Stephenie Meyer owns all of the rights.
i never promised her anything more than warm soda cans in my garage, pulled from worn paper bags that the connivence store on the reservation handed out with every purchase. I never promised her anything more than haggling over our ages, as if they really were negotiable. I never promised her anything more than rides in a car that I had built from almost nothing; lessons on motorbikes she had me fix up after she saved them from being trashed.
She never promised me anything more than that smile. It was her smile. A bright, vibrant sign of life on a typically lifeless body. She never promised me anything more than blurry lines, not sure which half of the line she actually meant to stand on. She offered me words of praise for my handy work, but I was ashamed that I couldn't fix the one thing that needed it the most: her broken heart.
I never promised that I'd be Romeo. I was never promised the lead in the play of Bella Swan's life. I was just an understudy, a character that never meant anything more than to start off the brilliant plot that followed. I was Paris in so many ways, but when the lines blurred and Juliet wasn't wearing her glasses, I could easily be mistaken for Romeo himself.
I never promised that I'd be able to accomplish the task at hand in the amount of time given. If he had waited just a couple more months - days, weeks, minutes, even! - it could have turned out differently. I can promise this: her heart would be whole and beating and she'd be happy and vibrant. She wouldn't make that effort to pull herself together by pulling her arms over herself. She wouldn't need to remember his smile or scent or eye color to be happy. She'd have me and that'd be enough.
I think that I should have made more promises in his absence.