Author's Note: This one-shot was inspired by a rereading of New Moon. I was wondering what Edward would be like on his plane trip to Italy, right after he received the news from Rosalie that Bella was dead. And I decided to tell this story from the perspective of a teenage girl who is sitting beside him.
"Do you have your ticket, Lilly?" Mom asked, her left arm curled around my babbling baby brother. Her right hand was frantically combing through her handbag. "I don't have them here with me, so…"
"Yeah, I have them," I said, holding up the slip of paper which would allow me to board the airplane to Italy. Seeing as we were in the line to board the plane, we would be in big trouble if I didn't have it with me. "Do try to relax."
My mother breathed a sigh of temporary relief. "I can't relax, not till all three of us are on the plane to Italy. And you're sure that you'll be fine sitting by yourself?"
I smiled. I had learnt to be independent since young, because both my parents were working. And since Lester was born two years ago, I'd grown to be more independent. "Very sure," I said patiently.
Once we were admitted onto the plane, my brother and mother bade me goodbye. I returned Lester's wave, and he blew me a kiss. I smiled. Precious little kid. But it would be nice to be away from him for a while; he'd snuck a few sips of coffee before we'd driven to the airport, and had been on a high to say the least.
When they were out of sight I made my way slowly through the aisle, looking for my designated seat and trying not to hit anyone with my carpetbag. I finally found it; it was beside a window seat that was occupied by a young man. As I slowly seated myself, he turned around briefly, and in that split second I saw that he was in his late teens. I also saw that he was devastatingly good-looking – the kind of guy who left girls sighing and giggling in his wake. Then he turned to gaze out at the window again, but the deed was done. I couldn't stop staring at his side-profile. He had pale, unblemished skin, and he might have been an albino if not for his hair, which was a fetching bronze-colour. His face was all sharp-angles, and his lashes were long – longer than most girls'. He was the most beautiful boy I had ever seen.
After several seconds, during which time had seemingly stopped, he blinked. That action of his snapped me out of my drunken stupor, and I hurriedly turned to face the front and crossed my arms. To my relief, as well as disappointment, he didn't turn around.
I didn't dare to move, but turned my head ever so slightly to gave at him some more. Unfortunately, because my back was resting against the seat of the airplane (a result of my sudden attempt to appear normal), I could only see his hair, part of his right cheekbone, and not much else. As the passengers and flight attendants scurried up and down the aisle next to me, securing their baggage in the compartments at the top, he hardly stirred, and neither did I. It wasn't until the air stewardess came around handing out hot towels that I wrenched my gaze from whatever little of his face I could see.
"Towels, ma'am," the stewardess said, her smile phony.
"Thank you," I said distractedly, taking one for myself.
"Towels, sir?" she said to the teenager beside me. He didn't respond, and the stewardess repeated her question, this time with an edge to her voice. He turned only his head, the rest of his body like a statue.
"No, thank you," he said quietly, his voice musical and soft. My gaze immediately went to his face. His eyes were black, and they seemed to be filled with wisdom beyond his years. They were also melancholy, but it did nothing to mar his looks. In fact, it enhanced his perfection; his beauty was magnetic. The stewardess felt it too.
"Are you sure you don't want one?" she asked, her fake smiled traded in for a genuine, eager-to-please one. "It's an awfully long flight to Italy."
"I'm certain I don't want one, but you're right," the young man said in his incredible voice. He sounded like a choir of angels all on his own.
"I am?" the stewardess said, her smile still there, but becoming puzzled.
"It's an awfully long flight to Italy, and I was just wondering if perhaps you could ask the captain to hasten proceedings just a bit?" He smiled tautly, his lips just stretching the barest centimetre, but it worked like a charm.
"I'll see what I can do," said the stewardess warmly, and she hurried off.
I couldn't help myself; I wanted to talk to him too. "Are you in a hurry?" I inquired, the words slipping out of my mouth before I could stop myself. And so I was came off like a complete idiot in front of the most beautiful human being I would ever see. Of course he was in a hurry – why else would he ask the stewardess to hurry the captain along? a disgusted voice in my mind said, but it was rudely cut off when he replied.
"In a way," he said cryptically, and then went back to staring out of the window.
Less than ten minutes later, the air stewardess hurried back on her high heels. "Sir," she said to my neighbour, "sir, the captain says that we'll be lifting off in about five minutes."
"Thank you," he said, rewarding her with another tight smile, but it was enough. The stewardess was already at his beck and call.
"If you have any other worries or questions, do approach me," she said, conveniently ignoring me. It was just as well I wasn't picky and was adaptable. Especially since I was really sure that I wouldn't be doing anything else on this flight but watch my neighbour, whose gaze was back on the window.
The captain was as good as his word. Five minutes later, he informed the passengers that we were about to take off, and wished us a pleasant flight. As the plane started inching out of the gates and moved towards the runway, I settled myself in a position which was comfortable enough and which would enable me to see the most of his face. My mother would probably be occupied with Lester the whole flight; she probably wouldn't come to check on me.
It would be a pleasant flight indeed.
About half the flight had elapsed when I was struck with an idea. As of that moment, an in-flight movie had been shown; the second one was drawing to a close. The trolley stocked with food and beverages had been by twice, pushed by the stewardess. Each time she passed by my row she would look hopefully over to the young man next to me, asking if he would like anything to eat or drink. Each time, he declined politely before returning to his vigil.
Despite his silence, I felt myself feeling more and more for my neighbour. He seemed to be in constant pain, though from what I was not enlightened. It made me feel sad too; I knew I'd like to make him feel better, but strangely I also knew that there was probably nothing I could do that could ease his sadness. He was just a stranger, after all. When the plane touched down at Italy, we would go our separate ways, and I would mourn the loss – albeit the loss of someone I didn't really know. And so I thought of an idea how to make this moment last longer than it would. I was a fairly good artist, and in my carpetbag was the sketchbook I'd always brought around with me. It was very simple, really.
I would sketch a picture of him.
I started with his nose. It was a straight line; the end of it upturned slightly, an aristocratic touch. And then I traced his full lips, and then his chin, leading up to the defined jaw line. He was a wonderful subject, not moving at all. The weather was also cooperative; the winds were minimal and there was nothing close to turbulence. I finished his face relatively quickly, and then I got to work on his hair, taking care to define every single strand. Then it was his neck, half hidden by the collared shirt he was wearing, which was (I could not help but notice) stretched tightly across his chest.
I finished right before the captain announced that we were about to land. At the announcement he moved slightly, turning to face the front, and at that moment I caught a glint of muted triumph in his eyes. It disappeared just as quickly as it had appeared, and his face was quickly set in stone again. But he seemed more alert about his surroundings than before, and, catching sight of the sketchbook in my arms, turned to look at it. I hastily stowed it out of sight, but he'd probably caught a glimpse. Wordlessly he looked at me, and I dared to flash a tiny smile. He blinked and looked away, making me feel rather foolish. There was no more contact between the two of us until the plane touched down with the smallest bump. As soon as the plane pulled into the gate and stopped, he rose from his seat lithely and inched his way past me, murmuring his apologies when he bumped into me.
Just like that, my few hours of contentment were drawing to a rapid close. Before I knew what I was doing, I'd stood and called after him, "Hey. Hey, what's your name?"
People stared at me, but I was oblivious; I had only eyes for him. He stopped for a while, turning just a bit. I caught one last glimpse of his perfect features, thrown into brief relief by the sunlight that was beginning to flood Italy. "Edward," he said after a pause. "My name is Edward Cullen."
And then he was gone.
But not quite, not really. I took out the sketchbook, which I had stuffed into the mess of blankets, and flipped to the most recent page. There he was, staring out of the window.
And as everyone else got out of their seats and reclaimed their baggage from their overhead compartments, I took out a pencil and printed neatly, at the corner of the page, the words "Edward Cullen".