ISABELLA 1: AT THE ER
Isabella had tried to kill herself, but not very effectively, because she was afraid of the actual dying part. She had been discovered by an early-returning step-mother, married to her step-father Phil who was all she had left after her own mother had died from a drug overdose (accidental, in her case) a few years before.
The step-mother's reaction had been anger and rejection, not wanting anything more to do with the mounting medical costs of therapy and drugs that don't work (in part because Isabella doesn't take them) and the unrelenting drama of a self-hating, unloved teenaged girl around the house. She bundles a half-coherent Isabella into the car and drops her off at the downtown emergency room, not staying and with instructions to the social worker to ship her to any psychiatric facility that will take her, as long as the state pays for it (Isabella, as an orphan—for she has not been adopted by either Phil or his new wife—does have Medicaid, for the time being anyway).
Isabella snaps out of her daze when the nurse tries to make her drink liquid charcoal (she had overdosed on the very psychiatric drugs she was pretending to take, along with some Tylenol for good measure—it was actually the Tylenol that was most in danger of damaging her vital organs) and refuses, then fights the nasal tube they try to put down. They have to strap her down and wheel her into an operating room and have the ER doctor/surgeon (Edward Cullen, of course) thread the nasal tube, which pisses him off. Why? Because he looks down at this beautiful teenage girl and sees the absolute waste of the situation, of the culture, of the whole human enterprise whose dregs and rejections and cast-offs wash into his life in crisis over and over again to be patched up only to return again in worse shape later. It's part of the job, but he's at that point where he's lost the save-the-world mentality that made him take the job and is teetering precariously on the point of burn-out.
Seeing Bella, to whom he has an unwelcome physical draw as she is quite beautiful in a delicate, pale-skinned, waif-like (she's been trying not to eat too) way, makes him fall entirely off the cliff of professionalism into the raging seas of anger at the universe, and he yells at her while inserting the nasal tube that will save her life, or at least her liver.
Well, it's not yelling, it's calmly spoken words of contempt and condemnation, which for Bella is worse. But she's grateful for the shame as it washes over her in response to his unkind, impatient, most unempathetic words because she feels the shift in her own psyche as the last barrier against an effective ending of her life washes away. She still begs the nursing staff for a different doctor, however, for she feels as if being condemned as thoroughly as she feels she should be (but hopes she shouldn't be) by the handsome, painfully-masculine (painful because of his sheer disapproval, for she's been trying for masculine approval of any sort all her life, with predictable and sad results) doctor who yelled at her feels unendurable and like a hell worse than anything the devil underneath could cook up.
At least one of the nursing staff is sympathetic, as everyone has heard how Edward Cullen lost his cool over this otherwise unremarkable girl, and he (one Mr. Emmett McCarty) not only arranges for Dr. Whitlock to step in for follow-up and discharge but chastises Edward in the men's locker room of the hospital workout facility later that night as they take their regular break for a little one-on-one on the basketball court.
Later, as the shift winds down towards morning, Edward comes into the nursing station and overhears Emmett finishing a phone call, arranging transport to the worst psychiatric facility in the state—a supposedly-secure facility where most of the violent types that are dropped by the penal system end up.
He has a bad, bitter feeling in his gut, and though he tries desperately to hold on to not-caring, he can't help but ask as Emmett hangs up, "Who's getting deep-sixed there tonight?"
Emmett sighs and says, "That little girl you yelled at in the OR. Fuck, I hate this job sometimes."
"What the fuck?" Edward's outrage is instant as much as it is insensible to him. "She's just a baby! They'll eat her alive there!"
Emmett just shrugs his shoulders. "What am I supposed to do, man? She's medically resolved, her step-family won't take her back, and she's an obvious suicide risk. It's the only place with an open bed tonight."
"Shit," Edward curses, as he flings the chart he was working on into its proper slot and stalks off for a badly-needed cigarette, the first in weeks.
He goes up the stairs to the roof, an exit that's supposed to be secure but regularly isn't due to a malfunctioning lock and an inadequate facilities budget for the inner-city hospital. Lighting up, he leans against a ventilation unit and tries to find his professional detachment, then notices another person less than 20 feet away, leaning over the railing as if examining the roof of the attached building far below.
In a heartbeat, he recognizes in the rising sun the outline of the very girl whose disposition to the worst place in Washington state had sent him up there and made him relapse in his temporary triumph over nicotine. At once, the anger and bitterness leave and a curious new resolve takes their place. Somewhere, a self-protective voice attached to his high level of social and professional achievement raises an alarm, but it's easily ignored at the end of an overnight shift such as this has been.
Feeling like a mountain lion stalking its next meal, Edward moves quickly and silently to stand next to the girl against the railing. She had been so involved in her inspection she hadn't heard him arrive, and startles hugely when he speaks, "So how's the view?"
He's not looking at her, but at the sunrise in the distance as she stares at him, wide-eyed with fear and shame. Her body shaking with adrenaline, she tries to think what to do and can't, so just stands there, waiting for the next miserable thing to happen to her.
She waits. And waits some more. Edward takes one last, lingering draw—the last he'll ever take—before flinging the cigarette on the roof and rubbing it out with his foot. Then, his back against the railing with a calm leisure he's starting to actually feel as he puts into motion a very dangerous plan, he pulls out his cell phone and texts Emmett down below. "Am feeling sick. Finished my charts. Is next shift doc on yet?"
A quick buzz signifies the return text. "Yep, ur good to go. Go home and get some rest. I'm on tonight; enjoy your vacay mother-fer."
Edward smiles. Emmett's a great cousin-in-law; an even better friend.
"Thanks; say hi to Rose for me," he types in response before starting a new message, this one to his sister, Alice.
"Allie cat, come pick me up please?"
Having sorted the disposition of the person standing, still staring at him, without her consent or even knowledge, Edward grins at her. He's feeling better than he has in years.
The grin is shocking to the girl. It's so beautiful, it's terrifying—and it's directed at her? She doesn't know what to do, so she drops her head and studies her feet. Then freezes when she feels a hand at her elbow, tugging.
"Come here and watch the sunrise with me. It's gorgeous this morning."
She stumbles over under the power of his pull, which doesn't stop til he's dragged her next to him, leaning against the railing. She stands there, speechless, as he drops her elbow and half-turns to look at her, looking at him.
"What's your name again?"
She can't think, but just blinks at him. Closing his eyes, Edward with his near-perfect recall remembers her medical chart and pulls up the name he had previously purposefully blocked from his consciousness. "Isabella Swan," he says with satisfaction and certainty.
The girl jumps, surprised he remembers; afraid what that means for her, certain it will be something bad because she is, in her painful and confused experience, such a bad person.
"Isabella," Edward repeats, with shocking—to both him and her—tenderness.
She starts to cry.
He laughs, a little snort, a shake of his head, an eye roll, and then—and THEN—his arm goes up and around the shaking shoulders of the girl next to him, pulling her in to a place she will never want to leave, and in a beautiful if limited miracle, won't have to: the safety of his arms, the comfort of his chest.
When the text comes that his sister's arrived, Edward stoops and grabs up Bella's legs with one arm while the other continues to hold her tightly against him, carrying her in a cradle hold down the stairs and out the back exit, devoutly praying the whole time that the security camera in that stairwell is as inadequate and inoperable as the one in the ER hallway.
The daylight is new when he moves as quickly as possible out the back door and to the loading area where his sister has obediently parked, opening the back door and sliding in with his precious cargo.
Alice is shocked; only her absolute loyalty and confidence in her big brother make it possible for her to drive away when told to with a strange girl in the back seat, curled up in her brother's arms, his scrubs and medical ID and her patient's gown telling Alice this isn't a wise idea.
They make it all the way to the underground parking garage of his apartment building before Alice speaks. And then it's only, "Edward? What the hell?"
"I know Allie. I don't know. I just couldn't…"
"Couldn't what?"
"Couldn't let her be sent to that snake pit. She never would have made it out. People die there, or because of there, Allie. She doesn't deserve to die. She deserves to live. Look at her!"
"I am looking at her, and I'm freaking out, because she looks like she's 12. Please tell me we didn't just kidnap a minor, Edward-please!"
"No, she's 18. Just barely, but she is."
"Well, thank God for that, I guess, but still—there has to be a better solution than this. Wasn't Jazz there with you?"
"Yeah, he's the one who flagged her for the psych ward." Edward can't help the bitterness in his voice even as he knows he would have done the exact same thing if he hadn't been kicked off her case.
Alice sighs. "Well, what are you going to do with her?"
"I don't know."
"You know you can't stay in the back seat of my car indefinitely, right?"
This makes Edward laugh and start to move towards exiting. "Would you call Mom for me? And maybe bring some clothes over that might fit her, if you have time?"
Alice rolls her eyes. "I'll make time, you idiot, and I'll pack you a bag for prison too while I'm at it."
"OK," he says, laughing again and moving, quickly now, to the elevator.
Alice stands by the car, hesitant to go with and hesitant to leave. "Do you need me?"
Edward looks back as he waits for the elevator to arrive. "Nah, Allie, we'll be fine; she's half-asleep already. Just call Mom for me and ask her to come with a late lunch, if she'd be so kind. We both need some sleep." The elevator doors open, and Edward turns to get on, then remembers something and says over his shoulder, " Tell your husband I'm sorry for causing him paperwork at change of shift."
ISABELLA 2: AT THE BAR
"Isabella Marie Swan!"
I knew that voice. Had, for one blissful two-month period in my life, looked forward to that voice arriving home with my makeup-artist mother from a long week on set, ready to consume all the food I had first dutifully, then eagerly, made during the week of their absence.
When Edward Cullen and my mother broke up, it was mutual. The age gap was too great, as was their idea of where they wanted to go in life. Edward was driven, not by his own success, but by the obscene amount of money and social capital he was poised to earn. He wanted to make the world a better place, and saw this as his opportunity to do it.
My mother wanted to enjoy the world, and though she admired Edward's drive, was even proud of it in an almost maternal way, she wanted no part of the sacrifice it entailed.
So she moved on to someone much more to her liking, my current step-father Phil, a nice-enough former pro-baseball player now camera tech (my mother got him in with her connections, and he's done well with his technical skill and easy-going nature).
I tried not to know whom Edward moved on to, but his growing status as a Hollywood star made that difficult. Besides, every once in a while we ran into him again in one of the down-home kinds of places he still liked to frequent, which aren't overly numerous in LA… especially a couple of hole-in-the-wall restaurants Mom had introduced him to while they were dating. And every time we saw him again, there was a different woman on his arm, at his table, in his life.
I was embarrassed how much this hurt my feelings. I wasn't jealous of them; not exactly. I knew they weren't likely to be around even as long as my mother was, and I didn't want to be the person he just took to whatever red-carpet award ceremony or fundraising gala he was attending that week.
But I did want to be near him; to be important to him. To feel the weight of those piercing green eyes on me, weighing whether I was well or not, determined to do whatever was necessary to keep me safe. And loved.
That's how I had felt when he was in my life. Loved, for the first time in my life.
It was amazing how fast I could grow used to it; even complacent. So much so that when Edward and my mom broke up, it was devastating—even more than my mom and dad's original divorce, which I couldn't remember, having only been 3 at the time.
No, this was far worse; the Friday night that didn't start with him waltzing in and saying, "Where do my girls want to eat tonight?" but with "Renee, we need to talk."
And then, it was me he wanted to "talk" with. I don't even remember what he said exactly; just some stuff about how great I was (I knew he was lying) and how he expected good things from me (I knew he wouldn't be around to see one way or the other), and how he would check in on me from time to time even though he wouldn't be seeing my mom anymore.
Inside, I'd rolled my eyes and said, "Yeah, right," in between the sobs that I couldn't quite keep on the inside only. My mom had been through enough boyfriends, and I had liked and become attached to enough of them—especially early on—for me to have figured out the likelihood of any of those things being true or actually happening.
I'd even begun to develop a suspicion that I was the reason my mom couldn't keep a relationship together for more than six months, though I was now past that suspicion as she is in her 5th year with Phil and shows no sign of sabotaging their marriage.
Unfortunately, Phil is one of her boyfriends I have had the least in common with, and been the least comfortable around, so the last 5 years have been hard ones—especially the first two when I was still in high school and initially living with them in their newlywed bliss. I finally had to admit defeat and move to my father's small town in Forks, Washington where he was the police chief.
Alright, I didn't admit defeat so much as try to kill myself and get stuck on a psych ward for a few days; as part of my negotiations to get the h#$% out of that miserable place, I agreed to the change, but it hurt me so much to know there would no longer be the remote possibility of running into…him there.
Once, a few months after my move, just before Thanksgiving, I thought I saw…him. Not in Forks; that was too much of an impossibility even for my desperate imagination–
Kind of like right now is too much. TOO MUCH. Because it's him, and he's here, staring at me—no, staring at the drink in my hand like it's the most vile thing he's ever imagined, let alone seen in real life.
And I'm stuck here, frozen in place, awkward as usual at the outer ring of a party I really did not want to be part of but which Phil, in all his well-meaning and totally clueless extraversion, had wrangled me an invitation to and worse, a ride. With his cousin. His gropey, sleazy, a little bit scary cousin named James, who had gotten me this drink even though I was still one year too young to legally drink it.
I've not actually had any of it yet; not more than the smallest pretend sips that did no more than make my eyes water with the smell of the liquor. I think James knows, because he just went to the bar to get me a different drink; one more "fruity," he said, along with, "You'll like it; trust me."
But I don't trust him, and I don't want to like it, and I just want to be home in my miserable little dorm room in Washington that, for all of its depressing qualities, is still infinitely better than here in LA, on my obligatory birthday trip to visit my mother. And even stuck in the house with her and Phil still intent on racking up as many PDA points as possible would still also be infinitely better than here, in this dive bar, surrounded by near-perfect strangers and dependent on a man who only seems sleazier and scarier as the night goes on. I had just been wondering what I would have to say to my mom on the phone to talk her into coming to get me; if pleading illness would be enough or if I would have to invent something worse, like witnessing a knife fight. Or a mob murder.
Only from the look in …his…eyes, it's not a mob murder I have to worry about. He's staring at James from ten feet away as James brings that fruity drink my way. He's got his head tipped to the side, and his eyes are now moving around the group behind me, sizing them all up, and from the look on his face he does not like what he sees.
I hear someone say, "Edward," and I look to his side to see an immaculately dressed woman—a stranger to me—put her hand on Edward's arm and say something quietly to him.
He doesn't even turn to look at her, but says something dismissive I can't make out then strides forward again, her arm falling off his as he moves quickly away from her, and towards me.
I still can't move; I feel like I'm not breathing but I'm pretty sure I must be, still being conscious and all. In three quick strides he is past me, not even acknowledging me any further than removing the glass of alcohol from my hand as he pulls me tightly behind him with a gentle but powerful grip on my right lower arm.
No, it's James he's staring down, and it's James he addresses first. In a cold tone like a spoken glacier moving unbelievably quickly across the stained barroom floor. "You realize she's underage."
It's not a question, and James doesn't answer it.
"Who are you? Her boyfriend?" James responds sarcastically, trying to belittle Edward Cullen and failing entirely, as well as giving Edward the perfect opportunity to take me away from James. James isn't very smart.
"No, I am her friend, and she is leaving now. I am taking this drink with me, and having it tested, and if you ever set foot in the same building as she is, let alone come within 20 feet of her, I will have its contents made known. Publicly, and to the police."
James tries to make a dismissive noise, but it comes out a little strangled. Which I don't fully understand; underage drinking is pretty common, isn't it? And it's not like I'm 16; I've just turned 20.
But I don't have time to figure anything more out because now Edward is spinning me around, and turning around to lead me out of the bar the way he had just come in. I can't really think with his arm heavy around my waist, and he still hasn't said one word to me, but I am hugely relieved. And despite my best efforts to maintain the emotional detachment that is my only hope of not completely losing it when he dumps me off at Renee's, I can't help it; I feel safe again. For the first time since that awful Friday night 5 years ago, Edward Cullen is here, in my life, making it seem worth living.
I am absolutely going to die when he's done with me this time.
XxXxXx
I am beyond irate as I lead little Bella out of the seedy bar my current girlfriend Kate likes for its attached pool hall. (She played a down-and-out bar waitress earning money as a pool hustler for her child's kidney transplant in a movie a couple years ago; the movie was just as bad as it sounds but she did pick up some excellent billiards skills.) Luckily we came here with friends—my sister and brother-in-law, to be precise—and it's my brother-in-law Jasper that I address on my straight line to the side door we came in. "Jazz, see Kate home safe, would you please?"
"Absolutely, bro," is his response, followed by, "You want me to take the drink?"
"I'll take that," breaks in Rosalie, my sister-in-law, whom I've just noticed standing with Alice, my sister. She and Emmett were to meet us here; he must be parking his ridiculous car. God bless Rose. She's a real ball-buster, personally but also professionally in her role as an assistant DA, and I've never been happier to see her.
"Thanks, Rose," I say, and I mean it. She doesn't bother with a response, more than a nod of her perfectly-styled head, being too intent on the other drink still in the bastard's hand by the bar. A few clicks of her obscenely-high heels, and she's plucked that one from him too, and now the SOB's really screwed because she's direct witness to his control of the beverage and the Royphenol that no doubt is in it too.
I don't see any of her interrogation, though I hear the details later from Alice, Jasper and Emmett, each in their own way. I don't need to know any more than she's on the case, and even that is just a bonus—I am selfish enough that all I really wanted was Isabella out of his clutches, and that's a done deal.
ISABELLA 3: IN THE HIGH SCHOOL CAFETERIA
"Isabella."
I cringe. I know that voice. Spent fall semester this year as science partner with that voice. Almost all the girls in this school, plus a couple of the boys, swoon over that voice.
Plus, he's the only one who calls me by my full first name. I asked him once, when we were working on a bio project in the library during science one day, why he calls me that when everyone else calls me "Bella." I'd been wondering for weeks, but could only manage to ask by blurting it out almost by accident.
He stared me down for what felt like a whole minute before answering, and all he said then was, "Because I like it." Then he continued on with talking about our project as if all possible questions on the point of my name had been answered.
And as far as he was concerned, I guess they had.
But I'm not going to let him run any more conversations with me. As a matter of fact, I am not going to have one more word of conversation with him—or anyone else, not even Angela—today, and especially not on the topic of the morning. So I am doing what yesterday would have been unthinkable. I am pretending I don't hear him and moving forward in line to pay.
Which is good, because he obviously doesn't care that much about talking to me because he hasn't said another word. I wish I could only feel the unaccustomed triumph at being the master of my own immediate destiny and protecting myself emotionally; those feelings are there, for the first time, but there's also a devastating sadness at so quickly having lost whatever meager opportunity might have just presented itself for a little glimmer of warmth and affection from that boy. Part of me really wants to turn around and look for him, and see if he will talk to me again. But I am not going to do that! I refuse to be that desperate. No, I am that desperate; I guess I just refuse to look that desperate. Because I think if I humiliate myself any more today, I really am going to have to kill myself, and that scares me.
Biology last semester was a torture-fest of just such glimmers of possibility from Edward Cullen, with me jumping all over them and doing whatever he asked and trying so hard to be whatever he seemed to want—within the parameters of what I could be, of course. I couldn't dress like Lauren Mallory, whom he took to Homecoming. I could never manage the social ease and graces of Tanya Denali, daughter of a big-wig Seattle surgeon and friend of Dr. Carlisle Cullen's, Edward's dad (rumor has it that Edward took her to a hospital fundraising gala in Seattle, and that they're now engaged… I'm kind of skeptical about the last part).
But I wasn't trying to be his girlfriend; I had no illusions about that. I just wanted to be his…well, I would love to be his little sister, like Alice. Technically they're twins, but she's so much smaller than him and came out second, so he calls her that. Which makes her mad.
Once I tried to tell her how lucky she was to have a big brother like Edward. We were working on an AP U.S. History project together at her house, and he'd just burst in to reclaim a cd she had "stolen" (his word). I don't have any brothers, or sisters—just Emmett, my cousin, who I'm living with now since my Mom got re-married and Charlie decided I was too much for him to handle. He didn't say that, of course; he just told me when I came home from the hospital last summer that he was taking me over to his half-sister's house for a while because they wanted me to visit. Only it's been obvious from the cobbled-together guest room and comments from her husband about "her" (me) even when I'm in the room that they didn't want me, but were just barely willing to take me.
So yeah, my self-esteem, which wasn't so great to start with, has definitely taken some more hits this fall. My dad's rejection hurt, but I understood it. He hates emotions; they make him acutely uncomfortable, which is as extreme as his own emotional life seems to go. I tried to keep my own extreme emotions in around him, and pretend they didn't exist; I just lost it when I found out my mom was going to have another baby with her new husband; another daughter. (She was born last month; her name is Claire, and she is, of course, adorable, going by the pictures my mom sends almost every day.) Maybe this daughter won't be such a disappointment to her.
Come to think of it, maybe I really should just get it over with tonight. What in the world am I hanging on for? Edward Cullen to be nice to me again? I don't think so. Even when we were lab partners and I would have to talk to him every school day, he drove me insane with his back and forth attitude towards me. Just when I'd think that he really liked me, and was going to be an actual friend, there'd be a break or the weekend would interrupt us and he'd return cold and non-committal like we started. More than once those abrupt switches in his interaction with me, or lack of interaction, had made me think hard about killing myself; and it was the desperation I felt at the end of the semester, when we were assigned our lab partners for the second half of the year and I knew my little time in a distant orbit of Edward Cullen's sun was over forever, that made me search out the website he had referenced in his report this morning. And really, that website is still my only and best hope for finding something to hang on to in this world, no matter what Edward Cullen thinks about it.
Remembering this morning, and his negative opinions about my lifeline on such public display, I flinch. I wish I had a jacket or sweatshirt to pull around me, or even better a blanket to wrap myself up in. I've been trying to pull down an iron curtain in my mind around all thoughts of this morning, but it's proving hard to contain. I keep seeing his eyes on me as he talked about…his topic, as if he were addressing only me when he talked about the dangers and vulnerabilities of…certain people on the site.
I definitely wanted to die then, and thought I might from pure humiliation, when people like Tyler Crowley and Mike started laughing and making fun of the discussion group Edward used as an example…the discussion group I just happen to be part of. He even printed out as part of his informational handouts for the class a copy of the group membership parameters, and the user name of my "mentor" on the site as well as a couple of my site friends are there for the world to see. Luckily not my user name though, although from what he said I know he's seen it. He basically used me as his report topic, albeit without actually naming me.
I feel like everybody knows, but maybe that's not true; I hope not. Angela for sure figured it out but I'd said something about it to her before. Maybe she's the only one who knows for certain, but there were more than one funny looks that came my way as Edward's talk went on. And on. Talk about humiliating!
So now here we are in the lunch-line to pay for our food (well, my Sprite; I'm not feeling anything but nauseous after this morning, even with having skipped breakfast) and he wants to resume the public humiliation. I don't think so, Edward None-of-your-Beeswax Cullen! At least that's what I'm saying inside. Like I said, on the outside I'm just pretending not to hear him.
But I can't avoid hearing his voice again, now in negotiation with the person behind me, and before I can do anything—like run away—he's now right behind me in line. He just nudged me! With his hand on my hip! He's leaving it there; should I shake it off? Should I run away? What should I—
"I know you hear me, little girl."
Oh, he's not! How dare he say that! It's too cruel. Am I this bad, Lord? Is this what I deserve? My eyes are filled with hot tears and I can't see and I know it's my turn next to pay but I can't think, and Edward Cullen just whispered something in my ear that he shouldn't know to say. How does he know to call me that?
And just like that, I know. I KNOW how he knows. Jasper.
XxXxXx
I can feel her falling to pieces in my hands, right in front of me. Shit! I have totally f'd this up. I should have listened to Jazz when he said it would be too much for her, but I needed to break her, just a little, in order to get her where she needs to be.
With me. With my family.
Well done, Asshole; you've broken her alright. Damage control, fast.
I wink at the lunch lady, who of course smiles back, and say as I'm steering a now visibly-shaking Isabella out of the lunch line and towards the nearest exit, "We'll be right back."
But we won't be. I'm getting her the hell out of here, and I'm doing it now.
XxXxXx
I can't see, I can't hear, I can't think. I know I'm moving forward, but I don't understand why. I was supposed to pay for my lunch, but I don't know where it is and I can't find my purse and I'm just moving. Just moving and trying not to think, or to feel, because otherwise I know something bad is going to happen.
There's quiet now. Thank God, there's quiet. I can run now—only I can't. Something's holding me back, something's—
"Isabella. No running, sweetheart. We're getting out of here, but we're doing it walking. Thatta girl."
Oh no; he's still here. He's still here! It's him slowing me down, dragging me back by the elbow. I can't let him! This hurts too much; I have to get free—
"Baby girl, if you don't stop fighting me I'm going to have to carry you. Is that what you want?"
I freeze at the strange threat. Carry me? Is he insane? I'm far too big—
Oh my G-! Edward Cullen is carrying me! Edward Cullen is carrying me!
XxXxXx
This is much better. I think she thinks so too; at least she's stopped shaking so hard and struggling and instead is curled up against my chest and hiding her face against me. It is the sweetest feeling ever. I spread one of my hands against her head, pulling her in just a little more tightly, letting her know I want her to hide there; I want her to disappear inside me.
Shit, here comes the vice principal. Take the direct approach; there's no pretending you're not about to carry a female peer out the side door to the parking lot-
"Mr. Anderson."
"Edward. Is something wrong with Miss Swan?"
"Yes, sir; she's having a panic attack."
"The nurse is this way, Edward."
"I know, Sir, but the nurse doesn't have her panic attack meds; the clinic does."
"You're taking her to the Clinic?"
"Actually, to her father at the Police Station. My Dad's going to meet us there with the meds."
"Were you going to notify the administration?"
"I'm sorry, Mr. Anderson. I thought my father had. I called him first because he's Bella's doctor and I knew he'd know what to do." There, that should do it. An apology and a reminder of my father's power and expertise in this community.
"Maybe we should call an ambulance—"
"Problem is, Sir, that would make her attack worse. Last time she was in an ambulance, she ended up catatonic for weeks." Slight exaggeration, but close enough. "Really, she just needs to get her meds and get out of a stressful environment for a few hours; she'll be fine tomorrow."
"Let me just confirm with the Clinic then." Chr-, he's not just going to let this go. How to manage this?
"Sir, I'm losing her here. Could you maybe just come with us instead?"
There. That shocked him. Maybe he'll –
"Why don't we send Ms. Weber along with you, Mr. Cullen. Ms. Weber? Are you willing to go?"
"Yes, sir, I'm glad to. Edward? What's wrong with Bella?"
Well, this is either the solution I need or a total disaster. Please, please Angela, read my eyes here: "Bella's having one of her panic attacks, Ang., and I need to get her to my father fast. Come with us and hold her hand in the car?"
One heartbeat. Two—
"Okay, Edward, but we better hurry. She just gets worse the longer we wait! May we go please, Mr. Anderson?"
God bless Angela Weber. She's not just booksmart.
"Alright, but be sure to have Dr. Cullen call me later. We need a better system for managing her condition. It's not really appropriate—"
I can't take any more. None of this is remotely appropriate for her; that's why I'm f-ing getting her out of here. I'm moving to the door, Angela running along beside me and opening it; I throw over my shoulder "Thanks, Mr. A., I'll have my Dad call."
And we're out.
XxXxXx
I'm not really sure what's going on right now, but I've decided to trust Edward Cullen. He really is a good guy; he never bullies the way a lot of the athletes do, and though he has a wicked wit, I've never heard him use it on anyone who didn't deserve it. And I know he looks out for Bella.
I tried to point that out to her last fall, but she not only didn't want to hear it, she covered her ears with her hands and started singing. So I took the hint and shut up. But that didn't stop me noticing…the way he looks at her; the way he hovers around behind her, throwing death glares at people who might get in her way or hurt her – accidentally or on purpose—and just keeping an eye on things. When we choose our own seats, he always picks one just behind and to the left of her. I don't think she realizes that, because she can't see him behind her, but he's there, subtly focused on her, oriented towards her.
And Lauren Mallory despises Bella for it. I've kind of wanted to yell at Edward about that, actually. About how he needs to man up and just ask her out or at least say something to Lauren to make her leave Bella alone. As it is, Bella's got the worst of both sides: no idea or real evidence that Edward likes her, and the meanest girl in Forks High gunning for her every chance she gets. It would not have been a surprise if she had developed a panic disorder, but I know that's not what's going on here.
Like I said, I'm not sure what is, except that it has something to do with the very strange presentation Edward gave in health class this morning. As part of our last obligatory round of sex ed., we each had to do a presentation on some aspect of the risks associated with premarital sex. I talked about the prejudice against teen mothers in the public education system—and yes, I was talking about the Forks High Administration, not that it will do any good at all. Insufferable jerks, all of them.
Bella did human trafficking, and it was a damn good presentation; even better than mine.
But Edward—Edward was supposed to be doing a talk on the STD infection rates of male athletes. That's not what he presented this morning. Instead, he gave a talk on the dangers of the "BDSM," you know, Bondage, Domination, Sado-Masochism—the black leather, whips and handcuffs bunch—community for people like Bella. He didn't actually use Bella's name, but he might as well have. He listed personality characteristics that fit her to a "t," and he used a term that I'd never heard before but was disturbingly accurate: "profoundly submissive." But then he went on to explain that the people promoting that term also promote a type of BDSM relationship called "slavery," and that really pissed me off.
It pisses off Edward too, I could tell.
It was really an excellent presentation; as good as Bella's. But obviously traumatic for B., and I think it's because she actually is part of a BDSM web community that talks about this stuff, and thinks this "slavery" business is a good idea. I mean, I know the name bothers her; she talked about it with me once, and how much it upsets her that modern people with no experience of the sort of systemic, power-based enslavement that used to exist in this country and still does here and around the world in more hidden ways would call themselves "slaves." And think it's a good thing!
But I know Bella, and I know deep down she really does want, maybe even "need," to belong to someone who will keep her safe, even from her own feelings, her own impulses. Which is kind of what I hoped Edward would figure out, and do for her, and since he's one bossy, domineering alpha-male, it seems like it could make them both happy.
I hope that's what's happening here, right now, as Edward jogs to his car with Bella in his arms pretending she's asleep and me following right behind. Because if it isn't…well, that would break my friend into a million pieces, probably forever.
XxXxXx
I hear a car door open, and it clears my head. All of a sudden, I can think, and what I'm thinking is: What am I doing letting Edward Cullen carry me around, like a baby? I am NOT a baby, and only bad things will happen from pretending I am, even for another moment.
So I sit up and try to stand. Only it's too late; as I move up, Edward's hand is pushing down on the top of my head and bending me forward as he gets into the car. With me now on his lap. "Whoa, Isabella; I've got you," he says, and I want to scream back, "No you don't! You're going to leave me again like you always do! Put me down and leave me alone!"
But what comes out is just, "Edward, I'm going to smush you." Not as a threat, just as an observation, because now all my weight is on his lap as he grabs my hips—as if touching me there is no big deal, and he has every right to wiggle me around however he likes, which makes my whole body feel on fire in an intoxicating way and my face in particular flame up in a humiliated way.
He laughs, one of his light, carefree, Edward Cullen laughs—oh, to be that confident and at home in the Universe! No one else laughs like Edward Cullen. My cousin Emmett comes close, though. He and Edward are really good friends, and Emmett is just as carefree, maybe more so. But he doesn't have as much money or social power as Edward, so though his belly-laughs are infectious and sometimes insensitive but never mean, at least not on purpose, he doesn't have the all-knowing overtone that makes Edward Cullen so darn aggravating sometimes.
And I am aggravated now. I do NOT want to be on his lap! I mean, obviously, part of me dreams of it every day, but not like this! Not out of some strange pity party he decided to throw for me today! I want to be on his lap because I belong there; because he wants me there. Which is the most ridiculous idea ever, and I know it, and that's why I need off of his lap RIGHT NOW!
XxXxXx
Whoa—my girl is freaking out. And Angela is just sitting in the driver's seat instead of using the keys I threw to her after unlocking the car.
"Let's get this show on the road, shall we?"
Ah, shit. Angela's looking grim. Don't wuss out on me now, preacher's kid.
"Edward, she seems upset."
"I noticed that, Angela. That's why we need to get her out of here, as soon as possible."
"Angie? Are you there?" my girl pipes up, the hysteria running out of all the cracks in her voice.
She can't make a positive ID because I have her body in lock-down, with her head tucked under my chin and oriented towards the side window. We're belted in together, and that helps, but I've also got my arms in an unbreakable X across the front of her, and my legs crossed over hers. She can't really move, but she's trying with all her might, stubborn, sweet little girl of mine.
"Yes, Bella, it's me; are you alright?"
I let go of one side of Bella in order to hold her head against my chest while I turn my own head to glare at Angela and shake my head. I mouth, "No talking like she's got choices!"
Of course, Angela looks at me blankly, and I suck it up and speak out loud for both the girls—one near-woman, the other…not—to hear: "Angela, she's going to fight me until she feels secure, which isn't going to happen in the school parking lot. Please, I'm begging you, get us out of here before Principal Anderson decides to check on us!"
The mention of that possibility makes my girl stop fighting for the moment, and also thankfully puts Angela into motion. She backs out of the parking space and drives quickly, if carefully, to the parking lot exit before asking, "Where are we going, Edward?"
I notice the "we" in her question, and debate arguing it, but decide I can't afford to do so until she's gotten us where we need to go. And right now, where we need to go is unfortunately to meet with Bella's father.
I want desperately just to take Bella home and put her to bed. In my shirt; in my bed; in my room; in my home. It's what she wants, and what she needs I am certain of it. But unfortunately, Chief Swan is proving a little difficult to convince on this point, thinking she's doing OK at his brother- and sister-in-law's house.
I know he's wrong, and I know how I'm going to prove it. But I don't think he's going to believe it without Bella present for visual confirmation. And THAT is going to suck, for Bella and therefore for me.
So I wonder again if there isn't a better way to prove my case, and I turn—still holding tight to the wiggle-worm once more in my lap—to Angela, and ask while she's waiting at the exit to hear which way to go, "Does Bella keep a journal?"
XxXxXx
I feel my stomach drop when I hear Edward's question. Yes, I'd be willing to bet (if I gambled) that Bella has a journal—name one angsty teenaged girl that doesn't have a journal. I know I do.
I also know that I would literally die in an epic maelstrom of humiliation if anyone else ever read that journal; even Bella. Let alone the boy I'm interested in! (Yes, I'm "interested" in somebody. Just because my dad's a minister and I'm determined to get into medical school and out of Forks doesn't mean I'm immune to teenaged feelings.)
So what is Edward Cullen getting at? And do I help him get at that, whatever it is, or do I turn off the car right now and go back into the building to get Mr. Anderson and put a stop to this situation that could either go so well, or so badly, for my best friend?
I never had a best friend before Bella. I was always the extra person; the third wheel. I like being a best friend, and I love Bella even more. Yes, I've been worried about her; she's not exactly well-designed for high school, and her family situation stinks. But this—intervention Edward has cooked up…maybe it's all clueless teenaged boy and not the rescue I was hoping for?
XxXxXx
Oh my G-. Oh my G-! OH MY G-! Edward Cullen's going to read my journal! EDWARD CULLEN'S GOING TO READ MY JOURNAL! Please L-, please just let me die now. PLEASE!
XxXxXx
Well, this couldn't be going any shittier. Angela is staring at me like I've grown horns, and my girl has tears running down her face. Let's start with the tears…
"Hey now, baby girl, you're okay; there's nothing to cry about, Isabella, I promise you," and as I say this I'm one-arming her again and using the palm of my other hand to wipe off as much moisture as I can—only it keeps being replaced with more.
I feel the first cold course of fear down my back, and I don't like it. I swing my head to give Angela my best bitch-brow (I've had lots of practice on the receiving end), and say like I mean it, "Ang., let's get to Emmett and Bella's house, quickly please. The faster we deal with this, the sooner I can put her out of her misery."
Shit, that sounds like I'm going to euthanize a horse.
"Edward, I'm not sure that's a good idea—"
I break in; I have to. "Angela, it's an excellent idea. All I need is some evidence that all is not hunky-dory with Bella right now, and I'd say that much is obvious but you know her father as well as I do, and Chief Swan is not going to listen to us or look at her crying and say, 'Something needs to be done!' or he would have done something a long time ago. We need proof for that idiot, and you and I both know where to find that proof, and it's better than the other proof I have that involves internet…stuff…that I really don't think she wants to talk about with her father!"
Good, I'm getting through to both of them. Angela is shaking her head, slowly, like she's really weighing what I'm saying and failing to come up with a counterargument—which she won't, because I'm right—and Bella, my Isabella, is crumbling into a crying mess against me, giving up her fight for now.
"You're going to…my…please don't!"
There! There it is; she's given in. It's in her words; begging me instead of yelling at me or threatening or downright refusing. And it's definitely in her body; she's just completely collapsed in a curled-up heap, no more fight, no more resistance—for the moment, anyway. And what a precious moment! My beautiful baby girl has given in! To me. Is it wrong that I feel elated right now?
You know, I don't give a f- what anyone else thinks about wrong or right as it involves Isabella Swan anymore. She's mine, to do with as I please, and I am beyond happy about it! Now all I have to do is figure out how to keep her mine, for good.
xXxXxX
I'm not sure what I've been waiting for; despite being well-versed, literally, in all the biblical testimony of miracles and prophets, I don't believe in signs from God. Only in the human psyche desperately wishing for signs, and making them up as needed.
But I may be wrong, because the look on Edward's face as he holds Bella, a totally sobbing, snot-running-down-her-cheeks Bella, and strokes her hair and says things—just now he said, "It's OK, baby girl; I've got you, and this time I'm not going to let you go, ever again, no matter what. You hear me, sweetheart? You're mine," with such love, and intensity, that you can't help but be certain he means every word and that look…well, it may not be a sign per se, but it is evidence that Edward is seriously in love with my friend, and very serious about helping her.
Which means I better get us to her house before some clueless authority figure screws it up.
XxXxXx
Lord, I've tried not to give in today. I've tried to be good, and to be strong and self-reliant the way I should be; the way Charlie and Renee want me to be, and Aunt Ellen too. But what am I supposed to do when Edward Cullen physically won't let go of me?! I can't help that, Lord!
Of course, I don't really want to get away from him either, but I have tried; I really have. The only thing that trying has done is made him hold me more tightly—and I won't lie, that feels…I have no words for how good that feels. So I'm kind of out-of-control crying right now, and I know there's a scary reason why, but I'm kind of letting that scary reason go and I'm just going to be relieved for a little while instead. I'm just going to curl into his chest and listen to his heart and feel his talented, sensitive fingers comb through my hair and gently wipe tears off my face and just move against my skin and I'm going to think about how good it feels and nothing else. Absolutely nothing else….
BATMAN (Or, POLICE OFFICER EDWARD):
"I know that girl. Shit!"
And he's out of the car before his partner can say anything more than "Edw-", which Edward ignores.
Moving swiftly, he comes up behind a scared-looking Bella, shoulders hunched against the wind and her growing fear of her surroundings and the coming night. Not wanting to blow his cover if he can help it, Edward assesses quickly how to manage the situation. A few steps later, just before an alley, he wraps a hand over Bella's mouth and an arm around her waist, pushing her into the alley.
She goes limp in surprise, then starts to struggle, but before she can put any fight into it Edward is leaning down and whispering in her ear, "Hush Bella; it's me; it's Edward. I'm going to get you out of here, but you have to be absolutely silent. Don't say my name out loud, okay?"
Bella is so relieved she's starting to sob, only no noises can come out because Edward still has her mouth covered. Instead, her knees go weak and she collapses into Edward's arms as she nods her head, and he gingerly removes his hand as his arm around her waist tightens to hold her upright.
He waits a second, then two, and when Bella stays silent, just twisting to look up into his face with the sweetest combination of incredulity, relief and … there's no better way to describe it than "puppy love," a fact that makes Edward's own heart burst with a grown-up kind of protective love, Edward leans in again and whispers, "Good girl, sweetheart; you're my good girl."
At this, Bella gets out a sob and flings herself into Edward's chest, wrapping her arms tightly around him.
Edward smiles, then scoops up her legs and starts moving forward, knowing the longer they stand there, the bigger the chances that something bad will happen. Quickly he walks them both to the car, opening the back door and climbing in with Bella as his partner has moved to the driver's seat in his absence.
They're underway for several minutes, long enough to clear the neighborhood dominated by the drug-selling gang they're trying to take down, before Edward's partner Riley finally explodes, "Go , Edward, what the fu$# was that?"
Edward lifts his eyes to the rearview mirror and gives Riley a cutting stare, adding, "Language, Riley; there's a civilian in the car."
"Exactly my point, asshole. This wasn't a good night for a ride-along. You could have blown our cover!"
"Could have, but didn't. And this, Riley, is Miss Isabella Swan, my girl."
"Your girl? You finally give that Tanya the boot? And if so, may I have her?"
"Yes, my girl. And I haven't dated Tanya Denali for 6 months Riley; no boot was needed. I will, however, be putting a boot up your backside if you don't clean up your language around my lady."
"Well, which is she, Edward? Your girl or your lady? Because I have to say, I'd worry about my health if I was picking up ladies from this neck of the woods."
"You'll worry about your health if you make one more crass comment in front of Isabella."
"Okay, okay; just answer me this: What the hell was your girl doing in the middle of a drug war zone?"
"That is an excellent question, and one I intend to get an answer to."
Just then, Edward's phone rings and he pulls it out, saying "Speak of the devil" as he sees the name on caller id. Answering, he says, "Rosalie Hale, do you have any idea where your cousin is?"
Nonplussed, a nervous, anxious, guilt-stricken Rosalie answers back very hesitantly for her, "No, that was actually why I was calling. How did you know?"
"Because she's sitting in my stake-out car with me in a very undesirable section of downtown. What the f-, Rose; you said you would take better care of her!"
Rose gets defensive, blurts back, "You try taking care of her! She's always wandering off places. I swear she's trying to get killed. I have a lot going on here; all I did was send her to pick up a dual stroller that someone in Westchester was giving away for free on Craig's List. How dangerous is that?"
"Well, seeing as I found her in the worst part of fu**ing West Village, apparently extremely dangerous, Rose. We agreed: no public transit alone for her."
"I know I did, but it's ridiculous! She's 23, Edward; she's not a child!"
"Christ, Rosalie, you still don't get it, do you? But you know what, that's not a problem, because she's mine now."
"What?" Rosalie shrieks.
"You heard me. I gave you one more chance to get your shit together and take advantage of your cousin without endangering her. You failed; she's mine. End of story."
"Oh, as if she's going to be any safer living in that bachelor dump of yours!"
"That would be a semi-valid criticism if it were accurate. We're going to be living at Esme and Carlisle's until the house in Brooklyn is ready."
"House in Brooklyn? What are you doing, Edward?"
"I told you. I'm taking care—good care, for once—of Isabella. She's mine now. Go freak out at Emmett; he'll take it better than I will, and call when you're over yourself and your own f'in petty-a-nt problems and you want to schedule a time to come see your cousin at her new home. We'll be available for visitors on Sunday."
And Edward disconnected the call, shoving the phone back in his pocket.
"Please don't get in trouble with Rosalie because of me, Edward. It's okay; I knew she was going to be mad at me. I'll just go to the right place tomorrow, and she won't be mad anymore," Bella speaks earnestly, her face tilted up to his from her sheltered, blissfully content place in his lap, her legs curled up against his side, her arms still wrapped around his neck and shoulders.
Studying her open face for a moment, Edward smiles slowly as Bella blushes and lowers her eyes. As her head starts to tip down too, Edward catches it with his hand under her jaw, gently but firmly keeping it up so he can place a tender kiss on her forehead. Then the tip of her nose. Then both cheeks. And finally, taking a really long time to do it, a chaste but lingering kiss on her very own lips.
Isabella squeaks as she feels his lips descend on hers, and first goes rigid then tries to pull away. But Edward's ready for her, and wraps his arms more tightly still so that she can do no more than jerk slightly at his lips' unprecedented presence in her personal space. And then, as he lingers there, because it pleases him and because he's sending her a message both about his desire for her and his power to keep her safe even over her own objections, she melts into him again, body and lips.
As he feels her lips give way under his, Edward smiles and pulls away, placing one more sweet kiss on her forehead as he goes.
Bella squeaks again after his retreat, her face aflame, then turns and smooshes her face into Edward's chest, trying to bury her embarrassment.
Edward puts a hand heavy on the back of her head to keep her there, and laughs with the joy, the pure, unadulterated joy, of the moment. He hadn't let himself imagine it- the satisfaction and utter rightness of claiming Isabella-during waking hours, but he had dreamt of it more than once and was not disappointed by the reality, as enticing as the dreams were.
Instead, his happiness is growing by the second as he strokes her thick, brown hair with one hand and rubs circles on her hip with the other. Finally, they reach the drop-off spot for the car, where Edward and Riley have stashed their personal vehicles.
Riley's communicating with their supervisor on his phone while Edward starts to exit the backseat with Isabella, not wanting her to overhear the colorful commentary his partner is offering about her unexpected appearance in the middle of their high-stakes operation or Edward's own motivations for jeopardizing his job this way. But he stops still—rigidly still—with one leg out the door when he hears a soft, breathy voice asking him, "Daddy, where are we going?"
After an endless moment of listening to the question, so innocently asked, echo in his mind, burning—no, branding-him with each glorious repetition, Edward finally clears his throat and answers as he lifts Bella out of the car, slamming the back door shut and moving quickly to the passenger side of his own Volvo. "To Auntie Esme's and Uncle Carlisle's, sweetheart," he answers decisively, grateful that Riley appears to have been too caught up in his phone conversation to catch Bella's terminology.
His own mind in tumult with the adrenaline of the evening so far and the disturbing rightness of Bella's seemingly non-self-aware name for him, Edward tries to focus on the job of situating her comfortably in the front seat. He's leaning in with her arms still wrapped around his neck, fastening the seatbelt; finally the only thing remaining is to separate her arms from him so he can move around to his side of the car and get them someplace safe, and private.
But Isabella's arms remain tight around him, her eyes closed, her face averted from him.
Pausing a few moments, trying to guess how best to handle this situation and how to understand her new reluctance to physically separate from him, as welcome and satisfying as it is inconvenient in the moment, Edward finally places his own hands gently on her arms though doesn't start to pull until speaking first.
"Sweetheart, I'm going to have to let go of you now so I can get us home for the night. As soon as we're there, I promise you can hold on to me as tight as you want for as long as you want."
Bella startles at his words, and her eyes snap open as if she's been woken abruptly from a deep dream. Looking around at her surroundings for the first time since before Edward found her, she snatches her arms back to her own body, wrapping them around herself.
"Shit," mutters Edward, as he sees tears start to build in her eyes. More loudly, he says, "It will just be a few minutes, Sweetheart." He knows he needs to close the door and move to the driver's seat; get them out of there and on the way to Carlisle and Esme's for the night. But there's something in the way she's looking at him that scares him, and makes him unwilling to turn his back and separate from her for the few moments it will take to do so.
He understands his own hesitation better when she looks up at him, only not quite in his eyes, but over his shoulder, fear writ large in her own eyes. "Um, I'm sorry, Edward," she mumbles.
"What?" He cringes at his own ineloquence, but can't come up with anything better to express his shock at the change in her attitude and expression. What happened to the grateful little girl he'd just been holding?
"I; I know how to get home from here," she offers, undoing the seatbelt he had so carefully and lovingly fastened and starting to rise from the seat, moving forward to go around his body still standing inside the open car door.
"Like Hell you do," Edward responds, a little louder than he meant to, moving in and grabbing hold of her waist to drag her back down into the seat.
She fights, then caves, plopping back down and flopping back against the seatback, huffing out a garbled sigh and wiping the tears that are now starting to fall.
At just this inopportune moment, Edward's partner comes up behind him and says, "Well, I hope you're ready to deal with the Captain tomorrow. He's PISSED."
Edward turns and hisses, "I'm a little busy here, Alex; read me the riot act tomorrow, okay?"
"Okay, okay man," Alex says, holding up his hands and backing away a little. "What the f #$'s gotten into you? You were all lovey-dovey two minutes ago."
"Just…let me off the hook tonight, please? Give me shit tomorrow, I deserve it, but tonight—tonight, I just need to get her home."
Alex stares at him, weighing, trying to figure out what to make of this new Edward Cullen that he's never seen before. He looks down for a minute at the girl, the surprising, maddening girl, and he notices the tears streaming down her cheeks, and recognizes the tension of a body ready to make a break for it at the first opportunity.
Not taking his eyes off her, he says to Edward more quietly than he'd been speaking before, "Looks like you're going to have a hard time of that, my friend."
Edward lowers his head and turns back towards Bella to follow Alex's stare, sees what Alex is talking about and confirms his own growing fear, then turns away from Bella again with one more whispered curse. "Shit."
Setting aside his anger and resentment, not to mention lingering fear, over how the night had gone, Alex reaches his hand out and touches Edward's arm briefly. "Hey, you need some help?"
Edward lifts his head, looks at his partner—they've never really been friends, but they've worked effectively together for over a year, and that means something, to both of them—and grins. "Hell, yes. You offering?"
Alex smiles back. It's impossible to stay mad at Edward Cullen. He's tried before, so he knows this already. "Yeah, you asshole, I guess I am. But only because you were a lucky sonofabitch and didn't get us both killed tonight."
"The night's still young," Edward quips back, digging in his pocket for his car keys and throwing them to Alex.
"And so's she," Alex replies, nodding his head towards the girl in the front seat as he catches the keys. "What's the story here, anyway?"
"It's a long one, but she's not as young as she looks—chronologically, anyway."
"What the fuck does that mean?"
"It means her body's 23 but her…being isn't."
"She retarded?" Alex asks in a stage whisper.
"Chr!#$, Alex, no she isn't, and she's not deaf either. I'll explain tomorrow."
"Fine. Where am I driving you?"
"To my uncle and aunt's house in Brooklyn, please. 121 95th Street."
"Shit, that's not a house; that's a mansion."
"Yeah, well, Carlisle's old money, and I'm not sure it counts as a mansion if it's in Brooklyn, not the City."
"It counts." Alex's family is not old money.
"Alright," Edward sighs, tired of the class battle he always seems to be fighting with the rest of the department. Most trust fund babies—other than him—do not become cops; he understands this. "It's a mansion. Just drive us there. Please?"
"Yeah, man, whatever," Alex says easily, mollified, as he moves around to the driver's seat and slides in.
Turning to look at Edward who has picked up Bella and is sliding into the front passenger seat himself, Alex says, "You both going to ride there?"
"Is there a problem with that?" Edward asks, nonchalantly, as he arranges Bella's body on top of himself again. And she takes the very welcome opportunity to hide her face in his chest again.
"Well, it doesn't seem very safe," Alex offers as he throws the car into drive.
"Since when does a lack of safety concern you?" Edward asks, amused.
"Since I'm chauffeuring your girl around town," Alex answers, irritated. "You gonna be so free and easy when the airbag goes off right on top of her?"
"Just make sure it doesn't," Edward replies, nonchalant once more. Truth is, he's weighed the risks in his own mind and thinks the most pressing one right now is Bella making a break for it from the back seat. His sports car doesn't have child-safety locks, so he can't think of any safer arrangement than having her on his lap and hoping to avoid any accidents and airbags.
They make it to the Cullens' without further comment or incident, and a grateful Edward sees his uncle at the door as they arrive in the drive in front, ready to lend assistance that Edward is happy to accept. Bella is more or less asleep by now, or in a thorough state of denial, and she allows herself to be lifted up and into Dr. Cullen's arms while Edward exits the vehicle and thanks Alex, who's busy calling an Uber driver to come take him back to his own car at the rendezvous point. Pressing enough cash into Alex's hand to cover the ride and five more like it if Alex so chose, Edward says a very genuine, "Thank you. Really."
"Well, you're really welcome—I think. Just don't pull a stunt like this again."
Edward grins; promises easily, "I won't."
"Alright then. Catch you tomorrow," and Alex moves off to wait for his ride on the curb, Edward echoing with "See you tomorrow," then turning and taking the cement steps up to his uncle and aunt's overly large brownstone three at a time.
XxXxXx
Later that week…
"What if we have a little girl, and she's just like me?"
"Then I'll be a very happy Daddy, to both of you."
"No, I mean, what if—what if she's…socially awkward, and…kind of, not smart too?"
"Bella baby, you're brilliant, and the only social awkwardness comes from other people who don't know what to make of your genuine heart."
"But Edward, she'll have to grow up, and then—what if she doesn't find someone to take care of her the way you do for me? What if she has to be alone?"
"Was it hard to be alone, sweetheart?"
Bella nods her head; starts to cry.
Edward pulls her in to him, cradling her against him, holding her head to his chest with his large hand cupping the base of her skull, he so aware of the preciousness of what he's protecting.
"It won't be the same for our daughter, Bella."
"But why not?"
"Because I will be taking care of her, from the moment she exists inside of you. Because I will make certain she knows how beautiful, how exquisite she is, how perfect, and it will never occur to her to doubt herself the way you have your whole life, my poor baby."
"Oh…do you think that will make it okay?"
"I know it, sweetheart, I promise you."
Softly, she says, "Okay." And she tucks into him and cries a little. He pets her, waiting for her to calm.
When she does, she pulls away just a little, and staring down at her hands, twisting her fingers together, she says in a scared and serious tone, "Edward?"
"Yes, baby girl?" He knows she has something she needs to confess, and he has no idea what it might be, only that there is nothing she could say that will change the way he feels about her.
He's right, of course. What she says just melts his heart further. "Um, I think you should know, that night—you know, when you found me, on the street?"
"The first time or the second time, sweetie?" Edward deadpans tenderly.
She answers in all seriousness, "The second time."
"All right, the second time. I'm with you so far." He's trying to encourage her with his tone of voice, trying to let her know that it's okay to tell him anything, absolutely anything, that he won't betray her trust.
Still, she hesitates, and bites her lip, and her eyes water as her cheeks redden until finally she blurts out, "I kind of got lost on purpose," then throws her head back into his chest.
He holds her there for a little while, petting her, letting the sobs work their way out, until he thinks she's calm enough, when he pulls away, just a little, and says, lightly, "So you didn't really mistake West Village for Westchester then?"
Bella sits up a little, reaching a hand up and wiping the tears off her face. "Oh no, I did get them mixed up. I just, well, when I got off the subway, I kind of knew it didn't seem like the right place. And the closer I got to the address, the more sure I was that something was wrong. Only…only I didn't turn around, or stop and ask directions, or call or anything."
She won't look up at Edward, her hands now absent-mindedly busy with a button on his shirt. He loves how she does that sometimes, fingering the buttons on the oxford dress shirts he likes to wear. She means nothing suggestive about it, and he knows it; it's just sometimes a welcome distraction from the intensity of her feelings, and a wonderfully welcome sign to Edward of how much she trusts him, that she allows herself in his space that way.
He's never interrupted this self-soothing action before, but today he does, sensing that what she has to say is important, but so scary that she wouldn't be able to bring it out alone. So he reaches down, gently, and catches her hands in his own. Then, holding them still, he leans in and down until he catches her eyes, and says, "Why didn't you turn around, or stop and ask directions, or call, baby girl?"
Her chin trembles for a moment, then she blurts out in a tone louder than normal but not quite a yell, "Because I wanted to die!"
Inside, a part of Edward rears up in anger, pure rage really, at hearing this, not at the little girl in front of him, but at all the other incompetent people that were part of her life before him.
On the outside, however, he merely smiles tenderly, a little sadness for her suffering mixed in with indulgence for whatever she feels and true understanding of how hard it is for her to feel all of it. Stroking her cheek with two gentle fingers, he lets her sob a few times before saying, so nonchalantly, "Of course you did, sweetheart."
This shocks her. She stills immediately and raises her head to look at him. "What did you say?" she asks incredulously.
Edward just smiles bigger, impossibly more tenderness in his eyes, "I said, 'Of course you did, sweetheart.' You've wanted to die most of your life before me, haven't you?"
He says it so easily, like it's no big deal, and Bella simply nods in response.
The angry part of his heart twists a little more at seeing her easy agreement to his on-the-spot speculation, but most of him just feels oh-so-grateful for having found her before anything bad happened—at least anything bad that he can't un-do. Then he pulls her in tightly to his chest and tells her so.
"Oh, baby girl, I am so, so glad I found you. Again," he laughs a little, looking down at her face smooshed against him. Despite it being hard to move her lips, Bella manages to ask, most shyly, "But aren't you… aren't you… aren't you angry at me?"
Edward holds her head carefully between his large hands and bends down to get eye-to-eye before answering her. He knows how crucially important it is for her to hear him now, and to believe what he tells her.
"Isabella, I was not, and am not, one teeny-tiny bit angry with you. Not even one itsy-bitsy bit."
"You aren't?" Bella can't believe it.
"I am not," Edward affirms firmly. "Why would I be?"
"Um, because…I don't know, because it's illegal to kill yourself?" Bella hesitantly volunteers, not really sure why she thought Edward would be mad over this but feeling a little confused at her apparent wrongness on this point.
Edward sees her confusion and guesses its source, so clarifies.
"I don't remotely care about the legal aspects, Isabella," he gently scoffs. "You are correct that I am very angry that you were put in a position to even think for one moment about harming your beautiful self, but it is not you that I am angry with, nor will it ever be."
"Then…who?"
"Rosalie, your mother, your father, your step-father; all the people that had the privilege of caring for you before me and did such an unequivocally crappy job at it."
"But…"
"But nothing, sweetheart. You wanted to kill yourself because you didn't feel safe, and they were the ones who didn't keep you safe. Case closed. Only it's beside the point now, because you're mine, and I intend to see that you never feel lonely or scared or miserable and certainly not ever suicidal ever again."
Bella just stares up at him, her mouth hanging open slightly. Edward grins down at her. "Is that okay with you?"