With Teeth by TalulaBlue

Summary: Edward is a 27-year-old alcoholic/addict struggling with his recovery. Bella is a 23-yearold who's moved back home after college. This fic chronicles how they meet, fall in love, and struggle with the complexities of their relationship. Not nearly as maudlin as it sounds (I hope).

Chapter One It’s dim. I’m having trouble identifying some of their faces. That blonde in the corner; I might know her. She’s attractive and vulgar in a generic sort of way; it’s possible we’ve met before, but I didn’t care enough to remember her. It’s only 11:30, and she’s already made me the target of her slightly unfocused, fuck-me gaze. There’s a brief, inconsequential twitch in my groin. I ignore it. I ignore her. These people. Even through my whiskey haze, I’ve figured out that I know only half of them. To say that I know them, however, is an overstatement of the facts. I recognize their faces, can assign some of those faces names. I know their drug(s) of choice, and I know the quantity they will buy and with what frequency they will purchase it. I know which ones pay in full; I know which ones will need a gentle reminder. And I know which ones can’t keep money in their pockets long enough to be worth my bother. The other details of their lives are of little consequence to me. Every single one of them knows who I am. They smile and nod their heads, some with an unwarranted familiarity I find irritating, some with a frenetic eagerness that occasionally

incites my pity. Tonight, however, I only find this bootlicking pathetic. I’m a fucking god to these people because I am, on evenings like this one, generous with my drink and my drugs. Because I invite them into my home. Because I am scrupulous about my finances but generous when I want to show them a good time. Because I can get them laid. Because – sometimes – I deign to fuck one of them. Despite the little annoyances brought on by some of my guests, I feel good tonight. I feel solid, powerful. Tonight the alcohol hasn’t made me soft and sloppy; tonight it’s made me feel like I could kick down doors, punch through walls, fuck so good I’d make a girl cry. I don’t drink from the bottle – I’m not a wino. I don’t do shots in front of other people – I’m not a nineteen-year-old. I pour my whiskey a few fingers at a time. Draining the last of it, I set my glass on the granite coffee table. I’ve posted myself in my armchair for the duration of the evening. From here, I can survey the crowd, keep an eye on my bedroom door. “Fill you up?” The voice is unmistakably feminine, and it’s got a touch of something that irks me. I lift my eyes and see the blonde I’d noticed earlier, perched on the edge of the couch. Her tits are barely contained by her low-cut top. It’s both arousing and repellant. I let my eyes linger, though, because it’s what she wants me to do – ogle her tits, then do whatever comes naturally. But it’s a bit too early to be making decisions about which girl I’m going to bed, if any at all. I give her a one-shouldered shrug and shift my eyes from her chest to the crowded room, bypassing her eyes. She giggles, nervous now. Wondering why her little game that works so well on other men doesn’t seem to be working on me. Over the music I hear the heavy whiskey bottle slide across the table, then the sound of the bottleneck clanking clumsily against the rim of the glass. I cringe and turn to the blonde, biting back the urge to snap at her. Licking her lips, she tips the bottle carelessly, and whiskey dashes against the sides of the glass. Some of it sloshes out onto the granite tabletop. “Watch it,” I hiss, my voice icy. My once-clean glass is now sitting right in the middle of that shit. A strange impulse – to flick her forehead – courses through me. It’s an odd enough visual picture that it dulls the edge of my ire. “Sorry.” She sounds anything but. Another giggle. “Too much to drink.” Giggle. “Already.” A flip of the hair and an under-the-eyelids glance that I suppose I’m to find sexy and demure. I find it neither. I give a curt nod and look away again. Blondie shifts uncomfortably, tosses her hair a bit more. Uncertainty is rolling off of her in waves so palpable it’s making me fucking uneasy. And I don’t like to feel uneasy in my own fucking home. I contemplate getting up, but the

thought of being forced to mingle when I’m not in the mood only increases my irritation. Fucking bitch. Five minutes ago I’d felt good; I’d felt strong. Two of Blondie’s friends swoop in to rescue her. Any one of the three would be an acceptable, anonymous fuck. I block out their inane chatter, drink my whiskey, and listen to my music. Digging into my shirt pocket, I retrieve my cigarettes and light one. I take a drag and blow the smoke in Blondie’s direction. If it bothers her, she doesn’t let on. “What the fuck are we listening to?” gapes one of her friends. This girl is a brunette and too fucking skinny. Her shirt is sleeveless, revealing disconcertingly wiry upper arms. She’s all sharp angles, her bones collapsing in as she sits. Her shoulders look like they could cut glass. “My fucking music is what we’re fucking listening to,” I reply, raising my voice enough to be heard. All three heads twist sharply in my direction. Bones meets my gaze defiantly and sniffs. “Whatever.” A part of me wants to throw her out of my apartment. The other parts can’t be bothered. “I think it’s awesome.” Blondie. Her chirping voice grates on my ears. I can’t imagine that the expression on my face is encouraging, but she’s fucking smiling at me to beat all hell. I roll my eyes. I’ve identified the element in her voice that bothers me – she’s got the nasal drawl of a rich girl gone slumming. These fucking girls. Disposable, interchangeable. The skintight jeans, the ridiculous high heels, the barely-there tops, the excessive eyeliner, the same fucking perfume, and coke – always coke. Shoving enough up their noses to support an entire Colombian village. At least they always had wads of cash and never asked for credit. Like fucking clockwork, out it comes. “Mind if we use your table, Eddie?” Blondie asks. My mouth twitches at the sound of her voice curling around my name. I fucking hate it when people call me Eddie. No one who knows me well actually calls me Eddie. I take a drink and shrug. I want that feeling, that good feeling from just ten minutes ago to come back. I watch them spill it out onto the tabletop, watch it go up their noses, see the stars come into their eyes. Leaning forward, I tap my cigarette on the edge of the heavy, glass ashtray. “Want some, Eddie?” Blondie looks absolutely fucked, her eyes unnaturally bright, her mouth hanging open.

I decline, take a drag from my cigarette and exhale sharply through my nose. Bones guffaws. “You look like a dragon.” Her head bobbles about on her neck. I raise my hand and gesture her over with one finger. Bones has enough sense to look surprised, but manages to suppress her shock quickly, covering it up with a smug smile. Blondie looks appropriately miffed. Bones ambles over, her hips angling out severely above the low waist of her jeans. She bends over, her clavicle lunging out in front of her. When my hand reaches out to wrap around her long hair, a thrill of excitement passes over her face. Her hair is stiff and vaguely sticky from some kind of styling product. I’ll have to wash my hands. Leaning forward, I give her hair a sharp tug. Bones cries out. I whisper into her ear. “If you can’t shut the fuck up, you can’t stay. Do you understand?” She nods, whimpering. “Good. Now get the fuck away from me.” I release her hair and settle back into my chair. Without a word, Bones stumbles away. The third friend, still on the floor, fumes at me, outraged. She opens her mouth to speak, but one look from me and she thinks better of it. Getting to her feet, she follows Bones into the dark of the surrounding room, but not before she sucks her finger, slides it through the traces of coke left on the tabletop, and runs that finger over her teeth and gums. Then it’s just me and Blondie. She pivots in her seat, the leather creaking beneath her, crosses her legs, nervously bounces her foot. “You wanna dance or something?” “Who’s dancing?” I ask. People are drinking, smoking, arguing, laughing – but not dancing. My question flusters her. “I, I don’t know. We could.” I turn my glance back to the growing crowd. She tries again. “I’m Jenn, by the way. We’ve met before – one time – I didn’t know if you remembered. Do you –“ I cut her off. “Look. Come back in two hours and I’ll let you suck my dick, but until then, find someone else to talk to.” I stamp out my cigarette in the ashtray. Blondie might be offended, but I don’t bother to check. From the corner of my eye, I see her get up off the sofa. I drink more. A few people wander over, people who don’t irritate me. People who appreciate my hospitality, my generosity. People who can string together enough

sentences to have an intelligent conversation. Then, I’m too drunk to give a fuck if the conversation is intelligent or not. I excuse myself and snort some coke in the bathroom. Doing this shit in front of other people has never appealed to me. I don’t want them to see me like this, when the feeling of euphoria hits me, when the coke is so good it feels like my eyes might bust out of my skull. I reclaim my seat, and the conversation has gotten even better. So many voices, the music, the occasional clanking of glass on glass, the hiss and snap of lighters, the sharp inhale of that first drag. My cigarettes burn down halfway before I remember I’ve lit them. The whiskey tastes like candy. And these people – these beautiful people – they love me. I’m their king, their motherfucking messiah. The raucous laughter at my jokes, the nodding heads of agreement, the excited flush of the girls who catch my eye. Everybody tries to get close, tries to suck out some of the white-hot light building up in my chest. In the bathroom to do more coke. I feel like a bird. High and flying and sleek and smooth. My hand is on the knob, opening the door. “Blondie,” I laugh. The sight of her is ridiculous, fucking hysterical. I cackle like an old woman, my finger reaching out to tap her forehead. “It’s Jenn,” she replies. She’s trying to look disinterested, but she wants it so bad I can almost smell it. I smirk. My face feels like running water. “Whatever, Blondie.” Taking a step forward, I tower over her. “Still wanna suck my dick?” She can barely contain herself. Her hand reaches around me, slides into the back pocket of my jeans, squeezes. It’s like a scene from a cheesy movie, and I explode with laughter. The sound fills the room, reverberates off the walls, washes back over me in pretty waves. “Still? What makes you think I wanted to in the first place?” I’m suddenly serious. “I’ll give you five seconds to get in here and get on your knees before I take my business elsewhere.” There isn’t a moment of hesitation. We’re in the bathroom together, my back against the closed door, her body wriggling against mine. She’s like an eel, moving on me. “Here, fishy, fishy, fishy,” I sing, laughing as she tries to kiss me. Her lips meet my lips, but I don’t kiss back, can’t kiss back because I’m laughing. Then her mouth is on my neck, and it should feel good, but all I can feel is the wet of her tongue, how she seems – now – even more like an eel. Frustrated by my lack of response, her hands work at my belt, her cold fingers digging into my underwear, handling my half-hard cock. She gets down on her knees, slides her lukewarm lips over my erection.

“Thassa good girl, Blondie,” I singsong. Anger fills her eyes and she takes her mouth away. “I just told you my name. Don’t you remember?” I laugh and laugh. This is an absurd conversation. Why should I remember her name? Why does she need me to? This isn’t a fucking tea party. “Goldfish have no memory…” The laughter bubbles up again, but is quickly quashed by another surge of seriousness. “Now shut the fuck up.” There is a moment in which neither one of us moves, a moment in which she stares me down. Then, my dick is back in her mouth, and she’s sucking on me as if her life depended on it. I twist my head, away from her. I want to pretend there’s no person attached to this sensation. My eyes flutter open. I meet my own face in the mirror. I look – simultaneously – like I might explode, like I might wither. The top of Blondie’s head shifts back and forth across the bottom edge of the glass. I shiver, suddenly cold. “Get up,” I say gruffly, pulling her to her feet. My fingers deftly undo and unzip her pants, yank them down along with her poor excuse for a pair of panties. I’m suddenly, oddly frantic, managing only to get one leg of her jeans off before hoisting her roughly onto the edge of the sink. “Fuck me, Eddie,” she whimpers. It sounds ridiculous, her pleading, but I shrug it off. Sliding my hand between her legs, I discover she’s only slightly wet. I spit into my hand and smear it all over my dick before pushing into her. I’m hoping for heat, for some kind of warmth, but her cunt is as tepid as her mouth. Even though I’m still nearly fully clothed, even though I’m spinning drunk, I’m cold – so cold. Goosebumps cover my flesh. I grab at her arms, twist them around my torso, seeking some kind of friction to take the edge off the chill. Her arms grip me tight, but they’re lifeless, like doll arms. Her moans are too loud, too throaty – she sounds like a porn star. I wonder, briefly, who she’s crying out for – me, or the crowd of people on the other side of the door. My dick is hard, but I can barely feel it. All I can feel is the cold. “Why aren’t you warm?” The words stumble out of me. “Get warm, get fucking warm.” I fuck her harder, rougher. “Oh, yeah,” she howls. I toss my head back and forth, trying to shake myself out of my drunk. If I can get sober, I can get warm. My mind tells me this is the right idea. If I can cum, I can get sober. My mind tells me I’m being rational. If I cum, I’ll get warm. I just want to be warm. I squeeze my eyes shut and fuck like a machine. I take us both out of the equation – me and Blondie – until it’s just a dick and a cunt, moving together, moving until one of us lets go.

Time passes. It could have been five minutes; it could’ve been five hours. I realize I’m not going to cum – not now, not ever. I could fuck this woman until the end of time, and it wouldn’t make any difference. The cold is so acute I can feel it in my bones. With an exhale of defeat, I pull out and step away. Blondie’s eyes open, roll. She’s totally fucked, worse than before. “You cum?” she slurs, trying to focus on me. I nod, pull up my pants. The urge to vomit rises in my throat, and I’m so cold I’m shivering. With an abrupt jerk, I yank open the door and leave, shutting it behind me and leaving her to sort through her tangled clothes alone. The sound of the party outside feels like a punch to the face. I want to count the people here, need to count the people here, but my eyes can’t or won’t focus long enough to allow me to do so. The back of my throat burns, and I swallow deeply. The nausea returns. And still, the cold. Always the fucking cold. My fingers twist painfully. These fucking people. The bile in my mouth is incredibly bitter. I want them out of my house. I want to be alone. But the thought of having to kick them out, it’s too much – too much noise, too many words, too many excuses. I turn and weave my way down the short hall to my bedroom. My hand clutches the doorknob as I fumble with my keys to unlock it and stumble inside. Behind me, the door is shut and locked again. There is still the smell of smoke and booze. There’s still the pounding bass and the shrieking laughter. I want my drink, but it’s out in the living room, in the midst of everyone. It might make me warm, and I stand behind my closed door – forehead to the heavy wood – for what feels like an eternity. My eyes closed, my mouth twisting against the urge to throw up, contemplating the journey to my bottle, the sea of people, moving through them and trying not to touch, not to rub up against them. The cold recedes abruptly, like a fever breaking, but in reverse. The heat is thick in my hair; a bead of sweat rolls down my spine. I tug spastically at my shirt, ripping it open. A button pops free and flies across the room. I can hear it skitter across the hard wood floor, and the sound – I know I shouldn’t be able to hear it, it’s such a tiny thing and the music is so loud – I can practically see every twist and jump that button makes as it moves; the sound is so focused, so precise. The shirt is gone, and my feet are on fire. I strain at the laces, the tight knots I’ve twisted them into, finally extracting my feet from my boots through sheer will and brute force. The window. I fumble with the latch and yank the window up. Cool, late October air washes in, and I breathe so deep I get even dizzier. My hands. I can’t feel my fucking hands. There’s a bang and a holler of my name as someone tries to talk to me through the door. I take a deep breath and force a “fuck off” from my throat with all the strength I can muster. It comes out wheezing and soft, and the pounding continues for a minute before whoever stands on the other side of the door loses interest.

The floor feels like water going down a drain, twisting faster and faster. I sit on the edge of my bed, let myself fall back onto the mattress. My mouth is set in a tight line as I breathe heavily through my nose, willing my body not to expel the contents of my stomach. I don’t know what time it is; it must be past one or two, but I can’t tell. I want to check the watch on my wrist, but the effort required to lift my hand to my face is too much. They’ll have to leave soon, these sniping, sniveling people. The booze will run out, and in any case, it’s my drugs they want, and my good graces. And both of these things are locked up safely behind my bedroom door. I imagine the chemicals in my body are little particles, and that each moment I lay here some of those particles escape. Eventually, it will get better. Eventually, all the little particles will be gone and my insides will be clean. The music – someone’s singing. Their voice is dry and cracking; it can’t sustain a note. I want to tell them to shut up or pull a pillow over my head, but I can’t move. Then I start to laugh. It’s me; I’m singing, feebly mumbling along to the song playing in the other room. This strikes me as hysterically funny. I laugh silently until my stomach aches from it, until the laughter pushes the bile and whiskey up through my throat and onto the floor. * One week later, and this girl – God, this girl – she’s all over me. I don’t even know her name, and she’s all over me. Her hand down the front of my pants, her tongue in my ear. She’s kneeling next to me on the couch, her tits pushing into my chest. The smell of her, it’s some kind of perfume, and it’s acrid and strong. So strong I can almost taste it. My tongue feels large and numb, and I feel so light, almost like I’m not even here. This girl and her wicked, snaking hands and tongue are the only thing anchoring me to this couch, keeping me from floating to the ceiling. I’ve been smiling so long and so wide it’s hurting my face, but I can’t stop smiling. It’s beer and OxyContin tonight. Cheap, cheap beer, but the dope makes me not care. I don’t care that this beer tastes like watered-down piss, or that I’m not at home, where I want to be. And I certainly don’t care that this feisty little thing is jerking me off in front of a room full of people. They aren’t paying attention. Every once in a while, one of the other men will look in our direction and give a little nod of approval. This makes me laugh even more. “Let’s go somewhere,” she murmurs into my ear. It tickles and I giggle. I slide a hand down to her thigh, touch bare skin, realize again that she’s wearing a dress. “Let’s not,” I reply, moving my fingers up under the skirt and roughly squeezing her ass. Her head shakes into my shoulder. “There’s a couch in the other room.” The tongue is back in my ear. “But I’m already on a couch.” My attention wanders as two of the girls in the room begin

shrieking at one another. I catch a few, out-of-context profanities, but most of what is said is lost to me. When the girl next to me pulls her hand from my pants, I’m forced to look at her. “Why’d you stop?” I’m long past the point of being smooth. “Let’s go somewhere,” she whines. My face must betray the slight irritation I feel because she immediately backpedals. “It’s just,” and here she tries to look coy, “that I want to do things to you.” She runs her fingers through my hair. I twist my head into the crook of her neck, suck on the skin there. “Get in my lap.” Without a word, she complies. She’s drunk, for sure; if she’s on something else, I don’t know and don’t care. My dick is hard, and she’s willing. “You’re sexy,” I tell her. “Sexy and hot.” She blushes and my hand immediately moves between her legs and pulls aside her panties. I slide a finger in and she’s wet. “I,” she begins, then hesitates. I can feel how tense she is, in my lap, around my finger. I pull her head down to mine and whisper, “You’ve got my dick so hard.” Her breath catches, and I know I’ve got her. Quickly, I undo the fly of my jeans; she pulls my cock out for me. Then she’s lifting her hips and sliding down onto me, and we’re fucking. We’re fucking in front of this room full of people, and even though the light is dim and she’s wearing a skirt, the people are only a few feet away. They’re drunk and they’re high, but they know what’s going on, and they watch--all of them--watch openly. They watch this girl bounce on me, see my hands grab her ass, urging her on. They whoop and holler, men and women. My dick throbs. I hear them shout, know that afterwards the men will slap me on the back and tell me I’m a badass motherfucker. I see the expressions of jealousy and spite on the women’s faces. I look up at the girl on top of me, and if I wasn’t already inside of her, caught in the grip of her, I’d probably go entirely soft. As it is, I feel my erection deflate slightly. Her expression – it rips into my chest. Part pleasure, part excitement. But there’s more shame there now, shame and uncertainty. We make eye contact for a fraction of a second, and all of that feeling, it rushes into me. And I fucking hate her for it. Hate her for making me feel anything but pleasure. I piston my hips up into her; the whooping and hollering gets louder. She’s letting me do this, I tell myself. She wanted to fuck me, and now she is. She’s letting me do this. I thrust frantically and repeat those words in my head, my little mantra. “Stop,” I grunt, softly. My hands move to her hips to still her movement. She’s confused.

“Stop,” I repeat, push her off of my dick. Stumbling back, she pulls her skirt down and straightens up as I tuck myself back into my jeans. All the faces around me, watching closely now, expectant. I want to tell them all to fuck off; I want to kick and punch and claw; I want to run out of this fucking shithole apartment. But their faces. Their expressions pivoting on a fine line between scorn and awe. I stand, move toward the other room. Not because I want to, but because I have to. Because all these faces expect it. Because as much as I hate it, I want – need – their misplaced admiration. Even through my shame, I feel my cock aching. Needing release, needing touch – a compulsion. The girl scuttles closely behind me, giggling with nervous excitement. In the dark of the other room, I fuck her relentlessly, pounding into her, twisting her body around mine. I cum, and for about twenty seconds, I feel strong and powerful, sated. But that feeling melts away, and the cold creeps back into me. She asks for my number. I tell her to fuck off. The only light comes from the crack under the door so I can’t see her face, but I can feel her. I wonder if she’s ever done something like this before, and I think she must have. Her hand was in my pants. She could have pushed me away, told me no; I would have listened. I wonder what it must feel like right now, to be her. My cum running out of her as she stands in the dark, trying to make sense of the last half hour. After what feels like ten minutes but is probably closer to ten seconds, she leaves. I’m alone. I hear the catcalls and a smattering of applause as she reenters the living room. She must say something to them because there’s a chorus of whistles and ohs; one guy shouts, “Feisty!” My dick hangs out of my pants, limp now. I tuck myself in, zip up. It’s cold, for October. A shiver runs up my spine. My body moves, but I can’t really feel it – too much dope. I want some more of it, some more of anything. Standing behind the closed door, my hand on the knob, I twist my face into an arrogant sneer. I know what these people want – I always know what they want. * November is not kind to me. I am not kind to me. I drink and fuck and smoke and fuck and sell my drugs and fastidiously count my money. I’m pale and skinny, and this seems to make the girls want me more. All of these girls – these women – and their hands and tongues and silky panties and their insatiable need for my drugs and my dick. I fuck until my dick is sore. I force myself to cum each time, fucking with so much force that I feel like I’m going to throw up. Sometimes I do. Then, I don’t remember the sex; I simply wake up in another bed, on another couch. But

never in my own bed. Even when I black out. I pass out in cars, on front porches and lawns, on floors – bathrooms, living rooms, bedrooms, hallways, closets. I pass out with my dick in someone’s mouth. I wake up retching; I wake up with vomit already on my clothes, smeared on the side of my face, in my hair. I am rarely sober. I drink and pass out. Wake up and snort something, take some pills, drink. I pass out again, wake up and smoke something. Snort something. Drink. Vomit. Try to piss in the toilet and piss on myself instead. I drink whatever is offered me. I smoke or snort or swallow anything I can get my hands on. One night it’s vodka and coke and E at some rich girl’s parent’s house; the next I’m in the passenger seat of a Toyota Corolla, snorting some teenaged kid’s Adderall. It’s December 3rd. I’m getting sucked off by some girl, in her bed, while her parents are away. Her mouth is inexpert but eager. She’s 18 and not even out of high school; I know this because I sell pills to her older brother. She’s not drunk, but she’s high – for the first time ever. I’m so far gone I couldn’t even get my belt undone. There’s a ringing in the back of my head. But she’s rubbing her tight little body all over mine. She’s telling me I’m so cool, so sexy, that I feel so good. It makes me feel good. I want to make someone feel good. I can make her feel good. I know I can. She asks me if I want to fuck her. I laugh, taking deep gulps of air; I can’t keep my head up. I say I do, I want to fuck her, I want to fuck a pretty girl like her. She pulls her shirt up over her head, and I want to look at her, but I can’t keep my eyes open long enough. They won’t focus anyway. Leaning close, she whispers that it’s okay. “Huh?” I manage to get out. “My brother, he worships you.” She giggles. “He’d kill anybody else for touching me.” There’s something she isn’t saying, something important. I try desperately to clear the clutter behind my eyes. “Huh?” I repeat. “His girlfriend says you’re good,” she continues, running her hands through my hair. It takes me a long moment to sort out what she means. Her brother – I screwed her brother’s girlfriend one night, months ago. I imagine the girlfriend revealing details of our encounter, details I can’t remember. “You’ll be good, right?” There’s a hush in her voice I read instantly. The chill I’ve been fighting all night fills my stomach; my bowels clench. She’s a virgin. A virgin, and she wants her first time with me, like this. I will myself to care, but can’t. I let her do what she wants. Off goes her bra. She stands to shimmy out of her jeans, and I

watch, my mouth slack, my eyes twisting in and out of focus. My head lolls to the side. I’m having trouble knowing if I want to fuck or pass out. I will my eyes open, my gaze tracing the edges of the posters and photographs tacked up against the wall. Something is wrapped around the post at the head of her bead. Thin loops of something twisted around a bunch of something else. In the dark, through my drunk, it looks like a strange, alien, little thing perched on the headboard. I squint, lift my head, try to make sense of the thing I see. The headlights from a passing car illuminate the room briefly, and the thin loops shimmer. Ribbon. It’s a corsage – dried flowers and curled ribbon. Such a small thing, such a small thing to say so much. I feel her body – I can’t even remember her name – I feel it pressed to mine, warm and earnest. She’s just a kid, a fucking high school kid who goes to basketball games and homecoming dances, and she’s got a fucking corsage on her headboard. And I’m the 27-year-old man who gave her a couple pills and a beer with a smile. I teased and flirted until she brought me up here and got naked in front of me. My mouth waters in preparation for the vomit I feel churning in my stomach. I shake my head vigorously. My dick is still rock hard, my hips still pushing up at her. I won’t do this. I can stop myself from doing this. I can ignore the ache between my legs. I can quash my desire to hold and be held. I can prevent myself from becoming this particular regret. I push away her naked body, ignore her cries of surprise and protest as I hike my jeans up, fumbling unsuccessfully with the zipper, then the button, then the belt. Her body is suddenly flush against mine, one hand pulling at my neck, her lips straining up to kiss me. The other hand forces its way back into my pants, grabs greedily at my cock. “I want you,” she whispers, and her voice, it sounds wrong as it twists out those words. Her mouth is open and hot and wet. I groan. “You want me?” I ask feebly, already giving in, not waiting for an answer. She pulls me back toward the bed, her weight bearing me down with her. My hands find her bare breasts. “Yes,” she hisses. “But,” her voice falters. “But just, just go slow.” The nausea hits me worse than before, and I quickly straighten up and step back, willing myself not to vomit all over her soft, bare skin; all over her nice, clean bedspread. My fingers gather up a fistful of denim as I hold closed the pants I can’t seem to zip up or button. The belt buckle flails uselessly against my knuckles. I take another step back, catch my heel on the rug, crash into the closed bedroom door. The knob is ice-cold to the touch, and it slides free of my sweaty palm. Then, the door is open.

Then, I’m tripping down the hallway. Then, I’m flinging open the front door. Then, I’m vomiting onto the lawn. A long string of saliva and bile clings to my lower lip. I am on all fours, the damp from the grass and the soil beneath it soaking through the knees of my jeans. Rocking back and forth I dry heave. Vomit. Dry heave. Spit. Dry heave again. And again. I fall to my shoulder, roll onto my side. With my eyes closed, I count – slowly – to fifty. I take a deep breath and do it again. Shaking, I get to my knees, then to my feet. The air is cold. It feels clean against my skin, makes me feel warmer by comparison. I tip my head back, and the sky is clear – a rarity for Port Angeles. I smile, but that smile is crippled by a choking sob that comes out of nowhere. I blink back the beginnings of the tears I refuse to let come. Everything feels so clean, so clear, so new. The cold takes the edge off my drunk, my high. I’m nearly clearheaded. I don’t want this, not anymore. I don’t want these things in my body. I don’t want these women who pretend to love me. I don’t want this parade of false friends, these fools who laugh too loudly and agree too strongly with everything I say. Thinking that this will make me like them, make them like me. They can have it; they can have it all. I feel a hundred years old. * The next morning I snort some coke. Just enough to keep the edge off; just enough to keep me alert, focused. When I feel my energy waning, I snort some more. If I stop, if I give myself time to think, I won’t be able to do this. And I need to do this. I dump my whiskey down the drain; I flush the pills. I sell off the remainder of my weed to a kid who deals occasionally – I sell it to him cheap, throwing in my scale and the rest of my paraphernalia for free. I take care of the rest of my bills, paying double for nearly everything in case I miss next month. I send a money order with January’s rent to my landlord. I jog down the street to the post office and ask them to hold my mail. I chain smoke cigarettes, clean the apartment from top to bottom, wash the sheets, all my clothes, all the towels. I shower and shave. I open my safe and count my money three times. $23,400, give or a take a few bucks. Enough to pay for inpatient treatment, at least for a few weeks. My heart takes off every time I think about what I’m doing, but all I have to do is close my eyes and think of those dried flowers wrapped around that bedpost, and my pulse slows and I feel sick. So I snort some more and let it make me feel good, alive, energetic. I can laugh and sing as I clean and organize, as I prepare. I’m like a machine, so precise, so quick. I feel so fucking good. I pack some clothes and toiletries in a bag, unplug all of my appliances, check the locks on

the windows and draw the curtains over them. I lock the door to my bedroom and call a cab, do some more coke while I wait. When the driver honks outside, I flush the rest.

Chapter Two December in Boston is not people-watching weather. Yet here I stand: numb ass flush against ice cold fence, hands deep in pockets, hood up, my breath dampening the rough yarn of the scarf across my face. I twist my head toward the gold dome of the State House. It's just discernable through the bare branches of the winter-weathered trees. I turn in the other direction to look at the lit up signs of the theatre district - their neon underwhelming and ineffective in the gray, afternoon half-light. I watch people filter in and out of the Park Street T stop: the mix of races and ages and professions and demeanors, the odd demography of public transportation. The wind kicks up briefly, and I burrow into my heavy jacket, pull back into the hood. With the rounded toe of my boot, I kick at a chunk of ice. It takes a few sharp taps, but eventually it breaks free of the concrete and skims across the ground. A middle-aged man passing by in a suit and long wool coat kicks it back to me. I look up in surprise and grin. His face, too, is half-covered by a scarf, and we share a smile with our eyes. Today: I got my last cup of coffee from Espresso Royale. Shared my last bit of flirtatious banter with the adorable and tattooed nineteen-year-old boy behind the counter. Took the train to Harvard Square and bought a book to read on the plane. Got back on the train and had lunch at the Other Side with a friend. Had one too many beers for 1:00 p.m. on a Thursday. More flirtatious banter with more adorable and tattooed boys. Had a cursory browse through the vinyl at Newbury Comics. Wandered down Boylston, past the library and Copley Square. Gave some guy a dollar. Cut through the Public Gardens and scuttled down the walk through Boston Common. And now, as the light begins to fade (already), I lean against this fence and watch people come and go. People shuffle by quickly, attempting to warm themselves - or to avoid getting cold in the first place. My feet and hands are beginning to numb. I don't want to move. When the cold seeps down into my bones, I push away from the fence and take slow steps toward Park Street. Everyone around me moves swiftly; everyone around me takes steps without hesitation. They'll take these steps tomorrow, and the next day, and the next. I wrench open the door to the station. Warm air pushes up from the subway tunnel, carrying with it the stale smell of urine.

When my train arrives, I step up and into it, my body pressing against other bodies in the already crowded car. The jostling and the jerking stop-start of the train as it moves between stations - I close my eyes and focus carefully on all of it, committing it to muscle memory. * My eyes follow the crack in the ceiling to the corner, run along the seam where the walls meet, and then scan along the hairline fracture in the plaster back to the corner. On either side of the fissure are the rust colored stains of leaking water. "I thought you called the landlord about the ceiling," I call out. The clanking of silverware against glass sounds from the kitchen. "I forgot. I'll do it Monday." Mike's voice nearly shrugs with indifference. I smile. Typical. Something is angled uncomfortably into my back, but I'm too lazy to sit up and figure out what it is. Our piece of shit futon is old and exactly that - a piece of shit. "Bellaaaa," he singsongs. "Guess what I made?" I twist my head back as he returns to the living room. When I see what he's carrying, I rocket upright. "Is that a Tom Collins?" "No, it's two Tom Collins...es..." Mike makes a face and hands me one of the glasses. "It's got a maraschino cherry and an orange!" I sound like a kid on Christmas morning. Mike plops down into the armchair across from me. "Nothing but the best for you, my friend." He raises his glass in a silent toast; I do the same. "Remember that night I made you walk with me down to the Seven Eleven to see if they had maraschino cherries?" Mike snorts. "I remember that it was about one in the morning, and it was two days before Thanksgiving, and we almost froze to death; that's what I remember." The ice clinks pleasantly in his glass. Neither of us brings up my flight tomorrow morning - not the time, or when we need to leave, or if he needs to send anything out after me. Tomorrow's itinerary has been discussed; the flight number and departure time are scrawled in blue pen on the calendar in the kitchen; we've been hauling boxes to the Post Office for the past two weeks. We both know the details. Fifteen minutes later, we're bundled up and shivering out on our tiny balcony, smoking stale cigarettes from a pack I'd unearthed while boxing up my things. Leaning over the railing, we watch a gaggle of girls pass below us on the sidewalk. Despite the cold, December wind, they wear short skirts and high heels.

"They're going to lose their vaginas to frostbite," Mike observes, eyebrows raised. I shake my head and cluck my tongue. "Poor, poor vaginas." Shivering and giggling, I take a drag. "Gives new meaning to the word muffler," he mutters, scratching his head. I burst out laughing. The degree to which I'm going to miss him hits me with full force in that moment, and I choke back a sob. Immediately, his arm slides around my shoulders. "Things about Boston and/or Allston not to miss once you're gone." I take a deep breath and think for a moment. "Trains that stop running before the bars close." "The Green Line after a Sox game." "The Green Line at 12:15 on a Friday night." "The Green Line. Period." "Obnoxious Sox fans." "Pink Red Sox gear," Mike says with disgust. "Paying too much for shitty beer." "The legions of super hipsters at every show." I laugh. "Stepping in puke on the sidewalk. Seeing puke on the sidewalk," I amend quickly. "The rats." I shiver. "Bedbugs." Mike retrieves the empty beer bottle we use as an ashtray and drops in the filter of his cigarette. I do the same. We head back inside, and I close the door quickly, shutting out the cold night air. * I can just hear the sound of Mike's stereo playing across the hall and behind his closed door. Normally, the paper thin walls and drafty doors of our apartment irritate me particularly when he had a girl over or when I needed to fall asleep - but tonight I find the low mumble of a song I can't identify a real comfort.

Shifting from my side to my back, I stare up at the ceiling. The white noise of Mike's fallingasleep music is interrupted only by the creak of the wood floors as the building settles on its foundation. I sigh. I've slept in this room for two and a half years. All that's left is the single mattress, two pillows, sheets, and a blanket. When I'm with my dad in Forks or my mom in Jacksonville, I inevitably wake up in terror sometime during the night, unsure of where I am and breathing fast in the dark. I wonder if, by the time I visit in April, my room in Washington will feel like home. Will I wake up here with my heart pounding? Of course I will, I think. I'll be sleeping on the godforsaken futon and listening to the refrigerator run. Outside, the early morning silence is broken by the yells and laughter of what sounds like a half dozen different voices. The bars have closed down. There's a metallic crash and the sound of more laughter. The tears slip out of my eyes and run down over my temples, pooling in my ears. A part of me wants to be down on that street, laughing and yelling. Another part of me knows I've already grown too old for that. I cry silently and remind myself that I never was one of those obnoxious college kids who hollered and kicked things while the rest of the world tried to sleep. But I envy them their ignorance, their seeming refusal to acknowledge that this comfortable, protective shell doesn't last forever. * I stare out the window and take in as much of the city and its surroundings as I can as we make the relatively short drive to the airport. It's seven in the morning, so we've managed to sneak in ahead of most of the commuter traffic. I tip my head back as we enter the tunnel and push down the grief I feel rising in my chest. I realize that I'm most likely never going to live in the same place as Mike again. No more drunken Scrabble; no more 80s dance parties on Friday afternoons; no more trips to the grocery store at 1:00 a.m. for pudding or Spaghetti-Os or whatever it is that I'm craving. "Are you sure you don't want me to walk you in?" Mike's voice is deliberately casual, but I can hear the edge of concern he's attempting to mask. I take a deep breath. "Positive." I don't do goodbyes. He knows this; I don't need to explain. The guys working the curb will ensure that we have just fifteen seconds before they start screaming at Mike to move his car. That's about all I'll be able to handle. And then we're here. Mike throws the car into park and we get out, circling around and meeting again by the trunk. Carefully, he extracts the large suitcase that contains the last of my belongings. Everything else has been shipped out to Forks in a series of overly ducttaped boxes. Without warning, Mike wraps me into a hug. I'm bawling immediately.

"I don't give a shit where you live, Bella-fo-fella," he whispers fiercely into my shoulder. "You're always my number one, okay?" I nod. "Me too," I reply, my voice breaking. It doesn't make much sense, what I've said, but I know he gets it. Mike lifts me up off the ground and squeezes me tighter before setting me back on my feet. As we pull apart, I look up at his face. He's blinking rapidly and swallowing, his lips pressed tightly together. "Let me know when you get there, kay?" I nod. "Okay." "Now get out of here before we both turn into our mothers," he says with a sad smile. Laughing through my tears, I step to him and wrap my arms around his waist for one more quick embrace before grabbing my suitcase and heading into the airport. * "Dad..." Charlie grunts but doesn't look up from his newspaper, his eyes scanning back and forth over the page. "When did you put the tape player in the truck?" His eyes pause for the briefest of moments. He shrugs. "I don't know. Last August, maybe." I turn back to the sink to hide my smile. It was last August that I'd asked to move back here for a few months while I figured out grad school. The paper rustles. "Why? Is there something wrong with it?" Shaking my head, I submerge my hands into the hot, soapy water and grope for the silverware. "No," I begin, but Charlie cuts me off. "Because I was going to put in a CD player, but the guy at the store said a tape player would mean you could play your little, the little," he searches for the words. "You know, the little stereo with headphones....?" "My iPod?" I suppress a laugh. "Yeah, your iPod." A pause. "Everything working okay?" "It works great, Dad. Thank you. Very much." I look over my shoulder and smile. He looks pleased but brings the newspaper back up - higher this time - and covers his face. "Good."

I slosh around in the sink, washing the few dishes we'd dirtied during dinner. Charlie clears his throat. "You know, you don't have to do the dishes every night." "I know," I say. "But I like to; it's soothing." It's true. Washing dishes calms me. Behind me, my father snorts. My smile widens. My hands chase our bowls and cups as they lazily bump into one another beneath the surface of the water. Charlie coughs, then turns the page of the newspaper. "Truck working fine otherwise?" "Mm-hm." "You still hearing that ticking when it idles?" I shrug, pushing the sponge into a glass and twisting. "Only sometimes." "I'll get that checked out this week. You work Tuesday?" "Nope." I rinse the glass. He half grunts, half sighs. "You need a better vehicle if you're gonna be driving to Port Angeles all the time." I place the glass in the drying rack. "I like my truck." The newspaper rustles again. "Not a matter of liking it or not," Charlie replies, but he sounds pleased. "Guess not." We lapse into a comfortable silence as I gently scrub the bowls and spoons. After I finish the dishes, I head upstairs to read. I've already grown weary of the television, despite its size and the variety of channels to which Charlie subscribes. And he wants to watch ESPN, not IFC. I flop onto my bed and retrieve my book from my bedside table.

"Fuck that," I spit out, and chuck the novel across my bed. It hits the wall with a loud thwack and bounces back onto the mattress. I wonder if Charlie's heard me, but nothing but the television sounds from the first floor.

Running my hands over my face, I sigh. I'm staring at the ceiling again, attempting to make meaning out of the swirls in the plaster. The red numbers on my bedside clock read 8:01. The television is barely audible, the sound of what I know is a basketball game muffled through the floorboards and door. I roll onto my stomach and hang off the side of the mattress, my arms reaching under the bed skirt, hands groping for the box that should be there. I slide the shoebox across the hardwood floor and sit up. Removing the lid, I smile immediately when I see the contents. There's a friendship bracelet from Stacey Proctor, a girl who lived down the block. I used to play with her when I visited; she was my summertime best friend. Her family moved during the fall of sixth grade, and I never saw her again. I entertain a brief and vague notion of trying to look her up, but it leaves as quickly as it comes. Twisting the knotted blue and orange thread between my fingers, I look through the rest of the box's things. There's a walnut-sized purple rock - worn smooth by water - that I plucked from a shallow river on one of the many fishing trips I took with Charlie. I run the stone across my lips. There's a postcard from my mom dated June 15, 1997. The picture on the front says Taos. I pick through the rest of the contents: a tube of raspberry flavored lip balm; a flaking, rusting horseshoe; a mood ring that will now only fit on my pinky finger; a newspaper clipping of my father's promotion to Chief of Police; a pale blue tea light candle that smells vaguely - of baby powder; a Christopher Pike paperback (hidden away because Charlie said I was too young to read that sort of thing). On the very bottom is a small spiral notebook with a yellow and green plaid fabric cover. I laugh out loud. This is the journal I kept beginning the summer after fifth grade and continuing until the summer after I graduated from high school. I flip open to the first page. I want this journal to be a place where I can write whatever I want and it is okay. I place my hand over my mouth to stifle my laughter. My lips move along with the words on the pages.

July 12, 1999 I can't be like the girls at the pool. Am I supposed to? I don't even know how to be that way. But I get mad when I look at them. And Renee says that people get angry because they're jealous or afraid. I'm not afraid. Am I jealous? "Jesus Christ, I was introspective," I mutter, shaking my head. The last entry is dated June of 2004.

I think my own father is afraid of me. He barely speaks to me, and when he does, if I start talking about Boston, he ends the conversation. He'd never say it, but I think he's lonely. Maybe I should have gone to UW instead. Maybe he needs a girlfriend.

Closing the notebook, I cock my head to the side and listen carefully to the sounds of the game emanating from the living room. My mother once said that Charlie kept track of the seasons by the sports team on the radio or television. And it was true, generally. I remember the sound of the tinny AM radio we'd bring on our fishing trips, the two of us next to a small lake or pond with regular rods and reels, or him standing in waders in a river, fly fishing while I sat on the bank and read or wrote or drew, or dug around in the rocks. There was the sound of running water (in the case of the river) or the zip of the fishing line as it spun out of the reel (in the case of the lake), but always that radio in the background: the announcers voices, the occasional crack of a bat, the faraway roar of the crowd. * I twist my key in the lock once, twice before the bolt turns into place, securing the door. I never get it on the first try. Beyond the heavy glass the street is damp and shimmering beneath the streetlights. It's only nine o' clock, but it's as if the town has already gone to sleep. "Sick of this place yet?" Jasper's voice sounds out from behind me. I turn to face him. "Naw..." I say, waving my hand. He smiles. "You say that now... But, seriously, things working out okay?" "I think so." I frown slightly. "I really made that woman mad today, though." "Which woman?" He's perplexed. "The lady who wanted a copy of that vampire book; what's it called?" His face lights up in recognition. "Oh, yeah. Don't worry about her; she's a pain in everyone's ass. Every time I piss her off she asks to speak to the manager, and when I remind her that I am the manager, she asks me what kind of dog and pony show I'm running here." I laugh, feeling better. We make our way through the dimly lit store to the break room. "I'm meeting Alice for dinner. You want to go?"

I want to say yes right away, but purposefully rein in my enthusiasm. "Are you sure she won't mind? I'm not interrupting quality time or anything?" I half joke, hating how desperately my insides ache to take part in this absolutely pedestrian social activity. Jasper laughs. "I'll think she'll be happy to not have to listen to me ramble on about book inventory all night. She likes you. Says I should bring you around more often." I press my lips together to keep myself from beaming like an idiot and accept his invitation. An hour and a half later I've somehow ended up sharing dessert with Alice, who - it's true has taken to me like a fish to water. "And their mothers let them wear this shit?" Alice, her mouth full, holds up her hand and shakes her head. She swallows. "The mothers are worse than the daughters. It's like some kind of sick competition. Like I'm stuck in an episode of some really shitty E! show; a trashy Project Runway knockoff or something. Like a, ‘look how hot and slutty my daughter looks in her prom dress' sorta thing." I scrunch up my nose, making a face. "That kind of grosses me out." "At least you don't have to make the dresses or alter a hemline so it practically shows some seventeen-year-old's vajayjay." I snort. "Please, no talk of teenage vajayjay," Jasper says, looking uncomfortable. Alice and I just laugh. "Do you ever get to make anything you actually like?" I ask. "Sometimes," Alice says. "But really, very rarely. I've actually had better luck with that online, to be honest. People find my website and like my stuff, send me their measurements, yadda, yadda, yadda... I'm actually making a dress for a woman who's getting married this summer." "A good dress?" She laughs. "Yes, shockingly. Most of the ones I alter and the few I've made from scratch are these crepe and doily nightmares, but this woman just saw one of my dresses in the store window, walked in, and told me she trusted me to design something for her. Of course, she had a boatload of money, and not that many women around here do, so..." Alice shrugs. "Did you ever think of moving somewhere bigger? San Francisco or something?" She and Jasper exchange a quick look. "I like it here. My family's in Seattle, and I grew up in Washington." Alice shrugs.

I want to ask why she doesn't move to Seattle, then, but something tells me not to push the subject. We sit in companionable silence for a bit. Alice speaks first. "So you're still driving back and forth between Port Angeles and Forks every day?" Her slim, curved eyebrows arch high on her forehead. "Yeah. But not every day. Just three times a week." Alice looks at Jasper. Then she looks at me. Then back at Jasper. "And how old is your truck?" Her voice is genuinely curious and somewhat incredulous. "We don't know exactly," I say, laughing at her confused expression. Leaning across the table, she fixes me in her gaze. "Look, Bella. I know we haven't known each other long, and this might seem seriously creepy, but you could stay with me a few nights a week. I have an extra room and bathroom. I haven't had a roommate in a few months, and my apartment is obnoxiously big with just one person in it." "Alice," I begin. I'm going to turn down her offer, even though it would make my life much, much simpler. She interjects quickly. "Don't say no. Just think about it. I'm not a serial killer or a sexual deviant. I won't try to be your BFF," she says with a smile and a roll of her eyes. "But your car's not gonna last until August or September with all that driving. And you seem like good people." She shrugs. "I'm only there half the time anyway." She gestures toward Jasper. Shaking my head, I set my fork on the table. "I can't afford to rent a place. But thank you for the offer." If I'm not living with Mike, I can't imagine living with anyone else, having to get used to their habits, their rhythm; negotiating space, possessions. "Who said anything about rent?" she asks. I shake my head with more force. "No, no, no." I can't believe I'm considering this idea. "That's, that's too much. I couldn't take advantage of you like that." I'm already imagining the extra hour of sleep I'd get in the mornings. The money I'd save on gas. "Advantage, schmadvantage," she says dismissively. "I'll make you vacuum or cook me dinner. You can be my indentured servant if it makes you feel better," she jokes. When I don't respond right away, she continues. "I bet your dad would feel a lot better without you driving all over hell and back. Early in the morning, late at night..." She trails off. I don't respond right away, just chew on my lower lip, wondering if she'll take no for an answer. Wondering if no is the answer I want to give. "You know," Jasper begins quietly, "if you didn't have to drive so much, I could schedule you four days a week instead of three. If you want." He shrugs.

I could use the money. How I could use the money. "Let me think about it." * The bathroom is small - a toilet, sink, and shower - and the walls are painted pale green, the tile white and stark. It's impeccably clean. I've purchased a second set of toiletries so I don't have to haul those things back and forth. What doesn't go into the small cabinet above the sink goes in the shower. I set my toothbrush in the cabinet then change my mind and place it on the edge of the sink. Then back in the cabinet. I unnecessarily straighten the hand towels. In the bedroom, I put away the socks, underwear, and pajamas I've brought. The jeans and shirts for the next three days go in the next drawer. These I'll have to carry back and forth. I settle onto the edge of the bed and stare at the bare walls; they're painted a shade of deep blue. Alice has invited me to decorate however I want. I have a few photos I've brought with me. One of Mike and me drinking beer and watching the marathon. Another of my Mom and Phil in the living room of their house in Jacksonville. Alice already has a few artsy-looking, black and white photographs hanging up. I wonder how my travel-worn candids will look by comparison. The bedspread here is in shades of blue and ridiculously soft. I don't really know what a high thread count signifies, but I bet this bedding has got one. My finger absently traces the vaguely floral pattern as I survey the rest of the room. It's tasteful - ridiculously so - yet doesn't feel the least bit sterile. It's the kind of room I might have for myself if I had the money and Alice's sense of color and style. I take the Far Side day calendar I bought at the bookstore out of my bag and set it on the small desk in the corner. It's already February; at some point I'll have to rip off the pages for the days that have already passed. I sit on the edge of the bed and stare at the box. Right now, sitting there alone on the desk, that calendar is the saddest thing I've ever seen. I bite at the inside of my cheek. I'm the kid caught in the middle of a divorce all over again. Four days in one house, three in the other. I can hear Alice in the kitchen, the pots clanking as she attempts dinner. There's a shriek and then the crash of something hitting the floor. I can't help but smile and get to my feet to help. * From my vantage point at the front counter, I can see every part of the store except for the used book annex in the back room. Jasper is leaning against a shelf, talking to a regular customer. They gesture and laugh like old buddies. Angela is pushing the cart around the store, returning books to their proper places. She looks preoccupied today, her already thin face drawn more tightly.

I'm tired, already. There's a dull ache in my feet as I stand and close my eyes, inhaling the good smell of books. The music from the overhead speakers lulls me, pulling me into a doze even as I stand. A sudden explosion of Jasper's laughter jerks me awake, my eyes flying open. "Oh!" My hand flies to my throat. Someone's standing at the counter. "Sorry, sorry, God," I stutter and stumble as I punch my ID number into the register. "How long have you been standing there? I mean, have you been waiting long?" I fumble, lifting my eyes to the customer's face. Holy shit. The customer is a he. A youngish he. And he is fucking gorgeous. His head shakes infinitesimally, and his eyes meet mine - but only for a fraction of a second. Our eye contact is so brief I can't even register what color his are. I want to stare but can't. My face burns, and my eyes flick back and forth from his book to the register, to his face and back again. The machine hums as it spits out his receipt. "Would you like a bag?" My mouth is clumsy. "No, thank you." His voice is so soft that my body automatically leans forward in order to hear. I see him tense as I get nearer, and I purposefully step back. "Uh, there you go then," I say quietly, tucking a bookmark and his receipt into the front cover. "Thank you. Have a nice day." My words are automatic. "Thank you." His voice is softer still. I openly stare as he walks to the door, then carefully turn my head away when he exits onto the sidewalk. From the corner of my eye, I watch him stride past the plate glass window, his head down, one hand in a pocket while the other clutches his book. I try to remember the title, but can't. As soon as he's out of sight, I can't conjure up his face. I can recall the shock of reddishbrown hair, a certain heaviness in his brow, and although I can't remember the color of his eyes, I remember that I could feel them, feel them all the way down into my gut. * "Bella." I make a quick quarter turn at the sound of my name. Seth leans from out of the doorway of the stockroom. His large hands grip the edge of the doorframe, his body filling up all the space, his head brushing against the top of the doorway.

He grins. "Where you off to?" I twist my mouth to suppress my smile, point down the hall. "Bathroom. Gotta pee. Beer, ya know?" I'm a little drunker than I thought. "Yeah," he says with a laugh. "I know." His fingers grip the doorframe more tightly, and he leans back, away from me. My hips and feet move me closer, keeping the distance between us constant. And then he pulls himself upright again, and we're much closer. I have to tip my head back to see his face. "What're you doing?" I ask, poking his chest. Another grin and he wraps his warm, dry hand around my finger, gives it a gentle squeeze. "We ran out of SoCo." I raise an eyebrow. "Southern Comfort?" He shrugs. "Bachelor party." I nod and look away, playing casual. Two laughing girls pass us on their way to the bathroom. Placing my hands on his broad shoulders I push at him, trying to see around his body. "What else ya got in there?" Seth pretends that my ineffectual pushes actually carry some weight and moves back. I mirror his steps. "Just your usual bar stuff," he says as I look around. "Liquor, beer, kegs..." I turn away from him, but can feel him standing just behind me. I love this moment - the moment just before. The moment in which you know something is going to happen, when you know that the other person knows it, too. That aching, painful minute of anticipation when your body feels like a live wire. "Bella." His voice is soft. "Hm?" I turn, feel the palm of his hand curve around my neck, smell the alcohol that's splashed onto his clothes as he's worked behind the bar, feel the damp of his sweat through his t-shirt as my arm wraps around his back. His mouth is soft, and when I feel his tongue, just so, I feel it between my legs. Giggling, I push him away, head for the door. My whole body jerks pleasantly when he grabs the back of my belt. His voice is low in my ear. "Stick around until last call."

I keep my head down, but I'm blushing, my cheeks flushed and hot from the excitement, the nearness of him, the booze. When I'm done in the bathroom, the door to the stockroom is shut tight, and Seth is back behind the bar. I finish my beer and order another. At last call, the crowd thins and Seth wanders over to our table, tells us we're welcome to come to his place after. Ben begs off; Jasper and Alice are tired; I say I'm game. Seth wanders back to the bar to finish cleaning up. Jasper leans over the bill, doing the math for his and Alice's portion. Ben tosses some cash on the table, says goodnight. Alice catches my eye. Filthy whore, she mouths, wearing a devilish grin. Fuck you, I mouth back, trying not to laugh. "What's up with you two?" Jasper asks, looking back and forth between us. "Bella, you owe about fifteen, not including tip." I dig into my wallet, avoiding his question. "How are you getting home later?" he asks, sorting and facing the bills out of habit. I shrug. "Seth can give me a ride," I say, nonchalant. "Oh, I bet he can," Alice leers. We burst out laughing. Waving his hand, Jasper scoots out of the booth. "Whatever. I don't need to know. Night, Bella." Alice reaches out for the hand he offers. "Yeah, night, Bella." She snickers. I wave my middle finger at her. Seth's apartment is a few blocks away in a renovated brick building with an old-fashioned elevator that makes me think of Boston. Once inside, he lifts me up and pushes me against the brick wall next to his door. No one's ever done this before - hoisted me up around their waist - and I quite like it. I can feel his erection pushing into the seams of my jeans. It feels lovely. I open my eyes and look out into the room as his lips find my neck. It's a loft, just one big room. The ceilings are high and the floor seems strangely far away from me. "I'm so tall right now," I remark, giggling. Seth laughs into my neck. Pulling back, he looks me in the eye. "So, Miss Bella. What are we doing here tonight?"

I shrug. "Little of this, little of that." He raises an eyebrow. "Naked this and that?" "Maybe partially naked this and that?" I offer. "If that's cool." "I'm down. Partially naked is good." He pushes into me and I groan. "That feels pretty good with all the clothes on," I mumble. In one smooth motion, Seth steps back from the wall and, sliding an arm around the backs of my thighs, hefts me up over his shoulder. He carries me over to his bed and tosses me gently onto it. I bounce on the mattress, laughing. "Mr. Clearwater, I do declare," I say in my best southern belle voice. "I'm not used to being handled so roughly." His grin is gleaming white as he climbs onto the bed and toward me. "I can be gentle," he says softly. "If you like." My fingers lace through his roughly cut, chin-length hair and pull him down to me. Kissing him is pleasant, easy. I like how he leisurely moves his hands over my clothes at first, and then under them with more insistence. Nearly half an hour passes before his shirt and my shirt are on the floor. Another ten or fifteen minutes for our pants, but my bra is off only seconds after that. Even in the dim light of the room, his skin is a sharp contrast to mine. I like how his hand looks cupping my pale breast, his forearm and wrist against my belly when he slides his hand inside my underwear. He rubs me with inexplicable patience until I can't take it anymore and use my own hand to cum. "Goddamn," he whispers after I orgasm, and we laugh together. His cock is smooth and hard in my fist, and I stroke him until he cums on my belly. He cracks jokes as he cleans me off with a damp cloth, and then we lie in the dark, talking. "So why didn't you stay in Boston until you found out about school?" he asks. As we talk, he fiddles with my hair, something I find both amusing and befuddling. "I don't know. It's expensive. And I'd been there for four and a half years. I get antsy if I stay in one place too long." "You move a lot as a kid?" "Kind of." "How many places have you lived?" "Just Forks and Phoenix. Jacksonville the first few summers during college. And Boston, of course. My mom didn't buy a house until I was in high school, and we changed apartments a

lot. I had a few different schools. And I was here every summer." I reach out with my hand and tap the end of his nose with my finger. Seth smiles, dodging my next tap. "I can't imagine that. I've lived here my whole life." "Yeah?" He rolls onto his back and brushes his hair off his forehead. "Well, we lived on the rez until I was twelve. But that's only about an hour and a half away." "You ever think about moving?" "Naw," he answers quickly, shaking his head back and forth. "My parents need me here to run the bar." He's quiet for a moment. "Besides, I don't know what I'd do with myself somewhere else, especially a city. I'm too big to be stuck with that many people." He grins and I laugh. "So you're a model child then," I tease. This amuses him. "I guess." "Sticking around the hometown to keep up the family business, being dependable and responsible, makin' the ‘rents proud..." Chuckling, he picks up a pillow and swats me with it. I push back at him and roll onto my side, propping myself up on an elbow. "And I'm the worst daughter in the world, moving to the other side of the country while my father is all alone." Seth lifts his head and gives me a quick kiss. "Yeah, I bet your dad is just totally pissed that his daughter is a smarty-pants college girl." "College girl?" I ask witheringly, but still smiling. "That makes me sound so... I don't know. So, ‘I go to Cabo for Spring Break' or something." "You mean you're not like that?" he asks, feigning innocence. "Oh, fuck off, Clearwater." I flop onto my back. One arm is slung across my stomach and he pulls me across the mattress. His body is solid and warm on my bare skin. "I'm just giving you shit, Bella." He kisses my shoulder. "I bet you were one of those Habitat for Humanity kids, huh? Building houses in New Orleans or some shit on your Spring Break?" I stick out my tongue. "Only my freshman and sophomore years."

Seth's fingers extract a ribbon of my hair, lightly twirl it around. "See? You're a regular good Samaritan." "Jesus was a carpenter," I say seriously and we both laugh. My face hurts from smiling. Lying here with Seth - the talking, the kissing, the groping - it's all very easy. Noncommittal. We're silent for a moment. "How old are you?" I ask suddenly, turning to look at him. The question catches him off guard. "I'm, uh, I'm twenty-one." My eyebrows shoot up. "Really?" "Yup. Just turned. Wanna see my ID?" "Wow." "Wow what?" he asks. I shake my head. "Nothing. It's just, you're almost three years younger than me but you're like a grown up. Responsible and shit." There's a gentle tugging at my scalp as he continues to play with my hair. "I do have wisdom beyond my years," he jokes. "You really do." I regard him seriously. "You're way more mature than me, that's obvious." He shrugs. "I dunno. I've been working fulltime at the bar since I was 18, been keeping the books for the past two years." "Is your dad going to give you the business soon?" "He kind of already has. He had a heart attack a while back, so he didn't have much choice." I watch his face as he speaks. "That's scary; I'm sorry. How's he doing now?" Seth licks his lips. "Better. Much better." An amused look ghosts across his face. "He's a health and fitness nut now. Makes me run and lift weights with him. Keeps telling me I need to eat more soy protein." This makes me laugh. "Sorry for bringing up your dad. I didn't know," I say lamely. "Not a big deal at all. I just assumed you knew; it's pretty much common knowledge around town." He's quiet for a moment. "Pretty serious talk for the situation." "Just a bit heavy, yeah..."

He pats my head. "On a lighter note, your hair looks fabulous." Confused, I place my hand to my scalp. "Did you just braid my hair?" I ask, incredulous and giggling. His smile flashes. "Just a little bit on the side. It's a good look for you." "So you work at the bar but secretly want to be a hairdresser?" I tease. "Or grew up with an older sister. And I was the only one around who had long enough hair and who'd sit still while she did it." I'm still laughing. "You're a man of many talents." "Allow me to demonstrate," he jokes, and leans down to kiss me. We intermittently kiss and talk until it starts to get light outside, and then he drives me to Alice's. The apartment is quiet and still, the open door to Alice's room telling me they've stayed at Jasper's. I brush my teeth and wash my face, change into pajamas and drink a glass of water in the kitchen. I refill my cup and crawl into bed, setting my alarm for 2:00. The sheet twists around me, and I can still smell Seth in my hair. The scent makes me smile.

Chapter Three Today is going to be one of those days. I can feel it. I feel fucking fantastic. I laugh out loud and sing along to my iPod on the drive to Port Angeles. It's just after 8:30 on Thursday morning - a gloriously rainy, early-May day. The road is slick with the rain, and the clouds are dense and gray. Today I feel unusually alert and awake. I shout - at no one and nothing in particular, taking both hands off of the wheel and raising them above my head like I'm on a roller coaster. The sun is threatening to reveal itself as I pull my truck into an empty parking spot in the alley behind the bookstore. I slide out of the cab, my feet hitting the damp pavement with a satisfying smack; I strap my bag across my shoulder. As I circle around to the front of the building, I realize I'm humming to myself and laugh out loud. I let myself into the store, remembering to lock the door behind me. A quick glance at the clock tells me it's almost exactly 9:30. We open at ten. "Well, well, well. Look who's on time," Jasper's voice drawls from behind the counter. "That's two weeks in a row. I'm impressed."

Without turning around, I raise my hand over my head, middle finger extended, and continue making my way back to the break room to ditch my bag and get my badge. "Watch yourself, Swan. I'm a compassionate man, but I'm still your manager," he hollers at me. His laughter follows me into the back. I refill my travel mug with the coffee Jasper puts on every morning when he arrives. Cash drawer in hand, iPod in my back pocket, I stride back to the front of the store. "Count me in?" I ask, and bend down under the counter to hook my music up to the store's system. It's Thursday, and Thursdays are Bella's day. There's a knock on the glass, and Jasper hops over the counter to let Angela and Ben in. I note that they're arriving to work at the same time and smile; that's probably not a coincidence. I'm assuming either Jasper or I is going to have to give them a gentle (perhaps not so gentle) push to get them moving. "...and then," Ben says as they maneuver through the shelves, "then he just shrugs and lays down right on top of it." Angela howls with laughter. "We need to get them drunk, then put them alone together in a room," Jasper observes as he resumes his place beside me. I snort. "Or a closet." He laughs and closes the register. The morning passes. I man the front, answering phone calls, ringing people up, and taking care of special orders. At noon, Ben relieves me, and I head back to the used book section to shelve some new acquisitions. My lunch break is at 1:30, and by 2:00 I'm back on the floor. I glance at my watch - again - and my stomach clenches pleasantly. "Relax, Bella," I mutter under my breath. I understand that this preoccupation with a guy I don't know is simply that - a preoccupation. I suppose it's just a way to pass the time; I suppose it's harmless, really. In Boston, there were so many boys who read, who hung out in bookstores and record stores, who had messy hair and brooding dispositions. I couldn't walk two blocks in Allston or Cambridge without running smack into one. But here? Here, these boys are precious commodities. Here, these boys (or this boy, rather) are the little flashes of brilliance that break through the slate-gray haze that could consume this place. Seth... Seth is sweet. He's witty and fun and kind, but he's not like this boy. I can't explain it.

With a quick shake of my head, I step up to the counter and chat briefly with Angela. I ever so casually bring up Ben, and she ducks her head, flustered. The store is only moderately busy. Our business will pick up considerably in about an hour. I've also been told that the tourist season doesn't really start until later in the month. I'm not particularly looking forward to it. It's almost four when I'm helping a middle-aged woman check to see if we have some titles in store. Thankfully, she's got ISBN numbers, which makes my job infinitely easier. She's a sweet woman (she keeps calling me a dear). I don't notice him until he's right in front of me. The heat in my face tells me I've already gone bright red. I can't imagine what I must look like. I've spent all afternoon practicing cool nonchalance and now I'm standing here, staring at him, with absolutely nothing to say. As if he'd notice. He keeps his eyes down as he slides a book across the counter toward me. I could almost set my watch by this guy. He comes in nearly every Thursday and Sunday between 3:30 and 4:00, browses for about ten minutes, selects a book (always used, never new), brings it up to the counter, pays for it in cash, and doesn't get a bag. My eyes are dancing nervously across his face when he lifts his head and stares at me. I feel my stomach lurch; I can see his eyes this time, and they're green - really, really, impossibly green. Involuntarily, I smile. His gaze darts behind my head, anxious, and I wonder why he's looked up in the first place. Then I realize I'm just standing there, staring like an idiot, and not ringing up his book. "Oh, sorry," I mumble, flustered and hating myself. I try to take as much time with his purchase as I can without looking like an incompetent moron. Too late, Bella. The cover of his book brings the smile back to my face. "You like Bukowski." It's a statement, not a question. His eyes come to mine, but the expression is so blank that I'm not sure if he's seeing or hearing me. I try again. "If you like Bukowski, you should read John Fante. Same press, similar writing styles, subject matter..." I trail off, hoping he'll speak. No dice. "I mean, they aren't the same, of course, but they give off a similar vibe." Vibe? Stupid Bella. I'm rambling now. "Or something." He looks back down at the counter. My embarrassment gives way, partially, to annoyance. Would it kill him to acknowledge my presence? I snatch the receipt from the register with a snap and tuck it in his book. He probably has dozens more bookmarks than he needs since we give one out with every purchase, but I grab a small stack and shove them all inside the book anyway, out of spite.

"Thanks. Have a great day," I say in a voice so saccharine it's borderline sarcastic. I can't tell if he notices. Without a word, he takes his book and leaves the store, his eyes trained on the ground. I roll my eyes and lean against the counter. You like Bukowski, I hear myself say and cringe. Of course he does; he's a literate, twenty something guy with messy hair and a sour disposition. He's probably got Hank's craggy face tattooed on his ass. But God, if he isn't absolutely gorgeous. I sigh. I don't even know his name. Some days I hope he'll pay with a credit card, but I can tell by now that he's a cash-only kind of guy. If he's a regular customer, Jasper probably knows who he is, but asking is the quickest way to let on what a gigantic, idiotic crush I have. So that nixes that idea. I sigh again. There's always Sunday. * "You know I have nowhere to go in this thing, right?" Alice refuses to meet my eyes; her gaze is wholly fixed on the fabric in front of her. "A minor detail," she says, her hand reaching out to pinch back excess cloth around my waist. "And don't call your dress a ‘thing'." "Fine." I stare straight ahead, avoiding my reflection in the mirror in front of me. Instead, I focus on the room around us. One wall is devoted to her sketches, one to a bank of mirrors; the other two are covered with photos, drawings, paintings, and other kinds of artwork. It's a gigantic, chaotic, flawlessly arranged collage. "Stop fidgeting." One hand stills my hips. With a finger and thumb, she extracts a pin from the pincushion and slides it into the fabric. I sigh, concentrating on not shifting my weight or breathing too deeply. "Are you sure I can't raise the hem a little?" she asks. "No." "Not even just a tiny bit?" "Ask me one more time and it goes all the way to my ankles." Alice titters, moves behind me, pins something else. I count to thirty. "Are you almost done?" "No. Quit asking." Twisting my neck, I look down over my shoulder at the top of her head. "Sorry. Just wondering how long you planned on playing life-size Barbie with me."

"I should stick you for that," Alice warns. "And don't twist your head or you're going to mess up the hemline. Look forward." I do as requested and stare at the wall. "Okay," she proclaims, clapping her hands. "I just need to fix the hem and take it in a little bit across here and we should be good." "Excellent." I survey my appearance in the full-length mirror. I can tell already the skirt is going to be shorter than I'm used to, but that's all right. It's not like I'll be wearing it anywhere soon. In the dressing room, I cautiously shimmy out of the dress, trying not to disturb any of Alice's carefully placed pins. I return the garment to its hanger and smooth the fabric with my hand. It's a lovely, dark purple material with a dull luster. The bell on the front door dings as I'm pulling up my jeans. I put my shoes back on and listen to the distant and garbled sound of Alice's voice as she speaks with a customer. Not wanting to disturb, I stay in the back room, my presence hidden by the heavy curtain hanging in the doorway between the two rooms of the shop. The sketches tacked to the wall are good. Better than good. I know shit about fashion and designing, but I can tell that Alice is more than "just" a dressmaker. Each sheet of heavy, white paper displays a sketch in her swooping, steady hand. Some of the drawings are accompanied by swatches of fabric. I lean in closer, focusing until I can see the texture of the cloth, of the paper. A block of purple catches my eye. My gaze settles on a sketch of a dress. I look over my shoulder to the garment I've just hung up. They're the same. I make a note to try not to give Alice any more grief about wanting to make this for me. The bell dings again and I emerge from the back room. The front of the store is filled with the grayish glow that passes for sunshine around here. Alice is bent over the counter, scribbling. I wander around, placing my hands on bolts of fabric on shelves, dipping my fingers into open drawers of buttons, tugging at spools of ribbon and lace. There are display cases showing off the jewelry she makes. On the top of each case, in the center, is a dress form covered by one of Alice's designs. I wish - and not for the first time - that I could make things with my hands. The only thing I've every sown (apart from replacing the odd lost button or stitching up a small hole in a shirt) is a pair of flannel shorts in seventh grade Home Ec. I watch Alice as she pivots on one foot and turns to the large calendar hung on the wall behind her. She's unintentionally graceful. I bet she took dance lessons as a child. She writes something on the calendar and then adds this most recent customer's name to her registry. Her organization and neatness remind me of the precise order of Jasper's office at work.

"Yes, I know. I'm anal," she says without turning around. I have to laugh. "I didn't say anything." "You were going to." "Yeah, but it's only cause I'm jealous." "Of my anal retention?" This elicits a snort from me. "Exactly." There are still a few minutes before I have to head into work, and Alice's shop is only three blocks from the bookstore. I wander down the sidewalk, lingering in front of store windows and peering inside. A few people exit and enter the businesses on the main drag. I'm struck (and not for the first time) by how quiet it is, even in the middle of the day. I wonder how long it will be before I no longer notice this. I look up and discover that I'm standing in front of the bookstore. Through the glass I watch Ben ringing up customers, his smile big and goofy. Sweet kid, I think. Grabbing the brass handle, I open the door, and step inside. I stow my shit in the back room and make my way back up to the registers. "You're killing me with this music," Ben says dramatically, draping his torso over the counter. Jasper doesn't look up; instead, he continues looking through a stack of receipts. "Isn't your shift almost over?" I ask. "I have another hour. Another hour of this." He points up at the speaker hanging from the ceiling. Jasper sighs. "Ben," he begins. "Yes?" "What's the rule here?" "Everybody gets a day," Ben mumbles, rolling his eyes. "And what day is your day?" Ben scoffs. "Sunday." "And what day is today?" Ben gives an exaggerated sigh. "Friday."

I stifle my laugh; he sounds like a ten-year-old kid. Lifting his head, Jasper arranges his face into a look of mock curiosity. "And whose day is Friday?" "Yours." Jasper gives a little gasp of surprise. "It's my day?" Ben rolls his eyes again, but he's trying not to laugh. "Well, if it's my day, I guess we're going to keep on listening to CCR." He pats Ben on the head. "Now go clean up Young Adult. Someone's made a mess of it." * After we close, Jasper and I head to the bar. We're just a few feet from the front door when I hear a low voice behind me. "Better back off my boyfriend, bitch." I laugh out loud. "You're so predictable," I sneer, turning around. Alice responds by sticking her tongue out at me. "Better save that tongue for someone who can use it," I tease and yank the door open. The familiar smell of cedar and booze fills my nose. "Hey, Bella," Seth shouts out to me, and immediately turns to the cooler to pull out a bottle of Red Stripe. This gesture of familiarity makes me smile. The wicked grin he gives me makes me blush. I take the bottle from the bar and head toward our usual table as Seth greets Jasper and Alice. Angela and Ben are already there, and I have to stop myself from laughing. They're sitting across from one another - Angela sipping her glass of Sprite, Ben wreaking havoc on the label of his bottle - both looking equally thrilled yet mortified at having been alone with each other, even if only for a short while. I greet both of them, and their faces melt with relief at the sound of my voice. "You kids haven't been causing trouble have you?" Ben ducks his head, muttering to himself. It's after ten now, and the bar has filled up around us. I can recognize some of the people, but in reality I only know a few names. Someone plays "Mississippi Queen" on the jukebox and I smile, pulling out my phone. Am at the bar. Miss. Queen is playing.

Mike texts me back almost immediately. O, prof dunheim. think I have a chance now that im graduated? I laugh. Absolutely not. What f i sernade her w miss qu? Are you drunk? Fri nite. yes obv. u didnt answer. ? Don't think shed appreciate you making fun of her southern heritage. ! not mking fun. im apprectng hr culture. You are delusional. Pshaw. mst do shots now. love you. Love you too. I wonder how Mike would mesh with my life here, if at all. I bet he'd love Jasper. He'd probably fall IN love with Alice. That thought makes me smile. Time passes. Angela and Ben are discussing the pros and cons of the local community college; I tune out their conversation. I watch Alice slide her hand across Jasper's back and wrap her arm securely around his waist. She leans into his ear and says something I can't make out. He blushes and swirls the ice cubes at the bottom of his water glass. A twinge of jealousy ripples in my belly. It would be nice to have someone look at me the way my friends look at one another. I sigh. "Tired, Bella?" Alice asks, resting her head on Jasper's shoulder. "A little," I admit. Jasper chuckles. "You want to go home? Or do you want to wait for Seth to get off work?" he teases. I roll my eyes in exasperation. I'm feigning indifference and hoping the dim light of the bar hides my red face. On cue, as if he and Jasper had worked it out together beforehand, Seth appears at our table.

"How you guys doing?" He flashes a smile; his teeth are brilliantly white against his dark skin. His gaze moves to my face and I blush harder. "We're great," Alice chirps. "But I think Bella could use another." Seth looks from her to me. "Yeah? You in it to win it tonight, Bella?" "She sure is." Jasper now. I shoot him a death glare even though he's right - I am going to stick around until the bar closes. Because I'm a sad, sad, horny girl. Tonight, after Seth and I fool around, he gets me high. "So, when do you leave?" I lift my hair off my neck and shoulders, thinking. "I don't know yet. Probably mid-August." He hands me the pipe and lighter, nods. I inhale, hold it, exhale. "Have you spent a lot of time in Seattle before?" he asks, taking the pipe from my outstretched hand. "Sort of. We went to at least a couple of Mariner's games every summer I was here. I think we went a few other times for other stuff - like museums or whatever, but that probably stopped after middle school." I lean back into the couch and pull the hem of Seth's t-shirt over my bare legs. He sits next to me in his underwear; his shoulders are so broad it's obscene. "Well, if you need advice about neighborhoods for looking for apartments or anything, I could probably help. Or point you to somebody who can. I've got a couple of friends who've lived there a few years." I smile. "Thanks, Seth." I take back the pipe and put it to my lips. "So, there gonna be lots of hot, smart guys in this program?" I half cough, half laugh, expelling a cloud of smoke. He laughs at me. "I have no idea. If it's like my undergrad, I'd say it's going to be more women than men. I'll probably have to go trawling for men in other departments." "Anyrate," he says, "you'll probably find guys more to your liking there than here." My eyes narrow slightly and I look closely at his face. "What does that mean?" He shoots me an amused look. "Oh, come on, Bella. I love it here, but it's not like it's a fortress of intellectuals. Just regular dudes."

I snort. "And what does THAT mean?" I ask, incredulous. "I'm not into ‘regular dudes'?" "Course not," he replies, shaking his head. "But you have different...standards than most of the girls in this town." "Standards? So, I'm a snob?" I giggle; I'm stoned. "No, no, no," he responds quickly. "Not at all. But really. Is working at the bookstore and hanging out at my parents' bar what you want to do for the rest of your life?" "There's nothing wrong with working at a bookstore," I counter. "Or hanging out at your parents' bar." "Never said there was. But could you do it for the next thirty years?" I open my mouth, but stop to think for a second. "No," I admit. "Probably not." "See?" "But that doesn't mean I couldn't meet someone interesting here," I qualify. "I like you just fine." He grins. "Likewise. But you and I both know it's a particular kind of like, right?" I nod. "Right." "You like kissing me." I nod again. "And talking to me." Another nod. "But you don't want to be my girlfriend. And that's not exactly what I'm looking for either - no offense." I lift my hand. "None taken." He shifts closer to me on the couch, slides his hand between my backside and the couch cushions. "Your ass, on the other hand... Your ass could be my girlfriend." I burst out laughing. "I'm glad at least one part of me qualifies." His mouth quickly silences my laughter. * "Bella," a tinkling voice singsongs in my ear. My hand reaches out to push away the source of the offending noise, but it flails - useless in the air. "Mmphff," I complain, my face down in the pillow. "Bellaaaaa..." That voice again. Resigned, I lift my head and regard her pixie face scornfully. "Yes, Alice?" I ask.

She's perched at the end of my bed on all fours. "Are you fucking Seth Clearwater?" "What?" "Are. You. Fucking. Seth. Clearwater," she enunciates. I interrupt her. "I heard you the first time, Alice." Turning my head, I bury my face back into my pillow. "You asked what," she says witheringly. I don't reply, but I can hear her shifting on the mattress. "So, are you?" "Alice! God." I roll onto my back, aware that I'm probably awake for the day now. "It's just a question," she scoffs. "Yeah. A very personal question." "Bella," she whines. "Let me live vicariously through you, please?" Her face is so pathetic it almost makes me laugh. "No, I'm not having sex with Seth." She mulls this over for a moment. "Why not?" I roll my eyes. "I thought you said that me living here didn't mean that we'd have to talk about this stuff." "Oh, please. I lied. Besides, that was before. And now it's now. So tell me now why you're not having sex with him." Shrugging, I look up to the ceiling. "I don't know. We're not dating, we're just...Sex is way too complicated for the situation." "Okay." She's quiet for a moment and I take this opportunity to close my eyes. If she leaves, I might get some more sleep. "Are you going to fuck him?" "Alice!" I sit up, propped on my elbows. "For the love of God, woman; personal boundaries." "I don't have any," she replies, smiling innocently, then flopping down next to me on the bed.

I find her fascinating - partly because I've never had a close female friend before, partly because - sometimes - she behaves like a bizarre little alien still learning the rules of acceptable social interaction. "He's really hot." My eyes roll again. "I'm aware of this." "I mean, really hot." I smile. He is cute. "And young. What is he, nineteen?" "He's twenty-one!" But my smile gets bigger. We both stare at the ceiling for a while. Alice speaks first. "You should fuck him." I twist onto my side. "I know, right?" Covering my mouth with a hand, I giggle nervously. "But, God, I don't know. That just seems like so much work." I sigh. "I like how it is now. Low stakes, very little pressure. It's good for me." To my right, Alice seems to be considering this. "Yeah," she says eventually, "maybe you shouldn't fuck him." Reaching behind my head, I pull out a pillow and press it to her face. She shrieks and slides out from underneath it, heading for my door. * "Is debunk a word?" Charlie pushes at the ends of his moustache. "Dad! You're not supposed to tell me what letters you have." His face is the picture of genuine surprise. "I didn't tell you my letters, Bells. Just asked if debunk was a word." He goes back to eyeing his tiles. "I can figure out what letters you have based on - never mind." I smile. "Yes, debunk is a word." "I thought so," he muses. "It just looks so damn goofy all by itself." He looks up. "And now you're laughing at me." The laughter falls out of me. "Sorry, sorry."

He's trying not to smile. "I'm glad I amuse you." With the very tips of his fingers, he delicately sets the tiles on the board. "Debunk," he announces. "Nice work, Pops." Shooting me a look, he selects replacement tiles from the box lid. "Don't get smart with me, young lady. Not everyone has the luxury of a college education." "Well," I say, alternately surveying my letters and the state of the board, "you have guns. Many, many guns. You win." Charlie grunts. "Don't know why I agreed to this in the first place," he mutters. "Because there's a rain delay?" He arches an eyebrow and gives me yet another look. "Trick," I announce, taking my turn. We play in silence for a while. "What'd you say your manager's name was, again?" I don't look up. "Jasper." "Last name." "Whitlock." My eyes move to Charlie's face. "Why?" He scratches his chin. "Knew I recognized the name." "Recognized his name from what?" I ask, rearranging my tiles. "I saw him pulled from a car wreck about eleven years ago." "What?" Charlie now has my undivided attention. Jasper's never said anything about a car wreck. "Used to be a hell of a distance runner before he flipped his car over a guard rail." "He was a runner?" "Yep. Ran for Forks High School. Had a scholarship to...the University of Oregon, I believe. Full ride. Until he broke his leg in three places, of course." "You're shitting me," I say, incredulous.

Charlie's eyes are sharp. "Sorry," I mumble. "I just had no idea. He's never said a word about it." "I might not talk about it either if I were him. The whole town was pretty devastated. He was something of a golden boy around here." I've forgotten about our game of Scrabble. It seems perfectly logical that Jasper wouldn't run around advertising something like that, but it seems strange to me that in the four months I've known him this has never come up. "Do you know what caused the accident?" Charlie smiles ruefully. "Kid was trying to avoid a deer in the road." "Jesus," I whisper. Nodding, Charlie takes his turn. "Let that be a lesson to you. If a deer wanders into the road, just hit the damn thing. Your truck's built like a tank; it probably won't even leave a dent." And with that, the subject is closed. But I can't shake the shit feeling that's creating a pit in my stomach. I think of Jasper's long, gangly body and see him as a seventeen-year-old boy, running in those ridiculous shorts. I wonder what it must feel like to have the course of your life altered so drastically, so irrevocably, in an instant. We finish the game and I head to my room. I've left the windows open, and the space is cool and dark, quiet. Without turning on the lights, I walk to the window next to my bed and kneel down in front of it. Outside, the wind pushes gently on the trees. It had been raining, but now the clouds have mostly cleared; only a few vague shapes obscure the stars and the moon. I can hear the last of the rain dripping from the eaves of the house, the branches and leaves of the trees. The yard is empty save for Charlie's cruiser and my truck. Folding my arms on the sill, I turn my body and rest my cheek in the crook of one elbow. The breeze is chilly but feels good on my face; it smells like pine trees and wet. And the quiet - the unbelievable, intense quiet of this place. I feel it as much as I hear it, soft and heavy. After so many years of cars and trains and busses and the voices of people - so many people, people everywhere and all the time - the silence of this place is simultaneously relieving and disconcerting. * I'm watching Jasper closely; I can't help myself. I'm looking for signs of his accident - scars, a slight hitch in his step from the broken leg. But there's really nothing. His skin is smooth, his strides across the store purposeful and sure. I wonder if he still runs, if only recreationally.

That afternoon I work in the back room. Jasper's been to an estate sale this week, some rambling, old place up in the mountains about an hour from here. The owner was a retired postal worker who bought the land when he was young and it was cheap, and filled the house with books. Jasper says he'd never seen so many books in one person's house before. There are several boxes of them to put out on the shelves. The books themselves smell of the usual old paper, but there's another scent clinging to the pages - a scent I can't really identify. Something almost like sage but not quite. Though some are fairly old, the books Jasper purchased are in amazingly good condition. I sort through each box carefully, inventorying the contents and creating two piles: one pile for storage, another pile to take out onto the floor. The collection is eclectic - some standard canon; some genre fiction; some popular, literary fiction; some small press stuff. This man, whoever he was, was a voracious reader. I load up a cart and push it onto the floor. This particular cart is on its last legs; the front right wheel wobbles crazily as I roll through the store. I stock the books carefully but quickly, occasionally having to rearrange the contents of the shelves. It's sometimes tedious work, but I don't mind so much. "Excuse me," I mumble quietly, stepping around a patron to put a copy of Heart of Darkness on the shelf. My head is down, but the smell of him nearly knocks me over. He smells like the outdoors - like rain kicking up dirt; like good, clean sweat. There's something else there, too. A strong scent of soap with a touch of cigarette smoke. I know who it is without looking up, and I train my eyes on the cracked and faded leather of the toes of his boots, the threadbare laces, the fraying ends of his jeans. He exhales softly. It's almost a sigh; the faintest trace of his real voice colors his breath, and the few words he's spoken to me ring sharply and suddenly clear in my head. I grab three more books from the cart, indiscriminately. It takes me a few tries to successfully read and register the titles on the spine. The Vonnegut takes me farther down the shelves, away from him, but as I crouch down and slide the book into place, I'm afforded the opportunity of looking up at him from a safe distance. His face is set, hard. He's examining the books in front of him with intense concentration. His hands pull a novel from the shelf; he flips it over, quickly scans the back and then opens to a random page; reads. From here the green of his eyes isn't nearly as intense, but his mouth opens slightly as he skims across the page. His tongue wets his lower lip. Trying not to call attention to myself, I pull my eyes away. Doris Lessing. The next book puts me just a few feet away. I meander, looking at the shelves blindly while surreptitiously watching him from the corner of my eye. The collar of his shirt juts haphazardly out over the shoulder of his hooded sweatshirt. My hand tingles with the urge to straighten it for him. The book slides neatly into place. I look down at the last - Paul Auster.

I walk as closely behind him as I can get without touching, tip my head slightly to catch another bit of his smell. My body thrills at being this close to him, and I want to touch him badly. So, so badly. What the fuck is wrong with me? He hasn't done anything - hasn't looked at me, hasn't talked to me - but his mere presence today feels like an invasion of my personal space. And pleasantly so. When I walk back to the cart, I subtly lift my eyes and look at his face. The cut of his jaw is severe, the angle only slightly softened by the stubble on his cheeks. He turns quickly on his heel, book in hand, and heads for the registers. He's come and gone so quickly, it's like he wasn't there at all. There's a gnawing feeling in my stomach, but I smile. I continue shelving books, avoiding the space he's occupied as if he were still there.

Chapter Four Wake up. Open eyes. Roll over. Stare at the clock. Sigh. Rub my eyes. Stare at the ceiling. Yawn. Throw off the covers and sit up. Get out of bed. Trip over yesterday's clothes. Walk to the bathroom. Take a piss. Flush the toilet and regard my face in the mirror. Walk to the living room. Sit on the edge of the couch with my elbows on my knees and smoke a cigarette. Tug at my hair. Think about my day. Crush the cigarette in the ashtray. Walk back to the bathroom. Take a shit. Take a shower. Have a shave. Get dressed. Leave the apartment. Smoke another cigarette. Go to the diner. Sit at the counter. Order eggs (scrambled), toast (wheat), sausage (links), and coffee (two sugars). Think about getting high. Think about fucking a pretty girl. Think about jerking off later. Finish my meal. Pay the bill. Tip generously. Leave the diner. Smoke another cigarette. Walk aimlessly. Sit on a bench. Smoke another cigarette. Walk to the bookstore. Cigarette. Buy a book. Walk home. Cigarette. Sit on the couch and read my book. Cigarette. Fall asleep. Wake up. Cigarette. Eat. Cigarette. Promise to smoke less tomorrow. Play my piano. Cigarette. Think about getting high. Think about fucking a pretty girl. Think about jerking off. Jerk off. Cigarette. Go to bed. Wake up. Open eyes. Roll over. Stare at the clock. Sigh. Rub my eyes. Stare at the ceiling. Yawn. Throw off the covers and sit up. Get out of bed. Trip over yesterday's clothes. Walk to the bathroom. Take a piss. Flush the toilet and regard my face in the mirror. Walk to the living room. Sit on the edge of the couch with my elbows on my knees and smoke a cigarette. Tug at my hair. Think about my day. Crush the cigarette in the ashtray. Walk back to the bathroom. Take a shit. Take a shower. Get dressed. Leave the apartment. Smoke another cigarette. Go to work. Clock in. Mumble hello when greeted. Check the day's delivery schedule. Load boxes onto a dolly. Push the dolly. Load boxes onto a truck. Repeat. Take a break. Cigarette. Think about getting high. Think about fucking a pretty girl. Think about jerking off later. Push the dolly to a truck. Unload boxes. Inventory

boxes. Have lunch. Turkey sandwich and a Coke. Take a piss. Two cigarettes. More boxes. More trucks. More inventory. More pushing the dolly. Another break. Another cigarette. More trucks. Boxes. Inventory. Dolly. Clock out. Cigarette. Walk to the church. Sit in the basement. Drink a cup of coffee. Listen to strangers talk about drinking and drugging and fucking and fighting. Cigarette. Listen to my sponsor offer words of encouragement. Feel encouraged. Walk home. Cigarette. Eat something. Cigarette. Feel discouraged. Think about getting high. Think about fucking a pretty girl. Think about jerking off. Jerk off. Cigarette. Vow to smoke fewer cigarettes tomorrow. Go to bed. Wake up. Open eyes. Roll over. Stare at the clock. Sigh. Rub my eyes. Stare at the ceiling. Yawn. Throw off the covers and sit up. Get out of bed. Trip over yesterday's clothes. Walk to the bathroom. Take a piss. Flush the toilet and regard my face in the mirror. Walk to the living room. Sit on the edge of the couch with my elbows on my knees and smoke a cigarette. Tug at my hair. Think about my day. Crush the cigarette in the ashtray. Walk back to the bathroom. Take a shit. Take a shower. Get dressed. Leave the apartment. Smoke another cigarette. Go to work. Clock in. Mumble hello when greeted. Check the day's delivery schedule. Load boxes onto a dolly. Push the dolly. Load boxes onto a truck. Repeat. Take a break. Cigarette. Think about getting high. Think about fucking a pretty girl. Think about jerking off later. Push the dolly to a truck. Unload boxes. Inventory boxes. Have lunch. Tuna salad and apple juice. Take a piss. Two cigarettes. More boxes. More trucks. More inventory. More pushing the dolly. Another break. Another cigarette. More trucks. Boxes. Inventory. Dolly. Clock out. Cigarette. Walk home. Drive to the movie theater. Cigarette. Buy a ticket. Buy some popcorn. Buy a Coke. Sit in the back. Stare at the screen. Smile. Laugh. Ignore the other people in the theater. Drive home. Cigarette. Eat something. Cigarette. Feel discouraged. Think about getting high. Think about fucking a pretty girl. Think about jerking off. Jerk off. Cigarette. Vow to smoke fewer cigarettes tomorrow. Go to bed. Wake up. Open eyes. Roll over. Stare at the clock. Sigh. Rub my eyes. Stare at the ceiling. Yawn. Throw off the covers and sit up. Get out of bed. Trip over yesterday's clothes. Walk to the bathroom. Take a piss. Flush the toilet and regard my face in the mirror. Walk to the living room. Sit on the edge of the couch with my elbows on my knees and smoke a cigarette. Tug at my hair. Think about my day. Crush the cigarette in the ashtray. Walk back to the bathroom. Take a shit. Take a shower. Have a shave. Get dressed. Leave the apartment. Smoke another cigarette. Go to work. Clock in. Mumble hello when greeted. Check the day's delivery schedule. Load boxes onto a dolly. Push the dolly. Load boxes onto a truck. Repeat. Take a break. Cigarette. Think about getting high. Think about fucking a pretty girl. Think about jerking off later. Push the dolly to a truck. Unload boxes. Inventory boxes. Have lunch. Couple of slices of pizza and a Coke. Take a piss. Two cigarettes. More boxes. More trucks. More inventory. More pushing the dolly. Another break. Another cigarette. More trucks. Boxes. Inventory. Dolly. Clock out. Cigarette. Walk to the church. Sit in the basement. Drink a cup of coffee. Listen to strangers talk about drinking and drugging and fucking and fighting. Cigarette. Listen to my sponsor offer words of encouragement. Feel encouraged. Walk home. Cigarette. Eat something. Cigarette. Feel discouraged. Think about getting high. Think about fucking a pretty girl.

Think about jerking off. Jerk off. Cigarette. Vow to smoke fewer cigarettes tomorrow. Go to bed. Wake up. Open eyes. Roll over. Stare at the clock. Sigh. Rub my eyes. Stare at the ceiling. Yawn. Throw off the covers and sit up. Get out of bed. Trip over yesterday's clothes. Walk to the bathroom. Take a piss. Flush the toilet and regard my face in the mirror. Walk to the living room. Sit on the edge of the couch with my elbows on my knees and smoke a cigarette. Tug at my hair. Think about my day. Crush the cigarette in the ashtray. Walk back to the bathroom. Take a shit. Take a shower. Get dressed. Eat three bowls of cereal. Smoke another cigarette. Do the dishes. Sweep the floors. Wipe down the counters. Cigarette. Think about getting high. Think about fucking a pretty girl. Think about jerking off later. Dust. Do the laundry. Clean the bathroom during the wash cycle. Vacuum the rugs during the dry cycle. Smoke another cigarette. Fold and put away the clothes. Leave the house. Cigarette. Walk to the bookstore. Cigarette. Buy a book. Walk home. Cigarette. Sit on the couch and read my book. Cigarette. Fall asleep. Wake up. Cigarette. Eat. Cigarette. Promise to smoke less tomorrow. Play my piano. Cigarette. Think about getting high. Think about fucking a pretty girl. Think about jerking off. Jerk off. Cigarette. Go to bed. Wake up. Open eyes. Roll over. Stare at the clock. Sigh. Rub my eyes. Stare at the ceiling. Yawn. Throw off the covers and sit up. Get out of bed. Trip over yesterday's clothes. Walk to the bathroom. Take a piss. Flush the toilet and regard my face in the mirror. Walk to the living room. Sit on the edge of the couch with my elbows on my knees and smoke a cigarette. Tug at my hair. Think about my day. Crush the cigarette in the ashtray. Walk back to the bathroom. Take a shit. Take a shower. Get dressed. Leave the apartment. Smoke another cigarette. Go to work. Clock in. Mumble hello when greeted. Check the day's delivery schedule. Load boxes onto a dolly. Push the dolly. Load boxes onto a truck. Repeat. Take a break. Cigarette. Think about getting high. Think about fucking a pretty girl. Think about jerking off later. Push the dolly to a truck. Unload boxes. Inventory boxes. Have lunch. Cheeseburger that sits like a rock in my gut. Take a piss. Two cigarettes. More boxes. More trucks. More inventory. More pushing the dolly. Another break. Another cigarette. More trucks. Boxes. Inventory. Dolly. Clock out. Cigarette. Walk to the church. Sit in the basement. Drink a cup of coffee. Listen to strangers talk about drinking and drugging and fucking and fighting. Cigarette. Listen to my fellow addicts and alcoholics offer encouragement. Feel encouraged. Walk home. Cigarette. Eat something. Cigarette. Feel discouraged. Think about getting high. Think about fucking a pretty girl. Think about jerking off. Jerk off. Cigarette. Vow to smoke fewer cigarettes tomorrow. Go to bed. Wake up. Open eyes. Roll over. Stare at the clock. Sigh. Rub my eyes. Stare at the ceiling. Yawn. Throw off the covers and sit up. Get out of bed. Trip over yesterday's clothes. Walk to the bathroom. Take a piss. Flush the toilet and regard my face in the mirror. Walk to the living room. Sit on the edge of the couch with my elbows on my knees and smoke a cigarette. Tug at my hair. Think about my day. Crush the cigarette in the ashtray. Walk back to the bathroom. Take a shit. Take a shower. Get dressed. Leave the apartment. Smoke another cigarette. Go to work. Clock in. Dolly. Box. Truck. Cigarette. Dolly. Box.

Truck. Cigarette. Think about getting high. Think about fucking a pretty girl. Think about jerking off. Cigarette. Think about getting high. Think about fucking a pretty girl. Think about jerking off. Cigarette. Walk home. Think about getting high. Think about fucking a pretty girl. Think about jerking off. Want to get high. Want to fuck a pretty girl. Want to jerk off. Jerk off. Cigarette. Think about how tomorrow is Sunday. Again. * I shove my keys into my pocket, the metal pressing sharply into my leg. Pulling my pack of cigarettes from my shirt pocket, I extract one and light it. The sky is gray but soft and the breeze is light and occasional. I walk and smoke, my eyes trained on the sidewalk disappearing beneath my feet. Something's wrong; I feel...odd. My free hand moves to my stomach and rubs lightly. Uneasiness fills my belly. The anxiety - no, the nonstop and abject fear - that has been coursing through me since I left rehab has abated. It's gone. And now I feel anxious because of its absence. I shake my head and tug at my hair, finish my cigarette, toss it into the gutter. I wonder what I was feeling before this new apprehension set in - after the sharp edge of my certainty that I would use again was dulled, but before I'd realized that that certainty had faded a bit. "Fuck," I mumble, scuffing my shoe against the pavement. The pack of cigarettes pulses, I want another one so bad. I'm trying to cut back from the more than a pack a day I'd been up to in treatment. Running a hand through my hair, I jerk open the front door of the bookstore and step inside. I almost smile when I hear the music playing in the store. Of course it's Panic At the Disco; it's Sunday. For the past five weeks it's been the same. My almost-smile grows. I can't remember shit anymore, but I remember this. The staff at the rehab center told me that my recall would get better the longer I was clean and sober. The fact that I've noticed the repetition in music makes me think it might be true. The smile gets bigger, the curve of my lips feeling odd but good. Keeping the smile on my face but my head down, I retreat to the rear of the store, to the used books section. I flip through a copy of Absalom, Absalom. There's a name written on the inside cover Sarah Donnell. The handwriting is youthful but not childish, a college student maybe? Flipping to the middle of the book, I start to read. "Dammit!" My head snaps up and the beginnings of an uneasy smile tug at my lips. There's no one else around. I'm the only one in the section. Shaking my head, I turn back to my book. I'm losing my fucking mind.

"Shit shit shit." The same voice again, this time laced with mild panic and exasperation. I'm not losing my mind. The voice again sounds out to my left, and I cautiously approach a shelf and peer around it. Knees bent and back hunched, a young woman clutches desperately to a stack of books. The bottom of the pile is tucked to her stomach, but the other books are twisted at an odd angle out and away from her body. Without thinking, I step around the shelf and bend down to help her. The books go flying. "Fuck me," she sighs, and plops down on the ground. Her foul mouth is oddly charming. I'm standing over her like an idiot, not saying anything. I've momentarily forgotten myself, but feel the anxiety swelling in my gut. For a fraction of a second I debate walking away, but that would be unfathomably rude - even for me. Stooping, I pick up the books closest to my feet. My eyes dart toward her face for just a moment and she's looking right at me. I take in a sharp breath. Her eyes are dark; I feel them in my chest. Looking away, I attempt conversation, my tone bizarrely light. "First day?" Someone should tell her to use a cart instead of carrying books in her arms. "Are you kidding me?" The disbelief and open hostility in her voice shocks me into looking at her again. Her face is twisted with incredulity, one eyebrow cocked, the lips tense and open over her white teeth. Fear courses through me, and my heart is pounding. And yet, there's something utterly and devastatingly appealing about her anger. "I'm sorry?" I stutter. The girl - her face looks so young I can't help but think of her that way - expels a sharp breath. She blinks rapidly, an angry half-smile coming to her face. "First day?" she repeats, standing up. "I've rung you up about ten times in the past three months." She pauses, her eyes narrowing, nostrils flaring. "It's not my ‘first day'." I open my mouth to reply, but I've got nothing to say. It seems impossible to me that I could be so dense. Furrowing my brow in concentration, I try to recall my other, previous trips to the store, but I don't remember her. Fucking short-term memory. Clearly frustrated, she snatches the books I'm holding out of my hand and bends down to pick up the rest. Three quick smacks sound in succession as she stacks the dropped books

back into a pile that she holds flush against her belly. Halfway to picking up another she snaps up straight and glares at me again. "Really?" She waits, but all I can do is half-shrug. "Really?" she repeats, and her face is flushed. "You bought Bukowski last week and I mentioned John Fante?" I know I should be embarrassed or shamed - that's clearly how she wants me to feel - but all I can think is: you're cute when you're pissed, and: you read John Fante? I shake my head, embarrassed at my inability to remember and intimidated in the face of her outburst. Her eyes flit back and forth between mine, presumably waiting for me to speak. When I don't - can't - she rolls her eyes and bends down on one knee to retrieve the rest of the books. She stacks them quickly and stands, but before she can take a step, the books explode from her arms and shower to the floor - again. "God DAMN it!" she exclaims. Normally, this would make me laugh, but I feel like such a dick that all I can do is fall to my knees next to her and help. When we finish, we get to our feet and I hesitantly turn to her. "Where do these, uh, where should, uh, where do they go?" I meet her eyes briefly but can't maintain the eye contact. With a sigh, the girl strides back to the corner of the section and sets the books on the buyback counter. I set my stack next to hers on the counter and pause, looking down at the top of her head. She's staring at the floor, one arm across her stomach, tucked at the wrist beneath the other. She's biting her bottom lip and a deep blush has spread over her cheeks and neck. I feel like an asshole. "Thanks for helping," she says grudgingly, lifting her eyes to mine. My stomach warms and tightens; she's got pretty eyes. "It's...I mean...don't," I stutter, waving my hand dismissively. She looks at me like I'm a crazy person. I can't blame her; I'm babbling like a fool. "You're welcome," I say finally. There. That wasn't so hard. Shifting on her feet, she hesitates; she's working and probably has shit to do. "You read John Fante?" The question bursts out of me.

Again with the "you're fucking crazy" look. Tipping her head to the side, she regards me carefully. "Yeah. I read John Fante." Her voice is noncommittal; I can't get a read on her. "That's a good recommendation," I continue. "He's great." She shrugs, biting again at her lip. "He is." I scratch my head and run my fingers through my hair. She watches this activity with some interest; her face relaxes, her mouth loosens. I drop my arm to my side. Her lips look soft. There's another lull during which neither of us speaks. "I'm Edward." My fucking non-sequiturs are killing me. "My name's Edward." I think about offering my hand, but don't. "Bella." Her name makes me grin, but I quickly suppress it. "Nice to meet you." She tips her head in acquiescence. I want to apologize for not recognizing her face, but don't know how. Don't know how to tell her I'm so spacey I could run into Jesus fucking Christ on the street and not remember it the next day. The blush is back in full force. Another quick pause and then, "I should get back to work." She gives me a small, tight smile. "See you." I make some sort of noise of agreement behind closed lips and jerk my head up in a kind of half nod. She walks away and I'm staring at her dark, shiny hair. My body tightens, goes rigid and cold washes over me. I'm outside on the sidewalk before I even know what I'm doing. My fists clench. For two seconds I contemplate going back inside, but the thought of running into Bella again, of being caught with her dark eyes sends me down the pavement away from the store. Stupid, stupid, stupid. * The pen, clenched tightly in my fingers, hovers over the blank sheet of notebook paper. I've made this list more times than I care to remember. The various drafts of said list are piled to my right. The tip of the pen presses to the paper and makes a one. I sigh. Every girl I've ever fucked.

No. That's probably not right. In my head, I hear the voices of various staff members in treatment explaining what's wrong with the phrasing. How "fucked" makes it casual, meaningless; how it takes away the girl's agency; how both of those things deliberately lessen the emotional consequences of my actions. I draw a line through the six words. Every girl I've had sex with. There. That's better. I'd attempt to list them all, but I wouldn't be able to remember. And I didn't know some of their names to begin with anyway. My eyes narrow as I study my first entry on this list of wronged parties. It's still not right. I scratch out the second attempt. Every girl I've been sexually involved with. Ending sentences with prepositions bothers me, but I'm sure as shit not going to write "Every girl with whom I've been sexually involved" on a stupid list. Is that really true? Did I wrong every woman I'd ever touched? I rub my eyes and think, working my way back from the girl I've come to refer to as High School. That isn't going to work. I was too drunk, too high, for too long. I can't remember shit. I begin at the beginning. A smile comes to my face when I remember my first time. Rachel Klein. She was nineteen and I was seventeen. And I was drunk. The smile fades. I wasn't drunk every time we had sex, but pretty nearly. I'd thought I'd loved her. Now I can't recall that feeling. I can't remember the last time I had sex sober. Every girl I've been sexually and/or romantically involved with. I suppose it doesn't hurt to paint with broad strokes, not at this point anyway. Again, I hesitate. I weigh my options and then scratch out a few words. 2. Every person I sold to. That seems fairly straightforward. The next entry comes easily. 3. Everyone I hurt physically. All the men I shoved, then slapped around, then punched, then kicked when they couldn't pay up. Or when they tried to steal my customers. The handful of guys I'd gone at with a bat, sometimes offensively, mostly defensively. The women I'd never hit but who I'd threatened. Told them I'd beat their husbands, boyfriends. Told them I'd call their probation or parole officers. Call Social Services and have their kids taken away. I think of all the shit I'd taken or destroyed from them in lieu of payment. The TVs kicked in, the tires slashed, the windshields busted. I recall taking a crowbar to someone's bathroom - the toilet, the sink, the glass door of the shower. Shattered porcelain and glass and water everywhere. I'd attacked the mirror with particular relish. I amend the list.

3. Everyone I've hurt or intimidated physically. There. That's better. Well, not better. More accurate. 4. Everyone I stole from. I haven't done that in a while. I was 24 when I'd made drugs my business and for three years, business was booming. Before that, though, my finances were occasionally dicey. 5. Aunt Karen and Uncle Joseph. In reality, they should've been first on the list. They should've been the people I'd called for Family Day in rehab. They shouldn't even be on this list; I should have made amends to them already. "Fuck," I exhale, rub my hand over my face. My hand closes around the pack of cigarettes on the table in front of me. I resist the urge to squeeze until each cigarette breaks. Instead, I light one. I know I should quit smoking, but I refuse to let it go. I can't rely on much of anything else. It's sad, but the dependability and familiarity of a Marlboro cigarette is a bright spot in an otherwise dim life. I'm such a fucking drama queen. I tamp the ash into the ashtray. Outside my window, the sky is growing dark. I glance at the clock; it's 7:30. My free hand runs through my hair. It's quiet - quiet in this room, quiet in my apartment, quiet in the whole building. Through the open window I listen to the crunching roll of car tires as they slowly move down the street. In the distance I hear some kid's shrieking laugh. Then, it's quiet again. Two more deep, quick drags and I crush the cigarette butt into the heavy glass. The apartment feels suddenly smaller, and my knee bounces to the rhythm of my anxiety. I put my cigarette pack in my pocket, pull on my boots, grab my jacket. As soon as I'm on the sidewalk I light up. Seems this is all I do in my free time lately - smoke and walk all over hell and back. I suppose all the good the regular exercise does me is cancelled out by the tar accumulating in my lungs. The pace of my walk isn't hurried, but it's more than a leisurely stroll. Enough to elevate my heart rate slightly; enough to gloss my skin with a touch of sweat. Combined with the smoking, this leaves me just short of breath, but I like the feeling - like how it keeps me alert, focused. Like how it makes me feel like I've accomplished something with my

forward momentum. I can pretend that I have somewhere to go, that I have someone to go to. That someone somewhere in this shit town cares enough to want me around. My "friends" from my past life have no use for me - I no longer have the drugs or the money. Now I'm nothing but a sad bastard who sits in his apartment and smokes and reads and bangs half-heartedly on an old piano. My loneliness feels like a fucking cinderblock lashed to my back. I'm tired. Looking both ways, I cross a side street. My apartment building sits on the line between the warehouse district and a residential neighborhood. The residential neighborhood sits between the warehouse district and downtown. The houses are small; their paint is faded, in some instances peeling. Parked in the driveways and next to the curbs are four-door sedans and pick up trucks, most built ten or so years ago. A few windows are lit up; I can see the flicker of the television in some of them. As I pass the house on the corner, the shadowy shape of a man passes in front of a kitchen window. I watch him swing the refrigerator door open, his face suddenly illuminated by the light. I toss my cigarette into the gutter. I'm not sure what I'm doing down here. I've got nothing to do. I won't go to the bookstore - it's a Friday - and the only other businesses open on this particular strip are bars. The parking spots in front of these establishments are full, the rest are empty by contrast. I walk three of the four blocks of what constitutes Port Angeles' downtown. The rest of the commerce takes place on the edges of the town, in strip malls and chain stores. This section looks much the same is it did ten years ago. To my left is the bright red door of The Howling Wolf Tavern. I smile ruefully as I remember getting kicked out of the place more than a few times. I could say the same for every bar in town, in reality. Music plays inside, the only window obscured by a lit-up Budweiser sign. I've stopped on the sidewalk, arms hanging loosely at my side. My mouth waters slightly as I contemplate drinking a beer. I close my eyes and breathe steadily through my nose as I try to stop myself from rationalizing having a drink. Alcohol was never the problem, I remind myself. And this is true. I was a lousy drunk, but the drink was always a precursor to, then an accessory for, the drugs. It would be one beer tonight, one tomorrow, two the day after that, a six-pack next week, and in a month I'd be shoving whatever shit I could find down my throat, into my lungs, and up my nose. I open my eyes and let out a shaky breath. Scratching the back of my head, I move on. I'm surprised at my ability to intellectualize what's happening to me. The temporary euphoria that accompanied the camp-like atmosphere of rehab has dulled and my affection for and attention to AA meetings is dwindling. The myopic approach I'd taken to my recovery - when it was all I could think about, all I could do - is less focused. I walk the final block of the downtown and find myself on the corner, across the street from the bookstore. The front wall of this business is almost all glass - a stark contrast to the gray brick and tinted window of the bar. Port Angeles Books is stenciled in yellow letters

on the window. Behind those letters I can see people moving back and forth inside the store. It's not one of my days, it's not part of my rhythm, but I could step inside, even if only for a few minutes. Stepping off the curb, I reach into my pack for one last smoke before going inside. That's when I catch sight of her. She's leaning against the counter, her back to me, and it's her dark hair I recognize. I step back up onto the curb and watch her from across the street. She turns, then, and I'm looking at her profile. From this distance, I can't make out much in the way of physical features. I squint, using the vague outline of her face as a way of conjuring up her appearance, but it's useless. I only remember her dark hair and eyes. And her soft lips. Right. I smile. Her lips did look soft. The girl - Bella - turns her head and looks out of the window. Reflexively, I take a step back. She can't see me, I know. I'd be surprised if she could see much more than a reflection of the store's interior, but it startles me anyway, being in her line of sight. A faint flush comes to my cheeks. Even as I face her head-on I'm unable to discern exactly what she looks like. I recall her swearing as the books fell from her arms and smile. I remember the ferocity of her anger as she called me out for not recognizing her. I can't remember the last time someone spoke to me with so much feeling. The people who know me treat me with kid gloves, afraid that any emotional high or low will push me to use. The people who don't know me treat me with bored indifference. I finish this cigarette and flick it into the street. The tip glows reddish orange in the gathering dark. Turning around, I head for home. My apartment is dark and still and I walk to the bedroom without turning on the lights. On my back on the bed, the weight of the cinderblock shifts to my chest. It doesn't hurt, not exactly. Just makes it difficult to breathe. I suck in air, my stomach shaking. I want to get high. Want to take a hit from a bong, a hit so deep it singes my insides. Want to snort a line and feel the acid wash down my throat. Want to feel the sweet, loopy loll of painkillers. I screw my eyes shut tight and try to think about anything else, anything at all. My lips move silently as I recite multiplication tables. Somewhere around six times seven is fortytwo, my breathing calms. I try to refocus my energy, my need. I can't get high, I won't. I can't even fuck a pretty girl, not right now. But I can jerk off. Opening my eyes, I stare at the ceiling, conjure up the image of a naked, female body. The face doesn't matter, not now; just the breasts and the nipples and the hips and the sex. I undo my pants and push them down, along with my boxers. I take myself in my hand and I stroke lightly, focusing on this imaginary body, this still-imaginary lust. I'm vaguely aroused, somewhat hard. Stifling a sigh of frustration, I close my eyes. Then it's her face. The face I couldn't clearly see tonight when I stood on the curb, watching her through the window. I try to keep it with me, but it's gone as quickly as it comes. The only feature I can recall is the soft swell of her lips. And then, suddenly, my lust isn't so imaginary. I focus on that mouth, what it could do, how it could feel. Her dark hair, long

and shiny, I think about how it might spill around her bare shoulders, how it might fall over my face if she were on top of me. My cock is hard and my fingers move quickly. Bella. Bella with the soft mouth and dark hair and then I can almost see her eyes. Eyes that flash with anger and I recall the ferocity of her voice when I hadn't recognized her and the heat rushes through my body and straight to my groin and I'm stroking and shifting my hips and my eyes are wide open then screwed shut tight and then I cum fast and hard.

Chapter Five "You okay, kid?" I turn to Charlie and almost laugh at the expression on his face. His brow is furrowed; his eyes are wary. "Yeah, Dad. Fine," I reply, hoping I sound genuine. "Why?" "I don't know," he mumbles. "You just seem a little keyed up." I am a little keyed up - a lot keyed up. I've been a jittery mess all day. It's Wednesday. Which means tomorrow is Thursday. Which means I go back to work tomorrow. Which means I might see Edward tomorrow - maybe. I hadn't seen him last week. I wonder where he's been. I wonder if he's come in the store and I just haven't noticed him. I wonder how he's managed to slip past me. Shaking my head, I shift on the couch. I need to stop thinking like this. Rather, I need to stop thinking about this. This ability to myopically focus on one subject, one task, one person is a thing at which I've always excelled. I've been working on breaking myself of the habit. Mike thinks my focus is a positive trait; I always tell him this is because he's never had that attention directed at him. Charlie is still staring at me. "Dad. I'm fine. Just thinking about what I need to do before I leave for school." My father seems to accept this manufactured response, his eyes turning back toward the television. I suppose it does seem a little odd. I spend most evenings in my room, but this past week I've been down here with him every night. I wonder if I'm making him uncomfortable with my continued presence. Maybe. For a moment I contemplate heading upstairs, but the thought of sitting alone in my room with nothing but this nervous anticipation to accompany me keeps me anchored to the sofa cushion.

The Mariners game is over and SportsCenter is on. Charlie will watch for a few minutes, hand the remote to me, go into the kitchen, drink a glass of water, say goodnight, and head upstairs. "Well," he begins, grunting as he gets up from the recliner, "TV's all yours, Bells." The remote thuds dully next to me on the couch. Mechanically, I pick it up and flip away from ESPN. The light in the kitchen stays off, but a cupboard opens and the faucet turns on. There's a quiet moment, then Charlie passes through the living room on his way to the staircase. "Night, kid. Don't stay up too late." "Night, Dad," I respond, continuing to push the up button on the remote. I'm not paying attention to the channels as they go by. After three circuits I hear Charlie leave the bathroom and the door to his room closing. I flip the TV off. The quiet in the room is like a vacuum. The bewildered look on Edward's face when I'd gotten mad flashes in my mind's eye and I laugh softly. I probably scared the shit out of the poor guy. The possibility of seeing him tomorrow clenches my gut. Squeezing my eyes shut tight, I think of Seth. I think of his hands and shoulders and his warm, dry skin. My stomach relaxes. A glance at the clock tells me I should get ready for bed. I brush and floss my teeth, wash my face. The tap runs longer than it should and the hot water scalds my skin; I stand up abruptly. In the mirror, my face is flushed and dripping with water. Soap is gathered along my hairline and around the sides of my nose. Turning the cold on, I wait for the temperature to drop before I rinse my face clean. It's not a remarkable face - brown eyes, pale skin, freckles. Framed with dark hair. I look like a million other girls; I could be anyone. Drops of water slide down my neck and into the collar of my t-shirt, darkening the fabric. In my room, in bed, I'm not tired. I lie on my side and stare at the wall, my feet twisted into the comforter, hands tucked under my pillow. What will it feel like, I wonder, to live alone in Seattle? I've never lived alone before; here now, with Charlie, and in Phoenix, with my mother - at least when I was in high school - it sometimes felt like it. I remember the sounds of low, male voices when Renee came home with dates - the cautious closing of the front door, the ring of her keys as they dropped on the table, the uncorking of a wine bottle, the gentle clink of glass, sometimes music very low. I remember the groaning of the bathroom pipes as water ran and the final sound of my mother's bedroom door closing. I remember at first feeling horrified, then laughing silently into my pillow. There were no wine bottles or romantic music with Charlie in Forks. The fizzing of a freshly opened beer, maybe; the low drone of the television, yes. But no dates. No girlfriends. No awkward breakfasts with the new significant other. I wonder if he's lonely in the house, by himself. I wonder if I will be lonely in my apartment, by myself.

Sighing, I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling until I drift off to sleep. * "Jesus Christ, Bella," I mutter. "Get a-fucking-hold of yourself." The door of my truck bangs loudly as I close it with unnecessary force, and I cringe. Rolling my eyes, I walk down the alley and up the sidewalk to the store entrance. I feel like I'm going to throw up. Edward. Edward and his impossible hair. Edward and his long fingers. Edward and his long fingers in his impossible hair. I'm like a sixteen-year-old girl, and it pisses me off. Before, he was just a pleasant diversion twice a week. Now, he has a name and a voice (dear God, his voice). Now, he has the justdiscernable beginnings of a personality. I lock the door behind me and toss a quick "good morning" to Jasper as I weave my way through the shelves to the break room. Jittery as I am, I probably don't need coffee, but I fill my mug out of habit. The first hour of my shift drags, but the rest of the day whips by. It's 3:45 and I'm doing everything I can to not stare at the store entrance. I consider asking Angela or Ben to cover the front for me so I can avoid Edward if he comes in, but quickly nix that idea. I'm not a child, and avoiding him would only make me more of a dipshit. Closing my eyes, I think of Seth. Cute, harmless Seth. My chest loosens a bit. Relieved, I open my eyes and fuck me there he is, making a path back to the used section as per usual. I snap my eyes to the counter in front of me. Don't stare, don't stare, don't you dare look at him, Bella Swan. And then I'm looking at him, and as soon as my gaze is on him he lifts his head and looks straight at me. My face flames and I immediately drop my eyes, turn my shoulder away from him. "OhI'msuchanasshole," I mumble. A man comes up to the counter, and as I reach for the books he's buying, I can see my hand shake. The nerves wind my insides up into a tight ball of tension, but it's not unpleasant. In fact, it's almost pleasurable, this anxiety. I swallow, take deep breaths, and tell myself I'm being ridiculous. Given how I behaved the first and last time I'd talked to him, he probably thinks I'm completely psychotic. Or a complete bitch. And he might be right on both counts. There he is. Eyes trained on the floor, the store lights making his stupid hair shine, and I involuntarily lean toward him, my hips pushing into the countertop.

He sets a book on the smooth surface and pushes it toward me. I don't know what to do with my mouth and my hands feel like they weigh fifty pounds. His eyes flick to mine and I try to keep the shit-eating grin this action inspires from consuming my face. "Hello. Bella." He puts extra emphasis on my name. Again, his eyes move to my face and my ridiculous smile must be contagious because his lips twitch as the corners of his mouth lift slightly. "Edward," I return, wondering why my voice sounds like it's underwater. "Do you approve?" He lifts his eyebrows slightly. The grin falls from my face. What? I follow his gaze down to the book in front of me and realize he's buying a copy of Wait Until Spring, Bandini. John Fante. The grin returns. "Absolutely." I'm blushing ferociously now. But he's smiling too, showing his teeth, and I fight back the surge of joy that fills me. I pick up the book as Edward slides a ten-dollar bill to me. "Music's better today," he says out of nowhere. "Huh?" My brow furrows. He points to the ceiling. "The music. It's better on Thursdays than on Sundays." He's keeping his eyes on me for longer bits of time, and although I like his eyes, they make me nervous. My face doesn't know what to do, the different parts of my body feel out of proportion with each other. "So what you're saying is you're not a fan of bands of the Fallout Boy variety?" I bite at my lower lip. His chest seizes slightly in a short, silent laugh. "That's not your music, I guess?" Shaking my head, I hand him his receipt and change. "Nope. His." I point to Ben, who's futzing around with the magazines. Edward puts the dollar bill carefully in his wallet and pockets the change. My heart drops a bit; he's got his book and now he's going to leave. "What are yours?" Again, I don't understand the question.

"Your musical preferences," he says slowly, looking down at the book on the counter, as if he's never seen it before but is intensely interested. "What are they?" His eyes flick from the book to my face. Mimicking his earlier gesture, I point at the ceiling, my lips pressed together. I'm always doing something weird with my mouth; I need to knock it off. His eyes lighten; he seems pleased. This, in turn, pleases me. I clear my throat and shift on my feet because I don't know what to say or do. The lightness in his eyes fades a little and he looks anxious. "Um, thanks," he says quietly, holding the book up. I nod quickly, not wanting him to go but not knowing how to keep him here. "You're welcome." "You work on Sunday?" As soon as the question comes out of his mouth, he looks away and licks his lips. Again, I nod. "Always." "Oh. Okay." There is a brief moment where he's frozen in place, and then he's turning away and heading for the door. I let out a long breath. * Peeling back the plastic, I jiggle the package until the mozzarella slides gracefully onto the cutting board. I take a knife from the chopping block and start slicing. The blade cuts cleanly; I barely have to apply any pressure. For someone who's rarely in the kitchen, Alice has incredible (and most likely expensive) cooking utensils. In fact, the cutting board looks like it's barely been used. With the knife, I slide the cheese to the edge of the board and start on the tomato. The shiny metal easily rends it into small pieces. Setting the knife on the counter, I turn and check on the water - it's boiling. I add a little salt and then pasta. It's Friday night and I'm alone. Alice and Jasper are at Jasper's; some other people from the store are heading to the bar later, but I'm not in the mood. I've got the stereo on and the windows open and it's pleasant here. I rinse some basil then lean against the counter and wait for the noodles to be done. Everything in this kitchen is granite and stainless steel. Alice doesn't rent; Alice owns. This place isn't an apartment; it's a condo, and it is, of course, impeccably furnished and decorated. It's like an adult lives here. I've started collecting odds and ends of furniture for my apartment in Seattle. I'll be rocking the secondhand, mismatched, I-got-this-on-sale-for-$8 look.

I stare down at my feet and sing softly along with the stereo. I grin. Edward approves of my musical taste. This doesn't really matter, and yet it does; it matters. The smile widens and my face gets hot. I feel stupid, letting these little snippets of conversation please me so, but I can't help it. Speaking to him is an exercise in awkwardness, but I'm clamoring for more of these stilted, self-conscious exchanges. "He asked if you worked on Sunday." The words burst out of me and I laugh to myself, twisting my feet on the kitchen tile. I can't fathom how he would notice or guess that I would be working, but frankly, I don't care. I can't remember the last time I felt so...good. I don't want to anticipate; I don't want to build this thing up in my head. Too late. Turning back to the stove, I flip off the gas and drain the pasta. The noodles slide into one of Alice's large, heavy, ceramic bowls, and I stir the rest of the ingredients in, adding a little olive oil. I like this - cooking for myself. Mike wasn't much of a chef, and when he did make something more complicated than Hot Pockets, it was generally a disaster. This meant that I often cooked for the both of us. I miss him. If Mike were here, he'd tell me to stop mooning about over a guy I barely know. He'd get me drunk and make me watch Lethal Weapon. "Good plan," I mutter, and open the fridge. We may not have Lethal Weapon, but we've got beer. * From behind the store's front window, I watch the rain glaze the street. The wind whips the drops up against the plate glass in sheets. It rains frequently here, but today the sheer volume of water and the force of the wind are startling. It's surprisingly beautiful. The store is nearly empty; the steady beating of the rain has kept people away. There's a middle-aged woman in the sci-fi section and a man in his thirties looking through travel books. It's quiet, wonderfully so. I turn and watch Ben lean casually up against the New in Paperback table. Angela's telling him a story and her hands are flying all over the place. He's nodding, sometimes laughing. I smile, involuntarily. I lean forward on my elbows, pursing my lips. It's 4:30. The ding of the front door's bell propels me to a standing position. My stomach drops to the floor when I see Edward. He's pulling down the hood of his sweatshirt and shaking out his hair. His jeans are soaked through and sticking to his legs. When he straightens up and turns around, he looks dazed, but when his eyes find me, a slow smile spreads across his face. My cheeks burn and I try not to look too eager, although I'm sure I'm failing miserably. His body turns back toward his usual destination then hesitates. I lick my lips quickly as he

pivots and walks my way, head down. When he reaches the counter, he rests his hands on top of it. Standing on the register platform, I'm nearly as tall as he is. I try not to stare at his face or his hands. They're lovely, his hands, the fingers long and slender. "Hi," I manage. "Hi." "Nice weather we're having, huh?" I can't think of anything else to say. He grins. "Terrific weather." "You should get an umbrella," I say, chewing on my lip to keep from smiling so wide. "I should." There's a brief silence. "Pretty empty today," he says. "I'm sorry?" I ask, raising my eyebrows. His eyes widen slightly. "The store. It's pretty empty." "Oh." I twist my mouth and look around the store as if I need to verify that it is, indeed, pretty empty. "Yep. The rain, I guess." "I guess," he echoes, dropping his gaze. I have a million and one questions I'd like to ask him, but none of them fit this conversation. I want to know why he never buys a new book. I want to know why he's always (and only) here on Sundays and Thursdays. I want to know what kind of music he listens to. I want to know what it means when a person always uses cash to purchase things. But these questions fit conversations we'd have after we'd known each other for a while. I can't ask them now, and so I have nothing to say. My heart is thumping in my chest and all I can think is, "please don't walk away." "Are you from Port Angeles?" His question knocks me conscious. He's got his head cocked slightly to the side with his eyes fixed on my face.

I shake my head. "No. I'm from Phoenix. I mean, I moved here from Boston. Well, I moved to Forks from Boston. That's where my dad lives - Forks, not Boston - but not my mom. She lives in Phoenix. Well, she did. Now she lives in Jacksonville with her new husband. They're divorced. My parents." Jesus Christ, what the fuck was the matter with me? Just answer the goddamn question and leave it be, Bella. "So," he begins slowly. "You live in Forks, but you're from either Boston or Phoenix, and definitely not Port Angeles?" His thick eyebrows are arched and he's smiling. "Well, I was born in Forks." God. He lets out a short laugh. "You were born in Forks." I nod and now I'm starting to laugh. "At the hospital." "At the hospital. As opposed to the library?" His green eyes are dark and shining. My face is burning. I nod again. "No home birth or anything? Your parents aren't ex-hippies?" "Sadly, no." The smile on my face is so wide my cheeks ache. "Okay." He nods his head. "That's all very...clear." "I was born in Forks and moved to Phoenix with my mom when my parents got divorced. But I went to college in Boston and just moved back to Forks to work for a while before I go to grad school." The words tumble out of me. "And that's a lot more information than you were looking for." I scratch at the back of my neck. "So, no; I'm not from Port Angeles." His eyes are cast down, watching his hands, but he's smiling. I feel frickin' giddy. "Are you from Port Angeles?" I ask cautiously. Nodding, he looks back up at me. "Yeah. Not very exciting." He shrugs. We share another silence. "Grad school for what?" The intent look has returned. "English literature. My PhD." He blinks, and an emotion I can't identify flickers across his face. But it's gone, quickly. "So you're really smart then?"

This makes me blush deeper. It's an impossible question to answer. "Uh, I read a lot," I say finally. Another nod from Edward. "Got any recommendations for me?" The grin again. "You mean other than the one I gave you that you ignored?" I tease. Now it's his turn to look embarrassed. "Yeah," he responds, sheepish. "Well, that depends on what you, um, what you're in the mood to read. There's a lot to choose from." His face is open. "Okay." Suddenly, I feel brave. I know books; this is something I can talk about with confidence. "Angela," I call out. She looks up and away from Ben. "Can you cover the register for me?" She nods and makes her way over as I descend from the platform and walk back to the used book shelves. I've never seen Edward with anything new, so it's pointless to start in that section. His footsteps behind me are steady and soft. I'm acutely aware that he can watch me as I walk, and I focus on not tripping or running into anything. We come to the used fiction section and I stop, my eyes scanning the shelves. "Here," I say, pulling out a book. " The Collector. John Fowles. If we had a used copy of The French Lieutenant's Woman I'd suggest you read that first, but this one's good, too." "What's it about?" Edward asks, his brow furrowing as he takes the book and flips it over to the blurb on the back. I smile. His eyebrows say as much as his mouth. "Without giving too much away, it's about a man who kidnaps a woman and keeps her in his basement." Edward raises his eyebrows and looks from the book to me. "And I strike you as the kind of guy who would enjoy a book about someone who keeps a woman in his basement?" His grin is impish. I flush with embarrassment. "Well, I liked it, so I suppose that says something about me..." His laughter is soft and I take back the book and slide it into its appropriate place on the shelf, leaving the spine jutting out a few inches so I can find it easily again if I need to. "Or, you could go with James Baldwin. Always a winner. Have you read him?"

"I started Giovanni's Room when I was nineteen, but didn't make it all the way through." He looks uncomfortable. I move on. "Well, anything we have of his would be a good read." My eyes continue to scan the shelves. "Aha!" I yank the next book out with force, present it triumphantly to Edward. "Raymond Chandler! Have you read him?" He shakes his head, takes the proffered book and scans it. "Mystery writer, he's -" But Edward cuts me off. "I, uh, don't really do mystery novels." He runs his free hand through his already disheveled hair and holds the book out to me. "What do you mean, you don't ‘do' mystery novels?" My eyes narrow as I push the book back at him, jabbing it into his abdomen. I can't keep the idiot smile from my face. His brow lifts in surprise and his lips part slightly. He opens his mouth as if to speak, but stops, his tongue running over his lower lip. "You have a problem with genre fiction?" I tease. "Uh, no, of course not," he fumbles. "It's just I, I mean they aren't what I, what I usually read..." He trails off lamely. "Well, good," I respond. "Because Raymond Chandler knocks my socks off." Edward grins. "Of course," I continue, "he's also pretty racist and sexist, but..." And now he laughs. "So you're encouraging me to read racist, sexist books, as well as books with kidnapping and secret, basement dungeons." Biting at my lower lip, I attempt to take the novel back, but he holds to it tightly. "No, no, no," he says. "I think I want to hang on to this one." His eyes are squinched up from smiling; he's teasing. My stomach flips and I feel my blush spread down into my neck and chest. Turning to the shelves, I watch him from the corner of my eye. He's got the book open, eyes focused on the pages with just the hint of a smile gracing the corners of his mouth. My heart is pounding; my palms are sweaty; my insides are buzzing beneath my flushed skin.

I clear my throat. "So, this is Middlemarch," I say shakily. "It's pretty classic. I don't know if it'd suit your tastes, but it's a great book. At least, I think so." Keeping my eyes down, I hold the novel out. Edward places the Chandler on its side on the shelf and takes what I offer. He holds the book with one hand and runs the other through his hair, lightly tugging on the ends. Jesus. I swallow and train my eyes on my feet. "Who's this Eliot guy?" he asks, flipping through the pages. His question propels my head up, my eyes to his face. I giggle, unable to stop myself. Green eyes meet mine. An uncertain smile hovers on his lips. "What?" "George Eliot is a penname. The writer's name is actually Mary Anne Evans." "Oh." There's a beat of silence. "Oh." Realization clears his features. "Not a guy. Got it." He looks embarrassed and now I feel like an asshole. "Doesn't really matter," I say, waving my hand. "I didn't know until I took a Victorian Lit. class in college. And people don't usually read Eliot for fun or anything," I mumble. "You do," he says quietly, the book lying inert in his hands. I shrug. "I'm a nerd that way." I offer him a small smile that he briefly and vaguely returns. For a moment, neither of us speaks. "I read lots of female writers, you know," he says suddenly, his voice thick with determination. I cock my head to the side, amusement curving my lips. "Oh yeah? Like who?" Although he still looks flustered, he smiles at my smile. "Like Willa Cather," he says with conviction. I give him a good-natured smirk. "Well-done." He lets out a short laugh. "And I read Annie Dillard." "You're just a regular women's lit class then, aren't you?" I tease, laughing. Edward presses his lips together, suppressing his smile. "I know a few things. So just because I don't read this Eliot/Evans person doesn't mean I wouldn't be interested in Jane Austen or whatever." His backpedaling is adorable and I grin broadly.

Looking suddenly serious, his eyes widen and scan my face. "What? What's so funny?" "Why is Jane Austen every guy's go-to female author?" I cross my arms over my chest and bite at my lower lip. My fingers dig into my sides. I need to relax; I need to stop behaving so familiarly; I need to slow down. A tinge of pink spreads across his cheeks and he looks down, his free hand shoved deep into his pocket. "Dunno. She seems pretty popular; you see her books around a lot." His jaw clenches as his lips stop moving. I shrug. "Well, I'm not exactly a huge fan of Jane Austen. She's all right, but there are plenty of other books I'd recommend before hers," I say lightly, hoping he'll relax. It works. A slow, small smile spreads across his face as his gaze stays trained on his feet. "Okay," he says softly. "No Jane Austen." He lifts his eyes from the ground to mine, and my stomach tightens. The blood rushes to my face. I'm flummoxed. Completely. "Ah, um, okay, so Middlemarch," I say. "It's long. Sometimes slow. And some of the characters are fairly infuriating." His eyes shine and he chuckles softly. "What?" "Nothing," he responds quickly, shaking his head. "The way you recommend books, it's interesting." "I'm just going for full-disclosure, okay?" I say, laughing. "I want to make sure you know what you're getting." I shoot him a quick glance. That smile again. God is he gorgeous. "Hey, Edward." Jasper's voice startles me. I watch Edward's face as he turns to look at Jasper. The pleasant look is erased immediately and a flash of clear and acute anxiety washes over his features. It's quickly replaced by an expression of familiarity and friendliness. "Hey," he returns quietly, and reaches out to shake the hand that Jasper offers. My boss turns and notices me. "Oh. Bella." He brushes off his confusion with a smile. "I didn't see you there." I give him a quick nod.

"Bella helping you find something?" His voice is deliberately light and easy as he looks from me to Edward. Edward nods. "Yeah." His Adam's apple bobs up and down as he swallows. The tension is back in his jaw. "Oh." Again, Jasper looks at me, then at Edward. "Well," he says, clearing his throat. "She should be able to help you out." There's an awkward pause as the three of us stand in silence. "Okay, I'll see you later," he says to Edward. His lips faltering, Edward nods, his eyes alert. Jasper smiles at me and walks away. As soon as his back is turned, Edward looks to the floor, his expression uncertain. I hold my tongue for one beat, two, three, before I can't not say something. "You know Jasper?" I ask casually. He doesn't respond right away. A hand runs through his hair and he licks his lips, lifting his head and looking right at me. "Yeah," he says evenly. Another moment of silence. "Jasper's my sponsor." My head jerks slightly and I blink a few times quickly. "Oh." The gears in my head churn furiously as I try to make sense of what Edward has just said while at the same time attempting to keep my face from betraying the surprise I feel. For someone who has difficulty making eye contact with me, he's watching me very closely and carefully now. I'm trying to act naturally, but suddenly - again - I don't know what to do with my arms, my hands. The look on his face is as endearing as it is heartbreaking. He looks almost frightened, like a whipped puppy. All the attention I've diverted inward suddenly turns outward. "Okay." I offer a close-lipped smile. I don't know why I've just said "okay." I don't know what that means. In the situation, though, it seems as good of a thing to say as any. He doesn't look comfortable, but his expression is less intense. "So, any of these books sound like a keeper?" I ask, shifting the focus back to the shelves. When there's no immediate answer, I turn to his face. The tension isn't only in his jaw now; it's spread down into his neck and up into his brow. I can see the faint tracing of a vein near his temple. After a moment, he finds his voice. "I think I'll buy the Chandler." My stomach turns and shrinks in on itself, fills with ice. The quiet voice from a few weeks ago is back. The voice that asks not to be noticed. It's angry and shy and a whole host of other things I can't identify. I don't say anything; my mouth is full of lead.

Taking the book from the shelf with one hand, he passes Middlemarch to me with the other. "Thanks for your help," he says, and for a fraction of a second his eyes meet mine. Then, a "see you" and he's walking to the front of the store and I'm standing by myself with George fucking Eliot in my hand. * "Bella?" For the second time today, Jasper's voice startles me. "Sorry," he apologizes. "Didn't mean to scare you." "You say that every time," I reply, casting a smile in his direction and turning back to my work. Someone brought their two holy terrors in half an hour before close and they destroyed the children's section. The books are put away, but I've still got the toys, crayons, and stuffed animals to sort through. "So," Jasper hedges, rubbing the back of his neck. I know what he wants to talk to me about. "So," I respond, matching his tone. My fingers curl around the crayons on the rug, gather them in bunches, and drop them in their plastic case. "So, do you know Edward?" My eyes stay on the ground, searching for stray Crayolas. "I know he comes into the store," I say casually. I know that whatever Jasper is going to tell me is not going to be easy for him to say. If it were, he would have told me already. "Oh." He gets down on his knees and picks up a few crayons I've missed. "But you know him," I say, holding out the bin and waiting for him to drop his finds in. When he does so, I snap the lid shut and put the container on the small picnic table we've set up in the kids' area. It's a half statement, half question, what I've said. "Yeah." Jasper rocks back on his heels. "I'm his sponsor." I don't look up. "He said that." There are a few more things to put away, but I sense that this part of the conversation might be easier if we stop moving. I settle on the brightly colored rug, with my legs tucked underneath me. "I was in a car accident my senior year of high school. Messed up my leg and my shoulder and a whole bunch of stuff." He pauses. "Did you know that?" This time I look up. "Yeah," I admit. "My dad told me."

Jasper nods. "I thought maybe he would. I don't remember him, specifically, but I remember my parents saying he was the second cop on the scene." He picks at the crossed laces of his shoes. "I remember two voices talking to me when I was still in the car, but that's about it." I don't say anything. "They gave me pills, after the surgeries." And here he sits on the ground, looping his long arms around his knees. He looks casual, oddly at ease. Like we're sitting around shooting the shit. "Painkillers. And I...well, I liked them. A lot." He gives me a strained smile. "Things got pretty bad." Running my fingers over the rug, I nod. "Anyway, I've been clean now for five years. I run an AA meeting at the Unitarian Church two nights a week. And I'm Edward's sponsor." He meets my gaze now and there's something in his expression that reminds me of the way Edward looked at me earlier in the day. "Okay." "I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner," Jasper says. I shake my head. "You didn't have to tell me." "I know. But with you living with Alice it feels - well, it feels dishonest." This I can understand. "She wanted me to tell you, but none of the other employees know." I know this is his way of telling me not to tell anyone else. "It's not something I'm embarrassed about or ashamed of. But the turnover here is so high that if I told everyone, pretty soon half the town would know." One hand moves to the back of his neck again. "And I take the anonymous part of Alcoholics Anonymous seriously. I don't want people to speculate about how I know some of our customers." This I can also understand. "That makes sense." "I figured Edward told you how he knows me." I find this curious. "How did you know that?" I ask, my head tipped to one side. "The look on your face when you walked away from the used section," he says with a chuckle.

Making a face, I straighten my legs in front of me. "Am I that transparent?" "Naw. You just looked like you were trying really hard to be nonchalant." I have to laugh at this. "There goes my career as an actress." Jasper laughs. We sit in silence for a bit. "You need help finishing this up?" he asks, easing us away from the subject. "Nope. Just have to put away the rest of the toys and I'm done." He nods and gets to his feet. "Okay. I'll be by the front door when you're ready to head out." I nod in return. It feels strange, I must admit, knowing that he and Alice have been keeping this from me. Well, not keeping it from me, exactly. Jasper had his pills; I wonder what Edward has. And I wonder how long he's been sober. Although I can't directly connect his behavior to this bit of new information, I'm assuming that at some point the blanks will be filled in. I place the toys in the toy chest and close it gently.

Chapter Six The boxes shake slightly as I pull them across the warehouse floor. I steady them with a hand and take a ninety-degree turn, then shimmy the boxes off the dolly onto the concrete. I used to wonder what was in these boxes. I no longer care. Knowing what the contents are won't change my relationship to them. Loading, unloading, inventory. Everything else is mere accessory. "Masen." My boss' voice is a winch around my spine. I feel my guts twist up as I stop midstride and turn to face him. "Yeah?" I make brief eye contact, then throw my gaze back down to the floor. He's a full head shorter than me - Dale - and a decent guy. It's only my body that reacts this way. My heart thrums in my chest. "Relax, buddy," he mutters, shaking his head. My apprehension is palpable, but so is his. It just manifests in different ways. I know there's something about me that sets him off; I can see it in his step as he takes a wider than necessary berth around me out on the floor; I see it in the shifting of his eyes when he's forced to talk to me.

"It's time for your performance review, remember?" I remember. In his office, he sits behind his desk - painted metal with faux wood laminate on top. I sit in one of the two chairs on the other side. When I shift, the synthetic material of the cushion squeaks beneath me. Dale clears his throat and opens a manila folder. He licks the tip of one finger and pages through the short stack of paper that comprises the three months I've been an employee here. In that folder are my application, my proof of citizenship, my tax forms, the results of my monthly drug tests (mandatory for everyone), and two letters explaining my lack of employment history and vouching for my character. Daisy, my counselor at rehab, wrote one; Jasper wrote the other. "So," he begins, making some marks on the form in front of him, "how do you think these first three months have gone?" I lick my lips and find my voice. "Okay. Okay, I think. Good." The damp heat of my underarms is soaking my t-shirt. My heart is beating, rapid and tight. I hate myself for giving a shit what this guy thinks of me; I hate that I'm forced to care. "Agreed," he says curtly. "You're a good worker." Pride and shame swell in my chest. Dale goes through the requisite evaluation points: attendance and promptness, productivity, my foreman's opinion of my work. "To be honest," he says, looking at me for the first time since we sat down, "I didn't think you'd last a month." I nod. Neither had I. "But you've done well here. Another good month or so and you'll be ready to train the new guys. That doesn't usually happen until someone's been here at least six months." Dale looks at me sharply. This is supposed to be an honor; I am meant to feel good about this. I see myself pushing these boxes, loading these trucks. I see myself doing this a year from now and my heart falters. Panic sits on my chest like a dead weight, but I force a smile to my lips. "That's good," I say quietly, unable to keep my eyes from the floor. "I'm moving you to a track one schedule starting next month. Regular hours, Monday through Friday. That okay with you?" I nod. "Sure."

Dale's mouth opens, but no sound comes out. His lips hover around the words he has yet to say. There's an awkward silence and then he speaks. "Look, I know you haven't really gotten to know your coworkers, and that's fine." Clearly it isn't fine as this is my performance review and he's bringing it up, but I play along. "Things are gonna be easier for you if you communicate more with the guys on the floor." I look at my boss, confused, my brow tense. "Did I mess up a shipment?" Shaking his head quickly, Dale unnecessarily shuffles the papers on the desk. "No, no, nothing like that. But if you're going to be successful here, you're going to have to get along with the boys, be part of the team." I bite back the urge to ask him what he means by successful. I'm pretty sure he means getting promoted, and telling him that that means little to nothing to me probably isn't the smartest move right now. I need this job. I need the money and the mindless, rigid structure. Instead, I nod. "Right," I say. "I'll work on that." Dale makes a note of this. The noise of the break room at lunch is particularly raucous today; I set my book on the table and pick up my sandwich. Bella was right - Chandler is pretty great. And pretty racist and sexist. Chewing methodically, I stare down at the plastic tabletop and think of nothing in particular. "Hey, Edward," a voice calls out, trying to get my attention. I raise my eyes and see one of my coworkers, Rick. He sits at the table kitty-corner from mine. All the guys at the table are looking at me. "What's up?" I try to smile. Rick grins. "You ever been with an older woman?" This makes me laugh a little. "What?" "You ever been with an older woman?" he asks again. I just smile, shake my head, and look down at my lunch. "I think that's a yes," one of the other men says, and the whole table laughs.

I'm embarrassed now; my heart is beating triple time. I hate this, their eyes on me, their attention focused on my face, my words. Sighing, I look back up. "How old are we talking?" I'll play along if it means this is over sooner. Another round of laughter rises from Rick and his friends. They turn away from me, chuckling and talking amongst themselves, satisfied with my answer, satisfied that we're all the same. "Told you," says Rick offhand, and the conversation turns back to their own exploits. Breathing fast, I pick up my sandwich and take a bite. The bread is heavy and awkward in my mouth. These minor humiliations are the penance I pay for refusing to befriend the men I work with. They've tried inviting me out for drinks after work, and my excuses have worn thin. I feel the little goodwill my hard work and neutral demeanor has earned me ebbing away. I'll endure their ribbing good-naturedly because I don't want to be the asshole. I just want to be left alone. Standing beneath the building's eaves ten minutes later, I watch the rain come down and smoke a cigarette. I lean back against the brick and close my eyes. I'd like to go home and play my piano. The fingers of my left hand curl slightly, finding imaginary keys. Every day I'm here feels longer than the last. I hate the dragging, monotonous hours; hate the dusty smell of the cardboard boxes; hate the squeaking wheel on my dolly; hate the buzzing fluorescents. I inhale deeply and put my cigarette out in the metal ashtray, go back inside. * We've just returned from a cigarette break, but I already want another. I drink the last of the coffee from the paper cup in my hand and almost laugh. This is like a scene from a bad, made-for-TV movie. Haggard looking young man drinking coffee at some church basement AA meeting. "Anyone else have something they'd like to share?" Jasper's voice calls out across the circle. I glance at the clock - fifteen minutes left. My fingers drag through my hair before I raise my hand. "Edward?" Jasper nods at me, his eyes kind. "I, uh, I was at a gas station the other day." I try to swallow, but my mouth is so dry the action is little more than an empty reflex - my throat contracting and relaxing around nothing. It's so cold - I'm so cold - and my arms are shaking. They're tense; I can't straighten at the elbows. "I, I saw a woman I know. A woman I used to know," I correct.

Most people keep their gazes down, but a few pairs of eyes are on me. I don't speak much and they're curious. I don't mind. I know their sins too, have heard them say things that would shock and disgust most people. But I don't disgust them and they don't disgust me. I have contempt for some of them, for their tireless, manufactured optimism. I envy them for the same reason. Clearing my throat, I continue. "Once she, well, once...I used to sell to her. Not often, but sometimes. She's mainly a drunk. I mean, she drinks. But sometimes, she'd get money from somewhere or someone and she'd want an eight ball or something." I take a breath so deep my chest hurts. "She'd come in with these wads of cash, bills all crumpled up, and the money'd be all sweaty from her fist." My lower lips starts trembling, and I hold it down and steady it with my teeth. There's a long silence, but no one speaks. The room is quiet, and I hear the ceiling creak as someone moves above us in the church. "If you look close, you can tell that she was really pretty when she was younger...before." I run my tongue over my dry lips. "One time...one time she came to my place during a party and wanted some, but she didn't have any money, so I told her to get the fuck out. And she..." A sharp exhale. "She got down on her knees in front of me and started - she started... She was trying to undo my pants." The words are coming out quickly - too quickly. I want preamble and set-up. Context. I'm stuttering and slurring. "She said she could pay me with her mouth, kept repeating it. And I pu-pushed her away." Rough inhale. "I shoved her and she tipped over backwards, fell down. But she kept asking, and everyone was laughing. So was I. I called her names. I called her a nasty bitch, told her she was a pig, snorting around on the ground." I hook my boot around the leg of the metal folding chair. "And her face - she was trying to laugh, laugh like the rest of us, but she wouldn't stop saying it: ‘I'll pay you with my mouth; I'll pay you with my mouth.' And she was drunk and could barely stand up, but her hands kept...they kept reaching for me. So then I..." A false start. "So then I, I got my coke out, and I made some lines on the table. I let a bunch of people snort it up, right in front of her." A breath in. A breath out. "She was like an animal - her eyes, they were rolling around like crazy, and I just laughed. Somebody came up and told her they'd give her some, but she had to go wait outside. Everyone was laughing. I was hysterical. She, she waited for almost an hour before she left." The sweat has soaked through my shirt. "Then it was like three in the morning and everyone was gone and she comes back. She's standing outside my door, and I, I let her in. I don't know why. I was so fucked up. So drunk and so high. I was lonely, or I wanted, I wanted to...to mess with her or something." I pause. Run my hand over my face. "It made me feel good, making her beg. The control, it was... it was so... it was fucking exhilarating. And she comes in, and she's just skin and bones--I can see that even through her clothes--and the knees of her jeans are dirty, like she fell down, and she smells like cigarettes, like she's got half-smoked ones in her coat pockets or something."

My heart has taken off. I can feel it beating in my chest, frantic, like a small animal's. My body feels like it weighs a thousand pounds, but the urge to bolt, to leave, is so strong. The silence is longer this time. So long that Jasper finally speaks. "It's all right, Edward." I don't understand how his face can be so calm, how he can't be feeling at least a tiny fraction of what I'm feeling, how my panic hasn't rubbed off on him. But his face is smooth, serene. It angers me. I want a face like that. Shaking my head, I cross my arms over my chest, trying to contain my erratic heart. "She - I mean I, I ask her what she wants, even though I already know. But I want, I want her to say it." My shaky breath rasps over my fumbling tongue. "I'm on my couch and she just stands there, and I know what she wants but I want to mess with her. I want to... see her squirm and plead, like a little, like a little bug. And she says, she..." Here I falter, the words dying on my lips. "She says, ‘you can fuck me. Whatever you want.' And I'm so fucked up and disoriented and somewhere I know. I know. I know how bad this is, but I feel so fucking powerful. I look at her face and she looks all beat up and exhausted, and her eyes look sick, they're still rolling around, and she gets close to me and I can smell the booze. She smells like a, like a drunk, you know? How it's just in the skin?" Across the circle, a man tightens his mouth, nods. He is an indistinct blur. My eyes catch the movement, but can't focus on it. "She says it again, how I can fuck her if... if I want. She says I can have her how- however I want it. She, she...she." I'm a broken record. "Fuck." I shake, shake from the center of me. "She says I, she'll, she'll let me..." I'm spluttering. One hand clutches the back of my neck; the other runs through my hair again and again. "She says I can, I can fuck her, she says it this way, I can fuck her regular or fu-fuck her in the ass. If I want. I can have whatever I want. Whatever." The fluorescent light is suddenly, violently brighter. "And she repulses me, but I, I, it makes me feel... strong, cause she'll do whatever I say. I don't want her, wouldn't touch her, not for anything, but then, but then..." I'm sweating and my stomach clenches. I'm going to throw up, I think. My hand curls into my hair, pulling it, almost painfully. "But then my dick gets hard." The words spin out of me, fast and round. I swallow back the bile rising in my throat. My breathing is erratic, audible; it comes in gasps. "I don't know why, but I like it. It's disgusting, but I like it. And then I think I'm going to make her. I'm going to make her degrade herself, because she's already started. She started it. She's come here and offered herself and it's sick and I can make her do anything. Anything. I think I could hit her - I want to, want to throw her on the ground and scream at her, tell her how disgusting and pathetic and useless she is." I'm babbling now, and I can't stop. "I'm hesitating, and she senses it and starts trying to take off her clothes. But I can't. I can't have sex with her, her broken down body, and her mouth, I can't. I can't let her put her

mouth on me. Not even as wasted and gone as I am. So I say she ha-has to use her hand. Just her hand. And I," my voice chokes off. My hand moves to my face and it's wet. I don't remember starting to cry. "I make her, I make her wash her hands first." A sob shakes me as I inhale. "She unzips my pants, touches me. I start to feel sick, I..." My hand comes to my mouth as I gag through my tears. "It's only been a few seconds but it feels like it's going on forever. I want her to stop, but I'm gonna make her finish, because she's made me go this far, made me do this thing with her." My voice gets louder, harsher. "But I can't. I can't let her keep going and I fucking hate her for it, for making me do this, and I push her away, call her a pig, a whore, a bitch, every filthy name I can think of." With the back of my hand, I wipe at the snot running from my nose, take a deep breath. Then another. "I get her coke, throw it at her. She asks if she can do some here, and it, it makes me so mad. I'm so mad. Before I know what I'm doing, I've got her by the shoulder and my arm is cocked back and I'm going to punch her. I wasn't even going to slap her. I was going to punch her, break her nose." I've calmed down, the tears coming slower, only sliding down my face when I blink. "It hurts, making myself stop. Her face - she's not even scared, or doesn't care, I-I don't know. I tell her that if she tells anyone what happened I'll kill her, and I'm so angry, so scared, that I think I almost mean it." I lean back in my chair, breathing through my mouth. "But I saw her, in the gas station, looking exactly the same. Skinny and strung out. And she's, she's probably only 30, but she looks fifteen years older and she, she could..." The sobbing comes back. "She's somebody's daughter, she looked so...and I was sorry. I was so, so sorry." I'm bawling like a child now. There are more things to say. Or maybe there isn't anything else to say. My mouth continues to attempt to form words, but my sobs force my lips into strange shapes that don't allow me to speak. I'm so cold all over, everywhere but my face; my face is burning, my eyes hot and swollen. I feel a hand on my back, a stranger's hand. And although I flinch at first contact, the light pressure between my shoulder blades makes my chest ache less fiercely. I breathe until I stop crying. Then, I breathe until I stop shaking. The hand leaves my back. With my eyes shut and the group silent and no one touching me I could be alone in this room - any room. I open my eyes. * "How's work?" Jasper leans back on his hands, stares up at the streetlight. Shrugging, I drop my cigarette butt on the church steps and twist my boot on the stone, grinding the cherry out. "It's work." He chuckles. "That good, huh?" A car passes, its tires whispering on the wet pavement.

"Boss tells me if I'm a good little worker for a few more months, I might get to train the next poor slob they hire." Jasper is quiet for so long that I look over my shoulder to check that he's still awake. His face - as usual - is infuriatingly calm. "That anger is gonna give you a heart attack, Edward." I turn forward and snort. Behind me, Jasper sighs. I wait a full thirty seconds before I bite. "What?" "I didn't say anything." "Right." "I didn't." Again, I wait. "You sighed." To my left, one of his legs crosses over the other. "I did," he responds. I lift my hands from my knees, hold the air. "And?" "And, what? People sigh." We sit in more silence. Jasper turns his foot at the ankle, makes leisurely circles with his shoe. I speak first. "I'm grateful for my job." "I know." "I'm lucky to have it. Most people wouldn't have hired me." "That's true." "I just," I say, my hand finding my hair. "I just don't want this to be the thing I do for the rest of my life."

"Doesn't have to be." Twisting my head around on my neck, I turn back to him. "What else am I going to do?" Jasper shrugs. "Right now. Nothing. Right now, you work. You stay clean, you stay sober, you work, you collect a paycheck, and you come here." His face is still calm, but his eyes are serious. "That's what you do." I shoot him a wry grin. "You ever get sick of telling me the same shit every week?" He shakes his head. "Nope. That's my job. I'm the little voice in your head until you get your own." "And then one day I'll get to irritate the hell out of someone, too?" "Someday." "And get them to admit they're thankful for their shitty fucking job?" "If you can." "You'll have to teach me your Jedi mind tricks, then." This spurs a laugh out of him, and we sit in comfortable silence for a few minutes. "I'm glad you talked tonight," Jasper remarks. I shrug, anxiety flaring in my belly. "Guess I had to at some point." "Not necessarily." He leaves it at that. My hand absently moves to my pocket for my cigarettes and I light another. It's smoked down halfway before I speak again. "I told that girl who works at the store - Bella? I told her you were my sponsor." Next to me, Jasper pushes himself to a sitting position. "I know." This surprises me. "You do?" He nods. "She told me last night." "Huh." I take a deep drag. "It just sort of came out." I pick a piece of stray tobacco from my lip. "Is that going to cause you problems?" "Shouldn't," he says with a wave of his hand.

"She seem freaked out?" "Not at all. Just a little surprised." I shift on the hard steps. "That's cool." From the corner of his eye, he looks at me. "Yeah." The seconds tick by until I can't take it any longer. "She seems nice. Smart." "She is." "Knows a lot about books," I offer, unable to keep my stupid mouth shut. "She does." Jasper turns his head and looks at me, regarding me carefully - so very carefully - before he speaks. "She's probably the only person I know who reads more than you do." The smile on my face is automatic. "Oh yeah?" Flicking the ash from my cigarette, I look down at my feet. There's a bit of warm in my stomach. "Yeah." Jasper's voice is calm, calculatedly so. My eyes move back to him at the sound of his voice. "She'd probably make a good friend," he says deliberately. His face is still as calm as ever, but the seriousness in his eyes is so severe it's a warning. The dim heat in my belly is extinguished. I can't look at him anymore, just down at my boots. There's no deceiving Jasper; sitting next to him, I'm as transparent as cellophane. I swallow. "Maybe." "Yeah, maybe," Jasper echoes. "Well," he announces, slapping his knees with both hands, "I should get going. You want a lift home?" He stands up, stretches. I shake my head. "No. I'll walk." We shake hands, and Jasper moves down the sidewalk and around the corner to his car. I imagine he's going to see his girlfriend. I've met her - Alice - a few times. Nice girl. A little too intense for me, but good for Jasper. It would be nice to have someone to go to on nights like these. It starts to drizzle again on my way home. The raindrops sheer through the heavy air, fanning out over my face and clinging to my hair. I raise my lighter to the cigarette hanging from my lips. My hands look like two white birds in the dark, pale and shaking. As I walk, I

feel the tension move from my neck, to my shoulders, and down my spine. Like water off a duck's back, I think with a rueful grin. The drizzle turns into a shower, and I shrink into my jacket, my head down. * My fingers dig into the top layer of popcorn as the projector rolls the first preview. I never get butter, but the kernels are still greasy as shit. On the screen, a scene from a yet-to-bereleased sci-fi flick plays out. The music is suitably ominous and thunders out of the speakers, drowning out the sound of my chewing. My seat is in the very back of the theater. Ahead and to the left is a man in his 30s; about five rows directly in front of me sit three teenagers - a boy and two girls; a few rows in front and to the right of them sits a young couple. I watch the girl place her hand on the back of the young man's neck, watch his head tip to the side as she does so. A thumbprint of pressure pushes down on my sternum and I look away, back to the screen. I lick the salt from my lips and ignore this tiny ache. Next, there's a preview for a romantic comedy. My eyes fix on the screen. I know these movies aren't reality, but I wonder if they more closely resemble other people's lives than mine. I take a drink of my soda. Before I got sober, the only movies I'd go and see were slasher flicks, and then I'd only go high with a flask or bottle in my jacket pocket, and with other people who were high with flasks or bottles in their pockets. We acted like assholes. We were assholes. I probably need to post an apology in the theater lobby. The movie is a comedy and I laugh appropriately at all the generic jokes. I like this - sitting in the dark with all my attention focused on one thing. It's nice, not having to think. The lack of light is comforting, insulating. I stay in my seat through the credits, getting up only when the lights come back on and the cleaning crew comes in to collect the trash. In the bathroom, I take a piss and wash my hands. The reflection of my face looks relaxed, more relaxed than I've felt in a long time. Shaking the last of the water from my hands, I reach for a towel. The brown paper is scratchy on my skin. I sit in my car in the parking lot for a few minutes, listening to the radio. There are a handful of cars in the spaces around me. Inside the lobby of the theater, two employees lean against the concessions counter, both looking appropriately bored. I've got nowhere to go, but I don't want to go home. My hands itch to play the piano, but my neighbors have recently begun complaining about any noise I make after nine at night. They never complained about the noise before, not about the loud music or the people coming and going at all hours, not about the fights or the cackling drunks at two in the morning. I'd apologized to them after rehab, and since then they've started making eye contact and saying hello when they see me, but they've also begun demanding quiet at night. They aren't afraid of me anymore. Flipping on my lights, I shift into drive and coast out of the lot. I roll down the window and the wet, night air rushes against my face. As I pass a grocery store, all lit-up and bright behind the concrete swath of its parking lot, I quickly flip my blinker on and turn in. Inside, the air is unnecessarily chilled, the garish light oddly illuminating the excessive plastic

packaging on the shelves. There's nothing I really need, but I take a basket and wander the aisles anyway. I pick up a box of cereal and then a can of soup; I barely look at what I'm tossing into my basket. Next to the pasta, a long-suffering woman compares packages of angel hair while her child shrieks from its seat in the cart. It hurts my ears and I quickly skirt around them. I wonder how long it takes for a parent to become virtually immune to his or her child's temper tantrums. It seems to me that no amount of time could dull the piercing pitch of that child's wail, but I know from experience that you can get used to even the most unpleasant of things if you're exposed to them enough. A plain but kind looking twenty-something woman carefully plucks containers of yogurt off the shelves in the dairy aisle. I'm not particularly attracted to her, but my eyes scan up and down her body, simply out of habit. She's dressed like a teacher. Or, she's dressed the way I imagine a teacher might be, khaki pants and a button-up shirt. I wonder if she has a boyfriend. Probably not a live-in one if she does, since she's shopping alone with a basket, like me. Her brows pull together in concentration as she rummages through the yogurt and I hope she does have someone, someone who thinks she's a good teacher. Someone who thinks she looks pretty in her shirt and pants. Someone who gently teases her about how much yogurt she has in her fridge. The woman at the only open checkout has angry eyes and a hangdog face. "Hi," I say quietly, wanting to be polite but not wanting to irritate her either. "Evening," she responds curtly, scanning my two items quickly. I hand her a ten-dollar bill and she makes change without looking at me. "Thank you." She doesn't respond, instead turning to the next customer, her hands reaching for their purchases. The beeping of the scanner fades as I walk away. There's a whoosh of air as the automatic doors open and expel me into the parking lot.

Chapter Seven My eyes open and for a few seconds I'm not sure where I am. Taking in a lungful of air I blink rapidly and sit up. The skin of my cheek sticks to the leather of my sofa. I'd only meant to rest for a minute; I hadn't meant to fall asleep. Rubbing my eyes I look to the clock on the wall - it's almost five. "Shit."

I make my way to the bathroom and flip on the light switch. In the mirror, I can see that the couch has left a red mark on my face. As I brush my teeth, I rub absently at the blotch, hoping it goes away quickly. The hair on the side of my head is mashed and sticking straight up. With wet fingers I attempt to push it back into place. I look like a wet dog, but it'll have to do. I put on my shoes and jacket and hurry out the door, keeping up a quick pace as I stride down the sidewalk. Today's Thursday, and the little nap I've taken means I'm about an hour behind on my usual schedule. I keep my head down and smoke one cigarette, then another, as I walk. Flicking away the last of my smoke, I pull open the door and quickly scan the bookstore. I move toward the used section, trying to be discreet as I look around. I don't see Bella anywhere, and I swallow my disappointment. Sunday's only a few days away. Not in the mood to browse, I pull out the copy of Absalom, Absalom! I'd forgotten to buy a few weeks ago. I give it a cursory flip through and head to the front of the store. A tall, thin girl with dark hair stands at the register. She's cheerful and friendly, and I bite back the urge to ask her if Bella's still working. As I pocket my change, my stomach rumbles vaguely. I have a few bucks still in my wallet and I contemplate getting something to eat. My hand gently pushes the door open by its wood frame and I step into the relatively warm, damp air. The soles of my shoes make gritty sounds on the pavement as I walk down the sidewalk. "Edward." I turn around and Bella's standing in front of the bookstore, about twenty feet behind me, the strap of a canvas bag crossing her chest. "Hey," she says, one corner of her mouth turned up in a half-smile, her right hand lifted in a gesture of greeting. "Hi." Unable to help myself, I smile. My feet are rooted to this particular square of cement. She takes a few, tentative steps toward me. "I wondered why I hadn't seen you today." About eight feet separate us now, but she makes no attempt to narrow the gap. Her fingers wrap around the strap of her bag, hold tight. I don't say anything, and her smile slips. "You usually come in on Thursdays," she says simply, then gets a little red in the face. "I work on Thursdays. So I usually see you. I," and here she cuts herself off and looks down at the ground, away from my face. I take a step forward and she lifts her head again. "Yeah, I fell asleep on the couch. I just woke up. Before." My hand moves self-consciously to my damp hair. Bella nods. "I do that all the time."

She's smiling again; she looks pretty when she smiles. Prettier. For a few seconds we're making eye contact, but she shifts her eyes away and I quickly follow suit. "What did you get?" she asks, and points to the paperback in my left hand. I look down at the book. "Oh." Turning my wrist, I flip the cover up. "Just some Faulkner. Have you read this one?" She shakes her head. "I haven't." We both stare at the book for a moment. I lick my lips and try to think of something to say. "You driving back to Forks now?" The question tumbles out of my mouth. "Uh, no." She looks a bit startled. "I stay with my friend Alice from Thursday to Sunday. For work." "Oh." Her fingers tuck her hair behind her ear. "She's Jasper's girlfriend. Have you met her?" "Yeah." Christ. What a great fucking conversationalist I am. Bella looks past my shoulder, her gaze fixed with such intensity that I almost turn around to see what's behind me. It's like she wants to look anywhere but my eyes. My stomach sinks. "Okay, then," she says quietly, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. "Do you eat now?" Her eyes snap to my face. "What?" Fucking hell. "Do you want to get something to eat?" My jaw tightens up. Her cheeks color, her fingers move to rest lightly on her temple. "I uh, I...yeah. I mean, sure." "Cause I'm hungry and I was thinking about eating, so..." My fingers squeeze tight around the binding of the book in my left hand; my right hand jams itself deep into my jeans' pocket. "Food would be good," she says, looking at me and smiling.

I return the smile. "Okay." Rocking back slightly on my heels, I feel my hand relax around my book. My teeth unclench. Bella's eyes are large and expectant. "So, where do you want to go?" Her lips pucker slightly as her eyes narrow. The heat of embarrassment flashes through my chest. "Oh. Right. Uh, well, there's this place, over on 14th Street. It's not fancy." I stop there, unable to think of what to say next. A short laugh escapes her mouth. "Do I look fancy to you?" She gestures at her clothing with both hands. I have to smile. She's wearing jeans and a hooded sweatshirt unzipped over a t-shirt. She looks absolutely not fancy. "Should we walk or drive?" she asks, taking a half step toward me. "It's about ten minutes if we walk," I reply. "Does that sound okay?" She nods, and I turn in the direction of the diner. Her footsteps are quiet beside me. We walk nearly a block in silence, and my stomach tightens up. My palm is sweaty gripping my book. I'm frantically thinking, trying to come up with something to say, but all the words that come to mind concern things I don't want to talk about right now - namely my sobriety. I can't turn those thoughts off. From the corner of my eye, I look at her face. Her head is cocked a bit to the side; she's watching me, too. We laugh. "Yeah, so," she begins, "how about this weather we're having?" My smile widens. "Rainy." "Yep." "Lots of rain." "Indeed." We laugh again. "So you like American novels?" I furrow my brow and turn my head to her. "Sorry?" Bella sidesteps to avoid a middle-aged man coming toward us on the sidewalk. Her bag brushes my leg. "I've only ever seen you buy books by American writers," she says. "Oh."

"And you mentioned Annie Dillard and Willa Cather the other day." The palm of my hand rubs against my chin. "I guess. I don't know. I've never really thought about it. It's just what I like." I shrug. "Fair enough." "We should cross the street here," I tell her, raising my arm and pointing. "How'd you remember the authors I said?" I barely remember saying them myself. Bella looks both ways before stepping down from the curb and keeping pace with me as we move through the crosswalk. Once on the other side, she looks up at me and taps her forehead with her forefinger. "Steel trap," she says with a grin. I grin back. Walking next to her I realize how much shorter than me she is. Her head doesn't even reach my shoulder. "You like American writers?" I ask, switching my book from the left to right hand. "Eh..." She tips her head back and forth. "I like a little bit of everything." She seems to be thinking. "I like novels. Generally." "So what are you going to study at school?" "That remains to be seen," she replies lightly. "Maybe 20th century American and British if I can do both. Maybe the rise of the novel. I don't know." She flips these words and phrases around casually. I have no idea what the rise of the novel is. I wonder if I should ask, but I don't want to seem stupid. Is this something I should know? We walk in silence for a bit. "Where are you going to school?" It occurs to me that she could be moving anywhere in the fall. "Seattle. University of Washington." "I went there." The words are out of my mouth before I know what I'm saying. Bella's face brightens. "Really? What did you study?" I run my hand through my hair. There's a rock in my gut, and I'm saying shit before I think about it. I'm being careless. "Biology. Well, kind of." I pause.

Her expression is open and interested. I feel like an asshole. "I, it was mostly gen eds, though, cause I didn't finish." "Oh." She looks surprised, initially, and I watch as she smoothes the surprise right off of her face. "I dropped out." Fuck. How hard is it to say nothing? "Huh." Her eyes are back down on the ground. "I got kicked out, actually." God. Now the interest is back in her expression. "Kicked out?" Her eyebrows are quirked, but not in shock. She looks genuinely curious. And why shouldn't she be? I've offered up this information freely. "Yeah, I uh, I violated the university's drug and alcohol policy a few too many times." "Ah..." One of her hands moves back to her chest and grips the strap of her bag again. I watch her expression as closely as I can without letting on that I'm paying attention, or without running into something as we walk. Her face, from this angle anyway, looks thoughtful but relaxed. She doesn't look disgusted or shocked or appalled. I want to ask her what she's thinking - I seem to have lost the ability to discern even the most basic of human emotions - but know how intensely creepy that would be. But her step hasn't faltered and there aren't any obvious sings of discomfort. I hope she knows she can leave whenever she wants. "I want to go back, though. Sometime." She nods, the soles of her shoes slapping lightly on the pavement. I wonder why she doesn't say anything to this; it's frustrating. Maybe she thinks you're stupid. My fingers tug at my left earlobe and I try to quiet the voice in my head. Maybe she's trying to be nice. Maybe. "What about biology interests you?" Her question comes out of nowhere and it simultaneously relieves and bewilders me. I scratch the side of my neck and try to think about how to answer that question. After a moment, I reply. "I like the human body." Bella laughs out loud. It takes me a moment to figure out why that's funny. Still giggling but doing her best to stop, she holds her hands out in front of her in a kind of apology.

"Sorry. Sorry. It's just, your voice. It was so sincere, and I... Sorry. I'm a twelve-year-old boy, obviously." I like how she acts and speaks and laughs, like she doesn't know that you're supposed to be reserved, that you're not supposed to say and do what you think and feel. Not at first, anyway. Her lack of pretense is lovely. I smile. "I should probably think about what I'm going to say before I say it." I can't tell her that aside from the guys at work and the people at AA, she and Jasper are the only human contact I've had in months. Words seem to be slipping out of my mouth far too easily today. "So you like the human body." Bella makes a rolling gesture with her hands. "Please. Continue." My book moves from one hand to the other. "Yeah. I was always interested in how the different parts worked together. How you could have all these infinitely complex systems that managed to...just, function. I know that sounds really simplistic." I can't talk about this stuff like I used to. "Doesn't sound simple at all." "Yeah, cause you think about all the things that go wrong with people's bodies - the injuries, the illnesses, the chronic conditions - but for every thing that goes wrong, thousands of things go right. I don't know. I guess I just wanted to know how everything worked, why it worked. How to fix it if it went wrong." I shrug, feeling suddenly self-conscious, and look at Bella. Her eyes are still on the ground. "So you wanted to be a doctor. Or a surgeon." These aren't questions. A smile softens my mouth. "Yeah. I did." "Do you still?" The tone with which she asks these questions is openly curious, but not demanding. These questions - her interest - it's strange to be on the receiving end of those things. "I don't know." Again, this is my immediate response and I don't realize this is how I feel until I say it. "Probably not." "Why not?" The breath I take stretches my lungs. "I don't know." Quit saying that. "I never made it very far in the classes anyway. It'd be like starting over." My fingers thread through my hair. "And I don't think I could handle the material anymore."

This time, she doesn't ask a question, just looks at me. My heart speeds up a bit; my mouth feels cottony. "I, uh, I have a hard time remembering things." "Oh." There's a moment of silence. "The stuff I did, it...well, it... You can lose your short-term memory. You have a hard time remembering stuff." "Short-term memory. That's like learning something new, once, but not being able to remember it again?" "Kind of. It's like, well, it's like...it's like putting water in a funnel." I feel stupid, using this metaphor, but it's the only thing I can think of to describe it. "It holds water for a little while, but then it's empty. It's like I try and try and try to hold on to things in my head, but they just slip away. I remember that I learned something, but I can't remember what." "That sounds frustrating." Pushing away a low-hanging branch before it can hit me in the face, I nod. "Yeah. Like, at work, we have to use all these codes when we unload or ship things. Codes for company names, codes for the kind of things we're shipping, all of that. And all the other guys figure at least some of them out after about a month or so. It's taken me three months to remember the code for printer paper." "I think I'd go nuts," Bella pronounces. I give a short laugh. "Sometimes I feel like it. Here," I say, tucking my book into my armpit and crossing my left arm over my body, toward her. Pushing my sleeve up, I reveal the pale skin of my forearm. The remnants of names and numbers written in pen are scrawled across my flesh. "My cheat sheet." I smile weakly. Bella smiles back. She's open. It's the only word I can use to describe her. Her face is open, the gentle tone of her voice when she asks me questions is open, even the steady pace of her walk draws me in. "So that'll get better over time?" she asks, jumping lightly over a puddle on the sidewalk. I watch her small feet tread across the concrete. "Hopefully. I can remember my ID number at work now, and I remember the number of my bank account." "That's good, right?"

"Yeah. I just really have to concentrate, on everything. Really hard. When I got out of rehab I couldn't even read a chapter of a book in one sitting. I couldn't focus. I kind of have to have a one-track mind if I want to get anything done." This isn't what I wanted. I didn't want to talk about this - about my sobriety or treatment or the difficulties I'm having. I wanted this to be the thing I could have, the thing I could do that didn't have to do with any of that. My frustration is a pounding behind my eyes. "So, you could, say, see someone or talk to someone, and if you weren't really paying attention, it would be like they weren't there at all?" Her voice is playful and she's smiling at me. Grinning, I shake my head. "Yeah. That could happen." The frustration ebbs and I feel a bit warm. We walk in silence for another block. "It's just around the corner," I say, gesturing with my hand. Bella pushes through the glass door ahead of me, and I wish I could see her face. The diner is old-fashioned - a little rundown, but immaculately clean. About half of the booths are full, and there are a handful of men sitting at the counter, hunched over their food and their newspapers. Turning around, Bella looks up at me. "Where do you want to sit?" I usually sit at the counter, but today I'd like to sit in a booth. It makes me feel a little frantic, knowing that she'll be sitting directly across from me as opposed to next to me, that I'll have to make eye contact or find ways to avoid it, but I want to have the choice to look or not look at her face; I want that frantic feeling as much as I don't. "How about that one?" I point to a booth back in the corner. She nods and we seat ourselves. I watch her carefully pull her bag from her shoulder, see how her long hair gets caught up in the strap briefly then spills back down around her neck and her arms. I wonder if she's always kept it long. Bella notices me watching and blushes, self-consciously tugging on the ends of her hair. My eyes look down to the tabletop. "I almost didn't recognize you away from the counter, Edward." I look up and smile. "What're you doing here tonight?" Lucy rolls her eyes. "Sara called in sick, so..." She gestures to the red apron tied over her clothes. "Duty calls." An amused expression comes to her face as she looks from me to Bella. "Who's your friend?"

Bella looks as embarrassed as I feel. I clear my throat. "This is Bella. She works at the bookstore." "Hi." Her voice is soft. Lucy sticks out her hand. "I'm Lucy," she says. Blushing, Bella takes her hand. "Nice to meet you." "Likewise. So what would you two like to drink?" "Just water for me," Bella says. "Glass of milk for you, sir?" Lucy asks. I duck my head and nod. "Thanks." "No problem. Menus are in the rack," she points to the wall of the booth. "I'll be back in a few to take your order." Bella smiles at Lucy's retreating back. We both pull out menus and open them in silence. I already know what I'm getting, but I'm relieved to have an excuse not to make conversation or eye contact. Running her finger down the laminated page, Bella bites at the inside of her cheek. "Do you come here a lot?" I look up, and as soon as my eyes meet hers, she looks back down at her menu. "Every Sunday. A couple other times during the week. It depends." Bella nods, her head still down. I mimic her. Our silence isn't uncomfortable - not yet - but it isn't exactly comfortable, not on my end, at least. She suddenly snaps her menu shut. I look up, startled. She smiles at me. "Well, I know what I'm getting." I laugh and look down, rubbing the back of my neck. She's a strange girl, alternately aggressive then painfully shy. "Me too," I say, placing my menu back in the rack. I look up again, but this time Bella's looking out at the rest of the diner. Her eyes scan the room, her face relatively blank. I wonder what she's thinking, wonder if they have places like this in Boston. Lucy reappears. "What are we having?" Bella and I exchange a look as we silently muddle through who should order first.

"I'll have the club sandwich," she says quickly. "Fries?" "Yep." Turning to me, Lucy raises her eyebrows. "Cheeseburger?" I say with a smile. "American cheese, fries, no onions but lettuce and tomato, medium?" I nod, my grin getting bigger. "Thanks." Lucy leaves the table and Bella and I are left alone. I pick up my glass of milk and take a drink. "Milk drinker, huh?" Looking down at the glass in my hand, I shrug. "Yeah." Bella nods, seemingly thinking this over. "You drink it with everything?" "What do you mean?" I cock my head to the side. "I mean, do you drink it with everything, like pizza?" Laughing, I shake my head. "No, not with that. Just everything else." Bella picks up her straw and pulls it from its paper wrapper. "I just ask because I know someone who loves drinking milk with pizza." She jams the straw through the top layer of ice in her water glass, stirs it around. "That sounds kind of disgusting." Raising her eyebrows, she nods. "Agreed. But he loves it." The ice swirls inside her cup. He? My stomach clenches. "Your boyfriend?" Again, another thing that comes out of my mouth before I think about it. Bella meets my eyes, looks at me like I'm crazy. "No. Just a friend. My old roommate in Boston." "Oh." I trace the pattern on the tabletop with my index finger, feeling stupid. "I don't have a boyfriend." Her voice is soft, she sounds embarrassed.

"Oh." I look back up at her, but her eyes are down and to the side. Leaning over the table, she takes the straw between her lips and I watch her cheeks pucker slightly as she sucks water up from the glass. Her lips part and release the straw, and I sit back in the booth, move my eyes away. I wish she'd say something; I wish I could think of something interesting to say. Forget interesting, I just don't want to sit here in silence. "So you work at a shipping company?" I look up and Bella gives me a small smile. "Uh, no. I mean, sort of, but not really. We do storage, mainly." The heat rises to my face. "What kinds of things do you store?" Licking my lips, I turn my head and stare at the ketchup bottle next to the salt and pepper shakers. "All kinds of things. But not food, we don't do food of any kind. We, well, it's kind of a warehouse. It's a warehouse." I take a deep breath, my fingers picking at the edge of the table. "Companies store stuff there before they ship it out." I've stopped talking but she doesn't say anything; I'm forced to look up. Her face is attentive, like she's waiting for me to continue. "I unload trucks and, well, reload trucks. I don't know... It's pretty stupid, I mean it's a job, but I don't, I mean I won't do it forever." I swallow. "Do you like it?" Again with the kind voice and the smile. "No. I mean, I don't hate it, it's just... I can't see myself doing it forever. I don't want to. Like I said, I want to go back to school sometime, I just need the money, I..." My hand reaches for my hair. "It's just a stop on the road," Bella supplies. My eyes meet hers. "Yeah." There's a long silence in our conversation. She breaks it first. "I like this place," she says, looking around. "Yeah?" Nodding, she shifts in the booth. "Yeah. I didn't even know it was here." I take a drink and set my glass gently on the tabletop, turning it around in the condensation. "I came here all the time before I got a job. After rehab, I mean. It's open twenty-four hours, so I could come whenever. And Lucy didn't care if I sat and read all day, even if I just ordered a cup of coffee."

"That's nice." "Yeah." There's another lull in the conversation. "So, about the other day," I begin, not sure why I'm starting this conversation but knowing I probably just need to do it and get it over with. Bella waits, expectant. "I probably shouldn't have just told you Jasper was my sponsor. That was kind of a bad move on my part. It wasn't my place to tell." "Okay." She fiddles with the strings of her sweatshirt. "I'm sorry if it made you feel weird. That's kind of a lot of...stuff to dump on somebody I barely know." My fingers scratch the side of my face. She shrugs her shoulders, crosses her arms over her chest. "It's not something you need to be embarrassed about." "I know." Beneath the table, my left hand clenches into a fist. "And you must think about it a lot. I mean that you must have to focus on it if you want to stay..." "Sober?" We're both talking about it by not talking about it. "Yeah. I mean, if drinking was the thing that you..." Here she trails off, biting her lower lip and looking down at the table. "It's really not my business, I just, you shouldn't feel like you have to talk about it. Or that you can't talk about it." She exhales loudly and rolls her eyes. "I have no idea what I'm fucking talking about." The swearing is back and it makes me laugh, the tension easing. "I think I did this backwards." "How so?" "Like, I should've gotten to know you and then told you I was an alcoholic and a drug addict. Maybe asked if you had siblings first before I dropped that on you," I joke. Bella shakes her head, smiling. "That might have been a good way to break the ice," she says. "For the record, I'm an only child." I laugh. "Me too."

Her lips open, but she doesn't speak right away. There's a beat and then she asks. "So, it was alcohol and drugs?" She's looking straight at me, a little bit of tension in her mouth and brow. When I don't answer right away, she gets flustered. "Sorry. Sorry." Her hands are out in front of her again. "That wasn't okay for me to ask, I... I'm sorry." Her pale skin is flushed. "No, it's okay," I reassure her. "I brought it up. You can ask me questions. That's fine." She's shaking her head. "No, it's not okay. That was really personal. I'm sorry," she repeats. "I just, I..." She brings her hands up to the side of her face, her fingers splayed. "I have verbal diarrhea. I just say shit sometimes, and I feel like every time I talk to you, it just gets worse and worse." Her hands fall back to the tabletop with a slap. My heart has sped up a little with my anxiety. I want her to ask me these questions, but I don't want to answer them. Or maybe I want to answer them, to tell someone these things, to show myself that I can do it, that the other person can handle it, that this can just be another tale I tell, just another part of my story like where I was born or where I went to school. Bella looks miserable, her face bright red and her eyes cast down. I clear my throat and she looks up. "I did pretty much everything you can do. And I did a lot of it. For a long time." She nods. "Before I went to rehab, I was selling, too. Not a lot, but enough." Another nod. "I did a lot of stuff," and I pause. There are things I can say now, and there are things I can say later. The details can be for later. We sit in silence again for a while, but this one is decidedly more comfortable. Or, decidedly less uncomfortable. Running my fingers through my hair and shifting in my seat, I try to change the subject. "So, do you miss Boston?" A smile immediately comes to Bella's face. She nods. "Yeah. I do. I miss it a lot." "It's a lot different here, I suppose." "It is," she agrees. "It's a lot quieter. And less crowded. And there's so much more space." "You like the city more?" I slide my thumb over the curve of my glass, watch her from underneath my eyelashes.

She shrugs. "It's just what I'm used to, I guess. Boston isn't huge, but it's...well, everything's really close together. Physically it's not that big - you can walk across the city pretty easily but there are lots of people and buildings crammed in together." As she talks, she moves her hands around on the top of the table. Her eyes don't meet mine - she focuses on a point somewhere over my head. The words and sentences come out of her quickly; her cheeks flush. "You said you lived in Phoenix before that, right?" I ask tentatively. Nodding, she takes a drink of water. "Yep. Since I was a baby." "So you've lived in cities your whole life." "Kind of," she says, with a tip of her head. "Phoenix is different, and not just the weather." This makes her smile. "It takes up a lot more space, it's more spread out." "Oh." I've never been to either of these places. "Yeah. The difference between the east and west sides of the country, I guess." Her fingers drum lightly, and briefly, on the table. I want to keep her talking. "How long did you live there?" Her eyes widen slightly. "Where? Boston?" I nod. "Four and a half years. I finished my degree after four, then worked until December." "You majored in English?" Smiling, Bella nods. "Yep. And minored in Philosophy." This surprises me, though it probably shouldn't. "Philosophy?" "Uh huh," she replies absently, looking around the restaurant. It's difficult to tell if her nonchalance is deliberate. I wish I had little phrases like these, phrases I could toss around so easily. I majored in Biology; I like the country better than the city. The desire to possess and dispense these signifiers makes my gut ache. The little bits of information I'm gleaning from our conversation - I want to know these things. But the more I learn, the farther away from her I feel. "You must like Port Angeles, then?" Bella asks cautiously.

I nod. "It's okay." Sliding my hand beneath the collar of my shirt, I scratch at an imaginary itch. She watches me with careful eyes, waiting for me to elaborate. When I don't, she purses her lips slightly, looks away. I can't seem to say the things I want to say, the things she seems to want me to say. In my head, this conversation runs more smoothly. My mind flips through possible questions I could ask. "You're about twenty-three, then?" It's such a stupid question. She gives a short, nervous laugh. "Yeah. Twenty-three. How old are you?" "Twenty-seven." I cough, for no reason at all. Bella makes a tsk'ing sound with her tongue and teeth. "So old." Her teasing makes me smile; my smile makes her smile. The good feeling her joking inspires gives me confidence. "I like to think of myself as wiser, more mature." "More mature than what? Or whom?" Her eyes are dark, the pupils dilated. The urge to gently nudge her leg with my foot under the table strikes me, but I shake it off. "More mature than twenty-three year olds?" My smile widens. Bella smirks. "That remains to be seen." The lightness of the conversation buoys my chest. I like seeing her laugh and smile; I like being the one to make her act that way. The silence that follows this little exchange is the easiest one yet. Lucy makes her way to our table and sets plates in front of each of us. "You need anything else?" Bella shakes her head. She extracts the toothpick that holds one half of her sandwich together and wraps her fingers around the toasted bread. Not wanting her to catch me staring, I look down at my own plate and take to arranging the tomato and lettuce carefully on my cheeseburger before replacing the top half of the bun. We both eat in silence for a while. "How's your food?" I ask, wiping my mouth with my napkin. I've got lousy timing; she's just taken a large bite.

She giggles a little around her mouthful, holding out her hand and chewing vigorously for a few seconds. Covering her mouth with her fingers, she swallows, then answers. "Good. You?" "Good." I smile and continue eating. It's not that I mean to watch her while she eats; it's more that I can't help myself. And she keeps her eyes away from mine, so it's easy to not get caught. Bella takes medium sized bites. I don't know how I'd feel if she opened her mouth wide and took impossibly large mouthfuls, but I'm relieved that she doesn't take prissy little nibbles of her food. She chews with her mouth closed and frequently wipes at her face with her napkin. Her teeth close around her sandwich and a hunk of turkey and some bacon slide out from between the slices of bread and plop onto her plate. She freezes, her eyes widening and looking down at the escaped food. Her expression is absurd and I snort a laugh, choking a little. Her gaze flips to my face in surprise, then she laughs, her smile curving around the sandwich still lodged in her mouth. Closing her teeth, she finally takes her bite and tries fairly unsuccessfully - to chew. We're both laughing now. I swallow hastily and reach for my glass of milk, my eyes still watering a little from the hamburger that went down the wrong way. Bella lifts her hand to her mouth, chews behind it, looking at me but then quickly looking away when my expression inspires her to laugh more. Both of us finish chewing and swallowing, and I'm still laughing softly but trying not to. Her giggling fades and we lapse into a gentle silence. The little spin of warmth crawls back into my belly. This is nice. I almost say it out loud, but catch myself before I can. Bella picks at her fries, takes a drink of water. "Did you finish Farewell, My Lovely yet?" I nod. "You were right about him, Chandler." "Of course I was," she says with a grin. "But about which part? The he's a great writer part or the racist/sexist part?" "Both." "Yeah," she agrees, "I get all self-righteous and want to hate it, but the prose is just so fucking good." A wistful look crosses her face. I laugh. "What?" A smile plays at her lips. "Nothing," I say, shaking my head. "No, tell me. What?" Her expression is amused, but there's a seriousness behind her eyes that tells me not to fuck around.

"I don't know," I say, feeling hesitant. My fingers grip the edge of my plate and spin it uselessly in place. "When you swear, it's funny." Furrowing her brow, she regards me carefully. "Funny, how?" I shrug. "You're smart, obviously." Glancing quickly at her face to gauge her reaction, I see that this has embarrassed her. "But then you bust out with these f-bombs every once in a while. It's just unexpected." Bella doesn't say anything, just sits on her side of the booth and blushes. My hands are in my hair almost immediately. "I don't mean to make you feel self-conscious. I think it's nice that you swear." She gives me a confused look. "I mean, I like how you talk." This softens her face, but she's still bright red. It's cute, her embarrassment, and the warm moves from my gut up into my chest. I'm still watching her when she lifts her eyes to mine, holds my gaze briefly, then laughs and rolls her eyes, looking away. I'd like to kiss her. Refocusing my thoughts, I pick up my cheeseburger and take another bite. Following my lead, Bella returns to her food, and we eat quietly for a while. "What are you reading?" I ask. She seems to be thinking as she chews. "Well, I've been trying to get through some Dickens at the moment." "Charles Dickens?" I feel ridiculously proud of myself for knowing who this is. Licking her lips, she nods. "I read a handful of his stuff for class in undergrad, but I've never been able to get through the better-known ones. I'm trying to get through David Copperfield, but man, I hate that book. So much." Her nostrils flare with disdain. "I liked the others we read, but it just makes me want to gouge my eyes out." She makes another hideous face. "We had to read Great Expectations in high school." Again with the eye roll. "My condolences." I grin. "It wasn't that bad, what I remember." Bella shrugs, taking a breath before she continues. "And I'm rereading Women in Love." "Who wrote that?" I loathe having to ask, but I don't want to pretend that I know and have her figure it out later.

"D.H. Lawrence. You've heard of Lady Chatterley's Lover?" She quirks her eyebrow at me. "I think so," I respond slowly. "There was an obscenity trial about it, right?" "Yeah. Same guy. Though this book is slightly less racy, unfortunately," she jokes. And now she's brought up sex, and the handful of masturbatory fantasies I've created starring her flash in my mind's eye and it's my turn to get flustered. Instead of indulging in those thoughts, I think of Jasper's serious eyes from Monday night, remind myself of the line I can't cross and why I can't cross it. We pick at our food for a few minutes, sitting quietly. Lucy wanders over, leaves the check on the table. "If you want anything else, flag me down," she says. Not bothering to look at the bill, Bella digs into her bag and pulls out her wallet. She tosses a ten-dollar bill to the center of the table. For a moment I consider paying the entire bill and making her take her money back, but I'm not sure if that's the right move. This isn't a date. At least, I don't think it is. That isn't what I'd intended when I'd asked her. Or maybe it was. The invitation had just sort of come out of my mouth. My eyes steal to her face for a few seconds, and she looks blissfully unaware of my internal argument. She's not acting as if she wants me to pay for the meal, but I can't imagine that Bella is the kind of girl who would want me to pay even if this were a date. Fuck. I put money for my share in the black folder Lucy's left behind, adding Bella's ten to it. "You need change?" She shakes her head. "Nope." A generous tipper. "You ready?" she asks, reaching for her bag. Nodding, I get up from the table and take a step back, allowing her to walk to the door first. Outside, the sky is a darker shade of gray than when we'd gone inside; it looks like it might rain. Bella shoves her hands into the pockets of her sweatshirt and looks at the ground, shifting from one foot to the other. For a few seconds we just stand there; then, she turns on her heel and heads in the direction of downtown. "Dinner was okay?" I curse myself for asking such a stupid question. She already said the food was good, idiot. "Absolutely," she says quickly, looking up at me and smiling. "The place has character." This makes me smile. We walk for a while in silence. It starts to rain, very lightly, but rain nonetheless.

"We should've driven," I say apologetically. I walk in this kind of weather all the time - it's somewhat unavoidable around here - but I feel bad that she's out in it with me. Bella flips up her hood; the top is vaguely pointy. She's like a little elf. I look down to hide my smile from her. "I like it, actually," she says. "I walked everywhere in Boston. It's one of the things I really miss." "Yeah?" "Yeah. When I was in Boston, I missed driving. God, like crazy. When I'd go home for Christmas, all I wanted to do was drive everywhere." She laughs to herself. "And now I miss walking." "I could see that." My hand reaches for my pocket, pulls out my pack of cigarettes. I hesitate. "You mind?" It's not something I want to do in front of her, but I always smoke after I eat. "Not at all." The rain is still light but steady now, and she zips up her sweatshirt. Placing the cigarette in my mouth, I pat my pockets, looking for my lighter. It's always in the front right pocket, but the patting is part of the process, the habit. I'm about to light up when I wonder if Bella smokes. I roll the cigarette to the corner of my mouth. "You want one?" She looks at me, her eyes settling on my mouth. "No, thanks." I light up and inhale, jamming the lighter back in my pocket. Her eyes are still focused on my lips and my stomach jerks. When she sees me watching, she blushes and looks down. I warm with embarrassment and pleasure. I like her eyes on me, however self-conscious it makes me feel. I babble nervously. "It's a disgusting habit, but it's the only thing that got me through rehab. I was going through packs like crazy. I'm trying to quit. I mean, at some point, I want to. I'll try." She shrugs, watching her feet. "It's not that disgusting. I smoke sometimes. But only when I'm completely shitfaced." Her feet stumble on the sidewalk and she looks up at me, her face a mix of embarrassment and horror. "Sorry. Does that bother you? Sorry." She looks down again. Laughter spills from me as I shake my head. "No, it doesn't bother me. I figured you drank. Most people your age do." "Okay." Her voice is quiet.

Inhaling and exhaling, I try to think of something to say that will get her mind off of the subject. "How's working at the store? You like it?" "I do. I like the people I work with, for the most part. And I get first crack at the used books, and a discount." "That's cool." "Yeah, but I buy way too many books. I already have boxes of them at home that I had to ship from Boston, and now I'm going to have to haul them to Seattle." Her hand reaches up to snag a leaf from a low branch. There's a rustle as the branch snaps back into place. "Better books than something else, right?" I say. "At least you'll probably use them at some point for school." "Probably," she agrees. "And you only work on the weekends?" "Sort of." Her fingers are tearing small pieces from the leaf, letting them flutter to the ground as we walk. "I work Thursday to Sunday. It usually ends up being close to thirty hours every week." She shrugs. "It's not a bad job, as far as retail jobs go." "That's true. You could be working in a warehouse," I point out with a grin. She gives me a sheepish smile and a half-shrug. I hope I haven't made her uncomfortable. It was only a joke. We walk and I smoke, my head down to avoid the occasional drop of rain on my face. I take one last drag and toss the butt into the street. Bella stops short, her eyes on my face, incredulous. "Did you just throw your cigarette into the street?" My stomach turns to ice. "Yeah. Just the filter." She raises an eyebrow. "Do you always throw your trash on the ground?" There's a smile on her lips, but her eyes shine with irritation. Now I'm nervous. I run a hand through my hair. "Just...just my cigarettes when I'm walking around." "I see," she says, and puts her head down as she begins walking again. I'm confused, and let her pass me on the sidewalk. "I can pick it up if you want," I call out, pointing to the still-glowing cigarette butt. She doesn't respond and I jog to catch up with her as she's crossing the street. Her head is down and I can't see her face. I feel like

someone's punched me in the gut. We get halfway down the next block before I speak up. "I'll pick it up, if you want me to..." I crane my neck down and around, hoping to get a look at her expression. She brushes me off with a shake of her head. "Don't worry about it." I open my mouth to respond, but think better of it and shut my trap. There's another silence. "Sorry," she says after a while. "I'm kind of weird about stuff like that." "Littering?" "Uh huh." "You're a big environmentalist?" It's half a joke, half serious. She shrugs. "Not particularly. I just...never mind." Now she sounds embarrassed. "What? Say it." I try to keep my tone encouraging. "It's just," and she pauses, her lips screwing up into a funny shape. "It's just, how hard is it to throw the cigarette in the trash?" She's clearly uncomfortable but she's sort of laughing as she speaks. I don't have a response for that. "Sorry," she says again. "Everybody's got their things." She gives me a weak smile. "Their things?" I repeat. "Yeah, the things that bother them. Their pet peeves. Littering is one of mine." Her eyes are on my face, watching me closely. I nod. "Gotcha. Any other ‘things' I should know about?" This makes her smile wide. "People who chew with their mouths open." "Oh," I say, furrowing my brow. "How'd I do with that one?" "Passed," she says, laughing. "Passed with flying colors." "Whew," I say, wiping the back of my hand on my forehead with an exaggerated motion. Bella makes a face at me. "You have to have some, too," she accuses. When I don't answer, she nudges my arm with her elbow. The flesh throbs dully at the contact. "C'mon. Tell me."

I laugh. "Okay. I hate cinnamon flavored gum. Hate how it tastes." Scoffing at me, she adjusts the bag on her shoulder. "That's a preference, not a pet peeve." She's right. "I hate it when people use weird slang when they talk about pot. Reefer, ganja, Mary Jane, cheeba...sweet cheeba. Fuck. I hate that most of all. I used to sell to this guy who always called it that. I wanted to stop selling to him, but he was one of my best customers." Her laughter gets louder, then abruptly stops. "Should I be laughing at that?" "I don't see why not. The kid was pretty ridiculous." "Kid?" Her eyes are wary. "He was about twenty or twenty-one," I clarify. "I just call him a kid because he's younger than me." Satisfied, she looks back to the sidewalk, nods. "Sweet cheeba," she mutters to herself, and giggles quietly. I grin. She's cute. Funny. We turn the corner and we're back downtown. I don't necessarily want to go home already, but I can't think of any reasonable way to hang out with Bella longer. If this were a normal situation, I could ask her to get a beer with me. "So, you work tomorrow." It's not a question, and I've only said it for something to say. "Uh huh." She bites at her lower lip. Another silence, and we're almost in front of the store. I scratch my head and think furiously of a clever way to say goodbye. "I'm parked in the alley out back," she says, stopping in front of the shoe store next door. "Okay." My neck and face are hot, my stomach tense. I look her in the eye, but she immediately looks down at my feet. "You need a ride?" Her question is punctuated with a quick flick of her eyes to mine, then away again. "Naw. I live about ten minutes away."

Now it's her turn to say okay. "Thanks for taking me to the diner." Her tone is bright, and a bit too loud. She clears her throat. I realize that she's nervous too, and although this makes me feel better about my own anxiety, it doesn't lessen it. "Yeah. Sure." Her eyes dart from my face to the street to my face and back to the ground. "Maybe, maybe we could go again." "Okay." This word drops like a rock from my lips. It doesn't sound enthusiastic at all, and her face falls. Shit. "Or we could do something else," I blurt out. Her eyes are wide, her cheeks still flushed with embarrassment. It seems to take her a minute to process what I've said. Eventually, her face relaxes and she smiles even as she looks away. "Yeah. We could do something else." "Like a movie. I go to the movies a lot." I scratch my head. "Yeah, so we could go. Together. I mean, if you like movies." This conversation is fucking ridiculous. "I like movies," she says, and then we both laugh. "You want to go Saturday, maybe?" I wish, immediately, that I could take those words back. Bella looks briefly startled, but she recovers quickly. "Uh, well, I close on Saturdays." "Oh." Even though I feel stupid for asking, I'm disappointed. "But we close at nine," she says quickly. "I'm usually out of here by 9:30. If that's not too late." Her voice is suddenly shy. "No. That's not too late." She looks up at me with those dark eyes and smiles, and God help me I can't not smile back. Her mouth is screwed up again, and she scuffs at the pavement with her sneaker. "Okay," I say. "So Saturday. I'll meet you here at 9:30?" "Sure. I mean, yeah. That's good." I smile and she smiles, and our eyes are all over the place. She laughs out loud and swings her bag around onto her hip.

"Okay then. I'm gonna go." She lifts her hand and gestures to the alley with her thumb. "All right." My heart is hammering and I'm fucking smiling like a complete shithead. "Bye, Edward." Flushing, she bites at her cheek. "Bye, Bella." I watch her lips fight against her smile, and then she's turning away from me and walking to the corner. Her bag bounces on her backside, and even though it's halfcovered, I can tell she's got a cute ass. I turn around before she can look back and see me checking her out. My smile sticks to my face. Chapter Eight "You've got paint in your hair," Alice informs me. "Hmm?" I reply, my mouth full of cereal. She points to my head. "Paint. Hair. You." I swallow. "Damn it." Setting my bowl on the counter, I head to the bathroom in the hall. In front of the mirror I tip my head this way and that, but I don't see it. "Alice," I holler. "Where?" Her laugh gets louder as she gets closer. "Here," she sighs, and reaches for my hair. Quickly but carefully, she picks out the paint. "How about we go the other way and I just cover all of it?" "Yeah," I snort. "You'd look good as a blond," she says, dropping my hair. I follow her back into the kitchen. My Golden Grahams are getting a little soggy at the bottom of the bowl, so I eat faster. Chewing, I regard Alice as she stands at the counter, flipping through a magazine. "How can you not have any paint anywhere?" She doesn't look up. "Do you have any idea how many times I've painted the rooms in this apartment?" "Nope." "There's at least three layers of paint on every wall. At least." With that pronouncement, she looks up at me, eyebrows arched. "Not including primer."

Laughing, I rinse my bowl and spoon. I have to remind myself to put them in the dishwasher; I'm too used to washing everything by hand at Charlie's. "You coming out after work?" The question is innocuous enough, but I blush. "I don't think so." I'm hoping she'll leave it at that. But of course she doesn't; she's Alice. "Why not?" Her face and the tone of her voice are absolutely nonchalant as she looks at photographs of summer dresses. Shrugging, I feign indifference. "I don't know. I'm kinda burnt out on the bar." She concedes easily enough. "Okay." Pleased that she's not pushing the issue, I make my way to the door to grab my sweatshirt and bag. I open my mouth to say goodbye, but when I turn back toward the kitchen, I see that Alice is already leaning up against the wall next to the entryway. Her eyes are slightly narrowed. "Did Seth do something to piss you off?" "No, of course not," I answer, shaking my head. "Because I have no problem taking my business elsewhere if that's the case." "No. Nothing like that." Her eyes narrow further. "You're not telling me something." "What?" "Spill it." She's got her best angry face on. "Spill what?" I ask, looking down and fiddling with the strap of my bag. "You're a crappy liar." I roll my eyes. "Don't roll your eyes at me," she says witheringly. Sighing, I shift my weight onto the outsides of my feet. "I have plans." "With who?"

"Whom," I say. She hates it when I correct her grammar, but she's pissing me off. "Shut up. Who?" "A friend." She cocks her head, expectant. "Is that their name - a friend?" Resistance is futile, this I know. "His name is Edward." "Edward," she repeats. "Yes," I respond in my best "duh" voice. She thinks for a second. "Do I know this guy?" "I think so. He knows Jasper." Her eyes light up with recognition. "Right. Edward." She looks at me closely. "This a date?" My face flames. "No. No. I don't think so. No." "Okay." "We're going to a movie." "Okay." And now I find her nonchalance annoying. "We're just hanging out, just as friends. I'm not, I mean, it's not a date." Alice simply smiles cheerfully. I nervously check my bag for my wallet and my keys. "I have to go to work. So I'll...see you later." "Yep. See you." She waves over her shoulder as she walks away from me, presumably back to her bedroom to finish painting. I'm embarrassed. I don't know why I should be. There's nothing to be embarrassed about. I do wonder if she'll tell Jasper where I'm going after work. Probably. My general impression of their relationship is that there are very few secrets between the two of them. The store is busy - tourist season is upon us. My face hurts from the fake smile I've had plastered on it all day. I watch the last in a long line of customers exit the store and lean against the counter. I check the clock; it's 8:00.

"Do you know where you're living in the fall?" Angela asks as she cleans up her cash drawer, breaking open a new roll of nickels and facing the bills. "Huh-uh," I answer, watching a new hire sort through the periodicals. Lauren's face is sour as she works, and she checks her watch about every two minutes. I know the feeling. "Me neither. I was thinking about the dorms because it's technically my first year, but..." Angela sighs. "I'm 21 years old. I don't know if I could handle living with an eighteen-yearold. Or sharing a bathroom with all of those girls." "Could be sharing it with boys, too," I inform her. "Lots of schools are going co-ed in the dorms." "Are you serious?" She looks exhausted. "God. Now I'm definitely not living on campus." I laugh, and we stand in silence for a while. A middle-aged couple comes up to the register and I ring them up. They buy three children's books, for a grandkid, maybe? I settle back into the counter, rolling the outside of my thigh along the wood edge. "What do you think of the new girl?" Angela's eyes zero in on Lauren. She shrugs. "I don't know. Seems..." She doesn't finish her sentence. I nod. "Yeah. I don't know how long she'll last." "Why do you say that?" "She's been checking her watch all day. If she's this irritated on her third shift, well..." I trail off. "I guess." Angela pauses. "I don't like her," she announces. "I think she was trying to flirt with Jasper the other day." This makes me laugh. "What?" "Yeah, I don't know. It seemed like flirting but it was so awkward, I couldn't really tell." Angela purses her lips and watches Lauren carefully. At 8:30 I start helping clean up the store. My focus is entirely on organizing the reference section, in putting all the LSAT and GRE and MCAT study guides back in their appropriate places, in refolding unfolded maps. I think about my plans with Edward and my stomach twists. This isn't a date; I don't think so, anyway. Or, I won't let myself think of it that way, even though I wish that it were, even though he's so goddamn attractive. His eyes and that grin and the little bursts of laughter that erupt from him on occasion. I shelve books and sweep the floors and then, too quickly, I'm standing on the sidewalk outside the store as

Jasper locks up for the night. I hover in a moment of indecision, unable to just walk away from him and Angela and Ben and Lauren, but not wanting to explain why I'm not going with them. "You coming Bella?" Angela's cheerful voice makes me flinch. "Not tonight," and my voice is saturated with phony levity. "Oh." She's surprised. "Okay." Taking a breath, I consider explaining or making up an excuse but Jasper saves me the trouble. "Goodnight, Bella," he says. Although his tone is gentle, nondescript, there's a pointed quality to his gaze and his spare choice of words that I can't miss. He knows where I'm going and he knows with whom. I wave goodbye. The level of anxiety I have about Jasper's approval is ridiculous. Yet even though I know this, even though I'm irritated at myself for putting so much stock in his opinion, I feel as if socializing with Edward is some sort of trespass. And both Jasper and I know it. My coworkers cross the empty street and I check my watch. 9:26. Nerves pulse through the center of me. I like this boy. I like his green eyes and pale skin and messy hair. His tall, slight frame and the rough way he pulls on his cigarettes. I like the muted edge of arrogance that rests just below the surface of his shyness, and I like the self-conscious cadence of his voice when he says things he doesn't seem to want to say. I look up and my heart nearly rockets out of my chest because he's halfway down the block, walking swiftly and smoking a cigarette. Raising my hand in greeting, I try to smile casually. He smiles briefly in return, and cocks back his arm to toss his cigarette into the street, but catches himself. His eyes find mine and I laugh as he stops, drops the butt on the ground, grinds it out with his shoe, and picks it up again. Standing, he flicks the filter into a metal trash bin on the sidewalk. "Bravo," I tease. His smile is restrained. "Just doing my part to keep our town beautiful." The sound of his voice is both unexpected and familiar. It makes my heart beat quickly, makes me feel warm in my belly. I want to touch him - casually, intimately. I want to touch him with a ferocity that startles me. And then he's standing in front of me and I have to tip my head back to look at his face. Neither of us speaks, and while the silence isn't long, it's certainly loaded.

"So what's playing?" For a brief moment, his expression is confused, but that confusion quickly clears and he relaxes. "Uh, I'm not entirely sure. But there are a bunch of shows starting in the next half hour." He jams a hand into his pocket. "Okay, well, should we just head to the theater then?" My tongue is thick in my mouth. The level of nervousness I feel is borderline absurd and I shake my head in hopes of clearing out the fog that's making me slow and stupid. "It's too far to walk, right?" His face freezes for a fraction of a second. "Shit. Yeah. And I didn't bring my car." "That's okay," I begin. "Sorry. I just always walk down here. I didn't think." Edward looks embarrassed. "It's cool," I say. "This means you get to take a ride in my truck." A lopsided grin lifts his mouth. "You drive a truck?" Nodding, I start walking to the corner. "Yep. What do you drive?" He rubs at his jaw roughly with the back of his hand. "I, uh, I drive a Volvo." My laugh is short and involuntary. Edward looks embarrassed, but a wide smile spreads across his face. "Is that funny to you?" "No. I mean, yes. Kind of. Sorry." I dig my keys out of my pocket as we walk toward the alley. "I always associate Volvos with, I don't know, guys in suits. Older guys in suits. It seems like a super classy car. Not that you're not classy," I say quickly. He grins. "Of course not. But mine's a '97, so it's not so classy anymore," he replies, scratching the back of his neck. "Well, my truck was built in the 50s, so it's incredibly stylish," I joke lamely. We turn into the alley. "There she is." From the corner of my eye I watch him look at my vehicle. The smile is back in full force. "Where did you find it?" he asks as we approach my parking space. I unlock the door and hop in, sliding across the front seat and opening the passenger side. "I spent every summer here growing up, and the summer when I was sixteen my dad surprised me with it. He bought it off a guy in La Push, a friend of his."

The key slips into the ignition and I give it a good turn; the engine is loud but turns over relatively quickly given its age. I pull the seatbelt fast across my chest and back out of my parking spot carefully. The truck shakes a bit when I shift into first gear, but that's nothing new. My feet work the gas and clutch pedals as I pull out into the street and head for the main highway that leads to the movie theatre. I shift into second, and Edward laughs. "What?" I toss him a quick glance. He's chuckling softly, his fingers in his hair. "It's a stick," he points out, still smiling. "And?" Is my driving really that horrible? "Nothing. It's...this is not what I expected." Narrowing my eyes, I press him further. "What exactly did you expect?" I'm blushing fiercely - blushing because he's laughing at me, blushing because expectations mean he's been thinking about me. "I don't know." His voice is apologetic. "Something a little...slicker, maybe?" I laugh. "I seem ‘slick' to you?" "No, not exactly." He sounds amused and flustered and embarrassed. "It's...well, you're a city girl, right?" He pauses. Shrugging, I flip on the blinker. "I guess." "Well," he explains, his hands off his lap and gesturing in the space in front of him, "I figured you'd be in something smaller, you know, a little two-door or something." "This has two doors," I point out, unable to stop myself. Edward ducks his head. "Guess it does." He doesn't say anything after that and I worry I've hurt his feelings. "I'm just giving you shit," I say lightly. His grin is soft. So is his voice. "I know." The rest of the short drive is in silence. I pull into the first available spot I see in the parking lot. Edward locks his door without me having to ask. "You in the mood for anything in particular?" he asks. "Not really. Nothing with lots of gore, though."

He smiles. "Weak stomach?" "Kind of. But only with knives, really. Blades of any kind. I don't mind guns so much. Maybe it's just the method used to create the gore that bothers me." I bite my lip. I must sound stupid. "Okay," he says. "So no slasher films, obviously." We step up to the glass doors and he holds one open for me. Standing in front of the ticket counter, we both scan the movie selection. "I'm going to rule out the romantic comedy," I say immediately. "That actress makes me want to hurt someone." Edward snorts a short laugh. "Okay." A brief silence. "The horror movie is out, obviously, on account of the stabbing," he jokes, sneaking a glance at me from the corner of his eye. I grin. "How do you feel about serious drama?" Waving his hand back and forth, he makes a face. "Eh..." "Action? People shooting guns? Blowing up shit?" "Sounds good to me," he replies, and reaches for his wallet. Quickly, I walk up to the counter to buy my ticket first. I have no idea whether or not Edward was planning on buying mine - if buying my ticket was even on his radar - but I don't want to put him in the situation to have to consider it. Or, worse yet, if he did buy mine, I would be forced to think about the implications of that action. To have to wonder if it was politeness or something more. We're walking past the concession stand and his steps slow. "You eat popcorn at the movies?" "Yes," I say with relief. I'd wanted some the moment I smelled it when the door opened, but the last thing I was going to do was sit in the dark, chewing noisily while he listened. Before I step up to the counter, I turn to face him, holding out a hand to stop him from moving forward. "But I have to tell you, even before you suggest anything, that I'm really, weirdly protective about my food. I can't share." This is true. I will single-handedly make dinner for twelve, I will bake a cake for someone's birthday, but I absolutely will not share my food with someone else if they have the option of eating their own. Edward looks mildly startled. "Okay."

"It's weird, I know," I say, my cheeks burning with embarrassment. Why can't I ever just shut the fuck up and act like a normal person? "My mom used to pick off my plate all the time, and I'd ask if she wanted me to make her something and she'd say that she wasn't hungry, but then she'd eat all of my food. It kind of drove me crazy." His mouth quirks a little, twisting with an emotion I can't quite identify, and he keeps his eyes on the floor. This is the moment, I think, this is the moment when he decides I'm batshit crazy and doesn't want to talk to me ever again. The heat in my face is ferocious; its twin works its way into my gut, hollows me out. With this and the littering and the teasing about books and me getting pissed that he didn't know who I was, he's got to think there's something not right with me. Then, he lifts his head and he's sort of smiling, sort of not. "Okay," he says again. Not a great response, but better than a scowl or snide comment. I buy a small popcorn and soda and wait awkwardly while he gets his own. We walk toward the theater, and I want to say something lighthearted and amusing, smart and interesting. I need to keep my cards closer to my chest; I need to stop myself from giving too much away, from saying too much. This feeling of strange intimacy that I have for him, I can't keep behaving as if I know him better than I do. I try a question. "Where do you normally sit?" "I like the back, if that's okay." "That's great." I keep the enthusiasm in my voice in check, but I allow myself the wide smile that stretches my mouth when I discover we have this insignificant preference in common. Walking up the steps in the semi-dark of the theater, I do my best not to trip or stumble. I wonder if he's watching me walk, staring at my ass, maybe. Probably not. But maybe. It's right there, in his face, I suppose it's difficult not to look. Even this hypothetical examination of my ass with his eyes makes me blush. There has got to be something wrong with me. I walk to the middle of the row, sit down. He follows suit and as we settle into our seats, removing jackets and claiming cup holders, I can smell him. My stomach does a little flip and I allow myself a quick glance at his face. It's all concentration and concern as he carefully balances his bag of popcorn on the armrest on his right side and shimmies out of his jacket. He's close enough now that I can just feel the body heat rolling off of him. Only a few, inconsequential inches separate my arm from his arm. If I were a different kind of person, I might rest my elbow on the armrest in hopes of brushing up against him, but I'm not that brave. And that kind of action assumes an interest in me that I'm not sure he possesses. The previews are starting and so there's no real opportunity for us to talk. Halfway through the second preview, I rub my jaw on my shoulder as if I've got an itch - I haven't got an itch, I just want an excuse to turn my head and sneak a look at him. He's chewing

methodically, his eyes wholly focused on the screen. I face forward, not wanting to get caught. After the previews there's the stupid bit about not making noise during the movie as well as the emergency exit piece. I've seen these (or versions of these) so often that it's difficult to pay attention. The boy sitting next to me in the dark clears his throat, and I hear the ice in his cup rattle. I shift my eyes as he lifts the straw to his lips and takes a drink. He's watching me, and I jump a little in my seat - startled - then smile back at him. His mouth is full of soda, but he's smiling, too. My insides swell a little with this small triumph. We both face forward as the movie begins. Although I never really forget that Edward is sitting right next to me, I get caught up in the plot and pace of the movie. The parts that make me laugh often make him laugh as well, and when I roll my eyes at the protagonist's seduction of the obligatory hot-chick-with-gun, Edward mutters, "oh, please" under his breath. Then I grin so broadly I'm sure he can see it; I don't really care if he can. Though I try as hard as I can not to look at him during the movie, I can't help but sneak a few quick glances. Awash in the light from the screen, his face is more relaxed than I've ever seen it. There's no stubble on his chin and cheeks today; I wonder if he shaved for me and my face and stomach get hot. At ease, his lips are fuller than I remember, a trait I find both arousing and endearing. I wonder how many women have felt those lips on their mouths, their bodies, and the heat in my belly cools. I look away. When the movie ends, he makes no move to get up and neither do I. The first lines of the credits begin to roll and Edward stretches his arms up high. He tips his head from side to side and I can hear his neck crack. I slide into my sweatshirt but don't zip it up; Edward holds his jacket in his lap. "What did you think?" he asks. Turning a little in my seat to face him, I bite at my lip to keep from smiling too broadly. "Entertaining. Mindless and entertaining." "Agreed," he says, squeezing the fabric of his jacket in his hand. "Not the greatest script in the world..." I remember the dialogue between the lead and his nemesis, and cringe. "No, not the best script. But I think crappy dialogue is a genre requirement now." This makes Edward smile, and his eyes hold mine for about half a second before I feel my face getting hot and I look at the screen. I like this, sitting in the back of the theater together, in the dark, talking shit about the movie while the rest of the audience files out. The white letters of the credits scroll across the dark screen and I try to think of something to say. "How was your popcorn?"

It's an odd question, but when I look up at Edward he's got a smug grin on his face and I know he's teasing me for earlier. "Salty," I say dryly, rolling my eyes and trying not to laugh. He nods as if he cares deeply about how it tasted. "Good, good. My sitting next to you didn't make it any less enjoyable?" I can't fight the smile any longer, so I let it consume my face. "Shut up," I admonish and, without thinking, kick at his foot with my own. I've already tapped the toe of his boot with my sneaker before I know what I'm doing. The familiarity with which I touch him is embarrassing and I look away from his face, even as he's laughing and pulling his foot under the seat. Unable to think of anything else to do or say, I stand up and zip my sweatshirt, gather my bag. Edward follows suit and I'm struck at how much taller he seems standing right next to me. We shift back and forth on our feet as the last of the credits come on the screen and the ridiculous theme song winds down. There's no good reason for me to stall, but I don't want to leave. Eventually, he files out of the row and down the steps; I follow. "I need to use the bathroom," I say, hesitating in front of the ladies'. He nods and heads into the men's room. I find an empty stall and hang my bag on the back of the door. As I pee, I replay our conversation from earlier in the evening. It's mildly fascinating, discovering the way he thinks of me - as a city girl, as someone who might drive a flashier car, certainly as someone who wouldn't drive an old, rusting truck. I wonder if this is how I come off, as some overeducated urbanite with a penchant for trendy automobiles. There don't seem to be (to me, at any rate) many ways in which I'm so different from any of the girls he might meet here in Port Angeles. As I wash my hands I evaluate my physical appearance in the bathroom mirror. Without makeup - as it always is - my face is pale and plain. I use my damp fingers to smooth down the slight frizz on the top of my head. The humidity in Washington makes this an exercise in futility, but I perform it anyway out of habit. Wiping away the rest of the moisture on my jeans, I leave the bathroom. Edward is already waiting in the lobby, his back to me. The boy has a fantastic ass, but it's the defensive hunch of his shoulders as he stands there all alone that draws me in. The awkward slant, the way his body nearly vibrates with tension I know how uncomfortable the weight of this anxiety must be, but I can't deny that I find it overwhelmingly attractive. I make a wide circle around to face him. "Ready to go?" His face visibly relaxes and he smiles and nods. My hands tingle. They want to touch that smile, that face. I feel stupid and my cheeks burn.

Outside, the air is mild and wet. It's raining lightly. Not enough to make us run for my truck, but enough that we don't take our time. His door is closest to me and I unlock it first, Edward pulling his long body into the passenger seat as I circle around the front end. The door is already unlocked and partially ajar when I get there, and this little gesture (whether chivalric or merely polite) makes me blush again. Blushing, smiling, laughing nervously or otherwise - these seem to be the only things I can do around him. "Thanks," I say, trying to keep the slightly hysterical warble of pleasure out of my voice. Should I ask if he wants to go home now? What else could we do? "Do you like pie?" He's watching me now with an intensity that doesn't suit the innocuous nature of the question. "Pie?" He nods. "Yeah, sure. I like pie." Turning to face the front, he rubs his palms on his thighs. "Would you like to get some?" Inhaling deeply, the air fills me up and lifts my shoulders. He doesn't want to go home yet either. "Sure. Where?" And here he looks uncomfortable again. "The only place open is the diner," he mumbles, and I wonder why this is a source of discomfort for him. "That sounds good." I try to infuse my voice with enthusiasm, but not so much that it sounds phony. "Uh, what's the best way...how should I get there?" "Take a, a left out of the lot and then it's just about three blocks or something to 14th. Take a right then." I put the truck in gear and pull out of the parking lot and onto the uneven blacktop road. After I make the turn, I hear Edward clear his throat. "I mean, they've got other stuff besides pie. Ice cream. Cake, maybe. You don't have to eat pie." My laughter only makes him feel more anxious, I know, but I can't help it. "God forbid I should eat pie against my will," I tease. I like teasing him. I like how he speaks when he's flustered, and I like that he's the one blushing, even if his face doesn't color like mine. As if he can read my mind, he mutters, "you like making fun of me, don't you?" Grinning, I look over at him. He's smiling and staring out the windshield. "Just a little bit," I say.

Soon, I spot the lights behind the windows of the diner and I park on the street. The door dings as we step inside, and I move to the right to let Edward walk past me and find a table. We settle into a booth, this one under the front windows, and he pulls out two menus, setting one in front of me. He flips to the dessert menu on the back and I follow suit. Someone - the waitress or the cook - is playing The Temptations. There's a group of four twenty-somethings in a booth on the other side of the restaurant, and a guy in his 40s at the counter. In comparison to the dark outside, the light in the diner is garish. "So, what's good?" I ask. He scratches his cheek and shrugs. "I think everything. But that depends on what you like. I don't have a refined palette or anything." He says it like a joke, but there's an unsure edge in his voice. "Charlie and I used to make this thing when I was little. Chocolate pudding and Cool-Whip and then you cover it with crushed up graham cracker. We called it the litter box." Snorting lightly with laughter, Edward looks up. "The litter box?" I shrug. "I thought the graham cracker looked like the cat litter in the store. We didn't have a cat. I didn't know." "Hey, Edward," the waitress greets him familiarly, setting two glasses of water in front of us. "You guys need a minute?" She looks at me, and smiles. "I think so," he says. "If you're looking for dessert, we're out of coffee cake and the cherry pie." "Oh. Okay. Thanks, Jean." After she walks back behind the counter, his eyes are on me. "So, if this thing was the litter box, what was the chocolate pudding supposed to be?" I roll my eyes. "Uh, gross, Edward." My mouth feels awkward around his name, but it's nice to say it. "The only part that was litter box related was the graham cracker." He just laughs. "Anyway," I continue. "We don't really eat it anymore but Charlie always has instant pudding and Cool-Whip at home. Always." "That's nice," Edward says, and when I look at his eyes, I can tell he really means it. "It is," I agree. There's a pause in our conversation and I decide on the rhubarb. "Charlie's your dad?" His eyebrows are furrowed.

"Yeah." "Why do you call him Charlie?" Edward seems perplexed by this. I shrug. "I don't know. I call him ‘Dad' to his face because he doesn't like it when I use his first name. I don't know," I repeat. "I call my mom Renee half of the time." I pause, stare down at the tabletop. "She's kind of like a big kid. More like a sister than a mom." Edward cocks his head to the side, and seems to be waiting for me to say more. Or, the tone of my voice tells him I've got more to say. I keep it short. "She's kind of...flakey. Loves me, took care of me, but is really all over the place." One corner of my mouth bunches up, and I scratch at the plastic menu cover with my index finger. Jean leans across the counter toward our booth. "You kids decided yet?" "I'll have the rhubarb pie," I say, self-conscious about how my voice carries in the nearly empty restaurant. Edward clears his throat. "And I'll have the apple, with ice cream." My eyes flash to his face. "It comes with ice cream?" He laughs at me, his smile wide and warm. "You want that heated up?" Jean asks. "Yeah," he replies. "And I think Bella wants to add ice cream to her order?" Jean looks at me and raises her eyebrows. I nod and smile. For about two minutes, Edward and I sit in silence. It's a short amount of time, but given his close proximity and my anxiety to speak, two minutes feels more like ten. "I Can't Get Next to You" is playing in the background. This must be a greatest hits album, because I recognize all three songs they've played. "I'm not from Port Angeles." I refocus my eyes on Edward's face, making sense of what he's just said. His eyes are wide, a little scared, a lot expectant. There's tension in his heavy brow and in his clenched jaw. The set of his lips is straight and firm. He's looking me in the eye - directly in the eye - with an intensity that hasn't been there before. I watch his pupils flip between my eyes until I can't take the focus any longer and I blink quickly, looking away.

"Oh." My eyes jump to his face again, and while some of the intensity has ebbed, he still looks anxious. Scrunching my nose, I think about what he's said. "I thought you were. From Port Angeles." Edward licks his lips but is silent. "You said..." He cuts me off. "Yeah. I know. Sorry. I," and he stops, looking down at the table, thinking, his mouth open. "That wasn't entirely the truth." I'm confused. Why would he lie about this? Why would he tell me if he had? I flex my mouth in a quick smile and wait, assuming he's going to continue. "I moved here when I was sixteen. To live with my aunt and uncle." His hand pulls through his hair, rests at the base of his neck for a second before he puts it back down into his lap. Posture less alert, he's leaned back in his seat; his shoulders slump a little. "I lived in Chicago before then." I feel my forehead crease. He's made something of me living in cities. It puzzles me that he would do that if he lived in one for most of his life. My mouth starts to open to ask him why he moved, but I think better of it. There are certain things better left simply said rather than provoked. "I don't tell people that I lived there, not right away, anyway. It just brings up lots of questions, and I, well..." He seems to be thinking. "My parents died when I was sixteen. In a car accident. I just, I just don't tell that to everyone." His fingers play with the napkinwrapped silverware. "Not in, you know, casual conversation or whatever." The expression on his face is a mixture of embarrassment and frustration. "I'm sorry," I say. "About your parents." I feel like an asshole for what I'd said earlier about my mom. Who gives a shit if she acts like a kid; at least she's alive. "Oh." His eyes meet mine for a fraction of a second. "Thanks." I want to say something else, but I feel like anything else would come out trite and/or make him uncomfortable. "I'm sorry," he blurts out. I raise my eyebrows. "For lying," he explains. "Or, for not telling the whole...I, well..." He's tripping over his words. I shrug and shake my head. "You don't need to apologize." I'm startled by the dull clatter of a plate being set in front of me. Our food is here. We both mumble thank you and I take a big drink of water, feeling suddenly awkward. Unwrapping my silverware, I steal a glance at Edward, but he's giving his pie his full attention. With my fork, I poke at the scoop of vanilla ice cream. It's slightly melted and slides around easily on the warm crust. Sighing, I push my fork into the pie and take a bite. "Oh, Jesus, that's good," I mumble, moving the food around in my mouth with my tongue.

Edward lets out a short laugh. Covering my mouth with my hand, I smile. And just like that, the tension is gone. "Good stuff?" he asks. I nod. "This may be the only thing I eat ever again." I feel the vibrations from my phone radiating through my bag and into my thigh. I ignore it. "How's yours?" I ask. He takes a minute to chew and swallow. "Good." "I can't believe I've never had this before," I say, taking another bite. His face goes blank. "You've never eaten pie with ice cream before?" I shake my head. "No." My phone vibrates again. "Seriously?" He's incredulous. Laughing, I pick at the crumbling crust with the tines of my fork. "Yes, seriously. We're not a big pie family." I shrug. "I've had cake and ice cream before." He snorts. "Not the same. Not the same at all." Smiling, I eat some more, feel the phone buzz again. "Jeez," I mutter, setting down my fork and digging into my bag. "Sorry about this," I tell Edward. "I don't usually answer it, but it won't stop going off." I'm too paranoid that Renee or Charlie might be trying to get in touch with me to not answer. I've got three new text messages. You still out with that guy? The next, Naked yet? And finally, Wrap it up lady. I laugh and snap my phone closed. Edward eyes me with curiosity. "Everything okay?" "Yeah, it's just my friend. Mike." "This is your roommate from Boston?" Edward asks cautiously. "Yeah. When he drinks he's...well, he's phone happy. Texts me all the time. Calls from the backseat of taxis. That sort of thing." Edward scrapes his fork along the edge of his plate. "How long did you live together?" "Two and a half years," I reply. "Oh. Wow." He eats some ice cream, licks his lips. "Yeah. So far the longest lasting relationship I've had with a guy I'm not related to," I joke.

The hint of a smile touches his mouth. "Did you guys ever, I mean, were you ever together, like girlfriend/boyfriend?" "We were. Briefly." Edward looks up, his face mildly surprised. "Mike was the first person I met at college. We stood in line to get our keys together, he lived on the floor below me in the dorms, blah blah blah. We dated for like a nanosecond - less than two months, I think." "Didn't work out?" Edward's voice is deliberately casual. "No," I say, shaking my head. "Kissing was way too awkward." My heart picks up at the mention of kissing. I wonder, and certainly not for the first time, what kissing Edward would be like. "But you guys stayed friends, so that's good." "He's my best friend." I miss Mike. I miss him a lot. Putting my fork to my plate, I try to finish my pie before the ice cream melts. I let my eyes occasionally flick up to Edward's mouth, watch the fork slide out clean from between his lips, watch his jaw work as he chews. "Is he still in Boston?" "Mike?" I ask, raising my eyebrows. Edward nods. "Yeah, a friend of his moved in to my old room. He's from New York - Mike is - the Buffalo area, so he's close enough to his family that he doesn't want to go anywhere else." "What does he do? Is he still in school?" "No." I shake my head. "He graduated when I did. His degree is in Political Science and, uh, Finance. Right now he's working for a non-profit that finds housing for people who, well, they aren't homeless, but they're on the verge of being homeless. So he helps find them more permanent housing." "That sounds like a tough job," Edward says appreciatively. "Yeah," I say with a grin. "He's a little crusader. Wants to go to law school or get his masters in public policy or both. Probably end up still working for a non-profit. Or the government." Edward nods, looking down at his plate and chewing. After a moment he looks back up at me and leans across the table, fork extended. "Can I?" he asks, his utensil poised over my plate. I look at him in absolute horror and he bursts out laughing. "You're joking," I say quietly, relieved.

Settling back in his seat, he lets his laughter fade into a chuckle. "Did you really think I was serious?" My hands come up, defensive. "Hey, I don't know. Maybe you weren't paying close attention earlier. Maybe you don't value your life." He laughs again, softly. "The look on your face..." Giggling, I roll my eyes. We lapse into silence, continue eating. "Do you ever go back to Chicago?" He reaches for his water glass and takes a drink before he answers. "No. I, uh, I haven't been back." "Oh." I fail at keeping the surprise out of my voice. "I don't have any other family there," he explains, twisting his napkin between his fingers. "I didn't really keep in touch with any of my friends." He shrugs. "Would you like to go back sometime, to visit or live or anything?" My tone is light, careful. "I had this idea that I would go back for school there or something. Had this fantasy I was going to get into Northwestern, but..." He seems to be thinking for a moment. "I got into some trouble here. And my grades weren't so great. I was lucky I got into school in Seattle. So..." I nod as if this is the most reasonable explanation in the world. We fall into silence. Again. "This part of the crust seems entirely unnecessary," I proclaim, pushing at it with my fork. Edward's laugh is short and startled. "What?" "This crust," I say again. "Does anyone actually eat it?" He looks down at this plate. "I guess not." "Really, they should just make it filling and ice cream. Maybe a layer of crust on the bottom." "But not on the sides?" he asks, amused.

"Though I suppose that's necessary for baking it," I admit, twirling this last edge of baked dough around on my plate. "Probably." He smiles at me, lets his eyes linger on mine, and I get warm all over, my stomach tensing up in the best way possible. I like him. I like him in a way I haven't liked someone in a long time. The amount I know about him - the details of his life, his preferences and opinions - is minimal, but I like how he carries himself, how he speaks. The manner in which he regards himself in relation to other people - in relation to me - fascinates me in a strange way. I like the broken vulnerability of it. Grinning back at him, I hold his eyes for a few seconds longer before looking away and laughing nervously. "You have a pretty smile," he says. My heart takes off like a bird's. The heat that blushes through me is immediate and ferocious, like I've stepped out of an air-conditioned building into one hundred degree weather. Without thinking, I cover my mouth with my hand. "I mean, I...I like your smile," he says, flustered, the fingers of his free hand running through his hair. I look at him for just a second and his brow is furrowed, his eyes focused on how the palm of my hand is clamped over my lips. Inside, I feel like I might die from embarrassment, from pleasure. I want him to say it again. And again and again. He frowns. "Sorry." My hand moves away from my mouth and I force myself to look at him. His eyes are down on the table; he looks angry and embarrassed and I feel terrible. "You don't, I mean you shouldn't apologize, that's...I just, I'm not..." I take a breath. "Thank you." He lifts one shoulder in a half-shrug, his fist tight around his fork. The tension in his jaw and neck is clear. I take a drink of water, hoping to rid my mouth of its nervous dryness. My heart is still thumping wildly in my chest; I'm still hot all over. "I like yours, too," I tell him quietly, my voice sounding far away and odd to my ears. "Your smile, I mean." The words are almost painful to say. Edward looks at me then, his eyes wide with a surprise so complete it nearly breaks my heart. I offer a tentative smile and he returns it shyly. It doesn't quite reach his eyes, but he visibly relaxes. The urge to reach across the table and push his hair from his forehead runs through me, but I bite my lip and keep my hands in my lap.

Jean appears, seemingly out of nowhere, and leaves the check on the table. "Whenever you're ready," she tells us. "I've got this," Edward says, his voice rough, and though I normally wouldn't let him pay for my share, I don't fight him this time. I gather my things as he leaves some money on the table and we get out of our booth, head to the door. Outside, the weather is still mild, but I can't stop shaking. Zipping my sweatshirt up all the way, I wonder if the temperature has dropped or if it's the ice cream that's chilled me. Edward stands on the sidewalk by my truck, his hands in his jacket pockets, his face uncertain. "I'll give you a lift home," I say, unlocking his door then moving around to my side quickly before he can answer. Without a word, he gets into the cab. My truck roars to life and I flip on the lights. "Which way should I go?" "Uh, go to the corner and take a left," he says, his voice quiet. I turn up the radio a little. Enough so that he knows I don't expect him to talk, but not so much that we couldn't if we wanted to. My shoulders are tense and I hope he can't see me shivering in my seat. "Take a right at the stop sign." Tonight I'm thankful that my truck is a manual and doesn't have power steering. The extra effort I have to put into driving makes me feel less awkward about the silence. "It's a left at the next corner and then it's the first building on the right." He points in the direction he means. I pull up in front of a nondescript, two-story rectangle. It's built from brick, a color I can't make out in the dark - deep red or brown, maybe - and a single light burns over the front entrance. "Thanks for the pie," I say, the words tumbling out of me. If I can keep talking then maybe he won't leave right away and things won't feel so strange. Taking a deep breath, I try to control my shaking, but it doesn't seem to be doing any good. "I had a good time." He nods, his eyes down. "If you ever want to go to another time, to the movies I mean, that would be nice." I'm usually not this brave, this direct, but his silence is making me frantic. I don't say anything else; I wait. His mouth opens, and he looks as if he's about to say something. He licks his lips quickly and his head cocks to the side as if he's considering his words. Shifting in his seat, he turns to face me. "I like you, Bella."

And I can't hold his gaze. The anxiety comes rushing back over me and my eyes are everywhere, anywhere, but on him. My arms feel light - too light - as if they're no longer attached to my body and my stomach keeps flipping. Over and over and over again, each time bringing with it a fresh swell of this ridiculous, wonderful unease. "I don't mean to make you feel weird or, or upset you, or..." He trails off, his voice hushed. "Is it okay that I said that?" Is it okay? It's more than okay. I want him to say that to me again. I want to sit here in silence while he tells me everything about me that he likes. Each part, tells me slowly and individually, and I can just sit here and melt. "Bella?" My name again. He can say that a few more times. I like your smile, Bella. I like you, Bella. I must have closed my eyes at some point, because when his hand reaches out to touch my arm, they fly open. His fingers are resting gently on my forearm still and I look down, dumbfounded. He's touching me. "Sorry," he says quickly and pulls his hand away. "It's okay." My response is automatic. "I'm sorry. Sorry." "No," he counters, putting his hands in his hair. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have..." "But you didn't, I mean, there's nothing," then I stop myself. "Wait. What? I don't know who's apologizing for what or why..." Edward vigorously rubs the palm of his hand on his knee. "I'm apologizing for what I said." "Why would you apologize?" The shaking, suddenly, is gone, and now that he won't look at me, I'm having no trouble looking at him. He takes in a stuttering breath and tries to speak. After a few false starts, the words spill out. "I don't, well, we don't know each other that well and...I don't want to be some creepy guy who, I don't know...I don't want to be that weird guy who says he, you know..." One, long arm reaches out to the dashboard, the fingers picking absently at the edge of it. I smile, shake my head. "You're not creepy, Edward." He doesn't seem convinced, and so I try another tack. "A little weird, yes, but not creepy." The teasing seems to work. Now he just looks bashful. The words I want to say sit swollen on my tongue, but I force myself to spit them out. "I like you, too."

He turns to me and again, that inexplicable look of surprise - as if he can't understand why I've said this thing - is on his face. We both look away at the same time. I run my index finger along the curve of the steering wheel and wait for him to say something. "I'd like us to, to be friends," he says quietly, so quietly I'm not sure if I've heard him correctly. "Friends?" "I...I like you but I can't...I mean I'm not supposed to be, you know, with someone..." His hands are manic in his hair. He looks at me, his expression uncertain. There doesn't seem to be an appropriate response to what he's said and I can't deny the vague crush of disappointment I feel. Because even though his words are imprecise, I know what he means. "It's because of the...because of all the stuff with my sobriety and I..." He pauses, rubs his face. "I'd like to, but I shouldn't." "Okay." I nod and focus on keeping my expression as neutral as possible. Sucking in a breath, he grips the back of his neck with his long fingers. "Could we, I mean would it be all right if we hung out, still?" I nod, nod before I can even think about his question. My reaction is immediate and acquiescent in a way that puzzles me. "Sure. That would be good." The words sound lame to my ears. Edward looks relieved. "Good," he repeats after me, exhaling. The radio sounds dimly in the background, barely audible over the rumble of my truck's engine. Raindrops splat on the windshield, their size and the frequency with which they fall rapidly increasing. I turn on the wipers and the glass clears briefly. "Maybe I could give you my number?" He's treading very lightly. "Sure." I hope I sound genuinely enthusiastic. Digging my phone out of my bag, I tell myself that friends is a good thing, a positive thing. He recites his number and I tap it dutifully into my phone, save it under his name. "And now you'll have mine," I say, pressing send. "Good." He pulls his buzzing phone from a pocket and ends the call. "You'll be back in town on Thursday?" I nod.

"So...maybe we could hang out sometime then?" "Yeah," I agree, unable to meet his eyes. "Okay. Great." His hand moves to the door. "I should let you get home." "It is pretty late," I say. The door creaks as it opens. "Night, Bella." "Bye." He's out of the truck and the door is shutting and I'm watching him jog quickly up the sidewalk to the front door, his hand in his pocket, digging for his keys. I wait until he's got the door unlocked before I throw the truck into gear and pull away from the curb. Edward lifts his hand in a tentative wave. I wave back, unsure if he can see me or not.

Chapter Nine "Michelangelo," I say by way of greeting. "Bellatrix," he replies and I laugh. "How goes it?" Shrugging, I switch my phone to my right ear. "It goes. How are you?" "Watching the Mets get freaking annihilated is how I am," he mutters. "So things are going really well," I tease. "Ha ha." The long, low rumble of a burp echoes through the phone, and I roll my eyes. "How many beers are required to dull the pain this time?" "Three. So far. I predict several more before the night is over. It's only the fifth inning." I shake my head, grinning. "Don't you have to work tomorrow?" "Yeah," he replies, unconcerned. "Have fun with that."

"Have you been away so long that you've forgotten my superhuman recovery time?" I snort. "Oh, I remember. I remember you on my birthday last year. Not so superhuman the day after, as I recall." Mike is undeterred. "Tequila is my kryptonite. And something that I drank at your request," he reminds me. Laughing, I get out of my rocking chair and leave my room, heading down the stairs. The house is empty and growing dark. "What are you up to?" he asks. "Nothing," I reply, heading into the kitchen and opening the fridge. It's nearly eight and I haven't eaten yet. "Foraging." "You leave Charlie to his own devices? Let him eat chili out of a can?" "Charlie is working late. Car accident at the end of his shift. He had to stay and fill out paperwork and go to the hospital to talk to the driver." "Never a dull moment in Forks." "Nope." The contents of the fridge are fairly unappealing. There are leftovers from last night, but I'll leave those for Charlie. "So how was your date?" I roll my eyes. "Decidedly not a date," I mutter. "I thought it was a date. Didn't you guys go to the movies?" "And then I got the ‘I want to be friends' talk." "What?" "Yeah, I don't know." "But you went to the movies," Mike repeats dumbly. Laughing, I shut the fridge and move on to the cupboards. "And that automatically means it was a date?" "Uh, yeah," he replies, as if this is the most obvious thing in the world.

"Thank you, Sex and the City. We went to the movies together all the time," I point out. "Not the same," he counters. "We have an established relationship. You don't with this guy." I idly push some cans around on the shelf. "What difference does that make?" I ask, knowing full well what the difference is, but feeling sorry for myself and wanting Mike to make me feel better. "The difference is that when we go to the movies now, I'm going with the girl who stunk up the bathroom because she had food poisoning from bad shrimp, not a girl I barely know and whose pants I want to get into." "I hate you," I say, but I'm smiling. "I nearly died that weekend. It's not funny." "I love you, Bella, but those two days nearly killed me, too," he responds. I can't stop laughing. "See?" he says. "See, what?" I ask, calming down. "It's different. When we were freshman and I asked you to the movies, it's because I wanted to touch your boobs," he explains. "Such a gentleman." "But now you're just the smelly girl I live with." "Lived with," I correct. "Whatever. This dude likes you. And if he doesn't, he's stupid." I smile. "Thanks, Mikey. And I know." "Know what?" He sounds distracted. Something must be happening in the game. "I know he likes me." "Then what's your malfunction?" "There are...extenuating circumstances, I guess?" "He's married," Mike jokes.

"Funny." "What the fuck! Come on, assholes," he yells. I hold the phone away from my ear. "Sorry. Someone forgot to tell these idiots they were playing a baseball game." Shaking my head, I smile. Mike's love-hate relationship with the Mets is something I've grown accustomed to. Charlie sits and fumes quietly when things go poorly for the Mariners, but Mike screams and yells. "No problem," I say. "There's just...well, it's sort of complicated. Not complicated, exactly. Just..." I trail off, wondering if I should say anything. Mike belches again. "Just what?" "He's, well, he's kind of an alcoholic." There's a beat of silence on the other end of the phone. "An alcoholic?" "Uh, yeah." "Kind of?" "Well," I hedge, wondering how to phrase this. "How are you ‘kind of' an alcoholic?" I sigh. "Not kind of. He is. An alcoholic." "Bella," Mike begins. "He's sober," I say. "How long?" "I don't know." I think quickly. "Five or six months, maybe." "How old is this guy?" "Twenty-seven." There's another, longer moment of silence. I can hear the low murmur of the announcers' voices coming through the phone. "But he's not supposed to date anyone. Not right now, anyway." "What else does he do?"

"He works at a warehouse," I say, confused. "No, I mean, what drugs does he do?" "He doesn't ‘do' anything anymore," I say, a little defensive. "But he did a little bit of everything, I guess." "Okay. So he's got a few months clean and sober. And you said he has a job?" "Yes." "Huh." "Yeah." His end of the phone is quiet for a few seconds. "He go to AA or NA or anything?" "AA," I say. "But not NA?" I hesitate. "I don't think so..." "Huh," Mike says again. "You said that already." "Yeah. Sorry." Another pause. "How well do you know this guy?" "Not very. I mean, we're getting to know each other." "Right." Mike seems to be thinking. "I trust your judgment," he says carefully. "But?" "But nothing. I trust your judgment. And not dating this guy is probably a good idea." I know this. Of course I know this. I've been Googling the shit out of Alcoholics Anonymous and phrases like "alcoholism and dating" and "drug addiction and dating." The information I've found on recovery and relapse rates is far from encouraging. It still feels like a slap in the face, though, when Mike says this. "Thanks." "Sorry, Bella, but I see too much of this shit every day to say anything else."

"I know. It's fine. I just...I like this guy. And it fucking sucks that I meet a smart, goodlooking dude and then there's all this shit in the way." I take breath. "Sorry." "No need to apologize. Remember that time I fell in love with that woman in Cambridge and it turned out she was married and had a kid?" I burst out laughing. "Shut up," I say through my laughter. "That was Jennifer Garner. And you only saw her that once." "Like an arrow through the heart, Bella." My laughter trails off and I sigh. "How's Stanley?" I ask, changing the subject. "We broke up," he says with authority. "Again?" He sighs. "Yes, again." Snorting, I wander out of the kitchen and back into the living room. "What horrible sin did she commit this time?" "She already had our Halloween costumes picked out." "What?" "Exactly. And she wanted us to go as Raggedy Ann and Andy." Again, I'm laughing out loud. "Oh, God. That's so precious." "Fuck you," he says, but he's laughing, too. "Would've made for some classic pictures." "Too true," he responds. "God dammit!" I assume he's yelling at the TV again. "You know," I say cagily, "your relationship with Jessica is just like your relationship with the Mets." "Get serious."

"I am serious. You hate that you love them, but every year, you keep going back for more." "Don't try to psychoanalyze me, sister." I laugh. "No psychoanalysis needed. I think that's pretty obvious." "Well, don't expect me to go gently into that good night, or whatever." * "So you were born in Forks?" Edward asks before taking a drink. "Yep." I twist my empty straw wrapper around the index finger of my left hand, release it and let it spin loose and fall to the tabletop. "How old were you when you left?" "My mom left my dad when I was about a year and half." He blinks. "Oh. So you probably don't have any memories from when you lived there." Shaking my head, I twirl the curled paper of the straw wrapper around in circles. "I have some pretty early memories, but that's just because I was here every summer and at Christmas sometimes." "And you lived in Phoenix until college?" I nod. "But you said your mom lives in Florida now, right?" "Yeah, she lives in Jacksonville. Her new husband plays baseball, minor league, and he got picked up by a team out there." Edward furrows his brow, looks down at his hands. "Why did you come here instead of there?" "My mom's kind of a handful. We're not at all alike. I'm a lot more like Charlie." "Like him how?" "Quieter. Calmer. Less social, I guess." "You seem pretty social to me," Edward says, a smile hovering on his lips. I blush. "If you were ever around my mother you would understand what I mean."

"Personality conflicts," he suggests. "Sort of." I lean forward and sip out of my straw. "What about you? You see your aunt and uncle a lot?" Edward shakes his head, any and all remains of his smile wiped away. "I haven't seen them or talked to them in a few years." This surprises me. "Why not? If you don't mind my asking." "Not at all." Shifting in his seat he licks his lips. "I was kind of a nightmare for them. For awhile." "Okay." Of course I want to hear details, but I hold my tongue. It's none of my business. His fingers scratch nervously at his arm. "They tolerated it - at first. Because of my parents and everything," he explains. "But I just acted like an asshole." He pauses, shakes his head. "Asshole is an understatement." His voice is rueful. "Eventually I just stopped returning their phone calls and then they moved to Olympia and I haven't seen them since." I'm not sure what to say so I don't say anything. "Another thrilling tale from the life of Edward Masen." He rolls his eyes and taps his fingers nervously on the table. "That's your last name? Masen?" The question flitters unexpectedly out of my mouth. Looking up he blinks quickly, confused. "Yeah," he says, recovered. "Masen." "With an o or an e?" He grins. "An e." "Good to know," I say, nodding. "What's yours?" "Swan." My skin flushes slightly. His smile gets wider. "Like the bird?" Cocking my head to the side, I raise my eyebrows. "Like the bird." "That's nice."

I look up, my face twisted in amused incredulity. "You wouldn't say that if it were your last name." "What's wrong with it?" "When you're eight, you get a lot of Ugly Duckling and birdbrain comments." He chuckles. "I didn't think about that." "Yeah, and when I was in high school, I don't know...It was different from everybody else's last names, called attention to me." I shrug. "And you don't like attention?" he asks, head tipped to the side. "Not especially." The heat in my face spreads to my neck. My eyes dart to his and he's got a curious expression on his face. It makes me blush harder. Edward clears his throat. "Well, I think it suits you." The corners of his mouth are lifted in a gentle half smile; his eyes have that soft, liquid look. I feel like an idiot but those eyes make me feel funny down in my chest. I want to ask him what he means - that my last name suits me - but our food arrives and we both busy ourselves with eating it. A minute passes with us chewing, swallowing, and passing the ketchup back and forth. Abruptly, Edward sets his cheeseburger on his plate and stares at me. "What?" Maybe I have something on my face. "Your last name is Swan," he says, his face blank. "Yes." "And you call your dad Charlie." "Yeah..." I say slowly, wondering where he's going with this. "Your dad's Charlie Swan, then." "And?" "And he's the chief of police in Forks." Edward raises his eyebrows, expectant. "Yeah."

Letting out a sound of amused disbelief, he sits back in the booth, slapping his hands on his thighs. "Do you know my dad?" I ask, still confused. "I know of him," Edward replies. "And I'm sure he knows who I am." Shaking his head, he laughs. Realization dawns on me. "Oh..." Edward nods. "Yeah." Scratching at my head, I try to suppress the nervous smile that comes to my face. "Did he arrest you sometime? Give you a citation for something?" "No. I mean, I've been arrested, but just by the cops here and a couple of times in Seattle." I nod, impressed with how rational this conversation about arrest records seems. "But he's arrested people I sold to, people who lived in Forks." "Right," I reply, getting it. "Just possession charges, though. Not distribution." I crinkle my brow. "What does that matter?" "Possession means you only have a certain amount on you," he begins, explaining. "No, I mean I know the difference between possession and possession with the intent to distribute," I say, whipping out the little legal jargon I picked up from my dad and from Mike. "Oh. Okay. Well, the only people I know that he's arrested were only caught with some weed. I think one had a little coke on him. So they weren't going to get harsh enough sentences that they would tell the cops who sold to them." He explains all of this confidentially and casually, but when he stops speaking, a brief twinge of anxiety flashes over his features. He eyes me carefully. "So that's why it kind of matters. Not that I was anything more than a low level dealer, but..." "Gotcha." I'm not sure how to respond. I'm never sure how to respond to these kinds of admissions. Certainly, I'm not impressed by this behavior, but I'm not appalled by it either. Should I be?

Edward begins to fidget when I don't say anything else. He clears his throat. "So hanging out with me is fraternizing with the enemy I guess." A fleeting smile crosses his lips. "You think your dad would be pissed if he knew you hung out with me?" I consider this for a brief moment. "Not pissed." The words form slowly. "Concerned, maybe?" His eyebrows knit. "I suppose that's a normal reaction." The crestfallen expression on his face doesn't match his words. "But he trusts me," I continue. "And you're not doing that anymore," I point out. Shrugging, Edward picks at his food. "For all of about six months." "You should give yourself a little credit." My tone has a bit more bite in it than I was expecting, and Edward looks at me, surprised. His lips twitch a little, and then he smiles. A real smile this time, one that reaches his eyes. "Okay." He holds my gaze for another long moment, his green eyes warm. "Okay," I mutter, and turn my attention back to my food. We eat quietly for a few minutes. Edward breaks the silence. "Does it make you uncomfortable, me talking about that stuff?" Swallowing my food, I shake my head. "No. Not uncomfortable. I just...Sometimes it makes me feel naïve, I guess." He looks confused. "Naïve?" I twist my mouth and look down at the table. "I'm not terribly badass or anything." Now he looks amused. "I seem badass to you?" "Not exactly," I say, frustrated that I can't say what I mean. "I've never...done drugs or anything." My cheeks flame. "I've smoked pot, but that's it." Edward simply raises his eyebrows. "It makes me feel really...young." "Well, you're only twenty-three, right?" he asks cautiously. "I know." I can't articulate what I want to say, so I say nothing. "I won't bring it up again if you don't want me to." He offers a half smile.

"No, it's fine." I tuck one leg up under the other. "Actually, I'm kind of curious about it." "It?" The amused look is back and fuck me he looks good with that little smirk on his face. "The whole dealing drugs...thing," I say, cautious. The smirk turns into a grin. "What do you want to know?" Shrugging, I look down at my plate, feeling shy. "I don't know. What did you sell?" Edward sits up straighter and inhales through his nose. "Uh, well, I sold pot and coke. Cocaine," he reiterates. I snort. "I'm aware that coke is short for cocaine." Looking bashful, he pushes at his unused silverware. "Okay. So that, and mushrooms, sometimes. Ecstasy, when I could get it." "From where?" "Where did I get what? Ecstasy?" I nod. "Or any of the other stuff." Narrowing his eyes, he gives me a sly smile. "You working undercover, Bella Swan?" "Yeah, I'm wearing a wire." I roll my eyes. He laughs. "The pills came from Seattle, usually. I know some guys who have a grow house for the pot; they also grow mushrooms. The coke..." And here he hesitates, looking a little unsure. "I know a guy who kept me in steady supply." He's being evasive with that last bit, but I don't push him. "Sometimes I'd get my hands on other stuff, painkillers, anti-anxiety drugs, whatever. But it wasn't a regular thing, so I'd usually sell them individually. Or keep them for myself, hand them out at parties. They're kind of a hassle." He sets his lips in a straight line and shrugs. "Why a hassle?" "If you deal with something like cocaine, it's illegal start to finish. It's just...simpler that way. I don't know." His hands twine into his hair, then release, leaving it a twisted mess. "Pills are legal by prescription, which means there's always a supply and you know where to get it, but you have to find ways to get what's legal, illegally. Does that make sense?" "Kind of."

"And a lot of people who abuse prescription drugs have had a legal reason to use it at some point, so they can usually figure out a way to get it themselves. Steal a prescription pad, fast talk a pharmacist, find a friend or a family member who works at a hospital or something. In that case I'm not really necessary." I wonder if this is how Jasper fed his habit. Edward cocks his head to the side. "Now, marijuana is legal medically in Washington, so it kind of presents the same problem, but it's a low stakes drug. The penalties are less harsh and cops pay less attention to it. Particularly here." "Why's that?" "Meth." "Oh." "Yeah," he says, nodding. "That shit's a whole other story." "You've never tried it?" This intrigues me. The reckless addict who makes good choices when it comes to methamphetamines. Edward hesitates, his lips slightly parted and his eyes focused on the table. "No. I've...done it." His eyes flip up to my face, take inventory. "But I never sold it." "Why not?" "It attracts too much attention because it's such a problem here. And the kind of people who'd be hanging around if I sold it - they're like big flashing signs that say ‘arrest me'. It's just too much of a hassle." Fingers rub at his chin. I've never seen Edward speak with so much confidence and authority. It may be grotesque, but seeing him talk about a subject he knows something about, to hear him speak with so much self-assurance, it's something of a turn-on. He seems so capable. I wish he had other things he felt capable about. He notices my silence. "That freak you out?" I shake my head to clear it. "Not in the slightest. Very educational," I joke. I'm rewarded with a weak smile. I change the subject, and we make small talk as we finish our food. We're about a block away from the diner when Edward stops walking. I turn around, thinking he's stopped to light his cigarette. "Do you want to see something?" he asks, his eyes alight.

"Uh, sure." "Okay. It's this way," he says, pointing across the street. We cross and head down a side street. "Where are we going?" He grins down at me. "It's a surprise." My stomach flips and I can't help but smile back. The neighborhood we've walked into is thoroughly residential and quiet on a Thursday evening. There's the occasional squeal or shriek of kids playing, the sound of a screen door slamming shut. The faint smell of cigarette smoke filters over to me and I realize Edward's lit up. "When did you start smoking?" "Well," he begins, then takes a drag, exhales. "I had my first cigarette when I was fourteen, I think. But I didn't really start until I was a senior in high school. So seventeen, I guess." "Huh." I watch my feet as we walk. "What about you?" This brings my head up. "I don't smoke." "I know." He shrugs. "But you said you do sometimes, right?" "Yeah." I think for a second. "It was when I started drinking, and I started that when I was eighteen." "You didn't drink in high school?" Edward sounds genuinely surprised. "Nope. When I went to college." I wonder how odd he finds this. "Did you know you wanted to major in English right away?" The change in subject throws me. "Uh, no. I was going to major in Philosophy and History." "Oh yeah?" he responds, smiling. "Yeah. I read some Gramsci when I was in high school and thought I was going to be a little Marxist historian." "You read who?" Edward asks, his brow furrowed.

"Antonio Gramsci. He's Italian. A Marxist. I had an AP History teacher who gave us some of his writing. And then I decided it was my job to educate everyone on the evils of capitalism." I make a face. This makes Edward laugh out loud. "I could see that," he says, looking at me. I blush. "Yeah. I was pretty self-righteous." "So now you're just a slave to the man?" he teases. Heat ripples through my chest. I like it when he talks to me this way. "I'm still down with the ideas," I say. "I'm just a little less in-your-face." "So you were pretty hardcore, then? Kept a copy of the Communist Manifesto on you at all times?" he teases. I make a face. "No. But I did have a Che Guevara t-shirt I wore all the time." Rolling my eyes, I laugh. "I was such a dumbass. People probably wanted to beat me up." "I bet you were adorable," Edward says. My eyes flash to his face and I can see that he hadn't meant to say it. Or, that he hadn't thought about it before he said it. His eyes fill with muted horror and embarrassment, and he brings his cigarette to his lips quickly, nervous. I can tell that I've gone red, but this blush extends from pleasure and not shame. Looking down, I concentrate on my feet moving across the pavement. We're both quiet. Edward's pace slows a half a block later. "This is it," he says softly. We're standing in front of a nondescript, two-story house with white siding and green trim. The lot is wider than it is deep, and the bulk of the yard sits to the side of the house. Filling most of the space is a large, metal installation composed of concentric circles and spheres of various sizes. "It's the planets," Edward explains. And suddenly I can see it. At the very center is a large globe on a post. The sun, I assume. The successive metal rings follow the path of each planet's orbit, each loop attached to another with the center ring welded to the main post. "Who made this?" I ask, my eyes tracing around in circles. Edward shrugs. "Whoever lives here. I've seen him working on it a few times, welding. But I don't know his name."

As we stand and watch, I realize that the different parts are moving - shifting ever so slightly. Some of the rings tip up, some tip down. A long moment passes as each ring reaches the point where its respective planet slides around and down to the other side. The spheres make subtle whistling sounds as they move, dully clanking as they come to a stop against the support posts. The smile on my face is wide. "That's incredible." I look up at Edward, who's grinning down at me. "It is." I walk down the sidewalk a few paces to look at it from a different angle. "How'd you find this?" Edward comes to where I am, rolling the filter of his now-extinguished cigarette between his fingertips. "When I first moved here, I didn't know anyone, obviously, and I stayed inside all the time. I didn't have a car, so I didn't go anywhere, just watched TV when I wasn't in school." He runs his fingers through his hair. "I got so stir crazy I offered to walk the dog all the time because I needed to get out of the house. One day I walked down this street." He shrugs. "I would've never even guessed something like this would be here," I say, watching the slow, gentle tilt of the rings send the spheres moving again. "Me neither," Edward replies. His voice is soft and I look up at his face, his profile. "When there was all of that mess about Pluto, whether it was a planet or not, he took the Pluto piece off and set it on that stump over there." He points with his finger but I keep my eyes on his mouth. "He painted it like a beach ball and put a sign next to it that said ‘Identity Crisis'." A lopsided grin shifts his mouth. He's got a lovely mouth, a pretty face. Even with a few days' worth of stubble, even as tired as he looks, he's attractive in a way I can't accurately describe. I can see the fringe of his eyelashes when he blinks, delicate and soft. Edward continues. "I mean, who builds something like this? And puts it in their yard?" His eyes and smile are lazy, relaxed. The urge to reach out and take his hand is a strong one, and I tuck my fist into my pocket. He looks down at me and we share a smile for a brief moment before looking away, both of us bashful. For a few minutes we simply stand and watch the metal parts shift and move. * Seth's mouth is warm and soft - too soft. I press my lips to his with more force, push my tongue into his mouth. He responds, but not with the authority I need him to. With a muffled whine of frustration, I shift my body up against his, slide my hand into the

waistband of his jeans, grip his erection through his underwear. His hips lift off the bed, as I knew they would, and I grunt with satisfaction. With nimble fingers, he unbuttons and unzips his jeans. My hand shifts, moves underneath his underwear, and Seth pushes both his jeans and his boxers down to his knees. Leaning back on my elbow, I bring my eyes to his face. He's looking straight at me, his features a mix of arousal and confusion. I'm not normally this aggressive; things don't usually move this fast. Before I can think about it, before I can talk myself out of it, I swing my leg over his knees, shift down his body, and take him into my mouth. "Okay then," he whispers, the words coming out in a strained rush. His breath comes fast and harsh in the dark and quiet of the room. For the next few minutes I suck and lick and stroke him. "Bella," he says softly. I wonder if he's close to cumming. "Bella," he says again, more insistent. "Hey. Bella." All trace of desire is gone from his voice; his hand rests gently on the top of my head. Taking my mouth away, I sit back on my heels, look at him. "What brought that on?" he asks gently. I shrug. "What do you mean?" He's watching my face very closely. "Nothing. Just that that's not something we've done before." "Would you rather I didn't?" Now I'm genuinely confused. Shaking his head, he gives a short laugh. "No. I mean, it's great...and not that we have to talk it to death, but I figured I'd get some advanced notice if that was going to happen." "Oh." I stare at him blankly. "Sorry. I didn't realize." His eyes narrow slightly. "You okay?" "I'm fine," I reply automatically. "Why?" Seth hesitates before he speaks. "We hung out a bunch of times, then I didn't see you for a few weeks even though you're usually in every weekend, and now you're here, and..." I sigh and flop down on the bed next to him. "And suddenly I'm the blowjob queen."

Laughing, he pulls up his pants. "Not my first choice of words, but close enough." "Sorry." "No need to apologize. And believe me, I'm not going to stop you if you really want to," he says with a grin. "Just want to make sure you're not, you know, fellating under duress." Now I'm laughing. "You've been watching too much Law & Order," I tell him. "It's true," he admits. "So what's the story. You dating someone?" "If I were dating someone, would I be here?" He shrugs. "Maybe you're not exclusive? I don't know." "No," I sigh. "I'm not dating anyone." "Okay." "Any other questions for me, Dr. Phil?" I tease. His grin is bright in the dark. "Nope. Just want to make sure you're enjoying yourself." "I am," I reassure him. "Okay." His voice is suddenly soft. One, large hand slides across my bare belly and deftly undoes the button on my jeans, pulls the zipper down. Then, that large hand is in my underwear, the fingers touching the slick part of me. "Wet," he observes in that same quiet voice, and I can't tear my eyes from his. "That's a good sign." "Sign of what?" My voice is barely above a whisper. "Enjoyment," he says, and then his finger is inside me and I let out a rough breath. All on his own tonight he makes me cum and I'm grateful for it, for the shuddering wash of heat in my limbs, the throb and push of release. And then it's with no trepidation and only desire that I put my mouth and hands on him, give him what he gave to me. He's a kind boy, generous. With a gleaming white grin and willful eyes. There is no anticipation or unrestrained excitement here, but there's no fear either. * "Why don't you go to NA?" I ask. "Sorry?" Edward's eyes are large.

"You go to AA. I just wondered why you don't go to NA, too," I say dumbly, turning back to the rack of CDs. From the corner of my eye, I can see that he's still turned toward me. My fingers flip through the cases quickly; I'm not really looking at the titles. "Never mind. Stupid question." I look up at his face. "It's not a stupid question," he says, and casts his eyes down to the bin. We flip in silence, each plastic jewel case clacking sharply against the next. "I did go. A few times." I keep my eyes on my hands. "It was really bad. It was... It made me feel like crap," he finishes quietly, his voice laden with guilt. More flipping. More silence. "Everyone was, I don't know. They were just so desperate." "For what?" I ask. My eyes trace a slow route to his face. "Anything. People to talk to. A place to go that didn't remind them of using." Edward flips a case back and forth in the rack. Click. Clack. Click. Clack. "There weren't as many people as AA. I felt like everyone was looking at me, waiting for me to say something." "Do you have to talk?" Click. Clack. "Not necessarily." His shoulders rise and fall with his breath. "It was a bunch of meth heads and me, and a few other people. It was always changing. The group, I mean." Click. Clack. "No one ever stayed clean for long. No one could get jobs. No one was my age. It was...I just couldn't, I couldn't sit in that room." I wonder if this is why Jasper doesn't go to NA either. It seems strange to me, this division that neither of them seems to attend to. Edward shrugs. "It's the same program anyway. Just substitute your drug of choice for alcohol," he mutters. Click. Clack.

I go back to pretend browsing. Sad bastard music (no doubt chosen by the emo clerk I'd seen on our way in) drones in the background. For a Saturday evening, it's only moderately busy. A CD appears in my line of vision and I blink quickly, focusing on the cover. "The Backstreet Boys?" I look up. "I thought maybe you'd lost your copy during the move or something," he says, a wicked grin on his face. "Ha ha. Very funny," I reply, rolling my eyes. Replacing the CD in the rack, he laughs to himself. "I thought it was hilarious." "That's not very original," I inform him. "Boy bands. You could've done a lot better." His grin gets bigger. "Cut me some slack. We're in the Bs. I'm improvising." "So you thought you'd improvise with your favorite album of all time?" I tease. "Oooo... Funny." He makes a face. "I thought it was hilarious," I mumble, mimicking his words, and taking a step over to the next row. Edward snorts a laugh. I smile. "So who is your favorite?" Confused, I look over my shoulder at him. "Favorite what?" "Band," he says simply. "I don't have one." "What?" "I don't have one," I repeat, enunciating each syllable. "Yes you do." His voice is disbelieving, a little snide. Turning to face him, I cock my head to the side, narrow my eyes. "How would you know that?" I ask, fighting the smile I feel coming to my mouth. "Everyone has a favorite."

"Well. I don't." I return to pawing through the CDs. "Think harder," he says, laughing. "I don't need to think harder." He's persistent. "Think longer." "You think longer." This makes him laugh out loud. "I know you're into indie rock, at least. Cause you're always playing it in the store." "Brilliant deduction," I mutter, not looking at him. "Thanks," he says brightly, ignoring my sarcasm. "So, what? Your favorite band the Yeah Yeah Yeahs?" "No." "You don't like them?" "I like them fine. But they're not my favorite." "Why not?" "Because I don't have one." He's quiet for a moment and I assume he's thinking. "Are you old school indie rock? So old school you're New Wave?" Laughing, I shake my head. "I'm not participating in this conversation anymore." Edward moves up alongside me, and I try not to think about how close his body is to mine. "Is it New Order?" "No," I reply in my best bored voice. "Yo La Tengo?" "Nope." "Hm..."

I abandon my digging and look up at him. "So do you like these bands? Are you some kind of hipster? With predictable hipster taste?" This seems to amuse him. "Do I look like a hipster?" "Not especially." He shrugs, looking embarrassed. "When I had money I had satellite radio. You get a lot of stations." I have to laugh at that. But he's not done. "Built to Spill?" "No." "The Killers?" My eyes narrow. "Don't insult me." Edward gives his head a toss and lets out a short laugh. I roll my eyes. "Who's your favorite?" "I don't have one," he says lightly. "Are you fucking kidding me?" The words bubble out of me. "What?" he asks, playing innocent. "You don't have a favorite but it's some sort of, I don't know, crime against humanity that I don't?" He grins. "I'm older than you. Wiser, right?" Shaking my head, I move another step down the row. "What does age have to do with anything?" "I'm old enough to know that answering the favorites question is impossible," he says, matter-of-fact. "You're done for the evening," I tell him. "Done?" His eyebrows move together.

"Yes, done. No more questions. In fact, no more talking." I'm trying not to laugh at the fake whipped-puppy expression on his face. Fighting back his own smile, Edward brings his hand to his mouth, mimes locking it with a key. He tosses the imaginary key over his shoulder and wanders to the next row.

Chapter Ten I wander around the store, not bothering to hide the fact that I'm searching for Bella in particular. When I find her, she's shelving books in the sci-fi section. "Hey." Her eyes briefly reflect surprise, but quickly warm with the smile that spreads across her face. Even though I came looking for her, even though I'm expecting to see her, the actuality of her winds me up inside. "Hi," she replies, her eyes shifting from me to the shelf as she resumes work. Her hair is hanging loose over her shoulders and I resist the urge to tug at it. "So, hey, this weekend that new animated movie comes out. I know, I know, it's a kid's movie." I rush through my words. "But it's in 3-D. And that could be kind of hilarious, right?" Bella scrunches up her nose. "I can't go." Disappointment fells my face. "Oh. Okay. Another time, then," I scramble. My chest gets hot with embarrassment. Of course I shouldn't assume she's always free, that she wants to spend every Saturday night with me. She could have a date. Fuck. Please don't have a date. "Yeah, Jasper's leaving for San Francisco on Tuesday and had to jack around everybody's schedules, so I'm staying and working through Thursday." Relief washes over me. "Right." I'd forgotten about that. "Yeah. Then I get almost an entire week off." I grin. "A whole week in Forks. What will you do?" Tipping her head from side to side, she pushes a handful of books into place until they smack up against the back of the shelf. "I don't know. Maybe explore the downtown. Do a little sightseeing. There's so much to do and see." "It's too bad you don't have more time," I joke.

She nods with mock seriousness. "Too true." Leaning up against the shelf next to where she's working, I run my finger up and down the spines of the books. My next question catches in my mouth, but I push it out. "Do you want to go to dinner again, on Thursday?" "Sure." Her hands reach for the book cart on her right, and then she pauses. "If you want to," she says quietly. I smile when she meets my eyes. "Yeah." The lightest blush colors her cheeks. "Okay. Good." Her eyes do their usual dance across my face before she turns to the cart and looks away, her hair slipping over her ears. My stomach bottoms out. I trail after her as she pushes the cart down the row. "I should probably leave you alone," I say lamely. "You're working." With a small smile on her lips, Bella shrugs. "It's cool. I don't mind." We make eye contact for a second. "Want me to help?" I joke. She shakes her head, laughs softly. "I can handle it. But thanks." And she looks me full in the face, her eyes big and dark, and I want to touch the skin of her cheeks, see if it feels as smooth as it looks. This time I look away first. "Okay." I shift my weight from one foot to the other. We're less than an arm's length apart. Her eyes dart to mine, then away. Clearing her throat, she selects a few books from the cart and turns back to the shelf, teetering a bit as she moves, slower than before. "Have you always had long hair?" My fingers curl under the collar of my shirt, scratch absently. Bella pauses mid-reach, her hand resting on the back of the books she's placed on the shelf. She has to tip back her head too look at me. "What?" Her lips twitch with an almost-smile. "Your hair," I say. "Has it always been this long?" Again, she clears her throat, turning her eyes back to the shelf in front of her. "Uh, yeah." For a moment I can see the flush of her skin, but she pulls her hand from the shelf and looks down, her hair coming forward to cover her cheek. I wish her hair were tied back today.

"It's nice," I say, and immediately regret it. I sound like an idiot. "Thank you." Taking a step back, I run my hands through my hair, inhale sharply. "I'm gonna go get a book now." Jesus. Bella looks at me, nods. She seems relieved, I think. "See you Thursday?" More nodding. "Yeah. Thursday." * Linda sighs heavily. "And now that I'm almost at eight months, I really feel like I'm ready to branch out and make other friends. Friends outside of the organization, I guess. But I..." She sighs again, patting self-consciously at her hair. "But you what?" Jasper prods gently. This is Linda's twelfth meeting. No, her eleventh. I can't recall. The number eleven had come up earlier, but I don't know if it was in reference to this meeting or the last. Linda wears business suits; she has chin length hair and severe bangs. She reminds me of my high school guidance counselor. Both of them with their suit jackets and skirts in a wide variety of browns and grays. But Linda wears a strand of pearls - the same strand - with every suit. The guidance counselor didn't wear any jewelry. Maybe a watch. I've taken to calling her Pearl Necklace in my head - Linda, not the guidance counselor. When she starts to speak, I don't think Linda; I only think Pearl Necklace, and the less than savory connotations of the phrase are not lost on me. I'm a pig. "I've only lived here a month and no one knows my history and I don't know...well, I guess I don't know how to go about telling everyone about my life without telling them everything." Her hands clasp in her lap. "I don't want to tell them things that might upset people, but I'm finding it very difficult to talk about my life up to this point without revealing my past drinking." Uncrossing and then recrossing her legs, Linda tugs at the pearls hanging around her neck. Her high-heeled shoe bounces as she speaks. "What can't you tell them?" a man - I think his name is Carl (he doesn't have a nickname) asks from across the circle. "Well," Pearl Necklace (Linda, Linda, LINDA) begins. "People want to know where I moved from, and I tell them from Oregon. Then they want to know why I moved. And what do I say?

That I went to work drunk nearly every day? And they put up with it until one day I went to a meeting and vomited vodka and orange juice all over the floor in front of an important client and got fired?" Jasper smiles. "Well, there's a difference between saying ‘I'm an alcoholic' and talking about vomit." Jasper. So cool. Always, so cool. The way he can take every bit of anxiety you've got and wrap it up into something nice and pretty, something you don't mind carrying around. He could probably get all of us to eat shit sandwiches with a smile. Linda (there) cracks a wry smile. "I suppose. But that'll probably bring up more questions. Or worse, no questions, but they'll make all sorts of assumptions about me." The chain of her beads is going to snap if she doesn't stop pulling on it. "The thought of people knowing, I... I just don't know." Leaning back in his folding chair, arms crossed casually over his stomach, Jasper waits a moment to make sure she doesn't have anything else to say. His eyes scan the room, checking to see if anyone else has bits of wisdom they'd like to share. When no one steps up, he speaks. "It's really a question of boundaries, I think." He says this casually, like he's talking about adding more salt to soup or something. "Decide what you're willing to divulge, and stick to that." "Okay," Linda concurs. "But what if I do tell them the reason I don't go out for drinks after work and someone starts to ask questions?" Her foot flops around on her ankle like a dying fish. Jasper smiles. It's like he was just waiting for her to say it. "You don't answer," he says simply. Pearl Necklace snorts derisively. "As if that will work." His smile widens. "Why wouldn't it work?" "Because," Linda intones, "because people always ask questions." A little glint of something flashes in Jasper's eyes, and I see immediately where this is going. I hide my smile behind my hand. Pearl Necklace is about to become this meeting's teachable moment. "Tell me, Linda," he says, oh-so-casual. "When can you ever control what other people do?" Anyone who wasn't paying full attention is now alert; those who were listening are leaning forward, practically coming off their seats with excitement. The Serenity Prayer in action, they're waiting for it.

Pearl Necklace's foot is windmilling something furious now. "Well, never. But I, I don't think... I mean, why would I," she splutters, her hand pat, pat, patting her hair. "You decide what you're comfortable with revealing, and don't say anything more than that. If they ask questions? Well, too bad." Jasper's voice is smooth, even. "You don't owe them the grisly details. Being in recovery doesn't mean telling everything to everyone all the time." Hand clutching at her pearls, Linda thinks for a moment. "Does that work?" she asks, and for a moment I have pity for her. In that question, in her tone, I hear myself. "It works," maybe-Carl says gruffly. "I've got boys at work, they find out I was a hell raiser and they want all kinds of stories, want to know all the crap I pulled when I was their age. I tell ‘em no. They keep asking? I say, fuck ‘em. Some shit's between me and my maker, not me and them." He sits back in his seat, arms crossed, satisfied. The room is quiet for a few seconds. I raise my hand - tentative - and immediately feel like an asshole for raising my hand when no one is speaking. "I, uh, I think it's sort of a cost/benefit analysis," I say quietly, my face getting hot when I feel all the eyes in the room turn to me. I make the mistake of looking at Jasper, and although his face is nothing but encouraging and attentive, it makes me nervous as hell. "Meaning what?" Pearl Necklace clips out. "Meaning that, well, you have to decide how much it matters to you to be friends with the people that...the people you work with." My fingers brush through my hair; I clear my throat. "Because I work with people, and they don't know anything about me. Except my boss. They get, well, they feel uncomfortable sometimes, I think, because...because I don't go out with them or even talk to them that much." Pearl looks skeptical. "But I, I don't really care, you know? Because it's just my job. But there are...other people. People I want to know about me," and here I hesitate, look at Jasper again. His face is eternally relaxed, patient. "I have a friend," I say, maintaining eye contact with him. "A friend I met since I've been clean and sober." Then I can't take it anymore and my eyes move to the wall behind his head, then down to the floor, then back up to Pearl's face. "I want her to know me, so I tell her stuff, stuff that I might not say to other people." I shrug. "It's embarrassing and weird sometimes." "Weird? Weird how?" Pearl Necklace's voice is impatient but curious.

"Because it's all...backwards. Like you share stuff that's really personal because even the, I don't know, even the basic stuff about my life right now doesn't make sense without all the...back-story. Like you said." The sole of my shoe scuffs at the tile. There's another silence. "I think Edward makes a good point," Jasper says. "It's about deciding how much revealing certain aspects of our lives is worth in terms of what we get back - friendship, for example." He gives me a quick smile and then turns back to Linda. "It's good to be open to people, but it's best to do that within a framework. With boundaries." I shift on the flat seat, knowing that even if Jasper isn't looking this way, his words are just as much for me as they are for anyone else. After the meeting, he sits with me on the church steps while I smoke a cigarette. "You're really good at all this AA counseling stuff," I tell him. He laughs. "Am I? I guess that's what six stints in rehab will do to a guy." "Seriously," I say, shaking my head. "You always know what to say. I never do." "I thought what you said tonight was pretty helpful." Shrugging, I stare out at the street, pull on my cigarette. It's humid, and the smoke I exhale hangs like cotton in the heavy air. "I'm thinking maybe I should find a new meeting on Mondays and Wednesdays." His voice cuts to me abruptly. Confused, I turn to him. "Why?" "I'm starting to feel like a therapist in there." "So?" He shakes his head. "That's not what this is supposed to be about. We're supposed to be a group. People look at me and... I feel like I'm talking too much." "People look to you because you know what the fuck you're talking about, okay?" I'd kill to have half his rationality when it comes to this shit. "Building up that kind of dependence it, well..." He sighs. "I don't want a hierarchy to form. That's all."

"I think you'd break Pearl Necklace's heart if you left now," I joke, trying to lighten the mood. He turns to me with a smile and a "you're crazy" look on his face. "Who?" "Pearl Necklace. Linda. You know, cause she's always wearing one." Chuckling, he shakes his head. "That's an awful nickname, Edward." I can't help but laugh. "I know. But it's always there and she's always messing with it. I couldn't remember her name," I say simply, shrugging. "And now I won't be able to look at her without thinking of it. Thanks for that." He claps me on the shoulder, stands up. "I'll see you next week, okay?" "Yeah." "Call if you need. I've always got my cell." His eyes are sharp as he looks down at me. "And I mean that. Call. Any time." "Yes, Captain." "It's not a joke, Edward," he calls out over his shoulder as he walks down the sidewalk. Waving my cigarette, I nod. "I know. Have a good trip." Jasper lifts a hand in a quick wave, then moves out of sight. The air is thick and holds the promise of another rain shower. * I'm about half a block from the bookstore when I catch sight of Bella, already out front and pacing back and forth on the sidewalk while she talks on her phone. When she sees me, she smiles, mouths hello, then points to her phone and rolls her eyes. "Yeah, no problem," she says to the person on the other end. She mouths another word sorry, this time. I smile and wave it off. "When can you get it?" Her voice is tinged with anxiety. "Monday?" Her face falls and she closes her eyes, pressing the palm of her hand to her forehead. She keeps her eyes closed as she finishes the conversation. "No, no. That's fine. I mean, what else can you do? It's not like there's an alternative, right?" There's a moment of silence as she listens to whoever is on the other side of the conversation. "So we're looking at what, Monday afternoon?" Pause. "Tuesday?" She cringes, and I can tell she's trying desperately not to let her

frustration color her voice. "Okay. Tuesday then. Yep. Yep. Okay. Thanks. Bye." Sighing, she flips her phone shut and opens her eyes. "Sorry about that." "No problem. What's up?" Another eye roll. "My stupid truck. I went to start it this morning and it wouldn't even turn over." "That sucks. I'm sorry." She smiles. "Thanks. So I got it towed right away, but they have to order the part from out of state, which means it won't get here until Monday, which means I won't get my car back until Tuesday probably, which means I'm stuck here until then." Bella looks less than pleased; I, on the other hand, am just fine with the prospect of her sticking around. "Your dad can't come down to get you?" "I'm sure he would," she says. "But it's over an hour each way, and he'd have to bring me back here next week. That's like five extra hours of driving he doesn't need to do. And one of the guys at the station is in the hospital with pneumonia and Charlie's been working doubles." Closing her eyes briefly, Bella rubs her forehead. "Shit." Abruptly, she starts walking down the sidewalk, and I jog after. Slowing to a walk, I settle in alongside her. "Is there any reason in particular you don't want to stay here?" "I don't know. My dad. He's working a lot this week and probably next, and he eats like shit when I'm not there, especially when he's busy. Fucking hot dogs and take out every night." I grin. "He sounds like my kinda guy." This makes her smile, at least a little. "And as much as a I love Alice and it's great that she lets me stay at her place for free, it's her place, you know? Not mine." Bella shrugs. "I'm sorry." I don't know what else to say to that. "Thanks. If my truck weren't older than Jesus fucking Christ it wouldn't take so long to get the damn part." "Yeah." We walk without talking for a block. "How was your day?"

"Okay. Work was the same as any other day, I guess," I say. She looks up at me, confused. "You worked today? Isn't Thursday a day off for you?" "They started me on a new schedule this week," I tell her. "Monday through Friday." "That a good thing?" I shrug. "I'll get two days off in a row; that's nice." "True." "How about you? How was work?" "The day is done, and that is all that matters," she announces. I laugh. "That good, huh?" "Eight days in a row is kind of a bitch. Not that the work is so incredibly demanding or anything, but today was probably the last day I would've been able to keep my shit together." "Stressful," I suggest. "What gave it away?" she jokes. "You're swearing more than usual. But maybe that's because of your truck." Bella tilts her head to the side and peers up at me, an incredulous expression on her face. I eye her curiously. "Was that a rhetorical question?" I ask sheepishly. "Uh, yeah." She rolls her eyes and laughs. "Sorry." She's quiet for a moment. "You're right, though. I am swearing more today." A pause. "Fuck shit damn." And we both laugh. "So what's the deal with this movie this weekend?" she asks after a minute. "Cause now I can go." "Oh, it's just some silly kids move. Animated, and it's in 3-D."

"So we get to wear those awesome glasses," she teases. My hand grips the back of my neck. "Yeah. If you want." She must think this is pretty stupid. "Excellent." Her voice is genuine now. "I haven't seen a 3-D movie since I was a kid. And even then I think it was just some educational film at the Arizona Science Center or something. At the IMAX." I grin. "Yeah, those educational 3-D movies on a huge screen. Such a bummer." Bella makes a face at me, but I'm undeterred. "So terrible that you got to learn and have fun in a state-of-the-art facility." "Okay, okay. I get it. I'm a big, spoiled brat." She peers up at me, trying hard not to smile. "Happy now?" "Yes," I admit. "Wait a second," she says abruptly. "You grew up in Chicago. They totally have a gigantic science museum, right?" "Yeah." I smirk at her. "You're an ass," she says witheringly, smacking me lightly on the arm. My hand jerks toward hers; wants to grab it and pin it to my hip under the guise of preventing her from hitting me, but really I just want to hold her hand. Scowling, I make fists and pull my arms to my sides. I wish I didn't have to think so fucking much when I'm near her. I wish I could just hug her or kiss her or hold her hand, wish I could just touch her the way my body tells me to. But I can't shut off my stupid brain, can't help but hear all the things Jasper would say if he were here. He's like Jiminy fucking Cricket sitting on my shoulder. "And you're just as much of an urbanite as I am," she tells me. "So no more of this ‘I expect you to drive a slick car because you're a city girl' bullshit." Grinning, I raise my hands in a gesture of surrender. "Yes ma'am." We pace the next block in silence. I remember what I'd been meaning to ask her. "Hey, who's the new girl you work with?" Bella's face is thoughtful as she looks up. "Which one? The blonde?"

"Yeah." "That's Lauren." "You like her?" "She's all right. Kind of...not ditzy, exactly. Just not very attentive on the job, I guess." Bella shrugs, stepping down off the curb and looking both ways before we cross the street. "Why do you ask?" "She was, well, she was kind of...friendly on Sunday when she rang me up." "Ha!" Bella laughs. "Friendly how? Smiled at you friendly or humped your leg friendly?" "Maybe somewhere in between." "That sounds about right." She steps aside to let a couple with a baby stroller push past. "Why do you ask? Lookin' for a date?" she teases. "No," I say, flustered. "I just didn't know who she was." "Right." "I'm serious." I scratch at my head, inexplicably irritated. "She's not the type, I mean I'm not interested in that. You know I'm not supposed to date anyway," I finish, feeling stupid. This Lauren girl is of absolutely no consequence; I want Bella to know this. "I know." Her voice is still pleasant, but not as boisterous as before. Even before I open my mouth I hear myself saying the words that are forming on the tip of my tongue. I shouldn't say it, I know that I shouldn't, but I don't want to not say it. "Besides, if I could date, there's really only one person I would want to date anyway." My nervousness dulls my tongue, and the last few words slur together a bit. The back of my neck gets hot as we walk next to each other, not talking. Say something. It's shitty of me to say what I've said when I can't do anything about it. Say something. It's stupid and selfish of me to say those words and pretend that there's no consequence. Say something. "I know." The same two words as before, but softer now. And if this were a movie this is the part where I'd grab her and push her up against the mailbox and kiss her senseless. But this isn't a movie and the mailbox would probably jam into her back - best case uncomfortable, worst case painful. I don't even know what it means to kiss someone senseless.

Bella breaks the awkward silence. "So I lined up some apartments to look at when I go to Seattle at the end of the month." "Oh yeah? Anything promising?" "Eh...maybe. I don't know yet. Two had pictures online, and they looked okay. Really generic, but okay." "Generic how?" "Oh, you know. Huge apartment complexes with white walls and off-white carpet. Kitchen with a bar looking into the living room. That kind of thing." "And you don't like that." "No, it's fine. I mean they remind me of the apartments my mom and I lived in until we bought our house in Phoenix, which is okay, I guess. But I got used to the apartments in Boston. The old brick buildings, the hardwood floors, the tiling in the bathroom." She shrugs. "Most of what I've seen so far seems really student-oriented, too. And I don't think I necessarily want to live with nineteen and twenty year olds on their own for the first time, if you know what I mean." I grin. "I know what you mean." "Of course I haven't looked at too many places, these are just the most obvious I guess." Bella catches her foot on a bit of raised sidewalk and stumbles. I reach out my hands to steady her, but she regains her footing quickly and so I drop my arms to my sides. "You okay?" She makes a face. "Yeah. I'm just klutzy." Shaking my head, I grin. "Anyway," she continues, "I also have a few appointments a little further away from campus. One's in a converted house, which looks promising. I'd probably take a bus to school most days cause it's a twenty, twenty-five minute walk. But that's not so bad. The neighborhood's cute." I scrunch up my forehead. "You're going the end of June, you said?" "Yep." "How are you getting there?"

She looks at me, confused. "My truck." "The truck that just broke down?" "Yes," she says, a little impatient. "And the truck that will be fixed by next week." "Your dad can't drive you?" "Well... I mean, he could, but I don't want to bother him. He works a lot. It's hard for him to get time off." I swallow quickly. "I could drive you." Bella looks up at me when I look down at her. "You don't have to do that," she says, sounding a little uncertain. "I know. But I'd like to." I clear my throat. "If that's okay with you. Just to be helpful, you know. One less thing to worry about. And I do know the area a little so I could tell you stuff about which places might be better for you to live in, or, you know, I could..." Laughing, she cuts off my rambling. "Okay. Yes, thank you; I would appreciate the ride." "Okay." I tug at my hair. "Okay." She smiles up at me. We sit at the counter today, make small talk after we order our food. Bella twists from side to side on her stool, her knee coming dangerously close to my leg. Cocking her head to the side, she looks at me closely. "Do you vote?" "What?" I ask, laughing a little. "Do you vote?" she repeats, still rotating back and forth. "Uh, I have. Usually just the presidential election, though." Bella seems to be mulling this over. "Why do you ask? Do you vote?" "Yes, sir. Every election. You should too, you know," she informs me. "Most decisions that affect your day-to-day life are usually decided at the state and local level." "Thank you, Miss America," I tease. Bella simply gives me a look and shrugs.

"And I thought you were a commie. What's with all the support for a democratic system?" She doesn't look at me. "Just because I dress like this, doesn't mean I'm a communist." I grin. "You like Billy Bragg?" Her smile matches mine. "Yeah, I like him a lot." We settle into a comfortable silence. And she likes Billy Bragg. Fuck. I briefly entertain the vague and ill-advised notion of asking her over to my place to listen to his albums, but that's just a ruse, just a way to get her in my apartment, onto my couch, and then into my bed. We could listen to Billy Bragg and make out on the leather cushions, could undress each other in the dark. Our plates of food slide in front of us and I swallow, shifting my attention back to the present. "So why all the interest in my voting habits?" Bella shrugs. "I don't know. Just curious." Her fingers delicately pull apart the halves of her grilled cheese. "Some kind of litmus test?" She grins and raises her eyebrows. "Litmus test? For what?" "To see if I'm adequate," I say. Now her eyes narrow. "Adequate in what respect?" I try not to flirt with her; I really do try. I try not to smirk at her, try not to push and prod at the edges of her, try not to raise her amused ire. I try to just be a friend, a person to talk to, to hang out with. But that's bullshit. I don't try at all. I flirt and smirk and push and prod with abandon. I want to raise her ire; I don't want to be just a guy she knows. I want her to want me in the same adolescent, fumbling, unsure way that I want her. I want her to want to go back to my place and listen to Billy Bragg and fondle each other like frantic kids in the backseat of a car. She's still watching me, waiting for an answer. "I don't know." Rolling her eyes and smiling, she turns her attention to her food.

"Why do you vote?" I ask after a moment. Bella chews and swallows. "Because I'm invested in the democratic process." I shoot her a skeptical look and she laughs. "And because Charlie is kind of nuts about participating in government, particularly local government." "Ah, I see. That makes sense." "Yeah. When I'd visit during the summers, he used to take me to City Council meetings." "Really?" The relationship Bella has with her father is difficult to figure out. "Mm-hm. Every other Monday. Unless there was an important Mariners' game on." "That's kind of great," I tell her. "Yeah," she agrees. "It used to irritate me when I was younger, but when I got to high school I sort of realized how valuable that knowledge was." "Yeah?" I ask, picking at the food on my plate. "Yeah. Not every city government is the same, obviously, but I knew more about how decisions got made than most adults did." She shrugs. We eat without talking for a few minutes. "Your dad sounds like a good guy," I tell her. I'm not sure why I feel compelled to say this, but I do. Looking up from her plate, she frowns a bit. "You sound surprised." "No, no," I say quickly. "It's just that, to me, he was just another cop, you know? I knew his name like I knew most of the cops in the towns close by. And now, I don't know, I feel like a shit for it." Bella doesn't say anything. "Sorry if that was weird to say." Even to my own ears I sound like an idiot. Shaking her head, she readjusts the napkin in her lap. "Don't worry about it. I just...I'll compartmentalize it."

"You'll what?" She's blushing a little. "I'll just remind myself that that was then and this is now." "Oh. Okay." We eat some more. It occurs to me that maybe she wants to go home for reasons other than just cooking for her dad and having her own space. Maybe she misses him, wants to see him. "Do you want me to give you a ride home?" I blurt out. Startled, Bella turns to look at me. "Sorry?" I place my hands on my knees. "Do you want me to give you a ride tonight? To Forks?" Her head jerks back a little in surprise. "Seriously?" "Yeah. You could go home and see your dad. And I could give you a ride back or you could get one from him next week or whatever." "I can't ask..." she begins, shaking her head. "You do realize that it's almost two and a half hours, roundtrip, right?" I nod. "Yeah. But it's early. I could drop you off and drive back and still be home before ten." She seems to be thinking. "It's not a big deal," I say quickly, hoping to persuade her. "I don't have anything else to do. It's nice to be occupied." "Really?" Her voice is tentative but her eyes are happy. "Yeah, really." "Thank you, Edward." My stomach tightens. She doesn't say my name often. "But I'm buying your dinner tonight," she says. "And next week. And probably the week after that. Okay?" "Okay," I agree, laughing. I want her to stay, want her to spend her free weekend with me, but I like seeing her happy more.

We finish eating and Bella takes care of the check. Outside it's raining steadily, the drizzle having increased since we'd gone inside. Bella extracts an umbrella from her bag and opens it. She's suddenly invisible beneath a canopy of red vinyl. Tipping her body back, she peers up at me. "Where's your umbrella?" "Don't have one," I say, pulling out my pack of cigarettes and lighting one. With the filter pressed between my lips, I shove my lighter and the pack back in my shirt pocket, flip my hood up over my head. "Don't have one with you, or don't have one - period?" she asks, cocking her head to the side. I take a drag. "Don't have one - period." "You're kidding, right?" She follows my lead as I start walking down the street. "No. Why?" She shifts the umbrella so she can look at my face. One corner of her mouth is twisted up. "You live in Washington State." "Yeah?" "On the Olympic Peninsula." "Oh, is that what it's called?" I joke, blowing smoke over my right shoulder, away from her. She grins, shakes her head. "Ha ha." Her head shifts down, the umbrella over, and again she's just a pair of feet. "It rains here. Almost every damn day. How can you not own an umbrella? Or a raincoat? Or rain boots?" I shrug. "I dunno. I wear stuff with hoods a lot." "Yeah, maybe you could just cut some armholes in a trash bag." "Could do that," I say with a grin. We walk quietly for a block or so. Bella shifts the umbrella so that most of it hangs over her left shoulder. Now, half of her face is visible. "You like Kurt Vonnegut?" she asks. "Eh...he's all right. I'm not a huge fan. Why?"

"We got a collection of his books on Monday. I think we're trying to sell them to one person, as a set." She shrugs. "Thought maybe you'd be interested." "I loved Slaughterhouse Five when I was in high school." "Me, too," she says. "Then I tried to read his other stuff and, I don't know. It's good, but I felt like I was reading the same thing over and over again, you know?" Smiling, I nod. "I know exactly what you mean." I'm not watching where I'm going and I step into a puddle. "I'm almost afraid to ask, but do you have a favorite author?" Bella lets out a burst of laughter. "No," she says, "but I have favorites. Plural." "Like who?" "Well, you already know some of them from that day at the store. I like James Baldwin a lot. And I like George Orwell." "1984?" "That's him. But I prefer his non-fiction to his fiction, actually. His essays." I feel stupid for going to the most obvious reference; of course she prefers his other work. I didn't even know he wrote essays. "Oh, and Joan Didion. But again, really just her non-fiction. Not a big fan of her novels. God, you know what?" She tips her head and looks at me. "I don't really have favorite authors. I just have favorite books, or favorite genres for an author." My embarrassment gives way to amusement. She's cute when she talks like this, switching gears quickly. "Maybe we should just steer clear of the whole favorites issue," she says. "Maybe." I stare down at the ground, smile, and smoke my cigarette. The rain picks up a bit, and then we're both walking quickly, heads down, hurrying to get out of it. "We're gonna take a right at the corner," I tell her. "Okay." Her voice is quiet beneath the umbrella. The rain pelts us, relentless. "See, this is why you need an umbrella," she informs me.

I laugh. "Guess so." Her face appears from underneath the red shell, eyes squinting up in the rain. "Do you want to get underneath?" Her cheek puckers slightly as she bites at it, her eyes unsettled. "What?" I ask, my voice faltering. "It's really raining. You could, you could hold the umbrella and we could share it." I think about how close we'd have to stand to each other in order for that to work. Her hip grazing my leg; her foot occasionally stepping down on the edge of my boot; my hand on her back, keeping her close, steadying her. "I'm all right." I don't sound very convincing. "Are you sure?" Nodding, I ignore the damp settling in around my neck and shoulders. The drive to Forks is going to be uncomfortable. "I'm sure," I say. Bella disappears again beneath her little, red bubble. Two cars pass us in quick succession, their wheels making pleasant whooshing sounds on the rain-soaked pavement, and somewhere on the block, a garage door whines as it's raised or lowered. Our feet make slapping sounds on the sidewalk. Every few seconds, Bella does a delicate little dance around a puddle of water, her umbrella bobbing and weaving like a beach ball. "What position does your stepfather play?" I ask, apropos of nothing, just wanting her to talk to me. Her face appears from beneath the umbrella and she's laughing softly. I'm not sure why this is funny. "What?" "Nothing. Sorry. You just called Phil my stepfather." Her grin widens. Now I'm confused. "Isn't he?" Nodding, Bella looks down at the ground, watching for puddles, and the umbrella covers her again. "He is," she says. "But I just always think of him as my mom's husband, not my step...father, I guess." "Is he not really stepparent material?" "He's really young. Well, not really young, but younger than my mother. And he never really acted much like a parent." Her umbrella spins around her head. "Of course, neither did my

mother." She pauses. "He's a good guy. Dependable, really protective of both of us in a way, but...I don't know. I never really thought of him as a stepdad." "Fair enough." "But to answer your question," she says quickly, "he plays first base." "So he's a big guy?" "Yeah. Pretty tall. Solid." We lapse into silence. "The driveway's this way," I tell her as we approach my apartment. It sits on a corner and the driveway enters the property on the side street as opposed to the front of the building. Moving in front of Bella, I lead the way to my car, unlocking the passenger side first (eliciting a quiet "thank you" from her) before unlocking my own door. Once inside and out of the rain, I unzip my sweatshirt and lay it across the back seat. My shirt is only a little damp. Bella sets her umbrella at her feet and unloops the strap of her bag from around her neck, settles it in her lap. Her hands run over her long hair. I start the car. "So, this is the Volvo," I say lamely. She grins, looking over at me. "Yeah it is." I laugh. "As fancy as you expected?" I ask. "Fancier." Twisting the keys in the ignition I start the car, and the stereo blares painfully. "Jesus!" I exclaim, and reach over to twist the volume knob down. Bella's laughing. "Somebody likes to rock out in the car," she says to me, teasing. I run my fingers through my damp hair and scratch at my neck. "I guess," I mutter. "What were you listening to?" Tentatively, I ease up the volume. My face heats up with embarrassment. "Uh, it's a tape. Queen's Greatest Hits."

"Excellent," she says enthusiastically. "You can turn it up." I bring the low murmur of instruments and voices up just a little higher. "So I should take the 101 to Forks?" Bella smirks. "Unless you know of some other, super-secret way through the mountains to get me there." Her eyes are big and dark, the way they always are when she teases me. Flushing, I put the car in reverse and pull out of my parking spot. I shift into drive and we're quiet as I navigate side streets to the highway. We're leaving town when Bella turns in her seat to face me. "Do you want to play a game?" I grin in spite of myself. "What kind of game?" "Famous dead people." "What?" I crinkle my brow and take my eyes off the road for a few seconds to look at her. "Famous dead people," she repeats. "I used to play it with some of my high school friends when we drove around. Nothing to do in Phoenix, you know. At least not when you're sixteen, seventeen." "All right." I shrug. "So, one person starts, and says the name of someone who's famous but dead." "What constitutes famous?" "Well, they can be dead actors or musicians or artists, or politicians, historical figures, blah blah blah." She waves her hand around. "How'd you come up with this game?" I ask. "Saw it in a movie," she replies, and starts pulling her hair up into a ponytail, her back arched. "So you say the name, and the next person has to come up with the name of another famous dead person, but their first name has to start with the first letter of the previous name's last name. Make sense?" I laugh. "Not at all. Give me an example." "Okay, so let's say I said Jim Morrison. You'd have to come up with someone whose first name starts with 'M'."

"Then I'd say something like Mohandas Gandhi." "Exactly." She pauses. "So, we're playing now?" "Yeah. Go ahead." "Uh, 'G'. Okay." There's a silence as she thinks. "Oh. Duh. George Washington." "Walter Cronkite," I say after a moment, and reach over to crack the window. "You mind if I smoke? I'll keep the window open." "Not at all. Go ahead." I light up and we continue playing. The road passes quickly beneath us, the car feeling pleasantly isolated with the wall of green on either side, holding us in. Bella sings softly along to the stereo when I'm thinking of names. The light dims around us and I flip on my headlights. "Bob Barker," I say. "Not dead." "What?" "Not dead," she repeats, this time with more emphasis. "But he's not on The Price is Right anymore," I insist. Bella bursts out laughing. "Because he's retired. Did you expect him to host that show until he died in front of the Plinko stand or something?" I grin. "Kind of." The flat surface of Lake Crescent shines dully through the trees to our right. "Well, regardless. Dude's not dead." "Fine. How about Boris Yeltsin? Is he dead?" "As far as we know, yes," she tells me, giving her head an exaggerated roll. The game continues until we pull into Forks' city limits. "How does a person win this game?" I ask, tapping on the brake. "If you say a name and I can't think of anyone to say, but you do, then you win."

"What if neither of us can think of someone?" "Then it's a tie." The buildings on either side of us look like the beginnings of what I assume is Forks' downtown area. "Take the next right," Bella says softly. "And follow it around to the left." I clear my throat. "What does that mean for this game?" I ask, glancing over at her quickly. She shrugs. "On hold? Maybe until we go to Seattle?" Her voice drops on the last few words. It's hard to tell in this light, but I imagine she's blushing. "Okay." Then, the car is quiet. To the left we pass the hospital, the sign for the emergency room distinct in the waning light. "Take a left here," she instructs me. "And turn here." I do as she tells me, the car coasting slowly along the residential street. "And it's the house with the police cruiser in front." She grins at me. Pulling to a stop in front of her house, I'm not sure what to do. I allow myself to put my car into park, but I don't know if I should turn off the lights, or the engine, or just let her out of the car. "Thank you so much for the ride," she says, her voice earnest. "You're welcome," I reply, distracted, wanting her to stay in the car with me, but not knowing how to do that. Her father's car is here so he must be inside; I don't know how long we could sit here before he noticed. "Okay, well," Bella hedges, strapping on her bag and reaching for her umbrella. "I'll see you next week?" Her eyes are big, focused on my face, the beginning of a smile on her lips. I want to grab her arm and pull her into me and kiss that mouth, bury my face into her neck and breathe deep. I want to feel the unpleasant press of her damp clothes against mine. "Yeah, next week." My voice is rough. Without thinking, I put my hand on her shoulder. It's an awkward movement, almost consoling in this position, like clapping your hand on a buddy's shoulder when he tells you his girlfriend dumped him.

Her eyes come to my face, surprised but (I hope) pleased. "Have a good weekend," I say, and my fingers tighten a little on her shoulder before I take my hand away. Bella looks down. "Thanks. You too." Her gaze comes back to my face briefly. "You can find your way back to the highway?" I nod. "Yeah." "Okay." She finds the door handle and the interior light fills the car. "See you later." "Bye," I say, and then the door is shut and she's walking up the short driveway to the house. As she climbs the steps, she turns and waves, then opens the front door and disappears inside.

Chapter Eleven I push the power button on the remote and the television snaps off. The house is suddenly, eerily quiet. A shiver runs down my back. There are too many places to hide - too many closets, too many levels, too many dark corners and large pieces of furniture - for me to feel completely comfortable being here alone at night. Charlie doesn't create much noise, doesn't do much in the way of making himself known, but his simple presence makes me unafraid. Tonight, alone in the house, I am less so. I flip the TV back on. It only takes a few minutes for the banal chatter of a network drama to quell my overactive imagination. I watch the actors talk and move around on screen, surprised at how little their lives resemble mine; shocked that our concerns, interests, and problems overlap in so few ways. These people all look the same - thin, white, conventionally and woodenly attractive. "How do people watch this shit?" I ask the empty house. It doesn't respond. I'm bored. No, not bored. At loose ends. I don't have much to do here. There's a couple of loads of laundry I needed to do today, but because of my surprise at Edward's offer to drive me home (and in my haste to accept it) I'd forgotten to stop by Alice's and pick up my things. Dirty clothes. My favorite pair of jeans. I'd also left my other diversion - the book I've been reading since this past Tuesday - on my bedside table. I'd felt like an asshole when, after bursting through the front door Thursday night, Charlie took one look at me and asked, "Where's the rest of your stuff?" Sighing, I get up from the couch, leaving the television on as I climb the stairs to the second floor. It's not even eleven and I won't be in bed for an hour or so, but I drag myself to the bathroom and start getting ready. Flipping on the light, I look at my face in the mirror. I

look tired. I open the medicine cabinet and my reflection swings toward me. My fingers automatically reach for the toothpaste; it's taken me almost all of the five months I've lived here to develop new muscle memory for my morning and evening bathroom routine. Living with Alice half the week hasn't helped, certainly. But I no longer reach for things in places where those things are not. Carefully, I squeeze toothpaste onto my brush, put the paste back in its place on the shelf. I shut the cabinet and my face greets me again. I turn on the faucet and run my brush under the water briefly. The knob squeaks when I turn off the tap. Watching myself in the mirror, I circle the brush over my teeth, counting in my head to make sure I brush each quadrant of my mouth adequately - a leftover childhood habit. I'm leaning over the sink to spit and rinse when my phone rings. Downstairs. Spit. "Shit." I slurp up a mouthful of water, rinse, spit again, and run for the stairs, hastily wiping my mouth on the back of my hand. The stairs shake as I rumble down to the living room. I stub my toe on the corner of the sofa as I snatch the phone off the coffee table. "Fuck!" I yowl, allowing myself a split second to wallow in the pain before closing my mouth and flipping open the phone, my eyes stinging. "Hello?" I had better not have risked my neck running down the stairs or stubbed by goddamn toe for a drunk dial from Mike. "Bella?" My insides collapse. "Hi." "Hey, it's Edward." I grin, the throbbing in my toe momentarily forgotten. "I know who it is." "Oh. Right. Of course." "What's going on?" I ask, sitting down on the couch. "Oh, nothing," he says, sounding distracted. "Just driving around." "Yeah?" "Yeah."

"Why are you driving around?" "Uh, nothing better to do on a Saturday night?" "You've got me beat," I tell him. "I've been watching bad television all night." "Oh yeah? What shows?" "A rerun of one of the Law & Orders, I don't know which one. And...some show about a bunch of doctors. There was a lot of sex and not a lot of actual doctoring going on." Edward laughs. "So what else have you been doing?" I purse my lips, thinking. "Well, I washed sheets today. And some towels. Yesterday I set up a few more appointments to look at apartments." "Yeah?" "Yeah, and I think it's going to be a two-day process, so I'll probably just end up going with my dad." At this point, I don't think Edward and I are sleepover buddies. "Oh. Okay." He sounds disappointed, and this pleases me. Because you're a sick bastard. "But thank you for the offer. That was really nice of you." "It's...you know, no problem." "So, what have you been doing?" "I worked yesterday. Went to AA." "How was that?" "The usual." I'm not sure what "the usual" is, but I don't ask. "Went to the bookstore today." "You buy anything?" "Naw. Just needed something to do. I have too many books at home that I haven't read, anyway."

"You see your girlfriend?" I tease. "What?" Edward sounds suitably embarrassed. "Lauren. Your new buddy." He laughs. "Thankfully, no." "Too bad for her, though," I tease, getting up from the couch. The stairs creak gently beneath my feet as I climb them again. "Got any other plans for the rest of the week?" he asks. "Not really," I say, stepping into the bathroom. "I might paint the shutters on the house, though. The paint's peeling pretty bad." "What color?" "What color are they now, or what color am I going to paint them?" Opening the medicine cabinet again, I extract my dental floss. "The second one. Or both." "They're this awful brick red right now," I tell him, tucking my phone between my ear and my shoulder and pulling a long strand of floss from the container and cutting it free. "But I think I'm going to go blue." I wrap one end around my index finger. "I'm sure you find this very fascinating." "Of course." I can practically hear his smile. "Well, here's more excitement for you. I'll probably have to scrape them before I paint." I run the floss between my two front teeth. "Sounds major." Pulling my hands from my mouth, I laugh. "It is." "You know, you should really just get all-weather shutters on your windows. The rain'll make it so you have to repaint in a few years, anyway." "Uh-huh." "It's a good investment. This is the Olympic Peninsula, you know," he tells me confidentially. "Ha ha."

We're both quiet for a moment. "What are you doing?" he asks finally. "Talking to you. Why?" "You sound distracted." "I'm flossing." "You're what?" "Flossing. My teeth. You know, dental hygiene and all that." "While you're on the phone with me?" "Yeah." "That's kind of weird, Bella." But he's laughing. "Weird, how?" I ask, moving to my lower teeth. "I don't know. Seems like a strange thing to do on the phone." "I'm multi-tasking." He snorts. "Hey, at least I'm not peeing on the phone." "You'd probably ruin your phone that way," he teases. "Har har. I mean, at least I'm not talking to you while peeing." "This is true. Thank you for that." He sounds amused. I drop my floss into the garbage. "Why are you flossing?" he asks. "Because I want to die with my own teeth. Duh." "No," he laughs. "I mean, are you getting ready for bed?" "Kind of. Not really." I shrug, even though he can't see me.

"If you need to get off the phone..." "No, not at all." I pause and stare at myself in the mirror. "I'm glad you called." Flipping off the light, I leave the bathroom and walk into my room. "Oh. Good." "Yeah," I say, shaking off the awkwardness I feel and plowing ahead. "I was actually just starting to freak myself out, so it's good you called." "Freak yourself out, how?" "Thinking there's an ax murderer in the basement or hiding under my bed." Edward laughs. "What's so funny?" I ask. "You just don't strike me as the type to get scared." "Really? 'Cause I am. Most definitely." "Well, I have to tell you, I think the ax murderers will probably bypass the police officer's house. There are easier targets. People without guns." "Sure, but maybe they're coming here out of vengeance." "Because your dad is in charge of the many murder investigations in Forks?" "Ha ha. Besides, Charlie's not here." "Why not?" "He's doing another double, covering the overnight shift." "So you're all alone..." "Yes, sir." "Hm. Well, Bella, this probably isn't the best time to tell you, but I just heard on the radio that there's this psycho killer on the loose. He's only got one hand, and the other is a hook, and he likes to find young, unsuspecting women alone in their father's houses-" "Shut up!" But I'm laughing along with him. "That's an awful thing to say to me when I'm by myself."

"Sorry." He doesn't sound sorry; he sounds like he's smiling. I pace the short path from the landing at the top of the stairs into my room, to the foot of the bed, and back into the hall again. Back and forth. "I made brownies today," I say, suddenly remembering. "What?" Edward asks, laughing. "You asked what I did today. I made brownies." "You're funny," he says under his breath. "What kind?" I pivot on my toe and walk to my room. "I don't know. The regular kind." "With nuts?" His voice is wary. "Absolutely not." "Good choice." I grin, walking back to the landing. "Not a big fan?" "On their own, sure. Not in dessert, though." "Good to know," I say, then feel stupid. Why is this good for me to know? Stepping back into the bathroom, I stare at the sink and wonder if there's any way I can wash my face while on the phone. Most likely not. I leave the bathroom. "So you're driving around Port Angeles?" "Uh, no. Not right now." "Oh. Did you leave town?" "Yeah. Yes." He sounds nervous. "So where are you?" I ask. His nervousness has peaked my interest. "I decided to go out to the lake to just, I don't know, sit around." "Which lake?" "Lake Crescent." "I've been there a few times."

"Yeah?" "When I was younger I had this friend I used to play with in the summers, and her family went there sometimes. They took me a couple of weekends." Shifting my weight onto one foot, I sweep the other back and forth across the hardwood floor of the landing. "Charlie and I usually went to Lake Pleasant, for the fish." "You fished?" This seems to amuse him. "Yes, I fished," I say witheringly. "Until I was thirteen or so." "Interesting." I wonder what he means - "interesting" - but I don't ask. Clearing my throat, I break the brief silence. "I bet it's nice out there tonight." "It was." His voice sounds suddenly farther away. "But there were a bunch of kids - well, eighteen year olds or something - out there drinking when I got there, so I left pretty quick." "On your way back to Port Angeles, then?" "Uh...not exactly." "What?" I laugh. "You making a drug run? On a ferry to Canada or something?" When he doesn't respond right away, my stomach drops. Shit. What an asshole thing for me to say. "Bad joke," I say. "Sorry." "It's fine." I rush in. "You don't have to tell me where you are. It's not a big deal." My face burns with embarrassment. "It was just a joke, Edward. I didn't mean anything," I start to say, but he cuts me off. "I'm kind of in Forks." "What?" I pause in the doorway between my room and the hallway. "I'm, uh... I'm in Forks. I'm in your town." I laugh out loud. "What?" I repeat.

There's a dry cough on the other end. "I just, I started driving and when I left the lake I just, I don't know...I didn't really have anything else to do. I didn't expect to see you or anything. I was just, I was just driving." He pauses. "So, yeah." "Okay," I say, playing along, wary. "If you're in Forks, where are you?" "Uh, I drove past the high school about a couple of minutes ago." "How do you know it's the high school?" "There was a football field...and a track, I think." "Well, that was a generic enough answer," I tease. What high school doesn't have those things? I wonder where he's really at and why he won't tell me. "I'm not lying to you," he insists, laughter at the edge of his voice. "I'm really in Forks." "Fine, fine. You're in Forks. Why don't you come on over?" "Okay." "Do you remember how to get here or do you need directions?" I ask, patronizing. He laughs. "I remember." I wonder how long he's willing to play this game. "So where are you now?" "The hospital's coming up," he says, sounding a little distracted. "Well, you're almost here then," I say, doing my best to be infuriating. Again, he laughs. "You're going to feel pretty silly when I pull up in front of your house." "I look forward to it." Shifting the phone to my other ear, I wait. He's not saying anything, and for a few seconds, I consider that he might not be lying. "Okay," he says. "I just turned onto your street." Jesus H. Christ. One of my bedroom windows faces the driveway and I walk to it now, pushing aside the sheer curtain hanging in front of it. The window is open, and as I kneel down to look outside, I hear the sound of a car approaching, and headlights shine up the street. A fourdoor car pulls up to the curb. The driver kills the engine. "I thought you were joking," I tell him.

Through the phone I hear Edward laugh. Then the car's lights switch off and the driver's side door opens up. And there he is. Standing on the edge of my lawn. I can't stop the nervous laughter. "What are you doing here?" "You can see me?" "Yeah. I'm looking at you right now." "There you are," he says as he spots me in my window. Raising his left arm in a wave, he steps to the concrete walk. "Told you. I was just driving around." "And so the logical choice would be to drive around to Forks?" He's moved closer and now I can see his smile. "Guess so." "You're crazy." And then I giggle like an idiot. "What are you going to do now that you're here?" This is ridiculous. Edward stands at the base of my front steps, looking up at me, and we're still talking through our phones. We could probably hear each other just as well if we spoke through the screen. "I don't know." He shrugs. "Loiter." I snort. "This is probably not the best place for loitering." "Well, you could invite me in." And he's grinning, but he sounds nervous. "What would the neighbors think?" I ask. "Inviting a strange man into my house so late at night. Letting him walk right in through the front door? For shame." "I'll come into the house some other way." "What other way?" He looks around, his eyes settling on the tree nearest my window. "I'll climb." With that, he shuts his phone and puts it in his jeans' pocket. I flip mine shut as well and watch him walk to the base of the trunk. It's too close to the house for me to see very well, so I push the screen up and hang over the sill. "You sure that's a good idea?"

Looking up at me and grinning, he reaches for the lowest branch and braces his foot on a knot in the tree's side. Edward hoists himself up, coming to rest on a branch about a third of the way up the tree. He looks around for his next hand or foothold. "You're going to kill yourself," I tell him. "Then you should come downstairs and let me in," he says with a smirk. Sighing (as if this is such a terrible prospect, Edward in my house), I point to the front door. I lower the screen and pull the curtain back over the window before dashing to the bathroom and checking my face in the mirror. For the second time that night, I bolt down the stairs, pausing behind the safety of the front door for one last second before opening it. He's waiting with the storm door already open. "Hi," he says, smiling broadly. "Hi," I return. "Uh, come in." Standing back, I let him pass in front of me before shutting the door. We stand together in a moment of awkward silence. "So, this is a lot weirder now that I'm inside," he finally says. I sigh in relief. "Yes, yes it is." We laugh, both of us nervous. "You want to sit down?" I gesture to the couch. "Sure." I sit at one end; Edward sits at the other. "I like your house," he says finally. "Oh. Thanks." My eyes scan the living room, wondering what it looks like to someone who's not intimately acquainted with it. The landscape paintings replete with deer and ducks that I find both comforting and tacky. Charlie's threadbare recliner. The copies of Field and Stream on the coffee table. The collection of my 5x7 school photographs. Quickly, I avert my eyes. I could live with Edward never seeing me at that age. He shifts in his seat, turns a little toward me. "You want a brownie?"

A smile lights up his face. "Yeah, that'd be great." I get up from the couch and walk into the kitchen, reaching for the pan on the counter. "Glass of milk?" I ask, pausing in the doorway. "Sure. If it's not a bother," he says, watching me over the back of the sofa. "No bother at all. I'm going to have one. But we drink 2% here. That all right?" "Yeah." Pulling two mismatched mugs from the cupboard affords me the opportunity to move out of his line of sight, and I take a moment to let myself freak out. He's in my house. He's in the living room. This shouldn't be so strange, but it is. It absolutely is. He's in the other room. Just sitting there. On the couch. This is probably not a good idea. Fuck. I pull the milk out of the fridge and concentrate on not spilling it as I fill the mugs. "Here," I say, leaving the kitchen and handing him the ceramic cup. "Thanks." He smiles. I turn away to retrieve my own mug and the pan. And here we sit on the couch, having brownies and milk like a couple of eight year olds. Or like I'm Mrs. Cleaver and he's Wally. Or the Beave. What the fuck. "Thshhishgud," Edward mumbles around a full mouth. I snort and nearly choke. "What?" Smiling with his lips pressed tightly together, he ducks his head, chews, swallows. "This is good," he repeats. "Thanks." We both take another bite, and I'm suddenly glad that the sounds of the local news broadcast cover the sounds of our collective chewing. "So, are you like Betty Crocker or something?" I raise my eyebrows. "Excuse me?" He grins. "Martha Stewart? Rachael Ray?" I roll my eyes.

"Julia Child?" It's impossible not to laugh at that. "I'm actually not a very good cook," I tell him honestly. "Compared to my dad, of course, I'm quite the chef. Then again, he burns soup." Edward chuckles. "And these brownies came from a box. I just added an egg and some vegetable oil." I shrug. "Actually, I'm pretty sure these are awful for you." "They taste good to me. Of course my taste buds are basically useless because I smoke so much, so..." He smirks at me. "Ha ha." There's another pause in the conversation. Edward takes a long drink of milk and rests his empty mug on his knee, wiping his right hand on his jeans. "But seriously, thanks. That was good." "You're welcome," I tell him, nodding. "Here," I say after a moment, standing up and holding out my hand. "I'll put that in the sink for you." Looping my fingers through the handles of the mugs, I pick up the pan with my other hand and walk into the kitchen. I'm rinsing the dishes in the sink when I hear him come into the room behind me. "Is this the house you've always lived in?" "Yeah. Charlie's lived here since before I was born. This is the house my parents bought after they got married." "Huh." Edward's eyes scan over the magnets and notes on the fridge door. "Your dad remarried?" he asks suddenly, looking at me. "No. He doesn't really go out. People at work have set him up on some blind dates, but I don't think it's ever come to anything. I don't know. He's married to his job." The television chatters in the other room. "So where's your room?" Edward bursts out. I blush furiously. "Uh, it's upstairs." My finger points in that general direction. "Oh. Okay." He now looks embarrassed. I look up at him from beneath my brow. "You wanna see it?" I ask, coaxing, teasing a little.

He tries not to smile. "You don't have to. I just...I thought, you know, you'd have lots of books. I just wanted to see." It's almost an apology. "Sure," I say. "I mean, let's go." Before I lose my nerve, I turn on my heel and head for the stairs. I can hear him behind me; the creaking of each step is an out of tune symphony with the both of us climbing up. "This is it," I say, unceremonious, stepping through the door. "Welcome to the Thunderdome." Edward laughs and follows me in. I'm silently thankful that the only remnant of my middle school years is a kitten poster tacked to the back of the door. And right now, that door is open, the poster hidden. "You do have a lot of books," he comments, leaning over my desk to inspect the built in shelves first. There's another five-shelf bookcase to the left of the desk, and three smallish boxes stacked next to that - all filled with books. I shrug. "Come see me in five years, if you think I have a lot now." He steps in front of the bookcase. I stand next to my bed, unsure of what to do with my hands or what to say; unsure if I should sit or stand, and if stand, where I should stand. Cocking his head to the side, he's suddenly still. "Are these alphabetized?" "Uh, yeah. Yes. They are." "Interesting." "Why? How do you organize your books?" Looking over his shoulder, he grins at me. "It's an intuitive system. I just close my eyes and let the book guide me." "Pfft," I laugh, and roll my eyes. The CD player is next to my bed, and I busy myself with putting music on. I can hear Edward sliding books off the shelf, putting them back in place. "Better not mess up the order," I say. "I know the alphabet, Bella," he says, sighing dramatically. My grin splits my face. I like it when he says my name. "You've got some James Joyce," he observes. "Would you recommend him?" I sit down on the edge of my bed. "Depends. But I bet you'd like Portrait of the Artist. You can borrow it if you want." "Thanks, " he says, smiling at me over his shoulder again.

My fingers pick at my bedspread while he digs through my collection. "Bella," he begins, his voice admonishing. "Do you own the entire Harry Potter series?" Turning around, he tries to keep a straight face. "I am not ashamed of that," I say, hooking the foot of one leg behind the knee of the other. Edward only laughs and sits down on the corner of my bed. Leaning forward, he puts his elbows on his knees. "You've got a lot of books for smart people." I quirk an eyebrow. "What?" He grins at me. "Your books make me feel stupid." "Oh, shut up," I say, laughing. Our amusement fades and we sit quietly. "You play?" he asks suddenly. Momentarily confused, I turn to where he's looking. My eyes settle on my guitar, resting in its stand on the other side of the bed. "A little," I admit. "Will you play something for me?" His question and his smile are eager. "No, no, no," I tell him, shaking my head. "I don't play in public." "We're not in public. We're in your house," he points out. "Yeah, but you are definitely a member of the public." "Please?" His eyes are large and hopeful, his smile sweet. "I'm not very good. I'm telling you." "How long have you played?" I have to think for a moment. "Five years? Give or take a few months." "Well, then. There's got to be something you can play for me."

My palms are already sweaty. There really is no way I'm playing the guitar in front of this man. No chance. But his face is so pretty, especially now, and if I'm being honest, I know how guys look at girls who play guitars. It's not why I wanted to learn, but it's not something I mind. "Okay. Fine." "Excellent," he says with a smile and a nod of his head. I circle the foot of the bed and retrieve the offending instrument, bring it back around to where I was sitting before. Swallowing the extra spit I've accumulated in my nervous mouth, I settle the guitar on my knee and place my fingers on the fretboard. "I'm not good," I reiterate. Edward just grins. My hands are shaking. "So, this is the first song I ever learned. Well, the first song I tried to learn. It's Cat Stevens," I say lamely. I start to pick at the strings, and my fingers fumble the first few notes, but if he notices, he doesn't let on. I'm too nervous to do more than play through the chord progression once before I stop. "So that's that," I say lamely. "You don't sing?" he asks. I snort. "Not with you in the room, I don't." "That was good." Looking down at the floor, I blush. "That's sweet of you to say, but I only play for myself. Usually when no one else can hear." "So I'm the first person to hear you?" "Well, Mike's heard me before. But he's never been in the same room, just heard me through the walls." "This is groundbreaking, then," he says, grinning at me. We're both smiling like a couple of goofballs. "I always wanted to learn to play," he says, looking at the guitar in my lap. "Just never did it." I shrug. "I'm not super musically inclined and I figured it out on my own," I tell him. "Do you play any instruments?"

"The piano." This interests me. That would be something to see. "Could I listen to you sometime?" He raises his eyebrows. "I don't know. I don't like to play in front of people, either." "Hey, I just humiliated myself for you," I remind him. "No, you didn't." Smiling, he rolls his eyes. "But fine. I'll play as much as you did just now." "Fair enough." His eyes travel up the neck of the guitar. "That looks a lot more complicated than the piano, though." I shake my head. "Hardly. It's really easy. You don't even have to learn names of notes; you can just learn the chords if all you want to do is play basic songs. Here," I say. "You try." I offer the guitar to him. Looking uncertain, he delicately takes the polished wood into his hands. "Well, you have to turn it around," I say, shaking my head. Awkwardly, he does so then looks at me, his face a little embarrassed and uncertain. "Get on with your bad self, rock star." This makes him laugh, if only a nervous laugh. "You want to learn a chord?" I ask. "Uh, sure." "Okay. I'll teach you a C. That's pretty basic. Move your hand down the fretboard." He looks up at me, bewildered. "The what?" Laughing, I point. "Move your hand down to the end." I scoot a little closer on the bed, close enough to touch the neck of the guitar. "This is the fretboard. Like the keys of the piano." "Okay." His voice is soft, low. "And this is the first fret," I say, touching it with finger. "You count from there."

Edward nods, his eyes focused where my hand rests. "Put your thumb on the back of the neck, and wrap your fingers around." He does as I say. "Now take your index finger, and press down on the first fret, second string from the bottom." His eyebrows come together, and I almost laugh, he's concentrating so hard. But I remember how dreadfully awkward this thing felt in my hands the first time and I bite my lip. "Like this?" he asks. "Yep. Exactly." He raises his eyes and we share a small smile of accomplishment. "Now take your middle finger, and put it on the second fret, but on the third string from the top." It takes him a second to figure out what I mean, and he uses his right hand to touch the strings, counting from the top to the third, but he manages to find the right spot. "Good," I say. "But keep your first finger down." He replaces his index finger. "Wrong string." "Fuck," he mutters, moving his hand. "Here," I say gently, and reach out to hold his index finger down while his middle finger moves to the correct string. Keeping my eyes down, I try not to make a big deal out of the fact that I'm touching him. But I am touching him - deliberately - for the first time. Clearing my throat, I take my hand away as soon as he's settled. "I used to have to hold my left hand down with my right," I tell him by way of explanation. He gives a quick nod. "And the last bit is with your ring finger. So keep the other two in the same place, but put your ring finger on the third fret, second string from the top." "Third fret, second string," he whispers, focusing on his hand. After a few failed attempts, he gets it in place. Edward looks up at me with a triumphant grin. "Now strum," I tell him.

He does, and only a few of the notes sound; the rest are a tuneless garble. "You're accidentally pressing on other strings," I say. "Just put the tips of your fingers down, curve them like...yeah, like that. Try again." It sounds better this time, except that he's not applying enough pressure. "Why is it buzzing like that?" he asks, confused. "Push down harder," I say. He tries, but to no avail. "Here." My voice is quiet. I press down on his fingers with my own, pulling his index finger away from the top string with the crook of my pinkie. "Now go." He strums with his right hand, and a C chord sounds clearly. I pull my hand away. "Ta da. And now you know a chord." His brow buckled with concentration, he pushes down and plays it again. Pulling his fingers back, he shakes his hand. "Do the strings hurt you?" he asks. "Not anymore." I raise my hand and show him the tops of the fingers. "You build up calluses. See," I say, twisting my wrist so the palm is facing him. "Flat on top." "Huh." We lapse into silence and the CD is in between songs. I can just barely hear the television down on the first floor; the lack of sound is killing me. I'm fairly certain he can hear my heart beating in my chest. Edward sets the guitar gently on the floor, and now there's nothing in between us, and we're sitting closer than before. He shifts on his corner of the mattress, towards me. "You must have strong hands, then," he says softly, and before I know what's happened, he's reached over and taken two fingers of my left hand in between his thumb and index finger. "Not really. Maybe. I don't know." My heart is nearly pounding out of my chest and I'm warm - so ridiculously warm - all over. Everywhere. My face is pulsing with the heat of my blush. I can't look at him; and it wouldn't matter if I did because even with my head down I can see that he's looking at our hands, just like me. Slowly, he slides his fingers down until they're just barely gripping the end of my ring finger. And we sit like that, not talking, both of us staring at a mess of fingers as if it's the only thing in the world we're capable of seeing. "Bella," he says softly. It almost sounds like a question.

I try to make a noise - of assent, of confusion, of something - but nothing comes out. His inhale stutters a little. "I'd like to kiss you," he says softly, his words a stumbling rush of sound. I'm blinking, blinking fast, and I can't...I can't think; I can't do anything. I'm not sure I could move and then he's leaning in - leaning in very, very slowly; and he's squeezing the tip of my finger - squeezing with gentle pressure; and the bedsprings protest as he shifts on the bed and - Jesus fucking Christ - this is going to happen. My head - my stupid, heavy head - I can't wrap it around what's coming and I catch my breath, bow my head even further until he must be confronted with just the top of it and he stops. He's going to pull away from me now, and no, no, no, no, I don't want that to happen, and with my free hand I reach out and grab at his t-shirt, pull it tight between my fingers. I stop him. "Don't," I say, my voice harsh. I breathe. "Don't," I repeat, and he releases my finger, slides his cool palm up to my elbow. I raise my head - just a little - and turn it to the side. His chin presses to my temple, and we hesitate for a moment. Then, I push my cheekbone to the rough skin of his jaw. He pulls back - enough, just enough - and he kisses my cheek. It's embarrassing the little sound that comes out of me then, but his lips, his lips are so nice. And the place where he's pressed them feels tender, like a bruise. Now I'm the one pulling back a little and our lips touch, just barely, and he's the one making the embarrassing little sound. And our mouths come together, again, again, again, again, and these kisses are soft and our lips are closed, but the next kiss I push harder and he does too, and I can feel the teeth behind the lips. And our mouths come together, again, again, again, again, and these kisses are still soft but our lips are open, and I can't count the number of times we do this until, with an "mmphff" resonating in his throat, we push our tongues into each other's mouths, and I squeeze my eyes shut and groan. His arms wrap around me, one at my waist the other at my shoulder, and then I put my arms around his neck and he moves the hand on my shoulder to the small of my back and pulls me to him. But our legs - our ridiculous, stupid legs - are in the way and I keep lifting off the bed because I want to press my body to his, but I can't because of our goddamn legs. I pull at him with my arms, coax him onto the bed; and we awkwardly scoot in increments back onto the mattress - our mouths pulling apart and then coming together - until I lay down and he lays down next to me. I can feel him; I can feel him, and he's solid and warm and opens his thighs a little so I can push mine in between. His hair - I get to feel the mess of his hair now and it's soft, so soft, softer than I thought it would be, and I thread it through my fingers and it tickles and feels good, good, good. He's kissing my face, all over my face and my chin and down to my neck, and that feels good, too. It all feels good and I want him to feel like I feel, and I push him back and kiss his neck and he makes sounds like mine. Then I'm just nuzzling his neck and he breathes hot in my ear and sucks the flesh of it, and I think I might pass out or throw up or wet my pants. It

feels... It feels... I can't say how it feels. And then he pulls me close, squeezes me so tight in his arms, so close to his chest, that I almost can't breathe and I do the same to him. He kisses my hair; once, twice, three times. Then my jaw, then my mouth again. He kisses me, then pauses. I open my eyes. He's looks at me, kisses me again. I close my eyes. He pauses. I raise my eyelids. Another kiss. I lower my eyelids. This time when he pulls away, I keep my eyes shut tight. "You taste like chocolate," I whisper, and he laughs and pulls me to his mouth. "So do you." His tongue licks my smile, and the sweetness dissipates and our mouths clench together. With a grunt, my leg swings over his hip and his hand grips my ass and anchors me to him, and we roll together until I'm on top and now he uses both hands. My arms are under his shoulders, pulling him up while he pulls me down. I kiss his forehead, his cheeks, his chin, his neck; I use my lips, I use my tongue, I use my teeth. And he groans and breathes deep and holds onto me. How does this feel so good? I'm so hot - my face burns. I can't understand this and I rest my forehead on his shoulder; he gently squeezes the flesh beneath his hands. We roll over. He kisses the tip of my nose, and I don't open my eyes but I smile. He does it again. "You're so pretty," he whispers. And to this my eyes open. "Thank you," I whisper back. "I think you're pretty, too." He flushes and grins, burrows his head into the crook of my neck and lets his full weight come to the mattress, lying next to me, one leg thrown over mine. We rest, quiet, and I wrap my arms around him and pull him in. His breath is hot on my skin, his hair tickling my face. I press my cheek to it and inhale. "You smell good." He laughs softly. "Do I?" "Your hair, it smells nice." "It's just shampoo." His voice is muffled. I run my fingers over his scalp. "It's soft, too." My hands tug at his hair, twist it gently.

"That feels nice," he says roughly. I like that I can make him feel nice. Edward lifts his head, looks at me a moment, then kisses me. His mouth is slow, deliberate. His fingers curl around my belt, his knuckles against my bare skin, and this, this makes my stomach burn. He tugs on the belt, just a little, and I like the pull of the denim on my hip, my leg. When he slides his hand over my stomach, he pulls his mouth from mine, rests his head on my shoulder. He's gently stroking his palm back and forth and I feel ridiculous because his touch is making my breath come fast and my chest is rising and falling. Rising and falling so quickly that I can't even try to disguise it, and I hope he's too preoccupied to notice. Then his hand is covering my breast and I let out a sound, but I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, because I feel so fucking wonderful. My eyes screw shut tight and I bite my lip to stop the wounded sounds coming from inside me, but then his mouth is over mine and I can make as much noise as I want. He's making sounds too - softer, lower, less frequent. His hand - his perfect fucking hand - moves to my other breast and I suck on his lips, afraid that if he doesn't keep his mouth pressed to mine, everything that feels good is going to come tumbling out of me. And with each push of his arm - his hand - on me, I can feel him press against my side. His hands are greedy, but gentle - so gentle. I don't know how this is possible, how he can grip my body so fiercely, so tightly it almost causes me pain, but at the same time make it feel so sweet, so tender. My tongue pushes into his wet mouth and he sucks it, holds it there for the briefest of moments. I want him to do this to every part of me. Then, his hand is underneath my t-shirt, sliding up between my breasts and twisting down into my bra. His fingers are cool and I hiss, arching up and pushing my chest at him. I turn onto my side and wedge my thigh between his legs, pulling him to me with my knee. My body doesn't know what it wants and I can't stop moving against him. I pull back and let my shoulder fall to the mattress. He removes his hand from beneath my clothing. We tuck into each other, his head on my chest. A song plays. "You're warm," he tells me softly. I kiss the top of his head. Again, a song. "Come here." His voice is low. He rolls onto his back and pulls me with him.

In his chest, his heart beats like a drum. The palm of his hand smoothes my hair. The CD stops. Sitting up, I roll away from him and change the music. He doesn't say anything, simply opens his arm to me when I move back to his side. A kiss on the forehead, the eyelid, the mouth. "You're so soft." His hand grips the back of my thigh, drags it across his legs. I climb on top of him and lower my face to his. My hair tangles into our kiss. I giggle. "Hang on." Sitting up, I wind my hair onto the back of my head. "There." I lower myself to his chest. His arms are warm around me and we rock from side to side, my head tucked beneath his chin. "I like you, Edward." My voice is pathetic. "I like you," he returns, squeezing me tightly. When I roll away from him, he quickly follows suit, and we kiss slow and gentle until he rolls away from me and I go to him. Back and forth. We lie side by side and he holds my hand, raises it to his mouth, then kisses it. Kisses the back of it and each finger, kisses the palm and the inside of the wrist, and this makes me shake. His eyes are lazy when they look up at me, and he kisses the spot again. My lips fall apart and I watch him, feeling drunk. He brushes his mouth up just an inch or two and kisses me there. Repeats this until he reaches the crook of my elbow. His hair tickles the skin of my arm. He kisses my bicep, then, and I can't take it and grab his face and pull him up to me. "You can't do that," I whisper. He rubs his nose across mine. "Why not?" "It's making me crazy." We don't talk for a long while and then, "You taste good." "You do, too." "You feel good."

I smile against his mouth and that's it for the talking. Eventually, he pulls away, burrows into my arms. We stay still and the music stops again. At some point we must doze off, because I wake up when he starts against me. "What time is it?" I look over his shoulder at the bedside clock. "1:24." "I should go," he says, but only pushes his face further into my neck, my hair. My fingers trace up and down his spine. He shifts back on the mattress and presses his lips to mine a half dozen times and sighs. "I have to go." We untangle our limbs and get up off the rumpled bedding. Silently, we tread down the stairs to the front door. Here he stops and turns to face me, grabbing my arm and pulling me in for a hug. "Thank you," he says quietly, and I don't know how to respond so I simply hold him tight. He kisses my forehead and brushes my hair back behind my shoulder. We smile. "When do I get to see you again?" he asks. "Charlie's driving me to Port Angeles on Wednesday night." "You all right here by yourself?" "Of course. Are you sure you can make the drive okay?" "Yeah. I'll chain smoke." He grins at me. "Will you...could you text me, or something when you get home safe?" Edward nods. "Okay." Bending down, he holds my face steady with his hand and kisses me gently. "Goodnight, Bella." "Night." I want to grab him and keep him here, ask him to spend the night dozing and kissing on my bed, but I don't say or do anything. He opens the door and is out into the night, jogging down the steps and walking across the lawn to his car. Turning around, he waves before he climbs inside. I wait in the doorway,

rocking from my heels to my toes, until he drives up the street. Stepping back into the house, I shut the door and double check that it's locked. The remote has probably slid down between the couch cushions so I turn off the television manually. I get a glass of water from the kitchen and head upstairs, turning out the lights behind me. In the bathroom, I brush my teeth again and pee. Even before I pull down my jeans and underwear, I can feel the mess between my legs. This is what he's done to me. Something inside of me aches. In my bedroom, I pull off my shirt and run my hands over my chest, remembering his hands there. Heat spreads in my belly and I quickly change into my pajamas. I slide into my bed and bury my face in the sheets, trying to smell him, but there's nothing there.

Chapter Twelve From somewhere in the warehouse, the low, steady grind of machinery sounds. Several different male voices yell out over the noise, but I can't make out what they're saying. The fluorescent light is unforgiving; bathed in it, we all look sallow. I take a deep breath, and it's like taking in a mouthful of wet cardboard. My tongue runs across my lips and I think of Bella's mouth. Two more days. "Watch where the fuck you're going, man!" Rick spits out, his expression sour. Snapping out of my daydream, I briefly meet his eyes, then look at the ground. "Sorry," I say, stepping out of his way. One of the wheels on my dolly groans as I roughly yank it behind me. "I don't give a shit about ‘sorry.' Just stop fucking running into me." He shakes his head and rolls away. I can't blame him for being pissed; this is the third time today we've collided. My head isn't here; it's back in a bedroom in Forks. The memory of Bella's body beneath my hands makes my fingers twitch and I fight off a smile. The promise of seeing and talking to Jasper at tonight's meeting makes the smile leave of its own accord. My eyes find the clock on the wall - it's 5:16. A few more trips to and from the truck and I'll be out of here. It's raining when I leave work, but the walk to the church is pleasant. I cram into my mouth the rest of the candy bar I'd purchased from the break room vending machine, drag my tongue over my teeth in hopes of cleaning off any leftover chocolate. I'm a little early, so I light up a cigarette and stand a respectable distance away from the church doors while I smoke. A few people I recognize join me when I'm almost down to filter, and we stand together making small talk. Normally, I avoid this. Tonight, I'm feeling beneficent.

Half an hour later, I'm shifting on my metal chair, staring at the last mouthfuls of a now-cold cup of coffee, trying not to look impatient. I look up and Jasper is watching me. He raises an eyebrow and I shoot him an apologetic smile, then try to settle myself. To my left, a few chairs away, a man is talking about his kids. Breathing in sharply, I hone in on what he's saying, doing my best to listen to his words. When the meeting is over, Jasper (as he always does) finds his way over to me. We walk out together. "How was San Francisco?" I ask, lighting up and trying to sound and appear nonchalant. "Good, thanks. We got about half the books we wanted to at the auction, so that's pretty good." I nod as if this means something to me. "Did you take Alice with you?" "She came with me, yes." "Cool." "How was your week?" he asks. Shifting on my feet and trying, discreetly, to avoid eye contact, I take a drag, then exhale. "Good. Same as usual." "Yeah?" "Yeah." I scratch my head with my free hand. "Oh, I started my new work schedule," I tell him, remembering suddenly. Jasper nods. "Right. How's that?" "Decent. I feel like a regular working slob. Nine to five, Monday to Friday and all that." "And you have your weekends free," he adds. I nod but don't say anything. I'd like us to steer clear of how I spent said free weekend. While I'm not above withholding information from Jasper, if he asks me point blank I don't want to have to make the decision of lying or not. Thankfully, he doesn't pry. "You all right?" he asks. "Fine. Why?" My heart rate picks up. He smiles. "I'm your sponsor, Edward. I'm supposed to ask how you are."

"Oh." Crisis averted. "You seem a little distracted tonight." Or not. There's no use trying to hide what he's obviously noticed. "I guess I am." "Did you go to all your meetings last week?" Jasper has the unnatural ability to pose that question and not sound like a mom asking you if you'd finished your homework or washed behind your ears. "Of course." "Guys been hassling you at work?" I kick at the edge of the step. "Not any more than usual." My cigarette carries me through the next lull in the conversation. "My offer about running together still stands," he tells me. I snort. "Thanks, but the idea of getting up at the asscrack of dawn to go jogging causes me even more stress than it'd relieve." Chuckling, Jasper slides his hands into his pockets. "Maybe," he says lightly. "And I know you walk a lot - and that's great - but a more intense workout might be good for you." I shrug, noncommittal. "It gives you time to think, too," he continues. This elicits a snort from me. Jasper looks at me in surprise. "What?" "How much thinking can you do when you can barely breathe and feel like you might puke?" He grins. "You'd be surprised." "I'll think about it," I tell him, though we both know that I won't. "And I'd say I'm about a five and a half today."

This makes Jasper laugh. "Am I that predictable?" "No." I shoot him a sidelong glance. "Maybe." "I don't ask you that every week," he points out. "You don't," I agree. But he always manages to ask on the right days. It's like he can taste the anxiety in the air - whatever its source. There seems to be something more he wants to say or ask me, but he doesn't open his mouth. He waits with me in the night air for another minute, making small talk; probably stalling to see if I'll say anything more. When I don't, he shakes my hand and walks off to his car. I head home. * I haven't been this nervous to call a girl since I was fourteen. Except then I wasn't calling on a cell phone and could do the little "dial every number but the last one" dance for a while, building up my nerve. Now, all I can do is sit and stare at her name in my contact list. My palms sweat. "This is stupid." I snap the phone shut and pick up my book. It takes me just about thirty seconds to figure out that, right now, I could give a shit about what I'm reading. I pick up the phone and dial her number before I can talk (or think) myself out of it. "Hello?" "Hey," I say gruffly, figuring she already knows who's calling. "Hi. How are you?" She sounds genuinely happy to hear from me, and I inwardly congratulate myself. "I'm okay. How are you?" My hands are still sweaty. I wipe the palm of my free hand on my pants. "I'm doing well. Kind of bored." "I find that hard to believe." She laughs, and my chest swells with pride. Neither of us says anything. "I'm glad you called," she says quietly. I want her to elaborate, but she doesn't.

"Good. I didn't know if...if it was okay to call." I sound like an asshole. Bella just laughs lightly. "Of course it's okay. Why wouldn't it be okay?" I shrug, then remember she can't see me. "I don't know. Because... Just because." I want to say, "Because I kissed you on Saturday, and I don't know if I should've; I don't know if it's okay that I did that." But I don't say this. "Is what happened the other night... Is that something that should've happened?" She sounds nervous. "I don't know," I answer truthfully. "What do you think?" "I think that what I think isn't really as important as what you think. Or what you know," she says, and her voice has regained some of its usual authority. She's right. "You're right." "Of course I am," she says, and I can imagine the smug little smile on her face. It makes me grin. "And modest, too," I add. Bella just laughs. And since we're being honest, I tell her what I really think. "I want it to be okay." She doesn't answer right away; I can't even hear her breathing on the other end. "You still there?" "Yeah. I'm thinking." "About what?" My fingers pluck at my eyebrow. She's timid again. "That you've got to make that decision." "Why?" My stomach is churning. "Because if it were up to me, we'd do that again," she admits. And this? This makes my heart beat wildly with elation. I am like a fourteen-year-old boy.

"I'd like to do it again, too." These words form awkwardly on my lips; they sound stupid to my ears. I'm glad she's not in the same room with me and able to see how intensely embarrassed I am. "Is that all right?" I ask after a moment. She's not talking. "Yeah," her voice cracks. "Yes." A pause. "But I thought...I thought you weren't supposed to get involved with anyone right now." I feel suddenly, oddly guilty. The source of this guilt isn't clear to me. "It's not a rule, really. More of a suggestion...?" "You don't sound very confident." Shaking my head, I try to rid myself of my discomfort. "No. I mean, I am. Confident." Fuck. "I just...I like you." My throat is tight. "It's been over six months." I pause. "I think... I know that I want to." Her voice is hushed when she answers. "Okay." I get up from the couch and walk over to my piano. My fingers slide across the keys. I push the G below Middle C down slowly, soundlessly. "Did you say anything to Jasper?" It's difficult formulating a response to that question. Somehow "no" doesn't seem adequate. "Not that you have to," she rushes in, fumbling her words. "It's just, I thought maybe you'd tell him, but it's not like you're supposed to, I mean, you're an adult." She sighs. "Jesus, I'm a moron." "You're not a moron," I say, chuckling softly. "But I didn't tell him." There's a beat of silence. "Okay." It's tentative, this okay. "Okay," she repeats, more forcefully. "Would you like me to?" I wonder if I'm putting her in a weird position, making her uncomfortable about telling her friends what's going on. "Not necessarily. That's your choice, right?" She continues without letting me answer. "Yeah, it is. It should be. I'm fine either way. Don't tell him. Or tell him. Whatever." I laugh. "You sure about that?" Now she's laughing along with me. "Yes. I think so."

My finger is pressing down on the piano key with unnecessary force. I lift my hand and close my fingers into a fist. "I'll tell him. Soon, probably. I want him to know what's going on; that's why he's my sponsor." And although I hadn't really thought about it that way before, it's true. "Right." I run my fingernail up and down the keyboard. "Besides, he already knows something's up with me." "What do you mean?" "The guy's got this sixth sense or something when it comes to my moods. He can always tell when something big happens." I blush, wondering if I should be referring to kissing Bella as "something big." Clearing my throat, I wipe my free hand over my face. "Tonight I'm pretty sure he thought I was headed for a relapse." "What? Did he say that?" "No. But we've got this...thing, I guess, that we do. Something his sponsor does with him, or used to do, I don't know. When I got out of treatment I had a really hard time talking about wanting to drink or use. Like I couldn't zero in on what was making me want to, and so I didn't know what to do about it. So Jasper started asking me on a scale of one to ten, one being not at all and ten being, like, I've got a bottle in my hand, how bad did I want to get drunk or high or whatever." "So you just quantified it in a different way?" "Such a smarty-pants," I say with a grin. "What?" "You and your big words." She's laughing a little, but also sounds a little confused. "What big words?" "Quantified." Bella makes a sound of disapproval. "That's not a big word." "Maybe not to you." She sighs. I can practically see her rolling her eyes.

"Fine. I'm a smarty-pants. Finish your story." My hand forms a silent D major chord. I think I like irritating her as much as I like making her laugh. "So tonight he asked me on a scale of one to ten...." I trail off. "Huh." "Yeah." "What did you say?" "My answer?" "Yeah." "I told him about a five and a half." There's a brief silence. "Is that good?" "Well," I begin. "Considering I was at a seven or eight a couple weeks ago, I'd say yeah; that's good." She doesn't say anything, just seems to be mulling this over. "Can I see you on Wednesday?" I ask. She sounds shy when she replies. Shy, but pleased. "I already said so," she reminds me. I grin. "Right." I push down the F# a nd run the tip of my finger up and down the black key. "I have a meeting, but I should be home by 7:30." "Okay. I'll call you when I get to Alice's." She doesn't say anything else and I wonder if this conversation is over. "Can we," I begin, then huff in frustration at my inability to articulate what I want. "Can we just talk?" "Talk?" She sounds confused. "Like right now?" "Yeah." I swallow. "Sure. What do you want to talk about?"

I shake my head. "Anything. Anything at all." As long as it isn't about my meeting or Jasper or the numbers one through ten, I don't care what we talk about. "Um... Well..." She pauses. "I painted shutters in the garage yesterday." "Yeah?" "Yeah," she repeats back to me. "I got paint everywhere." She laughs softly and I smile. "I think I got half of a bucket on my clothes or on the floor. I'm still trying to get it out from under my fingernails." Pulling out my piano bench, I sit down and listen. The sound of her voice - even as it modulates wildly while she tells me about her day - steadies me. I've been anxious; anxious about how Bella would react, anxious about Jasper knowing what had happened the way he always seems to know what's happened, anxious about deliberately doing what everyone is telling me I'm not ready to do. But I can't imagine how anything that makes me feel better stronger, more sure - than I have in longer than I can remember; how anything like that could be a thing to refuse. * I sit on my couch and wait. It's just after eight on Wednesday night. My hair is slightly damp from the lightning-fast shower I'd taken when I'd gotten home. I want another cigarette - I want it desperately - but I've just brushed my teeth and I don't want the apartment to rank like smoke when Bella gets here. For the sixth time in the past four minutes, I check my phone to see if I've somehow missed her call. But of course, I haven't. I've put on a Billy Bragg album, hoping she'll get (and appreciate) the joke. What did I used to do when waiting for girls to come over? I hadn't waited on a woman in years, really. But back when I did, I guess I would've had a beer, smoked a bowl. I sigh. My jeans are freshly washed and the denim feels stiff against my leg. I fidget in my seat. The doorbell rings, and I'm on my feet in an instant, hurrying toward the door. My index finger holds down the talk button on the intercom. "Hello?" "Hey," her voice crackles up to me. "It's Bella." I buzz her in and step back from the wall. Suddenly, having Billy Bragg playing seems like a bad move, but it's too late to change it, and some music is better than none.

I don't know if I should stand with the door open or wait for her to knock. Maybe I should sit on the couch so there's time between her knock and my answering it. Maybe I shouldn't make her knock. Would it matter if I just stood on the other side of the door and counted to seven or eight before letting her in? Would she be able to tell I was there, waiting? The sound of her fist rapping against wood almost sends me out of my skin. I don't have time to think; I simply answer the door. "Hi," she says. I fight off my smile, aiming for casual instead. "Hey." Stepping back, I gesture for her to come inside. She steps past me quickly, and I shut the door. I stand behind her and watch as her head pivots on her neck while she takes in the living room. "How are you?" she finally asks, turning to face me. I walk a few steps toward the couch; she mirrors my movements. "I'm good. You?" She smiles. "Same." Her eyes hold mine for about a second before she shifts her gaze to the lamp, then everything else. Lowering myself to the armrest of my couch, I watch her make her way around the periphery of the room. "Nice," she comments with a grin, pointing at a poster of Leonard Cohen on my wall. I shrug, my face hot with embarrassment. Bella's enthusiasm seems genuine, but looking at my things through her eyes forces me to recognize the latent affectation in all of them. "Billy Bragg," she says suddenly, turning to face me. And now I feel like such an idiot. "Yeah," I mutter, hazarding a look at her face. She's smiling broadly, her eyes scanning the wall behind the couch. I don't need to turn around to know what she's seeing: more framed posters. One of Otis Redding, another of Tom Waits, one of Patti Smith. I'd put these people on my walls because, yes, I liked their music, but also because I knew what the crowd I hung out with would think. Maybe they'd be vaguely familiar with some of the people, some of their songs, but I knew those posters exuded a kind of unfamiliarity and hipness that most people I hung out with would admire, envy. Bella, I know, will not be so easily impressed. The effort behind each poster seems brutally obvious under her careful gaze. I run my hand through my hair.

My moment of humiliating introspection is interrupted by the sound of the piano. Bent slightly over the keyboard, Bella plunks out the first few bars of "Heart and Soul." She looks over her shoulder and grins. "Only thing I ever learned." I smile back, feel the knot in my stomach loosen. Bella has turned her attention to my bookshelves. I don't say anything while she examines the titles and names on the bindings. After a minute or so, she straightens up and looks at me. "Well, now that I've thoroughly inspected everything you own," she jokes, a little bit of a blush rising to her cheeks. She looks down. I laugh. Bella crosses her arms over her chest. With everything in me, I will her to walk across the room toward me, but she doesn't move. "Do you open the store tomorrow morning?" I ask, hoping she'll relax if we talk. Her eyes find mine briefly before they skitter off again. "Uh, yeah. I have to be there at 9:30. Not too early." She chews at the inside of her cheek. "What time do you have to be to work?" "9:00." She nods, shifts back and forth on her feet. "Bella?" She looks up, her eyes tentative, her face red. My legs feel slow and clumsy, but I force myself to get up and take the three steps to where she stands. Her head is tipped forward, and I slide the palm of my hand against her cheek. She responds immediately, her arms dropping to her sides, her face nuzzling gently into me. My left hand mimics the right, and I tip her face up. "Hello," I say softly, stroking my thumb across her cheek. Bella stutters a breath, blinking quickly. "Hi." Her voice is so quiet I barely hear her. It surprises me when I feel her hands on my hips. I'm even more surprised when those hands pull me closer. Without thinking, I bend down and kiss her. It's brief, this kiss, and when I pull away she presses her face to my chest, hiding. "Why am I such a nerd?" My shirt muffles her voice. Laughing, I gently push her away from me. "What?"

Her hands leave my waist and cover her face, like she's shielding her eyes from the sun. "I'm acting like such a weirdo." "How do you mean?" I try to pry her hands away so I can look at her, but she won't let me. "This!" She sighs. "I can't even look at you right now, I..." And here she trails off, clearly frustrated. "Here," I tell her, pulling her by her arms back to the couch. I sit down and peer up at her. Her arms drop to her sides, but her eyes focus on a spot over my right shoulder. I take her hands in mine, kiss the back of one, the palm of the other. Pressing one to my face, I close my eyes. Almost immediately, the fingers of the other hand are in my hair. "Is this okay?" she asks, her voice quiet. "Mm-hm." Her hands feel so nice. "Your hair is always a mess," she tells me, matter of factly. I laugh. "Is it?" "Yeah. But I like it." Warm billows up into my chest, and I pull her down into my lap. Giggling, she collapses onto me and before she can get shy again, I kiss her. Her fingers move to my face and then my neck, grab the collar of my shirt. We kiss like this - like school kids, chaste and sweet until she twists in my lap and straddles me. I have to tip my head back to keep my mouth to hers and she's pressing the length of her torso to mine. My hands move from her hips to her ass, and Bella makes noises into my mouth. I like that too much; far, far too much. Sliding out of my lap and letting herself fall back onto the couch, she pulls my body up on top of hers and wraps her legs around my waist. I feel the muscles in her legs tighten as she lifts her hips off the leather cushions and pushes into me. She's so soft and warm, and I want to strip her naked and feel all that softness and warmth on all of my skin. Her hands are on my belt, pulling and holding me close. I wonder if she wants what I want, wonder if she'd object if I led her off the couch and took her to my bed. But even with her legs around me, even as she grapples with my body through my clothing, Bella doesn't do much more than kiss me. When I put my mouth to her neck, she whines and sighs like a wounded thing. When I negotiate my hand between our bodies and touch her breasts, she sucks my lower lip hard. When I unhook her bra and slide my fingers over her bare skin, she shivers and whispers, "Your hands are cold." I want to pull her shirt over

her head and put my mouth on her. I want to undo her jeans and slide my fingers into the sticky wet of her. But I don't. And the way she kisses me. Her lips feel so nice. Almost too nice. So soft. I don't remember kissing feeling like this, it being its own thing, a thing to enjoy - not a thing to get through or a thing to avoid altogether. Her tongue, I can feel it sometimes. I feel it especially when she grinds herself into me. This kissing, this fumbling through and around shirts and belts and pants, this awkward writhing on the couch - I'm not sure what to do next. Bella decides for me; her hands push my shirt up my back so swiftly. I don't think; I simply sit up and tug it over my head. Her arms wrapped around me are warm across my spine, and when she rakes the tips of her fingers up and down and around, I ache all over. In a tight confusion of limbs, she turns me onto my back on the couch, crawls on top of me. My hands grip her ass and squeeze, and I'm afraid I've hurt her until she starts rubbing herself on me, on my cock, and groaning into my mouth. I'm hot and sweaty, and I stick to the leather of the couch. My hands pull at her shirt and she raises herself far enough to let me work it up under her arms before she hastily whips it over her head, her unhooked bra following quickly. Her skin on my skin - like this - it's warm and soft and good. I twist a hand into her ponytail, the other hand gripping her thigh, pulling her to me over and over. She's so sweet. She tastes sweet and feels sweet and sounds sweet. I wonder if she fucks sweet. I want to take the rest of these useless clothes off of the both of us and I want to push inside her. Want to watch her twist under my body, want to listen to her wail and cry with my cock buried in the heat of her. I want her. I slide a hand beneath her jeans and panties, palm her bare ass; I pull my mouth from hers and duck my head, put my lips on her nipple and suck. She cries out and grips the crown of my head with her fingers. I want her. I want to pin her arms above her head and lick the sweat from her tits, want to bury my face between her legs and make her cum again and again. I want. She's hard in my mouth. I want. Her hips shear against mine. I want. "I..." The word is out of my mouth before I know what's happening and I freeze. Bella waits, breathing hard, her chest rising and falling. "You...what?" she asks, eventually. I shake my head, remove my hand from her backside, wrap my arms around her waist. "Nothing," I say quietly. "Okay," she responds, sounding uncertain. My face burns and I pull her down to my chest. We lay like this for a few minutes, shirtless and ridiculous, her head on my shoulder.

"Too much." She states this as a matter of simple fact. "Yeah." I run my palm up and down the smooth skin of her back. Her face nuzzles into my neck. "I'm sorry," she whispers. "You don't have anything to be sorry about." Neither of us says anything for a while. "Should I put my shirt back on?" She sounds doubtful. "Do you want to?" There's a quiet catch of breath, but she doesn't say anything, not right away. Then after a moment, timidly, "I like feeling you." I exhale. "Me, too," I whisper, and kiss her bare shoulder. We shift a little on the couch, Bella sliding off me a bit, wedging herself between my body and the back cushions, one leg hitched over mine. "I didn't mean to come on so strong," she says. "Me neither," I admit. "Not that I don't want to, but I just...I don't want to go too fast." "Yeah," I reply. She kisses my jaw and then my neck. "But I don't mind so much, you having your shirt off," I tell her. This makes her laugh softly, and I squeeze her tight. "Bella, Bella, Bella," I say into her hair. "What, what, what?" she says back to me, smoothing the back of her hand across my stomach. I grin at the ceiling. My belly twitches pleasantly at her touch. Bella props herself up on her elbow; she seems to be having no trouble looking at me now. She smiles and I smile back. "Can I touch you?" she asks. My eyebrows knit together. "Of course you can." I wonder why she feels the need to ask.

Fingers brush my jaw, then slide along my neck, then trace down over my sternum. I watch Bella's face as she watches the path of her hand on my body. Just her fingertips and then her fingernails rake over my stomach as she brushes back and forth. The breath I take in through my nose is rough; it lifts my chest high. Her hand finds its way to my side; I feel her fingers on my ribs. The touch is light - almost tickling, but not quite. My skin feels tender, nearly sore, where she touches it. It feels intensely good at the same time. It makes me hot, makes me hard, but not in the same way as before. I have to close my eyes. Her thumb circles my belly button and this does tickle a little; I jump and laugh, open my eyes. She meets my gaze and smiles. Then, her hand shifts higher on my chest, and her thumb grazes my nipple, and I can't stop the jerk of my body, the guttural sound from my throat. She's watching me closely and I'm unable to tear my eyes from hers. I swallow thickly and her eyes move to my mouth. Her index finger traces around the edge of my lips, almost but not quite touching them. She uses her thumb next, stroking gently at my lower lip and without thinking I pull her thumb into my mouth, hold it fast with my teeth, suck it gently. Bella's eyes are sleepy, her breath coming faster. I release her thumb and she kisses me without hesitation. Our mouths struggle briefly and then she pulls away, rests her forehead on my cheek. She breathes for a moment before lifting her head and kissing my brow. The touching continues, but only on my face and my neck, a few graceful traces on my shoulders. The way she looks at me, I can't make sense of it. So gentle, so careful. I can't understand why she wants to look at me like that, why she wants to touch me so carefully, like she's handling something delicate, something easily breakable. It frustrates me, this not understanding, but I want it. I want her gentle touch and watchful eyes on my body. "This okay?" she asks. She's always asking me this. My mouth uncooperative, I nod. Eventually, she lays down, half of her next to me, half of her on top of me, and slings her arm across my waist. I let my fingers trace the line where her skin meets the fabric of her jeans. The room is quiet save for the music from my stereo. "Do you not have a television?" It takes a moment for me to understand, then I smile. I like her strange questions. "Yeah. It's in my room." "Why not out here?" I hesitate, wondering how exactly to phrase my answer. "I have a lock on my bedroom door." Bella shifts against me. "Why would... Oh. Right." There's a brief pause. "Occupational hazard?" I can tell she's trying to make this light, easy.

"You could say that." "So that's where you...kept everything?" I clear my throat, still my hand on her back. "Yeah." "Okay," she says quietly, plants a single kiss on my chest. The way she processes these little bits of information I give her - the things about what my life used to be like - it puzzles me. She asks me questions without guile, without agenda. I know my answers must seem, if not surprising, at least a little unexpected. But she smoothes over these bumps as if they're nothing. No, not exactly nothing. She simply accepts what I've given her. I don't know how to feel about that. "Are you cold?" I ask. She burrows into my side. "Just a little. My back." "Here." I twist away from her and grope on the floor until my hand closes around her tshirt. "Thank you." It takes her a few tries, but she manages to put it back on without sitting all the way up. "Better?" I ask as she resumes her position next to me. "Mm-hm." Wrapping my arms around her, I squeeze her tight. "I like having you here." She giggles, squeezes me back. "I like being here." We're such idiots, both of us. "Aren't you cold?" I shake my head. "Nope. You're warm," I tell her, kissing the top of her head. Eventually, we sit up. While I put my shirt back on, she positions her back to me and puts her bra on. Turning in my direction, she adjusts her shirt over her chest, gives me a sheepish grin. I change the music and show her the other rooms of my apartment. Bella spends a few minutes lingering over my DVD collection. "Do I pass?" I ask with a smirk.

"You just squeaked by." She holds her fingers up an inch apart and laughs. I get us glasses of water when she tells me she's thirsty, and we sit back down on the couch and talk. Our conversation tonight is much like the ones before, except now I get to hold her hand, and tuck her hair behind her ears, and kiss her. It's the same as before but completely different. The same flirtatious banter, only now when she gets shy and looks away from me, I can lean in and kiss her neck, paw lightly at her breasts. She stays until nearly 11:30 and then I walk her down the stairs and out to the curb. Lucky as I am, she lets me put my arms around her and make out with her standing in the street, our feet stumbling on the pavement, our hips and elbows bumping into the side of her truck. She giggles, breathless, pushing me away and saying she has to go just before pulling my face down to hers by my hair, and sucking the air out of me with her kiss. Her weight throws me into her truck and my hands grip her ass and nearly pull her off her feet, and if she'd just come back inside I could show her how good I can make her feel. "I have to go," she whispers, laughing as I bite at her neck. "Okay. Go then." I suck on her earlobe and am rewarded with a soft little cry. "Edward." My name hisses from between her lips and I like how it sounds. Pulling away, I brush the hair back from her face, smile. "What are you doing tomorrow night?" I ask. She shakes her head. "Dinner with you." My smile widens. "Right. I forgot." I kiss her forehead, her lips, and her forehead again. She pulls me into a hug. "Bye," she says quietly, breaking away, unlocking her car door, and climbing in. The truck rumbles to life; the lights come on. Bella rolls down the window and says goodbye again before pulling away from the curb. I stand in the street, in the light drizzle that's already dampened my clothes and hair. The brake lights of Bella's truck flash through the dark as she slows and turns at the corner. And then she's gone. It's as if one day this thing wasn't and then it was. I can't understand it. Even after Saturday night, even two minutes before she stepped into my apartment it wasn't; and now it is. I'm not sure what to do. Am I different when she isn't here, or am I the same as before? Everything is different; everything is exactly the same.

Chapter Thirteen "Hey, Ang," I call out across the break room. I'm on my last fifteen of the day; Angela is taking her lunch. "Hi," she replies. Sitting down on the couch next to her table, I stretch my legs out in front of me, flex my toes. I smile at my feet. Such a cheeseball, Bella. "What's new?" Angela finishes chewing before she answers. "I found a place to live this fall." "Excellent. Where?" I rest the ankle of one foot on the knee of the opposite leg and fiddle with my shoelaces. "I found a couple of juniors who needed a roommate. Their place isn't far from campus." "How'd you find them?" I ask. "Craigslist." She shrugs. "We've only talked on the phone, but they seem pretty cool. They're both biochem majors and their biggest stipulation was having a quiet roommate. I guess the building is mostly grad students." My finger rubs at the band of my watch. "Should be pretty quiet, right?" She nods. "That's the plan. I'm going to meet them and hopefully sign a lease next week." I narrow my eyes. "You're not going alone, are you?" Blushing, Angela shakes her head. "No. Ben's coming with me." It takes everything I have not to laugh out loud. "That's good." Embarrassed, she looks down at the table, focusing on her sandwich. "When are the two of you going to get together already?" I blurt out. "What?" Her eyes are big. This time I can't stop myself from laughing. "When are you going to ask him out?" Jesus Christ. I sound like Alice.

Dropping her sandwich, Angela buries her face in her hands. "Is it that obvious?" she mumbles. "Just to everyone else, but not to him I don't think," I reassure her. Angela drops her hands, revealing a bright red face. But she's smiling. "You think he likes me?" "I know he does." "And he's never going to ask me out, is he?" I grin. "Eventually, yeah. But it might take him a while." She smiles and looks back down at the table. "Just jump him," I say. Angela giggles nervously and continues eating her lunch. I flip through today's newspaper for the duration of my break, occasionally getting lost in what's become an increasingly explicit sexual fantasy involving Edward and the leather couch in his living room. Gathering up her trash, Angela pushes back from the table. "Oh," she says with surprise. "I almost forgot to ask. My mom has to cover for someone at work on Monday and she needs me to watch my little brothers. Is there any way you could switch your Sunday shift for my Monday shift?" I don't even think before responding. "Sure. Monday open or close?" "Open." "That should be fine," I say, nodding. Angela smiles widely. "Thanks, Bella. I owe you one." The end of my shift can't come fast enough. At five, I clock out and lock myself in the employee bathroom. I brush my hair methodically and my teeth thoroughly. Now's the time when I would reapply makeup if I wore makeup. Should I start wearing some? Would it make much of a difference? Make my eyes sharper? My mouth fuller? Shaking my head, I exit the bathroom. Edward's working on Thursdays now, so we're meeting at his place, but not until quarter of six. I'd hang out here, but I'm trying to avoid Jasper. This makes me feel shitty. Maybe I should just tell him. But of course I won't. Instead, I weave my way through the shelves to the front door, wave goodbye to Angela, and walk to my truck. I sit in my parking spot, the

engine idling, wondering where to go. Finally, I pull out of the alley and onto the street, drive aimlessly for ten minutes before giving in and parking on the street in front of Edward's place. Unbuckling my seat belt, I slump down a little, kill the engine. Hanging out with him still makes me nervous. The boy's seen me naked from the waist up, yet I feel a little bit like throwing up at the prospect of seeing him. Twisting in my seat, I stretch my legs out the full length of the cab, cross my feet at the ankles. Trying to pinpoint the source of my anxiety at seeing Edward is an exercise in futility. I don't - or can't - think when I see him or touch him. I only react. This troubles me, but it feels fucking good to do it. In fact, it feels a lot of ways, and while some of those feelings are less than pleasant, I want them all. Nerves. Painful anticipation. I wonder if he'll think it's weird that I'm just sitting outside his house in my truck. Maybe I should wait on the steps. I can't tell if this is a good idea or not. I can't tell if any of this is a good idea or not. The wind blows through the open window behind me and pushes my hair into my face. Smoothing it down, I reach for my bag and dig out the book I've been reading. I flip open to the bookmarked page and try to pay attention to the text. Minutes pass. A shadow falls across the passenger side window and someone knocks lightly on the glass. I jump and look up at the same time, my knees bending reflexively. Edward circles around to my side as I sit up and open the door. "Been waiting long?" he asks, smiling at me. I shake my head, smiling back. "Just a few minutes." Edward rests his arm on top of the open door, his fingers draped over the metal frame; I perch on the edge of the seat. "You ready to go?" I ask. "Do you mind if I shower first?" I grin. "Not at all." "Good. Because I stink." He sniffs at his armpit and laughs. I'm sure I wouldn't mind his stink. I'm pretty sure I would love his stink. But I don't say this. Of course I don't say this. "You want me to wait here?" "You can come up. If you want." He looks a little nervous.

"Okay." I roll up my window and lock and shut my door. We walk to his building, my eyes trained on the heavy work boots on his feet. They're a yellowish leather and thoroughly scuffed. I try to imagine Edward working in a warehouse, his boots a sharp contrast to the gray of the concrete floor. He unlocks the door and holds it open for me. We climb the stairs together, not talking. It's so much easier to say things to him when we're touching, when we're close enough that I can hide my face. At the top of the stairs I turn to face him. He's two steps below me and we're nearly the same height. "Hold on," I say, pressing the flat of my hand to his chest. Edward looks confused, but he stops, gives me a half smile. His body is warm through his shirt. Leaning forward on my toes, I quickly kiss his lips. I rock back on my heels and start to turn away when his hand grips my forearm and pulls me back. "Hold on," he says with a grin and kisses me again. And a second time. And a third. We pull apart and I can't help but laugh. "Can we go now?" I tease, trying to ignore the furious pounding of my heart. He cocks an eyebrow. "You stopped me first." I make a face and walk the short distance down the hall to his apartment, feeling warm all over. Once we're inside, he turns to me and gestures toward the couch. "Make yourself at home," he says. I sit down and watch him move around the apartment. First, he goes into the bedroom and sits on the edge of the bed. Bending over, he undoes the laces of his boots. The left one slides easily off his foot, but the right sticks. "Come on," he mutters, yanking the boot by the heel and toe. When it finally works itself loose, the boot flies out of his hands, spinning recklessly in the air before falling to the floor with a dull thud. The sudden force of the shoe coming free tips him almost all the way back onto the mattress of his bed, and his arms wheel around, pulling his torso upright. Edward looks out through the door and right at me. His eyes are big, self-conscious. I burst out laughing. Grinning, he shakes his head and gets off the bed. I leave the couch and busy myself by looking more closely at his books. With my index finger I pull a copy of My Antonia off the shelf and take it back to the couch with me. I'd read this freshman year of college, but I don't remember much of it. I'm settling down on the

cushions when Edward walks out of his bedroom and into the bathroom with what I presume are clean clothes in his hands. "Five minutes," he tells me, holding up five fingers. "I'm counting," I say as he shuts the door, laughing. I can hear the sound of water running, and I flip open the book to the middle and start reading the first paragraph my eyes land on. Aside from the shower, the apartment is quiet. It's strange, sitting in Edward's home without him next to me. It's strange being here even when he's got his hand up my shirt. I blush. Let's hope we're doing that again soon. True to his word, Edward emerges from the bathroom about five minutes later, his hair damp. He looks different without all of it flying around his head. He smiles at me. I smile back. Walking into his room, he scrubs vigorously at his head with the towel. Now his hair regains some of its usual shape. With socks and shoes in hand, he returns to the living room, sits down in the armchair. "Whatcha reading?" he asks, putting one sock on, then the other. I hold up the book. He nods, reaching for a shoe. I watch his long fingers loosen the laces and peel back the tongue, and after his foot slides in, I watch those same fingers cross and knot the laces. He has gorgeous hands. Getting to my feet, I take the book back to the shelf and put it in its place. With my arms crossed over my chest, my eyes uselessly scan the titles. I feel desperately awkward. Edward walks up behind me and places his hands on my shoulders. I wish he'd bring his body closer to mine, but he leaves the space between us. I wonder if it would be okay for me to lean back, into him. "Ready?" I nod, and we leave the apartment. Edward locks the door, and when he turns to walk down the hall, I grab his hand, impetuous. I look up, wondering if this is okay. His expression is at first - surprised, but then he smiles and squeezes my hand. And I feel like a dumb, dipshit girl in some dumb, dipshit romcom, but I swear to all that's holy and good in this world, holding this boy's hand makes me weak in the knees. "You want to walk?" he asks as we exit the building. Walking means more hand holding, but it also means less time inside the confines of his apartment, where things infinitely more appealing than handholding can occur. "I don't mind driving," I say, finally. He smiles and nods and then he has to let go of my hand while I unlock his door. When I'm inside the cab and the engine is running, he shifts in his seat to face me.

"Can I ask you something?" I look at him from the corner of my eye, wary. "Okay." "Why do you lock your truck?" Rolling to a stop at the intersection, I turn to look at him fully. "Why do I lock my truck?" I repeat. "Yeah." "I don't know." I laugh and blush, roll my eyes and look back to the road, and continue driving. "Why do you lock up your television?" This is not a fair comparison, and we both know it. But he plays along. "I don't do that anymore." Smartass. "Fine. Why did you lock up your television?" The passenger window squeaks as he rolls it down. "It wasn't just the television I was locking up." He says this matter-of-fact, as if we're discussing locking up jewelry or expensive electronics before going away on vacation. I shrug. "I don't know why I do. Because I don't want anyone to steal it, I guess." "All right." He sounds like he's holding back laughter. "Don't make fun," I warn him. "This thing is something of a collector's item." "Could be." Sighing but smiling, I flip on the blinker, slow down, and crank the wheel. We don't talk for the rest of the short trip to the diner, and when we get out of my truck, he doesn't reach for my hand, but he does touch the small of my back when we walk through the door. It's better than nothing, but I want to touch him all over, to rub up against him like a cat, to twine around his legs. We sit in a booth and flip through menus. As I read, I swing my leg back and forth beneath the table. "Can I ask you a question?" Edward raises his eyes without moving his head. "Sure."

"Why do you look at the menu when you order the same thing every week?" I'm trying very hard to keep the smirk from my face. He is less successful; the smile on his lips is wide. "I don't know. Because maybe something else will jump out at me one day." "That doesn't seem very likely," I tell him. The very tip of my shoe grazes his leg. On the next pass, Edward traps my foot between both of his. I blush and look down at the tabletop. "Maybe not," he concedes, and the conversation is over, but he keeps my foot where it is, nestled in the grip of his feet and ankles. We order, and of course he gets what he always gets. After the waitress leaves, he releases my foot, but lets his shoe come to rest on top of mine. "When are you leaving for school?" he asks, focused intently on his finger tracing invisible circles on the table. This comes out of nowhere, and surprises me. My heart pumps my blood double time. "Mid to late August." I watch his face closely. "School starts in September." "Right." His response is brief; it's hard to assess the tone of his voice. Don't, I caution myself. Just don't. "Why do you ask?" Shit. Shrugging, Edward slides a little lower in his seat. "I was just curious." Total bullshit, of course. And why couldn't this conversation have waited a few weeks? It's not fair of him to bring it up now, when neither of us has any idea what's happening. It's not fair of me to kiss him when he's where he is and I'm leaving in less than three months. It's not fair of me to not want to have this conversation. I have the luxury of pushing these kinds of questions into the future indefinitely; he does not. "It's just Seattle," I say. As if this neutralizes any and all anxiety. As if the hundreds of miles and hours of driving are inconsequential. As if what we're doing - what we have been doing - is, right now, in any way affected by those miles and hours. "Yeah," he agrees, nodding. I wait for him to say something else, but he doesn't. If this is a good or bad thing, I can't tell. I'm not sure if I should keep talking. Probably not. Instead, I put my other foot on top of his, sandwiching his shoe between both of mine. Edward lifts his head and smiles at me. *

He makes short work of taking off my shirt; I do the same for him. The speed and ease with which he unhooks my bra is nothing short of astounding. Someone's done that before. Many times. We make out like fifteen year olds who've got the house to themselves for just an hour frantic and clumsy. But I like it. I like how it feels both familiar and brand shiny new, kissing him. We're on his bed, wrapped around each other. Furiously, we push our mouths together, then pull apart and talk, lazy limbs twisted over and around. "What did you want to be when you were little?" he asks, his hand slid into the back pocket of my jeans, gently squeezing my ass. "Like, what did I want to be when I grew up?" I raise my head from his shoulder. "Mm-hm." I put my head back down. "Um, when I was five or six, I wanted to be a police officer." Edward gives a short laugh. "Like your dad?" "Like my dad," I affirm. "It drove my mom nuts." Fingertips loop around and around on the skin of my arm, lighting me up like a firecracker. "Why?" Shifting against him, I wedge my hand into the waistband of his jeans, on the outside of his hip. "Renee's kind of, I don't know, New Age-y. She's pretty much a pacifist." "But she married your dad?" I nod against his chest, smiling "Yeah. I know." I often wonder how any of that happened. "Hm." He's quiet and I kiss his neck. "Your dad must be one hell of a good looking guy." Laughing, I squirm closer to him. "So when did you decide you didn't want to be a cop?" he asks. "When I was about...eight or nine, I think. An officer got shot in Phoenix and I saw an interview with his wife. On the television. She was hysterical, had two kids. It freaked me out." Edward twists my hair around his hand. "What did you want to be after that?" "A synchronized swimmer."

He laughs, then kisses the top of my head. I prop myself up with my free arm. "What about you?" "Um...when I was really little? A construction worker." "Really?" I grin. He smiles back. "Yeah. I really liked the hardhats, and the bulldozers. The noise." His eyes flick around as they look at the ceiling. "Then, when I was about eight or so, I wanted to be a hockey player. That lasted one winter." "Why just one winter?" "It was fucking cold. And I couldn't stay up on my skates." I laugh. "Yeah, then I wanted to compose movie scores." "Really?" Edward nods. "Back then, of course, I just wanted to write songs for movies, I didn't know about scoring or anything, but I'd been taking piano lessons and my parents had a copy of the Chariots of Fire soundtrack lying around. I listened to it all the time." "Oh, how's that song go, the main one?" My nose wrinkles up as I try to remember. "Duh duh-duh-duh duuh duuh, duh duh-duh-duh duuuuuh," he sings. "Yes!" I laugh. "I even figured out how to play it on the piano. Over and over and over. I thought I was so cool." I brush his hair back. "That's really sweet." His smile gets bigger. "I think my parents almost lost their minds. They bought me a bunch of other soundtracks just so I wouldn't play that one all the time." Laughing softly, I lean down and kiss his forehead, then his lips. His sweetness makes me ache. I want to hug the little boy at that piano, stop from happening to him whatever it is that happens that changes everything irrevocably. His hand holds my head stationary as he kisses me back. His mouth is soft - but not too soft. It's warm and wet and I like how it feels, like it so very much. I pull my hand from the

waist of his jeans and touch his face and just like that, he's flipped me onto my back. I've got my arms and legs around him, pulling him closer. He slides down my body, taking his mouth from mine, and kisses my breasts. I close my eyes and fling my arms over my head, let myself feel. My breath chuffs out of me when he tongues my nipple. He sucks hard and I groan. He sucks harder and I groan louder. Pulling back from my chest, Edward chuckles softly. "Am I funny to you?" I ask, breathless and red in the face. "Yes. And sexy," he replies before kissing me. I feel like I could eat him alive if I weren't careful; his mouth is fucking perfect. He's already got my jeans unbuttoned and the zipper is peeling apart before I realize what he's doing. My mind is working frantically - immediately. Is this too much? Too fast? Is this what I want? His hand slides into my jeans and gently grips me through my underwear and, fuck yes, this is what I want. It's liquid and hot and just what I need but not nearly enough. It makes me want to laugh and scream at the same time. Edward's eyes are all over me. Sometimes on my face, but mostly on my bare breasts, on his hand bent awkwardly into my pants. Above my head, my fingers clench and unclench; below my waist, my hips tip up and down. Quickly, Edward pulls his hand free and gathers the fabric of my jeans and underwear in his fingers and yanks, and suddenly my pants are around my knees and I'm almost naked beneath him. The only light is a bedside lamp but there's enough to see every bit of me and that's too much. Embarrassment rushes through me and I hold out my arms, wanting him to get closer to me; and he does, coming to my body and mouth with a grunt. My hands worm their way between our bodies and struggle to undo his pants. I'm strangely, suddenly nervous; even when he's undone and I can touch him, I don't. Instead, I circle my hands around his hips and slide my hands beneath his jeans, squeeze his ass through his underwear. I want to swing a leg around him, but both limbs are confined at the knee by my not-quite-removed clothing. With a lot of rolling around and some awkward laughter, he's in his underwear and I'm naked. Completely naked. We kiss and rub up on each other and I'm sure I'm getting the front of his underwear all messy and damp, but I can't find it in me to care. Then, his hands are back on me and then his finger is inside me and I want to die, it feels so good. "This okay?" he asks, lips fumbling into my mouth as he speaks. "Yes," I whisper in response, nodding. It's more than okay. He pulls his finger away and rubs my clit, then pushes his finger back inside me. And this is just the thing, just the thing, being filled by him. This continues until, with all my strength, I roll him onto his back and I kiss his mouth while I work up the courage to touch him. This hasn't been so difficult before; why is it difficult now? My fingers work into the waistband

of his underwear and his skin is rough with hair. Edward is kissing me slowly, deliberately; he's waiting. I retract my hand, grip his hipbone, tell myself this isn't such a big deal. Then I feel his hand on top of mine and we stop kissing. I pull back from his face, open my eyes. He looks down to where our fingers are twisted together. I watch his face watching our hands. Gently, he lifts and places my palm on top of his erection. The muscles in his face contract, so insignificantly that I can barely tell they've moved at all. How he feels is hard and good, and I want that part of him everywhere and anywhere. His eyes flick up to my face, and we watch each other as he strokes my hand up and down. I tighten my grip and Edward exhales, closes his eyes, and takes his hand away. All by myself I make him feel good, but eventually he does what I did and pushes me onto my back and lies between my open legs and we grind against each other. "I'm gonna get you all wet," I breathe, one hand in his hair, the other on his ass. "I don't give a shit," he responds. The blunt head of his cock is pushing at me with so much force it's almost painful, but it's just not close enough. I reach down between us and pull him out through the front of his boxers and he strokes himself into my sweaty palm, and goddamn it would be easy - so easy - to just let him slide inside of me. It would feel so good and maybe it's too soon but my body doesn't care. My brain on the other hand, cares; it cares a lot. I wonder if we're getting carried away; I worry that sex will complicate an already complicated situation; I think about all the drinking and drugs and all the women he's undoubtedly done this with and this is what stops me: a combination of performance anxiety and a fear of STDs. And I don't want to be thinking about these things right now, but responsible Bella can't not think about it. Shit. "Edward?" All movement ceases immediately. "Yeah?" His eyes are on my face and wide with anxiety. He switches gears faster than I anticipate. "Can we...just stop for a minute?" He doesn't move; I'm amazed at his ability to be so completely still. "Right," he says, and I let go of him and he tries to tuck his erection back into his boxers. He lies down next to me and I close my legs and turn my body toward his. We're close but not touching, and this makes me feel shy and exposed. "You all right?" he asks, and I can't read the tone of his voice. I take a breath. "Do you think we should have sex?" The words come out in a rush. "I want to," he responds immediately.

My heart flutters in surprise. Where's the boy from last night who was afraid that things were out of control when only our shirts were off? I open my mouth to voice this surprise, but stop. "I want to" is not the same as "yes, we should have sex." I don't know if he intends to differentiate between the two answers, but I'm going to operate as if he has. "I want to, too," I say quietly. "But we should...talk before we do." "Talk? About?" He is straight-faced when he asks. I frown slightly. Can he really not know what I mean? "Um...birth control, and, you know, if we've been tested for stuff." I feel uncharacteristically awkward discussing this with him. "And if we're rushing into things." My jaw feels tight. Edward pulls his brows together. "Do you think it's too soon?" "Yes. Maybe. I don't know." I wish he'd touch me; I wish I had the courage to touch him. His body is mere inches from mine, but right now those inches feel like an insurmountable distance. "What about you?" "Normally, I would've probably tried to have sex with you that night in your room." He says these words plainly but carefully. "Really?" This resonates strangely in the middle of me. I can't tell if the sensation is a pleasant or unpleasant one. He nods. Finally, his arm reaches across his body, and his hand settles on the rise of my hip. "So," I begin, then clear my throat. "So do you usually use a condom, or..." My face is hot; I look down. He slides his hand up my hip to my elbow and onto the flesh of my arm. "I did. Sometimes, but...but not often," he says quietly. "Okay." My voice is soft. His hand slides off my arm and takes up one of my hands, grips my fingers with his. "I didn't always do the smartest things." "Me neither," I say, knowing that "smartest" in this case is relative, but I don't know what else to say to let him know that it doesn't matter to me, what he used to do. "I had a lot of...partners." He looks and sounds guilty. I don't understand this. "It was just something I did, I guess," he says quietly.

Raising my free hand to his face, I brush back his hair, stroke my knuckles over his cheek. His eyes close. I continue touching his face and neck; he simply breathes. The desire to grab him and hold him tight wells up in my chest. He opens his eyes. "How many people have you been with?" he asks. "One," I say, feeling suddenly shy. Edward's eyes get slightly bigger. "One?" Nodding, I busy myself with running my thumb over his thick eyebrows. "I didn't have sex until I was 22," I tell him, keeping my voice steady. "So it was just the one guy. And we used a condom," I add, because it seems relevant to the conversation. Edward's face is so surprised and confused, it levels off my anxiety and almost makes me smile. "I had no idea," he says. "I'm sorry." Now I'm confused. "Sorry about what?" "Coming on so strong, for not asking before." "I haven't done anything I didn't want to do," I tell him. "Yeah, but I just acted like you were..." I raise an eyebrow. "Like I was what?" "I don't know. But I didn't realize you'd only been with one guy." "I'm not a virgin, Edward," I say plainly. "I know." "And I've done other stuff with other men. I'm not some blushing little girl." The way he's reacted to this irritates me a little. "You don't have to treat me like, like I'm going to break or something." "Okay." He doesn't sound terribly confident, but his okay is genuine, not placating. We wait through a loaded pause. "I'm on the pill," I blurt out. Startled, he grins. "All right." "So there's that." I'm blushing down into my neck now.

"Come here," he says softly, and pulls me into him. "You're cold," he remarks, and reaches across our bodies to pull the edge of his comforter up over us. I burrow into him. "Thanks." "So you're on the pill," he repeats, amused. "Yeah. But I think maybe, that we should use condoms." "If you'd like," he says. "I got tested for STDs when I was in rehab." "Really?" "Uh huh. On my first day. It's pretty standard. High risk sex and booze and drugs sort of go together," he explains. "Gotcha." I kiss his shoulder. "They recommended I get a three month follow-up test for HIV, so I did that." He pauses. "That was negative." "Good," I say, because it is good. "I should tell you..." He trails off, sucking in a breath. I don't say anything, let him come to it on his own. "I had, someone had given me...I was treated for Chlamydia." "Okay." I brush my thumb down his nose. "I'm fine now," he says. I smile. "I should hope so." This makes him grin. After a moment, the smile fades. "I had to name all the women I'd slept with. You know, so they could get in touch with them, tell them to get tested." I nod. "That makes sense." He watches my face closely. "I couldn't remember all the names, not even just for the last six months." My hand slides to his throat. "Hmm." "And I had...I had gonorrhea when I was younger. When I was about twenty-two." He's pushing me, I can tell, trying to get me to react. I can't figure out what he's expecting from me. "Okay," I say again.

Shaking his head, he laughs, seemingly disbelieving. "How can you be so calm about all of this?" I shrug a shoulder. "How am I supposed to react?" "I don't know." He's quiet then, pulls me closer to him, ducks his head to mine. "Still like me?" he whispers. And now I do hold him tight, as tight as I can. "Of course." I kiss his cheek and then his lips; he kisses me back, roughly. Soon, I'm on my back again with Edward between my legs. He's kissing me everywhere and I can't keep my eyes open. I feel his mouth on my belly, on my thighs; he rubs his face over my hip and around my breasts. I'm a mess of hot and too much good feeling. When he comes back to my face, I suck his mouth with all the strength I have. My hands grip the waistband of his boxers and I push them down, smooth my palms over his bare ass. "Take these off," I whisper. In a rush, he does. Then, I can feel all of him and we're reckless and teasing with each other. His cock is warm and hard, and he pushes at my stomach, tracing my skin with wet. I take him in my hand and twist my palm over the head of his cock and he thrusts blindly into my fist. He smells and feels and sounds so good and I'm one kiss away from begging him to fuck me, but - and this seems strange given the circumstances - I don't want to move too fast - not for me, but for him. This isn't how I want to be with him, to have it all start with his cock slipping into me via some lustful almost-accident. Edward seems to read my mind, because he groans and pulls himself up on all fours above me. "We have to stop or I'm going to try to have sex with you," he tells me, his hair tickling my breasts. "Likewise," I say, lifting up from the mattress just enough to kiss the top of his head. Stopping makes complete sense; rushing isn't something we need to be doing. Stopping makes no sense; we both want this. I err on the side of caution.

Chapter Fourteen Something's off. I can see it in the way he's walking down the sidewalk, in the way he drags deep as he smokes. His eyes are focused on the ground as he approaches, and even though he flicks his cigarette into the street, I don't say a thing. "Hi," I greet him, offering a tentative smile.

Finally, he looks at me. "Hey." The smile he gives me in return doesn't reach his eyes. "You okay?" I ask and reach out to stroke my thumb up the smooth inside of his forearm. Each of his features contracts to the center of his face when I touch him. It's little more than a spasm - a twitch - that lasts less than a second, but I see it. I pull my hand back, but Edward turns his wrist and takes my hand in his. Stepping to him, I reach up and twist his hair away from his forehead. He tips his head and presses his cheek to my palm, closes his eyes, and exhales. "I'm sorry," he says softly. "Can we skip the movie tonight?" I nod. "Of course." My hand slips from his face and he opens his eyes. "What would you like to do?" Shrugging, he steps down the sidewalk toward the alley. "Can we just go to my house?" "Sure." We walk in silence to my truck. It's only after I've pulled out onto the street heading to his apartment that he speaks. "How was your day?" The levity in his voice is completely manufactured. "Good. My shift went really fast." I look over and briefly make eye contact before turning again to the road. "How was your day?" "Shitty." He doesn't say anything else. "I'm sorry." "Not your fault," he says, his voice clipped, tense. There's a weight on my chest as I park next to the curb in front of his house. It's heavy on me as we walk to the door, as we climb the stairs, as we tread quietly down his hall, as we step into his apartment. When we're sitting on the couch, I perch on my knees and turn toward him. "I'm sorry," he tells me without looking up from his hands. "Sometimes it's like this." "Yeah?" I feel stupid and naïve and helpless. My facial expression feels forced and ridiculous. I want to trust my instincts; I want to try to make him feel better, but I don't know how to do that. Saying the wrong thing, doing the wrong thing - I'm terrified of both of these possibilities. "Some days I wake up and..." He holds out his hands, palms up. "Okay." I tiptoe around his words.

He scrutinizes my face, cocking his head to the side. "You all right?" "I don't know what to do," I say simply, my hands resting flat against the tops of my thighs. "What?" Edward looks genuinely confused. "I...I don't know what to do," I repeat, my heart fluttering. "I don't, I don't understand what you're feeling - and you don't have to tell me - but I don't know how to make you feel better. I know it's not my job, and I'm not...I'm not trying to be little Miss Fix-It..." I anchor my teeth in the flesh of my cheek. "And now I'm the asshole who's making this about me. Sorry." Staring at my knees, I pick at the fraying edges of a small hole in the denim of my jeans. "You're not an asshole." I look up and he smiles sadly at me. "You make me feel good." "Do I?" My stomach flips. "Yes." Moving closer to me on the couch, Edward wraps his arms around my waist, buries his face in my breasts. A low groan of contentment rumbles in his throat. I rest my hands on his shoulders until he turns his head and mumbles something. "What?" I ask, tipping forward to hear. "Pet me," he says gruffly. I laugh - in amusement and surprise. "Pet you?" He tips his head back, his chin pressing into my sternum. "You know. Do the thing where you play with my hair and stuff." He looks bashful. "Okay." Shaking my head and grinning, I comb my fingers through his hair; smooth it down over the back of his head and neck. "This good?" My chest mutes his murmur of assent, and I kiss the top of his head. I stroke him for a minute. "Do you want to talk about it?" Turning his head, he presses his cheek to my right breast. "Not right now." I run my fingers up underneath his hair, from the base of his neck to the top of his skull. His hands grab onto my ass and pull me down, wedging me between his body and the couch. He doesn't kiss me just yet, and I blush under his watchful eyes. "Thanks for coming over," he says quietly, then lets his forehead rest on my shoulder.

I wonder how it's possible he can't understand my desire to be with him, my enthusiasm for any and all activities that put me in his proximity. My arms wrap around him and I sigh; he feels good under my hands. Tonight, when he kisses me, I don't feel so frantic or so mindless. His lips make every part of me feel thick and heavy. And warm. So, so warm. We kiss until both sets of hips can't help but move against each other; we kiss until it's not enough, and I think I might accidentally hurt him with the force of my wanting. Edward gets up from the couch and offers me his hand. I take it. He leads me into his room and sits on the edge of the bed. I crawl onto him and we tug each other's shirts off. Tonight, when he slides my underwear down my legs, I'm nervous but not overly anxious. Tonight, he gets naked right beside me, and it feels good to see and touch all of him. "I want to be with you," he whispers to me in the shelter of the dark. The only light comes from the lamp in the living room; his face is close but not in great relief. He stiffens when I don't respond right away. "I'm sorry." "I want to be with you, too," I blurt out. For a moment, neither of us says anything. My eyes mirror his - dark and shining and trying frantically to see the other's face more clearly. I lift my head and kiss him, and then we're turning and shifting on the bed, our bodies rubbing against each other. "Have you been with anyone...since rehab? Since you got tested, I mean?" My voice is uneven. I know better than this; now is not the time for these questions. These are questions for when we're both fully dressed. Edward shakes his head. "No." I believe him; of course I do. This, of all things, seems like too insignificant a detail to lie about. There have been too many things revealed - things that could've been fictionalized but weren't - for him to not tell me the truth now. This is what I think as we clutch at each other on his bed, my mind fuzzy with lust. I'm on my back now, and Edward is between my legs. Kissing me gently, he very lightly rubs the head of his cock over my clit. My eyes shut tight. He pushes into me and...it just feels so fucking good. It feels so, so good. It just...it just...it feels. Like I'm melting, melting around him and oh, God, when he starts to move... It's better; it's the best thing, the best thing I've ever felt. Ever. Ever ever ever. I want to die it feels so good. "This okay?" he whispers, his voice straining.

"Yes." My voice is a shadow, slipping over his shoulder and down his back. I hold onto him like my life depends on it. I can't help it; I want him close - closer and closer still. My leg hooks around the back of his thigh. I want him to never go away; I want him to stay right here - in me - and to never stop what he's doing. Abruptly, he pushes all the way into me and an "unh" of pleasure and surprise fills my throat. "God." His voice is so low - so quiet - I almost don't hear him. He's completely still save for his shallow breathing. He's not moving so neither do I. After a few seconds, I wrap my arms around him and hold him tight. Lifting his head, he kisses me gently, starts to move again, and then both of my hands drop below his waist; they grab and hold fast. Muscles tighten beneath my fingers and I can feel how he rolls his hips with each thrust, and I open my legs as wide as I can because I want more, more, more. His mouth isn't so gentle anymore, his tongue thrust deep into my mouth, and I want more of him inside of me, but don't know how to get it. I can't conceive of a way to get us closer. Edward props himself up on his hands. His eyes are gleaming flashes in the dark until he closes them, his jaw swollen with tension. He's beautiful - so fucking beautiful - his face tense and dark and agonized with good feeling. Heat surges up through my belly and into my chest and face. This boy - this gorgeous, nearly broken boy - fucks me; fucks me so slowly and so good and makes me keen like an animal beneath him. It makes me ache, the way he moves - gentle, determined. Edward opens his eyes and watches me closely, his lips twitching. Ducking his head, he suckles my breast with so much force I cry out in pain. My fingers work into his hair and push his face into my chest. I want more. More of this pain; more of his hot mouth. He starts to fuck me faster, harder, small grunts of pleasure coming from somewhere inside him. It's not right, what he's doing; nothing should feel so good or so sweet. I want to kiss his pretty face. I want to dig my teeth and nails into his pale flesh. I want to pull his head back by the thick of his hair and suck the rough skin of his neck until he's bruised. My hands grab at his hips, his waist, his arms, his shoulders. He lets his body rest on mine and my feet hook over the back of his knees and we push into each other. Our bodies are sweaty but my skin still catches on his skin, and the hair on his chest rasps against my breasts. His body is a satisfying weight on me, holding me down and forcing the air from my lungs. The pressure is unbearable, beautiful. Edward tongues my ear, and it's warm and wet and makes my eyes roll back, it feels so good. My head lolls over my shoulder and my legs stiffen as he moves his mouth to my neck. Still bent forward, he lifts himself onto his knees and pumps into me, and I hold onto him by his hair.

I'm moaning and crying out and whispering "Please" in his ear. I don't know why I'm doing this; it makes no sense. Over and over, "Please," and, "More. More, please." Suddenly, he's pulled out of me and tugs me up by my arms, to my knees. His arm loops around my waist and cradles me to him. And he kisses me, his cock bent awkwardly between our bodies. I shift. Then he's between my thighs and I can't help but rock back and forth. I'm wet and swollen and achy and, like this, with his cock skimming across my cunt, it feels good all over again but in a new way. In the way it feels when I touch myself; in the way it feels when his fingers stroke me. Edward moves in time with my hips, looking down and watching me roll over him. We're awkward like this, our bodies welded together in some strange shape. But it feels too good and I don't care - don't care how stupid I look sliding up and down on him. Edward moves around behind me and gently pushes on my back. I'm on my hands and knees before I understand what he's asking of me. My skin flushes and there's more wet between my legs. I can feel his cock sliding along my thigh and my eyes flutter closed. "Is this okay?" His voice is tentative, needy. I nod. "Yeah." I have no idea what I'm doing - don't know how to move, what to say - but the newness and the uncertainty only makes me want to do it more. He shifts closer on the bed and I let my head fall to my hands. "Can you open your legs a little more?" he asks, his hand resting gently on my hip. I do as he asks, feeling shy and wondering what my body looks like to him when I'm bent and open this way. When he pushes into me I don't care, don't give a shit what I look like or sound like, because what he's doing to me now is a whole other feeling. My face presses into the mattress, my arms flung wide. And he's thrusting harder and deeper now, and I can feel him push up against something inside me. It almost hurts, but it feels good, too. It makes sense - our bodies make sense together like this. He fits right into me just like he should, and I want to speak this out loud to him, but I bite down into my cheek to keep the words from fighting their way out of me. With a low groan, he pulls out of me and grabs my hips. He twists me onto my back and thrusts into me again with a satisfied grunt. I push back at him with my hips and my arms; I grapple with him limb for limb. We kiss until we can longer hold our breath and break apart, sucking in the air. I tug his hair and wedge his shoulder between my teeth. Edward rocks us onto our sides and I sling my leg around him, my arm flailing against his back. "Does this feel good?" he whispers, his voice laced with concern and a nervousness that I thought only I was feeling.

My stomach swells and warms; my heart patters beneath my skin. I look up at him, my eyes heavy and twisting in and out of focus. The expression on his face devastates me. It's kind and gentle, but at the same time hard and unyielding; it's unbelievably beautiful. Edward thrusts into me, harder now, his fingers sunk into the flesh of my ass. I can't stand to look at him; I can't look away. My inhale shakes my body. "It feels good," I slur, my eyes closing. Then his tongue is in my mouth and I'm off the bed for a brief second before he rolls me onto my back and drives into me. And when he fucks me I can't tell if it's been five minutes or an hour, I just know that I want more of it. I'm greedy and the sounds I make are greedy. The way I claw and tug and suck on all of him is greedy. How my arms and legs twist around him is greedy. He's thrusting deeper, his face tense, his mouth agape. "Oh," he breathes, and shakes his head. His mouth puckers and his eyes screw shut tight, and it's faster, it's harder, and knowing that he's going to cum inside of me makes me hotter, wetter. His body jerks and his hands grip my thighs tightly. With a shiver and a harsh cry, his head falls forward, then his body. I lie there with wide and blinking eyes, and hold him tight while his breathing slows. Nearly a minute passes. Then another. His cum - warm and wet - slowly drains out of me; I can feel it collecting between the cheeks of my ass, but I don't move. Because I don't care. This thing we've done together, messy and frantic as it is, makes me feel different. Makes me feel closer to him. The sticky mess left over is just one sign of that; I feel proud and oddly grown-up as the sheets beneath me soak up the wet. Edward lifts his head. "Are you all right?" My arms tighten around his torso. "I'm good," I tell him. Another brief silence spins out in the dark room. "Am I too heavy?" "Not at all." "I can move..." "I like it," I assure him and press my lips to his neck. Eventually, he rolls away, and I can feel the last of his softened cock pull out of me. His hand gropes in the dark, finds my hand and holds it, our fingers lacing together. He isn't saying anything and I wonder why. From what I saw and heard and felt, he enjoyed what we did as much as I did. I think.

He lifts our joined hands off the bed and brings them to his mouth, kissing the back of my fingers. "You're beautiful," he whispers. I turn my head and he's already looking at me, his eyes large and hopeful. My voice is hoarse when I answer. "Thank you." I offer up a weak smile. With a grin breaking out on his face, Edward reaches for me and pulls me to him. "Come here." I press my sweaty body to his. I can feel the chill that's already creeping into his skin and imagine I must feel similarly to him. "Pull the blanket up," he tells me, and I do. After a moment, he speaks up. "Do you feel okay?" "Yeah." "You're not sore or anything?" "No. Not at all." I press my cheek to his chest. He breathes and kisses the top of my head. We don't say much, just laze in bed with our limbs twisted together. After a while, Edward gets up and walks out to the living room to put on some music. He disappears from my line of sight briefly. When he returns, he's got a glass of water in his hand, and I allow myself a quick glance at his naked body. I envy his confidence; he doesn't seem at all concerned about me seeing everything. "Thirsty?" he asks, holding the glass out to me. I take a long drink. "Thanks." Handing the water back to him, I lie down on my stomach and watch him slide back under the sheets. My eyes close when he sidles up to me. "You've only been with one guy?" Edward asks, his question slipping out of his lips and hovering in the air above us. I nod my head against the pillow. Edward's arm lays flat across my back and his mouth presses lightly to my shoulder. Opening my eyes, I look at his mess of hair, the dark shapes of his body half-covered with a bed sheet. "Does that make you uncomfortable?" "No," he answers immediately. "I just want to be careful." "Careful how?" I turn onto my side so I can see his face.

"I don't know." His voice is hushed. "I want it to be...good for you, I guess?" This makes me smile. "No need to worry about that," I tell him, and he smiles. "Though I don't have much to compare it to." At this he grabs me and pulls me to his chest, kisses me all over my face. "Smartass," he breathes into my neck. I giggle and we lay quietly for a minute. "Can I ask you something else?" "Sure," I say. "Did you...I mean, why did you wait...to have sex?" I blink. This is not the question I was expecting. "Um, I don't know. I just never wanted to. Well, I wanted to, but not with any of the guys I knew." Edward rolls onto his back and I prop myself up on an elbow. "The only real boyfriend I've had was in high school. There were guys in college, but it was always so casual, or didn't last very long. Or they were nice enough to make out with but I didn't want to lose my virginity to them." I shrug. I don't want him to get the wrong idea. "I just...waited." Edward seems to be thinking this over. There are things about his past that I would like to know as well, so I'm not surprised by his curiosity. "Who was the guy?" A small smile lifts one corner of my mouth. "A friend." I clear my throat. "We'd had a few classes together, used to go to the same bars. He was a virgin, too." This little bit of information causes Edward to raise his eyebrows in surprise. "Yeah. We used to commiserate about how we were both going to leave college virgins and then no one would fuck us because they'd be afraid that we'd get too attached to them or something." Edward grins. "So one day the summer after we graduated, I ran into him at the store. He was moving and ran out of packing tape. So I went to help him box up the last of his stuff and then..."

"Huh." Edward's face is thoughtful. "Yep. Lost my virginity on an air mattress." He laughs at this. "There are worse things," he tells me. "True." Resting my head in the crook of his arm, I stare up at the ceiling. "How old were you? If you don't mind my asking." "Seventeen." He squeezes me gently. "On a couch in my girlfriend's basement." "Yeah?" "Yeah." His voice is heavy. After a moment, he speaks. "I'm jealous of that guy." "What?" I crinkle up my nose, shift so I can see him better. "Who?" "The guy with the air mattress." He pauses. "And you." I slide my index finger down the slope of his chin. "Why?" He doesn't say anything, won't even look at me. Then, after a silence, "I don't know." "Everybody's different," I say softly. "Things don't happen the same for everyone." My skin suddenly feels uncomfortably hot. With a whoosh of exhaling breath, Edward wraps his arms around me tight and pulls me half onto his body. "I lost count of all the women I was with," he tells me, matter-of-fact. "You should know that." He sucks in a lungful of air. "Okay." Again, with these fragments of information that he reveals as if they'll disgust me, or make me not want him. But it feels - to me, almost - like he's talking about a stranger. "Does that bother you?" he asks, cautious. I have to think for a moment. Right now, I'm not sure how it makes me feel. "Did you like it? I mean, did it make you happy? Or make you feel good?" "I don't remember," he says, his voice unwavering and neutral. "Sometimes." He shrugs. "It made me feel less alone. It made me feel good sometimes." I don't say anything, just trace the pad of my middle finger along his jaw.

"Do you wish I hadn't been with all those women?" This question confuses me. What difference does that make? And even if it did make a difference, I would have no right to say that it did. He's with me now and I know - I want to believe - that I'm not simply a remedy to his loneliness. "I just...I hope that being with me is different," I say, not sure where these words are coming from. Edward looks at me with an expression close to confusion. "It is," he says after a moment. He smiles sadly, pulling me close and kissing my neck. "I feel good with you, Bella." "I feel good with you, too." He kisses me gently, and we're quiet for a while. "You didn't get off, did you?" His words are an odd combination of the interrogative and the declarative. I shake my head. "No." I'm not terribly concerned about this; I assume we'll get there at some point. Now it's his turn to shake his head. "I want you to," he tells me, insistent. His hand reaches between my legs, and I push my forehead into his shoulder when I feel his fingers. "It feels really good anyway," I say. "You...you know, inside me." I'm trying to speak but his hand is such an effective distraction. "Yeah?" "Mm-hm." I breathe in sharply through my nose and ease onto my back; Edward moves with me. "It's just...it's just different, or something." His touch is light and quick; it moves in incomprehensible patterns of around and around and up and down. "Tell me what I can do," he whispers. Turning my head toward his voice, I open my eyes. "This is nice," I mumble. Edward cuts me off, his mouth flush against mine. When I suck on his lips he pushes a finger inside me, and my hips lift clear off the bed. He laughs into my mouth while his fingers go back to moving like they did before. It feels amazing, what he's doing to me, but after ten minutes I start to feel self-conscious. "I'm sorry." I can feel a blush rising to my face. "Sometimes it takes a while."

His smile is sweet. "I don't mind. This is nice." "Yeah?" My heart rate picks up. "Yeah," he replies. Settling on the bed, he lays his head next to mine on the pillow. When he speaks, his lips are right next to my ear. "I like touching you, making you feel good." His voice is gruff, his breath warm on the side of my face. I shut my eyes up tight and try to forget about everything but my body and his body. Soon, the places he touches with his fingers start to make sticky, wet sounds, and this makes me flush all over. Edward kisses my jaw and my neck then whispers to me, "You're so soft." And I don't know why, but when he says this, a fresh wave of heat rolls over my body, and a strangled sound comes out of my chest. The feeling that I'm going to cum wells up between my thighs and my mind whirs frantically until the feeling recedes. Now, Edward's fingers feel less precise; they slip around and while it feels good, coming so close to an orgasm and having it escape has made me impatient, and I want his touch to focus. "Your hand, can you...down just a little bit?" "Okay." He does like I ask. "Like this?" "Yes," I whine, my voice coming out distorted and pitched high. After a moment, "Just a little bit faster, maybe." Again, he complies and the surge of pleasure I feel makes me want to laugh out loud. I bite my lip, and my arm reaches across my body to hold onto Edward's shoulder. My eyes are closed so tightly I'm seeing colors on the backs of my eyelids, and my body is tense and jerking. Then, suddenly, I know I'm going to cum and I release my lip and smile, my hips moving back and forth on his hand. Everything in me constricts to the place where he touches me - constricts to the point of almost nothing and then it's everything I can feel. My back arches up and I can't breathe, and then I'm shaking and crying out. There's pressure wonderful, fucking incredible pressure - in my chest and behind my eyes. I fall back onto the bed but Edward's fingers are still lightly tracing around my clit, and each pass makes me twitch a little. Finally, I have to grab his wrist and still his hand. "Too sensitive," I whisper, giggling and breathless. Raising my shoulders from the bed, I twist around and kiss his mouth. It's meant to be a kiss of gratitude, but he responds with force I don't expect. He takes my hand in his (his fingers still wet from me) and places it on his cock. He's hard. I stroke his erection and he pushes me onto my back.

Then, he's inside me. And again, I can't get over how good it feels to be this close to him. I want this feeling of pleasure to be significant, and not merely a reflection of novelty or good chemistry. This time, I'm more aware of his body; this time, he's watching me more closely. He props one of my legs over his shoulder and asks me how it feels. I hope he can tell that the whine that comes out of me is one of approval. My other leg follows the first, and he presses me down into the bed. I've never done this before, never been fucked this way, and when I think about it - when I think about my body contorted this way, and another person's naked body pushing into it - I almost laugh. Then I blush, and the sound of Edward's labored breathing and the feeling of his open mouth on the flesh of my leg makes me throb. We continue this way until my hips ache and I whisper, "I need to put my legs down." "I'm sorry," he says quietly, and gently lays me flat. But he stays buried inside me and now we're together in a new and different way, and I smile when I think of all the things we'll get to do to each other in this bed. "It's okay," I assure him. "It felt nice." "Good." Edward's response is little more than a rough breath as he holds himself up over me and begins to move again. I like this position; everything feels...tight, together, close. I'm watching his hips move, and find myself pushing up into each of Edward's thrusts. He opens his eyes and looks down at me, grinning. I smile back and push with more insistence, tightening myself around him. Everything we do feels unfamiliar and new, and yet some things my body just knows how to do. This surprises and amuses me. His breath is shaky. "That's...that's good," he stutters, eyes closing and head tipping to his chest. Eventually, I lift my right leg and wrap it around his hip, and this is how he cums, bucking his hips and shuddering. * Edward lies across the bed at an angle, his head using my belly as a pillow. "So what did your parents do?" I ask, my fingers twirling and pushing his hair into different shapes.

"They called the last hotel we'd been at, but the cleaning crew had already been through the room and didn't remember seeing anything." He scratches absently at his jaw. "We're at this rest stop, three hours away from Cleveland. I'm crying - I was crying so hard, I remember I almost thought I was going to make myself sick." "Poor kid," I say affectionately. "My mom's trying everything she can to calm me down, but I'm practically hysterical." He laughs, remembering. "They were both freaking out." I grin. "I can just about imagine." "So my dad gets back in the car and looks at my mom and says, ‘They can't find him; so what are we doing?' And my mom turns to him and says, ‘We're going back to Cleveland and getting that fucking bear.'" I burst into laughter. "That's great." "So we turned the car around and drove back to Cleveland. I barely remember the drive. And we get to the hotel and my mom takes me up to the front desk and tells the guy what's going on." Edward adjusts the sheet around his legs. "At first, the guy is like, we can't help you, we already looked, stuff like that. But then my mom totally loses her shit." He's starting to laugh as he finishes the story. "She doesn't yell, just gets this look on her face like she's going to kill the guy and starts talking really low and fast, and she's pointing at me. I have no idea what's going on, but I start crying again, and then the manager shows up and takes one look at me and says, ‘Let's look for the bear.' So we look through the lobby and the pool area; we go back to the room and look there, but we don't find him." "Oh, no." I'm far too invested in this silly story. "What happened?" "Well, we go back to where they keep all the cleaning equipment, and the adults are all talking to each other and my mom's dragging me around by the hand. Then everybody starts looking through the cleaning carts and suddenly the manager just says, ‘This it?' and holds up Loopy." "You found him?" Nodding, Edward smiles as he looks up at the ceiling. "I fucking threw myself at this guy, was hugging his legs and stuff. I didn't let that stupid bear out of my sight for months." "That's sweet," I tell him, dragging a hand through his hair. "And how old were you?" "Five." He turns his head to look at me. "I still have him." I raise my eyebrows. "Where?"

"Box in the closet," he tells me, pointing with his finger. "Maybe I'll let you see him sometime." Grinning at him, I tug gently on his hair. He closes his eyes. "What about you?" he asks. "You have a security blanket or something?" I shake my head. "Nope." "Really?" "Yeah. I never was into dolls. I had a stuffed giraffe I liked a lot, but nothing I carried around with me." "Hm." Edward's chest rises and falls with steady, slow breaths. "You gonna fall asleep?" I should take off before it gets too late. "Eventually," he mumbles. "You want to stay?" I have to think about this. It would be nice, staying with him all night, but I don't know how much sleeping I'd actually do. It's hard for me to fall asleep with another person in the same bed. "Do you want me to?" "Yeah. If you want to," he adds quickly, rolling onto his side and opening his eyes. "Sometimes I have trouble, sharing the bed." I shrug. Narrowing his eyes, he smiles at me. "You've got a thing about sharing, don't you?" I eye him suspiciously. "Meaning?" "You don't like sharing food or sharing beds..." "You're right," I concede. "But I was an only child." He laughs. "So was I." "Yes, but you had Loopy to share your bed with, so you're used to it." This must strike him as particularly funny, because he laughs louder and pinches my side. "Funny girl." I raise my arms above my head and stretch. "I hog the bed," I tell him. "So do I," he replies, moving up on the bed to lie next to me.

We talk and kiss until we both doze off, and sometime later - when it's still dark and quiet outside his windows - I get up to use the bathroom. He's awake and waiting for me when I crawl back into bed; his hands move immediately to my breasts and my ass. For a moment, when he kisses me, I consider how my mouth must taste, but if he doesn't care, I don't care. When he fucks me he does so with what feels like measured patience, but I can feel that frantic burn lying just beneath a thin veneer of control. I like it, this knife-edge between brutal pleasure and careful concern. Chapter Fifteen My palms are sweating. I shake my head, attempting to free it from the thick cloud of anxiety that wraps around me. I'm nervous, and this seems logical, given the situation. But I'm also scared shitless, and - given the situation - this is illogical. It's only Jasper. I trust him. He respects me, I think. I hope. And what is he going to do? Punch me in the face? Hardly. I swallow. "I've been thinking about maybe taking some classes in the fall," I tell him, fraying the filter of my cigarette with a fingernail. "Oh yeah? At Peninsula?" I nod. "Figured I should get started on my degree again." Shrugging my shoulders, I stare at a small puddle of water pooled on the stone of the church steps. The streetlight makes it shine. "You think...does that sound like a good idea?" Oh, the irony of me asking Jasper's advice and seeking his approval for one thing but disregarding both advice and approval where Bella is concerned. "Does it sound like a good idea to you?" he asks, raising an eyebrow. "I...yes. It does." My life prospects if I don't go back to school hang over my head like a prison sentence. "One more thing to juggle," Jasper says absently. My heart sinks. "Good idea, though." And I fight to keep the triumphant smile from my face. We sit quietly for a few minutes. We do this, sometimes. I've been prolonging our conversation tonight, and I think Jasper can sense that I want to keep talking. He's a perceptive motherfucker; I'll give him that.

I shift on the hard steps and the fabric of my boxers chafes my cock. Bella and I barely left the bed on Sunday, and I'm a little sore. But it's a pleasant reminder of her and her body and her sweet smile. I need to say something, and my heartbeat races as I prep myself. "So, there's something I wanted to tell you." My eyes meet Jasper's for a quick second then shift their focus. "Okay." His voice is smooth as glass. "I've been, well, I've been hanging out with Bella. You know this." I hazard another look at his face. He looks calm but slightly concerned. "Yeah." "We've...I mean we started..." I clutch at my hair. "I should tell you that we're together, I mean we're dating, and..." Swallowing, I stare at the ground for another beat before looking at Jasper. "Okay." He looks utterly unconcerned. "I know you don't approve," I begin. Jasper holds up a hand. "It's not that I don't approve, Edward." He leaves it at that. This frustrates me. "You made it pretty clear we should only be friends, Bella and me." He nods. "True. But that would have been my answer had it been anyone, not just Bella." I suppose this is the case. "I just...she's a really good person." "She is." He's not fighting me on this - and I don't know why I expected him to - but it makes me feel worse and not better that he isn't. "Just...could you just say something?" I ask, exasperated. Jasper looks mildly amused. "I am." He pauses and waits for me to speak, but I don't. Scratching at the side of his nose, he stares out into the street, his eyes following a car as it passes. "You've made a choice, and even if it wasn't the choice I would have made, I'm not going to get on your case about it." He shifts his gaze to my face. "If that's what you're looking for."

I shrug. "I don't know." The toe of my shoe taps the step. "She knows what's going on with me, and she's not freaked out." The way I'm phrasing this, it doesn't seem like such a big thing. But it is. "Does that surprise you?" "I guess not." A man walks past the church, jingling his keys. My hand makes a fist then relaxes. "Did Alice ever, I mean did she have problems with...your stuff?" I shake my head when I stop talking; the question sounds unbelievably juvenile and stupid. "No. But we knew each other for a while before we started dating," Jasper says. "You trying to tell me something?" I joke half-heartedly. The smile on his face is kind. "No, Edward. I'm just answering your question." "I know." I lick my lips, wondering if there's anything else he needs to know, wondering why he needs to know anything at all in the first place. "Alice goes to Al-Anon," he says quietly. I don't say anything. "Not that Bella has to," he continues. "But it's an option." My face flushes. I'm the kind of guy you can't date without a support group. Fucking fantastic. Taking a cigarette from my pack, I light it just to pass the time and fill the silence. Eventually, Jasper speaks up. "But things are going well?" I blow smoke over my shoulder. "With Bella?" "With anything." My thumb flicks the filter and ash falls to the ground. "Yeah. Things are good." My stomach rolls - in pleasant anticipation; in fear - when I think of Bella. I can't fuck this up. Jasper nods. "You thought anymore about getting in touch with your family?" "Jesus," I exhale, scratching at the back of my neck. "Now that's one more thing to juggle." Laughing, Jasper claps a hand on my shoulder. "I suppose it is."

I wait a moment before I speak again. "She makes me feel like a good person." The tone of my voice is pathetic - uncertain, afraid, awed - and I turn to look over my shoulder at Jasper. When he smiles at me, I know he knows exactly what I mean. We sit there, the chill from the steps spreading to the rest of me, and talk for a little while longer. When he shakes my hand before leaving, Jasper looks me straight in the eye. And even though he does this every time I see him, tonight it seems different. * "When do I get to see you again?" I can hear the smile in her voice when she answers. "You just saw me yesterday morning," Bella reminds me. Now I grin. "I know. But I miss you already." My heart thunders in my chest. I can't shut my mouth and stop talking; I'm going to freak her out. "Yeah?" Her voice is quiet and shy. "Yeah." "I do, too. Miss you, I mean." She speaks so softly I can barely hear her, but her words make me feel so, so good. There's a loaded moment in which neither of us speaks. I break the silence. "So when do I get to see you?" Bella laughs. "I'm back for work on Thursday." "So Thursday night?" I press, my cheeks aching with my smile. "You always see me on Thursdays." She pauses. "Or you have been seeing me on Thursdays. Lately, you know." Now she sounds embarrassed. "So Thursday night?" I repeat. The laughter returns. "Yes. Thursday night." "Can I touch you then?" The words stumble from my nervous mouth. When she answers, Bella sounds confused. "Of course."

My insides swell and twist. "Can I take your clothes off?" I ask, my voice low. "Yes." Her reply barely reaches my ears. "I can?" I like the hushed sound of her voice, want to hear it again. She sucks in a breath. "Yeah." "Good." I wait for her to speak again, and hold the bottom of my phone away from my mouth so she won't hear my breathing. Bella clears her throat. "So, how was work today?" "Shitty," I tell her cheerfully. She laughs. "That good, huh?" "I thought about you all day," I tell her, the words falling stupidly from my lips. "I bet," she says with a snort. But I'm insistent. "I did." "You're sweet." She sounds unconvinced. "I thought about you naked in my bed." At this, she doesn't say a word, and I wonder - desperately - what she's thinking. "You still there?" I ask after a moment. "Mm-hm." My face is flushed and hot. "Does that make you uncomfortable?" "No," she replies quickly. There's another brief pause. When she speaks again, the tone is steadier, more confident. "And here I thought you just liked me for my mind." I grin. "You are pretty smart." "Oh, am I?" she drawls, sarcastic and amused. "Yes, you are." I like this game, like how it makes my heart beat a little bit fast; like how it makes my fingers feel funny. "It's sexy, how smart you are."

Bella's giggle is nervous. She seems to like what I say to her. At least, I hope she does. But it also seems to embarrass her. I don't know what to do about that. "You're gonna give me an ego," she tells me, her voice wavering with false bravado. "That's kind of the point." She laughs and sighs at the same time. "How was your day?" I ask. "Fine. Long. I went grocery shopping. Made dinner for my dad and myself. Pretty exciting." I like the softness and the rise and fall of her voice. I want to lie down on my bed and fall asleep to it. "I started a new book." Getting up off my couch, I wander into the kitchen and walk back and forth over the length of it, running my fingertip along the edge of the counter. "Which book?" "Henry James. The Ambassadors." I've never heard of it, but this isn't surprising. "What's it about?" "Some young guy runs off to Europe and starts shagging some woman. So his mother sends her fiancé to fetch him and bring him home." "Fetch him?" I ask, amused. "Uh-huh." "Sounds interesting." "The plot doesn't interest me so much," she tells me. "I like how he writes - Henry James. It's...dense. Ornate, but not exactly. Rich, maybe?" I like the words she uses to describe this book and its writing. Even when she's searching for the right phrase, there's a confidence in her words that she rarely otherwise expresses. "Maybe I should give him a try," I joke. I can tell she's smiling when she answers. "Maybe." "You think I'd like it?"

"I couldn't say. Maybe. Maybe not." "Hm..." I smile at the phone. "So you can't come back on Wednesday night?" I'm pushing her, I know. "I can't completely abandon my dad," she says lightly. I suppose this is true, but I sigh dramatically anyway, and this makes Bella laugh. "So," she begins, sounding like she's winding up to something. "So, I was going to go to Seattle next week - Tuesday and Wednesday. Would you, do you think you could...what I mean is would you like to go with me?" The thought of two days away with her - just us, no one else - buoys me with an elation I can hardly describe. "I thought you were going with your dad," I say by way of reining myself in. "I was," she answers quickly. "But that was...before." "Before what?" I prod, trying not to laugh. "Edward," she says quietly. "You know." "Know what?" I can't help but tease her. "Before we were dating," she mumbles. My chest swells. "We're dating?" Bella snorts. "If we're not, this is the strangest friendship I've ever had." God, this girl. I want to leap through the phone and wrap myself around her and smell her hair and kiss her face and squeeze her flesh. "I mean, we are, right? We're not just...not just having sex, right?" She sounds suddenly very young. "Of course not." It bothers me that she would think this way. "Okay." She pauses. "Good." "Good," I repeat. "Well now that that's cleared up," she mutters.

I laugh, and after a second Bella joins in. "What answer were you expecting?" I ask. She seems to be thinking this over. "I don't know," she replies simply. Even though she can't see me, I shrug. "I like you." "I like you, too." Her response makes me happy, but her voice is imbued with a hint of caution. It's not much, but it's enough to touch my neck with tension. I change the subject. * I can't keep my hands off of her. I pull her beside me into the booth instead of letting her sit on the opposite side. Bella blushes and laughs, but scoots close to me, her hand warm on my knee. Perhaps it embarrasses her, the way I nuzzle my face into her neck, or the way I slide my fingers up between her thighs to the warmth where the seams of her jeans meet. She jumps and pushes my hand away, blushes and says my name in a whisper of admonishment. When she eats I want to lick and suck on her full mouth. When she talks my eyes flick down to her chest as it moves with her inhale and exhale. We go back to my place and I fall on top of her on the couch. I pull her pants and underwear down and roll us onto our sides, pushing into her and thrusting with abandon. I like how wet she is; I like how she stutters and breathes when I move. My hand fights it way up under her shirt and pushes one side of her bra up. Her tit is warm and heavy in my palm, and I long for the flexibility to wrap my torso around hers and suck the nipple into my mouth. Her fingers dig into the bare flesh of my ass, and the leather of the couch catches and pulls on my skin. When I fight to get her jeans over her shoes, she twists back against me, and we slide down into a heap of limbs in the small space between the couch and the coffee table. She's on her knees and so I fuck her like this until I can't anymore, and I slide the table over on the rug and pull the clothes and shoes from her piece by piece until she's naked. Her soft hands clutch and grab at me as we clumsily undress me together. We start to fuck again, her legs and mouth open wide. I want to cum half a dozen times before I let myself. Bella lashes her arms around me when I fall on top of her; she sighs. "You all right?"

"Yes," she whispers. "Yes, yes, yes." I smile and kiss all of her skin I can find. "Let's go to my room." She keeps her eyes trained on the ground as we untangle and stand up together. Taking her hand, I lead her into the dark bedroom. We pull down the covers and get in. I tug her over to my side of the bed. "I think I'm going to have rug burn on my shoulders," she says after we get situated. "Really?" I hadn't thought about this. "I don't know. It feels a little tender." Shit. "I'm sorry." Her laugh is short and light. "I'm not complaining." Rolling over, I turn on the bedside lamp and gently push her onto her belly. Her shoulder blades are a little red, but it doesn't look terrible. Still, I don't want to be too rough with her or treat her like the girls I've been with before. "Does this hurt?" I ask, tracing my fingertips over the skin. "Nope." "Hm." Bending over, I kiss her back; Bella sighs. Then, out of nowhere: "how do you feel about zombie movies?" I laugh. "What?" "Do you like zombie movies?" "I don't know. I haven't really thought about it." "I like them," Bella says, matter-of-fact. This is interesting. "Yeah?" "I like them a lot." She's lying on her stomach with her head twisted to one side, her eyes closed. Looking at her face, I crinkle my brow. "But you don't like horror movies," I point out.

One eye cracks open. "I never said that." Flopping down next to her, I stare into her one open eye. "When we went to the movies, you said..." "That I don't like slasher films and knives." "Right." "Zombies don't uses knives," she points out. "I suppose not." I think for a second. "But I thought you didn't like gore." "I don't. Not really. But I can close my eyes for most of it." Pulling the sheet up over my ass, I laugh. "Do you actually watch any of the movie?" "Course I do." My hand reaches out and brushes over her hair. "You're goofy." Her eye closes again. "I might be." But I can't let it go. "That just doesn't make any sense." Her eyebrows push together, but her eyes stay closed. "Why not?" "Zombie movies are full of gore. People getting ripped apart..." "And?" "You get grossed out by a horror movie with knives, but you can watch someone's guts getting eaten." She smiles. "Yep." I trace my finger over her cheekbone. "I don't understand how that works." Shifting to her side, Bella pulls the sheet up over her chest and looks at me. "Well, in a slasher film, the bad guy is usually some kind of serial killer, right?" "Yeah." "So, they're a real person. Or, they could be. Zombies are fantasy; they're not real. It's not really scary if you don't really believe it could happen."

"That's your rationale?" I tease. "Uh-huh." She shrugs. "And it's not like I enjoy all the brains and guts and blood, it's just...more palatable that way. I don't know." Ducking close, I kiss her mouth and pull the sheet away from her body so I can feel her skin. She's funny and strange and different. I'd only meant to give her an innocent kiss, but it turns - quickly - into something else. "Would you touch yourself?" I ask, when Bella starts rocking against me and making familiar noises of need. Her eyes are big and dark when she looks at me. After a few seconds, I feel her hand work its way down between our bellies. At first, I only watch; I study her expression, the features shifted with nearly imperceptible tension. Then, I gently kiss her face. She rocks onto her back and I shift to my knees, pulling the sheet away from us both. Her hand between her thighs rolls leisurely at the wrist, and I want to fuck her all over again. Instead, I bend over and put my mouth wherever I can on her naked body. Placing my mouth to her ear, I whisper to her. "Watching you do that is really fucking sexy." Bella whines, her hand moving faster. I want to keep murmuring in her ear - want to say all kinds of things to her - but I don't. My fingers trace down her stomach to her thighs; I let my hand briefly rest on her wrist, mimicking the movements she's making. She's breathing fast, her face twisted in concentration. Watching her cum is fucking amazing, and I want us to figure out all the different ways we can make her body do it again. "Stay the night with me?" If she stays, we won't get much sleep and we'll both be miserable tomorrow. I don't care. Eyes still closed and with a sleepy smile of satisfaction on her pretty face, Bella "hmms" at me. "Was that a yes or a no?" Her smile gets bigger, her lips pulling back to reveal her teeth. "We have to work tomorrow." "Yeah." Finally opening her eyes, she turns onto her side. "It's not such a big deal for me, but you work around heavy machinery. I don't want you wandering around in a daze and getting run over by, I don't know, a backhoe or something."

I grin. "We don't really use a lot of backhoes inside the warehouse." Sidling up next to me, Bella pushes her face into my chest. "Whatever. Something big and metal. Or a box falls on your head." "You're sweet," I tease, kissing the top of her head. She wraps her arms around me. * I need to quit smoking. The cigarette hangs dumbly from my fingers. I wonder if I should try giving it up. Bella could help me; I already smoke significantly less when she's around. The lit end smolders, sending a thin line of smoke up into the wet air. My eyes find the face of the oversized clock they've installed next to the patio. A gentle reminder that break time is finite and to get my ass back inside and get to work. I don't want to push any more boxes around today; I want to lean against this brick wall and remember Bella naked in my bed. I can't remember fucking ever feeling so good. And there's certainly never been a girl I wanted to talk to after as much as I want to talk to her. So smart, so funny, so kind to me. I don't get to see her until Saturday night, and I don't like this. She's got plans with Alice tonight, but I wonder how late those plans go. Maybe she could come over after. I'm greedy and want her all to myself. The air in the warehouse is dry; it makes my lungs feel high and tight, particularly when compared to the damp outside. In the background there's always the dull, grating whine of the dehumidifiers. We're unloading a truck, and I'm not paying attention to what I'm doing, raking my forearm against the sharp corner of a box. "Shit!" A thin line of blood seeps from the shallow cut. Pushing my dolly aside and out of the way, I make my way to the bathroom on the other side of the room. After washing out the cut with soap and water, I dig into the first aid kit for antiseptic and bandages. The wound is superficial but it stings like a bitch when I clean it. I cover the gash with a bandage and throw out the wrappers. The mirror above the sink is dirty and warped, but even in the distorted glass I can see the smudge of dirt along my jaw, the bleach stains on the shoulder of my work shirt. With the back of my hand, I wipe at the dirt on my face until it's gone. And I smell - not bad, exactly but I smell like someone who's been pushing boxes around all day. I wonder if Bella could smell me the other day when she met me at my house. My face heats up, and I stare down into the sink.

I think about Bella, about her shelving books and ringing up customers. I think about how she only has a few more months of this left before she gets to go to Seattle. It's not difficult to imagine her reading in the library, or sitting in a classroom talking animatedly, her hands touching her face self-consciously, her eyes moving all over the place as she speaks. Something small and achy gnaws at my insides. I watch the scuffed toes of my boots as I walk across the concrete floor. In my head, I try to remember the way she smiles when she sees me, the way she flushes when I touch her, the way she laughs when I make a joke. The dolly feels cumbersome and awkward in my hands when I get back to work. I'm tugging and jerking at the stupid thing instead of simply rolling and swiveling. I've gotten so used to my work here that the wheels and metal frame have come to feel like an extension of my arms and hands, but right now my body seems hell bent on moving in the most uncomfortable way possible. After an hour, my shoulder and side ache from the effort. When my shift ends, I step outside and immediately light up a cigarette. Gray clouds fill the sky, and the rain is steady. I duck my head and step out into the weather. Chapter Sixteen I've slept like a rock and when I open my eyes, the room is already filled with early morning half-light. I don't move, just lie there on my back and stare at the ceiling. My body feels off, but I can't pinpoint exactly what's bothering me. I'm off-center. My abdomen feels strange, but it isn't nausea or cramping. Rolling out of bed, I gingerly make my way out into the hall and then into the bathroom. My face looks the same as it always does - pale, vague circles under the eyes. These don't particularly concern me. I sit down to pee, and as soon as I've started to go, a pain like nothing I've ever felt shoots up between my legs. "Fucking ouch, ouch, ouch!" My voice gets higher and louder with each "ouch," until I'm yowling like a sick cat. It's fire and knives and everything and anything else that hurts like a motherfucker. I twist on the toilet set, my hands reaching out to grip the counter on one side and the wall on the other. Something is seriously wrong with me. I need to finish going to the bathroom, but the prospect of feeling that pain for a second time makes me want to never pee again, ever. With a pathetic whimper, and with my face twisting up into a tearless grimace, I start again. It hurts a little at first, and while I'm going I almost feel okay. But when I stop the pain comes back, worse than the first time.

My body tenses up and lifts off the seat. Very carefully, I wipe and stand up. There's blood in the toilet. "What the hell?" Pressing my hand just below my belly button, I flush the toilet and move to the sink to wash my hands. I want to curl up in a little ball and sleep off whatever this is. If sleeping it off is possible. There's a light knock on the door. "Bella? You okay?" Alice's voice is quiet and concerned. I dry my hands and open the door, and the look on my face makes hers tense with worry. "What's wrong?" Shaking my head, I tuck my hair behind my ear and shuffle toward my room. "It hurts to go to the bathroom. And I'm peeing blood." I hear Alice's feet come to an abrupt stop on the hallway carpet. Grabbing at my doorframe, I turn to face her. She looks confused. "Are you? I mean, are you and..." She trails off. Now I'm confused. "What?" "This has never happened before?" I shake my head. "I think you have a bladder infection," she tells me. I sigh. "Seriously?" "You don't get them often?" she asks carefully. "Never had one before." I'm throbbing, still. This sucks. "Okay," she says gently. "Let's get dressed and I'll take you to the acute care place." "I need a doctor?" Alice snorts, a small smile finally gracing her face. "You'll want antibiotics. Trust me." "I have to go to work," I say dumbly.

"So you'll go late, or not at all." I tense up at the thought of missing work; a vague, stinging sharpness seizes me. Shit, shit, shit. Wincing, I try to relax. Alice places her hand on my shoulder. "And I know you probably don't want to even think about doing this right now, but they're going to make you pee in a cup. So you should try and drink some water before we go." In the car, Alice is uncharacteristically quiet. The streets are full of vehicles driven by people on their way to work; the radio is a low murmur in the background. "So how does a person get something like this?" I ask, shifting carefully in my seat. Everything below my waist and between my hips aches like a son of a bitch. Alice's lips press together tightly before she answers. "Some people are just susceptible to them. My roommate in college got them all the time." "Yeah?" She nods. "What if you never had one before?" "Well," she begins reluctantly, "you can get them when bacteria get in the urinary tract, I think." I close my eyes. "And how does that happen?" "Lots of ways," she replies, evasive. Turning toward her voice, I open my eyes. "Like what?" "I got mine, well, it happened to me the first time when I..." Her eyes dart from the road to me. "When I started having sex for the first time." And suddenly I know why she's been looking at me strangely. My face heats up. I'm not embarrassed to be sleeping with Edward, or that Alice will find out about it. I just didn't want this to be the way that happened. "Oh," I say quietly. "Yeah." There's a short silence. "So...are you and Seth...?" "What? No. No, no, no. Of course not."

"Okay." She doesn't press. "It's...Edward and I have - we've, well, we're dating," I finish lamely. "Oh." She doesn't sound surprised. Or, maybe she's surprised but is hiding it. I can't quite tell. We don't say anything else on the drive. There's an older couple and a woman with two kids in the waiting room with us. After fifteen minutes, they call my name. Alice offers to come in with me, but I tell her I'm fine by myself. A nurse comes in to take my vitals and write down my symptoms. As predicted, I'm sent to a nearby bathroom to piss in a tiny paper cup. It hurts - a lot. For the next fifteen minutes, I perch on the end of the examination table, the paper crinkling under me every time I move. At least I don't have to take my clothes off. There's a knock on the door. "Come in." A woman in her forties steps through the door and shuts it behind her. She offers her hand. "Hi. I'm Dr. Kettman. You must be Bella." "Yeah. Hi." "So, Bella, what seems to be bothering you this morning?" Her voice is cheerful as she sits down on a rolling stool and scratches out something on my chart. "Um, when I woke up this morning I felt kind of funny." "Funny, how?" Dr. Kettman asks. "Just kind of off kilter, I guess." I tuck my hands under my thighs. "Okay. Then what?" "Then I went to the bathroom and it really hurt to go." The doctor pushes up her glasses and writes something down. "Did it hurt the whole time you were urinating?" "A little. But mostly when I stopped." "But not before?"

I shake my head. "No. Not really." "What kind of pain was it?" My heel bounces against the metal on the front of the examining table. "Really sharp. Like a knife or something." Dr. Kettman smiles, sympathetic. "Like you were peeing razor blades?" "Yeah. Like that." "All right." She makes another notation. "Anything else?" "There was blood in the toilet." "In your urine?" "I think so." "No chance you're menstruating?" "Not unless I'm almost two weeks early." Dr. Kettman looks up over her glasses. "And you're usually pretty regular?" "Like clockwork," I tell her. "I'm on the pill." "Gotcha." Another scribble. "Have you ever had a urinary tract infection before, Bella?" I shake my head. "No. Not that I was aware of." She smiles. "Trust me, you'd most likely know." This makes me laugh. "Probably." "And please don't be offended by these next questions, but you wipe from front to back?" I titter a little. "Yep." "Have you recently started having sex with a new partner?" Now I blush, even though I've got nothing to be embarrassed about. "Uh, yeah. Yes, I have." "But you've never had this happen with other male partners?"

I swallow. "I've...I haven't really had other partners." This isn't entirely true, but my experience in Boston wasn't the same. "Okay." Dr. Kettman turns away from the counter to face me fully. "It's not uncommon for women to get bladder infections when they start having sex with a new partner. Especially if you're having sex frequently. They sometimes call it the Honeymoon Syndrome," she says lightly. My laugh is nervous. "Are you using condoms with your partner?" she asks me. "We're not." And I want to tell her I'm not one of those stupid girls who sleeps with a guy without protection, but I keep my mouth shut. "Well, I'll tell you - although you probably already know - that condoms are the only method of birth control that effectively stop the transmission of HIV and other sexually transmitted diseases." "I know. We've both been tested," I say in a rush. "And you're monogamous?" I nod quickly. "Yes." Dr. Kettman stands up and has me lay back on the examining table. She pushes at my stomach and pelvis, asks me a few more questions, then tells me I can sit up. "All right. Well, provided that the tests we run on your urine come back the way I think they will, I'll write you a prescription for an antibiotic. Beyond that, all I can tell you is to stay hydrated. Drinking cranberry juice helps some people. And try to go to the bathroom after you've had sexual intercourse. Okay?" I nod again. "If you need anything else or if the meds don't work for you, be sure to come back, all right?" "I will." I cross my arms over my stomach. "Good. The nurse will be back in shortly." And then she's gone. * "I feel like a crybaby," I say.

Alice makes a face. "Why?" "I could have gone to work." It feels like I'm pissing acid, but that's not enough to keep me home. "If you only knew the excuses people give Jasper for not coming in," she tells me. "Half of them are total bullshit. Besides, bladder infections completely suck." Shrugging, she turns her head back to the television. "God, I love Judge Judy." Laughing, I readjust the blanket over my legs. We watch the judge yell at some bewildered nineteen-year-old. My stomach hurts. "Alice?" She doesn't look at me. "Hm?" "Could I ask something?" Now she tears her eyes from the TV. "Of course." "Do you ever have, I mean is it ever hard dating Jasper?" I swallow and feel like an asshole, sitting here in my little corner of the couch. "Hard?" "Is it difficult?" A look of realization dawns on her face. "You're talking about the addiction stuff?" I nod. "Yeah." "Sure," she tells me, her voice amiable. "But it's just like anything else. We deal with it as it comes." "What do you mean when you say it's just like anything else?" Alice thinks for a few seconds. "I mean if he got sick or hurt or something like that. If he lost his hearing or something, it would be a challenge, right? But you deal with it." "That makes sense," I say, nodding. "We're talking about Edward, right?" "Yeah." I shoot her a tight-lipped smile.

"So when did that happen? Not that I wasn't expecting it to," she says, sounding slightly amused. "A couple weeks ago." I suck on my lower lip. A couple weeks and we're already going at it like bunnies. "Things moved kind of fast." Alice nods. "So it would seem." In my head, I'm mentally ticking off all the ways I've justified dating Edward even though everyone else - including Edward himself - has made it clear this is not a good idea. "He's doing really well," I say lamely. "Good. How are you?" And here she traps me with her eyes. I'm confused. "I'm fine. What do you mean?" "Nothing. Just that all of the stuff that comes along with it can be pretty overwhelming. The scheduling, the constant evaluating of the relationship, blah, blah blah..." Edward and I don't do any of this. Or do we? We talk about us; or, we talk about how we feel. Maybe this is a problem. Alice must sense my anxiety because she reaches over and squeezes my foot. "Or maybe Jasper and I are just weird like that. Planning everything. You know how I am." I return the smile she offers me. We sit through another stammering monologue by an unprepared defendant. A commercial for a car dealership comes on. "So you guys are totally doing it, then?" Alice asks, her face devilish. "What?" I blush. "Shut up." My fingers pick at the buttons on the remote. "And yes." Bursting into laughter, she smacks me with a pillow. "So how is it?" "Oh, fuck you," I tell her, but I'm laughing, too. She makes a conciliatory face. "That bad, huh?" I snort. "Fuck you again!" We both laugh. My voice is lower when I finally respond to her question. "He's really good. I mean - really, really good, Alice." "Yeah?" "Yeah," I repeat. "Like, ‘I can't stop doing it' good." Her eyes narrow. "Slut. No wonder you've got a bladder infection."

* "So what do you think?" Edward asks quietly. The realtor's stepped out onto the deck to take a phone call; we're alone in the apartment. "I kind of love it," I answer, grinning like an idiot. It's not very big - the apartment - but I don't need a whole lot of space. We're standing in the middle of the living room; there's a skylight in the center of the pitched ceiling. I take a few steps and look into the bedroom again. Sun shines in through the windows. Edward comes to stand next to me and grabs my hand. "You like it better than the first place we looked at?" "Definitely." I was hoping for hardwood floors (and this apartment has carpet in the bedroom), but other than that it's exactly the kind of place I was hoping for. There's a bus stop half a block from my front door on a bus route that goes straight to school, and two blocks up there are a coffee shop, a dry cleaner/tailor, a Chinese food place, and some other businesses. I can see myself here already. "What do you think?" I ask. "It's nice," he says. "The neighborhood looks safe. I wouldn't worry about you walking home at night or anything." This makes me flush. Does he mean he won't be worrying about me, or that I have nothing to worry about? "I wouldn't mind staying here sometimes," he says quietly before clearing his throat. "You know, if we're still..." Squeezing his hand to get his attention, I smile when he looks down at me. He smiles back. I like the idea of Edward coming to visit, staying the weekend in my bed. We could walk and bus around the city and find new places to go and things to do together. I imagine the friends I'll make in the program and then I imagine introducing Edward to them. I fill out the lease application when the realtor comes back inside. Edward and I see two more apartments that afternoon before we go to dinner and take a walk. Back at the hotel, he touches me gently and makes me cum with his mouth. I'm too afraid to have sex yet again, so I return the favor. I like the taste and smell of him, like the way he grunts and whispers "oh, baby" when I suck hard. After, we turn on the television and watch some terrible buddy cop movie on the free HBO, eating crap food Edward's retrieved from the vending machine.

"Does your dad know you're with me?" Edward asks. I shake my head. "No. He thinks I'm with Alice." Turning my head, I look at his face. "Does that bother you?" "Of course not," he responds immediately. "I understand." "It would be this way if it were any guy, you know." This is true. Charlie would never try to tell me what to do, but he'd be more than uncomfortable if he knew I was spending the night with a man, particularly a man he doesn't know. "Do you...would you like to meet him? My dad." Edward's eyes are dark when he looks at me. "I don't know if that's a good idea," he says finally. "Okay." This is the answer I was expecting, but it still stings a little. I almost say something, almost tell Edward that he's going to have to meet Charlie at some point, but I hold my tongue. "I'm sure I'm not the kind of guy you bring home to Mom and Dad anyway." He's trying to make a joke of it, but it's less than convincing. "Meaning?" Edward shrugs a shoulder. "I don't know. Meaning your dad probably wants to see you bring home a guy with a college education and a good job. Not some fuck-up fresh out of rehab." He gives me a weak smile then turns his eyes back to the television. But I'm not ready for this conversation to be over. "I think my dad would want to see me with someone who treated me well and who made me feel good." Edward's eyes find mine again; he looks uncomfortable. "I'm not a good guy, Bella," he says quietly. "What does that mean?" "It means I've done a lot of stuff that you don't want to know about." Again, he looks away. I shake my head. "You don't know that." When we make eye contact this time, his face is drawn and serious. The expression is hard and I see a trace of the way he used to be. "Yes, I do." Getting up from the bed, I walk to the bathroom and get a glass of water from the sink. It tastes terrible - flat and metallic. I drink it all anyway. These conversations are pointless, stupid. They make me angry - angry that he thinks this way, angry that I even have to

participate in them. I'm clad only in my underwear and it's hard to feel brave, but I steel myself and return to the bedroom. "I don't like that you underestimate me," I say as I rejoin him on the bed. "What?" He looks confused. "How do I underestimate you?" "I know I'm not - I'm not like the people you used to hang out with, and you probably think I'm naïve -" He cuts me off. "I don't think you're naïve." "Fine. Whatever. But you've got this whole part of your life that I know nothing about, and you don't have to tell me about it if you don't want to, but if all of that stuff is changing the way you behave now, then it's hard for me not to want to know. I'm not making sense." Suddenly, the room seems cold, and I wrap my arms around my torso. Edward doesn't say anything, but clears the wrappers off the bed then pulls back the covers. He slides down into the sheets and holds out his arm, motioning to me. "C'mere." Scooting back on the bed, I get under the blankets and Edward spoons me. He's warm; his skin feels good on mine. "I don't want to tell you about all of that shit because I'm not like that anymore." He kisses the back of my neck. "And what if I tell you something that really upsets you and you don't want to be with me anymore?" "Do you honestly think that's what it would be like?" His nose nuzzles into my hair. "I don't know." I don't say anything for a moment. "Have you ever killed someone?" I ask, matter of fact. Edward snorts a surprised, nervous laugh. "What? No. Of course not." "Have you ever sexually assaulted someone?" His shaking head brushes against mine. "No, Bella." I wrack my brain for anything else that would fundamentally change how I looked at him. "Ever punched a child in the face?" "Only once. And he totally deserved it," he says sarcastically. I laugh. "Then I think we're covered."

He squeezes me. "You're pretty great," he says, his voice tight. "Don't I know it," I joke. Edward chuffs into my hair and runs the palm of one hand up and down my thigh. Closing my eyes, I relax my shoulders and sink back into him. His fingertips find the edge of my underwear and trace along it. "I miss fucking you," he whispers. His words make me hot all over. "Me, too." "Not that I mind just licking your pussy," he continues, and my heart beats faster. I giggle - nervous - and I wonder how long before words like that won't make me feel like this, won't make me feel crazy. Twisting my head around, I kiss him. All I want to do is kiss and fuck this boy. I want to feel his hands and mouth on me; I want to hear the pretty sounds he makes when I make him feel good. "Can I do it again?" he asks, kissing along my spine as he moves down the bed. "If you want to." My voice is shaky. Nodding against my hip, he rolls me onto my back. "I do," he says, and kisses me through my underwear. I exhale and close my eyes. * Edward's birthday is the following week. I make chicken cacciatore and it isn't awful. I've also made a cake with a 2 and an 8 candle on top. It's from a box - the cake - but Edward smiles so wide when he sees it you'd think no one had ever made him one before. He eats two big pieces with a glass of milk - of course, with the milk. And he seems to like his presents. I've made him a card and wrapped up two gifts: a Leonard Cohen t-shirt and a Backstreet Boys CD. When he opens the former, a huge grin sweeps across his face; when he opens the latter, he laughs and throws balled-up wrapping paper at me. When we have sex later that night, he's especially gentle. His hands are everywhere, his mouth warm and soft on my face and neck and shoulders. He's pumping into me - I can feel it, I can hear it, I can smell and taste him - his mouth close to my ear.

"Oh, Bella," he whispers, his voice strained in a way that tells me he might cum soon. "You're so," he begins, but stops, breathing heavy. "God, you just," and his voice cuts out again. Behind the fringe of hair that hangs into his face, his eyes are screwed shut tight. He stops moving for a moment, all the muscles in his body tense. After a few second he starts up again. "Bella," he says again. "I love - God, I love you." I think, for a moment, that my heart must stop. Edward is still thrusting into me, and I wonder if he even realizes what he's just said. But then he's talking again, breathless and strained, the words slipping out of his mouth in fits and starts. "I love you, I fucking - oh, God, I -" His hips move faster. Lowering his head, our lips fumble together, the kiss thick with tongue. "You feel...you feel so good." His eyes are still closed, and I don't know what's happening, but he can't possibly be aware of all the things he's saying. But then his eyes open, and he looks straight at me. "Does this feel good?" His voice is almost frantic; he's not trying to be sexy or talk dirty. "Do I make you feel good?" I shake my head and force myself to reply. "Yes." "I do?" His eyes are big and imploring. "Of course you - " I begin, but he cuts me off by pressing his lips to mine. "I love you," he whispers, his eyes closed again. We move together, slow. He opens his eyes. "I love you." My stomach flips over and something warm and swelling fills up my chest. "You don't have to," he babbles, his voice cracking. "I just, I just...oh, God you...I just want...I just want..." But he doesn't finish. His body shakes as he cums inside me. He doesn't speak, doesn't move. Neither do I. Most nights I like the weight of him on top of me, but right now he's suffocating me. Swallowing thickly, I try to keep my breath steady; I focus on the light fixture on the ceiling. Eventually, he rolls onto the bed, and we lay there not touching - in the dark. I open my mouth to speak but nothing comes out. Of all the things I've been preparing for, this is not one of them. "Did you mean to say that?" I ask eventually. I wonder if I need to clarify what I mean. "Yes." The mattress shifts as he turns onto his side.

But I can't look at him. His hand reaches out and rests on the flat of my breastbone. "Is that okay?" I nod. "I wasn't expecting you..." "I know." "Did you mean it?" Why would I ask such a thing? His reply is quiet. "Yes." "I can't say it back yet." Finally I turn to look at him. "I'm sorry. I wasn't prepared, I haven't been thinking..." "It's okay." He sounds like a scared, little boy. "I just wanted to say it." I wonder when he wanted to say it. Only in that moment, or had he been thinking about it before? Maybe it doesn't matter. Edward scoots close to me on the bed, presses his face to my breasts. I wrap my arms around him and tuck him in close. I want to say thank you, but I don't know if that would be insulting. Only one boy before has told me he loved me, and that was when I was sixteen. I don't know how people handle these things, if they are, in fact, handled. I'm scared fucking shitless. "Did I ruin it?" he asks, his voice very quiet. "Sorry?" I'm confused. "Ruin what?" "Tonight. This. Everything. I don't know." I squeeze him tight. "Of course not." It must be exhausting, running around in Edward's head all day. "I'm glad you told me." This is not the response I want to give; it's probably not the response he wants to hear. But it's all I've got. * Edward is standing at the edge of the bed, one of my legs hoisted up around his waist, the other flat on the mattress and crooked around the back of his knee. His jaw - his whole face, really - is tensed in concentration; his eyes - when they're open - are focused on where we come together. Sweat slicks his skin, and his hair is plastered to his forehead. I watch his eyebrows form a tight v as he moves back and forth with an almost mechanical precision. He looks ridiculous. We look ridiculous. I can't stop myself from bursting into laughter.

He only pauses for a second, his eyes widening and shifting to my face. Shaking his head, he gets back to thrusting. "Now is not the time to be laughing at me, Bella." I clamp my lips shut tight to stop the giggling, but this only results in a snort. "Sorry," I titter, placing my hand over my mouth. We're trying to get me off without using hands or his mouth. I can't count the number of strange positions we've been trying out the past week. This has got to be at least number five tonight, and it's taking a long time. We stop occasionally to work on me, to keep me aroused. It's not that it doesn't feel good; it's just that I can't figure out how to translate that good feeling into an orgasm. Not this way. "This is really hard for me, you know," he tells me, clearly annoyed. "Don't I know it," I joke, unable to stop myself. But seriously. How he's managed to stay hard this whole time is a mystery. "So help me, woman," he warns, hitching my leg up a little higher. "This doing anything for you at all?" I nod. "It feels fucking great." And it does. "We can give it another shot tomorrow or something. Wanna go for you?" I ask. Shaking his head, Edward sighs. "I can't feel my dick anymore. I think that might be impossible." I giggle. "I think we're going to need some KY and Viagra if we keep this up." He barks a short laugh and falls forward onto my body. "Maybe we're over-thinking this." "Maybe," I say, and bite at his ear. "I don't really mind it when you use your hand or your mouth, you know." I feel his smile in my shoulder. Lifting his chin, he kisses me. I hook the ankle of my straight leg around his calf and shift my hips up into him. Edward pushes back. And it feels really, really good. "Holy shit," I whisper. "Do that again." But he's frozen in place. "Again," I whisper, ferocious. So he does it again. Something that's mostly a moan but partly laughter spills out of me.

"This is good?" he asks. "Yes. Yes, yes, yes. Stay right here." Edward rolls his hips a little faster. It's an awkward position that we're in - our bodies mashed together, one of my legs straight and the other bent and half-folded under his torso - but it works; it motherfucking works. For a while. Eventually, he has to slide his hand down and help me along, but it's the closest we've come so far, and it makes me feel like a badass. "So, all we have to do is confine you to a small space," he remarks later. "Closets, or the backseats of cars..." "Bathroom stalls," I add. "Of course." Edward snaps another piece into the puzzle. Because my boyfriend - like an old lady - loves putting puzzles together. We come home at night, fuck, talk, fuck some more, put on our underwear (and a t-shirt for me), and sit on stools at his big kitchen counter and recreate mountain views and other cheesy nature scenes. I think of another. "Sleeping bags." "Crawl spaces." "Under the desk at work." "Couldn't I just wrap you up in a blanket or something?" He looks at me from under his eyelashes and shoots me a cocky grin. I stick out my tongue. Edward puts two more pieces together. "How are you so good at this?" I ask. He doesn't even look up. "Years and years of diligence." Even though he can't see me, I grin and roll my eyes. "Feel like taking a trip next month?"

This prompts him to look at me. "To where?" I wrap my hair up on top of my head with a tie. "Jasper's parents have a house in the mountains a couple of hours away. He said he could work around my schedule if we wanted to come up for a weekend." The idea of going more places with Edward appeals to me. I like thinking of us as a two; I like that other people might think of us that way as well. "That sounds good," he says, his long fingers sifting through the pieces. We work in silence for a few minutes. "So do you think this is all just part of a repressed desire you have to get tied up?" When I look up in surprise, he's grinning wickedly. I chuck a piece of blue sky at him.

Chapter Seventeen When I get home Charlie is still up. It's only eleven - early for me - but late for a man who has to be to work early on a Monday morning. I wonder if he's been waiting up for me and guilt nettles my stomach. I'm a bad daughter, neglecting my patient father to stay in Port Angeles and muck about with a boy my father doesn't even know exists. "Hey, kid," he greets me when I step into the living room. "Hey, Dad." I lean up against the back of the couch. "You're up late." Charlie shrugs, twists his mouth up in an expression that tells me this is neither here nor there. "Billy and I were out fishing ‘til about eight. I'm just checking the scores." He nods at the TV screen that is indeed recapping the day's games. "You working late?" I shake my head. "Not tonight." Turning his eyes back to the television, he drains the last of a beer. "You out with friends?" The tone is thoroughly casual; the subtext is not. "Not tonight," I repeat. "I was with Edward." This gets his attention and he looks at me. "Who's Edward?" "He's...uh...my boyfriend." I look down at my hands resting on the back of the couch. From the corner of my eye, I see Charlie look back at the TV. I am my father's daughter; this revelation is equally mortifying for both of us. I wish I could fast forward through all of this - this explanation. I wish I could skip ahead to the part where he already knows about Edward, and who I'm dating is just another part of my life, like where I work or which shoes I usually wear. "How long has this been going on?" Somehow, Charlie's managed to ask that question without sounding like he's interrogating me. I suppose that's what makes him a good cop.

I clear my throat. "About a month, I guess." "Oh." Hazarding a look at my dad, I find him stock-still in his chair, eyes trained on the images of little men in uniforms throwing a tiny ball around a green field. "Okay," he says, shifting around a bit now. "This Edward have a last name?" The speed at which he's shifted into father mode almost makes me smile. But that smile is suppressed by the prospect of the anger that's sure to come if Charlie recognizes Edward's last name. I wish Edward would've agreed to meet my dad. Getting angry is significantly more difficult to do with the object of that anger sitting right in front of you, being polite and calling you "sir." "It's Masen," I say, in the vain hope that not saying the names together will somehow make this confession less shocking, less terrible for him. Charlie's face is merely uncomfortable for a few seconds after my pronouncement. Then, it's confused. Then, it's disbelieving. Then, just a hint of a potentially frantic rage twitches at the corners of his mouth. "Edward Masen?" he asks, and his voice is clipped. "Yes." Best to keep the answers short and precise. "And he...this guy lives in Port Angeles?" The tone of this question is pitched slightly higher than on the previous one. "He does." Charlie blinks rapidly. "And where does he work?" I can see him trying to piece together the information I'm giving him with the knowledge he's acquired from working with officers from neighboring towns and counties. "He works at a warehouse. Right now." "Right now?" Charlie repeats back. "Yeah. He's worked there for about seven months, I think." Just fucking bite the bullet, Bella. "He's been clean and sober for seven months, too. More than that, actually." I say this as if it's a mere detail, but I frame it for what it is - a good thing, a positive thing, a reason to like Edward. Charlie licks his lips. Then looks at me.

"Clean and sober?" He says these two words with the exaggerated annunciation of the incredulous. "Yes." My voice is barely above a whisper. I look down at my hands. "Do you know what this Edward did before he was ‘clean and sober'?" Jesus. He may as well have made air quotes with his fingers. "I do. And...and you probably do, too." My teeth close around the soft inside of my cheek. In my chest, my heart is thumping unpleasantly. It takes a few seconds for Charlie to accept that what he's suspected is true. That the Edward Masen his daughter is dating and the Edward Masen he's crossed paths with - even if only via the drugs this Edward sold, or the stories he heard from other cops - are one in the same. I'm standing in the living room of his home, the home he lets me live in for free, and I have the audacity to tell my police chief father that I'm dating a man who liberally and protractedly told the law and those who enforced it to go fuck themselves. If ever there were a time for me to keep my mouth shut and take what's coming to me, now is that time. "You trying to be funny?" Charlie asks, his voice sharp. I shake my head. I almost want to say "no, sir," but I don't. "The Edward Masen from Port Angeles I know is a drunk and an addict. And a drug dealer." He's looking at me now - I can feel it - and I make the mistake of looking back. "He doesn't do that anymore." Charlie looks at me like I've lost my mind. His fingers tense around the aluminum beer can in his hand. "He went to rehab in December." I try to think of more things to say that might lessen the blow of this revelation, but my father cuts me off. "You think I give a goddamn that he went to rehab?" He spits the words out as if they taste bad. This startles me. My father rarely swears. He rarely yells. And I can't remember the last time we had a fight, or the last time I was on the receiving end of this much anger. "Do you?" he asks, his lips set firm, his face flushed. The defiant sixteen-year-old I never really was flares up inside me. "Well, you should." I sound like a snotty little brat. "Aren't you the one who always told me how important rehabilitation is? That prisons just make better criminals?"

"I also taught you to respect the law, Isabella." With that, he gets out of his chair and brushes past me into the kitchen. All I can do is stand there. I listen to Charlie rinse out the beer can and toss it into the recycling bin. I hear him get a drink of water from the faucet. Then, without a word, he walks past me again and climbs the stairs. My face heats up with shame. * The next day I do what I always do on Mondays - go to the store and do my laundry. I try to clean up around the house, but Charlie's an adult and cleans up after himself like one. And one person doesn't make much of a mess. Still, I make the effort; I feel like I should, that I need to. I make dinner, but he's late getting home so I eat by myself. Then, I sit on the couch and pretend to watch TV. There's nothing interesting on, but I want to be around when my father gets home. I refuse to let him ignore me. Some time after seven I hear his car pull into the driveway, then the sound of the back door opening, then the sound of Charlie taking off his gun. I get up and walk into the kitchen. "Dinner's in the fridge." He looks startled. "Oh. Okay." I sit down at the table and wait while he puts the plate in the microwave and gets a beer. He's got food in his mouth when I finally speak. "How was work?" "Fine. Long." The utensils in his hands scrape noisily across the plate. I watch him eat for a moment. "I'm sorry for not telling you sooner. About Edward." Charlie's jaw stops for a second before he resumes chewing. He doesn't say anything. This conversation is necessary, but that doesn't mean we both don't hate having it. "I didn't think about how it might be difficult for you, because of your job. Or if it's a conflict of interest or whatever." I'd rehearsed this little speech about twenty times over the course of the day, but it still comes out awkward and broken. Charlie takes a drink of his beer, still doesn't say a word. "So I can move more of my stuff into Alice's and stay there for the rest of the summer if you want. I'll probably need to leave my books, but - "

"What?" My father looks confused. "I talked to Alice and it's okay with her if I stay in Port Angeles full time." Charlie wipes at his mouth with a napkin. "No. Absolutely not. You live here." He punctuates the last word with a pointed motion of his fork. We sit in uncomfortable silence. "Well, I can't stay here if you're mad at me," I say, hating that I sound like a little kid. "I'm not mad." He can't look up from his plate. "Yes, you are." My father is generally a man of few words, but he's not hard to read. "I know you probably won't believe this, but Edward isn't a horrible human being." "Never said he was." I almost smile. Almost. "I know he's done some bad things, but I'm not stupid. I make good decisions. You know this." Charlie is silent again. "If I even suspected, even for a second, that he was doing any of that, you know I wouldn't be anywhere near him." Rubbing at his mustache, Charlie still won't look at me. He takes a long drink from his beer can. The urge to keep talking, to keep explaining, is strong. But I can't explain this situation to my dad in a way that will make sense to him. It's never going to be okay with him. Finally, he clears his throat and speaks. "I talked to a buddy of mine down in Port Angeles today." I keep my mouth shut. I'm smart enough to know that "a buddy" means another officer. "He said he hasn't gotten so much as a noise complaint about Edward Masen in almost eight months." Charlie takes a bite, chews, and swallows. I wait. "Apparently, things have been pretty quiet around his place lately." The little brat in me is triumphant. Charlie's face is set in concentration and I know the look. It's the look he gets when he's gearing up to say something unpleasant, or something he wishes he didn't have to say. So I say something first.

"He's really trying to get his life together, Dad." "They all try, Bella." His voice is sharper than I'm expecting, and it irritates me. It's an inexplicable reaction - my own - and I don't understand it. "It's not like he was a drug kingpin," I say sarcastically, knowing that I'm being childish and spiteful, knowing that my response to my father isn't making my case. But I'm unable to stop myself. When I look at my father's face, his expression makes me go cold. "Every junkie says their next fix is going to be their last." "Does every junkie go to rehab?" I ask, pissed that I've worked myself into this corner. Charlie's right, of course. "No. But most do," he snaps. "And I don't need you to tell me where your good friend was on the dealing food chain." That stings, and angry, humiliated tears come to my eyes. I want to get up from the table, but I don't. Charlie sighs and rubs his hand across his face. "I can't stop you from seeing him." It's a statement of resignation, not a question, but I answer all the same. "No." My answer is quiet. "I don't want you near him," Charlie tells me, his voice tight. He knows this won't change things, and I know he knows that, but he has to say it all the same - he's my father. Lifting his head, he meets my eyes. "He'll relapse. He may not sell again, but he'll use." "You don't know that," I say, my voice quick and rough. "Yes. I do." I have to look down at the table then, his gaze is so severe. I feel like throwing up; I'm angry and I hate the way he's looking at me. "If I get even the slightest suspicion about him..." Charlie's mouth twists. He doesn't have to finish. "I get it." My fingers curl into fists, fingernails digging into the flesh of my palms. Across the table, Charlie shifts in his seat and pulls out his wallet. A few seconds later, a white business card with blue lettering appears in front of me.

"Gary Schuster is the chief of police down in Port Angeles. His private cell number is on the back of that card." I flip it over, and there's a number penciled on the back. "You need anything, anything at all - something doesn't feel right, someone gives you the wrong vibe - you call 911 and then you call him. Got it?" Nodding, I turn the card over and over in my hands. "Got it." "Are you..." Charlie pauses and clears his throat, obviously uncomfortable. He tries again. "I don't want you... You stay at Alice's from now on. Not with..." "Okay." This is a lie, and maybe my dad knows it, but we both pretend it's the truth because it makes things easier. * Jasper's sister is a bitch. At least, I think she is. Rosalie was nice to me when we got to the cabin on Friday night, but today - Saturday - is a different matter. Today, she won't make eye contact and keeps her responses to my questions to the fewest number of words possible. "Have you and Emmett set a date yet?" I ask, going so far as to feign interest in her engagement in an attempt to find some common ground. She doesn't turn away from the sink. "No. Not yet." The faucet pumps water out at full force. When she turns the water off, I try again. "You going to get married in Forks?" At least she shrugs to this. "I don't know. Maybe." It's not that her voice is cold or snide, it's that it's so neutral it's devoid of any and all emotion. Looking across the counter, I catch Jasper's eye and cock an eyebrow. He smiles and shakes his head. Apparently, he's seen this act before. I try not to care, but I really want to know what her problem is. It irritates me that she seems to suddenly dislike me so much; it irritates me that I give a shit what she thinks. Rosalie turns away from the sink and sets the vegetables she's been rinsing on the cutting board. Picking up a large knife, she slices into a green pepper. I try to think of something to say.

"Jasper!" Alice bellows from outside. "Propane!" "The tank's half her size," he says, getting up from his seat and heading out to the deck. Third time's a charm. "Do you like it in Seattle?" Looking up, Rosalie gives me another so-neutral-it's-insulting look. My face warms. "I only ask because I'm moving there at the end of August." At this, her eyes brighten. "You're moving to Seattle?" I nod. "I'm going to grad school." Her face has softened; she seems genuinely interested. "Really? That's great, Bella." The sound of my name coming out of her mouth surprises me. It's a friendly gesture - oddly friendly. "What are you going to be studying?" My fingernails pick at the edge of the counter. "English lit." Rosalie's eyes focus on something over my shoulder, and I twist my head to see Edward coming through the front door. I smile; he smiles back. The blade of Rosalie's knife cuts through the vegetable's flesh and hits the cutting board with a sharp, short thwack. Turning back to her, I see that the lines of her face are hard again. "Edward coming with you?" she asks, her eyes cast down. The tone of her voice is not one of genuine interest. In fact, this last question has an edge. But her tone is a secondary concern. I can feel my face heat up. This isn't something Edward and I have discussed. I know for certain he's not coming with me this fall, but beyond that, I don't know what will happen. "No, I'm staying here," Edward says quietly. And though I hate to admit it, something in me is disappointed with his answer. There's a finality to it that indicates that he hasn't even considered it a possibility. Not that he should. We've known each other for less than two months; moving to Seattle with me would be ridiculous. Even staying together when I move is something of a stretch. Rosalie seems to relax at his answer. She nods, her lips pursed. I give up trying to talk to her and head outside. On the deck, Jasper and Alice are still struggling with the propane tank.

Without saying anything, I trot down the stairs and head up the path that leads away from the house. I can hear Edward behind me. When we're out of earshot and eyesight, I slow down. Edward puts his chin on my shoulder and his arms around my waist. "Ever had sex outside?" he asks, pushing at me with his hips. I laugh. "What do you think Emmett and I were doing out here last night? Looking for firewood?" Edward pinches my side and I jump, laughing some more. He lets go of my waist and grabs my hand, pulling me up the trail. Holding his hand makes me feel warm and stupid all over; I like it. There's a steep rise and then the trees clear out some around an outcropping. The view is limited, but beautiful just the same. Edward sits down on a rock and pulls me down next to him. "This is nice," he says quietly. I murmur my agreement. We don't say anything; just sit there. The pad of Edward's thumb skims over the skin of my index finger. It feels good; it makes me want to take off my clothes. I wonder if maybe we should talk more and screw around less, but the screwing around feels too good. I should say something, so I do. "I'm moving next month. In like, six weeks. Less than." "I know." That's it. Just, "I know." Something hot festers in my gut. It's harder to take slow, deep breaths. Edward doesn't say anything for a long time. Then, "I wish I could go with you." "I wish you could, too," I say. And I do. But it's a stupid thing to say, because we barely know each other - at least, this is what my good sense tells me. We barely know each other. Things are moving too fast. I can't know that this is what I want, not yet. Neither can Edward. "I could stay," I tell him. As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I wish I could take them back, because no, I can't stay. Staying would mean putting off something I've worked hard for. And getting into this school once doesn't mean I could get in again. Staying would make me the kind of girl I am not. And I don't even want to stay; I want to move to Seattle and meet new people and take classes and write papers and wander around the city on my own. I don't know why I've said this. Edward is shaking his head, just slightly. "You can't say stuff like that to me, Bella." Now I'm curious. "Why not?"

"Because," he says, dragging his foot back and forth through the dirt. "Because I don't want you to go and I don't know if I could tell you to go if you really wanted to stay." My heart beats faster. I want him to want me to stay; I'm a terrible person. I want to be wanted. I want him to want me. It makes me feel sick and excited at the same time. Though it kills me to admit this, I think that if he asked me not to go, I wouldn't. I would stay in this small town and shove books around on shelves and fuck my beautiful boyfriend and not give a shit about Seattle or school. I think. "You're right." I squeeze his hand. "I'm sorry I said that. It's not that I don't want to, it's just I can't. You know?" Edward lets go of my hand and puts his arm around my shoulders. "I know." Ducking my head, I lean over and hug him. "Because I love you and I want to stay with you, or I want you to come with me. Even if I know you can't." I've been wanting to tell him, been wanting to say those words to him for a while now, but I could never get them past my clumsy lips. Not until now. "Seattle isn't so far away," I continue when he doesn't say anything. "I know it would be hard, but I'd like to try." What is it that we're talking about? I want to say exactly what I'm thinking, but it's hard. I want to know beforehand that he wants what I want. "I could come home some weekends. You could visit me whenever you wanted." My arm falls away from his body and back into my lap. "Is that what you want?" His voice is hopeful and scared. What I want is to hole up somewhere with him and not have to think about these things. "I want to be with you," I say, just above a whisper. "Me, too." Now I look at him. "You do?" He nods, his mouth forming a hesitant half-smile. And just like that, things feel settled, even though we've hardly said anything. The sun slides down the flat of the sky, and we sit. * "You have to be quiet, Bella," Edward whispers into my mouth. We're lying sideways across the mattress to keep the headboard from knocking against the wall. He's barely inside me, barely moving, but it feels good just the same. Then, without warning, he quickly pushes himself all the way inside. The sound that comes out of me is involuntary.

"Shh..." But he keeps moving that way, deep and fast. It's hard not to make noise at first. I close my eyes and let my arms hang over the edge of the bed. It feels good like this, when he lays me out and fucks me hard, when he does what he wants with me. In reality, it feels good every way. When I'm on top and he doesn't have to do a damn thing but lie there; when we roll around and push and pull at each other; when we're sweet and slow. After, he sprawls out on top of me. His breath is sticky and hot on my neck and face, and his sweaty hair presses into my cheek. "You love me?" he whispers. "Yes." I open my eyes. "Tell me." It's not a command or a pleading whine. It's a simple request. "I love you," I say. He makes a small noise in the back of his throat. "Tell me again." He sounds like a little kid asking for a repeat of a bedtime story. "I love you." "I love you, too." My insides feel ready to burst. It seems like such a simple thing, loving somebody. But it feels too good to be simple. Or, maybe that's what's good about it - that if feels like everything but nothing at all at the same time. It feels easy, loving him. It feels like there's no way I could not do it. He's asleep a few minutes later, and I lay underneath him until the sweat and heat are no longer comfortable. "Edward," I whisper, gently pushing at him. "Edward," I say again, louder this time. "I have to go to the bathroom." Mumbling in half-sleep, he rolls away from me. In the dark, I find my clothes and get dressed. The house is quiet; the water running in the pipes when I flush the toilet sounds like a freight train. It's nearly two in the morning, but I'm not tired. In the living room, I stand in front of the window and stare out. The wind has picked up and whips the tops of the trees back and forth. I have the sudden urge to talk to Mike, but it's far too late on the East Coast to call him. It's been a few weeks since I've talked to him, and I wonder what he'd think of all of this. The last time we spoke we hadn't talked much about Edward. We'd talked about Charlie and his

disapproval, and we'd talked about Mike coming to visit me in Seattle in the fall. But that was it. Somewhere toward the back of the house, someone coughs. I look over my shoulder, but no one emerges from the bedrooms. Walking to the sink, I get myself a glass of water and go to bed. ~*~

Chapter Eighteen "Push me?" Bella lays back in the swing, her head flipped over to look at me. Her hair lightly brushes the dirt on the ground. "Kay." She sits up and I gently grip her shoulders. Rocking back and forth, I work up some momentum, then step back and push only when her body swings toward me. Pumping her legs, Bella works her way up into the air, her hair whipping around her face. "Higher!" I laugh and comply, putting my whole body into it. Eventually, I step away and watch her pendulum arc go higher and higher. At the top of her swing, the chain goes a little slack before she descends. "Don't fall," I caution. Bella hoots. "How far do you think I'll go if I jump?" Careful not to step in her path, I take a seat on the next swing over. "Pretty far. Then we'll have to go to the hospital so they can reset your leg. And your arm. And your neck." "Ha ha." The first "ha" sounds right in my ear as she swings past. The second one gets sucked up and away with her. She stops moving her legs, content just to glide along. After a while, her feet drag across the dirt beneath the swing. Then she stops. Planting her feet on the ground, she pushes herself sideways, swinging close to me. "Heya." The next time she gets close I lean down and kiss her quickly. "Hi." "Aren't you going to go?" she asks, nodding her head at my swing. I shake my head. "Nope."

Bella shrugs and occupies herself with twisting in a circle, the chain above her head winding tight. Lifting her feet, she spins out. "Oh, God. Can't do that again." She blinks rapidly. "If you're gonna puke, could you do it in the other direction?" She makes a face at me. "Such compassion." I just smile. The rain picks up and we go sit side by side on top of one of the picnic tables in the park's shelter. "So you're agnostic, right?" Bella looks at me funny. And why not? The question is out of the blue. "Yep. I've told you that, right?" she double-checks. She's right; we've had this conversation before. "You did," I say, occupying myself with getting out a cigarette and lighting it. "I'm just kind of getting stuck on this whole higher power bullshit." "Right." We've also talked about this. Her eyes watch my face expectantly, waiting for me to continue. "I don't know. I'm just annoyed by it." She raises an eyebrow. "Annoyed at the concept of having a higher power, or annoyed that you're having trouble finding one?" "Both. I don't know," I say again. "Huh." She's quiet for a moment. "You talk to Jasper about this?" "Yeah. He told me to keep working. To ‘expand my options' or something." I curve my fingers into quotes when I say this. Bella grins. "That sounds like something he would say." "What would you do?" I ask. "If I were trying to find a higher power for AA?" I cock my head and half-shrug. "Sure. Or if you had to define what you believed about it, about a higher power." Scrunching up her face, she thinks about this for a little while. "Well, I can't really say. I guess I would...I guess I would probably make my higher power some kind of...balance...?" She gives me an apologetic grin. "Like how most religions think life or consciousness or your soul or whatever lasts longer than your body, but there's also that thing - that law - in science, the one about, um, energy."

I shake my head. This is something I should remember, but don't. "The uh, the..." She snaps her finger, trying to remember. "Thermodynamics! Right? Right. The first law of thermodynamics, I think it is. It says energy can't be created or destroyed, it just changes form." I nod. "Yeah, yeah." I recognize what she means now. "And those things aren't the same thing, but they're close, you know? Like a soul goes to a heaven or it goes to another body or it hangs out and bothers all the people it used to know. Energy doesn't go away either, it just moves around doing different stuff." She shrugs, scraping her fingernail across a knuckle on the opposite hand. "So it's...balanced. Or, if someone dies, it's not like they're just gone. Because whether you believe that person is having an afterlife or being reincarnated, or if you think that their body decomposes and that that energy is now being used in other places - maybe to feed a tree or something nothing's gone away or been destroyed, it's just shifted." Hugging her legs, she rests her cheek on her knee and looks up at me. "Does that make sense?" "It does." I'm frequently surprised by her. She's young, and there's something startlingly innocent about her, but she's got a center that I envy. "I mean, I don't know how that translates to what you're doing, if it does at all." "No, it's a good theory. I just, I keep thinking that things aren't balanced yet, maybe. Or it's like karma or something." Now she looks confused. "What do you mean?" "Like I've done some nasty shit to people, and maybe that made everything out of whack, and now I'm just waiting for it to come back around to me. Like retribution or penance or something." I sound like an asshole, saying this. "So you think you're going to be punished for something?" "Maybe." I flick my cigarette butt onto the concrete patio. "I'll pick it up later, promise." Bella just grins at me and reaches out to circle her hand around my ankle. I don't continue until she squeezes my leg. "It just doesn't, I don't know, seem fair that nothing ever happened to me." Thinking about the long list of people I'd fucked with makes my heart speed up. I take a deep breath. "Nothing ever happened to you?" Bella sounds confused. "Well, not anything major," I mumble. Sitting up and narrowing her eyes like she can't understand me, she sucks in her cheek, probably biting on it. It's the thing she does when she's anxious or perplexed.

"You've had the shit beat out of you how many times? Too many to count, I think you said. Somebody broke your hand; somebody cut you with a bottle; somebody hit you with a lamp and dislocated your shoulder. Right?" "Yeah," I admit. "And your house was broken into?" "My old place, yeah." "More than once." "Yes." "Okay." She licks her lips. "So people took your stuff, your drugs, your money. Tires slashed a couple of times; your windows and mirrors busted. And you've been arrested, and almost OD'ed, what, twice?" I nod. "Something like that." These things sound a lot worse coming out of her mouth and bunched all together. "A few pregnancy scares, a few STDs..." She gestures with her hands. This I definitely don't want to talk about. "And your aunt and uncle kicked you out of their house." "Yes," I say shortly, wanting her to get to the point. "And you don't talk now, right?" "You know we don't," I snap. "Is this listing of the events of my shit life going somewhere?" Bella colors a little and looks down at her feet. "I'm just saying, I'm just pointing out that bad things have happened to you. Sorry." I don't say anything right away, and we sit on the picnic table watching the rain drip off of the eaves. "I didn't mean to make you feel bad," she says eventually. "I probably shouldn't be so cavalier talking about those things. It's your life, not mine." Her apology makes me feel guilty, but I'm still irritated. I know I was the one who told her all those things - and I did it freely and she never pushed; I offered this information up. At the same time, her saying all of it out loud is a reminder that she has all of those indiscretions, those crimes, those sick and sad moments of my life rolling around in her head all the goddamn time. That she could recall any of them at any given moment. That she could be saying "I love you" and remembering some story I told her about the list of girls who'd thought - if only for a short while - that they were going to have my kid. I don't like it. It's too much; it's too close.

"It's fine." Turning to look at her, I force a smile. "It's not like it isn't true." She nods. "It's just, you know, I didn't ever get punished for what I did or had to answer to anyone. Not really." Another nod. "But maybe," she begins, tentative. "But maybe that's not always how it works. I know that you...that you hurt. I know you feel guilty. Maybe that's part of how it balances out. Maybe it doesn't have to be about the cops or jail time or those kinds of direct, quantifiable things." She pauses. "Not that you can't try to make those things right, if you feel you need to or you should. Maybe it's both." "Maybe." I don't want to talk about this anymore. Bella reaches out and grips the back of my belt, pulls herself over until she's pressed up against me. I can feel her chin in my arm. "You're a good person, Edward." Her voice cracks. My heart rate jacks up again. "Not all the time." "You're good to me," she says. "Nobody else..." She pushes her forehead into my arm so I can't see her face. "Nobody else makes me feel this good." I swallow and my stomach clenches in a nervous ache. My body feels loose and heavy at the same time, like I can't move and even if I could get up, I'd fall to the ground. I want to push her away; I want to pull her closer. Finally, I loop my arm around her shoulders. "I'm sorry," she mumbles. I breathe into her hair. "What are you sorry for?" "I didn't mean to make you upset." My cheek rubs against the top of her head. "You didn't." A minute passes then Bella sits up straight. "Maybe I'll make Leonard Cohen my higher power," I joke. In spite of herself, she smiles. When I nudge her with my arm, she blushes but pushes back at me. "I could build a shrine in my apartment." At this she laughs out loud. "You do have a lot of his albums." "And a t-shirt," I point out. "That too." She smiles and tosses her hair out of her face.

I grab her knee and slide my hand up her thigh. Twisting my fingers down between her legs, I push my hand up e seam of her jeans to the place where she's warm. She blushes deeper and huffs a little breath. Maybe I'll make your pussy my higher power," I tell her. Bella laughs behind closed lips. "I'll let it make all of my decisions for me." She snorts. "Like that doesn't happen already." "True." "Good thing it's a benevolent god." "Is it?" I tease. "I don't know." She raises her eyebrows, skeptical. "It pretty much lets you do whatever you want, right?" I grin. "Yeah it does." Trying not to laugh, she rolls her eyes. "Well. There you go." Then, her face breaks out into a broad smile. "God. I love you so much it makes me stupid," she says. Her eyes meet mine and I laugh. Leaning over, I kiss her all over her face. "I think I might like you stupid." "Oh yeah?" "Yeah." She fixes her eyes on me, challenging. "You like stupid women?" "I like smart ones I can make stupid," I tease. Rolling her eyes again, Bella tries to push me away, but I grab her around her waist and force her back onto the picnic table. My body rolls over and nearly covers hers. "This is a public place," she reminds me. "People bring their children here." I palm her breast with my hand. "Sex is natural." She laughs. With one hand, she pushes my hair away from my forehead. It's something she does frequently, but it always feels so gentle. It's hard to look at her when she looks at me this way; it's nearly impossible to look away. "You're so lovely," she says quietly. "Why are you so lovely?" My face feels warm.

Her fingertip brushes across my brow. "Sometimes I think I must be the luckiest person in the world, that you want me." This lack of pretense - how she sometimes says things so honest - it makes me feel raw inside. I wish I could speak so simply and so genuinely and not care the way she seems not to care. Lifting her up from the table, I brush the dust and bits of grass, leaves, and twigs from her shirt. I offer her my hand, and we walk through the rain to my car. * Bella wants to sleep at her place - at Alice's place. We've been doing this lately when Alice stays at Jasper's. It's got something to do with her father, the father I refuse to meet. She tells me he knows about us, asks me if I want to come by her house some day. Her face scrunches up with hurt and confusion when I tell her no for the second time. But then she smiles - a sweet, understanding smile - and it makes me feel worse. She doesn't understand, but she's trying. She won't ever understand, no matter what I say. If I could get drunk, if I could get high, I'd meet her father. I could be charming and relaxed, and I would say and do all the right things. I can't meet her father, not now, maybe not ever. There isn't a way I can imagine this will ever be possible, her dad and me in the same room and him not wanting to murder me. So I force myself to lay next to her in this strange bed, in a room I've spent little time in, and I don't sleep. Bella's breathing is heavy next to me, and all I want to do is get up, get dressed, and get out. But I stay. This is my atonement. Her face is so relaxed when she sleeps. It's like looking at the face of someone I don't know. I love her. I need her now with a ferociousness that makes my stomach hurt. She doesn't say things to me when I know she wants to. Not all the time, anyway. Sometimes I see her mind working behind those eyes, but she won't tell me what she's thinking. And I need to know. I need to know what's going on her head. I need to know if she's going to leave me, if she doesn't want me anymore, if she thinks this is all a mistake. I don't know and the not knowing is killing me. I don't want her to go to Seattle; I want her to stay here with me. Because I'm insatiable. I'm a needy fucking child who only thinks about himself. I swallow and stare up at the ceiling fan. Its blades circle in a steady rhythm, and the moving air dries out my eyes. Blinking, I shift onto my side, away from Bella. She's going to go and she's going to meet other men. And these men will know things about the things she knows; these men won't have despicable pasts they have to keep secret, and they'll be able to meet her father and shake his hand and say the right things at the right times. I pull my legs up and tuck a hand between my knees. Why can't I sleep?

But this is a stupid question. I know very well why I can't sleep. Because this room is strange and the bed is different and the girl next to me is going to wake up one day and she's going to know. She's going to know that I'm not right, that something in me is all wrong. And she'll leave me. I know this. I know this and I hate it. Bella doesn't understand this yet. She thinks she could love me forever; she thinks this is the best it could ever be. And it is, for me. But not for her. I can't do better and it's hard for me to imagine how she could do worse. She's leaving in three weeks. My stomach knots. Three more weeks and then I'll see her only on the weekends and school vacations. I can't do that. I can't not have her near me. It's hard enough now going three days without her. The prospect of going weeks without being able to touch her or see her or have her close by when I need it terrifies me. I want a drink. I want at least a drink. I can get through three days, three days is like nothing if I know there's something on the other side. And why is she leaving? I know why she's leaving, know why she has to go. She says she loves me and she's leaving. This is not how this is supposed to go. She could stay. She's offered to stay. All I have to do is tell her I want her to. I just have to say it and she won't leave. Or we could go next year, together. Next year when I've been better longer and when no one will tell us it's too fast. Next year when the prospect of the pounding and pressure of a city and all its people and sounds and temptation won't overwhelm me. I should've never even said hello. I roll onto my back but that leaves my chest exposed and the weight is there immediately. Another quarter turn and now I'm facing Bella. I'm angry, looking at her. Angry for how this makes me feel. I want to shake her awake so I'm not alone here in the dark. I want her to open her eyes and tell me she loves me and that she'll never, ever leave. And then I can believe that she won't, and then maybe I'll believe I'm good enough and I won't fuck all of this up. I'm shifting onto my stomach when she wakes up. "Edward?" "Mm." Turning my face, I see her bleary-eyed and barely coherent, her cheek raised from her pillow. "You okay?" Her head is still elevated but her eyes close again. "Can't sleep." The corner of her mouth flexes in an almost-smile. "Poor baby," she says softly, her hand sliding up the sheet to my face. The backs of her fingers stroke my cheek. The movement is unsteady; it stops and starts. She's falling asleep again. I grab her hand with my own and twist it, kissing her palm. Another twitch of a smile graces her face.

"Bella," I say when her head touches the pillow. She doesn't hear me. I try again, louder this time. "Bella." I reach over and scratch her head with my fingertips. Her eyes open, but now her face is confused, irritated. "Hm?" I don't know what I want or why I'm not letting her sleep. Instead of saying anything, I turn onto my side and move across the mattress to get closer to her. She smiles and turns away so I can spoon her. Something in me wants to talk to her like this - in the dark where she can't see my face - but I don't say anything. My hand runs up and down her leg. She sighs and settles back into me. Like this, she makes sense to me. When I touch her or kiss her or fuck her, it makes sense. Lowering my head, I kiss her shoulder, then her neck. Bella shifts and makes another little noise. So I put my mouth on her again, lick the spot where her neck and shoulder meet. I know she likes this. A small, startled giggle comes from her throat. I put my mouth on her ear; I use my tongue. The sound that comes out of her this time isn't anywhere near laughter. Her body presses into mine, and she's awake now. She's rubbing her ass up and down on me, taking quick little breaths when I kiss her neck. Then, I need to fuck her. I can't think of anything else but that, of being inside her and listening to the sounds she makes. My hands fumble with her underwear and roll her onto her stomach. She immediately tips her hips up a little, knowing what I want, and although it makes me want her more, it also breaks my heart a little. I don't bother to take my underwear off, just push it down enough to pull out my dick. One hand slides beneath her and rubs her clit until she cums. When she's sated, I thrust into her roughly - listening to her cry out and feeling her shake. Her hands reach back and clutch blindly at my hips. I make her feel this way; I make her make these beautiful noises; I make her hot and slick; I make her cum - with my mouth, my fingers, my dick. I do this to her - no one else. This is what I can give her. I can give her my body and I can give her orgasms and I can pray that these things are enough. * "We missed you on Monday," Jasper says. There's nothing in his tone to suggest anger or disappointment or disapproval. And yet, his words ignite my temper. "Yeah. Sorry. Couldn't make it." I rub my jaw, take a drag from my cigarette. "You out with Bella?" A perfectly logical question, but it makes me want to get up and leave. "No." I fight to keep my voice level. "She went home Sunday night. Like she always does," I say, not bothering to keep the sarcasm out of the last sentence.

"Oh." That fucking innocuous tone again. "You haven't missed a meeting since I've known you. I just assumed..." Now he's beating around the bush, and this irritates me more because Jasper doesn't do that. He doesn't push or pry unless it's necessary, and he generally doesn't fucking insinuate. And that's all this conversation is. Insinuation and accusation. "I didn't fucking feel like going to a meeting, okay?" The words catapult out of my mouth. Jasper takes a moment to consider this. "When you don't feel like going is probably when you should go." "I know," I spit out, almost before he finishes. "Okay." He's backing off. "I had shit to do," I mumble. This is not really true. I'd reorganized my books. Or, I'd tried to. I'd taken them all off the shelves and attempted to arrange them by genre, but I'd gotten distracted flipping through them and now stacks of books cover my floor. "How's work?" The same questions all the damn time. "Fine." "How are things with Bella?" I suppress the urge to sigh. "Bella's fine." He doesn't immediately respond to this. Then, "I know Bella's fine. I just saw her this weekend. I asked how things were with Bella." At least now he's got the good sense to be getting pissed at my bad attitude. I rein in the asshole fighting to get out of me. "She's leaving in a couple of weeks," I say, realizing as I say it that this response doesn't answer the question either. "Right." Dropping my nearly exhausted cigarette on the ground, I grind the cherry out under my heel. "Have you talked about what's going to happen when she leaves?" "We're staying together," I respond immediately, but he already knows this. Truthfully, we haven't discussed much more beyond that. Both Bella and I are acting as if nothing is going to change. "I can get you the locations of some meetings near Bella's place if you give me the address. I know quite a few people there." He's so unbearably helpful. And I'm an ungrateful shit. "Thanks."

It's started to rain again, but neither of us makes a move to leave or to seek shelter inside the church. I know there's more to this conversation than Jasper is letting on, and I just want it over with. "I'm not going to jerk you around, Edward," he says. "I'm worried about you." "No need to be." "You missed a meeting," he points out. "One meeting." I'm bitter. "One meeting out of how many have I been to since January?" Jasper doesn't waste time. "Did you have a drink?" Twisting my head around, I finally make eye contact with him. This is insulting. "No, I haven't had a drink. And I haven't gotten high, if you're going to ask." "It's a legitimate question," he responds good-naturedly. "If I were a fucking junkie asshole," I say without thinking. Hot shame sears my belly. "Sorry," I mumble, before he can say anything. Those without stones... "I find that going to more meetings helps," he offers. "Helps what?" "Getting through times like this." I'm contrary for the sake of being contrary. "And what kind of time is this?" "It would be difficult for me to have such an important part of my support system moving away." I don't like how he says this, calling Bella part of my support system. She's not a fucking support system; she's a goddamn person. "It's fine," I say blithely. I stand up and turn around, offer Jasper my hand. He looks confused. I'm usually not the one to leave first, that's not our dynamic. "I'm getting tired. Think I'll head home." Jasper takes my hand and shakes it, his face betraying his wariness. He stands up. "I'll give you a lift." "I can walk," I say, my words short and clipped. "I know you can, but it's raining." My laugh is sour. "It's always raining." "Right." He doesn't sound defeated; he just sounds like a man who knows he can't win. "See ya," I say and turn away.

"Edward." Sighing, I turn around. "Look, you don't always have to talk to me, you know." "I know." Jasper watches my face carefully. "You still have those numbers I gave you?" I know which numbers he's talking about - numbers of therapists. "Yeah. I have them." "Think about giving one of them a call." He sounds so goddamn optimistic. "Yeah, yeah. I will. I mean, I have." I'm such a liar. Jasper's expression is modestly skeptical. "You have?" Running a hand through my hair, I nod. "Yeah. I've been thinking about it, is what I mean. With Bella leaving and all." "Good for you." So genuine it's painful. "Sometimes it takes a while to find the right fit, so if you don't like the first one, keep trying." "Sure, yeah." I say, waving my hand around dismissively. "I figured." Then, I make the mistake of making direct eye contact with Jasper. He sees right through me and my bullshit, but I've never lied so brazenly before and he seems unsure of how to address this. "Gotta go," I tell him. "I'll see you...next Monday, I guess." My feet jog down the steps and onto the sidewalk. "Call me if you need me," he shouts out after me, and I wave my hand above my head in recognition. Bella's already at my place when I get there. She's been coming into town on Wednesday nights to see me. The sight of her truck is a relief. In just a few minutes I can be with her, and then I won't have to think about anything. Her smile is wide and bright and she practically jumps out of the cab. Pressed close to me, she's soft and warm. "Hi," I mumble. Tipping back her head, she looks up at me. "Hi. Beautiful boy." Her eyes are glossy, admiring. Something pushes against my breastbone. We get her bag from her truck and head upstairs. Her hand tugs my hand as we climb the stairs and walk down the hall. She doesn't

let go until I tell her I have to use the bathroom. When I come back to the living room, she lights up. "I missed you," she says. My pulse skips around. "Since Sunday?" I say, trying to be casual and probably failing. She walks over to me. "Mm hm." Again with that sincere smile. "You're pretty," I whisper, leaning down and kissing her. My tongue pushes into her mouth but her lips don't do what they normally do. Or maybe they are moving the same way and I just can't tell. She pulls her head back, laughing a little. It's uncomfortable, her laugh. "I missed you, too," I say, but it comes out sounding like a demand and not an affirmation of what she's said. Bella switches gears. "So I know that you aren't too keen on helping me and my dad move my stuff, but I thought I'd ask one more time, just to check. Because Charlie asked if you were coming, which seemed like a good sign. You could drive separate and everything." My mouth twitches with irritation. I feel hot all over. "I already said I didn't want to meet your dad, Bella. Quit fucking asking." The words spill out of me. She jerks like I've slapped her across the face. "Sorry." And now I'm the asshole and she's the kindhearted young girl who only wants to introduce me to her father, to make me part of her life. I fucking hate that I can't just be fucking normal, and I hate her for doing and saying and asking for things that point this out to me. "Just... I can't keep having the same conversations with you over and over, okay?" She nods, her eyes flicking around. "Okay." There's a moment in which neither of us moves or speaks, and then she touches my arm with her fingers, and I flinch. Her expression is puzzled. "Are you okay?" "Yes. I've been fine all day," I say. The corners of her mouth turn down and her eyes, her eyes are just too fucking sad for me to look at. So I turn away and go to sit down on the couch. Bella stands where I've left her, and I can feel the anxiety and confusion coming off of her. She turns around and walks over to the couch, sitting down on the armrest. "You want to do something?" Her voice is tiny, almost scared. My stomach hurts. "It's too late to do anything," I say flatly. The momentum I feel is sickening. I'm barreling down on her, and I can't stop myself. "We could play cards," Bella offers.

It feels like something is sitting on my chest, something heavy that I can't move. I swipe at my breastbone with my hand. "I think I just want to go to bed." Why am I saying this? I'm not tired. It's barely eight o'clock. "Oh." She looks so confused. I want her to understand. I want her to get it without me having to say a thing. "Do you, I mean do you want to...or should, should I go? To Alice's?" I know what she wants. She wants me to tell her to stay - to sleep, to fuck, both. "Whatever you feel like," I say. The sick feeling in my stomach is spreading. It's making my limbs heavy. Neither of us says anything. The silence stretches out over a minute. I'm just sitting on the couch. Just sitting and breathing. I'm not thinking, not really. My face feels numb. "Did I...?" Bella swallows audibly. "Do you want me to go?" Her mouth trips over her words. She looks at me, and I can't stand her eyes on me. I shrug. Bella exhales, and a strange sound accompanies it. A short, surprised sound. "Just for tonight, or do you..." Her voice sounds strange - thick, like it's underwater. My heart is pounding. It's pounding in my chest and the blood is throbbing behind my eyes and I feel sick and powerful and angry and confused. And there's a strange pulsing between my legs and I can't understand why that would be there now. "You're leaving soon." My voice is monotone. I want this over; I want her gone. I can't be in the same room as this, as her, as the sad, hurt look on her pretty face. The look I put there. It's my fault, and she's the marker of it. She's the thing saying over and over again that this is the only thing I know how to do - to hurt and wreck and ruin. "But you..." I manage a look at her face, and now there's nothing. Her face is blank, her dead eyes staring at the floor. When she speaks again it's a whisper. "I don't understand what's happening." For the longest time, I don't answer. But she's not moving, and I know she won't go until I say something. "I shouldn't have done this." I know it's me speaking, but I feel like someone sitting beside myself. I feel like an observer, not an actor. "I have to, I have to focus on my own life right now. I can't be worried about a relationship."

"You don't have to worry about me," she say immediately, her voice still quiet and strained. "What would you worry about? I - " But she stops herself. Her eyes close. "It's too much of a distraction. I need to be focusing." What am I supposed to be focusing on? I don't know. I don't know. "Are you breaking up with me?" she whispers. "I think - " I begin. Bella cuts me off when she turns her head. Her eyes are blazing with hurt and anger. "Are you breaking up with me?" she asks again, this time her voice is steady and clear. I swallow, not blinking. "Yes." And if I didn't know it before this moment, I do now. This is what I'm doing. Her lower lip shakes a little, stilling only when she clamps it down with her teeth. Above her eyes, her brow shifts down. Confusion warps the features of her face. "I don't understand what's happening," she repeats. Her eyes stay locked on me. "You love me." She states this as a matter of fact. I don't reply. Getting up from the armrest, she sits down on the couch cushions, turns her body toward me. "You love me" she insists. She's too near me on the couch. I could reach out and touch her, or she could reach out and touch me, but I can't let her. If she touches me I won't say no to her. I can't say no to her. She feels too good; she's too kind. I'd fall into her and let myself feel good and safe and taken care of and I can't. I can't do this right now. Not with her. I don't understand this, how I can want her to never, ever leave this apartment and how I want her as far away from me as she can get. It makes my head fuzzy. My mouth is dry. "You have to go," I say. "What? Why?" She sounds frantic. "We can talk about this." If we talk about this, I won't do it. I'll give in. I won't be able to say "no" or say "leave." I shake my head. "You have to go," I say again, my voice cracking. Standing up, I take a step away from her. Bella stands up, too and walks toward me. She embraces me, and it hurts where her hands and arms and face touch me. My arms hang dumb at my sides. "Please," she whispers. "Please don't." I grunt like some kind of wounded animal and twist my head back and away.

"Please. I love you. I love you so much. Please." She's not crying. She sounds like she's dying and she's begging me. I've made this sweet, strong, beautiful girl beg. I've made her do this because I'm sick and I'm wrong. My hands grip her shoulders and I push her away. "You have to go." I can't even look at her. "You have to go. Now." I can barely breathe. I need her gone. I need it now. "Or what?" Her mouth is screwed up tight, stubborn. "Just...I can't. Please. You have, you have to leave. I can't." I feel like I'm going to be sick. I need to sit down. Her face darkens. The anger is back again, twisting her upper lip into a sneer. She doesn't speak, just walks toward the door and picks up her bag. With her hand on the doorknob, she hesitates. She doesn't look back at me, but she waits. And she looks so small and fragile just then that I almost tell her to stop, to come back. But I don't. She opens the door, slips out, and shuts it quietly behind her.

Chapter Nineteen I'm sitting on the edge of the couch when Alice and Jasper come home. Alice is laughing; Jasper's voice is low. They stop short when they walk into the living room and see me sitting there. I've turned on the television, but the volume is too low to hear what's going on. I haven't bothered to turn it up. My shoes are still on my feet; I'm clutching my keys in one fist. Right now the terrible aching pit inside of me is bearable. If I move, I know it won't be. "Bella?" Alice's face is curious, then concerned. "What are you doing home?" "I..." My mouth is sticky. I need a drink of water. My eyes meet Alice's eyes and there's nothing else to do. I just say it. "Edward broke up with me." It's so simple, really. It's such an easy thing to say. "What?" Her expression is the perfect combination of shocked and aghast. The look on Jasper's face is one of resignation. He looks like a man who could say I told you so, though he never, ever would. Alice is at my side in a flash. She takes my hand. I am grateful for this hand. Grateful even though it lights up the misery inside of me. Even though it knocks me conscious back into my hurt.

"He broke up with me," I repeat then blink. It takes effort to blink, and that seems ridiculous. "Oh, Bella," Alice says, and in that moment her voice sounds so much like my mother's that a sob convulses my chest. The sound that comes out of me is like I'm crying, except that I can't cry. I want to. I just can't. Alice wraps me into a hug and I press my forehead into her shoulder, keeping my eyes shut tight. I don't want to open them up. She smells nice and she's warm. When I lift my head, her eyes are no less filled with concern. "Do you need anything?" she asks. I swallow, noticing again how dry my throat is. "A drink of water?" "Absolutely." She's on her feet and into the kitchen before I can sit fully upright. Jasper follows right behind, and I'm left alone. There's the sound of a heavy glass coming to rest on the countertop then Jasper reappears. He doesn't come close to me, but his eyes fix on mine. "I'm so sorry, Bella," he says, and I can tell that he is. This isn't the "I'm sorry" one gets when someone doesn't know what to say. This is the "I'm sorry" one gets from someone who truly means it. Alice comes out of the kitchen, and he says a few quiet words to her, tells us goodbye, and leaves. I drink half the glass of water in one, long swallow. It's so cold it makes my teeth ache. "When did this happen?" she asks. "Tonight. An hour ago." Only an hour ago. It already feels like much longer. "I don't understand," Alice says, the corners of her mouth curving down. "Things were fine on Sunday, right?" "I thought so." I can't understand this. This makes no sense. "Is he..." She pauses. "Is he drinking again?" I shake my head, even though the insignificant movement jostles something inside of me. "I don't think so." "Jesus," she breathes.

The dull ache turns into a gnawing pit in my chest. It hurts. Why does it hurt? Not just my brain, not just my heart. It hurts right in the center of me, in my stomach. I feel like I've been punched in the gut; I can't get enough air. An exaggerated inhale stutters past my lips and teeth and I wince. It hurts to take a deep breath. It's a burn eating away at my flesh. Pitching forward on the couch, I cross my arms across my belly. I can't sit upright with this inside of me. "You okay?" Alice asks. "What can I do?' I shake my head because there's nothing anyone can do. No one apart from Edward. He can fix this. He can come over or he can call and he can make it better. All he has to do is stop being this stranger to me. All he has to do is act the way he's always acted, sound the way he's always sounded, say the things he's always said. I can't understand this. "He talked to me like...he looked at me like he didn't even know me." I tilt my face to Alice. "Why would he do that?" Her hand touches my hunched shoulder. "I don't know, sweetheart." "I don't understand how this happened," I say, and I hear my voice in my own ears. I sound crazy. I sound like I'm too far gone. Why doesn't anyone tell you this? Why don't they tell you that this is what happens? That this is what always happens. That something is there one minute and the next it's gone and you can't stop it. You're one half of something, but you have no say in what happens. It's all about you and yet you have no choices. I don't understand this. My arms squeeze around my torso. If I can apply enough pressure, maybe the aching will stop. I want to cry - I feel I am on the verge of tears - but I can't get anything to come. "I don't know either," Alice says, and though nothing productive can come of what she's said, this makes me want to hug her. I'm not crazy. I'm not the only one who thinks this is insane, that this is not right. He loves me. He loves me and he told me to go away and I can't understand this. "He loves me, right? How could he love me and not be with me? Why would someone do that? I don't understand how a person could do that." My voice is a few notes above its normal register; the words rush into each other. I'm speaking too loudly. "I don't understand it either, Bella." She squeezes my shoulder. "Sometimes...sometimes people don't do things that make sense." I look at her. "Did Jasper ever do this to you?" I don't care if this question steps over a line; I need to know. Alice presses her lips together and shakes her head. She doesn't say anything.

But I push on. "If he can be with you, why can't Edward, why can't - he said he had to focus, I - ." I run out of steam. "He said he had to focus...?" Alice prompts. I nod. "Said he couldn't worry about a relationship. But that...why did he even start anything with me?" I ask, and I can hear my voice getting higher, louder, more hysterical. "I didn't start this," I babble. "He did. He kissed me. He came to my house, he..." Drawing in a deep breath, I try to calm down. "I feel like such an asshole." My voice is low, soft. I do feel like an asshole. I feel dumber and more foolish than I ever have. To trust him, to believe him when he said he loved me. Why did I do that? Why would I believe what he said? "You're not an asshole, Bella," Alice says, tipping her head to the side. After a short pause she speaks again, hesitantly. "He's an addict. He's doing what addicts do." "I know," I say, my response automatic. But the truth is that I don't know. Because even though I know that addicts do these things - these abrupt, nonsensical things - all I can think is that I could never, ever, ever do to him what he's done to me. Because I love him. He must not love me. He can't love me. It hurts to breathe. I didn't know it was going to hurt so much. My insides feel hollowed out. Every time I think of his face - his pretty face twisted with panic and revulsion - it's a fresh kick to the gut. A clean, cold swell of hate rushes through me. Fucking bastard. I whisper it: "Fucking bastard." My lower lip is shaking; I hate that I can't make it stop. "Fucking son-of-a-bitch." I'm louder this time. It makes me feel better. Or, when I'm talking my belly doesn't ache so much. I want to yell and scream and break things. The water glass on the table - I can see myself picking it up and smashing it against the far wall. But I don't. The glass sits dumbly and my hands remain idle. * On Saturday I follow Alice down to her store. I can't sleep and I don't have to be to work yet, and I don't want to be alone. I sit in a chair and flip through her design books. I wish, and not for the first time, that I could do something with my hands to keep them occupied. "I finished your dress, by the way," Alice says, not looking up from her machine. She starts sewing again, and I have to raise my voice so she hears me. "Yeah?" She nods. "About a month ago. I had a couple of hours free."

Settling back in my chair, I don't respond. I suppose if I'd spent more time with her and less time with Edward I would've known this. The sewing machine makes a whirring sound. I stare at the place where the needle moves - lightning fast - spitting out thread. I watch Alice's face; she's concentrating, but looks entirely relaxed. She could probably do this in her sleep. I don't even know why she started sewing or who she learned from. I hardly know anything about her, and I've lived in her home half the time for the last five months or so. She's extended kindness to me, and I don't know if I've done enough to repay that kindness. "Did I ever tell you how Jasper and I met?" Alice asks. I look up, startled. She's stopped sewing. As she carefully extracts the garment from the machine, I shake my head. "No," I reply, unsure of why she's bringing this up now. "I was living in Seattle. Jasper was helping Carl open his new store there." I interrupt. "Carl has a store in Seattle?" Alice gives me a weak smile. "He had one. Mainly rare books and collectibles, that sort of thing. They did everything by themselves - permits, loans, collecting the inventory. They renovated a space in a nice, old building. Painted and decorated. Everything." Her fingers pick at the stitches on the dress's hem. "They went back and forth, traded weeks. So for two or three months, Jasper was spending half of his time in Seattle. That's how I met him - I was working in a jewelry store at the time, and he would come to the coffee shop next door for lunch almost every day." A more genuine smile lifts the corners of her mouth as she remembers. "I started hanging out there when I knew he'd come in. Smiled at him. Eventually got up the nerve to say hello and introduce myself. I kind of threw myself at him, actually." This story makes me feel too many different things. Its sweetness almost makes me want to smile, but all I can think of is meeting Edward - his bewildered face that day in the store; his shyness when we first started talking. Alice takes a breath. "For the two weeks he was in town that month, we ate lunch together almost every day. Then we started meeting up at the end of the day for coffee. I couldn't figure out why he wasn't asking me out. Like on a real date. I could tell he liked me. We got along so well, talked about everything. So one day I just asked." She tells me this story simply, but there's sadness in her voice, too. She picks up a small pair of scissors and snips at an errant thread. "He told me he couldn't. Then he told me about everything - the accident, the pills, rehab. And I was completely stunned. I couldn't really believe it." Alice pushes her index finger against her mouth before speaking again. "He'd been clean for about a year, I think, but said he wasn't ready to date. He told me he wanted to get to know me better. So for the next

couple of months we did. And I tried to be patient. I did. But it was really hard. You know?" She looks at me. I nod. "Yeah, I know." The pain in my chest returns. It makes me want to bend at the waist. It makes me want to fold in on myself. "He was doing so well. The store opened and he was going to take over full time shortly, and Carl was going to stay in Port Angeles, just come in every now and again. Jasper was looking for a place to live fulltime." She brushes carelessly at her hair, a nervous gesture. "So one night we're sitting outside somewhere, and the weather is beautiful, and we're talking and laughing and it's great. And I tell him I wouldn't want to be anywhere else or doing anything other than just sitting with him, and he smiles at me and says ‘me, too.' Then he stops smiling and his face just goes...it goes kind of funny. And he says to me, ‘I wish I was high.'" Her breath hitches in her chest. I can't imagine Jasper saying something like that. Especially not to Alice, and especially not in a moment like that. "That's when I knew." This confuses me. "Knew what?" "That I thought I'd gotten to know him, but I really didn't know him at all. It woke me up, made me think of things completely different. Before I'd just been biding my time, thinking this time limit he'd set for himself was arbitrary. Now I knew that it wasn't just time. That he was trying to get himself together in ways I couldn't even begin to understand." She shrugs. I know what she's trying to tell me. At least, I think I do. That I stumbled into a situation there was no good way out of, and there was nothing I could do to make that different. But this doesn't comfort me, doesn't make me feel better. Because all I can think is that he'd said he'd loved me, and I can't make that make sense with anything else. Everything is wrong; it's backwards. Alice leans back into the chair and continues her story. "So he moved to Seattle permanently, and ran the store by himself, and that's when he started behaving differently." "What do you mean?" She shakes her head. "He was really irritable all the time, and really stressed out. And I remember he was trying to find a regular meeting, but he never liked anyone. There were long hours at the store. Then one night..." There's a pause and she takes a breath. "Then one night I'm hugging him good night and he tries to kiss me." A look of rueful amusement crosses her face, and I wonder why.

"I knew it was all wrong. Because we'd spent so much time talking about waiting and why we couldn't date. For him to just go for it like that, without so much as a conversation beforehand? I knew that something wasn't right. So I asked him what was going on, and the next thing I knew he was telling me how bad he wanted to use, how he felt overwhelmed by work, that he had to travel too much and couldn't find a routine." She stops and crosses one leg over the other, smoothing the dress across her knees. "So he told Carl he couldn't do it, moved back to Port Angeles, went back to managing the store. And eight months later when he said he was ready, I moved here." Alice punctuates this with a shrug. I don't know what to say. I feel so ashamed. I was supposed to be his friend. When he grabbed my hand that night in my room, I should've stood up and walked downstairs, I should've reminded him of all the reasons why it was a bad idea, that he needed more time, that I wasn't going anywhere. But I was greedy; I'd wanted him. I'd wanted him so, so badly and when he'd touched me I couldn't stop him. I wouldn't stop him - not for the world. How could I? He made me feel like no one ever had made me feel. I want to ask her if she thinks I did something wrong, but I don't ask. I'm afraid of the answer. * People are gathering their things and saying goodnight. Seth has turned the music off, and the conversations in the bar overlap into a nonsensical chatter. I lean over my glass and drink my Diet Coke through a straw - no hands. I have to keep my arms across my belly. It feels better that way. The thought of drinking alcohol makes me feel sicker than I already do. The thought of going home to an empty apartment is worse. So I do neither. "You need me to leave?" I ask. Seth just smiles and shakes his head. "Nope. Stay as long as you like." I sit on my stool as the rest of the bar's patrons file out, as the girl who's been waiting tables locks the door behind them, as Seth turns the stereo back up, and they both clean up for the night. After five minutes, I start to feel awkward. "Do you need me to do anything?" Again, Seth smiles. "You can put chairs up on the tables when Katie's done wiping them down, if you want." Grateful to have something to do, I slide down from my perch and start flipping the chairs over and placing them on the tables, seat down. "Do you want to come over?" Seth asks after Katie's left and he's getting ready to shut out the lights.

I shrug. I don't want to fool around; I just want to have another breathing person in the same room as me. I've spent too much time staring at walls, at ceilings, at floors. I'm fucking sick of it. "I'm not going to try anything, Bella," he tells me. "You look like you'd either punch me or start crying if I did." This earns him a small smile. "Come on," he says, gesturing with a tip of his head. "We can just hang out. Braid each other's hair." Momentarily amused, I snort. I can't remember the last time I laughed. And that thought is enough to drain the smile right from my face. When we get to Seth's place, he asks me if I want to get high. I tell him no. This makes me think of Edward, but then again, everything makes me think of Edward. Every man over sixteen and under forty. Every cigarette. Every book. Every pair of work boots. Every other song I hear. Every time I shelve a book or answer a patron's question or just walk into the goddamn store. Every time it rains and I seem to be the only one with an umbrella. Every time I see Jasper. Every time I drink a glass of milk. Every time I drive the 101 between Port Angeles and Forks. Every time I climb the fucking stairs in my house. Every time the phone rings. Every time I look at Charlie. They're all little roads that lead back to Edward. I can't fucking shake him; he's like a ghost. "So you're leaving pretty soon?" Seth asks, pulling a container of orange juice from the fridge and drinking straight from the carton. I nod. "I'm glad I got to see you before then." I feel sick. I don't deserve this kindness from him. After the last time we'd fooled around, I hadn't seen him at all. That was over two months ago. "I'm sorry I just sort of disappeared." Seth just grins his big, goofy grin. "No worries." He seems to genuinely mean it. "So what's the story? You were dating somebody?" I nod again, feeling like I've been punched in the gut. An overwhelming sense of shame and embarrassment washes over me. Yes, I'd dated somebody, and I thought it would last, like every stupid girl thinks it will last. And of course it didn't. Because it never does. And what does it matter? I'm just like everyone else. Why wouldn't my story end the same shit way everyone else's does?

"We don't have to talk about it," he tells me. "But we can if you want." His offer sounds sincere, and I do - I do want to talk about it. But I don't know if I can. "Was he some guy from the bar?" Emphatic, I shake my head no. "He doesn't drink," I say quietly. "Oh." Seth sounds surprised, but I suppose there's no reason he shouldn't be. "Wanna sit down?" He points to the couch. "Want anything to drink?" he asks. "Water?" He gets me a glass then sits down next to me. Close, but not too close. He's a good person - genuine, considerate. We make small talk. I ask him about the bar, how his father is doing. Seth asks about the classes I'll be taking, the place where I'll be living. "Are you going to take your truck?" he asks. I shake my head. "No. It just seems unnecessary. I might bring it back with me some time later, though. It depends on how well I can get around without it." Seth nods. "Well, I have some friends with a garage there. Good guys. If you ever need any work done, let me know." I thank him, and we sit quietly. "This guy - the one I was seeing? - I just..." I don't know why I've started talking. Except that's a lie. I want to talk about it. I want someone to listen. I want another person to validate my feelings, and I am not unaware of how selfish this makes me. "Yeah?" Seth raises an eyebrow. "Have you ever had a moment, when you realized that even though you'd thought you were a good person, you realized maybe you weren't?" This question seems so obviously pathetic. Seth raises an eyebrow. "What do you mean?" Hesitating before I continue, I push the hair from my face and tuck it behind my ear. "Like you realized that maybe you were selfish, or something." "Everyone's selfish," he replies. "To a certain degree, right?" I half nod, half shrug. "I guess."

"I know I don't know you all that well, Bella, but you seem like a good person to me." When I look at his face, Seth is smiling tentatively. He's such a nice person. Why can't he be the one I want? Why can't I be like all the people I see in movies and on television, or all the people I knew in college? People who throw themselves at the next warm body that comes along; people who can't or won't or don't stop to think about the hurt or the confusion or the sadness; people who are always moving on to something new. Why do I have to be paralyzed by my grief? Why can't I sleep? Why can't I eat? Why does everything remind me of a boy I knew for just a few months? Why does it matter so much that just breathing kills me? Why couldn't he just have kept loving me the way he said he did? Why had that been so hard? "Bella?" Seth looks mildly concerned. "He was an alcoholic," I blurt out. "Oh." Surprise makes Seth sit up a little straighter. "And we weren't supposed to date, you know?" "I know." I cast a curious glance Seth's way. "I'm sort of in the alcoholic business," he says apologetically. "My dad, it's not that he assumes everyone who comes in a lot is an alcoholic. But he was always handing out pamphlets and stuff to some of the hardcore regulars - the guys who come to the bar when it opens and who sit all day. He was big on refusing to serve some people. It caused a lot of trouble sometimes. He even went to Al-Anon a few times." "Really?" Seth nods and cracks his knuckles. "Yeah. Some of the regulars got to be his friends. He was trying to understand." Another wave of anxiety washes over me. It's both cold and hot; it aches and it burns. Guilt is doing strange things to my body. "How long had this guy been sober?" "Seven months, I think." I stare at the glass in my hands. "And he told me he wasn't supposed to date, but we did it anyway." "Yeah?" Seth waits for me to answer.

"Yeah." Everything in me wants to justify why I did what I did. But I don't know if there's an explanation that will make sense to anyone but me. "It's probably for the best," I say. This lie sits bitter on my tongue. "Maybe," Seth responds. "But, why would that make you a bad person?" "Because I want him to want me to help. Help him stay sober, you know. I want him to need me." What I don't say is that I want to be the only person, the only thing that can help. I want him to need me, need me in a way that means he can't stay away from me. I want him to want and to need so bad that he has to beg the way I begged. And I hate myself for this for how selfish and pathetic it is. "God," I breathe. "I sound like a fucking psycho." When I look at Seth, he's got a small smile on his face. "I am a terrible person, aren't I?" He shakes his head. "No, you're not, Bella. You're human. We all act that way sometimes." I smile weakly and take another drink of water. Now that I've said this, I'm embarrassed. My cheeks feel warm; I want to bolt. "When my dad had his heart attack, I thought he would sell the bar," Seth says. "But then he started acting like I was going to run it, like that was what I wanted, like it was the only logical thing to do." He raps his knuckles lightly on the end table to his left. "I just wanted to leave town. Go live with my friends in Seattle, or maybe go to college." He laughs lightly. "But he was so set on this idea that I was taking over the family business..." "Have you tried telling him you want to do something else?" I ask carefully. Seth shakes his head. "Naw. I don't want to give him another heart attack." We smile at that. "But sometimes I think about what would happen if...if he died. I don't think I would stay." I hear what he's not saying: that if his father died, he'd be horribly, terribly free of this obligation. And then I understand what he means when he says we're all that way sometimes. * I'm making packing up my books something of an art form. There are eight boxes - of a size easily held to one's chest, supported by one's forearms - that I've packed and repacked half a dozen times. It's like an elaborate puzzle, and I've finally gotten them all to fit together neatly. There's the hiss and tear of the packing tape as I seal them shut; then there's the faint squeak and acrid smell of the marker as I label each box - BOOKS. "How's it coming in here?" my father asks, standing in the doorway to my room.

"Good. We can move these down if you want." Charlie has borrowed a pick-up from one of his friends, and we've rented a small U-Haul trailer to hitch to the back of it. "I'll do it after dinner." My father is still looking at me, so I turn away and make unnecessary adjustments to the arrangement of the boxes on my floor. "Do you want to go somewhere to eat?" he asks. The tone of his voice attempts innocence, but I know what this is about. Today is the Friday of the last weekend I'm here. I've been done with work since Sunday, but I've spent all of my time here in Forks. He can tell something is up even though I haven't said a word about it. "Maybe." I swallow the nervous spit that's accumulated in my mouth. "I'm not really that hungry." Neither of us says anything for a while. With one foot I push a box over a few inches. "I don't mind if you want to go see your friends, in Port Angeles," he says, and I realize that he isn't sure why I'm here. "I already said goodbye," I say, and my voice hitches. Fuck. I bite at the inside of my lip, the resulting sharp pain keeping me from losing my shit. Desperate to keep from falling apart, I turn away from Charlie and sit on the edge of my bed. Squeezing my eyes shut tight, I fight back against the tears that are coming. And then I just can't. A long, shaking sob comes out of me. I put my hand over my mouth to mute the sound, but it's too late. I want to cry, and the urge to do so is a sharp pain in my throat. It hurts, trying to be quiet; it hurts more than I can say. So I stop trying. With my hand still over my mouth and an arm wrapped around my stomach, I hunch forward on the corner of the bed and I weep. The tears are stinging hot in my eyes, and the pain in my throat subsides only to give precedence back to the horrible ache in my stomach. Then, I feel Charlie's hand on my shoulder, and the bed shifts as he sits down. Twisting, I turn toward my father and I let him embrace me. I cry into his shirt until my face aches and the tears won't come anymore. And when I'm sure I'm done, and the grief recedes, I sit up straight, wiping my eyes with the backs of my hands. "Sorry," I whisper, afraid if I say something more I'll start crying again. "You don't ever have to apologize," Charlie says, his voice rough. The amount of love and gratitude I feel for my father in that moment almost makes me cry again. "I'm gonna order pizza for dinner, okay?"

I nod, forcing a smile. "Sounds good," I say, even though I probably won't be able to eat any of it. Charlie heads downstairs and I go to the bathroom to wash my face. Fifteen minutes later I'm downstairs and there's a knock at the door. "Can you get that?" Charlie asks, busy with something in the kitchen. Thinking it's the pizza guy, I open the door without checking to see who it is. It takes me a few seconds to recognize that the person standing on my doorstep is Mike. "What are you doing here?" I blurt out, not knowing whether to laugh or cry. "I was in the neighborhood," he says. "A little bird told me you needed help moving." "You came to help me -," but I can't finish because I've decided on crying over laughing, and for the second time that afternoon, my face crumples with my tears. I throw my arms around him with so much force I nearly knock him off the porch. Mike doesn't say a thing, just hugs me fiercely and rocks me back and forth until I'm done. Pulling away from him, I wipe my eyes and smile. After dinner, we sit in the living room with Charlie and watch baseball. This is not something that terribly interests me, but sitting in the same room as Mike and my dad, listening to them talk about players and stats, comforts me. When Charlie goes to bed, Mike and I sit out on the steps and talk. "You look like shit," Mike observes. I punch his leg. "Fuck you." He shrugs. "I'm just saying." "I'm getting skinny," I tell him. "Had I known getting your heart ripped out of your chest and stomped on was such an effective diet plan, I would've done it so much sooner," I joke, my voice sarcastic. Mike eyes me carefully. "I'm gonna fucking kill that guy." "Mike..." "What? The guy's a d-bag." Shaking my head, I stare down at my feet. "No, he's not." "Don't defend him," Mike says, disgusted.

"He's got problems. And you, of all people, should be sympathetic," I point out. The pain in my gut has come back, and I regret the food I ate at dinner. Mike doesn't say anything. "And thanks for not saying ‘I told you so'." "Why would I do that?" he asks, confused. "I know you didn't think it was a good idea for me to date him." Rain starts to patter on the porch overhang; a few drops hit my bare legs. "I'm not gonna lie, it's not the greatest idea you ever had. But it's not your fault." Mike pauses like he wants to say something else. "Have you talked to him?" Shaking my head, I tuck my folded hands between my knees. "I don't think he wants to see me. Or talk to me." "Have you tried?" Mike asks. "No. I don't want to bother him." "How is that fair?" "Oh, come on, Mike. You avoid Jessica like the freaking bubonic plague when you two break up or have a fight." Mike makes a face. "For a few days, but I always talk to her at some point." "It's not the same," I say. "Why not?" Coming out of Mike's mouth, the question seems so simple. I'm not sure how to answer it. "Because..." I lick my lips. "Because he told me I had to go, and I... I don't want to bother him." My voice cracks. The look on his face is indignant. "Why does he get to be the only one who decides when you talk? You were in that relationship too, right?" "Yeah, but -" Mike cuts me off. "But nothing. You get to say what you want to say. That's crap, Bella. You should be able to at least respond to what he did and said. At least."

I shake my head back and forth. "It isn't the same. He's trying to stay sober, and if I confront him...I just, I can't make it worse." "So he gets to do whatever he wants because he's got a problem? Bullshit. So he's an alcoholic. Does that mean we all have to tiptoe around him for the rest of his life?" I don't know what to say. What Mike is saying makes sense, but something inside me shrinks up in fear at the thought of looking at Edward again, at seeing his face cold and hard when he talks to me. I want to be able to remember him looking at me like he loved me, like he wanted me. "I know it doesn't make sense," I say. "No, I get it," Mike admits, his voice quieter now. "But I still think it's crap." I shrug. I don't want to talk about this anymore, or at all, really. I feel ashamed and humiliated and angry when I do. I'm not ready to feel that way. Elbowing him in the side, I change the subject. "C'mon. Distract me with your life. You and Stanley having babies together or what?" Mike snorts and rolls his eyes. * Charlie is asleep in his room. Mike is passed out on the couch downstairs. It's well past midnight and I can't sleep. Throwing the covers off, I get up and sit down at my desk. On a plain sheet of college-ruled notebook paper and with a plain ballpoint pen with blue ink, I write a letter. I don't know if I should write "Dear," so I just write "Edward." I write that I miss him. I write that I miss his smile, his kindness, his quiet way of watching and listening. I write that I miss his body and his hands and his mouth. I write that I still don't understand. I write that I am lonely. I write that I wish things were different. I write that I am leaving for Seattle and that I wish he could come with me. I write that I want to be his friend; I'll be his something less if I can't be his something more. I write that I am sorry I couldn't do enough to help him. I write that I am sorry I was selfish. I write that I love him. I write it again. I write it hopelessly, desperately, and unashamed. I write that I know he loves me, too. And now I write that I do understand. I write that I can have patience. I write that if he needs me all he has to do is ask. I write that it doesn't matter when or where or why. I write my new address, my email address, and my phone number, just in case. I write goodbye. I write "I love you." I write my name. In the dark, I creep down the stairs, sealed and stamped envelope in my hand. Sneaking past Mike, I leave through the side door and jog down the street. At the bottom of the slope where my street meets another, I take a left to the next intersection. After checking for the

hundredth time that his address and my return address are written correctly, and that the stamp is the right value, I drop the letter in the mailbox. * September gives way to October gives way to November gives way to December gives way to January and so on, until it's Spring again. I read and I write; I teach my students and attend my own classes; I make new friends and I make a new home. * "Excuse me?" I ask, sounding much more timid than I want to. The person at the desk seems not to hear me. I try again, louder this time. "Excuse me?" The person spins around in their chair, takes one look at me, and immediately stands straight up. "The person" is a young man of about twenty or so, and he towers over me. A strange, automatic grin comes to his face. "Hi." "Hi," I respond. "I'm looking..." But I trail off, because there's something familiar about this guy, and because his odd grin is quickly becoming a genuine one. "I know you," I say. "You're Jake." "I am." Jacob cocks his head to the side, smiling at me. "You look different." "So do you." And he does. He's taller and bigger, and he's got tattoos all over his bare arms. On top of his head, what appears to have once been a mohawk has been buzzed down to about half an inch. He catches me staring at his hair and I blush. Jake's hand swipes self-consciously at his head. "Seth's dad always hated my hair. Told me it made me look like a dumb punk. I thought, you know, for the funeral..." I nod, feeling embarrassed that I've made him feel embarrassed. After a few seconds of awkwardness, I attempt casual conversation. "So, how are you? How are...things?" This is uncomfortable. I haven't seen Jake since the summer I was fifteen and he was thirteen. I've known this kid since I was a baby, but at the same time, I don't know him at all. "Pretty good. Been back at the shop for a few months now, so that's pretty cool." "Yeah, your dad told my dad." Jake rolls his eyes but smiles. "Figures." "Hey, Jake!" a male voice hollers. "Did you call Mrs. Fa - Well, hello there." A skinny kid has emerged from the garage and stepped into the office. He shoots me a cheesy grin. "I don't believe we've met."

"Hi. I'm Bella." I take the hand he offers me. "I'm Quil. Pleasure." I just smile, feeling awkward. "And what brings you to our little shop today, Bella?" Now I can't help but laugh. This kid has a lot of confidence. He's silly, not creepy. "She's riding back with me for the funeral, shithead." Quil's face sobers immediately. "Oh. Right." The three of us stand around awkwardly for a moment. "So you know the Clearwaters," Quil says, clearly trying to lessen the tension. "Harry was friends with my dad. He told me they used to hunt and fish and stuff when they still lived in La Push." Not that I remember. Now I feel stupid. "And I know Seth. I worked in Port Angeles last year, so I know him from the bar." Quil just nods. We make small talk for a few minutes before Jake gets his stuff and we head out to his car - a car that seems awfully small for someone so physically imposing. It's a mild Thursday in April. Everything is green and growing and beautiful, and it seems fitting then tragic that I should be going to a funeral on Saturday. I think of Seth, and the additional burdens he's going to have to carry. I think of how young he is and remember the sound of his voice on my phone, leaving a message, back in February, telling me that his dad was thinking of selling the bar, that Seth might be coming to Seattle for a visit, to check out schools, see his friends. He'd been so excited. "How come I didn't see you at Thanksgiving?" I ask. "I didn't get back until December," Jack replies, his eyes on the road. "Why didn't I see you at Christmas?" "I was in Florida." Jake nods. "Right." "Christmas on the beach," I say, trying to be lighthearted. He grins. "You could've done that at La Push, too, you know."

I snort. "Let me rephrase. Christmas on the beach without hypothermia." "Fair enough." Jake laughs to himself. "So I never did get the whole story from my dad," I say to Jake. "You were some rich guy's boy toy all over Europe?" Jake takes his eyes off of the road just long enough to shoot me a look. The fact that I've seen this kid pee his pants when he was about four seems to give me license to behave familiarly with him. "I was helping a collector take care of his cars," he tells me witheringly. "What were you doing in Boston? Chasing after Tom Brady and dressing up for Revolutionary War reenactments?" I laugh out loud. "How did you know?" Jake cracks a smile. "But seriously," I say, turning towards him. "How long were you over there?" "Almost two years, I think. We were in St. Louis for a month or so, prepping and all of that. Then we were in Berlin. Then London. Then a bunch of other places. I can't even remember." "You were just buying cars?" "In some places, yeah. Sometimes looking for parts. Sometimes going to car shows, auctions, that kind of stuff. Then Roger wanted to drive on the Autobahn with a bunch of different vehicles." "That sounds incredible." As far as I know, Jake hadn't been any farther away than Seattle until he met this guy. "Why'd you come back?" Jake's mouth hitches up on one side. "Got homesick. And sick of Roger, actually. Dude was bizarrely particular with some stuff. I finally figured out why he was always looking for new guys to help him out. I got sick of not knowing anybody, not knowing the language. I got sick of watching him hit on European widows..." He shrugs and I laugh. "Made me realize that traveling is nice, but it also made me appreciate La Push." "Yeah?" "Yeah. It was a good place to grow up. I've got good friends. My dad's here. I don't really wanna go away, you know?"

I don't really say anything, because this is a feeling I can't understand. Moving is the constant in my life. I've never really had a home base. Phoenix, maybe, but we moved around a lot there. "How do you like Seattle?" I scratch at my head. "I like it all right so far. School's good; I like my program. It's a lot of work, but I like the work, so..." "You're studying....English, right?" Nodding, I stare out through the windshield. "Uh huh." "Your PhD?" "Yep." "You gonna make everybody call you Dr. Swan when you're done?" I look over at Jake and he's got a big smile on his face. "Absolutely not," I tell him. An expression of mock astonishment fills his face. "You're not? I would. I'd make everybody call me Dr. I'd make my doctor call me Dr." Laughing, I look back out the window. "That just seems so obnoxious." "Eh. Maybe. But it could be kind of fun." "That depends on your definition of fun." Now he laughs. "I guess. But if I still know you when you finish, I'm going to call you Dr. Swan all the time, especially in public. In fact, I think I'm going to call you that now." I smile and roll my eyes. "Ha ha." "I'm serious, Dr. Swan," he teases, and I resist the urge to punch his arm. We sit in silence for several miles after that. The sound of the stereo is just audible over the sound of the engine. "Is this Dr. Dre?" I ask, almost laughing. Jake grins. "Yeah. The Chronic." "You were like, a fetus or something when this came out."

"I'm not that much younger than you," he says. "It was 1992. You were still a kid." "I suppose," I admit. I don't know why it's so hard for me to not see Jake as just a kid. Maybe because I haven't seen him in so long. "I can drink beer and everything now too," he jokes. "With or without a fake?" Jake just rolls his eyes and turns up the music. For the rest of the ride, we alternate between comfortable silence and intervals of pleasant conversation. I like Jake. He's levelheaded but funny, smart and down-to-earth. There are some things about him that remind me of Mike, actually. It's nice. Charlie is inspecting the gutters on the porch when we pull into the yard. He crushes me into a hug as soon as I'm out of the car. "Jacob," he says, reaching out to shake hands. Charlie's talking and acting like Jake is a grown-up, and this weirds me out. "How you been?" "Good, good. Keeping busy at the shop. Lots of business this past month." "Glad to hear it. You wanna come inside for a beer?" I shoot a look at Charlie. "Dad, he has to drive to La Push." "One beer isn't going to get this kid drunk, Bella." I roll my eyes. Jake grins. "Thanks, Chief Swan, but I should get home. We're doing some stuff for Harry tonight and tomorrow. But I'll see you guys on Saturday." We wait until Jake's car disappears down the street before heading inside. "Nice kid," Charlie comments. "Yep." I know this tone and I'm going to ignore it. "You should give him a call sometime. You know, when you're back in Seattle. It'd be nice to have a friend." From the corner of my eye, I look up at Charlie's face. "I have friends, Dad."

"I know, I know. I mean friends from home." I don't bother to point out that Jake and I barely know each other, or that Forks isn't exactly my home. The funeral in Port Angeles is sad but beautiful. Different relatives and friends get up to talk about Harry, and the church is packed. I only get to speak to Seth for a few minutes before other people, other priorities, pull him away. After we leave the church, a bunch of us go to the bar. I don't feel much like drinking, but it's nice to be around Jake and all of his and Seth's friends. "So the next time we go into the shed, we open up the drawer, and there aren't any Playboys anymore, but there is a Bible," Paul says. Everyone howls with laughter. "And in it, in it..." Paul is laughing so hard he can barely talk. "In the front cover is this piece of paper." He gasps for air. "It's a note from Harry, and it says maybe this is the kind of reading we need to be doing from now on." More laughter. Jake chimes in next. "Do you guys remember the time Seth had that plan that all of us were going to come up for the weekend and sneak into the bar after closing?" "Yes!" someone shouts out. "And somebody sees the light and calls the cops. So here we all are, sitting up at the bar, doing shots of tequila and thinking we're the shit, and all of a sudden there's the cops at the front door, and Harry coming in the back with his shotgun." Jake grins around the bottle as he takes a drink. "I thought he was going to kill me," Seth says, a sad smile on his face. His lips tighten up, and for a moment it looks like he's going to cry. A friend - who I've just met today, but whose name I can't remember - puts his hand on Seth's shoulder. We sit quietly until the moment passes. "Remember when my dad caught Sam and Leah in the basement?" Seth asks, cutting through the tension. Everyone around me starts laughing. I don't get the joke, so I excuse myself to go to the bathroom. It feels both strange and comforting to be back here after so many months. Weaving my way through people on my way back to the front of the bar, I hear a familiar laugh. It makes my stomach bottom out before my brain can figure out why. I stop in my tracks and turn toward the source of the laugh.

If he weren't so tall, I wouldn't even be able to see him. He'd be blocked by the bodies of the people crowding me where I stand. Through the confusion of arms and shoulders and faces, I see him. I see him. Just standing there in the corner where the bar meets the wall. Smiling, eyes lit up, hair every which way. Smiling, like it's nothing. Smiling, like it's the easiest thing in the world. Smiling, like I don't even exist. Smiling, like he's forgotten I was ever here. My stomach knots; my skin gets hot all over. Suddenly, it is eight months ago and I'm standing in his living room and he is nothing but indifferent to me. And I couldn't feel smaller or more useless. There's nothing preventing him from shifting his eyes just so and seeing me standing there, staring at him. But my legs don't want to move, and I can't tear my eyes away. Then, just like that, just so easy like it's nothing, he raises a bottle to his lips. And then, just like that, just so easy like it's nothing, my heart stops. Just for a second, but it's enough. Everything I feel washes out of me with the last of my breath. I watch his lips pucker up to kiss the bottle's mouth; I watch his cheeks hollow slightly as he drinks; I watch the bob of his Adam's apple in his throat as the beer goes down. And he's still so beautiful even in this moment that it breaks my desperate fucking heart. His eyes move and they meet mine. It's easy; it's nothing. I almost feel the other bodies brushing past and bumping into my body. I almost hear other voices talking and laughing and shouting. But I can't move and I can't speak. His expression is shock, then fear, then - so easy, like nothing - his beautiful mouth twists up into an arrogant sneer. So beautiful and so ugly. And with his eyes locked with mine, and with his cruel, cruel sneer, he brings the bottle up and drinks again. I blink. The room and the sounds filling it snap into quick focus and when the next person bumps into me I stumble. Putting my head down, I head for the door. I can't be here, in this noise and in this hot room. Not with him and his face full of disdain. Not with him and his easy laugh and good times. I want to close my eyes and not exist but I can't. So I run for the door. Out on the sidewalk it's easier to breathe, and I hurry away from the entrance and down the block. The quiet out here on the street is a pleasant void. Then, the door behind me opens, and the sounds of people and music spill out into the cool night. Before I turn around I want it to be him. I know it isn't him. I know he will not follow me, but I want him to. Drunk or not, high or not, I don't care. It wouldn't matter. I would talk to

him. I would let him hold me and touch me. I'd let him take me home to his bed and I'd let him take my clothes off and fuck me. But it's not him. It could never be him. "Bella?" Jake's voice is cautious. "Hey," I say, turning around. His expression is concerned. "You okay?" "Yeah, I'm fine," I lie. "Just got hot in there. I needed some air." "I know what you mean." He leans up against the brick wall next to me. "Mind if I hang out with you for a while?" I shake my head. "Not at all. In fact, I think I might just head to Alice's," I tell him. Jake's forehead creases. "How are you planning on getting there?" "Walk?" He smiles. "Don't be ridiculous. I'll drive you." I don't fight him on this. I just want to be gone. Away from Edward and his bottle and his sneer. Away from everything that reminds that the everything I used to have has become absolutely nothing.

Chapter Twenty I can't feel my face. I can't feel...I move my fingers to my cheeks and I push and prod and the fingers meet flesh, they meet bone. My fingers feel something, but I can't feel my lips or my nose or my chin. Nothing but my eyes. Nothing but the hot pulsing of my eyes. And the sweet, acid trickle in my throat. My heart is racing; it's going to rocket through my flesh and bone. I can tell, I can tell, I can tell. It's going to beat and swell until it fucking explodes, until it leaves a gaping maw in my chest. Someone's talking to me, yammering in my ear, something I can't understand. "WereyouwiththatgirlwhydidyougooffwithherearlierI" and on and on it rambles. A chain of meaningless sounds. Signifying and signifying ‘til there's nothing left to signify. I can't

understand it, wave my face in front of my eyes to clear it away, the verbal clutter, the linguistic shitstorm. Who is this girl? Do I even know her? Why is she talking? And talking and talking and why won't she shut the fuck up? "Who are you?" and "leave me the fuck alone" and I think she slaps my face but who can tell? Who could possibly tell right now? Because I collected everything good, everything I could get my greedy little hands on, and I put it up my nose and nothing hurts me now. I'm fucking ecstatic. Who would ever want me to not feel this good? Who would ever, ever ask me to stop feeling so good? Who would try to tell me I couldn't feel this way? Who? Like fucking swallowing lightning, that's what this is. Like nothing else. Better than anything. Better than pussy, better than booze. Better than the pills or the weed. So sweet and so good. Never doesn't feel good. Never feels wrong. Always makes it right. Makes me feel so good I want to puke. And the room spins and the lights are so pretty and I can feel the push and warmth of bodies around me and can't they see that everything's all right? That everything's so, so beautiful and good? I want to love all of these people, want us all to strip naked and fuck. These beautiful, sweet people who laugh and scream and fuck and rage with me. Something good and true and it crackles between us and I love them. I fucking love them. "I fucking love you!" and my voice sounds nearly inhuman. I feel bigger and brighter and more beautiful than the biggest, brightest, most beautiful fucking star in the entire goddamn universe. I feel like a black hole, sucking in all the light, taking it all, keeping it all. * The fist smashes my nose and the world explodes into a million tiny stars. I laugh. "Fucking prick." The fist connects with my mouth and I twitch and jerk, stagger back. I laugh, again. "Piece of fucking shit."

The fist is in my stomach this time and I double over, gasp for air. "Fight back." I sway on my feet, catching my breath. I laugh some more. "Fucking fight back!" An open palm to my face, a mere slap. And this infuriates me. A blow that annoys more than it hurts and through the adrenaline and the coke and the booze I feel my anger mounting. Another fist, but this time it's my hand that aches. And the pain quickly replaces the surprise on his face. I'm a good fighter. My knuckles hammer his nose and the blood gushes out quick. Another swift shot to his back and he's on the ground and I'm on top of him, and my hands are moving fast, so fast. It doesn't seem possible I could be moving so fast, but I am. I am and it's amazing and wonderful and his face - I can change his face with my hands. Make it all bloody and beautiful and misshapen. And he's spluttering and howling. And he's choking on his own blood. And he's begging me to stop. And he's crying like a little boy. Someone pulls me up and off him. My foot lashes out, meets his leg in an ineffectual kick. I spit on him, just for good measure. He's rolled onto his side, hugging his arms to his body and crying and crying, and I laugh and laugh and laugh, snatch a beer from a nearby hand and drink it down, drink it deep. It tastes like blood and my fingers feel blindly over my face until they encounter my split bottom lip then the steady drip from my nose. This makes me laugh even harder. "Jesus, man," some kid dares to say after looking at my face. I finish the beer and toss the bottle aside into the grass. There's more blood now and it's like metal in my mouth. Like sucking on a penny. In the bathroom my face is ghoulish in the harsh light. Crazy, crazy eyes and sweat-matted hair and blood - blood everywhere. Smeared across my mouth and my nose and my chin and my cheeks and it's beautiful. My beautiful bloody mask. I don't want to wash it off. I want them all to look at it, to see it and to see me. I want to bust into the room, shattering glass and putting holes in the walls, beautiful and terrible and terrifying. *

I'm bargaining away the pieces of my life. I'm selling off every last bit, exchanging the disparate parts for pills and powders and sickly sweet clumps of weed. I sheer what I can from what I need and turn it around, make a small profit. Because I don't need food or new clothes or books or records or movies anymore. I need to be reckless and amazing and perfectly and beautifully out of my mind. When I'm not breathing deep and moving a thousand miles an hour, I'm slow and low. I'm sucking from the bottle like a baby. Like a man thirsty and delirious from wandering in the desert. Like a million other shit clichés that say nothing and everything about me. I'm so perfectly, horribly typical. I'm doing business, but not like before. This is just for friends, for the people who are here for an easy good time. The women I keep in my bed, they help me out. They have jobs and money, or rich daddies and money, or husbands and money. And they stay until good sense and self-respect push them out the door. Or they stay until I get sick of them. I just need a little, and they give it. Just enough to keep me in what I want, what I need. I fight and fuck and dance and laugh and it's so good. I want to spin out like this until I can't spin anymore. * I hold court in a corner of a bar. Not my usual, but good enough. Enough pretty girls, enough booze, and I've smoked enough weed to make it feel worth my while. The girls here aren't worn out and busted; they aren't fiending or playing for it. These girls look fresh and sweet, like college girls on Spring Break. I like that. I'm laughing too much tonight - too much and too easily. I don't like it. Laughing at the same jokes as these people makes me just like them, and I don't want to be like them. But I can't help it. I'm too high, too wasted, too turned on by the prospect of what they might share with me later to leave. Tonight I've got to hustle if I want some, and I want some. I bought the first round, early on, when I only had to buy a few. Now, the crowd has grown, and everyone else is buying. My brain is slow and fuzzy, but I can clearly calculate the source of my next drink. I've got the focus and energy for what matters. The room is warm and dim. The conversation around me surges and hums like the sound of bees in a beehive, a sweet, steady drone. Someone cracks a stupid joke and I don't know why I'm laughing but I am. I'm laughing like it's the funniest fucking thing I've ever heard. I see her eyes before I see the rest of her. It's impossible that she could be in the same room as me, but there she is. My heart pumps like an engine and the whoosh of blood through my veins is ice cold; it clears out the haze and the fog and I hate how she's looking at me. Broken-hearted and beautiful, and I hate

her for watching me with those eyes. I hate her for even being here. It makes me feel sick and I don't want her near this, near me when I'm like this, when I'm with these people. She shouldn't be here. Not now, not ever. My mouth curls up and I want her to hate me. Hate me, despise me. I want it; I want her blind rage and crippling disappointment. Then she's gone. I blink and I look but she's disappeared, and I wonder if she was even there to begin with. I wonder how drunk and stoned I am. The drone of the crowd swells, wrapping me up and making me forget. I take another drink. * Poorly lit room and there's two of me. No, there's one of me. One of me and one of him. Poorly lit room and there's me and there's him. Poorly lit room and a crush of other people and the thrum of a bass, bass, bass. I'm cold, but that Edward? That Edward is flushed and hot to the touch. That Edward is reeling in and out. Eyes open and shut. Mouth slack then smiling. That Edward can't keep his head up. That Edward hunches over and then his eyes pulse so fiercely I can feel it from here. This Edward and that Edward and their throbbing, screaming heads. Try to stand and the legs won't go. Try to stand and the body gives. That Edward shrieks with laughter. That Edward babbles on and on. "That's what I said and he said he wouldn't unless I gave it to him upfront and I told him, I told him, I told him, remember? Remember when I let you put what ever up your nose you wanted and didn't get - remember? I said I fucking didn't fucking..." That Edward can't finish his sentences. That Edward is gone wrong. He's too-easily distracted by shaky, ecstatic girls and their tits and their asses and their long hair and their coy looks. But that Edward is a fool, and I laugh, laugh, laugh. And now I am feverish and frantic and who let me feel so good again? Who told me I couldn't feel so good again? Who wanted me to never, ever, ever, ever feel so goddamn good again? Why? Why, why, why? This Edward pounds his fist into his thigh and gets up to dance. I twist and move while that Edward cools. And it's him. He's the one. The one who said "no." The one who tried to keep this from me. That Edward wanted to be the only one who got to feel good. "Aren't you a pretty lady, yes, yes, yes, you are, aren't you? So pretty so pretty so pretty." Something hot all over me. Something soft and nice and the long, long hair, I can close my eyes and pretend. I don't like the faces, not on these girls. Don't like their strange faces and their strange smells and their strange sounds. But I can fuck. I can fuck like an animal, like a goddamn madman. I can fuck and lick and bite and make them shriek, can't I?

"So pretty so pretty so pretty," but I can't even see their faces. That Edward hunches over the table and comes up screaming. Eyes so big he can see a million miles into space, lungs gonna burst, heart about to explode. This Edward is tethered to the couch while that Edward gets to maneuver and go. Gets to play the big bad man, but I know his secrets. Yes, I do. I know he doesn't have shit and I know he's all alone. Even this Edward wants nothing to do with that Edward anymore. He's so scared. Scared shitless like a little fucking baby, parading around like he's got something these people want, but not anymore. Not anymore. He's just like the rest of them. Dancing and pleading and begging for a taste just like the rest of them, getting in good graces and cutting shit deals just like the rest of them. Just like the rest of them. * Today's the day. Today I can do it. Today's the day. I smoke a cigarette, first thing. I light up first thing and it feels okay. Maybe this won't be so bad. Maybe it won't be so hard. I smoke a cigarette, first thing. And it feels like it's going to be okay. But then there's the weight on my chest, a weight so immense I can't sit up straight, and I know it's not going to be okay. I'm trembling under this weight. It's too soon to be the shakes; it must be the anxiety. This realization fails to make me feel better. I just need to make it a few hours. Just a few more hours and it'll be done. I can go to Jasper and I can ask - no, I can beg; beg and plead and cry like a child - for his help. It's already after noon. I can make it a few more hours. Just a few more hours. It'll be done. When I stand the room rolls like the deck of a ship and I barely make it to the bathroom before throwing up whatever's in my stomach. Dry heaves grip my gut like a vise, wring everything out of me. The effort brings hot tears to my eyes. I stink, sweating out whiskey on top of the film left over from last night. The water in the shower feels good, but massaging shampoo into my hair knocks my head about and I'm retching while the soap stings my eyes. I wash them clear and watch the burnt orange bile swirl away down the drain. I have to sit down into the curve of the tub. I sit there until the water starts to run cold. Then, on my knees, I rinse the shampoo from my hair and wash the rest of my body. I feel like a feeble old man and I want - pathetically, half-heartedly - to cry. I sit on the edge of the bed to pull on my boxers, the underwear hanging from one hand while my leg tries to kick into the waistband. First one side, then the other. One hand pressed to my stomach, the other tugging my underwear up my legs by the elastic. Jeans

are more complicated; the denim is stiff and uncooperative. It takes an eternity to work them up to my waist. Every little move makes me want to throw up. I can't do this. I can't stay clear; I can't focus. I think that maybe if I eat I'll feel better. So I smoke another cigarette and fumble around the expired and/or empty or nearly empty containers and cartons of food in my fridge. I've got eggs. I can make eggs. I can eat eggs, I think. They've got protein and that has to be something I need. The smell of raw eggs cracked in the pan makes me vomit again, this time into a sink full of dirty dishes. I rinse them clean as best I can while the stove heats up. I breathe through my mouth while the eggs cook. As they cool on a plate, I smoke another cigarette to cover up the smell. The kitchen is filthy, so I sit at the card table in the living room. The leather couch is gone. The leather chair is gone. So's the granite coffee table. They've all been traded, sold. So are the books. Only a few straggling paperbacks - that couldn't be sold, that weren't stolen, that weren't wrecked by the constant stream of people in and out of this place - are left. Now there's just a Salvation Army couch and an assortment of cheap plastic and wooden kitchen chairs and the card table I sit at now. I get a napkin and a fork, the salt and pepper. And I try to eat, I do. I try to shove the yellow and the white into my unwilling mouth, try to chew, try to swallow. But the taste - oh, god, the taste - and the smell, and the pathetic sight of me, sitting at my wobbling table, eating eggs like it's Sunday fucking brunch. When I throw up this time, the tears come again, but they stay long after my stomach is empty. Stumbling to the fridge, I pull out whatever booze I can find. A half a bottle of white wine and seven beers. I drink slow; I drink deliberate. I feel twenty years younger with a beer in my belly. After two and a half I sit down and eat the rest of my eggs. They're cold and slimy in my mouth, but I don't care. For two hours I sit on my couch and drink myself into a dull buzz. I finish the beer. I tuck into the wine, taking a few deep swallows. I didn't want to be drunk today, not when I'm going to Jasper. But I can't help it. I need it. The weather is typical for July - mild and damp. Today the mist feels good on my face. It flattens my hair and collects on the back of my neck. I keep my head down and my hands in my pockets.

I stand outside the store and smoke. I've gone through half a dozen cigarettes and I think the woman in the store next door is five minutes from calling the cops when Jasper finally comes out. He stops short when he sees me, but if he's shocked or angry or disgusted, his face doesn't show it. I almost turn around and walk away, but then he says my name. "Edward?" And just like that I want to cry. "Hi," I say, and the word shakes out of me, pathetic and weak. Jasper blinks rapidly a few times. "Hello." I take a final drag from my cigarette and flick it into the street. "I was wondering if you'd, if we could talk." He nods. "Okay." My mouth opens up to speak, but he stops me. Gesturing with his hand, he moves toward the corner of the block. "Maybe we could go to my car?" His voice is gentle. I nod. "Yeah. Sure. Okay." Before we get to the alley I've lit up again. When we reach his car, Jasper fishes his keys from his pocket and starts to unlock the door. "I'll, I'll finish this," I stammer, lifting my cigarette up. I don't want to smoke inside his nice, clean car. Jasper watches my face for a moment. "Maybe we could just stay outside for a while," he says. "Would that be better?" "Yeah." I nod quickly. "Yeah, I think so. I'm kind of, I'm feeling not so great. Air feels good." I'm rambling. "We'll stay out here, then," Jasper says. He sounds so calm, so unfazed by my sudden appearance. "Have you been drinking today?" He asks me this question like he's asking about the weather. I nod, unable to keep still. My free hand clutches at my hair and at the back of my neck while I fidget and shift. "I tried not to. I tried not to have any but I couldn't do anything, you know? I just, I couldn't concentrate." "Okay. Have you done anything else today?"

I swear to God this guy would be the world's best detective. These questions sound so simple and innocuous it's impossible not to answer. "No. I haven't, I haven't had anything else, but I smoked pot yesterday and last night. I mean that was the last time I did anything else." Jasper nods, and I feel the need to defend myself, to show him that I'm serious, that I've been trying, that I've been good. "But I haven't done coke in three days," I blather. "Except for a little, last night - no, two nights ago, I think. Just a little, and I was cutting back before." Was I? Or could I not afford as much? Or was there just less available? I don't know. I can't remember. "Doing anything else? Pills?" I shake my head. "Just sometimes." "And you're smoking pot," he affirms. "Sometimes, yeah. Yeah, I guess I was. Like, not too often. It was every day, but sometimes only in the mornings, just you know, to get started." I want the fucking ground to open up and swallow me, I hate this so goddamn much. Fucking hate the things I have to say, fucking hate the patient way Jasper is looking at me, fucking hate the erratic kick drum rhythm of my heart, fucking hate how I want to run away and choke down a handle of whiskey. "Okay." Jasper is thinking. "Okay," he repeats. "Are you here for money?" There's no judgment in his voice. "Are you in trouble?" Yes! I want to scream. Yes, I'm in trouble! Can't you see me? Can't you hear what's rattling around in my chest? "I want, I mean I thought you could help. Help me." Jasper's face is alert but neutral. "Help with what?" "Help with me. Getting me...better. I want..." But I don't finish because I don't know what I want. I know what I don't want - and that's this. But what will exist in its place isn't clear to me. I cough. "I'm getting evicted," I tell him. I am. Or, I will be. I can't remember the last time I paid rent. Two, maybe three months ago? He nods. "Okay. So we'll get your stuff." No-nonsense Jasper, always with the plan and the right things to say. "Do you have anywhere to keep it?"

Shaking my head, I look down. The ground lurches up at me, and I have to take a step back. "You can keep it at my place." I have the good sense to say thank you. But then, "I don't have anywhere to go." Embarrassment washes over me, white hot. The belt around my lungs tightens. "If you're using or drinking you can't stay with me," Jasper says quietly. My first urge is to scream, "fuck you!" and to leave, I even take a few feinting steps down the alley, but I'm too scared to go all the way. I'm too indignant to agree to his terms. He's got all of this down so easily; it angers me. When I look up he's already watching me, calm and waiting. I meet his eyes and hold steady, trying not to blink. My heart beats fast and the longer I look at him the more I want to hit him in his satisfied face. And he looks so calm and patient and understanding - I can't take it. I look away. "I don't want to do this anymore," I say, hating how my voice hitches on the last word. "Okay," he says. I want to hug him and I want to throw up. "I think we should take you somewhere to detox." My heart speeds up again. The collar of my shirt feels suddenly and unbelievably tight. Too tight. When Jasper speaks again, his voice is soft and low, like he's coaxing a frightened dog out from under a parked car. "Are you feeling anxious?" "Yes, I'm anxious," I snap. "Sorry. I can't, I just don't feel...well." I want to sit down, I'm so tired, but I can't be still. My hands are everywhere, my feet shuffling and rolling as I stand. "Nausea?" I nod and light another cigarette. "Okay," Jasper says. This is the fucking word of the day. Okay. Okay okay okay. "There's a place here in town. Is that all right with you?" Why wouldn't it be all right? I'm cold and I'm sweaty and I feel sick and nervous and I want another drink like I've wanted nothing else in my life. Turning and walking - I could do

this. I could turn and I could walk away and go back to my life and not feel this way. I could do it. "That's fine," I say, and the words are little more than a whisper. I suck down the last of my smoke like it's my lifeline and I get into his car.

Chapter Twenty-One There's the muted beat of my shoes on the packed dirt of the path, the ragged wheeze of my breath in and out. There's the dense green of the trees on either side, the occasional glimpse of Jasper up ahead on the trail. There is, alternately, the thick heat of my body's exertion and then the cooler breeze managing to work its way down into the forest. My thighs burn exquisitely as we scramble up a quick but severe incline. I try to keep my fists balled loosely as Jasper's instructed me to do. When I pump my arms, my hands push out in front of me, punching feebly at the empty air. Bad form. "Branch!" Jasper hollers, his voice louder and clearer than it has any right to be given the fifteen minutes we've been running. It's going to take effort to duck my head. Because ducking my head means compensating for that movement with the whole of my body, and right now everything I have is focused on keeping me on this path. After I duck, I'll have to straighten up, and that means even more energy put to use on something other than the forward momentum I have now. I contemplate simply letting the branch hit me in the face. How bad could it hurt? Then I see the branch. "Shit." I duck. Come on, motherfucker; straighten up. Squeezing my eyes shut tight for the briefest of moments, I screw up all my strength and pull my body upright. I've slowed considerably, and I can't see Jasper anymore. Trying not to think about the fact that we've still got a ways to go on this run, I grunt and kick myself into gear in hopes of getting him back within eyesight. Today it's not raining. A dry path is easier to run on, certainly, but I like the rain in my face. I come to a longer stretch of level, straight trail, and I see Jasper's back up ahead. "Slow down, fucker," I try to yell. Try being the operative word. If he hears me - and I seriously doubt he has - he's ignoring me. He disappears around a curve.

"Going down!" he shouts. Goddamn him for not being winded. I follow him around the bend in the path, my quads tensing as the ground pitches forward, and I turn to the side, half running, half shuffling down the gradient. My arms flap like a marionette's; I haven't got the energy to control them. It's only a dip in the road, and I have to pivot forward to make my way up the equally steep incline on the other side. Today's going to be another day I puke, I think, and Christ, I really didn't need to vomit today. But I'll be god damned if I can't at least finish this run. We're only going three miles together. This is just a warm-up jog for Jasper; he'll run another six or seven miles after I leave. Tipping my head back, I suck in the air, focus on the rhythmic swing of my arms. Jasper's told me to focus on the arms. Where the arms go, the legs will follow. Or some shit like that. Why in the hell have I agreed to this? It's too fucking early, too much fucking energy. I've been so sore the past month, and so damn tired after work. Shit; I've been too damn tired before and during work, too. Nothing like an excruciating traipse up the mountain to make your whole damn day a "Fuck!" My body is already well on its way to the ground when I process that there's a tree root creeping along the edge of the trail. Luckily, my foot breaks free, my body twisting. I hit the solid ground, my shoulder absorbing most of the impact. The pain is pretty fucking terrible, but the discomfort is overshadowed by the joy I feel at not moving, at being able to breathe. I roll onto my back, the smell of damp earth and pine thick in my nose. My eyes close and I concentrate on breathing slowly. Eventually, my heart exchanges its frenetic pace for something fast but less erratic. After a minute, I hear approaching feet. "You all right?" Jasper's voice is steady, and right above me. I open my eyes. "I think so." "Here," he says, extending a hand to help me up. I raise my arm just enough to wave it off. "I'm good. Think I'm gonna lay here for a minute." He chuckles. "Nope. Get up. It's not good for you to stop moving so suddenly." "Fuck off," I wheeze. "Come on, you Nancy. Up and at ‘em." "Fine," I grunt, rolling onto my side and push-pulling my body into a sitting position. Jasper lets me sit for a minute before hooking an arm under mine and hefting me to my feet. He keeps his fingers on my shoulder as I sway briefly, then lets go when I've steadied myself.

"What happened?" Brushing dirt and pine needles from my arm, I shake my head. "Fucking root attacked me." Jasper laughs. "They'll do that sometimes." He wipes sweat from his forehead. "You hurt your ankle?" "Don't think so." I raise the foot in question, turn it this way and that; it seems fine. "Do you want to turn around?" Yes, I do. But my pride won't let me. "Just let me catch my breath," I say, backing up to lean against the trunk of the killer tree. "Keep this up," Jasper informs me, "and pretty soon three miles won't be enough for you." I snort. "I highly doubt it." "Give it a few months." "God fucking help me if I'm still doing this months from now," I say, still breathless, leaning forward with my hands on my knees. My palms slide a little on the sweaty skin. "What?" When I look at Jasper's face, it's a mix of amusement, confusion, and incredulity. I raise an eyebrow and laugh. "You don't honestly think this is something I'm gonna do forever, do you?" I have to give him credit; he's always trying to make me the better man. Jasper's expression is serious now, all signs of amusement gone. "Then what are you doing out here?" He blinks. "What am I doing out here?" I open my mouth to respond, but the way he's looking at me nips my smartass response in the bud. "I thought...I thought that we were just running because, I don't know. Because you suggested it and I thought I'd give it a try..." Standing up straight against the tree, I shrug. "You thought you'd give it a try?" he asks, an unfamiliar edge of exasperation in his voice. "Well, yeah." I suddenly feel very young, and very stupid. He takes a deep breath. "You do realize how much extra work this is for me, right? Taking two runs instead of one, running a less-advanced trail, slowing my pace down. You get that, right?" I haven't thought about it that way, but I'm not going to tell him that. So I lie. "No. No, I get it."

Jasper rubs his hand over his face; he seems to be thinking. His silence unnerves me. "Look, I said I'd have a go with it, and I don't know if it's helping with the whole thing, but I'm trying, you know?" I sense that there's something he wants to say to me. Raising his arms, he locks his fingers and rests both hands on top of his head. The perspiration from our aborted run has made his light hair considerably darker. "Edward, I need you to do more than try, all right? I need you to do. I just need you to do it." He turns back toward the trail. "Okay, Yoda," I joke. His arms drop to his sides; his head pivots on his neck and he looks at me over his shoulder. The expression on his face extinguishes my smile immediately. "I'm not kidding, Edward." My name again. Why does he keep using my name? Irritation blossoms under my skin. "What?" I ask, exasperated. "I'm not a runner okay? Sorry. Not everyone can be a fucking Iron Man like you." I push the sweaty hair from my forehead. Jasper turns to face me. "It's not just about the running, Edward." I want him to stop using my name so goddamned much. "Excuse me?" "I said, it's not just about the running." "I heard you the first time," I spit out. The hostility comes on suddenly. "I don't need another patented Jasper lecture, thank you." "Don't you?" He cocks an eyebrow. I push away from the tree. "So what is it this time? I can't wait to hear all the ways in which I fail to live up to expectations." Jasper shakes his head. "Don't be like that." Tucking my hand under my shirt, I pull it up by the hem to wipe my face. "Be like what?" "Defensive. Deflecting." "Spare me the psycho babble."

"It's not psycho babble," he says, shaking his head. "When you're uncomfortable you're threatened. When you're threatened, you do this ‘I'm a failure' act, and it's not helping." My heart rate is elevated again, my face hot. I clench and unclench my fist, turn back to the trees and away from Jasper. A drop of sweat slides down the cleft of my spine. "Just do this, Edward, okay? Come running with me three days a week." His voice is earnest, and his sincerity only serves to piss me off more. "Commit to something. Anything." "I am committed to something," I blurt out. "How can you even say that to me?" The dirt and detritus of the forest grinds beneath my foot as I turn back around. "Because it feels like you're just going through the motions until you decide to let yourself go again," he tells me plainly. I shake my head. I don't like this; I don't like this at all. Jasper doesn't talk to me this way. "You're supposed to be on my side. My side," I say, punctuating my words with a stab of my index finger to my chest. "I am on your side, Edward." He's calmer than he has any right to be. "Then don't stand there and tell me I'm not serious about this," I spit. "God damn it!" I turn around again and kick at the base of the tree before facing him again. He's watching me the way a patient father watches his petulant child throw a temper tantrum in the middle of the grocery store - unyielding, waiting it out. "You don't need to get angry," he says. "Of course I do," I splutter. "I commit to shit, okay? I'm committed to not being a fuck-up and getting my shit together. I'm committed to my shitty job and my shitty life." "How can I take you seriously when you talk that way?" He runs a hand through his hair. "Talk what way?" He presses his lips together briefly before speaking. "You can't disparage something and convince me that you care about it in the same breath. Why would you want something that doesn't matter to you?" I shake my head, look at the ground. "I commit to what matters to me," I tell him, willing it to be so. "Like what?" Such a simple question, and so simply devastating. "I...this," I say, gesturing between the two of us. "I want you to be my sponsor."

Jasper presses the heel of his hand to his forehead. He looks so tired. "And despite what you think, I'm committed to staying clean. I may not always do what you want me to do or what you think is best, but I'm not gonna fucking go back to that shit." He looks less than convinced. "Bella," I say, desperate to find the right answer, to prove him wrong. "I committed to her." He drops his hand, and the look he gives turns me to ice. "Are you fucking kidding me?" This gets my attention; I don't think I've ever heard Jasper swear. Not ever. "Are you kidding me?" he spits out again, taking a step toward me and I can't help it, I take a step back, stumble into a tree. "I don't...What?" I can't formulate a sentence. Nostrils flared, his eyes hard, Jasper puts his index finger in my face. "Don't you dare," he says, his voice low, oddly steady. He backs away from me, lowers his hand, his mouth pinched up like he's tasted something foul. "Hey, Jasper, man, I'm sorry. What did," but the murderous glare he gives me shuts me up. He's turned halfway away from me, his eyes now on the ground, his shoulders tense. Either he's calming himself down or he's simply preparing for the kill. When he speaks again, his voice is very quiet. "Do you know how long I knew Alice before I asked her on a date?" I shake my head, but otherwise keep very still. "No." "Over a year." He turns and meets my eyes. "More than a year I knew her. And when we met I was already a year sober. That's over two years of sobriety before I even thought about asking her out. How long did you know Bella before you bulldozed your way into her life?" I reel back like he's hit me in the face. "I didn't bulldoze my way into anything." Blinking rapidly, I look at the ground. I swallow roughly and turn away. "What was it? A month? Three weeks?" "I don't know," I say quietly. "It wasn't like that. It wasn't..." I turn back to him. "You wouldn't understand, you've - "

He cuts me off. "I wouldn't understand what?" he spits at me. My stomach churns, and I hate this. I hate these words and the way he's looking at me. "You've got your shit figured out, you've got a job that doesn't fucking break your back. You've got somebody who gives a shit about you. I don't - I didn't - have any of that. So excuse me if I wanted something that actually made me feel good." Sanctimonious asshole. The look he gives me is scornful. "Whatever makes you feel good and too bad for everyone else, right?" "What's that supposed to mean?" I'm cornered against this tree, Jasper blocking my way back to the trail. "Did you even think about what you were doing to her?" "What?" "Exactly," he says. "And I worked my ass off for years - years - to get what I've got, so don't pull that put-upon shit with me." I'm not sure what to do, what to say. This Jasper is unlike the Jasper I've always known. This Jasper is angry and sarcastic; this Jasper swears and picks at all the wounds I don't want reopened. I'm cornered by this Jasper, defensive just like he's said. Even with this new, strange veneer, this Jasper can still see right through me. "I thought you were supposed to help me," I say bitterly, getting in a dig where I think I see an opening. "What?" He takes a half step closer. "I thought my sponsor wasn't supposed to tell me what a piece of shit I am." This is not what he's doing, but I want him to feel how I feel right now so I go for the easy offense. "Your sponsor is supposed to help you see what you don't see," he replies tersely. "I'm not supposed to let you live in this dream world where you think all you've got to do is go to some meetings and take a few runs and everything just works itself out." The words explode out of me. "Fuck you. That's not what I do." My anger does not intimidate him. "Oh, really? You say you were so committed to your relationship with Bella, but what kind of work did you actually do?' One hand to the small of my back, I turn away, scoff at him.

"Don't fucking turn away from me when I'm talking to you, Edward." His voice is deadly. He waits for me to turn around, and I can't not. He stares me right in the eyes. "You knew you shouldn't have started a relationship with her, you knew you weren't ready - " I cut him off with a wave of my hand, my eyes rolling. "Here we go again with these fucking stupid rules." "See? That's your first problem. These aren't rules, Edward; they're the voices of experience. They're suggestions from the people who know more than you." "I don't need to listen to this shit," I say, and step to push past him, but he grabs my arms and pushes me back. I stumble into the tree. "Yes, you do." Jasper is a menace. I'm fucking terrified of him in this moment. "Fuck you," I yell, try to get past him again. Jasper points his finger at me, his eyes unblinking. "No. Fuck you, Edward." "What the fuck is your problem, man?" But he doesn't answer my question. "Why didn't you ever go to NA, Edward?" "What?" "Why didn't you go to NA?" he asks, his voice calm again. "I did go," I say. I sound like a stubborn kid. "How many times? Two? Three?" "Two," I bark. And fuck you. Jasper shakes his head. "Hey, don't fucking lecture me about that shit," I tell him. "You don't go to NA either. You substitute AA just the same as me, you fucking hypocrite." Now he looks amused, and this confuses me. "Substitute AA for NA? Is that what you think I do?" He laughs. I rock on my feet, a little unsure now. "Yeah," I say weakly. Jasper keeps laughing. When he stops, he fixes me with his stare. "I go to AA because I'm an alcoholic, Edward."

I lick my lips, unsure of what to say to this. I fumble around my words. "But...but you don't..." "I tried NA. I tried three different groups, more meetings than I can recall." He kicks at the dirt. "And every time - every time - it'd take me all of two meetings to find the weakest dope head in the room and make a connection. I'm pretty good at helping people stay clean, but I'm a genius at helping them use again." He fixes me with his stare. "I see a shrink every other week. What do you do, Edward?" "I didn't know," I mumble, dodging the question. Shame heats my face. "Yeah. You didn't know." He spits out the words like they taste bad. "You don't know because you never asked. Because this?" He gestures between the two of us. "This is a one way street, Edward. Me working ten times as hard as you to keep you sober, and I'm done. I'm fucking done with it." He looks, for a moment, like he might hit me. "All the things I've done for you. Keeping your shit when you were in rehab again, helping you find a place to live, helping you get a job. When I think of all the times I should've said something to you and didn't, all the times I bent the rules or didn't call you out because I thought you'd run if I did." I can't look at him, not for long, anyway. My body turns away, my posture defensive, eyes flicking to his face and back to the ground. "Fuck," he mutters, turning away from me and running a hand through his hair. I can see his shoulders rising and falling as he tries to control his breathing. Jasper turns around. "I don't think I should be your sponsor anymore," he says, and I feel my guts tighten up. "I haven't always done the things I should've with you. And for that I apologize. But you've got to stop acting like your life is something that's being done to you." His face is tight when he stops talking. He spits over his shoulder, wipes his hand across his mouth. "You find your way back all right?" He's looking down at the ground now. I nod, swallow though my mouth is dry. "Yeah. Think so." Nodding curtly, Jasper steps back onto the path and takes off into the woods at a pace I couldn't even pretend to keep up with. * "Hey, man. We're closing up soon." I look up at the bartender and scowl. He's the only person in the bar besides me. There's no other staff; there is no "we."

"You hear me?" Grunting in response, I lift my glass and finish the last of my beer. I've been drinking every night this week, and on this particular evening I want to get high. But it's late, and it's going to be much harder to get something now. I should've left earlier. The beer's made me shifty and loose; it's just too easy to melt into this bar stool. I'm all paid up and there's no reason for me to still be here, but I don't want to move. I want to sit with my elbows on the glossy wood of the bar; I want to watch the methodical and leisurely pace of the bartender's closing ritual. He must notice my reluctance to leave. "Probably shouldn't drive tonight. You have a way home, buddy?" "Buddy" is overly familiar in a way that would normally irritate me. Tonight I don't care. I nod in response to his question. "How you getting there?" "Walking," I reply. The bartender raises an eyebrow. "You live around here?" "About fifteen, twenty minutes." I burp behind my hand and slide off the stool. My foot catches on something and I lurch into the bar. The bartender makes a move toward me, stopping when it becomes clear that I'm not going to hit the floor. He watches me skeptically. "You sure you can make it?" Nodding, I carefully step around the stool. Bartender raises a hand. "Why don't you sit for a minute? I'll get you some water." "I'm all right," I tell him, and I'm slurring a bit. He grins. "No worries. It's on the house." I sit back down. I don't know why I sit back down. A glass of water appears in front of me and I look up. The bartender is standing there with a big smile on his face. I wonder what the fuck he's got to be so happy about.

"Thanks," I mumble, taking a sip. "No problem. Better enjoy this place while you still can. We're selling to a guy who wants to turn it into a sports bar." "What?" I spit out. The idea of that - of a sports bar - with its multiple flat screen televisions and memorabilia on the walls makes me sick. Bartender chuckles. "I know. But they made the best offer." "Money isn't everything," I say, sounding and feeling like a complete prick. "It is if your dad's dead and didn't have shit for life insurance or savings," the bartender tells me, his face more serious. He ignores me in favor of washing glasses. I drink more of my water. A few minutes pass. My glass is nearly empty when he fills it again. "Sorry about the money crack," I tell him. He shrugs it off. "No worries. I'm Seth, by the way," he says, wiping his hand on his shirt before offering it to me. We shake hands over the bar. "Edward," I tell him. "Nice to meet you properly, Edward." He's obviously younger than me, but he talks like somebody's dad. Somebody's grandfather. I tip my head in response. "You've been in every night for what, a week?" His tone is that of perfect nonchalance. "Yep." I'm drunk and sedate, but not so sedate that I wouldn't accept a fight if he chose to pick one. "Rough week?" I snort. This only makes Seth the bartender grin wider. "Rough month? Year?" I have to smile at this. "I guess so." He disappears briefly somewhere in the back of the bar. This bothers me. He shouldn't be so damn trustworthy. I'd only have to be slightly more desperate to grab a few bottles and take off.

"So, Edward," Seth says when he returns. "What do you do?" "I clean up shit." He cocks an eyebrow. "What kind of shit?" "Literal." I take a drink of water. "I clean toilets for the school." I expect him to backtrack and hem and haw the way most people do when they discover the menial nature of my job. But he doesn't. "There are enough toilets there that they have to hire a guy whose only job is cleaning them?" Narrowing my eyes, I look for signs that he's joking. I can't tell if he's serious or not. "No. I'm a janitor." "Which school?" he asks as he rinses out the sink. "The junior high and high school." "You like it?" "Yeah," I slur, sarcastic. "I fucking love cleaning up after teenagers. Makes me feel like I've made a difference in their lives." Who the fuck is this kid? Seth laughs. "You're funny," he tells me, unaware that I'm not trying to be funny. "Is there something wrong with you?" I spit out. I haven't got much of a filter left tonight. Now he looks confused. "Whaddya mean?" "Like are you always this fucking happy or is tonight a special night?" He's laughing again. "I don't know. Guess I'm pretty happy usually." I just roll my eyes. "You not a happy person?" This seems like a genuine question, and it puzzles me. It's not that I don't understand the question, but that I don't understand why he would ask. I shrug and stick a finger into my glass, stir the ice around.

Seth doesn't seem to be bothered that I'm not answering. He starts wiping down tables and putting up chairs. I sit on my stool and drink my water, wondering why he hasn't kicked me out yet. Wondering why I haven't left. Eventually, he wheels a mop and bucket out onto the floor. He starts near the front of the bar, close to where I am. When he works his way past me, he pauses. "I remember you," he tells me. "Huh?" It takes a lot of effort to turn my head and look at him. "I remember you," he repeats. "I 86'ed you and one of your friends a couple of years ago." This is true. I had been kicked out of this bar. On more than one occasion, as a matter of fact. But I still don't remember this kid. I'm not sure why he's telling me this. Should I leave and not come back? "Oh," I say. Seth just smiles. "Yeah. You and your friend decided to break some bottles against the back wall." He gestures with a tip of his head. This memory is less clear to me. I suppose it's true; there's no reason for him to lie, and it sounds like something I would do. I stare down at the bar. "Sorry about that." "No worries," Seth replies cheerfully. "You haven't broken anything this week." I smile because I can't muster up a laugh. It's just a matter of time before he has to kick me out again, I suppose. At the end of the bar, Seth leans on his mop. "So, Edward," he says. "What's got you closing down a bar on a Monday night?" The last thing I'm going to do is spill my guts to a bartender. This isn't a goddamn television show. "Why not?" I respond, hoping he'll get that I don't want to talk. "It's a school night," he points out. "I work evenings." "Ah..." He slaps the mop onto the floor. "So you're just kicking back, having a few..."

Jesus Christ this kid is fucking persistent. "Yep," I say, unable to hide the irritation in my voice. "Every night for a week," he finishes, his eyes following the path of the mop across the hardwood. "Look, man, I'm a fucking alcoholic, okay? Happy?" The words are sticky and awkward in my mouth. Seth merely shrugs and continues to mop. My face feels hot. I wish I wouldn't have said that. "So what now? You gonna tell me I can't drink here anymore?" Lifting his head, Seth meets my gaze. "Why would I do that?" Instead of answering, I finish my water. "You don't cause trouble, you pay your tab. If you're visibly intoxicated I can't serve you, but you've kept yourself together." I hear the unspoken "yet" in his words. "Doesn't mean I want to serve you, but I will." Standing up, I push my stool away from the bar and prepare to leave. "What were you reading the other day?" I look up and Seth is watching me. "What?" "You had a book with you a few days ago. Just wondered what it was." It takes a minute for me to remember what I was reading. "James Baldwin," I tell him, remembering. "Don't know him," Seth says, putting the mop back in the bucket. He starts hoisting stools onto the bar. "Any good?" "Yeah, he's all right." My first instinct is to make my way out the door, but instead I turn around and put my stool up, careful to push my water glass out of the way. "I'm not much of a reader," he tells me. "I'm dyslexic." "Oh?"

He nods. "Yep. You going back to school?" I shake my head. "Why would you think that?" Shrugging, Seth circles around me and gets back behind the bar, picking up my water glass and setting it in the sink. "I dunno. You don't see a lot of people reading in bars. Figured you were doing it for a reason." This makes my irritation flare up momentarily. "I am. I like reading." I've been so drunk the past few nights I don't really remember what this book is about, but I know at one time this was true. "So you're a smart guy." I snort. "Not in the slightest." Already my feet hurt from standing. I need to get better shoes for work. Seth looks less than convinced. "I don't know a lot of stupid people who read books I've never heard of just for fun." "Yeah, well..." I don't have anything else to say to that. Contradicting him seems like a waste of time and energy. "You want to go back to school?" This conversation and the way I'm standing - awkwardly, without a place to sit - unnerve me. "What's with the questions?" Seth grins and shrugs. "Just making conversation." Shaking my head, I turn toward the door. "Have a good night, Edward," Seth calls out. "And if I don't see you before we turn the place over, good luck." He's smiling genuinely, and if everything about the kid didn't scream "straight," I'd think he was hitting on me. Halfway raising a hand in a departing gesture, I step out onto the sidewalk. I replay the last parts of my conversation with the kid in the bar, and anxiety gnaws at the center of my chest. Pressing my hand to my sternum, I try to shake it off. What fucking business is it of his if I want to read books or if I'm in school? I'd liked that I could sit at the end of the bar and be ignored if I wanted. Now I'm too self-conscious to think about going back.

I hate my new place - hate the cramped two rooms, hate the low ceilings, hate the tuneless blare of the television in the apartment upstairs. I'd spent two nights between my shitty little room at rehab and my shitty little apartment sleeping on Jasper's couch. Then, I'd taken the two boxes and three garbage bags of clothes and other things I'd salvaged from my old place and brought them here. Inside, I kick off my shoes and toss my keys on the ground. I take a piss and half-heartedly brush my teeth before stripping down to my underwear and lying down. I haven't even got a proper bed, just a mattress on the floor and a blanket and a pillow. The walls are bare. Turning onto my side I let my eyes trail over the objects in the room. A set of three plastic drawers for my clothes; a cardboard box next to it holds what won't fit. A secondhand CD player and radio. A stack of seven or eight novels. A spiral notebook and a ballpoint pen. Another, smaller cardboard box that holds Loopy and a mess of other odds and ends. My books from AA and rehab. A cell phone charger still plugged into the wall. Rolling onto my back, I stare up at the ceiling. The streetlight illuminates the room, and I realize I've forgotten to shut the blinds. I know already that the light is bright enough to annoy me - I'm not nearly drunk enough to pass out - and anger and frustration heat up my chest and belly. My closed fist slams down into the mattress. The resulting noise is muted and unsatisfying and this only makes me angrier. A heavy weight pushes down on my chest and I twist beneath the blanket, trying to free myself of it. Sighing, I push myself up and sit with my back against the wall. The pressure isn't as bad now, and my heart rate slows as I calm down. Without knowing why, I crawl across the floor on my knees to one of the boxes and pull out Loopy. I take him back to bed with me, set him in my lap. When I think of how I must look - a grown man with a stuffed bear in his lap - I start to laugh, and then the laugh chokes off into a sob. With one hand I hold tight to Loopy's leg, the other hand tugs at my hair. I'm so tired. So, so tired. Tired of being broke and tired of being lonely. Tired of never, ever doing anything right, of always failing everyone and at everything. Tired of needing contact so bad that I crave even the conversation of the bartender who serves me my poison all night. Tired of thinking and evaluating and going through the motions. Tired of having to try so much all the goddamn time. I want to be normal. I want to be boring and average, and I wish I could get and be satisfied with a job with benefits and a 401K and a boss I can complain about with my coworkers. And I want to be able to love someone and have them love me back and not have it all turn to shit. I want to be able to have a beer at the end of the day, or on the weekends, and I want to be like all the other laughing, happy people who can wait until they get to the bar to drink and then stop drinking once they leave. I want to want anything - anything - more than I want to be drunk or to be high. Anything.

My throat is tight; I won't let myself cry out loud, and it hurts. I want someone, anyone, right now. But there's no one. No one to call; no one to come visit. Right now, I'd even welcome the sound of the television from upstairs. If this is how it's going to be forever, I don't want it. If all I've got to look forward to is days, weeks, months, years of trying and failing, of working and never getting anywhere, of nights spent alone in my rundown rooms drunk and crying, I don't want it. I don't. I can't take the pressure and the monotony; I can't take the almost certain disappointment. And I sit in the dark, bullshit tears running down my face because even if I wanted to I couldn't do it, couldn't kill myself. I'd fail even at that, because I can't let go of the tiniest sliver of hope that maybe, maybe things won't be this way forever. And I hate it. I hate myself for not being strong enough to take that last step, hate myself for being so weak that I push myself to the edge only to step back. I want to jump. I want to close my eyes and leap, but I can't. I sit that way, back up against the wall, until I can't cry anymore, until my head aches from it and I'm falling asleep sitting up. I slide down the wall and close my eyes and try not to think. I think about breathing, about pushing the air out and sucking it back in until I flicker out. * I have one day sober, then two, then three, four, five, six, and then a whole week. Then I buy a six-pack on the way home because I'm a working man and working men deserve a drink at the end of the day. * One week, two weeks, three weeks, four, five, six, seven, eight, to nine full weeks and I run into an old "friend" and it feels good to talk. It feels good to tell him all about AA and meetings and how he can do it too if he wants. Anybody can. And we walk down by the waterfront and he tells me he's holding and we get high. * One day. Two days. Three days. Seven days. Twenty-six days. Fifty-one days. Sixty-seven days. Eighty days. Ninety-five days. * I push the key into the lock and look up and down the hallway one more time before letting myself into the room. Carefully, I shut the door behind me and turn on the light. Like every night, the first notes I play are quiet and tentative. I hit a few keys and wait, thinking that if

someone is around to hear they'll come check out the noise sooner rather than later. When no one appears, I let myself play. I've forgotten a lot of the songs I used to know by heart, but I play all the ones I can remember, though sometimes it's just a few bars of something. After I've used up all of the stuff I know, I play whatever's lying around. Sometimes it's accompaniment for choir songs or just the parts to an a cappella piece. I don't care what it is as long as I get to play. My hands are clumsy anyway, nothing sounds that great. But I'm getting better. Last week I got lucky and found a couple of piano books in the bench. They're both collections of songs from musicals - one is Miss Saigon and the other is something I've never heard of called Into the Woods. I've never been a big fan of musical theater and don't much like the music, but it's something new to learn, and I like that. I'm starting to get the hang of a song I've been working on for the past few nights. My hands don't ache as much as they did at first so I can play longer. I'm pounding on the keys, not really paying attention to dynamics or anything, because sometimes playing loud feels good. With satisfaction I slam down the last chord. After a few seconds I lift my foot from the sustain pedal and the notes drop off sharply. There are a few posters on the walls of the music room. Most say things about practice and determination, the text beneath pictures of gleaming instruments. I wonder if I could have been a music teacher, if there are any other instruments I could've learned to play. I wonder what it would be like if instead of vacuuming the floor and dusting the light fixtures I could stand on the little podium at the front of the room with a baton in my hand. I wonder what the kids would think of me and what kind of music I'd pick for our concerts. I think I would've been good at that. My eyes find my hands on the keys, and I play. * "When do your classes end again?" Jasper asks. "June, but the Summer quarter starts pretty soon after that." He nods. "Right." We've eased back into tentative friendship, Jasper and I. He goes to a different meeting now, and I have a new sponsor. But we're trying. It's nice to have a friend who understands what's happening to me. It's nice to have a friend, period. "What are you taking for the summer?" "Music History and Appreciation."

Grinning, he leans back against the bookshelf behind him. "Sounds right up your alley." "I figured after Spanish and Anthropology this term I could use a break." The truth is, though, that I hadn't minded either of those classes. After so many years of not giving a shit about school followed by so many years of being away from it, reading textbooks and taking notes and having pop quizzes feels kind of great. It's hard for me, but so perfectly normal. "You wanna go for a run on Saturday?" I ask. Jasper grimaces. "I can't. Alice and I are going to Seattle for the weekend." "Yeah? What are you doing there?" Taking a trip would be nice, but I haven't got the money or a reason to go. "It's my dad's birthday, so we're having this thing on Sunday." He looks less than pleased about this, but I know what his relationship with his parents is like, so I don't press him. "You guys should see a game while you're there," I say. "I don't think it's too hard to get tickets." Jasper nods. "We could. But we've got plans for most of the weekend. A girl who used to work here is having us over on Saturday. You might've seen her around - Angela?" I shake my head, my stomach knotting up. There was only one person who worked here that I ever paid attention to. Thinking about her makes me feel anxious and guilty. The question I want to ask swirls around in my mouth briefly before I spit it out. "Are you going to see Bella?" I want to kick myself for asking, but I can't help it. Jasper eyes me. "Probably. She's friends with Angela, too." "Hm." I nod as if that's all I want to know. But it isn't all I want to know. "How is she? Bella, I mean." "Pretty good, I think." He's speaking slowly and choosing his words very carefully, I can tell. "You talk to her often?" I'm trying to be casual but my pulse is racing about a hundred miles a minute; my hands feel tingly. I should stop with the questions, but every time I come into the store lately, I think about her. I'm not sure why. Maybe because we dated in the summer and that time of year has come around again. "Sometimes. Alice talks to her more, though."

I scratch at the back of my neck. "That makes sense." The problem is that I don't talk to Alice and can't ask her these questions. "So has she ever asked about me?" My face is burning up; I sound like an asshole. I have no right to be asking about her in any capacity. Jasper shakes his head, and I can't help it - a surprised "oh" falls out of my mouth. Another flush of shame heats my face. "I mentioned you once, when you were back on the wagon - the last time," he tells me. "But she asked me to not talk about you, so..." This upsets me. And I've no right to be upset, none at all. I deserve that and so much more from her. I can't blame her for wanting to cut every part of my existence out of her life. In her shoes, I would probably do the same. We talk for a few more minutes and then I leave. I stare at the ground as I walk, wishing for someone next to me. That would be nice, to have a person to talk to, a hand to hold. The last time I had something like that was with Bella, and that was nearly two years ago. Somehow, my time with her seems like it was simultaneously a millions years ago and just last week. I would like to talk to her, to see how she's doing. Of all the people I've known in my life, she's one of the best. But I don't want to hurt her more than I already have. If she really wanted to hear from me, she wouldn't have told Jasper what she did. I think about the letter she wrote me, all the kind things she said, and I know that the way I looked at her and my silence have most likely nullified any good feeling she had left for me. And that's fair. I deserve it.

Chapter Twenty-Two "Wanna dance?" Jacob has to lean down close so that I can hear him over the music. Squirming on my bar stool, I shake my head. "I don't dance." He makes a face. "Everybody dances, Bella." "Not me." I take a drink of my beer and scan the room. We're at some bar near where the guys work. It's a regular shithole, but it's got a pool table and darts and a pretty decent jukebox - the old-fashioned kind, not the fancy-schmancy new ones that are hooked up to the internet and take credit cards and have touch screens. You have to put quarters and dollar bills in this one, and flip through the songs with those little arrow keys.

"You're boring," he tells me, straight-faced, and I know he's kidding but I roll my eyes anyway. Tonight, a group of people has started an impromptu dance party, putting ten dollars in the jukebox and congregating in the middle of the room. I think I might have met some of them before. Jake and his friends are mingling in and out of the group easily enough, but I don't remember any names. I tip my head in their direction. "I'm sure they wouldn't mind if you joined them." "And leave you hear alone, moping with your beer?" He shakes his head. "Not a chance." Shaking my head, I look down at my hands, but I can't help but smile. Jake's nice to me. For the past three months he's been putting up with my moody bullshit. I'm pretty sure he wants to ask me out, but he's heard bits and pieces of the Edward story and I think he gets that I wouldn't be able to say yes even if I wanted to. And I'm not sure I want to. From the corner of my eye I catch movement and turn my head. I nearly choke on my drink. Jake is dancing. At least, I think it's dancing. He's not moving his feet, just twitching his shoulders and throwing his head around a lot. As soon as I swallow my mouthful of beer, I start to giggle. "What the fuck are you doing?" Emboldened by my attention, Jake starts moving his legs. "Dancing," he says with a straight face. "I wouldn't call that dancing." Now he sets his bottle on the table and starts flailing his arms. "That's because you have no imagination, Bella Swan. I'm the lord of the motherfucking dance." And I laugh and laugh. Sliding down off of my perch, I grab his arm and lead him over to where everyone else is dancing. When we get there, I suddenly feel awkward on my own feet. I'm a horrible dancer; trying to move just makes me feel like more of an idiot. When I take a step to go sit back down, Jake grabs my hand. "Come on. Just dance." Now he's moving around more or less like a normal person, which means I'll look even more stupid by comparison. Shaking my head, I try to move away. Jake drops my hand. I was expecting him to hold fast to me, to try to force me to stay. But he doesn't. Instead, he smiles and shrugs and starts bouncing around with his friends. He looks kind of ridiculous, I suppose, but he doesn't seem to care. I envy him that. Why am I so stupidly self-conscious? No one's watching me; no one cares what I look like.

Stop being such a baby. Taking a deep breath, I rejoin Jake on the periphery of the group. He smiles and squeezes through people to stand next to me. "I really do suck at dancing," I tell him. Grinning, he grabs my hands and pulls them above my head, waving them back and forth. "I'll show you some moves," he says. The song on the jukebox switches over and it's a stupid 80s song that everybody seems to know. Suddenly I'm singing along and gesticulating wildly just like everyone else. And when the verse kicks over to the chorus, I'm bouncing up and down and shouting the lyrics. Jake looks ridiculous; I'm sure I look ridiculous, but I don't care. * Jake hasn't told me he likes me or asked me out on a date or tried to kiss me in about six weeks. This wouldn't be surprising except that up until a month and a half ago, this was nearly a biweekly occurrence. I made it clear after the first time it happened that I wasn't ready. Not ‘not interested,' but ‘not ready.' And so he waited. For two months. Then tried again. This time, I said again I wasn't ready, but that I was more ready than before. Which was true, but I didn't know if when the time came he was even the person I wanted to be ready for. No, that isn't true. He absolutely was. He absolutely is. I don't know what's wrong with my head. But I like him. I do. He's cute. Adorable. Hot, really. He's got good hair and pretty eyes and nice skin, and he's easily twice my size and can throw me around and I don't know why I like that, but I do. He's fun. He's funny. He's kind. He's gentle. He says what's on his mind and is honest, honest, honest to a fault. He cares about me and I know it not just because he tells me so but also because he shows me. He listens when I talk and that seems so basic, so minor, but it means a lot. He's my best friend. Granted, a best friend who clearly wants to jump my bones, but a best friend nonetheless.

But now it seems my best friend no longer has jumping bones on his agenda. At least, not my bones. "Please say you're coming to this party," Jake says as we walk down the sidewalk. He's on the concrete and I'm walking along next to him on the retaining wall. It's only a foot high and so I'm still a few inches shorter than him. "Eh..." Quil and Embry throw good parties. Loud, drunken, borderline-idiotic parties. But I'm kind of tired. I can't decide if I want to endure several hours of too many bodies packed into too tiny a space with just one bathroom. "Bella, pleeease," he whines. "Quil invited these idiot girls who came into the shop last week to have their tires rotated and blah blah blah." I laugh. "What's the ‘blah blah blah'?" "They're like, twenty-two and done-up and fake-tanned and shit, and driving cars that their daddies paid for." "So? I'd love it if my dad had enough money to buy me a car." I like picking on him. Jake makes a face. "You know what kind of girls I'm talking about. One of them asked us if we were ‘for real Indians'." Snorting, I'm so startled I almost fall off the retaining wall. "You've got to be kidding me." He shakes his head. "I wish I was." "Idiots," I mutter. I hate stupid people. And there's no excuse for that kind of shit. "On a lighter note," I tell him, "you could probably get laid. Be their ‘exotic' one night stand." "Oh, could I?" Jakes simpers, completely sarcastic. I laugh again. "This is why I like you." Jake cocks his head in my direction. "You like me because I lead a life of celibacy?" "No. I like you because you won't have sex with dumb girls even when it would be easy to." "So I should start hanging out at the library is what you're saying?" he says with a grin. "Exactly. Or maybe I could set you up with someone from the department." As soon as I say it I want to take it back. I don't want Jake to hook up with dumb girls, but I don't want him to hook up with smart girls either.

What am I doing? It's been nearly a year since that awful night in the bar. More than a year and a half since Edward busted my heart open. Thinking about him still makes me feel crappy, but not like it did before. And I'm sick of thinking about it, of thinking about him. Fuck this. "Jacob." He turns around, curious. I don't often use his full name. Reaching out, I gather up the fabric of his jacket in my hand and tug him to me. An uneasy half-smile curves his mouth. "What - " he begins but I cut him off. I kiss him. When I lean back his eyes are still open, his face a mask of complete shock. Shit. I'm opening my mouth to apologize when his face melts into a smile. "You kissed me," he says, his grin a mile wide. "Yeah." My face heats up. His eyebrows flex down, the smile fading. "You've never kissed me before." "Uh, no. No, I haven't," I reply, my eyes skittering all over his face. The butterflies in my stomach are unexpected and pleasant. I like being able to feel that feeling again. "But you meant to do it?" he asks, his eyebrows going up. My embarrassment slips away and now I'm smiling. "Yes." "So, does this mean you like, like me?" At first I think he's joking but his face is entirely serious. "You know I like you," I mumble, reaching out and giving his shoulder a friendly push. Jake grabs my hand in his. "But now it's with kissing." This is a ridiculous question, but it makes me laugh. "Are we in junior high?" I ask. My free hand feels funny, like it wants to reach out and touch his face and his hair, to touch something, anything.

The smile returns to his face. "I'm just making sure, okay? It's not like you haven't rejected me about fifty times." "I know," I admit, and pull him by his jacket until he's even closer than before. "Maybe you feel like you need to turn me down a few times? Just to make it even?" I feel his arm wrap around my waist and Jake shakes his head. "Nope," he says, smiling. This time when we kiss, he closes his eyes. * I'm staring at the slope of his back while he sleeps, staring at his tattoos, watching them rise and fall with his breath. I never thought I'd like someone with skin as marked up as Jake's, but I do. Maybe it's just because I know no one else in the world looks like this, like him. Or maybe it's because I know what each one means to him and why he got it, and if I love him then I can't help but love every part of him. Jake sleeps on his belly with his face buried in his pillow. I don't know how he does this, how he can breathe with his nose and mouth covered like that, but he sleeps like a baby. He can sleep anywhere, really. It's maddening. When I get up for the day, I don't bother being quiet because when he sleeps, he sleeps like the dead. It's almost ten o'clock on a Saturday morning. The light that fills my apartment is soft and gray. I sit on my futon and read until I can't ignore my stomach anymore. Jake's shoes are by the couch and I slide my feet into them and clump to the kitchen. I could probably fit both of my feet into one shoe, his feet are so big. It makes me feel like a little kid walking around in her dad's shoes. I take my cereal back into the living room and Jake lumbers out of the bedroom. He could sleep through a four-alarm fire, but the sound of cereal being poured into a bowl is like a siren call for this kid. "Morning," I say. He squinches up his face and rubs a hand across his eyes. "Mmphff." With a yawn, he plops down next to me and rests his head on my shoulder. I turn my face and kiss his hair. Like clockwork, one of his long arms reaches for the remote and flips on the television to check the weather. His fingers reach into my bowl and take a few pieces of cereal. Jake shoots me a toothy smile. "Get your own," I say, but I have to smile as well. Eventually, he gets up and gets his own food. When he finishes, he pulls me up into his lap and buries his face in my chest.

"Good morning, ladies," he croons. No matter how many times he does this, I can't help but laugh. And push his head away and call him a pervert, but he knows I like it. "What do you want to do today?" I ask, scratching his back lightly with my fingernails. He shrugs, his face still pressed to me. "You can't stay there all day," I joke. Finally, he lifts his head. "I was thinking, maybe we could start looking around at apartments on Craigslist. Just to see what's out there." My stomach rolls unpleasantly. "I thought we were just talking about that for now." I feel my heart rate jump up a tick. Jake continues, cautious. "I know. But it can't hurt to see what's available." He shrugs again. Suddenly, I can't bear him touching me. I slide out of his lap and sit on the other end of the couch. "I told you I needed time to think about this." Anger fills me, but I bite down on the inside of my mouth to keep from blowing up. The tentative but hopeful expression on Jake's face nearly breaks my heart. "Yeah, but I asked you about it six months ago." Nodding, I cross an arm over my chest. "And I've been thinking about it. Moving in together is a pretty big step, Jake." He's twenty-five; I'm twenty-seven. It's not like we're under the gun. I can't understand why he wants to lock this down so soon. "I know," he says, smiling. "But it's been two years and I want to live with you." "A year and nine months," I blurt out, automatic. Jake looks confused. "What?" "We've been together for a year and nine months, not two years." His face falls, and he looks so sad. I hate myself. "Do you want to live with me?" he asks quietly. The room feels sharply and suddenly small, the air thick and warm. "I told you I wanted to think about it." My excuse sounds pathetic, even to my own ears.

He touches my knee with his hand. "Bella, do you want to live with me?" His eyes are big and dark, the corners of his mouth turned down. I am a horrible person. This wonderful, sweet, amazing person wants to be with me - be with me for good - but every time he tells me so, it's like the walls shrink in on me. "Why can't things just stay the way they are?" I ask, my voice low. "Things are so good the way they are." Jake squeezes my leg. "Because I want you around more," he says simply, smiling. "Because I want to have our place." He's two years younger than me, but right now I feel like the child, because he knows what he wants. He's so sure, so confident. But me? In this moment I feel like I'm treading water, just keeping my head clear. "I love you," I say, because it's true. I do love him. I love him and trust him more than anyone on the planet. He's the best person I know. "I love you, too," Jake says softly. This is when I start to cry. And Jake, because he's Jake, hugs me and lets me sob until my eyes are swollen and my throat hurts. "I'm sorry," I whisper. He holds me tighter and kisses my cheek. "I know," he says, and his voice cracks a little. "Just do it quick, okay?" His arms fall away from my sides. "It'll be easier that way, like pulling off a Band-Aid." He smiles weakly. I'm breaking his heart, I know, and I hate it. I hate making him hurt and I hate being responsible for that pain. But I can't pretend I want what he wants. I can't pretend everything is fine. Jake gets dressed and he gathers the handful of things he keeps here and he leaves. I sit on the couch and I cry. * "How many guests are coming?" I ask, twirling a small scissors around my finger by the handle. Alice and Jasper share a look before she answers. "About one hundred and fifty, I think. That was the last count, at least." "We tried to keep it small," Jasper says, cracking a smile. "My parents aren't for subtly. Half the people I barely even know. They're family friends or something."

"Seriously?" I ask. He nods. "One more reason to just go to Vegas. Get married by an Elvis or something." Alice sighs. "If only." Then she laughs. They're both laughing a lot the past couple of days, she and Jasper. This is the first time I've been back in Port Angeles' downtown since Seth Clearwater's dad's funeral four years ago. I've been back to Alice's place a couple of times, but mostly I see them when they come to Seattle. But this weekend is Alice's wedding shower, and I couldn't avoid it any longer. When I drove to her shop today, I parked directly in front and kept my head down until I was inside. This is more out of habit than a fear that I'll see Edward. That part of my life seems smaller and far away now, and that's a strange thing to realize. That something that felt so big and so heavy could one day not be that way, and I hadn't even noticed when it happened. "I'm going to wear the dress you made me," I tell her. I've worn it to two other weddings already - Mike and Jess's and a friend from Phoenix's - but it's too nice not to wear whenever I get the chance. It's not all the time someone makes a dress just for you. Alice smiles brightly. "You are?" I nod. "You don't have to, you know," she says, wary. I laugh. "Of course I don't. But I want to." The bell up front dings and Alice jumps to her feet and hurries out of the back room. Jasper leans back on the seat of the loveseat Alice has moved in at some point over the years; I idly twirl around in my desk chair. "So your parents have basically taken over the wedding." It's not really a question. Jasper cracks a weary smile. "Just my mom. We told her we just wanted something small, at the house, just a few people, but she's turned it into a...into an I don't know what. My dad doesn't care what we do, he just writes checks for whatever my mom tells him to." I frown. "I thought you were pretty adamant about paying for it yourselves." "Oh, we were," Jasper says, raising his eyebrows. "And when we told my mom we couldn't afford certain things she thought we ‘just had to do,' she went out and bought and reserved stuff on her own." I can't help but laugh, and then I feel bad about this. "Sorry."

"No, it's fine. If it weren't happening to us, I'd probably find it amusing too." We're quiet for a few seconds. I can hear Alice talking up front. Jasper clears his throat. "There's something I wanted to talk to you about," he says. "Okay," I say slowly, narrowing my eyes a little at the tone of his voice. "We've invited Edward to the wedding." My stomach clenches as my mouth fills up with nervous spit. "All right." Even to my own ears my voice sounds strange and wooden. "I thought you should know that he would be there, and we wanted to make sure it wasn't going to be a surprise." He watches my face with concern. "We thought that wouldn't be fair." "Who's we?" I ask, suspicious. "Alice and me," he replies. "Oh." I look down at the floor. "He's doing really well, Edward is. We wouldn't have invited him otherwise. You know?" I nod. "Yeah. I mean, I figured you'd ask him." Except this isn't true. I had not figured that he would be asked. I had not figured he would be in any condition to be there. Hoped, yes; assumed, no. "It's your wedding," I rush. "You should invite who you want." Now I blush. "But you don't need me to tell you that." Jasper smiles briefly, but then looks serious again. "There was also...Edward wanted me to ask you something." And now I feel like I'm going to throw up. Everything in the middle of me is compressed; I can't take a deep breath. This thing I've avoided for years is now a monkey on my back and I hate it. "What's that?" My lips and tongue are slow and clumsy. "One of the twelve steps is to make amends with people we hurt, as long as trying won't make things worse for that person." "Yeah. I know about that," I say, sounding much more breathless than I mean to.

"Edward wanted, he wanted to speak to you - before the wedding - but he didn't know if you wanted to see or talk to him, so he asked me to ask you." Shaking my head, I get up from my chair and cross my arms over my chest. "Is that how these things are normally done?" I ask. Jasper smiles gently. "Sometimes. If you say no, he'll stay away from you. You won't have to talk to him at all if you don't want to." Pivoting on one foot, I turn away from Jasper and walk to the window. "So what happens if I say no? I'm fucking up his recovery or something?" I know this is anything but true, but I'm nervous so I ask. "No." His voice is calm as ever. "Like I said, it's totally up to you." "I don't know what we'd have to say to each other." "Well, I couldn't speculate on what he would say either, Bella, but it'd probably have something to do with your relationship." I snort. "Our relationship. That's nice." "Maybe you're still too angry to talk to him," Jasper suggests, and this bothers me. "I'm not angry." Jasper raises an eyebrow and I roll my eyes. "Okay, maybe a little, but I think I have a right to be." He shrugs. "I never said you didn't." "But you think I should talk to him." Shaking his head, he gives me another serene smile. "I didn't say that either." I sigh and sit back down on my chair. Twisting from side to side, I drag the toes of my shoes across the carpet. "Edward aside for a minute, it might make you feel better." But I am less than convinced. "How's that work, exactly?" "You could ask him questions, tell him how you feel. It's not just about him." "No shit," I mutter. Jasper laughs, and though his reaction seems, at first, not to fit the situation, it makes me realize that I'm taking this way too seriously.

"Would we...would it happen this weekend?" The prospect of seeing Edward without time to prepare is a kick to the gut. The fact that I need time to prepare is embarrassing. "I suppose it could, if you wanted," Jasper says. "But I think he was thinking later." "Like at the wedding?" I ask, incredulous. "Probably some time in between." I cross my arms over my chest and look down at the floor. "Huh." "You can think about it." "I don't want to think about it," I mutter. To this, Jasper doesn't say anything. "I mean, I don't think it's..." My fingers scratch at my cheek; it's an unnecessary, nervous gesture. I'm suddenly, inexplicably angry. "I don't owe him anything." Jasper raises his eyebrows. "No. You don't." Now that it's started, my anger fills me up and pours out of me, unchecked. It's better that I'm pissed. The alternatives would be to cry or to be indifferent, and I'm glad my reaction is neither of those. "I know it seems like a good thing, him being all...in the mood to amend things or whatever, but it just seems... I mean does this seem legitimate to you? Fuck." I pick at my fingernails. "That's such a dick question, I know. But, Jesus, Jasper. He was just...I didn't even recognize him the last two times I saw him. I don't even know if I want an apology or explanation from that person. Does that make sense? Am I being unreasonable or expecting too much? I just..." I take a breath. "It's been more than four and a half fucking years. Now all of a sudden I'm just supposed to be ready to have a little chitchat about shit I worked really hard not to think about?" "You don't have to do anything you don't want to do." "I know, I know," I say hastily. "I just don't know what I would say to him." This is also something of an untruth. Because I've rehearsed what I would say to him a million and one times. Just not in this context. And that unnerves me. I'm unprepared. "He wasn't who I thought he was. It would be like talking to a stranger." This last sentence hangs in the air for a while. Jasper doesn't say anything, just sits on the couch like the freaking Buddha - calm, collected. I wish I had his poise but it also pisses me off.

"Do you know why Alice and I have been engaged so long?" I shake my head. "No." "We'd planned on getting married a couple of summers ago, but I relapsed. So we pushed it back." My eyes are big; I can't help but be shocked. "What? When?" "Right when we started planning the wedding," Jasper says. "I was drinking, and it went on for about four months." "Did Alice know?" He takes a breath. "She did when I told her. I hid it pretty well, I think. She knew something was up but when she asked me about it, I lied." I frown. "Why did you lie?" "Because I didn't want to stop." He scratches the inside of a wrist. "When I use, Bella, it's like... Even when I was sober I was just thinking of how I could keep drinking." Maybe she and Jasper wanted to work it out on their own, but I wonder why Alice never said anything to me. And then I feel like an asshole because maybe I haven't been such a good friend. "When I was using my family basically disowned me, except for Rosalie. I don't know if it's because we're twins, or what, but she was always the one I could call for help. It didn't matter what I'd done, she'd always give me a ride or give me money." "Isn't that called enabling?" Jasper smiles. "Yeah, it is. And I was so good at guilt-tripping her. I could cry at the drop of a hat if I had to, tell her I just wanted to get high one more time and then I'd clean up, or that this was the last time she'd have to drive to Seattle or Portland in the middle of the night to pick me up." I don't know why he's telling me these things. Jasper and I are close enough, but we don't reveal our deep, dark, bloody secrets to each other. "When I was twenty-three I met this woman at a bar. She was a couple years older than me and she was pretty enough, so I was flirting with her. Then she told me she was a nurse." Jasper blinks twice in rapid succession then continues. "It was like I'd just won the jackpot. So I went home with her and said all the right things and did all the right things." He raises his eyebrows. "I suppose I did care about her, in some ways. It's hard to tell. I told her

about my accident right away. Once you take the clothes off, the scars are pretty hard to hide," he tells me with a rueful smile. My chest rises with a sort of half-laugh. "Then I started complaining of pain. I didn't come right out and say it, but I'd make noise when I got out of bed in the morning, or I'd wince when I had to take something down from the shelf or climb stairs. I'd probably be proud of my acting skills if the situation hadn't been so disgusting." He's not smiling anymore, and there's just the littlest bit of tension around his eyes. "What happened?" "I actually got her to ask me if I needed pills. Then I gave some song and dance about how I'd made the mistake of mixing painkillers and alcohol and had had some trouble, but that that was all in the past. And she believed me," he says. "She believed me because she loved me." He shrugs. There's a nervous, sick buzz in my stomach now. I know this must have been some years ago, but Jasper is more uncomfortable than I've ever seen him, and this makes me immeasurably uneasy. "At first she just found ways to get me stuff here and there, but eventually she got me a prescription pad." I feel sick. It's hard for me to reconcile the words I'm hearing with the person whose mouth is speaking them. It feels wrong. Jasper rubs at his jaw. "Of course it didn't take long for the shit to hit the fan, as they say. I'd had a bit of legal trouble in the past, but my daddy hired me a great lawyer." The tone of his voice startles me. Jasper doesn't do sarcastic or bitter. "I wouldn't get jail time if I went into rehab and agreed to drug testing during my probation." "What happened to the woman?" I'm afraid to ask, but I can't not. Jasper meets my gaze evenly. "She won't ever be a nurse again," he says matter-of-factly. "She was going to sue me in civil court but my father negotiated a monetary settlement that kept things quiet. Then she moved away." His face goes blank and he stares at the floor. It seems that now is the time I'm supposed to say something in response, but I don't know what to say. "The saddest part is," he continues, "is that even that didn't get me to stay clean."

I look up in surprise and Jasper smiles weakly. My first instinct is to ask him why he's telling me this, except I know why he's telling me this. When he speaks again, his voice has returned to level, to calm. "I'm not saying you have to see him or talk to him, Bella. I'm just saying that the nasty stuff was him, but so was the good stuff." Alice bustles back into the room at that point and the conversation is over. Both Jasper and I seamlessly transition back into our earlier conversation about the wedding. It's not until we're leaving the store later that I get a chance to say something without Alice overhearing. "Tell him okay." * "You know what would be so choice right now?" Kate asks. "What?" I don't bother opening my eyes. We're stretched out on blankets on her roof, enjoying the sunshine while it lasts. The warmth is putting me into a coma. "If you'd go inside and get me a glass of iced tea." I snort. "Not a chance." Kate's arm flails in a useless attempt at hitting me. "Lazy bitch," she mutters. "Takes one to know one," I reply. We lay in the sun in silence. She tries a different tack. "I mean, you're really fair-skinned, Bella. Maybe you should take some time out." "Maybe you should stop trying to manipulate me." Sighing heavily, Kate rolls onto her stomach. An errant cloud crosses in front of the sun. "Fuck you, cloud," I say. Kate giggles. Then, "I think I hear your phone." "Nice try. It's on vibrate." "No, I mean, yeah. That's what I mean. It's in your bag, right?"

I still myself and listen. She's right; my phone is buzzing. Kate speaks without lifting her head. "Aren't you going to get it?" Shaking my head, I throw an arm across my face. "If it's important they'll leave a message or call back." "What if it's the zombie apocalypse and someone's trying to warn us?" she asks, perfectly blasé. I giggle. "Zombie apocalypse?" She twirls her hand around in the air. "Can you check it for me? See if it's my dad?" Sighing dramatically, Kate digs into my bag and roots around until she finds my phone. "Who is it?" She wrinkles up her nose. "Doesn't say." "Local number?" I ask. "Washington state," she replies. "They left a message." She chucks the phone at me. I dial voicemail and wait for the creepy, automated voice to do its thing. "Bella, hi, Bella. Hello. It's - this is Edward. Masen. Jasper said...well, I was hoping that we could meet up sometime." And that's the point where I set the phone down, still flipped open, the message still playing. My arms cross, instinctively, over my belly. Kate turns her head in my direction. "Who was it? Zombie apocalypse? Credit card offer?" When I don't answer she pulls her sunglasses down on her nose and looks at me over the top of the lenses. "Bella? Are you okay?" I nod. "Yeah. I'm fine." But my voice comes out strangled, like a thirteen-year-old boy whose voice is changing. Her mind immediately goes to the worst. "Your dad okay?" "Yes. Yes, of course. I mean, the message isn't about him." Kate narrows her eyes. "You don't look so hot." "I'm...it's..." I gesture toward the phone and Kate moves to pick it up. "Don't!" I yelp, snatching up the phone and snapping it closed. "Sorry." I set the phone down again.

"Sorry," she echoes. "You pointed at it, I thought that meant you wanted me to listen." "No. Sorry. It's just..." Realization washes over her face. "That was Edward, wasn't it?" I nod. "Whoa. Blast from the past and all that." I've been waiting for this call - or some kind of word from him - since I'd spoken to Jasper three weeks ago, and Kate knows this. Because Kate knows pretty much all there is to know about the situation. We started the program together and two months in she'd gotten me mind-numbingly drunk and I'd told her everything. Because Kate just has that way about her. "I kind of want to hear his voice," she admits, and this eases the tension. "I'm being stupid, right?" "Eh...who can tell with these things? I mean, it has been a long time, but it's not like you've been seeing him or speaking to him or anything. Hearing his voice after so long would probably shock the shit out of me." Shrugging, she lays back down on the roof. I sigh. "I need to listen to the message, don't I?" "It's either that or wait for him to call you back and actually speak to him in person," she points out. "God," I breathe. That does not appeal to me. I dial my voicemail again. "Bella, hi, Bella. Hello. It's - this is Edward. Masen. Jasper said...well, I was hoping that we could meet up sometime. Or talk, on the phone, maybe, if you wanted. But I'd rather it be in person, but I get it if that's not cool. Um, yeah. Okay. So, I'm going to be in town the weekend of the tenth. If you're around, we could get coffee or something. Or lunch. Or we could just sit somewhere, I..." He exhales loudly. "Okay. This number is my cell, so you can call me or text me, or I guess I'll just try to catch you later. Yeah. And thanks for this. So...hopefully I'll hear from you. Okay. I hope you're doing well. Bye." The automated voice tells me to press seven to delete this message, nine to save it. I hit nine. Because of course I'm saving this message. "He's coming to Seattle next weekend." Kate hitches an eyebrow. "For what?"

"I don't know," I say, shaking my head. "Huh." "Huh," I repeat and lay back down on the roof. Kate turns her head. "You're going to see him, right?" "Yes. I think so." "You think so?" "Yes," I say slowly. "Okay." Kate looks forward again. "I mean, I have to, right?" "You said you would," she points out. I sigh. "I did." I throw an arm over my eyes. "You know, it's been a pretty long time, but I just..." Kate doesn't say anything. She knows me well enough to know I'll start talking again eventually. "It's like, I don't think about him anymore, really. Not unless there's a real reason, you know?" Like when I hear a Leonard Cohen song, or meet someone with the same first or last name, or when someone mentions AA or rehab or addiction. But even then all I feel is at best, a twinge of bittersweet recognition, or at worst, a twinge of hurt in my stomach. "Yeah, but you also haven't talked to him in what, four years?" Kate points out. "Almost five," I correct. "Four years ago was when I saw him in that bar." "Right." She's quiet for a moment. "If you worked with him, or something, you'd have had to deal with him already. It'd be out of your system. I think now you don't think about him because he's absent. Partly." "Probably true." "And I'm not saying you can't ‘get over' something that way, but it's different when you can't talk to someone. I mean, it's going to be weird because it's been so long. That's going to happen no matter what. If you and I didn't talk for five years things would be awkward the first time we saw each other again."

I sigh. "Also true. And I don't want the first time I see him to be at the wedding. That would be...bad, I think." Kate pumps her first into the air. "Agreed." I giggle. We sit quietly in the sun for a minute or two. "What if I cry?" Kate turns onto her side. "Then you cry." She half-shrugs. "Thanks," I say snidely. "That's easy for you to say, you're not going to be the idiot sniveling in front of a guy she dated for a nanosecond years ago." "Stop being such a baby," Kate says. "Excuse me?" "Stop being such a big, whiney baby," she repeats. "That guy totally fucked with your head, of course you're going to cry. Do you even remember what you were like the first semester you were here?" My irritation fades. "Kind of." "Well, let me remind you, sweetie. It was like real-life zombie apocalypse, okay? You were here, but you weren't really here. You looked like you were on the verge of a nervous breakdown half the time." She sits up. "So of course you might cry. The guy decimated you. Everybody's got the person that did that to them." "I know, I know." "Then stop worrying about crying. I'd be worried about you if you didn't cry, quite frankly." With that, Kate lays back down. I feel kind of sick. "Maybe I shouldn't see him. Would that make me a horrible person?" "Please don't take this the wrong way, Bella, but if you don't agree to see him, I'll steal your phone, get his number, and arrange for him to ambush you on campus. How's that?" She says all of this with her eyes closed, but her right hand punctuating the air with gestures. "Excuse me?" The irritation is back. "Because you either need to see him and realize it's too much and that you can't see him ever again, or you need to see him and realize that you're okay with this and can stop

feeling like you're going to shit your pants whenever you hear his name," she says matterof-factly. I can't stop the giggle that erupts in my throat. "I do not ‘shit my pants' when I hear his name, thanks." A big smile stretches across her face. "Or whatever you do. You just need to do something with this, right?" I sigh. "You're right." "I know," Kate says, smug. "Why are you such an insufferable, pushy bitch, and why am I friends with you?" I ask, grinning. She gives me a friendly smack on the arm then settles down again. We lay on the roof until the sun slips low in the sky.

Chapter Twenty-Three I slam my car door shut and pull a piece of paper out of my pocket, checking one last time for the name and address of the place where I'm meeting Bella. It's forty-five minutes before we're supposed to meet, but my appointment finished early and I don't have anything else to do. I've been in this neighborhood before - with Bella when she got her apartment - but I don't really recognize the buildings. Pulling open the door of the coffee shop, I look around for an empty table. It's not the most private place in the world. I don't feel like airing my dirty laundry in front of complete strangers, but I want Bella to feel comfortable. I take a step around the counter to look toward the back of the shop, and there she is sitting at a table reading a book. My heart skips a single beat and even though my stomach rolls with nerves, an involuntary smile lifts the corners of my mouth. Her head is down, her eyes glued to the page. All of these nerves and this anticipation and there she is, just sitting at a table reading a book. She looks almost exactly the same; her hair might be different. As I watch, she scribbles notes in the margins with a pencil and chews on the inside of her mouth. My smile widens; she still does that. Taking a deep breath and erasing the stupid grin from my face, I walk over to her table. I'm a few feet away and clearing my throat to say hello when she looks up. At first her face is blank, like she doesn't recognize me. Then she blinks and sets down her book and her pencil.

"Hi," she says. "Hi." I'm trying to decipher the expression on her face. She looks a little surprised, but not angry or upset or particularly happy to see me. I wonder if I should hold out a hand to shake hers, but my palms are sweaty. I'm not sure shaking hands is an appropriate greeting for the two of us anyway. She's still watching me. "You're early." I check my watch even though there's no need; I know that I'm early. "Yeah." "Okay," she says, not looking away. I don't know what to do. Not with my hands or my feet or my face. Bella smiles at me - it's closed-mouthed but genuine. "Have a seat." Grateful, I smile back and look away, busying myself with pulling out a chair and untangling myself from the strap of my messenger bag. When I look up again, she's still smiling and watching me, almost like I'm a curiosity, like she's trying to decipher who or what I am. "Hi," she repeats, and this time the smile breaks open and shows her teeth. Shaking her head, she presses her lips together and briefly looks down at her hands. I laugh, nervous. "Hi." Leaning forward, Bella props an elbow on the table and rests her chin on her fist. She's looking at me again. "So you're here." "Yep." We're watching each other, both of us trying not to laugh. This reaction seems ridiculous, but I can't help it. Neither can she, it seems. "In the flesh," she says, her nose scrunching up a bit. "I guess so." All the carefully planned and rehearsed things I've been meaning to say have been forgotten. Bella leans back, sits up straight. The smile is gone but she still looks pleasant. "You look different," she informs me. "Do I?" I ask, feeling self-conscious. Does this mean I look old or bad or just...different? My hand reaches up and drags through my hair. "You still play with your hair when you're nervous," she observes. "But it's shorter." She stares at my head for a few seconds. "It suits you."

My cheeks feel warm and my mouth funny. I'm not expecting her to notice that I'm nervous. Or to say nice things to me. It throws me off balance. "Thanks," I say, my voice hushed. Neither of us says anything for a while. "Do you want to get coffee or something?" she asks. Grateful for the distraction, I nod and hastily get up and go to the counter to order. When I come back, Bella is rolling her pencil back and forth between her fingers. She's staring at the table, deep in thought. I sit down and she snaps out of it, giving me the same small smile from before. "So," she begins, setting the pencil down next to the binding of her book. "What are you doing in Seattle?" This is a logical question and one I was expecting, but that doesn't mean I want to answer it. "I was looking at apartments," I say, and watch as the slight curve in her lips flattens to a straight line. "You're moving here." It's not a question. I nod. "Yeah. In the fall." "Oh." Her eyebrows tense for the briefest of moments then relax. She cocks her head to the side. "Why?" "I'm starting school again. Well, finishing school." Her face brightens. "Really? Where at?" "At UW.' Bella frowns slightly, confused. "I thought...weren't you kicked out?" "For all intents and purposes, yes." My thumb rubs absently at the back of my coffee cup. "I was failing most of my classes and I was...asked to leave." She already knows about the drinking and the drugs so there isn't any use in repeating those sorry stories. "Oh." She thinks for a minute. "But you get to go back now?" I nod. "It took a lot of begging and pleading and paperwork, and I had to do this appeal thing with the disciplinary board and get the president of the university involved. It was kind of a big production."

"Apparently," Bella says appreciatively. "But I got a bunch of recommendations from my teachers at Peninsula..." She cuts me off. "Peninsula? In PA?" "Yeah," I say, and take a drink of my coffee. "I got my Associates Degree." I don't want to look at her reaction to this - I feel so nervous and stupid telling her about it - but I can't keep my eyes down. The small, genuine smile comes back. "That's great, Edward. Congratulations." "Thanks." I think she means what she says; that makes me feel good. "What are you going to study?" I hesitate before I answer. We're making small talk like we're mere acquaintances who haven't seen each other in a while. I don't know if this is how this should be going. I don't know if she's just being polite or if she really cares. She looks interested; her face doesn't betray any boredom or irritation, but I feel unsure when I answer her. "Music. Music education, hopefully." Her face softens. "You want to be a teacher?" I nod, watching to gauge her reaction. "That's really great. You'd be good at that, I bet." Bella smiles at me. My stomach feels warm. "Thanks." A part of me wants to bring up how my arrest record might complicate or even completely derail those plans, but this is a nice moment. I don't want to ruin it. I'm sure there will be plenty of time for that later. She clears her throat and rolls her shoulders back. "So, you're moving here in the fall?" "My lease is up in July, so yeah. Around then." And for the first time today, Bella looks distinctly uncomfortable. "How are you?" I ask, realizing we've been talking just about me. "Good. I'm good." She smiles faintly and shrugs. I push past the vagueness of her answer and ask another question. "Are you almost done with your degree?"

"Close. I probably should have been done this year, but I sort of changed my focus right before my exams," she says, tucking her hair behind her ear. "What were you focusing on?" I remember her talking about British Literature a lot, but that was before she ever went to school. I don't know what interests her now. "Long story short I flipped my major and second period, and started a brand new specialized field. I had to...recalibrate," she says with a smile. "But for my dissertation I'm focusing on the Modern novel." "Oh." I feel a little stupid because I asked her a question I clearly don't understand the answer to. Bella smiles. "Yeah. Now there's a lot more pretentious literary criticism involved." I'm nervous and her joke makes me laugh. "But I'll be done in a year, cross your fingers." "That's really awesome, Bella," I tell her, trying to sound sincere but not over the top. She smiles in thanks and drains the last of her coffee. The momentum from our conversation falters and we sit across from one another, neither of us speaking, for what's probably less than a minute, but feels like an eternity. "Jasper said you were doing well," she says quickly, nervously. I blink in surprise. "Oh. Yeah. I mean, yes." "How long has it been?" Her question isn't tentative, just respectfully cautious. "I'll have three years in August." And even though I say this often enough to different people in different contexts, the words still feel strange. Bella places her fist in front of her mouth. It's a casual gesture, but she's looking at me very closely, very carefully; her eyes get glassy. A sudden thrill of anxiety pulses through my gut. I don't know if this upsets her because her hand is covering her mouth. Then she blinks and lowers her hand and smiles at me. "I'm really glad for you." This is not the most dramatic or emotional thing anyone's said to me about my extended sobriety, but what she says to me makes me feel good. Really, really good. "And I..." She pauses, her lips pursing up into a funny shape. "I want to say I'm really proud of you, but is that - Is that patronizing? I don't mean it to be."

"No," I say. "It's not. Thank you." Two people - it looks like a woman and her college-aged daughter - sit at the table next to us. The little bit of privacy we've had is invaded. I'm suddenly very unsure about what I presume will be the rest of this conversation. Bella shifts in her chair; she seems to feel the same way. "Do you want to take a walk or sit outside somewhere?" Relieved, I nod, and we gather up our things, put our dishes in a bin. Outside, it's raining. Not heavily, but enough that we're going to be fairly well soaked in about ten minutes. "Well," Bella says, looking up at the clouds from under the overhang. "So much for that brilliant idea." She makes a face and I laugh. I'd almost forgotten about the goofy expressions she'd make when she was annoyed or feeling silly. "I already had lunch, but are you hungry? There's a pretty good Chinese place across the street. We could probably sit there." I hesitate, wishing to God it would stop raining. I've had a few of these conversations before, and having it in a confined space like a restaurant or a coffee shop doesn't strike me as the optimal setting. "Or," Bella pauses and runs her tongue along her lower lip thoughtfully. "We could go to my place. It's just a couple blocks up." Her forehead creases when she looks at me. "But you know where I live." I'm not sure what to do. It would be great to have a quiet place to go, but I don't want to invade Bella's personal space, particularly if this conversation goes poorly. Right now, things seem okay, but I don't know how long that will last. "If you don't feel comfortable, that's okay," she says. "It's just so close..." My fingers go to my head and I grip then release my hair quickly. "Sure. If that's all right with you." It's raining a little harder now and so we walk quickly down the sidewalk, not talking, for about a block. I'm wondering how to bring up the thing I want to bring up. I'm wondering if she'll do it for me. "Did you find a place?" "Sorry?" I ask, snapping out of my thoughts. "Apartments," Bella says. "Did you find one you liked?"

"Oh, yeah." I nod. "It's small, but it's nice. Quiet." She nods in return. "Cool." We turn up the walk in front of her place and she lets us inside. Bella climbs the stairs in front of me and I try to be good. I try not to stare at her ass, but it's right there. And the ridiculousness of this - of me contemplating the ethics of staring at my ex-girlfriend's ass almost makes me laugh. I look. A few times. She's put on a little weight, a few pounds, maybe. Her thighs are a little thicker, her hips a bit wider, and it looks good on her. I shake my head; I'm a complete bastard. "You can put your stuff wherever," she tells me when we step inside. "Go ahead and have a seat." She gestures toward the living room. "I'm just going to use the bathroom quick." "Should I take off my shoes?" I ask, feeling self-conscious. She shrugs. "If you want. I don't care." And then she's disappeared into the bathroom. In my mind I've had a vague memory of this place, but it looks a lot different now that it's got Bella's things in it. There's a loveseat and an armchair and footstool with flowered upholstery that looks straight from the 70s. Two floor-to ceiling bookcases are filled beyond capacity. There are books stacked sideways on top and in front of the ones on the shelf. More books - these are hardback and look like they're from a library - cover her small desk. She's got a few album covers in frames on her walls, but mostly it's photographs. I set my bag on the footstool and walk closer to the wall. I recognize her father in a few, and then another, younger man and a woman who looks enough like Bella that I assume it's her mother, in a few more. Some of the pictures are from when she was a kid. Little kid Bella makes me smile. She's got skinny legs and a big head and always lots of hair. Then there's a picture of her with Alice, and another of her and a blond kid. I wonder if this is or was her boyfriend. It feels weird to think of Bella with a boyfriend. Not bad, just weird. But I suppose that's how it is. The bathroom door opens. Leaning forward, I inspect another picture more closely. It's a wedding party, but Bella's standing on the groom's side in a dress. "Whose wedding?" I ask, pointing. She steps forward to see what I'm looking at then smiles. "My friend Mike. The guy in that picture there." She points to the blond guy. "He was my roommate in Boston. I think I told you about him." "Right. Of course. Were you in the wedding?"

Grinning, she nods. "I was his best man. Or best...woman. I don't know." I smile. "Really?" "Yep." "That's cool," I tell her. She looks happy in that picture. She looks happy in all of them, actually. "Where's this?" I point to a larger frame with half a dozen photos in it. "New Zealand," she says, grinning broadly. "And that's my friend Kate." She points to the person in the pictures with her. "Is this recent?" I ask, squinting at the tiny faces and trying to figure out Bella's age. "Last year. Kate's in the program with me. Well, she was. She's finished now. But she lived in New Zealand for a year in undergrad and I'd never been." I'm envious. I've never been out of the country except trips up to Canada. And living in Washington, that's not much of an accomplishment. "How long did you stay?" "Two weeks," Bella replies. "It was gorgeous. The landscape...it was unbelievable. I'd love to go back." Nodding, I take another step and look at three pictures of Bella with a tall, Native American kid. For a few seconds I just look, unsure of what to say. These pictures have obviously been taken in the past five years, and I'm not sure how to ask her if this is her boyfriend. So I just ask. "This your boyfriend?" Bella blushes almost immediately, and I can see her cheek pucker where she bites at it. She shakes her head. "No. He's just a good friend. We dated for a while. But we're just friends again." "Oh." I turn back to the pictures, stare at the middle one. "Where did you take this?" "Hawaii. Jake's sister lives there. We went to visit." She steps up beside me and points at the top photo. "That's in B.C., near Vancouver. And this one," she indicates the bottom photo. "This one is at La Push." I don't know what to say, and we lapse into silence. The longer we're together, the more it becomes obvious that there's this thing we have to talk about, and the more awkward it gets for both of us.

"He's tall," I observe, not knowing why I'm saying this. But Bella laughs. "Yeah. He's tall." My shoulders relax and I step away from the wall of pictures. "Why did you break up?" I ask, immediately regretting it. It's none of my business. My question seems to make her a little sad, but she shrugs and smiles gently. "Why do people break up? It just didn't work out." I don't ask any more questions about Jake. "You want something to drink?" she asks, unzipping her sweatshirt and tossing it into her room. "I have water, milk, iced tea, maybe a little juice of some kind..." "Iced tea would be good," I say, pretending this is just another social call and we can sit and chat and have iced tea like old friends or neighbors or something. "Lemon?" "If it's not a bother, sure." Bella heads to the kitchen and I sit down in the chair. It's sturdy in the way that old furniture is sturdy - solid, well built. I can hear the fridge open and close and then the sound of glasses being set on the shelf. There's pouring liquid and the clanking of ice in the glasses. From this seat, I can see into Bella's bedroom. There are medium-sized prints of what look like abstract paintings on the walls. The bed is neatly made, and for some reason this tiny detail is a glaringly obvious sign that I've stepped into a world where I don't belong. I didn't know she liked abstract art, or any art at all. I didn't know she wanted to travel. I didn't know that when she decorated she'd fill her house with mostly second-hand things - like the chair, or the lamps, or the beat up coffee table. "Iced tea," Bella pronounces, handing me the glass. Now that she's just in a t-shirt, I can see that her breasts are fuller, too. I drop my eyes, feeling like a world-class asshole for staring at her chest. "Sugar, if you want." She sets a little sugar bowl on the end table next to me. I smile. "My grandma is the only person I know who had a sugar bowl." Bella shrugs. "I saw this in a thrift shop and thought it was cute. Figured I should actually use it."

I stir sugar into my tea and she does the same and we're both quiet. "So, Edward," she says, looking tired all of a sudden. "Jasper said you wanted to talk to me." It's difficult to know if she's saying this because she wants to get the conversation over with, or if she merely wants to put the unmentionable out into the open. "Yeah. I did." There are a million ways I'd prepared myself to talk about this, but right now I'm having trouble remembering. "I don't know what I should do," she says. "I don't know how this is supposed to go. Do you start or do I?" Laughing softly, she rubs her forehead with her hand. "I'm probably making this more awkward than it needs to be, aren't I?" "I think it's just going to be awkward no matter what," I tell her. "But it's been a while since I've done this, so, anything goes." I try to smile. "You've been...amending with other people?" she asks, keeping her voice light, trying to joke. "Yeah. Before." "Am I the last on the list?" Her eyes are less steady now. "Honestly?" She nods, her eyes attentive. "You weren't on the list. I mean, you were on the list, but only in theory." Confusion changes her face. "I didn't think you'd ever want to speak to me again," I clarify. "Oh." She looks away for a second. "Okay. Then what made you...?" "I knew you'd be at Jasper's wedding and I figured if there was ever going to be a time to do it, it would be now. If you were willing." "Oh," she repeats. "After everything...I didn't want to force you to talk to me." Again, her expression is unreadable. "What's ‘everything'?" she asks, looking me in the eye. The question and the eye contact fluster me a little. "Well, there are things I should apologize for."

"Okay." Bella sits, watching me, and waiting. I try to gather my thoughts before speaking. "I'm sorry for how I was when we dated." My heart feels like it's in my mouth, pulsing and getting in the way of my words. "I wasn't far enough into my recovery to be a good partner to anyone. And I should've been more honest about how I was feeling." "Feeling about...your sobriety?" Bella asks, her eyebrows coming together. "Yeah. Among other things. I didn't know how to tell you - or anyone - how I was feeling, really. I should have communicated better." "All right. Thank you." She sounds as awkward as I feel. This is clinical and formal, and maybe it has to be like that, but I wish it didn't. "And I'm very sorry for how I ended things. With you." I swallow and my throat is dry. I take a drink before continuing. "I was unfair and immature, and I should've...it should've been a conversation. I shouldn't have been so abrupt. I..." I pause. Because there are million shades of grey I could delve into here, but I want - at first - to keep it simple. I just want to apologize. "I'm sorry." "Thank you," she says quietly, letting her eyes drop to her hands. "I also wanted to say something about the letter you wrote to me." This is the most difficult part for me; my heart is beating faster. I can't help but notice that Bella's eyes immediately move to mine when I say "letter." She looks...I don't know. Embarrassed. Shocked. Curious. "I'm so sorry I never wrote back," I tell her. Because I am. Sorrier than she can know. She blinks quickly a few times. "I didn't know if you got it." "I got it," I say, and my hand is back in my hair briefly. "I still have it. I mean, I kept it." And she's looking at me now like she can't understand what I'm saying, like she's confused or so surprised or something else entirely. Tipping her head to the side, she bunches up her brow and looks at me. "Why did you keep it?" Her voice isn't sarcastic or angry. It's genuinely interested. "It was the nicest thing anyone's ever said or done for me," I tell her. "Of course I kept it." "But you," she stops and takes a breath, starts over again. "But you never...you didn't..." She blinks, and this time, a tear rolls down her cheek. Without haste, without embarrassment, she wipes it away. "Why would you do that?"

If my heart was going before, it's nothing like how I feel now. I knew this was a question that might come, and I don't know what to say. It doesn't make sense for me to have kept that letter all this time. But I did. "Like I said, it...you said really nice things. I didn't want to forget -" I stop and cough. "I didn't want to forget that feeling." "What feeling?" Bella asks. She's still crying, but it's a strange kind of crying. Her voice isn't cracking; her face isn't red and swollen; she's not sobbing or sniffling. She's sitting calmly on her couch, carrying on this conversation as normally as could be expected. There's only the occasional tear tracing down her cheek when she blinks. "That...that someone cared," I say, and my face is hot with shame. I feel small and stupid, saying these things. "That you cared." And now she almost smiles. "Why would it matter if I cared?" The question isn't spiteful, merely honest. "Bella," I say, almost admonishing. "Of course it mattered." "But you," she starts, then pauses to brush the back of her hand across her face. "But you broke up with me. You didn't want to talk to me or have me near you." "I know." I can't look at her face anymore so I look down at the coffee table. "And the way you looked at me that night..." She shakes her head slightly. "Do you even remember seeing me?" "At the bar?" I ask, even though I know which night she means. My mouth is dry and sticky. "Yeah. You looked at me like..." I look at her again. "Like what?" "Like you hated me," she says quietly and with a little laugh. "Why would that person keep my letter?" I don't have an answer for her, so I don't say anything. Maybe thinking I could just say "sorry" and that that would be enough was naïve. Of course it was, and I know it, but having her in front of me and asking me these questions is much different from the scenario I've been playing in my head the last few weeks. My body feels on edge, nervous almost to the point of nausea. I want to make this right, and the realization that my answers may never be adequate upsets me. "I didn't hate you."

Bella raises her eyebrows like she doesn't believe me. "I didn't," I insist. She blinks and another tear slips down her cheek and hovers on her jaw. For the first time this afternoon, she starts to look a little bit pissed off. "I'm going to need you to try and explain some things to me if you can," she says quietly. I nod. "I'll try." "I just...this is a hard question for me to ask, and I need you to know I'm not normally like this," she tells me earnestly. I'm confused. "Like what?" "Like...this." She gestures to herself. "Weepy and crying about you. I don't mean to be mean or anything, but I don't, I haven't thought about you, like this, in so long." There's another tear and another quick brush of her hand. "I have memories, of course, but I don't cry about it...it was so long ago, and, and I'm...I've dated other people, had real relationships." The word "real" stings a little, but I know what she's trying to say. "And I don't know why I'm crying now. It feels weird." "It's okay," I reassure unnecessarily. "You don't have to apologize for any of that." Bella fixes me with her eyes. "I know I don't need to apologize," she says. In that moment, I feel very far away from her. Quickly, I try to right the conversation. "I know you know, I just, you shouldn't feel uncomfortable about how, how you feel," I finish, feeling awkward. "I don't," she says. "And I feel emotional, but not...upset. Does that make sense?" I nod, not knowing what else to say. "It's just, I never got to tell you what I was thinking or respond to you. I mean, I wrote that letter - and I meant what I said in it - but it was, it was like this big thing for me then, you know? And it made me angry and sad and hurt and confused, but I never could tell you that the way I wanted to, so it just stayed there." She's not crying anymore, something for which I'm grateful, but her face is set. Determined.

"But after a while it didn't make me feel that way anymore, but then I talked to Jasper and suddenly..." Bella stops and shakes her head, smiling a little. "It was like I was twentythree and back there all over again. Maybe that's crazy." "I don't think it's crazy," I tell her. "I sort of feel like that too." Frowning, she pulls her legs up onto the sofa and sits cross-legged. "It's not the same for me. I don't know what you were thinking - because you never told me - but you don't know what I was thinking either." "I know," I respond quickly. "Because you...you were thinking about breaking up with me before that night, right?" Her face tells me she already knows the answer to that question. It also tells me that even though she's asking, she's not entirely sure she wants to hear the answer. Licking my lips, I look down at my knees. "Kind of." Bella looks confused. "Kind of?" "I was thinking that you were going to move to Seattle and you were going to meet someone better. I thought, anyway." The frown deepens. "Better how?" "Not someone like me." Sighing, Bella leans back into the couch cushions. "I can't believe that after all this time that still drives me absolutely crazy." Now I'm confused. "What does? What drives you crazy?" She rolls her eyes. "The whole ‘I'm not good enough' thing. You're over that, right? I mean, not with me - that isn't what I'm talking about. But in general. You don't wander around thinking about how much you suck, right?" Her exasperation and the way she's phrased this almost make me laugh. "No," I tell her. "I have my moments, sure, but..." "Good." She looks semi-satisfied. "I can't even express how batshit-crazy that makes me." "No," I say, shaking my head. "You're doing a pretty good job of expressing yourself." When she bursts out laughing, I'm a little surprised but glad. "Did you really think I would have moved to Seattle and then just dumped you?" she asks.

"Yeah. Sometimes." She thinks for a minute. "I wouldn't have, I don't know, cheated on you or wanted other guys. But eventually, yeah. I don't know if we would have worked out." There's no spite or dig in her voice; she's just being honest. I know what she's saying is the truth. "In the moment, of course, I really wanted to be with you, but I was so young. And not just age, but experience. We would've just ended up resenting each other." "Probably," I say. "And that would've sucked. Maybe even worse than what did happen." "Maybe." I don't know if this part is true. "But that wasn't all of it, right? I mean, me leaving wasn't even the biggest reason, was it?" she asks, cocking an eyebrow. It's not that I'd forgotten how smart and perceptive she was, it was just that it had never occurred to me that she would be able to understand what had happened. I feel like a fuck for not giving her enough credit. "No," I answer, shaking my head. "It's hard to explain. I wanted to use - of course I wanted to, I always did, I do now sometimes - but I didn't want you there. I didn't want you to see that. At the same time..." I swallow roughly and jerk my hand through my hair. "Being with you meant I couldn't do it, or I'd feel guilty for doing it." "So it made you mad that I was stopping you. Not that I was ‘stopping you,' but I get it." We're both quiet then and I can see that she's chewing on the inside of her mouth again. "This is hard for me," she says then, looking up at me with clear eyes. "Because you had time to think about it, about not being with me. But for me, it was like in one moment you loved me and then five minutes later you couldn't even stand to be in the same room with me. That was," she pauses and licks her lips. "I didn't understand and I was so surprised. It felt like it hadn't even happened, you know?" She's right, and I can't really understand how that would feel. Not in this context, at least. "And I don't want to dwell on this, or I'm trying not to, and I'm so grateful that you wanted to talk to me - I really am." Bella stops speaking and fidgets a little in her seat. "But I need you to know how much that moment hurt me. Because I thought even if you didn't want me

anymore, that you respected me, that you thought I was a good, worthwhile person. And when you kicked me out of your house..." I open my mouth to object but I realize that this is what I'd done to her. "When you looked at me that way, and took a drink in front of me like you wanted me to see it, I..." For a moment she looks like she's on the verge of tears. "No one had ever loved me like that before. I didn't think anyone ever would." This almost seems to make her laugh. "I was young and naïve and inexperienced and I thought the sun shone out of your ass." Now she does laugh a little. A small, involuntary smile comes to my face even as my stomach churns. "So when you rejected me, it felt like everything, you know? It felt like the whole world. And I'm not that girl anymore, but I remember how it felt, how much it hurt, how confused I was." I can see tears in her eyes, but she's not looking away from me and so I don't look away from her. My heart is pounding and my mouth is dry, and all I want to do is say I'm sorry, but I know that won't fix this, and I know that she's not asking for more apologies anyway. "I'm sorry if I seem too emotional. Maybe other people wouldn't care after all this time, but I'm not like other people. I..." She searches for her words. "When people matter to me, they matter to me, you know?" As she speaks, she leans forward on the couch, a clenched fist bumping her chest for emphasis. "And that's frustrating, sometimes. And maybe I'm saying too much, but I want to be honest with you." "I appreciate that," I say quietly, finding my voice. I envy her. I envy how it's not easy for her to say what she thinks or feels but she does it anyway. She's fucking fearless and I can barely get the "I'm sorry" out of my mouth. "I'm glad you told me." "I don't want you to think I'm like this all the time," she says, repeating her sentiment from earlier. "I understand what our relationship was, and I'm not holding a grudge." She makes a face. "Despite appearances." I can't help myself; I laugh. And she laughs with me, blinking away the remnants of tears from her eyes. "So, what? Do I sign a piece of paper now or something?" I look up and realize that she's joking. "Yeah," I say. "I need your fingerprints and Social Security number, too." We laugh a little, together. After a moment, Bella screws up her face and looks at me. "You really kept that letter?"

The question embarrasses me. "I did," I say, nodding and trying to fight back the heat that rises in my face. "Color me surprised," she says with a smile. "That's kind of humiliating, actually." "What?" "For me," she says quickly. "For me, obviously. It was so cheesy and sappy, right?" There's an ache in my stomach but I smile. "Not at all. It was really...nice. I thought it was nice, anyway." "Well, I'm glad one of us got something out of it," she jokes. Her wisecrack puts me off a little. "You know, it's not like I never thought about you," I tell her. Bella's mouth tightens. "What do you mean?" "I mean, I didn't just forget that you existed." "Oh, really?" She arches an eyebrow at me. "Yes, really," I say. "You mattered to me." She's no longer amused. "You sure had a funny way of showing it." Neither of us says anything, and we stare each other down. The urge to leave seizes me and I almost stand up. I remind myself that leaving is what I used to do. I don't do that anymore. "I'm sorry," I say, and even though my voice has an edge, I mean it. Bella puts her feet back on the floor and her knee bounces. "I don't need you to keep apologizing." "Well, I don't know what else to say. And you're obviously angry." Giving a short laugh, she crosses her arms across her chest. "How would you know what I'm feeling? You don't even know me." I want to snap back, to be sarcastic and cutting like her, but I hold my tongue. When I don't respond, Bella sighs heavily. "It's normal that you feel like you want to punish me," I say.

Her mouth drops open, her face hostile. "Excuse me?" "It's normal that you're angry and want to make me feel bad." I'm being an asshole now, but I can't help myself. I'm pissed that her generous mood has given way to this one, even if I have no right to be pissed. "Don't psychoanalyze me, Edward," she spits. Again, we stare each other down. "Maybe I should go," I say, waiting for her to confirm before I make a move for the door. With another sigh, Bella leans forward and rests her elbows on her knees, her head in her hands. "You don't have to leave." She raises her head. "Do you want to leave?" "Kind of," I tell her, honest. Pressing her lips together, she watches me for a moment. "I'm sorry," she says finally. "I do want to be mean to you. I don't know why." She rolls her eyes. "That's a lie. I know why." I think I know why, too, but I'm disappointed that she doesn't say the reason out loud. "God," she sighs. "This is so fucking emo." Unable to stop myself, I burst out laughing. "Finally," I say. "Finally what?" I grin. "Finally you dropped the f-bomb." Bella snorts with laughter. "That was the first time I'd said it?" "Yep," I tell her. "Huh." Her smile is wide. "I think that may be a record for me." I'm glad she's smiling again, but I'd forgotten how quickly she could jump from mood to mood. It's hard to keep up with her scattershot emotions. Rolling her eyes, Bella flops back onto the couch. "I don't swear as much as I used to," she informs me. "Trying to be a grown-up and all that. It fucking sucks." "Well, you are, what? Twenty...eight now?"

"Indeed I am." She looks at my face. "Which would make you..." Her mouth twists as she thinks. "Thirty-two?" "Yep," I say, nodding. "Time flies. Or waits for no man. Or, these are the days of our lives, or something," she deadpans, propping a foot up on her coffee table. I look down and smile. I'd had memories of her over the past few years. I'd recalled some of our conversations fondly and I'd certainly remembered having sex with her, but I'd forgotten how much I simply liked her as a person. Bella checks her watch and I'm again reminded that I'm merely a visitor here, practically a stranger now. I can't sit in her living room forever. "I should probably get going," I say, standing up. "Oh. All right." She looks a little surprised but doesn't say anything about it. We make our way to her front door. "Thank you for the iced tea and for seeing me," I say. "Sure. Of course. I mean, thank you for talking to me about...all of that." Her face is pink with embarrassment. I feel as awkward as she looks and sounds. This feels incomplete, this conversation. But then again, they always do. Truthfully, I don't know if I've done everything I can to amend this situation, but for now this'll have to do. "We can talk again," I say. "I mean, if you want. Not just about this. Or about this. Whatever." I ball up my hands; my palms are sweaty again. "Okay. Thanks." Bella nods and smiles at me. I open the door. "I'll see you at the wedding, then?" "Yes. The wedding. Right." "Okay," I repeat and step out onto the landing. "It was good to see you, Bella." Smiling, she grips the doorknob and leans into the edge of the door. "Thank you. It was good to see you, too. I'm really glad things are going well for you." I want to give her a hug, but there's zero debate in my head about whether that would be appropriate or not. It would be completely inappropriate. So I merely say thank you.

"Drive safe," she calls out to me as I descend the stairs. The first thing I do when I'm outside is light up. I smoke much less than I used to - all the running I do has made keeping up my nearly a pack a day habit basically impossible. But on days like this, I'll let myself have one. This cigarette might be the best thing I've ever tasted. * "You were going to see one of your friends there, weren't you?" Dr. Sayer asks. We've been talking about my Seattle trip, about dealing with going back to school there, and my visit to my aunt and uncle. These are perfunctory conversations, almost. We've been discussing how I'll handle school for a while now, and this isn't my first time seeing my aunt and uncle, either. The part about Bella is different. I don't know if I really want to talk that much about it. "She's an ex-girlfriend," I correct, looking down at my shoes. "But not a friend," Dr. Sayer clarifies. I shake my head. "Why not?" "Why not what?" Dr. Sayer uncrosses her legs. "Why isn't she your friend?" This question irritates me. The answer seems obvious. "I don't know. We don't talk." "You talked last weekend," she points out. "For like, less than an hour." I'd wanted to do something - text her, maybe - to thank her again for seeing me, but Bella hadn't given me any indication she'd wanted to communicate that way. "Do you want to be friends with her?" Dr. Sayer persists. I shrug. "I don't know." This is a stupid answer. Yes, I would like to be friends with her, and Dr. Sayer knows this. "You seem uncomfortable."

I'm all set to deny this but she's right. The hands in the hair, the staring at the ground, the evasive answers to basic questions. "It was strange, seeing her," I finally say. "Strange how?" "The conversation felt fake." Dr. Sayer frowns. "It felt disingenuous?" "No. Like it was manufactured." This is closer to what I mean. "So you mean not organic," she guesses. "Maybe. Yeah." "Do you think conversations that are ‘manufactured' aren't helpful?" I shrug. "I don't know." "You're saying ‘I don't know' a lot," Dr. Sayer comments. I know what this means. This means I need to stop just saying "I don't know" and start actually considering the questions. "Was this conversation helpful?" I tug at my hair and scratch the back of my neck. Two weeks ago I'd made a list - I'm always making lists here - outlining what I wanted to accomplish by talking to Bella. "I said I was sorry," I begin, because that was the first goal. "And she accepted my apology, I think." Dr. Sayer opens her mouth but I rush in before she can ask the question I know she wants to ask. "She was saying thank you and nodding. She listened. Those things make me think she accepted my apology." I feel like an idiot, saying this. "And I wanted to try to reestablish contact with her, find out about her life, tell her what's going on with mine." I'm less sure of how this part had gone. "Did you do that?" Dr. Sayer asks. "We talked about a few things," I say. "I kind of know what she's studying in school, and she showed me some pictures from trips she took." "What did you say about you?"

"How long I'd been clean and sober, and about my Associates from Peninsula and that I was starting school again." Repeating these things back to another person doesn't make them seem like much. "Do you think when you see each other at the wedding she'll want to talk to you?" I shrug. "I don't -" Sighing, I cut myself off. "Maybe. It seemed like she would want to, but it was...it was weird." Dr. Sayer raises an eyebrow. "Weird how?" My first impulse is to say "I don't know," but I bite it back. "She didn't react the way I thought she would." "How did you think she would react?" My hand finds its way into my hair again. These sessions with Dr. Sayer are always the same. We talk a lot, but it's this constant back and forth, question and answer, describe then analyze, and today it's exhausting me. "She cried," I say because it's the first thing that comes to mind. "Your aunt cried the first few times you talked," Dr. Sayer points out. "She's my aunt," I say. "I've known her my whole life." "So you felt Bella's reaction was too emotional?" I shake my head. "No. Because she...it was just tears. And we were laughing sometimes, too." I recall her smile when she'd first seen me. "Sometimes it was like she was happy to see me." "And this is confusing to you," Dr. Sayer says. "Kind of. I couldn't tell if she cared or if she didn't." This is the thing that confuses me most. It would've made sense if she'd refused to see me or simply let me say my piece and sent me on my way. It would've made sense if she'd screamed at me and thrown things at my head. "So her options, according to you, are to either have been pining away for you for five years or to not care at all." Dr. Sayer looks at me over her glasses. I want to say I don't know; instead I don't say anything. "That doesn't seem very fair, to me. Or very logical. Do you think that's logical or fair?"

I hate these kinds of questions. "They're feelings. Feelings aren't always logical," I point out. "Maybe," Dr. Sayer concedes. She thinks for a minute then speaks again. "Are you still in love with Bella?" I roll my eyes. "Of course not." "You think that's ridiculous." "Yes." Dr. Sayer taps her pen idly. "Why?" I run my hand through my hair. "Because it's been years since we were together. We're different people." "Fine. So you're not in love with her. Are you indifferent to her?" "What? No. I wouldn't have seen her if I were indifferent to her." I shift in my chair. "So you don't love her, but aren't indifferent to her, and yet you expect her to feel one of those things for you?" Now I'm embarrassed. "I suppose not." The way she's said this makes me sound like an asshole. "You're awfully ambiguous today," she states in a clipped tone. "Yeah." I don't say anything after that, but neither does Dr. Sayer. She's right, though. I'm an old pro at this stuff now. Today, however, I'm off my game. Eventually, I continue. "The weekend was strange." "The entire weekend?" I shake my head. "No. Well, maybe. Especially the part with Bella." I still feel funny saying her name out loud like she's a real person and not just some memory I have tucked away somewhere. "What was strange about it?" Dr. Sayer is looking down, scrawling words on a notepad. It takes me a while to figure out how to articulate what I want to say. During this time, Dr. Sayer doesn't speak or look at me; she just keeps writing whatever it is that she's writing. I like this about her, that she doesn't stare at me when I'm not talking, that she doesn't hang on my every word like it's going to be some huge revelation.

"We talked about our relationship," I say finally. "Why is that strange?" Her eyes lift from her notes for just a second. "Because I thought I would just apologize." I shrug even though she's not looking at me. "And Bella wouldn't say anything?" Dr. Sayer asks, raising an eyebrow. "No. I wanted her to say what she needed to say or ask me questions. I knew that was part of it." I crack the knuckles of my left hand. "You really only knew her in the context of a relationship. It seems that any conversation you had now would be about that relationship." This makes sense. I crack the knuckles of my right. "There were times it felt really...close." Dr. Sayer looks at me. "Close?" "Intimate," I say, feeling uncomfortable. "You weren't expecting that?" Shaking my head I shift my weight in my seat. "I thought after so much time I wouldn't even..." I scratch at my head. "It's different, with Bella. Different from how I am with other women I've dated." Dr. Sayer pushes me. "Different how?" "I think about her more than other women I've dated. Not a lot," I say quickly, not wanting her to get the wrong idea. "Just more frequently." "That all?" "I like having conversations with her." "You didn't like talking to other women you dated?" Dr. Sayer clicks her pen. I shake my head. "Not exactly. It's more like, even if I hadn't been attracted to Bella, I would've wanted to be her friend." "You have things in common," Dr. Sayer suggests. "Yeah," I say, nodding. There's more I want to say, but my face is already hot with embarrassment. It takes me some time, but eventually I start talking again. "Sometimes thinking about her makes me sad."

"Why?" "Like I missed out on something." "How?" These one-word questions irritate me. I clench my jaw and sit quiet for a minute. "Sometimes I think how nice it would be if I could meet her now." I stare at my hands. "I don't know anything about her anymore." "Regret is a perfectly normal feeling. Motivational, even, in the right doses." Dr. Sayer sits back in her chair. "What do you think it is about her that makes you feel this way?" I shake my head. "She's really smart and funny. She's a good person." "I'm sure Bella's a wonderful girl, Edward, but there are plenty of good people in the world who are smart and funny." She's pushing me to figure something else out. "That was the only relationship I've ever been sober for," I say finally. Dr. Sayer waits patiently. "I'd never," I begin, then sigh and rub at my face. "I felt really young, being with her. It felt like high school," I say. "Not that it was just a passing thing or that it was immature - though in some ways it was, I know - but more like I felt stuff I couldn't feel before." Dr. Sayer sets down her pen. "Does it seem surprising to you, then, that your memories of this relationship, or how you feel about it and about Bella are unique?" "No. But that doesn't mean...that doesn't mean I have unrealistic expectations about things. Or that I don't understand it for what it was," I insist, using some of Bella's language from last week. "Of course," Dr. Sayer says patiently. There's silence as she lets me sit for a moment. "We should talk about your week," she says, switching gears. This is one of the things I like about Dr. Sayer. She doesn't force me to spend time wallowing in my feelings; she's utterly practical. "What are you doing this week?" "Work and meetings. Incidentals," I shorthand, taking out another list I've made.

"Work" means going to work every day, on time, and working hard while I'm there. "Meetings" means going to my meetings, on time, and participating in some way, even if I'm only listening. "Incidentals" are what I call eating decently, keeping my apartment clean, paying my bills, and taking care of myself. I fucking hate the term self-care with a passion it makes me feel institutionalized - "incidentals" is a word I can live with. I read the rest. Under "Financials" I've listed setting aside $30 for schoolbooks. I can only save a little at a time so I should start now. Under "Social" I've got lunch with Jasper and bowling with some people from AA. Under "Extras" (a word I substitute for "Leisure" which I also hate) I've written finishing my book and playing the piano for at least three hours. Under "Physical" I've got running fifteen miles. Dr. Sayer thanks me for my time - she always does this and it makes me feel weird, my therapist thanking me - and we say goodbye. I used to hate these lists. I hated reading them out loud to her even more. They made me feel like an elementary school student reviewing their homework with a teacher. They made me feel abnormal and patronized. And what really pissed me off is that they worked. The first and only time I'd complained about these lists was the first and only time I'd seen Dr. Sayer get angry. I'd told her that they made me feel like child, like someone who couldn't take care of themselves. She'd stared at me and said, "Edward, if I told you that in order to stay clean and sober you had to come to my office for one hour a week and act like a dog - get in a costume, wear a collar, fetch a stick, all of that - if that's what you had to do, would you do it?" I'd said yes. "It works," she'd told me. "Do it until it doesn't work. Or, do it until you don't have to anymore. But until that day comes, Edward? You make the damn lists." And that was the end of that conversation. The walk from the office to my apartment is nearly a half an hour, but I don't mind. I can focus better when I walk, and any money I can save on gas is welcome. All of our appointments are exactly the same. Not that we talk about the same things, but that she takes the same approach, the same style. She's combative and pestering, and every time I think I've caught on to her method, I go back for another appointment and it's like the first day I walked in all over again. It's after I leave her office - it's what I do later - that's different. I think about school. I think about all those young faces looking at me in classes and wondering why I'm there. I think about not being able to relate to their cultural references and having difficulties finding people to work with for group projects. I think about my

aunt and uncle and the things my aunt tells me about my mom, the way she looks sad and sometimes angry when she tells me I look just like my mother. I think about Bella and what I'd said about her today. I think about Jasper's wedding next month and I wonder if she'll talk to me, if we'll have things to say to one another if we're not talking about the past. I won't know anyone else there except for her, Jasper, and Alice, and the thought of sitting by myself at the ceremony and at the reception makes me uncomfortable. I wonder if she'd sit with me. I wonder if she'll bring a date. I wonder if I should. A light breeze kicks up and shakes the branches of an overhead tree. Drops from this afternoon's rain shower down onto my head and I laugh, wiping the water out of my eyes.

Chapter Twenty-Four I've been hanging out in the study, avoiding most of Jasper and Alice's friends and family. There are people in the living room, the kitchen, the dining room, the foyer - people running around with things in their hands; people shouting to each other across open spaces. There's nothing for me to do and none of the other guests have arrived, so I hide. The half-closed door to the study flies open, and in comes Rosalie - hugely pregnant propelled by Emmett. "Hey, Bella," he calls out, maneuvering his wife to the couch. "Hi," I reply, vaguely smiling at Rosalie, who grimaces in return. Emmett places a water bottle on the end table next to her then leans down to kiss the top of her head. "I'll be back in a few. Bella'll keep you company, right Bella?" Rosalie looks about as happy with this arrangement as I do. She and I have crossed paths on a few occasions since I moved to Seattle; we never say much more than a few words to each other. "Sure, yeah." I nod, feeling awkward just standing there. Emmett leaves and I sit in an armchair opposite Rosalie. Sighing, she reaches for her water and takes a drink. I don't know what to say, so I say nothing. Rose isn't a big one for inane chitchat - one thing I do appreciate about her. The silence goes on long enough that I panic and start thinking of polite ways to initiate conversation. I wish Emmett would come back.

"If this kid isn't out of me in the next week I may lose my mind," Rosalie says, leaning her head against the back of the couch. Surprised, I laugh. "When's the due date?" "Not for another fifteen days," she says. She sounds miserable. "I don't know why we thought we needed another one of these." But even as she says it, her mouth curves into a smile. "Where's your little guy?" I ask. I can't remember his name. Rosalie laughs. "Max? Probably eating the wedding cake, if no one's watching carefully enough. My cousin's supposed to be with him, but who knows." I don't know how people do this - have children. I don't know how women carry them around for nine months; I don't know how they deal with the crying and the constant need, need, need; I don't know how they navigate around all the breakable and dangerous things in the world with a child. Rosalie, despite her discomfort, seems perfectly happy with all of this. But just watching her sit on the couch, shifting and sweaty, makes me uneasy. "Pretty dress," Rosalie comments, tipping her head at me. "Oh." I look down. "Thanks. Alice made it." "Girl knows her way around a sewing machine." I smile. "I'd probably lose a finger." Rosalie snickers. "Me too." Maybe it's the hormones that are causing her to be nice to me. Maybe it's because today is Alice and Jasper's day. It feels weird. I try to return the favor. "Do you have any names picked out?" It might be rude to ask if it's a boy or a girl, so I don't. "Hannah, I think." "That's a nice name," I say. Hannah and Max. They'll be a good-looking family; people already dote and fawn over Max. "Thanks." We sit in silence again, this one slightly less uncomfortable than the first. "Emmett wants to name her Mackenzie," Rosalie says.

I raise an eyebrow. "Yeah?" "Yeah. Then our children would be Max and Mac." I laugh out loud. Shaking her head, Rosalie smiles. "And she'd be Mackenzie McCarty. Can you imagine that? He almost had me sold until I put the first and last name together." We lapse into another silence. Rosalie shifts around on the couch. "Are you all right?" I ask. "Do you want something else to drink? Some ice, maybe?" She shakes her head. "No, I'm fine. I just..." Her lips press together in a tight line. "I apologize, Bella, for being so rude to you. When I first met you and, and after." "You haven't been rude," I say, even though it's a lie. She's been bitchy, and I've been bitchy right back. Rosalie peers at me from under her brow. "Yes, I have. We haven't gotten along." At first, I don't say anything. Because what is there to say? We don't particularly like each other, and that's fine. Nowhere is it written that we need to be friends. I'm curious now, though. "You seemed to dislike me pretty quickly," I tell her. "I never understood why." Staring down at her belly, Rosalie smoothes the fabric of her dress. "I couldn't figure out why you were with that guy." She shrugs. "Edward?" She nods. "I just didn't understand why anyone would tie themselves to an addict willingly." Raising her head, she looks me in the eye. "That seemed crazy. And stupid." I stiffen. "Do you think Alice is crazy and stupid?" "Crazy sometimes, yes," she replies without missing a beat. "I didn't have a choice; Jasper is my brother. I love him, but you don't know what it was like before. The situations he got into - that I had to get him out of." She scratches absently at her eyebrow before continuing. "I'm really proud of what he's done, but his addiction is never going anywhere. It's going to be with them always. And I'll give Alice credit, she understands. She gets it."

"But I didn't?" I supply, snide. Rosalie's eyes narrow a little. "No, I don't think you did." I bite back the urge to snap at her. "I don't think you can know that," I say, keeping my voice even. She's right, of course, but it wounds my pride that I was so transparent to someone who barely knew me. "Maybe not," she replies, shrugging. "You were smart, I could tell. It worried me, when I saw you together." I want to remind her that that was probably none of her business, but she continues quickly. "But it wasn't my place to say anything, and I knew it. So I acted like a bitch, and I'm sorry for that." Rosalie reaches for her water bottle and takes another drink. "Thank you," I say, my face heating up. "And I'm sorry for being unfriendly to you." "It wasn't anything I didn't deserve, but thanks." It seems that now we have nothing else to say to each other. Emmett comes back to the room after a while to get Rosalie for family pictures, and I'm alone again. When it's closer to the ceremony time, I head into the backyard and run into Angela and Ben. We stand around talking for a few minutes while the other guests mill about. There seem to be an exceptionally high number of kids here today. Ten minutes before show time, I see Edward step around the corner of the house. He's got a neatly wrapped present in his hands, his eyes scanning the yard nervously. I catch his eye and wave. I make introductions - or reintroductions, as it were - between the three of them. Ben is oblivious and unfazed, clearly. Angela seems a little more surprised, but she hides it well. "I should probably do something with this," Edward says, indicating the present in his hand. I point to the house. "The dining room table is the gift table." He hurries inside and we wait until he gets back. Walking down the gentle slope of the Whitlock's backyard, we fall behind Angela and Ben, who are holding hands and talking quietly. "You look nice," Edward says. Surprised, I smile up at him. The dress I'm wearing doesn't fit quite like it used to - there's less room in the waist and the bust is filled out a little more - but it's good to know I don't look like an idiot. "Thanks. So do you." He's wearing a suit, looking quite unlike the messy-

haired, boot-wearing guy I knew in Port Angeles. The jacket and tie and shorter hair make him look his age. So do the small lines around his eyes, and the crease in his forehead that doesn't fade entirely when his face relaxes. Before, there was something boyish about his looks; now he looks drawn and tired. I know some of this is the inevitable changes that come with age, but thirty-two is still quite young. He's handsome, but he looks fatigued. The ceremony is short and simple. A mutual friend conducts the ceremony; there are no bridesmaids or groomsmen. No one walks Alice in and "gives her away." She and Jasper come in together from the side before everyone is seated, and when it's over, everyone stands up and congregates around them. My friends look happy, and this makes me glad. * "Oh my god," I sigh. "Are they doing the Chicken Dance?" Edward laughs. "I think we've entered the family-friendly portion of the evening." I make a horrible face. Laughing some more, he rises from his chair. "Wanna take a stroll?" Nerves squeeze my stomach. We haven't been alone - not really alone - since that day in my apartment. I'm afraid we're going to talk about that stuff again; I'm afraid we won't talk about it. "Okay." Crossing my arms over my chest, I follow him out of the tent. He's got his hands in his pockets and his head tipped down. He looks good in that suit really good. I'm not oblivious to the way some of the women have been checking him out today. I wonder if Edward's even noticed. Of course he has, Bella. We head up the hill toward the house, not talking. A small group of women I assume to be relatives of Alice's scuttle down the lawn back toward the reception. They call out hello to us and we smile and say "hi" back. There are a few guests inside the house - we can see them through the windows - and I don't want to join them. Thankfully, Edward seems to agree. Stopping next to the padlocked gate around the patio, he raises his eyebrows and cocks his head toward the pool. I nod and smile. It seems the Whitlocks have enough money to throw up an impromptu fence around the pool to keep out unsupervised kids. The wood smells like it's fresh from the lumberyard. Bending down, I take off my shoes and chuck

them over. They clatter lightly on the concrete on the other side. With my hands on the top edge of the boards, I look over my shoulder. "Help me over?" Edward nods and makes a stirrup with both his hands. I step in and brace myself. "No looking up my skirt, Edward," I say with mock seriousness. He laughs, his expression surprised. It takes some maneuvering, and I might've snagged the back of my dress, but I manage to make my way over without breaking my neck. Edward takes a step back and in one smooth motion hoists himself to the top of the fence. "Oh, to be tall," I snark when he drops down to the ground on my side. He grins. I pick up my shoes and wander around the edge of the pool. It smells vaguely of chlorine; the light bounces around and off of the water. Edward trails along behind me. "Do you know how to swim?" he asks eventually. "Yeah. Charlie taught me. You?" He nods. I stop walking and sit down on the edge of the pool. "Why do you ask? Thinking about throwing me in?" Smiling, he shakes his head. "Nope. Just curious." "I see." Setting my shoes down behind me, I dip my legs in the water. It's cold at first, but after a while it doesn't feel so bad. "Seems kind of extravagant to have such a big pool when you belong to a country club," Edward remarks. I turn to look at him and watch him lay his suit jacket across the back of a deck chair. When he bends down to untie his shoes, I face forward. "Jasper's parents kind of strike me as extravagant, though," I say after a minute. "True." "Do they like Alice, you think?" Edward's response is measured, careful. "What makes you think that they don't?"

Shrugging, I kick my legs through the water. "His mom walks around like she's got a stick up her ass 24-7." He laughs and sits down next to me, his pants rolled up to his knees. "She doesn't have a stick up her ass. It's the whole tree." Now it's my turn to laugh. "His dad seems like the kind of guy who just writes the checks and doesn't really pay attention." "Yeah," I agree. We sit quiet for a while. "You need to get some sun," I remark, tipping my head toward his pale legs. "You should talk," he retorts. He's right. I am just as ridiculously pale as he is. "Touché." We smile at each other then look away. "I wasn't sure that you'd talk to me today," he says. "Why wouldn't I?" I ask, playing innocent. "After the last time I saw you..." I nod, lifting my leg clear out of the pool then slicing it down through the water. When I don't say anything, he continues, "I wasn't sure having that conversation was a good idea." He's trying to sound casual - trying and failing. "No. It probably needed to be done, you know?" "I guess." We sit through another lull. The music from the reception is mixed with the occasional sound of laughter. "You were angry," Edward says quietly. "Some of the time, anyway." From the corner of my eye, I look at him. His head is down and his hands are folded in his lap. He's making a circle in the water with one foot. "I think I needed to get angry," I tell him. He looks at me. "I know. And that's fair. I deserved it."

I'm ready to rush in and contradict him but he keeps talking. "I mean, anger seems like a normal response to how I treated you." Squinting up my eyes, I look at him closely. "I'm impressed." Confusion changes his face. "Why?" "With how you just did that, changed how you were thinking about me getting mad." He smiles a little. "That's impressive?" Nodding, I look back at the water. "It is." His next question surprises me. "Are you still angry with me?" My legs stop kicking and float, buoyed by the water. "Truthfully?" "Yeah." "Yes." I take a deep breath. "But not as angry as before." "Good." "A lot less angry, actually." "Good," he repeats, softer this time. "I had a lot of things I'd always wanted to say to you but never got to. Saying them was...it felt good. I could stop thinking about it." "Did you think about it a lot?" Now I feel embarrassed. I shrug. "Sometimes. Something would make me think of it and I would feel stupid -" Edward cuts me off. "Why would you feel stupid?" "For acting like a stupid doormat girl," I tell him. "You could never be stupid, Bella. Or a doormat." "I was with you," I say, keeping my voice firm. "I don't..." He sighs. "I don't agree with that, but if that's how you feel..."

I have to laugh at this. "Edward, come on. I totally let you navigate every part of that relationship." "Because I'm good at manipulating people," he says quickly. "Maybe." I shake my head. "Or maybe I was just young and didn't know any better." Edward leans back on his hands. "Maybe it was both." "Probably." Neither of us says anything then. "Is that ‘Taking Care of Business'?" I ask eventually. A smile cracks his face. "I think so." Rolling my eyes, I make a disgusted sound. Edward laughs. "Of all the moments not to be able to drink," he teases. "Funny, funny," I reply witheringly. "So are you all ready to move?" "I think so. The lease is signed." "Started packing yet?" He shakes his head. "No, but I don't have much to pack." I quirk an eyebrow. "What about your books?" He hesitates before he answers, and I feel like I've stumbled onto something that maybe he doesn't want to talk about. "I don't have very many anymore. I sold them - I sold or lost most everything - before. Reacquiring things is taking some time." I know "before" means when he was using. "Everything?" Edward nods. "My books, my music, my furniture." "Your piano?" He nods, and my face falls.

"No," I say in disbelief. "Really?" "Yeah." My hand reaches for my chest. "That kind of breaks my heart." Grimacing, Edward kicks at the water. "Hopefully at some point I'll have money enough and space enough for another one. I do have a keyboard, though. It's not perfect, but it'll do." "That's good," I say, keeping my voice upbeat. It hurts to think of him making that decision. "My aunt and uncle have one that they let me play when I visit," he continues. "You're talking to your aunt and uncle?" My voice is so excited and hopeful that it makes me cringe. He nods. "Yeah. For about a year and a half now." "That's so great. Really great." I resist the urge to hug him or squeeze his arm. "It's weird," he says. "My aunt reminds me of my mom sometimes. Like she does stuff that's just like my mom, and it's stuff I forgot she even used to do." This makes me smile. "And she says I remind her of my mom. Apparently I sneeze in threes just like she did." I laugh. "That's great." "She also, she told me that when I..." His fingers play with the cuff of his pants. "She told me that I'm a mean drunk like my mom, too." "Your mom?" I'm so shocked the question is out of my mouth before I can stop it. Edward nods. "She liked screwdrivers, because you couldn't smell the vodka as much, and you could drink them in the morning and no one would know. They'd think you were just drinking orange juice." Despite the goodness of this day, of this evening, my heart hurts for him right now. He'd never told me this; he hadn't said much about his family at all. "And my dad, he liked White Russians. Only after five, of course." He smiles ruefully. "But as soon as he was off work, he drank until he went to bed. Or passed out in front of the TV. When I was little I always begged them to let me have a sip, so they started giving me milk on ice in the little glasses my dad always drank from. Sometimes, when I was sick home

from school, my mom would let me have a drink from her glass. She'd joke around and call it medicine." Seeing the horrified look on my face, he laughs. "She didn't get me drunk. She just let me have a taste. My parents...they were functioning alcoholics. Like, high functioning. They had respectable jobs and respectable friends. Or what most people consider respectable. They didn't neglect me or do stupid stuff like drive drunk or anything. You'd think the car accident they died in would've been their fault, but it wasn't. Semi just lost control on the ice." He shrugs then looks me steady in the eye. "I don't know why I didn't tell you that before." Meeting his gaze, I smile sadly. "I don't know why I didn't ask." Because I should have. I should have asked; I shouldn't have been so afraid. Edward smiles back at me. "So, how are you? Really. How's staying clean and sober?" My awkward words come out in a tumble. "It's okay. It's hard. But every day - it's not easier or anything, but it's like I'm better at it. Like I did it yesterday so why couldn't I do it today, you know?" He shrugs. I'm so proud of him I want to shout and throw my arms around him, but I just smile a big, unrestrained smile, and when I talk, my voice is fraught with excitement. "That's awesome." I'm gushing, really; it's embarrassing. Edward ducks his head. "It's pretty good." Unable not to touch him, I shove his shoulder. "Pretty good? It's pretty fucking awesome good, if you ask me." He shrugs but he's smiling. "Thanks." That smile is small but it's genuine, and it's so good to see it. "I've found a meeting in Seattle I think I like. And I have a new therapist all lined up." This surprises me. "You have a therapist?" "I do. For almost two years." Concern crosses his face when he sees my expression. "What?" Shaking my head, I have to look down at my feet kicking in the water. "Nothing. You're just...you're different." "Different how?"

"When..." My voice falters. "When we were together you always talked about how you didn't like AA, that you felt uncomfortable talking about yourself." "I still do," he points out. "But you do it. Even though you're uncomfortable, you do it. That's different." "I guess." "A good different." He laughs a little. "You're different, too, you know." I'm taken aback by this. "I am?" Nodding, he scratches at his neck. "You're...you're like you, but you seem older, I guess." "I am older, Edward," I tell him, laughing. One side of his mouth hitches up in a lopsided grin. "I know. But you look me in the eye more." I frown. "I didn't look you in the eye before?" Edward smiles. "You did sometimes. But when I first got to know you, you always looked away or at the ground." "Yeah. I get like that. Or, I used to." Which is true. Making eye contact used to make my heart beat fast and my skin sweat. I still let my eyes wander, but with Edward - now - I want to look him straight in the face. "And you ask me things you would never have asked me before. You're bolder, or something," he continues. "Bolder?" "Yeah. Like the remark you made about me looking at you when I helped you over the fence." I roll my eyes. "That was a joke." He nods. "I know. But you didn't used to make jokes like that. It's...I can't really explain it. Sometimes you were tentative, or something, around me." My stomach feels queasy again. Because he's right.

"I was afraid if I did the wrong thing you wouldn't want me. So when I didn't know what to do, I didn't do anything. Or say anything." Lifting my leg out of the water, I hold it straight in front of me and watch the water drip back into the pool. I don't like thinking about that, how I tiptoed around him and never questioned anything that happened. That I was accepting of everything he did makes me feel angry and stupid all over again. "I hope you won't do that anymore," Edward says. His voice is clear and strong, and when I look at his face, it's gentle but serious. What he's implying is that we're going to be friends, that there will be more opportunities for me to not do that anymore. "I won't," I promise. He smiles. "Does this mean, are we going to be friends now?" My face gets hot and I have to look away. My leg slaps against the surface of the pool. I can feel Edward's eyes on me. "I'd like to get to know you again, if you thought you'd like that, too." Not trusting my voice, I simply nod. "Good." I clear my throat before speaking. "But if I don't get to be stupid doormat girl anymore, then you don't get to be withholding God complex guy anymore." This makes him laugh. "What?" "Friends tell each other things. Maybe not everything and not right away, but they talk about their lives. And they're usually honest." "Okay." "And I think we're past the point of just being casual acquaintances." He raises an eyebrow. "How's that?" "We've seen each other naked. There's no going back from that," I say. Edward laughs, shaking his head. I feel less nervous now. "So no more cutting off all ties because you think it's good for me bullshit, all right?"

"So that's the God complex?" he asks, smirking. "Yep." "Fine. Fair enough. I am not God." "No you are not." Tipping his head back, he laughs. A genuine, uncontainable laugh. There's something I want to say, but I'm afraid to say it. We're having such a lovely moment, the two of us, sitting on the edge of the pool. But if I don't say it now, I don't know when I will. "I just want to say something," I begin, my voice high and tight. Edward cocks his head to the side. "Okay." "I want to say that, that I'm sorry. For not dealing with all of the things you were going through. When we were together," I qualify. He looks confused. "I acted like we could date and not have it be a part of our relationship, and I know things will be different now because we're going to be friends and not..." I sigh, kick my legs beneath the surface of the water. "It was like the elephant in the room that we never really talked about and I know now that that wasn't the right thing to do. And I know that that wasn't just me, that you didn't talk about it either, but I was...I didn't know," I finish simply, not sure that anything I've just said makes a bit of sense to him. "I know," he says. "But it wasn't your job to keep me on the straight and narrow." "I know that," I say firmly. "But I could've done more to let you know that I wanted to help you with everything. I didn't, and that wasn't fair to you." His eyes are slightly narrowed, like he's concentrating hard on my face. This lasts for a few second and then he blinks. "I just wasn't ready. You know that, right? Nothing you could have done would have changed that." "Maybe. But I didn't acknowledge things the way I should have." "Like what?" he asks, perplexed. Leaning forward, I drag my fingers through the water. "Like all the things you told me, and I just accepted. Like it was no big deal. When you told me about all the women you slept

with, I should have...You know I would never, ever judge you, but I just acted like it wasn't a big deal. I was just so afraid you'd think I was disgusted, and I wasn't." His voice is quiet when he replies. "I know you weren't." "But I still should've acknowledged that you were sleeping with all of those women because something was wrong. I mean, that's how you framed it, and I just pretended like that wasn't the case." I sigh. "Does that make sense?" "It makes perfect sense." His voice is still soft, but I know he knows what I mean. "I just...I wanted to tell you that, just so you knew." Edward smiles at me. "Okay." "Okay." I return the smile. "I like talking to you like this," he says after a moment. I scrunch up my face. "Like how?" "Like..." He thinks for a few seconds. "Like normal, I guess." My stomach gets queasy and tense up all over. Part of me wants this to be nice and normal and friendly; part of me (a much smaller part) is still pissed as shit. "You okay?" he asks, leaning forward to get a better look at my face. Nodding, I pull my legs from the water and scoot back from the edge of the pool. Edward frowns slightly. "You don't look okay." I cross my legs and pull down the hem of my dress to cover them up. "I'm just..." I sigh. "I don't want to be a bitch." He looks confused. "You're not being one." "This is a terrible thing to say, okay? And I know it, but I feel like I'm letting you off the hook. Like I'm making this all too easy." I hazard a look at his face and he looks absolutely crestfallen. "Not that things were so great for you after I left, but man, Edward. You really fucked me up. I know you were in the middle of some serious shit, but you were so mean to me." He hasn't turned to look at me, just sits on the edge of the pool, his body motionless. "I know," he says, very quietly.

"It's just, the way you looked at me, that night in the bar? It was like you hated me so much. Or like you couldn't give a shit about me, and you wanted me to know." I swallow down the urge to keep talking. "I'm sorry," he says, still staring down at his motionless legs in the water. "I know you are, and I don't mean for you to keep apologizing for things..." Now he turns to look at me. One corner of his mouth twitches. "Then what can I do?" "I don't know," I say. "If my apology isn't enough, then maybe it's just...it's just not enough. Maybe you can't get past it?" His brow is tense. "Maybe you shouldn't," he says in a softer voice. "I'd get that." He looks back to the pool. "That's just it," I tell him, leaning forward. "Most of me is pretty okay with this. It was a long time ago and time has passed and I understand the situation better, all that. But some of me wants to be angry, to stay angry." We sit together quietly. "I just wanted you to know that," I say eventually. "And I'm gonna try to not feel that way." "You can't help how you feel, Bella," he says quietly. "I know." I sigh. "I'll just work on not letting it get to me. Or something." "Or something," Edward agrees, his voice serious. Then we both burst out laughing. "Let's talk about something else," I suggest. "Like what? The weather?" He smirks at me. "Yes," I say, sarcastic. "Let's talk about the weather." Edward smiles wider. "So what have you been doing with yourself all these years?" I ask. "Like my jobs?" he asks. "Sure." "Well, after I lost my job at the warehouse I didn't work until I ran out of money. Then I did drywall for a month or two. Got fired from that job. Then I didn't have a real job for a long while." His hand runs through his hair quickly.

"Were you dealing again?" Edward hesitates. Then, "I did a little. Mostly just cutting from my own stash and selling it to casual users. I sold a bunch of my stuff, too. The piano, for one," he says. "Then I got a job as a janitor at the school. After a while I got moved to maintenance work - taking care of the grounds mostly. About the most I can do indoors is change a light bulb," he tells me confidentially. I laugh. "Then, about a year ago, I was in that little music store downtown looking for a keyboard, and I was dicking around with one of them, playing stuff, and this guy comes up to me and starts talking. Ask me how long I've played, if I play any other instruments. Just shooting the shit, I guess." Edward's fingers move back to the cuff of his pants. "We talk about what kind of keyboard I want to buy, then I leave, come back a couple weeks later and see him again. Turns out this guy is the owner. So I buy the board I want, and he tells me I can come in and play the pianos whenever. Says it makes the customers happy or something but he can't do it as much anymore because his arthritis is bad." "Were there nice pianos there?" I ask. He smiles. "It's a smaller store so he didn't have anything too fancy, but he had this one. It was a Steinway - an upright, not a grand - but man it sounded good." His smile gets bigger as he remembers. "Alan - that's the owner - says the only way his wife would let him buy one was if it was for the store, because he has one at home already. So he put it on the floor then never sold it." I laugh. "No one ever wanted to buy it?" "He'd just order another one and tell the customers they didn't want to buy something that'd been in the store for years." I watch his fingers flex against his thighs. "So I play on the weekends and eventually Alan asks me if I want a part-time job. He had a grandkid over in Sequim he didn't see enough, I guess. And there was always somebody else in the store - Cherie, this woman who does some of the instrument repair - so I wouldn't be alone. Otherwise I wouldn't have taken it." My eyebrows come together. "Why not?" I think I know why, but I don't want to assume. "I told Alan about my past, and that if I relapsed, being around money might not be such a good idea for me," Edward says plainly. So it was what I was thinking.

"How did he react?" I ask. Edward smiles and shrugs. "He told me he had some buddies from the Army - he was in Vietnam - that had ‘had some problems with the drink'." He curves his fingers in the air. "So he didn't seem too concerned. Cherie did the book at the end of the night anyway, and after a few months he lets me close the store in the evenings when I worked." "So he trusts you," I say. "Perhaps at his own peril," Edward jokes, and we laugh. His face turns a little more serious. "But it feels good." I smile at him. "So," he says brightly, changing the subject. "What have you been doing since you moved? Besides school, of course." "Uh..." I think for a minute. "Well, school. Lots of school." Edward smiles. "Teaching as well. And resisting the urge to drop out and become a lumberjack." This makes him laugh. "I've been to some conferences with papers I've written. Sometimes I do a little tutoring on the side - mostly ESOL stuff." "You've been traveling, right?" I nod. "Yep. Abusing my student loan money. I went to New Zealand, Hawaii. I spent eight days in France practicing my terrible French skills. I've been out to Boston a few times, and Jacksonville to see my mom and Phil." "How's your mom?" Edward asks. "She's doing really well," I tell him. "She surfs now." "Seriously?" I smile. "Seriously. She keeps trying to get me to go." "And have you?" His grin is devilish. Rolling my eyes, I shake my head. "You know my motor skills are not that fine."

"True," Edward says gravely, and I smack his arm. "You still play the guitar?" he asks. "Yeah, and I bought a ukulele when I was in Hawaii, taught myself to play." "How's that going?" "Terrible," I say, shaking my head. "I'm awful. But it's fun." Edward smiles and nods, looks down at his legs. Neither of us says anything for a minute. He speaks first. "And you've been dating, right?" Narrowing my eyes in curiosity, I look over at him, but his face is still turned down. He sounds casual, but it's a strange question to ask. "In the five years since you saw me last, yes, Edward, I've dated," I say, a little bit of teasing sarcasm in my voice. He looks embarrassed now and shoves his hands into his pockets. It makes him look, for a moment, like a kid. "I know you've dated," he says. "I just meant, you dated that one guy for awhile it seemed." "Jake?" He nods. "Yeah. We were together for almost two years," I tell him. "And you're still friends?" Edward's eyebrows lift. "We are," I say, smoothing down my hair. "Must have been an amicable break-up," he pushes, and I have to laugh. "You really want to know what happened, don't you?" His grin is big but appropriately ashamed. "I'm curious. Sue me." I sigh, irritated and amused. "We wanted different things." "You know, you don't really have to talk about it, Bella. I'm just teasing you." "I know," I say, nodding. But I want to tell him about Jake. Well, not about Jake, but I want to show him that I've been with other people and it was okay - it was good, sometimes great

- that I was okay. I want to show him this to assuage any guilt he might feel, and - if I'm being honest with myself - to bolster my wounded pride where Edward is concerned. "The kind of job I'm going to have, it might mean moving a lot. Until I get a tenure track position - if that even happens," I say. "And Jake would always talk about moving back to Port Angeles or Forks or sometimes La Push, or at least wanting to stay in the area. Then I'd tell him that that might not be possible and he'd backpedal. Or he'd make jokes about marriage and kids and I'd say I wasn't sure if I ever wanted kids and that marriage wasn't on my immediate agenda, and he'd play it off like he'd just been joking." I shrug. "He knew what he wanted, and I knew that even if I didn't know what I wanted, it wasn't that." I turn to look at Edward. "Does that make sense?" "It does," he says quietly. "It wasn't fair of me to keep him around in hopes that I'd one day change my mind. I care about him too much to do that." My chest aches, and I know we need to stop talking about this. Now it's my turn to be nosey. "So how about you? Have you been dating?" Edward looks suitably embarrassed. "Guess I had that coming, huh?" We laugh. "I've been...dating, I guess?" His fingers twist into his hair. "You guess?" And now I'm deathly curious. I wonder what kind of women he dates. "Just this past year," he says. "I kind of figured out that women and drugs are something of a bad combination for me." He glances at me quickly before continuing. "I was celibate for the first two years of my sobriety." My mouth falls open a little. "No you weren't," I say, disbelieving. Edward laughs. "Yes I was." "Please don't take this the wrong way, but how did you manage that?" "Hours of therapy," he jokes, and we laugh together. "No, I just realized that I tend to make a mess of things in relationships, and figured I should deal with that if I ever wanted to be with someone." "That sounds smart," I tell him. "Thanks. And I don't have the best taste in women," he says and I cut him off.

"Hey!" He grins. "Present company, excluded, of course." I roll my eyes, playing at being angry. "I should fucking hope so." "It's just that the women I knew generally drank a lot, did a lot of drugs, that kind of thing." "Fair enough," I say. "Do you have a girlfriend now?" My face gets hot even before I ask the question. Edward shakes his head. "No. I was...seeing a woman, I guess, a few months ago." "Seeing?" I wonder why he's making this distinction. "We went out, on dates. Spent time at each other's places. But it wasn't ever serious." "Any particular reason why not?" This is an invasive question, but after our Jake conversation, I figure he owes me. "I'd gone on a few first dates, and when I told them about my past, that was basically the end of it. So I figured maybe I should find someone who might understand that part of my life better. I met Tanya - that's the woman I dated - at a meeting. She was seven years sober; she was nice." My stomach hurts a little now. Because this woman - Tanya - before she'd even had a conversation with him, understood more about that part of him than I could probably ever hope to. "What happened?" I ask. Leaning back on his hands, Edward half shrugs. "It was nice to spend time with someone, to have...a physical relationship, you know?" He looks at me and I nod. "But we didn't have enough in common to sustain anything. We weren't ever really ‘together,' if that makes sense." "Sure." "But it felt good knowing I could do it." My eyebrows rise. "Do it?" I repeat. He laughs. "Date someone. Not get overwhelmed. Have it end positively. Just even being able to be relaxed and casual about it - but not have it be meaningless - that was nice."

"That's good," I say. "It's not the same thing, but after I broke up with Jake, I had people talking to me like I'd just wasted two years of my life or something." Edward cocks an eyebrow. "Really?" "Kind of. Not close friends, of course, but other people. They acted like it was one big terrible failure. But it was actually a really good relationship for the most part; it just wasn't going to last forever. And when I told people that they looked at me like I was crazy." I shrug. "People have different expectations in relationships, I guess," he says. "I guess," I echo, pulling my sweater more securely onto my shoulders. The music slows down and a garbled voice comes through the speakers. "You excited about moving to Seattle?" I ask. "Yeah. And a little nervous," he says. "I haven't lived in a city in a long time." "Chicago's much bigger," I point out. "True." He considers this for a minute. "There are way more movie theaters in Seattle than in Port Angeles," I tease. This makes him smile. "I know. I'm pretty excited." "What classes are you taking in the fall?" His lips pucker up as he thinks. "An advanced music theory course and an introductory education one. I can't remember the names off the top of my head." "Are you going to be working, too?" "Yep," he says, nodding. "Alan knows a few of the guys who have music stories in the city. He helped me get a part time gig with one of them. And I applied at a few greenhouses, because of the grounds work I did. I have an interview with one of them already right after I move." "You're gonna be busy," I note. "Probably. But that's good for me. Keeps me occupied." I shiver again and this time Edward notices.

"You want to go back to the tent?" he asks. I tell him I do and we head back down to the reception. Alice is on the dance floor jumping around with a bunch of kids; Jasper is talking to a group of people in their seventies probably grandparents, great aunts and uncles. Angela and Ben are dancing as well, so we're alone at our table. Edward goes to the bar to get something to drink and comes back with a Coke for himself and a Shirley Temple for me. He's drinking from the same kind of glass the mixed drinks are served in, and for a split second I wonder if there's rum or bourbon or something in the glass. Then I feel like a complete asshole. "It's just Coke, Bella," he tells me in a low voice. I look up and he smiles sadly at me. "I know," I say. "I just...for a second..." "It's okay." And he looks like he means it. Eventually, it seems like nearly everyone left at the reception is dancing - Jasper included. Alice spots us sitting on the sidelines and waves us over. "We should probably go before she manhandles us onto the dance floor," I say. Laughing, Edward gets to his feet, and we join the rest of the idiots dancing to "Love Shack." "I hate this fucking song," I call out to him, just before Alice grabs me. We spend the rest of the night dancing, only taking breaks when slow songs come on. I'm relieved that Edward doesn't feel pressure to ask me to dance - and he gets cornered by plenty of the single women during these songs anyway - but a little part of me is miffed that he seems to have no interest in doing so. I feel like a big, stupid ball of contradiction. When it's too late to inundate the neighborhood with party music, most of the guests leave. Edward and I, along with a few of Alice and Jasper's cousins, end up with the bride and groom in the Whitlock's basement. Eventually, though, people begin to say goodnight. "Do you need a ride to a hotel?" Jasper asks Edward. One of his uncles, I think, is taking them to a suite somewhere nearby. Edward shakes his head. "I was just going to crash in the car," he says, sheepish. "Be serious, Edward," Alice says. "You're not sleeping in your car."

"Hotel rooms are expensive," he jokes, but I can see the embarrassment beneath his casual façade. "It's late," Jasper says. "There are blankets in the chest." He points where he means. "I'll tell my parents you're here." They wish us goodnight and leave us standing awkwardly - alone. "Where are you staying?" Edward asks, his brow tense. "At my apartment." The tension breaks on his face. "Right. Of course." I want to offer my couch to him, but I think it would be beyond weird to have him sleeping in my living room. "You taking a cab home?" I shake my head. "No. I borrowed a friend's car for the night." Digging through my purse I pull out the keys and jingle them lightly. "It was good to see you," I say lamely. "Yeah, you too." He smiles. "If you need help moving in, or if you get furniture and need another set of hands...let me know." "I will. Thanks." There's a brief, awkward pause. "Okay. I'm gonna go." I don't know what to do now. Edward takes a hesitant half step in my direction then stops. Then we're both kind of laughing and then our arms are around each other in a quick hug. "Bye," I tell him, moving to the stairs. "Bye," he echoes. Outside, I get into Jake's Volkswagen and sit with the motor running.

It felt weird, hugging Edward. Not bad weird, necessarily, but not exactly good. I'm not really a hugger, but it's not like Edward is just anyone. But I'm over thinking this. Let sleeping dogs lie, as my dad would say. So I do.

Chapter Twenty-Five I've managed to get through three hours of reading before my brain shuts down. I was hoping to get more work completed, but when I'm done, I'm done. Stashing my things in my bag, I hit the bathroom before heading downstairs. On the main floor I stop and pull out my phone and text Bella. You on campus? Her reply comes quickly. Yep Busy? Reading same paragrph over and over I smile. Stopped snowing. Wanna take a walk? Outside in 5 I'm still a ways from her building when I see her bundled up and shuffling across the snow toward me. Seattle's been hit by a freak storm and it's been snowing steadily since just after midnight. "Did you hear?" she asks, her voice muffled by her heavy winter clothes. "Hear what?" She pushes her scarf away from her mouth. "They cancelled classes tomorrow." She raises her arms up like a referee signaling a touchdown. "Seriously?" I have to work tomorrow evening, but now the rest of my day is free. I'll probably just end up studying, but the pressure's off for tonight. "Yeah," Bella continues, twisting her feet in the snow. "Busses are running on emergency routes or something and people are sliding all over the road. It's completely ridiculous. And they won't put salt on the roads because it all runs into the Sound or something." I nod. "Nothing's going to melt until it warms up again, I guess."

"Wanna go play in the snow?" she asks. I laugh. "You're pretty excited about this, aren't you?" Bella grins broadly. "Only because it never snows like this here." We walk away from the library, passing groups of laughing and shouting students who all seem to have the same idea. When we pass one of the dormitories, three guys in their boxer shorts and two girls in their bras and underwear come racing out of the building in shoes and socks and wade into a drift that's formed against the outside wall. On a count of three, they all lay back and make snow angels. We laugh as all five let out high-pitched shrieks of agony and jump up before running back inside. "Hey," she says brightly. "How about we walk down and get hot chocolate?" "Okay," I say, and step out onto the street. The snow is hard packed now from the cars that have been crawling across it all day. Without salt or chemicals, it's turned into something nearly as hard as ice. The most recent inch of snow is a wet mess on top. "How'd your meeting with Professor Pretentious go?" I ask. Bella rolls her eyes. "Bella," she says in a simpering impersonation. "What you fail to consider is how in the aftermath of World War I, these novels might have been construed as mere nationalist propaganda." "That good, huh?" "This guy is my dissertation advisor and I swear to God the first ten minutes of every meeting are me telling him - AGAIN - what I'm working on. Then he just talks about whatever he wants anyway." "Are you going to be defending at the end of the semester still, or is he holding it up?" I ask, readjusting the strap of my bag on my shoulder. "No, I think eventually he'll just get sick of looking at me and give me the go ahead. Of course, Alec can do no wrong. Alec is the ideal PhD candidate. Alec gets nothing but glowing reviews from this guy." "Alec also spends most of his time kissing Pretentious's ass," I remind her. Bella sighs. "I know. And he doesn't hate me, he just doesn't think I'm worth the effort." "Screw that guy," I say.

"No thank you," she says flatly, and we laugh. "Any word from any of your interviews?" She's been to the MLA conference over the break and interviewed with three different schools. "Nah, but it's still too soon." Bella shrugs. "None of them seemed particularly excited about me anyway." Another sigh. "You want to talk about something else?" I guess. "Yes, please," she groans. We shuffle down the street in silence for about half a block. "Oh, hey," I say, remembering something. "I finished the puzzle." Bella takes a few running steps then slides along the snow, her arms out to the sides for balance. "Which puzzle?" she calls out over her shoulder. "You know, the one with the sheep." She stops dead in her tracks and spins halfway around. "The sheep puzzle? You finished the sheep puzzle?" I nod. "It was a bitch, too." "It took us almost three hours to put the border together." "Yeah, so?" She makes a little exasperated noise. "So you said we'd finish it together." This makes me laugh. "I had to get it off my table so I could start a new one." Narrowing her eyes, Bella bends down and scoops up a handful of snow. She packs it lightly then chucks it at me. The snowball bounces harmlessly off my coat. "What?" I ask, still laughing. "I bought this one with a waterfall. I wanted to start it." "You're like an old woman," she tells me witheringly. "And you have a coffee table." We start walking again. "Yeah, but I eat on that."

"Whatever. Just don't ask me to help you next time if you're just going to finish it on your own and steal my glory." I snort. "Your glory?" Lifting her chin up haughtily, she looks me in the eye. "Yes. My glory." "We finished the penguins together," I remind her. Bella doesn't say anything to that, just slides down along the road ahead of me. "How was your meeting?" she asks. "Hard." "Yeah?" "There was a lot of talk about parents," I tell her. Understanding fills her face. "Gotcha." She bends down and brushes some snow off of her pants. "Do you want to talk about it?" "Not right now," I tell her. "Maybe in a couple of days?" She nods. "Okay." This is par for the course. It always takes time for me to muddle through shit, and Bella never seems to mind when I bring up things days after they happen. "They're playing Raiders of the Lost Ark at Central Cinema this week," I tell her. "We should go." "Excellent. I'm free any night but Saturday." "What's Saturday?" I ask without thinking. "You know Angela's boyfriend, Ben?" I nod. "He set me up with one of his work friends. We're going on some group date." "Oh yeah?" My stomach feels strange, sort of fuzzy. "Where are you going?" "Sushi, I think. Then probably to some yuppie bar where I'll be expected to drink some girly-girl drink and toss my hair and make small talk." Turning around as she walks, Bella

flutters her eyelashes and flips the ends of her hair over her shoulders. "What's that?" she asks in a ridiculous, high voice. "Oh, I read and write about books no one cares about or reads unless they're assigned in a class. I enjoy activities that require little to no movement. And you? You're an accountant? And like skiing and snowboarding and other extreme sports? My, my. We have so much in common." She makes a face then promptly falls down on her ass. Trying not to laugh, I offer her a hand and pull her to her feet. "That's what I get for being a sarcastic bitch," she mutters, brushing the snow off of her butt. I just smile and we keep walking. I would like to take Bella out on a date, probably not for sushi, but someplace else she'd like to go. It's obvious to both of us, I think, that if the situation were different we'd be dating. If things had ended better before. If I weren't in recovery. If we'd met in the fall and not all those years ago. If it hadn't only been six months ago that we started being friends again. If I wasn't afraid we'd fuck it up and lose what we already have. But we can't change how we met, who we are, how our relationship ended, or anything else. And although I think about her a lot when she's not around, and want to kiss her when I hug her; despite the fact that more and more it's her face I see when I touch myself; even though we make each other laugh, and I trust her like I trust almost no one else; I know now is not the right time. I know it even when Bella looks at me, her eyes dark and sleepy, and I know she feels like I feel. We both know that if, by some miraculous chance, there's a "when," it's "not yet." I know it for a million definable and practical reasons, but I know it most because I can feel it in my gut. She's been out on one other date - back in September, and I went out twice with someone in October. Neither of these interactions was anything more than a pleasant way to pass a few hours. We're not out looking for other people, but when the opportunity presents itself, it seems wrong to say no. I don't want either of us to be putting our lives on hold for something that might never happen. "You never know," I tell her. "The guy could be a closet Virginia Woolf fan." Smiling, she nods. "And maybe I could really get into snowboarding." This makes me laugh. "I'm sure he's very nice, I'd just rather be watching Harrison Ford with you," she says, looking up at me and smiling. I feel content and warm down in my belly when she tells me this, and I smile back. Bella skims across the snow and turns a circle on one foot.

"What are you doing?" I ask, laughing. "Prepping for my triple axel," she responds. "Duh." I laugh some more. Bella takes a few running steps then jumps and turns in the air. It's only 180 degrees, but she's laughing when she lands. I clap my mittened hands together. "Bravo, Bella. I think you've got yourself the gold." "Screw you," she tells me good naturedly, skidding along the packed snow back to where I stand. "I'm an excellent figure skater." Gravity chooses that moment to kick in, and she loses her balance. I grab her arm and steady her before she lands on her ass. "So feminine, so graceful," I tease, letting go of her and moving along down the street. "Thanks," she tells me, sarcastic. I grin over my shoulder. "You're welcome." Narrowing her eyes, Bella slides closer. "And nice mittens to you there, buddy. Very masculine." I shoot her a dirty look. "They're so I can get at my keys and smoke," I inform her. "Oh, are they?" She scoots over to where I stand. "Yes. Look," I say, impatient, flipping the top of my mittens over, revealing bare fingers. I wiggle them in Bella's face. "See?" "Ahh..." She's being a shit, but I like it when she teases me. "No fingerless gloves for you. You wear mittens like a big boy." Trying not to laugh, I cover up my fingers and continue walking down the street. "God help me, Isabella Swan. I will shove a snowball down your pants." Her feet thud dully against the snow as she jogs up behind me. "Promise?" she teases, sliding down the street and nearly losing her balance again. "You're gonna break your neck. Or your ass," I call out as she runs and slides farther away from me. "Come on!" she shouts back. "Come on, what?"

Turning around, she runs in my direction and slides right up to me. She tips her head back and smiles. "Come slide. It's fun." "I'm too old to slide," I say, and watch her skid away. "My brittle bones can't take the strain." "You're not old," she chides. "You're just feeling sorry for yourself." "I have to," I say, grinning. "I get no sympathy from you." Her back is to me again, but she waves her hand dismissively in the air. "That's the sound of my eyes rolling, Edward." I laugh quietly. What I really want to do is run and slide and tackle her in a snow bank, but I might actually break her arm that way. Tentative, I run a few steps then skim across the snow. It is kind of fun. "See?" Bella calls back then slides over to me. I grab the end of her scarf and wind the excess length around her head so it covers her mouth. Then, I skate down the street before she can retaliate. We're off campus now and the streets are quiet. Most cars, it seems, are staying off the roads. The snow falls like lacework and makes everything muted and white. The only sounds are the dull pats of our running footsteps on the snow and the subsequent hiss of the soles of our shoes as we skim down the street, the relative silence pierced by the occasional shriek or holler as one of us loses our balance or nearly does. We slide all the way to the restaurant. Bella only falls down once but I land on my ass three times. I fall onto my bag at one point, but thankfully nothing's broken. The warmth inside is incredible, and I try not to think about how the snow on my jeans is going to melt and that I'll be walking home in wet pants. "Having a little hot chocolate with your marshmallows?" I ask when Bella dumps another spoonful into her mug. "Allow me my vices," she replies without looking up. "You know, you always say you're not like your mom, but you are." Bella looks up, her eyebrows raised. "Like my mom?" "Yeah." She frowns in confusion. "How do you figure?"

"Stuff like this," I say, and point to her hot chocolate. "My mom doesn't even like marshmallows," she tells me. "I don't mean that in particular." Lifting the mug to her mouth, she raises her eyebrows in expectation. "You say that your mom acts younger than she is," I say. "True." "So do you." Bella's face scrunches up. "I can't tell if that's an insult or a compliment." I laugh. "It's just an observation. And a compliment." "I don't know," she says, shaking her head with mock skepticism. "Really kind of sounds like you're telling me I behave like a child." "You're childlike sometimes, not childish," I reassure her. Smiling, she narrows her eyes. "A fine distinction." "Yes, it is," I say, smiling back. "We can't all be distinguished old men like you, Edward. Sitting at home with your old man puzzles." I stir my spoon in my mug, watch the marshmallows dissolve. "Oh, you're like an old lady in other ways." Bella sits back in her seat and crosses her arms over her chest. "This should be good. How am I like an old lady?" "You knit," I say, trying to hold back my laughter. "Knitting is hip these days," she tells me. "Not that I'd expect an out-of-touch geezer like you to know this." "Harsh," I say, unable to keep myself from smiling. "Why are you being so mean to me?" "Don't dish it out if you can't take it, Cullen." She tosses a marshmallow across the table.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," I say, flicking it back at her. She stops it with her hand, picking it up and smashing it between two fingers. "You never told me what grade you got on that paper," she says suddenly. "Didn't I?" She shakes her head. "B+," I say proudly. Bella's face lights up. "See? Didn't I tell you it was good?" Laughing, I nod. "Yes, you did." I'd had to write a ten-page paper outlining my teaching philosophy for my education class, and Bella had helped me with revisions on two separate occasions. "Thanks again for your help." "You're welcome, but I really didn't do much. You had that thing in the bag." The waitress comes over to check on us and when she leaves we sit in silence for a while. Bella checks her phone and flips through her planner, writing a few things down in its pages. I watch people move in and out of the restaurant. Beneath the table, Bella's foot knocks into my leg. "Sorry," she mumbles, looking up at me quickly. A smile spreads across her face. "What?" Her hand feints toward her mouth. "You have a little chocolate on your lip." My face warms, and I wipe at my mouth with my napkin. "Gone?" "Mm-hm," she murmurs then looks back down at her planner. We're both quiet again. Eventually, I pull out the syllabi for the two classes I started this week and highlight important dates. Then I transfer those dates into my planner, colorcoding them by category. It's the only way I can keep track of everything. Bella takes out a book and a pencil and reads. She gets more hot chocolate and I get coffee. Sitting like this with Bella almost makes me laugh. If anyone had asked me a year ago even just six or seven months ago - if I thought we could be friends like this, I would've said absolutely not. There's something in me, though, that wants to be close to her. And there's something in her - something I don't always understand - that wants to be close to me. * "Could you hand me the rosemary?" Carlisle doesn't look up from the pan, just holds out a hand, palm up.

"Is it in the rack?" I ask. I'm shit in the kitchen. He's taught me a few things, but considering my cooking abilities were essentially nonexistent when we met, I still don't know much. Carlisle nods. "Should be." In the living room, Bella hoots with laughter. Both Carlisle and I lift our heads and look out into the other room, but the laughter has died down and we can't hear anything over the music. I wonder what they're talking about. This is the sixth time I've been to the Cullen's for dinner, and the third time Bella's been with me. She loves Esme. Loves Esme. Bella had taken one look at her record collection and nearly keeled over. When Esme was in her twenties she'd been a music writer for a paper in some middling city, and now she's writing a book about some band I've never heard of, but when she mentioned the name to us, I thought Bella was going to faint. Needless to say, they've hit it off. Carlisle has kept me busy with small tasks like washing and cutting the vegetables and doing the dishes as we go, but mainly I'm just watching him. Sometimes he reminds me of my father. When I'd first met him at a meeting back in August, I'd wanted him to be my sponsor. It's better this way, though. When Carlisle washes his hands, his shirt slides up his forearm and I see what looks like a fresh bandage. "What happened to your arm?" Carlisle looks down. "Oh. That. Patient was a tad anxious and pushed me into a cart." He shrugs then says, matter-of-fact, "Meth." "I don't know how you do that stuff," I tell him. And I don't. I don't understand how day after day he can go back to that ER in that hospital and deal with patients who are violent and/or out of their minds. Or how he can slog on despite the crushing burden of uninsured patients who wait until they can no longer take the pain or the sickness of what may have started out as a minor problem, and end up in the emergency room. Just some of the stories he tells and the crippling bureaucracy he constantly pushes against have made me question how I ever thought I could be a doctor. "Most patients don't assault me," he says with a smile. "And if I'm not helping them, who is?" Flicking excess water from his hands and reaching for a towel, he shrugs again. "You get used to it." I find his commitment to his job, and the fact that he's been sober for nineteen years without one relapse, daunting. Superhuman. Ridiculous. But I've also heard him talk

about his life prior to sobering up, prior to med school, prior to Esme. If anyone could give me a run for my money for fuck-up of the century, it would probably be Carlisle. We join Esme and Bella in the living room. They get quiet when we walk in the room. "Talking about me again?" I ask Bella with a grin. She rolls her eyes. "Esme was telling me about Baltimore." Carlisle smiles. "Did she tell you we met there?" Bella looks at Esme. "No. She didn't." He cocks an eyebrow and looks at his wife. "You want to do the honors?" Esme smiles and leans back into the couch. "So eleven years ago I'm living in Baltimore, writing for the paper there. One night I go to this show with a friend of mine - some hardcore outfit, not really my scene, but fine. It's my job; I go. Anyway, my friend decides to get up close to the stage and gets punched in the face by some gigantic guy with diaper pins in his ears." Bella snorts. "Diaper pins?" "Why did he punch him?" I ask. Throwing up her hands, Esme shrugs. "I have no idea. Insulted his haircut maybe," she jokes. "So my friend is drunk and bleeding and doesn't want to leave. His nose is obviously broken, but he won't go to the hospital with me until he gets thrown out of the venue." Bella frowns. "For what?" "Puking on the stage." Esme laughs, remembering. "He was that drunk?" Bella asks. Carlisle jumps in. "No. It was the punch in the face that did it, I'm pretty sure. Just the pain and shock. Though I'm sure the alcohol didn't help." "So we get to the hospital, and Mr. Man here is working in the ER." Esme hooks a thumb at Carlisle. "First we have to wait for almost two hours to be seen." Carlisle grins. "Slow night." We all laugh. "Then, fancy pants doctor comes strutting behind the curtain, resets my friend's nose like it's nothing." She eyes her husband. "Big hero."

I snort. Esme laughs. "Exactly. Then he starts asking me all sorts of questions. How old am I? What do I do? Is this the kind of lifestyle I generally lead?" "In my defense," Carlisle says, talking over her. "You did look a bit like a hellraiser. And you ranked of smoke and booze." "Because I was in a bar, Carlisle," she drones. "I think I'd had one beer to drink." He raises an eyebrow. "That night." Esme colors. "Okay. Yes, I was a bit of a bar girl then. Even in my early 30s." I shoot Bella a look and she grins at me. "But that's not even the best part," Esme continues. "The best part is that we're leaving and suddenly Dr. Cullen is calling my name..." Carlisle smiles. "I had to get your attention somehow." "He pulls me aside, and here I am, thinking I'm about to get a big lecture from the good doctor, but all he does is ask me if the guy I'm with is my boyfriend." Bella and I laugh. "I was nervous," Carlisle says, embarrassed. "I thought I wasn't cool enough for you. There was no use being smooth." "So you asked her out?" I ask. Carlisle shakes his head. "I couldn't do it." "Of course I had to make the move," Esme says dryly. "I thought he was cute. Pushy and self-righteous as hell, but cute. So I started showing up at the ER with coffee, sometimes food, after I'd leave a show late. He'd take a break if he could. We were both night owls. Eventually he worked up the nerve to ask me out, so I took him to a show." Bella snickers. Esme grins. "He survived." "And that was that," Carlisle says. Laughing, Esme gets to her feet. "Indeed it was." As she walks past Carlisle she leans down and kisses his forehead. Then she's down the short hall and into the bathroom.

The kitchen table is covered with plants and the dining room holds the records and books that can't be crammed into Esme's study, so we eat in the living room with plates on our laps. The house is cluttered but immaculately clean, neatly furnished but modest. Carlisle's job in the ER pays significantly less than private practice would, and Esme's freelance income is sporadic at best. But I like their house. It looks like it belongs to them. Carlisle asks Bella about school while Esme tells me about the year she lived in Chicago. Then, Carlisle's talking about restructuring that's going on at the hospital while Esme and Bella speak quietly about a book Esme's suggested Bella read. I know the book they're talking about; I recognize the author's name when Esme says it. Sometimes they have discussions about Al-Anon - usually when Carlisle and I aren't in the room. Tonight I do my best to tune out and not listen in. Later I'm pulling out of the Esme and Carlisle's driveway while Bella is playing with the radio. After finding a station, she sits back and mumbles softly along to the song. The storm has cleared out, giving way to a downpour of cold rain that pummels the remaining snow into nothing and glosses every available surface. The road is slick in some places, and everything shimmers in the glow of the streetlights. "I think I'm going to take a trip back to Chicago this summer," I tell her. From the corner of my eye, I can see her shift in the passenger seat to look at me. "Yeah?" I nod. "I found my best friend from when I lived there online, sent him a message." "Have you heard back?" she asks. Nodding, I flip on my blinker and tap the brakes as we approach a turn. "Yeah. Like the next day. He was really surprised but seemed glad to hear from me." I take my eyes off the road for a second to look at Bella, and she's smiling. "That's great. Does he still live near Chicago?" "Just outside. He's married, has two kids." Bella nods and we settle back into silence. "And I thought I could see my old house, my old school. Visit my parents' graves." "You haven't been there since they died." It's a statement and not a question. "No," I say, shaking my head.

"What made you decide to go now?" Bella asks. "That meeting from last week," I say. "The one where everyone was talking about their families and their parents?" "Yeah?" "I started..." I stop there, and we drive a few blocks in silence. Bella doesn't say anything, doesn't stare at me expectantly - she just waits. "There are a lot of things about my parents," I say finally. "Okay," she says. I make another turn and now we're not far from her place. "You know," I say. "I figured out - now that I'm thirty-three - that I've been alive more years without my parents than with them." When I look over at Bella, she's looking at me, her expression soft. When I pull up in front of her apartment, she undoes her seatbelt and turns to face me, her cheek grazing the headrest. "You spent a lot of time alone," she says. I shift the car into park. "Do you remember when I told you about my parents being alcoholics?" She nods. "All that stuff about them being high-functioning, it was bullshit." "Yeah?" "Yeah. They had jobs and friends and all of that, but they did stupid shit all the time." Bella's head tips slightly to the side. "What kind of things?" "They fought. All the time. These big, explosive arguments. My mother was the angry one. She liked to break dishes - anything that would shatter and make lots of noise." "You think you get your temper from her?" Bella asks. I nod. "Probably." "You also get your musical ability from her," she points out. I look at Bella and smile. "You're right." "Legacy's a bitch," she comments, and we laugh.

"I just...I hear myself saying to you that they didn't neglect me, that they didn't drive drunk, but they did both of those things. All the time. When I was little, they'd go to parties at their friend's houses and bring me along. I'd play with the other kids and they'd drink all night, put me in the car at two in the morning and drive me home." There's more I want to say and Bella seems to know it because she sits quietly. "And they never really had time for me. There were always people over to the house - their friends. They'd go through these phases where they weren't going to drink anymore, and it was always this big production. Pouring the booze down the drain, talking about God and going to church, cleaning out the whole house, having family time." I wrap the fingers of my left hand around the steering wheel and shift in my seat. Bella leans forward slightly and takes my right hand in hers. Her skin is cold, but so is mine. Carefully, she works her index finger beneath the edge of my jacket and presses the pad of it to the pulse point in my wrist. She doesn't say anything, just holds my hand. It makes me feel steady and solid, her hand; it makes me feel warm. "It never lasted much longer than a few days, maybe a week or so. Then one of them would drink and the other would yell. Then they both would be getting drunk and it was back to business as usual." For a short while we just sit there, connected at the finger and wrist, the radio a soft drone in the background. "Why did you tell me differently?" Bella asks. "You didn't have to tell me anything about them, but you did." "I know." I look down at our hands. My face is hot; I feel stupid and ashamed. She presses her hand against mine. "I don't mind, Edward. I think I understand why." "I went so long without talking about them," I tell her. "When I finally did, and when I talked to my aunt and uncle about them, and they reminded me of all these things I'd forgotten, I was so excited. It was like I'd forgotten all the good things, and then I only wanted to think about the good things. And it just seemed shitty of me to dump all over them. They're dead; nothing changes that, or what they did when they were alive." "It's hard not to want your parents to be perfect. It sucks when you find out they're just human," she says. "You have a right to be angry, you know. I mean, I know you know it, but I want to tell you anyway. There are a lot of things your parents should've done differently." My stomach feels queasy. "I hate that the biggest thing we have in common is the worst thing," I say quietly.

"If they were still alive, you'd probably see that a lot of the really great things about you come from them too." She smiles. "Or, that's where the raw material came from." I chuff a soft laugh and allow myself the small pleasure of stroking my thumb across the soft flesh of her palm. The corner of Bella's mouth dips down. It's merely a reflex, but I want to kiss it, make it turn up again. Sighing, she pulls her hand away. Before I know what's happening, she's shifting onto a knee and leaning across the gearshift to wrap me into a hug. She hugs me fiercely, ferociously, and I squeeze her back. Squeeze her so hard I'm afraid I might break her. "I think this trip is a really good idea. I'm glad you're going," she says, her voice soft in my ear. Eventually, we relax a little, but we're still holding each other close. Close enough that I can feel her chest moving as she breathes. She smells nice and holding her makes me feel loose and sleepy. When I feel her start to pull away, I relax my arms and let her return to her seat. "You have to work in the morning," she says. "I should let you get home." I don't want to go home; I want to stay here with her in my car. But she's right. We say goodnight and I sit in my car while she unlocks her front door, turns and waves, then steps into the house. I wait until the light comes on in her living room before driving away.

Chapter Twenty-Six "What was up with that woman from the Theatre Department?" Kate asks. Snickering, I sit down in the chair next to hers. "You didn't like the show tunes?" I ask with mock seriousness. She rolls her eyes. "And the crying..." I hoot. "The crying!" With a quivering lip, I lean forward and try to imitate the grad student who'd given the address at this morning's ceremony. "When I came here, I wanted to bring real life to the theatre. But now..." I choke on a fake sob. "You taught me how to bring theatre to life!" Kate finishes for me, pretending to cry.

We laugh like a couple of assholes. "And now you know why I didn't want to walk in the first place," I say. She shrugs. "Yeah, but it was an excuse to get everybody here." With her soda can she gestures to the people on the patio. "That's nice." Jasper's father is out of town on "business;" Jasper's mother is in Los Angeles "shopping." I'm not entirely sure either knows we've commandeered the place this afternoon, but Jasper doesn't seem to think it's a problem. "So are you teaching three or four classes in the fall?" Kate asks. "Three in the fall, four in the spring," I reply. "That should keep you busy," she says gently. I sigh. "Yep." "It's pretty normal to get a temporary position your first year out, Bella." My hands smooth down the skirt of my dress. "Yeah. But your temporary position is at a school that interviewed you at the MLA, brought you in for a job talk... Mine's not even an advertised position, it's just a bunch of classes they needed taught." "You'll get to be near your dad for another year," she offers. "Don't have to move all your stuff. I had to move last summer and I'm doing it again this year to yet another year-long position." "I know," I say. And I do. I know this is the name of the game. The atmosphere at the community college where I'll be next year seems, so far, pretty great. The students want to be there and for the most part, the other instructors seem practical but devoted. But in my head I can hear the voices of my professors telling me that even just a year away from my speciliazation will be a negative mark when I apply for my next job. And I want to punch those voices in the face. "What are you teaching?" Kate asks. "One is a class that's about critical thinking in college - which looks pretty interesting. Then I have two Intro to Literature classes." Across the pool I watch Charlie talking to Jessica and Mike. Rather, I watch Jessica talk to Charlie while he and Mike listen. Jasper and my mother are standing by the grill, and Alice and Edward are somewhere inside the house.

We eat and drink - no booze, my request - and talk, taking shelter under the jutting overhang of the house when it briefly rains, then venturing back out onto the patio to sit under the hazy gray sky of a mild and humid June Saturday. I don't like being the center of attention, but this gathering doesn't feel that way. It's nice, having so many people I care about in the same place. "I'm just so glad we're here," Jessica says. "Because how long has Bella been out here?" She looks at me. "How long have you been out here?" "Six...and a half years," I say slowly, calculating in my head. "Six in Seattle." "Yeah. Six years. And we never came to visit." "I did," Mike offers. "Yeah, I know you did," she replies. "But like, not us together. Like a couple. You know?" Edward nods. I have to give him credit; he's withstanding the crush of the Stanley "get to know you" chat fairly well. "And it's like, I'd never even been to the Pacific Northwest, and we should probably go now before I get all pregnant and fat and tired all the time..." I shoot Mike a look. "You're trying for a baby already?" Last I'd heard they were waiting. He just grins and blushes and mumbles something I can't quite hear. "Soon as he passes the bar and things get settled at work, this bitch," Jessica points to herself, "is getting knocked up." Everyone starts laughing. "So," Jessica says, turning to Edward. "Bella says you want to be a teacher." Edward's eyes open wider and he looks startled, caught off guard. "Yeah. I mean, I would like to." I can hear the things he's not saying - the legal complications he's attempting to untangle in order to make that work. But if Jessica notices his discomfort, she doesn't let it show on her face. "Music, right?" He nods. "Yep." "Like, you want to be a high school band director? I was in the band. I played the clarinet. I sucked."

Edward laughs in surprise. "No, more like general music education, maybe elementary or middle school. I play the piano and I'm pretty proficient on the guitar now, but I don't have a band instrument I play, so not an ensemble director." "Get out!" Jessica exclaims. Edward and I exchange a look and try not to laugh. "I taught elementary school! For like six years right out of college." He nods. "Yeah, Bella told me that." "Sometimes I miss it. I loved elementary kids. They're the best." Jessica is beaming. "Yeah, I think it could be really fun teaching them the basics, you know. Getting them excited about music, just presenting the possibility to them." He always looks and sounds so happy and enthusiastic when he talks about this. "You'd be great, I bet," Jessica says. "You've got a kind voice; the kids would love you." Edward blushes and fights off a smile. I love Jessica so much in that moment that it's all I can do to stop myself from standing up and hugging her. That was the absolute perfect thing to say. Of course she thinks nothing of it and bounces up to get something more to drink. "How's studying?" I ask Mike. He groans and leans back in his chair. "I thought law school sucked. No. No. Not at all. Studying for the bar exam is so much worse." "That good, huh?" Rolling his eyes, he props a foot up on Jessica's now vacant chair. "The place is so understaffed and I'm already doing work, like research, for them. And then I have to study on top of that." "Well, at least the exhaustion is preparing you for raising a child," I joke. Mike laughs. "I probably won't even notice when we get pregnant. I'll just lie on my back and let her do whatever she wants." "Gross," I say matter of fact, but Edward and Mike laugh.

Looking over my shoulder, I see Charlie standing around aimlessly and I smile at him. When he notices me, he heads over in our direction. He and Edward have managed to avoid each other for the past hour, but I want to get introductions out of the way. "Seattle's looking pretty good this year, Charlie," Mike says, raising an eyebrow. My father nods, running his hand across his mustache in a gesture of habit. "So far, so good. But I'm not holding my breath. We're still a month out from the All-Star break." Mike nods. I jump right in. "Dad? You haven't met Edward, have you?" "Edward. No. Have not met him," Charlie says, already looking uncomfortable. Edward stands up abruptly, the legs of his deck chair scraping noisily on the patio surface. "Dad this is Edward Masen. Edward, this is my dad, Charlie." Anxious and looking like a thirteen-year-old boy, Edward sticks out his hand. "It's nice to meet you, sir." Charlie takes the offered hand and they shake. "Nice to meet you, Edward." They look at each other briefly then both look away. The awkwardness is palpable. "So..." Charlie begins. "Bella tells me you're from Port Angeles." My father knows where Edward is from, and it's not because of me that he knows this. But indicating how he does know doesn't seem appropriate for polite conversation, I suppose. "Yes. Yeah. Since I was sixteen," Edward replies. "You get back there much?" Charlie asks. The question seems to pain him. Edward shakes his head. "No. I don't. I'm pretty busy here." "No family there?" "Not anymore." Edward drags a hand through his hair. "My aunt and uncle live in Olympia." "Hm." Charlie nods thoughtfully. Looking like he wants to crawl under the table, Edward shifts nervously on his feet. "You staying with Bella this weekend?"

"No. Didn't want to crowd her." My father smiles at me. "I got a room for a couple of nights." "Oh." Edward swallows. "That's nice." "Yep. Little vacation, I guess." Edward smiles briefly and then they stand there, not talking. "Well," Charlie clips. "Think I better check on the grill." Nodding, Edward raises his eyebrows and tries again with the half-smile. They exchange another awkward round of "nice to meet you," Edward again calling my father sir, before Charlie wanders over to the grill. "As awkward as you imagined?" I ask when he sits back down. He laughs a little before answering. "More so. But at least he wasn't carrying a gun." "Oh, he's got a gun." "What? Where?" I reach down and tap my ankle. "And he probably had one on under his jacket earlier today. Just took it off so he wouldn't make anybody uncomfortable." "Too late," Edward mutters. "You called him ‘sir'," I say in a low voice. "That was good." He looks over his shoulder before responding. "Your father scares the shit out of me, Bella." At this, Mike laughs. "What? He doesn't intimidate you?" Mike raises an eyebrow. "Charlie? Not anymore. But he did give me a talk before Bella and I moved in together." I almost spit out my mouthful of soda. "I'd almost forgotten about that." Confused, Edward looks back and forth between the two of us. "What speech?" "Just before junior year Mike and I move into this apartment in Allston," I say.

"Charlie's there, my parents are there, and we're hauling all this stuff upstairs. At some point, Chief Swan and I end up moving the futon frame in together. And when we get it into the living room, we're alone," Mike recounts. "So then he says, ‘son, I wanted to have a word with you,' and I just about shit my pants." Edward grins and I snicker. "He goes, ‘I trust my daughter's judgment, and if she says you're a good guy, you're a good guy. But I also know what it's like to be young'." Mike lowers his voice in his best Charlie impression. "And I open my mouth to tell him that of course we're just friends now, and the thought hadn't even crossed my mind. But he just says, ‘Even though I'm across the country, you should know that cops do other cops favors. The Boston PD is just a phone call away.' Then he claps his hand on my shoulder and walks downstairs like nothing happened." At this point, I'm laughing so hard I can barely breathe. "Oh my god I was so mad at him for that," I remember. "I think I told him to stop acting like an alpha male." Shaking his head, Edward lets out a low whistle. "Apparently I have that to look forward to." I pat his leg. "I think Charlie and I are long past that," I tell him. Eventually, the sky darkens and the temperature drops. When it starts to sprinkle again we haul everything inside, and Kate says goodnight. My dad, Edward, Jess, and Alice start up a poker game around the dining room table while Jasper dismantles and cleans the grill. Despite Renee's protestations, Mike and I are helping her load the dishwasher and clean the kitchen. My mother is the least domestically inclined person I know, and I can't recall her ever volunteering to clean up dishes or put away food. But tonight she's insisting she wants to do it on her own; I want to help merely for novelty's sake. "Did Phil get a chance to call you today?" she asks, scraping food into the garbage disposal. "He texted congratulations," I tell her. "And they won their game." She smiles and rinses the plate before sliding it into the dishwasher. Mike takes a plate of leftover hamburgers from me and covers them with saran wrap. "Are you meeting up with him when you leave here?" I ask. Renee nods. "Yeah. I'm flying into Houston and then I have to drive a rental car somewhere." I frown. My mother trying to navigate somewhere on her own does not, as a rule, end well. "He can't come pick you up?"

She shakes her head. "Schedule's too tight." When she notices my expression she stops what she's doing. "What?" "Did he give you directions? Good directions? With lots of details?" Mike snickers. Smirking, my mother turns back to the sink. "I've managed my way in this world thus far, my sweet girl, I think I can handle a little car ride." She shrugs. "And if I get lost, it'll be an adventure." I snort. I remember "adventures" from my childhood. "Just ask for a car with GPS, okay?" I tease. Renee throws a balled up napkin at me. For a few minutes, we scrape and rinse and load in silence. Mike finishes putting away leftovers and joins the game. "He's handsome," she says quietly. Looking up I raise my eyebrows. "Your friend. Edward." She tips her head at the table. I follow her eyes and look at Edward. "Yeah, he is," I say, nonchalant. At the moment, his brows are knit in concentration as he studies his hand and the cards face-up on the table. Someone cracks a joke and his eyes lift, his face lighting up with a grin. I don't mean to stare, but it's nice to watch him when he isn't aware of my eyes, when he's just being himself. He's not boyish anymore - his face has a tired cast that never quite goes away - but he still has that wide smile that surprises me almost every time I see it. And he's more relaxed. His shoulders and his neck, they don't tighten and twist like they used to. "Does he have a girlfriend?" Renee asks, knocking me out of my thoughts. I shake my head. "No. He doesn't date much." She shuts the dishwasher then wipes her hands on a towel. "Does he want to date you?" Blushing, I try to shake off the nervous twitch in my stomach. "It's hard to tell." Smiling gently, Renee leans against the counter next to me. "Okay," she says simply. Alice leaves the game and she and Renee talk about the store while Jasper lets me know what's new at work. I'm leaning against the side of the fridge talking when I feel a hand gently grip my waist. Looking up and over, I see Edward behind my shoulder. "Don't want to hit you with the door," he says, smiling.

I take a step back and his hand slides away from me as he opens the refrigerator and pulls out a bottle of juice. "Thanks," he says quietly, and smiles again, and I feel kind of soft and fuzzy when he looks at me that way. "How's the game?" Jasper asks. "Jessica's cleaning house," Edward replies. "I think she hustled us." Eventually, Renee and Charlie head back to their respective hotel rooms, and we hug and make plans to meet - the three of us - for lunch tomorrow. The rest of us continue playing cards, betting with pennies, nickels, and dimes. "Are you in or are you out, Michael?" Jessica asks, impatient. "I'm thinking." "You're bluffing," she replies, rolling her eyes. "You have the most obvious tell." Mike sighs. "I do not." "Yes, you do." Slapping his cards down to the table and crossing his arms over his chest, Mike narrows his eyes at her. "Oh, yeah? What is it?" Jessica smirks. "You do this." She presses her lips together and flares her nostrils. I burst out laughing. Mike huffs. "I do not do that." He looks at the rest of the table. "Do I?" Everyone laughs. "It's okay, sweetie," Jessica says. "I don't mind if you suck at cards." "I do not suck at cards. When we were in Vegas I won forty dollars at the first table I played at." Jessica sighs. "That was the beginner table. The dealers basically play for you." They're still bickering when Edward leans in. "Are they always like this?" he asks, his breath warm in my ear.

"Uh-huh," I reply, my head feeling thick at the nearness of his words. His voice makes me want to run the palms of my hands up and down the denim on his thighs. "I can see your cards, Bella," he says then sits up straight. Glaring, I punch his leg and he laughs, grabbing my wrist and squeezing it briefly. I'm a mediocre card player, but I bet conservatively, and by the time everyone else bottoms out, I still have a small pile of change in front of me. Jessica is the only one left standing; she has everyone's money. Mike and Jasper and Alice drift away from the table to sit in the living room, and Edward scoots his chair closer to mine to help me play. Jessica is still kicking my ass, however. Edward's arm is slung across the back of my chair, his head tipped toward mine. "I think you can bet a little more this hand," he says softly while Jessica arranges her stack of dimes. "And if I do, I'm screwed," I mutter. He laughs quietly. "You're screwed anyway. Betting small just prolongs the agony." Shaking my head, I just smile. I feel his fingers on my hair and he gently tugs the ends of it. My cheeks flush. "I don't have shit," I mumble on the next hand. Edward reaches up and taps two of my cards and I see a possibility I hadn't before. When he lowers his hand he lets his fingers brush across the inside of my arm. My chest feels heavy and full when I breathe now, and my leg is warm where it presses against his. It feels different, touching him today; I like it. "Thanks," I whisper, twisting my foot so it rests on top of his shoe. Out of boredom and frustration I go all in on the next hand and lose spectacularly. The rest of the evening is calm and quiet. I can't stop looking at Edward. Every time he moves or laughs or talks I feel my body orienting itself to him. I want to feel his hand on the small of my back. I want him to rest his head in my lap, let me run my fingers through his hair. I want to touch him like it's the easiest thing in the world; I want to touch him like he belongs to me. It makes me uneasy, this proprietary feeling I have for him, but it doesn't make my wanting any less.

On the way to my place, we don't talk much. The windows are down and he's playing good music, and I want to drive around like this - the two of us in his car, just being still next to each other. "I'm staying with Jeremy the first night - he's picking me up from the airport - and then I got a room for the next three," he tells me when I ask about his trip. "The hotel is near the train station, so I can get around okay without a car." "That's good. Your flight's on Tuesday morning, right?" Edward nods. "And you're back on Saturday early?" "Yeah." He pulls the car to the curb a block and a half up from my apartment. "You want me to pick you up from the airport?" I ask. He did this for me when I flew home from Jacksonville over the holidays. I'd have to borrow his car, but it wouldn't be the first time he's let me drive it. He smiles. "I have to head straight to work when I get in, otherwise I'd say yes." "Okay." He turns off the car and unbuckles his seat belt. "Can I come in to give you your present?" "You didn't have to get me anything," I say, reaching for the door. "I know," Edward replies cheerfully. He carries a large paper bag into my apartment while I balance the remains of my graduation cake on both arms. Once we're through the door, I put the leftovers in the fridge and return to the living room to find Edward already sprawled out on the couch. Now that we're alone - away from other people and their eyes - the heavy pull in my limbs is stronger. I want to kiss the insides of his wrists and rub my face in his hair, and sitting here - a foot away from him - thinking these thoughts makes my skin flush. His eyes are dark when they look at me, and I wonder if he feels it too. "You work tomorrow?" I ask. Stretching his legs out in front of him, he nods. "And Monday. Monday I work all day. Greenhouse from 6:00 to 3:00 and then the store at 4:30." "That's rough."

He shrugs. "Have to pay for the trip somehow." "So we don't get to hang out before you go," I say, stating the obvious. His eyes find mine. "Probably not." "Eh," I joke. "I've been kind of getting sick of you anyway." Edward just grins, keeps his eyes locked on my face. "You want your present?" he asks. "Sure." His smile widens. "Help me up?" Sighing dramatically, I stand up and offer him my hand. "You're a lazy bastard, Edward Masen," I tell him, trying not to laugh. His hand grips mine, but when I try to pull him to his feet, he's a dead weight, anchored to the couch. "A little help?" I ask, unable to keep a straight face. Scooting forward on my couch, Edward unexpectedly lifts my hand to his mouth and kisses the backs of my fingers. When he looks up, his eyes are dark and lazy; all traces of his smile are gone. Lowering his eyelids, he kisses my skin where the thumb meets the palm of my hand. My heart stutters. His mouth is soft and warm, and it feels so nice. When I feel his other hand come to rest lightly on the back of my leg, my lips fall open and something caught between an exhale and a sigh escapes my mouth. Very lightly his fingertips trace up the back of my thigh, lifting the skirt of my dress. It makes my body go loose, makes me fuzzy and hot. He lets go of my fingers and now both of his hands are skimming over and around. The back, the sides, his fingernails tracing up the front. I feel funny, like my legs are going to give, and I grip his shoulders tight. Then, he lowers his head and kisses the outside of my right knee. A startled little noise jumps from my lips and he kisses that spot again. With one hand he gathers the fabric of my dress and lifts it up and away from my legs, the hem just covering my underwear. The rough skin and stubble of his cheek meets my hip and he rubs his face against my thigh, his soft mouth pressing gently into my flesh. When I look down, I can see that his chest is rising and falling rapidly, that his breathing is rough just like mine, and it makes me feel good, that we have this in common.

My legs start to shake. It's embarrassing and I can't stop it, but his mouth feels so fucking good. I want to thread my fingers in his hair and pull his face between my legs, that's how good it feels. It's when his hand pulls my dress up higher and he kisses my hipbone through the cotton of my underwear that my knee gives. His arms wrap around my waist and he pulls me onto his lap. "C'mere," he murmurs, settling back into the couch. He takes my hands in his. I look down at his lap, watch our fingers twist around each other. When I look at his face his eyes are on me. Edward smiles and I smile back. It's gentle, his expression, but there's something in his eyes that makes my pulse move quick. My body, it understands why this is happening - it's been waiting for this all day. But my brain, my brain doesn't understand; it's hazy and overwhelmed and pumping out too much sensation. "I've always really liked your hands," I say, running the pad of my thumb up and down where his middle and ring finger meet. "Really?" This seems to amuse him. "Mm-hm," I murmur, nodding. "You have nice, long fingers; and they're strong, your hands." Edward smiles at me all fuzzy and sweet. "Most people notice the eyes first. Tell me they're weird because they're so green." I stroke my thumb over the shadow beneath his left eye. "They are really green. But it was your hands that really got to me. Remember that day? When it was down pouring?" "And we talked about books," he says, nodding. "I remember." "You looked...you looked really good that day," I say quietly, my eyes shifting back down to our hands. Laughing softly, Edward kisses the crook of my elbow. "I probably looked like a drowned rat." I shake my head. "Not in the slightest." My lips fight to stay shut as I smile; he'd looked gorgeous soaked with rain. "And now I'm just an old man, all beat up." His tone is light, but I can hear the insecurity he's trying to hide. I study his face. It's true; he does look older. He's lost the slightness he had when he was twenty-seven, but the added weight makes him look less like a boy and more like a man. I

like that. With the tip of my index finger, I trace the white ridge of a scar that runs diagonal down the side of his face in front of his ear. It's relatively thin and only an inch or so long; I'd only noticed it a few months ago and hadn't had the courage to ask where it came from. "Punch in the face," he tells me. "The guy wore rings." I nod. Tipping his head down, he pushes some of his hair flat and reveals another, thicker scar on his scalp. "This was a bottle." My finger traces this one too. "You got this after I left?" I ask. Edward lifts his head and nods. "Yeah. And there's this." He pulls down his lip to show me a divot in the flesh there. "Where my tooth went in. Some on my back and shoulders." "From what?" "Something metal, with an edge, as best I can recall." He shrugs. "I had my shirt off. Probably should've gotten stitches." I shake my head and run my finger down his nose. "I don't like thinking about you hurting, you getting hurt." He smiles sadly. "I was hurting people, too." "I don't like that either," I say. We watch each other for a few seconds, until his eyes soften and the acidic taste in my mouth fades. "I like that you know me," he says quietly. Edward pushes my hair over my shoulder and away from my neck. Leaning in, he kisses me right below my ear then trails his mouth down over my throat. When he lifts his head, I lean in and kiss his mouth. I'm not even sure I'm going to do it until I do. His hips lift from the couch, his arms wrap around me tight. At first it's sweet and gentle, this kiss, but then we're pushing our lips and tongues together roughly and it almost hurts, but I like it. My fingers wend their way into his hair and he pulls back - half-groaning, half-sighing. "God, I missed that," he breathes, grinning at me before tugging me back down to his mouth.

Kissing him, it's not like I remember. The actuality of his mouth is not the same as the memory, and at first this is disconcerting, but it still feels so good that I cease to care. I kiss his forehead and he sighs, his hands sliding down my back and around my hips to the tops of my thighs. Again, he strokes his fingers up and down, pushing up my skirt until it's nearly around my waist. I want to strip him naked and have him undress me; I want him to put his hands and mouth everywhere. Gently, I tug at his hair while his thumbs skim up the insides of my legs and brush against the edge of my underwear. Down his hands go again, then back up and this time, when they pass so close, my hips roll. When he strokes up again and still doesn't touch me I let out a little whine of frustration. Then, he runs both thumbs across my pussy, and I cry out. My body feels thick and hot and dumb. All I can do is hold onto him and move on his hand when he slides his index finger back and forth between my legs. "Feel good?" he murmurs, and I nod furiously into his neck, an "mm-hm" straining through my closed lips. One hand pulls aside my underwear, a finger on the other slides inside me and the sound that comes out of me is almost like I'm crying. I'm swollen and wet and hot and I kiss him until my mouth feels bruised; I suck on his tongue until he grunts and bites at my lips. "Can I have more?" I fumble into his mouth, and he slides another finger inside. My body arches up and back like it's spring-loaded. How could I have gone so long without kissing him? How could I have waited all these months to get his beautiful perfect hands on me, in me? Edward's fingers fuck me slow, deliberate. I want to let him do whatever he wants to do to me, but I can't stop my body from moving, can't stop myself from leaning back and working my hips up and down. His free arm wraps around me. "I got you," he says softly, his eyes moving from where his fingers disappear into me and up my body to my face. "I got you," he repeats, and I let myself fall back onto his arm, let him bear my weight. When I bring my hips down he pushes up into me, and when I circle around his fingers he counters that movement with a twist of the palm of his hand. "You feel so good," I whimper, leaning forward to kiss his mouth. "So do you," he tells me when I pull away. I look down between our bodies, see how unabashed and unashamed I am, see how I've gotten his fingers and his hand all slick and wet, see how he holds his wrist and arm steady while I move. I'm going to cum, I can feel it, how everything draws back and gets fuzzy then snaps back close with startling clarity. Edward can feel it too, because he starts to push

back with his hand and leans in to lick and suck on my neck, his other hand sliding up between our bodies to fondle my breasts. Then I'm whining and cursing God while Edward murmurs in my ear. "So sexy" and "I fucking love watching you cum." And then I'm writhing and sweaty and crushing him in my embrace while he rocks against me and says "so beautiful; you're so, so beautiful," over and over and over again until I cum. Cum so hard it almost hurts, cum so hard I can see red on the backs of my eyelids, cum so hard I forget to breathe and feel so much good in so much of my body that I'm almost numb from the pleasure of it and the sounds that come out of me are like I'm in pain, like I'm dying, dying because it's so, so sweet and so, so good. I can't stop shaking; I can't stop spasming every time Edward moves his hand and his fingers. My breath comes out of me in a low, shaking "Oh, God," with each uncontrollable jerk. I bury my face in his neck as he pulls back his fingers. I rock back and forth on them, still wanting the shake and the warmth they give. We stop moving and I rest there, breathing in the sweet smell of him. "You all right?" he asks, his clean hand smoothing down my hair. "Yes," I whisper, and kiss his neck. "Are you okay?" "I am," he murmurs. I exhale softly. "Was that my graduation present?" For a second, he doesn't reply, and I can tell he's figuring out whether or not I'm kidding. Then, we both collapse into laughter. "It can be if you want it to," he says into my hair, his body gently shaking with laughter. "Is that what you'd like?" I sigh. "Maybe. Or maybe I'd like to go to my room, take off our clothes, and fuck ‘til neither one of us can walk straight." Edward's laughter subsides; I can feel him take a deep breath. "Filthy mouth," he murmurs, his hand lightly slapping my ass. There's a long moment of tension, a moment in which I do want to lead him to my bed and have him over and over and over. Then we both start laughing again. Sitting up, I slide my hands into his hair and push his head back until it rests against the couch. "That was unexpected," I say. Edward smirks and raises his eyebrows, shrugs it off. "That a bad thing?"

I smudge my thumb across his lower lip, and the smirk fades. "Not at all," I tell him. "You're just not usually so spontaneous." He frowns. "I mean, you plan things. And you're...careful. Especially when it comes to things like this." "Things like this?" "Women. Sex. The dates you've been on this year," I explain. "You were very methodical about it. You prepared, planned." I shrug. "What makes you think I didn't plan for this?" he asks. The smirk is back. Narrowing my eyes, I scrub the back of my hand across the rough stubble of his cheek. "You planned this?" "Not exactly," he says. "But I'd certainly thought about it a lot." And now the sweet, heavy look is back in his eyes. "You thought about this?" My voice sounds funny when I speak. Edward nods. "Frequently. You...haven't?" I laugh a little. "No, I've thought about it. A lot." He smiles. "Good. Course when I think about it, you have fewer clothes on." My laugh gets caught in my throat and I swallow roughly. Edward pulls my head down to his and we kiss again. When he's through with my mouth he kisses my nose and eyes and chin. "But for tonight, this is good," he breathes into my ear. I slide my hand down between us and let it rest on his erection. "You sure?" "Fuck," he breathes. Head lolling back onto the couch, Edward sighs. "Yeah." I take my hand away. "Impulse control?" I ask. He nods. "Delayed gratification." "You have more willpower than I do," I tell him. His eyes lock with mine. "I have to."

"I know," I reply, my voice quiet. Picking up his hand, I bring it to my lips and kiss the back of it then the palm. Edward watches me with lazy, happy eyes. "Maybe it goes without saying, Bella," he says softly, "but I want you." "You want to have sex with me," I say. He nods. "Very much I do." This makes me laugh, the simple honest way he admits it. "You want to date me." Another nod. "Very, very much." He watches my face carefully. "Is that...is that what you want, too?" My heart skips around. "Yeah. I do." "But...?" I smile. He knows me too well. "But it's not that simple, is it?" He squeezes my hand and shakes his head. "No, it's not." "If...if we don't date, if things aren't going to happen like that for us, is it bad that this happened?" I ask. "Is it okay that this just...happened?" Edward smiles gently. "I can be spontaneous sometimes." "I know." "And you're not just some woman I met in a bar or something. I care for you; I respect you." "I know," I repeat. The corners of his mouth curve down. "For me, that was always half the problem." My brows come together. "What was? With me?" He shakes his head. "Not so much, with you. But I didn't really...respect women." Frowning, I tug at his earlobe. "You didn't respect women," I repeat back. He nods. "It's like I thought of them as either a way to get off, or as adversaries or something." I tip my head to the side. "Is that how you thought of me the first time?"

"No," he says. "But I thought of you as, I don't know, as an exception. An exception to every other woman who was either good for sex or good for nothing, you know? Like you were going to save me, or something. I don't know if that's any better, though." When he looks at me his eyes are sad and I stroke his hair until they close. "It's the Madonna-whore complex," I say. He snorts a soft laugh. "The what?" "Madonna-whore complex," I repeat. "You either have to be one or the other, can't mix sex and love, blah blah blah." Opening his eyes, Edward smiles. "Thank you, Professor Swan, for going all Freud on my ass." "I didn't spend a decade in school for nothing," I joke. I muss the hair on the top of his head. "I'm kind of joking about that. Because that's not exactly what you mean, right?" My tone is light, but it's a real question. This troubles me, and I want to understand. "No, not really," he answers, his face more serious now. "I've talked with my therapists about my mom a lot." "Yeah?" "Yeah. Not that every problem I've ever had being in a relationship is because of her, but the women I dated - they got a lot of the anger I had for her." "That makes sense," I say, nodding. "I get that." Edward brushes a finger along my jaw. "I respected you, Bella. I just didn't know what to do with you, you know?" "I know. Was I...did you think of me as a way to...make things right? Or, redeem yourself? Like all that stuff you said about not being good enough, and the kinds of guys I should be dating." He nods, not blinking. "Yeah. I did. I'm sorry." "I know. And I...I looked at you as someone I could redeem. That's shitty, but it's true. Like I could fix you, you know?" His smile is kind. "I know." "You don't need fixing," I tell him.

"And you don't have to fix me." We watch each other for a few moments before I blush and look down. "Pretty serious conversation," Edward says lightly. I nod and trace the veins on the back of his hand with my index finger. "Especially for a girl in rainbow striped underpants," he remarks. Surprised, I look up and he looks down at my lap then up again. "Pervert," I say, staring him in the eye. "Yeah," he replies. "But I could be your pervert." And it's so silly, what's he just said, but the look on his face is so hopeful and his tone is so sweet I want to kiss him again. So I do. When we break apart, I sigh and extract myself from his lap. "I think this conversation might be better if we're not touching," I say. Edward raises an eyebrow. "I get stupid when you touch me, you know that." "You know I like stupid girls," he teases. I make a face at him. "I mean, I don't want to be thinking primarily with my vagina right now." He laughs like this is the funniest thing he's heard in a long time. "Okay," he says when he calms down. "I'm gonna...wash my hands." While he's in the bathroom, I press my fingers to my lips then to the spot on my neck where it feels like his mouth has left a bruise. My stomach flips over and I can't help but laugh softly. But my laughter fades. It feels so good when he touches me - feels good in a kind of way that it doesn't feel when other men touch me. It's different and overwhelming and incredible and terrible, because when he touches me it's all I want. I can't say no; I wouldn't stop him for the world. It makes everything else fade into the background, makes everything else insignificant. "You're thinking," he says when he sits back down. "You've got that face on." Pulling my legs onto the couch, I rest my head on the backrest. "Do I?"

Edward rests his head on a hand. "You do." I look at his face for a few seconds; my insides squeeze up. "I don't know if I'd be a good partner for you," I blurt out. He blinks. His expression is surprised then confused. "What do you mean?" "I mean I don't know if I can be good for you, like this." "Like what? In a relationship?" I nod. The corners of his mouth turn down. "What makes you say that?" "So when I said touching you makes me stupid, I meant...that meant more than just that it feels good," I say. "What else did you mean?" I look down at my knees then back up to his face. "It's really hard to say no to you." Sighing, I turn my face into the couch for a second. When I look back at him he looks even more confused. "You need someone who isn't afraid to call you out on your shit." His face relaxes. "Bella, you do that all the time." "I know, but if we were together - in a relationship - wouldn't that...aren't you afraid that might change?" "Are you?" "Yeah, I am," I say truthfully. "I mean, I'm older now, and I know more and I know you more, but I just remember before when I would do anything - anything - to be with you. And that scares me; it scares the shit out of me. What if I can confront you, but I can't follow through?" "Meaning, what if you recognize that I'm going to use and you don't say anything?" he asks slowly. "Maybe. Or what if you are using and I don't leave?" Edward lowers his head. "Bella..." "Not that I think you're going to, because I see you doing so well, but - "

"But the truth is that there's a good chance that I relapse," he finishes. "I know." "I'm sorry," I say, and my gut aches. His eyes are clear and steady when he looks at me. "Don't apologize. You're being honest. That means a lot to me, you know?" He smiles. "And I know I can't tell what's going to happen, but everything I know about you now makes me believe that this time won't be like last time. Is that what you're worried about?" "Kind of." My fingers rub a rough patch of skin on my knee. "You know, when Alice and I finally talked about Jasper relapsing - she acted so calm and strong, but then one day she just totally lost it. And part of me is afraid that I can't keep caring for you and... enabling you, I guess, separate. But the other part of me is afraid I couldn't do what she does." "Like what?" Edward asks, his voice soft. "Come back to him after it happened. I don't know...if I could do that." After I say this I look him in the eye, and we watch each other for a long moment, until he blinks and looks away. "I know that I'm not the easiest person to care about." Leaning forward on the couch, I take one of his hands in mine. He looks up. "That's not true. It's the exact opposite. It's so easy. Do you get that? You're one of the best things in my life. And I am so, so afraid of fucking that up. Of not being able to take responsibility for my part. Can you understand that?" He manages to crack a small smile. "I do." We're quiet for a minute. "Do you ever think that maybe it would be easier to be with someone who's in recovery too?" He nods. "Yeah. I think about that sometimes." His forehead creases as he studies our hands. "But then...you know I tried to date women I met at meetings, and maybe they get some things about me, but Bella..." He hesitates and fights off a smile. "With you, it's like...it's like a pinball machine." "A pinball machine?" I ask. He grins, looking shy. "Yeah. You set off all the bells and whistles. You light me up." "Edward," I say, not trusting my voice enough to say more. Leaning forward, I kiss his jaw and the corner of his mouth. He closes his eyes when I put my hand in his hair. "I don't want you to think it's just about your recovery for me. That that's the only thing that matters to me - because it isn't."

"I know," he says quietly, his eyes still shut. "It's just that the talking and the laughing, and the..." One side of my mouth twitches with a smile. "The sex..." Edward opens his eyes and he's smiling too. "The sex was never a problem," I say. His thumb strokes softly over my knuckles. "No. It wasn't." God, how I want to fuck him. Shaking my head, I try to focus. "None of that was the problem - the physical, or the mental. But I didn't know how to do the other stuff, and I'm afraid I won't know how." "You're a good friend to me now, Bella. You already help me." He smiles again. "Am I being naïve if I think we can figure it out together, as we go?" "You trust me that much," I say. He nods. "Of course. Do you trust me?" "I do," I say immediately. "I absolutely fucking do." Edward laughs. "I'm glad we cleared that up." Then, abruptly, he pulls me forward into a hug. "Maybe we could think about it, while I'm gone?" I nod into his shoulder. "That would be good." "And maybe we could talk, on the phone?" he asks. "I'd like that." He holds me close and I wrap my arms around him as tight as I can until he pulls away. "You want your present now?" I nod, and he retrieves the bag from beside the door. "I couldn't really wrap it, so sorry for the shitty paper bag."

Shaking my head, I take it from his hands. "You didn't even have to get me anything; I don't care what it looks like." Inside the bag is a small, potted cactus with flat leaves. "It's an epiphyllum hybrid," he tells me. "I took a cutting from a bigger plant at work and got it going for you. I know it doesn't look like much now, but in a few years, it'll bloom." "Like a flower?" He nods. "Yep." "What will it look like?" I ask. Edward shakes his head. "I don't know. You can't really tell until it happens. Could be red or yellow or anything, really." I smile. "It's a mystery." I like that, the not knowing, the potential for surprise. "It was raining so much this spring, and you were always commenting on how it was so wet here and Phoenix was so dry," he tells me. "I thought you might be missing it - Phoenix." When he says this, I go all warm inside. "I have been. Thank you," I tell him. "It's perfect." When he leaves, he lingers in my doorway, and I let myself rest my hand on his hip when he extends our goodnight conversation. He kisses my forehead before he goes, and when I'm alone, I lie on the couch and listen to my records and remember the feel of his hands on my skin.

Chapter Twenty-Seven “So I’m standing on the sidewalk like a total stalker, staring at the house, walking down a little bit and looking around to see if I can see into the backyard, when my old neighbor comes out of the house next door and asks me if I’m there to read the meter.” Bella laughs. “That’s hilarious. Better that than she thinks you’re casing the place, right?” “Exactly. I walk over to her - Sandy’s her name - and introduce myself, but then she starts laughing.” “She remembered you?” Bella asks.

I nod even though she can’t see me. “Yeah. With remarkable detail,” I say. “Remembered my parents and what they did and where I went to school and where I moved after the accident - all this stuff.” “That’s nice,” Bella says. “Did you talk for a while?” “I told her I was just there to look at the house since I hadn’t been back and she told me the owners probably wouldn’t be home until six or so.” “Is it the same people who bought the house when you were younger?” she asks. “Nope. That family stayed for six or seven years, I think, then this one moved in. At least, that’s what Sandy said. She invited me in and I just stayed there for about an hour and a half until the neighbors got home. She introduced me to them so I could take a look around. I couldn’t believe they let me into their house, but Sandy was really persuasive.” “That’s sweet,” Bella says, and I can hear her smile through the phone. “She was nice. She made me a sandwich.” “Aww...” I don’t tell Bella that Sandy also kept commenting on what a handsome man I’d grown into and asking me if I was married or dating someone. I’d said no, but after I mentioned Bella’s name, Sandy kept referring to her as my girlfriend. “So how was the house?” Bella asks. “Different,” I admit. “Their nine-year-old daughter has my old room. She’s really into Hannah Montana.” “How do you even know who that is?” Bella asks, laughing. I grin. “I didn’t until her mother told me.” “What about the rest?” “The last owners did some remodeling. They knocked out the wall between the kitchen and living room. The basement is finished. It looks like a different house. And the backyard is all landscaped. The patio is a deck now.” I shrug. “That must’ve been weird.” “It made me want a cigarette,” I tell her. “Did you have one?”

“Later.” “Sounds like you needed it,” she says. “Yeah.” We’re both quiet for a minute, and I stare up at the ceiling of my hotel room. It’s pretty low on the hotel scale, but it’s clean and quiet. I break the silence. “I went to a meeting last night, too.” “Oh yeah?” “There was an open one at seven, so I thought...” Bella’s question isn’t cautious, merely respectful. “Any particular reason?” “Seeing Jeremy made me feel anxious.” “It didn’t go well?” I rub at my chest. “No. It was actually really great to see him. I met his wife and his kids. They all seem nice; he seems happy. His kids made me feel bad, though.” “Were they mean to you?” she asks, sounding confused but also a little amused. Smiling, I shake my head. “They were nice. Had lots of energy. They were really interested in showing me their bikes.” On the other end of the phone, Bella titters. “That’s cute.” “Yeah, it was just...after I left there yesterday and checked in here? I just kept replaying this memory over and over and over in my head.” “Which memory is that?” “I remember this one night, maybe when I was twenty-four or something, when this woman and her boyfriend came to my place, looking for coke. She hadn’t come around in a while and I asked where she’d been, and she told me she’d been in county for a few months.” I switch my phone to my other ear before I continue. “She said she’d just gotten her kids back - they’d been staying with her mom who had temporary custody or something - and now she had to do parenting classes and get drug tests if she wanted to keep them.” Bella breathes gently into the phone, waiting for me to continue.

“I sold to her. After she tells me she’s got kids at home, that she has to clean up to keep them, I still sold to her. I didn’t give a shit, just took her money.” “You did what an addict would do,” Bella says quietly. “I’m not trying to excuse what you did, but...” “I used to think I was so much better than everyone,” I say. “Thought that the people I sold to were losers, not worth anything. I didn’t care if I fucked up their lives - I didn’t even think about that. Because they were just a means to an end, you know?” Her response is swift. “I think I do.” “I thought the people I sold to were losers; I thought the people I bought from were trash. And I was just like them. Exactly like them. We were just screwed up people, you know?” I pause, but Bella doesn’t say anything. After a moment I speak again. “I used to think I was the shit. But I was a fucking dealer. And a shitty dealer at that. I could’ve made a mint doing what I did, but the most I ever saved was right before I went to treatment, and what I had was shit compared to what I could’ve made. I was barely above the guy who sold dime bags to fucking high school kids. I couldn’t stop throwing cash around, and I couldn’t keep my nose out of what I sold. Even as a fuckup I was a joke.” “At least we know dealing wasn’t your calling,” Bella says, and I laugh out loud. “I guess not.” The smile on my face fades, and my hand moves back to my chest. “You still there?” she asks. “Yeah.” I pause for a second. “Bella?” “Edward,” she responds, sounding amused but cautious. “Sometimes,” I start, but then stop, and then proceed. “Whenever I felt bad about something, or thought I was going to feel sad or anxious or anything like that, I would get drunk. Or high. I’d feel that before I felt anything...unpleasant.” “Okay...” Now she sounds wary. “You joke a lot,” I tell her, trying to ease into it. “And I like that, but sometimes it’s good for me to feel...tense.” “And when I make jokes,” she says slowly, “I get rid of the tension.” “Yeah.” There’s silence on her end. “It’s just...the past few years I’ve been learning how to be comfortable with...”

“Feeling uncomfortable?” she supplies. I smile. “Exactly.” “Huh. Okay.” Her breathing is audible. “I’ll try not to do that so much.” “But I like your jokes, I like that you’re funny,” I reassure. “I know,” she responds quickly. She sounds a little hurt; she also sounds like she’s trying not to be. “I’ll...cut back. And you’ll have to tell me when I’m, I don’t know, joking around too much.” “Okay,” I say simply, not wanting to prolong the conversation. “Is this one of those times?” “Maybe.” “Keep talking,” she says. “I didn’t mean to cut you off.” “You didn’t. And I talked about it at the meeting.” It’d been surprisingly easy to talk to a room full of strangers. Maybe it was because I was getting better at this stuff. Maybe it was because I’d never have to see their faces again. “It’s just that I feel like a different person now, but I have to deal with the stuff that other person did. Except that sometimes I don’t feel different at all.” The words come out in a rush. Then, “I was a useless human being for a really long time, wasn’t I?” This is not the first time this has occurred to me. But yesterday was the first day in a while when I was acutely reminded of what an asshole I’d been. Bella doesn’t pull punches. “You did shitty things. Shitty for you and for the people around you.” “I think you’re being generous with me,” I tell her. Shitty doesn’t seem to cover it. “Maybe,” she says. “But those decisions don’t define you; they’re not the only thing you’ve done or will do. I mean, in all honesty, I think it’s okay that you feel guilty about that. You should feel guilty. And then you should do something with that guilt.” I’m quiet then, for a few seconds. “Everyone’s done things in their life that they regret. Some of those decisions have more impact than others, but you’re not a bad person. A bad person wouldn’t have remembered that woman, and if they had, they wouldn’t have cared.” She pauses. “You still there?”

“Yeah. Just trying not to feel sorry for myself.” Scrubbing my hand over my face, I switch gears. “If you were here, you could smack my arm and tell me stop being such a sad bastard.” She snorts. “I could. But every now again we all feel like sad bastards.” “I miss you,” I say, the words jumping out of my mouth, impulsive. There’s a beat of silence before she answers. “I miss you too.” “Come over,” I tell her, grinning. “Sure,” she replies, her voice sarcastic. “I’ll just jump on my private jet. Be there in no time.” “Well, let me know when you get here so I can make myself decent.” “You’re naked?” “In my underwear.” Bella tsks her tongue. “Scandalous.” I laugh. “What are you wearing?” “Are you serious?” I laugh again. “Totally serious. You’re rolling your eyes aren’t you? I can tell.” “Yes, I am. Because that’s ridiculous.” “What is?” I ask, amused. “You trying to sex me up over the phone.” “Who says I’m trying to sex you up?” I tease. “Really? You just asked what I’m wearing for fun?” “I’m interested in your fashion choices, Bella,” I say, trying to sound serious. She bursts into laughter. “I bet you are.” “So,” I say, “what are you wearing?” Bella sighs. “Pajamas.”

“What kind?” “Pajama pants and a tank top, if you must know.” “You should get in your underwear, too,” I tell her, and I can feel myself getting excited, my skin warming, my heart speeding up. “Why would I do that?” she asks, but her voice is lower now. “I’ve been thinking about you a lot since Saturday,” I tell her. Her breathing is just audible through the phone. When she speaks, her words are thick. “Thinking about what?” “You,” I say. “You in my lap.” There’s a little half sigh, half laugh from her side of the phone. “That was nice.” I swallow. “I like how you sound. And the way your face looks.” “Just in general?” she teases, her voice heavy. “When you cum,” I say roughly, my cock half-erect. “Jesus,” she whispers. “You can’t talk to me like that.” “Why not?” “Because it makes me want to get on a plane and come to your hotel room for real,” she says. “I’d make it worth your while,” I tell her, rubbing my palm over my erection. Through the phone I hear her exhale softly. “Oh yeah? How’s that?” “I’ll put my mouth on you,” I say. “Where?” Her voice is hushed. I stroke my fingers up and down quickly. “Everywhere.” “God damn it,” she breathes. “Do you have any idea what you’re doing to me?” “That simple, huh?” Bella laughs softly. “Remember last Saturday, when you put your hand on my waist when I

was standing by the fridge?” “Yeah.” “You touched me once and I was ready to go.” I laugh. She sighs. “You get under my skin, you know?” “I know,” I say, because I do. She does the same to me. “So are you naked yet?” I tease. “Edward...” she says, her voice low, and it almost sounds like a warning. “Do you not want that?” “No. I’d like to violate you in about fifteen different ways if you’d let me,” she admits. I grip myself through my underwear. “That sounds like a good time.” Bella laughs. “I’m sure it would be a really, really good time.” Taking my hand away from my cock, I roll onto my side. “But not tonight?” “I want to hit myself,” Bella says. “But no, not tonight. I can’t fuck around with this right now, I feel all...muddled or something.” “That’s okay.” “I’ve been thinking a lot about what you said that night.” My heart jumps a little. “Yeah?” “Yeah.” I take a breath. “And?” “I’m...I’m looking forward to seeing you,” she says softly. I want to assume the best but I prepare for the worst. “I’m glad,” I tell her simply. Her end of the phone is quiet. “I use jokes and you use sex,” she tells me, abrupt. “What?”

“To diffuse tension,” she replies. “I make jokes when things get uncomfortable, and when you feel bad, you sometimes use sex to make it easier.” “We haven’t had sex in years,” I say, pointing out the obvious. Bella snorts. “I know, Edward. When we dated, before, we’d just go at it instead of talking. And now sometimes when you’re anxious you flirt with me. Or like right now...” “Huh.” I think about this for a moment. “I do do that, don’t I?” “Not that I mind,” Bella says quickly. “And it’s fun and feels good. Most of the time. But I don’t want the physical part to be something you do just because you feel bad, you know?” “Moderation,” I suggest. “Yeah,” she agrees. “I’ll be moderately funny and you be moderately sexy.” “Moderately sexy? I don’t know if that’s possible for me,” I tease. Bella snorts again and I grin into the phone. I wish she were sitting next to me for this conversation. I’d like to hold her hand and watch her face change expression when she talks. She sounds so smart and sexy when she talks about things she cares about. When I’d registered for classes, I’d briefly entertained the notion of signing up for one of her classes just to see what she was like when she taught, to see how she moved around the room and spoke to her students. “What if I can’t be a teacher?” I ask, the thought coming to me suddenly. “You mean if you can’t get that stuff off your record?” “Yeah.” “Are there other jobs you’d like to do?” she asks. “None as much as that. But I could make do.” I switch my phone to the other ear. “But what if the best I can do is managing a greenhouse or a music store?” “As long as you’re happy...” There’s a brief silence on the other end of the phone. “There’s a specific reason you’re asking me this, right?” My face gets hot. “Would you be embarrassed by that?” “Would I be embarrassed if you managed a greenhouse?” she repeats back. “Yeah.” My stomach tightens while I wait for her response.

“Edward,” her voice is soft. “Of course not.” “What if I meet the people you work with?” My mouth is dry. “What if?” she asks. “Would you be ashamed of being with someone who had that kind of job when you work with people with doctorates?” “Is that the kind of person you think I am?” she asks. “No, Bella.” I’m almost sorry I asked. When she speaks again, her voice is gentler. “I understand why you would ask. But the answer is no; I would not be ashamed of you.” “Do you think...would the people you worked with have a problem with me?” I hate how insecure I sound. “Honestly, some of them might. Academia is full of pretentious fucking assholes. But their opinions would never matter to me, and I would never ask you to be around those kinds of people.” She pauses. “And you know I would never have a problem telling them exactly how I felt.” Her voice has an edge. She’s wonderful and I want to tell her so, but I don’t. Right now, it’s hard to figure out what those feelings might mean. “Are you working Monday?” she asks. “And Tuesday.” “Oh.” She sounds disappointed. I think. “I’m in Portland this weekend for Angela’s wedding shower.” “Oh.” Now it’s my turn to sound disappointed. “Do you work Wednesday?” “Nope. I have a meeting in the evening but we could see each other before then, if you want.” “If I want?” she asks. I grin. “I would like to see you.” She doesn’t miss a beat. “Then how about Tuesday night? When are you done with work?”

My smile widens. “I could be to your place by ten,” I tell her. We talk for a few more minutes before hanging up. I lie on the bed and stare at the plaster of the ceiling, thinking about taking the train into the city tomorrow and where I might go. The Art Institute, maybe. I bet Bella would like going there, and as much as I’m enjoying the time alone I have here, I think about how it might be if we took a trip together. I remember when we’d gone to look at apartments in Seattle before she left for school. I remember trying to imagine myself in her new life, fitting in with her new friends. I remember why I left her in the first place. And I remember that night in my apartment, and how quiet it had been after she left. I remember my shoulders feeling lighter but the pit in my chest getting deeper. I remember how I couldn’t stop thinking about her and I remember the day I got her letter in the mail. I remember reading it and feeling sick and sad, and then I remember feeling numb. I remember that I never wrote her back. Getting off the bed, I walk over to the desk and open the drawer. Inside is a pen and a smallish pad of paper with the hotel logo on top. I sit down at the desk and push the ballpoint tip into the white paper. My letter is not as eloquent as hers. I don’t have Bella’s way with words; my capacity for rhythm extends only to music. I aim for honesty. I’m so thankful that you are my friend. And sincerity. You’re a good, kind person. The kind of person I try to be. And hope. I want to know you for my whole life. And desire. You are so beautiful. Touching you makes me feel good, makes me feel like a man. And I love you. I put these pieces together with other pieces. I cover the front and half the back with my scrawl. My fear is that I’m saying too much, moving too quickly. My fear is that this is me doing the same things I’ve always done, and that I will get the same results. But I’m not the same and neither is Bella. * I know I should remember the plot where my parents are buried. I know I’m supposed to have every detail of the place memorized even though I’d only been there once. This is what a good son greatly affected by tragedy would do. But I have no idea where they are, and have to rely on the directions my aunt and uncle gave me. There’s just one big stone in the ground with both their names and respective birth and death dates on it. This is a nice cemetery, neatly maintained. The grass is newly mown and the gravestone is clean. I don’t recall this exact spot, but I remember standing next to the hole in the ground. I’d placed flowers on both caskets. People had watched me with great concern, like I was going to lose it at any moment. I’d been stoned out of my mind.

When I sit down, the thought that I’m resting on top of my parents crosses my mind, but it doesn’t bother me. This place is for me and the people who knew them, it’s not for my mom and dad. I’d like to think they’re around somewhere. I don’t know if that means their souls, or if it just means their energy in the soil the way Bella imagines. I don’t know if it matters. I put the flowers I’ve brought into the metal vase that’s part of the headstone. Doing this small thing makes me feel good. My finger reaches out and traces over the letters and numbers on the marble. I don’t talk. If human souls exist and have the ability to leave the physical body after death and hang around in some spirit world limbo, I imagine they don’t need me to say words out loud at the place where those bodies are buried. If my parents have become energy dispersed, my words won’t do much for them. And I’ve talked enough in therapy, to Bella, to my aunt and uncle. I just want to be here. The tip of my index finger traces along the “z” of my mother’s name. She’d loved Neil Diamond. When she was drinking less she took better care of herself, of me, of the house. She’d put on Just For You and mop the floors, singing at the top of her lungs. I was probably only four, maybe five, but I’d trail around after her and she’d let me “help” her while she cleaned. My favorite song was “The Boat That I Row.” I’d clap along with the record and my mom would sit us on our dining room table, and we’d pretend the broom or the mop was a paddle and the table was a boat. “The boat that I row won’t cross no ocean,” I half sing, half mumble. Something constricts in my throat and I try to swallow it down. When she was sad or drunk, or drunk and sad, she listened to Cat Stevens. There were times, when I was still little, that she let me sit in her lap while she cried. And she’d sing into my ear. Her voice was beautiful but her breath was warm and sticky on my face; I didn’t know then what it smelled of, but I knew I didn’t like it. When I got older, the singing stopped. Instead she would lock herself in my parents’ room and refuse to open the door. My father would stand outside in the hallway, trying to get her to let him in. When she wouldn’t, he’d settle into his chair and drink until she came out, furious. Didn’t he care that she was sad? Didn’t it matter to him if she hurt herself? Wasn’t he ashamed to care more about his booze than his wife? What kind of example was that setting for their son? Most times they would fight. My mother would scream and yell and throw things across the room. My father would answer in a low voice, tell her she was a disgrace, that she was pathetic. Sometimes he’d just leave. My mother would tell me he had to do work at the office, but I figured out that he was going to a bar, getting drunk, and sleeping on his office floor so he didn’t have to be near her or near me. But every once in a while when he left he’d take me with him. We’d eat hamburgers and he’d tell me stories about his grandparent’s farm in Wisconsin. Sometimes we’d see a movie and get soda and candy. I remember when he took me to see my first Rocky movie.

My eyes feel hot and achy just before the tears come. I don’t weep; I don’t sob. I don’t pound my fist into the ground or ask questions of the sky. My cheeks are wet and my nose runs, and I think about my parents and I let myself cry. * Bella walks into the store at quarter to six. Sometimes we go to lunch or dinner together during my break, but she hadn’t told me she was going to stop by today. I’m ringing up sheet music for a customer, but catch her eye and mouth hello. She smiles tightly and waves. My stomach twists with anxiety. When the customer leaves she walks up to the register. “Hi,” I say. “Hi,” she replies. Cocking my head to the side, I smile. “You’re early.” Bella mirrors my smile. “I know. I just wanted to stop by...say hello.” “Hello,” I tease. She ducks her head, her cheeks reddening. “Let me see if I can take fifteen,” I say. I let Jamie know I’m stepping out then follow Bella onto the sidewalk. “Want coffee?” she asks, and I nod. We head toward the coffee shop up a few blocks, but before we’ve paced three steps, Bella’s taken my hand in hers. I inhale sharply through my nose and straighten up. When I look at her face, I can see that it’s still a little flushed. I can’t stop from smiling; I can’t stop from squeezing her hand. She squeezes back. When we reach the corner, I gently pull her down the cross street to a small park. It’s not a park, really - just a small lot that no one’s developed tucked between buildings. There are two benches and some trees, a few flowerbeds along the edges of the grass. We sit down together. I look at our joined hands and then at her face. Bella smiles at me, and I smile back.

Leaning in, I touch the smooth skin of her cheek with my fingers before I kiss her mouth. Her lips are soft and warm. “You know if this doesn’t work out it’s going to be terrible, right?” she asks when we pull apart. “I mean, if we do this and something goes wrong I don’t know if we’ll be able to stay friends.” My heart thumps aggressively. “I know.” Shifting around on the bench, she raises herself onto one knee, kissing my forehead and smoothing my hair before sitting back down. She’s sweet and gentle with me. I tuck her hair behind her ear and want her to know I can be that way for her. We can be gentle with each other. “Do you want kids?” I ask, blurting out the first thing that pops into my head. “What?” She’s confused. “I don’t know. Not really. Maybe. I hadn’t really thought much about it.” “Because I don’t know if I could handle that. Being a parent.” To bring another person into the world that relies on me and, unlike Bella, can’t take care of themselves? I’m unable. I know this. Bella nods. “Okay.” “The thought of giving someone whatever it is that I have, that my parents had...” I trail off and look down at our joined hands. “Okay,” she repeats, her voice softer this time. “I have to stop drinking, right?” Her expression is cautious, curious. “Not that I do that that often anymore, but if we’re together, I won’t.” I run my free hand through my hair. “I’m sorry.” “Don’t apologize,” she says quickly. “You don’t ever have to apologize for that. It’s just beer; it’s insignificant.” Now it’s my turn to say okay. “Your letter was...” She licks her lips. “It was perfect.” Her nose wrinkles up. “That sounds wrong. I mean, that’s not what I want to say.” The corners of her mouth turn down while she searches for the right words. Her face relaxes. “It was beautiful.” She’s smiling at me, and she looks so sweet and pleased that I am utterly triumphant. “I always wanted to write you back,” I tell her. “I’m sorry it took so long. When did you get it?”

“This afternoon.” Her smile gets bigger. “It made me feel so happy. Like being here, with you.” She laughs, nervous. “Is that ridiculous?” I shake my head. “You’re my best friend,” she says suddenly. “I love you already. Not in the way that I will...or could...” My heart pounds wildly. I have the sudden urge to grab her and squeeze her as tight as I can, to make sure she’s here and tangible and real. Instead, Bella places her hand on the back of my neck and brings my face to hers. She kisses me softly on the mouth before I kiss her cheek. And then both of us are smiling like idiots and my face is warm and it’s like I’m a school boy holding hands with his first girlfriend. We sit in warm silence for a while. Tilting my head back, I look up at the sky. “Beautiful day,” I say. Because it is; it’s fucking beautiful. Bella laughs. “It’s gray and muggy and gross.” I look over at her. “No,” I contradict. “I think it’s a beautiful day.” Bella rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling. “Okay,” she concedes. “It’s a lovely day.” Sighing softly, she rests her head on my shoulder; I press my lips into her hair. We sit together like this - quiet and still - for a little while. The warm, thick air makes me dozy. “How many minutes ‘til you have to go back?” Bella asks. I look at my watch. “Five, maybe?” She “hmms” in response. Then, “We’re still on for tonight?” “Of course,” I say, feeling warm and excited when I think about the two of us naked in her bed, when I think of the things we’ll get to do to each other and the sounds she’ll make. Cars pass by on the street and people pace down the sidewalk. A few drops of water splatter onto us, but I can’t tell if it’s the stuttering beginning of a rain shower or just the light wind disturbing the leaves of the tree above. The weight of her head is steady; the feel of her hand in mine is warm, reassuring. I feel good - simple and easy. Bella rubs her cheek against the fabric of my shirt, and we only have a few more minutes, but they’re good minutes. I’m here and she’s here.

I smile.

~ THE END ~