A/N: This is an Edward/Bella oneshot from Edward POV that happed during the winter after New Moon. Eclipse did not happen, hence the snow and wintry atmosphere. I love the snow. Anyways, this is based on the song I'm Not That Girl from Wicked.
She's Not That Girl
I am that boy. I would be lying if I claimed that being born at the turn of the century has made me what I am today, so I won't even try to sway your mind to believe so.
Nothing was ever as prominent as the beautified soul who stepped into my life, my being two years ago, but there were many contributing factors to how the classic lifestyle of a boy growing up in the early nineteen hundreds shaped me as a person.
Etiquette. Ever since I was little I was taught simple manors that would help me out through life such as politeness, being to hold a formal conversation, standard dinner manners, and most of all: how to treat a woman.
Tipping your hat when you pass a lady on the street and bowing slightly, opening doors to houses or vehicles for their convenience, pulling out chairs for them to sit in, and to help them out of carriages and over obstacles by offering up an eager arm, but each and every single one of these rules pale in comparison to the tip of being inconspicuous.
Unbelievable as it is, the very thing that I strive for today as much as tomorrow is the thing that was of most dire importance when in the company of a contessa. However, the factor of staying subtle was far from the same.
When I was growing up, I remember being told that a lady should be the one to strike up a conversation and that she fairs better to stay out of the public eye if alone with a gentleman for the sake of her virtuous reputation.
I followed this social code of expected behaviors throughout the years of my human life, letting them pass over into my extended one as a beast as well, thinking childishly that it could push mirth upon my damned soul. As one decade faded into the next, I altered my actions slightly to seem more in tune with the current time frame, but my basis was always the same.
That was, of course, until I met Isabella Swan.
Bella was the enchanting maiden that stepped into my life not but two years ago and literally made me the man I am today. Each and every rule I had followed over the course of my life was set aside so that I would be able to pursue her with nothing more than charm and patience. I stayed a gentleman, although at times it became almost impossible.
My simple gestures seemed enough for her, she seemed increasingly happy just to be in my presence, but no matter what her emotions portrayed to me, I could never help but think about how much more I wanted to give her.
Hands touch. The feeling I got when her petite hand is enclosed in mine is almost indescribable. A foreign warmth flooding through my body, the point of origin where her fiery touch meets my glacial covering. Each and every time, I know that I have fallen in love with her all over again.
Eyes meet. A whirlwind of emotions pouring out through our souls, meeting in a colliding motion between our two beings; the evanescent specter that was out love hanging like a transparent veil between us.
Sudden silence washed over me as I broke temporarily out of my reverie. Only at this moment did I realize that I was still in the meadow, lying as still as a statue on top of the thin layer of snow that fell earlier on in the evening; the milky color just mere shades lighter than my own skin. I had come out here a few hours earlier, right after Alice stole Bella away to Seattle for a 'long overdue shopping trip'. Ever since then I have just been lying on the crisp snow in complete solace, considering what was my renewed life with my angel.
Italy. What a disaster that had been on my part. I'm just lucky that we had gotten out of there alive, well, with Bella alive that is. The flight home was bliss, and so was the car ride back to her and Charlie's place. But by far, even though she turned me down flat, the most extraordinary part was where I gained enough courage to release my proposition to make her transformation between me and her, instead of me and Carlisle: I had asked her to marry me.
As I said before, I am that boy. I grew up in a society where I was a man by seventeen and was willing to go down on one knee in front of that one special girl and offer her the sky, the sea, the world.
Unfortunately for me, even though she may not have said it aloud yet, I know that Bella is not that girl.
Even though every thing about her screams that she should have been born in the romantic or Victorian era, she is very up to date on the marital stations of this age; no doubt her parents' divorce being a huge influence on her response.
Sighing forlornly at the memory, I lifted my arms out of the glistening snow and placed them behind my head. I stared for a few moments at the now darkening sky, a crescent moon rising up to its peak.
Instants after I let my eyes close, I could feel the fluffy flakes of a new batch of snow melting onto my lavender bruised eyelids. Silently reveling in the simple yet bewitching air this night has taken, I let my mind drift back to the object of my desire.
Sudden heat. The rosy color that rises to her cheeks when she is embarrassed or, dare I say it, dazzled, is like a magnet that draws in my every affection. The animal is cast away while the human man returns to the spotlight, rejoicing in the rapture coursing through my love's veins, bringing to her fair colored skin the mystic glow of a Botticelli angel.
The way her heart leaps in a giddy whirl whenever I enter her line of view, the steady beating taking on an erratic change in speed as the space between us disappears leaving only room for the here and now, when we are within the range of passion.
No matter how close I get to asking her again and again for her hand, I try to keep my excitement a subtle secret. I must remember to keep telling myself that even though I am that boy, she's not that girl.
"Don't dream too far," I began singing to myself as I pictured Bella in an old fashioned wedding gown, the type that I expected my mother to have worn when she married my father. "Don't lose sight of who you are. Even though I shouldn't I can't help but remember that rush of joy, I am that boy, but she's not that girl."
There I go again. Try and try as I do, it's practically impossible to forget that one day, even though I wished that it was closer to this day, she may very well be Mrs. Edward Cullen.
Every so often I love to steal a glance at what might have been if she had said yes to me that night, let my consciousness be overrun by my subconscious and guide me to the land of what might have been. However, it never seems to soften the ache I feel when reality sets back in.
On the other hand, whenever Rosalie glides past me, I not only shudder in loathing for that little stunt she played that sent me off to a different continent looking for a death wish, I also shudder at the fact that she, Miss. Narcissistic herself, was supposed to be meant for me.
In not one way could she ever compare to my Bella, my saint. Sure, many boys would fall all over her blithe smile, and lithe limbs; Emmett makes his desire towards her known twenty four seven. That, however, is the boy I'm not.
It's clear that I didn't crash head over heals for the immortal beauty. Instead, I was ensnared by the charms of a captivating, inelegant femme. The way she stumbles and has that almost illusive type of refinement makes her all that more alluring. She who was winsome, was the one who won my unbeating heart. Rosalie, what with her golden hair and gentle curl was supposed to be the girl that I chose, and Heaven knows that she will never be that girl, my girl.
"Don't wish, don't start," I continued singing quietly to myself, deciding that it's better to let the momentary heartbreak out whilst alone instead of in front of my beloved. "Wishing only wounds the heart. She may deny it, but in my eyes she was born for the rose and the pearl… There's a girl I know, and I love her so, but even though I am that boy, she's not that girl."
Sighing gently, I opened my eyes up to the ebony sky and whispered adoringly, "She's not that girl."