.

I ducked my chin, unsure what to say and assaulted with that same, pit-deep grief that any
memory of Charlie created.

Luckily, before the silence between us could grow awkward and upsetting, Edward exited the
house and came jogging toward us.

Dr. Cullen laughed, guessing, "Making a run for it, eh?"

Edward cautioned a peek over his shoulder toward the house, but only replied in an almost shy
murmur, "Mom, you know…"

His dad didn't press. "Be safe," was what he said before entering his car and backing out of the
driveway.

Dr. Cullen's words rang in my mind as Edward as I stood upon a cliff, thirty minutes later,
overlooking the water below. We were here because Edward had insisted that, "You can't just
walk into the water." Apparently, this meant we had to climb a cliff. Edward had some sort of La
Push ritual, one which required a complete disregard for self preservation.
"You have got to be kidding me."

Edward's expression seemed to mirror my own as he nudged a rock from the cliff and watched it
disappear. "Wow, this looks a lot higher up than the last time I came here."

I was highly skeptical. "You didn't seriously used to jump from here." It was the highest cliff that I
could see, and there were plenty of other, shorter, more practical cliffs to jump from.

His face was serious as he turned to me, assuring, "We used to jump from here all the time." He
then raked a hand through his hair, brows knitting together. "But I usually had some liquid
courage, and James egging me on, and the girls we brought always seemed impressed, so…" He
trailed off with a guilty shrug.

Of course, this made perfect sense to me, and I joked with a wry smile, "Did it at least get you
laid?"

Edward tossed me a toothy grin and an excited nod. "Oh yeah."

The last thing I wanted to hear about, for various, conflicting reasons, was Edward getting laid, so I
deadpanned, "Well, obviously, there's no way either of us are jumping from this thing. Next one
down?"

He agreed, but the next one down didn't seem much safer. Neither did the third. Or the fourth. By
the time we hit the fifth cliff, my feet were beginning to ache, and I was sweating my ass off.

Lucky for us, the drop at the fifth ledge wasn't so bad. "This looks safe," I assessed, slipping off
my sandals.

But Edward's mood had followed our drop in elevation, and his shoulders sank as he observed our
jumping point. "If James were here, he'd laugh at me," he said.

I clucked my tongue. "There's nothing wrong with being smart, Edward." When he didn't look really
convinced, I added, "Plus, think about your leg."

His eyes widened, palm smacking against his forehead as he exclaimed, "Yes! My leg." His lips
formed a smile as he lifted his shirt above his head, remarking, "That's a damn good point."

I followed suit, removing my cover-up and placing it neatly on the ground with my sandals. I folded
it just so, attentive and definitely not one bit interested in seeing Edward's bareness. Sadly, eyes
have this way of seeking out strictly avoided points, so the second I turned to him, all I saw was
skin skin skin. There was a lot of chest and a little bit of abs, because Edward didn't have that
totally ripped, bulky-type physique, but he was toned and all… sinewy. He was even sweating a
little bit, too.

I rolled my eyes as I tore them away, because duh. Edward had always been good-looking. That
was obvious, constant, and, quite frankly after so long, almost caricature-like. I'd just never been
granted such an unobstructed view of it.

But where I made a strong effort to hide my observations, Edward was openly sweeping his eyes
up and down my figure in a way that made my skin erupt a startled-red. I figured after he got a
good look, he'd just disregard me, because even though I was totally secure with myself
physically, I was also realistic and knew I was nothing special to the average guy.

Edward proved me wrong, however, when his eyes ascended my body and rested on my
breasts—and remained there for way longer than was appropriate, even with the five second
grace period I'd given him.

I battled the urge to cover my chest with my arms. "Hello," I called, snapping my fingers before his
face. "My eyes are up here, you know."

Without meeting my gaze, he answered with a nod, "They're nice, too." My fist met his shoulder
with a fleshy smack that barely caused him to sway, but served its purpose as he laughed and
finally raised his eyes to mine. "Oh, come on," he argued. "I saw you checking me out, too."

I groused under my breath, even though I was sure he'd hear, "But at least I was polite about it."

The water was calmer than I expected when I looked down over the edge of the cliff, and even
though we were on the lowest ledge in the area, it was still a pretty intimidating drop. I took a deep
breath to calm my nerves.

Edward sidled alongside me with an askew glance. "Like what you saw?"

I suppressed the temptation to push him off the cliff. "You're a very pretty man, Edward. Better to
look at than listen to, I assure you."

But then his voice dropped and his shoulders rose, and his expression turned serious, which
worried me, because we were definitely joking around just now. Right? "Hey, can I ask you a
question?"

My response was wary. "Depends."

"Mike said something the other day, and—" His gaze shifted to the water below us, but when his
mouth opened again, no sound emerged. Instead, he toed at a rock and sent it tumbling off the
edge, expression pensive. For an immeasurable moment, he remained like this, until he released
a chuckle and turned to me with a slanted grin. "If all your friends jumped off a cliff, would you?"

One second he was standing there beside me, and the next, he was gone.

I didn't wait to see him meet the water. I just followed his lead and… jumped. My fall from that cliff
would become one of those mighty moments that I'd look back on with a smile: no walls, no doors,
no locks, no ceiling or ground. Just me and the open air. I didn't scream.

I hit the water with a wonderful splash, which was warmer than I'd expected. My top was
practically torn from my chest, and it felt as though I sank for miles. I broke the surface with a
gasp, frantically adjusting my bikini while spinning in place to find Edward.

He was close enough that I could see the smile he wore, hand palming the water from his face,
but far enough to merit his shouted, "Fun?"

"Definitely!" But, God, I really hoped he hadn't seen my wardrobe malfunction.

He raised his arms high and yelled, "I give the nip-slip an eight-point-five!"

Dammit. "That's really insensitive, you know!"

He paused for a moment, waves pushing him up and down, before replying thoughtfully, "Would
you feel better if I admitted the distance made it kinda blurry?" He tilted a palm to and fro. "I bet it
was more nine-point-five-ish."

"Edward," I warned, ready to drown myself if this smile beneath the surface of my anger erupted.
He threw his head back with a booming laugh before assuring, "I'm just fuckin' with ya. I didn't see
a thing," Even though I was certain he probably had, I appreciated him pretending. Treading
toward me, grin still wide like the cat that ate the canary, he asked, "Wanna go again?"

I didn't keep count how many times we jumped from the cliff, but it was enough that my calves
eventually ached as a result of the admittedly tedious trek from the bank to the summit. Edward
probably could have kept going all afternoon. He'd even offered to give me a piggyback ride, at
which point I'd cunningly distracted him with the lunch I'd brought—because piggyback rides would
have been a little too weird, especially since Edward's two-arm-span rule was still in full effect, and
I wasn't necessarily missing his overly-touchy demeanor.

We settled on a large piece of driftwood, sandwiches in our laps, hair damp and unkempt, staring
out over the water. At least, Edward was staring out over the water. When I wasn't just staring off
into space, I was inspecting him through my periphery, pondering the many weird transitions we'd
taken, and contemplating the moment I found us in right now.

It was during one of these odd, appreciative seconds that I noted, "You're pretty cool." I didn't
really intend for it to sound so cheesy and third-grade-Valentine-card-ish. I felt the words as more
surprised than anything.

He lifted one corner of his lips, revealing more of his half-chewed sandwich than I really wanted to
see and replied, "Yeah? You're cool, too."

A million times in my adult life, I'd imagined meeting Edward again, and not one of them painted
him in this light: the sun on his face as he reclined back, propped on a palm, eyes fixed to the slice
of tomato he'd just pulled from his sandwich and tossed to the ground. He was relaxed and
comfortable and quiet in an infectious way and just… cool. He was a cool guy.

"When did that happen?" I wondered, more to myself than anything. It didn't fit the perfectly carved
niche I'd fit him into. I'd decided so many things, had crafted my understanding of the world and
the people in it, had pieced together my morals and feelings based around that niche.

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and added with a thoughtful stare at his food,
"Happened about a year ago, I guess."

Relieved that we could say these things without the annoyance of possible insult, I asked, "Was it
really just the addiction that made you like that?" I couldn't really grasp it, but then again, I'd
always been a pretty casual drinker.

He gave a serious and certain nod. "Of course it was the addiction. I never wanted to be that
person—the guy everyone avoided and thought the worst of. I just—" He wrapped up the
remained of his sandwich slowly, carefully. "After so long, it was where I belonged. It was where…
people who did the things I did belonged. It was fucking… convenient. Made sense, you know?"

I wanted to point out that little of that explanation had anything to do with an addiction to liquor. "I
have to admit," I said, "I don't really remember you being all boozed up in high school." A little
maybe, here and there, but I was reluctant to blame his actions on drunken stupidity.

He turned to me and replied, "Oh, it wasn't always drinking in high school. I liked to experiment.
Probably was just trying to find which drug I liked most or something."

I was brimming with curiosity as I straddled the driftwood and asked, "So on my first day when we
met, in the gym? It was after that pep-rally—I remember because I was thinking… I'm new here
and they expect me to pep? Do you remember?"
His eyes narrowed in focus for a moment, before his forehead creased in confusion. "I don't…
really remember a lot."

Having an impeccable memory myself, I explained, "You, James, and that Vickie girl were on the
bleachers right in front of me, and I spent the whole assembly—" I quickly edited the truth,
embarrassed that I'd spent most of that hour gazing at the little freckle on the nape of his neck.
"—trying to work up the nerve to actually talk to someone." Namely, him.

Edward smiled, eyes crinkled and distant. "I can imagine that."

"So," I continued, fighting back the inevitable shade of red I was about to turn, "When it was over
and everyone stood up, I tapped you on the shoulder."

His smile wilted.

I lost myself in the memory. "You turned to me, and…"

His eyes climbed my body, from my knees to my nose, and when his gaze met mine, he smiled.
When he spoke, he did so in a simple, matter of fact voice. "Fresh freshman meat."

My laughter was laced with anxiety at his choice of words. "Um, yeah? I'm B-b-bella." I wanted to
turn on my heel, grab my bag, and stalk away, cursing my mouth for choosing a really crappy time
to not cooperate. Instead, I flushed and couldn't suppress the crinkling of my nose.

Edward emitted a small laugh that puffed his cheeks, green eyes alight when he stated, "I'm
Edward. This here is James, and that bitch he's arguing with is Vickie." Edward tossed his head in
the direction of a bickering couple, though if I looked hard enough, I could see the sparkle at the
corner of her eyes—tears brimming as she clenched her teeth and turned her back to the blond
boy at her side. I couldn't make out was James was saying, but his expression was an odd mixture
of fury and total delight.

"You the cop's kid?" Edward asked, seeming more curious than anything.

I grimaced, pondering aloud, "Is that how I'm gonna be known?" It wasn't that I was ashamed of
my dad, but still… "That sucks."

Something flashed in his eyes—maybe sympathy or even something a little apologetic—but just
as soon as it appeared, it faded. "Hey, James." He nudged his friend, which sent the blond boy
whirling toward us.

James had a douchey sort of expression, and even though I hadn't really spoken to him yet, I had
a feeling I wouldn't like him.

"This is Bella," Edward introduced. "New freshman."

I really hated how he called attention to that, but was thankful he hadn't introduced me as "the
cop's kid," so I gave James a smile and said hello.

In the oddest way, the atmosphere between their group visibly shifted. Vickie turned to us, but only
gave me a quickly appraising girlfriend- glance before moving her stare to James. Edward seemed
to do the same. As James assessed me—those beady eyes narrowed and calculating—Edward
and Vickie were assessing him—almost as if they were awaiting his approval.

He didn't give it. "Yeah, I heard. B-b-bella," he mocked, scoffing sideways to Edward, "That's why I
hate these fuckin things. All these geek-tards always fuckin with us."
I gaped at James, firing back, "No one is fucking with you. Feel free to go screw yourself at any
moment." I knew he'd end up being a douche.

The split second of disappointment that was evident in Edward's fallen expression was quickly
replaced with a stony façade, but I was certain I'd seen it.

It didn't matter, of course. Pack mentality was like that.

His shift was immediate, like the snapping of a branch or the crack of a lightning bolt. His lips
pressed into a hard line, and his eyes, once a vibrant green and maybe even a little warm, were
now downright icy. "You fuck with me, you fuck with James." It was clear that this worked both
ways. By snarking at James, I'd lost any chance at being in Edward's good graces.

Now, I was disappointed. "I see," I offered in a clipped voice, doing my best to hide the heat of my
face and the lump in my throat.

This was not how I envisioned my first attempt at making friends unfolding.

He cast a short glance to James, and while they shared a pair of slow, jagged, and derisive
smiles, Edward stepped onto my bleacher, close enough that I could smell the scent of his fabric
softener. His eyes were hard then, paralyzing, and the sensation of alarm seized me in such a way
that his words simply collided with my cheek in a warm gust.

"How about, instead of talking like a geek-tard, you and me go into the dressing room, and you
can put that mouth to b-b-better use."

"I—what?" Edward bristled, face contorted into equal parts confusion and anger. "I never said
that," he insisted, though his voice held more of a plea than anything resembling conviction.

"You did," I replied with certainty. "I could never forget it. I—" I had disappeared to the dressing
room, but I'd done so alone, huddled into a shower stall, crying into my hands, and contemplating
from all angles how I could call Renee and admit that my living in Forks wasn't going to work out.

Of course, not before I'd stomped off—not before I'd told Edward just how his suggestion would
have turned out: with the loss of his most valued appendage, which had made him laugh
clamorously in my wake.

All events from that day on—the shoving and the insults and the name-calling and the mocking
and the bruises from the books that came from the locker that had ended it all—none of them had
destroyed me as much as that first day.

It'd taken me years to really understand why that was.

Edward broke the silence with a stricken murmur. "You know what that sounds like? That sounds
like something James would've said to…" His head hung in such a way that from this angle, his
elbows still resting on his knees, I could see that exact same freckle on the nape of his neck. He
concluded to his feet while running a hand through his hair, "I'm just... I'm sorry I was a fucking
moron like that."

I didn't really want another apology. I knew he was sorry now, but not surprisingly, it gave me no
sense of closure. "Were you on anything then?" I asked. He definitely hadn't been drunk. I'd
smelled him, had seen the clarity of his eyes.

He held his hands out, palms up, in a helpless gesture. "Probably?"

"Is that why you can't remember?"

His nostrils flared, just barely. "I don't know, Bella. Maybe."

I grimaced at his hard tone. "Don't get frustrated, I just thought it wouldn't hurt to ask."

His hands curled into fists, clenching and releasing as he took a cleansing breath and replied,
"You have a right to know. I wish I could just fucking… draw you a picture, but I can't, okay? I was
an asshole."

There was definite anxiety present in the bouncing of his knee, and if I searched his eyes hard
enough, I could see that little trace of panic he was hiding beneath layers of apology and regret. I
didn't get it. I didn't understand why he was so comfortable shouldering the guilt of his actions for
his alcoholism, making endless amends for them, and enduring daily degradation at the hands of
the entire town, but any discussion involving the basis for that behavior shook him like this.

Was it easier for him to bear that cross than to explore the cause for its existence?

It was a question that'd gone unspoken, since I merely turned my gaze to the water and allowed
the discomfort of silence envelope us. I felt badly for possibly ruining what was meant to be a nice
afternoon. But wasn't this what I'd always wanted, and—on some level—what Edward had been
wanting to grant me?

Edward's sigh was sudden and glum. "You're mad at me."

I had to laugh at this. He seemed like such a little boy in that moment, all grim frown and sulky
shoulders. "I'm not mad," I promised, playfully tossing a crumpled napkin at his hung head. When
he cautioned a sideways peek at me, I added, "You should know me better than that by now.
When I'm mad, you'll know it."

He nodded, lips pursed. "That's true."

I offered, "Hasty change of topic?"

His eyes were wide and relieved. "Please..."

With a smile, I obliged, and we discussed all sorts of things as the sun began to set: how pissy
Michael had been since the tire-changing incident, how good my tips at the Lodge had been, how
it was quite likely this was due more to pity than my exceptional serving skills, and how Edward
and his mother had concocted a plan to get Alice and Jasper back together.

We left La Push at twilight, but only because Edward had "prior obligations" to attend—a
confession that had left him—and me—rather bummed. Despite the brief, yet rough detour our
conversation on the beach had taken, it had been an otherwise perfect day. When we pulled into
my driveway, Edward cut the ignition and exited the car with me, lingering at my door stoop. I
couldn't miss the difference of his skin—the smatter of furious sun-pink that colored the bridge of
his nose and the apples of his cheeks. I figured my own skin looked the same way, and I felt an
internal kind of warmth at seeing us both having gotten some sun.

It looked good on him.

"Don't feel obligated or anything," he began, chewing the inside of his cheek once more, hands
shoved into his pockets. "But I'm supposed to invite you to dinner. On Sunday, I mean. My
mom—she kind of makes it a big deal." He released a soft laugh that was anxious in its tenor.
"There's also a possibility that my sister'll show up, which'll be awkward and humiliating on my
account." His ramble was followed by a puff of air.
I was surprised and… touched. "That's really nice of you—and your mom. If I didn't have to work
that night, I'd be all for seeing you get humiliated…"

I couldn't tell whether he was more disappointed or relieved, but he lifted one shoulder and
assured, "That's cool." His hair was going in a million different directions, and even in the grey-
blue of dusk, his skin seemed to shine, and it was just so utterly ridiculous how good he looked,
and even more ridiculous that this sensation in my abdomen bloomed and invaded what felt like
every cell of my flesh and blood, and so badly, more than anything really, I just…

I didn't want him to leave. I hated being alone, and I hated knowing that had nothing to do with it.

Almost as if he could sense, and was choosing to take total advantage of my moment of
weakness, he looked me straight in the eye, and in a very Edward-like fashion stated, "You're
really pretty when you blush like that."

I blinked a few times before releasing a self-conscious laugh, feeling my nose crinkle. "What?" I
asked, my voice incredulous, and my smile uncontainable. Had I even been blushing?

His expression never faltered. "That's what I should've said to you that day in the gym."

I felt my smile dissolve in a slow, unintentional way as he ducked into his car and softly closed his
door. The sound of his tires crunching beneath the gravel as he pulled away was lost to me. I was
too busy replacing the interaction I remembered—the interaction that had been the foundation of
this festering resentment—with the words Edward would have chosen if he'd been this better
person.

It was as freeing as a cliff dive.

A/N: Epic love to PastichePen, who beta'd, ERA and TK for doing the feedback thing, and you, for
still being here, even though I suck at update consistency and review replies.

As always, your comments have meant the world to me! I hope I'm doing a little better with the
update thing, but I've already started next chapter, and, again, feel free to tweet-bug me. I get all,
"Awwww!" I just love ya gals.

Me and PastyP are doing Slash Backslash 2.0 contest for the slash lovin. If you're interested, link's
on the profile.

I'm rec fail. Blame FGB.

Love ya!