Author's Note to My Author's Note (I won't make this a habit.): A Happy Thanksgiving to those of you who celebrate it, and my loving thoughts to those of you who don't because of personal loss, or its historical association with invasion and genocide. (As a person of European ancestry living in a Midwestern state, I unquestionably live a life partly rooted in the violence perpetrated on behalf of my ancestors, and in some sad cases by my ancestors. I don't think that makes me evil, or my ancestors evil—just human, and therefore capable of evil, selfish acts. But I do think failing to acknowledge that history, with its role in the material comforts of my own life and the pain and injustice suffered by others as a result, then and now, would horribly corrupt this life of mine, more than it's already corrupted by my own selfish thoughts and hurtful actions.)

Anyway, despite its onerous historical baggage, I'm glad for any reminder to count my many blessings. These include you, and this community we share. And as part of trying to act on rather than just feel this gratitude, I' m going to start reading the reviews some of you have taken the time and trouble to post. It might take me a while, because it scares me. Maybe you can appreciate that the fear is less for criticism (although that's scary enough), but for praise and encouragement. Why? Because kindness can be taken away. And then I'm left with the shameful sense of having been not enough to keep the kindness, and having been found out in my inadequacy as the unworthy person I've always feared I was, and am. Ugh.

So, in this selfish fear, I run away from people. I'm just starting to realize all the people I've hurt in my life by running away. Pat, Levi, Dominic, Eric, Carl, [Hmmm, anyone see a trend here? Yes, men scare me.] Dane, and everyone else, I'm sorry. I'm not sure I can translate that regret into corrective action yet, but I'll try, and try some more. If I can just remember I'm an earthworm, that takes what comes and expects nothing more than dirt, I should be okay—if a little unskilled in social niceties. Wish me luck, and luck to you too!

Now, on to my original author's note…

I'd like to share the pinnacle of success my mother and I have reached in our intense, emotional and all-too-often mutually-painful relationship. After a recent visit to her home, as she was helping the boys and me to our (small) car with our (large) quantity of bags and miscellany (like the second-hand treasures I culled from her cast-offs and the 8 jugs of Juicy Juice I picked up on sale at Target), my mother stood quietly, and without her usual advice and concerned criticism, watching me wedge things here and there. (Luckily my 5-year-old still doesn't need much leg-room, and my 8-year-old is a stoic sufferer of items in his personal space, as long as they are of benefit to him-unlike his mother, he does have standards. I'm relieved.)

Then my mother said to me, in an air of wonder and tentative acceptance, "I worry about you driving like this, but you're always going to be a bag lady, aren't you?"

Joyfully, I turned to her and smiled, gratefully affirming the accuracy of her newfound understanding. "Yes," I said, "I am always going to be a bag lady." (I didn't feel like stretching her acceptance any further and explaining that, actually, I'm an earthworm; "bag lady" is definitely close enough). Never have I felt as wholly loved by my mother, my strong, marvelous mother, as I did in that moment.

One of the most difficult and hurtful aspects of being a bag lady (or earthworm) is, in my opinion, dealing with the people who think you should be a princess or CEO instead. At all levels of interaction, from our perception of our fit with societal expectations to our individual relationships with friends and family members, being something—and I do mean fundamentally being it to the core of our selves—that is devalued or even despised is enormously challenging to one's pride, self-concept, and eventually/potentially even one's will to live.

This is not news, as probably anyone who's visibly different from the norm can tell you.

But I'm different inside. I know that trying not to be different probably won't work (concluded after 38 years of trying), and even if it does for a while, it will make me hate myself (both the "real" self stuck inside, and the "fake" self selling out) all the more. But because this difference isn't immediately visible to others, trying to get those others to believe in this difference, and most importantly to alter their expectations and understanding of me based on this difference, is extremely difficult. After all, to the outside observer, my—and your, if you're an earthworm too—lack of fit results merely from our behavioral choices. So logically, most observers conclude, we would fit in just fine, no need for angst or drama, if only we would just make different choices!

Yes. Well, let me explain the flaw in that logic.

I believe the human will is emergent, just like God. We do what we do because our action, and our inaction, springs from us as the necessary sum total and consequence of all our individual genetics, physiology, experiences, intellectual understandings and spiritual beliefs—and most definitely out of not-accessible-to-conscious-thought habit, and what behavioral psychologists would understand as "reinforcement history." This is why "should's" are so destructive: they presume that you had any choice in what you've done, and that you can easily direct your future with conscious thought alone.

Conscious thought is a miracle of evolutionary development or God's creation, or both, but it is much more effective at concocting stories to tell ourselves about why we do what we do than it is at unilaterally directing our physical bodies and animal will. (Freud understood this as ego vs. id, and though I object to some of his finer points, such as his poisonous conception of female sexuality, it's hard to argue with his basics.)

Our culture is based on this fallacy, or enormous oversimplification, of conscious control of our behavior, and it keeps us trapped at the most basic levels of discourse on topics like crime and punishment, justice, racism, gender roles, and economic inequality, just like we trap our own selves in shame and guilt when we fail to understand and forgive our more unpleasant, destructive behaviors as being the sad but necessary (at the time) result of the imperfections in the world (including our physical bodies, our social networks, and our economic reality) around us. I think we continue to hold fast to the idea that we choose our behavior because it is not only simplistic and reductionary, but—for those looking to easily understand their world in absolute terms of black and white, right and wrong, good and bad—attractive, and profitable. But sadly it is also interpersonally, socially and culturally violent, and so limiting on transformative change.

Instead of beating yourself or those around you with should's (or should not's), if you want to change a behavior in the future, the most important thing to do is to try earnestly to understand as many of the reasons as possible that call that behavior forth, or that work against it—and then to address the circumstances affecting those reasons! If all you have to fight against a behavior that organically unfolds from you is the cognitive thought, "I shouldn't do it," well…good luck. (And please note that "I shouldn't do it" is different from "God doesn't want me to do it." Activating your strongest spiritual beliefs in response to a need for behavior change seems to me one of the best ways of making it stick—as the 10-step process of Alcoholics Anonymous so beautifully demonstrates.)

So what does this have to do with being a high-feeler? You can know that it is destructive to yourself and those around you to express more emotion than your family/friends/co-workers/etc. are comfortable with, but that in itself is not enough to STOP expressing more emotion. Not even wanting to, really, really badly, is necessarily enough in itself. (It can be, and some people will tell stories about how their awareness of desiring change in themselves brings about that change—but what they may not be aware of, and are not crediting, is all the other known and unknown conditions that also had to be in place in order to make that change possible.)

More generally, this is also why the American belief in "pulling yourself up by the bootstraps" is so destructive to our national decision-making and political discourse: just because that works once in a while, for lucky people with genetically-, cognitively-, emotionally- and socially-strong enough bootstraps, doesn't mean anyone can do it. And not being able to do it does not make you a morally bad person, unless your moral code is simply defined as being able to pull yourself up by your bootstraps (honor, integrity, love, empathy, loyalty, kindness, self-sacrifice, humor, and everything else be damned). There may be a few who genuinely feel this way (Ayn Rand's writing comes to mind), but anyone else who believes morality is more complex than surface-level flourishing in one particular society at one particular historical moment is lying to themselves if they don't acknowledge the degree of chance and luck, good and bad, associated with any such triumph, or any such failure.

This is a humbling perspective, but also a very guilt- and shame-relieving one. Personally, I find the relief from shame far outweighs the negative cost of the humility; indeed, I've come to find humility to be an extraordinarily warming cloak, and a surprisingly effective armor (see the earthworm rant, chapter 3).

I believe I had a point here; let's see if I can retrieve it…ah, no larger point than my usual railing against the indignities of the universe, I suppose.

And that leads me to my last point about will, and its emergent nature: despite the limitations of infinite unknown variables on our behavior, I do believe that God's (substitute your deity here) love is a trump card that can work behavioral miracles the likes of which can make walking on water seem like a minor freak of nature. (I don't mean to minimize Jesus's awesome power of love, but merely to point out that levitating is perhaps not as loving and therefore miraculous from a relational point of view as letting go of a destructive addiction despite all the shame of past choices, or turning the other cheek and forgiving brutalities to body and spirit, or rising above all the modeling one's witnessed and being a different parent than we experienced ourselves). The difficulty here is that the decision to play this trump card in any specific way is, by definition, God's choice, not our own.

Do I think that God sits up in heaven with a highly-detailed playbook, weighing in "yea" or "nay" on every single opportunity for loving miracles to occur? No. But then I don't even think, as much as I want to sometimes, that God is sitting up in heaven. I think that God is the summation of all the love in the universe, past and present, and as such has an emergent power far greater than any one entity's love. So I tend to pray not for specific outcomes (as much as I want certain outcomes to happen, like Edward Cullen springing to life and loving me instead of Bella), but for a loving attitude, and resilience to pain, and access to the great spiritual reservoir (that I like to think exists) from which loving actions that defy all probability, past experience and selfish need spring.

But think of God as you will, and see your own miracles—that's the beauty of life, as well as the pain of our individual existences, so necessarily alone in some ways. And that is why Twilight is so appealing of course. Vampire love is the most thorough, indefatigable (literally), unending (literally, again) antidote to aloneness ever conceived of outside of Heaven. And yet there's a sadness there too, because in fighting successfully against pain and aloneness and death, our favorite vampire couple accidentally reify universal love as their own relationship, and relief from human suffering as eternally being their own fallible, individual selves, spiritually imperfect entities trapped in their singular imperfection forever.

I don't hold much against imperfection; being quite imperfect myself, I'm learning to love it. But I think I might get tired going on being my specifically imperfect, needy, selfish, scared, spiritually tired, angry, grouchy, occasionally belligerent self forever. And even if I didn't tire of my own existence, there is the truth that as beautiful as any one soul may be, the people on earth now must fade away in order to make room for the new people that will develop.

It isn't that new beauty is better; but then neither is old beauty—it's just more or less known. And maybe in the yet-to-be unknown future lies new potential for loving better, truer, stronger; for taking some of those hidden limitations on our selfless love and turning them around into reasons for loving, not just as individuals, but as families, as communities, and as cultures.

So, may I not cling with greedy ignorance to this one brain, heart, and soul of mine when it's my time to return to dust, and may I make the best and most loving life possible out of my time here… whatever that may look like in God's loving eyes, my own being inadequate to judge.

Thanks for reading, and for being part of my life.

xoxo liza

Disclaimer: Twilight belongs to Ms. Meyer; I'm just mining it for love, with gratitude for all her love that makes this possible.

XXXXXX

I was so distracted by Isabella's earnestly-hard-at-work presence in the small coffee shop that the whole time I sat there, I barely got one sentence read in the article I was meant to present the next day. Just as I would finally gain enough mastery of my attention to focus on a word, I would hear her sweet voice answering a customer, or catch out of the corner of my eye the movement of her small form behind the counter, and I would have to start all over again on redirecting my attention to the printed page.

Nor did I fare much better the few minutes I was waiting for her in my car. As I stared at the text, heady visions of her delightful body seated next to mine crowded my eyes, making reading impossible.

Finally, I just turned the overhead light off and sat there, with a ridiculous amount of anxiety, and anticipation, waiting for her to exit out the back door.

Maybe the atmosphere around me had something to do with how keyed up I felt. It was after midnight, after all, in back of an urban storefront, dumpsters all around me and the sound of drunk patrons of the bar down the block making its way through my windows-along with the occasional screech of brakes from the street. The lighting was eerie, as the night was overcast, and the only illumination came from the other-worldly glow of an ancient security light perched on top a crooked wooden pole.

Just as my anxiety was about to propel me out of the car to check at the front and make sure Isabella wasn't disobeying my orders and walking home without me, the back door opened, and the three coffee-shop employees made their way into the small parking lot off the alley.

The sullen girl came out first, walking quickly to an older-model Honda. Without hesitation, she slid in and drove away.

The others took longer to exit, as they appeared to be in conversation, two dark shapes with their heads bent towards each other. Finally, Isabella stepped into the alley light, and I watched as she turned her head to the right and left, looking for me.

As soon as her eyes lit on my parked car, they travelled up the hood and locked with my own eyes, staring at her. A jolt of electricity flooded my body, almost as if I had touched her. Adrenaline surged, as did something else I took a moment to identify, as I continued to stare at her, watching her chest rise and fall with such exaggeration I could monitor her rapid breathing from where I sat.

Desire. Desire coursed through my body with my blood, electrifying me further, and drawing me out of the car and toward the girl who was now frozen outside the coffee-shop's exit, her supervisor just finishing locking the door and moving off to the modest-looking hatchback I had noticed when I parked.

Isabella made no move as I approached her, though I was certain she'd seen me. Indeed, she stood stock-still staring in my direction, just like a deer in the headlights-presuming I was an agent of imminent destruction speeding towards her without mercy.

As I got closer, I saw her shivering in the cool night breeze, one hand going up to gather her thin shirt closer around her, holding it tightly at her throat…as if it would afford any protection at all from the cold, or from me.

I slowed my strides as I closed in, becoming more deliberate, a grin forming on my face in spite of, maybe because of, my target's obvious fear. She was finally moving, backing up as I bore down, but quickly finding herself trapped with her back against the closed and locked steel door.

I wasn't sure what I intended to do once I reached her, and was just a breath away from finding out, when Isabella's supervisor interfered. Calling towards us from her car, she said for the second time that night, "Isabella? Are you all right?"

Isabella snapped out of her daze then and turned towards her supervisor, thus missing my final descent. As she nodded and weakly smiled at the kind woman daring to interfere with me, I grabbed up the hand closest to my own and wrapped my fingers tightly around hers. I knew that one calm look, one reassuring smile from me to the woman I'd made an ally in caring for Isabella just minutes before, that's all it would take to get her to move on and leave Isabella to me alone. But I couldn't do it; I could not force the mask of normalcy onto my face in this extraordinary moment, and I'm certain the real expression on my face and the true intention in my eyes were anything but reassuring.

So I ignored the woman, and instead kept all my attention on Isabella before me, drawing her body into mine by the hand I still held tightly while she reassured her supervisor that indeed she knew me, and was expecting me, and that she was fine, none of which were strictly and wholly true. I then captured Isabella's lower arm too, and pressed it into my body while starting to pull her towards my car.

She followed obediently, if hesitantly, dragging her feet just a little. But after one last "Good-night" to her supervisor, the other woman finally decided to get into her car and go.

I still said nothing, relishing the knowledge that I was soon to be alone in the dark with this trembling creature whom I knew for certain I intoxicated and terrified in equal measure. I was as drunk as the raucous bar patrons rambling down the street, singing off-key.

And yet my motions were more controlled than usual, my body responding with discipline and vigor to the needs of the moment. With a side-step worthy of Fred Astaire, I had Isabella's back up against the rear passenger door, one knee pinning her there as I turned and unlocked her door.

Opening it, I smoothly turned back for her, and, grabbing hold of her forearms, maneuvered her into the front seat, stopping just short of sweeping her legs out from under her. She made that move unnecessary by finally acquiescing with her body and folding herself into the seat, picking up and swinging her legs in on her own.

I stared down at her, my arms braced against the door frame, my eyes sweeping across her still-trembling body. I felt anger surface at her vulnerability, and at how poorly she'd been cared for up until now. But I couldn't deny that I was also hovering at the edges of her personal space with predatory intention.

So I was brought up short as she slowly raised her head, then shyly looked up at me so disbelievingly, and with such obvious hope in her eyes, that it almost broke my heart. Who had been raising this precious girl all her life that she would respond to my selfish manipulation of her, and her body, with such gratitude, and such potential joy? Tamping down the rage now flooding me, I poured all my desire and appreciation for Isabella's quiet, gentle nature into my smile, my eyes, and tried to reassure her, and myself.

It appeared to work, at least as far as Isabella was concerned, because she blushed and looked away, before relaxing her whole body into the seat and closing her eyes. I lingered a moment longer, and felt the desire grow as the anger ebbed.

Finally I moved, grabbing the seatbelt and pulling it across her body, careful not to actually touch her until I got to her hipbone near the latch. There, after securing the belt, I rested the side of my hand for a while. As my physical contact with her went on, Isabella's color faded and her body grew more rigid. I was fascinated, but was recalled to the present moment and her need for a feeling of greater safety when I saw her chest start to heave in panicked breathing.

I leaned in further towards her chest then, our torsos almost touching, my head against her jaw, and whispered into her ear, "Shhhhhh, Isabella, it's okay; you're all right." My thumb started making circles on her hip bone, (which was jutting out more than it should, and I made a mental note to investigate that later), and she whimpered. I rejoiced in her fearful reaction to my body as surely as I condemned myself for doing so.

Trying to make up for myself, I said more, in as persuasive and calming a voice as I could summon: "I'm just driving you home; I'm just keeping you safe like I told you I would. Like I do for Alice."

Saying Alice's name made Bella jump a little bit, her eyes flashing back up to mine, tears and a new fear I hadn't anticipated, and didn't understand, in them. I had expected the mention of Alice to calm her.

Nonplussed, I moved quickly away out of her personal space, unzipped the hooded sweatshirt I had been wearing, and leaned in one last time to spread it over her. As I tucked it in around her shoulders, which were shaking now, I said with a confidence I was not feeling in the moment, "This will keep you warm until I get the heater running."

Part of me wanted to chastise her for not wearing a jacket and being so reckless with her own health, but luckily that part was willing to be quiet for now in order to serve the greater goal of keeping her from running away from me, and keeping her in my life.

After I had finished covering her as best I could, I closed her door and moved quickly around to the driver's side.

The first thing I did after getting in the car was to hit the locks; I knew as I did so that my impulse was to keep her in even more than to keep undesirables out.

Her head snapped towards me as the locks engaged; she seemed to intuit exactly what I intended with that commonplace, matter-of-fact act. Her shoulders heaving again, she stared at me as if she was trying to divine who I was, and what that meant for her, in the half-darkness of the parking lot light shining through the windshield.

I stared back. The animal in me rejoiced at my position of power over someone I…wanted. Blood rushed away from my brain to other relevant parts of my body, and I stared at her like the hungry shark circling the plump little monk seal it has identified as dinner that I knew myself absolutely to be in that moment. The seal stared back, its eyes wide, realization dawning.

Then the seal did something so unexpected, so insouciant, so…reckless, it took the shark's breath away and turned him instantly back into a man. A man with morals and religious strictures and family expectations and definitely a man with responsibilities to the young woman now locked inside his car. Damn it.

What did the seal do, you wonder?

The seal smiled. A full-grown, trusting, happy, grateful smile. It was beautiful, and I admired it with wonder even as I regretfully felt the animal magnetism of our predator-prey relationship dwindle for the moment. There would be time for attack later, I chastised myself. Right now I had to get my baby seal home to bed.

Without speaking, I started the car, turned the heater to high and directed the vents towards her, and reversed out of my spot, pulling out into the alleyway, then onto the street towards home. I knew the drive home wouldn't be nearly long enough.

I left my hand in place on the back of her seat after backing up, not trusting myself to allow it any closer to her, or past the large, protective bulwark of the seatback. And I carefully kept my eyes on the road and away from the temptation next to me.

However, I was almost thwarted in my efforts at restraint by the girl in the front seat herself. For, as we sat waiting at a red light, I detected simultaneously the slightest new floral tang in the air and the precipitous drop of the girl's—MY girl's—head, bowing in shame.

Putting two and two together, of course I got four, and double-checked my addition with a quick glance at her legs now pressing tightly together, cemented from ankles to knees to… I smiled at both her body's reaction to me and her psyche's discomfiture. How rich is the anticipation of taking the innocence from someone who truly understands its value!

Even better was the satisfying knowledge that any pleasure I gave her would be as much a surprise as the pain—more so, because this was a girl who expected to be hurt by life. By me.

But she wouldn't participate in the process, for either pain or pleasure, and that was part of what drew me so strongly to her. She was not lost in the fantasy of her own youth and beauty; she did not expect me to meet any, let alone all, of her needs. She didn't even seem to believe herself worthy of interacting with me, as ridiculous as that sounds. That much was obvious.

Less so was why that made her so appealing to me. I suppose it is refreshing to offer yourself to someone truly grateful for what they receive, rather than to someone who feels you are merely their due, or not even good enough as you are. And of course, Isabella was young and beautiful and smart and kind, and those are all lovely qualities on their own.

But there was more, and that more had to do with how much her actions cried out that she needed me. Or someone like me. No, she needed ME. I needed to think that.

Does it speak well of me, this desire to be needed so? I suppose not; but then again, why should it speak ill? So I long for an ample and willing canvas on which to paint the colors of my loyalty and devotion and love. Isn't it a good use to put my aggression, skill and intelligence to, caring well for a person who would not be cared for at all if left to her own devices?

Everything in me rose up to answer "Yes" to my last question, and I was overcome with a gratitude that almost made tears form in my eyes—I felt their prickling beginning—as I also felt the weight of her existence descend on my very ready shoulders. This newfound and most welcome heaviness allowed me finally to sense the ground of unshakable purpose beneath my metaphorical feet, and gave me a comforting sense of connection both with the best parts of my past, and with my imagined and hoped-for future.

But Isabella didn't know this yet. Glancing over at her, seeing how she was trying to disappear into the seat and out of view, as if she might stay hidden in my car forever and be glad of it, I knew that she was unaware of the transaction we had just made—or rather of the acquisition I had just completed without her consent: deciding she was mine.

As I pulled into a parking space in our building's lot, I thought about what to do next.

I was hesitant to cut the engine, as from somewhere deep within came the impulse, the very strong desire, to pull back out and onto the road and take her home to my aunt and uncle's house in Forks. For a brief moment I imagined tucking her into my bed there, and the beauty of it, and of her trusting face looking up at me in safety and contentment, took my breath away.

But then she stirred, opening her eyes, and saw where we were. And before I could drive away again, she was undoing the seatbelt and opening the door. I hesitated as she reached down for her backpack which I'd placed at her feet, watching as she folded my sweatshirt neatly on the seat and listening to her shy voice thank me profusely. And sadly wasting my opportunity to keep her longer in the car.

I knew right away that was a mistake, and I cursed myself most thoroughly for losing myself in self-congratulation before the job was done. Not that Isabella herself represented a task that could ever be completed. But returning her home both safely, and securely in my thrall was an important, yet unmet goal, gauging by the speed with which she hurried away from my car.

Quickly exiting myself, I hurried after her. "Isabella, wait up," I said as she was paused at the back entryway, searching for her keys.

She kept searching until I covered her hands with my own and said, "Look at me."

Hesitant, she raised her head. The fear in her eyes hurt my heart to see, while the trembling of her tiny hands excited me further. "We need to talk," I said, as firmly as possible, squeezing her fingers gently with my own; holding fast.

"I'm so sorry," she said faintly, already taking responsibility, and blame, for whatever I wanted to talk about.

I couldn't help the small, somewhat bitter laugh that escaped me. Someone had some explaining to do about the unwarranted guilt this one small person carried around.

I felt the fingers of one of her hands straining against my own, and relented enough to let her grasp the keys she had found at the bottom of her backpack.

Watching her shiver as the wind blew by us made me move back from her personal space, allowing her to bring the retrieved keys up to the lock as if she might be allowed to open it.

But I also leaned against the door, still keeping her there.

"Isabella, we need to talk about your schedule," I said, trying to keep my voice neutral and matter-of-fact. "You can't keep working these late-night hours."

I felt vaguely ridiculous laying down the law in the middle of the night, standing in the chill night air outside our apartment building, but I didn't trust her to stay in one place long enough to listen once she got inside, and I didn't trust myself to handle the situation well if she ran away from me right then. The last thing I wanted to do was scare her away by being too aggressive in my pursuit before I had her more thoroughly and completely cornered, not just physically, but psychologically too.

So temporarily pinned at the door it was, for the second time that night. And like before, she trembled even harder.

"Um, what do you mean?" she offered, so quietly, I barely made it out.

"I mean," I responded with authority, "in the future you may not work any shift past nine o'clock, with eight being preferable. And you may not work any shift past daylight hours without arrangements for safe transportation home. 'Safe' meaning not alone, and not with just another girlfriend. At this point in time, I think 'safe' for you means either myself or Jasper picking you up and seeing you back to the apartment—although if you want to nominate someone else, I will be open to considering additions to that list."

I paused, letting her take all that in, then added with humor and a nose rub against her cheek, "But I will be very picky."

As I drew the tip of my nose one last time along her cheekbone, I felt her writhe under me. Again an impulse came, unbidden and from deep within, to scoop her up and carry her off. Whether up to my own apartment or back to the car and my family home not mattering nearly as much as the act of claiming her.

But again, I ignored it-the impulse, or urge, or overwhelming desire. Instead, I abruptly moved away and, plucking the keys from her weak fingers, opened the door and ushered her into the back entryway ahead of me.

From there it was a short walk to the elevator, one we made in silence. I summoned the elevator, and once in it—following her—pressed the button for her floor. She made no sound, and studied the floor or the tops of her shoes intently.

When the elevator sounded its arrival, we both stood motionless a moment. Finally, she startled and moved quickly out. I followed behind her.

Another silent walk led us to her apartment door, which I unlocked this time with my own keys. Holding the door open for her, I waved with my arm to indicate she should enter.

"Have a seat," I said as I quietly closed the door behind us. She was already half-way to her room door when I spoke, but, obedient once more, she turned and retraced some steps to the sofa.

She stood in front of it, clasping her backpack against her chest with both arms crossed in front of her. Still looking down; still trembling. Then she sat gingerly, on its very edge, obviously braced for something horrible directed her way. How badly I wanted to take her in my arms in that moment.

Patience, I told myself. Be patient, Edward, and don't scare her. If you show her your full intentions now, she'll be horrified, and want nothing more to do with you. Give her a chance to trust you first, before you ask more of her than other men would do.

Not all of me agreed with this advice from my rational mind, and no part of me liked it. But I followed it.

So I sat down next to her on the sofa, but kept a careful distance between us. Leaning in towards her, I let my clasped hands hang between my knees, my mind on red alert for unauthorized forays into her personal space.

Striving for middle-of-the-road rationality, and figuring I could buy some time keeping her safe indirectly by using Alice as a smokescreen, I said, "Here's the deal. When you're out late, Alice is either going to be up late waiting to see that you get home safely, or left more vulnerable than necessary because I'm out escorting you…not to mention she can't use the deadbolt and chain when you're not here."

This all seemed logical enough, but Isabella still wasn't looking at me, and the trembling had not abated—it had gotten worse. Get this over with quickly! some part of me yelled inside.

I tried. "So, as long as you're living here, I have to ask you to keep to Alice's curfew."

I paused, expecting an argument. After all, what I was suggesting was borderline outrageous. I knew Carlisle and Esme had put no such restrictions on her in the agreement they had drawn up with Bella, and I knew that most college students would consider a nine p.m. curfew an intolerably onerous limitation on their social lives and study habits. I was pretty sure I could pressure her into accepting it, but I expected a fight.

I didn't get one. Indeed, I didn't get any response at all; her head just sunk further towards her chest, her shoulders caving too.

I was getting worried. Wrap it up! my inner crisis manager dictated again. Out loud, I said, "All right, that's enough for tonight. You've got to be exhausted. I'll check in with you tomorrow to see if you have any questions."

Still no answer. I lowered my head, trying to capture her gaze. I didn't succeed, but I did see tears spilling down her cheeks.

Shit! all inner voices said in unison. Shortly followed by, What do I do?!

I had no idea. The part of me that was full of strong opinions on what to do with Isabella was pissed as hell at being so completely ignored and overruled earlier, and so told the rest of me to figure it out my own damn self. In addition to being mildly concerned over my apparent recent development of multiple personalities, the rest of me was also completely clueless as to how to accomplish the given task, seeing as Isabella's behavior was now well outside all my previous categories of emotional experience and social interaction.

Finally, I made do with a quick peck on her cheek and a hasty exit, reiterating my promise to see her the next day as I let myself out the door. Thinking of an immediate potential problem, I held the door open and asked, "You don't work tomorrow night, do you?"

She still wasn't looking at me, but I knew she had heard me because she slowly shook her head back and forth. "Good," I said, relieved. I felt less relieved when I heard the small sob that escaped her then.

Quickly I resumed my exit, saying "Get some sleep, sweetheart; good night," before closing the door carefully behind me and locking it, my own hands trembling from the effect of a very guilty conscience.

I hated so much knowing that I had not only made my sweet girl cry, but had left her to cry alone, that I didn't even wait to hear the chain put on, but speed-walked to the stairwell to try and distance myself from my extremely poor showing with the girl I was growing to love. It didn't help. Nor did racing up the stairs to my depressingly-empty apartment; nor did my final attempt at half-hearted perusal of the damn article I still hadn't read for the next day's presentation.

Distraction from my guilt and frustration was hopeless, as was concentration, so I most uncharacteristically gave up and went to bed. I managed to fall asleep, but was haunted by terrible dreams, nightmares in which over and over again I had to watch Isabella walk away from me, crying, while I was unable to move from the spot where I stood rooted, and equally unable to raise my voice to reach her. It was excruciating.

Mercifully, the morning eventually came, and I was up and in the shower seconds after my alarm sounded—no cheerful morning run that day.

Hurrying downstairs to the girls' apartment, the bag with last night's leftover muffin in one hand, my laptop case over my shoulder, I let myself in to their apartment, easily deciding not to nag about the absence of the chain on the door that morning. My mind was full of my breakfast-preparation plans, thus far including scrambled eggs and fruit salad, depending on the contents of their fridge.

But just after opening the door, with a loud knock and a louder "It's just me, ladies; good morning," I came face-to-face with a tear-stained Alice, and a sober-looking Jasper seated next to her on the couch.

Surprised and worried, I still managed to close the door carefully (in case Isabella should still be sleeping) before moving in front of them and asking "What's wrong, Allie?", one hand reaching for her shoulder as I asked the question.

"Don't touch me!" she barked back in the shrillest voice I'd ever heard from her. Shocked, I jerked my hand away from her, then turned to a nearby chair and collapsed down.

"What's going on?" I tried again, a nameless but growing fear taking root in my gut.

"Don't you dare pretend that you don't know what's happened!" Alice positively roared at me.

Jasper leaned in to her then, and quietly said, "Alice, darlin', let Edward have a chance at explaining himself; he might—"

But she wouldn't let him finish. "I will do no such thing! There is no excuse for what he's done!"

That did it. "Alice, I assure you, I have no idea—"

"I don't want to hear you speak! I've had enough of you, Edward Masen! I thought you loved me! I thought you liked her! I thought—"

But there Alice's rambling broke down into bitter sobs, and I had a moment to interject another request for explanation. This time, I addressed Jasper, who had pulled sobbing Alice into his side, one arm around her shoulders.

"Jasper, I have no idea what she is talking about. What in God's name is going on?"

"Bella left, Edward."

"Left?"

"Packed up her things and moved out."

This made no sense. I tried to say so. "But I dropped her off here, just last night after midnight; there's no way—"

"Apparently she packed some bags during the night. She had already loaded up her truck when Alice got up this morning. Bella was waiting to tell her."

Alice broke in here, raising her head off Jasper's shoulder and almost spitting at me, "She was crying Edward. She'd been crying all night! You made her feel so ashamed! You made her think she wasn't good enough for me! How could you?!"

My eyes widened as I began to get a sense of what had happened here. "Oh, shit," I breathed out.

"Yes, Edward, complete shit," Alice said back, and I knew then the depth of her fury with me. Never had I heard Alice swear like that before.

Leaning back in the chair so that my head rested against it and my eyes could study the ceiling while my brain raced to comprehend this foreign situation, I felt with relief all parts of me coming back together, with newfound clarity.

As I regained access to the part of me that had so forcefully tried to spur me into taking off with Isabella last night, I understood with awe and painful wonder just how vulnerable she was. Jettisoning herself completely out of a situation in which the slightest suggestion was made that she may need to change her behavior made perfect sense when I really thought through the implications of her believing herself to be bad, while also being incapable of actually acting that way.

I had sensed her shame, and had witnessed the ease with which she accepted guilt, but not seeing any remotely rational reason for her to be burdened with such feelings, I had written them off. Believing them to be idle, though self-destructive fantasies of Isabella's clearly overburdened psyche, I had failed to understand –or most of me had—how powerfully those emotions would determine her actions, and reactions to me.

Swearing never to repeat the mistake of expecting her to react with selfish petulance rather than self-abasement to any interpersonal guilt, however subtle and mild, that I recklessly applied to her, I then spared a moment to wonder why I had been so willfully clueless with her the preceding night. Why hadn't I acted on my instincts? I had thought more of my independent nature than that.

Puzzled, and unspeakably displeased with my profound failure right at the start of the new relationship I intended to have with my future wife, I nevertheless forced my attention away from the question for the time being. I knew I would obsessively contemplate my actions later, but for the moment merely resolved never to allow conventional expectations to overrule my gut instinct on how to treat Isabella, ever again.

Mental crisis over, I sat back up, energized and arrogantly ready to put everything back to rights. I was confident I could, and would, but I wasn't going to be comfortable until I had my hands on Isabella again, that was also certain.

First on the agenda was managing Alice. I would have been hurt in her extreme censure of me, without giving me time for explanation or defense, if it weren't for both my need to get to Isabella as soon as possible and my understanding of the extreme protective instincts that my girl could draw out in other people. Indeed, after recovering from the uncharacteristic aggression of Alice's attack, I quickly came to appreciate it and to feel grateful to Alice for this clear sign of her ability to love my Isabella as a sister.

Leaning in towards her, though being careful to remain just outside the possible landing zone of her clenched up little fist, I said, "Allie. I messed up. But you have to believe, not just for my sake but more importantly for Bella's, that I didn't mean her any harm. Or you, of course, but I know you trust my love for you more than that."

I was playing slightly dirty with that statement, but I didn't care. It had the desired effect. Alice relaxed her angry posture and started to cry.

"But Edward, how could you—"

I didn't let her finish. "Allie, I was trying to use her liking for you as a tool, to get her to be more careful with herself. It had nothing to do with you. Your safety was never a question, nor will it be, as long as I'm around. But her safety…surely you've noticed, Al, how reckless she can be with herself?"

Silent and looking appropriately chastised, Alice nodded, tears streaming.

"Well, I was trying to avoid a more drastic intervention by using you as an excuse for asking her to make better choices for herself. It was only meant to be temporary, and I see now why it wasn't ever going to work, and I am unspeakably sorry for making such a dangerous mistake."

My own voice was threaded with intense emotion now, as I so clearly spoke the truth of my heart in apologizing, something I rarely do, and usually with much distaste. But now, my regret and remorse rolled off my tongue easily, because my pride had finally found its comeuppance in the desire for someone else's well-being. Carlisle would be pleased.

Alice had given up all vestiges of her fury, and had turned and collapsed into Jasper's hold, sobbing. I recognized her tears now as the healing tears of remorse and release from emotional intensity, so I was calm as I laid a hand on her back and addressed myself to Jasper.

"Do you have any idea where she's gone?"

I was surprised to see Jasper's face flush, and his eyes drop to the ground by my feet. He took a deep breath as I waited for an answer, then said, "All we know for sure is that her truck's gone. She didn't say more than that she was leaving, and would find someplace else to stay and come back for her furniture at a-"

Jasper interrupted himself there, and bent his head to ask Alice, "What did she say, darlin'? 'At a convenient time?'"

When Jasper saw the slight nod of Alice's head, affirming the accuracy of his restatement of Isabella's words-which were quite painful for me to hear repeated, though I guessed not as painful as it had been for Isabella to say them-he looked back up at me and finished, "Well, that's all she said, when she said good-bye to Alice."

Alice broke in then, bursting out with, "She was so sorry! She kept apologizing to me! And saying she would keep paying rent, and I tried to tell her I didn't want her to go, but she started crying, and got all terrified looking, and just ran out the door! What did I do, Edward? What did I do wrong?" Alice broke in.

"Allie, you didn't do anything wrong, sweetheart," I said reassuringly to her. "I accidentally put her in a position she couldn't handle, and she ran away. Simple as that. Nothing for you to worry about, or feel guilty over—but think hard. Didn't she say anything about where she was going next? Did she mention classes?"

"Only that she couldn't keep meeting me and Jasper for lunch. She said she couldn't afford it, and I felt so bad! I never even thought—"

"Alice, breathe. Try to remember. She didn't say where she was driving to? Was she going home to Forks?"

Alice calmed, then grimaced a little, furrowing her eyebrows, obviously trying to recollect the conversation. "I don't think so," she said slowly. "She didn't say exactly, but I got the impression she was going someplace else, here." There was a pause, and Alice suggested, "Maybe she's going to stay at a friend's?"

I smiled kindly at her, but disabused her of that notion. "Are you aware of any friends that she's made already, outside of you and Jasper?"

Alice's face fell as she shook her head "No."

Here Jasper cleared his throat. "Edward. I may have…inadvertently given her an idea about where to run off to."

I raised my eyebrows at him, curious and surprised to think something of his life may have been relevant to hers. "Do tell."

Not needing any more encouragement, Jasper launched into his story. "I got here to Seattle the week before school started, just to find out there'd been an administrative-" Jasper interrupted himself abruptly here and cleared his throat once more. Recognizing the signs of self-censorship of tip-of-the-tongue profanity, I smiled weakly at him and nodded my approval of his G-rated word choice as he continued, "screw-up in my financial aid award."

Getting that first sentence out seemed to make him more comfortable. So much so that he continued with his story actually looking down at Alice instead of me, speaking earnestly as if it had been weighing on his mind, and he was grateful for her to know all this about him, and to understand better the life he lived.

"I had made arrangements over the summer with my new landlord to give me until I arrived on campus and had cashed my student loan check to pay the balance on my security deposit and my first month's rent. When there wasn't a loan check available to me, I wasn't able to make up the difference, having already used up most of my savings to pay on this year's tuition, and needing what little was left for books. Basically, I was screwed." Jasper was telling the story more easily as he went along; obviously embarrassed at first to have to admit his financial vulnerability to me and to Alice, he now was as obviously relieved to get it off his chest.

"I looked around for someplace cheap to stay while I got it sorted out, or at least a place to park my car so I could sleep there, and I found this dive motel down at the edge of the university district, towards downtown. It wasn't pretty, and I wouldn't want any young female I cared about staying there, but the rooms were surprisingly clean, and the price was right."

"And you told Bella about this place?" I interrupted, getting to the heart of the matter.

Jasper looked back easily at me, his guilt seeming to have been somewhat assuaged by his straightforward sharing of his own vulnerabilities. "Yeah. When Alice was a couple minutes late getting to lunch yesterday, Bella asked me how I liked it here in Seattle so far, and I told her it was looking up after being kind of a rough start. I never thought—"

I had the crucial information about Isabella's likely whereabouts, and now needed to move, immediately, so I cut Jasper off in his unnecessary apologizing. "We're all learning to be more circumspect around our Isabella. You couldn't have known she would take your story as a travel guide," I offered quickly as solace for his feeling of responsibility for this disaster, taking a split-second as I did so to feel grateful that Alice had found someone of such integrity to care about. "I take it you remember where this motel is?"

Jasper nodded, taking the hint, and leaned in to say something quietly to Alice before jumping up and joining me on my way to the door.

I had my hand on the door handle when Alice called tremulously after me, "Edward? I called Mom and Dad this morning, when I was so mad at you?"

I nodded; I hadn't yet considered the possibility of Carlisle and Esme's involvement, but it made all the sense in the world that Alice had called them; I could hardly be mad about that. Besides, I had nothing to hide.

"They're coming for lunch," Alice finished, guilt dripping from her words.

"Sounds great, Alice," I easily replied, covering the small knot of fear that I became aware of as the knowledge of Carlisle and Esme's imminent arrival sunk in. My rational self breezily reassured both of us, saying off-handedly, like it was an obvious matter-of-course, "We'll be needing to talk anyway about taking better care of Isabella. See you later," and I swung out the door with Jasper following behind me, now completely intent on tracking down and bringing home my girl.

Run all you want, Isabella, I thought. You'll just find out: I run faster.