Chapter 2: Wide as the Ocean

Mikey Newton is gone.

Somehow.

Mike Newton is gone and I hope I acted like a teacher as he departed, but I can't really recall even if it just fucking happened.

In the classroom it's just Edward, Johnny Knoxville reading a book, and me. I've lost track of how long we've been standing here, surrounded by desks and staring at each other.

Gone is Edward's smirk, replaced by a little smile. I want the smirk back because the blatant lust I can handle. The softness in him reminds me of that long ago night on a bus crossing the Andes when he told me he loved me.

Fuck.

"Stop that," I say.

He jumps slightly, surprised by either my words, or the harsh tone with which they were delivered.

"Stop what?" His accented voice is as soft as his expression.

"Being here!" I am getting hysterical and somewhat mean, but this is my job, my life, my career, and if he really is an exchange student I am so utterly fucked.

His face falls, making him look that much younger.

I hate that he looks younger.

"You don't want me around?" he murmurs.

"Edward," I say, leaning against my desk. Needing a moment to collect myself, I dig the heels of my hands into my eyes. Three deep breaths and my hands fall to my sides as I straighten to look at him. He's closed the distance between us. I have to look up to meet his eyes. "You're an exchange student?"

"Cool, yeah?" he says, smiling once more.

"You're an exchange student in Forks?" I demand, not really believing it.

"You moved back to Forks. I came to Forks. Simple."

"No!" I shriek, glancing nervously towards my still open door. "No! Not simple. You are my student, Edward. How are you still in high school? You're nineteen. You just turned nineteen. You graduated! Shouldn't you be following in your father's footsteps by now?"

He shrugs. "They let you take a year after you graduate, if you want. They call it gap year. And I wanted too."

"You wanted to stay in high school? As an exchange student?" I am getting hysterical again.

"Yeah," he mutters, dropping his gaze to his feet. It is the first time he's stopped looking at me since appearing in my classroom. I am bereft without his stare. "Only way I could see it for Carlisle to give me a year to myself, before I follow in his footsteps, as you say."

Now I am the one going soft. I want to go to him and wrap my arms around his waist, making silly faces at him again until he is once more my smiling, happy Edward. I want to tell him that his father absolutely sucks and that Edward is perfect.

Instead I sit on the edge of my desk, my hands clawing into the surface at my sides as I struggle to stay away.

"Why didn't you tell me?" I ask.

"It's been a bit of time, Bella," he says, shrugging. "For months we didn't speak at all."

Not since Charlie had his second heart attack and I decided to move home at the end of last school year.

"I'm sure you didn't lose my e-mail."

"I just… you'd talk me out of it."

"Damn right!" My anger is returning again and I bite my lips together, trying to figure out what to do.

Certainly not him.

No, there will be no doing the student.

At least he is nineteen now.

But he sure as hell wasn't nineteen then.

The difference in our ages once felt like nothing, forgotten in the face of shared interests and experience. Now these six years separating us might as well be the fucking ocean.

And they will drown me.

"I'm your teacher," I repeat.

"I forget how prudish Americans are," he says, rolling his eyes. He takes another step closer and I push back into my desk with such force that the metal legs drag on the linoleum. The sound is unpleasant but Edward takes another step. I scramble around the desk, pleased to have a physical barrier separating us. "Are you running from me, love?"

"Do not call me that!" I am absolutely seething, glancing at the door every three seconds. I play with that annoying patch of wispy hair at my temple. The rate I am going this will be another nervous habit, joining the lip biting. "In this classroom, in this school, it's Miss Swan."

Edward comes around the desk. I move to the other side. We circle each other with the desk in the center. It feels like a bizarre mating ritual, but I am not sure how to stop now without letting him get too close.

I glance at the door. And then again. And then again.

Still no students but I doubt my luck will hold.

"Miss Swan," he says, voice low and husky and full of promise. I curse his accent and the things it always does to my insides. "I do believe I've called you this before."

The memory is so clear I could be reliving it.

"Why, Miss Swan," he whispers as I crawl into his bed. We are in a large room of bunk beds in a hostel, but it's late and mostly empty anyway. "I do believe you are trying to seduce me."

"Trying?" My teeth sink into his earlobe.

"Succeeding. Always, love."

I shake my head.

"Get out," I demand, pointing towards the door.

His smile falters, along with his pursuit. We stop at either end of the desk and he sees something in my expression that makes him grimace.

"Bella—"

"You shouldn't have done this, Edward. I'm now your teacher, even if you are of age and even if you graduated in Argentina. This is my life and you may only be here for a year, but you could seriously fuck up my whole career. Please, just get out."

He nods once, turning on his heel. Those long legs move fast and far too soon he disappears around the corner.

I sink into my chair, shocked and numb.

I want to call Rosalie but my best friend recently got a position at a secondary school in China. Calling isn't exactly an option. Instead I compose an email in my head, not daring to actually type the thing up while at work.

My next group of students arrives, three girls this time, and I pull on my teacher persona like armor. It will need to double as a chastity belt if I have any shot of surviving this stunning turn of events.

My cheek is on a chest.

The skin is smooth and warm and for a moment I think it must be Jacob. I've never slept on another chest, only Jacob's, and with my head aching the way it aches, this is the only possible solution.

The room is far too bright. I haven't even opened my eyes yet, but the light filling the room is already causing my head that much more pain.

This is a hangover. I've only experienced a few, but my head is throbbing in time with my heartbeat so it is definitely a hangover. Vomiting would definitely improve the condition of my stomach and my mouth is the consistency of cotton.

All my hangovers – save for one the morning after graduation – have occurred south of the equator. I didn't drink much in college, far too focused on my studies and needing to make sure that Charlie wouldn't regret pouring his life savings into my education. My newfound appreciation for drinking is all Rosalie's doing.

Wait.

South of the equator.

I'm in Chile. I live in Chile now and Jake is still in La Push. I left him there after breaking up with him a week after getting my degree. This is not Jacob Black's chest and suddenly there is another reason not to open my eyes, besides the light.

I really would rather not know whose chest this is, especially after I become aware enough of my own wounded body to realize that I am buck-naked.

So the eyes stay closed and my cheek stays on the chest. Really, it is a very nice chest, soft and muscled, but not too muscled. Not like Jake, who spends every spare second in the gym, lifting weights.

I remember Rosalie and Angela and the need to get wasted because not one of us could afford a plane ticket home for the holiday. I remember paying to get into The Casino and the unlimited drinks until one AM. I remember telling Rosalie that we needed to get our money's worth and the countless times we got in line for more piscola.

There was a boy, the British boy from the beach. He grinned at me and his friends teased him in Spanish, teased me about not speaking Spanish. He defended my honor and bowed, offering his hand when he asked me to dance like we were in a Jane Austen novel rather than a nightclub with strobe lights and reggaeton music making conversation nearly impossible.

The British boy from the beach bought me McDonalds as the sun came up. Chilean McDonalds are so much fancier than the American versions and he let me eat most of his French fries.

As we waited for a taxi he fretted over the safety of the stray dogs chasing cars. There are so many strays in Viña del Mar, and I've already learned to ignore them, but wherever he comes from does not have the dog problem and he worried that the wild late night drivers would hit them.

He told me where he comes from but in this moment I can't remember.

I couldn't afford a taxi all the way back to my laughably tiny apartment in Reñaca, but he paid like it was nothing.

He kissed me in the back of the car and the driver scolded us. They chatted in Spanish and I could not stop giggling.

The rest isn't so easy to remember, and it comes back to me in flashes.

He couldn't keep his hands off me as I fumbled with my lock. I forgot to worry about where Rose ended up – shit, where the hell did Rose end up? – as his hands slipped under my shirt, cradling my hips. His breath was hot on my neck and it had been so long and I needed it so bad. I pushed back into him as his teeth found the corner of my jaw and I arched my back, the key forgotten. His hands were my new favorite things in the whole world; a thumb found a nipple as the other slipped beneath my skirt.

I never did find my keys, but he must have grown another arm because he didn't stop touching me but also managed to get us through my front door.

And the rest was perfect: drunkenly clumsy and fluid and so fucking good. I shake a little as the memories come back in snippets, all hot kisses and rolling hips.

That desperately breathless little noise he makes when he really likes something echoes in my head.

Remembering everything is making me want to do it again, despite the headache, and he is playing with my hair.

"You're awake," he murmurs. It is not a question.

I nod, shuffling slightly to hide my face in his chest. I like his chest.

"Bella," he says, and I feel guilty because he is the British boy from the beach to me. I can't find his name in my hung over head. "I've really got to pee."

This should not make me giggle, but it does and I decide I've got to still be at least a little bit drunk. I really don't want to leave the chest, but I roll over, letting him go. He makes a noise like he's not entirely pleased with this recent development before I feel the mattress shift. I consider telling him where the bathroom is, but he probably has already been there. If not, this apartment is so small and he'll have no problem finding it on his own.

While he's gone I fully wake up, realizing that this is actually kind of a big deal.

Before last night, there was only Jacob. I'd never even considered indulging in a one-night stand, but here I am, thoroughly fucked by a guy whose name I don't even remember.

Panicking slightly I open my eyes, scrambling around to look at the trashcan underneath the bedside table. There is a condom wrapper on the floor. It didn't make it in the trash, but it's there and I calm somewhat.

At least that part turned out right.

I hear him flush and I panic again when I realize that I am completely naked and exposed. Even my sheet ended up on the other side of my closet-sized room. The only thing within reach is a green t-shirt and I pull it on over my head. It is only after I see the British boy from the beach leaning against my doorframe, smirking, that I realize the shirt is his.

I blush.

"That's an excellent color for you," he says.

"Thank you."

He laughs and bounds across the room, leaping back into bed. He kisses me and for a moment I forget that my mouth tastes like ass, but when he reaches up to tilt my face back my head feels like it is splitting and I wince against his lips.

"Poor Bella," he murmurs. There is a pill bottle in his hand and a water bottle in his lap. "These were sitting outside your door. Must have been your roommates doing."

"Is Rose here?" I ask.

"No."

"You sure?"

He chuckles. "This is a very small flat. Her door is open. Why did you get the small room?"

My room really is more like a slightly wider hallway than an actual bedroom, but it's home and his words make me cranky.

"Give me that." I snatch the bottle out of his hand and take four pills, drinking the entire bottle of water as I wash them down.

"Better?" he asks.

I shrug and crawl over him to get to get to the bathroom myself, grabbing a clean pair of panties on my way out.

I stay locked in the bathroom for a long time, for such a long time it becomes weird. I brush my teeth a couple times, thoroughly flossing in between. I comb my hair, pulling it up into a ponytail, then taking it down, then putting it back up. I wish I brought a fresh change of clothes, but this t-shirt will have to do for now.

Taking my hair down once more, I finally leave the bathroom, only to make a quick pit stop in the kitchen to boil some water for coffee. It gives me a few more seconds to figure out what I am supposed to do about the dude in my bed.

This is a first for me, and I have no idea how this morning after thing is supposed to work. It doesn't help that my head hurts too much to do any real thinking.

When I get back to my room the British boy from the beach is propped up on some pillows wearing only a pair of boxer briefs. His legs are crossed at his ankles and he is reading Pablo Neruda.

"It's better in the original Spanish you know," he says, not even glancing up.

"So I've been told. Although I find I am pretty in to the translation," I reply, loitering awkwardly by my open door. He is still reading and I take the moment to really study him.

I can't recall ever meeting a more attractive person. Everything about him seems just right, from his green eyes and bronze hair to his long limbs and perfectly muscled chest. I admire his tanned skin and the angles of his face.

I wonder what he could possibly see in me. I am nothing but a mousy little teacher.

"You really live here," he muses, setting the poetry book down on his stomach and looking at me contemplatively. A little furrow appears between his brows. "Come here."

I do, perching on the edge of my bed. He throws an arm around my waist as if it is natural, as if he has done this a hundred times before on a hundred different mornings.

"You don't speak Spanish," he reminds me unnecessarily. I am already painfully aware of this fact. "I thought you were just a tourist, but this isn't a hotel or a hostel. You live here."

"I do," I reply, not remembering what I told him about my life here in Reñaca last night. "I've been here since July."

"Why?" he asks, his hand slipping under his shirt that I wear. He strokes my hipbone with his thumb and my headache improves slightly. "What do you do here?"

"I teach English," I explain.

"You're a language instructor?" he asks, obviously amused.

"English. Speaking the native tongue is not a requirement. It's an emersion class. No Spanish allowed."

"Do you like it?" he asks.

I grin. "Yes. I love it."

"Do you teach primary school?"

"Secondary."

For whatever reason, this makes the boy from the beach laugh and laugh.

"What?" I ask, not getting it.

"You just seem a bit young to be teaching seventeen year olds."

I shrug because his statement is partially true. I am a little young and sometimes it's hard to stay in that role of the authority, but I am learning as much as my students and I wouldn't change anything about my job.

"And what do you do?" I ask, not sure if I really even want to know. I can't even remember his name and I always though that part of the one nightstand thing was slinking home without any conversation, but here I am, getting to know the British boy from the beach.

"I'm still in school," he says. "In Argentina."

"Really? Why Argentina?"

"Well, I am Argentine." He says this in his adorable English accent and I frown. He laughs at my expression. "It's true. My mum's family practically owns half the country. My dad is English."

I get a little more interested in the half British, half Argentine boy from the beach.

"And I'm here on holiday with some friends," he finishes. It is clear from his tone that he wants to talk about himself about as much as I want to talk about myself which is not at all.

I nod and don't push.

Things get awkward and we sit in silence.

"So, what now," I ask.

"What now?" he repeats obviously confused.

"I don't know what comes next," I say, blushing. "I've never done this before."

"Done what?" he asks, sitting straight up. His eyes are wide and horrified. "Sex?"

"No!" My face is burning. "I mean yes. No, not sex. Yes, I've had sex."

"Good," he says with a sigh. "I would have… I don't know, been gentler or something if you'd never done that before."

I don't think I'll ever stop blushing again. The teapot is whistling and I flee.

"Water's ready," I say even as I move to the kitchen. "Do you want coffee?"

"You make coffee in a tea pot?" He is leaning against a wall, watching me as I move around in the tiny space between the stove and the sink. He's pulled his jeans on over his underwear.

"No, French press." I demonstrate.

"Do you have tea?" he asks, frowning slightly.

"I think Rose might have maté. Will that work?"

"Fabulously."

I get out the funny little gourd thing. Although I've never made maté, I've certainly watched Rose enough times to get it right, pouring the hot water into the leaves, and handing both gourd and tea pot over to Edward.

"Cheers," he murmurs, cradling it between his hands as he waits for it to cool slightly.

I make coffee and then lean against the kitchen counter, not sure what to do now besides drink.

"What have you never done before?" he asks.

"What?"

"Before. You said you'd never done this before. What'd you mean?"

"Ah," I say, clearing my throat and blushing scarlet. "Taken home a stranger. I'm not usually into one night stands," I explain.

Why I was into it last night is a bit of a mystery. Maybe it was his stunning good looks and easy smiles. Maybe it was the way he bowed when he asked me to dance and grinned in a way that was not nearly as gentlemanly. Maybe it was his concern for mangy, stray dogs and all the French fries he let me steal.

"Oh," he says, grinning again. "Me neither."

"You neither?"

"Yes."

"You've never had a one night stand before?" I ask. He is so hot and so charming. This shocks me.

"No," he replies. "And I'd rather not start now. I'm here for another four nights."

"Oh," I say, unsure if I want to do this all over again.

"No need to fret, love," he says, trying not to laugh at me. "I'm not looking for you to commit the next four days of your life. Maybe we could start out with a meal? And if we enjoy the meal you could show me the city and so on and so on."

"A meal?"

"Indeed."

"And then maybe showing you around Reñaca?"

"And then Viña. And then Valpo. There's that hilly neighborhood with all the murals, yeah? Have you been?"

"Yeah," I say, fighting a smile. "I've been."

"And if that goes well, I'll buy you a drink and you'll kiss me because you want to and you'll bring me back here and we'll start all over again. But, that being said, feel free to tell me to piss off at anytime."

"I don't remember your name!" My face is so hot. I could die from embarrassment right here in the kitchen.

He throws his head back and laughs. The sound is delightful. "Edward, you ridiculous American. I'm Edward."

"Edward. Right! Yes. Sorry."

"Now you'll definitely have to get food with me. I obviously need a bit more time to make myself memorable."

There is no fighting my smile. "A meal then."

"Excellent! It's a date."

Holy Toledo, the response to the last chapter just blew me away! Seriously, what a warm welcome. You guys sure know how to make a girl smile. Thanks so very much for that.

All the reviews were so very lovely.

To the anon from Viña: Hello there! This is why I love fanfiction. It makes the whole world seem small. I visited your area for a few weeks a couple years ago so most of this Chile stuff comes from that experience. Please please please let me know if I get anything wrong!

The next chapter is mostly written. Stay tuned!