Good morning! Or afternoon, or evening…but it's a beautiful crisp fall morning here as I prepare to post a second chapter to what was supposed to be a one-shot; I got requests from both readers and my own subconscious to take First Class beyond the airport—although in typical liza style, they don't get much farther than the drive in front of baggage claim. Consider yourself warned. Although I did manage to include perhaps Fanfiction's first G-rated "blow" job, so that's something?
Sorry it's been so long since you've heard anything from me. I'd explain, but it doesn't really matter. Definitely a case of same song, different verse, and I'm sure most of you can relate. After all, whenever you care about people, your life automatically gets difficult, unless you have the uncanny good fortune of only caring for well-put-together, lucky people with a happy outlook on life. If that's the case, then do enjoy yourself.
The rest of us relational high-feelers, however, are stuck with your average, run-of-the-mill high-maintenance human beings, who trail disaster and misery in their wake, and are in constant danger of succumbing to the whims of entropy and moral/spiritual decay. I'll say this for entropy: it does make things more interesting. For example, now not only do I spend more moments than I can number beating back dishes and chasing laundry around the house, but I get to do so while dropping things at inconvenient times, occasionally on my foot, due to a new hand tremor and muscle twitch, the cause of which I don't even want to know about, thank you very much. (Two friends who found this new development, and some others, more worrisome than funny made me get an MRI scan of my brain, which came back, rather hysterically, as "absolutely normal," which goes to show you even advanced medical technologies have their limits since I think we all know by now there's not much normal about my brain, and probably not yours either, thank goodness.)
Well, that catches you up in the goings-on in my universe. I had planned a nice little essay on how I can pick out "people like me" based on their extra weight, graying hair and poor sartorial choices (thrift stores have their limits, especially when shopping in economically depressed areas with children in tow), and that our value is in inverse proportion to the mainstream beauty of our appearance, but homeschooling calls (more like whines) and I don't think you all need me to tell you your own worth. Because deep down, you know it, or you wouldn't work so hard to keep on being exactly as you are despite the misunderstanding and censure you receive from more socio-typical types around you. So trust yourself, and I'll trust me, and we'll wink at each other (or maybe that's our eye-twitches) as we walk by, a little unkempt and smelly due to not having time to shower because of all the other things we had to do to get everyone else out the door this morning.
Much love,
liza…slightly smelly liza (definitely air kisses for you today; I'll save the hugs for later ;) )
p.s. Blessings on our patron Fanfic saint SM, and on wantonlytoread, who issued me a gentle reminder to not leave Edward and Bella, and more importantly YOU, lovely reader, hanging. Thanks for her patience, and for yours!
XXX
I floated along in a hazy state of ecstasy as my handsome neighbor—I cringed inwardly as I heard the unfounded arrogance, and foolishness, of that possessive claim on him echo in my brain, and quickly amended it to "the gorgeous man being temporarily kind to me but sure to disappear at any second," hoping I caught the dangerous thought quickly enough to ward off humbling punishment by fate—swept me through the airport without saying a word.
His hand weighed heavily on my right hip, and he had me tucked so closely into his side that my left-hand vision was obscured. That didn't matter though because I didn't need to see; I even closed my eyes a few times, the better to soak up the comfort of the man's strong arm around my shoulders, and the better to keep from thinking about how I would feel when he left me.
How did I avoid crashing into things, walking with my eyes closed? I just did what he told me to do. He didn't say it out loud, but he didn't have to: he directed me with his, well, with his body. When he wanted me to slow or stop, the hand on my hip squeezed more tightly. And when he wanted me to turn a corner, his arm around my waist pulled or nudged me subtly one direction or the other.
Some part of me was aware that I didn't really know where we were going, and was mildly concerned that I was letting a stranger lead me like this. I even had the thought once that Renee and Charlie would both be so mad at me; for as little as they agreed on, they were both vehement about me being more careful when out on my own. "Be smart, Bella," my mom would say.
I thought to myself, "Sorry, Mom," and kept on being gloriously stupid. It was reckless, and I was surprised to find I liked this kind of being reckless… which is to say, I liked the physical closeness and feelings of safety this man—whoever he was—gave me by his enveloping presence.
I was so lost in the feel of the stranger's strong arm wrapped around me, the authority in his bearing and his protective attitude towards me like a healing salve on a painful and long-neglected wound, that I was surprised to find us on the verge of a narrow escalator moving down. He stepped on first, lifting me slightly to pull me onto the step next to him, wedging us even more tightly together.
The man turned then to maneuver the luggage onto the step behind, and I felt instantly exposed as his body moved away from mine. So I froze, and self-conscious shame started to flood my brain. Closing my eyes, I braced myself for the pain of the self-recriminations for allowing myself to be a spectacle, for allowing myself to hope for continued kindness from a man who had no tie to me. I started to try to summon the words to make a respectable departure at the bottom of the moving stairs, which, as I opened my eyes again, seemed to be coming so quickly it felt that we must have been hurtling downwards at breakneck speed.
But before I could even try to form the polite, trivial words of thanks and good-bye, he was around me once more, pushing back all thoughts beneath the curtains of the happy haze in my brain as his fingers started soothing circles on my hip and he squeezed me in a sideways hug, then kissed me gently on the top of my head. My heart leapt and my spirits soared as we came even with the floor, the man saying a soft warning, "Careful," as I stepped off after him.
I accidentally looked up at him right then, my feet echoing his movements, a little late and a little behind, but he didn't seem to mind. Instead, fear and joy went to war inside me as I saw the beautiful sincerity of his happy grin, and the warmth in his green eyes gazing down at me.
Of course I tripped then, my coordination giving way under the overwhelmingness of his attention. I stumbled forward but was righted immediately by a firm yet gentle pull backwards from the arm still around my waist, a light laugh coming from my rescuer, though he was no longer looking at me but maneuvering the luggage off the escalator behind us.
He took a moment setting the luggage to rights and then he tucked me in once more, and my head turned and buried itself, of its own accord, in the finely-woven white button-down shirt he was wearing. The smell was heavenly—laundry soap and starch and confidence and power and just him, whoever he was. I heard another laugh, as I felt it reverberate against my cheek, before he whispered in my ear as my body resumed following him wherever he was going, "That's my girl."
I bit back a sob at the intense joy of it, the consummation of all my 20 years of longing to belong to someone else.
I had shyly hoped the noise and the shudder that went with the happy half-sob would go unnoticed by him, but he paused, then moved us sideways in the hall and stopped. Using his arm around my waist, he pulled me flush against his front, his long arm now pressing against me from the curve of my lower spine to the back of my neck, and drawing me tightly into his body. It was like he knew how much I wanted to disappear, how much I wanted just to melt into him and stop existing at all on my own. It was hard to breathe though, with my face pressed into his chest, so I turned my head to the side and he let me, using his hand to stroke through my hair in small motions as I rested against him, perfectly content.
Too soon I felt him pull slightly away, as his arm curled around my waist again, and I heard his voice in my ear, lower and rougher than it had sounded before. "Arms around my waist, please," came his business-like instruction.
I hesitated, not understanding why he would ask that of me and being reluctant to comply. It was one thing to be held by him, but for me to purposefully approach his person with my own arms, with both of us focused on what I was doing? There was no way I could do that, and I didn't.
Only moments passed until his hand lifted and encircled my right wrist, carefully but forcibly pulling it around him before using his thumb to hook my own into the waistband of his suit pants. My hand froze there, and then I made to pull away—but his hand stayed in place and didn't let me.
"Breathe," he said against the top of my head. As I breathed I calmed, and eventually I decided to ignore my hand invading his personal space, leaving it in place when he moved his own hand away as if I'd forgotten it was there, or given up all claim to it.
"Good girl," he said for the second time that night before pressing his cheek against the top of my head, resting his own head on mine, just for a moment.
"Grab on with your other hand too, sweetheart." The tone he used left me no choice but to try to comply, as commanding as it was kind. I hesitantly placed my hand so lightly at his back, feeling the material of his shirt brush against my trembling fingers, but unable to grab it or push past the material of his trousers until his own hand quickly flew up and pressed against mine, forcing my thumb down along his back.
"Now, keep your thumbs tucked and turn," he said, and with one arm he pulled me around and to his side again, while his other kept pressure against my left hand which moved with him, sliding around his body to his left. I ended up effectively hugging him from the side, my hands still resting against his waist, held there in place by my obedient thumbs, the side of my face now buried once again in the fabric of his shirt as he put us back in motion.
It wasn't long, walking in his embrace, sheltered by his body, before baggage carousels appeared in my limited field of vision. I paused with my neighbor as he took his bearings, then walked us deliberately to our airline's service counter. "I'm in need of some assistance," I heard him say to the uniformed employee behind it.
My heart rate ramped up as I realized what he wanted help with was me. I was panicked that he had misunderstood my need for him as something remotely valid, and that he was now about to find out in conversation with authority that there was nothing wrong with me at all. I was certain he would be disgusted, and drop his arms and move away from me as quickly as he could.
So of course I tried to pull away, desperately needing to distance myself first before he so rightfully rejected me. I hadn't heard what he had just been saying to the man behind the desk, but I both heard and felt the "Shhhh, calm down, sweetheart," as my stranger quickly pulled me even more tightly into him in response to my attempts at moving away. I resisted him with all my strength, but he easily half-dragged me to a nearby bench and, grabbing hold of my waist with both his large hands, forcibly bent me into sitting down, my own hands flying up to cover my face.
The sobs had started by then, the shame in my head and the pain in my heart drowning out any other noises around me. Distantly I registered some heavy material descending around my shoulders and down my back, followed by the heavier weight of a hand resting between my shoulder blades.
Another hand came up and tugged one of my own away from my face, forcing me to see for just one moment the worried face of my protector, now staring up at me from where he was crouched on the floor at my feet.
"I'm sorry!" I managed to exclaim in one tearful gasp, pleading with my eyes for him to believe me before screwing shut my eyelids and ducking my head in shame.
His hands stayed in place another moment, and I felt small rubbing motions against my back while he held my hand in his, his thumb making gentle circles in my palm just as he'd done before, on the plane. Despite my humiliation, the soothing movements calmed me, and I stopped crying quite so loudly, reduced to a mere trickle of tears and embarrassingly noisy sniffles.
His hand left my back and I felt again exposed and empty, until I was distracted by something soft against my face. After wiping both my cheeks and underneath my nose, he held the softness up in front of my face so that I could see it was an old-fashioned white cotton handkerchief. Then, bringing it towards me again, he said matter-of-factly, "Blow."
Shocked, my eyes flicked up to his. Intense, his eyes bored back into mine, his brows arching in unstated expectation of my obedience. I hesitated another moment, but his expression grew more forbidding as he locked my gaze and repeated himself: "I said 'blow,' sweetheart. Now."
I tried, half-heartedly, afraid I was somehow misunderstanding his instruction. He wiped my nose, then replaced the handkerchief and sternly said, "Again."
This time I acted without hesitation, and with embarrassingly little restraint, but he seemed pleased with me despite the mess I made. Carefully, he wiped my face clean, then leaned in and kissed me on my cheek. He lingered there, running his nose up and down beside my ear, and made a little humming noise in his throat that made me feel so happy.
I felt even happier when he said, still serious-sounding but with real warmth in it too, a warmth like basking in the glow of a cheerful winter fire with the softest, coziest quilt tucked all around you; or maybe like the feel of spring sunshine on your face the day you spot the first daffodil, "Good girl; that's my good girl."
I felt the comforting weight of those words descend on me, pushing all the fear and shame down, down—and away. What remained inside me I didn't know. I couldn't think or comprehend enough to find out. I do know that I did not cry, and I did not speak; I only stared at the mysterious and miraculous man in front of me.
He seemed to understand, because for one long moment he stared back. I felt his gaze penetrate into the deepest corners of my mind; then I felt it sink and spread until every atom of my body had been bared to him.
With no more tears to cry with, and no more shameful feelings to vainly try to cover up, the tension in me dissipated and I felt extremely calm. As I stared quietly back at him, waiting for his next command, I saw his somber face break into an expression of breath-taking joy and beauty. I smiled at him in wonder, and saw the crinkly eyes I had already learned accompanied his cheerful grins and good humor. Then he leaned in and quickly kissed my cheek, before standing up right in front of me.
Freed from his attention, I became aware again of all the noise and bustle in the area around me, and for the first time realized there was someone sitting to my left.
He was an older man, in the uniform of airline ground personnel, gray streaking his curly black hair; a kind sort of knowing-ness radiating from his brown eyes. I could tell because he was looking at me, though he was nodding at something the man still standing in front of me was saying. Then he said in a thoughtful tone, "All right, sir, I guess I can do that," responding to my protector though he was still looking at me, his eyes evaluating my newly-scrubbed-clean face. The older man smiled then, as if he had decided he liked what he saw.
I, of course, blushed at this, then blushed harder as I heard a familiar chuckle and felt a quick squeeze of my shoulder, followed by a stern warning to "Stay put, right here. I'm going to get your luggage, then come back for you." As he was saying this, my stranger was digging through my backpack, quickly pulling out the paper sleeve for my boarding pass with my baggage claim tickets affixed.
Zipping up the front pocket where I'd stashed them, he pointed the folder at me and said threateningly, "I mean it—" and he broke off, looking down at the tickets for a moment, then smiling with that crinkly-eyed grin again and saying my name, "Isabella Swan," with much emphasis; "Don't move."
Letting his eyes bore into me a few more moments to convey the seriousness of his words, he then stood and turned away, saying to the man sitting next to me, "Be right back." Then my disbelieving eyes followed my handsome stranger, resigned to claiming him for as long as he would claim me, as he strode off to the carousels, whistling softly.
XXX
I was quite pleased to finally have a name to put to the girl I'd been dragging around the Peoria airport. And even happier that it fit her so well. Old-fashioned, girly, sweet—oh, and fucking beautiful.
I felt the shit-eating grin plastered on my face grow even bigger—and not that it's any of your business, but that wasn't the only thing getting bigger at the thought of…Isabella. I did make an attempt to regain my usual logical and starkly rational mind, but I failed utterly, wanting only to find Isabella's bags and get back to holding her hand. And her waist. And her neck. And her lips—well, I didn't want to merely hold those.
As I watched our flight's luggage descend, a battered old nylon suitcase tumbled out of the chute and started it's awkward circling. A sixth sense told me it was hers, and a look at the luggage tag confirmed it. Falling out on top of the suitcase was a more modern, if cheaply-made, black carry-on with a tattered blue ribbon tied around the handle and a luggage tag bearing Isabella's name as well.
Having succeeded in my mission, I turned with heady anticipation back to where I'd left my girl; I was relieved, if not surprised, to find her still sitting there. She was looking up at the baggage attendant, nodding her head and speaking in turn, her expression a friendly smile.
In contrast, I was surprised at how strongly part of me objected to this presumably innocent conversation, and at how much effort I had to put towards schooling my features into a pleasant expression rather than the menacing look I wanted to send towards the poor man I had asked to help me. Really, only the possibility of losing Isabella's trust after such an aggressive display was enough to keep me from sprinting over and ordering the man away with a growl; that and the realization that I'd have to do something about the luggage in my hands before I could take back my girl.
Just at that moment, a man in his early 20's approached from behind Isabella's bench showing all the signs of being a college student at some overpriced liberal arts institution. He wore a knit skullcap (not clean enough to be indicative of religious affiliation), a t-shirt printed with a self-indulgently-wry anti-military statement, green canvas pants with lots of pockets for paperback philosophy books and outdated Marxist political treatises, and, of course, Birkenstocks (with socks). Deciding I'd never seen anyone more in need of a brush with capitalism than this academic refugee, I pulled out a fifty-dollar bill and held it out to him as he was about to pass by me. Looking simultaneously offended and interested, (it was hilarious), the man abruptly stopped, taking a heartbeat more than would be polite to lift his eyes from the money to my face.
When he'd finally managed to look at me instead of the cash in my hand, I wiped the humor at his expense off my own expression and said, "Any chance you'd be willing to run my luggage out to the car I have waiting? My girlfriend," at this wishful-thinking-fabrication, I turned and glanced towards where Isabella was sitting and his eyes followed, "isn't feeling well, and I can't help her and carry these bags."
The man hesitated, as he well should. In this day and age, any reasonable person knows better than to take luggage from a stranger. But his greed—all the stronger, I'm sure, because of how hard he tried to pretend he didn't have any—got the predictable better of him as he shrugged his shoulders, then reached out for the money.
I let him take the fifty and pocket it before setting the suitcases down in front of him, adding, "Look for a limo; the driver should have a sign saying 'Cullen.' Oh, and there's that much again after you've helped me."
I could tell the mention of the limo fazed him, and his conscience wanted him to say more. But luckily the idea of another $50 was too attractive to listen to his conscience; maybe he had a new arrogantly witty t-shirt he wanted to buy. Regardless, he reached for the suitcase handles, hoisting them and saying, "All right. Out this door?"
"Yes," I answered, though I wasn't certain. I'd let him figure it out. I guessed there wouldn't be too many limo drivers standing about in Peoria.
Meanwhile, I was already walking swiftly back to my girl—to Isabella. Coming up to her, I caught the eyes of the airline employee still talking to her, a smile on his face for her and a certain cold and questioning look in those sage eyes for me. I could tell he had figured out what I was up to, and had developed an accurate estimate of her ability—or rather inability—to resist me. It was no matter. Our time here was done, and I didn't intend to provide him with any defensible reason to stop me from taking Isabella where I wanted.
Setting one hand heavily on her shoulder, I leaned over Isabella as I quickly gathered up our assembled carry-on luggage from behind her on the bench. I felt her jump at my touch, then watched the turn of her head as she looked up at me shyly. I worked fast to neutralize any hesitation or fear that might make an appearance before the airline representative, giving her a brilliant smile in return and saying, while careful to keep warmth and authority both at maximum levels, "Good girl for staying put like I told you to," before pressing a quick kiss on her upturned cheek.
Her blush exploded across her cheeks and she was tongue-tied, which was exactly what I wanted for our retreat to the safety of the limo. With all our carry-on's accounted for, I used my free arm to circle Isabella's waist and pull her to standing, tucked into my side, where she fit so well I swear it was as if she had been made to order for me and my body alone. If such a thing were possible, I would have placed an order long before now. But I wasn't about to complain.
Having managed Isabella, I turned my attention to the airline employee who was now standing, his full attention directed back to me. "That's a real sweet young lady you have there sir, if you don't mind my saying," he said to me gravely, undercurrents of threat and warning and no small amount of censure running through his voice.
Of course, I did mind; very much. But I considered also that the man had just served a valuable purpose for me, keeping Isabella safe, and was unlikely to be of any real threat, despite what his tone implied. I also admired his courage and integrity in standing up to a rich asshole like me, clearly used to and entirely expecting to get my own way, by any means necessary.
So I chose to respond to his warning with a relatively restrained and subdued warning of my own, staring him in the eyes the whole time. "Yes, she is one of a kind, and I intend to treat her accordingly, as I'm sure you would if she were yours. Thank you for your help; I'm much obliged."
As I gave the man a small nod with my ending formal pleasantry, I saw him give up, his shoulders sagging and the fight going out of his eyes, his own head nodding his polite acknowledgement of both my thanks and my animal victory. It wasn't a ringing endorsement, by any means, of my self-appointment to be guardian of the girl in my embrace, and certainly not of any of the other roles I hoped to fill as well. But I was sure enough for all of us about taking on the job of protecting Isabella, and she and I would have all the time in the world, once I got her out of there, to figure out all the rest, together.
Isabella, of course, was clueless to the posturing and threatening exchanges going on around her, as well as to the veritable forging of her destiny—although that had been determined the moment she tripped into the seat next to mine on that death-trap of an airplane, I could see now. This moment was just a coda, a polishing of the shine on my victory cup.
The latter analogy was most apt as the girl, as Isabella, feeling safe in my arms once more I had no doubt, looked from me to the airline employee and thanked him profusely, her face radiating the beauty of her innocence, and of her genuine gratitude for the man's simple kindness towards her. She was breathtaking, and the man's face warmed, reflecting her glow for the short moments left to him to enjoy it, as he smiled back, and wished her a safe journey home.
I felt unaccountably emotional at his word choice; "home" was not a concept that had previously inspired much reaction in me. But all of a sudden, it meant something more; something wonderful. So I turned Isabella around and walked out of the airport, having come home already to the girl in my arms.
XXX
Bella balks getting into the limo. She stands, frozen, her hand on the top frame of the open limo door, where Edward had delivered her before moving around the back to hand off the carry-on's to the driver, and to pay off the college student-porter—who had to be spoken to twice before he could tear his attention away from the opulent luxury of the leather interior just visible through the open door framing Isabella's still body. Edward finishes as quickly as possible, coming back to Isabella in mere moments, and gently taking her elbow, trying to direct her into the car. But she doesn't follow his lead, and Edward stops, feeling her resistance and not wanting to pull roughly on her body.
Perplexed at Isabella's silent defiance, the strongest that he's encountered from her, though of course she's balked plenty already in the short time he's known her, Edward lets go of her elbow and steps back onto the curb behind her to assess the situation. He takes in her rigid pose and her trembling body, mentally shrugs his shoulders, and tries again, this time putting his hands firmly around her waist before applying forward momentum.
Once again, she holds fast, and once again, he doesn't push hard enough to break her, fearful as he is that he will break more than the lines of her position given that he doesn't understand the nature of her revolt. Still puzzled, and now also growing concerned, Edward instead starts turning Isabella away from the open limo door and towards him. He is, as has become normal for his interactions with her, gentle but firm. This time, since he's not trying to get her into the limo anymore, she cooperates, allowing her body to move as his hands dictate.
As he turns her to face him, she looks up briefly into his evaluating gaze. The look isn't a long one, but it's enough for her to communicate her fear, and her distress. Edward pulls her into his chest to comfort her, for he reads the emotions correctly even without knowing their cause. She is glad to go.
Hiding her head in shame against his shirt and the suit jacket he has put on once more, she starts to cry quietly. Edward says nothing, but lets her cry, issuing a stern rebuttal when the driver asks from the other side of the vehicle, "Will we be leaving then, Mr. Cullen?"
"I'll let you know when we're ready. Wait for us inside the vehicle, please," is Edward's response, and the angry tone of his voice belies the politeness of his words.
The driver is quick to react, being much experienced in meeting the capricious and seeming-nonsensical whims of the rich, climbing in the driver's seat to escape Edward's angry glare.
Satisfied with the man's quick response, Edward then returns his full attention to Bella, leaning down and speaking softly in her ear, "Sweetheart, I've scared you, haven't I? I didn't mean to. I promise I won't hurt you, but if that's not enough I-"
He's not sure what to offer her in alternative to leaving with him as he has planned, and is very hesitant and disappointed—a man more facile with emotional experience might have said heartbroken—even to be considering something other than driving off with her in his arms.
So he's extremely relieved to hear her interrupt him with an earnest, "I know you would never hurt me, Mr. Cullen! [She's just picked up his surname from the limo driver, and is glad to be able to address him politely, having not even allowed herself to think the first name he had so casually supplied when he introduced himself to her on the plane.] You've been so kind. It's just that… it's just that…" and she trails off into silence before clarifying what it is about riding in the limo with him she objects to, and hides her head again, as reluctant to speak as Edward had been to hear her objection just a few seconds before.
Edward is elated now, however, as it becomes evident that his newly-acquired little girl hasn't just had an extreme change of heart; hasn't suddenly become a normal girl with a normal sense of self-preservation and therefore a normal, and healthy, fear of strangers, including him. No, there is some other mysterious reason she doesn't want to get into the limo with him, and he is content to wait her out; no, he is ecstatic to be standing there, comforting her, waiting for her to tell him what is bothering her so that he can fix it.
He does need to fix something else right away, however, while his girl is calming down, and working up the courage to tell him what she needs him to know. What he needs her to know is his name, his first name, so that she never has to address him by the cold and distant "Mr. Cullen" appellation ever again. So he says, "I know you'll tell me what's bothering you when you're ready, Isabella," in a warm voice that drips with care and concern and calm reason, "But I want you to call me Edward, not Mr. Cullen, okay?"
There is a pause in Bella's crying as she takes this in and thinks about it. Then she nods, causing the side of her head to rub up and down against his chest. Edward smiles, knowing with inexplicable certainty that Isabella would now be avoiding using his name at all, and looking immensely forward to the long, painstaking process of wearing down her resistance to using his first name, and convincing her of the rightness of her saying it.
With the sound of a neighboring car's door slamming shut, and Isabella's corresponding little jump at the loud noise, new inspiration arrives for Edward in the form of equal certainty about how to get the timid girl into the car and be underway towards their hotel room, not to mention their future together, and away from that noisy, noxious place. Grinning with the brilliance of the new tactic he is about to employ, Edward takes a moment to arrange his features back into calm concern before leaning down again and saying quietly, "Sweetheart, I'm afraid we're holding up traffic here. Maybe you could explain what's wrong to me from inside the car?"
Edward's instincts are much gratified by Isabella's instant reaction, proving their accuracy as her head shoots up, her eyes alarmed, and she starts pulling away from him. "I'm so sorry! If I could just have my bags, please—"
But Edward shakes his head. "No, they're safely stowed for the trip to the hotel. Now all I need is you—" and he breaks off himself, taking advantage of the resignation growing in the girl's eyes and cornering her up against the open doorway by moving his body forward and making her back up. He pauses when he sees her trembling increase, and the tears start to form again; he knows she truly must be terrified by the unknown threat if the fear of causing a public disturbance isn't causing immediate obedience.
Guilt crashes down on Edward, and he pauses in his aggressive pursuit. Dropping to a crouch on the edge of the pavement, he looks up at the scared girl now looking down at him, grabs hold of her shaking hand and says, worry and affection lacing every word, "What's wrong, honey? Why are you so scared?"
"Oh, Mr. Cullen, I'm not rich!" the girl—Isabella—bursts out with as she unthinkingly mimics his stance, and drops to a crouch herself right on the driveway in front of the open doorway of the limo.
Speechless, Edward stares at her a moment, brows furrowed, trying to figure out the significance of what she has just said while the hand not now holding firmly to one of her hands reaches out and tucks loose hair behind the girl's ear, and strokes gently down the side of her cheek.
"Isabella," he says quietly, but with an urgent tone to his voice, "Why in the world does that matter?"
Surprised by his question, since the answer is obvious to her, Bella lifts her head to look up into Edward's eyes again. Edward's hand holding hers rises up slightly to rest both their hands against his knee, and she leans in, seeking without awareness of her action (or she would be mortified) the comfort of resting her head against his other knee as she says quietly, in answer to his question, "I don't belong here; I don't belong with you."
At least, that's what she thinks she said; it's what she hears in her mind. But what actually comes out of her mouth, spoken with such pathos and yearning, is, "I don't belong here; I don't belong to you."
Which pisses Edward off so much he doesn't say another word before leaning forward and scooping her up in his arms as he stands and strides the two steps it takes to get them both inside the limo. Sitting down on the bench seat and sliding to its center after he has closed the door with a resounding slam, he has Isabella on his lap, encircled in his arms.
They are both breathing deeply as the car pulls away from the curb. And in less time than Edward would have believed possible before today, before this trip, before this girl, Isabella is asleep in his arms. Her body relaxes as the welcome sleep claims her, and she curls up closer to Edward, one hand snaking out gradually until her fist is closed around his shirt, the other responding to his gentle placement of it on top of his shoulder with a vigorous plunging between his shoulder blade and the seatback. These sleeping acts make Edward smile, his eyes alight with warmth and affection as he looks down at the small creature affixing herself to him with alacrity and enthusiasm now that she is freed from the censure and anxiety of her conscious mind. It is very validating of his own intense feelings towards her.
Edward hasn't had much time for grateful reflection and self-congratulation before his cell phone buzzes with an insistence that seems to emanate from the person half-way across the continent whom he knows has placed the call. "Alice," he sighs to himself as he digs the phone out of his pocket, holding Isabella closer to him with one hand as he raises them both up to retrieve the phone from his front pocket. Setting her carefully back down against his legs, he doesn't remove the hand from her back but continues to hold her tightly to him, ecstatic with the small snuggling motions her head and torso are making in response to the pressure against her, and her nearness to him.
His happy feelings translate into a huge grin as he answers the call, despite the riled-up busybody he knows he'll be dealing with in the form of his sister. Alice can hear the happiness in her brother's voice as he quietly says, "Hello?"
"Don't 'Hello' me, Edward Cullen!" is her acerbic reply.
"Why greetings, dear sister, it's lovely to speak with you too," he returns, no bitterness to his cheerful rejoinder.
"Spill." It is unusually pithy for Alice, and it works. Knowing resistance is worse than futile, Edward settles in against the limo's leather seatback and tells his story to a growing-more-excited-by-the-second Alice.
When he has finished with a brief summary of his difficulty getting Isabella into the limo, seeming to stem from some ridiculous sense of inadequacy on her part about her financial condition compared to his, Alice asks with breathless excitement, "Is she there? Can I speak with her?"
A bit taken aback by his sister's obvious eagerness to speak with the girl in his arms despite never having laid eyes on her, Edward pauses briefly before saying, "No, Alice, she's asleep."
"Already?"
"Yes. Apparently she's not been well-rested." He pauses once more as he thinks about that, then adds, "Actually, it's obvious that she's not been well-taken-care-of for some time." Another cheerful grin accompanies his next statement: "I'll be fixing that."
Alice lets loose with an approving squeal that forces Edward to hold the phone away from his ear til she is finished. "I can't wait to meet her! I'll pick you both up tomorrow at the airport myself."
"Alice, I'm not sure that's the best—" Edward tries to hedge, but Alice is adamant.
"I'm not taking 'No' for an answer, brother of mine, and since I make your trip arrangements, it will be awfully hard for you to sneak by me."
"True," Edward acknowledges, then adds, "You don't think you'll scare her off?" He isn't sure himself; he could see his Isabella going either of two opposing directions in reaction to Alice's enthusiasm and overbearing puppy-like affection. And he trusts his sister's intuition, which usually surfaces even in instances when she has a strong preference for one course of action over another, sometimes to her great dismay.
"No!" Alice cried cheerfully back. "She's going to love me!"
Edward sighs. In theory, family is extremely important to him and he does want Isabella to love his siblings, and them to love her; he knows that much already. But in practice, he would have preferred a much longer lead time on getting to know Isabella himself before having to start sharing her with his aggressive female relatives.
He can just imagine how much his adoptive mother, his Aunt Esme, will take to Isabella Swan, and how happy Esme will be at any sign of Edward finally settling down, and thinking about starting a family. Alice and Jasper have been happily paired off for years, though with mutually no desire for children; while Emmett and Rose are married and very much wanting children but meeting with unexpected difficulty in having them. So all of Esme's yearnings for infant grandchildren are increasingly being focused on him.
Edward shudders to think how Esme's eyes will blaze with hope and desire as soon as she catches sight of the perfect maternal candidate in his lap at the moment. And then he shudders with his own desire as he realizes how much he wants Isabella in his life that way too. He allows himself to daydream for just a moment, imagining the roundness of Isabella's stomach, pregnant with his child. It is a very satisfying, and exciting, daydream, but it is interrupted by his awareness of Alice's prattling about all the things she will be doing to show Isabella the city and to take her under Alice's wing.
"Alice," Edward interrupts her in turn with a little more stern warning in his tone than he had consciously intended, "I get her first. I don't even know her yet; not really." Then, the wounded silence on the other end pulling for a little conciliatory effort from him, he adds off-handedly, "Besides, maybe she won't want to have anything to do with me when she wakes up at the hotel. I've either found the perfect girl for me, or I'm being really creepy."
He had meant the last sentence as a joke, but as he says it he starts to feel afraid. This isn't an emotion he has much familiarity with, and when he has felt it in the past, he's taken immediate action to address it, to fix it, and to prevent it from coming back. But now, along with the fear is a helplessness, G*d damn it a vulnerability, that he can't do anything about. He stares down at the head tucked against his chest, her face hidden from view, and feels a wave of sadness sweep over him at the thought that she might not want to stay there, forever.
Alice's uncharacteristically quiet voice mercifully ends his anxious reverie when she says, "Don't worry, Edward. She's meant for you. I can see it."
Edward has to swallow before he can say, his emotion-filled voice unusually hoarse, "Thank you, Alice. I really appreciate your…help." They both know he means "love" more than help, and are both warmed by the knowledge.
After a tender moment, Alice picks back up with enthusiasm, "All right, Edward; I'll give you a day or two, and I won't tell Mom. Yet."
"Thank you, Allie," Edward says emphatically, with mingled relief and affection. "I'd like to get her at least calling me Edward before Esme gets on to her scent."
"What does she call you?"
"Mr. Cullen."
She giggles, then says, "Oh, Mr. Cullen, that is too sweet."
"Shut up, Alice." The girl on his lap stirs, and he adds in a hushed tone, "I've got to go; we're waking her up."
"Okay. Have a safe drive. It should only be a couple of hours; at least you're well-past rush-hour."
"A couple of hours?" Edward repeats incredulously.
"Well, maybe two-and-a-half, assuming your driver is any good and isn't stingy with the speed. There was nothing you'd like in Peoria, and their charter pilot availability was awful, so I booked you a suite at The Peninsula Hotel in Chicago instead."
"Chicago?"
"It's not that far, Edward, and you'll be much happier. The Peninsula's spa took top ranking last year among luxury hotels; I was meaning to try it out myself but now you'll just have to do it for me. Come on; I know you big brother. Trust me."
Edward sighs, but has to admit she was right on both counts: she does know him, and he would be happier at a place that knows what they are doing than holed up in a mid-level chain hotel with sub-par service and food. Not to mention questionable bed linens—he hates questionable bed linens, even when he himself is responsible for making them that way.
"All right, Allie," he says with resignation. Then glancing down again at the brown head resting against his chest and likely to stay that way for the rest of the long drive, he amends his response by adding a genuine "Thank you," the weight of his gratitude making Alice squeal a thousand miles away.
"I knew it, I knew it, I knew it! I can't wait to meet her!" she exalts once more, and despite the piercing tone and high pitch, Edward smiles. He can't wait either for the unexpectedly-happy future he can now see as a result of the girl asleep in his lap.
XxXxXx
So ends Chapter Two. I do know what happens next, so I plan to keep going, but I'm afraid that will be on painfully-slow liza time (unless one of you wants to come help me with the dirty dishes; I swear they're reproducing overnight). I really should have called this one "Baggage Claim" instead of "First Class," because poor Bella is much more a beat-up, abandoned but still wanting-to-be-useful old suitcase than anything related to wealth and prestige. I once thought about trying to start a dating site for people like me (this was before the gray hair and the muscle twitches; I've given up now) entitled "Lost Luggage," but was afraid of the sadistic types that such a name and premise would probably attract. Ah well. Any woman with as much to do as I have, not to mention a legal marriage still on the books (thank goodness), has no business contemplating dating sites.
Meanwhile, I have a story-start to offer below, as well as a book recommendation: Fannie Flagg's Standing in the Rainbow. We're in this one! Look for the character named Betty Rae; it takes her awhile to crawl out from behind the story's metaphorical curtains, but it's worth the wait for her reaction to her first date. I haven't finished the book (and don't plan to; some things are better left a mystery), so I don't know if it's a happy ending for her or not. I can vouch all the way through however for Ms. Flagg's Can't Wait to Get to Heaven, which is like a spiritual hot fudge sundae (or slice of caramel cake—read the book), and I Still Dream About You for a funny, validating and very comforting rendition of a suicidal real estate agent.
Okay, hope you enjoy the following bit I wrote this summer when I should have been working on poor little College Rescue…I'm coming for you next, baby; right after I beat or coax—whatever works!—Sleeping Beauty chapter 2 into submission.
And as for YOU dear reader…Be well! Be proud! Be strong! xoxo (I smell better now), liza
Edward is an RA (Resident Assistant) on a co-ed freshman dorm floor at the University of Chicago; the female RA for the women's half of the floor quits just before orientation, so Edward is stuck covering the whole floor until a replacement can be found.
The first night of freshmen orientation he gives the mandatory campus safety talk to the assembled male and female residents he's responsible for, adding his own protective (if somewhat sexist) take by coaching the women about what to say to obnoxious drunk assholes propositioning them, and coaching the men on how not to be obnoxious drunk assholes.
After "the talk," he makes the students role-play potential problem situations, treating it in part as a humorous game but also as a basic test of all he's just tried to teach them. Bella alone can't pass his test; she absolutely cannot say "No" or get away from the student pretending, with great glee and natural skill, to be a lecher. So Edward refuses to put on the sticker endorsing her ID for admission to campus events that they're supposed to get after the campus safety talk, and that everyone else now has.
Some of the other women on the floor take up Bella's case, though she'd rather just melt into the floor and move on, the sooner to be able to escape back to her room. At these other students' insistence, their feminist sensibilities offended by Edward's presumptuous protectiveness, and also some of their jealous hackles raised at the handsome RA's interest in mousy Bella, Edward finally does put the endorsement sticker on Bella's ID. But he adds, in permanent marker, an asterisk with the words "Supervision Required" and his initials.
Finally he says to the female students on his floor, his finger moving to point to each of them in turn, "If I ever see her out at night anywhere but the library by herself, I am coming after all of you." Then he turns to the men and does the same thing, this time saying, "If I ever see you taking advantage of her, or anyone like her, or failing to come to her defense when someone else is taking advantage, I'm having your balls on a platter. All of you."
"All right, moving on…" and he continues with the rest of the meeting in a business-like manner. Bella eventually recovers from her humiliation as Edward goes along, and feels sort-of calm at the end, and maybe even a little relieved, and safer, compared to when the session started.
Edward calls her over after he dismisses everyone. "Isabella, step into my office," he jokes, as he waves her into his room, the one nearest the main elevator entrance on the men's end of the hallway. Isabella hesitates on the threshold as he dumps the meeting paperwork on his desk. He pulls out his desk chair for her, and props himself standing up against the desk next to her as she hesitantly and very carefully enters the room, and sits down in the offered chair.
"Tell me about yourself," Edward says encouragingly, his arms folded casually against his chest, his sharp eyes on her.
She just stares up at him, speechless.
He waits a few heartbeats, then asks gently, his body relaxing a little as he leans in towards her, "Have I scared you, sweetheart?"
She shakes her head "No," but starts crying.
Edward tries again, his voice quiet and serious. "Have you had a—" he breaks off, not uncomfortable himself, but instinctively knowing he needs to look away from her as he asks this next question so as not to overwhelm her. "Bad experience, with a man?" he finishes, looking over her shoulder, but carefully assessing her reaction nonetheless.
She shakes her head "No" again, the tears coming a little heavier now.
"Do you want me to see if I can switch you to a different floor, where there's a female RA available?" Edward offers kindly, his eyes back on her as he waits for the shy acceptance of his offer he expects, as much as he finds himself resenting having to turn this scared little girl masquerading as a college student over to somebody else.
But Bella feels panicked, not relieved, at this offer, and looks up at Edward with scared eyes, shaking her head "No" for the third time before the thought occurs to her that maybe HE wants her to switch, and that horrible possibility makes her finally break down in sobs.
Edward moves in when that happens, putting his hands on her shoulders, then turning her sideways in the chair so she's facing him. He drops down in a crouch and looks up at her, one hand on her knee as he peers up through her long, brown hair hanging down.
He just waits and watches her until the sobs slow, then stop, and she manages to say, shakily, one hand wiping the tears off her cheeks, "I'm so—I'm so—I'm so sorry!"
He says back quietly, but forcefully, his eyes still trained on her face, "Don't be."
She looks at him, surprised. And confused.
He smiles at her. "I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship."
There's a pause, as she stares at him, open-mouthed. Then she laughs, smiling as a few tears fall again at his kindness to her. He reaches up and wipes them tenderly off her face with the pads of his fingers. "So, to recap," and as he says this he reaches with both hands and grabs her knees, holding them together, and holding her there, "you don't have a general issue with men, or a specific issue with me."
She thinks about this briefly, then shakes her head "No" in agreement, although they both know it isn't really true, but just a good cover story for the moment.
"Good," Edward says, nodding, then standing up before giving her his hand and helping her stand too. "I expect you in here every week for a good cry," he says sternly as he goes to the door and pulls it more widely open again—he had been careful to leave it cracked before.
Bella follows him obediently, still wiping at her eyes, but feeling much better than she would have believed half-an-hour ago. As she reaches the doorway, he smiles at her and adds, "Next week it's my turn to do the crying."
She looks up at him, surprised, then laughs. "Okay," she manages to squeak, before he sends her off with a side hug and a quickly-uttered "Be good," spoken into her hair before he half-pushes her across the threshold, releasing her as she goes.
She takes a step, then turns, and bravely looking him in the face, says quietly, "Thank you."
He smiles gently, and replies, "You're welcome. I'll see you soon."
She blushes, shyly returns his smile, and turns away to walk down the hall to her room. He calls after her, "Come see me if you need help with anything." She looks back and nods meekly over her shoulder, but they both know she won't do any such thing and he'll have to track her down instead. Which makes Edward's smile broaden cheerfully into an expectant grin as he turns to go back into his room.
Someone down the hall—Edward thinks it's James, the natural-born lecher, but can't be sure—wolf-whistles at him as Edward opens his door to go back into his room, causing him to lose his happy grin as he gives a hard glare in the direction of the offender and his buddies. "Piss off, and don't mess with that girl," he adds menacingly, at which his new charges wisely back off, holding up their hands in mock imitation of innocence but also retreating quickly to the shelter of their rooms, Edward's cold stare following every one of them until all the doors are closed.
Two weeks after classes have started, Rosalie, a UC junior like Edward, officially accepts the RA job for the women's half of the floor. She and Edward dated once freshman year; it was a disaster, but it was how Rosalie and Emmett, the love of her life as well as Edward's older brother, met. She hears of the opening from Emmett, and jumps on it.
Rosalie and Edward now have an affectionate relationship of mutual distaste and irritation. They enjoy haranguing and harassing each other, which is why Rosalie took the job—she just couldn't pass up the opportunity to hound Edward. And she needs the space away from Emmett because her engineering grades dipped to A-'s—and even, to her horror, a B+-sprinkled in with A's the previous year instead of the straight A's she's accustomed to, and she won't have that again.
So Rosalie knocks on Edward's open door the next afternoon after her acceptance, eager to tell him the hopefully-annoying-to-him news herself. "Hale," he says as he looks up briefly then returns his gaze back down to his biochemistry text. (Edward is double-majoring in economics and bioengineering, while also completing his pre-med requirements. Edward is exceptionally intelligent, and just as driven as Rose.)
"Cullen," she returns matter-of-factly, although her voice shows that she knows something he doesn't and she is enjoying the upper-handedness of that. She surveys his room, seeing how long it will take him to ask her what she's doing there, loving that he could go forever without asking if he wanted to—she likes having a worthy competitor to spar against-but knowing expediency and Esme-drilled good manners will have him caving sooner than that, and loving that knowledge too. But Rosalie is cut short in her self-satisfaction as her eyebrows go up at the sight of a young girl curled up on Edward's bed, the girl's back against the wall, a textbook spread out beside her, a classic novel in her hand, a notebook on her lap.
"Is this study hour in the RA's room?" Rosalie asks in a patronizing, just a hair's width shy of mean, tone.
This gets Edward involved, immediately. "Yes, Rosalie, as a matter of fact it is, and you're interrupting it. Was there something you needed? Otherwise I'm going to have to ask you to leave as you're destroying our concentration. Isn't that right, Isabella?" and he turns to look at the girl, acknowledging her presence and letting both her and Rosalie know he isn't ashamed of her being there.
The girl just stares back at him with wide eyes, and Edward can see the tears starting to form. He says an inner, Shit, and abandons his own work, pushing back from the desk and moving over to sit down on the bed next to Bella and her coursework.
"Sweetheart," he says softly to her as Rosalie looks on, her arms folded, her eyes shooting daggers, "I think I'm going to have to deal with this on my own. I'm sorry; I'll come get you as soon as the coast is clear, all right?" and as he says this he reaches out a hand and softly strokes down the side of her face, tucking some hair behind her ear.
Isabella can't help but close her eyes and lean into his touch just a little, which is tantamount to screaming "I am in love with Edward Cullen!" in front of Rosalie, who now has her protective back up both on Bella's behalf against Edward, and now on Edward's behalf against Bella too. So she starts tapping her toes and clears her throat, which pisses Edward off to no end and he lifts his head for a moment to shoot a warning glare her direction.
The angry glare is potent enough that even Rosalie backs down for the moment, dropping her aggressive pose and moving to the side a bit, leaning against Edward's desk, but still watching with suspicious eyes the interaction between the two on the bed.
Edward removes his hand from Bella's body, and at the loss of that contact she snaps into action, hastily shoving her books and papers into the backpack that Edward pulls up from the floor and holds open for her. The tears are starting to flow now, so she's having a hard time seeing, and is trying to shove the introductory chemistry textbook in the wrong direction.
Edward stops her by placing his hand on top of hers, making her pause, then says, "Let me," and as she snatches her hand back, he pulls the book out and carefully repositions it so it fits. He also pulls the bag up straight on his lap and zips it shut, but when she blindly reaches her hands out for it he pulls it closer into him and says, "Not yet. I want you to look at me and say, 'This is not my fault,' first."
Bella, shocked, looks up at him for a moment, eyes trying unsuccessfully to blink back the falling tears. One of her hands sneaks up to wipe away the wetness on her cheeks, but she makes no sound, only caving her upper body in on itself even further. Clearly, she does not believe what Edward intends for her to say.
So Edward leans in closer, and touches her again, placing a hand heavily on one rounded, defeated shoulder. "Isabella," he intones in a deep voice laden with authority, "I want you to look me in the face and tell me, 'This is not my fault.'" He lets that sink in, then follows up with a stern, "NOW."
That does it. Bella can't help but follow such insistent directions, so she quickly tips her head up, looks at his warm green eyes that she could happily stay lost in forever if she didn't feel so certain that the kindness and compassion towards her they generated were based on general principles and not any feelings for her specifically (she's wrong), and squeaks out, totally unbelievably and extremely quickly but she says it, "This is not my fault."
Her head drops as she hears his voice, warmer now, say, "Good girl," and she feels his arm go around her shoulders and pull her into him—and her backpack—for a hug. She can't fight it, but the second he relaxes his arm and starts pulling it back she jumps backwards and up off the bed, reaching out for her backpack which Edward obligingly lifts up towards her. She slings it over one shoulder as she turns for the door, mumbling a "Sorry—nice to meet you—good-bye!" to the frightening woman still standing to the side as Bella flies for the door and exits it with such haste she accidentally runs into one of the male hall residents standing in a small group outside Edward's room, alight with curiosity over the extremely good-looking—those aren't the words they're using-woman who had recently entered.
Edward has followed behind her, and laughs lightly at the collision, covering her get-away by chastising the resident she collides with, saying "Jesus, Tyler, a little space for the lady please," winking at Tyler who has good-naturedly grabbed Bella by the elbows, steadying her as she gets upright again.
Bella whispers a hasty, "Thanks, I'm so sorry," in Tyler's general direction before turning and running down the hall to her room, almost colliding with another hall resident heading to the elevators on her way. Edward watches until she disappears behind her room door, then turns to the group of young men staring unapologetically at him, joined now by three of the female residents coming down to see what's going on, and says, "All right; show's over. Don't you all have homework to do?" and stands there eyeballing them until they give up and disperse to their rooms or the common area.
Then he reluctantly turns back to face the wrath of an outraged Rose, closing the door behind him on the way.
"What the fuck was that?" she spits at him.
He just raises his brows at her and returns to his desk chair, saying mildly, "I could ask you the same thing."
"Oh?" Rosalie returns with mock sincerity. "You mean you walked in on me with a freshman boy curled up on my bed, someone I'm in a position of authority over?"
"She was studying, Rosalie, six feet away from me—and I was studying too, which I really need to get back to, so if you could just get to the point of your visit here? Are you and my Neanderthal brother having a fight?" Edward provoked Rosalie on purpose regarding Emmett, whom Edward both loved and respected in equal, high measure, hoping her automatic defensiveness of Emmett would get her off the topic of Isabella, about whom—despite his words to the contrary—Edward was actually struggling with conflicting feelings, and desires.
But Rosalie would not be shaken. "She's in love with you, you ignorant ass!" was her reply.
Edward sighed, giving up and resigning himself to the unpleasant and apparently unavoidable conversation to come. "I know that, Rose; she'd be in love with Genghis Khan or Hitler [there was a slight pause there as Edward fact-checked that statement, being brought up not to minimize the horrors of genocide with flippant references to its perpetrators; but yes, indeed, he meant exactly what he said, and he wondered as he realized this whether Eva Braun had had any similarity to Isabella Swan, though he concluded there was not similarity enough, as he was fairly certain that if Hitler actually had experienced an Isabella loving him, he could not have been but spiritually improved by that fact, and history certainly bore no witness to that having happened] too, if either one of them had given her the slightest reason to be."
"So what are you doing then, leading her on?"
"I am not 'leading her on'; I am protecting her!"
"An RA's job is to provide a verbal and visual reminder of the institutional rules and cultural standards guiding our behavior for students to check their own choices against—not to make decisions for them!"
"Spoken like the RA guidebook, Rose, but it wasn't written with Isabella Swan in mind."
"It's spoken like the guidebook because I just read the guidebook, Edward—I'm the new RA for the female wing of this hall. And Isabella Swan will just have to grow up and understand she's in college now, and if she can't hack it, she can leave."
"Oh, so I should go tell Angela that, since she relies on the Student Services staff for help getting accommodations for her dyslexia, she obviously can't 'hack it' on her own here, and she should just leave too? What about the Latino support group that Lorena and Marc are getting involved with? What about the weekly visits to the nursing office that Eric needs to manage his diabetes? Let's send them all home, right Rose?"
"We're not talking about learning disabilities or cultural differences or physical illness here, Edward; we're talking about lovesick teenage girls not taking responsibility for themselves!"
"Hunh. And how can you be so sure of this, when all you saw was Isabella sitting and studying, not even speaking with me?"
"Because it's not normal, Edward! Sitting on your RA's bed, with no one else but him in the room, just to do your homework is NOT NORMAL!"
"You're absolutely right, Rose. It's not normal, and as far as I can tell, not much about Isabella is. But I kind of like her abnormality, and I think she offers a lot to this community in terms of bringing out the kindness in people—not to mention she single-handedly drops the per capita alcohol consumption around here by about two drinks a week—and I think it's pretty clear she needs something more, something different, than the average student does if she's going to survive."
"That may be true, Edward, but it doesn't follow that you should provide it for her."
"You'd rather watch as she's taken advantage of by the first upperclassman who sniffs out her vulnerability, Rose? You think that would be a good influence for the rest of the hall, to watch us let her be swallowed alive out there?"
Rose narrows her eyes, and heaves a giant sigh. "I don't like this, Edward."
"That much is obvious, Rose. And I appreciate you looking out for me, and for her. But I'm going to ask you to trust me on this one, and let it go."
Rosalie looks at Edward without rancor, honestly assessing him, and Edward returns the gaze. This is who they are—two warriors, bound by family, not fully understanding or even liking each other, but trusting the other's integrity just the same, and mutually willing to suffer on the other's behalf, if absolutely necessary. So Rosalie nods, curtly, and says, "I think you're making a mistake, and don't expect me not to say 'I told you so' when this blows up in your face."
Edward nods, more graciously, in return, and replies, dry humor in his tone but gratitude as well, "I would never expect that of you, Rosalie. And I appreciate you humoring me."
"Hmph," is Rosalie's response. Then to both of their relief, she moves on with, "So tell me who else you've been messing with around here, and what I need to know to fix it."
And with a laugh, Edward pulls out the hall list and starts describing each student to Rosalie, their tenuous RA partnership underway, the battle line already clearly drawn down the middle of Isabella Swan.