Preface

Of science and the human heart

There is no limit

There is no failure here sweetheart

Just when you quit

"C'mon, Grace. Think about it: You, me. Seoul would never know what hit it." This was the third time this week he brought this up. He would be moving to Seoul to work for an auto company in a month.

"Jake, can it with the Grace crap." I know this is a losing battle, but it was part of the game we play. Years ago, he dubbed me Grace; I have the uncanny ability to trip over the air. When he wanted something, he'd wheedle, he'd beg, and if he really though he was losing, he'd drop the Grace bomb.

"Babe, you know I'm not gonna stop. It's just too damn much fun." He grinned. He knows I am a sucker for that grin.

He really wants this; he really wants me to go with him to Seoul and every time he asks, he sees the likelihood of me actually going with him dwindle. I see his hope fading; I hate doing this to him.

When you know someone basically since birth, you can tell these things. With Jake, every time I disappoint him, the spark in his eyes slowly begins to fade. This past week, it's reached the smile around his eyes; his smile never reaches his eyes anymore and that makes me feel so fucking guilty.

I just don't know how to stop from being a disappointment to him.

Well, I know how to stop disappointing him. I just don't know that I can.

"Jake, shit. I just don't know that I can up and leave everything and everyone." I can't meet his eyes. He knows what I am talking about. He knows who I am talking about and he hates it. Hell, I hate it.

My love. My life. My drug. My Edward.

My best friend, the man I should, for all intents and purposes, be with, hates the attraction, the pull that Edward Cullen has on me.

Jake, he loves me. I know he loves me; he lets the world know he loves me. He has loved me, this weird, twisted person that I am, since we were toddles wrestling on my dad's fishing boat. He saved me then from falling off that damn boat and keeps on trying to save me from myself.

I love him. I do.

He's just not Edward.

When Jake kisses me, when Jake is in me, there's always something missing. I know that I'm using Jake as a filler…as a place keeper. I know that it isn't fair.

Jakes wants me to go to Seoul with him. He wants us to start over somewhere fresh. He actually proposed, which shocked the hell out of me.

We were lying in bed the other morning, not quite awake, not really asleep, not ready to get up, when he snuck it in.

"Bells, let's get away from this bullshit. You know it is; I know it is. I. Love. You. Forever. Marry me. Move to Seoul. Teach. Write. Live off the fat of the land. I don't care. Just be with me. I don't know what's going to happen, but that's the beauty of it. The only thing that's for certain is that I want to be with you. Period. That's all I really want; it's all I'll ever need."

I'm glad he wasn't facing me when he said it; I don't think I could have handled him seeing the look of shame and horror that crossed my face. He'd have been crushed. Again. I did everything but run to the bathroom where I could escape the censure I so well deserve.

I stood under the hot, cleansing water trying to sort things out in my head. The longer I stood, the closer the walls seemed to encroach upon me. I felt them drawing in; I couldn't breathe; I tried to focus and breathe deeply and all of that shit that people say works. It doesn't, especially when the clusterfuck is this big. Breathing shallowly, I sank to my knees. Perhaps prayer would help me sort this out; perhaps supplication is what I need. It didn't work.

Slowly, I settled on my backside and as the water falling like rain from the showerhead gradually shifted from a purifying scalding to a punishing icy, I did the only thing that I'd been able to do lately. I sat in the shower and cried and thought about it; thought about the choices I've made and the choices I needed to make.

I thought about Jake. I thought about what Jake wanted from me; I thought about what it is that he claimed to need from me. I thought about Edward.

It breaks my heart to hurt Jake the way that I hurt him time and time again.

I know I have to say no to him. I love him; I can't imagine living a life absent from him.

The proposal? Marriage?

I couldn't say yes; I can't say yes.

But I should say yes. I need to say yes. I have to let this mess I'm in end; I have to let him go.

But I can't; I won't.

Because I, Isabella Swan, am hopelessly, dangerously, irrevocably in love with Edward Cullen.

And, well, Edward Cullen sure likes to fuck me.

Thwap, thwap, thwap.

There's something soothing about the rhythmic pounding of rubber on concrete as my sneakers and I make our morning trek around the neighborhood. I pass houses, families, coffee shops, cars, the skeevy dude who always watches my tits bounce, but pay no attention to it.

Thwap, thwap, thwap.

This was my time. It was just me, my iPod, my sneakers, and my demons. Simple. Safe, or relatively so considering my propensity to eat turf during my jogs. Ok, I put some Band-Aids in my pocket before I left.

Thwap, thwap, thwap.

Leaving my apartment a week or so after I tried to transform myself into a fish via immersion I am determined to really think things out. I need to figure out my next step.

Thwap, thwap, tha-thwap.

It's a Saturday and I'm confronted with all of the weekend warrior joggers who are traversing their way through the streets of the city. I watch the singletons on the prowl for their latest catch, the moms and dads escaping their kids, the career runners; I do whatever I can to avoid thinking about IT.

Thwap, thwap, thwap.

But escapism only works for so long. Eventually, you either run a circle and end up back where you began or you hit a wall. Today I hit my wall and I hit it hard.

Thwap, tha-thwap, thwap.

At the end of my run, I grab my usual post-run breakfast of croissant and tea, buy a loaf of day old bread, and amble to the pond in the park near my building.

The ducks and I were about to bond, damn it, and they'll help me begin clearing things up. I sauntered to my favorite bench, began breaking the loaf into bit size pieces, and tried to make myself think about the mess I've made of my life.

Edward.

Jake.

Kids.

Love.

Life.

Family.

Friends.

The images, feelings, thoughts assaulted me at once; I couldn't make sense of them. It swirled around my head making me dizzy. I kept feeding the birds; the rhythmic dropping of the bread into the water was almost as soothing as the rhythmic paces that I kept during my jog and almost held me together.

And then I saw her.

A girl of what I'd assume to be three with coppery ringlets, talking to her father. "Tell me again, daddy. Tell me about you and mamma."

As I listened to him tell the HAPPILY EVER AFTER story, I felt all of the calm I'd worked so hard to achieve this morning recede, replaced by a swell of anger, sadness, anxiety, and fear.

I started to tremble. I tried to push it back. Now is not a good time to lose it, Bella.

Keep your shit in check.

You can do it.

My pep talk didn't work; I felt the traitorous tears begin welling in my eyes. I tried wiping them up.

I want my fucking happily ever after. I thought I had it, once upon a time.

The tears started overtaking my ability to wipe them away. I have to get the fuck out of here. It's gonna be bad, I can tell. I have to get away from people. Dropping the remnants of my breakfast in the garbage bin on the outskirts of the park, I began sprinting toward my apartment.

My lungs burned, my calves ached, my head pounded as I desperately tried to get to my apartment before the levees broke. I made it back unable to gather a deep breath, knowing I wouldn't be able to jog in the foreseeable future, but before I fell apart.

That's a very good thing.

But as I sat on the couch prepared for a maelstrom of self-pity, I instead felt numb. Numb is good; numb is new.

I want to live; I need to live.

With that as inspiration, I pulled out my laptop and started writing. I wrote and wrote and wrote. I told my story, the story of Edward and I, the story of Jacob and I, the story I need to tell myself before I get to the next step.

Cracking my knuckles, fresh pot of coffee in hand, I committed myself to figuring myself out.

Lord help me.