A/N: Don't own anything. Especially Twilight. The town of Jonesboro, Georgia is completely fictional.

I had this idea for an Edward/Emmett story. The two of them always made more sense to me than Edward/Jasper.

No promises on how often I'll update.

It wasn't a bar I normally frequented.

After all, I didn't normally frequent bars. But after living for months on end in a tiny, little nothing of a town located about sixty miles outside of Atlanta, I had to get away. Had to get away from the hate, the judgmental attitudes, the underlining and unspoken messages that I was unnatural. A freak.

Of course, nothing was ever said directly to me. As far as the good people of Jonesboro, Georgia knew, I was just like them. Just like them with their two and a half kids, and their minivans, and their white picket fences.

I took a long draw of my beer.

I'd never have two and a half kids, a minivan, or a white picket fence. And the truth of the matter was, if I didn't make occasional trips to Atlanta, I'd probably end up thinking I was a freak.

The freakish high school English teacher who preferred men over women.

At least Atlanta had places like this where I could go. Places were men weren't afraid to hold hands or dance. Or kiss.

I ran a finger down my wet beer bottle and sighed.

It'd been too long since I'd been kissed.

But tonight wasn't about such sad ruminations. Tonight was about fun. I made the trip to Atlanta every few months. Just to get away. To submerge myself in my own kind of normal. To remind myself that I was okay. I was who I was and that was fine. There were people who accepted me.

They didn't know me. Didn't know my name. But by simply sitting on a stool and breathing the same air, I was accepted. Because I knew I'd never be accepted in Jonesboro. Not if they really knew me.

"Can I get you another?" the bartender asked, nodding toward my near empty bottle.

"One more," I said. It was late and while I wasn't drunk, I had been drinking. I'd spend the night in a local hotel, preferably within walking distance, just to be on the safe side.

I glanced around the bar, eyes skimming over the patrons. No one caught my eye. Which was fine. I never came to meet anyone, I just enjoyed the atmosphere.

I was continuing my not-so-sly people watching when he opened the door. No one noticed when he entered.

No one, that was, but me.

He wasn't the type I normally found myself attracted to. I typically found myself drawn to men like myself – sinewy, with a hint of intellectualism tossed in. And the man in question wasn't anywhere near sinewy. He was big and burly, with arm muscles bulging under the tight fit of his tee-shirt.

He had the build of a football player and I wondered, just for a second, if perhaps he was some famous athlete. Surely though, someone would have noticed him if he was someone special.

He pushed his way through the crowd and I dropped my eyes to the bottle in front of me when I noticed him approaching.

Not my type, I told myself. So not my type.

It was a running joke in my family that I was neither an ass nor an abs man. I was a mind man.

The bar was crowded, but the stool to my right was empty. Of course, that's where he chose to sit down.

He ordered a beer and nodded at me. "Hey."

I met his eyes, noticing they were a deep blue. "Hey."

"I'm Emmett," he said, holding out a hand.

Not your type, remember?

But his hand was warm and strong when I took it. "Masen," I said.

Masen was my middle name. At home, I went by Edward, but for whatever reason, I always used Masen in Atlanta bars.

"Funny," he said with a smile. "You don't look like a Masen."

Even though I'd told myself he wasn't my type, I found myself drawn to him. He had an easy charm and a friendly smile. And even I could appreciate the look of his abs.

"That's the worst pick-up line I've ever heard," I said. "But out of curiosity, who do I look like?"

"Someone highly intellectual." He tilted his head a bit. "Richard? William?"

"Nope," I said.

"And it wasn't a pick-up line."

"Just as well." I took another swallow of beer. "It sucked."

He gave a short chuckle and took a swallow of his own drink. For several long minutes we stayed just like that. Quiet. With the noises of the bar enveloping us.

"Okay," he said, finally. "This is going to sound even worse, but do you come here often?"

"Really?" I asked and he shrugged. I shook my head. "No. I live about an hour south of here. Just come every so often." School would start back in another month. My trips to Atlanta would become even rarer after that, but he didn't need to know. "You?"

"Job hunting," he said.

"Ah." Made sense. "I didn't think I remembered seeing you before."

"Would you have remembered me?" he asked.

I keep my gaze straight ahead, not trusting myself to keep secret how quickly I was deciding he was exactly my type. Instead, I kept it simple, but honest. "Probably."

He seemed content with that answer and, a few minutes later, we fell into a comfortable conversation. We talked about the weather, how hot the summer had been. He was a sports fan, so we talked about baseball. He asked about my interests and I gave an honest answer, touching briefly on the novel I was writing.

"Why do you come here?" he asked about an hour later, his question sincere.

I picked at the label on my bottle for a few seconds before looking up to meet his gaze. "I come to remember," I whispered. To remember who I am. What I want. To remember the me who so often gets lost.

A look of pain and sadness crossed his face. "I come to forget."

I snorted. "You're doing it wrong." I waved my hand around taking in the scene surrounding us. Music blared. Men gyrated. "Look at this place. You think this will help you forget?"

"Not forget who I am," he said. "I come to forget who I pretend to be."