(Emmett's pov)
I knocked on the door, hoping that he wasn't too holed up in his own head to hear me.
"Come in." Edward's voice came from the other side of the door. I opened it. He was sitting on his black leather couch, in his tuxedo, staring intently at a picture in his hand.
"Did you ever want to thank the bear?" He asked, not bothering to look at me.
"The one that almost killed me?"
He nodded, apparently unaware of my urge to rip the picture out of his hand to see what had made him so pensive in the realm of today's chaos.
"I guess so…" I said, sitting on his bed, "I never really sit down and think, 'Gosh, thank you, spirit of the bear for mauling me half to death!' but I guess so. If it weren't for the bear, I'd be dead now…I'd never have met Rose…"
He frowned, looking even more intently at the photo.
"For Heaven's sake, what is that?" I demanded, the tone in my voice shattering the peaceful atmosphere. He handed it to me.
It was Bella, sitting on the hood of a car, while Jacob stood next to her holding something metal—explaining it, from the look of enlightenment on her face.
"It's really thanks to him, isn't it?" Edward mused, taking the picture back, "If he hadn't saved her-in more ways than one…" His voice trailed off.
"Where'd you get this picture?" I asked.
"Bella. She didn't want it. She said one of his friends took it—Quil or Embry, most likely. But, do you think…never mind."
It infuriated me when he didn't finish his sentences like that. "What?"
"Nothing." He said, frowning.
"Edward, I swear-"
"Do you think he deserved her? I know she chose me, and maybe later she won't remember him, but still. Should I have stayed away? Let her be happy with him instead?"
I could see how much it killed him to say that. "She chose you."
"But did she make the right choice?" Edward mused, turning the picture around and around in his fingers, "He wouldn't have to…"
"Take her soul." I finished for him.
"Right."
"Carlisle doesn't think it works like that. Ed, I don't remember a time when he's ever been wrong."
"You're right, it's just…"
"When are you going to change her?" I asked, watching the way his expression changed when I said it; his features became more resolute.
"Tomorrow night." He said.
"Why not tonight?" I asked.
"Bella wants to…" His voice got softer; he was obviously embarrassed.
"For Heaven's sake, you're marrying the girl!" I said, "It's not a crime."
The embarrassment went away, but he still stared at the picture.
"I feel like I should thank him."
"Who, Jacob?"
He nodded. "I think that if he hadn't been there, she would have killed herself. And he saved her, when she jumped from the cliff—don't I owe him something for that?"
I wasn't the right one to ask. I only had animosity towards Jacob, for what he was. I wasn't nearly as unbiased as Edward in my thinking. For all I cared, he could throw himself off a cliff with no thanks at all.
"Edward, we're going to be late." I pointed out, interrupting his reverie.
He stood up, putting the picture in his jacket pocket, brushing dust off of his tux.
"I think Esme might just kill you if you were late to your own wedding."
"More likely, she'd kill you for letting me be late." Edward said, following me down the stairs to his car.
A letter was sent the next day, in a plain white envelope with no return address. It was twisted through the post routes, until it was left in the mailbox of a small red house.
A boy—or maybe a man came to the mailbox, and pulled the letter out. He grimaced at the scent lingering on the paper, and as he read the words scrawled onto it, his hands began to shake. He knew who it was from; the handwriting was recognizable, even though it was only two words long.
Thank you.
The words burned at him, and he tore the letter again and again, until it was no more than dust, floating away on the wind. He didn't want anybody's pity, and especially not the gratitude of that leech.
He ran, away from the red house, the shaking spreading from his hands to his entire body, until he was no longer a man, but a wolf, running through the trees, getting away from everything, never to be seen again.