Bella

We're bored today.

And sad. It's a bad day; he's restless and angry and I'm frustrated with him and with the whole situation. If he could listen to me, I could make him feel better, but I can never seem to break through to him, and I know that… but days like today remind me of how unfair this is.

I follow him to the closet in our bedroom and he pulls down a shoebox with my name on it.

"You better not," I say, and then he tosses the lid off, like a defiant child.

"Junk," he says, and he tosses the bent, chewed-up straw— the first straw we ever shared— onto the bed. I point and gasp incredulously— he knows I save stuff like that.

"Why do you save shit like this," he spits out and he tosses the half-used tube of lip gloss I had in there— the lip gloss I was wearing the first time we kissed. "I don't need this shit in my house," he say,s and I call out for Emmett.

Emmett doesn't show up and I feel sorry for myself, because right now I have no one I can depend on and I don't like it.

Concert ticket stubs go next, and then a neon green Post-it that says "Love. Still. Sorry. E" on it, in his own handwriting.

I stare at the note and my key ring gets tossed next. Edward shoves his hand back in the box, then pauses.

He's staring at the pile on the bed, and I want him to pick it all up and put it back in the box, but all he does is pick up the keys.

His face turns determined, his eyes go dark and for a second he chews at the corner of his mouth, then he takes a deep breath and starts working my house key off from the rest of the jumbled keys.

"No!" I shout, but he keeps going.

His key rounds the metal ring twice and it's free. With a metallic clank, my keys fall onto the pile of brand new garbage and he's still holding his house key. My house key.

"Put it back," I exclaim, waving my hands around, but he just holds it in front of his face, then his eyes drop to the note.

I call out for Emmett again.

Edward is hurting me, and though I know all too well he can sting me like nothing else on earth, it still hurts just as bad each time. I take a step back and remind myself it's nothing against me… and the only reason he can hurt me so much is because I love him so much.

January 2001

I was straddled on top of Edward, with the sheet kind of just hanging off of my shoulders. His eyes were closed but he was smiling because he had one hand inside of the sheet.

He traced his fingertips over me, tired and lazy and I kept blowing at a strand of hair that kept falling into my left eye.

"Don't go to work," I said, just before the sun was going to come up and take him away from me.

"I have to," he replied, his voice like gravel.

"You always say you have to. Don't you have, like, sick days? Or vacation time?"

"No," he said, and his fingers stopped tracing and started grabbing.

"That's a big fat lie! Everyone has vacation time; it's like the law, or something."

He opened one eye and looked at me.

"You don't have a job or a law degree. You pay rent by shooting dice. Pray tell, how would you know any of that?" he smirked.

"Because I'm not dumb. Why would you rather go to work than stay here with me? I'll make brownies for breakfast and we can do it on the kitchen table," I said, trying to tempt him.

"Yeah?" he murmured.

"Yes. And we can go turn on the air conditioning full blast and pretend it's freezing outside and I'll wrap you up in blankets and we can watch a movie."

He laughed through closed lips and his fingers splayed across my stomach.

I flopped down on top of him and pressed my lips into his scratchy face.

"You won't have to get up and shave… and we can take naps and I'll sit in your lap all day," I went on in a muffled voice.

"What will we have for lunch?" he asked, playing along.

"Anything you want."

His hands went to either side of my face and he angled me and opened both of his eyes, so we were face to face.

I smiled my most convincing, tempting smile and his thumb brushed my cheek.

"I love you," he said and I kissed him.

We rolled around on the bed for a half hour, getting on top of each other and getting each other off. I shrieked with laughter when he pulled me half down the bed by my ankle and said my name when I rolled on to my stomach for him.

When the sun was up, he kissed the back of my knee and said he had to go.

I rolled over, tangling in the sheets and scratching at my hair.

"One day?" I asked. "Can't Jane take care of things? Isn't this what your dad sent Jane here for? Jane is so smart and competent and mastered-degreed. Jane is your right hand man with perky tits, isn't she? I mean, what's the point of having her around for help if she's not that big of a help? Jane. Do you realize you and Jane would be like, a match made in Chanel-Armani-white-collar-power couple heaven?"

He sat on the edge of the bed and fumbled putting his watch on.

"'Mastered degreed' isn't an actual term. Are you done?" he asked, looking over his shoulder.

"Quite. Stay home."

"I can't, Bell. Not this week. My father is coming in… to check on progress."

"What?" I asked, and sat straight up. This was news to me.

"My parents are coming in. Pretty much to check up on me and I can't slack at all this week—"

"Wait, wait," I said, shaking my head and waving one hand. "Your parents are coming?"

"Yes," he said, and stood up to find his pants.

"Under the nightstand. How did you not tell me your parents will be here?"

"Is it a big deal? You won't even have to see them—"

"I want to see them. I want to meet them—"

"It isn't really a social call, Bell—"

"Edward? Do you not want me to meet your parents?" I asked, then pulled the sheet up and tightly wrapped it around me.

"Not in a 'I don't want you to meet my parents-commitment' way," he said, zipping up his pants.

"Is there any other way? Look. If, uh, we're not as serious as I thought we were—"

"Shut up, Isabella. I love you. You know that. I just… don't like to mix business with pleasure—"

"They're your parents. That's hardly business."

"You don't know my parents," he said, working on buttoning his shirt.

"Well. I'd like to."

He put his hands in his pockets and looked at me for a few seconds.

"It won't go well," he finally said.

"Parents love me," I shrugged.

He raised his eyebrows and laughed and I knew I won.

"It'll be great, Edward. We'll have them for dinner, here. I'll make marshmallow kabobs because I'm really good at those and I'll dust off that phonograph in the attic…" I rambled on and he kind of smiled at me with a faraway look while I continued to make plans.

All that week, Edward offered to just make reservations at a restaurant, but I'd already bought the skewers and marshmallows.

When he suggested his place instead of mine, I told him I already cleaned my house and set up the fondue pot for chocolate.

On the Friday of the dinner, I spent the day pressing a linen table cloth and curling my hair. I burned the cloth, my fingers, and the chocolate sauce that day, but I refused to be discouraged.

So, I put a pot of potpourri over the scorch mark on the tablecloth, put band aids on my fingertips and told myself people like chocolate whether it's burned or not.

Who wouldn't want chocolate for dinner?

At 7:00 pm there was a knock on the door. I took a deep breath, pasted my smile on and skipped to the foyer.

"You all look like a J. Crew catalogue," was the first thing out of my mouth.

And they did.

Elegant and impeccable. Edward got his hair from his mother. Hers was the same color, thick and pulled back and up, shiny and perfect. The eyes came from his father, deep and intense.

The pretty came from both of them.

"What's that smell?" Edward asked, and brushed past me and into the house.

"Oh. I burned a few things, but I managed to spare most of it," I said.

"You okay?" Edward asked and turned back toward me.

"Of course I'm okay."

"What happened to your fingers?" he asked.

"Curling iron. What's a little pain for beauty?" I asked, turning to his mother. I think she smiled at me, but I wasn't really sure.

"You look very pretty," Edward murmured and gently tugged at one of my now limp curls.

"So, everyone, come in," I said, and ushered them inside, to where I had set up a table in the living room.

Edward plopped down in one of the metal folding chairs I had set at the table and reached for the bottle of wine in the center.

His father, Carlisle, pulled out a chair for Esme and she looked at it for a second before sitting.

"It won't get you dirty," Edward said when she hesitated.

"Oh! No, I just Windexed them all this morning," I said and all three of them looked up at me.

They of them looked sparkly— snowy clean in the dimly lit room. Everything looked a little saggy in comparison to them, a little sad.

I clapped my hands together and Edward uncorked the wine.

"Are you going to sit?" he asked me.

"Funny," I said, and sat down in the chair next to him, across from his mother.

It was quiet while Edward poured wine into everyone's mismatched glasses. I was relieved that Esme had ended up with the one crystal goblet I owned.

I got the glass tumbler with a daisy painted on it. Carlisle kind of inspected his beer mug filled with red wine in an amused way before he uncertainly picked it up.

Edward raised his highball, but didn't say anything before he gulped twice.

"I burned the chocolate," I blurted out. "But I figured burnt chocolate is better than no chocolate for dinner, right?"

"How decadent," Esme said.

"So, Bella. Edward is quite taken with you," Carlisle said, sipping his wine.

"Oh, I took him alright," I said and Edward cocked his head and smiled at me.

"Where did you two meet?" Esme asked, and held her wine to her chest.

"At a liquor store in the middle of the night," I said. "We fought over the last bottle of Bombay."

Edward leaned back in his chair, and this little crooked smile slowly unfurled on his face. He stayed silent, just watching while his parents stared at me.

Then Esme put the back of her hand to her mouth and this little tinkling laugh came out.

Carlisle's face broke out into a brilliant smile.

"Edward said you were funny," he said. "You are, indeed."

My face burned, but I smiled, like I was in on the joke.

I loved our "how we met" story. I imagined telling it to our grandchildren one day. I wanted to submit it to the Readers Digest and I wanted everyone to know about fate and how perfect we were, with his plans and my non-plans—and didn't they see how perfect it was?

Edward's smile turned kind of bitter and he stared at the potpourri on the table while his parents laughed on.

"Bella, your taste is so eclectic. Tell me, where do you go antiquing around here?" Esme asked.

"My mother is a decorator," Edward said stiffly.

"Retired," she amended. "It's more of a hobby now."

"Oh! Well… a lot of the stuff was here when I moved in. I got that lamp from a flea market, but the shade I found on someone's curb. I rescued it just before the garbage truck came—"

I was cut off by another round of laughter.

"I love that lampshade," I said quietly, but they didn't hear me.

"What do you do, Bella?" Carlisle asked.

"Bella goes to the library," Edward said. "When she's not garbage-picking or hanging out at liquor stores."

My head snapped to him and I swallowed down hard, but he didn't look at me. Humiliation burned from my toes to my face and I tangled my fingers in the hem of the table cloth. I've never been ashamed of myself.

Ever.

Until he said that.

"You two are quite the comedic team," Carlisle said.

"So, are you researching for a class then?" Esme asked.

"No. I like the Classics section," I said stiffly, "I'm going to go get dinner."

In the kitchen I plopped the kabobs on a platter with shaky hands and promised myself I just had to get through the next hour. I squeezed my eyes shut and begged the tears to go away, just for another hour.

"What… is it?" Carlisle asked when I set the platter down in the middle of the table.

"Marshmallow kabobs," Edward said, and picked one up. He stared at his father and bit into a marshmallow.

"How charming," Carlisle said.

"You, um, can dip it… in the fondue," I muttered.

"Oh… yes, well, I don't eat white foods," Esme said, and folded her hands under her chin.

"I didn't know that," I whispered.

"It's a fairly new lifestyle for me," Esme said and Edward slid a green gumdrop off of the kabob and rolled it across the table to his mother.

She ignored it, and patted the back of her chignon.

I felt pin pricks in my eyes and my chest and I couldn't look at the platter I'd just set on the table. It was… embarrassing. I couldn't look at Edward or I'd scream, so I just stared down at my fingers twisting together.

"Aren't you going to eat, Bell?" Edward asked, and nudged my shoulder. I jerked away and shook my head.

"I don't… I'm not feeling so well, suddenly," I whispered hoarse but polite, then offered a smile to his mother, who was staring at the marshmallows still.

"What's the matter—"

"I need to go lay down, I think," I said. "It was very nice to meet you both, I'm so sorry—"

"Oh, don't be silly. It was lovely to meet you, Bella. Please, go. Lay down," Esme said, looking relieved and the happiest she had looked all evening.

I didn't lift my stare from the floor as I stumbled to my bedroom and kicked off my shoes. I clapped a hand over my mouth and breathed in and out of my nose rapidly, so they wouldn't hear me crying.

I stood there, right near the door, not willing to move a humiliated, tensed muscle in my whole body. The tears came out in thick, hot lines and I snotted into my own hand but still, I didn't move until I heard a soft tap at the door.

"They're gone— Bell…" he stood there, looking all concerned that I was crying, and then his fists balled up and his expression slightly changed. "This is why I didn't want you to meet them— they're assholes, Bella. Don't even—"

"You," I spat, suddenly able to move because I was pointing a finger at him. "You're the asshole!"

"What?" he asked, leaning against the door jamb.

"'Bella garbage picks and hangs out in liquor stores'" I repeated, then crossed my arms tightly over my chest.

"Uh. You do," he pointed out, and shrugged.

"You… you're embarrassed of me—"

"What the hell are you talking about?" he sighed and pulled on his tie, like I was making him tired.

"You sat there, and you spoke patronizingly about me—"

"No, I did not. I tried to clarify for my parents that—"

"Oh, stop it!" I cried out, flinging a hand in his general direction. "Your parents…may not be on my social or economical level, but they were trying to be nice, at least—"

"They were laughing!" he said, losing his temper and shouting.

"And you knew they would! You came in and sat down and watched— no, you helped it along!"

"I didn't want you to meet them in the first place, Bella. Remember? I tried to—"

"Oh, bullshit, Edward. You. I'm not your rebellious phase."

"Excuse me?" he asked, squinting his eyes and squaring his shoulders.

"You paraded your parents around here and in front of me to piss them off. 'Hey mom and dad, look at me, having a girlfriend without a Master's that garbage-picks— and God! I don't garbage-pick—you made me sound like some kind of vagabond or street urchin."

"You insisted on meeting them. You insisted on making the dinner yourself. I've done nothing but what you wanted. I'm not ashamed of you or a damn thing you do. It sounds like you might be, though," he said, low and with a quiet kind of anger.

Then I threw my jewelry box at him.

Beads and earrings and necklaces clacked and rattled, hitting the wall, raining down on the floor. The old wooden box had hit the door molding, inches from his face.

"Calm down!" he shouted, shoving his hands in his damn pockets again while I shakily bent over to pick up big blue beads from a broken necklace.

I looked up from my squat on the floor and whipped a bead at him, hitting his shoulder.

"Never," I yelled, whipping another bead, "have I ever been ashamed of myself or embarrassed to be me!"

"Bella—"

"Until you."

My butt landed on the floor with a thud and the crying started again. I pressed my face into my knees and heard a shuffling, but I didn't feel him come close.

"I just wanted… you to be unapologetically you," he said softly. "I was trying to… I just didn't want them to make you feel bad—"

"They didn't. They weren't going to. You did that. You were the only one bothered," I whispered shakily into my knees.

"No—"

"This is… dumb. I don't know what we were thinking… you should go."

"Bella?"

"Please. Go. It's too…"

"I'm in love with you," he said, like that meant we would automatically get to be together and be happy.

When I looked up he was gone, but my jewelry box was back up on my dresser, with all of the contents back inside.

He called a lot and I didn't answer. He stopped by twice but I wouldn't answer the door. Gran told me he had been in the store, but didn't buy anything. He left a bottle of Bombay at my door.

On the fifty first hour of our first break up, he slid a Post-it note and his house key under my door.

Love. Still. Sorry. E

It wasn't a love letter and it wasn't a long-winded apology, but I imagined him at his desk, jotting that down on a Post-it just before he left his office. Like, he just had to give it another shot. Like he was just… thinking of me.

I slid the key around on my floor for about seven minutes before I finally picked it up and walked in the dark all the way to his house.

I didn't even hesitate when I put the key in the lock and walked into his pristine, sparkly and barely-lived-in home.

He was in the kitchen, at the sink, filling a glass of water. He wore dark pinstriped pants, but nothing else. Not even socks.

"I'm still mad at you," I said, while he gulped his glass of water.

He put it down on the counter and started washing his hands.

"Yeah, well, I'm still right," he shrugged.

"I don't care what your parents think of me. I care what you think of me," I said.

"I think you're smart. I think you're funny. I think you're beautiful. I think you're quite possibly insane. I think you're perfect for me."

"Really? Because I think I'm more destined for an artsy, sensitive type of guy," I said flippantly, stepping into his kitchen and opening the fridge.

Bottled water, cheese singles and grapes and two packs of cigarettes.

"How are you surviving? And you still love me, huh?"

"Bella?"

I looked at him over my shoulder and he was staring at me, not willing to play flippant, gloss-over make up with me.

"What?" I asked.

"I would never change a single thing about you. I want you to know that. I want to say it, so there'll never be a question about it again."

"Okay."

"Okay. And, maybe I was feeling bitter… and maybe you got caught in a crossfire, but I never meant to put you there. And if it was me that made you cry— I never meant to."

"I'm keeping your house key."

He raised his eyebrows at me and kind of smiled.

"Now, come kiss me before I find something else to throw at your face," I said.

"You have shit aim. I'm not worried."

"Yeah. But let's kiss for awhile anyway."

And we did. Up against the fridge and in the hallway and on the floor and all the way to his bed.

So.

Now he's here, throwing it all away and taking things back and logically I know that's what he's supposed to be doing… but it hurts.

And I'm just not ready to let go… and I don't think he is, either.

"What's he pissed off about?" Emmett asks, walking in the room, just as Edward is walking out, with my shoebox and a determined look.

"My things," is all I say, and Emmett looks over his shoulder and sees the box Edward is carrying away.

"Ahh. He's angry. It happens. Hey, let's sneak into the movies, there's a—"

"Emmett… he's throwing me away," I croak out, and Emmett rolls his eyes and sighs.

"I never liked that guy, anyway," he mutters.

"It never could've worked, right? Me and him… it never really would've lasted anyway, right?" I ask Emmett, but I know he doesn't know the answer to that.

Dear Isabella-

Okay, here's me being kind of an asshole, but you know how you always start these huge projects with these grandiose plans to become the next great so-and-so? Tap dancing. Cupcakes. Pumpkin carving. Sommelier. Boutique mardi gras beads. Then I'd get pissed off at the piles of unfinished shit in the house, and you'd tell me that when a thing is done, you're done?

Well, I took a page right out of your book today.

This thing with us? I know it's been done for a while now, but I also think I'm finally done. Mother says I'm in denial (and she said that last charcoal drawing you sent her was "hauntingly beautiful", by the way- just thought you'd want to know, and she also never hated you but that's a different story for a different day). Anyway, she said I should just take a page from your book and leave the Bella pile be. Maybe she's right.

But I'm doing it my way. I'm throwing the Bella pile out, not leaving it to get all dusty and ridiculous in some corner of the living room.

Don't be horrified. I could feel your anger at seeing me get rid of it, but you know me- rip the band-aid off. Don't be mad. It's just stuff. It's still out in the garbage bin, if you want it.

-E.M. Cullen

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Hello, everyone.

Yes, this story is angsty. Apparently, some people have stopped reading due to the angst factor. D: If you'd like to wait until it's finished, this is a good point at which to stop.

If not… rest assured that the story is already completed, and we are consistently updating over at A Different Forest. As in… every other day. Right now, it's up to chapter 8. 9 is getting posted tomorrow, as soon as I wake up.

Why do we do this? Because we want you to go check out the website, of course. Or you can continue to read here on ff; we're still updating frequently here. Four updates in 16 days ain't bad, yo.