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Pillow Talk
We don't kiss.
I lean in so close I can feel the heat coming off his mouth, lips parted the tiniest amount and wet from the nervous tongue that softens chapped skin. His eyes are heavily lidded as if woozy and I see that the confusion in them is making him reluctant to tilt his head. There's something very nice about his face once you get past the grey complexion and how being underweight has made his features a little alien-like. The hair isn't all that bad either, not really, not if you don't focus on it.
I wouldn't necessarily call it chemistry, but I feel a pull of satisfaction seeing his blush and my ego is stroked rather nicely when he lets out a deep, shuddering sigh when I brush my nose against his. Toying with him is fun, as is slowly dragging compliments out of him. I feel like I owe him a kiss for it and my body thrills as I press toward to touch my lips very gently against his.
It doesn't happen though. He jerks his head back as if he's been electrocuted and all the wondrous colour in his cheeks drains away. His eyes glaze dull to an emotionless blank that makes my stomach drop to my feet and disappointment slow my thudding heart.
"Sorry."
His voice is cold and it throws me. My head feels muddled and I try to sort out the swirl of heated thoughts that have me feeling jittery, confused by the quick change of atmosphere and how he pushes himself as far away from me as the bed allows.
"Did I…"I trail off, unsure what to say.
"No, it's not you."
I didn't push him, did I? I thought all boys liked to be flirted with and tormented with the anticipation of a kiss. At least nobody has complained to me about it yet. Mom had always been rather lax on the dating front with me. She'd explained the basics: it's normal; it's fun; it's about the exploration of yourself and you'd better use a condom or you'd be raising a baby by yourself for the next twenty years. This though, this is a first.
I don't smell do I? I try to take a quick sniff of myself, but I can't detect anything that'd be off putting. Sure, my hair is a little greasy, but I did clean myself up in the bathroom after I was discharged. Maybe I misread all his signals. No, he said I was pretty and, okay, boys say whatever they need to say to get into your panties, but that would just prove that he wanted to get into them in the first place.
I slump down into the chair, frustrated with a wounded pride. My actual wound, my broken leg, hurts too and it makes me a little short tempered.
"Then what is it?" I snap.
He looks at me warily and I try to smooth the edge irritation has cut into my voice. He's looking more and more like a frightened deer and I'd rather not have to dance around in some coy ritual.
"I'm sorry," he says again and my heart twinges in guilt.
"Look, don't be sorry, just explain. I though you wanted to kiss me. You looked like you wanted to," I say, hoping I don't sound too blunt.
It seems I still manage to shock him, a tinge of colour appearing at the tips of his ears as he presses his lips together in an uncomfortable line. If there's one thing my mother taught me other than teenage sexuality it's to tackle a problem involving said teenage sexuality straight on. It's best to learn from your faux-pas so you don't repeat them, she'd say. She wasn't wise on a lot of things and she didn't always practice what she preached, but her advice on relationships was usually sound.
"I did," he mumbles and the revelation brings with it a wash of red to his face that I find rather comforting and that settles the self-conscious doubt that had briefly been raised in my mind.
"You know you're allowed to kiss me, right?" I ask.
"Yes," he whispers it as a confession of sin.
"Then what's the matter? Do you know how to kiss?"
His stops staring at his wringing hands to look up at me with such indignation that I laugh.
"Of course I know how," he says and he looks as if he wants to dissolve into thin air. "I mean, I understand the basics and my siblings they—" he cuts himself off abruptly.
"Your siblings kiss each other?" I try not to sound repulsed.
"They're not really related," he mumbles. "It's probably not illegal."
"Probably?" He gives me a look that shuts me up quickish and I decide not to press this particular issue. "But you've never been kissed."
"Is that a problem?" he asks, gaze dropping from mine again, embarrassed.
"Do you consider it a problem?"
"No."
"Then it's not a problem for me."
Neither of us seems to know what to say and we sit stiffly, facing away from each other as if by ignoring the other the previous five minutes will cease to exist. I chew at my lip and tuck imagined stray strands of hair behind my ear so as to look casual. He's picking at his fingernails and I worry that he's going to rip the hangnails until they bleed, but I feel far too uneasy to reach out and tug his hand away.
"I'm just not very good in social situations," he says.
"I know, you told me before."
"I'm sorry I freaked out a bit."
"You looked like I'd grown fangs," I say dryly.
This makes him chuckle and peek up at me. Laughing is good. Laughing makes it seem like nothing went terribly wrong. I decide to drop the subject altogether, he doesn't look like he can handle a grilling and I'm sure there are some doors from his past we'd both like to keep firmly closed. I'd rather not know all his hang-ups.
"Sorry," he repeats for perhaps the hundredth time.
"Don't be, forget it ever happened. Next time I see you I'll hit on you more gradually, how's that?"
I laugh again as he blinks at me in surprise, unsure what answer is acceptable. He smiles when he realises I'm joking with him, face relaxing to a less pained expression and the tension in his upper body easing. His gaze dips down to my bulky cast and his brows furrow in a questioning look.
"What happened?" he asks.
"I got run over by a van."
His eyes pop wide before tracing across my body in a worried once-over. I think he's half expecting to find a gaping wound in my side and to be honest I can't quite believe I got away so lightly either.
"Are you alright?"
"Yeah. I'm fine. It's actually thanks to your brother that I didn't get squished," I say. "He pulled me out of the way."
"Emmett?" he asks.
"No, Jasper."
"Jasper's got good reflexes," says Edward, distracted, the cogs visibly turning in his head.
"So I've heard," I mumble, the image of the dented van floating to the front of my mind. "I'm sure he's very talented."
"He is. All my siblings are." I'm sure I hear bitterness behind the words, but I can't be sure and before I can dig his vision focuses as he comes back to reality. "I'm glad you're okay."
"Me too," I say. "Not even in Forks for a month and I've got a broken leg."
"You're unlucky," it's a statement not a question.
"I'm a walking accident," I correct, though the irony is lost on him.
As I stand I brush off Charlie's sweater even though I know there's no lint on it, I think it makes my gesture to leave seem more finalised, almost professional. He reacts by sitting a little straighter in bed. I don't like the way it makes his collarbones stick out further underneath his clothes; he resembles a plucked bird.
"I'll visit you again," I say with conviction, maybe trying to convince myself of this rather than him.
"You won't get a chance to," he says and for an awful moment I think he's telling me he's going to die. "I'm getting discharged next week."
I take in his fragility and wonder what kind of idiots are running this hospital, but then I remember Dr Cullen's face and forget to be quite so angry. I'm sure he knows what he's doing.
"So I'll see you at school then," I say.
"In Gym," he says with a little smile.
"In Gym," I confirm and lean down to peck him on the cheek. "To make up for the failed attempt."
I dart out of the room as quick as feasibly possible on crutches before I have a chance to watch his face morph from mild surprise to anything more sinister. I'm practically congratulating myself as I hobble out of the room and come face to face with Ro.
"Isabella."
She knows.
"Rosalie," I say, willing my face to stay neutral.
Her face pinches together in a terrifying look that has me wanting to cup my neck, to protect it from being slit. She knows what happened. She can smell my guilt. I feel like I've deflowered her little brother from even the attempt of a kiss.
"Bella!"
It's Emmett. I don't know how I missed him, he blots out half the hallway with his massive size and casts a foreboding shadow over myself and his sister-wife that fits my darkening prospects rather nicely. He seems oblivious to my panic and Ro's sadistically quirked eyebrow which I don't find surprising, especially when he proudly holds up the card he made in art class. I'm happy to see him, not just because he's rather entertaining, but because a witness means I'm less likely to die today.
"Esme, this is Bella. Bella this is my mom," says Emmett and it's only then I see the woman holding his hand.
I seriously consider getting plastic surgery when I look at her face. The Cullens are all beautiful, yes, but in a way that is easily as scary as it breath-taking. Esme though, Esme I cannot fault. I try to, I really do, but there's such a radiant kindness evident in every soft curve that I simply can't. I don't understand how she manages it so I resign myself to a lifetime of mediocre looks.
"I'm very pleased to meet you," says Esme and her voice is butter and honey.
"Hi," I manage to choke out.
"Were you visiting Edward?" she asks. "I'm sure he'll be glad to have had a visitor, we must bore him to death, poor thing. I'd go mad being cooped up in bed all day with nothing to do."
"I don't think Ed should be having visitors, Esme," says Ro through gritted teeth. "It'll wear him out."
"Don't be a drag, Rosie," Emmett interjects, nudging her hip with his which seems to be a mistake because she turns her glare on him, not that he seems to notice. "Edward should have lots of friends or he'll get sad. He's no fun when he's sad."
"And when he's tried he gets sick," Ro snaps.
"I'm sure it'll do him more good than harm seeing a friendly face," says Esme, smiling at me whilst trying to squeeze Ro's shoulder in both reassurance and as a subtle warning at her waning manners.
The blonde shrugs away from the other woman's hand. The rejection is evident on her adoptive mother's face, hand still raised in a light extension of comfort as if a butterfly had just slipped out of her grip. Ro grabs Emmett's hand, which makes him smile sunnily, and drags him past me into Edward's room. Her curled lip reminds me of a growling lion and I stumble out of her way, nearly toppling over on my crutches as she glides past. A soft sigh comes from Esme's lips, sad and resigned as the door clicks behind them, Emmett waving goodbye even as Ro hisses her annoyance.
"I'm sorry, dear," says Esme, startling me when she reaches out to stroke my cheek. "Rosalie is a tad territorial. She means well, but sometimes she's a little too…"
"Ferocious?"
"Passionate. All of my children are passionate in one way or another. It makes for interesting personalities."
I can't deny her that. The Cullens are a bunch of nutjobs. A part of me winces a little at that, though. Edward probably isn't quite as passionate as his siblings and including him in the statement probably isn't fair.
"I didn't mean to cause a problem by visiting. I know this is a stressful time and I didn't mean to invade your privacy," I say, but Esme literally waves it off.
"When isn't it a stressful time for a family such as mine?" she chuckles. "I'm truly grateful you visited, Isabella. Your company is probably the best thing for Edward right now, he needs friends."
"I haven't known him too long, but he seems like a lovely person," I offer up my praise of her parenting skills, hoping to win her over with a bit of good ol' fashion flattery without committing myself too much.
"He is the best and brightest of us all," she says and I wonder if she's making a comment about his hair rather than his intellect.
"I'm sure," I say, laughing politely through the awkwardness that an over-protective mother brings when she brags about her son.
My laugh falls short though and Esme notices. "I'm terribly sorry, Isabella. Here I am singing his praises whilst you only arrived back in Forks a short while ago. Chief Swan did much the same about you when he first discovered you were coming home so I feel like I know you already, but I'm sure the feeling isn't quite mutual yet. It must be strange coming to a place where it seems everyone knows your business before you do."
"It's a bit off putting when strangers know your name," I admit.
"We never had that problem when we moved here a few years back. We are and continue to be outsiders. Forks is quite a tight knit community that seems not to deal well with the arrival of those who were not born and bred here."
"It's a blessing in disguise," I say. "At least you can keep to yourselves."
Esme's smile falters and turns thoughtful. "We do like to do that, but sometimes I wonder if we've been too isolated over the years. We moved around a lot you see, and though it made us close I look at my children and see that they're lonely in ways the family unit cannot provide for. I would like very much to settle here in Forks; it's rather beautiful and reminds me of my childhood."
"Then don't move," I say cheerfully, "stay in Forks, god knows this place needs a bit diversity."
"I'd love to," her tone is light, "but Carlisle would miss the sun."
"I haven't seen it much here."
"No, I don't think it's been sunny in months."
"Who knows, maybe that's a blessing in disguise too, somehow."
"Maybe," says Esme, "but I have no idea what that blessing would be."
"Less chance of skin cancer," I chuckle and then slap my hand over my mouth.
The horror of my words makes me want to crawl under a rock, but Esme's face remains untroubled as if Edward doesn't lay in a hospital bed in the very next room. I'm not known for being insensitive, but carelessness in all forms is a personal difficultly of mine and I hate making myself look like a fool.
"Don't worry about it, dear," she says when I try to apologise, "there's no need to be sorry."
"I didn't mean…" I try to say around my hand, but Esme cups my cheek tenderly before I can dig myself a deeper hole.
"I know. No offence has been taken, a joke is a joke, Isabella, and I have a remarkable sense of humour."
I grimace as she shakes her head at my foolishness and then plants an unexpected kiss upon the top of my head. I'm not how to take such affection and so stand there slightly dazed as she pulls away. She's looking at me in a way that unnerves me, speculative yet kind in the way a person might watch over a sickly stray dog. I want to pull away, had it been anybody else I would have, but her eyes hold me fixed in place. I feel like she's seeing me, truly seeing me like nobody else ever has before; stripping away barriers and conditioning to examine to soul in its entirety. I'm scared by it, scared of her and scared of what she might see in my reaction.
"You could be a good friend to him," she says finally, "a great friend. If you were to choose it that is."
She kisses my head again before turning towards the door and leaving me slightly bewildered from the rawness of her unfiltered gaze. I blink rapidly and sway back as if freed from invisible ropes that had been pulled taut, trying to think of some coherent reply within the confines of politeness.
"I hope you do choose us, Isabella. I hope every day for my family's happiness and I would love for that, one day, to include you."
A/N
I think this is shorter than usual, I'm not sure... A massive thank you to everyone who commented, Favorited and followed, it's awesome to see more and more people jumping on the Incessant train, next stop Chapter Seven. Also a special thank you to Tarbecca who recommenced this story on ADifferentForest. I'd never heard of the site before, but I'm glad I checked it out.
Peace out and other jive terms.
SP