Author's note: "And now for something completely different..." Which is, I know, the worst thing a fan of a WIP fic could hear from its author. Especially when it's in the opening author's note of a brand-new fic that is definitely not a one-shot. Before you start lobbing tomatoes, hear me out. This is, most assuredly, going to be a much shorter fic than A Legendary Bourn and will, believe it or not, help in the creation of Book Two. Here's why: I have been paralyzed with fear that I am horribly incapable of writing a love story. Unfortunately, that's all Book Two is. So, I started this little gem of a piece, with the logical assumption that if I can write a fluffy All-Human, canon-pairing love story, I will be better prepared to write the epic romance that is Jacob and Renesmee. Perhaps I can somewhat redeem myself by letting you in on some good news: Book Two will be written from Renesmee's point-of-view!

Stephenie Meyer: It's still all of your characters under there, I've just taken away their cool abilities and dropped them off somewhere sunny and warm. If you don't recognize them, it's because you wrote them right the first time.


Bella:
Matchmakers

I sat on a stool behind the counter in my nearly-empty diner, toying with the braided leather bracelet on my wrist while I thought of the boy who had weaved it for me. Jacob Black was probably asleep right now, wrapped around his leggy, busty, perfect girlfriend. I shook my head, frustrated. I didn't even have an excuse for being as completely jealous of her or as irrationally upset with him as I am. I broke his heart first and I'd just have to learn to deal with the consequences.

My move to my police chief father's too-rainy town of Forks in the middle of my junior year of high school left me minus the only friend I had even had, my mom, Renée. Being free from the responsibility of mothering my mother, suddenly gave me the time and resolve to act like a teenager. So I did. I landed a group of friends at school and found a best friend in Angela, who would later become my roommate for four years at UDub. I politely turned a few boys down until I was asked out by one who I didn't want to say no to. And so I got my first kiss and my first boyfriend.

Our romance had been nice and sweet, like Jake himself. We were friends first, brought together by our best-friend fathers, and then suddenly we were something more. So easily we didn't even realize we had, we fell in love. His friends became mine and mine became his until we had somehow managed to merge the kids from the La Push reservation in with the kids from Forks. Rainless Friday nights we spent at bonfires with our big group at First Beach on the rez, wrapped up in each other's arms until the embers in the fire died and everyone grudgingly went home.

We never had much money between us so our dates usually consisted of a home-cooked meal at his house made by yours truly followed by heavy petting in his garage out back. Sometimes we pulled my truck in so he could "tune it" or "change its oil" and we would lay across the cabin's bench, Jake's long legs sticking out the open driver's-side door. Our virginities were lost on a blanket in the truck bed as an early-spring's rain pelted the garage's shelter, masking our incessant moans and the truck's squeaky shocks. It had been perfect. He had been perfect. I let go of the bracelet, sighing quietly. Get over it, Bella. We all knows he has.

A timer went off in the kitchen and I pushed off the countertop as I stood, walking to the back to take the pies out of the oven. It was going on five in the morning and the breakfast crowd would be coming in soon, taking my mind off of Jake for a few hours. Hopefully.

When I graduated with my degree in English four years ago, I never thought I'd own a diner. I never thought I'd be a New York Times bestselling author, either, though. After my book ostracized me from the only place I had ever really considered home, I thought a change of scenery would do me good. Not that I had much of a choice. If pitchforks and torches were still in vogue, that's how I would have been run out of Forks.

As my step-dad's minor league baseball career had winded down, he had gotten a job as a coach at the University of New Mexico. As soon as Renée heard about me moving away from Forks, she had wanted me to move to Albuquerque to be close to her. I admit, I had considered it. Up until my move to Forks in high school, we hadn't spent a day apart, and I missed my mom, I missed my best friend.

In my stubbornness, I had decided that I wanted to assert my independence for once in my life. I wanted to live on my own, without a safety net. Of course, I had a safety net in the form of a growing bank account, but still. If I couldn't have my old life the way I wanted it, I was going to make a completely new one. Renée understood, at least she put on a brave face and said she did.

I only knew one thing about where I was moving: after eight years in the dreary northwest, I wanted warmth again. If the Olympic Peninsula was known for its overcast skies, I wanted to find the place known for its sunny ones. A quick Google search of "most sunny days in the US" had given me my answer. I'd crossed the desert cities off of the list first. Having lived next to a rain forest for years, I hadn't been willing to live in extremes anymore. With close to 200 days of sunshine, Los Angeles was the biggest, sunniest city I could find.

With my half of my first royalties check, I boarded a plane to LAX. I immediately decided that I didn't want to live near the beach. Even if these shores weren't covered in rocks, the waves and cliffs and sunsets invoked too many memories. I rented a car and drove inland, past the too-congested heart of the city that wasn't my speed at all, until I hit the suburbs. Driving up and down streets lined with perfectly manicured lawns, I fell in love with the architecture of Pasadena homes. A week later, I was in escrow.

It took three months of staring at the blinking cursor on a blank Word document to make me realize that my next book wasn't going to just fall on my lap, which came as no great surprise as I had always suspected that my first book was a fluke. Every day people in the outside world were finding it for the first time, reviewers were praising it, and it was creeping onto bestseller's lists. More than anything, though, I just wanted it to disappear. Still, writing was what I wanted to do with my life and I figured I should at least try again. Get back on the horse and all that.

That led me to try and pinpoint the exact factors that had brought about my first novel. I was in my last two years of college when I wrote it, using writing as a nice distraction between reading for classes and writing essays. Though I doubted very much that my paper on Brönte's Heathcliff as a Byronic hero helped to create even a sentence of my first novel, I couldn't deny that I did my best work while on campus. There was something about the movement of crowds of people rushing to learn that was inspiring. Something nice about the snippets of conversations and arguments on Nietzche and theoretical physics and evolutionary psychology that I'd catch while I walked around campus, gathering my thoughts.

The next day, I had packed my laptop and headed out to find a new university. CalTech was closest to my house but, to be honest, I was a little intimidated by it. With my luck I'd have one of my Clumsy Bella moments and fall into the next Einstein, causing him to fall down a flight of stairs and suffer severe brain damage. An over-exaggeration, I know, but I wasn't going to chance it. USC wasn't too far away and I drove there first, but the neighborhood freaked me out and I got back on the freeway as soon as I could. Of course, I got on the wrong freeway to head back home, something I'd been doing a lot of since I had decided that I'd been in LA long enough to not have to rely on my dealer-installed GPS map, and didn't realize it until a sign informed me half an hour later that the freeway was ending and I was two exits away from the beach. As lucky coincidence would have it, I was also two exits away from UCLA, which is where I ended up.

I didn't write anything that day, either, but I felt inspired to write and figured that that had to count for something. It wasn't until I was making dinner that night that I realized that cooking everyday was part of the writing equation, too. I had completely forgotten that the mindlessness of preparing the simple dishes I made for Angela and I had allowed my mind to wander onto thoughts of plots and characters and settings.

I spent a month driving each day in the late morning the twenty miles to UCLA where I would walk aimlessly around as I mulled ideas over in my head. It couldn't compare to the beauty of the springtime cherry blossoms in the Quad or the stained glass windows in the Suzzallo library or even the Mary Gates Hall common room at UDub, but I had to admit that the campus had its own charm. Then, I'd brave the rush hour traffic back home, make dinner, and think some more.

At first, I had completely rejected the ever-evolving idea for my second book. It seemed to me to be even more self-indulgent than my first novel and I was afraid it would only cause myself more strife and heartbreak. I hadn't known at the time how valid those fears really were.

Six months later, after having finished half of the book, I hit a wall. My daily jaunts to UCLA weren't doing it for me anymore. It wasn't a coincidence that I had received a phone call from Angela around that time, during which she casually mentioned that Jacob had finally used his half of my book's royalties and was opening up his own garage. I didn't sleep soundly for a week. Jake had sworn up and down that he'd never touch that money. What had changed? Had he moved on so quickly? Was there really no hope left for us? My book wouldn't come and I had simply stopped trying.

As I had prepared for my first Christmas away from Forks in seven years, my depression turned into anger. I could use the money to move on, too! Sure, I had used some to relocate to LA and to buy a car and a house once I got down here, but I hadn't moved on, I had run away. Jake was opening his own shop, a dream he had had for as long as I had known him. He had been getting better while I had been stuck wallowing. My new manuscript, if it was even possible, had begun looking more and more pathetic.

Renée and Phil spent the holidays with me, it was the first Christmas I had had with my mother in years and I found myself enjoying the holiday spirit with her around. I had a feeling she was behind the call I got from my dad, Charlie, on Christmas Eve. We hadn't spoken since I left town nearly a year before but our conversation still didn't last very long. He couldn't talk about Forks or Jake or Jake's dad, Billy, and I couldn't talk about my writing or LA or how badly I had screwed up my life. That had left fishing stories.

My mom couldn't understand why things were so strained between us or why I couldn't bear to go back to Forks. She was too wrapped up in being proud of my accomplishments to see the broader implications they had had on my life. Still, when Jacob's 23rd birthday came a few weeks later and I had wanted to get out of the house to take my mind off of all the plans we had once made, she let me go without nagging to tag along.

I had driven the familiar route to the West-side without even realizing it. It was odd that it had become my haven of sorts. The quarter hadn't begun yet and campus was empty. For once, I had walked off-campus, just to see what lined the few blocks on the south side of the school in Westwood. I'd been surprised to see so many mom-and-pop stores because the UVillage in Seattle was more like a mall.

As I waited on a corner for a light to change, I had caught a glimpse of myself in an empty storefront's window. In the eleven months in LA, nothing about me had changed. I still looked like the shell of the girl I had been up until a year and a half ago. My ponytail hung limply down my back and I had realized with a start that I hadn't once gotten a trim since I'd moved. My old UDub sweatshirt that I had been conveniently forgetting once belonged to Jacob was too many sizes too big and, paired with a pair of old, holey jeans, made me look worn-down by life and all of sixteen years old at the same time. Across the street, reflected beside me in the window, was a bookstore. A poster-sized sticker attached to the window was displaying the all-too-familiar cover of my book.

I had focused my eyesight beyond the window, so as not to see the perfect illustration of the ironic truth of my shitty life: My book was in its prime and I was at rock bottom. It was then that I had realized that the empty store I was standing in front of was some sort of restaurant. I chose to see it as a sign. The next day, I had called the number under "for lease."

Renée had been thrilled. She hadn't cared that I had absolutely no business opening up my own diner, she had just been excited to see me excited about something for a change. Phil, who was used to my mother's own hare-brained antics but had always, as I had, considered myself to have more of a head on my shoulder, had raised his eyebrows but said nothing.

I don't know how long I had been idly reminiscing when Emmett came into the kitchen, grinning. "A cowboy for your cowboy, Bellsie," he said as he slammed a massive hand down on the top of my sub-zero freezer. Emmett had developed a fondness for diner lingo since he started working here. It had annoyed me at first but, like all things Emmett, I had grown to find it amusing.

The noise woke me up a little and when my brain caught up to what he had said, I grinned back at him. "Jasper's here?"

"He sure is." He raised his eyebrows up and down a few times.

Good. I needed a distraction. "Tell him it'll be right out and make him some fresh coffee."

"Sure thing, boss lady." I rolled my eyes as I opened the fridge to get the eggs to make Jasper his omelet.

Emmett McCarty had been the first person I hired and so also the first friend I made in LA. Weeks before I opened, I had been lugging in boxes from my double-parked SUV when I tripped on the side of the curb and silverware went flying. Thankfully, I had already unloaded the fragile plates. Emmett had been walking down the street and had helped me pick everything up. Then he had helped me unload the rest and rearrange furniture and hang things on the wall. I bought him lunch to thank him and when he had asked me if I was hiring I laughed and told him that I think I already owed him back pay.

Emmett was two years older than me and the lowest coach in the totem pole of UCLA assistant football coaches. He had played for the Bruins a decade ago but he hurt his knee before he could go any further. He regretted not taking his studies seriously when he had the chance and had jumped at the offer to work for the team, especially since it meant that he could get discounted tuition. He only takes a class a quarter and none during football season, so he's not very close to finishing his degree. Still it's commendable that he's trying to further his education.

Emmett passes his nighttime shifts in the same way I do, half the time we spend joking around with each other, we work when someone comes in, and the rest of the time we're bored. He tries to study for class, but most of the time he watches TV or falls asleep. In fact, he sleeps so much during his shifts that he has a hammock strung up in the storage room from two of the exposed beams. I, in turn, try to write, but most of the time I read books or go online and order more. In fact, the shelves under the counter were not filled with condiments, but paperbacks.

I was sliding Jasper's omelet onto a plate when I heard a Toby Keith song starting on the jukebox. I paid way too much money for that thing because it's one of those digital ones that's connected to the internet and can get any song. I figured it would be worth it when I could put whatever I want on at three in the morning when there's no one else here, and it is. But, it isn't worth it when Emmett and Jasper get together and play the worst country music you could imagine before five in the morning.

I walked out of the swinging doors backwards only to have the plate ripped from my hands and practically dropped on the counter before I was airborne. Strong hands gripped my waist and I closed my eyes as I was spun around the room. I sighed to myself and held on, knowing that Emmett was only going to put me down when he wanted to. I just prayed there were no customers around to see it. The song ended and I was dropped unceremoniously onto the stool beside Jasper, who was setting down a bottle of Tabasco sauce bottle that he'd been shaking maniacally over his western omelet.

I gripped his forearm as the world righted itself around me and rested my head against the side of his shoulder. "Morning, Jasper."

"Mornin', doll face." He turned his head to kiss my forehead. Emmett winked at me from the other side of the counter. I rolled my eyes.

I know what it looks like when he calls me by terms of endearment and gives me chaste kisses. I know that everyone else who works here thinks that we're secretly dating. And, really, it's not unreasonable that they do, considering we did go out on a couple of dates behind everyone's backs after my last disaster with Jacob. What they don't know, though, is that Jasper and I will never be an us. Not for lack of trying, either. We both tried so hard it was pathetic. After every date, though, it was blatantly obvious that the past however many hours had only been "Jasper and Bella hanging out" and nothing more. That's not to say we didn't go home with each other a few times, but we stopped that because it's a terrible feeling to be unable to really make love to someone when you actually do love them. Even so, we're only human and, sometimes when we're horny or if we've had a good day or because it's Tuesday...well, we've been known to slip.

I shot a quick glance around the room and noticed that the couple that was here before I'd gone into the back had left. The place was empty. Just the way I like it. At least no one noticed Emmett tossing me around like a rag doll. I got up and started busing their table, talking to Jasper over my shoulder. "You meeting with your advisor this morning?"

He nodded before swallowing. "I wanted to clear a few things up with her before she leaves for a month-long vacation in Hawaii."

"Must be nice," I said as I carried dirty dishes back to the counter. Jasper raised one of his eyebrows at me, which I pointedly ignored. He was the only person who knew that I could walk away from this diner at any time and be on the first plane to Hawaii or Paris or anywhere else if I really wanted to. He didn't know how I got my money, but he knew I had it.

The fact of the matter is, I completely expected to pay my employees and the rent and everything else that went into running this place out of the royalties checks that kept accumulating. I had figured that if I was lucky, I'd break even every month. Nope. This place was a cash cow, mostly because it was the only place around here open 24 hours.

I was glad, though. The income meant I could pay my employees, who had all become good friends to me, extremely well. They didn't know it, but the "bonus" I gave them at the end of the week on top of their paycheck was a percentage of the profits. I only kept a small amount which I saved towards birthday and Christmas bonuses and things around the diner I knew we would all like. Last year, for example, I put in a flat screen with a satellite TV hook-up because I wanted to make sure we could all watch Emmett on the sidelines at the football games. What I didn't know, though, was that it would turn the diner into a virtual sports bar every Saturday during the season. The TV had paid for itself after three games.

I waited for Jasper to finish his eggs and then took all the dishes back and left them soaking in the sink. I smirked to myself. I'd make Emmett put them in the dishwasher later. I mixed the ingredients for a few loaves of bread together, put them in the oven, and set the timer. When I walked back out of the kitchen, Emmett was sprawled across a booth, yawning as he flipped through channels. Jasper had a thick book open in front of him, the clean page of a notebook at his side, and a pen in his hand. I sat on my own stool across from him and watched him work.

In the fall, Jasper would be starting his last year in his history PhD program. Having the summer off gave him ample opportunity to put a big dent in his dissertation and he wasn't wasting it. He had a young-looking face that belied his fast-approaching thirtieth birthday, but it wasn't babyish. I studied his longish golden blond waves as they fell into his matching amber eyes. I had seen Jasper happy, had seen him laugh until he cried, had even seen him filled with lust; but, paradoxically, though he always seemed to feed off of the mood of those around him, his default face was a blank mask. Only his eyes showed his sadness. Worse than sadness, even. His hopelessness. Sometimes I wondered if people thought the same about me.

There were very few open books within our diner family, Jasper Whitlock was not the exception. I know that he grew up in Texas and doesn't ever mention his parents. I know that he was in the Army and doesn't take his dog tags off. Not even during sex. I know that he has scars on his back that he's ashamed of and doesn't like me to kiss. I know he gets nightmares as often as I do and that we both only crash when we're too tired to dream.

He looked up and caught me staring. I smiled. He winked. "How's the writing coming?" he asked.

I tucked some of his hair behind his ear. "Shouldn't I be the one asking you that?" He dropped it after that, like I knew he would. The truth is, I haven't written a thing since my second book. Not one word. There's no way I'm going to tell Jasper that I finished what he had seen me writing all last year, though. He'd want to read it. He didn't ask a lot but in the past month, since school had ended for him and he'd been a lot less preoccupied, I'd had to skirt the issue at least once a week.

I busied myself in the kitchen for an hour and a half, only having to fill two breakfast orders, and then I heard Emmett boom, "Esme!" I looked at the time, six-thirty. She was early, like always. I went out front to meet her.

I tried to look angry when I accused, "You're early." Just like she tried to look innocent when she glanced at the clock and asked, "Am I?" Jasper and Emmett laughed at our little exchange.

Esme Platt was in her mid to late thirties, but she could claim she was a decade younger and no one would bat an eye. She's a few inches taller than me, has deep cheek dimples, flawless skin, and a much prettier caramel brown color to her hair and eyes than my flat dark brown. Still, she manages to come across as motherly, even to Emmett and Jasper, who are only six years younger than she is. It's this mothering nature that leads her to be at least thirty minutes early to work every day so she can try to talk me into leaving early. She hates that I take such a long shift overnight and has gotten it in her head that one day I will be so tired driving home in the morning that I'll crash my car and end up in the hospital. What she doesn't know is that I welcome the exhaustion. It's harder to think and remember and feel when you're tired.

She came over to hug me. "Good morning, dear." She held my upper arms as she stepped back to appraise me. "You look tired. Jasper," she called, snaking an arm around my waist while still holding my gaze. "Doesn't she look tired? You really should drive her home today."

I rolled my eyes at her obvious attempt at matchmaking. "He can't, Esme. He has an appointment with Dr. Waugh this morning."

I had to hold back a smile as her entire face fell into a disappointed pout. She opened her mouth to say something but was cut off by the door opening. A balding, overweight man in a ill-fitting suit walked in. "Good morning," the four of us greeted in unison. He looked taken aback by the empty booths and our warm welcome and I wondered what we looked like. Esme and I were standing behind the counter with our arms around each other's waists, Jasper had looked up from his book, and Emmett had quickly reached for the remote to lower the volume on the TV. I suppose, if you took us out of the diner setting, it would seem like he had just walked into somebody's living room.

Esme cleared her throat as she bent down to put her purse away behind the counter and that seemed to knock the man out of his daze long enough to pick a table. Jasper went back to his work and I followed Esme into the kitchen as Emmett took the man's drink order.

"The works," I guessed once we were behind the privacy of the swinging kitchen door.

"For his heart's sake, I hope not." It was a game that Emmett had created that ended up sticking. We all tried to guess the customer's order before they could place it. The only thing we won were bragging rights and no one but Emmett really took the time to remember how many orders they'd guessed right by the end of their shift.

Jasper came into the kitchen. "Who guessed heart attack on a rack?"

Esme gasped. "No!" That was the problem with Esme working as a cook, every time someone ordered something unhealthy, she wanted to go and try to talk them out of it. On more than one occasion I had seen her sneak low-fat dressing and garden burgers over on people. I'm surprised we didn't get more complaints.

Thankful that I had left half of the baking ingredients out, I was already kneading the biscuit dough when I saw Esme at the fridge, reaching in for the turkey sausages. "Esme!"

"Oh, please. Do you honestly think he'll notice?"

Jasper laughed at the package in her hand as he tore off a bit of my dough, balled it up, and tossed it in his mouth. I slapped the back of his hand.

"Hey!" He shook his hand in the air to rid it of the stinging.

"I already fed you!" He shrugged. "If you're going to be in here, make yourself useful and put the dishes in the washer." He looked over at the sink, quickly spun on his heels, and went back out into the front.

"You should be nicer to him," Esme scolded in a sing-song voice.

I shoved the trays with the biscuits into the oven as I muttered, "I am nice to him." Sometimes it was a pain in the ass keeping our clandestine non-relationship a secret. We knew it would only make things worse for us if we told them we had gone out, though, so we just put up with it, knowing that they all have the best intentions.

The morning rush began then and I didn't notice how much time had passed until it was a little before eight-thirty and Jasper came in to say he was going to his meeting. "Ooh!" I ran out of kitchen while he gave Esme a kiss goodbye. I blushed when I realized that I had banged the hell out of the door as I ran through it and half the people in the dining room had turned their heads towards me. Jasper came out behind me chuckling softly as he rubbed my back reassuringly.

"What was all that about?"

I grabbed a pen and a ordering pad off the counter and opened the lid on my laptop. "I was going to ask you to check a book out for me at the library." I opened up the notepad document that I had saved the book's call number in and jotted it down. "It must be out of print or something because Amazon doesn't have it."

"Am I going to get another late fee because of this?"

I whipped my head around and when I spoke, my voice was loud with indignation. "How was I supposed to know that Emmett would hide the book in the freezer? Do you know that I looked for three days before I—"

He clapped a hand over my mouth and looked at the room over my shoulder. "I was just joking, doll face," he said, softly. I blushed again when I heard Emmett's laughter behind me, realizing I had just caused another small disturbance. I ducked my head, pushed the paper into Jasper's chest, and slunk back into the kitchen. He followed me. "Sorry."

I shook my head. "It's not your fault I'm a spaz."

He opened up his arms, bent his neck down and gave me a look of sheer apology from under his lashes. I walked into them. "If you don't mind waiting around for an hour or so, I'll drive you home."

I stepped away to look at him. "But then you'll be stuck out at my place all day."

He shrugged. "Your place is quieter than mine with my roommates or here with the lunch crowd. As long as you don't mind having to be back here in time for my shift."

I looked over at Esme, who was walking around the kitchen with a smug look on her face. I sighed internally before answering him. "That works for me."

"'Kay. I'll be back in an hour." He kissed my forehead and walked out the doors only to lean his head back in to wink and say, "Emmett wants you two to go check the ice."

Esme rolled her eyes but I giggled. When Emmett had gone online to find all of the diner doublespeak he could, he also found a way to tell us he was checking out a girl. The twist he had invented was to come up with a sly way of rating the girls, too. I waited for the doors to settle before racing over to peek out their small windows. It didn't take long to spot the girl that Emmett had been checking out.

"Oh, Esme," I whispered into the door, even though no one could possibly hear me. "You should see this girl. Or should I say, you should see this girl's girls. She could float to China on those suckers!" Esme laughed, taking the french toast off of the grill and putting them beside the bacon already on the plate. She picked up the other plate of pancakes and sausage links and walked towards the door. I moved out of the way, taking the plates from her hand so she could look out the windows. "She's not very attractive, though, and does it really count as blond if it's closer to orange?" She laughed. "What do you give her?"

"I don't know. We gave that redhead the other day a five. Is she as bad as that?"
I took another look. "At least the redhead was naturally unattractive, this girl paid good money to look that way."

"True." She sighed. "Five it is."

I walked out the doors and put the food at the end of the counter next to Emmett who was pouring some orange juice. As he dropped off the juice and the plates, I made a round of filling emptying coffee mugs. We met back up at the counter.

"Did you check the ice?" He wagged one of his eyebrows.

Oh, he was not going to like our estimate. I smirked and raised my chin. "Esme and I both agree that there are only five servings of ice left."

"Five? Were we looking at the same ice tray?"

"It looks like there's a lot more ice from the top but, trust me, it's all filler. Besides, half the stuff that was in there didn't look very good at all."

"Filler ice is still ice." I rolled my eyes. "I agree that some of it didn't look all that great, but there were at least eight good servings."

"Eight? Are you crazy? I was being generous with five."

"Yeah, well, what did Esme say?"

"She wasn't sure if the five from last week was better than this one. I say it was because at least last week's tray didn't have filler ice!" It was a testament to how often we played this game that we both perfectly understood each other while the man sipping his coffee a few stools down from us looked confused as to why we were so passionately arguing the amount of ice we had left.

"Hey, I wasn't joking. Filler ice is still ice. Ask Jasper, he'll back me up."

"Ugh, I don't care what Jasper has to say about filler ice."

He laughed and patronizingly cupped my entire jaw, harshly shaking my head from side to side with his freakish strength that he seemingly has no control over. "Sure you don't, cupcake." And then he dropped my chin and continued laughing as he walked away.

I stood there for a second in shocked silence, angrily shaking my head. I would think that he went out of his way to figure out what would piss me off the most, except that he's so oblivious to doing it that it can't be intentional. I stormed back into the kitchen vaguely registering that the man at the counter had his mug raised to his lips for half of our conversation without taking a sip.

Less than an hour later, Jasper came back from his meeting in a good mood and with the book I'd asked him to check out. We said goodbye to Esme first and then to Emmett who reminded me that it was Thursday and we had a date tonight. As if I could forget. Then we walked to the parking structure that I pay entirely too much money to to park there every month where I handed Jasper the keys to my VW Touareg.

As we sat in traffic, I asked him about his meeting and how far he'd gotten in his dissertation. I tried to follow what he was telling me. There were some books and journal articles that his advisor was urging him to read, he was having trouble filling the third section of his dissertation, he was worried that he wasn't supporting his argument enough, but when he started in on the role of Texas in the Confederate Army, I involuntarily tuned him out. Instead, as I sat cross-legged in the passenger seat, I picked at the worn-out hem on my jeans. I loved these jeans. I loved all my jeans, really.

My jean collection was the pride of my closet, but not for the reason you'd think. In my senior year, Forks High School had had a garage sale fund-raiser. I had persuaded Jake to donate his old clothes from junior high, mostly because I figured it would give him more closet space and I had desperately wanted to be able to get into his room without stepping over piles of clothes. Holding up a pair of his old shorts, wondering how he ever got into them, I had tried them on for fun. They'd fit. Not only that, they were way more comfortable than tight girl's pants. After that, I'd persuaded his other friends to clean out their closets, too. Of course, they all thought that I was doing it for charity, I really couldn't care if the sports teams got new uniforms that year. I took all of their donations home and spent a night trying everything on. I found a couple of decent shirts and belts, but mostly, I found jeans. Some I had to roll up and some I made cut-offs out of but, in the end, I had a dozen pair of jeans that were all soft and perfectly broken-in. I appeased my guilty conscience by working from sunrise to sunset at that stupid garage sale and called it even. Eight years later and they're still all I ever wear.

Today I had worn Embry's Levis. He was the tallest and skinniest of the guys growing up, and I gave the hems a few thick rolls before they looked all right. I'd paired it with one of Quil's old leather belts. Quil was the burliest as a kid and had never needed any help keeping his pants up, so his belts were practically new when I got to them. I had topped it all off with a plain black, spaghetti-strapped tank top, not really caring that my black bra straps would show. This was LA in July, after all, and I looked downright matronly. All my bras and matching boy shorts may have been from Victoria's Secret, but they were all plain-colored cotton. My barely-a-handful's probably could've used some padding and push-up, but it just wasn't in me. I didn't understand the allure of it, to be honest. It almost seemed worse than implants, like false advertising. Besides, who did I have to look good for? A plain black flannel shirt that I had stolen from Charlie during Winter Break of my sophomore year of college was tied around my waist. I made sure to always have at least a light sweater on me because the diner could get cold at night. That is, if you thought temperatures in the fifties is cold, which I never thought I would.

When Jasper could tell I was all Civil War'd out, he changed the subject. "Why is it, doll face, that you insist on wear men's pants?"

"Oh," I looked up from my jeans, surprised by the sudden change in conversation. I hoped he hadn't figured out I hadn't been paying attention. "Um...because they're comfortable, I guess. Besides, they're not men's pants, they're boys' pants. Big difference."

"Well, where'd you get them, anyway? You don't look like the thrift store type. Are they your brothers?"

And there it was. I wondered if he was as curious about my past as I was about his. I felt like I couldn't give him too much information, though. All he'd need to do is find my books and it would be over, he'd know everything. I'd allowed the rape of my privacy too much over the past few years with horrible consequences. I needed to keep things from him, I deserved it. So, I didn't acknowledge his first question when I spoke, only his second. My voice was soft as I said, "I'm an only child." It was obvious that that was all I was going to say. Both of us knowing that I wasn't going to show him mine if he wasn't going to show me his.

We got to my house in a silence that was not altogether uncomfortable. The side streets leading to my house were peacefully quiet in the late morning and I sighed as we pulled into my driveway. Home. He opened my door for me as I gathered my purse and laptop bag.

"Hey," he said when I hopped out. He put his hands on my hips and softly pushed me back until I was against the side of the car. He bent his head down to bridge the eleven-inch gap in our height and stared into my eyes. Our lips were close and, to anyone on the street, it would have looked like he was asking permission to kiss me. He wasn't, though. He was already going to kiss me and I was already going to let him. No, he was apologizing. That's the thing with Jasper, he never really has to tell you what he's feeling, especially when it's a strong emotion. So, when his eyes bored into me, I felt his sorrow. For bringing up bad memories, for pushing me, and for not being able to confide in me, too. So, I leaned forward and kissed him. Accepting his apology and apologizing myself. For wanting to push him even if it meant bringing up bad memories because I wanted him to confide in me, even though I wouldn't do the same.

Our soft kisses eventually continued into the house and then into my bedroom. It couldn't be considered make-up sex because we'd never been angry and because there wasn't enough passion behind it or between us. There never was. Instead, I chose to revel in the physical comfort of connecting with another human being, especially one I loved as much as I loved Jasper. I turned my brain off and just let myself feel. The clean sheets were cool against my back and Jasper's dog tags were heavy against my chest. His hands were lean and strong and he used them to try and make me feel good as I used mine to do the same. And as we worked together to give the other pleasure I marveled at how nice that was of us. We couldn't take the other's pain away, but we sure could give each other a respite.

Later, as my weariness and exultation warred with each other, I traced one of the scars that wrapped around his upper back to the top of his shoulder. Though the last sounds to come out of us had been much louder, the room was silent, so I whispered. "It must have been horrible." There was no pity in my voice and he knew it. "Mine aren't so bad."

He rubbed my leather bracelet and sighed. "I know."

Before I could even be surprised at how much he saw and get pulled down a path I didn't necessarily want to go down, I changed the subject. "Why do you think they're so obsessed with getting us together?" I didn't have to elaborate, he knew that I was talking about Esme and Emmett and everyone else at the diner. I had no life outside of it, so it's not like I knew any other people in LA. I was the only person so pathetic that I had to employ people to have friends.

He thought for a minute. "I don't know, Belle." He rolled onto his side so that he faced me. "I think they're all just as lonely as we are and they think that we could make each other happy but we're missing out on it."

"Does that mean they'd get off our backs if they found someone themselves?"

He shrugged with the shoulder that wasn't digging into the mattress. "Maybe. Or maybe they'd find love and push it on us even more."

I flopped onto my back with a sigh. "Well..." I sighed out, "...maybe it's about time I tried my hand at matchmaking."

He laughed and rolled onto his back, too. "That's what I love about you, doll face. Underneath all of your over-sized flannel shirts and little-boy jeans, there are some parts of you that are so feminine that they counteract it all." As if to prove his point, the back of his hand rubbed my side from the top of my waist to the bottom of my hip, tracing my curve. He chuckled, muttering "matchmaker" under his breath, but didn't stop his movements. The sensation felt nice and I was too tired to have an argument about gender roles with him, so I just sighed, hoping he'd catch the annoyance I'd wanted to convey in the sound, and prepared for sleep. As my eyes begin to close, Jasper mused softly, "You know who'd be great for Emmett, though?"

My eyes shot open. "Don't even say it, Jasper."

"What? You don't even know who I was going to say."

"Yes, I do, and I'm not going to let you introduce them."

He quickly rolled to lean over my body, gaping at me. "They've never met?"

I smirked with my eyes closed. "Nope. And they're not going to if I have anything to say about it." Hoping that that was the end of the conversation so that I could sleep.

"How have they never met?" But it looked like he was asking it more to himself. "And why are you keeping them apart?" That one he directed at me.

I opened my eyes and turned my head to face him, perturbed that we were still talking about this. "I only have two other cooks and I'm not going to have Emmett chasing her off because he can't keep it in his pants."

"You think she'd sleep with him?"

"You're the one who thinks they're perfect for each other." He grinned, sheepishly. "Even if she didn't, Emmett doesn't take rejection from women very well. He'd hound her every day until she had to quit."

"Who does Emmett think the lunch cook is?"

I had the decency to look abashed when I said, "A fifty-five year old cougar who spends her mornings down at Muscle Beach in Venice, taking in the show." He fell onto his back laughing boisterously and I giggled next to him. "You know what he actually asked me when I told him that?"

"Huh?"

I put on my best Emmett voice. "'Is she at least hot?'"

He laughed a little more. "Sounds like Emmett."

"Yeah. And if he ever asks, she's fifty pounds overweight and has skin like leather."

We both fell into a fit of cackles after that until I interrupted with a loud yawn. "Go to sleep, Belle." Then he yawned. "I think I might take a nap, too." I wasn't surprised. He usually fell asleep when he came over, whether it was his intent or not. I think the other warm body in the bed helped us both keep our nightmares at bay. Jasper spooned me from behind and yawned, again. I wonder how much sleep he had gotten the night before, considering how early he had shown up at the diner.

I wanted to thank him or something. For his company, for making me laugh, for taking my mind off everything like he always did.... "I had fun today," I whispered, and then simultaneously blushed and grimaced when I realized how that had come across. "I mean—"

He cut me off with a soft chuckle and a squeeze around my middle. "I know what you meant, Belle. I did, too."

I sighed and leaned into his embrace. "'Night, Jasper." And then I giggled because it was slowly approaching midday and the room was bright with sunlight.

"Sweet dreams, doll face."