Summary—Bella and Edward meet, and then things get awkward.

So, FYI. This story's set sometime in the really near future, what I think 2020 would be. It shouldn't be a big deal, I just didn't want to deal with things being now. Yeah I'm weird.

I had just finished running errands when I decided to attend an art gallery for the first time. The poster outside of the little museum promised surrealism and folk art, two things I had zero knowledge of.

"What's it about?" I had asked the girl who was selling the ticket ($35).

She looked at me with an eyebrow raised. I tried not to let it intimidate me. "It's about the city. Murals and sculptures and other pieces to depict urban repression. The artist," she leaned over and pointed—with nails painted neon green—at the bottom of the brochure, "is Jasper Hale. He's from Texas or something, I think." She gave the brochure a tap before retreating back to her window and looking at me with the cold disinterest of a stranger.

"OK," I said, pocketing the ticket and walking off.

I returned to my apartment to find my roommate, Jessica, texting on the couch. I told her about my spontaneous purchase of the ticket. She understandably was amused.

"How very high brow of you. Going with anyone?"

"No."

"No?" She looked up from her phone, then, surveying the bag of groceries I had.

"Yeah. Did you want to come?"

"No, Mike's gonna be here." She grinned. "In fact, if you could meet some random guy and hook up over at his place, that'd be great. Angela's spending the night at Ben's, and it'd be nice—"

"No chance, sorry."

She shrugged. "Text me when you get back then."

"For God's sake do not go on my bed. Or my room. You hear me?" I went to bathroom and placed the goods—tampons, shampoo, the whole haul—wherever they needed to go.

Jessica leaned against the doorframe, pulling out her phone again and (presumably) texting. "That was one time. But yes. OK." A pause as she concentrated on typing. "What's your iTunes password? I wanna watch P and P and Z later."

"It's written on the fridge," I said.

I had about an hour and a half to kill before I left for the gallery, so Jessica and I just hung out and ate a bit. She helped me get ready and, at half past seven, I took a cab (I felt too lazy to walk even though it was close) and was ready for the night.

The taxi pulled up right in front of the museum. I paid the fare and stepped out to the semi-cool night air, conscious of the queue forming right outside the doors.

The museum from earlier now looked more imposing in the dusky sunset. It was summer, so people wore shorts and dresses and those annoyingly tall sneakers (with the LED laces) everyone wore these days. The place was a bit more crowded than I expected—mostly college kids, and probably people around my age.

When I walked in and showed ID, the security guard had to point me in the right direction, as, apparently, there was a flow to these things.

"Yes, see that piece with the desk? Start from there and work your way counter-clockwise. Enjoy the viewing, ma'am."

I looked at the piece. It looked like an orange chair with curled ends. Smiling, I went and followed the path.

Twenty minutes in and I saw not a hint of urban repression or folk art, but I did feel warm from the wine I drank.

I was currently looking at a photograph of some buildings. It was pretty, and I tried to think about what it meant without looking at the tiny gold-plated description box. But then the more I tried to think about it, the more conscious I became of thinking about it and, well, that sort of thinking never really was productive—

"What do you think?" a voice asked from behind me.

I froze for a second.

The question was asked again. "Of the photo? What do you think?"

I turned around, in a, Oh, you meant me, kind of way. The man was tall.

And handsome.

"Oh," I said, a little breathless. "I think it's… grand."

Grand?

The guy smirked. "Really," he teased.

"Yes." I mock-glared. "Why, what do you think?" I asked, expecting some sarcastic quip that may or may not charm the pants off of me.

The guy turned to the photo. Then, taking me completely by surprise, said, "I think it's about finding true love. Not any specific type of true love, but just finding it, and letting it take you where it wants to go."

I waited for a few seconds, but he continued to look at the picture, nodding to himself thoughtfully. "Yes. I haven't looked at it for long, but if I had to really think about it, it's probably the most romantic piece in the gallery."

My mouth dropped open. I took another look at the buildings, and contained the urge to snort. "Uh, if you don't mind my asking… How?" I mean… "As in, seriously? That's what you see? Where does it show that?"

He never once took his eyes off the picture, giving me a close-up view of his profile. He looked like the rich type, charming and personable and the envy of other boys. I noticed he wasn't wearing the latest in footwear. He had on good 'ol boat shoes.

He spoke. I noticed that he leaned forward, almost as if reading some tiny words on the wall. "Well, look at it."

I see buildings of some nondescript city. I looked on.

"This doesn't look like some ordinary street view. It's slightly tilted to the side, almost as if he'd just made a right turn. Right there." I felt his breath on the top of my head, such was the height difference between him and me. I let his words paint the picture for me. "I mean, yeah the buildings are great and all, but it's not really the focus here. See over here?"

He pointed to somewhere at the corner. It was small, and very far from where the picture was taken, but the outline looked clear enough.

"It's a woman," I said. I faced him to find him facing me. "You're saying he's following her?"

He nodded. "Or she."

Huh. When put like that, I supposed the picture did look very romantic. It was even shot in the early evening, with the sky a perfect hazy orange.

He made a coughing sound beside me.

I narrowed my eyes.

He raised his wine glass to his mouth.

"Oh my god." I made a (weird) squeal of annoyance. "You're shitting me!"

Immediately, he shook his head, eyes wide. "No," he said, putting a hand on his vintage T-shirted chest. "I'm Edward."

I groaned, and, finally, he laughed a boisterous, annoying laugh, so deep and heartfelt I thought him maniacal.

I felt too incensed—not to mention idiotic—to laugh along with him. I read the description box.

Architecture in the City. Jasper Hale. March 2020. A view of a crowded street in Houston.

I looked at the guy next to me. He'd stopped laughing and was eyeing me with a decidedly amused look.

"I'm sorry, but that was really good, you have to admit."

Some part of me really wanted to laugh, but I didn't. "Is this what you do, then? Prank on clueless girls at art galleries?"

"You consider yourself a clueless girl at an art gallery, then?" He tilted his head to the right, motioning for us to move along.

I stood on the spot.

"Aw, come on. Please?" He offered his arm but retrieved it when I motioned to swat it away.

"Why should I?" I said, although I started following him. We were in a crowded place, and it wasn't a big deal. It probably helped that he was good-looking and tall and talked so confidently.

His answering smile that awaited me only helped his case more and more.

"Let's move on to the next picture, eh? I think this one's about a man serenading his long-lost wife or something."

It was time to leave the art gallery. We stood outside the museum, among the crowd that was slowly dispersing homewards.

"Well I had fun," he said, giving me a crooked grin.

"Yeah, me too," I answered, nodding. "What was your name again?"

"Edward."

"Bella."

"Yeah, I remembered."

We shook hands.

We smiled and laughed in a nervous kind of way.

"You know what's gonna happen next, right?" He was grinning again and his deep voice nearly pulled me in right there.

And then they kissed.

That was what my mind was directing, anyway. But in reality I laughed, a little nervously, and said, "You're gonna go psycho and kill me in a back alley?"

He shrugged. "There's that. Or we could meet again at another art gallery and trick you into thinking I'm the philosophical type."

"Sure," I said.

"But seriously, it was fun. Too many people take these things too seriously. All that for a bunch of crap photos taken by a crap guy?"

"I think I've had enough of your opinion on Jasper Hale's artwork—and of Jasper Hale—to last a lifetime."

"I'm serious. I can't believe I have to write an article on this. At least you just have to look at it. I actually talked to the guy, and he was all stand-offish, I barely got a question in before he bolted himself out from the room."

"That's what you get for being a pesky journalist."

"Yeah, yeah, Miss Grade School Teacher." He looked around. "So, uh, you going home now? Where're you headed?"

I grinned at his nervousness. It was adorable, and he made me feel more confident than I should. "I'm just going home."

"Calling a cab?"

"No, just walking."

"Oh."

"Yeah, so you can stop stalking me now."

"Fine, there goes my Saturday night," he said, mocking disappointment. "I guess I should go too. But anyway, you're not getting off easy."

I raised a brow.

"Give me your number. Or your last name," he frowned at the last bit. "Mine's Cullen, by the way. I'm Edward Cullen."

Without thinking about it too much, I said, "Bella Swan."

"Bella Swan," he repeated, nodding to himself. "OK, Bella Swan. Can I have your number now?"

He sensed my hesitation because he chuckled, looking up at me with suddenly shy eyes. "… Or not?"

I bit my lip. "No, I'll give you my number."

He handed me his phone, unlocking it and waiting.

"But?" he prompted.

But I'm too nervous to actually make this thing happen with you. I don't do this. I never do this.

"But… don't expect much?"

He smiled, politely. I felt horrible because I knew I ruined the moment, the whole night, whatever was going on between us. Here was a decent guy, and I was dropping him like a hot potato.

He had a lot of girls in his contact list, I noticed.

I put down my fingerprint, letting the phone look through whatever it needed to look through to pull out my relevant info. Add new contact? I pressed Yes.

"OK, I get it, I get it," he assured, taking back the phone. "Nice picture," he remarked before pocketing it. I stepped back.

"Sorry," I said, as if it would diffuse the awkward.

He cringed.

I resisted apologizing again. "I should go." I thumbed to the direction I was headed.

"All right. Well, have a good night," he said, staying where he stood.

"You too."

The next morning, I woke up with 3 texts from Edward. They were all from last night.

The first one, sent at 11:45 pm, said, Hey, this is Edward Cullen. Just wanted to say it was nice meeting you.

The second text, sent at 12:07 am: Also maybe I came off a little intense tonight, but I want to let you know I'm not that kinda guy.

Lastly, sent at 12:10 am: We can be friends if you want to :)

I stood up from bed, seeing it was almost 10 o'clock. It was a Sunday, meaning I really had nothing to do. I went ahead and ate breakfast, drank coffee, and cleaned the apartment a bit. It seemed Jess and Angela weren't here.

I returned to the phone sitting on my bed. I mulled over what to say as I sat on the couch outside.

This was stupid. I'd read the text. He probably knew it, too, because I kept read receipts on.

I turned on the TV. The Pride and Prejudice and Zombies credits were on pause.

Maybe I should watch the movie before I respond.

But it wasn't until 7 pm—ridiculously later—that I typed out a response: Haha okay, we can be friends :D

And that, dear friends, is how you shoot romance in the face.

Surprisingly, I got a response from him in ten minutes.

It said: Cool.

Double tap.

Please tell me this kinda stuff has happened to you guys?!