Regrets
Edward hadn't even wanted to go to the high-school reunion party. If anyone had asked him a decade ago where he'd be ten years on, his only answer would be – not here. Not in Forks, and certainly, not in the garishly decorated gymnasium of Fork's High. But his mother had wheedled and his friends had needled, and one too many telephone calls from Principal Green – still the same Principal Green as all those times ten years ago – Edward found himself coerced into dropping the R.S.V.P. return slip in the letter box.
If he was being serious, it wasn't a 'sense of duty' to 'encourage and inspire the next generation of Fork's High students' that made him change his mind. It wasn't his parents' idea of a weekend getaway at the old town they'd spend four years at. It certainly wasn't any desire on his part to reminisce about his time as Fork's golden it-boy.
"She'll be there," Emmett had texted him, out of the blue one evening.
"Who?" Edward had texted back, in between pages of figures with more zeros than he'd know what to do with.
"Isabella Swan."
And Edward was booking the next available flight out to middle-of-nowhere, Pacific Northwest.
Isabella Swan – the girl that got away. His only high-school regret, if he was being honest with himself. Not that she'd ever got away, seeing as she'd never been his. But now, a polite smile plastered on his face as he shook hands with old teachers and classmates, Edward felt the tell-tale anticipation as he skimmed over the crowd as inconspicuously as possible.
One too many 'Edward! How nice! What is it like to be a successful CEO in New York? Living the life, eh?' later, Edward found a comfortable vantage point in a corner of the gymnasium, and a flute of suspicious liquid that didn't quite taste like the champagne the bottle boasted itself to contain. He surveys the crowd, and he spots her.
Familiar, and yet, so foreign. Taller now, slender legs he'd seen on billboards and magazine covers encased in heels he'd never dream of her wearing ten years ago. Eyes so large, framed by lashes longer than his thumbnail. She smiles, expensive jewelry decorating her décolletage, and stands almost half a foot taller than Lauren Mallory, who used to look at her like the scum at the bottom of the pond. She's made it, one of the few from this backwater town – and against the odds, at that. She's larger than life, larger than her images plastered over all the Ralph Lauren Billboards in Times Square. And yet, to Edward, she's still the small slip of a girl. The one that slipped through his fingers.
It's in her posture, the thin arm wrapped around her narrow midsection, even as she speaks quietly, almost seemingly confidently to ex-teachers. Edward's halfway across the gymnasium towards her, when James Hunter slips in front of him, and Edward watches with narrowed eyes as he makes a beeline for Isabella.
James Hunter is bad news, and has been since they were kids. Mean to animals, mean to classmates, fuck-and dump kind of man, and Edward would bet every last penny in his sizeable bank account that the past decade hadn't made him a better man. His eyes track back to Isabella, and his vision clouds with anger as he watches the familiar exchange. Too familiar for comfort – one he should have intervened in all those years ago – but didn't.
-.-.-.-.-
It's the end-of-the-year beach party, filled with booze and alcohol, cigarettes and a bonfire too hot, far too warm for comfort in the humid May evening. Edward hadn't wanted to come to the beach party, but Emmett had dragged his ass out of his far more comfortable house with excuses of it being the last time everyone saw each other.
"Dude, it's the last time we get to hang out!" Emmett had whined.
Edward had rolled his eyes, and resisted the urge to alert his twin brother- older by mere minutes, that they would be sharing an apartment in Harvard – and ergo, hanging out together, everyday.
"It's not the same," Emmett had said, reading his twin's mind. "And we won't be with the crowd there, in the middle of Fucking-Nowhere-New-Hampshire."
Sometimes, it was easier to go with Emmett's strange ideas, instead of correcting his lack of geographical knowledge – which saw Edward nursing a bottle of beer in the crowd. The thin cotton of his t-shirt is already sticking to his back uncomfortably, and the dull roar of his classmate's voices makes him irritable. Edward surveys the crowd, and his eyes fall on the one face he doesn't recognize.
It's a small slip of a girl, eyes so dark the fire dances in them, skin barely a shade darker than the white tank top she's wearing. She's almost too slender to be considered healthy, but my god, she's beautiful, Edward thinks. She's smiling at Rosalie Hale, nodding at something the older girl is saying, until Rosalie suddenly sprints away, squealing and shrieking as his brother tries to catch the statuesque blonde – his sometimes off, sometimes on girlfriend.
Edward wonders who this girl is, and watches as Jacob Black slings a hand over her narrow shoulders. The girl looks uncomfortable at Black's proximity, even from this distance, and Edward wonders if he should do something. Black dips his head to whisper something in her ear, and Edward watches with a growing sense of unease as the girl tries to shrug away from the larger boy.
"Whatcha staring at?" Emmett interrupts his staring, slugging him across the arm.
"Nothing," Edward says. "Nothing."
-.-.-.-.-
This time, Edward doesn't hesitate to spring into action. He doesn't pretend it's nothing. He crosses the space between him and Isabella in a few steps, in time to see James try to sling his arm around Isabella's waist.
"Pretty girl," James was saying. "What's your name?"
Edward tries not to snarl and smack James' arm away. Clearly, he hadn't been to Times Square, or anywhere out of this bum-fuck town in ages. Everyone in New York with an eye would recognize the girl. Edward can't figure out of James if acting dumb, or actually dumb.
"Isabella," Isabella says, trying to side-step James' arm. "Isabella Swan."
Her voice is quiet, so quiet Edward nearly misses it.
"What a pretty name," James coos, and Edward's fingers tighten into fists as he resists the urge to smack the man across the jaw. "Who are you with?"
"With me," Edward growls instead, watching with absurd satisfaction as James takes his larger form into consideration, and drops his outstretched arm from Isabella's waist quicker than one would from a fire.
"I-I see," James says, and making some lame excuse about saying hello to another friend, scampers away.
"Edward Cullen," Edward introduces himself, once James is out of earshot.
"Isabella Swan," Bella smiles, turning to face him.
She's even prettier up close, and Edward swallows the lump in his throat. Unlike most of the other girls here, her makeup is almost minimalistic. There's a natural innocence about her that makes her look young, an ethereal quality that all the Naked palates and Sephora wouldn't be able to recreate.
"Sorry," Edward says, finding his voice. "I know you're not with me, but…" he trails off awkwardly, before he tells her that he wishes she was.
"Thank you," Isabella smiles again, almost nervously. "Really."
"No need," Edward says, and in a wild bid to keep the girl talking, asks needlessly, "So what brought you back? High School memories?"
Isabella laughs humorlessly. "My best friend convinced me it was a good idea," she says, gesturing around. "Facing my demons, or whatever."
"Ah."
"But honestly – I don't think it's Forks High that holds the demons," Isabella muses quietly, so quietly that Edward would have missed it if he wasn't paying such attention. Edward's stomach curls into a ball at that. He knows what, he knows where – and he wants to tell Isabella Swan how sorry he is that he didn't do anything all those years ago. He should have. A better man than him would have.
Instead, Edward opts for brevity. "I'd say Mallory and Stanley look pretty demon-like to me," he jokes.
Isabella laughs lightly. "Their cleavages were a hot favorite back in those days, if I remember correctly."
"Not for me," Edward says, and the way he holds her gaze makes Isabella's heart double-tap, and she squirms internally, in a way she never thought she'd be able to feel. Not after that, all those years ago.
She's uncomfortable, and fascinated, all at once. Who was this man? And what was he doing to her?
"Where are you from?" Isabella blurts. "As in, where have you been?"
Edward laughs. "I was from Forks, then moved to Massachusetts, and then New York. You?"
"Harvard?" Isabella grins, avoiding the question. "No wonder they've called you back for this … reunion."
"You got it. I know where you're from," Edward reveals. "But before that?"
Isabella laughs, and she's surprised that she isn't embarrassed that this man has seen her on billboards and advertisements. Usually when people recognize her on the streets, all Isabella wants to do is to hide. But today, with this man, she's happy. Giddy, almost, to have caught his attention. "Forks, then Columbia, and well, you know the rest."
"New York's a long way from Forks," Edward comments.
"Yeah, well. I wanted as much distance between Forks and myself after…"
After that incident, which could have been avoided had Edward grown a pair of balls, he thinks. But he daren't say that out loud. He's still a coward, after all those years, and it is an awful niggling feeling in the pit of his stomach.
-.-.-.-.-
The landline rings at 7am the next morning, and the noise is shrill and high. An oddity, because who calls the landline in this day and age, when there are cellphones and Whatsapp and Telegram?
Edward ignores it, turning back into his pillow. From the next bedroom, he hears Emmett's hungover curses at the shrill noise.
And then, there's silence, as someone – ostensibly his mother – picks up the phone.
Edward drifts back into sleep.
He's barely entered the REM phase again when there's a knock on his door. Not the polite put-on-your-underwear-it's-your-mother knock, but the rapid something's-up knock. It sounds urgent, and Edward swings out of bed.
"What is it?" he asks, just as Esme pushes the door open, her brows creased.
"Do you know this girl?" she asks, holding out a photo on her cellphone.
It's the girl from the beach. Too slender, too beautiful for this backward town. Too new, that Edward doesn't even know her name.
"I saw her at the bon-fire yesterday," Edward says, even as a feeling of dread he can't shake off comes over him. "Why?"
"She's missing," Esme says, her voice quiet. "Charles Swan – that is – our Chief of Police – is looking for her. She's his daughter."
"Fuck," Edward swears, and for once, Esme doesn't chastise him. Images of the girl shrinking away from Jacob Black flashes through his mind, and Edward wants to punch that fucker.
"Jacob Black was coming on to her yesterday," he says. "Not sure if she went with him."
"Black – from the reservation?" Esme asks, already typing furiously into her Whatsapp chat with Charles Swan.
"Yeah. Big guy."
"I'll let Charles know. Thanks, son," Esme says, walking to the next bedroom to interrogate her elder son by all of seconds.
-.-.-.-.-.-.-
There's speeches, and awards, and after clinching Most Outstanding Alumni – Batch of 2007, Edward drifts back to Isabella, who's clinched Most Outstanding Alumni – Batch of 2008.
"I didn't know you were only a year younger than me," Edward says. "Congratulations, by the way."
"Thanks," Isabella grins, as they wander away from the crowd, their responsibility over. "Graduated early by two years."
"Ah. All the more impressive."
"Not that there was much competition," Isabella laughs self depreciatingly, and Edward is amazed at how much he likes to hear her laugh. He doesn't want this night to end. He doesn't want her to get away again. He doesn't want to be a coward any longer.
"Hungry?" he asks her, when they reach the exit of the gymnasium. "Up for pie?"
"Pie?"
"Forks' Diner," Edward clarifies. "Or coffee, or hot chocolate, or – "
"That sounds great," Isabella says.
His hand almost spans the entire width of the small of her back, and as he guides her out of the gymnasium and into his silver Volvo, he can't help the shiver that runs up his spine – and it has nothing to do with the cold Forks air.
-.-.-.-.-
